Summerday: 1st of Bloomingtide (the equivalent of May Day on Earth)

Once called "Andoralis" and dedicated to Andoral, the Old God of Unity, this holiday is universally celebrated as the beginning of summer, a time for joy and, commonly, marriage. Boys and girls ready to come of age don white tunics and gowns. They then join a grand procession that crosses the settlement to the local Chantry, where they are taught the responsibilities of adulthood. Summerday is a particularly holy occasion in Orlais. It is celebrated at the beginning of Molioris.

"Letters from the Surface, Warden." A parcel of letters wrapped in oilskin landed on Brosca's desk, tossed there gently by the door sentry, a mage who had fled the surface for a freer life below. "D'you have any for me to take back up, ser?"

"None at the moment." Brosca glanced up at the young elf briefly. "Keep the door shut, we don't want another day like last Friday."

"Yes, serah." The elf, still new to his post as a Warden-Recruit, saluted as crisply as any of the thirty Ferelden soldiers. Brosca laughed a little as he spun on his heel and marched stiffly away. Last Friday had been his first day officially on duty; mistakes had been made.

The letter from Vigil's Keep was full of dry reports of darkspawn fleeing the surface, mixed in with Neria's humourous accounts of the exploits of some of the new Wardens. One warning stood out: the Dalish elf Velanna might be trying to gain entrance to the Deep Roads via Orzammar, since she had been denied the opportunity to become a Warden.

"She would not be a loyal Warden," Neria wrote. "Daylen was all set for having her Join, too, but I talked him out of it. All she wants is revenge for her sister, and this Order is not one conducive to that path."

Nat jotted a quick note: watch out for crazy vengeful elf hunting for sister.

There was also a letter from Soldier's Peak, asking for more of the strange lyrium she'd sent them to examine a few weeks before. It had been slowly turning red on one edge, as if the Taint had seeped into the very Stone. Apparently, Avernus had accidentally exploded it, burning off what little remained of his hair and almost tearing back open the Veil. He had included another few vials of the enhanced Joining potion which had extended his Calling for so long. Good, I'm almost out. None of them used the regular Joining potion anymore, not since discovering what Avernus had done. They had plenty of Archdemon blood to experiment with, after all. Alistair had once said that Wardens had thirty years until their Calling; that was a far cry from the natural dwarva lifespan of two hundred years.

She set the Joining potions into the locked cabinet under her desk and opened the next letter, from Alistair.

My Dear Brosca:

Greetings from Denerim! The next batch of soldiers is on its way. As requested, there are more archers this time. A shipment of supplies from our Dalish friends should be arriving in Orzammar any day. Two more Wardens came through Denerim and paid their respects to me- I've referred them to Avernus for the refined Joining potion, since otherwise they would next be heading to Orzammar. I don't know if they'll follow my recommendation, so prepare for the arrival of the Dalish Wardens Mahariel and Tamlen. They've been stationed in Nevarra for the past ten years or so.

Please don't hurt me. Too badly. It's only a name. You should be honored, really! It's not every day a Princess is named. Eleanor Natia Theirin, born on Summerday! That's a good omen, if I've ever seen one. Eleanor after Elyssa's mother, and Natia after you. Congratulations, you're a godmother! It's quite exciting, being a father, though the way Elyssa's health has been I don't know if we'll have any more. We were lucky to get even one: we're both former Wardens, after all.

Don't listen to Avernus. It's all nonsense. He's mad from living so long with the Call in his blood. Did I ever tell you, Duncan had started to hear it in the months before Ostagar? He was planning on making Gregor his successor as Warden-Commander and going on the Long Walk.

Avernus may or may not say anything. I'm not sure why I even told him, to be honest, except I wanted to know if it would have worked. Morrigan had a request to make of me before she vanished, and I refused her. I didn't know what it would mean for Duran, I swear it. I thought that Riordan would take the final blow, or else I would.

I could have had another child, but it wouldn't have been mine. Morrigan said that if she did this ritual, if I slept with her, she would conceive and when the Archdemon fell, his soul would go into the unborn child and not a Warden. I didn't believe her. Avernus has told me that it could have been true.

Forgive me, Natia.

Hopefully still your friend,

Alistair Theirin

It had the King's seal, in ink, next to Alistair's extravagant, loopy signature, the one he'd learned for his kingly duties. Natia rubbed her fingers over the fine parchment absently, her mind a whirl. What ritual? What had Morrigan wanted— and why had she gone to Alistair, of all of them? They hated each other. Had it been because of Alistair's royal blood? There were rumours, vague rumours, that the Theirins had dragon blood.

A Tainted God, in the form of a baby. No wonder Alistair said no.

But she could have saved the Prince Aeducan. Duran could have still been alive, if only Morrigan hadn't gone to Alistair, if only she'd gone to Daylen—no, that wouldn't have worked, Daylen wouldn't have done it, his heart had belonged to Neria even before they'd become Wardens. And Darrian wasn't interested in women. Dwarves and humans couldn't procreate, either, which meant that Morrigan couldn't have gone to Duran (and oh how thankful Natia was for that, even though her heart squeezed at the thought of Duran alive—)

Alistair had really been the only choice. And he'd said no.

Natia dropped her head, interlacing her fingers in the back of her still-short hair, then drew them back up to tap her fingers against the corners of her mouth. "Duran," she said near-silently into her clasped hands. "Duran. You could have been alive still, you could have taken the throne back from Harrowmont—he would have given it to you, I know it, he's a good one for a deeplord—we could be together still—"

A knock on the door made her scrub fiercely at her eyes to clear them of tears. She cleared her throat, dislodging a funny lump, and called, "Enter!"

"Warden-Constable, there's another riot! Merchants' Quarter!" The speaker was a frantic dwarf who had been of the Smith caste before his Joining three months previous. "King Harrowmont and his guards are all holed up the Diamond Quarter—they're refusing to help!"

"Partha, my friend," she ordered. "Dust to dunkels, this will quiet down in a few hours. What are they wim-and-wamming about this time?"

The dwarf shrugged helplessly. "Sorry, Warden, don't have anything for you. I couldn't get close enough to find out without getting more than this—" he gestured to his eye, which was swollen near-shut with a rapidly spreading purple bruise.

"Well, blowing the dust off to find the silver: your eye's quite beauteous," Nat said wryly. "Go get yourself some bruise balm, Halmaed. I'll deal with this."

"Yes, serah!" He bowed and trotted away, leaving the door to her office open.

The riots were getting worse. This wasn't the first one in the Merchants' Quarter, but it was the first one that Harrowmont hadn't sent troops to put down. By the Stone, I hate politics. It must be a calculated plot on Harrowmont's part, not sending anyone, to gain some support with the deshyrs that he'd lost by allowing half the city to move to the uncovered Great Thaig, Kal'Hirol. Most of the deeplords had stayed in Orzammar, relying on their precious traditions to save them.

Sometimes I think Bhelen should've been king. He wasn't a good man, but he was more progressive than Harrowmont, at least. Nat sighed. By the Stone—why now? We were just about to go on another raid in the Deep Roads. The darkspawn had been coming back in great numbers, leaving the surface behind for the surety of the dark, where they could search for the Old Gods who called them.

"Please, ancestors. Let the next Blight take another four hundred years." She slapped the desk and stood. She couldn't sit around thinking what-ifs all day; she had work to do.

In the days following the riots, Natia found herself pushed into the role of peacemaker within Orzammar. Harrowmont still had little Endrin named as his heir, and wanted to keep himself on the Wardens' good side; the opposition saw her as a hero and thought that she must surely be wise enough to solve any conflict. She had almost killed the Archdemon herself, after all, and many a dwarf had seen both her and the Paragon Duran clinging like deep crawlers to the dragon's back.

She found that she suddenly had very little time for herself, and pitied Alistair, who had to deal with this constantly as King. She had to delegate some of her duties to one of the other Wardens, a sturdy, sensible fellow named Jaelen Ortan who had been a surfacer before Joining. He reviewed their inventories, gave out pay packets, compiled the weekly reports to send to Vigil's Keep—and she answered questions from every duster in Orzammar who suddenly wanted to be her best friend.

A week passed in this manner before she was finally able to get some time to herself. The matter of Morrigan, which she had pushed from her mind the last few days, came back to the forefront of her mind, and she wrote a few letters. Those letters went out with the next reports to Vigil's Keep, to be sent across Ferelden: to Alistair, giving him her forgiveness but demanding answers; to Avernus, questioning him about the ritual that Morrigan could have used; to Neria and Daylen, asking them if they'd heard anything about Morrigan's whereabouts. If Alistair and Avernus didn't have the right answers, she'd go looking for the witch herself. She might do anyways.

Jaelen took on more of her duties as Warden-Constable, and when the next batch of mail came in she officially appointed him her successor. Rica and Endrin had settled into House Duran, with the best of their ranks teaching Endrin everything he'd need to know—the casteless taught him dirty fighting and the value of all life, the smiths taught him how to tell a good weapon from a bad one, the warriors (mostly Saelacs, who were still loyal to the Aeducan line, especially after Gorim had pledged himself to Endrin) taught him how to wield a sword and shield with dignity; tutors from the Shaperate came three times a week to teach him the noble arts. By the time Jaelen had been sworn in as the new Warden-Constable and Natia moved in with her sister, Endrin could read better than she could, and had a knack for getting in trouble with his quick fingers and then getting out with his silver tongue.

For all that, he was still a child, and enjoyed evenings spent snuggled up to his mother and aunt while they took turns telling stories: Rica of their early upbringing and the way Orzammar had been when Dust Town existed, Natia of her adventures with Duran fighting the Blight. He was very different from Duran and Bhelen, light-hearted and happy-go-lucky, and everyone who met him loved him.

"You'll be a good king," Natia murmured one evening, stroking his Aeducan-blond hair as he slept. "Remember where you come from, and you'll be a great one."

In the morning she was gone.

This letter was found under the pillow of Natia Brosca, former Warden-Constable of Orzammar, crumpled up and smoothed out many times.

7 Solace
Vigil's Keep, Amaranthine, Ferelden

My dear Natia,

I hope you know what you're doing. She wasn't easy to get along with at the best of times, and she abandoned us before the final battle. We even killed her mother. I know you're closer to Alistair than I, did he say something to get you on this idea? Nobody's seen her in months. Last I heard, she or someone who looks a lot like her was seen travelling through the Frostback Mountains. I presume she's in Orlais by now.

Don't do anything stupid. I need a competent, Ferelden-friendly commander in Orzammar. This dwarf you've had sending your reports for the last month, he's all right but I don't know him like I know you. I don't know if he's honest like Daylen or a conniving trickster like you and Tabris. That's not meant as an insult, by the way, you know I love you both, but honesty is not in your blood.

If you really mean to do this, find our swamp witch, your best bet is her mother's hut in the Korcari Wilds. Don't go near Orlais, they won't like that, they still think the Blight Wardens are loyal first to Ferelden before their Order. If there was a Blight they wouldn't mind so much, but now that the darkspawn are in the Deep Roads again, they won't look kindly upon you. You remember Riordan's warnings, surely. Empress Celene is looking for any excuse to invade. She won't be any friendlier to Orzammar than Ferelden is, you can be sure of that.

Take someone with you. Maker, Natia, come by Vigil's Keep and I'll go with you myself, just to keep you out of trouble. There's a dwarf here, former Legion of the Dead, who would love to meet you. You're her hero. Whatever you do, don't go alone.

In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice.

Your Friend,
Neria Surana