Author's Note: So I played Origins with the Aeducan origin for the first time and I fell head over heels for the Gorim storyline. (And then it pissed me off. His writing got a little shady there at the end, didn't it?) Here is the story of my Thyri Aeducan, because she broke my heart and I am a sucker for sad stories. Also I've kind of been on a dwarf kick lately. Creative license taken with dialogue because I hate repeating the game word-for-word.

The title is taken from this Rose Kennedy quote: "It has been said that time heals all wounds. I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue, and the pain lessens, but it is never gone."

Disclaimer: I own nothing. This is not for profit. Please don't sue me.

Thyri Aeducan had never dreamt before the Joining.

She felt as though she was remembering something that never happened. After all, she knew she had never seen a dragon before and yet there it was in her mind, as clear as…day.

That word still felt strange.

Hopefully these "dreams" would not be common. She just might lose her mind if they were.

They went to the Circle Tower first. Thyri had never seen a mage and she was curious. Honestly, though, she had wanted to go directly to Denerim to see if she could find Gorim. Alistair had talked her out of that, saying that they would surely be killed on sight.

"We need Arl Eamon's support before we set foot within those walls," he said.

Thyri hated politics, but she was no fool. She saw the truth in Alistair's words. So to Lake Calenhad they went.

And for the first time in her life, she was truly horrified.

She'd never seen anyone with such power as these mages held. But it was twisted, dark, sadistic; the Tower felt sick, suffering from a horrible plague curable only through extermination. Thyri understood now why everyone feared mages. She saw firsthand the monsters and obstacles within the Fade, that realm which haunted all mages relentlessly. So she listened to the Templar prisoner and slaughtered everyone left in the Tower. But still her skin crawled with every second she spent within that diseased Tower.

That night she dreamt of mages she had killed. She saw each of their bodies warp and twist into unspeakable terrors.

You killed us, they whispered within her mind. Now it's our turn.

Thyri tried to flee but her feet were mired in mud the color of blood. Then she felt her own face begin to melt and contort, mirroring the faces before her. Horrified, she lifted a hand to feel the change—but her hand was not her own. It was long-fingered and clawed, with peeling burnt skin.

She woke screaming.

They left for Redcliffe before dawn.

"How did you break out of the demon's trap for you in the Fade?" Leliana asked as they walked.

Thyri glanced at her briefly before fixing her gaze on the road ahead. "It didn't feel right."

"Because you're a dwarf? You have a natural resistance to magic, no?"

"No, that wasn't it."

Leliana giggled lightly. "You are starting to sound like Sten."

Thyri smiled. "I am, aren't I?"

"If you would rather not say, that is fine. I was only curious."

The silence stretched between them once again, but not so thick as usual. This silence felt more of acceptance between new friends than awkwardness between strangers.

"Someone wasn't there," Thyri finally said softly.

"I beg your pardon?" Leliana was clearly startled to actually receive an answer.

"In the demon's trap. The one person who would have made me stay wasn't there."

Leliana's eyes softened. "Someone you lost?"

"Yes. I'd rather not discuss it now."

Thyri half expected the bard to pursue the subject, but instead it was dropped without qualm. The two young women exchanged nods.

One said I will not pry.

The other, Thank you.

"Is the entire sodding surface covered in demons?" Thyri grumbled to herself.

"You say something?" Alistair asked.

"No," she said curtly. "Come on. Let's go find that passage into the castle."

Urtok, her Mabari, whined softly and pressed his muzzle into her hand. She gave him a little smile. Sometimes it seemed like this war hound was her only true companion.

"Where to next, illustrious leader?" Alistair asked sullenly. He wasn't happy with the way things had ended in Redcliffe.

Thyri found herself unable to blame him. She had one more face to haunt her nights now. You didn't have a choice, she told herself. Maybe if she repeated it to herself enough she would believe it someday.

There would've been a choice, if you hadn't killed the blood mage on sight, an insidious voice whispered back.

Thyri clenched her jaw and refused to argue. She was close enough to madness already; this was probably just a symptom. If it were possible to stave off madness through sheer stubbornness, she would.

But I do know of something that will help.

"We go to Denerim," she finally said. "To find this Genitivi."

"The Brecilian Forest is on the way. We should stop and see if we can find the Dalish Elves."

Thyri bit her tongue. "Fine."

That night in her bedroll, she slept fitfully. She was careful not to toss and turn. No one needed to know how thin a thread her sanity hung by. By now there were only two thin threads anchoring her mind: her faithful Urtok…and Gorim. Thyri focused her thoughts on him, on the way his hard muscles rippled under her hands when she touched him just so, on how soft his lava-bright hair felt between her fingers, on how very tender his hands could be one moment and then full of fire the next. She imagined him lying next to her now, wrapping her in his strong arms and trying to protect her from her own mind. Finally, a mere hour before dawn, she slipped into a peaceful sleep.

I will find you, my love. I promised.

Thyri hated the surface. Loathed it. Almost as much as she loathed Bhelen. There was always another sodding demon, always another blood-hungry mage. The darkspawn horde she could handle. They were a direct threat, simple even. They attempted to stab her until she died. They used blades and arrows. Mages used their minds to create fire and ice out of nothing. They summoned demons that whispered in those hypnotic voices until she began to question everything she believed in.

The Dalish Keeper, Zathrian, was a mage.

Urtok had growled at him before the man had said five words.

Thyri trusted her hound.

So she hunted this Witherfang down, not to kill it but instead to discover the truth. And what was the truth she found?

Zathrian was a blood mage. He had treated these werewolves just as dwarves treated the casteless, blaming current generations for centuries-old crimes. She had never truly accepted that aspect of life in Orzammar and she hated to encounter it now.

So she allied with these intelligent beasts, finding them much easier to trust than people.

Together they slaughtered the Dalish. After all, what were a few more faces to haunt her sleep at this point? They would join those already there.

And they would all whisper, what if you didn't have to?

Denerim sprawled before Thyri's eyes, far as she could see, and for a moment all she could think was finally. But then reality hit. And she found herself blinking back tears.

How am I supposed to find you in all of that?

She didn't even know where to start.

"Where's this Genitivi supposed to be?" she asked Alistair.

"In the Market District. It's probably best we get in and out of the city as fast as possible. We can take care of any other business here after Arl Eamon has recovered."

Denerim's market felt very different from Orzammar's. There were fewer armor and weapon merchants, for one thing. More silks and luxuries and exotics. There was a merchant from Antiva. Antiva. Yes, he was a Crow, but still.

And then Thyri heard it. The voice she would know anywhere.

But she did not quite believe her eyes.

No armor. No blade. No shield. In their place, fancy merchant clothes. He even held himself differently.

"My lady?" he asked, disbelief etched into his very being. His voice was still the same.

She smiled in a way she hadn't smiled since her exile. "Gorim." A laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep within her, a laugh made of equal parts relief and hysteria because something wasn't right. "I told you I'd find you."

Gorim smiled back, but it was…wrong somehow. Just slightly. "I knew you'd survive. I never gave up hope."

Thyri hesitated, feeling an awkwardness between them that had never before existed. "You're…you're a merchant now?"

"I ran into some trouble once I reached the surface, my lady," he explained. "Ended up with a broken leg. It didn't set straight. I'll never wield a blade again."

"I don't care," she said, feeling somehow as if she were grasping at smoke. "You can still come with me. We can still be together."

He shook his head slowly. "My lady, we always knew it was not to be. You are a princess and..." his voice caught, as if he were choking something back, but he recovered quickly. "Now I am not even a warrior."

Suddenly, in less time than it took for her to blink in shock, she understood everything. She knew what he was about to say. She knew.

Gorim lied. He had believed her dead. Oh, he had most likely held out hope until news of Ostagar. Then he had given her up for dead—and rightfully so. He may have been heartbroken (selfishly, she hoped with a vicious passion that he had felt the same way she felt now) but Gorim had always been a survivor. They both were. And Fate, cruel Fate, had led them here. Or maybe it was the Ancestors, playing with their hearts for entertainment. Either way, her Gorim was lost to her now. He would never believe himself worthy of her now. He may as well be dead.

But this is worse, oh so much worse, because he's standing right there.

"But here," Gorim continued, apparently oblivious to her turmoil. "You are welcome to all my wares at a hearty discount. They're all handmade by my wife's father, the finest smith in Denerim."

Thyri stared at him. Even though she had known in her heart, confirmation still hurt.

No.

Hurt wasn't the right word. Hurt implied something that could be healed. How did one heal after one's heart is ripped out and then shredded before one's eyes?

She refused to make him watch her cry. Neither did she smile. "I wish you well, Gorim."

"Thank you, my lady. My wife and I are expecting our first child before spring."

Another shred off her heart, curling like fancy ribbon and falling to the dirt.

"Before you go, my lady, I have a letter from your father. He gave it to me before I left Orzammar, along with the Shield of Aeducan. He wanted you to have it."

Thyri nodded curtly, not wanting to hear anything more about her family, and accepted the letter with a subdued murmur of thanks.

As she turned to leave, a familiar glimmer of steel caught her eye.

"You're selling your sword?" she whispered, incredulity touching her words.

He smiled again. It was hollow, Thyri realized. There was no real spark in his eyes anymore. "It deserves to be used."

Thyri bought it without a second thought, swapping it for the one on her back.

This time when she turned to leave, Gorim caught her hand. Their eyes met, perhaps for the last time. Neither said anything for a long minute.

"You will always be my heart, Lady Aeducan," he said quietly but with enough emotion to drown the both of them.

"And I will never find a better man," she said.

And then Thyri of House Aeducan, Princess of Orzammar, turned and walked away.

They found Genitivi's house and the man posing as his assistant. Admittedly, she did take out her foul mood on the man, but she could not muster any regret for her actions.

Back at camp, she retreated far away from the fire and traveling companions to read her father's letter by moonlight. She crumpled it in her hand when she was finished. So her father had realized the truth, after all. And now crafty Prince Bhelen was the only remaining heir.

Well. He can't be king if he's dead, now can he?

"Off to this village of Haven, then?" Alistair asked the next morning as they broke camp.

"No," Thyri said, voice ringing with strength of Stone she had lacked these past months. Her mind had settled, surprisingly enough. She had not dreamt at all last night. But she knew in her heart that she would never fully recover. "We go to Orzammar. To pay a visit to the king."

"But Arl Eamon—"

"Has been sick for how long now? Since before Ostagar? He will survive while we petition my father for our dwarven allies."

Alistair looked a little shocked at the coldness of her words, but said nothing more.

Surprisingly enough, it was Sten who moved to walk with her on the road.

"Kadan," he said in greeting.

"Sten," she mimicked his tone.

"I see the look in your eyes, Kadan."

"And what look is that, Sten?"

"That of hatred and murder."

Somehow, Thyri was not surprised that Sten was the one talking to her about this. "Let me tell you a story, Sten. My story. If you are willing to listen, that is."

An inclination of the head was his only answer.

So Thyri told him her story. All of it. The truth behind why she was here on the surface. When she finished, she took a deep breath to steady her nerves and force the tears away. This was the first she'd spoken of it, and the telling rattled her more than she wanted to admit. "All this time I've been here, Sten?" she said to wrap it up. "I have had only two goals: find Gorim and fight the Blight. Now Gorim is married and forever lost to me. And I've learned that my father regrets my exile. He wanted me to take the throne. But it doesn't matter now, because my oh-so-cunning little brother Bhelen is the only one left to inherit the throne. So yes, Sten, I have hatred and murder in my eyes and my heart. He ripped everything I have ever loved from me. I am going to kill Bhelen. No one is going to stop me."

Sten remained quiet for a long while. Finally, he said, "I will follow you, Kadan."

She very nearly cried. "Thank you, Sten."

"You should not have come back, exile," Vartag sneered. His words glanced off her heart, barely scratching its surface.

Thyri reacted as only an exile could. She knew if she had done this as an Aeducan, she would have been dead within an hour. But she wasn't an Aeducan anymore. So she stepped forward until she was nose-to-nose with the warrior and snarled back. "Take a message to my brother, Vartag. Tell him I came back for one reason alone and nothing will deter me. Tell him I will settle for nothing less than his sodding head on a pike. Anyone in my way gets the same treatment."

Vartag stared her down as only an arrogant dwarven warrior could. "I won't be passing that message along."

Thyri smiled slowly, deliberately. "You will regret that."

It was over. Everything from her old life was gone now. Her father was dead. Bhelen was dead. Gorim was lost to her. Thyri found herself in an odd state of mind: not peaceful, certainly, but perfectly calm and clear. There was only one reason to continue living.

The Archdemon needed to die.

If by some miracle she survived that battle, she would return to the Deep Roads. People died in the Deep Roads all the time, after all. No one would notice one more dwarf corpse in the tunnels.

Besides, physically dying was merely a formality now. A person cannot live without a heart and hers had been ripped out in Denerim.

Thyri had always been practical, even for a dwarf. So when Riordan burst into the Landsmeet and proposed making Loghain a Warden, she agreed without a second thought.

"What are you doing?" Alistair seethed. "He needs to die for what he's done!"

"We need all the help we can get, Alistair," she answered. "Surely you realize that."

"I won't travel with him. I won't be a brother in the Wardens with someone like him."

"Not many of us have your impeachable honor, you know" she snapped before she could stop herself. Then she calmed her voice and attempted to regain control of the situation. "Alistair, please. We're in this together and we need more Wardens. This is the best solution."

"No," he snarled. "We were in this together. Until you betrayed me!"

Her temper, already frayed from dealing with all the nobles, flared out of control. "You know nothing of betrayal," she hissed at him. "You still have your bloodline. You can still marry Anora and have a life. Go ahead and walk away from the Wardens. Turn your back on us. I don't care anymore. But don't you dare say another word about betrayal."

"So the Warden who slays the Archdemon..." Loghain's voice trailed off in disbelief.

"Will die?" Thyri finished for him, in the Stone-strong voice she'd had since killing her brother.

"Yes," Riordan confirmed.

Thyri's mind raced as the elder Warden continued his explanation.

She had to get to that dragon before Riordan.

"I will take the final blow," Loghain said without preamble.

Thyri shook her head. "No, you won't."

"This is why I am here, is it not? So that I may die and you may live?"

"No, Loghain. This is your chance for atonement. Take it and give me this."

Loghain sighed, a memory flickering behind his eyes. "I have seen young people like you before, Thyri. People who think there is nothing left. But you are so young yet. Allow time a chance to heal your wounds. Travel the world, find something else to live for. You will see, in time, that no pain lasts forever."

Thyri smiled a little. "Thank you for the attempt. But you don't know what I've been through putting this army together. You don't know what I've seen. You don't know what I've lost. Some wounds cannot be healed, Loghain. Some wounds remain until the day you die. I think you know that."

He nodded slowly. "Promise me this: that if it comes down to the two of us and the beast, and if there is a chance to discuss this again, you will take a moment to decide."

"Of course," Thyri said. "I won't kill it without consulting you first."

Lying was much easier now that she no longer cared.

"So you will refuse my request without even hearing it?" Morrigan demanded, fury in her eyes. "After everything?"

Thyri sighed softly, knowing what was coming. "Morrigan, please, I can't."

"Cannot what? Grant me one last request before we part ways? Cannot imagine a life without a glorious death, whether it be yours or Loghain's? Fine then, die if that is what you wish. I will not remain to witness it."

"That is what I want, Morrigan," Thyri whispered as the witch walked toward the door. "I do not care about the heroic part. I only wish to die. I have nothing left to live for."

Morrigan hesitated, looking for a moment as if she ached at Thyri's words. But then she snorted. "Go and die, then, Grey Warden."

"Sten?" she said softly while climbing to Fort Drakon's rooftop.

"Kadan?" he answered, stoic as ever.

"Take care of Urtok for me. And if you can, give this sword back to Gorim."

Sten glanced at her—was that worry or knowing flashing through his eyes?

A slight pang of regret pierced her. But it was only very slight and not near enough to change her mind. Urtok was the only true regret she had.

"I will, Kadan."

"Thank you, Sten. It has been an honor."

"Wait!" Loghain yelled from across the rooftop. "Thyri, WAIT!"

Thyri ignored him and sank Gorim's sword into the Archdemon's head.

There was a blinding flare of light, an overwhelming heat, a vague sense of a presence that howled with fury and clawed at her very soul…

And Thyri Aeducan smiled.

Goodbye, Gorim. May you find peace where I could not.

"She wanted this returned to you," Sten said flatly.

Gorim accepted his sword with open-mouthed shock. Well, what was left of his sword. Most of the blade had melted away when the Archdemon perished. The hilt had remained nearly untouched, however.

Urtok whined softly at the sight of the familiar sword. Leliana laid a gentle hand on his head, wanting to offer comfort but not quite sure how. The Mabari had seemed lost these past days as they searched for Gorim. She worried that the noble hound would lose the will to live without his master.

"I heard you received a message from King Harrowmont," Leliana said. "He wishes you to bring her body to Orzammar?"

Gorim nodded slowly. "Yes. He also offered to lift my exile, but I refused. I can't walk away from my wife and child."

Leliana knew how to read people, and the dwarf standing before her was a man clinging to the last thing remaining of himself: his word. "Thyri would have approved," she said gently, knowing it to be true.

Gorim snorted. A tear rolled down his face. "They're making her a Paragon. She would've told them to stuff it up their shaft."

Sten ignored the rest of their conversation, walking over to the wagon that held Thyri's body. He bowed once.

Urtok whined at his side, and then let out a mournful howl that echoed over Denerim.

They left Denerim together, the Mabari and the Qunari. An odd pairing noted by many people between Ferelden and Seheron.

But they weren't so odd a pairing, really. They were tied inextricably together through love and respect of a woman they would never forget. Many friendships are born of much less.

When his superiors asked Sten about the hound, he merely spoke the truth. That the hound had followed him with no invitation.

"It may be useful. It does appear to be accustomed to fighting at your side. What are they called in Ferelden?" the Arishok asked.

And for the first time in his life, Sten uttered a lie. "They are called Urtok."

As you can see, the Lady Aeducan struggled through her story. She broke my heart almost as much as Gorim did.

Thank you for reading! Take the ten seconds to send me a review, pretty please?

For those curious but not ambitious enough to Google it, Urtok means dragon.