Steady pace, steady breaths, steady shoulders, steady face.

The Exile swung the finely made sword with prowess; the prowess of one who had spent years training in swordplay. In turn, the darkspawn fell to the stone and the vile taint leaked from its wounds. Then another fell and another.

The lone dwarf breathed out, chest heaving now as she wiped blood from her face. Tainted blood; she made sure to keep her mouth firmly shut when she fought these creatures. All knew of the Corruption and she especially was no exception.

She knelt down over a decomposing corpse and frowned, looting bits and pieces. When done, she was slightly more armoured than just the frail cloth that had once protected her. Thin, oversized dwarven mail dangled from her figure and she clung to a cracked shield in her left hand before deciding to push onwards through the dark and crumbling pathways of the Deep Roads.

The punishment.

She was silent in her grief, pushing onwards towards her goal. She had been told of a way to survive, possibly. He'd told her. If she could trust anyone, it was him and she had to get out of this place. She had to live and get to the sodding surface in order to see him again.

He was lucky. Exile to the surface was a quick and easy fate. She had been not so lucky. Forced into these Deep Roads with nothing but a sword and a thin dress, fighting as many darkspawn until she eventually succumbed to madness or death...

Hell no.

But, there were far less darkspawn in these depths than she had anticipated. Perhaps, then, she had more of a chance than originally thought. There was never much of a hope – perhaps it had been idle rumour, but her love wouldn't have told her had he not thought there was a significant chance.

And so, Lady Aeducan fought and she pushed and she rummaged and survived and just when she thought there was no hope, she stumbled into a Crossroads and there they were.

The Wardens.

She'd nearly collapsed upon herself with relief, but stood strong all the same. After who knows how long she'd been here, fighting for her life, lowering her guard would be the death of her. So she stood, sword still drawn and that cracked shield still poised.

All, but one of the Wardens seemed perplexed. Curious, horrified. Not days ago, they had seen her at the height of her glory. A commander and now, Exile and covered in darkspawn blood and worse for wear, but most definitely alive which was better than those corpses could say way back in those tunnels.

"...Lady Aeducan?"

It was the beginning of a whole new life not that much different to that which she had expected.


The Battle of Ostagar was still fresh in her mind. In their minds; she could deal with loss, but Alistair was so painfully new at it that she almost pitied him. So, she led, even though the sky was so big and her head felt so light and her stomach so empty...

She led and Alistair followed without a word and so did the Witch and the dog. The dog that she still struggled to name and likely would until the small group managed to settle and rest and realise what exactly had happened and what they would need to do.

But, she led and Morrigan gave directions because by the Stone, the Warden knew not where she was to go because this whole surface thing was new and terrifying, but she was glad that someone was paying attention to her dilemma and she could not help, but hold some respect and pleasure for the witch to even remotely begin to understand her troubles. Even if she would likely fervently deny it later.

They would travel steadily during the day and the Warden watched the sky in her spare moments, amazed and terrified at the clouds and the blue and the open of it all. No wonder her people were terrified of the surface. She could fall up there and never come back down if she weren't careful and she'd been looking at it for days.

It was easier when the sun fell and the sky grew dark. It felt smaller then and even with the faint glistening of those stars in the sky, the Warden could pull herself together and take the time by the campfire to go over those Warden Treaties that they had clung to as a near final hope.

Only two Grey Wardens left in all of Fereldan and there was a big bad Blight to stop, complete with snarling darkspawn and a lot of danger. And neither of them knew what the sodding hell they were doing.

"...sodding..." She mumbled under her breath a collection of curses her father would cringe at and Trian would have scolded her for, but she didn't care.

Trian was dead and she'd never see her father again. All that soothed her spirit was the hope that he believed in her innocence. That he trusted her.

"I didn't kill Trian." She remembered staring into Harrowmount's eyes so fervently as he handed her that fine sword she still carried at her side.

"I believe you." He'd replied and she knew he'd tell her father and she hoped because hope was all she had now.

But, it was pointless; she scoffed at herself, hating the fact that she dwelled on a past that had so easily thrown her away. So easily decided her guilt and his. His only crime – her love's only crime was being at her side, forever loyal and look where it had gotten him.

"My Heart..."

"Hold me...please. It doesn't even matter anymore. I might never see you again, Gorim."

Denerim; he'd said that he would be in Denerim, should she ever surface and survive her exile. Should she ever be able to join those Warden ranks and find him.

But she could not go.

Not now. There was too much to be done and she had a duty and she knew he'd understand – her second was always loyal and he'd wait for her until she could be at his side again.

But the Blight came first and she was a Warden and she would slay darkspawn and pull an army together and be the commander she was supposed to be because, damn it all, it was in her blood and there were no other options anymore.

Success was it.

She didn't remember falling asleep.


"Have you had time to look over the treaties?"

"Yes." She'd responded curtly to Alistair's question, craning her neck to peer up at him.

He stared down, clearly unsure what to make of this whole situation still; Morrigan's comments on him 'falling on his blade in grief' now behind them and ignored.

"Then...you have a plan?"

"No." One worded answer.

"But I will. What do you think we should do?"

Alistair stammered for a moment, surprised at her directness. Even so, he quickly recovered and got down to business himself.

"I think Arl Eamon is our best bet," He started and she listened and understood and frowned and formulated as best as she could before glancing to Morrigan.

"And you?"

"Kill the man called Loghain." There was a banter now – a bit of a match between Alistair and the witch, but the Warden sighed and glanced across the human village of Lothering with a frown.

"...let's go." Her voice interrupted them and Alistair blinked before trudging after her.

"Then...you have a plan now?"

"Yes."


She'd named her dog Gorim, just after leaving Lothering; she'd finally conceded to it. However hopeless that it made her feel, it was the only name she could think of that truly made her feel safe.

"You are my second." She'd told the mabari firmly.

"Back to back, we fight, until we return to the Stone."

Gorim understood; he must have because he had that look of fire in his eyes and she knew he knew and that was enough.


Mages and Ashes and Demons and Werewolves; through it all, she led and commanded and her troupe had grown. They saw her as their leader, their friend. She had thought once, while in Denerim that she'd heard him and it had been so possible, but she had been too focused and too afraid to go actively looking.

It had been a year now. Times had changed.

She still dreamt of those silly nights back in Orzammar of chafing grandmother's armour and fumbling hands and fervent kisses. They'd tumbled, oh yes, more than once and more than once had he been chased away only to return.

Their tumbles had been heated, passionate. By all means, the Lady Aeducan had loved her second and trusted him with more than he could even possibly imagine. Yet, now she was not Lady Aeducan. Now she was Warden, and it had been so long, but not long enough for her to forget and she wondered if she ever would and then she would conclude that no, she wouldn't because she still cared too deeply.

She worried for him.

Was he all right? Was he happy? Was he alive? She should have gone to find him. She had been in Denerim. But, she did not.

She did not search for the familiar eyes or beard. She'd thought she heard, but had not explored because duty called as duty always called and it was terrifying because it had been so long and maybe he wasn't hers anymore.

It was highly plausible – he probably thought her dead.

She passed the time sparring the Qunari five times her size because he had interesting things to say and while she was not here to impress him, he at least proved to be decent enough to keep her distracted.

Alistair just amused her and Zevran just embarrassed her.


She didn't know when it started or rather, she didn't know how. It was likely she'd just ignored it, holding the weight of the world and Blight upon her shoulders whilst she strode forwards. No one argued and no one questioned that she was trying. She saved lives and granted mercy when she saw it fit, but there were things on the surface she didn't understand. Things that non-dwarves had to deal with that she could hardly comprehend.

The first night of the nightmares had left her terrified and confused. Dwarves did not dream and she had been most certain she was going absolutely crazy until Alistair explained things. Since then, she had grown more accustomed to the ideas of magic and the Fade and demons. Before this whole situation, they had been merely myths to her; things she'd heard about, but had never confronted or thoroughly understood.

"I'm going to die."

In the privacy of her tent, it had dawned on her suddenly, the realisation of how this whole situation would very likely end.

She'd been exiled into the Deep Roads, only to go to the surface and do the same sodding thing she was supposed to do down there. With very highly likely the exact same results.

Sure, there was more friends and prettier armour, sturdier armour, but the difference was so minimal to her.

And she'd never done what she'd set out to do; there was a realisation that she very likely never would either and she wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Sweet kisses, hot touches, soft whispers.

"My heart. My heart. My heart. Sweet Lady Aeducan."

Suddenly, the Warden felt so very lonely in this big world she didn't quite understand and not even her dog could comfort her.

She didn't sleep.


She fought more fervently now and the darkspawn came more quickly, in more numbers. She still brandished that fine sword from those days and they still had not gone to Orzammar to gain their support, but the time was coming and she knew that it would be the hardest thing she'd ever done.

Besides seeing his face again – which was hard enough as it was to bring herself to do, but they'd been in Denerim more lately and her companions asked more of her than they had before. Silly little personal things that meant so much to them that she couldn't very well say no because they'd been with her until now and she wasn't going to turn her back on them.

But she had heard his voice.

Even after so long she'd heard it and recognised it and now there was no hiding it – she was still hopelessly in love with someone she never could have had before and probably still couldn't have because of Stone forsaken duty.

It would be cruel to ignore it. For herself and for him. He at least needed to know that she was alive, even if she had to crush his heart with the inevitable truth that she was sorry, they could never be together because the Ancestors hated her.

She never needed to say that though, because she'd seen it in his eyes the moment he'd recognised her, the brief joy, relief, pain.

"Gorim..." Her voice sounded meeker than she'd intended it to, and after so long of commanding her companions, they'd all jerked and watched the scene with immense interest and she didn't even care anymore.

"Lady Aeducan..."

It was a reunion of sorts that she'd been avoiding . Avoiding because she wasn't sure she could deal with the pain. The loneliness. The realisation that he could no longer be at her side; though it had been inevitable for so long, it was incredibly hard to face directly when she stared him in the eyes.

Those eyes...

She swallowed.

"From warrior to merchant?" She'd laughed; it sounded hollow.

"My, how you have fallen."

They both knew she danced around the subject – perhaps it was for the best. He recounted his story to her. The journey to the surface, the injury...

"I'm married now," He'd said.

"She's with child." Anything after that, the Warden didn't quite hear over the sound of her heart shattering.

Or whatever was left of it. She'd forced a smile then and laughed once more.

"I- I'll have to meet this fine woman one day, then."

"Yes, it would be a pleasure, my Lady. She'd love to meet you, I'm sure."

Was it a mistake? Confronting this inevitability? She didn't know, but now it was too late to care and when she'd left, it was with a false smile and a lingering embrace and a new, but not new shield that she'd cling to for forever.

Mementos of a life she'd been torn from and she didn't even hate her brother for it.


"If your offer for a massage is still available, I'd like to take you up on it." The words spewed out of her mouth without thought, but even afterwards, the Warden did not care.

Zevran peered up at her, quirked brow and a knowing smirk and she could see him preening because he'd been waiting for this moment. And now she didn't even care whether or not he intended to finish the job he'd been hired to do.

She hurt too much and cared too little and needed something to take the edge off.

"Oh? My dear Warden, I never thought you would ask. You so bluntly refused, after all."

"Circumstances changed."

"Tsk, tsk, poor dear. Is your heart so heavy that you come to Zevran to cure it?"

"There is no cure." She deadpanned and he'd suddenly seemed surprised by her blunt admission.

"A heart that is broken can't be repaired. I expected things to go sour from the start. This only confirmed what I'd been foolishly avoiding." Deep breaths, steady gaze.

"We go to Orzammar next. If you're unwilling to help me, that's fine. I can find other ways to take off the edge of pain." To ignore the humming and the memories and the hurt of the truth she'd been trying to ignore for so long.

"You misunderstand." Zevran hummed.

"I will gladly help you with your tense shoulders, dear Warden. If, of course, you are not opposed to it perhaps going further than a simple massage, it may help more. Alas, I will not go any further than you wish me to."

She eyed him carefully and in the privacy of her tent, she'd stared up at him with a sudden smallness that wasn't befitting of her typical commanding attitude.

"Be rough with me. I want to replace the hurt with another."


One tumble was all it was and she was grateful that Zevran did not pry. Grateful that he did not ask questions nor ask for anything more.

"This...will not happen again." She said firmly, watching him.

"As you say, dear Warden."

And how could she respond to that? The only response was that she couldn't and he knew it. All the same, her tension was eased and things that had been troubling her could not be thought upon any longer.

"Orzammar will be so happy to have me back." She drawled absently, eyes flickering to the stars in the sky before she grinned; it felt bitter.

"I take it then, your departure was...dramatic?"

"One way to put it. This surface-world has left me more rough than when I left. That says a lot." She hummed, looking up and closing her eyes and inhaling that fresh air that now she was so used to.

"...I'm glad. That I got to see more of the world." She said finally, aware still of Zevran's presence.

"I have a weight off my shoulders. Gorim and I were never meant to be – it had always been obvious, but it was fun and tantalising and scandalous." She spewed the words out, continuing on.

"I'm glad he's happy. He deserves it. Truly."

"And what of your own happiness?"

"My happiness is in my duty and ability to serve a purpose." The Warden replied without missing a beat, turning her head upwards towards the would-be-assassin.

"As it has always been. All that remains now, is Orzammar. And this Landsmeet." Quiet.

"Alistair would make an...interesting King, don't you think? But, not if he were from Orzammar. He'd be dead – or a laughing stock. I highly doubt anyone would take him seriously." She snorted.

"All the same, I'm glad to have met everyone. I'm glad to have seen this world I was unaware of. But it will be nice...when it is over."

Then there was silence.


Orzammar was in chaos. Murder happened in the streets of the Commons and the Warden, sadly, was not entirely surprised.

She was greeted as an Exile, Kinslayer, and sometimes a Warden, but no title now did much for her when she saw her former home in such a way. Fortunately, one thing she knew well, now, was dwarven politics. She'd caught the brunt of it firsthand. Sometimes you had to play dirty to succeed. Right now, her own issues did not matter. Her anger at betrayal, at her brother for the chaos he'd caused – it was all fleeting.

Harrowmount and Bhelen. Those were the options.

"Wardens aren't supposed to get involved in politics." She'd uttered mostly to herself and Alistair, apparently having heard her, gave a huff of agreement.

"Dwarven politics are confusing."

"Brutal is another word for it." She'd uttered in response before sighing and digging around for her coin purse, pulling out a silver piece and frowning.

"This comes down to a flip of a coin. Otherwise, I don't think I could do this objectively. Too much history and personal involvement here." The bitterness returned.

"A coin toss?"

"Heads for Harrowmount. Tails for the Betraying Bastard Bhelen." She tossed and the silver spun hopelessly in the air and she watched it with the faintest of frowns, her gut wrenching all ready at the possibilities.

"...tails."


The Roads smelled of death, decay, blood, and taint. To her, it was memories. Not welcome, but not unwelcome. The faint smell of ale drifted over the group as Oghren drank and the Warden did not blame him.

The lost thaigs were incredible, but also dangerous. Perhaps more dangerous than any of the places they had been so far. The search for their Paragon – for Branka, was perhaps an only hope to getting what the two Wardens needed. It was the only way now to satisfy Bhelen – to give him his 'support'.

Steady breaths and steady pace, the shield of Aeducan remained poised in her left hand and that fine made sword from so long ago was at the ready in her right. Even Alistair had no humourous comments about their 'rocky' situation.

She wasn't sure if she was glad for that, or terrified.

Few things bothered her more than the Deep Roads. Especially those lost thaigs that had been so for so, so long. It was unnerving to see this history – once proud and strong, now lay decrepit.

Would this be her body one day? She did not dwell on it much longer, head lifting at the sound of scurrying.

Spiders? Or Deep Stalkers? Perhaps the odd nug? Or separated darkspawn? She doubted it was darkspawn; she couldn't feel it. However, it was difficult to tell and the days she'd spent in the light of the surface had made her eyes weak to the dark.

"At the ready." She said it, even though she didn't have to.

She suddenly realised that she had no overwhelming desire to die in this Blighted place. A thought she'd never considered before. Her duty called, but death was unwelcome at the moment.

And she wondered what it was like to have the funeral of a surfacer.


She hated the Deep Roads.

She hated Orzammar.

She hated Father and Trian and Bhelen and Gorim.

She hated that she hated them because she wanted to live and let live and forgive and forget and all those things that surfacers sometimes said that made the hurt easy.

But hurt was not easy, it was hurt and she hurt and she hated that she hurt, but what could she do about it?

Kinslayer and Exile, former Princess, former someone.

"Warden." She told herself at night, while she took her watch; the Deep Roads were a terrible place to camp, but they needed to push onwards.

"I am a Grey Warden, sworn to defend the land from the Blight." It was uttered like a mantra, reminding her that her life that was, was just that.

A was. Not a now. Just a was and it did nothing now and it didn't help or hurt her progress. It had formed her into who she was, surely, but it was still just a was.

"I am a Grey Warden. In Peace, Vigilance. In War, Victory. In Death, Sacrifice." Things that now defined her.

Things that gave her purpose.

"I am not Aeducan, I am more."

And for a little while, she hurt less.


It was disgusting.

She wasn't sure why she found it so – not so long ago, perhaps, she would have accepted it as necessary. Sacrificing lives for Golems seemed beneficial at a glance. The rest of Orzammar would likely feel it the same; her brother (no, not brother now, she had to say, he was only Bhelen now and nothing more to her) would jump at the opportunity for such a thing. Just as Branka had.

And oh, it had driven her mad. The want for the Anvil. The need for the Anvil.

Pointless now, the Warden thought as she stared down at the bloodied form and she felt guilt. But Branka had attacked first. Branka had pulled the rod, pulled the sword, slashed and cackled like a maniac and Oghren had fought her.

Any guilt the Warden had was for Oghren's sake because that had been his wife and his once-lover and he'd looked torn for just a split moment before he'd brought his axe down.

He'd known too, just how necessary it had been. That she was beyond saving. That, had she had the Anvil, it never would have stopped and history would repeat and...

Oghren was a braver man than she and she knew then why he drank as he did. She knew then that he was a stronger man than she and she respected him greatly. She wondered how he thought and felt – then she didn't want to, because she knew or thought she knew what it took to be a warrior and what he had, she could never have.

But she was not jealous.


She felt strange when she realised that she was glad to see the surface again. Strange to feel happy at staring at those bright stars in that clear sky.

She didn't understand it. She didn't understand how she could have adapted so quickly. She didn't understand how after a whole life beneath that ground, her life now felt whole above it. In the grass and the flowers and the trees and that sky.

She could gaze at it for Ages.

"Are you going to be by yourself over there forever?" Alistair called, laughing at her bewildered look.

"You've been staring at the sky every night since we got back from Orzammar."

"Tis true, one would think you'd be used to it by now. It's been a year."

A whole year...

The Warden laughed.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to it." To the sky, trees, grass, flowers, stars...

Friends.


Her style changes. Once reserved and well-thought in battle, she became reckless (not careless). A defender – she took blows not meant for her and she laughed and fought harder than she had ever fought before.

Bandits, wolves, bears, darkspawn.

She had a purpose and she had friends and the darkness and the hurt in her heart was healing because she had found something other than duty to sustain her. The others worried for her.

"It's a good thing." She told them, grin wide and nose bloody.

"It means I care." And that she was finally content in a world she thought would end her.

It still could end her, but she was content to fight for those she cared about. For her friends – those who accepted her and gave back what they received tenfold.

And if she died?

She died happy and yes, she wanted to have a funeral of a surfacer, whatever that may entail because Orzammar had long since stopped being her home.

She didn't want to return to the Stone.

She wanted to fly in that vast sky.