A/N: With many, many thanks to oneplusme for the beta, and juri and sqbr for the plot advice.

Additional gratitude goes out to reader/writer KyaniteD, whose comments inspired the theme of this chapter (not sure if this was what you were expecting, but yeah... I extrapolated a bit from some of the things you mentioned. ^_^;; Anyway, I hope you enjoy it!)


The Hero of Ferelden

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The Fade

The vhenadahl tree was ancient and huge. Its roots extended to the far reaches of the Alienage, the bulbous curve of them occasionally protruding through the surface of the dusty alleys in its greedy quest for sustenance. It had been old even when Valendrian himself was a boy, and sometimes the hahren would tell of how he would scale its branches, and hide within its leaves for hours on end (this was always accompanied with a mildly worded caution against any young elf attempting to do the same).

Sylvanna tightened her grip on one of its branches, hauling herself upwards. The tree felt coarse and dry against her palms and bare feet, and she was certain she had ripped a hole in her skirt on the way up. Mama would be displeased, she realised with a guilty start, and she clung to the tree in indecision. A welcome breeze ruffled her hair, the leaves rustling all around her in a gentle susurrus, and a beetle walked calmly over her hand, completely undisturbed by her presence.

She peered down. The ground seemed much farther away than she thought it would be, and everything looked smaller from here - the houses, the people and the dogs who wandered the streets were all diminished. She wondered if this was what the world looked like all the time to a bird, being aloft and free and infinitely superior to the poor creatures who were forced to live on land. If she had the power to live in such a way, she would never go back.

She clambered up another branch, and then another. The tree's limbs were growing narrower now, but they were still broad enough to support her weight with ease. Mama marked her height off every season on the door frame, and complained that she was short for a six-year-old, but Sylvanna did not mind. Small was good - it meant that there were more places to hide, and fewer chances of being tagged when playing games of chase the shem.

She was getting close. She shifted forwards another inch, and then another, her weight supported by two branches holding her at a sharp angle to the ground. She could hear them clearly now, and their crying only seemed to increase as she slithered closer and closer.

The nest was cradled at the junction of two branches, snugly fitted as though it had always been part of the vhenadahl. Tiny bundles of fluff popped their little heads out of it, their tongues pale pink and trilling with complaints. She was so close, she could probably reach out and touch one-

"Surana!" a voice called from down below. She twisted her head, searching through the thick canopy of leaves before she found the source of the caller. It was Jarlath, she noticed with dismay, his sharp eyes watching her as he bit into a peach, the juice of the fruit running down his chin.

"What do you want?" she asked, suddenly protective of her find. She did not want to share it with anyone, and least of all with him. He was the same age as her, but half a head taller already, with the bone structure to suggest that he would be much taller still in a few years' time. He was ugly and coarse and a bully, the sort of boy you would expect to find picking wings from a beetle or organising pit fights between stray dogs. Sylvanna and the younger children kept away from him as much as they could, but within the walls of the Alienage, no hiding place was secure from his obnoxious presence.

"Nothing," he said. He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully, and continued to peer up with his gawping eyes.

"There's not enough room here for you," Sylvanna called down; a blatant lie. The tree was huge, and its branches could have supported a dozen children or more. She shifted her weight, and wondered if he had seen the nest, wishing that the mother would return. He would probably feed the babies to his dogs if he could reach them. "What are you looking at?"

Jarlath smirked, and spat out the peach seed before responding. "I can see your small clothes," he taunted, with an odious grin.

Several things happened in quick succession.

Sylvanna squealed in horrified indignation, and scrambled to cross her legs, scraping her knee badly in her haste. As she reached down to adjust her skirt, her elbow knocked the corner of the nest, the impact causing one tiny bird to tumble out of its shelter. She reached out desperately as it fell, its siblings crying plaintively from the safety of the nest. Her fingers closed around thin air and she overbalanced, tumbling for an anxious moment before catching herself painfully on a lower branch, her nails scrambling frantically against the bark of the branch before she righted herself.

Sylvanna tossed the hair out of her face, peering anxiously down to the ground below. Jarlath was looking down at his feet in amusement, as he prodded a small shape with his foot. "Huh. I think you killed it."

Faster than she thought possible, Sylvanna was shimmying down the tree, landing with a soft thump onto the dirt below. She crept over to the boy, staring down with horror at the thing at his feet. "No," she protested, tears welling in her eyes. "No, no, no, no, no..."

"You're a murderer," Jarlath said with delight. "Surana is a murderer!" he shouted, repeating the phrase over and over as he ran off.

She sank to her knees in the dirt, and tentatively reached out her hands towards the tiny body, cradling it between her fingertips. "I'm sorry," she cried, the tears tracing wet paths down her cheeks, "I'm so, so sorry..."

A shadow fell over her, and she raised her head angrily, expecting to see Jarlath, but it was only Kallian. The older girl glanced down, not unsympathetically, and offered her a hand. Sylvanna shook her head; she needed to dig a grave for the little one, Mother Boann would be required to give it its final rites...

When Sylvanna glanced down, the bird was nowhere to be seen. She turned her hands over and over, smoothing out her skirt, and clambered to her feet, searching the ground.

Kallian watched her with the growing suspicion that her friend was little unhinged. "You shouldn't cry," the older girl insisted. "Only shems cry," she added, with a sniff of disdain.

"It's gone," Sylvanna wailed, trying not to sniffle. She glanced up into the tree, but the nest was invisible from the ground. It had been there; she had seen it, and Jarlath had seen it, and-

"What's gone?"

Sylvanna opened her mouth to reply, but a dark shape moving to her right gave her pause. It was a dog, sandy brown and stocky, with a strange, squashed-looking face, and fierce whorls of colour painted over its coat. It was standing next to the vhenadahl tree with one of its back legs cocked, and it...

Sylvanna shouted out in horror. "Bad dog!" she scolded. "Very bad dog!"

The dog finished its business, setting its leg back on the ground, and trotted up to the two girls, sniffing her. Sylvanna remembered, belatedly, that she was terrified of dogs. She had been scared at the sight of them ever since Jarlath had told her that humans liked to feed elves' ears to them for sport, with a painful tug on her own points for emphasis. This dog was so big. It was large enough that it could probably crush her in its massive jaws, but its huge eyes seemed unexpectedly friendly. It cocked its head to one side, observing her with a confused whine, and then before she could run, it stepped forwards and licked her face with its huge, warm tongue.

"That - that's gross," Sylvanna spluttered, drawing back from it. She wiped ineffectually at her cheeks, feeling the traces of drool mixed with her tears.

"Shems," Kallian said in a low tone, with a warning hand on her shoulder.

Sylvanna turned, and peered up. Her gaze continued for some time, for the person standing before her was so very tall.

"Hello," one of the humans said awkwardly, and cleared his throat. "Sorry about the dog."

There were three of them, and they were all heavily armed. The tallest one, the male, was carrying a shield, but to Sylvanna's surprise the heraldry seemed to be of a single rampant griffon, and not the twin lions of Denerim. His companions looked even stranger. There was a red-headed woman who moved with a delicate, easy grace, a bow slung on her back. She kept close to the man, but not quite near enough to touch. The last human was another woman who stood apart from the others, her arms crossed fiercely across her chest, a glare in her oddly yellowish eyes. There was a tension to her that unnerved Sylvanna, more so than the obvious air of danger around her or her outrageously revealing clothes.

"What do you want, humans?" Kallian asked with a sneer, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Sylvanna was shamed by her bravery. Kallian Tabris had always been the stronger one; she was smarter, faster and more resilient. Surely she was destined for better things than eking out a living in the slums.

"We've heard that there has been trouble here," the male human explained.

"Like you care about what happens to a bunch of elves," Kallian said.

"Perhaps you should find some more malleable subjects to interrogate, Alistair, than a pair of filthy children," the dark-haired woman suggested, her lips pursed in disapproval.

"Allow me." The archer stepped in front of the man and her fingers flashed deftly, something sparkling in the air between them. The two young elves watched her, transfixed. She spread her hands and turned them over, revealing that they were empty, before leaning down and appearing to pluck a shiny silver coin from behind Kallian's ear, dropping it into the girl's hands. Sylvanna was so preoccupied with staring at her friend that she didn't notice the human approach her, until she found a second coin being pressed into her grimy hand.

"You both look like you could use some meat on your bones," the woman said. Her voice had a wonderful, lyrical quality, her unfamiliar accent both soothing and intriguing.

"People are getting sick," Kallian explained. She had already tucked her coin away and out of sight, and Sylvanna hastily moved to do the same, slipping hers under a band on her pinafore. The metal felt cold and solid against her skin, more money than she had ever held before in her short life. "There are humans here already, who say that they have a cure. They took the sick ones over there," Kallian said, pointing over to a nearby building.

The humans glanced across in the direction she was pointing, seeing a crowd of elves gathering around the same building. Meanwhile, the large dog had returned to Sylvanna's side, and she glanced askance at it, still wary. It dropped a stick at her feet that was as long as her arm, and then sat back on its haunches, looking up at her expectantly.

"How disgusting," the scantily clad woman said. "It appears that the mutt has found another stray."

There was something about the woman that stirred unfamiliar feelings in Sylvanna. Something prickled at the edge of her memory, and she shifted uneasily, trying to ignore it. The only humans she knew of were Mother Boann and the city guards who occasionally ventured into the Alienage, and the fat, slow-footed merchants who held their stalls in the market square. These people were nothing like the others. The way they carried themselves was so different - arrogant, even - the hint of danger lurking just below the surface. Even the soft-spoken one who had spun tricks with the coins was the same, power mixed with beauty in equal measure.

"Alistair," the archer said urgently, her head tilted back as she stared up into the sky. Sylvanna followed her gaze, feeling something tugging at her, a longing, and her eyes were drawn to the same thing that had captured the human's attention.

A dragon.

Its shadow passed over them as it moved gracefully overhead, its enormous wings beating in long, steady strokes. They watched, transfixed, as it moved towards the south-east of Denerim.

The man was the first to recover, shaking his head as though to dislodge something from the inside of his skull. "Let's move," he ordered.

Something close to fear passed across the dark-haired woman's face. "This was not meant to be," she insisted. "This is - too soon. Preparations have not been made..."

The man's face twisted into a smile. "You were the one who wanted me to stop wasting time and get on with killing things. Well - here it is. One archdemon, gift-wrapped. Who could ask for more?"

The woman shook her head, clearly distressed. "You do not even know how it is that grey wardens slay such beings! I needed to tell you-"

"We'll talk on the way," the man promised. "We need to go. Now. Even you," he added, this last part to the dog, who slunk to the human's side with an apologetic whine.

"You're going to kill her," Sylvanna said. At their blank looks, she added, "the dragon. You can't," she insisted, "because she's my-"

Daughter, she thought unexpectedly, and then recoiled from the word. Whatever had possessed her to think that?

"Do not be afraid," the archer said, bending down to face her. "Alistair's a hero. It's what they do."

Sylvanna looked up, glancing beyond the archer to see the other woman staring at her with a penetrating gaze. Something passed between them, the indelible stuff of memory that beckoned, through the haze of what could have been and what should have been, to ring with a clarity and force that she could not ignore.

"Time to wake up, my love," Morrigan said.

Sylvanna woke up.

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Redcliffe

It was pitch dark.

Sylvanna twisted in the sheets, shivering with half-remembered impulses of fear and longing as her hands reached for the woman who shared her bed. Morrigan was awake, her shape barely distinct in the dying glow of the fire.

"The dreams, again?" she asked.

Sylvanna merely nodded, burying close to her and refusing to let go. Morrigan hesitated for a moment, before wrapping her arms around her. Secure again, with the reassuring rhythm of Morrigan's pulse against her cheek, Sylvanna drifted back to sleep.

When she next awoke, she found herself alone.

It was early morning, the pale shreds of light finding her where she lay and bathing her bare body with a muted glow. Sylvanna stretched, feeling an ache in her back as she stood up, yawning. Echoes of memory clutched at her, as she thought about peaches, and the smear of juice from lip to chin...

She walked over to the wash basin and scrubbed her face and hands, more fiercely than was necessary, as though that would erase the last dregs of her dream from her mind.

The Fade was a strange place. After the Blight, dreams of darkspawn and corruption had subsided dramatically into nothing more than distant murmurs. It had been a shock, at first, albeit a welcome one, but then something else had awoken from its slumber, and beckoned to her with its strange, beautiful voice, filled with yearning and desire...

Sylvanna was too young to hear the Calling, or so she told herself. Alistair had said - Alistair had said thirty years, give or take, and it had only been close to eleven. Then again, Alistair had not known about how archdemons were killed, so perhaps he had been wrong about this, too.

(It could not be true. She was too young, and there was still so much to do. Her place was here - not in the Deep Roads, where all the old wardens went to die, for fear of a fate far worse than death.)

She dried her hands, and cast around for something to wear. A discarded dress on the floor caught her eye, and she sighed with the memory of it.

She had neglected her meeting with Arl Teagan.

The man was very strange, for a human, or so he had been, ten or so years ago. When they had first met, Redcliffe was being overrun by the undead, and he had requested their aid. That was all well and good, but then their conversation had taken an... unexpected turn. Her face had turned bright red, Alistair had coughed as though he were choking, and Morrigan had merely rolled her eyes and crossed her arms in disdain. Once she had recovered herself, Sylvanna had said something about how the bann ought to stick to his own kind, and that had been the end of that.

And now he had married a commoner. Teagan was a very strange man.

Sylvanna scrutinised her reflection in the mirror. The dress had been a gift from the Arl of South Reach, and she smoothed it down over her hips, feeling self-conscious. The last time she had worn a dress - a real dress, not a pair of robes that had been enchanted to aid her powers in killing people, or those strange Tevinter garments that sat above the knee and had elicited wolf whistles from the more vulgar members of their party (but were strangely comfortable, apart from those ugly furry shoulders, and really very practical in a fight) - had been at Alistair's coronation.

Now that had been anf awkward occasion. Leliana had wrestled her into a gown that had been specially altered, which had been embarrassing (apparently elves did not usually attend such functions - aside from serving at them) and it had chafed, though not as much as Alistair's ceremonial armour, judging by the look on his face.

Sylvanna shied away from her reflection, and fussed aimlessly with her hair for a few fruitless moments. Eventually giving it up as a lost cause, she slipped a cloak over her dress and ventured outside.

She headed towards the eastern tower, unsure as to what she should expect. Teagan had been given an ultimatum, and it was his choice as to what happened next. Nothing he could say to her would change that.

The guards outside his room nodded to her as she approached. "The arl is waiting for you, M'Lady," one said to her.

Sylvanna raised a brow. "He's been here all night?" she asked.

The guard shrugged. "It appears so."

Sylvanna breathed out, mentally preparing herself. "I won't keep him long," she promised the guards, who stood aside to let her pass.

The remnants of a fire still glowed in the hearth, and seated before it was the arl himself, clearly wide awake. He glanced up as she entered, and she was pleased to see that he had filled out his frame slightly since she had last seen him. He looked... healthy, at least, even if dark shadows hung under his eyes.

"Warden," he said, standing up, "so glad that you could find the time to meet with me."

He towered over her, his empty hands held casually by his sides. The guards would have frisked him for hidden weapons, of course, but he still moved like a man of martial talents, strength and deadly agility in every movement.

"I propose we stretch our legs as we talk, Warden," Teagan suggested. A slight quirk in his brow betrayed his anxiety, or perhaps it was merely the lack of sleep. "What say you?"

"Very well," Sylvanna agreed, before she could stop herself. She stepped out of the room, and Arl Teagan followed, the guards watching him warily.

"Warden, are you sure-" one of them began.

"You may follow at a distance, if you wish," Sylvanna granted. Teagan had his family to think about, after all.

The arl offered her his arm, and she looked at him with confusion. He dropped it, his mouth quirking into a wry smile. "Old habits," he said. Clearing his throat to cover his embarrassment, he began to walk slowly, clearly conscious of not making any sudden moves.

There were scores of servants about, even at this early hour. They carefully avoided his gaze, passing the group as swiftly as they could. Sylvanna scanned their faces as they brushed past, but none of them seemed familiar.

Teagan stopped abruptly, and Sylvanna almost ran into the back of him. "I have something in mind that I think you should see, Warden. It is not far, if you would care to indulge me."

Sylvanna raised a brow. "This sounds mysterious."

Teagan laughed, with a sideways glance at the guards who were following behind them. "I assure you, it is nothing of the sort."

They crossed into the courtyard, Teagan leading them up a flight of stairs to the parapets. Guards on patrol gave them odd looks as they passed by, but none of them stopped or even questioned their party. Teagan glanced behind him halfway up the stairs, and continued moving when he saw Sylvanna close on his heels.

"Eamon and I used to play hide and seek on these walls," he said when they had reached the top. "One day, I was so determined to win that I bribed a guard with an apple into promising not to give me away."

"Did you win?" Sylvanna asked.

"In a manner of speaking. Eamon became so tired of searching for me, he went away to practise sword fighting with Rowan, our sister. It was dark when I finally crawled out from my hiding spot, cold and terribly hungry."

Teagan leaned over the parapet, and the wind ruffled his hair, blowing it across his face. He paid it no heed, however, gesturing to the tower across the lake. "You must be glad to be free of it, yes?" he asked, glancing back at Sylvanna. She kept her face blank, not deigning to answer such a ridiculous question. "You know, Alistair did himself a great disservice, freeing the mages from the Chantry's purview. The fallout from that decision was not insignificant."

"It was the right thing to do," Sylvanna said.

"You think so?" Teagan's eyes were hard. "You believe that all people should have some personal freedoms, perhaps? That they should have the right to make their own choices?"

"Choice is a luxury that must sometimes be forfeited for the greater good. You know that as well as anyone, Arl Teagan."

"Touché," Teagan murmured, a grim smile on his lips.

Sylvanna had always assumed Teagan to be a dilettante - content to while away his days in Rainsfere, avoiding the duties and intrigue of court to keep to himself and (so rumour had it) to comfort his brother's wife in Eamon's absence. He had changed, over the years, becoming a father and an arl, shouldering both the weight of the castle and the burden of parental responsibility.

"Tell me what happened to Eamon," Sylvanna insisted.

The arl averted his eyes from her, instead redirecting his attention to the little wooden houses that bordered the very edge of the lake. "The village looks so very small from here, don't you think?" he asked. "Do you remember when you first came to Redcliffe, Warden?"

Sylvanna joined the arl in observing the view. "I remember."

"You were such a strange lot," Teagan mused. "A qunari, a dog, three humans and an elf - but we were desperate for aid. If you had been three-headed demons from beyond the Veil, we would have accepted your swords, if you would have fought for us."

Sylvanna doubted that very much. The effect on morale for the Redcliffe soldiers would have negated any benefits from that particular arrangement.

"Many died that night," Teagan continued, "but the village was saved. You were heroes."

"Your men fought bravely."

"Whatever happened to that golem, anyway?" Teagan asked, his brow crinkled slightly.

"She went to Tevinter, along with Wynne," Sylvanna said.

Teagan baulked for a moment at that revelation, before recovering himself admirably. "Ah. Pity. I would be curious to know what - she - thought of your new vocation as a priestess of death."

"You speak as though the founding of the Chantry itself was not mired in war and bloodshed."

"Andraste led her fellow slaves to freedom. You seem to be leading that child's followers into servitude."

"It is their choice whether to follow or not-"

"If you truly believe that, then I fear all hope is lost, Warden." Before she could reply, Teagan turned to a passing guard, gesturing him close. "Tomas. How long have you served my family?"

The guard glanced uneasily between the two of them. "All my life, M'Lord."

"And would you say that you are a loyal man, Tomas? A man who would faithfully keep his vows to his lord and lady?"

"Yes, but-"

"Good Tomas," Teagan continued, "would you be so kind as to draw your sword and strike down this intruder who threatens my family and the Arling of Redcliffe?"

The poor man shook his head miserably. "M'Lord, it is not my place-"

"If this woman - this mage, this... warden... were to command you to kill me, would you do so?"

Sylvanna bit her lip. "Teagan-"

The arl shushed her, holding his hand up. "Let the man speak."

The guard had not the sense nor the imagination to lie. "Yes, my lord."

"Why? Why are her orders more binding than my own, Tomas?"

The guard shifted his weight, his eyes darting between the two. "We serve the same mistress."

"And what has this mistress ever done for you, Tomas?" Teagan asked.

"I-" the guard stuttered for words. "She - She-"

Teagan's smile was bitter. "Thank you, Tomas. That will be all."

The guard looked uncertainly to the warden, and she gave him a nod. He continued onwards with his patrol, clearly glad to be done with the interrogation.

"Now, Warden, if that is not a form of slavery, I don't know what is," Teagan said to her softly. "That man's mind is clearly not his own."

Sylvanna looked troubled, and she turned away from the arl, pretending to show an interest in the dealings of the courtyard below them.

Teagan cleared his throat. "There is something else I want to show you. Come," he beckoned, walking along the parapet and descending by the far steps. The two guards followed them doggedly, maintaining a short distance between themselves and their charge.

The arl led them back into the castle, crossing past the main hall and up yet another flight of stairs. The guards clanked in their armour as they walked behind them, and Sylvanna wondered how they could bear it, in all that suffocating metal. It had to be like walking in a cage.

Teagan led them up to the second floor, and into a disused room. The guards waited outside, anxiously watching as if the arl could flee at any moment.

"This was Eamon's room," Teagan said. "It hasn't been used since - well, since he died."

Sylvanna had already guessed as much. "Was it Jowan?" she asked, wondering if perhaps the Ashes had only been a temporary cure.

"No," Teagan said. He was looking down at the empty bed, at the layers of dust that coated its covers. His voice had taken on a curiously hollow ring, his eyes shadowed with the echoes of grief. "It was the king."

"Alistair?"

"Do you remember when Eamon awoke from that cursed blood mage's poison?" Teagan asked. "I couldn't believe it, even then. After none of our knights returned, I had feared the worst. And yet, he was up and walking within the day. He-"

Teagan broke off abruptly, sounding strained. Sylvanna averted her eyes, and the moment passed.

"Having him wake, and being able to tell him that both his wife and son were safe and alive - well. I had never been more thankful to the Maker for sending you our way, Warden."

Sylvanna reached out a hand towards him. "Teagan-"

The arl brushed past her, exiting the room, and she followed after a moment's hesitation.

"I have one last thing I want to show you," Teagan said. He turned abruptly on his heel, and Sylvanna had to hurry to catch up with his long stride. He led them to the back of the estate, far from the crowds of servants and patrolling guards. Their escorts' greaves left imprints on the soil, still muddy from the previous evening's rain, and the hem of Sylvanna's dress tore as it snagged on a protruding root.

"Teagan, this is really very inconvenient-"

"Here," the arl said, stopping at last. They stood at the base of a huge, hollowed out tree trunk. The tree must have been massive when it was alive, needing at least three men standing with hands outstretched to span its girth.

"Ladies first," Teagan said, with a gesture of invitation. Sylvanna looked dubiously at the arl, but eventually picked up her skirts and ducked into the hollow trunk. There was room enough for her to stand upright, but Teagan remained in the 'doorway', hunched over.

Sylvanna gestured, and a wisp appeared, lighting the confines of the space. Mixed amongst the dirt and debris appeared to be a few toys, some feathers and a few pieces of brightly coloured glass - the treasure trove of a child.

"Eamon and I used to play here," Teagan said. "Rowan was too grown up for such things by then, but we still managed to have fun. I showed it to Roslyn, of course, when she was old enough to appreciate it. Those toys you see are hers."

Sylvanna squatted down, her skirt trailing in the dirt, and picked through the things. There was a short stick, about a yard long, with a tuft of feathers on the end, a wooden set of sword and shield, cut down to a child's proportions, and a small scrap of cloth that had probably started off life as a handkerchief. Some poor woman had painstakingly embroidered a heraldic design in the corner, Sylvanna saw, as she held it up to the light of the wisp.

"I cut that 'staff' for her," Teagan noted, pointing at the stick. "Not very well, I might add, but she seemed to like it well enough."

"I don't understand," Sylvanna said softly, staring at the piece of cloth she was holding. "Why... what are they for?"

Teagan offered her a hand, and she stared at it, unseeing for a moment, before placing her own within his and allowing him to help her out of the tree. The handkerchief was still in her grasp, and as she examined it in the bright sunlight, it was clear that the insignia was intended to be a rampant griffon, the insignia of the Grey Wardens.

"You know, I even owe my marriage to you, Warden," Teagan said as she released his hand. "Kaitlyn and I met in Denerim, where she travelled with her brother after you aided her. Were it not for her, I might never have become a father."

The arl began to pace restlessly, his footsteps sinking into the mud underfoot. The sunlight filtering through the trees picked up metallic glints of thread in his tunic, shining bronze and silver against the fine weave of the cloth.

"Is it any wonder that Roslyn worships you? Why she longs to grow up to be just half the woman you once were? Your story grew to legend," he continued. "Sylvanna Surana, the grey warden, the Circle mage, vanquisher of the Blight..."

"Teagan, stop-"

"...The Hero of Ferelden."

"What do you want from me?" Sylvanna asked, her voice a strained whisper.

Teagan watched her carefully, standing still with his hands clasped behind his back. It was obvious that he had rehearsed his next words, drawing them out as he waited for her to meet with him in the early pre-dawn hours. "You held all our hopes, once," he said. "You touched lives wherever you went, and changed them for the better. You can do so again," he begged. "There is still a way to make this right. Warden-"

"What are you saying, Teagan?" she asked, her voice curiously flat. "Are you suggesting that I should... kill my own daughter?"

The arl took a sharp intake of breath, and something changed in his face. It took a moment for Sylvanna to decipher his expression, to decode the set of his eyes, the softening line of his lips. It was an emotion that she had never expected to see from the man that they had imprisoned in his own castle.

Pity.

"Sylvanna," he said, as if he was swaddling his words in cotton wool, "what have they done to you? That - that creature is not your daughter-"

Her hand was outstretched before she knew it, and her palm struck him firmly across the cheek, the sound ringing clearly through the still morning air. He made no attempt to avoid her, though they both knew that he was more than capable of doing so. Behind them, they heard the two guards approaching, drawn by the sound of violence. Teagan slowly raised a hand to the reddened mark on his cheek, as if not quite believing what had just happened.

"Whatever you thought I was-" Sylvanna said, clenching her stinging hand into a fist, "whoever you wanted me to be - that woman is dead, Teagan."

"Sylvanna, wait-"

She turned from him, gathering her skirts in her hands, and fled from his pity. Her hair blew back in the breeze, the uneven ground slowing her flight as low vines whipped dangerously close to her face. Perhaps she thought that she could escape both the weight of her history and the accusations of the arl, if only she could run fast enough.

The Hero of Ferelden was dead.

The world had yet to learn what remained in her place.