**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

So, after replaying Dragon Age Origins for probably the fifth time, I decided to use modifications for the first time. I discovered this incredible series of starting with A Flower From Tamlen by user SarahCousland and I absolutely fell in love. This series inspired this story, and I would like to give credit to her for her wonderful mod-work and encourage others to take a look if they're interested. You can find her and her series on Nexus Mods.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

. . .

It was the end of autumn in the Brecilian Forest. The lush green leaves had changed to sunset orange, and some a strawberry red. Now, they had curled and fallen from the trees, leaving the woodlands dormant for the coming winter. Herds of halla had moved on in search of shrubbery and the predators had followed them, leaving the realm in silence. All was still as the world prepared to sleep, its remaining inhabitants preparing to do the same. Few remained but the Sabrae Clan, readying themselves to roam to their next destination.

Day turned to evening, and evening to night as the final arrangements were completed, leaving the Dalish ready to move in the following days. It was the perfect opportunity for a pair of elves to slip away into the trees. They had always done so, as their meeting had been met with disapproval from the clan elders. Their condemnation did not deter the lovers from one another, the pair instead bonding in secret. The two were happy, despite their union being met with criticism. This became even more so when Shiahari became with child.

A soft chuckle escaped through the brush. Within, the pair relaxed, wrapped in each other's arms beneath the moonlight. Varren smiled, placing a soft kiss against her temple. His affection was met with a gentle squeeze from his mate. The feel of her arms tightening around him stretched his smile even wider. Her contented sigh filled him with pride to know that only he could affect her in this way. Shiahari, the fierce huntress of the Evria Clan, slayer of all and conquered by none.

He had met the fiery elf during the last Arlathven, and he was smitten nearly at first sight. Her long black locks were tied in a rope-like braid and her eyes were like pools of dark melted chocolate. She had rejected him then, unimpressed by his status as keeper of his clan. That alone had struck him with insatiable fascination. Enamored by her ferocity, he later accompanied her during one of her outings with the hopes of proving himself a worthy companion. Perhaps if he could slay a greater beast than she, then Shiahari would be willing to grace him with her courtship.

He didn't stand a chance. It was there that his fascination had multiplied, watching as she deftly felled a great forest bear with a single shot of her deadly arrow.

Shiahari was everything he could have possibly imagined and more. She was cunning, wild, and sharp, a born predator and true hunter in every sense of the word. Even her Vallaslin marked her as Andruil's chosen. To court her took a great deal of effort, as defeating her in the battlefield was nigh impossible. However, all hope was not lost. Eventually, through many attempts, he was able to slay a worthy quarry and impress her with his magic as well. It was a grueling process… but in the end, it was all worth it. To call such a woman his own was something few could proudly claim. And as keeper, he couldn't think of anyone else he'd rather have by his side.

"Wait, vhenan… do you hear something?" she whispered, halting his ministrations.

He ceased his affections immediately, going on high alert at the sound of his mate's alarmed tone. Some would disregard her, believing her reaction nothing more than the warnings of a paranoid mind. And they would be fools to do so. He knew this woman. A woman who could snipe a hare from over one hundred yards. If there was one thing that he had learned over their time together, it was that Shiahari's senses were never to be ignored. Quickly and silently, Varren helped her to her feet, staying low to remain hidden in the trees. Sure enough, a few moments later, they heard it again, a rustling in the trees. They weren't alone.

"Come," Mahariel whispered, grabbing their weapons, and guiding the two of them through the woods. Some would find it strange for one in her position to carry a bow, but such was her way. She never traveled unarmed. Even now, as Varren led her through the forest, she kept her eyes keen. Between the two of them, his mate was far more capable in the art of stealth and movement. However, at nearly eight and a half months pregnant, she was somewhat impaired. He could see her bristling as they crept, checking behind him as they weaved through the thicket. Obnoxious chatter reached their sensitive ears. They would recognize that sound anywhere. Shemlen.

They quickened their pace, trying to move as quietly as possible. The two of them hadn't traveled very far from the camp. If they reach the clan, then -

"Well, well, well, look what we have here, boys." The sound of a gruff rumble told them they had been spotted. Wandering into view was a human with dirty blonde hair and scar on his face. How he had earned it was a mystery, but it was clear that his victim hadn't gone quietly. His clothes and armor were ragged, but highly functional and more than likely pilfered. They knew their kind well.

A particularly unpleasant looking fellow emerged by the one who addressed them, with shaggy red hair and stained crooked teeth. One of his henchmen, no doubt. "Oy, boss. I think dat's one o' dem Dalish," he observed, taking note of the markings on Mahariel's face.

"Sure is, Marty. And what a lovely companion."

The look Shiahari offered was pure venom, a fire burning in her eyes brighter than a thousand suns. If looks could kill, the man would have been incinerated on the spot. Alas, they could not, much to her dissatisfaction.

"We have nothing to offer you, shemlen. Please, let us pass." His voice was cordial, but firm. Mahariel was by no means a submissive man, but he knew a dangerous situation when he saw one. This man and his ilk were bandits, likely traveling towards the trade roads in search of evening caravans. To plunder and pillage was their activity of choice and they always traveled in packs. To provoke them unnecessarily would be highly unwise.

"Oh, an elf with manners! And they say the Dalish are savages," the leader taunted, earning a strangled snarl in response. Much as it pained her, Shiahari held her tongue. Her eyes had started scanning the area moments following their discovery and she had already spied at least three other men through the trees. They were surrounded.

"Tell you what," the bandit leader started, stepping towards the two. His movements were slow and precise, like a predator stalking its cornered prey, and his eyes were fixed pointedly on Shiahari. "Since you got no coin, we'll let you pass." The elven pair nearly let out a sigh of relief. It was very short-lived. "But the wench stays."

So much for diplomacy.

Mahariel's face darkened, a hand slowly guiding his mate further behind him. "We cannot agree to those terms."

"Aw, why not?" the bandit sneered. "The road is a lonely place for my men and I. Surely, you can understand the desire for some company. We'll give her right back, thief's honor."

Shiahari laughed, a hateful bitter trill. The fact that this brigand had said the words 'thief' and 'honor' in the same sentence was highly amusing to her. It certainly showed he was far out of touch with reality. Catching two more bandits approaching from their sides, she knew. There was no talking their way out of this one. In situations like these, the huntress would often remain silent, knowing full well that her mouth was likely to escalate the situation. Instead, she let Varren negotiate, as he had a way of bringing tensions down. It was that wisdom that was part of the reason he was such a well-respected keeper.

But this was her realm. When negotiations fell through, Shiahari would step in. More effectively than Mahariel, she could speak to them in a language they understood. Bloodshed. And it was clear to her that this situation was going to come down to a fight.

"Oy, don't be stingy, mate. Looks to me like you've already had a turn," the shaggy redhead taunted with a lecherous grin. Mahariel placed his hand against his mate's, sensing her desire to draw steel. It was obvious these men had no intention of letting them walk peacefully, but they would not draw first blood given choice. To provoke a battle would be the last resort.

His captain continued, eyeing Shiahari's swollen belly. "Sure looks that way… Don't worry, we'll be gentle with her. Promise. Of course, if you don't want to share…" The bandits started closing in.

"We refuse."

"I wasn't asking, mate." At the leader's command, the men around him started to draw their swords. The gauntlet had been thrown. The time for negotiations was over.

Mahariel growled, brandishing his Keeper's Staff. "Over my dead body."

"That can be arranged." All pleasantries evaporated; the marauders moved in.

An arcane bolt was their answer, Varren summoning a burst of light in their direction. A direct hit tossed one of the bandits off their feet and crashing into a nearby tree. His strike was the battle cry, setting forth engagement. The bandits charged the pair, quickly sending them backing away into the forest trees. An arc of lightning cracked through the air, striking another with high-powered charge. Another managed to evade, making his way towards the Keeper with his sword raised. He had assumed the woman unthreatening, hiding behind her protector and burdened with child. A big mistake.

An arrow felled him with such force that it knocked him off balance, pinning him to a nearby oak. The two continued guiding them backward, trying to draw them in a way to allow them escape. If they could maneuver around them, they could reach open ground and call for help. Their sentries would come to their aid. But the marauders were one step ahead of them. Reinforcements from nearby were already approaching, archers among them. As an arrow whizzed by, thumping into a nearby trunk, they knew they were out of options. They had to run.

Lifting his staff, Mahariel summoned his power. A wall of fire erupted before them, cutting off the approaching bandits and setting the thicket aflame. Those not fortunate enough to stop in time shouted in panic as the flames licked their skin. Taking the opportunity, the pair took advantage of the chaos and fled into the trees. They had escaped the initial attackers, but they were far from safe. Footsteps thundered from their flanks and arrows swept passed their vision as the other bandits approached them. Panting, Shiahari ran as quickly as her hindered body would allow her, nearly stumbling over a tree root. Varren assisted her as he looked around them, both ducking and dodging the arrows as nimbly as only an elf could.

But it wasn't enough.

It happened in slow motion, the loose of an arrow from a plunderer's bow. His eyes traced the trajectory as it flew towards them… It wasn't aiming for him. Turning, Mahariel paused his movement, allowing his wife to pass beside him and shielding her from the incoming threat. The arrow struck him, hitting his shoulder, and knocking him sideways into a nearby tree. Shiahari froze, turning toward her injured mate. One look at him filled her with dread. Much like her own victim, the arrow had pierced through, lodging him against the wood. He was trapped.

Enraged, the huntress drew her bow. A retaliatory arrow struck with vengeance, hitting the assaulter right between the eyes. As his body tumbled lifelessly to the ground, her eyes caught a glimpse of the pointed cartilage beneath his hairline. Her rage increased ten-fold. Round-ears. Her hands reached for another arrow. Then, at the sight of Varren, they froze. She didn't want to admit it. She didn't want to accept it, but she knew.

She couldn't save him.

The approaching numbers were too great, and she too encumbered. If she ran, he would die. If she stayed, they would kill them both, after using her to their filthy hearts' content. Were it only her, that would be a risk she would willingly take to remain by his side… but it wasn't. The child within her womb was just as much at risk. And Varren would never forgive her for sacrificing their only child. She would never forgive herself. Her lips moved in a silent message. Ar lath ma. Then, with tears of rage pricking at the corners of her eyes, she turned and fled into the trees.

She moved as fast as her legs would carry her, pausing slightly at the sounds behind her. It was foolish to falter. As a huntress, she knew. Yet she couldn't stop her body involuntarily turning at the sound of struggle. When she did, her worst nightmares had come to life. The round-ears had reached him, one lifting a glistening blade to his chin. Varren mouthed a single word before they slit his throat. Run.

That was exactly what she did.

The grass crunched beneath her feet as she ran. Her heart pounded in her chest, the sound of running legs vaguely reaching her ears. She wanted to see him. To look upon his face one last time. But she knew she couldn't. Shiahari couldn't turn back. Instead, she reached behind her to grasp an arrow, dodging projectiles as she did so. A quick spin and a retaliatory shot paused their pursuit. Her arrow missed; eyes blurred by salty tears. Though she didn't hit her mark, she had successfully slowed them down. Her counterattack had given her a split second to change course. She took a quick turn and darted into the bushes, vanishing from sight.

A shaking hand clasped over her mouth, silencing her heavy breathing. It took a few moments for her brain to register the appendage was her own. She felt detached from it all, as though her soul was no longer anchored to her physical form. Her world had shattered. Yet there was nothing she could do. She had to protect herself and their child. It was the only way that his memory could live on. The sound of footsteps approached her. They slowed to a checkered, irregular pace; their hushed voices alerted her to their position. They were searching for her.

It was here that her years as an experienced hunter showed. Despite herself, Shiahari closed her eyes and took deep, careful breaths. She willed her breathing to still and slowed her racing heart. The sound of the forest soothed her, bringing her into a state of calm. So long as she remained still, they wouldn't find her. Round-ears were too far gone from their elven ways. They were unperceptive and inexperienced. Their voices grew faint as they began to move away. Just a little longer. She would wait until they were out of earshot, and then she would run to the clan. She just needed to -

"Hurk!" An involuntary noise was punched from her lungs as an unexpected burst rippled through her lower body. Fluid dribbled and pooled on the ground below. 'Not now…' Shiahari gritted her teeth, cursing her misfortune. Of all the times. Her frustration lasted only a moment, replaced by fear as she realized a far more dire dilemma.

"Oy! You hear that?"

"She's over there!"

Her hand clapped over her mouth to halt any further sound. It was already too late. Crunching footsteps approached her, spreading out as the round-ears doubled back to search the area. Her situation had gone from bad to worst-case scenario in a manner of seconds. She was alone, she was outnumbered, and now, her water had broken. And, given enough time, they were sure to find her.

Staying there was not an option. Whether through sheer determination or pure dumb luck, they were going to discover her location. Even if their wits proved inadequate, she was going into labor. There was no way possible she would be able to hide through that. She had to escape. Reaching the clan was her only hope. Trying to still her shuddering breaths, Shiahari forced the panicked thoughts from her mind and began to focus. The rhythm of their footsteps alerted her to their positions. There were at least three of them, at uneven distance. The closest was quickly drawing near. The others were moving nearby but in the opposite direction. Before her lay salvation, if only she were able to reach it. The answer was clear to her. Shiahari knew what she had to do.

Slowly lowering her hand from her lips, she reached downward. Her bow lowered silently to the ground as she reached, sliding down her thigh. Where bows failed, there were always blades. Carefully, she drew a dagger from her strap and gripped it, placing her other hand flat on the ground. The hardest part came next. Holding her breath, Shiahari forced herself to the balls of her feet. She nearly lost her balance, wobbling on uneven ground. The footsteps were drawing closer. She was almost out of time. The huntress steeled her resolve, wiping the blurry tears from her vision. There would only be one shot at this. She had to make it count. Slowly, she picked up her bow once more, using it to stabilize herself. The round-ear was nearly upon her.

It was now or never.

Leaping to her feet, Shiahari turned towards her target. She saw the white of his eyes as they widened in horror, mouth opening to call for help. The huntress was faster. He didn't have a prayer, the dagger flipping through the air toward him. It made three full rotations before embedding itself in his throat with a sickening squelch. The bandit croaked, an awful, guttural cry, lifting his hands helplessly to his spraying neck. Then, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed to the ground with a loud thump.

His comrades went into an uproar at the sight of their fallen comrade, searching wildly for his killer. Shiahari was already moving, bolting through the trees as quickly as she was able. She gripped her swollen belly as she hobbled, making her way in the direction of the clan. Not much further.

The sound of whizzing arrows filled her with dread. They had spotted her. Moving deftly thorough the bushes, she used the remaining cover to her advantage, doing her best to stay out of sight. The familiar thwack of metal on wood sounded near her leg, startling her momentarily, but she pressed forward. She was almost there. Their shouting voices echoed from behind her, slowly growing in volume as their numbers multiplied. The others had finally caught up.

So close. She was almost there. Almost to the clan. Almost to -

"Agh!" Pain shot through her torso as an arrow sunk into her body. Had it pierced all the way through? Had it struck her child? She didn't know. She didn't dare look down to check. Instead, she pushed forward, bursting through the trees and into the clearing. Standing on the elevated hilltops, she could see them; the Dalish sentries stationed outside of camp. She was finally home. Filling her lungs with oxygen, she shrieked as loudly as she could, her voice carrying across the clearing from her diaphragm.

"HEEELLP!"

Her panicked shrieks immediately alerted them, turning their attention downward to the stumbling hunter. Their bows were drawn immediately, taking aim at her pursuers following from behind. They were near the tree line and slightly obscured, but the Dalish had the high ground. With better aim and better training, the sentries felled the pursuing archers with little trouble. Their message was clear. The brigands at the rear fell back at the sight of their punctured comrades. Bandits or no, they weren't crazy enough to challenge Dalish warriors.

The marauders retreated into the forest to safety, leaving the wounded huntress to her fate. Gripping her side, she grunted, finally slowing her pace as the adrenaline started to wear off. The sticky ooze of fresh blood seeping between her fingers brought a wave of realization as reality began to set in. Between the pain of her beginning contractions and the arrow in her body, Shiahari couldn't continue on. Her legs gave out beneath her. She collapsed to her knees, her body racking with sobs.

. . .

The moon was high above by the time it was over. Battered and bleeding, Shiahari returned to the campsite with the help of their sentries. She was muttering listlessly, her senses failing her between the combination of blood loss and labor pains. Ashalle's voice was little more than a muffled whisper to her as she guided her, helping her through the delivery. With one thought in her mind, Shiahari held on, clinging to life with every ounce of will that remained. It was eight hours later when it ended, the cries of a newborn babe echoing to the skies above.

By some unimaginable stroke of luck, the child was unharmed. Missing the arrow by barely an inch, she survived, a newborn Dalish elf brought into the world. Her light brown skin mirrored her mother's along with her jet-black hair. The huntress smiled when the child finally opened her eyes for the first time… the faded greyish blue of the Sabrae Clan's keeper. Tears streamed down her cheeks at the sight of them. She had succeeded. She and Varren's memory would live on through her. The child would survive.

If only she could be so lucky.

Shiahari knew she was on borrowed time. As a slayer of so many, she knew when a soul was fleeting. It would not be long before she joined her mate in the Beyond. As her job was done, she could do little more now than make her way to him, hopefully to pass by his side. With a loving kiss to her forehead and a quiet whisper, she entrusted the child to her most trusted friend. Ashalle watched in bitter sadness as Shiahari stumbled her way into the forest, legs dragging through the fallen leaves like two leaden weights.

The elven woman smiled sadly at the trees where she had disappeared, never to be seen again. Then, she lowered her eyes to the newborn infant in her arms. She hushed and soothed her as best she could, knowing that the child would never know her mother or father. Shiahari was gone, leaving her with only a bow and a name.

Firana.