So here it is - the first chapter of my first fanfic, which honestly is the first fictional piece I've written for over a decade. I would LOVE comments, advice, etc. Enjoy!

Hopefully the remaining chapters will unfold from my fingers soon!

And, of course - Bioware has the rights to this story.

Rowyn stumbled, and the blackness throbbed before her eyes, threatening to take over completely. She was hanging on to her learned discipline with the last grains of her willpower, fighting the crushing in her lungs and her chest, fighting the weakness and the pain – fighting the tears. Duncan was ahead of her, gliding through the grass like a lion, silent and powerful. She must keep up. She – must – keep – up.

The events of the night roared in her mind, tumbling over each other - so loud, it was white noise. It was a tidal wave of emotions and recent memories, no one thought gaining the upper hand over another. Too much to face. She clung to the simple act of following Duncan, and this had gotten her through for the last hour. But fatigue and trauma were setting in quickly.

The air turned to syrup, pushing against her limbs. Her vision shimmered and seemed to bend. Rowyn came to a stop, raised her hand before her eyes - then folded to the ground, unseeing.

While Rowyn was avoiding her thoughts, Duncan cursed and screamed inside. Andraste's flaming sword, he would NOT die at the hands of these greedy scoundrels – not with the approaching Blight. What a waste of good men and women. What a ridiculous and unnecessary interruption of his plans. Fools! Don't they know there's great evil ready to overtake them all? And one recruit– only one! – to show for it, with no time to sweep the surrounding villages. He'd expected to do that after recruiting Rowyn; he'd expected more to join when they saw that the teyrn's daughter had been recruited. That was not an option, not now. It was best if Rowyn was not seen in this vicinity.

Duncan had deep respect for Bryce Cousland and his teyrna, and several very fond memories; his grief was a hard knot tucked away in his heart, to confront later. Survival was the main issue at hand. The girl was tough, very tough – what beastliness and suffering she had experienced tonight! – but he knew she would not last much longer. 'Just a little longer, just a little farther ….' he kept urging, silently. He was amazed at how well she imitated his stealth – he could barely hear her, and he was only five or so strides in front of her in a grassy field.

He knew there was a stream, and a hunter's hut not too far from here. The hut was low, and made to blend in with the surrounding environment. It looked more like a bramble pile than anything, and would likely not be recognizable to any of Howe's men, should they come looking for himself and Rowyn. They were close – there! There was the stream. Duncan paused to get his bearings. Yes, the hut should be a half mile or so downstream -

He turned to share this news with Rowyn, and paused. Her hand was raised before her, eyes unfocused, her body swaying. Cursing, he rushed back towards her, but not before she crumpled to the ground. The grass made it a soft landing, fortunately.

Duncan turned her to her back, checked her pulse. Her face was swollen and a quiltwork of bruises, and sticky with drying blood in various places. In fact, her eyes were so swollen that it was hard to tell if they were closed because of the swelling or because she was unconscious, but he called her name and squeezed her hand repeatedly, and she did not respond.

Carefully but with haste, he lifted her and folded her over his back, and started walking towards the stream. He hoped he was right about the distance.

Rowyn floated towards consciousness unwillingly. Someone was bothering her – jostling her, shaking her arms. It was greatly annoying. "Mother…." She garbled, drowsily. "Lemme alone…"

"Shhhhhh, hush, now," said her mother, but her mother had a man's voice. Rowyn struggled to put this together. She couldn't open her eyes, and she hurt so badly. Why did she hurt so badly? Something about some men …. One with a chain . . . her father and blood, blood, so much blood . .. a room, and those men. Those men . . . She must be back in that room . . . that room . . . that . . . And clarity suddenly blinded her mind. In terror, she started thrashing. The man was trying to rip off her leather leggings. She was so weak, but she didn't have the strength not to fight – she didn't have the strength to let it happen again . . . not again . . .

"Rowyn! Stop! Stop! Be still! Hush! It's me – Duncan! Stop, Rowyn! I'm trying to help – shhhh." She didn't know or remember who Duncan was, but he sounded kind, and the blackness was creeping back into her mind. She let it overtake her again.

Duncan held her as she grew weaker and slowly ended her struggling. He brushed the hair off her forehead, out of one of several shallow gashes. They were next to the stream; the hut was nearby. He went on with his task, removing her leggings and tunic, as gently as he could. The leather armor lay in a neat pile next to them. It was chilly, so he did his work as quickly as possible, keeping the thin blanket over the rest of her body as he washed away the blood and cleaned her wounds, one limb at a time. It became meditative for him, and his inner turmoil subsided as her blood was rinsed from the rag, diluted by the stream's currents.

The sun was beginning to rise when he finished, the dim light turning the surrounding land pink and gold. In the hut were a bed roll and a few other supplies. Duncan was grateful for the bed roll. He laid Rowyn upon it, and decided she may be more comfortable on her stomach. And it would be safer if she needed to sick up, as sometimes happened with head wounds. He covered her with the blanket and turned onto his side, relying on his cloak for warmth. It was not long before he, too, was dead to the world.

Over the next three days, they waited. Well, mainly, Duncan waited. He waited for Rowyn to awaken, he waited for her to heal and gather strength, and he waited for Howe's men to give up looking for them. There were several close calls the first day – several groups were within hearing distance of their hut – but he had been careful to disguise any signs of their presence near the hut and stream. Rowyn did not fully awaken until the morning of the second day.

They had grabbed a few items from the kitchen shelves during their escape. Rowyn was almost silent at breakfast of the second day, asking only a few basic questions before falling quiet. It was just as well. Duncan was not a talkative man unless the situation called for it. Today, the fourth day, he watched as she slowly brought pieces of bread to her mouth, eyes cast downward. She ate as though it was painful. It probably was.

"Are we leaving today?" she asked, breaking the silence.

"I was hoping we might. How do you feel?" He asked.

"I think I am well enough to walk."

" Very good. Let us finish breakfast and then we should be off. It is a long walk." Duncan said.

Rowyn nodded and finished her food in silence.

On the road, Rowyn's quickness surprised Duncan. He had expected her to be reluctant to leave behind her homeland. Instead, she seemed as though she would have run from it, if she could. He had expected that he would have to convince her to keep going when she wanted frequent breaks, but he found himself instead convincing her to rest when he could see the weakness at last creeping into her. It gave rise to, at once, great admiration and great worry for her. But he knew that the battle was coming too soon, and they would have to make good time or arrive too late, and he had promised the King he would be back in time. Duncan abhorred going back on his word – even if the interference of the greedy bastard, Howe, was to blame.