My thanks, as always, to those who continue to read, lurk, alert and review!: Wyl, Shakespira, cloud1004, tgail73, Legionary Prime (welcome to a new reviewer!).

The Halla Reborn

Chapter 62

Sweat dripped down the side of his face. Frowning, he lifted the visor of the helm he wore to wipe the offending moisture from his brow.

Zevran, marching beside him, chuckled, but said nothing. He had already made offer of a cowled mask, one similar to those used by the Crows on occasion. However, Fergus had argued that using such an obvious measure of concealment would only cause more eyes to move toward him. And so the young nobleman had reconciled himself to wearing the helm similar to those worn by the other soldiers that marched with their group.

There were times that he wished he had taken the Antivan up on his offer.

They were a day's march from Redcliffe and making good time. The Cousland noble turned his head, sharp eyes scanning down the ranks of those who marched with the Grey Wardens and their companions. Not far from where he walked, Arl Eamon – striding purposefully beside Ser Perth – gave him a nod before turning his eyes focused forward once more.

With a frown, unseen beneath the helm, Fergus' eyes continued backwards, to where Isolde and her pretty elven maid sat alongside the dwarven merchant, Bodahn. His peculiar son, Sandal, presumably in the covered back of the wagon.

He took in the solemn expression upon the noblewoman's face, a determination he did not recall ever having seen on her normally tepid features. The scaring and loss of an eye, the loss of her only child to a demon, had matured the Orlesian in ways the passing years had not. He had to admit, the damage done to her typically pretty Orlesian features had added a great deal of character and, to his eyes, perhaps made her a fair more handsome woman for the scarring.

Turning his attention forward once more, the noble reflected upon the general mood of his companions. During their stay at Redcliffe Castle, a palpable pall had settled over the group. There had been infighting and general bad feelings between established couples and close friends, something he had never witnessed amongst the tight knit group in the months he journeyed with them. He had felt it himself, but had never had a direction to focus his own ire upon, never a tangible cause for his feelings of anger, distrust and anxiety.

Perhaps it was the castle itself. It had, after all, seen much death and hardship during these past few months. Many had died, horribly, during the time when Connor had been possessed by the desire demon. It was possible that much of that taint had remained, forever a part of the very stone of the ancient structure, never to be exorcised regardless of passing time.

A shudder coursed through the Teyrn as he considered his own decimated home. So many had met their ends violently at the hands of Howe's men. He could not help but wonder as to the ghosts that roamed the halls of his ancestral home. How many demons now resided within the ancient fortress?

Shaking his head, Fergus cleared his mind of such thoughts. He could not afford to keep letting his thoughts stray to his dead family – his parents, his wife…his son. He would see that they were avenged, but he would do so legally, calling Howe out before the Landsmeet. They had evidence, after all. A survivor in the personage of Ser Gilmore, as well as other soldiers who had managed to escape the slaughter and who now marched mingled amongst Redcliffe's own soldiers. None bearing the standard of Highever, but each with their heads held high and proud, regardless of what heraldry they wore.

They were the men of the Couslands after all. Fergus smiled at that thought, recalling the loyalty of each man, how steadfastly they remained by their Teyrn.

Within days, the gates of Denerim would be seen and passed through. Within days, the Landsmeet would be called to order.

Within days, Howe's dominance from his lofty heights within the Fereldan hierarchy would come to a quick, fast fall, onto the rocks of justice, shattering him upon the unforgiving stone.

This he swore as he continued his march, eyes forward, his heart resolute.

DA:O

Natia grinned up into the sunshine, thoroughly enjoying her trek over the surface, the warmth of the sun upon her face, the loose dirt under foot. This was what a dwarf was born for! She was certain of it. The damp, cold, forbidding stone was no place for living beings to live their days in and out within and beneath.

Oghren, her fellow refugee from Orzammar's depths, did not seem quite as appreciative of the beauty and freedom the surface afforded. Even after these many weeks within the surface realm, he still would glance up at the cloud filled sky, pale trepidation upon his craggy features.

"Aw, c'mon, Oggie!" the young rogue teased, skipping ahead slightly, turning about to walk, backwards, her merry eyes fixed upon the scowling features of the warrior. "This," she spread her arms wide, continuing to skip backwards as she giggled, "is what freedom is!"

"Hrumph!" he spat, scowling deeper at the all too cheerful young dwarf. "Ain't no place for a dwarf, girlie, and you knows it!"

"Dust Town ain't no place for a dwarva lass such as myself!" Natia countered without venom, merely enthusiasm and confidence in her words.

Oghren merely shook his head, scoffing aloud at the young dwarf, but did not argue that Dust Town was no place for someone as full of life as herself.

Scoffing back at the older man, Natia laughed louder, spinning back around to face forward, her laughter filling the air as the group continued their days' long journey to the human city of Denerim.

DA:O

The march onward to Denerim had, for the most part and thus far, been uneventful. Behind them, Zevran marched alongside Fergus. That had been requested by Adela, who remained concerned for the young Teyrn's safety. To their knowledge, no one outside of their group was aware that the Cousland noble had yet remained alive, and that was how they wished to keep it. Alistair felt a pang of sympathy for the man. The sun was beating down upon all of their heads, and, to hide his identity, the young nobleman was required to wear something over his head that also covered his face. The helm of a soldier seemed the best solution as it would not cause unwanted eyes to turn his way.

Of course, that also meant that Fergus would be practically baking within his own armor.

Alistair hated wearing helms. It was one of the many things he had hated during his, thankfully, brief tenure as a Templar in training.

A burst of pleased laughter brought the young Warden's attention forward, and he grinned as he watched as Natia practically danced beneath the sun, obviously teasing Oghren with one thing or another. Alistair liked the young dwarf; despite having led a life of hardships – the like he could only imagine – her very nature, her soul, seemed untouched by any darkness that may have dwelt within her past. She took life day by day, and took great pains to make certain that, at one point at least, she laughed.

When he had asked her about it one time, after a particularly difficult battle with darkspawn, the young girl merely blinked up at the much taller human, and said, "If I don't find the time to laugh once during the day, and jes' let all this blackness and direness get its mitts on me, then what use is tomorrow?"

She had said it with such conviction, followed by the familiar nonchalant shrug of her shoulders that Alistair trusted that her formula for surviving day by day worked.

After all, she was now a trusted servant of the Queen of the dwarves. As Natia would put it, 'not bad for a Duster'.

His eyes left the laughing girl, scanning over the heads of his long time companions. Morrigan, Leliana and Wynne walked ahead, just slightly behind the two dwarves, the younger mage and bard walking close, Wynne obviously giving out advice, if the roll of Morrigan's yellow eyes were any indication.

The Sten was walking point, his strange, lavender eyes fixed upon the shadows of the surrounding trees, Asala held easily in one massive hand as he marched, ever alert. Roland marched alongside Niall, as the mage spoke in his usual quiet tones about something. Roland's brow was furrowed, and Alistair knew that it was from more than merely whatever the mage was discussing.

Since his meltdown, Roland seemed to be avoiding Alistair. Whenever Alistair did spy his fellow warden, the former knight merely gave the senior warden a glare and a frown of disappointment before turning and leaving the area.

Sighing heavily, Alistair turned his sight from his friend. Somehow, what should have been a private argument with Adela had made its rounds along the rumor mill. Obviously, it had gotten to the former knight's ears. Alistair knew that he needed to try and apologize to his friend before too much more time passed, making any apology on his part seem moot.

Behind them, just in front of where Fergus and Zev walked, Anders and Adela walked, speaking quietly with one another, blond heads bent toward each other as they spoke. A smile crossed Alistair's face as he watched Adela's hand move, as expressive as her face. A wide grin crossed the mage's handsome face, and he shook his head, quickly pressing his fingers upon Adela's motioning hands. There was a blue flash, and the elf blinked in surprise. Chuckling, Anders merely shook his head, and the two continued with their discussion.

The smile only left his face as a familiar tingling assaulted his senses, dancing along the periphery of his vision. As he raised his head, readying a shout, Roland and Niall each paused, turning to face each side of the path. Adela came aware of the darkspawn presence, and, in that moment, called out a warning, just as the shadows exploded.

DA:O

There was that faint tingle along her spine, and Adela turned toward the forest lining the path they followed. Beside her, Anders' formally playful mood shifted as he took in the near battle ready stance the young elf had taken. Adela could feel it as he pulled from the Fade for his magic.

Since they had recognized that Adela's Warden sense was lacking, she and the other Wardens had worked hard on her extending her senses, tapping in to what was left of the taint within her blood. Unlike the other three, Adela had to work hard to sense any darkspawn. During the past few weeks, she had learned to set aside a portion of her mind, a part of her senses, so that it was always searching, always alert. It was not perfect, and failed as often as it worked. However, she was getting more able to sense darkspawn.

And today was no exception.

Their black vileness flooded her senses, and it was all she could do to force it back, choking on the evil that flowed from their hive mind. They were close. She pulled her daggers, readying for a fight as she shouted out a warning that was relayed down and up their line. Too close for her bow.

Behind her, Anders prepared his magic, and she felt a warmth flow over her, and she realized that the mage had cast a protective spell around her. Some of the anxiety that always came over her when battling darkspawn ebbed, and she lunged forward as the first genlock broke free of the enveloping shadows. The beast grumbled at the elf, its beady eyes following the elf's movements as it raised its own daggers.

Adela, however, feinted slightly to the left, throwing the genlock off balance. As it lunged straight ahead, it swung at empty air. With a smirk, the elf twisted at the waist, swinging her daggers around, burying them deeply through the tough hide covering the darkspawn's body. Her heavily enchanted daggers – her mother's blade, Fang, and Duncan's Dagger (she grimaced as she realized it needed a better name) – dug deeply into the flesh, piercing its kidney. Giving both blades a vicious twist, she yanked them free, barely pausing to take note of the black, bile filled blood that poured from the wounds as the genlock stumbled to its knees. Stepping back in front of the fallen creature, she jabbed both blades into each eye, and the creature flopped to the ground, dead.

Again came the rejuvenating magic of Anders, and she turned to see that the mage had dispatched with a Hurlock of his own. "You'd make a great Warden," Adela remarked as the pair turned to face off against a pair of hurlocks that thundered their way.

"Yeah, sure," the mage quipped, raising his staff – a bladed weapon with runes carved along the length of it – as he prepared another spell. "Too much responsibility!"

He jabbed out with his weapon, causing the approaching Hurlock to stumble back. Then, raising a hand, he called forth a gust of cold, freezing the creature in place. Beside him, Adela lunged and ducked, dancing beneath the sweeping blade of her larger foe. Skipping behind the creature, the elf neatly hamstrung the hurlock, stepping back as it floundered on the ground before ending its existence with a double jab of blades into its eyes.

She twisted, rising to assist Anders, but could only watch as he pulled a chunk of rock from the ground and sent it flying at his still frozen opponent, shattering the beast into multiple, bloody fragments.

With a grin to one another, they turned, Adela plunging into the fray, as the mage stood back, casting alternatively healing and rejuvenating spells upon his companions, adding offensive spells as needed.

Yes, the young elf thought as she ducked into the shadows, searching out easy prey for her blades, the Wardens need more mages.

DA:O

Adela's call up the line was echoed and repeated by the Wardens, their companions and the soldiers of Redcliffe. With a grim set to his mouth, Fergus easily pulled his greatsword free of the sheath upon his back, bracing his feet and holding the hilt with both hands as he surveyed the path and surrounding wilderness. As one, the shadows broke, spilling out tens of darkspawn, all slavering, rumbling out their dark chuckles as they assaulted the well-armed caravan.

Beside him, Zevran burst into a fury of swirling blades as he dashed into the center of a group of genlocks. The young noble shook his head at the seeming abandon with which the elven assassin attacked the darkspawn, soon seeing the logic behind the elf's movements. Zevran would dip beneath one clumsily swung sword, rising slightly behind the genlock, directly into its blind spot. Lashing out with one of his finely crafted daggers, the elf would score a bloody hit, ducking once more into the shadows as the genlock turned upon its fellow. Soon, the genlocks were a bloody mess upon the trail's floor, killed by their own, and Zevran had slipped into the deep shadows.

Having lost sight of the elusive elf, Fergus swung about, delivering devastating blows to the approaching darkspawn, mindful of the Wardens' admonishment not to get any of the tainted blood within open wounds or swallowing any. Fully armored and helmed as he was, Fergus was certain he was well protected.

A grim smile crossed his face as he heard the familiar Highever war cry as it rose from the throat of Roland. Taking a deep breath, the Teyrn added his voice to that of the former knight's, driving forward with his blade, pushing through with armored elbows, felling many of the surrounding darkspawn as he waded through.

DA:O

Hours later, once the battle had been won, the bodies of both the darkspawn and those who died fighting them set to pyres, Adela flopped against a thick, old tree, sliding down its rough surface to sit at its base, her head back against the tough bark. Her blue eyes skimmed the area, counting out her companions – all of whom had survived. They actually lost very few – all soldiers of Redcliffe, those determined to protect the Arl and Arlessa. Fortunately, none of the brutes stood a chance against the skill and determination of those brave knights.

Her eyes focused closer as Anders paced with determined steps toward her, an annoyed expression upon his handsome face. Grinning up at him, the elf patted the earth beside her, inviting the mage to sit.

Frowning heavily at the spot, Anders gestured grandly at his soiled robes. "I hope that there's a stipend to replace these," he groused as he gathered his robes and gingerly sat beside the grinning elven woman.

"Oh," Adela tsked with a smirk, "did the big, bad mage get his robes all dirty?"

Rubbing at an offending stain, Anders scowled at the woman. "This will never come out! What am I supposed to do?"

Blinking, the elf's eyes went to the stain – grass and blood – the mage indicated. "The robes are still useable, Anders. You'll just have to wear them for now."

"You don't seem to understand, Adela," Anders' voice took on an overly patient quality, much like one assumed when speaking with a very small child. Adela's grin only widened at the tone. "I have an image to uphold."

"An image?" Adela shook her head, laughing as she looked up to note the approach of her husband. Alistair paused mere feet from the pair as Adela addressed him. "Alistair," the man looked at his wife, noting her grin, and smiled in return. "Were you aware that Anders here has an image to uphold? And dirty, bloody robes does not fit into that image?"

With an exaggerated shake of his red-blond head, Alistair's face twisted into the perfect image of mock sympathy. "Poor mage. Whatever will he do?"

Shaking her head, Adela pushed herself to her feet, brushing the dirt and grass from her leathers as she smirked at the glaring mage. "I don't know. 'Tis a quandary, certainly!"

"You are evil," the mage continued to grouse as he pushed himself to his feet, glaring at the laughing pair as he turned about. "I'd get more sympathy from Morrigan!"

"Now that I doubt!" Alistair rejoined with a chuckle, his laughter bursting forward as the mage turned his back on the two, giving both a rather rude gesture as he stomped away.

"Poor Anders," Adela giggled as she turned to her husband. "I shouldn't pick on him, but really? He's concerned about a small blood stain!"

"Give him a few more weeks with us," Alistair predicted as he put an arm across Adela's narrow shoulders, pulling her closer. "He'll soon forget about his image."

Shaking her head, the elf lightly punched Alistair in the stomach before pulling free of his hold. Alistair shivered at the loss of contact. "I doubt it. Anyway," she stepped away, indicating the line of soldiers and their companions. "Now that we've taken care of the deceased, we should probably order the line to resume their march."

"Anxious to get to Denerim?" Alistair asked, a slight furrow between his brow. Nodding, Adela continued to brush the dirt from her armor as she picked up the pace toward their companions.

"We need to get the Landsmeet out of the way," she reminded her fellow warden as she glanced over her shoulder to him. "The sooner we get that taken care, get Loghain and Anora away from the blood mage and whomever his cohorts are, the better."

Taking a deep breath, Alistair followed after his wife, feeling much of the anxiety he was certain she was feeling.