Happy Birthday, Wyl! Sorry it's late; it was supposed to be up last weekend/beginning of the week, but the storm, loss of power, etc., kinda slowed things down (I actually finished this up working off the battery of my laptop! *cheeky grin*).

And, I do apologize for the cliffhanger in the previous chapter. I hope you forgive me, considering I got the update up so quickly! Yeah, yeah, it's short; but it takes over where I left you all off last time. Hopefully, the next chapter will be up before another month passes.

As always, my thanks to those who continue to read, favorite, alert and, most especially, review!: Wyl, Shakespira, Arsinoe de Blassenville, LegionaryPrime…

The Halla Reborn

Chapter 73

At first, she could not react. Body went tense, unable to comply with her urgent mental commands to Move! Save Him! Avenge Him!...Do Something! However, she found she could not do so; her legs refused to move – leaden and heavy - her brain barely functioned above the terror of the sight just below her.

Then, it was done. The lifeless – headless – body of Arawn Amell fell limply to the floor, his life's blood flowing out in a great river, spreading across the ancient stone, filling in the grooves, staining the grout with its crimson tide. Her dazed mind barely registered movement as the surrounding nobles and their retainers flinched back as the spreading pool sought out their finely clothed feet.

Hazy mind did not register the collective gasp, the ongoing whispers and shouts that filled the Great Hall. The panic, disgust and fear that fairly tinged the air. All she saw was the body upon the floor. The body of her beloved.

And, finally, her body reacted instinctively, moving with quick, practiced grace and skill, leveling the small, dwarven crafted crossbow held in her large hands, and aimed without a thought. The bolt flew through the air, piercing the seam at the shoulder and neck of the Templar's armor.

None noticed the pained gasp and groan that rose from the young man's throat as the bolt found its mark. With quick, intuitive movements, the woman turned, pulling back the cradle, slipping in a second bolt, and aimed without thought.

Releasing the triggering mechanism, she sent that second bolt flying through the air, watching as it found her target, flying true at the blonde queen, piercing through the fine silk of her gown, straight through the delicate flesh beneath, to pierce the beating heart beneath.

An agonized shriek filled the room, bringing Cauthrien from her stupor in time to back away, dropping her crossbow, and pulling free her short sword. Her greatblade – the Summer's Sword, a gift from Loghain from when she had been knighted and inducted into his service – would be too large, to unwieldy for her to use against the enraged elf, who had quickly and easily leaped over the rails of the low balcony, and engaged the knight with fury, anguish and anger guiding her twin blades.

DA:O

Niall was the first to Cauldry's side, assisting the Templar to the floor as he gripped the bolt protruding from his shoulder. Ignoring the bloody mess from Arawn's still form, Niall, with the assistance of Ryan, cut the strappings for the Templar's shoulder and arm guards free, carefully removing them so that he had free access to the bolt sticking from his flesh.

Whispering words of encouragement, the warden mage grasped the bolt tightly, pulling it free with one hand as he brought healing magic to the other, sending it flowing through the injury and into the Templar.

Ryan watched the open display of magic with awe in his eyes as Cauldry turned grateful eyes upon the brown eyed, mousey mage at his side. Eyes closing in relief, the Templar allowed the feeling of healing power to flow through his shoulder and down his arm, up his neck while Niall merely allowed the smallest of smiles to cross his broad features.

DA:O

Frantic. Overwhelming fear gripped hard and refused to release. Her breath caught tightly in her throat, the elven Warden leaped away from her companions, dashing and weaving between the cluster of noble bodies and their retainers, dodging between where space allowed, simply bowling through where none existed.

Anora's descent to the floor seemed painfully slow to the elf as she grasped hold of one clothed shoulder of the nobleman who refused to move out of her way. Tugging fiercely, her feet left the floor, knees tucking close to her body as she vaulted over the surprised human's head, tucking closer to roll to the floor, regaining her feet quickly as she skittered across the stone, desperate to make it to her friend's side.

It was surreal, almost a horrid dream, a feeling she had experienced before. And, as she flew, a dull roar inside her head, her ears, she slid to the ground upon her knees, to land beside the bleeding form of her friend, her queen. Adela choked as she realized that she had felt the same uncontrolled, almost animalistic fear she had as Cailan had met his death at Ostagar, more than a year prior.

Yet, here, as unlike then, she was aware – far too aware – of every minute detail: the gasps and murmurs rising from noble throats, as individual as each person who breathed the utterance; the air as it cooled along the sweat of her brow; how hot and heavy her very blood ran through her veins; the smell of burning candles, scented wax and blood. Far too much blood rose upon the air and drifted along its current.

Her eyes focused now, ignoring everything else, as they teared and blinked, turning to focus upon the far too still form of the human woman upon the stone floor.

The bolt – small, black metal – protruded from the queen's still chest, blood seeping from the wound, staining the fine silk fabric of the bodice of her gown. The elf placed a hand to the human woman's chest, desperate for the feel of a heartbeat or the telltale rise of her chest to indicate she still drew breath.

Nothing.

Running footsteps brought the elf aware, and she glanced upwards to watch as Wynne and Anders raced toward where she knelt, their eyes glancing first from the elf to the prone form of the queen.

She rose, allowing both Spirit Healers room to work, knowing that she would be of no use in their efforts. She raised her head, ears continuing to ring incessantly, eyes still blurry, barely making out the struggling form as Loghain - Roland solidly holding him up with each step forward - made his way toward where his daughter lay beneath the frantic, working hands of the mages. She barely took note as Eamon made his way to Alistair's side, the younger of the two men bending his head toward his former guardian, eyes locked to the flooring at his feet as Eamon whispered words into the young Warden's ear.

Gliding around the mages, no longer able to make out the gasps, murmurs, shouts and screams that resounded within the chamber as the rising roar overtook her senses, the shock of the nobles and others barely registering to the stunned elf, Adela moved along on her knees, lifted Anora's head and settled it upon her bent knees, trembling fingers running through the soft, blonde hair upon the human's fine brow.

The feel of the soft tresses through her fingers was the only thing that registered to the elf. The hard work of the mages, the sounds filling the chamber, even Loghain's presence upon the floor by her side, was nothing to her. The only thing that felt real to Adela was the weight of Anora's head in her lap, the feel of her hair between the elf's calloused fingers.

Only when the weight upon her knees lessened did she look up. Looked up to watch as strong men picked up the body of Anora, Anders and Wynne rushing by their side, as they carried the queen into one of the side chambers to allow the mages to continue their work upon the queen in private.

Only then, did she realize that Loghain had settled a heavy arm across her shoulders, and she looked over into his worn, worried and frightened eyes. Tears sprang into her blue eyes as she moved closer to her friend, settling her face upon one strong shoulder as he brought the other arm about her, pulling her close as he bent his face to rest upon the top of her head.

DA:O

Rage flooded the form of the dark haired elf as she lunged forward at the taller, broader form of the human warrior. Cauthrien stepped back, slashing outwards with her shortsword, missing the elf's chest by a breadth as the elven bard twisted her form, bending around the slashing blade as she tucked her arms to her sides, dancing agilely out of the way.

The female knight – former knight – glared as Erlina missed her powerful swing. "Damned knife eared bitch," she muttered, taking special glee in the fact the elf's keen ears picked up the slur.

Erlina's dark eyes narrowed as she skipped to the side, both daggers slashing, crisscrossing before her chest, slashing outwards to drag across the plate of the knight's chest guard. The screech of metal upon metal – silverite across steel – echoed around the battling pair.

Sneering into the face of the smaller female, Cauthrien used her larger frame to push the elf backwards, the sneer widening as the elf's back brushed against the rail of the balcony. One push forward, and the elf would tumble to the hard stone below…

"Why?" Erlina gasped as she tried to twist out of the way, finding herself pinned against the rail, bending backwards to avoid the slashing blade of the enraged knight.

That ugly sneer widened across the knight's plain features, the flickering candle light casting shadows within the gauntness of her features, created by pain and loss. "Discord," came the gasped reply as the knight advanced.

"Marjoline bought you, didn't she?" Erlina asked as she slid out of the blade's way, barely able to push against the rail to bring herself forward, more firmly upon the wooden flooring of the balcony.

"Marjoline?" Cauthrien laughed aloud at that. "That idiot Orlesian was merely a pawn for Arawn." Her voice softened at the utterance of her deceased lover. "For what he suffered, all of Ferelden should so suffer."

Brows furrowing in confusion, realizing that Cauthrien was going mad – or perhaps was already so - Erlina quieted, knowing she would garner no coherent information from the other woman.

Cauthrien's face went still, her face settling into a strangely twisted, impassive mask as she advanced upon the elf. Plate armor protected her from the slashing blades of the bard's daggers. Her brute strength kept the smaller woman off balance, unable to get proper footing upon the small space afforded the balcony. The human knew she could literally crush the knife eared bitch against the very stone wall behind Erlina with ease.

The elf's dark eyes glanced up, over Cauthrien's shoulder. Taking a deep breath, she ducked beneath the sweeping arm of the knight, twisting around to her back to deliver a sharp kick to the back of one knee. Startled, snarling, the knight twisted around, blade leading as she swung blindly at the more agile woman behind her.

As Cauthrien turned to face her, Erlina ducked, having heard the telltale whistle of an arrow released from a taut bowstring. Cauthrien's eyes widened in surprise as the elf ducked beneath the sweep of her blade, and she moved to swing downwards as the arrow – released from Leliana's bow from the adjacent balcony – flew straight and true, finding its mark to deeply embed itself within the right eye of the maddened knight.

Gasping, hands flew upwards to her face, clawing frantically as blood and gore seeped from the wound, around the arrow. Twisting, Erlina barely managed to get out of the way as the knight's heavy body flopped to the floor, convulsing, back arching, heels beating a rhythm upon the wooden flooring of the balcony as hands continued to claw at the missile and blood flowed more steadily, pooling around Cauthrien's twisting head.

Hands gripping the balcony, Erlina pulled herself up to her feet as the knight's tall form finally stilled as life left the warrior's form.

DA:O

Dark, honey gold eyes fixed upon the kneeling, bent forms of Adela and Loghain, watching as guards bent forward to assist Loghain to his feet, maneuvering him to the room where Anora had been taken. Adela stood, alone, eyes focused upon the closing doors. He could see the slump of her shoulders, her body language all but screaming defeat as Eamon continued to whisper softly into his ear.

Visions of blonde and red flashed in his mind. Nothing solid for him to grasp hold of, but that feeling…that absolute feeling of betrayal flooded his very being, and became almost overwhelming as he continued to stare at the defeated figure of his wife. Zevran and Leliana had stepped from the crowds, flanking Erlina, as they made their way toward the younger elf. The assassin bent his head down, whispering something into Adela's ear, and she replied in low tones.

There was a flash of red and he looked up, watching as Roland stepped nearer to Adela, watching as the elven warden lifted her head to her subordinate, nodding at whatever it was that the red haired warden was saying.

And that flash of betrayal deepened, and Eamon continued to whisper into his ear.

All Alistair could feel at that moment was anger and hatred; a deepening of that sense of betrayal. It was not a new feeling; he recalled, dimly, somewhere in the back of his mind, that this feeling only came about whenever Eamon moved this close, tilting his gray head upwards, lips so close to his ear to whisper…words, his breath whispering around his ear, hot and moist. Nothing he could grasp, hold onto, only a feeling. And, despite the feeling of utter betrayal, of yet again being abandoned, left behind, Eamon's presence, his words, soothed the younger of the two, calming him to his core. And so he nodded his head at Eamon's words, not truly comprehending what was being said to him, but agreeing nonetheless.

DA:O

None of the nobles present within the Great Hall would leave without news of the queen's condition. The Grand Cleric had arrived, flanked by heavily armed and armored Templars. Curriers were sent out from those gathered within, as other runners entered the chamber, ready to carry forth news as it was revealed.

Moments passed into long minutes, and those unendurable minutes lengthened into an hour. During that time, the bodies of Arawn Amell and Cauthrien had been removed, placed into one of the free study rooms to the side. Only when word was heard of the queen's fate would any seek to properly see to the traitors' bodies.

Finally, a disheveled and exhausted Wynne emerged from the side room, Anders at her side, an arm wrapped around her suddenly too thin and frail form. Both mages were clearly and utterly exhausted; it was obvious both had been involved in a battle, intent upon saving the life of their queen.

Adela, who felt she knew both former Circle mages quite well, knew, the moment they had exited the chambers, gaunt and exhausted, that Anora had been too far out of their reach. Even their great ability to wield the healing arts had not been enough.

Moments behind the mages Loghain had emerged. His face, already telling the tale of his more than a year servitude at the hands of relentless blood mage, was even more pale, more gaunt, sharper and harsher than Adela had ever seen.

As the words came from him, telling of the passing of their queen, his voice broke, shattered, as tears coursed down his sharpened features. Pale blue eyes rose, briefly, to touch lightly upon Adela's face, before falling again as anguish threatened to overtake him. Adela watched as her lifelong friend – a man who had been a friend to her mother and later her father – took a deep breath, an obvious inner struggle occurring before their eyes. His tall figure straightened, broad shoulders realigned, and his face lifted once again. His voice was stronger, sharper, still ravaged with despair and grief, and yet it rang out over the chamber to once again announce the death of their queen.

And then an uproar from the gathered nobles rose, deafening, as they cried out to be heard over one another, despairing over who would lead Ferelden, not only to see it through the Blight, but throughout the years that would follow.

Adela turned, unable to bear the weight of grief, sorrow and remorse the flooded Loghain's face as he remained rooted, listening to those raised voices. She took note – however peripherally and dimly – that Gail had regained Isolde's side, Erlina hovering behind the two women, distress and sorrow etched upon her fine, elven features. Ryan and Cauldry – the Templar's breastplate having been removed, his shoulder bandaged – stood beside a quiet Niall. Her gaze shimmered and blurred, unable to take in the forms of her other companions, finally resting upon where Alistair remained, at Eamon's side, the elder statesman nodding, speaking to the young Warden through the side of his mouth, as both men met her eyes, and each, in turn, gave her a gentle nod.

Blinking rapidly, she returned the gesture, eyes focused upon the sublime and calm features of her husband as Loghain tried to calm the storm of voices echoing throughout the Great Hall.

DA:O

Amidst the rise of voices came the calls for order, calls for Loghain to see the country through. Other voices were raised in despair, questioning, wondering, beseeching…fearful, wary and weary.

Rising his voice, Loghain called for quiet, and, slowly, excruciatingly, the voices died down. Gasps and even shuddering sobs could be heard over the stillness within the chamber.

For one of the few times in his life, Loghain felt lost, unsure and so far above his own depth. He recalled very little of the time when Cailan had died, his mind having been slowly, painfully and surely taken over by Maric's eldest son. When Maric had passed on, there were calls for Bryce Cousland to have taken the throne. To this day, Loghain felt he owed the man his gratitude for his loyalty and ability to see beyond his own rise in power.

But, now, gazing over the stunned and fearful faces of those within the chambers, he found himself wishing fervently that Bryce had accepted the throne. The man had been wise – far wiser than Cailan – had lived through war and battle. He would not have been upon the battlefield – among the vanguard troops. Loghain was certain – almost beyond a doubt – that the elder Cousland would have lived to continue on with his rule.

Tired blue eyes glanced upwards, toward the younger Cousland. No. The only Cousland. There was the tiniest movement of his dark head. Fergus would not be in any position – any condition – at this time to assume the throne. The man had too much to deal with on his own – his own Teyrnir needing to be rebuilt, his physical and mental strength needing so very much to be restored, his family…only he survived. Distant cousins, certainly, could be brought into the fold; Fergus himself would have to marry and start a new family...Loghain's thoughts shut down there. He could not further plot out what Fergus faced.

There had been – mingled among the shouts and cries – calls for Loghain to assume the throne. However, he would refuse it. He had proven that he could, all too easily, be controlled, his personality and will subsumed by another. Untrustworthy, he would be fortunate indeed to remain an advisor, his own Teyrnir intact.

Those blue eyes settled upon the tall, broad figure of the young warrior currently standing beside Eamon. The statesman's gray eyes were fixed solidly upon Loghain and the former Regent calmly met the younger man's stare before his gaze flickered once more to Alistair's form. The youngest of Maric's sons…a warrior, one who had proven himself in battle, had proven his loyalty to Ferelden and shown that he had what it takes to form armies and gather allies.

Heavy lids closed over the blue orbs.

It would seem that they had run out of options.

They needed to get an ass – any ass at this point – in the throne. To wait for any length of time, especially with the Blight continuing to rage within their borders, would bring about more chaos than they currently faced. The political wrangling would begin; the cries of the common folk would rise, fearful and wondering. To fight a civil war during a Blight would be the ultimate in foolhardiness. And they had already been doing so…as close to civil war as they had ever come while Maric's eldest son pulled the strings to his puppet.

And Loghain was determined that, even in death, Arawn would not succeed in his determination to cast Ferelden into the flames of anarchy.

Ever the statesman, almost as though he knew of the internal struggle within the mind of his fellow noble, Eamon stepped forward, more than ready and willing to offer up what those within the chamber needed the most of at this time.

DA:O

"Ease, everyone," Eamon barely had to raise his voice, strong, firm and confident as it was. It caught the attention of everyone in the chambers, and he allowed a soft, reassuring smile to cross his features. Behind him, Alistair stood, patient and waiting. The Arl could feel Loghain's eyes upon him, could almost feel the gratitude that emanated from his still struggling form. He conscientiously did not allow that smile to widen into a grin as he glanced back, slightly and quickly, to the still and confused figure of the elven warden.

"Our Queen is dead," he stated, sorrow lacing his voice and he paused, allowing for the murmurs that flow around the chambers, never rising overhead, or even seeping to the floor, but hanging, just at ear level, everyone hearing and feeling the sorrow of the loss of their young ruler.

"Normally, in such times, we would hold an election," he turned, meeting the eyes of several of the nobles who had a voice upon the Landsmeet. "But, that takes time. And, unfortunately, with the Blight raging around us, threatening everything we hold near and dear, we cannot afford to take that time."

"Do you make claim to the throne, Arl Eamon?" Alfstanna voiced from above, making it painfully evident that she did not relish that idea.

"No, Bann Alfstanna," the Arl remarked with a knowing little smile. "I do not. I do, however, know of one who could assume the throne. One who has served this country well; one who has demonstrated time and again his worth and value, his devotion to this nation and the legacy of Maric and Cailan, further back to the Silver Knight himself."

"Loghain, then?" asked Bann Bryland, the noble's brown eyes fixing upon the haggard form of the Teyrn in question.

"Nay," Loghain stepped forward, speaking for himself. "I do not wish to claim the throne. I…believe that I am far from being suited for such an honor. Especially given how…easily subverted I had been to the…wiles and abilities of a blood mage."

"That could hardly be construed as your fault, Teyrn," Alfstanna called down, her intense eyes fixed upon the legendary warrior.

"My thanks, as always, for your support, Bann," Loghain bowed graciously. "However, I believe that Arl Eamon has another in mind."

The Teyrn ignored the flip flopping in his stomach, and did not and could not look over to where Adela stood, flanked by the elven assassin and redhaired knight, the pretty Orlesian girl standing just beside her, an arm slung across her frail-seeming shoulders as the mages stood at her back. He knew…knew beyond doubt…who Eamon would put forth.

And, Maker help him, Loghain had every intention to support the bid to the throne. The personal cost could not outweigh the cost to the nation.

He only hoped she would forgive him.

A murmur rose from the throats of those gathered and Loghain lifted his head, glancing to see an astonished Adela take a step forward, only to be halted by the assassin's hand upon her arm. Turning, he watched as Alistair stepped forward, head held high as he stepped to Eamon's side. Frowning, Loghain realized he had been lost in his own thoughts and feelings and had missed Eamon's introduction of Alistair as Maric's youngest son.

"What proof do we have that this is a son of Maric?" came an indignant shout from the balconies. Rising his head, Loghain spied Ceorlic, fuming down upon the gray head of the Arl.

"I do not make this bid empty handed," Eamon responded, voice light and controlled as he met the Bann's glare with a steady gaze of his own. "I have letters from Maric claiming Alistair as his child, and a letter from Cailan stating that he was prepared to claim Alistair as his heir, as his brother, in the unlikely event that he and Anora could not produce an heir."

Silence met the Arl's announcement, broken by Alfstanna once more. "You have these documents upon you?"

Frowning up at her, Eamon shook his head. "Not on my person at this time, no. No one could have predicted an outcome such as this. However, I can produce them within an hour of requests."

The wheels and cogs of each noble's minds churned and whirled, accepting this new information quickly. It had been shocking to learn that a blood mage had controlled their Regent since prior to the debacle at Ostagar. To now be presented with another son of Maric…one who was a hero, one of the legendary Grey Wardens? Again he looked to a strangely silent Adela, whose blue eyes were fixed upon the still form of her husband, her face tight, unreadable. But her eyes…they shone with distress and…understanding. Loghain knew the girl understood what would happen next. She was smart; had been around Court for most of her young life; had listened earnestly whenever Anora and Cailan discussed Landsmeets, had listened intently as Loghain himself muttered and fumed over one unnecessarily pompous procedure after another. The sorrowful gaze with which she fixed Alistair with was painful for the Regent to see, however he did not turn his gaze from her quickly. An pain he felt was nothing compared to her own.

Taking a breath, he turned his attention back to the Great Hall and those gathered within. Clearing his throat, he spoke up, knowing his words would produce the final bit of evidence needed to place Alistair upon the throne.

"I, too, have evidence of Maric's acceptance of the young man named Alistair as his son," Loghain's voice rang throughout the chamber, his discomfort at the utterance clear upon his face, in the almost defeated slump of his body, and in the all too calm manner in which he spoke. He ignored – or tried to ignore – the sharp gasp from Adela and the sudden jerk of her head toward him as he spoke the words.

Those gathered spoke in excited tones, subdued cheers and encouraging words mingling with those of disbelief. As they sputtered and spoke, relief wafting throughout the chamber, Eamon sent one of his servants to gather the required documents.

And still, Loghain could not meet Adela's eyes.

DA:O

Cold shock went through her body as Eamon announced to the gathered nobles that Alistair was Maric's son. That Alistair would assume the throne.

No clearly dissenting voices rose to challenge Eamon's – Alistair's claim to the throne. Only a call for proof. She glanced at Alistair's too calm face, and another spike of fear shot through her. Alistair wasn't decrying the claim; wasn't rejecting the offer of the throne, either for personal reasons or his own Grey Warden duties.

He was accepting of it.

But…why?

And then Loghain had spoken up. Not against the claim, not to proclaim himself or another as candidate to the throne, but to acknowledge not only Eamon's own reasons for putting Alistair forth but to offer further proof of the young man's hereditary claim.

To offer the proof that he was, indeed, Maric's son.

Her knees buckled and had it not been for Zevran's hand – constant, sure, firm and supportive - upon her arm, she knew she would have fallen.

She could feel the others at her back, but their voices, their words, were just static noise, watery and unfocused. Much as her sight as she tried to focus upon the tall figure dressed in full armor beside the Arl of Redcliff.

Through it all, Alistair stood calmly and still, unable or unwilling to look over at her, despite her silent pleas for him to do so.

DA:O

It took barely any time for Eamon's servant to return, handing over the precious documents to his lord. Giving the servant a bare nod, Eamon gently pulled the leathern sheaths open, revealing the heavy parchment – preserved in wax – within. Alfstanna, Ceorlic, Bryland and Wulf stepped forward, each in turn reading the parchments – two from Maric and one from Cailan. Fergus had stepped from his place in the upper balcony, and stood, at Eamon's left shoulder, scanning the documents. Not as familiar with Maric's handwriting as Bryland and Wulf were, Fergus would recognize the handwriting of his friend – Cailan – anywhere.

Each document was as Eamon had described: the first of Maric's had been written shortly after Alistair's birth, requesting Eamon assist with the boy's upbringing as the lad's mother had requested he not be raised royal. That raised some eyebrows but none commented upon it. The second had been written just a few months prior to Maric's disappearance, a little over six years ago. In that letter he had asked Eamon for a status of his youngest son, promising that, upon his return, he would sit down with both sons and find a way for Alistair to be a part of their lives.

Cailan's letter – a single page document – was addressed to Eamon, and dated just weeks before the disastrous events at Ostagar. He made mention of Alistair's induction into the Grey Wardens, and that he wished to meet with his brother.

Each letter was proclaimed genuine. Expectant eyes turned towards the young warrior, who stepped to Eamon's side. With a small wave of his hand, Eamon indicated to Alistair to speak.

With surprising confidence, Alistair raised a hand, garnering the attention of all within. "Lords and Ladies," his voice rang out, over the heads of those gathered, drawing every eye to him. "I may not know politics as well as many of you here," a chuckle, soft and polite, arose from the throats of the nobles. "However," he paused, pacing slightly to stand in front of Eamon, back to. "I know what needs to be done.," his voice rose slightly, carrying further, deeper into the Great Hall, echoing, piercing straight to Adela's heart as every noble seemed to catch their breath at the young man's words. "I can move our armies toward the Blight. It is my duty - as a Grey Warden, as a citizen of Ferelden," here his voice lowered slightly, almost reverently, "As King Maric's son," a murmur of approval echoed his words. "I am ready to take up the throne - the leadership of Ferelden. To carry on the legacy of my father, King Maric. To carry on the legacy of Calenhad, the Silver Knight. To lead our people onwards, not only in victory over the Blight, but toward a future - a history - that every Ferelden would be proud of!"

Cheers rose from the nobles, fists rising into the air as others turned, patting each other on the backs. Almost choking, Adela stepped back, blinking against watering eyes as Alistair's attention, finally, went to her. Their eyes met, and Adela could see the resolve, the sorrow and sympathy within her husband's golden eyes.

"I wonder if he knows what he has just done?" Zevran wondered aloud, eyes fixed upon the still form of the man who had just accepted the crown of Ferelden.

Eyes still fixed upon Alistair's, noting the slight flinch that crossed his face, Adela nodded slightly, pushing down against the rising nausea. Finally, she broke contact, turning away, head bowed as she ducked closer to her circle of friends. "He knows," she whispered softly before lifting her head and, after another moment's pause, left the Great Hall.