I am going to try and devote most of my writing time to this story. My hope is to update more regularly than I have been.

My thanks, as always, to those who lurk, read, alert and review: CCBug, Shakespira, Wyl, celtic-twinkie, cloud1004, Arsinoe de Blassenville

The Halla Reborn

Chapter 60

Mother Boann stepped out the front door to the chantry, shielding her eyes from the harsh glare of the sun. The warmth of the sunshine was welcome, the brightness driving away – for a while, at least – the dark, ominous clouds that seemed to cover most of Ferelden these days. That the Regent declared their nation was not facing a true blight had done little to quell many fears these days. The young Mother's as well.

Brushing aside a stray lock of hair – which had begun to gray prematurely – she gave a slight nod to the Templars guarding the doorway and made her way from the Chantry grounds, toward the adjoining marketplace.

As she walked, at a slow, carefree pace, she nodded to the many well-wishers who had come out that day to the market. Vendors were busy, as they had been for the past several weeks, and she paused to catch snippets of the conversations that abounded within the marketplace. A small frown found its way upon her still pretty face, and she gave a slight shake of her head as she resumed her walk.

Although the usual bits of gossip could be heard – did you know that Goodman Isiah was found frequenting the Pearl? - (Mother Boann shook her head at that line of conversation as she continued on), there seemed to be one conversation, recycled throughout the market, of varying degrees of concern – that could be heard throughout the market that day.

Dust rose from the walkway with each step, and the young Mother found herself wishing for rain. Rain, as the sunshine, had become scarce these days. When rainfall did occur, it fell in brackish torrents, fouling the exposed water sources, creating black spots upon vegetables on the vines, souring the milk from the cattle. Ferelden was a water rich nation, and, although folks no longer captured the rainfall as they once had, she had heard of none going without water. She raised her eyes to the skyline once more. Rain would be nice simply because it would be some return of normality.

Ferelden was known as a rainy, wet, boggy nation. The lack of rain these past couple of seasons was unusual enough as to add to the tensions many had been feeling.

It was the concern of a civil war, the Blight, the strange weather or other civil unrest that had prompted many of the market goers this day to attend the market. Food had become more difficult to come by, the farmlands in the west overrun by darkspawn, supplies from the Amaranthine farmlands only sporadically finding their way to the Denerim market place. Rumors abounded that the Arl Howe – now, inexplicably the Teyrn of Highever – had called a moratorium on the amount of produce shipped from the lush farmlands of his arling to the other areas of Ferelden.

That the nobleman could add the title of Arl of Denerim to his growing list of titles would not send supplies to the city caused even more unrestful mutterings against the man.

There was also the concern that shipments of produce and other supplies had slowed down from such other nations as Antiva, Rivain, and Orlais, adding to the concerns of the common man that war – whether with man or darkspawn – was inevitable upon the soil of Ferelden.

And so these citizens of the city – the capitol of Ferelden – scurried about the marketplace, buying up what flour and foodstuffs they could, certain that food would become scarce. Among the rumors and gossip, the concerned whispers and hurried admonishments, came more than a few words against not only the new Arl of Denerim, but Ferelden's Regent as well.

Pausing at a nearby stall selling celery and potatoes, the good Mother tilted her head slightly, continuing to take in the disconcerted conversations about her. Boann wished fervently that she could say that their fears were unfounded. Information had been gathered and shared, and thsu the good Mother knew better.

It was with these unsettled thoughts that she approached the dwarven merchant, Gorim. The dwarf smiled up at the taller human, that smile widening at the Mother's request to view his stock of daggers.

"Ah," he intoned as he turned around, pulling forth a splendid dagger of silverite, its blade inlaid with lyrium runes. "Here is the perfect blade for your hand, Mother," he handed the blade to her, watching as she held the hilt expertly, turning the blade so that it gleamed in the sunlight, bringing the hilt to eye level, her eyes narrowed as she examined the maker's mark inlaid therein. "Direct from the Seat of Orzammar, it is." He smiled again, nodding his head once as the Mother continued her inspection.

"How much for this fine blade?" She asked after a moment. The pair haggled back and forth, finally settling upon the price of two gold sovereigns. With a smile, the Mother handed over the coin, and Gorim handed over the finely tooled leather belt sheath that went with the blade.

With a final nod, Mother Boann took the blade, carefully sheathing it as she hooked it to her belt, and made her way back to the Chantry, her errands done.

DA:O

Sunlight filtered through the overhanging tree limbs, casting rays of light parallel to the cooler shadows. Adela's blonde head turned toward the pair of men sparring, a slight frown creasing her brow.

Over the past few days, tensions had been growing amidst her group, and the source of the tension continued to evade the elf.

It started first with Ser Perth. The knight had been considerate and courteous to her, however, his manner had cooled somewhat shortly after the group had returned to Redcliffe. She had attributed this to the growing need to get to Denerim, call the Landsmeet, deal with the unpleasant political wrangling, and face the Blight. With the travel preparation, fully aware that the threat against the Arl's life months before had been initiated by, if not Loghain himself, then from within his circle of influence, everyone was at ill ease – from Isolde's normally cheerful maid, Gail, to the members of her own team. So, she had let it pass, crediting it to the growing tension everyone was feeling.

After the brief conversation she had with the man the day after their return, she was now uncertain.

He had made a remark, small and seeming inconsequential. A comment she could have easily dismissed, had she not also had an argument with Alistair later that same evening.

Regarding the same subject.

Roland.

The knight had surreptitiously inquired after Roland's whereabouts, a slight hardening of his eyes that had taken the elf aback somewhat. She had informed him, with a slight shrug of her shoulders that the former knight was assisting with provisions. After a moment's pause, in which the soft gray eyes of the knight searched the elf's face, he gave a polite nod and turned away.

Alistair, on the other hand, had not been happy and had been extremely vocal about his displeasure. Adela had taken Roland into the village with her a few times since their arrival. Of course, she could not tell Alistair why he could not come with her, and, for some reason the young woman could not fathom, Alistair had taken great umbrage to her denial.

There was a sick feeling in her stomach as the elf could not let Alistair know of the reasons for her trips into town. The amulet Smith Owen was working on was not ready, and she did not want Alistair to know of it prior to her presenting it to him. Although, if his mood continued on the downward spiral it now was heading, she wondered if she ever would present the amulet to the man.

Roland had accompanied her the first trip into town because she had needed was a pair of strong arms and a stronger back to carry back the heavy greatsword that she had retrieved – with minimal difficulty – from the dwarven merchant, Dwyn. The mercenary happily parted with the beautifully worked blade for a mere seven gold sovereign.

Of course, Roland had not been happy about the price, but Adela gladly paid the price, knowing that the blade would bring far more cheer to its true owner that made the price small indeed.

The near smile that crossed the Sten's face when they presented the blade to him later on had been well worth the cost. And his pledge to continue to fight at her side against the Blight – all under the guise of still needing an answer for his Arishok – had brightened her day as well.

That he called her Kadan added to the feeling of accomplishment.

The argument she had with Alistair later that evening, who questioned why she would ask Roland to help her with the burden and not him, quickly evaporated the good feeling she had been nursing all day.

To say he had been less than pleased with the weak excuse she had come up with…that Roland had errands of his own and she wanted to keep the blade a secret as long as possible…all she could do was shake her head as the harsh words they had both said that evening repeated within her mind.

That argument – the first true fight the two had since marrying – was three nights prior. The argument last night had even harsher words.

Words she tried hard not to dwell upon. Adela knew that they were spoken out of frustration, tension, and no small amount of jealousy.

It was Alistair's jealousy that the elf could not understand, could not comprehend why her husband would even allow to form within his heart. So suddenly making its appearance without preamble or cause. But, there it was, and not only was it in his heart and mind, that out in the open, spreading between the two of them, dividing them, pushing them apart as though a tangible thing.

Alistair had apologized for the words almost as soon as they fell from his lips. Adela had to bite back her own hurtful words as he spoke his disappointment, that he had been hurt that she was taking Roland on errands when he was more than willing for a few moments alone with his wife, doing such mundane things as retrieving lost weapons or looking into restocking their supplies. Her heart had nearly broken with the sincerity behind his words, the soft, watery look of his amber eyes.

And then he had to go and ruin the remorse, so painful she almost declared the true intention for leaving him behind as she made her errands to town.

Alistair had crossed the line between husband and Second, demanding that Adela limit the time she spent with their fellow warden.

That had been Alistair's greatest mistake of the evening.

"He is a fellow warden," Adela, as calmly as she could, reminded the man. "I am his commander. You tell me how in the bloody Void I am supposed to limit my interaction with him?"

Daggers glared from her eyes, hands to her hips, and a stern frown upon her lovely face. Alistair's eyes narrowed. "You don't need to take him on every little errand you need to see to!"

Shaking her head, forcing herself to continue to look at the man, she swallowed. "There is nothing for you to be concerned with, Alistair," her voice was calm, but cool, her own anger rising. "He is a friend, a warden, and under my command. I will not limit my interaction with him because my husband has decided to play jealous!"

More words had been spoken, voices were raised, but in the end, Alistair had no choice but to acquiesce to Adela. As his Commander, he had no choice. Roland was a fellow warden. Therefore, Adela was his Commander as well.

Nothing had been resolved. And so the pair went to bed angry with one another for a second night, lying tensely beside each other, backs to one another, barely touching.

Tensions had only minutely eased in the morning, each giving the other merely perfunctory greetings, passing one another on their way to separate duties.

Now the afternoon's sun had risen, and Alistair matched blade against the Sten in the courtyard as Adela watched, wondering how she would rectify the situation.

As she sat there, pondering, a small boy – one she recognized from the village, but had never introduced to – came running up, quickly handing the Champion of Redcliffe a piece of parchment.

A smile crossed her wearied features as she read the note, rising quickly and eagerly pacing out of the courtyard toward the village.

DA:O

Alistair was miserable. He could not believe he had started a fight with Adela, and not just one, but two over the course of three days! The Sten's greatsword, Asala, swept forward, arching at his midsection. Twisting slightly at the waist, he brought his shield around, blocking the blade as he then pushed with his longsword under the huge sword, driving it off course, bashing his shield upwards as well, twisting the Sten's blade nearly out of his hand. Alistair took advantage of the qunari's off-balance, spinning around to slam his shield into the larger man's chest, flattening him to the ground. Grinning, Alistair stood over the giant, the grin widening upon his face.

After all, this had been the first time he had defeated the qunari in sparring.

The smile disappeared as his eyes skimmed the courtyard. He recalled seeing Adela earlier, watching the pair as they sparred. How he wanted to simply go up to her, apologize for his behavior, and ask that all be forgotten and forgiven. Truly, he had no idea where the intense feelings of jealousy had come from. It had been like a tidal wave of anger washed over him as he had watched Adela walk off to the village beside the red-haired warden.

And he had let that feeling take over his common sense. It was not as though Adela had never taken any of the other companions – Roland included – for errands or missions before, leaving him behind to lead the secondary group. And he had never felt any form of abandonment or jealousy over it. Certainly, he had questioned the decision a time or two, but never with any anger.

He honestly had not been overly upset that she had asked Roland to assist her with retrieving the Sten's sword from the dwarven merchant. But still, his emotions suddenly took hold of him, and led him down a path he had no intention of going down.

A cool breeze washed over him, ruffling his hair, which had fallen free of its tie at the back of his neck, and he reached up to brush a stray lock from his eyes as he turned to his sparring partner, offering a congratulatory word as the Sten gracefully rose to his feet, bowed slightly and then turned to leave.

As he sheathed his blade and set his shield to his back, the young man turned to walk back to the castle, his eyes skimming the courtyard in search of his wife.

As he thought more of it, he realized that the feelings were very similar to how he had felt when both he and Roland were vying for Adela's attentions.

Many, many months prior. And he, Alistair, was now the woman's husband.

What cause did he have, truly, for these feelings?

With a heavy sigh, he mounted the steps, sluggishly climbing the stairs and passing through the wide double doors, unaware that a pair of keen gray eyes watched his progress from a window above.

DA:O

They passed through the forests as spirits, slipping in and out of the cool shadows with ease, forms indistinguishable from the dark patches that were natural to the deepest and oldest of forests. This was their element, their home. Their people had survived for millennia because they knew that, standing in the light, exposed, could well mean their own enslavement. Or worse, an end to them.

They would never submit, for they were the walkers of the lonely paths.

Yet, here they were, racing through the ancient forests that had sheltered them when their own homeland had fallen, coursing through with all the speed ingrained in their race, seeking out others of the race of that had been their conquerors and enslavers from so many countless centuries past.

Humans. Shemlen. Shems.

To stop a Blight, the Dalish would align themselves with the Forgotten Ones themselves.

The elves racing amongst the trees were of Clan Mahariel. The main bulk of the clan had already fled Ferelden at the first sign of the Blight, seeking to keep their people as safe as possible from the taint that threatened to ravage the land. However, runners from the clan led formerly by Zathrian had managed to catch them up quickly, and relayed the request of the Grey Wardens that the Dalish honor their timeless agreement to assist in a Blight. Marethari had called for volunteers.

Close to half of their most able bodied warriors had volunteered to face the battle against the Archdemon and the Blight it led.

Speed was a factor, and the mounts of the Dalish, the mystical and beautiful Halla, had communicated their willingness to accompany these fine, brave warriors as their steeds, using their speed and grace to carry the warriors from the outskirts of the Ferelden borders closer to the human settlements where they expected to meet up with the Grey Wardens and their allies.

Their flight from the main body of their camp, with the assistance of the Halla, took mere days. Once they had reached the borders of the Brecilian Forest, the elves dismounted, urging the Halla to return to their clan with due speed. With final farewells made, the Halla turned to make the days-long journey back to the edges of Ferelden as the Dalish melted into the ancient forest.

As the group of elves neared the Forest's borders their leader, a tall man with unruly red hair, wielding a staff upon his back, raised a long fingered hand, calling for a halt. His handsome, heavily tattooed face scrunched as he carefully approached where the Forest met the tamer paths, his face lifting slightly as he tasted the smoke on the wind. Purple eyes, so dark as to appear black, scanned the scene before him, settling upon the figures in the distance, milling about what could well be a large campsite, set along the perimeter of the Forest's edge.

Turning once, he gave a sharp movement of his hand, indicating that those who followed should move forward. Without hesitation, the warriors under the mage's command stepped forward as one, and, together, the wild elves melted back into the cool shadows, slipping easily along the Forest's edges, feet barely touching the fallen leaves and forest debris that littered the ground, no sound to herald their approach as they made their way toward the distant campsites.