Written as a Christmas present for Netprincess, and for all the Duncan fans out there!

Disclaimer: nothing you recognize belongs to me.

- A Broken Promise -

Duncan sat up in his bed, his head still reeling from the nightmare. It was not his first, though it had been long since he had had any; and he was used to the deceiving feeling of reality of such dreams, but this time… This time had been different. The Archdemon's cry still rang in his ears, shrill and triumphant. The sensation of his claws tearing his body apart had yet to disappear; every contact burned him like a hot poker, and even the touch of the sheets was painful on his sweaty skin.

Yes, this time it had been different.

Duncan swung his legs over the edge of the bed and ran his hands through his hair. His heart still hammered in his chest, the only sound he seemed to hear, still immersed in the nightmare. But soon the overly loud thumping subsided, his wildly beating heart calming down, and the sounds of the world took over. He became aware of the soothing flittering of raindrops on the roof of the house, of the rustling of the branches, and the even, quiet breathing of his wife. Duncan smiled as he turned around to watch her sleep. Erin…

He was not a sentimental man, his calling having taught him long ago that attachment only led to pain or death, and not necessarily in that order. Find, loose, grieve; find, reject, walk alone: such seemed the fate of a Grey Warden. And the people knew it too. Few accepted the contact of a condemned man, save for the whores who were not picky about where the next coin came from. Conversations hushed, eyes turned away. Everyone needed them, but few wanted to see alive the men willing to die for their safety. Duncan guessed that it was easier to not recognise the half-devoured corpses the Darkspawn left behind.

At first he had resented the people he was supposed to protect, expecting at least gratitude and friendliness: was it not the share of heroes? But after a while it all lost of its importance, staying alive a little longer was all that mattered. He fought, drank, ate, breathed – functioned. He knew the other Wardens by name, but there was no playful banter around their campfires, and no mourning moments for the dead; their names were not mentioned again. Someday, he would not return, he had thought, and his name too would pass out of memory. No stone would mark the place of his fall, no tomb would welcome his body. He would simply disappear.

And one day, it had all changed. Erin, his sweet Erin had looked him in the eye as they were stationed in a small village near Highever, and his heart had skipped a beat. She had seen the man behind the armour, accepted the touch of a walking dead, and faced the inevitable outcome of their love. But for her Duncan fought harder, pushing that fate away at each skirmish, each battle. She deserved no less.

Duncan reached out to push a loose strand of dark hair out of her face, wondering for the umpteenth time at her beauty. Why him? He was not truly handsome, acceptable at best, even the days where he managed to comb his unruly locks and had the time to wash off the blood and sweat before he came to her bed. Nor was he a jester or a great mind. But here she was, his beautiful, kind-hearted Erin, who could have been the wife of a rich merchant or a Teyrn, sleeping in the small house he had bought for them. He was a lucky man.

Lightening flashed outside, and Duncan drew his hand back in reflex. The bright light illuminated the room, casting shadows of branches on the wall; but now they looked like claws, suspended above their bed and ready to rip flesh, and Duncan was reminded of his nightmare.

It had been so vivid! It was as though he had truly fought, and lost, and Duncan's heart constricted painfully in his chest in foreboding. He tried to reassure himself, thinking that it had been long since Darkspawn had last been seen at the surface of Ferelden, but he felt that something was wrong. The very air of the room felt heavy, hot with the breath of the demon; the screeching of the wind outside carried ill news. The peace they had enjoyed had come to an end. And this time, Duncan would have to fight harder to keep his unspoken promise.

***

Erin wrapped a shawl around her shoulders as she headed outside. Squinting in the bright sunlight, she walked over to her husband, reaching out to pat his horse's neck. Carry him true, Runner, she pleaded silently. And bring him back to me.

She smiled as Duncan turned around to embrace her. His armour felt cold beneath her fingers, cold and hard, like the skin of a dead man; but Erin pushed that thought out of her head and adjusted a strap on his shoulder, busying her hands to keep unwelcome thoughts away. The Maker knew she hated that armour, that sword he carried, even gentle Runner when he was thus harnessed. For it inevitably meant that her husband was riding away to face a foe that would have the bravest man of the village hiding under his bed like a frightened child.

And to say that they had all laughed at her decision to marry him, despised him for his humble birth and his way of living… Erin had faced those taunts with a smile, a thousand times rewarded for her patience each time he kissed her or held her in his strong arms. She loved to lay at his side, her head on his chest, and listen to his heart beat. One, two, three, hundred… He was there, warm and alive, and hers.

And she smiled as Duncan drew her closer. Their lips met and she wriggled closer, almost unconsciously: to be closer, to feel his strength and to believe that once again he would return to their house. But this time, even his reassuring smile did not work the way it usually did… Erin's heart ached.

"I will come back," Duncan rumbled against her chest. He cupped her cheek, looking into her eyes. "I promise."

Erin nodded numbly, but her heart screamed in fear; she knew how much he hated making promises he could not keep… She managed a weak smile, stepped aside to let him mount his horse.

"I will be waiting," she said.

***

Duncan gasped for air, but the blood bubbling in his lungs make him cough. He almost screamed in pain at the movement, but clenched his teeth and bit the cry back. There was still strength left in him to fight, if not for victory then for a honourable death. He reached out for his sword.

There were shadows above him, blotting out the moonlight. They were approaching, and he was weaponless… He pulled himself forward. Mud seeped into his armour, soothing for an instant the burn of his wounds; but it was a treacherous relief. If he survived, he thought, it would not be long before fever took him.

Finally! His fingers touched steel, and curled around the hilt of his sword. With a groan, Duncan rolled on his back, thrusting the blade forward in a laughable attempt to draw away the demon hordes. There were so many… For the first time since the beginning of the battle he truly measured their numbers. Like roaches they swarmed all around, ever hungry; for each Engeance killed, ten others would spring from the darkness… They were all doomed.

Duncan saw the broken body of Cailan nearby; the King's golden hair was matted with blood, his eyes open and empty. There lie the hope of Ferelden, trampled into the mud. Loghain had betrayed them… And he, Duncan, was going to die.

As the shadows drew closer, their fangs glistening with saliva, and closed up on him, his last thought was for a small cottage in the woods, for a woman whom he loved more than anything, and for a promise he had not kept.

***

Erin shivered in the cold wind; the sheets she was holding were wet and heavy, and she struggled to lift them onto the string. She winced as she swung them over the string, pausing for a second to catch her breath. The wind rose again, blowing straight through her; it screamed as it tore through the woods, shaking the branches in its fury. Erin watched it carry away the fallen leaves, and tumble over the cliff. The golden leaves flew away, far towards the horizon and the setting sun. Night would be here soon…

She turned around and looked towards the road. But it was empty; the wind carried no sounds of hooves, no tired whinnying.

Erin sighed and wrapped her arms around her. He is not coming back, this time.

She knew it deep inside, since the very moment she had seen him put on his armour. Something had told her this was the last time she saw him stand in their kitchen; the last time he touched her. His voice had rang in the courtyard, never to be heard again. And Erin had said nothing.

It was her choice. She had known from the very beginning that it could end like this, and accepted it as the price to pay for the happiness. Now it was time to face the consequences. Erin felt the tears fall, running down her cheeks and to the earth. She hoped he had died the way he had wished to, a sword in his hand and for a worthy cause. She hoped he did not regret leaving her; she did not want him unhappy, even now that he was no more. And she would remember him.

Unlike those fallen beside him, the unnumbered, unsung heroes of an ungrateful nation, he would live on in her memory, and more. Erin lay a hand on her stomach; she could not feel it yet, but she knew: a small life was growing inside her, born of her blood and his. This child would meet his father through her words, would know that he was brave and that he would have loved him. And he would be proud.