Ven'irsera

Prologue:

It was over…

It was finally over.

The dragon slain, the kingdom saved, the people jubilant and the heroes…scattered to the winds like so much dust. Or possibly ashes…It didn't matter, they were all gone regardless of how poetic she waxed. Lyna stood abandoned and alone on the dais as Queen Anora proclaimed her the hero of Ferelden and offered her gifts and thanks. She hardly paid the proceedings any mind. Odd though it might have been, she was actually more concerned about her hair. It was so…shemlen right now.

Prior to the ceremony the royal entourage had shown up outside her rooms bearing all the trappings of pomp and circumstance. Even Anora's personal hair dresser was in tow—all to make the savage little elf look the part of the conquering hero. They even went so far as to cover her ears with her hair.

In years past she would have thrown the type of righteous fit wild enough to make even the gods tremble. But that was before she'd broke her own heart before the masses…nothing seemed quite as important once you consciously betrayed the one you loved.

She shook her head and tried to refocus her attention on the proceedings. Her armor was too shiny, she thought. She would never have survived the blight dressed like this! She'd have been spotted a mile away and shot right off her damned horse. If she'd had one, that is. For some reason she could only picture people dressed in her current armor on large prancing white horses. Stupid shemlen.

Yet again her mind veered off in undesired directions…the inevitable 'Him' whom she could not allow to be distraction right now. Why did thinking about stupid shemlen always have to remind her of Him. She had ceremonies to attend and dignitaries to meet and favors to secure and wardens to recruit and an order to rebuild. She had no time for emotions or desires or regrets or to wonder where he was or what he was doing. She'd made her choice knowing he would never let it stand, and so she had for all intents and purposed sent him away…just as she'd planned. And he hated her for it.

At least she knew he was out there somewhere, alive and free to live a long, full life…

And then, as if no time had passed, the ceremonies were over and the dignitaries excused. Favors were settled and recruits were discussed…funny thing about recruiting after a Blight…it was a lot easier. Afterall, no one alive would ever see another Blight and they had gained a fanatical acclaim that was all but non-existent before. Young knights were practically lining up to join her ranks.

Days meandered by as she floated through her life, never fully disengaged, but never really there either. People assumed she was grieving for all the lost souls. None assumed she only grieved for the one soul lost only to her. It wasn't even proper grieving! How did one grieve for a life she had saved?

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. The Grey Wardens were rebuilt, the Mother sent to her grave, the Architect vanished without trace. The wardens again suffered losses and again rebuilt and such was the cycle of Vigil's Keep. After the attack on Amaranthine she came across an elvhen child, no more than a few years old at best, that had been orphaned by the darkspawn. She still didn't know what had come over her at the time, but without so much as a word, she stood the little girl on her feet, took her hand and brought her back to Vigil's Keep. Since then, she'd taken to calling her Mamae and she found that she didn't mind. It wasn't as if she could have a child of her own. The child never told Lyna her name, and so she simply took to calling her Ethlen-it was Dalish for safe child. In her stronger moments, she liked to imagine that Ethlen was the child He would have given her if there lives had been different, even if he could never have given her an elven child. A shem and an elf could only ever have shemlen children.

As the seasons turned, the child became a favorite among the Wardens at Vigil's Keep and she began to pick up skills from the men and women who served at the keep. Many of those skills Lyna would have preferred the child never know, but she was becoming a talented scout and was nearing the age when she would need to be dedicated to one of the Creators much as Lyna had been dedicated to Andruil and then apprenticed to a hunter. She suspected the child would choose Dirthamen, the keeper of secrets. On occasion the keep hosted wardens from Orlais or Weisshaupt or the Anderfels and the keep could barely contain their numbers. Those were the occasions Lyna dreaded most. "How is it that you live while the archdemon lays defeated?" Someone would ask. "The First Warden has already told you," She would reply harshly. "More than that, you need not know." No one need know that the soul of the archdemon survived somewhere in the small child begat on the eve of battle between Morrigan and Loghain. Even the First Warden did not know that. As far as anyone beyond she and Morrigan were concerned, Morrigan's spell had simply been one that strengthened her own spirit beyond what the dragon's spirit could withstand and instead of their two spirits consuming each other, the dragon's soul had entered her body and her magically fortified soul had consumed his.

In secret the other wardens would speculate that it was actually Loghain who had slain the dragon, and every time Ethlen would overhear and ask her Mamae if that were true. "Not at all, my Ethlen," Lyna would reply. "But you must not try to find the truth; you would not like what you find." No one needed to know how Loghain had really fallen; that and the true fate of the archdemon was a secret shared only by herself and two others. The man had gotten what was due him in the end and that was all that mattered; he would fade in to obscurity, a tired old war hero who didn't quite live up to his tarnished reputation in his final battle-felled by a hurlock blade moments before the battle was over. It would never be revealed that her hand had held that blade. Morrigan and Zevran had kept their silence and she'd spun the story exactly the way she'd wanted Him to hear it. She only hoped he appreciated the cruel irony once his anger at her had faded. If it had ever faded.

Then, on a cold autumn evening in the thirty sixth year of the dragon age, as the wind rustled the turning leaves and the stars were beginning to peak through the blanket of dusk, a courier arrived from Denerim. Amid the chaos of men and women sparring, he found her and handed her a letter stamped with the Guerrin seal. She expected to find a request from the regent on behalf of the Queen, as Arl Eamon would not personally communicate with her unless appearances demanded it; she had cost him a son and a nephew and would only be convinced to exchange pleasantries if they were both somehow forced to attend court together. Beyond that there was silence between them, and her guilt on those notes were reason enough to avoid frequent visits to court. Bann Teagan, on the other hand, was her friend and almost nearly her only confidant. He rarely sent letters via courier and usually preferred to visit in person. There was a time she had suspected he would make a play for her heart, or at least her hand, but he never did.

"We've succeeded!" The letter proclaimed. She cocked an eyebrow as she noted the letter was in fact from Teagan, then. Eamon's communicates were never so informal. The inevitable Him was allowed to return to Ferelden if he so chose. She found it odd that Teagan said 'we' as if she had been a part of this particular undertaking at all. She had done the unforgiveable in his eyes, and in light of the things He had pardoned her for in the past, that was saying quite a lot. She did not expect to ever be forgiven by that man. But then she'd never expected Anora to pardon the man who had nearly killed her father either...but Teagan had a way with the widowed Queen lately. Lyna was beginning to wonder just how close their relationship had become in her absence from court. Teagan's message went on to read, "I am off to search him out if you wish to accompany me."

And with that, she froze.

Alistair…