Thank you for all of the alerts and reviews that are coming up. I know with DA:2 being released, plus spring fever, writer's block, etc. (and add to that FF's site problems), we've all experienced a lull in reviews and such. I am guilty myself. My thanks for the reviews to: Biff McLaughlin, avekay, CCBug, Shakespira, Arsinoe de Blassenville, Superstar Kid

The Halla Reborn

Chapter 55

Bars. Iron, gray, hard. That had been the focus of his entire time here. Those hated, awful things.

And the wristbands. No. He could not forget those. Restrictive, restricting, uncomfortable and chafing.

His glare shifted from the bars of his cell to the bands upon his wrists.

But he was most angry at the one he had thought had been his compatriot. Someone he had thought would rescue him from this prison, but had yet to show.

How did he get himself into these troubles?

With a shake of his shaggy head, the young human slumped down, settling upon the floor of his dungeon cell. He knew; he was too gullible, let his feelings get in the way. Sure, he reveled in the magic his friend had taught him. It was the most powerful the young mage had ever felt. He knew snippets of other schools of magic; practitioner of all, master of none. His teachers had despaired that he would never master a school of magic. The circle discouraged mages who did not master any school, but dabbled in all. They thought that such mages lacked focus, and were a danger to not only themselves but others.

He shook his head, scowling. Well, he had mastered a school. Just because the Chantry did not approve of that school….he slumped further down, curling around himself in despair.

Tranquility may have been better than this. He did not know his fate as of yet. The good Arl had decided to keep the blood mage sequestered in his dungeons, and no one - no one - had been down to see him since he had been discovered, other than the servant who brought him his meals, emptied his chamber pot, or brought bathing implements to him. At least he had not been forgotten. At least, not by the noble he had been sent to kill.

Well, he had had one visitor, months prior, but it had not been from someone he would have ever wished to see again in this lifetime.

A groan escaped Jowan's lips as he thought of how he had been so duped, by the man he had thought was his friend. How could he have allowed himself to be so fooled? All those years of friendship, where they a lie?

His thoughts, as they inevitably did, went to Lilly, the young initiate he had tricked into helping him escape. Tricked? He shook his head. That was how it had started, just a means to get out of that blasted tower. However, somewhere, along the way, he had fallen in love with the plain faced, sweet voiced, kind hearted young woman. And suddenly, he found himself believing in the lies he had told her.

Would being a farmer really have been so bad?

But, it had all gone wrong. His friend, Artemis Surana, had betrayed him, having told the First Enchanter of their plans of escape.

The young mage shook his head, lifting his face to stare once more at the bars of his cell. He could not really blame Artemis. After all, Jowan had never really been much of a friend. And the young elf had known of Jowan's friendship with Amell…

A long, sorrowful sigh escaped his thin lips as he thought of his friend, Amell. Well, maybe not his friend. After all, he continued to languish in this prison, at his behest, and no one had made an effort to free him.

It was just punishment was it not? After all, he did not know of Lilly's fate. Had they really taken her to Aeonar? And, what of his treacherous friend, Surana? What had happened to him? He knew that the elf had gone off with the Wardens, but that was all he knew. And, despite believing Surana had betrayed him, he hoped that his young former friend was alright.

After all, despite the betrayal, Jowan was at least honest enough with himself to know that Artemis' involvement had been entirely his fault.

Well, maybe he could blame Amell for that as well.

With such a thought, he decided he would rather place all of the blame solely upon Amell's head, that he was just as poor a dupe as Lilly or Artemis had been.

The thought did not help make the young mage feel much better.

DA:O

Bright sunshine filled the room from the numerous windows. A pale hand rose to push aside the heavy curtains, allowing more of the light to flood the room, the hand moving from the curtain to skim lightly over the smooth glass of the portal. That hand left the glass, moving to smooth over the fine cloth of her gown, then raised to pat lightly at her simply coifed blond hair. Dark blue eyes stared out of the window, down into the courtyard, where the Crown's soldiers trained and drilled, officers walking amongst the simple soldiers, barking orders as the sergeants brought them through their drills. With a sigh, Anora Theirin, Queen of Fereldan, stepped back, turning to face the desk that was central most to her office. With small, regal steps, she moved to the desk, and settled into its comfortable chair, staring numbly at the few papers that lay in neat piles upon the desk's hard surface.

Not that there was much for her to do. No. Arawn and Howe each saw that most of the correspondences meant for her were redirected to her father for his scrutiny and signature. How did it end up like this? She had to wonder. She was queen. And yet, here she sat, with these insignificant correspondences that were allowed to get to her desk, awaiting for her perusal and signature.

Frowning, she picked up one missive, that frown deepening as she read yet another condolence letter from one of the lesser nobles. Almost a year later, and still she received the well wishes and sympathies of nobles.

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she quickly placed the missive back down into its pile. Even after all these months, she missed Cailan. Her gaze turned back to the windows, blinking at the bright sunlight. If he had survived Ostagar…she shook her head, completely unsure how she was going to be able to pull back the powerbase to herself, as it should be. She had allowed her father to usurp her position during her initial grief. And Loghain, bolstered by the wily Arl Howe and his advisor, Arawn, had taken the opportunity presented to him and now ran the country.

She shook her head. But, in doing so, he and the others all but ignored the threat of the Blight. Those brilliant blue eyes closed as tears trickled down her cheeks. Would there even be a Fereldan left for her to rule? If she could not think of how to regain her position, she fearfully doubted there would be.

DA:O

The young Mother stared up into the peaceful features of Andraste, trying to pluck from the emotionless façade an answer, any answer. None were forthcoming, and the usual peace that would envelope the priestess was not forthcoming, either.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes, raising a hand to rub wearily at her eyes.

Others sat in nearby pews, muttering prayers to the Maker, or silently sitting, as she, staring up into the peaceful features of the Maker's Bride. She wondered if any of her fellow parishioners had received any answers, any sense of peace for their own troubles. Or, if like she, they remained confused, their hearts and minds in turmoil.

She pushed herself up, settling upon the pew behind her, back stiff as she continued to stare up into the statue's face. Since that day in the alienage, nearly a year prior, she had felt the unease settle into her heart, upon her mind, in her very soul. That such an action could be taken, with a witness from the Chantry present no less, still troubled young Mother Boann.

The resulting purge of the Alienage had only served to unsettle the cleric even further. Yet, the Grand Cleric, and other more senior mothers, refused to step in on behalf of the elves, sighting Lord's Rights. When Mother Boann had sited that those Orlesian laws no longer held sway in Fereldan, it was pointed out that they had never been stricken from the law books, and thus, it was Lord Vaughn's right to seek out the company of the lesser peoples of the Alienage. That they dared fight back had only sealed their own fates.

Boann rubbed her eyes once more, turning in her seat slightly as the sound of armored feet resounded within the silence of the vast chamber. A knight walked, with purposeful steps, down the isle, his blue eyes scanning the forms in the pews, his gray-blond hair pulled back to reveal a face set in determined countenance. Armor gleamed in the candlelight and finally, he stopped at her pew. Turning his stern eyes to her, they softened.

"Mother Boann?" the knight asked in a quiet, steady voice.

Nodding, she whispered, "I am."

The knight smiled, bending down slightly so that his words could only be heard by her. "I am Ser Landry. I believe you and I have mutual friends."

Confusion briefly flickered across the young Mother's face. The knight smiled as he took a seat next to the cleric.

DA:O

His back was stiff from lying upon the hard, wooden floor of his cage, and he groaned in protest as he moved to stretch out his limbs. There was a slight commotion from the other cages, and he slowly opened his eyes, gummy from lack of sleep, and blinked. The doors to the huge room their cages were kept in opened, and several of their captors and their guards entered, leading along an older man.

A scowl formed at his brow, and the elven man pushed himself quickly to his feet. He knew the man their captors led in! He watched as their leader, a man wearing elaborate robes marking him a mage, stepped over to the elder elf, speaking to him in low, almost friendly tones. The elder elf merely watched him with calm eyes, not answering but not offering any other resistance. The mage actually smiled at the other before indicating that he be placed in the same cage as himself.

As the guards gently led the elder elf into the cage, the mage turned, stepping to stand before him. Dark eyes skimmed over his haggard form, and he frowned. "You have not been eating," the mage scolded, frowning deeply.

He shrugged. "I eat when hungry," he said insolently, scowling at the human before him.

The mage's eyes swept out, settling upon the cage containing the children, not far from his own. Those eyes narrowed as he turned his attention back to him. "You have been giving your fare to the younglings, I take it." It was not a question, and he saw no point in denying it. Yet, he did not voice his answer, merely stood, staring at the mage, defiant.

Appreciation and humor crossed the mage's face, and he nodded. Calling over a guard, the mage stated, "Make certain that an amount equal to the one given to this one," he pointed a the blond elf, "gets added to the fare to the younglings. We cannot afford for this one to starve himself, now, can we?"

The guard nodded once, and left. The mage turned back. "Satisfied, my stubborn friend?"

Nelaros glared at the mage, but then softened the look. With a curt nod, he remained standing, glaring at the blood mage. "Ah, my friend in Tevinter will be well pleased with you," he murmured as he turned to survey the elder elf just placed within Nelaros' cage. "And I know another who would rejoice at having the talent of the accomplished Cyrion Tabris in his stables."

With those words, the mage turned and left, leaving the elves thus caged to murmur and exclaim at the inclusion of one of their leaders to the slave pens.

Sighing, Nelaros turned back to the man who was to have been his father-in-law.

"Master Tabris," he said as he stepped nearer.

Cyrion clapped a strong hand to Nelaros' shoulder. "Glad I am to see you alive, my son," the elder man exclaimed before pulling the younger into a tight hug. Relief swept over the young man, for he had feared the elder man would blame him for the failure of the wedding.

"As am I to see you, ser," Nelaros muttered as they pulled away.

The elves from the other cages were now shouting, trying to get Cyrion's attention. The elf turned to the others, raising his hands for silence. They complied quickly.

"We must maintain calm," Cyrion quietly said, his eyes darting to the doors, expecting the return of the Tevinters at any moment. "Do not fight them. They are too well armed and have too firm a foothold in the Alienage."

"Don't fight?" one young elf scoffed, his eyes narrowed in anger and hatred. "They mean to enslave us…"

Cyrion frowned. "Easy, Artan. Easy. Yes, they mean to enslave us. However, at the moment, we must comply. Or do you wish to see Sara and Seth harmed by a revolt we could not hope to win?"

Artan, the young elf, eased at the names of his wife and infant son. Others nodded, accepting Cyrion's sage advice, although from the looks upon their faces, none were pleased.

The artist nodded his gray head at the young elf, a sad smile upon his face. "We all have loved ones that could come to harm. Do not doubt for a moment that was why we were chosen. We all have family, friends, loved ones still free in the Alienage. And, it will be through them that we will be made to suffer."

"They cannot afford to harm their merchandise," Nelaros muttered, scowling fiercely.

"I cannot believe that the guard does nothing!" another young elf, this one with red hair and fierce green eyes, shouted, scowling at Tabris.

"Quiet, Martan," a pretty young woman scolded. "Do not doubt a moment that Michael is not seeking to help us all!"

"Quiet yourself, Naomi," Martan snarled back. "You shem-loving hussy…"

"Calm yourself immediately, Martan!" Cyrion scolded, and the young elf quieted in the face of an elder's ire. "We all know that Sergeant Kylon would be doing his utmost to see to the issue of the Alienage. If he were allowed to."

"What do you mean, Cyrion?" an older woman asked, her arms tight around the shoulders of a young girl.

Pressing fingers to his eyes, Cyrion stepped nearer to the bars, resting his head against them. "Think, everyone. Have we seen any of the city guard since the wedding?" He lifted his face, and skimmed over each adult face, watching as thoughtful confusion crossed each feature. "No. All we had seen have been the Arl's personal guard. That means, that none of what has happened here - not the purge, not the barring, not the allowance of the Tevinters within - has been sanctioned officially. To do so would involve the Crown. And, I am certain, the Arl of Denerim does not wish to do that."

"So, what can we do?" the same woman asked, her arms tightening, crushing the child closer against her.

"Remain calm, Kira, just remain calm. It is all we can do to ensure our safety as well as that of those we love."

DA:O

Calm blue eyes stared, unseeing, at the noble as he entered the room. Howe paused in his steps, frowning over to where Loghain impassively sat. A questioning look crossed his rat-like features as he continued to stand beside Arawn.

And still, Loghain made no movement, issued no word, made no sign whatsoever that he was even alive.

"He seems rather…unusually passive this day," Howe smirked at his friend, although he was still confused. Even when controlled by blood magic, the taciturn Teyrn would still follow Howe's movements with those cold eyes, or maintain that perpetual scowl upon his broad features. This day, the Hero of River Dane's features were a flat, blank canvas awaiting the painter's brush strokes to add life to.

The blood mage smiled as he poured out a brandy, offering it to his fellow conspirator. "Come with me," he said, stepping over to the where the Teyrn sat upon the throne. A long fingered hand swept out, turning Loghain's head. Howe stepped back, awaiting a backlash of fury from the man. He straightened, taking a step nearer, as the Teyrn remained quiet as Arawn brushed up his long, black hair. A low whistle escaped Howe's thin lips as he surveyed the blue-white of the brand that had been scorched into the Teyrn's flesh, just along his hairline, slender tendrils veining upwards along the man's scalp.

"What is that?" the noble asked before taking a sip of the brandy the mage had poured him.

Chuckling, Arawn released the hair and straightened the Teyrn's collar, stepping away and turning his back to the man. "A lyrium brand. Caladrius, the Tevinter magister that is settling issues in the Alienage, was kind enough to assist me with it." Arawn's blue eyes shifted back to the Teyrn before completely dismissing him. "He apprenticed under a magister that specialized in such magic. Apparently, that elf we sold him was well worth the cost of the lyrium brand. He believes his former master would be very pleased to acquire such a strong, skilled elf to add to his stable."

Howe took another sip, turning his eyes once to the Teyrn, and then back to his friend. "So, that troublesome elf did prove to be of value after all."

Smiling, Arawn nodded. "Indeed he did. Now, our Teyrn will prove completely malleable. I can issue him orders once, and, once the brand is activated, there is no potential for his breaking free of the hold. As it is burned, quite literally, into his skin."

"Brilliant," Howe praised, smirking as he settled into a nearby chair as Arawn refilled his own snifter.

Settling into his own seat, the blood mage took a careful sip of his brandy, relishing the burn as it flowed down his throat. "I've another matter to be taken care of," the mage said as he swirled his glass, watching as the thick liquor coated the interior of the glass. "I would expect it to be taken care of immediately."

"Oh?" Howe asked, his eyes shifting to the doorway as his thoughts wandered to his own residence, where Elissa awaited him, most likely still in bed, languishing about for his return.

"Worry not, my friend," Arawn offered Howe a smile before taking another sip. "The matter is well in hand."

Howe merely stared at his friend, eyes narrowing only slightly. Arawn returned the look, eyes wide with feigned innocence, that knowing smirk twisting at the corners of his mouth. "Fear not, my friend," Arawn chuckled, taking another pull on his glass. "I am merely pulling in some of my resources, that is all."

An eyebrow rose at that, but Howe asked nothing more, knowing fully that, despite his friendship with Arawn, the blood mage continued to hold many things close to his chest. He did not think for a moment that the mage would keep anything important from him. That way would lead to too many misunderstandings in a plot as complicated and delicate as the one they sought to complete. The mage merely needed to keep some things to himself.

His face relaxed, and he offered the mage a small smile, raising his glass to his fellow conspirator.

DA:O

"Are you certain they will pass this way?" the tall, broad shouldered man asked, his tawny eyes scanning the horizon, a strong hand flexing over the sword holstered at his hip.

Another set of eyes, a darker shade of gold, swept the same horizon, a hand rising to brush the great mane of blond hair from his eyes. "The wind tells me it is so."

A deep chuckle rose from the throat of his companion, and the leather clad warrior turned his attention back to his fellows behind them, men and women dressed in similar leathers, each carrying a sword and shield or daggers, few with bows. Although they were setting camp, their postures did not betray any lax, only a battle readiness those used to fighting for their lives maintained, even at their most relaxed. The shaggy head nodded, and then turned back to his companion.

"Can you not feel it, my friend?" he asked after a moment's pause. "The wind, the animals, the very earth itself speaks of their coming."

His fellow paused, lifting his dark head and tawny eyes to the Blight ridden sky, heavy lids closing over those orbs. "I can taste it." He finally remarked, opening his eyes to turn back to his leader.

Smiling, the huge blond turned away, pacing with deliberate steps to the campsite, his companion turning to match his pace. "Then it shall be so."

DA:O

The darkspawn fell, it's head cleaved neatly from its shoulders. Turning, the dark warrior's greatsword spun out, well away from his body, as he completed the circuit, cleaving deeply into the chest of a second hurlock, then leading on to decapitate a genlock. Satisfied, the warrior paused, a deep scowl upon his face, as he surveyed the wreckage he and his had wrought.

No darkspawn - hurlock, genlock, ogre or emissary - withstood the maelstrom of violence that was he and his warriors.

None of his lay upon the tainted ground.

He straightened, rising to his full height, standing nearer to seven feet than six. Black hair hung in tight braids down his back, and he absent mindedly ran a thick finger along the raven tattoo that adorned his forehead.

Other warriors, of similar stance and coloring, each sporting the same tattoo upon their foreheads, stalked to where their leader stood, each set of dark eyes scanning the area, alert to any further foe.

"All have fallen to our blades," one warrior, a young man barely out of his youth, remarked, pride puffing his massive, barrel like chest out further.

The leader smirked at the young man, allowing the moment of pride to swell within the young man's heart. That pride, coupled with the great skill he had displayed during this battle, would serve him well in later battles.

"Come," the warrior indicated with a wave of his hand. "We have some distance yet to cover." A vicious grin crossed his dark face. "Perhaps we will kill enough darkspawn that shall send the Archdemon back to its dark lair, alone and helpless! Awaiting the blade of the Wardens!"

Hoots and wolf whistles accompanied Apumayta's grand statements and the warriors turned as one, trotting off deeper into the wilderness around them, seeking out more foes' blood with which to wet their blades.