Hmmm…the chapters are finally coming along nicely. I apologize to those readers who are following my other stories. I really do have the next chapters at the very least started, but my muse - who was being very naughty this past month - has decided to spent most of her energies upon this story. I should, ah, probably update my profile.

My thanks, as always, to those who read, lurk, alert, favorite, and most especially review. I know that there is a plethora of new stories (esp. with DA:2 still being so very new), and I always appreciate when my stories continue to get attention. Mutive, Shakespira, thanks for taking the time to send me your reviews for the previous chapter.

The Halla Reborn

Chapter 56

Adela glanced over to where Alistair lay, one arm thrown casually across his eyes, the other on his chest. She knew very well he was awake. Awake and thinking. She moved closer to him, pressing herself against the upper part of his crossed arm as she curled her body around him. He offered a small smile beneath the arm across his face, but still did not move. That smile faded fairly quickly, however.

Maybe he was more brooding than thinking, Adela thought as she continued to lay next to her husband, closing her eyes as she waited as he continued to gather his thoughts. If he needed to talk them out, he would. For now, she would give him the space to think and work it through himself.

She knew eventually he would come to her.

DA:O

He did not want to admit it, especially not to Adela, but he was nervous about meeting with the Arl once more. The last time they had been there, months prior, the older man had tried in vain to convince Alistair to put Adela aside and take up the throne. He had insisted that it did no justice to Fereldan to continue to let one of common blood reign upon the throne, without a proper heir from the Theirin line to claim it later on. Alistair could remember quite well the anger he had felt at Eamon's words, and he had never spoken of them to Adela.

His thoughts and worries, however, did not rest solely upon the shoulders of the Arl of Redcliffe. He had found that, the closer they came to Redcliffe, the closer their final goal of having gathered their armies and setting out to Denerim to thusly lay claim to the armies of the land, the more concerned he became for this other son of Maric. Another half-brother. The Blood Mage.

A shiver went through him as he wondered just how many other Bastards of Maric were out in the world, waiting for the opportunity to claim the throne for their own?

He knew that Adela was concerned over this complication, uncertain how to proceed against the man who could very well have as legitimate claim to the throne as he had. However, as a mage, his claim would be weakened. But, if the nobles were much like Eamon, only seeking to have one of Calenhad's line with his ass upon the royal seat, that fact alone may not be enough to keep the man from gaining his power hold.

To ensure that Anora managed to keep her own position, they had to have proof that the man was a blood mage. It would be the only way to convince the nobles not to override any objection from the Chantry and the more common folks. An heir of Maric or not, being a blood mage would negate any claim the man had to the throne.

Or so that was Alistair's hope.

Proving the man a blood mage may prove a bit more problematic, if the man was smart. And, being able to infiltrate the royal compound, take hold of Loghain as a blood thrall, and ally himself with who knows how many within the noble circle certainly proved that the man was intelligent, savvy and more than a little ruthless.

A small groan escaped his lips and he moved his arm to rub at his tired eyes. He felt Adela's warmth against his side and he moved his hand completely to stare down at her sleeping form. He pulled her closer, wrapping his arm about her small figure, pulling the blanket tighter about her shoulders.

He knew that his wife had similar concerns regarding the blood mage in the royals' midst. She also worried over the gathering armies, the knowledge that the Archdemon and its hoard could erupt from the earth at any point…pretty much, she worried about everything. There were nights when she barely slept. Most nights were spent discussing their plans and her worries, but Alistair knew very well that other nights saw his wife laying in his arms, wide awake, her worries and concerns overtaking her, hijacking her sleep.

Arms tightened about her slender form, and he bent his head to kiss the top of her blond head. He stretched out his senses to her, frowning as he, as had been happening more often of late, was unable to sense his wife. It was something he had been meaning to bring to her attention, but had yet to do so. He had been able to sense Niall and Roland, through the shared taint. Doing so had enabled him to locate them in battle, sense when they were having difficulty. And, on the part of the other wardens, they had used their connection to the Second as a means of rushing to his aid, or Niall knowing to cast a healing upon the young warrior.

Not being able to sense Adela, especially in battle, worried the young man.

He should have awoken her to discuss this, but she had only just fallen asleep, having been worrying all day the nearer to Redcliffe their group got. Tomorrow, he promised himself as he snuggled down closer to his wife. With that thought, he slipped into a light sleep, an attempt to garner what rest he could while avoiding the nightmares of darkspawn and archdemons.

DA:O

What a strange group of people he ended up with. Anders grinned as he spooned porridge into his bowl, taking a seat next to the pretty Warden Commander. Hazel eyes blinked in the sunshine as he tilted his face to the sky. Despite having been weeks away from the tower, he never tired of the feel of fresh air upon his face nor the heat of the sun upon his skin.

He had been slightly disappointed that the elven warden was married. And to the very handsome and strong fellow warden as well. He never poached, and, figuring that Alistair could break him in half if he even attempted mild flirtation, he had turned his attention next to the gorgeous, raven haired apostate with the acerbic tongue. He learned, almost immediately, that the group's other beauty in residence - the red haired songbird - had claims upon the lovely witch, and his disappointment only escalated.

Wynne was far too old, far too familiar, and far too much a pain in his ass to even consider even a flirtatious smile at, and the dwarven lass - although sweet and very cute - was far too skittish for his tastes. Add to that fact the red haired dwarven warrior - Oghren - had seemed to have taken an almost fatherly concern for the cute dwarf, and Anders was down to the men in the group.

Not that he minded too much for that, either. Although he did prefer women, men had their own appeal.

However, he found himself left out in the cold there as well.

The handsome elf, Zevran, was Niall's bedmate, and Anders found himself yet again cursing the brunette mage his luck. The blond apostate most certainly did not have a death wish, and avoided any flirtation with either the Qunari or the dwarven male. That left either the handsome red haired warrior, Roland or the very distinguished nobleman, the Teyrn of Highever.

His sights thus set, Anders nodded his good morning to Adela, finished his breakfast, and sauntered to where the warrior stood, talking quietly with the dwarven merchant.

DA:O

"Maker's breath!" Roland exclaimed as he stepped away from the blond. "What is it with you mages?"

Chuckling, Anders replied, "Why? What is wrong with loving someone just because they are the same as you?"

The red headed warrior scowled, running a hand through his hair. Why did he attract this kind of attention? "Look, Anders," he began slowly, his green eyes glancing quickly to where Adela sat by Alistair's side, "I'm really, ah, flattered that you find me…no, ah…" the warrior stumbled, and Anders raised a hand, seeking to ease the young man's discomfort.

"Look, I'm sorry," Anders smiled with a shrug, "It's obvious that you don't feel the same way. And, that's fine. I, too, prefer the fairer sex, but it appears that this group offers little in the way of available females."

"Well, why me?" Roland had to ask, recalling how persistent Artemis had been in his pursuit of him. "Why not, say…" he skimmed over the group, frowning, "Oghren?"

Snorting with laughter, Anders shook his head. "No thank you! I happen to like my balls where they are - firmly attached to my body!"

Nodding, his eyes went to the Sten. "Ever want to try something more exotic?" the warrior asked, allowing a grin to cross his handsome face, relaxing slightly as he realized the mage could take no for an answer.

Anders' eyes went to the huge Qunari and he shook his head. "Do you think I have a death wish?" He turned to look the man directly in the eye. "Even if I thought he would be so inclined, I doubt I'd survive the encounter."

Shrugging, Roland said, "Well, then, I guess you are all out of luck."

But, Anders did not seem to think so as his gaze settled upon the young Teyrn of Highever. Roland's eyes followed his path, and he immediately started shaking his head in the negative. "No, no, no! Fergus Cousland does not…swing that way!" Despite the emphasis in his words, Roland kept his tone quiet, afraid others would hear this rather unconventional and rather silly conversation.

"Oh?" Anders turned back to the warrior, a smirk upon his lips. "How do you know?"

"He was married," The young warden stated matter-of-factly. "And, I've known Fergus almost my entire life. I can tell you that he only enjoys the company of females."

"You so sure?" Anders asked, a challenging tone in his voice.

Roland smirked at the other man, recalling an incident with Fergus and Thomas Howe. The Howe noble had barely managed to walk away from his attempt at flirtation with the noble in question. "I know if as bloody fact."

A blond brow twitched upwards, and Anders' hazel eyes sought out the tall, strong form of the nobleman. His sight then shifted back to the smirking face of his companion. He did not know these people very well. And the warden had been in the service of the Cousland family for most of his life. Anders could not tell, however, if the young warrior was challenging him to attempt a flirtation with the young noble, or if he was truly attempting to warn him off such an attempt. Turning back to watch the Teyrn, Anders decided he would give Roland the benefit of the doubt at this point in time. After all, it had not been all that long since he had last had a companion sharing his bed. He could afford to be patient.

And, besides, they would be in Redcliffe within days. He knew of a certain barmaid at the local tavern…

Puffing out a sigh, the mage shrugged his shoulders. "Fine, fine. I'll leave him alone." He turned back to the handsome warden, unable to just let it go at that. Batting his long lashes, he said, "However, if you ever decide that you want to expand your horizons…"

With a snarl and snort, Roland shook his head, walking away from the flirtatious mage.

Really! What was it with these mages?

DA:O

With near silent footfalls, the elf stealthy stole across the dirt covered floor. She smirked as she glanced back to the ladder that led upwards, to the mill, the nearly forgotten and little used tunnel the perfect means of egress available. Spiders scuttled overhead, re-spinning their webs as the rats scurried across the floor, snickering and chattering at the invasion of their refuge.

She paused at the door, a slender hand skimming lightly over its surface, not quite touching as she sought traps that should have been in place, but were not. A mild snort escaped her nose. Amateurs!

But, what else could she expect? She firmly believed that the Fereldans' unnatural love of their dogs came from their being able to trace their ancestry back to the werewolves. What couth and ingenuity could be gained from such heritage?

Carefully, she turned the knob, pulling the heavy door open, stopping as a creaking sound threatened from the hinges. A frown crossed the elven woman's face, and she nimbly slipped through the opening, her sharp eyes scanning the area before she slipped into the surrounding shadows.

Moving carefully to the cell, she paused, listening to the sounds of breathing coming from therein. She had to wonder why she had been assigned this task. Better to let the fool rot in his prison, a just reward for failing at his assignment. However, her employer was of another frame of mind, and the gold he paid her was good. Too good to refuse.

Add to that the chaos she was allowed to sow in the midst of his own grand schemes, and this assignment was more acceptable to her mind.

Slipping from the shadows, she stood before the bars, her eyes watching the slumped form of the disheveled figure therein. Brown hair hung in lank locks in front of his closed eyes, arms wrapped around bent knees, the robe he wore, while clean, threadbare and worn. He seemed so forlorn, absolutely pathetic, that she almost - almost - felt sorry for the young mage. However, that feeling dissipated quickly.

Carefully, she slipped her lock pick tools from her brown hair, and quietly went to work on the lock.

As the final tumbler clicked into place, the young man's head snapped up, his dark eyes fixing instantly upon the features of the lovely elven woman who stood at the entrance of his cell. He raised a hand and rubbed at his tired eyes. Only when he opened them a second time did he realize that the door to his cell was open.

With a thick Orlesian accent, the elf stepped forward, offering a slender hand down to the young man. "Come," she instructed. "It seems our master has called you home."

DA:O

Less than a week from Redcliffe found the Wardens and their companions camped against the lei of the foothills, protected from the wind that tore through and around the cliffs and ledges. Fergus settled next to Adela, who was eating the rabbit stew the Orlesian bard had prepared that evening. Alistair stood to the side, watching as Roland sparred with the huge Qunari warrior. His brown eyes drifted to watch as Alistair shouted out pointers to his fellow warden, his face alight with humor as the young knight found himself upon the ground, once more, thrown by a powerful blow from the giant.

"You know, Maric had confided in my father about Alistair," Fergus said after a moment, his eyes drifting to the startled expression upon Adela's face. He nodded, "Yes, I know who he is. Anyone who knew Maric could see the resemblance, but," his gaze went back to the young warden. "knowing what I know…"

"How?" Adela asked, frowning. To her knowledge, Cailan had been the only one to know about Alistair. Even he was uncertain if Loghain knew about his half-brother.

Fergus shrugged, turning his face from Adela as the memory of the night Maric confessed to his father about Alistair's existence came to mind. Quietly, he opened his mouth and recounted his impression from that evening. "I was approaching my eighteenth birthday, and Maric had made a visit to our home…"

DA:O

It was not all that uncommon, for the King to pay a visit to Cousland Castle. The Teyrn and his family were close friends with the royal family, with Fergus and Cailan being of an age. So often had the visits been that there had been gossip among those nobles who were not close to the Crown that the visits were less social and more of an arrangement between the young Prince and even younger daughter of the second most powerful man in all of Fereldan. That had been the hope, as the idea of one of Calenhad's line forming such an alliance with common blood had been most distasteful.

What was uncommon about this visit was the nature of it - being unannounced as it was. Normally, even if allowing only days before arriving, Maric had the consideration to send out a rider to inform the Teyrn of his upcoming visit. This time, Maric arrived, unheralded, and virtually alone with merely a dozen of his guardsmen.

If Bryce Cousland had thought anything peculiar about the visit, he had not said a word to his son.

After a simple meal, the Teyrn and King retired to Bryce's study. In a surprising move, Maric had turned to the young Fergus, inviting him to join the pair of them for drinks. Bryce raised an eyebrow at that, but allowed Fergus to so attend them. There had been rare occasions where the young man had been allowed to partake of wine, but those occasions were rare and normally under special circumstances.

Apparently Bryce felt an invitation from the King to join them was one of those circumstances.

Bryce and Maric had settled into comfortable chairs, after filling their glasses with brandy and whiskey. Fergus, uncertain what he should do, found a chair just beyond the older men's seats, and settled down, forgetting for a moment that he had been allowed to take a drink for himself. He was more interested in Maric, who appeared haggard and almost mournful. This was a surprise to the young man, as he had only always seen the heroic king jubilant, smiling, or at least appearing far more put together than he currently was.

Well, other than when Queen Rowan had passed on, and the years that had followed her death. But, Fergus had been too young to take real notice of that transformation in the king.

Taking a sip of his brandy, Bryce's gray-blue eyes watched as Maric simply stared at his whiskey, a frown upon his face, brows furrowed in thought. The Teyrn glanced over to his son, who met his eyes, brows upraised in question. Nudging forward with his chin, the Teyrn indicated for his son to get himself a glass as the pair waited for whatever it was that Maric felt the need to discuss.

Many minutes passed as the trio sat in silence, the king gathering his thoughts, Fergus confused by it all. Bryce, however, sat, patiently, sipping at his drink, just allowing the silence to settle further as he waited for his friend to find his voice. Finally, with a sigh, Maric took a strong haul on his drink, barely blinking as the strong liquor flowed down his throat.

"You have always been a good friend, Bryce," Maric started, raising his eyes to fix upon his friend's face.

A quirk of a smile crossed Bryce's face. "So, what bad news are you to deliver to me this time, old friend?"

But Maric shook his blond head, sighing as he pushed his upper body forward, resting his elbows upon his knees. "Not bad news, so to speak," the king started, his eyes skimming over Bryce's form, settling upon Fergus for a moment, before continuing their trek to the ceiling. "I am…at a loss and need your sage advice. Or, at the very least," he took another haul, a rueful smile upon his lips, "an ear to whine at that is connected to a mouth that will not always scowl at me in disapproval."

Realization lit Bryce's eyes, and the man nodded, taking another sip. "So, it's something you cannot say to Loghain." It was not a question, but a knowing statement.

Bryce held great respect for Loghain. The man was a hero, a good man, and ruled his teyrnir well, having a unique understanding of just what the 'common man' struggled with. He had long earned Bryce's respect during the rebellion, and later on during Landsmeets when the former commoner met great opposition from the noble-born of Fereldan. Highever had always maintained an unofficial alliance with Gwaren, much to the chagrin of the other nobles in the Landsmeet.

However, Bryce also knew the man to be taciturn, petulant, and overly critical of their king. Honestly was one thing, but to, at time, publicly dress down one's sovereign…some things were just not done, regardless of how close you were to the man.

It sometimes broke down the respect of the other nobles to see one born a commoner take such stances against their monarch.

Maric nodded his head, sighing deeply. "I have made a grave mistake, made a promise that I should never have. And, I am now at a loss as to how to correct it."

"What kind of promise?" Bryce prompted, frowning as he set his glass down upon a nearby stand.

Fergus sipped at his wine, frowning as his father sat, studying their king, awaiting a reply. He could not recall a time when he had seen Maric appear as ashamed of himself as he now was.

The image did not settle well with the young man.

"I have another son," Maric blurted before draining his glass, raising his eyes to look into Bryce's shocked face. "His name is Alistair, and he is ten years of age."

"Nice trick, keeping him secret," Bryce muttered, frowning slightly, upset that after all of this time, after their friendship of decades, Maric had not seen fit to let him know this little piece of news.

Snorting, Maric shook his head. "No real trick. His mother brought him to me when he was a babe, asked me to take him, but not to raise him or acknowledge him. So, I passed him on to another I had hoped would see right by him."

Although Fergus could tell his father was brimming with curiosity, Bryce's next question was merely, "And who would that be, my friend?"

Blue eyes shimmered with tears, and Fergus wondered just how much Maric had to drink before they had settled into the study. "Eamon."

Running a hand through his graying hair, Bryce rose from his seat, pacing between his chair and that of Maric. The king frowned, rising to refill his glass. Maric's blue eyes briefly met Fergus' confused stare before settling back down.

"Eamon?" Bryce said once he found his voice. "Why would you send the boy to him?" He turned to face his king, his friend. "If you could not take the boy yourself, you could have left him with me."

"I did not want to involve you," Maric replied, lamely. With a shrug, trying to avoid the incredulous look upon his old friend's face, he rose, stepping to his friend, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Had anyone found out, they would assume you took in my son as a means to solidify your power base."

A harsh laugh escaped Bryce's lips. "Maric, my dear, dear friend. What power base do I need to 'solidify'? Our family is second only to yours, and we are more than content with our position within Fereldan politics."

"It was a…rushed decision," Maric admitted, bowing his head slightly. "One not completely thought out."

"Does Loghain know about the boy's existence?" Bryce asked, turning from Maric to resume his seat.

With a shrug, Maric settled back down. "I have never said anything to him."

"And Eamon certainly will not," Bryce replied.

Fergus watched as Bryce settled his back against his chair, his glass back in hand, raised halfway to his lips. A finger settled at his chin, and he assumed the pose he and his mother laughingly called his 'Thoughtful Pose'. His eyes clearing, Bryce asked, "What has transpired that you need to bring this to my attention now?"

Fingers pinching at his eyes, Maric replied in a strained voice, "Apparently, Eamon's wife is having issues with the lad…"

Gray-blue eyes flashed, and Bryce once again found his feet. "Eamon's Orlesian wife is having issues with your son?" He began to pace. "That Eamon had the ill sense to marry such a…"

"Easy my friend," Maric actually chuckled. "You are beginning to sound like Loghain."

"At least Loghain has more sense than Guerrin," Bryce shot back. He eased back when he saw the pain flash in Maric's eyes. It was well known that Eamon's marriage to an Orlesian noblewoman was a sore spot for the King, and many other nobles, Bryce Cousland included. Due to the marriage, many nobles had distanced themselves from the Arl. Being his wife's brother, however, Maric had not had that option.

Especially not when his youngest son was in the man's care.

"So," Bryce prompted, trying to keep his voice calm. "What issues does his wife have with the lad?"

Shrugging, Maric settled back into the chair, yet he remained stiff and uncomfortable. "I have no idea. Eamon won't tell me all of it. Only that his presence makes her uncomfortable."

"Fine," Bryce said, slamming his glass down on the sidebar, causing Fergus to flinch. "Bring the boy here. We will raise him and ready him for the world…"

"Bryce, it is not that simple…"

"Yes, yes it is, Maric," Bryce turned to his friend, his eyes kind and understanding. "I'll not fault you your decision to bring the boy to Eamon. He is family, after all. However, if his wife is causing things to be difficult for the lad, you need to remove him immediately! Regardless of whether you acknowledge him or not, makes no difference. He is of the line of Calenhad, and deserves better than what he more than likely…" here, the Teyrn stopped, his eyes going wide.

Maric's head whipped up, staring into his friend's bewildered face. That face hardened, and he now glared at his friend. "The lad…." Fergus barely recognized his father's voice as anger and fury threatened to overtake his normally calm tones. "That's the lad Eamon has…banished to the stables, isn't it?"

An angry, confused scowl formed on Maric's face. "What are you talking about, Bryce?"

The Teyrn was once more on his feet, and Fergus had to push his own chair back to keep out of his father's angry path. "I was there, at Redcliffe, two seasons past. There was a young boy, blond, but small, actually sleeping in the stables. I had questioned Eamon about the lad, but he said he was a foundling that preferred to sleep with the animals. He never let me get near to the child, always sending him off on some errand or another." His eyes settled upon Maric's now enraged features. "I would bet Amaranthine's tithes that that 'foundling' is your son."

Bryce's eyes searched Maric's stunned features. "You mean you did not know," he said, frowning again at his friend.

The blond king shook his head. "I have only seen the lad once, when he was younger. He was in the castle, and I recall Cailan sweeping past the boy, exclaiming something about the armory." That blond head tipped down, staring at his clasped hands, silent.

"Maric," Bryce's voice was strong, determined, yet gentle when speaking to his friend. "Bring the lad here. We'll finish his education, his rearing. We will keep his identity secret. Just get him away from Eamon."

With a nod, Maric rose, more determined than he had been when he had first arrived. Nodding his head again, he strode to the door. "Thank you, my friend," Maric said, turning to look at the Teyrn. "We'll leave first thing in the morning. I shall bring the lad here."

DA:O

Adela stared at Fergus, stunned. The young Teyrn shook his head.

"Apparently, Eamon had already sent Alistair off to the Chantry. Maric could not risk a scandal by pulling him from the Grand Cleric's care, and so left him there." His dark eyes sought out Alistair once more.

"I remember Father being livid at the fate Eamon had decided for the boy he was supposed to have cared for." Fergus actually chuckled slightly. "I recall Father not speaking with Maric for weeks afterwards, while he researched for himself whether he could pull the boy from the Chantry's care." He shrugged. "Apparently, the Chantry does not like to give away children left with them for training."

His eyes went back to the stunned face of the Warden. Taking her hand in his, he gave it a squeeze. "I know that we must depend upon Arl Eamon for support in this quest, however," his hand tightened around Adela's. "Do not trust that man any further than need be. His agenda does not always coincide with what is best for all of Fereldan."

Nodding, Adela's eyes moved to the tall form of her husband, who now had turned his eyes to the pair of them.

DA:O

A long fingered hand negligently twirled the glass, wrist resting upon the arm of the elaborate and comfortable chair. Elegant, well made clothing fit the arm, shoulders, chest of the noble holding the glass. Deep set gray eyes were closed, the wrinkles of years that the man owning them had not yet lived long enough to have acquired through natural means marring his stern features. The prematurely gray hair hung free about his shoulders, two simple braids holding the strands from his face.

A noise in the hallway prompted the gray eyes to open, and there was a flash, brief and indiscernible, therein.

He lifted his wizened face, the breeze from an open window wafting over his features, gently ruffling his hair.

That hand lifted, raising the glass to his lips, and he took a deep draught, savoring the flavor as it flowed down his throat.

They were coming back.

She needed to be ready.