Despair to Determination
The huge greatsword swept through the air, catching the hurlock in the gut, cleaving through the tough leather it wore as armor and slicing into the corrupted flesh beneath. Black, poison blood spilled from the wound as the huge warrior twisted his blade, pushing forward with his shoulder, opening the stomach of the darkspawn warrior, spilling entrails, bile and blood upon the ground. With a great shout, the warrior of the Beresaad stepped back, pulling his greatsword, Asala, with him and then raising the two handed blade over his head, chopping down with tremendous strength to cleave the beast shoulder to sternum.
Sten spun about, ignoring the spurting blood behind him, bloodlust shining clearly in his lavender eyes as he focused upon the battling form of The Warden, his own swords – long and short – darting out in a scissoring movement to saw the head from the genlock archer harrying the companions.
Snorting with respect and approval, the Qunari warrior shouldered his blade, turning a circuit to survey the battlefield.
None of those who opposed them now stood, Alistair having dispatched the last of their darkspawn aggressors with a strength the foreign warrior greatly approved.
Wynne hurried over to The Warden, tutting at him in that maternal manner of hers. The Qunari shook his head, stalking over toward the pair as the other warden surveyed their surroundings before moving to his brother warden's side. The Qunari warrior allowed the reprimand to die upon his lips as he watched the wry grin spread across The Warden's face as the mage continued to berate him his foolish rush into the fray.
Sten watched as the elf then turned his head, away from the wound on his arm, away from the healer, the grin dying into a grimace of pain. He could hear the old woman whispering encouraging words to the young man, and he watched as the elf's blue eyes clouded as his gaze swept the body strewn ground around them and then shifted to the top of Fort Drakon, their current destination.
Ever since the wild witch had left their company – just prior to their march upon Denerim – The Warden had been quieter, more stoic and decisive in his duties, with none of the playful banter he had possessed during their quest to end the Blight. The Qunari had always felt that the elf's…relationship with the wild mage had been a distraction; one that, with every other demand placed upon the young elf's shoulders, The Warden had little need of. How well he had approved, even while considering her words at the time intrusive, the advice the elderly mage had given to the less experienced young man.
And while Sten found the distraction of the witch disruptive to the progression of their fight against the Blight, he readily admitted to being…confused by her absence just prior to the battle. After all, she had traveled with The Warden from the beginning, knowing full well the danger of a Blight left unattended to. If nothing else, the warrior had thought that the witch had wished to be a part of ridding the land of the Blight as surely as the others of their company.
The fact the acidic tongued witch also shared The Warden's bed seemed to indicate she would ever be at his side.
Apparently, he had been mistaken in his assumptions. His duty…his loyalty to The Warden – his Kadan – would dictate that, should he ever meet the witch again, he should cleave her head from her shoulders. The desertion of their mutual quest was an unforgiveable crime, one deserving of the most painful of deaths.
However, his Kadan would never approve, and thus Sten made a silent, solemn vow to seek out the swamp witch and make her answer for her deceit.
The Warden turned his head to speak quietly to the elderly mage, who gave him a sharp look, tugged at the bandage upon his bicep, but, after another moment's contemplation of the young man, nodded, stepping back as she once again grasped her gnarled wood staff in her still smooth hands.
Turning, The Warden's blue eyes – holding a firm resolve Sten had seen in them many times prior to battles – held his own gaze for a moment. Exchanging nods, The Warden turned to Alistair, clapping his brother warden upon one heavily armored shoulder before leading them through the decimated courtyard, and passed the body of the senior warden, Riordan.
Blood practically poured down the combatants' forms, weary and bent from battle. At their feet lay a dead Ogre, while behind three Hurlock emissaries lay in pools of their own blood and bile. The stench of death permeated the entire chamber; the entire keep. Before them stood the massive staircase that led up to the roof.
Bent over, hands upon his knees, The Warden gasped for breath, spitting out blood – his and darkspawn – as he tried to gather himself. Stepping around the corner of the table, Sten could see the shaking of the elf's hands as he raised one, clasping his short sword, to wipe the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand.
Fear was not something to be ignored nor denigrated. Even among the Qunari it was greatly recognized that fear could make one wary, more cautious, more effective in battle. Fear reigned in the impetuous hand, counting each step to where the enemy stood to make a more effective and clean kill.
The fear in The Warden was not unexpected, and Sten had seen if oft enough to understand that the elven warden was more than aware of the consequences to unchecked fear, resulting in terror.
There was a shake of The Wardens dark head and those blue eyes rose to take in the beleaguered forms of his companions. "Only one more set of stairs to go," he said, his voice affecting a cheerfulness he obviously did not feel. Even Sten could sense the forced quality behind his tired tones.
Alistair rewarded his brother warden with a weak smirk, while Wynne merely shook her white head. Sten, never quite understanding The Warden's need for humor, merely stepped to the bottom of the stairwell, his lavender eyes scanning up the many steps leading to a great set of double doors, to await the others.
"Off we go," The Warden quipped, straightening and giving both blades a twist before stepping to Sten's side. Clasping the giant warrior on one shoulder, The Warden gave his friend a grin, and then led the group up the steps.
"No!" Alistair shouted into the face of his friend, glaring down at him from his height advantage. The elven warden merely smiled up from a face little more than a bloodied mask, into the raging face of his human friend, obviously not intimated in the least.
"Listen Alistair," The Warden said calmly, placing his hands at each of the warrior's shoulders. "It has to be this way…"
"No, D…" Alistair began, only to be cut off by the elf.
"Why bother not making you the king if you can't enjoy being a warden?" the elf quipped, a smile upon his face but lacking in the tone of his voice.
"Da…" The human tried again, but stopped as the elf merely shook his head.
"Look, you have everything to live for," the elven warden said, looking over to where Sten stood, waiting in his stoic silence. Dark head nodded in a near unperceivable tilt. "Being a Grey Warden is what you've always wanted. Me?"
"Don't say it…" There was steel in Alistair's voice, and the elf blinked momentarily, that sad smile still upon his face.
"I have nothing to live for, Ali. My family's been sold off to Tevinter, the woman I lo…" here the elf's calm façade broke, his voice and face crumpling momentarily, and as the battle raged around them, the two wardens stood in silence, the elf with his head bowed, the human staring at the crown of his friend's head.
Collecting himself, the elf looked back up into his friend's face. "You will be everything that Ferelden needs in a Warden Commander." His voice was very soft, but still had that commanding, knowing quality to it. The one that Alistair both loved to hear and hated at the same time.
"You keep forgetting about the losing the pants thing," Alistair quipped, a sad smile upon his handsome blood-and-grime smeared face to match his brother warden's.
"Best way to get recruits, Ali," the elf joked, his smile widening as a blush formed beneath the dirt upon Alistair's face. "Take those pants off, and you'll have recruits fallin' all over themselves to enlist." The elf paused as his heavy Denerim slums accent started to invade his careful speech, giving away his own nervousness despite his seeming calm.
"Da…"
Shaking his head, bowed somewhat to avoid Alistair's eyes, the elf muttered, "Sorry Ali," before delivering a sharp, sudden punch to the warrior's jaw.
Stumbling back, stunned by the sudden onslaught from his friend, Alistair could do little more than raise his hands. They afforded him no protection from the elf's next assault, a roundhouse kick to the gut, which doubled the other warden over.
"Sten!" the elf shouted. In one smooth surge forward, the giant warrior was behind the gasping human, his powerful arms wrapping about Alistair's chest, pulling the other man, still gasping, straight as he locked his thick, powerful fingers together, in anticipation for when the physically powerful human would regain himself.
Fists still clenched, The Warden gazed sadly at his friend. "You are what Ferelden needs and wants," he said quickly to his friend as he pulled a second longsword, this one having once been wielded by Duncan, free of its scabbard. "You are legendary, Alistair, no matter what anyone else would say of you." He offered a sad smile to his friend's glare as Alistair continued to struggle for breath. "The bastard son of King Maric, raised from the ashes of his Order, to free Ferelden from the Blight." The elf tilted his head, watching as Alistair straightened, pulling against the restraints of the Qunari grip. "Glorious!"
"Don't you dare elf!" Alistair growled, his voice taut with anger and fear.
"What am I?" the elven warden continued as he stepped forward, placing a strong, long fingered hand against Alistair's heaving chest. "Just an elf." He shook his dark head sadly, head tipped somewhat to momentarily avoid Alistair's condemning eyes. "No one in their right mind would want me in any position of power. No one would follow me." That smile widened, finally reaching his eyes, and Alistair felt his heart break. "But you, my friend, they will follow to the Deep Roads and beyond." Here he grinned widely, "Especially is you doff the pants!"
Then, he stepped back, tipping two fingers to his forehead in a lazy salute, ignoring completely the continued protests that spilled from Alistair's lips, and then turned about, sprinting off toward the Archdemon.
Struggling, cursing, Alistair fought to break free of Sten's hold. The pair tipped slightly, and the Qunari dug his heels in, bracing his back to pull Alistair back, keeping him in place. The din of battle rose, the screams of the Archdemon rising about the clatter as it spied the oncoming Warden.
Crying out his friend's name, Alistair could only watch, helplessly, still struggling against the iron hold of the Warrior of the Qun, as the elf skidded to his knees, slashing his sword – Duncan's sword - upwards as he slid beneath the enormous bulk of the blighted Old God, slicing deeply into its underbelly, dark corrupted blood pouring over the elf's lithe form. His struggles renewed in earnest as the elven warden rose behind the creature, Duncan's longsword raised above his head, and then, with one shout of triumph, brought the sharp blade – crafted specifically for a Grey Warden - tip down, driving it powerfully through the thick skull of the Archdemon.
Bright light exploded, encompassing the combatants surrounding the pair – the Grey Warden and the Archdemon. Darkspawn and defenders alike were tossed about like drag dolls. Sten's hold upon Alistair loosened and, taking advantage, Alistair elbowed the Qunari away, racing, arms pumping, to where his friend had been tossed like a rag doll, laying several yards from the now still form of the Archdemon.
What is the Blight?
Sten stood, taking stoic solace in the nearness of his Kadan as he stood vigil at the elf's side. To the other side of the stone slab stood the Other Warden, now The Warden. Alistair. The Qunari snorted slightly, frowning at his own disruption of the silence. The Other Warden merely glanced over at the other warrior, a frown forming upon his face, once more to crumple at the intense sorrow that had overcome the human at the death of his friend.
He turned his attention away from the living human, focused again upon the still form of the elven Warden lying in state upon the cold stone. Eyes turned to the body, thoughts turned elsewhere.
What is the Blight?
A question that had brought Sten and his brethren to the shores of Ferelden more than a year prior. An answer to a question asked of the Arishok, and demanded an answer through the arm of the Beresaad.
It had seemed such a simple thing, find the answer and return home.
Sten was not so certain any longer.
The Blight, in simplest terms, was a queller of life, a destructive power upon which only one other power – the Grey Wardens – could defeat. Why only the Grey Wardens could defeat such a black tide of destruction…only those within the mysterious Order knew. Even after a year of traveling with two junior Wardens, the warrior of the Qunari still had no answer to that question.
Not that he should. After all, the Arishok did not request any of the legendary Order's secrets, merely a simple supposition as to what the Blight was.
But, after a year in the company of The Warden, Sten had learned a great deal more about the Blight than would be simple.
The Blight was a black tide of despair and destruction, one that sapped the inner strength of body, earth, stone and sky. Nothing could survive nor grow nor prosper once a Blight had tainted it, and history tells that in areas hardest hit – such as in the Anderfels – it would be centuries before even the slightest of fungus would grow once more.
The Blight was much more, however.
Bringer of despair, certainly. One that the mere mention of its name could squelch the heart of the most stalwart of warriors, pull the hope from the breast of the most devote of Mothers. One thing Sten had learned during his travels along the Fereldan highways and cities, Deep Roads and untamed forests was this: Despair can only last for so long, before determination reared up. Whether determination to simply die on one's feet or push back with the hope of survival…it did not matter. Sten had watched, from the time he had first opened his eyes in the strange farmhouse to that moment, standing beside the man he had fought beside for many months, as despair gave way to determination.
Determination to strength.
No matter what the morrow may bring, he had his answer for his Arishok. Whether it was the one his leader had sought…only the Arishok would know. For Sten had fulfilled his duty, completed his mission. Lavender eyes skimmed down to the two handed sword he held, naked, in his hand. With his soul intact.
Those same eyes drifted once more to the calm features of the corpse beside him. The body of the man he called Kadan. Silently, he raised his sword, giving the man one final salute, ignoring the watchful eyes of the young warden beside him. Calm and purpose once more filling the giant's large heart.
For he knew he could return home, after having faced countless battles, asked many questions, answered numerous more. He had his answer for the question of the Blight.
And he wondered no more whether it was the answer his Arishok wished. For it was the only answer there was to be.