A/N: I wrote this story as a story challenge I had with a friend of mine. There might be some small discrepancies from the game but I think they would be minor. One of the restrictions of the story was that I could only hint who the story was being told to, so if you are wondering who the mage is – it is Irving. I did not stick much to Sten's personality as it is in the game as this plays out long before he came to Ferelden. I would think he was a different, less sullen man back then.
Chapter 1
The raven above me circles high, its silhouette burnt into the bright canvas of the open skies. I blink, ignoring the sting from the blood that is running from the cut in my head into my eyes. The pain in my side is excruciating, a fiery wound caused by a Hurlock emissary flinging fireballs across the battle field.
I can turn my head just enough to see the mage on my left. Her black hair is matted with blood, and her staring eyes tell me that she has already passed over into the Fade, never to return. If this was any other mage, I would have asked Andraste to guide her path to the Maker, but this is Morrigan and I don't know the words to the Chant. Neither of us believed in the Maker anyways. The lyrium markings on her palms glow dimly even in the bright sunlight, but the glow is harmless – the power required to wield it cut off by a dark spawn greatsword buried deep in her chest. The persistent sarcastic arch of her brow is relaxed, and in death she is no longer the daughter of the Witch of the Wilds, only another fallen mage and another casualty in this Blight.
She is laying half under the King. I cannot see his face, but from the amount of dried blood that is spilled over the mage onto the grass, I can tell that he, too, is no longer alive. The chain holding his mother's amulet has broken and the pendant shines in the harsh sunlight. The hilt of the greatsword is barely visible between his shoulder blades, the sharpened blade binding him forever to the mage below him. The irony of the king dying to protect his greatest source of chagrin does not escape me.
It is quiet around me, the gut-wrenching sounds of the battlefield replaced by the reproachful silence of death. There is a foul stench in the air, of blood and dark spawn and fear and sweat. It is an eerie silence but I know that it will not last, and that the victors would soon arrive to claim the spoils of war.
I cough, tasting more blood in my mouth. Its metallic taste is an accusation, a reprimand for surviving while the envoy I was entrusted with lies dead. I had failed, in my duty as Sten of the Beresaad and in my duty as friend to the Grey Wardens. The gates of the city did not withstand the power of the dark spawn horde. My body feels heavy, pinned down by the hulking form of a Bronto bleeding its putrid stench into the grass.
The smell of the Hurlock alerts me of his presence well before I can see him. He does not try to move undetected, but I cannot tell if he is on his own or with more of his kind. I can hear him closing in on me, and I lie still. If this is my time, it would not be at the hands of an untrained warmonger for the undead. That much I could still refuse, while I had the choice.
A boot crashes down inches away from my face, obliterating the King's pendant. A clawed hand grabs the hilt of the sword and with a powerful tug pulls it free from the humans it joins together, oblivious to the sickening sound of the blade being ripped from their flesh. Without cleaning it the Hurlock slides it into the sheath secured across his back. Kicking the king aside, he rips the magical amulet from the mage's neck and stuffs it into his pocket. The Hurlock spits at the corpses and bellows; his call answered by the far away cries of his fellow soldiers.
The Blight is over and the Arch demon had won.