Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age, nor am I affiliated with Bioware. If I was, I'd have a lot more information about Dragon Age 3 ; ;

Author's Notes: *Phew*. Look, a chapter! Sorry about the long wait for this one...no excuses, just a lot of real life getting in the way. Writing contest deadlines, vacation, illness, the Legend of Korra finale... but no matter how long it takes, I will not abandon this! Even if just one person reads it (or I pretend one person does), I'll continue to write it. ^_^ Otherwise the plot bunnies are just never going to leave me alone. And I'm sure to be getting some major inspiration soon, what with Those Who Speak coming out in 10 days and Gamescon right around the corner.

Major thanks to Teakwood, as usual, for providing me with excellent betaing (since apparently I was half-asleep when I wrote some of this). And as always I appreciate reviews of all kinds - compliments and constructive criticism especially welcome. ^.^

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Arcanum: Fatum

Chapter Nineteen: Looking Forward

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

'Take a step before you leap

Into the colors that you seek

You get back what you give away

So don't look back on yesterday'

'Aftermath' by Adam Lambert

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Gwaren

"How is she?" Hawke looked at his brother as Carver stepped out of the other room, his expression pinched and weary. His hair had grown shaggy due to lack of maintenance, and there was a two day's growth on his cheeks and chin. Given that Carver normally preferred to keep himself a lot more clean-shaven, it was a visible testament to the trials they'd faced in the recent past days.

"Sleeping," Carver said with a shake of his head. "Mother's still sitting with her. The chirurgeon came by to check on her a bit ago, changed her bandages and such. He says she's still delicate, but that if she keeps getting rest, she'll pull through."

"I don't know if we're going to be able to let her have that rest," Hawke said grimly. "Aveline and I were talking to the guards. Signs of the darkspawn are getting closer and closer – there's more game in the surrounding areas than there's ever been now that the wildlife is being pressed eastward. There's a good chance Gwaren is going to find itself blocked in."

Carver let out a few choice words, none of them appropriate for company, and dropped down to join his brother on the wooden bench he was sitting on. "We can't stay here," he said. "But what are we going to do? We can't move Bethany."

"We're going to have to, because you're right – we can't stay." Hawke shook his head, his expression drawn. "Aveline's down at the docks seeing if she can get us passage on a ship. I offered to help, but she insisted she could do it alone…I think she's looking for anything to distract her."

"Can you blame her?" Carver shrugged a shoulder. "She had to kill her husband. I'd want something to occupy myself with, too."

"She didn't kill him," Hawke said fiercely. "The darkspawn did. She just cut his agony short."

"I'm not so sure she sees the difference," Carver muttered. "Sort of like how Mother can't seem to see the difference between that ogre being responsible for Bethany, and the two of us for not being able to stop it from happening."

"Mother's upset," Hawke said with a shake of his head, "and worried. Once Bethany recovers she'll be her usual self again." Loch padded up and shoved his head into Hawke's hands, and he absently rewarded the mabari with a firm ear scratching. "Besides…I'm the one she won't talk to, not you."

"But in the end you'll still be the one she looks to for all the decisions."

Hawke bristled at the acidic taint to Carver's words, and he looked over at his brother quietly. Carver's eyes were focused on the opposite wall, jaw clenched and expression drawn tight. It wasn't the first time he'd made such a comment since they'd fled Lothering, but they were becoming more and more frequent. At first Hawke had just attributed it to the stress of the darkspawn and worry over Bethany's condition, but he was starting to get tired of being Carver's verbal punching bag.

"And what would you be doing any differently?" Hawke asked. "We didn't have much of a choice when it came to which port we were taken to – we were at the mercy of a Witch of the Wilds, in case you've forgotten. Amaranthine might have been out of the darkspawn's path, but it's also a lot further away and there's no guarantee that Bethany would have made it that far."

"You could have healed her," Carver said with a scowl.

"I could have maintained her," Hawke corrected. "I'm not a healer, Carver – that's Beth's specialty, not mine. I could have kept her alive, but I'm not strong enough to heal her and eventually her injuries would have been too much for me to sustain her." And it wasn't as if his own magic could be given credit for Bethany's life anyway – though he hadn't said as much to the others, he knew that the real hero of the occasion was the amulet that was currently hanging around his sister's neck. There was power in that piece, far more power than he had expected. Yllia had said that it was for healing, but he'd never imagined it would hold as much strength as it seemed to. It made him wonder about the mage who was behind its creation.

Carver's scowl had only deepened with Hawke's response, and he leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs and letting his head hang. Hawke recognized the posture – it was one their father had affected often when he was alive when faced with circumstances that displeased him but could not be changed. "Not like we could argue with a witch who could turn into a dragon and set us on fire if she felt like it," he grumbled. He eyed his brother for a moment. "You know, we could just take a ship up to Amaranthine. They say the horde hasn't moved that far north."

Hawke gave his brother an incredulous look. "Maker's breath, Carver, you were at Ostagar!" he exclaimed. "You saw what those things are capable of – what they did to the armies, what they did to Lothering. No place in Ferelden is safe. Even if we went to Amaranthine, we'd just have to evacuate again eventually." Hawke shook his head. "The best option for us right now is Kirkwall. Not only is it the closest Free March port, but we've got family there."

"Family that neither you nor I have ever met, and that Mother hasn't seen since before she married Father," Carver reminded his brother. "We've no idea if Uncle Gamlen would be willing to put us up, or if he's even still in Kirkwall. For all we know he's pissed away the entire Amell estate and lives in some hole-in-the-wall."

Hawke grimaced; unfortunately he knew that Carver's concerns were valid, even if they weren't exactly welcoming. Leandra hadn't spoken to her older brother since eloping with their father, and it was only through one of Malcolm's contacts that she'd even found out about her parents' passing. It felt odd to Hawke to think that there was an entire family branch that they'd never met, and if not for the current circumstances likely never would have.

"It's still better than haring off to a place none of us knows," Hawke said with a sigh. "Mother at least grew up in Kirkwall. If we can't find a place there, there are other cities we can go to. But staying in Ferelden isn't an option."

"I hate it," Carver muttered. "I hate that we're just…taking off, and leaving everyone else to deal with the darkspawn. Like those Wardens… they told me, you know, that they were the only ones who survived. Two Grey Wardens, and if the legends are right we're supposed to rely on them to fight these things." He looked down at his hands. "It doesn't seem right. Or fair."

"At the risk of sounding like Father, life hardly ever seems fair." Hawke shook his head. "I don't like it any more than you do, Carver. But right now we have to make sure Mother and Bethany are safe. We'll worry about things like fairness and duty after that." He stood up, suddenly restless, tossing his hair over his shoulder and walking over to the only window in the small room. Resting his arm on the sill, he stared out at the busy streets of Gwaren. Guards, merchants, servants, fishermen, all of them hurried about, carrying out their day to day tasks as they always did. But if looked at close enough the frantic touch to their steps became visible, the haggard expressions and eyes full of wariness and fear. The city walls were being fortified, the presence of the guard increasing. And yet Hawke knew that it wasn't enough. The strongest of the soldiers of Gwaren were already north and west with the remainder of Teyrn Loghain's army, and who knew how many of those still remained?

It was a chilling reminder that time was running out.

"Hey, Garrett." Carver's low voice cut through his thoughts. "About that thing that witch gave you—"

"Aveline's back," Hawke interrupted suddenly, catching sight of the red-haired woman weaving her way through the crowd towards their room. "Let's hope she's got us some good news."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

The air was thick with the anticipatory scent of battle, permeated by the underlying blanket of fear. The people of Gwaren knew that they were living on a time bomb. Lothering, though further west, was also north of where the coastal teyrnir lay. And though Gwaren was several times the size of the other village, it was likewise caught right in the path of the horde. Everyone knew it, from the highest guard to the lowliest fishmonger. Unless the horde was stopped, and soon, Gwaren's future looked dismally like Lothering and Ostagar's.

The thought of Ostagar brought an ill quivering to Aveline's stomach. She pushed the thoughts of it – and the accompanying memories – firmly from her mind. Letting herself get caught up in that would be detrimental to the current situation. Every day brought danger closer to Gwaren, and both she and Hawke agreed that if they were going to have any chance at surviving, they were going to have to get out before it became too late. And that meant leaving Ferelden. There would be no escaping the horde so long as they remained on this side of the Waking Sea – they would only be desperately and futilely attempting to outrun it.

She'd learned the hard way what happened when you failed.

"Stop it, Aveline," she muttered under her breath in frustration. This was not the time to give in to guilt and pain. And no, those were not tears that were blurring her vision; she'd simply caught some dust in her eye. She refused to appear weak. She had a task to carry out and she would do it, if only to help Hawke and repay him the debt she owed for his aid. Through unspoken agreement it had been decided that she would accompany them out of Ferelden, and she was determined to pull her own weight. And if that meant bartering passage on a ship while Hawke took care of his mother and sister, then so be it.

As soon as she reached Gwaren's docks, however, she was reminded of why she had never been the one chosen to handle negotiations in the past. After speaking with the harbormaster and ascertaining which ships would be leaving port within the next days, she began to seek out the captains of each. The first two were already full up on refugees, the third was cargo only, and the fourth was instead striking a course eastward towards Antiva and Rivain.

"If it's Kirkwall yer wantin'," the last captain said after turning her down, "you might try Lawson down at the end of the docks. Hear tell he might be makin' a run up that way. Normally it's The Siren's Call handling that passage, but talk has it she's avoiding the southern waters on account of the darkspawn. Word t'the wise, though – stay on yer guard with 'im, lest you find yerself with more'n you can handle."

Aveline raised an eyebrow at that - it was rare when someone commented about her finding more than she could handle. "Thank you," she said with a slight nod of acknowledgment. "I'm sure I'll be fine, however." Bidding the man farewell and leaving him to his cargo, she headed down the length of the docks towards the last ship tied up in the row.

As sea-faring vessels went it didn't seem especially large, though admittedly she wasn't that well-versed in watercraft. All she cared about was that it was big enough to carry the six of them (seven, if you included the mabari), that it could float, and that it was going in the direction of Kirkwall.

The ship was called Destrier – a rather odd name for a vessel, but who was Aveline to judge – and after a moment of staring thoughtfully at it she noticed a blonde man with a handlebar moustache stacking cargo crates on the dock next to her. No one else appeared to be around – perhaps the rest of the crew was on the boat?

She made her way carefully towards him, cautious to not get tangled up in any of the lines draped over the dock boards. "Excuse me," she said once she was close enough. "I'm looking for Lawson."

The man straightened up and turned, narrowing his eyes in response. "Whaddya want with him?" he asked, his moustache twitching as he spoke. Both his eyes and his tone were laden with suspicion.

"I'm seeking passage on a ship to the Free Marches for me and my companions," Aveline replied, "specifically to Kirkwall. I was told this ship might be headed that way." She nodded slightly at the vessel.

The man scowled. "Aye, she was," he said, "'til her crew decided to up an' ditch an' leave her and me both stranded. You'd think they'd be itchin' t'get outta here what with th' Blight comin' and all. Bloody bastards, all'a them."

Aveline gave a slight raise of her eyebrow. "You're Lawson, then, I take it?" she asked.

"Aye." He grabbed a rag up off a crate and wiped at his hands. "Lawson Hendyr, Free March native an' captain extraordinaire, at yer service." He extended his hand, and looked mildly surprised when she actually took it. "Destrier an' I mostly handle th' cargo runs back an' forth between the Free Marches and Ferelden, but I'm wagerin' our next trip out is gonna be th' last for a good long while." He put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "If we can get out'a here, that is. Don' suppose you know anyone able to help crew a cargo ship?"

Aveline looked at the Destrier, and frowned slightly. "How many people do you need?" she asked.

Lawson sighed. "At least three t'help get 'er launched. After that, jus' one person t'handle the crow's nest, an' I can take care'a the steerin'. I know these waters like th' back'a my hand, but even I can't launch a ship with jus' my two hands."

An idea was beginning to blossom. It was a long shot, but it just might work. "How hard is it?" she asked. "If you had the help, could you show them what to do if they've never been on a ship before?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Maybe," he said. "Everyone's gotta start at some point I s'pose. Lemme guess. You've got yerself a couple'a strappin' young men who need passage outta this place and might be willin' t'work for it?"

"And me," Aveline replied calmly, though her eyes held a challenge in them.

Lawson inclined his head slightly, eyeing her – and then nodding, as if he liked and approved of what he saw. "I like ye, lass," he said with a grin. "Ye've got a good head on yer shoulders." He paused, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes. "Ye know, I got me a nephew in Kirkwall 'round yer age, mebbe bit older…"

"Not interested," Aveline said firmly, cutting him off before he could finish the suggestion that he clearly intended to make.

He chuckled. "Yer not one for beatin' 'round th' bush, are ye? Ah, well, can't blame a man for tryin'. No matter. Ye go get them boys a' yours, and we'll see what we can do 'bout gettin' my Destrier sea-worthy."

Aveline knew, logically, that she should have been irritated by his shallow attempt at matchmaking, but it was overshadowed by her relief and her determination. They had a way out of Gwaren. True, it was a little more complicated than just booking passage, but given that between the five of them they had barely a sovereign between them, she wasn't about to turn her nose up at the offer.

"Give me a couple of hours," Aveline promised, "and you'll have your crew."

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

By the time Aveline returned to the docks and the Destrier, she had not only Hawke and Carver in tow, but half a dozen other men hoping to barter labor in exchange for passage for either themselves or their families. After half an hour of bartering with Lawson to make arrangements for as many as they could, they began to arduous task of loading the ship and preparing her for departure. Truth be told Aveline was surprised that Lawson had managed to find a way to bring everyone – when she'd counted her volunteers and their extended families she'd been worried for a moment that there wouldn't be room and some would have to be turned away. She voiced as much to Hawke at one point, as they double-checked the anchor and the mooring ropes.

"You didn't notice?" Hawke asked, raising an eyebrow at Aveline in response.

She looked puzzled. "Notice what?"

He nodded towards a stretch of dock that cut horizontally in front of the Destrier, and for the first time Aveline noticed a pile of shipping crates and barrel stacked at the end of it. "He had Carver and me moving that stuff out of the hold not too long ago," Hawke replied. "When I asked why, he said something about not wanting to overweigh the ship."

Understanding dawned on Aveline, and a smile touched her lips. For all his gruffness the captain kept on surprising her.

They finished with their task in relative silence then, preferring to sacrifice conversation in favor of alacrity. As they straightened up Aveline winced, reaching up to rub at her shoulder in discomfort. Swords and shields and suits of armor she was used to; manhandling a multi-ton anchor she was not.

"Sore?" Hawke asked.

"A touch," she admitted. "I'll be fine so long as I don't aggravate it while it still hurts."

Hawke glanced around before lowering his voice to a near whisper. "If you're…okay with it," he said, "I can take care of it later, when we go back to the room for Bethany and Mother."

The hesitation in his eyes surprised Aveline for a moment. She knew he was a mage, had seen him working to heal Bethany, as well as tend to his brother and mother, so why did he seem to feel as if his offer might not be welcome? It wasn't as if Aveline had any particular feelings concerning mages, apostate or not…

Oh.

Her chest tightened.

"You don't have to tiptoe around me, Hawke," Aveline said quietly. "I may have married a Templar, but that doesn't mean I shared in his views. I judge a person's worth by their actions, not by their birth." She looked at him with an unwavering gaze, her eyes steady and firm.

Hawke couldn't help but look back at her. He hadn't forgotten the way she'd stood up for them when Wesley had confronted them about being apostates. Whereas Wesley had been ready to do his duty as a Templar, even while surrounded by darkspawn who really didn't give a damn what side of the Chantry a person was on, Aveline had responded with practicality and had convinced him to stand down. Until this moment, though, Hawke hadn't been sure whether or not that had been a reflection of Aveline's views, or just her sense of prioritization.

It was, he know realized, a combination of both.

He smiled at her, tension draining out of his shoulders as he did so. "Thanks, Aveline," he said quietly. "I just…I wasn't sure, and I didn't know how to approach it."

She returned his smile, though her own was strained. "It isn't as if it's a subject that would come up in normal conversation," she said. "I hope that assuages your concern, and that you won't be pressed to insult me again by assuming I'd hold your birth against you."

The rather imperialistic tone drew a bark of laughter from the redhead, and Hawke shook his head, his grin broadening. "No," he said, "I don't think I'll make that mistake again, thank you very much." He tilted his head back and looked up at the sun. "Starting to get on in the day. Let's go let Captain Hendyr know we're done, and see what else there is to handle. The sooner we can get out of there, the easier I think I'm going to be able to breathe."

Aveline wasn't sure if that would ever be possible again, but she nodded her agreement. She had no idea of what would be waiting for them on the other side of the Waking Sea, but whatever it was, it had to be better than what they were leaving behind.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Redcliffe

Alistair leaned against the stone parapet lining the top of Redcliffe keep. Some things, he noted mundanely, rarely changed. The top of the keep still provided the best view of the rest of the castle, as well as the village below and the arling that stretched out beyond it. From this height his could easily make out the deceptively calm waters of Lake Calenhad, and if he squinted a bit against the sunlight, the high-rising column of Kinloch Hold in the very distance. With the sun shining down and the sky a clear blue, the view to the north and east was stunning.

When his gaze swerved south, however…

He turned away from the darkened landscape, the columns of smoke that still curled up into the sky from the direction of Lothering and the Wilds, and leaned back against the parapet. With a sigh he looked down at the rose in his hand, running his thumb idly along the long thorn-dotted stem.

"Somehow the contrast of that sword at your side and the rose in your hand doesn't quite match the mental image in my mind."

Alistair looked up, startled. "Bann Teagan?" He figured his detour up here wouldn't go unnoticed, but he'd figured that if anyone would have come up to talk to him it would have been Leliana – or Morrigan, if only to give him a hard time. But the last person he would have expected to appear was the man walking towards him now. "Why are you…what are you doing here? Is Connor…?"

Teagan smiled tiredly – he looked as exhausted as Alistair felt. "Connor is fine," he said. "Resting, but he seems to be okay all things considered. I'm sorry if I surprised you. I couldn't find you in any of the guest rooms – and then I remembered that you often found the most secluded point you could when you had a lot on your mind. I figured the walls would be the easiest place for you to go and not worry about running into anyone."

Alistair felt heat rush to his cheeks, and he quickly lowered his gaze back to the rose. "I'm surprised you remembered," he said. "That was a long time ago."

Teagan nodded. "What was it…ten years?"

"Twelve. I was sent to the Chantry ten years ago, but you were too busy in Rainesfere the last two years to visit Redcliffe." Alistair sighed and tilted his head back, squinting slightly as he stared up at the sun. "Something about a drought, or maybe it was bandits…I can't remember."

"That's right." Teagan nodded in recollection. "We had a season of failed crops one year, and then the next I had to deal with an onslaught of bandits trying to take advantage of my people. By the time I made it to Redcliffe again, you were already gone." He let out a sigh. "I'm sorry, Alistair. Maybe if I'd been able to talk to my brother, I could have convinced him not to send you away."

Alistair looked at Teagan, surprised. "Are you….you're not blaming yourself for that, are you?" Alistair asked incredulously. That Teagan might actually think himself responsible for the fact that Arl Eamon had sent him off to be a Chantry ward at the tender age of ten was…was… he knew there was a word for it, but with this revelation boggling his mind he just couldn't think of it. "It's not your fault. I mean, I'm not even mad at Arl Eamon, not anymore. It's not like he had to take care of a scullery maid's son for ten years."

"You're not just a scullery maid's son, Alistair," Teagan said softly.

Alistair winced, brushing his thumb absently against one of the rose petals. "I guess that's true," he muttered. "Maybe a king's bastard does rate a bit higher on the scale." Oo, is that bitterness in your tone, Alistair? his inner thoughts mocked him. How quaint.

Shut up, he shot back in irritation. Oh, great. Now he was arguing with himself.

"It has nothing to do with that, either," Teagan interjected, sharp enough that it quieted the snarky side of Alistair's thoughts. Sharp enough that it actually made Alistair flinch, and for a moment he felt more like the eight-year-old stable boy of his past than the twenty-year-old Grey Warden warrior he was now. "Who your parents were or were not doesn't make you any less of a person, Alistair, and it certainly doesn't give anyone the right to treat you like you are. I told you that once before, didn't I?"

He had, and Alistair felt a rush of shame at having forgotten. That had been one of the most difficult trials of his young (at the time) life. He'd only been eight years old, old enough to be able to understand the maliciousness of gossip and the cruel callousness that the nobility could be capable of. It had been about that time that rumors of his parentage had begun to circulate. Most of the gossip had focused on the theory that he was Eamon's son, which the Arl's young bride had not been appreciative of, but a few of the nobles had begun to notice a certain resemblance between Eamon's charity case and the Crown Prince of Ferelden. Eamon had done his best to quash those rumors before they spread too far among the nobility, but not before Alistair had overheard some particularly nasty comments. Already being teased by the other stable boys for having no father to claim him, the combination of the two had had a severe impact on young Alistair's fragile self-esteem.

It had been Teagan who had found him curled up in the corner of one of the mabari cages, surrounded by pups and crying into his sleeves. He'd coaxed the boy out and reassured him, drying his eyes and treating him as more of a person than anyone else ever had before. Arl Eamon might have given him a place to live, but it had been Teagan who had given him a friend.

"I never had the chance to thank you," Alistair said abruptly.

Teagan raised an eyebrow. "Thank me?" he inquired. "For what?"

"For being honest with me," Alistair replied. "For not shielding me from the truth about who my father was, even though I know it was meant to be kept a secret. It…meant a lot to me." He kept his eyes on the rose, turning the stem slowly between his fingers, mindful of the thorns. "I still don't know if I ever meant anything to my father, and I guess I never will, now… but at least I know. When I lived in the Chantry orphanage I met several other boys who had no idea who their parents were. And I saw how it ate some of them up. I remember thinking how easily that could have been me – but thanks to you, I never had that problem. Even if I couldn't tell anyone else, I knew, and that's what mattered."

"It was the right thing to do," Teagan replied quietly. "I wasn't originally brought into confidence on the matter, and I never completely agreed with my brother's handling of the situation. Keeping your heritage quiet from the masses was one thing; hiding it from yourself was another entirely. I figured it out when I began noticing the resemblance between you and Cailan – I think it would have only been a matter of time before you noticed it as well."

"I met him once, you know," Alistair said abruptly. "Cailan, I mean. Here, in Redcliffe. By accident. I was helping the weapons master set up for his next training class, and Cailan came into the armory. He looked at me, and I knew who he was…but I didn't say anything. I didn't know what to say…I had no idea if he knew who I was or not. At any rate he was far more interested in the swords than he was in a potential brother, and we ended up not saying a word to each other."

Something in Alistair's tone made Teagan give him a sidelong glance. "How did you feel about that?" he asked softly.

"Sad. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Relieved. I don't know." Alistair sighed. "I mean, what if I had said something, but he didn't have any idea what I was talking about? Worse, what if he didn't believe me? It's not like I had proof or anything." He went quiet for a moment. "And now he's gone. They both are. The only family I've ever known about, and I'll never know now if they even knew I existed."

Teagan reached out and grasped Alistair's shoulder. "You can't dwell on the past, Alistair," he said softly. "Maker knows I've spent my own share of time doing so, but it doesn't get you anywhere. We could stand here and spout what ifs until we're blue in the face, but it isn't going to change anything. Maric made his choices; so did Cailan. And now you have yours to make."

At the mention of choices, Alistair let out a low groan, and pushed a hand through his hair, making it spike more than usual. "Choices," he said with a shake of his head. "Seems like all I've been doing since Ostagar is make choices."

"Choices like whether or not to give that rose to a certain lovely elf?" Teagan asked with a humored smile.

"What? No! I mean…that's not… we're not…" A dark flush spread its way across Alistair's cheeks, leaving the young warrior stammering for some sort of response to Teagan's unexpected question. He rubbed the back of his neck, the tips of his ears matching his cheeks in embarrassment. "It's not…it's not like that, I barely know her, she hardly knows me, we've just…besides, she'd never…I mean, she's strong, and brave, and…and beautiful, and…Maker, I'm not being very convincing here, am I?" If Alistair had been a mabari, his ears would have been positively drooping.

"Not very, no," Teagan agreed, unable to keep from chuckling at Alistair's vain attempts at explaining away his crush.

"Am I being that obvious?"

"To everyone but her, I think." When Alistair slumped against the stone parapet, Teagan reached out and clasped his shoulder. "Relax, Alistair. It isn't as if anyone is going to tease you for it."

"You obviously haven't spent any time around Morrigan or Leliana," Alistair grumbled. Then he sighed dejectedly. "And it's not even that, really. I've just… I've never felt like this before. I don't know how I'm supposed to handle it, what the right thing to do is."

"And that, Alistair, is one of the greatest mysteries when it comes to women – the art of courting," Teagan said with a sage nod. "Even I still haven't managed to solve it."

"Hence why you're still without a wife?" Alistair asked wryly, earning a chuckle from the other man in response. "I'm pretty sure that nothing I do or say right now is going to be welcome, though… the last time I saw her I'm not sure which was louder, her hissing or my snarling."

Teagan raised an eyebrow. "You two seemed on decent terms when you left the main hall – argument?"

"You could say that…Grey Warden business, mostly, but..." Alistair went silent, struggling with his thoughts. "What do you do when someone you trust does something that goes against everything you've ever believed?"

Teagan's expression grew serious. "I take it this is about mage Jowan?" he asked quietly. Alistair couldn't miss the strain in Teagan's voice that came with the question, and he felt that stab of guilt once more.

Alistair nodded, pained. "I don't know what to think about all of this. I mean…he poisoned Arl Eamon. And even if he didn't do it himself, it's because of that that Connor was possessed and the people down in Redcliffe…and he's a maleficar. A blood mage! I never agreed with a lot of the Templar rhetoric about mages, but blood magic…the whole concept of it gives me chills. And yet…"

"And yet?" Teagan pressed when Alistair didn't immediately finish his thought.

Alistair pushed his hand through his hair. "Well, I mean…look at him. I always pictured blood mages as being like, tall and dark and sinister, with swooshy capes and huge hoods that cover their faces, living in dark caves where they summoned demons to do their demony things." He ignored the returning amusement in Teagan's eyes. "But Jowan's nothing like that. He looks like he'd jump at his own shadow; I can't imagine him summoning a demon and actually making a deal with it. And as for the poison, if he really was hired by Loghain…"

"I wish I could say that I can't believe that," Teagan said heavily, "but I can't. I was there, in Denerim, when Loghain made the announcement about Cailan. I wasn't the only noble who was bothered by the accounts that he pulled out his army instead of reinforcing Cailan's. And I don't believe for a moment that the Grey Wardens conspired to betray the Crown. All of that stems from some deep-seated paranoia on Loghain's part; Maric himself vouched for Duncan."

Alistair frowned slightly. "Paranoia?"

Teagan nodded. "There were some incidents, about twenty years back or so… not long before you were born, actually. I never learned the details, though, Maric never talked about them to myself or Eamon. I'm not even sure he told Loghain. I just know that it led to the reinstatement of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden."

Alistair nodded. "Duncan was second-in-command then. He only became commander a couple of years ago, at least that's what he told me." He pressed his lips together. Talking about Duncan, about Ostagar and Loghain, wasn't exactly his favorite pastime. "I don't see what any of this has to do with Jowan, though."

"It doesn't – but it has to do with Loghain. I've known him for years, and I can safely say that this is not his normal pattern of behavior. The old Loghain would have never sent an assassin after my brother, but the Loghain I saw in Denerim? I wouldn't doubt it. And I'm not too keen on punishing someone who was only manipulated into doing what he did."

"You aren't?" Alistair looked at him in surprise. "But Isolde…I mean, the Arlessa…"

"Isolde's perspective is from that of a wife and a mother," Teagan said quietly. "She holds Jowan solely responsible for what happened – I can see that it isn't black and white. To be honest, Alistair, I'm glad that Yllia did what she did. I would not have wanted to be the one to pass judgment upon him in my brother's stead, nor did I relish the idea of turning him over to the Templars."

Alistair suppressed a shudder. "Neither did I," he admitted quietly. He couldn't help recalling the look of panic that had appeared on Jowan's face when that large Templar that attempted to muscle his way into control – no, Alistair knew exactly what would have been waiting for the mage if he'd been given over to the Templars. "I guess I can't really fault her for conscripting him. Not when I know what the alternatives are." He sighed. "I made a real arse of myself, Teagan. It's a wonder she'll ever talk to me again."

"There are very few men in this world capable of admitting such a thing," Teagan said with an understanding smile. "And it'll go a long way in making sure the latter happens, I promise you that. Want another piece of advice?" Alistair gave him an eager look. "Whatever you said to her, make certain you apologize. I saw her when we were fighting the undead. That is not an elf whose bad side you want to be on."

"Oh, you really have no idea."