A/N I don't own Dragon Age or any of that good stuff as it is a product of Bioware's genius. I'm just thankful they let us share in it!
"Keeper! Keeper!"
Merrill looked up from her work, a smile on her face. The children were calling again, wanting more stories, no doubt. Though the children of her clan had heard her stories dozens of time, there were many more children here at Ven'Arlathan than usual, with the clans gathering again. Though the individual clans that had settled here in what the humans called the Hinterlands had gone on to establish their own cities, they continued to gather every ten years for the Arlathvhen as they had when their people wandered – a time to meet and share and bond, and a time to greet those clans who had clung to the wandering life, still searching for lost lore.
Her clan had the honor of rebuilding Arlathan itself, capital of the reborn Dalish nation of Halimshiral, a task given them by the human king himself when he had given them this land, because from them, she had come. The Hero of Ferelden. The hero of the Dalish, who had won for them a homeland again, second only to Shartan himself. To Merrill and her clan, though, she had borne titles more important. Friend, daughter, and sister.
She spread sand upon the page she had been scripting to dry the ink, touching the page reverently. It would be the culmination of her life's work, her contribution to the lore of her people. Four copies existed currently, commissioned personally by the King before his final trip to Orzammar. Part of a promise, he had said, to never let the Wardens' sacrifices be forgotten again.
One had been sent to far away Weisshaupt Fortress, headquarters of the Grey Wardens. Two were in Ferelden, holding places of honor at the royal library and the study at Vigil's Keep, home to the Fereldan Wardens. The last rested here, on the desk before her where she had penned it many years ago. But those copies were all in the King's tongue, and it was fitting that her tale also be told in the language she had been born to. It was half-translated now, carefully written in the reborn script that was one of the triumphs gained in the years since they had come to this land. But the tome could hold, the children were waiting.
She rose from the desk, smoothed her skirts, and moved towards the window. A sizeable group of children from many clans had gathered below. "Is that children I hear?" she called. "Whatever could they want?"
"A story, Keeper! We want to hear a story!" The dark-haired little girl was one of her own clan, Kelia, Merrill thought her name was. It had become difficult to keep track of all the little ones at times, with the immense growth of her people in the last many years. It was a welcome problem, to her mind.
"Shouldn't you be asking Hahren Pol for stories? That's what he does, after all," Merrill smiled, knowing what the answer would be. It was always the same. Pol might be the clan's story-teller, but her husband had not known her as she had, had not grown up with her, having come to the clan later in his life.
"But you tell it best, Keeper! Please! Tell us about Karaleyna the Grey Warden!"
"That's a very long story indeed," she replied, mock seriousness in her voice. "Surely we cannot tell her entire story all at once. I have work to do."
"Just one story then, Keeper?" Kelia ventured. "Dennit and the others haven't heard any of them yet! Not from you!" She looked to a boy about her own age, standing by her side, who in turn looked at the Keeper, contriving to make his eyes big.
Merrill laughed and gave in. "Very well. Just one for now. Go sit yourselves by the fire. I'll be right outside." She turned from the window back to the desk and the two books upon it, tracing one finger upon the intricate gold vines decorating the cover of the finished volume before gathering it up in her arms. She made her way down the stairs and out the door.
The children sat about the fire that burned always before the clan elder, the hahren's, dwelling, a sign of their continuing search for the light of knowledge and an open invitation to share lore. She took a seat on her customary bench, padded now in deference to her growing age, and set the heavy tome on her lap.
"Alright then, a story, but a quick one. And we will do this in the King's tongue." The children groaned – they wanted a story, not a lesson! She remonstrated them gently. "Keeper Lanaya wishes us to maintain good will with the humans, and we cannot do that if we do not speak their language. Your hero may have been Dalish, but she loved the humans as well. She did not fight so that our two peoples would be at war with each other." When the children had settled again, she opened the book, switching languages accordingly.
"Now then, da'len. Which tale shall I tell you today?"
