Author Note: Well, I suppose that now all of that casteless business is out of the way, our Prince can get back to the 'joys' of being a Prince of Orzammar.
Dragon Age (c) Bioware
Trian is, of course hardly pleased that his little brother is late to his own party and spends a good five minutes telling him in a harsh undertone how much of an embarrassment he is to House Aeducan and blah blah blah.
Duran has heard these lectures a thousand times over - and quite frankly they no longer mean anything to him.
"I've had to put up with him all day! He wants to kill you, you know." Bhelen tells his older brother almost casually.
"Yes. I am aware. He's only expressed that sentiment every day since I was ten and put beetles in his soup." Duran sighs exasperatedly, and ruffling his younger brother's hair affectionately. "You'd think he'd grow up a bit."
"Stop that. And no. He's really going to kill you. You're the man everyone wants to be king and he knows it. The people love you. Stone, even the Assembly loves you! And you call them Stone-blind idiots on a daily basis!" Bhelen says in an angry whisper, as he bats his older brother's hand away from him.
"Truly?" Duran chuckles. "And not a one of them have noticed? You don't suppose I should write it down on cards for them then should I?"
"I'm being serious here, big brother. I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't heard him giving orders to his men." Bhelen tells him earnestly.
"Bhelen, Trian may be a pompous, bullying ass, but he's not going to kill any of us for the throne," he tells his brother firmly. "Besides, he's father's heir, and I'm the brother who hits people with axes."
"You know that the Assembly has overlooked the heir to name a more suitable second son or cousin as King before."
"And clearly kinslaying is a trait everyone looks for in a king. Enough!" he tells Bhelen angrily, before softening into a smile to reassure his younger brother that he's not really mad at him.
He doesn't like the sound of any of this at all.
He knows that the relationship he once had with his elder brother when they were children is long gone but for Trian to want him dead...
"Thank you, little brother, for worrying, but everything will be fine tomorrow. You'll see. Now we'd all best get some sleep. Tomorrow's a big day!"
-0-
Aeducan Thaig is - a lot gloomier than he thought it would look - then again it is a tomb of sorts. Though the dwarves that have apparently been loitering here are anything but dead - he notes as he lobs off the head of the last of the mercenaries with his axe.
"Phew, there's no better way to end the day than killing idiots after darkspawn," Duran jokes as he pulls off his helm.
"My lord, you should see this," Gorim says, his expression grim as he holds out what he's just found on the leader's corpse.
"It's an Aeducan signet ring," Duran notes, as he takes it into his own hands for further inspection. "It's Trian's." he sighs recognizing the scratch he made years and years ago. "Oh brother, when will you learn to never leave important things lying around..."
"My lord, you don't think..."
"Well now," Duran says a little too brightly. "The shield should be somewhere around here."
His second merely nods, noting the tightness in his lord's smile, and the dark cast to his eyes, saying anything more is likely to earn him a punch in the face or if Gorim was anyone else, an axe.
His ancestors must have all been paranoid bastards, Duran grouses to himself - what with the ridiculous ways they went about safeguarding their treasures. Then again, if they hadn't, there would be nothing left here to reclaim, what with the darkspawn and all.
The puzzle is hardly the height of complex dwarven engineering. In fact, Duran is a little upset that he has no reason to become inordinately frustrated with the sarcophagus and take out said frustration on the stone coffin and smash it into tiny pieces.
He has to give them some credit though - the Aeducan Family Shield is a wondrous piece of work. He hefts it experimentally, letting it rest on his shield-arm. Solidly crafted Silverite that is in remarkably good shape despite the pits and scarring across its still shining surface. He gives it an experimental swing and is surprised and its weight - or lack thereof.
"The Smiths knew what they were doing, that's for sure," he remarks as he promptly wraps it up for transport.
Of course it's at that moment that the darkspawn decide to come out of hiding to play.
The second son of House Aeducan has never understood how his people are losing ground year after year to the mindless horde. Yes they are numerous and vicious and by the Ancestors are they ever ugly, but the dwarves are better armed, more devious and cunning than their enemy a thousand times over. He knows that the dwarves prefer to bicker and squabble amongst themselves and relive the glories of their Ancestors and all but ignore the fact that they are marching towards their deaths with each and every thaig that is lost to the spawn, but it does not have to be that way.
Duran Aeducan stands his ground as a blight wolf charges at him, bellowing something awful, and the two scouts that have accompanied him rush away from it. Gorim, as always protects his Prince's back, deftly slicing the arm off of an over-eager genlock.
Duran raises his shield and pushes back against the blow, knocking the creature off-balance, and promptly slashing open its belly with his axe, before decapitating the monstrosity.
For Duran these spawn are hardly a challenge - then again few in Orzammar could claim to be Endrin's second son's equal in the arena. The man, young as he is at twenty-three years of age is a force to be reckoned with on the field.
He is no berserker, rushing in to battle with rage and fire in his blood, swinging his axe in a crazed heat. Duran is a steel wall. His back ramrod straight and his stance steady and calm, his warm, caramel coloured gaze steadfast and confident. His skill with shield and blade - axe, mace or sword is unsurpassed - and as his second knows full well - the safest place on the field of battle is behind the Aeducan.
In fact, Frandlin Ivo and the other scout do almost nothing as Duran and Gorim make short work of the small darrkspawn party.
"Well," the prince says, as if nothing of any note has occurred. "We'd best get to the rendezvous. By the crossroads, was it?"
Gorim takes him aside as they traverse the Deep Roads.
"My lord, if I may?"
"Of course Gorim, you know I value your opinion on any and all things - well almost all things," he smiles at his best friend. "And for the last time, call me Duran."
Gorim smiles ruefully at that before his expression grows serious.
"My lord, if Trian really were scheming against you, this point would be the perfect place for an ambush."
"Really Gorim? Not just Bhelen, but you too?" Duran sighs tiredly.
"As much as you may hate to admit it, but your brother's hostility towards you has only increased over the past few years. We've got the shield, and we're all alone out here." Gorim says looking about pointedly.
"Am I the only one who believes in something called family ties and kinship?" Duran quite nearly snaps at his second.
"Trian is my brother. Nothing will happen."
"My lord - "
Gorim is only worried for him, that is clear enough - and knowing his own habits, Duran supposes he should be. The game of dwarven politics is fast-paced and ruthless and Duran is a strong believer in that such words should only be used to describe a battlefield. He has long avoided the whole game, preferring to immerse himself in the people of Orzammar and battle.
That Trian's attitude towards him has soured over the years is clear enough to the Aeducan prince. The two brothers rarely talk anymore and when they do so , their words are barbed and mocking. Trian may very well want his life - his brother has always been insecure towards his position as heir - and a long, long time ago, he would confide his fears in his younger brother.
"Nothing. Will. Happen." he repeats firmly, marking the conversation as officially over.
"As you say, my lord." Gorim says reluctantly, as Duran looks ahead.
By the Ancestor's, he hopes his brother isn't up ahead.
-0-
To say that things have gone badly would be a horrendous, and gross understatement - quite possibly the greatest understatement of the Age.
Duran's mind is numb. Time seems to have stopped suddenly for him, and yet the rest of the world rushes by.
His older brother is dead.
His younger brother - accuses him of fratricide.
Trian is dead.
His scouts - Frandlin Ivo lying through their teeth.
Trian is dead.
A prison cell.
His big brother - the man who would always have a smile for him as a child - dead.
Gorim - reliable, loyal, Gorim - exiled to the surface, and Duran himself, sentenced to die in the Deep Roads without trial.
His big brother is dead.
Harrowmont says something - but Duran does not hear him.
His big brother is dead and his little brother has killed them both.
It's not until he is standing in the Deep Roads, without armour or weapons that the rage sets in.
He's not sure how, but Duran finds himself, his hands soaked in darkspawn blood staring down at a darkspawn corpse.
Without thinking, he sets about looting the bodies for any gear or weaponry that he could possibly use.
There will be words if - when. Not if. When. Count on it brother.- he sees his scheming little brother again. Probably punctuated with an axe if need be.
The darkspawn are coming, and he lets them break their iron teeth against him as he meets them blow for blow, steadily retreating towards a narrow passageway.
Without a decent shield, or a proper blade, he has little chance of making it to the Grey Wardens.
"By the Maker, another dwarf!" an oddly accented voice exclaims, forcing Duran to look up from where he has just finished off the last of the darkspawn.
Looking around, Duran has absolutely no idea how he got to this point in the Deep Roads. The trail of darkspawn corpses make it a little clear to the Wardens however.
"Lord Aeducan!?" the dark-skinned Commander of the Grey exclaims, the disbelief clear in his voice.
"Which sodding one?"
"What are you doing here alone? Where are your troops?" Duncan asks as a familiar branded face comes up.
"You?!" the casteless girl points at him in recognition. "You're - You're that noble!"
"Noble no longer," Duran grunts, pulling his scavenged blade free from genlock skull. "Or do you think I'd choose to wear such shoddy armour out here in the Deep?"
"They made the sodding Prince of Orzammar walk the Deep Roads?!"
"You mean you were exiled? What happened?" one of the humans asks curiously, to which Bellara Brosca follows up with a:
"Which nug-humper's delicate sensibilities did you offend this time around?"
Two days ago, that may have brought a smile to his face.
"My brother apparently." he answers curtly, his face devoid of any expression.
"Lord Trian?" Duncan asks, his posture shifting in an almost aggressive manner.
Duran laughs uproariously at that - a bitter, humorless laugh.
"Trian couldn't scheme his way out of a paper bag. No, apparently my little brother Bhelen decided that he'd much rather be an only child." he manages to get out between chuckles.
Duncan seems to relax a little at that, but his face shows his concern and empathy for Duran's plight.
"I see. The brutal intrigue of the dwarven court continues, then. Your father intimated as much." the human says softly. "There is no reason for you to walk these Deep Roads to die for something you did not do."
"Is he coming with us?" one of the Wardens asks, to which the casteless dwarf a wicked grin on her lips lets out a "Sod yes, I hope so! Could always use another head basher on these sodding darkspawn. I mean do you see what he just did to that blighter?"
Duncan sends the brand a silencing look before turning to Duran.
"Your level of ability is outstanding, and your exploits in the Deep Roads set you apart. As leader of the Grey Wardens in Ferelden, I would like to formally invite you to join our order."
"I accept," Duran says immediately. If he is ever going to get to give his little brother a piece of his mind, he needs to live. He knows that if he goes on to be a Warden he may not see his brother fora very long time but- he will, eventually, one day, like all Wardens who live long enough do, go through Orzammar to fight their last hours in the Deep Roads.
And when that happens, he and Bhelen are going to have words.
Author Note: And so ends the Orzammar Origins Arc.