My thanks to everyone! I keep getting alerts and reviews! Yay! Thanks to Shakespira, Wyl, cloud1004, Arsinoe de Blassenville for taking the time to submit a review.

I hope to have the next update by next weekend. The story is flowing, and I think we'll be seeing Denerim then. Thanks for following along…

The Halla Reborn

Chapter 61

Long, delicate fingers ran over the embossed figure upon the smooth metal, feeling the smooth ridges of the feminine form depicted thereon. The craftsmanship was of fine quality, the artist having taken the time to ensure that no harsh or rough edges remained upon the item. Adela brought the amulet closer to her eyes, turning the item over as she scanned the back for a trademark. A delicate frown formed on her lips. The damage done to the item so long ago had made any reconstruction of the artist's mark impossible.

With a sigh, she turned it back over, her blue-blue eyes taking in the figure stamped upon the oval, silver amulet – that of a tall, human woman, hair flowing behind her, as though in a strong, steady wind she stood, flames rising into the air behind her as a beacon of sunshine spread out around her. She held a flaming sword outstretched in one hand, the other held high, as though in salute to the Maker, the dress she was clad in hugging her generous curves. The frown was replaced by the slightest of smiles as she considered that the artist had an extremely romanticized vision of the Maker's Bride.

Obviously Orlesian, she thought wryly.

Smith Owen had done a fine job in reconstructing the damaged amulet, and she flipped it over in her hands once more to once again scan the item for any noticeable damage.

He had done a fine job indeed.

Gently, she replaced the item back into the box Isolde had provided to her when she had first given the elf the long lost necklace. As she slid the cover back over the small, wooden box, the elf moved to the side of the bed her husband normally slept upon. Carefully, she placed the box beneath the pillow, brushing the pillow smooth once more, hiding the item beneath.

For a moment, she stood there, staring down at the bedding, pushing the ill ease that threatened to overwhelm her once more. It was her hope that presenting the amulet to Alistair that evening would help to smooth over the discord of the past few days. They had to leave Redcliffe first thing in the morning, and she truly did not wish to begin a long day's march with friction.

She turned away, heading to the door, determined to finish with the preparations of traveling to Denerim with the Arl and his company.

Regardless of what was happening in her personal life, a Blight still needed to be defeated.

DA:O

The steady thrum of heavy footfalls echoed along the cliffs and peaks as the dwarven army began its march through the Frostback Range toward the lowlands. Overhead, a lone raven circled, letting loose a lonely, keening call in answer to the stoic march below. Neat columns of heavily armed and armored warriors descended from Orzammar's front steps, the merchants in the nearby stalls pausing in their work to watch as the combined forces of the dwarven city marched to the call of the Grey Wardens.

Despite being cast out, despite having been declared exiled by their underground dwelling brethren, the surface dwarves stepped from their stalls, offering words of encouragement, exuding pride to the departing backs of the warriors who paid them little heed.

The only answer to their well wishes…the continued thrumming of their heavily booted feet as they clomped along the stone, out of the depths of the underground, and further, deeper onto the lighted surface.

DA:O

Gail hurried through the finishing touches of packing her mistress's luggage. This trip to Denerim called for a consolidation of items, and Isolde had taken care not to over pack. The young elven maid was fully aware – as was her mistress – that should she take advantage, the Arl would deny her accompanying him to their estate in the capitol.

Isolde had been adamant that she accompany him to their estate, that she be there when he called the Landsmeet. The Arl had given her a wary look, frowning as his eyes, inevitably, went to the ornate patch she wore over her right eye, tracing the line of the now barely visible scar that traced its path down her cheek to her chin. The young elf frowned darkly as she recalled the Arl's unkind words to her mistress.

"Do you truly wish to be seen in public like that, Isolde?" he had asked, his voice calm, those gray eyes fixed upon the Arlessa's ruined features.

A gleam of pain shone briefly in the noblewoman's remaining eye before vanishing quickly as she adamantly nodded her head. "Yes, Eamon," she had said, her thick accented voice soft as she had placed a hand to her husband's arm. "I should be by your side in this."

Eamon's eyes had searched his wife's face for a moment. Gail had hoped that some kindness would come forth from the man – offering some hope to the woman who had so much to repent for, and who had done so much during the months since their son's death. She was disappointed, then, when the man gave a curt nod, advising his wife to pack light, and then turned to leave the chamber he no longer shared with his wife.

Despite being relieved at being allowed to accompany him, Isolde had broken down in tears as the coldness that emanated from her husband flooded her own heart. Gail hurried to her side, patting Isolde's quivering shoulders with a gentle hand.

So now, the pair of women pulled forth practical dresses from Isolde's vast closets, taking time to pack only one gown, and little jewelry, filling the sole traveler's trunk that the Arlessa was allowing herself to take.

The elf grinned at her mistress's determination and continued to pack.

DA:O

Gently, with careful ease born of years of practice, Boann pulled at the knot at the sheath's corner, and then gently began to pull the leather twine through the holes, carefully dismembering the sheath. Above her left shoulder, Ser Landry watched as her long fingers skillfully disassembled the casing.

"You've had practice," the knight remarked quietly, smiling as a gentle grin crossed the Mother's fine features.

"When you are the only daughter of a woman who believed that a woman's value was in her hands, you tend to learn how to not only sew but disassemble that which was sown," her soft voice wafted upwards as she patiently continued with her work. "As well as cook, tend a garden, play the piano…" she let her voice fade off at the memory of her mother, a cloud of sad remembrance settling over her as she continued her work.

"Ah," Ser Landry smiled softly as he moved slightly to allow more light over the Mother's shoulder. "So she was preparing you for marriage, was she?"

Nodding, she continued her work. "Indeed. Had plague not taken her, I would have been married off, perhaps with children of my own by now." She gave a gentle shrug of her bent shoulders. "However, she was widowed, and, with her passing, and my young age, I was sent to the Chantry. And here I have been ever since."

She gave a gentle tug (Ser Landry noted that all over her movements seemed of the gentle sort), and soon, the twine was pulled entirely free of the small, leather scabbard. The cleric placed the pieces upon the table before her, keeping them together as best as she could for later reassembling. Then, she reached down, pulling one piece of leather free of the other, revealing a square of parchment hidden sandwiched between.

Stepping back, Boann allowed Landry to take her place, and watched as he picked up the parchment, carefully unfolding it to read the fine letterings printed thereupon.

Chuckling, Landry looked over to the Mother. "Straight for the Seat of Orzammar indeed," he quoted the dwarven merchant, showing the woman the signature at the bottom of the page. Her answering gasp caused the knight to chuckle further as he read the letter aloud.

"In this time of greatest tragedy and despair, with offerings of hope, your dwarven brethren of Orzammar greet you.

It will please you to know that Griffon has passed this way, and not only were the quests and trails survived and surpassed, but has grown in number and strength. Gathered are their allies, readying to cut the head from the Beast. Soon shall the Griffon fly hither.

Know, too, that the Warriors of the Stone march ever onwards to defeat the great blackness that threatens all.

Trust this messenger as I have all my life.

Ancestors' blessings upon us all.

Most humbly,

Serena Abriel Aeducan

Queen, Orzammar"

The two looked at each other, wide smiles upon their faces.

"She lives," Boann murmured, relief etched plainly upon her face as well as heavy in her voice.

Landry, too, felt the relief wash over him as the news that Adela yet lived, and had been gathering the allies they would need to defeat the Blight.

"Well," Ser Landry said, breaking the silence. "It seems we have some planning to do." He gave a great sigh. "While Adela and her allies work against the Blight, we can continue our work here against the civil unrest."

Smiling as she nodded her head, the Mother began to reassemble the dagger's sheath, hands deftly twisting and pulling the leather twine back through the holes. "As best as we can." She replied softly, a shiver coursing through her as she considered all they had done, and all they had yet to accomplish.

"Have you heard from your contact at the castle?" Landry asked, his eyes once more upon her hands, marveling at how delicate they seemed as they wove the twine through the narrow holes.

"No," Boann replied, a slight frown upon her face. "And I worry. I should have heard from her sooner than this." She raised her eyes to search Landry's lined features, her dark eyes settling upon his soft blues. "Have you heard from your contact at the Palace?"

As opposed to Boann's negative response, the knight nodded. "Some. Her movements are carefully monitored, however. And since I am no longer a part of Loghain's inner circle, the girl finds it more difficult to get out to report back to me. Last I heard, they had reclaimed the mage responsible for the mess at Redcliffe."

Her hands stopped their motions, her eyes flying back to Landry's face. "The blood mage?" Fear and uncertainly tinged her voice, and Landry only nodded in affirmation. Swallowing passed the tightness in her throat, Boann continued with her work.

"I'd storm the palace, demand to speak with Loghain, if I could only get passed that damnable Chancellor," Landry scowled, beginning to pace about the small room the pair were sequestered within. He shook his head, the scowl remaining. "There is something about the man...almost familiar, yet I can never truly focus upon his features." He ceased his pacing, turning once more to Boann, who had finished reassembling the sheath and had replaced it at her hip, the dagger once more at its proper home. "It worries me."

"Surely that is not the only thing that worries you?" Boann managed a chuckle. "At least we know that we've more allies beyond Denerim." She looked pointedly to the parchment the man still held.

With a smile and slight nod, the knight turned toward the fire, tossing the parchment into the flames and watching as it burned away. "And those of the Grey will soon be within Denerim." He looked up from the fire. "I should let the Guard know."

DA:O

Adela was nowhere to be found. He had thought to locate her in the kitchens, seeing to a late meal since everyone had been about different duties and chores throughout the day. He had noted that Roland seemed to be avoiding him, and that was well and good to the senior warden. It was difficult enough facing his wife after the temper he had been in. He feared the former knight's reaction to his insane impulse. He continued his search, his disappointment growing with each empty room he peered into, searching out the elusive elf.

He had checked the courtyard, certain that, if not filling her belly, she was sparring with Zevran or Leliana, determined to strengthen her dagger work with one of the two other rogues in their group. However, Zev was seated in the garden with Niall, eating a plate of cold turkey and potatoes, and Leliana was in the library, speaking with Morrigan and Wynne. The elder mage gave the young man a sympathetic smile as he turned away, but he noted the scowl that formed upon the Witch's lovely face.

In his hand he carried a small, wooden box. It was what was inside that caused his heart to skip, the desire to find his wife that more intense.

Finally, he found her. On the roof, seated beside one of the stone gargoyles that lined the eaves. One leg dangled carelessly over the edge, swinging and banging against the stone, the other bent at an angle along the roof's edge. Her chin rested upon the bent knee as she leaned on one hand, her eyes staring out over the courtyard, toward the village. Her hair was loose from its usual braid, and the breeze caused it to ruffle, creating a slight hallo of yellow-gold about her shoulders and head.

Purposefully making noise, the young man stepped behind his wife, taking a deep breath before settling himself next to her, his legs curled up under him (he could not bring himself to dangle his legs over the roof's edge. It was a long drop.).

The harried sounds of scurrying feet, shouts for order, and general chaos rose from the courtyard and castle as the inhabitants continued to prepare for the march to Denerim.

"So, ah, funny story," Alistair began, his amber eyes fixed upon the box in his hands as he broke the silence between the two. He heard the creak of leather, and knew that Adela was now watching him. He found it difficult to raise his eyes, so he kept them firmly upon the small wooden box.

"I go to our room, fully expecting to find my wife, maybe take a nap, and what do I find?" he gave a slight shrug, letting out a gust of breath. "But this box, tucked under my pillow," he gave a forced chuckle, raising his eyes slightly to note that her face was turned toward him. "Good thing I didn't just hop onto the bed like I usually do."

He now raised his eyes, fixing them upon Adela's blue orbs. There was a cool expression within them, fixed upon him as they were, yet containing none of the anger they had earlier that day.

Good sign there, he thought as he looked back to the box, and carefully slid the lid from it. "You know, I've found that, being with you has provided me with plenty of surprises." He knew he would begin rambling, but he couldn't help it. And so he continued. "Finding someone who would accept me, be my friend, let alone decide she loved me enough to want to put up with me for life, well, that was probably the biggest surprise of all."

He glanced up, noting that Adela continued to watch him, but some of the coolness began to fade from her eyes. "And just when I think you can't surprise me any more than you do, well," he paused, his eyes now fixed upon Adela's. "you do." Carefully, almost reverently, he picked up the silver chain, pulling it free of the box, until finally he held the amulet aloft.

A knot formed in his throat, and he swallowed – hard – trying to forcing it down. Blinking away tears, he turned again to his wife, relieved that her eyes had warmed, and a small smile formed upon her perfect lips. "Wherever did you find this?" he asked, his voice very quiet, filled with awe and mild trepidation.

Taking a breath, Adela swung her leg over, turning her back to the courtyard to fully face the man. "Isolde had given it to me. It was shattered from when you had thrown it against the wall. She had kept it, all of these years. When we returned from Orzammar, the Arlessa gave it to me to see to its repair and to return to you."

"So the trips into the village…?"

Adela gave a slight shrug of one shoulder, almost dismissing the pain of the past few days. "Smith Owen certainly is a marvel, isn't he?"

The tears he had managed to blink away came back, slipping from his eyes as he looked down upon the amulet he held once more. "I was so…"

"Stupid? Cruel? Insane?" Adela provided, her voice with a slight edge to it. Alistair looked up, his face soft and sorrowful.

"That, and more," he softly remarked. "Can you ever forgive me?"

A frown furrowed her brow at the nearly hopeless, pleading tone in Alistair's voice. Taking a breath, Adela nodded. "I had already forgiven you, Alistair." She offered him a small smile that did not quite reach her eyes as she placed a small hand over his. "But, don't think that you are completely off the hook."

Chuckling ruefully, Alistair nodded as he turned his attention back to the amulet. Twisting the clasp, he moved toward his wife, bringing his hands behind her neck as he carefully placed the amulet about her neck. He could feel her breath upon his cheek, and there was a flutter in his stomach at the sensation. Adela made to protest, but Alistair merely shook his head, his forehead brushing her hair, as he clasped it behind her neck. Carefully, he adjusted her hair back around her neck and shoulders before pulling away, his fingertips skimming along the surface of the amulet that now rested between Adela's breasts.

"Had I had this all along," Alistair said in a near dreamy voice, "I would have given it to you long ago." He raised his amber eyes to hers, a small smile upon his lips. "I am certain my mother would have wanted you to have it."

Adela clasped a hand to his, her eyes intense as she said. "It hurts me to think that you did not trust me, Alistair," her voice was soft, her hand hard as she gripped his. "Talk to me before you ever let these feelings fester again. There is absolutely nothing that you and I cannot discuss." Her eyes were intense as they forced him to stare at her. "Nothing on the Maker's own that you cannot tell me. I do not want a repeat of these last few days." Her eyes hardened slightly as she continued to peer deeply into his eyes, causing him to flinch slightly. She did not ease up, despite his discomfort. "Understand?"

His hand moving from the amulet to clasp over hers, Alistair nodded. "I promise, love."

"Good," she said, a smile crossing her lips and replacing the hardness of her eyes. With a shake of her head she rose gracefully to her feet. "Come. We have to make certain that everyone is ready to leave at morning's first light."

Taking a breath, determined not to let his jealousies or insecurities get the better of him again, Alistair rose and followed his wife from the rooftop.

DA:O

Large, thick fingers brushed along the folded parchment, caressing the smooth edges with roughened skin. Dark, gray eyes glanced up as his wife, heavily pregnant, wobbled into the room, her arms laden with linens as she carried them to the closet. A small smile, carefully guarded but still friendly, crossed her pretty face as she glanced over at her husband as he sat before the fire, thumbing the still unopened message.

She knew who it was from. She knew what that person had meant to her husband, just mere months prior to their own introduction. She also knew that, when they had married, he had not been in love with her, having married her to cement his ties to the surface with a powerful dwarven merchant's guild.

But time had smoothed the ill ease and discomfort of sharing a bed with someone she barely knew, and she knew that, even if she would never be the love of his life, he had an affection for her, and she need not worry.

With a final smile, she continued on her path to their bedroom, leaving her husband once more in silence as he contemplated the letter he held.

Those dark eyes had watched his wife's progress, a small smile answering her own upon his thick lips as his fingers continued to thumb at the parchment. As he turned back, that feeling of relief…of the most profound relief…enveloped him again.

She lived!

When he had first received a missive from the throne of Orzammar, he had assumed that it was from King Endrin. His surprise had been complete as he had immediately recognized Serena's perfect and quite noble scrawl upon the envelope within the leathern casing.

That had been less than a month earlier, the missive instructing him to keep his ears and eyes open for allies within the human capital of Denerim. It had not taken him long to make contact with Mother Boann and Ser Landry.

Now, a personal missive sat in his hands. A great sigh escaped his lungs as he grasped the parchment. Serena had never felt for him as he did for her. Those years of serving her had caused a great affection – love – to grow in his heart. However, Serena had never looked at him as anything other than a most trusted friend. Her heart belonged to another. One whom she could never be with as surely as he could never be with her.

Heavy lids closed of his eyes, and he carefully rose, taking the parchment to the nearby desk. He knew he should probably read the letter, but he could not bring himself to at this time, at this moment. Guilt still waged war within him soul; he had abandoned her to the Deep Roads. Had taken her final order – to leave Orzammar and live. And he had. His eyes glanced over to the empty doorway, thinking of his wife, Marta, and how important she had come to mean to him.

That guilt that he had lived, had not only survived but, in a relatively short time had established himself quite well upon the surface, all the while believing she had died in the Deep Roads for a crime she had not committed, resurfaced, despite the knowledge that not only had she survived, but had claimed the Throne as her own.

Carefully, he placed the letter upon the desk, the royal seal upwards.

Perhaps he would read the letter tomorrow.