The Deep Roads held the true demons of the world. Or, so it was believed by the Grey Wardens. They were dark, damp, reeking with the gagging scent of the blood that soaked the stone surfaces, and the nauseating stench of its personal beasts-the darkspawn. They let out inhuman shrieks and cries, lunging and clawing at anything they could kill, anyone they could drag into the darkness to make more of them.
Katalia hardly noticed it. It had been years since the feel of the toxic blood shot paranoid fear into her veins, or the sight of a freshly beheaded foe turned her stomach. Her silver hair, once long and braided, was now chopped short. Her vallaslin was paler than it used to be, less bold in color, and even the facial tattoos could not hide the deep lines on her face. Lines of stress and pain and exhaustion. The green fire in her eyes, once lit by youth, was now brightened by anger.
It was ironic, in a sense. She'd hardly left the Deep Roads in ten years, only returning to the surface when absolutely necessary. The dwarf king had been willing to let her join the ranks in the eternal fight against the darkspawn, but had still questioned why she, an elf, would want to stay in the dark for so long. She told him the truth: There was nothing for her on the surface anymore.
It was a week ago she'd been assigned to fight with a group of Shemlen trekking the Deep Roads for some old Dwarven ruin, on favor of the King. Three days after that, her headaches got worse, and she woke up screaming from her nightmares louder than she had in years. There was no mistaking it. She informed the leader of the group that'd she no longer be able to lead them. In fact, it would be best If they separated right then. She'd given him directions to the ruins he sought after, and the safest route back. She knew nearly all of them now. It had been smart to take him aside, to speak alone between the two of them and away from prying ears. The moment she finished explaining why she wouldn't – couldn't – return with him, the man had cried. Not out of fear of the darkspawn or the Deep Roads, but out of empathy for her. Katalia's eyes were dry, she had resigned to her fate long ago.
Now, she spent each day in an endless war. Fights were constant, and sleep became a luxury rather than necessity. She had expected to feel weaker when the Calling began, but she didn't. In fact, she felt stronger. She'd ran into a squad from the Legion of the Dead, who insisted on fighting alongside the Hero of Ferelden, slayer of the Archdemon. They understood the Calling, and their leader swore they would see her to a proper burial. She never told him that she had stopped worrying about such things. Numbly, during a rare quiet moment that night-if you could call it such a thing, for night seemed eternal in the Deep Roads-at the encampment, while everyone hurriedly ate and hastily sharpened weapons or repaired armor, she thought of the sapling she had planted the last time she lived on the surface, and the pale white flowers around that. The pain had hit her, so sharp and quick that her daggers had clattered to the ground, starling the dwarves as her hand clutched her chest and she fought back the hot tears forming in her eyes.
The memories were a haunting presence in her nightmares. The fatal slice of the darkspawn's blade, how her skin paled and took on a gray sheen while she insisted she was fine until she finally collapsed. Katalia swallowed, remembering the raw burn of her throat as she screamed for Morrigan and Wynne, demanding for the others to find a way to reach other Grey Wardens, to make that vile potion that would offer her a slim chance of life. It would do no good, it was too late. She could sense the Taint in her blood, choking back tears as that same blood slicked her hands, the wound having reopened, never fully healed. She looked into those pleading blue eyes, agonized and changing, and knew what she had to do. She leaned forward, cradling her frail body in her arms, and gently pressed her lips against hers, nearly startled by how cold they were. She felt her hand grasping, and clutched it with her own, while her free hand drew one of her daggers, the one reading, "Vhenan", heart.
"Ma'arlath, ma vhenan'ara." Katalia whispered, and quickly pressed the blade into her chest. She prayed she felt no pain as she gasped, and the light left her eyes.
Now, she pushed those memories away. Her blades danced across as she twisted and curved, sometimes stabbing, sometimes slicing, but always killing the enemies before her. It was ironic, she thought with a grim smile, that she should end up here before Alistair. Last she heard, he was still king.
Faces flew through her mind as she fought. Of friends gone and passed… Wynne, Morrigan, and Shale. And those she would never see again… Oghren, Zevran, Alistair. She thought of Fen'Falon, her mabari, loyal to the end. Of the dreams of returning to her clan that would never be fulfilled. Of her lost love…
"Elf!" The warning cry came too late. A searing pain erupted from her chest, flecks of blood spattering her face. Katalia looked dumbly down, spotting the tip of the ugly sword blade rising from her chest before it pulled back, leaving a mottled hole in her flesh as the Husk stalked off for another opponent. She barely registered falling, the clanging of armor and swords echoing around her as enraged cries grew louder… and then it all cleared. It was odd. There was no overwhelming darkness, no sudden unconsciousness or pain. She could see the dwarves charging the darkspawn, watch as one slammed a genlock away from her body with his shield and stood guard over her. Everything seemed to be slowing down.
"My love." Warmth, on her hands, spreading over her body. "Look at me."
Katalia strained to look up. A bright, brilliant light emanated above her prone form. She looked around, but nobody seemed to notice it.
"Here, my love." The warmth was on her cheeks, guiding her face up. She squinted into the radiant light, and slowly her eyes widened again, lips parting in shock as the light took on a more familiar form.
"Asha'suhlan…ma sa'lath."
She smiled, taking the elf woman's hands. Katalia could feel herself standing, but her eyes never left her beautiful face.
"Let's go, Katalia. The Maker awaits us."
"The Maker-" Katalia began, then stopped. Wherever they were going, or to whom, it didn't matter. Her fingers laced with the bard's own, and they started walking. She was at peace once more.