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.

Thank you all for reading, I truly feel honoured by your presence and the fact that you deem my story worth your time.

I especially want to thank Rattletrap, Serithus, Ironman088 and FrostLight for reviewing the last chapter and for helping me break my personal "record" of three reviews for a single chapter by one. Thank you very much, guys! I love you all!

Here, have the longest chapter I've ever written for this story, with the first full-scale battle.

Enjoy.

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In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter XVI

Witness The Forgotten

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He'd sniffed them out.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers was good at finding things lost and led astray. Even in this strange place. He always had been, his senses sharpened keener than the rest of his brothers, who followed but a few paces behind, a bit clumsier to his hearing, but nothing that would give them away too soon.

The insentient wildlife, crawling through the undergrowth and climbing along the balding trees – which were puny in compare to what he understood to be trees – were a good indicator. Undisturbed and unmolested by the Che'ell brothers' presence.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers indicated to his family members to prepare themselves for battle.

For a moment, a pang of sorrow flitted through him, at the notion that they'd been reduced to blunt tools in the hands of others, once more, but then the pure and blinding influence of Him cleansed all stray thoughts from his mind and filled them with violence instead.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers found a long-lost joy in these images rekindled. Ready to be the artist, the guiding hand committing these deeds to the canvas of reality.

Ready to deal death.

Once more.

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No one walked the muddied tracks. Still asleep, the camp radiated a calming silence. Tents were zipped close and fires had long since died. A cold resonated in the fresh morning air, cutting right through cloth and seeping into bone. The day violently dawned to the south.

Anethayín wandered through camp without aim or goal. She needed her body to move so that her mind could too escape her surroundings. The preparation of war, all around. The desperation, the shallow continuation of life clouded by fear.

In the past, she'd never partaken in such things. A war. How outrageous and not at all a place for a travelling minstrel to be around. But someone had to catch these lost souls and weave them into the fabric of history, preventing them to fade with the passing of time. This much, she could do for them. Be a silent witness, standing at the edge, far removed from the picture, yet still pained by the atrocious happenings around her.

Images, of qunari broadswords and heavy-set, double-edged axes splitting human flesh open, flashed before her eyes. She'd went along the line of the dead after the battle had ended, staring at each of them, numbed. Etching their features into her memory. Their last response as they greeted death. But Anethayín found nothing. No knowledge to be embraced by this or that god, no fearlessness hardening their expression into one final defiance, as the great philosophers of this age proclaimed to have discovered.

Anethayín spied only ruin and death. No grand, overarching statement of honour or heroism, nothing valiant. Merely blood-soaked dirt spilled with faeces and littered with corpses already cold and stiff, as meaningless as that. Nothing more to it. A sombre discovery which left her rattled.

When walking besides the dead, she'd found a familiar face. Soft features, marked still by puberty and further marred by a broken nose. A deep fissure carved diagonally through his face, he stared at her with one eye, the other destroyed by the slash. And Anethayín couldn't bring herself to hate him for what he tried to do to her any longer. Not whilst he lay there, robbed of life, accusing her with his youthful appearance. She'd averted her gaze.

Unconsciously, she arrived at the palisaded edge of the massive encampment, having passed through the chaotic settlement of thousands of refugees, cowering in the shadow of looming stone and protected by a doomed cause.

Hood obscuring the face, a lone figure, huddled into a dark woollen cloak, stood on the palisades, left alone by soldiers on watch duty. The figure stared southward, seemingly basking in the rising sun. Something in his posture gave Araris away, Anethayín couldn't pinpoint it exactly, though.

Anethayín went to his side, not even coming up to his shoulders, the odd pair watched in silence the dawning of another day of labour-intensiveness for the rebellion and all united under its banner, willingly or unwillingly.

Without acknowledging her presence, he spoke, 'I'll be leaving soon.'

Anethayín's gaze snapped at Araris. 'Leaving?'

'Yes.' He paused. 'A rider arrived late last night.'

'Bearing what news?'

Araris shifted around. 'Arl Wulff is in desperate need of assistance. Down there.' He nodded towards the sunrise. 'In West Hills. Reports say the region is already crawling with Darkspawn.'

An unpleasant sensation travelled down her spine, sending shivers through her body at the mere mentioning of the blighted creatures.

'Darkspawn?' Anethayín asked, hesitant. 'I cannot-'

'I know.' Araris cut her off. 'You do not have to come. I understand.'

They fell back into a laden silence. Anethayín looked down, retreating to herself. 'When will you be off?'

'Come the next morrow. A contingent of men shall leave and travel south to the arl's aid.'

Anethayín looked over her shoulder, watching the squatting stone giants, malformed and gnarled, looming high above. One of them the very heart of the rebellion, banners surrounding a sun-bleached pavilion, flags idle in the still morning air.

'How is it you know of this, anyway?'

Anethayín heard him shrug underneath his woollen traveling cloak. 'I listen. Such a camp, as large as this. It practically breathes rumours and half-truths. Just a matter of filtering out the truth.' He gestured back at the camp. 'All this is, is a breeding ground for gossip that spreads faster than a plague.'

Anethayín snorted a laugh. 'When will you return?'

Araris grew still. 'I do not know. But I will.' He looked at her, eyes intense underneath his hood. 'I promise you that much.'

A frail smile taunted Anethayín's skin for a moment.

'Good.'

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Over trampled paths and the occasional paved cobblestone road they hiked, cutting through the heart of the Bannorn. Southwards, in the general direction of Lothering. Though, if the scouts were to be believed, they'd sooner make contact with Darkspawn troops scouring and ravaging the lands than reach the village.

Providing auxiliary support to the infantry, attached to a wing of light cavalry, Araris rode at the flank of the eight hundred men strong battalion, divided into eight companies. Should the sudden need arise, the cavalry was intended to function as a rapid response unit, taking the pressure off where it proved too much to bear.

None of the cavalrymen had yet dared to approach him. Either deterred by his brutish appearance or the silverite brooch, holding his cloak together. Not even the middle-aged officer in charge of the wing, he appeared rather unsure about how to handle having a Mortal Sword attached to his unit.

Up until now the moniker had only resulted in hardly veiled awe and respect, which suited Araris just fine. Simply because it meant that they left him alone, to contemplate his future steps in heavy silence. Even though the rest of the wing grew increasingly tense, the longer the absence of good-natured chatter lasted.

Right now, Araris tried to solve a trickier puzzle than what would come of his future and that of the rebellion. Namely, the woman riding in front of them, clad in a beige leather coat, a shawl wrapped about her slender neck.

Araris ushered Kelpie forward with a nudge, came to halt right next to the woman. Araris glanced at her. She looked ill. Her skin was of pallid colour, glistening with a sheen of sweat, despite the cool temperatures sending every healthy human being scrambling for the cover of blankets, cloaks and fur.

'Are you all right, my lady?' asked Araris.

Gasping, she jumped, ostensively unaware of his presence up until now, and nearly lost control over her mount. 'Maker's mercy!' cried she.

Heads turn in their direction. To this, she didn't prove oblivious. Quietly, she reigned her horse in and squirmed to right herself in the saddle again. Then, she looked back over at Araris with bleary eyes. As if she'd slept the entire time and just awoke from a bad dream.

'I'm alright,' she said, clipped.

'You do not look the part. If I might say so.'

She sighed. 'If you must.'

'What is your name, anyway?'

The woman frowned and looked at him strangely. 'Elya.'

'So, you're the talk of the entire camp.'

She sighed again. 'I guess I am.'

'Not used to the feeling?'

The sorceress snorted. 'Maker. No. Where I come from, attention like that usually ends unwell.'

'I've heard of the templar's harshness these days. Arl Bryland did well in sheltering you from their reach.'

'Because I am useful. You mean.' Her tone turned hollow. 'For now.'

'No. Because I believe everyone has a right to be free, Lady Elya. To pursue the heart's desires in any which way they see fit. And you've been shackled for all your life. It would be cold-hearted to throw you at the templars' feet. Where you would find anything but mercy. So, no. Not only because you are useful. But because you are human, just like me.'

Elya laughed a little, sadly, but Araris saw her eyes watering and understood. 'Believe me, we're very different. You and I.'

Araris hid a smile at the irony of her statement. 'Forgive me,' she added, 'I've been caught up with . . . recent developments. They're rather, uh, dull, I'd assume. But I never asked your name, good ser.'

'Tristan.' He tapped the silverite sword with a laurel wreath as its guard. Elya's eyes cleared with recognition. 'Of the Laurel.'

'A Mortal Sword. But I thought you all stayed in camp.'

Araris looked about, shrugging. 'I just arrived recently. I've been in Orlais for quite some time. At the behest of Teyrn Cousland.' Araris forced himself through the aching in his chest, trying to climb upward, settle and build a knot, constricting his throat. 'The late teyrn, that is.'

Elya nodded, watching him with a gentle expression. Then something else blossomed on her features. 'Tristan, you said? You are the knight who saved the supply convoy?'

Played into a corner, all on his own. Well done. Outwardly, Araris replied, composed, 'I am he, indeed.'

'You were nowhere to be found when the convoy arrived.'

'I was tired. And full of grime. Just wanted to catch some sleep,' Araris lied, faking the calmness in his voice.

'Arl Bryland and Bann Alfstanna would surely like to speak with you upon our return.'

'I'm sure they would.' Again, the irony was lost on Elya, for she appeared satisfied by his curt answer. If she knew who she was riding next to, well, she'd probably have a fit. That wouldn't do, not at all.

The sorceress tilted her head at him, fiddling with her shawl, whilst scrutinising him. 'I didn't know Orlais had seen such a drastic change in public appearance.'

Araris smiled wryly. 'Believe me. It hasn't. I just stopped caring about it some time ago.'

Horns blared at the front of the battalion. The eight companies routinely spread out and began setting up camp for the night. Latrines were dug, tents drawn up and torches and braziers lit.

The cavalry wing, veering left behind them, Elya glanced over at Araris, rubbed her neck and averted her gaze. 'You could join me tonight. For, ah, a meal that is. I'd love to hear more about Orlais.' She nodded over her shoulder. 'You seem to make the nervous, anyway.'

'That I do. And I could stand a decent meal.' Playfully, he added, full well knowing the answer already, 'I heard you magi can conjure up the most lavish of meals. Entire banquets even.'

Elya rode off, laughing, and said, 'You'll have to find out.'

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Hunched down amidst the undergrowth and rock, Tharax nibbled at a hard stripe of dried meat. Desperately trying to provide his weary body with much needed nutrition and energy.

Bandaged, the slash on his brow still pulsed with searing pain from time to time. Blinking it away seemed to work by now, quite well, in fact, considering the circumstances. He'd been lucky to escape with his life and eye intact. He wouldn't be here without Quira and Loorax hauling him back from the thick of the fighting as he bled profoundly from the wound on his head.

He'd overreached, fatally so, when facing the lone swordsman who'd turned the tide of the entire ambush. So fast, faster than the eye could track. And he'd been on the ground, vision tinted red by his own blood, streaming down. What he'd viewed as boldness and courage during the heat of the moment, blood rushing by his ears, humming inside his head, roaring like the clash of steel, Tharax now viewed as the idiotic blindness striding hand in hand with the feeling of immortality possessed by all unblooded warriors, the hotness of shame now welling up in his chest. That surety of one's own superiority, which he'd been robbed of in a brutal way, coming face to face with his end. He hated himself for that fact that he'd ever possessed it.

There were only seven of them left. Quira and Loorax refilled water-skins at a gurgling stream nearby. Their ranking officer, Scarskin, named after the map of gnarled scar tissue covering his entire body like tattoos, a testament to battles past and his ability to live through them to tell about it around the nightly fires. He paced around, appearing agitated and concerned all the same.

A certain unrest had settled over the surviving veterans. Something in the lone swordsman's display had rattled them to the core, Tharax didn't rightly understand how or why exactly. But it was palpable. None of them ever rested easy, eyes darting around from side to side, seemingly expecting an ambush every second, as if the lone swordsman would jump out from beneath the undergrowth, longsword flashing.

Tharax stuffed away the dwindling remains of his food supply. Shouldering his grilled iron shield with one arm, Tharax secured the belt around his narrow waist, broadsword tucked away safely, with the other.

Air moved.

Everybody froze, looked up, unsettled.

Then everything exploded into movement.

From every direction, terrifying creatures unlike he'd ever seen or heard about in the wildest of tales broke through the undergrowth. Trees burst into a shower of splinters as the massive creatures shrugged through them. Even the smallest of them easily looked down upon any qunari. Fully upright they towered twice as high as any of his comrades.

Powerful looking scaled legs propelled them forward with a speed and efficacy which belied their muscled frame. Multi-layered scales formed a carapace, armouring their torso, which bore misshapen cataract-like patterns, darkly hued in most cases, but for one of the creatures, which seemed ghostly, as if hewn from sun-bleached mica. The greyish skin underneath resembled hardened leather, wrinkled and scarred.

Lips peeled back to reveal jagged rows of fangs, each one dagger-long. As one, the fiends loosened a cry that struck Tharax with pain, for the sound it voiced was beyond his range of hearing, yet it burst in Tharax's skull with such ferocity that blood was driven from nostrils, eyes and ears.

Enormous axes, as long as a qunari stood tall, if not longer even, cleaved his comrades and friends into meaty bits and pieces without meeting any resistance.

Blood rose like a morning mist, covering everything. Cries of terror vibrated through the crisp forest air.

Tharax fled.

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Elya let out a content sigh.

Leaning back, Tristan patted his stomach. 'Well, it wasn't a banquet, per say. But nice enough. I guess.'

'Oh, will you shut up. That's the best stew you'll get for leagues.' She snorted a laugh. 'It's the damned best I had for a long time.' Elya raised her glass. 'And that. I'd prefer water, but, at least, it keeps you warm.'

Tristan sipped his spiced red wine. Audibly sloshing the liquid around inside his mouth, lips pursed. Elya arched her brow at him, bemused. The knight just stared back at her with the same expression. 'What?'

'Nothing.'

'O, really. Why is it that whenever I've hear a woman say, "Nothing." It's usually something.' Scratching the fair stubble of his growing beard, he said, 'So, what is it?'

Elya leaned back, lips pressed together, to contain the smile. 'The wine, when you. I don't know what. You looked ostentatious.'

'Hah! I blame the Orlesians.' He cocked his head. 'But, they do produce rather excellent vintage. One has to grant them as much.'

The wine tasted sourer, for some reason. 'And pompous, obese aristocrats doing nothing but philosophising from within their white marble halls, while they haven't seen anything beyond their palatial homes.' Maybe, after what Tristan had told her of Orlesian machinations and the Game, her interest and the grandeur the empire outwardly exuded faded. Stories just never seemed to hold up to the truth. People would rather listen to lies which sounded good than face the ugliness which really hid underneath layers and webs of deceit.

'Not all of them. There are some worth their salt. Even in Orlais.'

Elya drummed on the table top with her fingers. 'But in contrast to all those grand figures of the past. Even the recent past. King Maric. Or longer. Emperor Drakon. Ser Aveline. Calenhad. The world is just becoming a bad place. All under the leadership of fools ruled by their greed and lust.'

Tristan seized her up with his gaze, arms crossed. 'There's a problem with your assumption, Elya. One, that probably stems from the fact that, most of history you know, you've ascertained by reading books. But by then, judgement has already been made. And there are thousands of lords and ladies, kings and queens, who've been deliberately disregarded by history. Bland rulers who simply did their best and tried to keep peace between their lands and the next. Yet, you only read about the bold and daring. Of great deeds done and victories being achieved. But never of those who've lost, those who mightn't even have started this particular feud. They just weren't worthy of the attention of scholars and historians. What, after all, have they achieved, but lost?'

Elya chewed on her lip, unconsciously brought the glass to her lips. 'I did read a lot of books,' she said, slowly.

Mouth set in a thin line, Tristan watched her, before saying, 'And, I'm sure, even those accessible to your libraries were carefully chosen.'

'Not only that.'

'What do you mean?'

Elya pinched her nose. 'You see, mages are taken very young to the Circles. Most of us don't even remember if we had a family. When we get older and do not . . . misbehave . . . the templars might allow us to contact our families.' She gulped. 'But by then, they've already moved on, forgot their own children and that they ever existed. We are like black sheep, though much blacker by far. Better to have a child with sadistic kinks than one with sorcerous potential.' Elya had to stop, else something uncomfortable might well up and she'd fall prey to demonic influence when she stalked the Fade in her dreams again. Emotional upheaval attracted them like a moth to the flame.

'You were allowed to contact your family?' Tristan asked.

'Yes. Allowed. But I did not.'

'Why not?' He looked genuinely perplexed, even with what she'd told him just now.

'I am of noble birth. Originally from Kirkwall. That's even worse. To be of noble birth and a mage, I mean. Elya Charlotte Amell. Doesn't it sound grand?' Elya heaved a sigh, cursing the templars for leashing her to this cage of world, a child in an adult's body. Without friends, family and loved ones. Curse them. All of them.

'All that has happened to me. I blame them for it. Even my biased view of the world.'

'Nonetheless.' Tristan continued, tonality different. 'You're far more knowledgeable than the average citizen, Elya.'

'What's that know?' She tried a smirk. 'Is the worldly-wise knight trying to cheer me up or patronise me?'

'Neither.' Tristan held her gaze, serious. 'The simple fact, Elya, that you question. It tells me that your intelligence surpasses, well, most.'

'So! You are trying to cheer me up. How flattering.' Elya had no idea why she said all these things out loud. She just felt like it, it seemed. Maybe it was the wine, making her tipsy. She'd had three glasses by now, after all.

Tristan smiled at her, reserved. 'My charm. I can't help it. It would swoon the empress of Orlais, surely.'

Wine was explosively forced out of her nostrils, showering the table and her dining partner in spiced red wine already well on its way down her throat. Elya didn't know if she should rather concentrate on coughing or laughing. In the end, she slumped against the table, combining both into a, undoubtedly, odd and hysterical performance. That is, until the coughing really took over and wrecked her frame.

Tristan rose, perched her a bit more upright and clapped her on the back. It helped. Marginally.

After a score of heartbeats, blood climbing into her buzzing head, Elya recovered, found Tristan close, hand still resting on her back. She looked away, found sudden interest in the meagre scraps of food left on the table. 'You know,' she said, 'the templars never allowed us to, uh.' She coughed again, hotness flushed her face. Again, the wine, most certainly. 'They, uh, never allowed us . . .'

'To swoon each other?' supplied Tristan.

'Yes.' She chuckled, nervous.

'Well, now that you've escaped their grasp, there'll no doubt be lots of swooning directed at you, Elya.'

She harrumphed. 'You think?' Her voices sounded raw.

'Sure. Just don't rush it.' Did he just wink at her? No. Stupid alcohol, she'd forswear that stuff. A hardened knight, standing one head taller than her, with a haircut more appropriate among the Avvar tribes doesn't wink. Ever. Why then, by the Maker's blessing, did she lean closer to him?

Bells rang. Broke the moment, the tension. Tristan whipped back, eyes hardening so fast it frightened Elya. Opening the tent's flaps, he peered outside.

A messenger sprinted towards them. Scouts of Arl Wulff had been sighted. The darkspawn caught up with the arl of West Hills and his people.

He'd stayed behind with a troop of voluntary militiamen, allowing the elderly, women and children to escape. Throngs of ragged folk gathered at the edges of camp, like lost lambs, dazed.

The arl was only a few bells' worth of time behind. So was the Darkspawn horde chasing him.

Tristan nodded at her and left.

There'd been a strange glint in his eyes, reinforcing the indwelling intenseness.

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They knew.

The crows circling high above, crying out their hunger, knew.

The hamlet was ablaze, off in the distance.

Leading towards it, upon the outskirts of barren fields, dried and blackened wheat lying dead around them, they finally confronted the darkspawn.

Like an ill omen, the day dawned in a cacophony of blood to the east, the rising star blocked by thick smoke, deadened grass rustling under a steady breeze, cries of horror reached them from afar.

The eight companies had formed up with a core of regular infantry, on both ends flanked by heavies to keep the pressure off the centre. Light skirmishers loosely stood before the arrayed soldiers and two entire companies hung back, ready to respond where need be.

Three cavalry wings, Araris amongst them, waited off to the left and slightly behind, on a flat hillock, providing them an overview of the Blight-tainted territory.

At the front, Araris could make out three figures talking amongst each other, no doubt a discussion about how to proceed. Two commanders and the distinct figure of the sorceress, Elya, staring at the flames devouring the hamlet. Wooden buildings buckled and folded in on themselves.

A roar erupted from within the fiery hell. At a shouted command, the hind ranks of the rebel formation shifted, hundreds of feet thumping, motions synchronised. Arrows swished out of quivers, were notched and drawn back.

A roar. But one laced with desperation.

Araris squinted against the rising pillars of smoke and suddenly his eyes widened, heart hammering. With an outcry, he nudged Kelpie into a thunderous gallop, screaming at the cavalry wings to follow. He didn't know if they did.

Racing by the drawn-out formation of cold steel and rebel will, Araris screamed from the top of his lungs, 'Stop!' Everyone turned to gape at him, then he was past, speeding straight towards the hamlet and the charred and blackened figures stumbling out of it, coughing violently, whilst half crawling, half running at the same time.

With the wind turning, the smell of human innards, burnt and seared flesh as well as the horrendous stench emitted by the darkspawn assaulted his nose. Bile rose up in Araris' throat. Closer, the heat of the raging inferno prompted pearls of sweat to travel down his forehead. Araris rode by the hastily retreating militia, their resolve in ruin just like the hamlet behind them, they fled out of the village, shuddering in its final death throes.

Last one to be out, Araris spotted a bear of a man, holding off an outwards seething mass of hurlocks and genlocks. He swung a massive warhammer, squashing to gory pulp multiple of the blighted fiends at a time. Covering his back and keeping his flanks clear was a squad of heavily armoured soldiers, knights, all of them wounded to some extent, their plate armour slick with blood, they wavered on their feet, but held on, clinging to a deeply buried resolve.

Araris reined Kelpie in, and before she even came to a full halt, he swung out of the saddle, drawing his longsword in one smooth motion.

Arl Gallagher Wulff swung his warhammer in a wide arc and the darkspawn creatures not crushed flinched back. Araris stepped in and grabbed the arl's harness, hauling him back. 'Back! You fool! Back!' he roared and pushed the massive man away, turning around, Araris met the gushing wave of ghoulish darkspawn. Unlatching the barriers, he released all the pools of deep-etched hatred, pouring out of the very depths of his being, Araris retreated one calm step at a time, elated by the thrill of death, heart racing. The twisted creatures launched themselves at him from left and right. Araris' blade blurred, deflecting and slashing, riposting. A snarl on his lips, he held the horde back.

They'd nearly managed to surround him, now outside the narrow path leading out of the hamlet, the darkspawn poured out like a torrential river through a broken dam. Longsword painting images and trails of blood, left and right, Araris continued to retreat back, hard pressed to keep up with the growling mass of foul fiends.

A guttural shout from behind him. Araris was done for, he realised that. A hurlock slumped against him, arrow jutting out of its throat, it gurgled its final breath. At full gallop, the three cavalry wings parted around Araris and crashed into the darkspawn with a scream, the enemy failing to realise their impending doom of being trampled to bony bits. Araris swiftly dispatched the stunned darkspawn around him with precise slashes.

A single rider approached, Kelpie's reigns in hand, beckoning and shouting at Araris. Behind him, the cavalry wings veered around. Araris swung into the saddle, riding back, soon joined by battered and bloodied cavalrymen, faces hard. Arl Wulff's militiamen had already reached the safety of the rebel lines. Araris gestured the riders on, and they accelerated, galloping past the silent wall of rebel steel.

Araris slowed to a canter, and stopped at the front of the formation, his gaze glancing over the first few rows, along the slightly curved line. Every pair of eyes was fixated on him, without compromise. Arl Gallagher Wulff and his squad of knights stood among them. In the front line, the mad bastard. Barely veiled, recognition shone in the elderly arl's piercing eyes. He nodded at Araris, mouth taunted into a grim line. Elya stood beside the man, looking up at him with wide eyes.

Handing the reigns of his mound to a skirmisher, Araris feet thumped onto the fields of dead crop. He joined the front ranks, which parted willingly. Tip of his sword pointed down, tucked into the once fertile earth, he waited.

A shout emerged from somewhere, 'Draw!' Hundreds of bows creaked behind him. With a swoosh, a rain of death descended down upon the vile beasts, by now swarming unhindered out of the village in waves, causing many to fall, littered with arrows. Yet, the bulk of the horde continued on, howling for blood. Iron-frame crossbows loaded, the loosely arrayed skirmishers in front unleashed a hail of armour-piercing bolts, then retreated back behind the infantry formation, having wreaked havoc.

After a moment Araris saw Elya stepping forward a few paces. Give the woman credit, he thought. There she stood, just a few hundred feet in front of the roaring horde, thundering towards her. By now details could be made out among the beasts. Araris stared at the three massive frames, ogres, hulking between countless hurlocks and genlocks.

Elya raised her hands out to her sides. A band of golden-green arcs spanned between her fingertips, erratically zipped forward, growing in width as they raced towards the darkspawn. The spell scythed into the horde, charring and disintegrating them into embers of glowing ash. To the sides, where the spell hadn't the same amount of power, blood-trailing chunks were sent hurtling in every direction. When the magical wisps faded, countless bits of darkspawn covered scorched earth. An ogre, one side shredded into pieces, half its face torn off, tumbled forward a few heavy steps before collapsing with a drawn-out moan.

Another bellow, this time coming from Arl Wulff, Araris was sure of it. 'Swords!' Eight hundred swords were drawn out of their scabbards, shields locked, creating a deafening noise. As one the rebel soldiers marched forward with small, coordinated steps.

Suddenly, an anxious scream tore through the air; Elya: 'Emissary!'

A writhing, onyx-coloured fog erupted from the horde's ranks, ascending high towards the sky. Whiffs of blood red quivered around wildly within. Growing, the fog rolled down towards the rebel formation. As the chaotic sorcery descended, fingers of golden fire rose upward to greet them, the apostate sorceress attempting to ward off the emissary's spell.

She couldn't manage all.

Where the remaining onyx waves engulfed screaming infantrymen, Araris watched as a midnight flash swallowed the hapless men and women, followed by a thump that thundered through the ground, shaking terribly. After the flash dissipated they lay in rotting heaps, mown down like the stalks of grain at their feet, bloated and twisted.

A heartbeat later blighted creatures and men clashed. The Fereldan soldiers, men and women loyal to his cause, to his family, were able to stay in formation, stemming against the pressing darkspawn tide. Like droplets of water splashing on hot stone, their discipline and trust into the soldier by their side held off the darkspawn's attack, repelled it time and time again. Whenever one of their own would be injured, his comrades behind, would drag him back to the rear lines and take the wounded's place.

But, as the ogres finally reached the frontline, the steadfast walls of steel were ripped apart with wild abandon. The massive beasts managed to barge through tight-knit formations, creating disarray and panic, flinging soldiers this way and that with their massive hands. Araris could do nothing but watch as men and women lost every ounce of discipline, breaking rank, meeting their end at darkspawn blades. His longsword swirling left and right, he cut down every darkspawn that came near him, wading forward through the seemingly endless stream that had broken the squad nearest to him, scattering them.

Accelerating from a light jog to a full out run, Araris charged the rampaging ogre before him. The horned beast roared at him, foul spittle flying like projectiles. It took a swing at him, which would've broken his spine and many other bones. Araris rolled underneath it, coming up swinging, hitting the underside of the ogre's arm with the tip of his blade, splitting the leathery skin open bone-deep. It shrieked, flinching back.

Fist closed, it tried to squish him to paste. Araris pirouetted out of its reach and with three long strides ducked underneath its squat legs. Longsword whirling, left low, right high, Araris severed muscle and tendon in the ogre's legs. It collapsed, unable to balance its weight on two, crippled legs. It flailed around, helplessly. Araris climbed on its gnarled back, drove the tip of his blade into the base of its neck, killing it instantaneously.

Once more, a thump rocketed through the ground, shaking Araris off balance, down from the massive beast's back. A genlock ran towards him, dagger held high over its ugly head. Araris regained his footing within the last possible moment, able to deflect the darkspawn's blade. Its momentum carrying the genlock forward, and the nobleman sliced open the beast's neck in one fluid motion.

'Araris! Here!' His head swirled around trying to identify the speaker, he barely recognized Gallagher Wulff. The arl of West Hills and what remained of his knight entourage held slightly heightened ground upon a small hill, repelling the darkspawn's assaults. Araris started towards the hill, but movement to his left stopped him. Twirling around, he brought his longsword up in a defensive stance. Pain laced through his arms as his blade was flung away by a crude waraxe, his fingers losing contact. But the weapon's immense impetus carried the hurlock with it, giving Araris a chance. He dashed forward; drawing his dragon-tooth dagger. He tackled the creature to the ground, embedding the curved blade within the hurlock's eye socket, twisting the blade.

When he looked up from his crouched position, inelegantly perched upon the dead creature, he spotted a rather odd looking darkspawn, twenty paces away. Bones covered the creature's body like jewellery, fresh flesh clinging to some. The repellant creature stood within a pool of blood, the surrounding ground littered with broken and mangled bodies. It bent down, dipping its stubby, malformed fingers into the blood. But rather than dripping down, the liquid started to swirl around its hands in arcane circle-like patterns.

The emissary. Its dark aura tingled Araris' senses.

He thought he heard someone cry out his name from behind. Getting up, Araris sprinted towards the darkspawn sorcerer. The emissary must've noticed, its head rearing round to look at him, the grotesque sneer painted upon its face growing even further, exposing black, needle-thin teeth. Extending one arm, it sent a blob of blood into his direction. Araris let himself fall, trying to dodge the magical bolt, though he saw that there was not enough time.

Unexpectedly, a web of curling blue magery appeared in front of him, fending off the emissary's spell, dissipating it with a hiss. The creature's head snapped around, peering at someone, eyes glowing. Araris followed its gaze and discovered Elya. Her face covered in blood due to a long gash over her brow, bend down to her knees, she panted heavily, her coat torn and smeared with blood.

The sorceress weakly pointed a trembling hand towards the abhorrent creature. Flickering bands of fire, weak in strength and colour, raced towards the darkspawn wizard, melting the skin off of a dozen darkspawn hurlocks and genlocks on its way. With a scoff, the emissary raised both hands, the blood pooling around it sped away, crashing against fire and bursting through Elya's spell, dissolving it. The sorceress's protective wards were peeled away almost in a heartbeat, when the blood magic touched them. Skin cracked open and was peeled off of bone as the corrosive spell touched her, then a detonation of blood engulfed Elya.

Araris, back on his feet, used the emissary's momentary distraction, charging the last few steps. Reaching the darkspawn, Araris brought it into a lover's embrace and punched his pale dagger into the darkspawn's torso, driving it through the ribcage and piercing its heart. Whilst the beast fell, the dagger slid free effortlessly.

He spun around, trying to spot Elya in the surrounding mess, but he could not. His eyes searching, he became aware that the battle had ceased. Survivors hobbled through the ranks of the dead, killing off injured darkspawn and searching for wounded comrades to tend to. His gaze wandered over the rural landscape, now littered with bodies and tainted red.

So few.

Dragging his sodden feet, one squelching step at a time, out of the macabre bath of blood, he started walking towards a group of soldiers, a bit off to the side of battlefield, distributing bandages and applying salves to wailing men and women. A revolting cough to his right startled Araris. He walked a few uncertain steps towards the source, and was able to recognize Elya lying on her back. The earth around her bloodied and fissured with no discernible pattern. Her eyes were vainly trying to focus on his approaching form, wrinkles forming around them. From below her belly nothing was left.

'Elya.' Araris buckled under a sudden weight, fell to his knees beside her.

'It's alright.' She coughed up more blood, smiling weakly at him. Tears rolled down her cheeks. The sorceress tried to clear her throat, then she breathed out.

Araris felt a small flame within him, hope that he'd survive all this with his dignity intact, surrounded by people he could trust and who's company he could cherish. That day, kneeling besides Elya, he felt this flame die. Erased by the cries of the dying, the silent accusation of those already dead and cleared from his mind by the images of gutted and dismembered corpses. His people. Men and women, old as well as young, many who died for friends, others for family, and some died for people they didn't even know. Where once flickered an already waning flame, now everything was clouded in all-encompassing darkness.

Araris leaned over Elya, planting a kiss on her forehead. 'The Maker shall embrace you, Elya Amell. For the templars did not manage to shackle you to bitterness. You are what this world needs. Far more than it needs me.'

The remnants of her mauled and torn shawl, he tied around the wrist of his left hand. Watching, as it dangled idly in the soft breeze.

'You shan't be forgotten.'

.

.

Anethayín woke with an unsurmountable sorrow wrenching her heart.

Unpacking her fiddle, she started to tuck at the strings, slowly and gently. Early risers soon gathered round, some certainly woken by her. The chatter among them died as she began to sing.

(Listen to "Leliana's Song" - Dragon Age: Origins OST)

Hahren na melana sahlin

emma ir abelas

souver'inan isala hamin

vhenan him dor'felas

in uthenera na revas

vir sulahn'nehn

vir dirthera

vir samahl la numin

vir lath sa'vunin.

The sadness did not leave Anethayín, only turned bearable, still hurting and aching with every beat of her fluttering heart. She'd acknowledged the pain and would live to see past this fleeting moment. That was her commitment, her promise. To the people around, to nature, to the world and everything that moved within it, seen and unseen.

A woman approached her, short cropped hair tousled, a patch depicting a watermill sewn in her leather jacket. 'That was beautiful,' she said. 'A song of your people?'

'It is an elven eulogy. As ancient as my kin, if legend is to be believed. Ages past, my people were gifted with immortality and underwent the passage into uthenera, the timeless sleep. But since the quickening of our blood we are immortal no longer, and this is a song now used to mourn our dead.'

'Why did you play it?'

'I had to.'

The woman left with a disturbed expression on her face.

.

.

And there Araris stands reveiled, having to pick up only the banner and the burden with it.

Oh, and, to me, everyone is fair game. Just letting you know.

Thanks for reading!