Will do a better spell check later 3.

Alistair had changed into his armor, something that felt unusual and hard atop his flesh after weeks of cotton shirts and comfortable breeches. A comforting heaviness at his hip was his sword, his most favorite, one that he had bonded with over months of bonding. Grasped in his other hand was his shield, strong and firm enough to knock the consciousness straight out of anyone who dared to get in his way. After he and Zevran parted ways he had immediately dressed for a battle, checking every exit and entrance way of Cousland Castle until he found what he was looking for just outside the doors that lead to the castle's garden; the small footprints of his beloved, a pathway that seemed to stretch on endlessly before him. The snow had stopped the night before, the very last night he set eyes on her before falling into slumber and failing his eternal promise to protect both her and their child, the infant she swore was to be their daughter. After their departure, when he had forced her to leave his life with an intense feeling of hurt that fueld a false hatred, he had dropped every promise had every made of keeping her safe. After discovering her once more though, he wore to the Maker, and most importantly, her that he would never let her or their baby be harmed. He felt as if he had failed though, and even with only his two hour long knowledge of her departure from the safety of her homes and his arms it haunted him deeply.

After initially telling Zevran to take Dream, he had finally been convinced to do the opposite and instead take the hound with him. His initial worry was that something would happen to the hound, Aurora's first baby, but in the end it was what he had to do. He could track Aurora by her scent, as where Alistair only could by his footprints, so they set out. Perched a top a horse, he rode to the left of the footprints with Dream on the right side, constantly following with his nose. They went like this for two miles, in wide open space before coming to a forest of thickly grown pine trees. Still, the footsteps continued and various branches seemed bent, turned away and broken.

He searched them thoroughly, for any sign of his lover's presence besides the prints of her feet and finally found what he was looking for; a piece of silken fabric, the same color as her nightgown and stuck onto a sharp branch. Rubbing it between his fingers he mounted his horse once more, looking at Dream who tilted his head and whimpered at the site of his Mistress's torn clothing. "We'll find her." Alistair spoke his words with confidence, besides his doubts, because he would not rest until they did.

For several hundred more feet the footprints continued, before they turned into three different pairs, the other two pairs that did not belong to her large and leaving bits of grit and blood in the other wise clean and yet to be touched snow. The blood sent anger throw his veins, a feeling that was so deep it kept his fearful anxiety at bay. The multiple pairs of prints ended abruptly, like the owners had simply floated into the sky.

The magic was thick in the air, to such a degree that Alistair knew spells had been recently applied to the surrounding area. It was a different type of magic though, bearing a coldness that was different than the kind the weather simply provided. It penetrated his armor, sending bumps rising along his arms and the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. It was a taint similar to that of the darkspawn, corrupted and twisted into something that was poisonous to everything around it. On instinct he looked to a tree just a few feet away from the last footprints, snapping the branch in two and tearing the tangling half off to expose the inner layer of wood. It was being eaten from the inside out, rotting faster than a darkspawn corpse in the midst of a blistering summer day. Throwing it aside he felt his temples tense up, worry and furry all coming together in one mixing pot and making him feel sick to his stomach. Where had they taken his Aurora?

….

After she felt someone grab her wrists she had abruptly blacked out, unsure of her body had followed the motion of her mind or not. As she slowly parted the water ways of consciousness, she could hear the heater argument of two men, one of which seemed to be carrying her. His deep voice vibrated deeply from within his chest and felt like soft tapping motions against her arm. Knowing better than to give them any knowledge to them that she had awoken, she kept her eyes shut in what she could only hope looked natural. Unable to hold back testing her control over her body though, she slowly moved her toes, praying to the Maker that the movement was hidden beneath her draping nightgown. When her body responded, she felt a relief that nearly made her gasp out had she not been so mentally stern about keeping control over herself. Several moments passed and the two men gave no indication that they had any idea she had awoken, and so she listened, a spy with no eyes.

Samson, the brother holding the seemingly sleeping Aurora, spoke once more in his gruff and irritated tone, "How could you not think to put a lightness spell on her, Samuel? There was miles worth of footprints, Samuel. How could you be so bloody idiotic? And did you not think applying a warmth spell to her would be, I don't fucking know, maybe a tad bit important? Her fingers and toes were nearly lost by frostbite!"

"I told you I was sorry. I managed to kill off every inhabitant in the castle without them making a sound, even when that healer kept hitting me with protection spells. There is not a soul left to follow us, so why do the footprints matter?"

"Because I am highly doubtful you managed to kill off every individual in the castle, especially with

all the force fields I had to break through in the first place. You're not exactly very throughout, you never have been. Everything's always been messy and edged in clues of who did it. Father likes a clean cut, nothing left behind, and you know this."

"Yet you didn't turn back and make sure I did what was supposed to be your job right, you grabbed the girl and were off."

Samson grunted in response, not wanting to admit that breaking through the healer mage's spells had nearly drained him completely, "Let us just pray that no one follows the leftovers we managed to create." With that the conversation was cut off, Samuel knowing that his elder brother would refuse any further speaking of their current, conversation even he attempted to create any further sparks of it.

Shifting his arms, Samson placed Aurora into his brothers arms, "Place her on the cot in the room we prepared and I will speak with Father. I'm not how he plans on the delivery of the child quite yet."

Aurora felt her blood run cold. The delivery of her child? Even with the constant aches of contractions, signs of labor were muter than a deaf cow and the only other form of childbirth usually resulted in death. Would they kill her to get her child sooner? Or would they wait until she was laboring? Both thoughts made her feel sick, the first more so than the other. A door closed behind her and the man she was now knew as Samuel, and she was aware of her body being placed onto something that held a slight softness to it.

Softly, like he was afraid she would awake, Samuel tucked a piece of strand hair behind her ear, "I can't really blame Father for his interest in you. A gorgeous woman who carries children teeming with magic, you're of a greater use to us than you know." He spoke his words in a hushed tone, and then he was up, gone with the door closed behind him. Aurora slowly opened her eyes, making sure of her presence being the only one before glaring daggers at the door. His finger touching her was enough to make her almost punch him in the face. "Bastard", it was a mummer, easily lost in the space of the cell.

One thing the two brothers failed to do was search her once they had her, as if she was a helpless and petite doll and not a rogue with years of training and various dead creatures under her belt. Sitting up she slid her dress up until it was over her upper thigh, a dagger secured in a sheath. It was placed at the front center, enough so that Samson had not felt it while carrying her. It was a thin blade, although incredibly sharp, to the point that it seemed almost flat against her skin. She ran her fingers over its handle, her mind already devising a plan of freedom for her and the unborn she carried.