Author's note:

Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence and suggestive and explicit themes.

After a long, long time I've finally carved out a few hours here and there and was able to complete this chapter in between work and exams. Sorry for the long absence, folks. I hope you've missed me and my story. I'll try to make up for my prolonged absence.

Things are finally starting to fall into place. The rebellion is about to become a full-blown civil war! Things will move fast and with lots of action.

Also, please forgive me in advance, for I just finished this chapter and it's already late where I'm from. So, I hope there aren't too many typos. Will edit it in the following days.

Enjoy.

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter XV

On the Shores of Despair

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Squinting, Anethayín trailed the curlicues of smoke in front of her face, washed away by a light breeze carrying heralds of the approaching cold.

The spindleweed numbed her sense and everything inside her mouth. Perched on the ox-drawn wagon she could, thankfully, let her heavy head loll from side to side, whichever way it leant best.

When she'd woken up to the croaking of frogs, Anethayín couldn't rightly remember that she'd crawled back into her tent, with enough presence of mind to tuck a blanket up to her cheeks. She couldn't even pinpoint the moment she'd dozed off, no matter how hard she tried. Only that she'd knelt by Araris' side, both of them sharing something which still eluded her grasp.

Araris.

Tristan.

Whatever. Didn't matter anyway.

Names are just that. Names. But some names carried power. When uttered silently in dark streets they provoke emotion of some kind. But there were only a few of those names.

Anethayín shook her head, trying to clear the haze, unsuccessfully. Yet, last night's short conversation with Araris wouldn't leave her alone. Not even two entire spindleweed twigs, with a third nearly done, helped in that regard.

Under the gruff and scarred exterior which he wore so well, and seemed to like to do so in a way, hid just a young, maybe even terrified man. Anethayín had caught glimpses of him, there and then. The pain hurting him every day, on and on, an aching pain which no medicine could sooth for it was of the mind and soul, not the body.

The elven minstrel led out a sigh, smoke following.

A few bells and another twig later, the sun having ridden hard the wheel of time in the sky, they stumbled upon a long convoy trekking through the unruly territory and back to the heart of the rebellion.

Claps were exchanged between Corks, Jan and some comrades they seemed to recognise. Rude jokes hurled this way and that. But no one paid any heed to the dazed elf on one of now many wagons. Much less Araris, whom soldiers gave a wide berth.

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'We've to do something.'

Rife with the stink of sweat, dug earth and human waste the air pretended to be still. Calmed by the rising sun, the grey sky bruised with colour.

All an illusion. Of peace, cradling them into complacency. A shadow had set over the entire encampment during the last few days. Everything dulled down by the foreboding sense of death looming above them.

Either the King's Blade would chop them to pieces or winter would run its course and slowly freeze them to death. Conversations were only held hushed nowadays, spirits lying broken in the mud. Soldiers and refugees alike walked the camp with hunched shoulders, sagged by their impending end.

Alfstanna looked up at Elya, eyes sunken and rimmed with bags. 'We can't fight nature, Elya.'

Elya shook her head, defiant. 'Something. There must be something. Anything. We cannot end like this.'

'I know.' Alfstanna's response sounded empty. She'd seen too much. Heard too much. Hoped too much. The light in her eyes dwindling. Elya had seen it so very often, that amused spark. Now blunted. Vanished altogether.

Elya grabbed her shoulders. 'Then we must move. Or fight. Whichever it'll be. But not nothing. If we quietly slip away, all would've been for nothing. The lives lost. For nothing.' The dead forever silent, their sacrifice redundant.

Alfstanna grabbed her brow, gaze darting around. 'I know, Elya. There's just nothing I can change. The refugees die in scores each day. Our supplies are nearly empty. But more people arrive each day. We can't even fill the bellies of our proper soldiers.' Her head slumped down.

Elya wouldn't have it. 'Bryland. There's something he must do. More raiding parties to scour for food and supplies. Shelter to wait out winter.'

A sad smile. 'There's nothing able to shelter us from winter, Elya. Only a city could house this many. And none would dare open their gates for us. In fear of Loghain's wrath.'

'Then we fight.'

'Fight?' Alfstanna appeared amused.

'Yes. Fight.'

'Look at us, Elya. We're barely able to stand. All of us. Hunger is eating our bellies up from the inside.'

A lump stuck in her throat and Elya didn't know how to answer. Seeing Alfstanna, this proud noblewoman, her friend, to succumb to despair wrenched her insides even worse than the gnarling hunger.

A messenger barged into the tent, out of breath. He pointed outside. 'M'ladies.' He gasped. 'A convoy. A raiding party just returned.'

Despite the fading strength in their legs both of them jumped up and raced out of the tent.

Hope.

What a mad thought.

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Thinned out into a stretched line, countless wagons and carts rattled by on the narrow road underneath, slicing through the perilous ravine, light slopes on both sides, littered with rocks.

Tharax nervously eyed the line up and down. Took in the meagre defences. The infantrymen looked ready to buckle and fall to their knees, simply out of fatigue and hunger.

What few brothers and sisters of his remained lay flat along the treeline, watching the passing below with eager eyes. Their plan had panned out rather perfectly. They'd driven every picket of the enemy they could find together for the last few days.

Now was the time.

Tharax found his heart trying to beat itself from the cavern of his chest. His left hand shook slightly.

With a deep breath he tried to calm himself.

Their commander gave the sign.

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Anethayín jumped to her feet at the terrible roar, rising like a thundering wave heading straight for the dark shore. Head still dizzy from the spindleweed. The world spun around her shakily. She nearly fell off the wagon down into the muddied gravel.

Getting a hold of her bodily functions, Anethayín regained control and looked up the slope of the ravine. She froze at the sight.

Javelins zipped through the air, many finding their targets, skewering them like pigs.

Out of the treeline from above a score of horned giants rushed down to meet the exposed convoy, ululating their terrible warcries. Anethayín scrambled to the back of the wagon, as far from the impending clash of iron to come. The ox seemed unperturbed, snorting blissfully.

Banding together, rebel soldiers formed a line right in front of Anethayín's wagon. They held their ground instead of charging up the rocky slope. Shields linked together, swords barred they stemmed against the qunari onslaught.

Just a few paces away, some of the qunari launched themselves into the shield wall of tired humans. They broke through like a battering ram would through a simple wooden door. Massive axes and broadswords flashed and cleaved through armour, flesh and bone. Blood welled, soon covering everything.

Anethayín cowered transfixed at the horrible sight, rebel after rebel falling, bleeding profoundly from deep wounds and gnashes.

A shout. Somewhere farther down the line of fighting and dying men. The qunari seemed to come to a collective halt, perplexed at the sudden resistance they met.

Anethayín spotted the reason. Around a tall, pale haired figure the rebel troops rallied, strengthened by Araris' display of swordsmanship.

As a travelling minstrel, Anethayín had, of course, visited a good few tournaments in her time. Some more prestigious others less so. Yet, in all her travels driving her to the most far-flung corners of Thedas, she'd never witnessed anything alike. And witness she did.

Araris surged forward, batting an incoming blade aside. It happened so fast, it seemed he merely shrugged. With another gesture he cut open a qunari's neck.

Even on top of the treacherous terrain, rocks ready to give out beneath, Araris moved with an uncanny fluidity that appeared inhuman. Anethayín wasn't even sure if her spindleweed-addled mind feigned her things that didn't happen in reality. But she very much doubted that.

With a startling cry the rebel infantry pushed back against the grey-skinned giants hacking them to pieces just a few moments earlier, Araris longsword flickering left and right, dealing out the bittersweet gift of a swift death.

Soon after what few qunari remained fled back into the woods clinging to their lives. The battered rebel soldiers didn't chase after them. It seemed clear to everyone that they wouldn't return for another round.

Albeit fatigued, swords and shields were raised by shaking limbs in a salute. Shouts of victory followed.

Before the sombre knowledge settled that they'd lost many good men and women, of which the rebellion was in dire need if rumours were to be believed.

In the soldiers' eyes around her, Anethayín spied something, a flame rekindled as they gazed upon Araris, surrounded by dead qunari.

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They met Arl Bryland halfway there. Alfstanna marched up to him, with Elya staying behind the two nobles. Their run had long since subsided into a light jog and then further into a quick walk. After all, they first had to make their way down the perilous path of the rock formations towering above the plains like disfigured giants.

'What do you know?' asked Alfstanna in between breaths.

Bryland looked over at her. 'Not more than you, I presume.'

'A convoy?'

'Yes. Too good to be true, isn't it.'

'Seems that way.'

Bryland shrugged. 'I won't complain.'

'Neither shall I.' Throngs of people were streaming to the palisaded edges of the encampment, shouting. 'It seems here we're right.'

Elya hadn't spotted them, at first, but out of nowhere a squad of soldiers, armoured in grey leathers and blackened chain beneath, surrounded them. The famed élites from Highever, no doubt. An undermanned company since Ostagar, named the Mortal Swords of the Laurel. Longswords scabbarded at their hips, they pushed through the mass of peasants pressing in on the newly arrived. Once the gathered picked up on who drove them apart they quickly scrambled to make way.

Bryland gestured an odd pair over. They saluted the arl. 'Report,' he said. 'Which raiding party is this, soldier?'

They looked at each other, then at Bryland. 'All of them, milord,' answered the scrawny fellow.

'All of them? What's your name, soldier?'

'Jan, milord.' He pointed at his compatriot. 'This is Corks.'

Bryland nodded. 'Very well.' He touched one of the Old Guard at the shoulder, whispering, 'Get as many men down here. We need to contain this. Fast.' With a sharp salute the Mortal Sword marched off.

Bryland turned back to the odd pair, Jan and Corks. 'Tell me what happened.'

'Well, milord, our party was stayin' at an inn, you see.' He rubbed his neck. 'To, uh, buy some supplies. Fair 'n square. Met a knight there.' With thin hands he indicated the grim figures forming a shield around them. 'One of 'em.'

'Anyways, on our way back here, we stumbled upon the convoy. Horned Ones had driven them all together.'

'Like cattle,' Corks added.

'Exactly.' Jan sent an annoyed look towards his companion. 'Like cattle. We managed to drive them off and return to camp.' Jan scratches his cheek. 'Milord.'

'We drove the qunari off. Weeks ago,' Elya said.

Both of the soldiers looked at her, confused, for a moment not comprehending who she was. Then it dawned on them, but it seemed their awe knew certain boundaries. Curious, since everyone seemed to stare at her wherever she went, nowadays.

'Stragglers, most likely, milady,' said Corks. ''twas a hasty retreat. Bound to leave someone behind.'

Elya nodded to herself. His statement carried a fair amount of sense. Curiosity still aroused, Elya asked, 'How many were there? Of the qunari that is.'

''Bout two dozen of 'em, milady.'

A dumbfounded silence settled over Bryland, Alfstanna and Elya at the deadpan answer. Bryland recovered first. 'You managed to drive them off?'

Jan looked again at Corks, as if to seek help. 'Indeed, milord. As I said.'

'How?'

'That Old Guard fellow we met at the inn, milord.'

'What of him?'

'He killed 'em horned beasts, milord.' Jan practically beamed, showing a row of crooked teeth.

'Two dozens of them?'

'Nah, milord. Just a bunch of them. The rest fled into the woods. Didn't come back again, either.'

Bryland threw Alfstanna a strange look, it seemed a silent conversation passed between them. One Elya wasn't privy to.

'We would like to meet this knight,' said Alfstanna.

'Of course, milady.' Jan slapped his burly comrade on the chest. Corks turned around, cupped his mouth and roared, 'Ser Tristan!'

But the man could nowhere be found. Even after bells of searching.

He'd vanished like a spectre from the Fade.

It perplexed the two soldiers beyond compare.

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Araris had watched and listened. Sitting at the fire, stuffing a bowl of warm stew in his mouth, he faked wariness. Painting the image of the tired wanderer, people quickly acknowledged him as nothing of consequence.

It helped Araris absorb. The situation of the rebellion. The mood of the soldiers gathered round and the mewling refugees. The mood of his people. A spirit chafed away by cruelty and hunger, nearly broken. One more blow then legs would give out and they'd be ready to submit to the will of whoever came along and demanded it.

But when he let his gaze wander, Araris understood. None of them would survive winter. Either their limbs would blacken and fall off or famish would claim them, slowly escorting them past death's gate.

Wherever he looked, it mattered not, for he spied no future. No strand of a larger web promising life beyond the next few weeks, before harsh winds would drive the chill into their bones and snowflakes like needles onto their skin.

Where no hope resides there must hope be manufactured. Else the rebellion is already lost as a footnote in the annals of history, ready to be picked apart by mediocre historians and to continue this struggle would be unnecessary and doom all of them to a most violent death. Especially Araris and his fellow noblemen and women would no doubt be crucified and put on display on Denerim's walls. Perfect targets for all the motherless urchins to throw stones at them and laugh at their cries.

Enough is enough.

His decision made for him by the unfathomable curls of destiny, he set out, leaving camp and entering the thickly treed surroundings at the edge.

Araris paused for a few heartbeats, head cocked, straining his ears for movement in the undergrowth. Satisfied by the absence of human or otherwise sentient presence, Araris sat down on a patch of dirt, cross-legged.

He thrust nine wooden sticks of varied length into the ground, building a rough crescent in front of him. From a pouch, Araris pulled forth a long band of gut. Starting with the leftmost stick, he wrapped the band around, secured it tight with a knot. The rest followed until he tied another knot around the rightmost stick, an intricate web spun in between.

Palms resting on his knees, Araris closed his eyes and shut out the world surrounding him.

He let go his icy grip and the barriers inside melted, glaciers metamorphosing into gushing currents, flooding outwards.

Fuelled by the taste of desperation and loss around him and the embers of rage ready to turn into an erratic fire, Araris opened himself to the Fade.

His body sagged.

His mind wandered other planes than this one.

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Something alien approached.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers stopped in his work, sniffed the air. A foreign odour travelled the currents of today's gentle breeze, caressing the sea of grass at their feet. The movement tickled their scaled calves.

With a dozen of slitted reptile eyes, incandescent like a cat's in the dark, the seventh of the Che'ell brothers stared into the distance.

Underneath the sickly green eye blazing down from the bloated grey sky and far beyond an enormous basin filled with clear, black water towered spirals and spears of shimmering crystal. Civilisation. A city of his people.

He couldn't bear to hold his gaze on the grand testament it presented so boldly.

Hacking away at thick trunks, behind him, with massive axes, were his eight brethren. Low grunts and the sound of splitting wood filled the vicinity.

Life was good enough for him. He and his family didn't need cities carved from crystal, marble and glass to feel appreciated and live life to its fullest potential. They were content, all of them with what they had.

But his people weren't. They were greedy and brutal, took what they needed and eroded precious art wherever they went. And thus rose twisted pillars of rancid smoke now above the shining city far away. The reflections it once returned now dulled and fractured by broken and disfigured crystal.

All nine of the Che'ell brothers had fought in wars beyond count. Then they'd decided, as one, against it. But it seemed war and death followed them wherever they tried to flee. Their lives never quite as quiet as they dared to hope.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers felt his family members approach his side, forming a line at the end of the lightly treed slope before the black lake.

'What is it, brother?' asked the second.

Saddened, he said, 'War claims us again, it seems.'

Together they calmly watched a grotesque apparition rise out of the disturbing lake, pale hair matted against gnarled skin.

The eldest of the Che'ell brothers stepped forward, hefting his massive double-edged axe in his with scars crisscrossed, thickly muscled arms. The ghastly apparition didn't even reach his hips, coming forward with wonky steps.

It spoke, in a tongue none of them understood. But the seventh of the brothers believed it to be similar to how the winged lizard-gods in the sky communicated with each other. A language older than time itself, some argued. How that'd be possible, he never comprehended.

'Be gone, Fadewalker!' The eldest raised his axe high above his scaled head, which bore a silvered patina like the rest of him, the sign of age.

Belying his earlier shakiness, the apparition now acted surely, with grace and liquid elegance none of the nine brothers could ever hope to achieve.

Thus the Che'ell brethren were blinded, bound and chained to a fate not their own and claimed by a war waged between people they'd never met.

It saddened the seventh of them beyond compare.

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Elya sat on her cot, fur blankets wrapped about her. Her mind emptied by the fatigue of tending to wounded men and women for another day. The knowledge bearing down on her slumped shoulders that it'd begin tomorrow anew.

But, at least, they'd survive for a bit longer. Not in luxury or in comfort or anything even approaching such a state. But, they'd survive, nonetheless. A spark of hope had rustled through the camp and stirred the dying embers.

But carried along by this faint current was something else entirely. Elya felt it, though unsure of its exact nature and origin.

Cold it trickled down her back and made her grip her blankets tighter and hug them against her heaving chest. Whatever had arrived in the encampment, nothing good would come of it. Elya would've to raise her suspicious during the next council meeting. Or at least to Alfstanna in person.

A wince shuddered through her. Heart pumping rapidly, all of a sudden.

Elya perceived a sorcerous tug where none should've been. No aura a moment before. Impossible. She should've sensed something. A sliver, a vibration. The power grew, a puddle of cool water. A patch of icy blackness, like the void between the stars. Remote, cold and freezing to the touch.

Elya yelped. Her nerves on fire, she closed her eyes shut. To no avail, stars exploded behind them, accompanied by twinges of pain wrecking her sapped body.

There, just on the edge of the camp. A warped pool of energy like she'd never felt before. A low whine died in her throat. Elya heaved for air, which grew increasingly difficult.

The aura blossomed, revealing its frightening potential to Elya. The blackness curled up in cold waves and the Veil tore with the sound of a thunderclap in her mind. Demonic whispers seeped out of the wound. Attacked her, charmed her, soothed her.

Elya screamed.

A poor defence. But the only she had left.

Alfstanna found her shortly after curled into a shivering ball, backed up against the corner, a feral fire burning in her eyes like the fever of madness.

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