I apologize for the long absence and leaving this story rather up in the air. RL and other crap keeps hitting me down. I've also discovered Mass Effect and that's been a rather interesting experience for me gameplaying wise (I do not play shooters!). I also discovered a strange source of inspiration: Snow Patrol's A Hundred Million Suns. Wonderfully inspiring album that really hit the gambit of emotional reach for me and helped me to complete this exhausting chapter. I will try my best to get the next chapters up without making you wait another three to four months!

As always, my thanks to those who continue to follow my stories, take the time to review, or simply put it on their alerts/favorites.

DragonAge: The Halla Reborn

Chapter 70

"Now this here s'more like it!" Oghren growled out with great enthusiasm as his great axe swept out toward the onrushing guardsman. Neatly relieving the human of both sword and hand, the grinning dwarf chuckled aloud – manically - stepping forward forcibly with one foot as he reared the blade back and brought it over his shoulder, cleaving the screaming man nearly in two from stem to stern.

Without watching the finality of the destruction of the human life before him, the dwarven warrior spun about, eagerly looking for another to satiate his desire for blood.

Shaking his head, the Spirit Healer cast out with a healing spell to the dwarf, who was unaware of the multitudes of wounds that covered his body as he let the berserker battle rite sweep over himself. Certain the fool dwarf would remain standing for a while longer, the mage turned about, arms out as fingers spread, flames bursting from outspread fingertips to engulf a nearby mage in penetrating heat. Swallowing past the bile that rose in his throat at the pained screams that erupted from the foe mage's throat, Anders continued the gout of fire until the writhing form blackened and crumpled to lay, unmoving, upon the ground.

He could hear Oghren chuckling somewhere from the battlefield, but the tenderhearted mage tried to ignore the grating sound. Sending out a cleansing aura, he stripped the final mage of mana before then casting his form into an impenetrable casing of ice. Breathing hard, feeling light headed and dizzy from the amount of spell casting he had to perform, he pulled in his remaining stores of mana and shot out with his fist, watching as a fist of stone shot from his clenched hand, growing in size and power, to finally smash into the frozen form of the mage, shattering it into many small pieces. He turned away, not wishing to watch as those pieces melted, showing the bloody and gory remains of such a devastating spell.

If only he could ignore the maniacal cackling that came from his berserker companion, and things would be far more manageable for the mage.

DA:O

The waiting would be the death of him.

Okay, perhaps he was being a bit melodramatic. But, the clenching in his chest and tightness of his throat made it feel like he could very well be. Not knowing what was going on in the Alienage with Adela and the others was a cause of great stress for the young human.

Not to mention how everyone seemed to be stepping on eggshells around him.

He would pointedly ignore the almost sympathetic glances his companions would cast in his direction as he would pace about the spacious townhome of the Arl. Although he did allow himself the luxury of casting his own glare toward the red haired Warden, who was currently working with almost feverish intent on instructing the Arl's guardsmen on how to fight against darkspawn.

Had Roland only behaved and followed orders, it was possible Adela would have allowed him to come along on the mission.

The thought stopped him in his steps, head flopping down to hang, chin to chest, as he let loose a deep sigh that spoke clearly of all of the frustration currently residing within that broad chest. Who was he kidding? She would still have left him behind – again - her reasoning sound even as he still tried to argue against it, despite her current absence in the argument. Even in a one-sided dispute he still couldn't win. Left behind to wait for word either from the scouting Riordan, the still shadow-cloaked allies they had within Denerim itself, or for the elf to show up in person to advise him of the goings on in the Alienage. And all he could do was wait.

Wait.

It was almost too much for his nerves to handle, but even as emotionally strung out as he was, he could not even consider taking up his blade and perhaps pummeling his fellow Warden into the ground.

Much as he would like to.

Yeah, Roland lying bloody and bashed upon the stone floor of the training grounds would definitely make him feel a bit better for having managed to release some of the frustration he felt. But, then again, beating him to a pulp would mean one of the mages would have to heal him to make him battle-ready for the Landsmeet (and no one was going to convince him they did not need to be battle-ready. Everything – every single step – they had won was due to hard battle. He wouldn't hear otherwise from anyone). And annoying the mages at this point really was not high on his list of priorities.

Although beating Roland Gilmore remained high on that list. Perhaps after this political shit storm had been dealt with…

With another sigh he straightened, shaking his blond head, feeling the weight of the short ponytail brush against the back of his neck (he had decided to keep his hair long…he knew Adela liked it…), his steps taking him to the study, where he knew that Eamon waited.

Oh joy.

Alistair really did not want to spend any more time with the Arl. Ever since Adela's departure, the Arl had been, well, rather attentive to the young Warden. Alistair was not the fool others tended to mantle him with. He knew that Eamon was still jockeying for the bastard Therrin to try and take the throne from Anora. His thoughts went briefly to the widow of his half-brother and he gave a weary shake of his head.

The Queen had not left her chambers since arriving at the estate, her face taut with worry and concern, eyes dry – too dry – and tight. It was perhaps the smartest thing she could have done at the moment, remaining out of Eamon's direct line of vision. The woman had gone from one viper's nest straight to another.

That thought did not even cause a hesitation in his step as he made his way to the upstairs study.

DA:O

Tension eased down and across her shoulders as she shifted, lifting one delicate hand to carefully leaf through the worn pages of the ancient treatise. A scowl formed between well-manicured brows as pale eyes focused upon the neat, delicate writing upon the pages. As she raised her fingers to yet again turn the pages, she paused, lifting her raven head, turning slightly to stare at the door to her room.

There it was, the familiar tingle that wafted and drifted along the air, signifying that the Veil had been opened…thinned…around the Fade. Something had passed through. Testing out its power within the realm of the living and sleepless. Rising, the young witch carefully marked the pages (she was not in the mood to have to search through the boring ledges of protocol and pomp that consisted of the Landsmeet again), turning to step to the door, pressing her ear to the cool, dead wood.

Yes, there it was…the almost addictive feel of the Fade seeping through the ancient wood, sweeping around the apostate in an almost tantalizing dance as she placed one hand to the brass doorknob, dark head tilted downwards as she breathed in the very power that danced along her nerves and skin. The feel of the magic utilized did not feel familiar to the wild mage…she could not tell if Wynne or Niall had employed their art for one reason or another. It felt almost as though the magic wielder was trying to hide the fact magic was being employed.

Frowning delicately, Morrigan turned the knob, pulling the door open to stare out into the adjacent hallway. Several yards away stood Alistair and the Arl, the elder man's prematurely aged face turned to the younger, hidden from Morrigan's view. She could see, however, the look of confusion upon Alistair's face (she mentally snorted at that observation. Confusion being one of Alistair's more natural states). But the feeling persisted for a moment longer before snuffing out completely, as though it had not been present.

Her frown deepening into confusion, the mage watched as the pair of men continued with their conversation, the words unattainable but the definite vagueness of Alistair's own tone incredibly real, for another moment before stepping back into the room.

Confused by the occurrence, the mage stepped back to the table where lay the books she had been searching through, scowling down at the many tomes she had collected. Although she and the others felt that they were more than prepared for the Landsmeet, Arl Eamon had insisted that they continue to study through the various texts. He had indicated, in that condescending manner that seemed reserved solely for the use of nobles, that any information on previous Landsmeets where the normal protocol and roll would not necessarily be observed. And so, the three mages and their local bard had spent an almost inexhaustible amount of time with their eyes and fingers glued to the various tomes of the past two decades, searching out anything that could possibly come close to what they were facing now. Until finally, encouraged by the young Teyrn of Highever, the others had abandoned the search, feeling as prepared as they ever could be for such an event. Morrigan, stubborn, remained behind, glaring at the tombs as though they had offered her a personal insult.

Scoffing, Morrigan finally pushed the books away, thoroughly disgusted with their waste of time, anger at the Arl flooding her breast as she lifted her head from the books. Glaring at the door, she cast through it her displeasure. Never mind the Arl, she hoped the full force and fury of her displeasure landed fully upon the broad shoulders of the young man standing beyond.

Time was passing too quickly. Adela and the others were still lost somewhere within the confines of the elven alienage, and no one had heard word one from the group. Everyone was on edge due to the fact that their leader was absent and that the responsibility of keeping up and making certain they were prepared for the Landsmeet – now only three days away – had been placed upon Alistair's shoulders. Pressing delicate fingers to her forehead in an attempt to push away the burgeoning headache (for once, the witch wished she had even a tenth of the healing power of Wynne at her disposal), Morrigan cursed the spirits of the Fade with vehemence.

And with that acknowledgment to herself of time passing, she realized just how soon she may be making yet another decision…another action that could well remove her from the group she had come to…care for in an almost familial fashion.

Certainly, there were those within their ever growing yet still somehow tight knit group of misfits that she was not as close as others: she still felt that Adela had made a grave mistake marrying the foolish ex-Templar, despite how much he doted upon the pretty little elf. Wynne, with her condescending grandmotherly manners, her declarations of how much of an affinity she had to the Fade (she was a mage! All mages were thusly affined!) still rankled heavily upon the acerbic witch's nerves.

The others all had their own special ability to irk the former wilder witch, even Adela at times caused the young mage no end of irritation with her overly tenderhearted tendencies. However, the thought of what she had to do to ensure…her thoughts paused there, knowing the truth for what it was, knowing that the ritual she had to embark upon had nothing to do with any wishes for the continued health and wellbeing of any of the Grey Wardens she currently travelled with.

Now, perhaps, the need…the consequences surrounding the use of the ritual may be less selfish; however, that most certainly was not how it had started.

And Morrigan was self-aware enough to know that whatever excuses she may use to sway Adela to convince one of the male wardens to participate; the truth was, first and foremost, that Morrigan needed this ritual, more so now than ever, if she were to fend off her mother.

Those yellow, predator-like eyes fixed once more upon the door. At least she would no longer need to use Alistair – the husband of the girl who was perhaps her best friend – for the ritual's completion.

DA:O

Blue eyes fixed upon tired blues as Nelaros shifted uneasily beneath the intense gaze. He stared as well, at the still lovely but tired etched features before him. The misery that had settled within those eyes was more painful than any of the tortures he had suffered at the hands of the blond blood mage these months passed.

"Why are you still here?" Adela had asked as she led her group through the Alienage as they continued their search for the slavers. The young elven male had flinched. Not that there had been any accusatory tone within her voice. Far from it. The void that had settled within a voice he recalled as being sweet and quiet was far more unsettling than any accusation the younger elf could ever have heaped upon him could be.

It had made it all far worse for the fact that he did not know why he had not been packed and shipped off with the multitudes of elves that had been paraded through the Alienage and to the waiting Tevinter ships, en route to the slave markets of Minrathous and the other vast cities within the Imperium.

Every question he had asked of Caladrius as to why he yet remained had only ever been met with a calm eye, slight smirk and quick glance to the elven children caged around them and a firm and confident acknowledgment that Nelaros' 'master' would be patient for a bit longer until he had delivered the elf to him personally.

By now, Adela was fully aware that her father had been sent away on one of those vessels. And Nelaros had had to watch as what little light that had reflected within those marvelous blue orbs dulled and vanished completely.

They had reunited with Oghren and Anders, who had dispatched with those who guarded the entrance to the 'hospice'. Despite being worn and weakened by his imprisonment, Nelaros had insisted upon accompanying Adela and her companions and he was grateful that the others had seen fit to argue the young elf into allowing him to do so. And so he had picked up a fine Imperial saw-blade and round shield and followed the Warden and her companions.

There were many small skirmishes as they fought against those humans who profited by the sale of others until they now stood within a small space, facing off against a woman who appeared to be Dalish – if the facial tattoo was anything to go by – scoffing at Adela's naïve questioning. The woman was Tevinter; to Nelaros that was reason enough for her to be labeled 'foe' and therefore deserved to die.

He did not question his own bloodthirsty, physical response to the woman's cold reasoning of those who are weaker are prey to those who are stronger. Beside him, Adela tensed and he took note of the sneer that crossed Zevran's handsome features. The human mage's brown eyes narrowed as he stepped back, obviously pulling power within himself just before their dwarven companion snorted out a response, launching himself into battle, quickly felling two of the armored men standing to each side of the elven slaver.

Taking hold of the saw-toothed blade he had confiscated from one Tevinter corpse, Nelaros threw himself into the battle, allowing his fury, his fear, the pain he had endured during these months – the loss of time, of the wife he had been promised – to wash over and carry him, blinding him to the lives he took as he sought to bring down all of the slavers who stood before him and his companions. Adela had stepped back, arrow notching to bowstring before the Dalish slaver could bring up her own weapon. Snarling out, Adela released the missile at near point blank range, not even watching as it pierced one bright eye, sinking deeply into the tattooed woman's skull, before turning to ready another arrow to bring down another foe.

The Dalish and her guards fell easily, something that had surprised Nelaros, given how the woman had bragged about her own ability as she brandished the fine, Dalish-made bow of ironbark she held in one slender hand. However, she had obviously not counted upon the sheer ire of the elves she faced nor the grim, battle-ready determination of the non-elven companions to see justice brought to those who could not seek it themselves.

Pride welled within the elven male's breast as he considered the woman who had, just a year before, been his betrothed. He knew he had no claim upon her now. The contract well and void given the fact she was now a Grey Warden and married to another. However, that pride remained, however undeserved he knew he was to it.

And now, as they had previously fought through alley to alleyway, dark street to vacant rooms, the elves and their companions battled slavers room by room, leaving behind a trail of blood and death, ignoring their own injuries, allowing Anders to quickly heal the worst of the injuries, determination fueling each of them, to finally just end this matter and bring to justice those whose hand guided those now lying dead within pools of their own blood and bile.

Finally, they reached a set of double-wide doors, and carefully opened them and stepped out onto an open balcony, overlooking the heads of dozens of armored Tevinter warriors, surrounding one robed figure.

The head of the robed form lifted, and hatred seethed through Nelaros' body, flooding his limbs with heat and near uncontained energy, the desire to rend tightening his breast.

"Ah," came the smooth voice from below, raised just enough to carry to the group overlooking them. "I see that you have finally made your way here, Warden Commander." There was an almost respectful tenor to his words and tone of voice, but Nelaros, who had become far too well acquainted with this mage, recognized the undertone of haughtiness just below the surface.

Adela's blue eyes quickly scanned the area, taking in the numbers that surrounded the mage, before they finally settled upon the mage himself. His generous mouth widened slightly into what could pass as a friendly smile, had his brown eyes not been nearly so cold and calculating.

"Are you prepared to die, slaver?" Adela's quiet, cool voice echoed through the chamber, and Nelaros took note of the shifting of feet of the warriors as they turned to look at their master. That smile turned to a smirk, and Caladrius drifted his hands out, palms outwards, in a sign of feigned confusion.

"Why ever would you ask such a thing, Commander?"

Adela glanced over at Nelaros, and his heart froze at the calm coolness contained therein. She was obviously weary, as bone-tired as any of them. But, something more weighed upon her – the knowledge that her father was gone, that Soris' wife was gone; that so many of those she had known her entire life – gone. As tired…as weary as she was, he knew, without any words, that she desired this one's death. An end to all of this.

And the realization that, no matter how many battles they fought, no matter the blood spilled, the agony shared…they…she could not save everyone.

Innocents would continue to suffer, to die, and there would not be a thing the elven warden could do otherwise.

And so, without another word, without any acknowledgment that this would, indeed, result in violence, Nelaros launched himself over the balcony rail, followed quickly by Zevran as a hail of arrows began to rain down upon the mage and his guards, to engage the enemy.

DA:O

A slender, age spotted hand reached over, carefully picking the small, delicate tea pot up, tipping and pouring the steaming, murky liquid with practiced ease. With a sigh of content, the elderly mage settled the tea pot back down, picking up the matching tea cup and bringing the steaming liquid to thin lips.

Ah, peace and quiet. Since joining up with The Warden and her group, Wynne had found little time for simply joys such as settling into a comfortable chair, a cup of exquisite tea in one hand, her favorite novel in another. None of the younglings running about underfoot; no life or death battles springing up around them; no politics to mend, no quests to fulfill; no darkspawn to contend with.

Settling deeper into the soft cushions of the chair, the mage delicately sipped at her tea, age worn eyes settling upon the large print of the book she held between her hands. As she settled deeper, allowing her mind to start to become lost in the words of the long-dead author, a tingle ran along her crossed legs. Frowning, she shifted her body slightly, trying to ignore the dull sensation as she turned her attention back to her tome.

A dull wave flashed through the room, and the mage could no longer ignore the feeling. Someone was utilizing the Fade. Frowning, she settled both cup and book upon the nightstand at her elbow, pushing herself standing as she turned slowly, extending her senses. The wave she felt rose, cresting about her, and her frown deepened. The power utilized did not feel familiar to elder mage, unable to read either Niall or Morrigan within the power signature of the wave. The magic used – she was certain – was one for opening up the Veil between the material world and the Fade. Head twisting to face her door, Wynne stepped forward, hand outstretched as she slowly crossed the room, her senses trying desperately to latch onto the power that surrounded her.

Before she could reach her door, the power ebbed, dipping beneath her senses, to finally vanish. Her frown deepened to a scowl as she glared at her outstretched hand to the brass doorknob.

DA:O

The air rippled with dark power, blood tingling within the veins of those against the blood mage and his soldiers. Anders gritted his teeth against the tingle along his skin, feeling as vile as multitudes of worms wriggling beneath the surface of his flesh, digging into his bone and muscle. Battling against the dark magic of his Tevinter foe, he cast out with a cleansing aura, dispelling much of the evil that seeped through from the demons of the Fade.

Beside him, Adela shivered against the filthy magic, continuing to rain down missiles upon their foes as Oghren, Zevran and Nelaros dogged the soldiers as the elven archer and human mage concentrated much of their own efforts in distracting the human mage.

The droning of spells spilled from Caladrius' mouth, drowned out by the war cries erupting from the dwarven berserker in the Tevinters' midst. Great axe swept out, tossing many aside as it cleaved others in bloody sprays. Face drenched in the blood of his enemies as well as his own, the dwarf launched himself into the fray, heedless of any danger to himself, aware only of the draw and lure of battle, death and bloodletting that awaited him.

Being far more self-protecting and stealthy, Zevran slipped into the alcoves, darting out among the throng of Tevinter warriors, stabbing and hamstringing many, incapacitating them against the heavy slam of the shield and swift strike of the sword of Nelaros, the elven warrior working in tandem with the Crow assassin as though the two had trained together regularly, rather than having simply met this day for battle.

Glowing shields appeared around Caladrius' body, preventing Adela's arrows to gain purchase within his flesh. A smirk formed upon his cruelly handsome face as he became aware of the growing frustration within the elven Warden. The blond mage's spells barely had the power to graze along his defenses, let alone penetrate any of his barriers.

So self-confident was the mage he paid no mind to the falling of his soldiers about him until the final blood filled gurgle reached his ears from a suddenly quiet chamber. Eyes wide, he turned his head slightly, quickly surveying the carnage around him.

His more than two dozen warriors had been felled – quite effectively – by three warriors while he had been kept from the main battle by the continuous bombardments of an elven archer and Circle trained mage.

Teeth grinding, shields still maintained against arrow, spell and blade, he turned his attention back to the Warden, very much aware of his precarious predicament.

"Ah," he said in his smooth tones, a calm he did not feel lining his voice, "it would seem we are at an impasse."

A nearly amused twitch of her brow as she kept her bow trained upon the mage, Adela quipped back, "Impasse?"

Fighting the scowl against the insolent and weary tone in the Warden's voice, the blood mage bowed his tattooed head slightly. "Indeed," he swept a hand out to encompass the fallen, his gaze briefly falling upon the trio who had effectively decimated his forces. "I have no soldiers at my beck and call, but plenty of powerful spells yet to cast." He smiled, turning back to face fully the elven Warden who had not relaxed her stance. "Perhaps now would be a good time to parlay."

"You really expect me to parlay with you when you have caused so much harm within my own home?" Adela demanded, fingers twitching along the bowstring as her shoulders tightened, elbow aching for release.

The mage caught the tremor in the elf's voice, and his smile broadened slightly. "We were given permission. A great deal of gold was paid to the Regent for the elves."

Blue eyes narrowed, focused solely upon the mage, not watching as Nelaros crept closer to the mage standing in the midst of corpses.

"You really think saying something like that will gain you points?" Adela seethed, grip upon her bow tightening, knuckles white, fingers reddening.

"We were invited," Caladrius explained, voice softening as he seemed to realize how unsteady the elf above him was at that moment.

"By the Regent?"

"Indeed," the mage bowed his head slightly, a slim show of respect.

A moment of silence followed as Nelaros continued closer and Adela scrutinized the mage upon the floor.

"Doesn't matter," she finally replied, raising the bow and pulling the bowstring back. "You still enslaved my family…my friends. Maker knows how many you killed…"

"Now, now…" the mage tried to placate the elf, raising his hands palms up, patting the air, "I am certain we can come to some understanding…"

"Understand that you took my father!" Adela shouted, taking a bead between the mage's eyes. Beside her Anders took a deep breath, and she was uncertain if he would try to stop her or not. She didn't care. If he interfered, it would not matter. She could let the arrow fly before he could reach her.

However, she had misunderstood Anders' action. The mage was pulling in his thin reserves of magic, hoping to cast out a final cleansing aura, hoping to, at the very least, disrupt the blood mage's shields. They had to be weakening. He had maintained them for a very long time…

"Your…father?"

"Cyron Tabris."

And the blood mage realized just how dangerous his situation was. He had heard that the elven Warden had been from the alienage; he recalled Howe's agents specifically suggesting that Cyron Tabris – a well-known artist even in the Tevinter Imperium – would fetch a great deal on the markets. Indeed, the slaver mage already had several bidders lined up for the artist even before setting him upon the ship back to the Imperium…

And now he understood.

He had been set up. Or the Warden had been.

It did not matter now.

The artist was the father of the Warden Commander of Fereldan.

He was a dead man, and he felt fear that perhaps his reserves could not outlast the ire of the elven warden above him.

It made no matter, not in the next instance. Anders raised his hands, casting out his final spell before his reserves gave out completely. Adela's hand pulled back the bowstring, but before she could launch the missile, Nelaros sprang forward, blade slicing forward as he swung his shield out, catching the mage in the chest just as his defensive spells were washed away by Anders' spell. Gasping, breath forced violently from his lungs by the collision, Caladrius stumbled backwards, away from the shield. However, he did not fall far enough away from the oncoming blade as it slashed deeply across his chest, opening the material of his fine robe, splitting the flesh of his chest like the flesh of rotten fruit. Blood poured from the wound and he stumbled, maintaining his footing only barely as he brought his hands to the wound, desperately seeking to close the wound with his hands as though the flesh upon his chest was as the material of his once fine robes.

As blood continued to flow over and around his clenching hands, he gasped out the words of a spell. Catching the approaching elven warrior in its grasp. With a scream, Nelaros stopped in his approach, back arching as his neck bent back in an impossible angle. Arms outstretched as though he was being pulled in different directions by unseen hands, he rose from the ground, the snapping of bones and tearing of muscles resounding harshly in the air. Crying out his name, Adela let loose the arrow she had drawn back, catching the gasping blood mage in the temple. She did not watch as the missile continued on its trajectory, driving deeply into the mage's head, the fire rune upon the arrowhead burning and cauterizing its path through the brain matter of the Tevinter. She had already dropped her bow and was racing toward the now silent Nelaros, who lay upon blood soaked floor, unmoving and silent, back still arched painfully back, neck at an odd angle.

Caladrius' body flopped to the floor, quite dead, as Adela reached the still form of the fallen elven warrior.

As she fell unceremoniously to her knees, Anders stumbled behind her, downing one vial and then another of lyrium as he sought to pull up healing magic to aid the fallen elf.