The Deep Roads entrance gaped like the maw of some great beast before Thom, waiting to swallow him whole, its depths veiled in eternal darkness. The seal preventing anyone from getting in – or anything from getting out – had long since been shattered by an unknown force, its sumptuous design unrecognizable, worn away by years of wind and rain.

His torch seemed a feeble and foolish thing now, flickering dangerously in the breeze coming from above as Thom descended into the remnants of what had once been the pride of the dwarves and one of the wonders of the world. From below came periodic blasts of warm air smelling of dust and decay. He turned around more than once, ready to double back and give up, but the looming silhouette of Warden Blackwall, black against the Storm Coast's stark grey sky, standing guard at the entrance, made him turn back toward his goal. A chance to atone, he reminded himself as the darkness engulfed him. A chance for an honourable death. A new life.

More than he deserved.

The darkspawn found him before he could, a small group of four that lurched into view from a side passage. They hissed at his torch, hideous faces contorted in anger at the light that violated their domain. Thom's blade was an old piece of steel from his training days, well-worn but lovingly cared for, with a sharp edge and a solid grip. Theirs were cruel iron, barbed and curved, slicing the air erratically as they charged him. He made short work of them, barely taking a cut or two before the last of them fell, black blood already cooling in the damp air of the ancient caverns. He knelt, his hands shaking as he took the vial he had brought with him, scooping enough of the viscous blood to fill it to the brim. Then he hurried back the way he had come, the precious vial clutched against his heart. The way back seemed even longer than the way in, and when at last the entrance appeared before him, the torch slipped from his fingers, clattering, forgotten, onto the dusty floor, the flame dancing, fluttering, but clinging to life still, the only light in a sea of shadows. The light of day hurt his eyes, though he was still far away. He hurried on all the same.

But where was Blackwall? Thom could do nothing but stare at the empty sky as he ascended. He had been gone but an hour, judging by the light, and the Warden had promised to remain until dusk, whereas he would move on, considering his recruit dead, or fled. But his question was answered as he came closer to the surface, the singing of clashing steel reaching his ears. Ripping his blade from its sheath, he broke into a run, pebbles rolling under his feet, only to almost stumble and fall as hisses and shrieks, all too fresh in his mind, rang out outside. Reaching the entrance, he flattened himself against the wall, the stone warm, almost alive, beneath his sweating palms, almost deaf from the rushing of his blood in his ears and the desperate pounding of his heart. The darkspawn were swarming over the small camp Blackwall had insisted they make, and Thom tried to count them, but there were too many; twenty, thirty, more? He could not tell.

From a group of Hurlock came a great war cry and a flash of silver, and he saw Warden Blackwall, hacking, slashing and cursing, his greatsword swiping through the monsters' rank like a scythe through a field of ripe wheat.

"Maker take you, whoresons!" he bellowed, and a head went flying, landing so close to Thom that he could see the dead, black eyes staring up at him from beneath the rusted half-helm.

Thom breathed deep, the darkspawn stench all around him, tightening his grip on his blade before charging in to the open with a cry of his own, his shield raised high and the vial, his future, tucked away safely into his belt.

The first darkspawn were easy to kill. Taken unaware, they barely defended themselves before he cut them down, but as the horde realized it had a new opponent, more and more broke away from the swarm attacking Blackwall to shift their attention toward their new threat.

"Beware the blood, son!" was all Thom heard from Blackwall before he was surrounded on all sides by the hissing mass. He felt fear gripping his heart as the first hurlock charged him.

Join us, brothers and sisters.

The words came on their own as he pushed back the attack, the Grey Warden oath Blackwall had taught him in preparation for his Joining. He slashed at the hurlock's face, the beast hissing as it reeled, quickly pushed back by a genlock that swung low at his legs. He kicked the creature in the face, its nose spurting dark blood as it fell to its knees.

Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant.

As the sea crashed tirelessly against the cliffs of the Storm Coast, so the darkspawn came, wave after wave, almost pressing themselves to fall under his blade. He stabbed, missed, and felt a first slash bite through his mail, blazing, white-hot pain shooting through his arm as he staggered, regaining his balance before any of the creatures could take advantage.

Join us as we carry out the duty that cannot be forsworn.

He could see Blackwall to his left, covered from head to toe in darkspawn blood, a fierce smile on his lips as he cut and cut and cut. Thom began to push toward him. The swarm began to thin.

And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.

They finally met, exchanging a brief look before they faced away from each other, toward the remaining darkspawn. The creatures seemed wary now, barely a dozen remaining standing where before there had been so many, and they circled the two men slowly, hissing menacingly. Thom's sword arm was numb and cold, his shield little more than splinters, yet with Blackwall at his back he felt the last of his strength come back. Enough to finish the fight, he hoped.

"Wait for them to charge," Blackwall was panting, though he still stood tall and held his blade high. "Let them come."

And come they did, all at once, and Thom cut one down, then two, but then a blade bit his thigh, the pain so sudden his blade clattered to the ground, and he fell to one knee, the weapon wrenching itself from his flesh as he regained his senses. He heard a gurgle above him and felt more than saw the darkspawn raise his blade for the final blow. He raised his shield almost instinctively, knowing full well the ruined wood and his weakened arm would do little for him now. His other hand felt the ground for his lost blade, found it, but the blood-slickened grip slipped from his grasp and out of reach. Thom closed his eyes.

And know that one day, we shall join you.

He waited for the bite of the steel but it never came. Instead it was the sound of rending flesh – though not his own – and a hideous screech that made him open his eyes.

Above him, locked in a lethal embrace, stood Blackwall and the feebly struggling hurlock. With a half-human groan the Warden twisted his blade inside the darkspawn, and the creature was still. Thom staggered to his feet but they were already falling, the blood-soaked ground giving way with a wet sound.

"No…" his throat was dry and raw, choking on the simple word. Limping over to where Blackwall lay face down over the dead hurlock, he saw the blade sticking from the side of his breastplate. It had ripped through the chainmail and bit deep. Too deep.

Grunting with effort, Thom rolled the Grey Warden over. He could already see it was too late. Barely alive, Blackwall stared up at him, coughing once, twice, a red tide welling from his lips with every breath. He tried to speak but choked on his own blood, tried to sit but was too weak to move.

"Blackwall, please – " the plea was as useless as the hand Thom pressed to the Warden's side, blood oozing uncontrollably between his fingers, smoking in the cold air. Blackwall seized his forearm, smearing black blood on the plate before his grip loosened and his hand fell, limp, dead.

It was a long time before Thom could stand on shaking legs, Blackwall's lifeless body a silver stain amongst the sea of black darkspawn blood. The high noon sun peeked between the perpetual Storm Coast clouds, coming to warm the cooling bodies that lay strewn about like so many twigs scattered by the wind.

He dressed his wounds slowly, all the while wondering what to do next, his mind reeling. This had been his chance at a new life; should he continue on to Val Chevin? Blackwall would surely have recommended it. But would the vial or darkspawn blood and his word be enough to prove he had been recruited? Not once they knew his name. To Val Chevin, and all of Orlais, he was a reviled criminal, a murderer and an oathbreaker. If he brought word of Blackwall's demise, they would be quick to assume he had killed him, he knew. But if he ran, he would go back to being hunted, condemned to hang. Go back to the Free Marches, then? The idea was appealing, and it had crossed his mind more than once in his years on the run; seeing Markham again, jousting, competing in the Grand Tourney… but even there the story of his crime was sure to have spread, and his face was known there, too, remembered from the melee he had won or the people he had met.

He had nothing now.

It was no use. Eventually he would be caught and hanged, it was only a matter of time. Perhaps he even had the Blight, Maker only knew. There was nothing he could do.

Thom's gaze landed on Blackwall's still corpse, and an idea grew, flowered, stretching its dark leaves in his mind. He refused to entertain the thought; it would be dishonouring the Wardens' uniform, the very memory of Warden Blackwall…

Or would it?

Blackwall was an honest, noble man. He did not deserve to die. Thom Rainier, on the other hand, had to die. For his crimes, and for the man he had become to live in peace. He had changed, and had made up his mind; never again would the innocent suffer by his word or deed. Perhaps that would be a worthy legacy to carry on under Blackwall's name.

Offering the Maker a silent prayer and Blackwall an apology, Thom stood slowly, walking over to Blackwall's corpse. The Wardens' crest gleamed on the armour, a symbol of everything Thom had wished he had stood for all his life.

With trembling fingers, he reached for the leather straps holding the Warden's armour together.

He fumbled like a squire at his first tourney, he who had years of experience. Thunder rolled in the distance, announcing one of the Storm Coast's famous rainstorms. The body was already stiffening, dried blood flaking off the fine steel as Thom took it apart.

He shed his own armour slowly, conscious that he was not only shedding the last piece that remained of his military career, but also his name, his history, and his entire life.

Thom Rainier died here, but Blackwall would live on.

The rain started just as he began digging the grave; it was easier than he would have thought, as the ground was soft and bare, but his wounded arm was a painful hindrance, and he could feel blood oozing beneath the bandage as he dug. He ignored it.

He finished his work at dusk, and took the time to change the soaked dressing of his arm before tending to the body as best he could. Instead of his Warden armour, Blackwall wore Thom's own plate, a splendid suit of finely worked Orlesian steel, the only thing that linked him to his previous life. He had kept it purely out of pride, knowing he would be easily identifiable should he ever wear it in public. This had been the first time in more than two years.

He laid Blackwall in his grave as delicately as he could, not an easy task alone. When it was done, he laid the Warden's greatsword on his chest, folding his hands over the hilt, and placing the Silverite dagger he always carried next to the blade; some things he simply could not take. By the time the Warden was properly buried, the moon was high in the sky. He could hear animals foraging near; luckily, they were kept away by the scent of darkspawn flesh, diseased and corrupted.

There was nothing more he could do but place the Warden-Constable's badge on the grave, although bandits were sure to take it should he leave it in plain sight. Instead Thom hid it in the hollow of a nearby oak, and came to stand before the grave. Blackwall's armour fit him well enough, though he had been slightly taller and broader than Thom. He bowed his head and stared at the wet ground, rain pelting his head and plastering his sweat-drenched hair to his skull.

"Maker, I will carry this man's name, and bring his nothing but honour," he called out to the trees and cliffs, only witnesses to the scene. "Maker, should I bring shame upon this man, may I wander the Beyond for all eternity, so that I shall never know the warmth of Your embrace."

He stayed a moment before he turned away, hoisting upon his shoulder the bag that contained everything he could carry. He cast his eyes one last time to the mound of dirt that would be his salvation.

Maker, guide him home.

Thom Rainier died, and Blackwall left.

In War, Victory. In Peace, Vigilance. In Death, Sacrifice.


Story will be updated same time next week, or maybe earlier.