[Notes at the end: TY everyone who has read this, fav'd and sent reviews! Here, finally, is the new (and improved?) Lily ...]

Chapter 10: Epilogue

Weeks passed. The snows deepened as the sunlight waned.

In Ferelden, lands that were not already tainted and twisted with Blight become bloodied by civil war.

Yveline d'Abriante read the scrolls before her and frowned. So the Divine was wringing her hands over her beloved homeland? Supporting that snake, Logain Mac Tir, was certainly NOT in the Chantry's best interest, no matter how desperate Justinia was to reestablish order. Any fool could see this, and not simply because Mac Tir was single-handedly responsible for more Orlesian deaths than any other man alive. Yveline's brow furrowed.

Grey Wardens, guilty of regicide? She scoffed. Hardly. Not that it was beyond their purview given the need; but in this case, Cailan had been a biddable young monarch, easily influenced by the famed warriors. The Grey Wardens had no cause to remove anyone…save maybe that selfsame Teryn of Gwaren who was now, conveniently, the highest ranking survivor of the debacle at Ostagar.

For a moment, she wondered where Stroud was…but shook her head to clear it. She had to focus! These lies depicting the Wardens as traitors…

Justinia surely was not accepting these tales as truth? Was she?

The Chantry was weakened with every political misstep; it was merely a matter of time before they would be forced to set Justinia aside and search for a new Divine, one that would have the resources in place to make a difference.

Yveline intended to be that person.

Her assistant, Staffanios, brought her a steaming mug of tea. She thanked him and sipped it thoughtfully, leaning back from her desk. Let her opponents think her safely neutralized in far-away Aeonar; she would show them the true power of the Maker's gifts.

She noticed that Steffanios had remained waiting at her elbow. So there was news? "Steffan?" she asked, "Are they ready for the demonstration?"

"On vous attend, Exellence, " he answered in Orlesian, his once-vibrant tenor voice a monotone. Yveline shuddered mentally; somehow, it seemed wrong when the Tranquil spoke her beloved home tongue. No one should ever speak that language without passion.

She nodded simply and stood, foregoing any assistance. Caeörlyr's latest improvement to her prosthetic foot had strengthened the connection between her body and the wooden construct. He predicted that with further study, he would be able to magically fashion a foot that would feel, and react, as if it were real. Yveline was not entirely comfortable with the use of magics on her body, especially magics cast from the hand of a former Imperial Magister, but for the moment, she was willing to see what he could do.

Steffanios settled a heavy cloak over her shoulders. The demonstration was arranged to occur in one of the outer, gated, courtyards. Not so coincidentally, one of the local Avvari tribesmen was being held there, demanding trial by combat to prove his worthiness to be released. Caeörlyr was a man who understood Yveline's mantra of never wasting an opportunity.

It was time to see her new, reformed and perfected, Lily of Denerim. Yveline smiled with anticipation.

They rarely spoke.

Even after weeks, Lily could hardly manage more than a whisper.

She found, however, that they often understood each other without speaking. It was a language of subtle movements and gestures.

Vehne stood behind her, assisting with the last buckles of her new armor. Small, black-red runes graced the corners of everything she wore; her blood runes linked her armor and weapons to her body. She flexed her shoulders experimentally and nodded. It was good.

He turned her so that she could see herself in a clouded mirror.

The armor was sleek, a metal infused with volcanic glass that was light and strong. It gave her thin form more substance, and she liked that part. Her large eyes, the color of dark mahogany, were out of place against her silky white hair. She blinked and stared at herself, barely remembering, now, the color her hair used to be.

Or who she used to be.

Her gaze met Vehne's in the mirror. He approved. He…was proud of her; was confident. Lily's lips moved with a touch of a smile. Her training was still in progress, but she was ready to be presented to the Revered Mother. Lily was eager to prove her worth.

Vehne turned her body to face him again and gathered the thick silk wrappings which protected their skin from the sunlight. Caeörlyr could not explain why this was a side effect of his magics, just that it was so. Direct sunlight on her exposed skin would cause her pain; prolonged exposure might even interfere with the functioning of the runes within her body. Vehne finished wrapping her head, leaving only her eyes exposed, and reached for her helm. With a last, wordless look of encouragement, he set it into place.

She was ready.

Svarenn paced the confines of the courtyard.

The icy winds of deep winter tore at his furs, but he ignored them. His clan mother had always claimed that he'd been the son of Hakkon Wintersbreath himself. Svarenn did not think this could be so; he didn't FEEL as if he were the son of a god, but it was true enough that the bitter winds did not trouble him.

The dark, stone walls of this cursed place, however, troubled him greatly. He'd never before encountered stone he could not climb. His skin crawled at the thought of just how these walls must have been built in the first place. They were too smooth; their seams too perfectly placed. Ancient Tevinters and their foul magics had pulled this stone from the heart of the mountain, and it was pure sacrilege to him.

He could not escape.

He called loudly to the unmoving guards on the wall above the yard, demanding again the right of trial. The rite of combat. Anything other than slowly dying of starvation here in the inhumane place! Curse them for knowing that any of the Avvar people would go slowly mad with the loss of their prized freedom.

Curse them all!

He paced, until movement on the other end of the yard caught his attention. Through the heavy portcullis he spied the approach of a small group of people.

The Chantry Mother, he supposed, and some of her knights. Svarenn scoffed. Let them come. He was ready. He planted his feet wide apart, set his hands on his hips and glared defiantly.

A woman in black armor draped with a fur-lined Chantry robe stepped up to the bars. "Unnamed Avvari! You are charged with attacking our supply caravans, resulting in the foul murder of two Orlesian merchants and their guardmen. How do you plead?"

Svarenn spat. The men in question had been prospecting on lands HIS clan had claimed for the year. As far as he was concerned, their deaths were justified...not that it would matter to the woman who was speaking.

The Revered Mother pursed her lips. Was he angering her? He hoped so.

She continued. "You have requested the clan rite of Trial by Combat. We believe, also, that the Maker favors his own, and so your wish has been granted."

A tall Templar to her right placed Svarenn's sword on the paving stones and kicked it under the portcullis.

Svarenn's heart soared! His prayers had been heard! He scooped up his greatsword with a grace that belied his great size. They were fools, these Andrastians. Complete fools.

Of course, even if he won, they would not release him. Of that, he was certain.

Joy filled his heart nonetheless. He wondered how many of the cowards would face him at once, and how many he would kill before they finally overwhelmed him.

A lone woman approached the portcullis. That she intended to fight him was obvious; she was completely armored and wore a horseman's mace of solid metal at her hip and a long knife on the opposite thigh. A buckler with the sunburst etching graced her left forearm.

Svarenn laughed…

…until she stepped into the unopened gate. The thick metal bars passed through her body, leaving her unharmed as she emerged inside the courtyard with him.

He blinked. The hairs on the back of his neck stood and he growled like an angry wolf. Witchcraft! He spat again, and gripped his sword more tightly. If it bled, it could still die.

She unlimbered the heavy mace at her side. It was held by a long chain to her wrist.

He charged, closing the distance between them and slicing with his great sword.

The blade passed through her as if it passed through air. He swung again with no better results, with a move that should have removed her head cleanly from her body.

He cursed, and backpedaled. "What evil is this!? Fight me!"

She nodded. The air around her grew less shimmery and he lunged again. She blocked it with her shield and danced backward from the blow. Svarenn had sent huge men flying with that very same move, yet she kept her footing. More magic, he feared.

They circled.

She swung heavily with the steel mace and he barely avoided it. The weapon and its chains were nearly as heavy as the woman, if she were indeed a real woman. Svarenn did not want to contemplate what it was. He also did not want to feel that mace against his unprotected skull.

She batted away his counterstrike, and they circled again.

He sneered. "Witch! Demon!" He shifted his large blade to one hand. He would have to be a little faster. He feinted, then struck-

His wrist was caught in the woman's gloved hand. Before he could push her back, she squeezed. His bones popped and shattered! His sword dropped to the paving stones as he screamed.

A vicious kick sent her back, but not nearly far enough. He backed away, unable to risk a move for his weapon. His right hand hung, useless. She followed, relentlessly stalking him, drawing her mace back to her hand.

An audience had gathered, along with the Revered Mother, at the top of the wall.

Svarenn spared a baleful glance in their direction. He played the part of the caged animal so well for them, their entertainment for the afternoon. He raged, bellowed curses at all of them, and flew at his attacker again.

She shimmered, and he passed through her body, sprawling headlong onto the pavement.

He knew he was dead before her knife entered his back. He felt it twist, and she thrust deeply into him again.

He saw his own blood pool over the grey stones before his vision faded.

The Warden of Aeonar, Yveline d'Abriante, watched as Lily pulled the bloodied blade from the dead man's back. The Mage Caeörlyr stood by her side, awaiting the Revered Mother's official opinion.

"The rune….worked," she acknowledged. Despite having been apprised of its existence, she'd been surprised, and disturbed, to see it in actuality.

Caeörlyr raised an eyebrow. Of course his rune had worked! Did she think him a fool to call this demonstration for nothing? The former magister calmed himself with a deep breath; he sensed that Yveline was still contemplating the repercussions of what she'd witnessed.

There was silence as snowflakes drifted lazily from the leaden sky. Steam curled up from the bloody hole in the barbarian's back as he lay in the courtyard. Lily cleaned her long knife on the dead man's furs, sheathed the blade, and turned to face her creators. She knelt before them and bowed her head.

"She is not a Templar, Caeörlyr. How shall she hunt mages?" Yveline asked.

"The runes protect her from many kinds of magic, Excellency," he replied. "Only spirit energy can actually harm her if she can use her Wight abilities to blend into the Fade."

Yveline frowned thoughtfully and stepped closer to the edge of the walkway, continuing to study the scene below. Her instincts tingled with a warning that she had pushed, at long last, against the boundaries of what magic could decently achieve in its service to the Chantry.

Yet this woman before her, did she not deserve now to live out the years of forgiveness she had earned?

These were the tools the Maker had provided her, and Yveline would not allow them to be wasted. She nodded curtly. "Well done, all of you!"

Lily raised her gaze to the Revered Mother, ill-disguised adoration evident in her every movement. She was hers entirely to command.

Yveline's expression softened. She spared a glance to her Hunter Captain, and offered him a nod of congratulations as well.

Vehne's pale grey eyes revealed little as he bowed his head respectfully.

"I propose a trip to Ferelden for the both of you," Yveline declared. "The Chantry will have need of services you can provide. And perhaps, while you are there, you'll repay Kinloch Hold by returning a certain, missing, maleficar…"

Lily hissed. "Jowan."

C'est fini! Was it what you expected? Me neither! Pls review!

A few notes (answers to questions I've received):

1) Yes, Yveline is Orlesian - she is the last of a ducal house; thus she can be the Duchesse d'Abriante (addressed as your grace), as the Warden of Aeonar, she is entitled to "your excellency" and, finally, as a Revered Mother, I believe she is addressed as "Your reverence". She is a completely DRIVEN personality. She lost her foot in a battle with a Qunari.- but that is another story. :-)

2) Vehne is a Templar who volunteered for the changes done to him. *shudder* His story involves a wife who hid her magic...yeah, it ended badly.

3) Yes, there are a lot of sickos in this story. It's a prison parked where the Fade is thin; it can't be a good, wholesome thing!

4) Wights are creatures from Nordic (?) legend. They appear as ghost creatures in Tolkien's Fellowship of the Ring, the old barrows (burial chambers) of dead kings, not to far from Weathertop, if memory serves).

5) A possible sequel: Should she find Jowan? Does the magic take more and more a toll in her body and she ends up needing to sustain herself with blood? ewww...

6) PM me/review if you have any ideas/comments/complaints, etc!