Join us brothers and sisters. Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant. Join us as we carry out the duty that cannot be forsworn. And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day, we shall join you.

9:30 Dragon, Denerim

Blight-clouds hung heavy in the sky, red and threatening, obscuring the weak winter sun. Through them a dark shape flew, bellowing rage and conquest, an eerie song that Called to all of the Tainted. Below a horde of darkspawn surged, all moving to the mental command of their Tainted God, striking here and there at the city's defenses.

Urthemiel did not wait long. Before the armies of humans, dwarves, and elves reached the hill overlooking Denerim, the Archdemon dove, screaming fire and death. Dozens of arrows from the few remaining defenders launched into the air; some of them fell short, and the rest bounced off of his scales. A brave apostate who had thrown his lot in with the city's defenders threw a crackling bolt of lightning, enraging Him when it hit. He dove again and came up with that mage in his claws, tearing him in half and then dropping him like a stone.

"Maker," Elyssa Cousland breathed. She, Alistair, and Riordan stood atop a hill overlooking the city. Below them was a vast roiling mass of Taint; the Song had never been stronger. Riordan, the oldest of them, seemed the most affected, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. Their blood hummed in their veins, to the same crooning Call.

join us
join us

Natia Brosca stood in her new Warden leathers, the same suit they'd retrieved from the Grey Warden compound in Denerim only a couple weeks before, Duran Aeducan beside her in plate armour. The Aeducan shield still hung on his back, but he gripped his sword in its sheath, knuckles white. His other hand held Natia's with the same fierce intensity he'd gone about their whole relationship. His eyes were trained on the Blight clouds they could see overhead.

"I suppose I won't be dying in the Deep Roads after all," Nat murmured, if only to break the silence. She attempted a smile but her lips trembled. Duran's steady gaze turned toward her, and he released his sword to cover their joined hands.

"Natia, you will not die today—I will not allow it." He squeezed her hand briefly before going back to his sword. He never did use the shortened version of her name, though nearly everyone did. "You wouldn't leave me to face your sister alone, would you?"

"No, of course not, you wouldn't survive her wrath," she said very seriously, and looked at him out of the corner of her eyes. His hair and beard were freshly done in the traditional Aeducan battle braids, warpaint on his upper face making him look like a Paragon from centuries ago.

He wasn't a berserker, even after trying to learn from Oghren—he just didn't have the temperament for it. But he was a solid fighter, able to withstand heavy attacks and deal out quite a bit of damage. In comparison, she was a lithe, swift rogue, dashing in and dealing quick blows with her twin hand-axes Aodh and Veshialle before running out of range of her enemy's weapons. Her Warden leathers were just enough to withstand glancing blows, not like Duran's heavy plate, which could turn aside a direct hit from any blade. The best defense against a crushing weapon such as a warhammer, on the other hand, was to not be there at all; she was very good at doing that.

The Wardens had been split up into pairs throughout the gathered armies. It was understood that if any of them got to the Archdemon, that Warden would try to kill him, though they were all hoping Riordan got there first: he had been the one to volunteer, after all. Natia and Duran stood with the dwarven contingent, somewhere near the front, behind the double ranks of berserkers.

The signalman flashed his lanterns, a rapid sequence of red and yellow light. They clung to each other's fingers for another moment before letting go, Duran settling his shield on his arm and Natia hefting her waraxes. She kissed the hilts. "Stone guide you to their knees and their throats."

Her beloved leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, then slid the visor of his helmet down. It protected his mouth and jaw, but not the area around his eyes, which appeared far fiercer in the shadows of his helm. "Ancestors, keep her safe," he muttered, and she was sure she wasn't meant to hear it.

The lanterns flashed again, three times in quick succession, yellow-red-yellow. They charged, shouting in ancient dwarven, the only words most dwarva still knew: battle-cries and insults. The berserkers worked themselves into a frenzy and devolved into mad screams as the battle-lust came upon them, and perhaps taken by something similar, Nat let out a wordless scream herself.

They all knew the parts they had to play. The Legion of the Dead were at their best, of course, having spent much more time fighting in a cohesive unit. The main dwarven army wasn't terrible, though most of them had never seen the sky before coming up from Orzammar mere weeks before. The Dalish rained arrows on the enemy, their Keepers leading units with powerful displays of magic, their warriors closing in flashes of whirling steel and ironbark. The mages from the Tower, shepherded by templars, had gathered in groups to deal long-distance damage, and a storm of fire and lightning wrought havoc on part of the horde. All this Natia knew, but once they closed on the enemy she saw nothing but blood and heard nothing but her own ragged breathing and pounding heartbeat

After the initial clash, the two armies locked forces, front lines pushing and shoving at each other, weaving back and forth. The Wardens knew their duty. The Archdemon bellowed above, circling the city, and they peeled away from the main force of battle, heading to the highest positions they could find. They had to bring the beast down, ground him so that they could kill him.

Riordan, the Orlesian Warden from Jader, had volunteered to be the one to deal the killing blow. None of them had argued. Privately, Darrian had informed her that if Riordan failed, he would take the first chance he had to try to kill Urthemiel himself. Natia had told him that it wasn't going to happen. Any of them would be glad to give their lives to take down the Archdemon; it was their duty. But if it came down to Duran or herself, she was going to do it herself, and damn the consequences; Orzammar needed Duran, and she could not live in a world where he did not.

She wasn't what anyone would consider brave. She was a thief and a thug, and hadn't felt anything other than terrified when she'd run from the battle at Ostagar. She had grown a lot since that day, she felt, not only physically (she hadn't even reached her majority) but also in character. She wasn't brave, but she would do her duty, by the Wardens and by Orzammar.

"I thought Morrigan would be here by now," Nat said, joining Elyssa, Alistair, and Daylen on the steps of the Chantry. A bird shot towards them, landing gracefully as Neria; a wound in one arm had left her even more pale than normal. The others were unharmed but for bruises. Daylen murmured a restorative spell and the injury healed, skin crawling over open flesh and blood returning to her cheeks. "Wasn't she scouting, or something?"

"Haven't seen her at all," Elyssa said, turning thoughtfully to look at Alistair. "Have you?"

"No. Last I saw her was...last night." His brow creased, and his eyes flickered uneasily. "I think—"

"There's no time to talk," said Darrian, materializing from nowhere, a bloody but grinning Zevran at his back; both elves looked uninjured. "Let's go. Riordan's already up there—"

There came a terrible bellow of pain and rage from the Archdemon, and the darkspawn that hadn't already been slain froze in place for a moment before attacking more viciously. The Wardens all cried out, trying fruitlessly to block their ears, a spike driven through their minds. They saw a body plummet from Urthemiel, disappearing into the roil of the battlefield; the Archdemon labored to stay alight. It didn't manage it, landing heavily on the battlements.

"Sodding rock-licker, nug-humping son of a—" Natia cursed. Duran touched her shoulder briefly and she fell silent.

"You will be remembered, Riordan," Elyssa intoned solemnly, then broke into a fierce snarl. "Let's go kill an archdemon."

Whyever did I agree to this? Natia thought wildly, clinging like a limpet to the back of a heaving Archdemon, feeling sick at the Taint that coursed through its body and glistened on its scales. Her axes were sunk into its neck, but they hadn't done more than annoy it. The Song called her, louder than ever, entreating her to lay down her arms, to take them up in defense of Him, to let go and fall to the parapets, to jump and fall off to the city far below. She clung on grimly, her wrists aching, her whole body a bruise from being tossed around on its back. She had no memory of getting there, no memory of the battles in which she'd lost all her knives: only a dim recollection of darkspawn attacking and falling, a bow breaking under her foot, yanking an arrow that had pinned her foot to the ground, rain and blood mixing together to slosh around uncomfortably in her boots,

Then Duran appeared, his helmet and shield gone, holding his sword in one hand and gripping one of Urthemiel's spikes in the other. His warpaint had smeared and his beard was all a-tangle, and somehow his hair had come out of its war-braids and fell about his face in a most undignified, un-Duran Aeducan way. But he was still the most beautiful thing Natia had ever seen.

He used a dagger like a climbing-spike, stabbing downwards and enraging the Archdemon even further as he made his way up. He straddled the beast's neck behind her, then hugged her so fiercely she thought for a moment her ribs would break. "Atrast nal tunsha, salroka," he murmured in her ear. "Forgive me."

"You're full of sod," she started to say, but then he lifted her free of the Archdemon's writhing and tossed her down to the battlements, where most of the other Wardens held off darkspawn. She landed hard, skidding on her side and thumping to a halt against a loose stone, scrambling to her feet as soon as she could, ignoring the pain of her landing.

"No, you sodding—!"

It was too late. As she watched helplessly, terrified and proud and filled with love and rage and despair all at once, he raised his sword and swung it: once, twice, again. Urthemiel bellowed long and low, thrashed to try and get him off, failed, spread his injured wings to try to take off.

Light encased Duran Aeducan as he plunged his sword two-handed into the base of the Archdemon's skull. The light became a beacon, lancing straight up, parting the Blight-clouds, and spread like a thunderclap across the sky.

Weaponless, for her axes still spiked the Archdemon's neck, she walked slowly towards the massive body. Duran slid off, now boneless, the strength gone from his limbs. She dropped to her knees beside him and pulled him into her lap so he half-sat against her, his plate armour making him twice as heavy. Sweat had made his hair cling to his neck and forehead, she realized, and smoothed it carefully. He had always had lighter hair than his brothers, like his mother the late Queen of Orzammar, though in face he resembled his father more than them. His eyes were like the Stone itself. They did not close until she pressed them shut; he had breathed his last before she reached him.

"Atrast tunsha. Totarnia amgetol tavash aeduc. Partha, salroka. You have won us our victory."

"So this is how it happened," said Solas. "The darkspawn horde sought to overwhelm all Thedas, but for a few mighty warriors: the Grey Wardens of Ferelden. I shall remember your sacrifice, Prince Aeducan, Hero of Ferelden."

"This was both the worst and best day of my life," said Natia, standing; her ghostly self remained huddled over Duran's corpse, too exhausted even to weep. She remembered now that she had lived for months since this day, had survived her lover's death, would survive for many more years. The battlefield faded around them as she turned away from the memory of the darkspawn horde's final stand, turned away from the memory of Daylen and Darrian and Elyssa and Alistair and Neria all uniting to defend them when she did not raise arms to defend herself.

"You're here again," said Solas with some surprise. He studied her closely. "How is it that a dwarf whom I have never met can find me twice in the Fade? You are no spirit."

"No, I am no spirit," she agreed, and shrugged disconsolately. "I do not know. Where I am...I do not think there is a Fade at all. I went through an Eluvian, you see, and since then..." she trailed off, not wanting to describe those long, lonely weeks of torture and starvation.

"No Fade? Where is it that you are? I know who you are now—the Hero's Lover, from all the tales; where are you? It is said that you vanished from Orzammar years ago," he said, leaning forward to rest his weight on his strange and primitive-looking staff. "I have walked this world for many years, and never have I found a place without the Fade, though many times have I stepped through tears in the Veil."

"I do not know where I am, but when, perhaps, I do know: the Eluvian sent me through time and space and the only term with which anyone has any familiarity is Arlathan. I think I am on Thedas, perhaps somewhere in Tevinter before the Imperium rose, in the early days of Arlathan." Brosca shrugged again and sat down on the moss-soft ground, though it hadn't been that soft a moment ago when she'd been standing on it. The Fade responds to the will of the person within. She had read that somewhere, once, or heard it from one of the Circle mages, or perhaps Neria. "I do not know if I will ever return home."

"You are in the time of Arlathan," Solas repeated, his eyebrows shooting up. "In the early days of Arlathan."

"I don't know what else it could be," she said. "I'm now travelling with a Wizard who calls himself Gandalf and Tharkûn and Mithrandir—different names for different people—and he's never heard of Thedas or Tevinter or anything, but he has heard mention of Arlathan...he doesn't remember where, though. What?"

Solas had gone very still, his eyes sharp and intent on her. "Mithrandir...Did he give you any other names?"

"Incantous, or sommat like it, and Olórin. He's a nice fellow, for an old man. Oh yeah, we were travelling through a forest which he called the Woodlan Realm of King Thranduil, of the Elves: an Elvish kingdom! Isn't that incredible? And now we go to Rivendell, where I intend to find out where exactly I am. I don't recognize any of the landscape."

"You would not," he said softly. "Olórin. Long has it been since I have heard that name. You have gone far indeed, Warden."

When Brosca awoke, she remembered nothing beyond that, though she was sure there had been more said.

Late spring, TA 2850, the Old Forest Road in the Valley Anduin:

"The Old Forest Road," Gandalf said, "or the Men-i-Naugrim, as it is known to the elves, is an old Dwarvish road. It's been here since the Second Age at least. The eastern end leads to impassable marshes where the paths have long been lost; the western end runs, in the mountains, through the High Pass, and past Rivendell it crosses the Bruinen river and goes all the way to Hobbiton and Michel-delving in the Shire, more than three hundred miles west of the Misty Mountains. From there it's another two hundred or so miles to the Blue Mountains, where the Longbeards once of Erebor have settled their halls in the ruins of Belegost these past fifty years."

They had made camp the evening before—well, Gandalf had, as Brosca still had not the strength to help—after crossing the Old Ford, which looked dangerously close to collapse. The river rushed along south behind them, strong and furious, stretching farther in both directions than any river she'd seen before. The Anduin Valley was not much of a valley, merely a wide stretch of land between the Greenwood in the east and the Misty Mountains in the west, dipping shallowly to meet the great Anduin River. Fields of windswept grass dominated the valley, in between patches of mostly melted snow; sparse clouds sped through the bright blue sky, caught in a strong headwind.

The Wizard helped her onto the saddle of his swift-footed horse, and fixed the saddlebags so that they somewhat supported her legs. He bent to the task of dousing the embers of their fire and recovered a few smallish potatoes, which he'd kept baking in the embers since the fire had died some hours hence. Presently he stood and mounted Nórima behind her, handing her the potatoes and gathering the reins in one hand, keeping his staff held upright in the other.

"Erebor! Thráin said he hailed thence," Brosca said as they started off at a comfortable pace. "He said he was King, but then why was he a prisoner in Dol Goldur, so far easterly of his Halls?"

Gandalf glanced at her in surprise, then halted Nórima and looked to the Greenwood, turning more southerly than where they had emerged. "So! there lies the King under the Mountain," he said softly, and shook his head. "O! for the follies of dwarves!"

"What do you mean by that?" Brosca asked. She shifted, trying again to get comfortable in the saddle: her long weeks of near-starvation had left her gaunt, and her bones grated against each other and ached when she sat, though they didn't hurt as much as they did when upon the hard-packed earth. Her joints creaked and snapped whenever she moved.

She had already consumed a small meal from Gandalf's rations, after she'd first woken up, but her hunger had not been satisfied. She didn't want to overeat and then throw it all back up—she'd seen that happen when dwarves who'd eaten too little for too long ate a large, hearty meal. The potatoes Gandalf surely meant to share between them, though when she offered one to him he told her they were for her to recover her strength. She nibbled on them as the wizard spoke. They were unseasoned and a little overdone, but they still tasted fantastic.

"For a time after settling in the Blue Mountains, Durin's Folk grew in prosperity and numbers, and Thráin was content to rule his people. He had a son—I cannot recall his name..." Gandalf trailed off, as if hoping she knew this. She shook her head and he continued: "Many years later, Thráin grew older and he became restless. His desire to reclaim his kingdom of the Lonely Mountain of Erebor grew. Nine years ago, he and several others left their dwelling and journeyed into Wilderland. They were not seen for many months, and when the group eventually returned to the Blue Mountains, Thráin was not among them: he had disappeared whilst they slept in the eaves of Mirkwood. They searched in vain for him for days, but he could not be found. Nothing has been heard of him hence: until now, when I chanced upon you and he by looking into the depths of a great pit."

"Why do you claim that as folly?" Brosca asked, after swallowing her potato. "It is not folly to yearn for the home of your people back again—and how did they lose it, in the first place? What left them wandering?"

Gandalf turned Nórima away from Mirkwood and urged him onward again; now they quickened to a long, loping almost-gallop that couldn't rightly be called a canter. At first his hooves thundered on the ground, but as they crossed from hard earth to softer grass, they muted, and at last the wizard spoke.

"In the year 2770 of the Third Age, the dragon Smaug descended on the Lonely Mountain and ravaged it: he destroyed the kingdom and claimed it as his own, along with all the treasures and gold within. The survivors began a long, homeless exile..." and Gandalf told her of the fall of Thror to the gold-sickness, how he'd ventured into Moria alone and had not survived; how Thráin had thus begun the War of the Dwarves and Orcs, which resulted in the death of his youngest son, and how Dain Ironfoot had ended the war by the slaying of their leader, called Azog; of the dwarves' long wandering, whence they settled in the hills of Dunland for many years before finally finding their way to the ruins of Belegost in Ered Luin.

"A terrible tale," said Brosca, and they fell silent for awhile as they continued down the Old Forest Road. Eventually the drumbeats of Nórima's hooves lulled her to sleep, where she dreamt of dragon's fire and ruin.

She awoke when Nórima changed pace, slowing to a walk; she saw that Gandalf looked about alertly, his eyes flashing in every direction. The horse's hoofbeats sounded oddly muted, and she noticed that the wizard's staff glowed softly, though that glow was only barely visible under the bright sunshine. She did not say anything, for if the wizard had muted even the horse's hooves, then surely her voice would be too loud. After a time of the horse walking quietly, Gandalf relaxed, his staff dimming; he urged Nórima back to a ground-eating lope and the sound returned to his hooves.

"What happened?" she asked, speaking none-too-loudly, just in case.

"There are agents of the Necromancer trying to follow us."

His voice was grim, and he said no more on the subject, no matter how she pressed; she decided to ask about something else that had been bothering her. "What did Thráin say when he spoke to you? He said something about his son?"

"Indeed!" Gandalf seemed gladdened by the change of subject. "He entrusted me with a map and a key—to what, I am not sure. He wanted me to give them to his son, whom he loved very much. He spoke in Khuzdul; I take from this that you have yet to begin your instruction in this ancient language of the dwarves?"

"I've never heard of it before," she said, scowling. "How do you know it?"

"Oh, I know many things." Gandalf, clearly amused, did not bother hiding his smile. "You are very young indeed, Miss Brosca. Do you wish to learn this language?"

"Yes, definitely, if you would teach it."

And thus they spent the two days travelling across the Valley Anduin, with Gandalf teaching her Khuzdul: he was a strict teacher, letting her move on to a new word only when he was sure she had the pronunciation of the first completely correct. On the second evening, they made camp in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and Gandalf announced that the next day they would start through the High Pass.

Atrast (nal) tunsha: a formal farewell. May translate to "may you always find your way in the dark."
Totarnia amgetol tavash aeduc: words of a dwarven rite for the dead
partha: peace
salroka: friend, one at my side
*note on dwarva beards: in Origins the female dwarva didn't have beards, but it is possible for female Cadash Inquisitors to have a beard, so I'm going with it.