My thanks to everyone who continues to follow this story. I know it's been a long time to get here, but I hope it's been worth it. We are in Denerim, and soon will see the Landsmeet.

Just not yet…this chapter was supposed to be shorter, but it just kept calling me, wanting more.

My thanks, as always, to those who read, lurk, alert, and review: Wyl, Arsinoe de Blassenville, cloud1004, Shakespira, mutive!

The Halla Reborn

Chapter 65

Yellow eyes narrowed, watching through the thick pane of glass as the gray haired noble placed a hand that was meant to be comforting upon the younger man's shoulder. Morrigan snorted indelicately as Arl Eamon then steered Alistair back into the townhouse as Adela's and her companions' forms drifted into the haze of the morning fog.

The swamp witch did not trust the intentions of the Arl. Based upon conversations held and conversations observed, those within their motley group shared her opinion. To them, his intentions were all too clear – he wanted Alistair to assume the throne: Despite the young Warden's objections; despite his being married to the elven Commander; despite the fact that Ferelden had a ruler. Still the older man persisted. If for nothing else, Morrigan had to give him credit for that – he was persistent and persuasive. In almost any other situation, the witch would have most likely sat back and watched the drama, admiring the man's tenacity.

However, there was the underlying malevolence that traveled alongside the Arl as an old friend, tainting everything and everyone it kept in contact with. Morrigan was certain this was the cause for Alistair's erratic behavior and the occasional ill temperament within their group as a whole. How Alistair had treated Adela had been nothing short of reprehensible and, Morrigan admitted, completely out of character. Everyone knew that Alistair adored – practically worshipped – his wife.. Yet, despite that thought, despite the elven Warden's forgiveness of her husband, Morrigan herself had neither the heart nor compassion to let it go as easily.

It was, after all, Alistair's own weakness that caused the conflict, not any imaginary tryst between Adela and Roland.

At that thought, the witch paused in her pacing, a huffed chuckle escaping her throat. When first she had met the young elf, she had found her naïve, weak. Now, after a year in her company, Morrigan had nothing but profound respect for the young elf; respect for her strength, her willpower, even her compassion. Morrigan faltered slightly. From who had she learned the appreciation of another's compassion? Certainly, from the elf herself. She and Morrigan had become close, friends. Morrigan would be proud to call her 'sister'; she felt a deep kinship with the elf, despite how very different the two women were.

She ceased her pacing of the opulent chambers and turned, staring at the door to the adjoining room. The room where Leliana currently sat, pouring over her notes, comparing them with the elven assassin's.

Ah, and there sat the other source.

Leliana had arrived shortly before Adela and the others had left for the Arl's estates, with confusing reports regarding the Warden sympathizers that she needed time to go over and further investigate. She planned later to take both Zevran and Anders with her as she sought out the supposed hideout for these renegades.

With a shake of her raven head, the witch left the rooms she shared with Leliana, determining to assault the library once more. At Fergus' insistence, of course.

A mere year ago…how much things – herself - have changed. Flemeth had persuaded the elf to take Morrigan, speaking of how much her magic would help them. If only Adela knew exactly what those words had meant, she may not have accepted Morrigan within the group.

Morrigan was not so vain as to be unable to acknowledge to herself that, had Adela refused her company, the little elven woman would have still managed to have gotten to where they were now. Any of the other mages within her group could do most of what Morrigan was capable, short of the shape shifting.

A tiny grin crossed the lovely witch's face as she passed by Leliana's door, pausing briefly to listen to the softly lilting voice as she and Zevran discussed strategy. The Orlesian on the other side of the door was another source of confusion for the witch.

But it was a confusion she found herself quite pleased to remain within. Even if all the two women would ever be would be friends, sharing a space with one another, Morrigan was quite content with that.

Another reason she was pleased Adela had accepted her assistance back in the clearing of her mother's hut.

Mother. Morrigan paused at the library's door, frowning. Whether Mother of her body or simply of name, Flemeth was one the young woman had learned long ago to fear. When Alistair and Adela had decided to kill Flemeth, Morrigan had been beside herself with fear, relief and more confusion. It was that act – that act that could have caused death and destruction to the then tiny group – that made the fact be known: Morrigan was one of them, and they would fight to protect their own.

She opened the door and stepped in, wandering the shelves, searching the titles of the tomes thereupon, her thoughts still elsewhere but the fast approaching Landsmeet.

The witch was pleased that there were others who were Wardens now among the group. Others than Alistair who could perform the task that Flemeth had set her upon a year prior.

Morrigan did not doubt that Flemeth still lived. Of that, there could be no doubt. The old witch – whether the actual legend or merely a powerful mage who had the strength of will and magic to take the name of a myth that chilled the hearts of even the stoutest of men – was too crafty not to have contingencies in place.

But it was not fear of retribution that caused the witch to carry on with her original intent. It was the fear of losing any of those she had foolishly allowed herself to come so close to. Certainly, there was death in battle, but the knowledge she possessed…she shuddered slightly, ceasing the line of thought, but she could not quell the quilt that rose up. The apostate had information – knowledge – that Adela and the others did not. Yet she kept quiet about that knowledge, and had no excuse for her silence.

She did not even try to qualify it to herself.

DA:O

They left more dead behind than living. Blood washed the floors, splattered against the stone walls, discolored the wooden supports and iron bound doors with ugly, splotchy red stains that quickly darkened to vile black.

And yet, there seemed almost no end to those who threw themselves into the fray, some trying to escape (and these were felled by arrow or spell), but most determined to shed the blood of the invaders into their torturous domain.

The companions were awash in blood, much their own, most of those that fell to their skill. Niall was pale; exhausted by the numerous healing and rejuvenating spells he had cast during their relatively short time beneath the estates. Yet he stubbornly continued on, casting spells of healing and harm whenever necessary, his brown eyes going often to the small elf that led the group, her servant's dress plastered to her body with blood and sweat.

Stealing a moment's respite, the group paused, surveying their surroundings, applying healing as required. Riordan leaned against a stone wall, the mage tending to a tear along his forearm, his borrowed armor long since reduced to leathern rags. The senior Grey Warden, whether borne of his own ability or a desire not to prove a burden to the younger wardens, continued on, despite his many wounds.

A look to his companions proved he was no worse for wear as they.

The red haired Warden – Roland, if he recalled correctly – was wrapping a bandage about the elf's arm, frowning down at her with an expression the denoted personal care rather than professional loyalty. Based upon the young man's actions, Riordan would almost presume the pair to be lovers. However, the look the elf gave the man, one filled with friendship, tired humor and respect, told the elder Warden that the feelings were entirely one sided. He shook his head, recalling his own infatuations of his youth.

The elven Warden was a mystery to the Warden from Jader. Only with intense concentration could he sense the taint within the young elf. Barely present. Yet, the other Wardens – whose own taint was strong – deferred to the young elf, proclaiming her their leader. And, by Duncan's own hand, he knew that the former Commander had named her as a potential replacement.

So he sent his senses deeper, clamping onto that near promise of a taint within the woman. So faint, but present. He would certainly make a point of learning more once they escaped this man made hell hole.

DA:O

The frantic fighting, accentuated with screams of the dying, echoed through the halls. In the chambers where Rendon Howe and a few of his men stood, it was difficult to discern from where the clamor of battle came.

Calmly, the Teyrn turned to the young woman beside him, a hand reaching out to brush aside the chestnut locks that fell into her eyes. Frowning, Elissa raised a hand to his, shaking her head as a young guard burst into the chamber, his eyes wild with fear as they settled upon his Teyrn, the words of protest dying upon her lips.

"Your Grace!" he cried, stumbling forward. "The Wardens are making their way here!"

"Calmly, soldier," the Teyrn's oily voice softened, easing some of the young soldier's concerns. "We shall meet their might with our own. Now, tell me, how many are there?"

Nodding, trying vainly to calm himself, the young man spoke in a shaking voice, "There are five – including that spy you had caught and imprisoned," Howe nodded, indicating for the young soldier to continue. "There're at least two warriors, and an elven archer," Elissa snorted indelicately at that, and Howe quirked a brow at his lover. "They've a mage with them."

Chuckling, Howe nodded. "Then it is a good thing," he smirked, waving a hand to the young, dark haired mage who slouched to the side, his eyes closed, face crinkled in concentration, "that we have our own mage."

"I must maintain most of my concentration on the field, Your Grace,' Jowan remarked in a quiet voice from his position behind the Teyrn, flinching slightly at the quiver in his voice.

"If it comes down to defending yourself or keeping the field up, my dear mage," Howe retorted softly, "I would expect defense to be the first of your priorities."

Opening his soft, brown eyes, Jowan nodded with a frown. "Of course, my Lord," he said in that quiet, shaking voice before once more closing his eyes.

Howe waved the young soldier away, turning his attention back to his young lover. "As for you, my dear," he brushed his hand down her cheek, his sharp features softening somewhat. "You are to get out of here and hide away."

"The Void I will," Elissa replied vehemently, scowling at her lover as she took his seeking hand in her own, stopping its trek down her shoulder. "My place is with you."

"I would rather you were out of harm's way, my love."

"Damn harm's way, Rendon. I was there at the massacre at the Castle; my safety was never in question there. I'll fight by your side if need be."

Taking a deep sigh, Howe stepped back, gazing at his stubborn lover. Determination gilded her eyes, and there was that stubborn tilt of her chin that told the man that he would win no arguments with her. Not in this case. Sighing, he bent forward, brushing his lips gently against hers. "That is my Little Spitfire," he sighed, speaking the nickname he had given her so long ago, when she had been little more than a child, wielding her blades against fully trained male warriors. "What did I do to deserve such a woman as yourself?"

Smirking, the young noblewoman smiled as Howe grasped her upper arms, squeezing her tightly before releasing her to turn to the opening door. As he readied his weapons, he heard Elissa step back, saying. "Won me a Teynir."

DA:O

Oghren shoved his shoulder against the taller human, his massive war axe swung to the side as he barreled into Howe's man. The spikes upon the shoulder guards of his heavy dwarven made armor pierced the tough leather of Howe's man, digging deeply through to the soft human flesh, muscle, slicing between rib bones as it pierced into the heart hidden beneath. With a great war cry, the dwarven berserker swung his shoulder, sending the dying man hurtling through the heavy wood door, shattering every bone in his foe's body as it flew through the door, crashing into the warriors who stood in wait behind.

With an ear shattering war cry, the dwarven warrior burst into the room, axe swinging as it hooked into the ribcage of the sole warrior standing, stunned by the dwarf's violence. Blood spurted riotously from the soldier as Oghren lifted his weapon, holding the man aloft for a brief moment, and then spun, swinging his axe out and wide, releasing the torn body to crash into the guardsmen rushing toward him.

Mouth wide in a bloody grin, Oghren rushed into the fray, seeking out all foes.

DA:O

The dwarf's violence never ceased to amaze the elf. The devastation left behind by her red bearded berserker was akin to monumental. Roland and Riordan rushed by, their weapons aloft as they entered the room to engage the many warriors and rogues that managed to escape the devastation that was a dwarven berserker from Orzammar. She noticed as Roland paused, his gaze shifting to the back, where stood the nobleman, surrounded by his soldiers – men paid for their loyalty with heavy coin.

Behind her loomed Niall's steadying presence as both surveyed the room. Howe stood further to the back, amazement upon his craggy features as he took in the damage caused by one sole warrior. A feminine form stood behind him, and she guessed it was that woman who owned the feminine belongings in the chamber above.

Then she felt it; dark and foreboding. Her own connection to the Fade allowed her to feel when magic was being used, and she could feel the dark power of blood magic within. Niall shifted and, without a word and the barest of nods, the warden mage pushed by the elf, his dark eyes seeking around the corner, spying the dark haired mage who stood in a far back corner, eyes closed in concentration, but power emanating from him none the less. With a scowl, Niall rushed forward, weaving around the battling warriors, ensorcing himself with protective shielding, making his way to the blood mage who, having spied the approaching mage, spun about and fled the main chamber, seeking secusion in the chambers beyond.

Certain Niall would deal with the blood mage, Adela turned to the massacre in front of her. Her arrows could well prove as devastating to her companions as against her foes, and so she stood, bow held in hand, arrow ready for flight, as she scanned the mass of bodies, ready to send her missile to air should a foe presented himself.

Then Howe shifted in the back, and Adela caught sight of the woman behind him.

DA:O

"Jowan."

The blood mage turned around and opened his eyes, focusing upon the older mage who stood before him. A frown formed on the younger mage's morose features.

"Niall."

The pair scrutinized one another, as the battle raged in the larger chamber behind them. Gossamer tendrils flickered about the Warden mage's form as one of Howe's men who had followed the enemy mage tried an assault from behind. A grim smile crossed the elder mage's face as he turned slightly, gout of fire bursting from his fingertips. The flames engulfed the screaming man, and he flopped to the floor, rolling in vain to extinguish the magically conjured fire. Minutes passed as the man died, the pair of mages once again studying one another.

"Why, Jowan?" Niall asked as he turned his focus once more upon the young man he had known at the tower. "Blood magic?"

Scoffing, Jowan shook his head. "You have no idea what it's like, Niall," there was venom in the younger man's voice, and Niall flinched slightly. He had always taken on a role of mentor to the younger mages, Jowan included. He had thought them friends, even after he had learned what Jowan had done back at Redcliffe. Seeing him now, so calm, no apology for his use of blood magic…it seemed as though perhaps Niall had never known the man.

"Blood magic?" Niall repeated. "What has it gotten you?"

"Free," was Jowan's prompt response, a slender hand resting upon the dagger at his hip. "I have freedom, Niall."

"Tied to Howe?" Niall shook his head, glancing over to where the nobleman stood, watching as his soldiers were decimated by the Wardens wading through their ranks. Turning back to Jowan, he shook his head again. "Of all…"

"Not Howe," Jowan spat out, scowling over where the nobleman readied himself for battle. His features softened slightly as he turned his attention back to Niall. "Amell."

Confusion lined Niall's face. "Amell?" he asked, frowning. "Amell was killed…"

"No, he was not," Jowan trumpeted. "He killed those damned Templars as they stalked him. He grew in power, and I have grown as well!"

Taking a deep breath, Niall took a step closer to Jowan, mindful of the dagger at the blood mage's belt, relieved he had not drawn the weapon as of yet. "Amell has always been a manipulative bastard," Niall spat. "And he's, yet again, managed to manipulate you!"

"I don't care," Jowan admitted, taking a step back to reestablish the barrier between the two mages. "I'm with him, and he sees my uses to him and his cause."

"Cause?" Niall stopped, shaking his head at the naiveté of his fellow mage. "Amell's cause has ever only been his own!" He glanced over to Howe, a furrow forming between his dark brow. "How is this his cause?"

But a sly smile crossed Jowan's face as he tapped his tapered fingers along the top of the dagger's hilt. "It is all his," was the only answer Jowan would allow the other to know. "So, you travel with the Wardens now, do you?" the blood mage smoothly changed the subject, eyes narrowing as he took the minutest of steps back, fingers closing around his dagger. "Tagging along as they save the world?"

Niall returned Jowan's sly smile with a prideful one of his own. "Not travel with as a tagalong," he grinned wider at Jowan's confusion, taking note of his hand upon the dagger, his own hand tightening about his spear-like staff. "But as a Warden."

"You?" Jowan scoffed, "A warden?" He chuckled, his dark head shaking. "That's about as likely as me becoming a Warden."

"Stranger things have happened," Niall admitted, a hollow feeling forming in the pit of his stomach as his mind played out how this encounter would end. "How is this all Amell's cause?" he insisted, watching carefully as Jowan's brown eyes flickered at the mention of Amell's name.

A tender look crossed the blood mage's face, and Niall found himself, yet again, cursing Arawn Amell's name. Jowan's devotion to the foreign mage had crossed the line of harmless infatuation to fanatical devotion. When Amell had escaped the Circle tower, and word filtered back that the Templars had killed the handsome, talented, and completely uncontrollable mage, Jowan had fallen into a deep depression. To Niall's knowledge, the pair had never been lovers; he doubted Amell swung that way. However, the arrogant mage from Navarra had used Jowan's low self-esteem and insecurity against him many times, bringing the younger mage to his side with slavish devotion.

"He saved me, Niall," Jowan replied instead, dragging the Warden from his thoughts. "I was to be made Tranquil," Jowan's voice shuddered, and Niall felt that familiar, sick feeling wash over him at the thought of a mage being mage Tranquil. Jowan's soft eyes searched Niall's lined faced, seeing the sorrow there. "You, of all people, should understand how much that thought terrified me."

"Terrifies us all," Niall found himself gently reminding his former student. He swallowed passed the tightness in his throat, his mind going back to Owain, tending the Circle's stores, the flash of a smile a mere memory Niall strove to place upon the Tranquil's impassive features those few times he forced himself to deal with his former lover.

Yes, he understood the fear. He knew how unfair…"What does that have to Amell's plans?" he forced himself back to the present, thoughts away from the past, a past decades dead.

"Amell arranged my escape." Had Jowan even heard his question?

"That was Surana," Niall reminded the other mage, scowling as he recalled how Artemis had tried to help his friend escape the Circle, believing fully that Jowan merely wished to escape with his lady love, and would never even consider blood magic. A pang rose in Niall's breast at the thought of his brave, dear, dead friend.

"Amell gave me the idea," Jowan clarified, his stance shifting slightly as he continued speaking with his once-teacher.

"Artemis is dead, you know," Niall responded, realizing Jowan would only ramble on about Amell. He doubted he would ever get any answer from the beguiled mage. "Died a Warden."

"Artemis…" Jowan's head hung down for a moment as the pair continued to ignore the battle around them, each taking a step, circling the other as they unconsciously made their way back toward the fray. Niall sent a tendril of his consciousness outwards to his fellow Wardens, sending tendrils of healing magic out to the warriors. If Jowan noticed, the blood mage gave no indication.

"Release the queen," Niall ordered his voice strong and commanding, so different from his time at the Circle. Jowan's head snapped up at the change of tone, eyes narrowing as he began to pull the dagger free of its sheath.

"No," he answered back, scowling at the elder mage. "The days when you – or anyone – from that damnable Circle ordered me about are over!" his voice grew in volume and strength as he brandished the dagger.

"Drop the dagger," Niall stepped back, pulling his mana in.

Shaking his head, Jowan began to bring the dagger to his arm, certain Niall was preparing a spell. A startled gasp erupted from his throat, his eyes stared down as Niall drove his spear-staff deeper into the blood mage's chest. Gurgling sighs rose from his throat, and Jowan raised stunned eyes to the Warden mage's face.

He saw there deep regret and sorrow, the final sight as he slid free of the other mage's weapon, darkness enveloping his sight and senses as he fell to the floor.

Gasping, pushing down the bile that rose in his throat, for Niall had never thought he would end up killing one who had once been a friend, a student, the former Circle mage turned, sending out a burst of healing and rejuvenating magic over his fellows before shouting out.

"The barrier has been dropped!"

DA:O

"The barrier has dropped, Your Majesty!" Erlina exclaimed as she twisted the knob, scowling to find it locked. Warded and locked! But Howe certainly did not trust even his pet mage.

Anora tried the door on her side, and Erlina chocked back a giggle at the sound of the prim and proper Queen letting loose with a stream of curses that would scald the ears of the most veteran of soldiers.

Sobering, Erlina frowned at the thought that the downed barrier could only mean one thing. Her head bowed momentarily, recalling Jowan with small affection. The poor man had been so desperate to belong – most especially, to belong to Arawn. That the barrier was dropped could only mean the poor mage had perished.

She truly could not see the Wardens letting a known blood mage – one who had wreaked havoc at Redcliffe against the Arl and yet again against the Queen herself – live. With a bow of her dark head, she offered a quick prayer to the Maker – one of the few the Orlesian borne elf would ever do – for Jowan's soul, and then turned her attention to the lock.

DA:O

"The barrier has been dropped!"

The cry echoed throughout the chamber, managing to overcome the sounds of battle, the clashing and clanging of weapon to weapon, and rise to the ears of the Wardens.

Adela's head snapped over to watch as Niall started pushing his way to her side, gouts of fire and ice springing from his fingertips, felling many of those soldiers that crowded the room, determined to bring death to the Wardens and protect their liege lord.

And his lady.

Blue eyes settled upon the huddled form of Lady Elissa Cousland. Dark eyes returned the gaze, and the lady in question straightened, haughty hatred etched upon her fine features.

Adela watched as, after a word to Howe, Elissa slipped into the shadows, disappearing from sight. A frown formed upon the elf's face as she brought her bow up to bear, searching the shadows for the noble rogue, scowling at her inability to pinpoint the location of the human.

Niall spun about, magic flaring from outstretched fingertips, fire gusting forward to envelope the threatening Howe soldier. The rank odor of burning flesh rose to the mage's nose and his face scrunched up involuntarily as he blinked away tears from the stench. Scowling, he raised his staff, foregoing approaching his Commander to engage with the remaining soldiers that continued to threaten them.

Screams of pain, of the injured and the dying cycled about the chamber. The iron smell of blood tainted the air, and the air itself was a haze of dampness – heat from the battling bodies, escaping heat from the dying, the moisture from blood and other bodily fluids spilled…the elf blinked, clearing her vision, bringing her bow up and releasing an arrow into the back of one soldier bringing his weapon to bear against an otherwise occupied Roland. The Warden warrior turned briefly, to acknowledge his thanks after he felled his own opponent, but that expression of gratitude turned to fear as he cried out for Adela.

Pain. It erupted into her side in a torrent of agony, and she turned into the grinning face of Elissa Cousland, her dagger deeply embedded into Adela's side as she gave the blade a vicious twist. Shrieking, the bow dropped from the elven archer's hands, clattering to the floor as the elf tried to escape the punishing abuse of the blade. Elissa shadowed the elf's movements, driving the blade deeper, piercing through the soft flesh, digging furrows deeply within her body. Raising one small fist, the elf punched out, catching the noblewoman in the jaw, allowing herself to twist away from the punishing blade as Elissa stumbled from the blow. It is not a powerful punch, but enough to force the two women apart.

Clutching her side, blood pouring from the wound, Adela pulled one of her small daggers from its boot sheath, and she truly realized how pitiful a weapon the thing was.

It was then, as the Cousland noble turned – and Adela had to remind herself that this woman was Fergus' sister, although at that moment there was no resemblance between the personable man and that demon of a woman – that Roland was there, his shield up before the elf, deflecting the powerful thrust of Elissa's short sword.

Stunned, the noble stumbled back, dagger and short sword in hand. "So," she crooned, dark humor tingeing her voice as she looked her former knight over. "I had wondered if you would be warming the knife-ear's bed. Question answered."

"Why?" was the only word Roland could cogently form, ignoring completely the innuendo in the noblewoman's voice as confusion at seeing Elissa by Howe's side in this dank, bloody dungeon, overtook him as he planted himself firmly between the injured Adela and vengeful Elissa.

A dark brow quirked in humor, a slight twist of her full lips. "Why?" She repeated. There was a negligent shrug of her lithe shoulders as she answered.

"Why not?"

"You…you are aligned with this…murderer?" Roland found his voice, his body pivoting to keep this dangerous woman from Adela, who had stumbled back, fumbling in one of the deep pockets of her servant's dress for a healing poultice.

"Aligned?" Elissa laughed callously. "Allied? We are partners," her gaze swept to where Howe now battled a tiring dwarven warrior. Turning her gaze back to Roland, he was horrified to see the love and devotion reflected there, before being replaced with ire and indignity. "in every sense of the word," she almost purred this last out. With that careless shrug that Roland recognized being habit over the years, she added, "It was my idea, after all."

"Your…"

Nodding, she smirked. "The Teyrnir is now mine and Rendon's. And, with the disposal of you and your…" she waved a hand toward Adela, who leaned painfully against a wall, pressing a poultice to her injury. "pet knife-ear, all of Ferelden shall be ours."

"Traitorous bitch!" Roland shouted as he plunged forward, shield up, sword swinging as he took a mindless sweep at the noble.

Chuckling, the rogue easily sidestepped his rush, twisting away from the deadly blade as she danced back. "Come now, Roland," she chided, sweeping forward with both blades, sending the warrior stepping back. "Haven't you heard? The Couslands were conspiring with Orlais. It was only my duty to see to it that their treachery be exposed!"

Roland could not believe his ears as the venomous words continued to spew from her mouth. He and Elissa continued to side step each other, dancing around, seeking the most efficient position to face off against one another, blade and shield blocking the others blows. They had sparred with one another often, Teyrn Bryce's desire that his daughter be able to protect herself great. They knew how the other fought, and even this early in their battle, he knew that it was possible they would continue to fight each other to a standstill.

Until one or the other's ally came to their assistances.

"The Couslands would never conspire against Ferelden!" Roland hissed out between his teeth, footing backward and twisting at the waist, his sword jabbing out, nicking Elissa's dagger hand. Wincing, she withdrew, scowling at the man who had served her family for years. "Have you forgotten that you are a Cousland?"

"Soon to be a Howe," she commented wryly, with a graceful shrug of her shoulders as she circled the enraged warrior. "Strange how easily many of the nobles would believe even the most ludicrous of lies, is it not?" she taunted, tilting her pretty head.

A wave of nausea and dizziness swept over the warrior as he contemplated the dead back at Castle Cousland. Nan…Teyrn Bryce…Teyrna Eleanor…Oriana…"Oren?" he found himself muttering aloud.

There was a falter to Elissa's step at the mention of her nephew, and she scowled at the knight. "Playing dirty, eh?" She stepped aside, frowning at the man as he raised his eyes to her. "All things come at a cost," she spat out, revealing at least a moment's pain at the selfish decision that took her family.

There was a slight whistling in the air, and then Elissa gasped, stumbling back a step or two as Adela's arrow embedded itself firmly in her chest. Wheezing, Elissa's blades fell to the floor as she grasped the arrow with both hands, grimacing in pain as she tried to pull the missile free of her chest. The sound of Roland's steps forward brought her head up, and she watched, horrified, as his blade swept forth, slicing between her breasts, cleaving downward and through her heart. Without a word, the noblewoman fell free of the blade, blood spouting from the wound as death enveloped her.

"Yes," the knight muttered as Adela carefully stepped to his side. Watching as the noble he once served fell into death, he reached his arm around Adela's shoulder, helping her to stand as he echoed Elissa's words back to her already cooling corpse.

"All things come at a cost."

DA:O

She fell.

The missile that stopped her, wounded her mortally, seemed suspended in midair, its flight toward his love slow – so agonizingly slow - in its trajectory toward her heart, shot from the knife-eared bitch's bow. He watched in disbelief as it embedded itself deeply within her chest, her stunned face moving down to stare with mirrored disbelief.

That the former knight of Highever had been the one to ultimately end her life had been more of a shock to the Teyrn.

Rage coursed through him, lending him strength that he normally would not possess. Outraged that his lover had been so cut down, Howe shoved against the lone guardsman that stood with him, causing him to stumble, impaling him into the dwarf's raised axe. Ignoring the scream of agony the burst from his soldier's throat, Howe skipped over the bodies of the fallen, his course set against the cursed Warden Knight.

His right hand clasped tightly about the handaxe he wielded, his thumb rubbing along its length as he slipped into the shadows, feeling the coolness caress his skin as he sought to put his rage in check. Elissa was dead. No! She could not be. All of his plans…everything he had done at Highever had been for her. She deserved nothing less than a Teynir! Perhaps the kingdom itself.

And yet he could not lie to himself as he neared, taking in the spill of her life's blood as it pooled beneath her still form, arms outstretched over head as she lay, crumpled, upon her stomach.

He turned his head, taking note that the fool knight had his back to him, his attention focused upon the pretty little elf. A nasty smirk crossed his face. Oh, he'd kill the knight…eventually. First, he would allow him life, long enough to witness and regret what Howe was going to do with the pretty little elven Warden.

There was a squish beneath his foot, and he frowned, his heart plummeting as he stared down as Elissa's blood seeped beneath his foot. Anguished, he stumbled back, his foot, now wet with blood, slipping.

It was all the warning Roland needed.

With a fluid motion, the knight rose, sword clasped in one hand as he twisted about, leading with his shield to block any unseen attack. Cursing, Howe launched himself forward, axe and short sword leading as he attacked the knight, seeking to bring him down with ferocious blows.

With a sweep of his shield, Roland brushed aside Howe's blades, following through with the motion to deliver a shoulder block that staggered the smaller man considerably. To the back of the chamber, Oghren's waraxe chopped through the remaining guards as Niall cast alternately between healing and his devastating primal spells. Roland was fully aware of Adela, still slumped behind him, her injury stable but still serious enough to keep her from the fray.

Out came Roland's sword, sweeping low to sneak beneath the Teyrn's blades, hoping for a strike to the groin or, at the very least, cut across his lower stomach. Showing agility and strength that belied his age and soft noble living, Howe deftly blocked the strong swipe, his feet dancing back, carrying the man back and away. He swung his axe upwards, thinking to deliver a cut downwards against the shield, perhaps stagger the larger man or cause him to drop his shield.

The former knight, however, was well aware of the tactic – one that Elissa herself had used numerous times when they had sparred. Now he knew where she had learned the sneaky tactic.

Howe kicked out; Roland tucked himself in, twisting away, bringing his shield outwards, low, and into his opponent's chest. Once more, Howe staggered back from the glancing blow, his face a harsh mask of anger, hatred and grief as he chopped out with his sword.

Roland had been as dedicated a knight as any who had preceded him. During his years at Highever, he had trained relentlessly, determined to earn respect as well as his knighthood through hard work and perseverance. His father had been so certain of his son's ability that he had squired him out to the Couslands at the young age of eleven. And he would not – could not - disappoint his family.

The months he had spent on the road, however, with the constant fighting – and not mere sparring, but nearly daily life and death struggles – had hardened his muscles as no amount of training could have. His time with others with vastly different fighting styles – other warriors, the rogues, even the mages – had taught the former knight other skills that many of his warrior class would not have learned.

There were few better knife fighters than Zevran and Leliana; few warriors with Alistair's dedication and skill; fewer still warriors with the strength and control of the Sten. He had sparred with each, fought beside them all. Had learned all the tricks his many varied companions could wield

Howe's fighting style was similar to the rogues – sneaky, quick, vastly relying upon the shadows and manipulating the weaknesses of opponents. Roland's eyes narrowed as the noble circled him, a knowing smirk upon his features, as though he knew something that the former knight may not.

The mayhem of battle around them had stopped, the silence as deafening as had been the screams of the wounded and dying. A vicious snarl twisted Howe's features as he realized just how alone he was in this battle; alone, save for the Wardens and their companions.

"So, what is it to be, boy?" he spat out at Roland, eyes darting about briefly, concern for where the other warriors and the mage were.

Left cheek twitching, Roland, stepped to the side, the other man turning to keep the Warden before him. He stopped, obviously concerned as he realized that should he turn any further, it would place the elven Warden at his back. Concern flickered across his features, replaced immediately with that snarl.

Adela glanced up, and beyond the Teyrn's shoulder. Her eyes met those of their mage, and Niall gave a nod at her unspoken order. Raising a hand, he chanted out the words of a spell, and they all watched as the form of the traitor noble stiffened, fear making its way upon his face, as he was trapped within the mage's paralyzing spell.

"Nicely done, Niall," Adela croaked out as she once more slumped against the wall. Certain the noble was now contained, Niall rushed to her side, his hands already glowing blue light with healing, as Oghren and Riordan took places behind the suspended Howe. Roland stood, as though frozen on the spot, his eyes staring hatred at the man frozen before him.

"He deserves to die," Roland found himself muttering in a hard voice he barely recognized as his own, his eyes never leaving those of Howe's. Niall scowled over at his fellow Warden as he continued to heal Adela's wound, watching as the blood ceased flowing and the flesh knitted neatly together.

Adela's head shot up, and her eyes sought Roland's. But, the Warden would not take his eyes from his hated foe, would not – could not – meet hers. With a growl, she pushed herself painfully to her feet, despite Niall's protests that she remain still until the healing had been completed. Ignoring the advice of her mage, a hand clasped to her side, Adela moved to stand before Roland, forcing his attention to her and away from Howe.

"He has information that could be helpful in defeating the blood mage," the Warden Commander whispered in a hoarse voice. She reached out, placing it upon Roland's chest, shaking him from his near reverie. "He will pay the penalty for his treachery," she assured him, offering a fierce scowl at the paralyzed human, "Of that you can be assured."

Shaking his red head, Roland took a step nearer the man. Neither Riordan nor Oghren made any move to stop the warrior, and Adela stared at the two with confusion.

"What he did…" Oghren began, scowling at the noble's back, "would earn him a one way journey into the Deep Roads back in Orzammar," The dwarf's green eyes fixed upon Adela's stunned face. "No armor, no weapons."

"Like what was done to Serena?" The elf quipped back, knowing the comparison to be unfair, but trying to get her point across.

Oghren's response was merely to shake his head at her before returning his glare to the suspended human.

Riordan watched the elf, frowning slightly. "I doubt he had any information that would prove useful to the Wardens, Adela."

"Useful to the Wardens?" Adela parroted back, aghast. "What about useful to saving Ferelden?"

Frowning, the senior Grey Warden stepped around the still paralyzed noble, taking a stand before the irate elf. "It's all politics, Adela," he whispered. "Our concern is, first and foremost, defeating the Blight."

"And, unfortunately, Riordan, that means becoming involved in politics!"

But he shook his head in disagreement. "Not necessarily so." He looked back to Howe, the only movement from the man were his eyes, shifting between Adela and the foreign Grey Warden, occasionally fixing upon the Warden from Highever who sought and argued for his death.

Adela shifted her stance to fully face Riordan, leaving Roland at her back. The former knight's eyes went once more to Howe, and that old feeling of rage – the only thing that had kept him alive during those weeks in the deep cellars of Cousland Castle – came upon him, nearly stifling the breath from him.

He had not felt such murderous intent for many, many months, believing himself purged of the desire for vengeance. It all came rushing back at him – his inability to protect the innocents within the castle, his failure to save the Teyrn and Teyrna as Howe's mercenaries swarmed throughout the castle, killing, raping, looting…his own tortures. With a cry of outright rage, the knight plunged forward, his blade driving deeply into the paralyzed form of Howe, slicing easily through flesh, muscle and bone, splitting his heart. Stunned, Adela swept back toward her friend, eyes wide, mouth agape, as, held by Niall's spell, Howe's dying form remained upright, suspended, as great gouts of blood fountained from the grievous wound, flowing down his torso and legs, to pool upon the ground. As he stood, dying, Howe's fading eyes watched as his life's blood seeped around his feet, pooling outwards toward the congealing blood of his lover.