Ronin groaned as he rubbed his head, eyes fluttering open to reveal a sky filled with stars winking at him like fireflies. The tops of the trees waved in the wind, caused by a cool breeze that made the leaves brush together. A rustling in the bushes keyed him into the presence of a few critters, likely rabbits, and slow even breaths of a larger creature had him thinking of either a predatory animal or a person. Larger animal, deep breaths, most likely human or elf, dwarves would be deeper, more drawn out Animals would be breathing faster. Most likely Duncan, judging by the size of his breaths, too big for an elf, lung capacity too small, unless he's exceptionally big…

The influx of information had his head spinning, seeing how he had heard half of this – at best – before he walked through the door.

The door, the door, the door… what made that door appear? What made Hope's Revival appear in my story?

The unsystematic snapping and crackling in addition to a faint glow against his eyelids and the feeling of warmth meant fire. Fire meant humans, so Ronin assumed Duncan was sitting nearby, probably waiting for him to awaken from his darkspawn blood induced loss of consciousness.

He sat up, head pounding anew as he shifted from his supine position to sitting up. As expected, a fire crackled nearby, with Duncan sitting on a log with a stick in hand, poking at stray sticks that fell out of the circle of stones he'd made at the base of the fire.

"So… you survived," said Duncan, armor clanking lightly as he straightened up. "As I suspected you would."

He walked over and extended a hand, helping Ronin to his feet and steadying him while the newest elven Warden got his feet under him. He bowed his head slightly with a smile on his face. "Welcome to the Wardens."

"Well… that was fun," Ronin joked, rolling his shoulders. "We only have to do that once, right?"

Duncan chuckled lightly as he reached into one of the pouches at his side. "Yes, brother. Only once."

Withdrawing his hand from the pouch, he held out a glass vial, only a centimeter tall and half as thick, on a leather braid which was topped with a silver tiny silver griffon. The vial contained a deep red liquid, which Ronin knew was darkspawn blood from knowing the game and the strange new sense that was like a finger pointing it out. "After the Joining, we take a little blood and put it in this pendent, to remind us of those who never made it this far."

Ronin took it in hand and traced his left hand over the griffon, painstakingly etched in fine detail out of silver. A thrill through his right arm – much like the thrum through one's body would feel from being too close to a loud speaker, most likely with a heavy bass to it – had him raising an eyebrow. "Is this enchanted?"

"Yes. We have them made by the dwarves of Orzammar and enchanted by the mages at the Circle," said Duncan, also raising an eye at the lightshow emanating from his arm. "The silver will supposedly last forever."

Ronin threw the leather strap around his neck and tucked it beneath his shirt, noting the fact that his arm was bare. The flowery tracings across his arm had spread from the outer parts of his arm to his inner forearm, bicep, and palm rather than sticking to the outside of his limb. "Did you uncover my arm?"

"Ah, yes…" said Duncan, still staring at the lines and swirls across his arm with interest. "It started shining through the wrappings you had on. Besides, I was very curious about the events that transpired to give you that."

Duncan handed him a few rolls of bandages before striding into the forest, headed for the camp. "I leave in the morning, brother. I expect to see you inside a week."

"How will I know where to go?" the new elven Warden asked as he wrapped his arm in the bandages, which were thick enough for a single layer to block out the glow.

"Go to the King's estate in Denerim. Ask for the Wardens." With that said, Duncan disappeared, heading back towards the camp, treading almost as light as an elf in the relative silence of the night. Ronin followed after him, stopping just inside the perimeter next to the tree he had woken up beneath when he entered this universe. The bedroll he'd left was still there, so he shook it out, laid it flat, and fell into a deep sleep.

He slept well for the most part, waking once in the night when his dreams became marred by flashes of dark caverns and snarling darkspawn. He smiled grimly as he stretched back out and stared up at the stars.

Ten years from now, let's see how well the darkspawn fare against me…

Ronin awoke as the top of the sun appeared above the horizon, hurriedly dressing as to avoid any questions about his arm, which had come slightly uncovered while he tossed and turned on the forest floor. A new cloak had been left by his side, same size and color of his old one. Duncan, probably.

One he was dressed and armored –minus the right hand glove and bracer- he took up his bow and when to the practice ranges, nodding to the sentry who was just walking in from his patrol. Let's see how much I've gotten from Ronin… he thought, putting an arrow on his string.

He rested his index and middle fingers above and below the arrow and prepared to draw.

Snap!

The bow sprang from its bent position to the point where it would normally be while the bow was unstrung, nearly hitting the unsuspecting elf in the head. Ronin was confused until he looked at the fingers on his right hand.

The heavy leather glove he'd put on, made for extreme use on a bowstring, had been cut through at his fingertips, displaying the sharpened talons on his hand.

Fuck! Ronin mentally shouted as he stared down at his hand, cursing himself for his stupidity. These claws ripped through granite with ease! How am I supposed to shoot a bow when I have razor sharp claws on my han-

Snikt

The claws retracted into his fingertips, leaving the former razor sharp points blunt, like his hand before the mirror. That's interesting, thought Ronin as he raised his hand to eye level and ejected his claws again, the snikt sound accompanying it each time. A few repeated actions of drawing and sheathing his claws had him chuckling under his breath as he walked towards the Craftmaster's aravel, intent on getting a new bowstring. Great… I'm like Wolverine, but on one hand…

The camp was very quiet, since only a few elves were up and about. An older elf sat outside the aravel, running a blade over a piece of blue ironbark with a glowing brazier next to her. Every so often, she would reach towards the brazier, with a heavily gloved hand, and remove a slightly glowing rod of steel.

She brought it close to the wood, heating it slightly so that it was still malleable enough to carve. Once you began the process of carving ironbark, you have to keep the heat at a specific range, as it would harden considerably once the wood's temperature fell beneath that range. Too much heat would warp the wood irreparably, while too little would cause the project to become solid before it was ready and possibly damage it. After the crafting was finished, it had to be dipped in an herbal solution that would lock it in its position, so it wouldn't warp any further if placed in or near a fire. It would burn like any wood after a time, but it wouldn't change its shape until it became ash.

"Aneth ara, Ronin Mahariel of the Grey Wardens," she said, inclining her head slightly in his direction while not taking her eyes off the wood in hand. Using a metal rod to heat a small piece of ironbark in an uncovered hand was an incredibly dangerous task, which showed by the small scars on her hands and fingertips – remnants of miniscule burns that ranged from a millimeter to an inch in length – that the healers could remove but were mostly asked to leave to serve as a reminder. "What can the Craftmistress do for you?"

"My bowstring was cut, Mistress Tári," replied Ronin, holding out the bow for her to see, the severed ends still attached to the nocks at the bow tips. "I would purchase a new one if you have one on hand."

"Of course, da'len," said Tári, still looking at her craft. "A moment, if you will. The carving is almost done."

After several moments of carving, Ronin broke the silence after running through his memories of Tári. "Who is the amulet for, Mistress Tári?"

"While you were out with the Warden Duncan, Marethari spoke with Tamlen and Merrill about the agreement struck between the clan and the Order of the Grey Wardens," she said, using long, smooth and slow strokes on the charm, occasionally flipping the blade around to carve a delicate curve or sharp angle. "They decided, since you are Tamlen's Second, to move up the date of their wedding to the end of the week, rather than the month, so that you can stand with him."

Second: At a typical Dalish wedding ceremony, there were two Seconds, one chosen by the bride and one by the groom. Much like the position of a best man or a bridesmaid, the Seconds were the third most important characters at a wedding. The typical Second would stand with the groom and bride before the Keeper, along with his or her counterpart, while the vows were read.

Traditionally, the Second was an assigned guardian to the bride or groom that would protect their charge in the rare event of an attack during the proceeding, as the bride and groom would not be carrying weapons. This had been primarily enforced during the Exalted Marches sent against the Dalish, when surprise attacks from the humans were a major threat, but had fallen to more modernized roles as the need to be constantly on guard diminished. It was more of a symbolic gesture now, though they were still fully armed and armored despite the lack of major threats.

"I am honored by their actions." Ronin felt a swell of happiness in his chest, glad that he could stand with his clan-brother. "I hope it isn't too much of an inconvenience for the clan."

"It puts a small burden on the rest of us, since most of us will have to hurry with our gifts," Mistress Tári said in a mock angry tone, though the smile on her face was giving it away. She held up a finished amulet, which held an incredibly detailed portrait of Tamlen and Merrill within a circle inscribed with words of elvish. The unfinished one sat in her lap for the moment as she displayed its twin. "Do you think they will like them?"

"They are beautiful, Mistress," said Ronin, thinking of the pair of hunting knives he had secretly traded for when he'd seen Tamlen stare at them the last time they met another clan during their travels. They were finely crafted by dwarven smiths and made of high quality steel that would glow a bluish tint in the sunlight. They would make an excellent gift for his clan-brother. For Merrill, however, he'd not thought of a gift yet. That's a problem…

Tári placed the unfinished amulet on a special tray held above the heat, out of reach of most of the heat but close enough to keep it warm and malleable. It would be alright for a moment while she got Ronin a new bowstring, but not for long, which is the reason she hurried as she rummaged through the drawers of the aravel.

"Here you are, Ronin," she said as she handed him the coiled string, quickly returning to her seat to check on the amulet. "Creators guide your path."

"And yours as well." With his bowstring in hand, he journeyed back to the practice range, ready to try his hand at archery once again. The only things on his mind were shooting his bow and what he should get Merrill.

Tamlen awoke in his aravel, stretching out his back as he sat up. He dressed casually; only wearing his light clothing he usually wore underneath his armor, and stepped out into the sunlight filtering down between the leaves of the forest, intent on practicing his skills in the archery range.

His ears twitched at the unusual sound of an arrow slipping through the air not more than four feet away from the aravel he slept in. Unusual, due to the fact that his aravel was two hundred paces from the targets the clan had set up when they settled here.

He looked around the aravel, looking in the opposite direction of the targets, to find Ronin standing another fifty feet behind that, calmly sighting down an arrow's length.

"Aneth ara, Tamlen!" he called as he released the arrow, sending the black shaft in a graceful arc to thud into the target. He noted Tamlen's look of shock as he drew another arrow and adjusted for the slight westerly wind. As Tamlen approached him, Ronin shot again, hitting the target an inch away from the last one.

"Aneth ara, Ronin," said Tamlen, adjusting the quiver strap on his shoulder. "When did you start practicing?"

"An hour after dawn." Tamlen looked at the sun and judged that he'd been practicing for about an hour and a half at least, give or take a few minutes.

"Have you done anything else?" he asked, knowing that his lethallin did not do anything halfway. A look down the range at the target, a circular target a foot in diameter, showed all the arrows bunched together in the center ring, about the size of a clenched fist.

"Besides thinking of a gift for your betrothed? No, not really," said Ronin as another arrow flew like a black thunderbolt from his bow, hitting the target a few seconds later with an audible thunk. "I was feeling a bit rusty, so I thought I would practice a bit."

"You're hitting a foot sized circle at two hundred and fifty paces. I think you're good."

Ronin chuckled as he loosened the tension in the bow before placing the arrow he almost used back in his quiver. "Maybe… never hurts to practice."

Tamlen shook his head, not bothering to argue anymore as Ronin slung his bow over his quiver. "How's the arm?"

Ronin shrugged as he removed the heavy glove he wore and held up his hand for Tamlen's appraisal. The blonde elf's eyebrows rose at the lack of claws adorning the hand's fingertips. "Where did your claws go?"

He jumped back in alarm as Ronin flexed his fingers and willed his claws back out, the sound of metal grinding on metal accompanying the movement as the black razors made themselves present once again. "Ta-da!"

Tamlen crouched, grabbed a stone about the size of his closed fist, and tossed it to Ronin, who merely smiled and casually spun in place, swiping at the rock. Four gouges formed in the rock before it was caught in the same hand that had cut it, though the claws were no longer out.

"They're still sharp as ever, but I can retract them now," said Ronin as he tossed the rock between his hands, getting faster as he went until he extended his claws again and sent the rock flying in several pieces. "Good thing, too. I've already cut a bowstring and I don't want to that again."

Tamlen chuckled as he drew his own bow and nocked an arrow. A smooth draw and release had his arrow sailing towards the target… only to land forty paces too short. Ronin smirked as Tamlen hung his head before walking over to dig his arrow out of the turf.

"Warning shot," Tamlen called over his shoulder as he heard a chuckle from behind him.

"A little low!" returned Ronin, forcing down his laughter as to not irritate his friend. "Warning shots are supposed to go past the target!"

"Seth'lin!"

Ronin's yell of outrage died on his lips as Merrill walked out from between a pair of aravel, a cross look to her face as she looked downrange to her soon to be bondmate. "Tamlen! Language!"

Tamlen groaned as he stooped to pick up his arrow while Ronin dropped to his knees, laughing uproariously. "Sorry, emma'asha!"

"Don't apologize to me! Don't insult your lethallin!" she said, hands on her hips. Ronin had to admit she cut an imposing figure when she wanted to. It didn't work on him, of course, but Tamlen immediately wilted under the glare she threw his way.

"Abelas, lethallin," he yelled back at Ronin, who was just getting up from his knees.

"Forget it, my friend!" said Ronin, beginning his own walk towards the targets. "It took me an arrow or two before I hit the target."

"Care to join us for breakfast, Ronin?" asked Merrill, holding Tamlen's hand as they walked towards the center of camp.

"No, but thank you for the invitation," said Ronin as he started pulling arrows out of the targets, trying to remove them without damaging them beyond a minor repair. "I have to finish a few things."

The clan was in a flurry over the next couple of days. The hunters were out en masse, hunting for deer and the like for the wedding feast, some out for a couple days at a time. Ilen and Tári were busy with the making of Merrill's dress and Tamlen's wedding suit, making the forest green dress and suit seem much more intricate and delicate than they actually were, as if they were made of silk rather than the linen and cotton.

The soon-to-be-married couple saw little of Ronin outside of mealtimes, and even then he rarely showed up on time or at all. He was always out in the forest, only taking his weapons and a few pieces of dried meat.

When Tamlen tried to follow him, he wound up tracking the elusive elf in circles, having followed a false trail, or being stopped by Theron, who seemed to have sentry duty a lot more than usual.

Even Merrill, who regularly used magic to track people and animals, couldn't follow him, even though she spelled his bow, his blades, even his boots with a tiny spell. Yet, every time she thought she had him, she only found the object she laid the spell on, hidden out of the way to lead her on a wild goose chase. She had yet to figure out how he managed that particular feat. Ronin would only smile at her when she asked, making her more frustrated and determined to catch her clan-brother sooner or later.

Thus far she has been unsuccessful.

The night before the wedding, Ronin slunk back into camp with his hood over his head, appearing to be more living shadow than elf. He appeared before the sentry like a wraith, which nearly stopped his heart with fright. He would've woken the camp had Ronin not put a hand over his mouth before he could scream. Once the sentry saw it was Ronin, he nodded in greetings before he went back to calming his heart rate to more acceptable levels.

With nary a sound, he entered his aravel and began to disarm, unstringing his bow and hanging his quiver on its hook. He was halfway through the process of taking off his shirt when a voice startled him into spinning around. The problem with living in a camp of hunters: we all can walk silently…

"You've been very secretive, lethallin," Ashalle said, poking her head through the curtain that separated her section of the aravel. "Why are you never here-"

She broke off at the sight of Ronin's bare right arm, bluish-white lights glowing slightly against the black flesh in the near-darkness. "What happened to you?"

Ronin sighed as he sat down heavily against the wall of the aravel, wiping sweat off his face with his black hand. He was silent for a minute, in which Ashalle had walked over and knelt at his side. He took a deep breath and proceeded to explain.

"When Merrill, Tamlen, and I were sent out to reinforce Duncan, he told us that we would have to destroy the mirror that made me sick… when I tried, something reached out and stopped me, before trying to tug me through the mirror."

Ashalle gasped as he took her hands in his, looking incredulously at the lack of warmth that was usually accompanied by flesh. A touch of her fingers at his wrist resulted in a worried look at the lack of a heartbeat, flexibility and permeability of his arm. "What was it?"

"I don't know… and even if I wanted to, I couldn't ask. The mirror was destroyed and I got this," he said, gesturing at his arm. "The glowing was limited to my outer arm, but spread to my inner arm when I became a Grey Warden."

"This is why you were always out of the camp, yes? So no one would ask questions?"

Ronin shrugged as he reached for his pack, dragging it over rather than lifting it. "More or less."

He pulled out a small statue, finely detailed, featuring Merrill and Tamlen. Merrill sat upon a rock with her legs folded beneath her, holding her staff lightly between her fingers and bore a smile that could light up the room. Tamlen sat at the base of the stone cross-legged, his sword across his knees and leaning back against his shield.

The tiny sculpture was intricately detailed, showing intricate details such as the weave on their clothes, the wear on the handles of their weapons, and the hair on their heads. Even their faces were done in great detail, going so far as to trace out their vallaslin in the lightest of scratches.

"You made this?" asked Ashalle, hesitantly running a finger over the form of Tamlen, as if the stone would crumble at her touch. "How?"

Ronin held up his hand, palm up, before slowly releasing the claws. His fingertips lengthened and sharpened, forming deadly and wickedly sharp points accompanied by a sound of grinding metal that had Ashalle recoiling slightly, clutching at her chest in fright. "These claws are sharp enough to cut stone more easily than we can cut flesh with a razor blade. It was no difficulty to carve this when I had a steady hand."

Ashalle stared at his arm with wide eyes, even after Ronin retracted his claws and put his hand down at his side, moving slowly as not to frighten her. When she finally spoke, her voice was a soft whisper that was a hair above inaudible. To his knowledge, Ashalle only adopted that particular tone when she was frightened and not sure what to do, when she was out of her league. "Does the Keeper know?"

"She and Duncan spoke at length about it," he said, studying the whorls and coils that spread up his arm in light tones of blue. "It seems neither of them knows of any similar circumstances. After I join the rest of the Wardens at Denerim, perhaps I'll venture to the Circle of Magi… see if they know anything."

"Does anyone else know?"

"Tamlen and Merrill know, but that's everyone."

"They're your friends… they won't tell anyone without your permission," said Ashalle, slumping back against the wall with a sigh, that matter settled for the moment.

Ronin nodded to himself and rewrapped his arm, making sure the slight glow was muted enough to go unnoticed out amongst the clan, which made him almost curse the fact that his race had the best eyesight in Thedas.

He looked back and stopped short of leaving the aravel at the sight of Ashalle sitting in her chair, running her hands over a small green blanket. Fluffy, soft, warm looking. He felt his heart wrench in recognition. Aw, crap…that's my baby blanket.

As Ronin made his way over to his surrogate mother, he saw tears streaming down her face and silent sobs wracking at her thin frame. "Ashalle? Are you okay?"

Ashalle didn't answer. She began to cry harder as she threw her arms around him, hugging him tightly. Ronin, after being shocked by the sudden embrace, started rubbing her back, trying to comfort her. Prior experience with crying women proved that it was a semi effective technique in helping them calm down enough to talk.

After several minutes of sobbing, Ashalle released him and leant back into the chair, her eyes reed and puffy from the crying. Ronin crouched down beside the chair, rubbing her hand in a comforting manner. "Why are you crying, mamae?"

Instead of comforting her as he intended, Ronin's use of mother, something he had not done for years, only sent her into more tears, grasping at his arm and burying her face in his neck. Oh… she's upset because I'm leaving after the wedding tomorrow.

"Ashalle, no matter who I was born to, no matter where I go, I will always be your son," promised Ronin, meaning it with all his being. "You raised me to be one of the Elvhen, one of the Dalish, and you taught me how to tell right from wrong…you taught me everything worth knowing."

Despite the growing area of dampness on his shirt from Ashalle's tears, he felt her smile against his chest. After a few broken breaths, she leant back in the chair and rubbed at her eyes, trying to dry the tears with the back of her hand. She smiled nonetheless, happy and sad at the same time.

"Well, you're smiling so that's a start," said Ronin, dropping down from his crouch to sit at her feet.

"It's going to be so hard to see you leave," she said, very close to crying again. "You've lived with us for twenty-six years. It's going to be hard to never see you again, never to eat a meal around the fire with you, watch the stars like we always do, repair the heavy fur blankets we use for winter."

"As a Grey Warden, I'm going to be patrolling for darkspawn all around Ferelden. I'm sure I'll be around for the Arlathvhen in a few years. It is in two years, isn't it?"

She smiled and swatted him over the head. "Of course it is. You know very well that it is."

"See? Now you're smiling!" he joked, dodging another swat with room to spare. "We're on the right track."

She smiled and dried the last of her tears. She smoothed the baby blanket in her lap, her eyes drifting off to an old memory that made her smile. "You were such a cute da'len, you know?"

"Let's not go into that, please?"

"Do you remember the time I was chasing you? You cornered yourself and slapped your hands over your eyes," she said, beginning to chuckle. "I came around the corner and dropped to the ground because I was laughing so hard."

"I was six! Tamlen said that 'If I can't see you, you can't see me.' That's how camouflage works."

The clan was gathered before the Keeper's aravel, which was now covered with a field's worth of flowers of all types, creating a beautiful arch of assorted colors. Every elf in the clan was present, all with smiles on their faces and wearing their finest clothes for the bonding.

Tamlen stood at the outskirts of the crowd, dressed in the suit the Craftmasters had created for him. It was a deep forest green, with a lighter trim around the collar and cuffs. Along the arms were leaves, branches, deer, and snakes embroidered in golden thread. Other lines and whorls were made of dark thread of similar hue as his vallaslin, as if his facial tattoos had spread to his clothes and went from neck to feet. His feet were shod in well kept, yet worn, leather boots that reached up to mid-calf, shined to a perfection that would make any soldier from the modern world green with envy. The Dalish promise ring he'd carved himself over a period of two months gleamed from his ring finger, worked to a gleam with a fine linseed oil and wax he'd got from a dwarven trader that had wandered close to the camp. He played a handsome figure, dressed to impress.

Ronin stood next to him, decked out in full combat gear, cloak on, hood up, arms folded and fingers twitching slightly in preparation should anything happen. Bow leaning on his shoulder – directly beside the quiver of black-shafted, golden-fletched arrows – with his dual long knives in their respective sheaths directly beneath the quiver, strapped in hilts down. In the spirit of duty to his lethallin, as he rarely used more than those weapons, he wore a trio of smaller knives in the quiver strap, their respective sheaths simply threaded onto it, leaving them to hang just under his left arm. A pair of throwing knives were in the sides of his boots, which would surprise his friends had they known, especially in both boots.

Across the crowd, opposite Tamlen and Ronin, and the same distance from the Keeper's aravel, stood Merril, Altáriël and Ashalle. Since Merrill was originally of the Alerion clan, she had no blood relatives to stand by her for the bonding. Keeper Marethari and Merrill had discussed the matter in depth and it had been decided that, if willing, Ashalle would stand with her. Ashalle had agreed wholeheartedly.

Ashalle was dressed in a simple – yet elegant – green dress, sleeveless, tied with a simple ribbon around her waist. It went to just above her toes, which were shod in leather boots, almost identical to Tamlen's. Unsurprising, seeing how she made mine, his and her own, along with the boots of most here.

Altáriël was dressed in traditional elven mage battle robes: light leather torso armor emblazoned with trees and stars – much like that of the hunters – that flared out into a half skirt that covered the back of her legs to the knee over a long sleeved tunic, leaving the sleeves to dangle to her knuckles. A pair of leather greaves adorned her shins, reinforced with thin strips of ironbark, covering soft leather boots that were in a state of great use but well cared for, same as the fingerless gloves she wore. A pair of daggers was sheathed at her left hip, both in easy reach should someone become good enough to avoid her spell-fire and engage in melee range. Not that she really needed them, but it was useful to have a backup plan. A cloak completed the ensemble – much like his – her own hood pulled down far enough to encase her eyes in shadows.

Probably so that no one can tell where she is looking, Ronin thought, reminding himself to thank Merrill for the spell she laid upon his cloak, which kept his eyes shrouded in the shadows of his hood even if one were to thrust a light right beneath his nose. I assume she's done the same thing.

Even at the distance she was from him, he could tell her eyes were shifting all around under the hood. Her head moved a fraction of an inch to the left, then right, and then up. It was a natural reaction – her head moving to follow the path of her eyes – that was very hard to catch unless you were looking for it.

As Merrill's Second, she was being as vigilant as he, maybe more so. She had the advantage over him, being able to simultaneously attack at close-, middle- and far-range without switching weapons, but his speed, reflexes, muscles, senses were much, much faster than that of a mage, even a Dalish trained one. While she and Merrill had learned magic and lore at the Keeper's feet, Ronin and Tamlen had done the same with Paivel and Ilen, who taught them all they knew of hunting, tracking, and fighting.

Hopefully, they wouldn't have to prove who was faster on the draw – the master hunter or the third mage of the Sabrae clan – should the worst occur.

Merrill stood beside her chosen guardian, her dress beautiful in its simplicity. A knot sat upon her shoulder, the free ends mimicking a bow that fluttered in the air, leaving her other shoulder bare. The incredibly light green dress had been treated with such care by the Craftmasters that there were no visible seams on the delicate fabric, as if it were one piece of fabric from the very beginning. Several lines of written elvish were written along the hem, excerpts from one of the books the Keepers all had. The dress looked as if Merrill had been wrapped in it before completion and had been sewn together whilst still wearing it, the fabric accentuating the slender physique and gentle curves of her body. On her left hand, the second of the pair of rings Tamlen made rested, shining almost as much as Tamlen's.

"You're a lucky man, lethallin," said Ronin, speaking out of the corner of his mouth as his gaze drifted off the bride's party and back to his job. She was smiling – Ronin could tell, even without seeing her face – by the way her ears were shifting as she talked to Altáriël. He could easily imagine her smile, glowing like the sun and twisting her vallaslin into beautiful shapes. "She's beautiful."

"Should I be worried that you're looking at my bondmate?" asked Tamlen, still with his back to the aravel, but smiling all the same. It was considered bad luck for either of the bonded pair to see each other on the day of their wedding ceremony, so most pairs separate as soon as they awake in the mornings and stay on one side of the camp for the entirety of the day.

"Of course not," Ronin said in a sweet tone that Tamlen knew immediately. It was the one he adopted when he knew something that Tamlen didn't, usually when he found some minuscule detail in a track or something like that. "But the tapping of your right foot, the way you're twisting your hands, and the numerous twitches of your head towards either side indicate that you want to see her. I'm just helping you."

"Of course you are."

"Hush," hissed Ronin, the grin disappearing from his face as Ashalle moved away from the bridal party and approached the Keeper's aravel. "Ashalle is almost at the aravel. We'll be starting soon."

Tamlen stood ramrod straight, his eyes wide and his heart beating fast. His breaths became quicker, the nervousness he'd been feeling all day was hitting him with a vengeance. "Oh, Creators. What happens if I mess it up? I stumble in the words or I –"

Tamlen's father, Cίrdan, a broad shouldered, well-muscled elf wearing a brown long coat and an eye patch over his left eye sat on a stool at the Keeper's left, his face proud as he steepled his fingers over the edge of his cane. The elderly man had led the counter attack that held off and sent running an attacking tribe of Chasind, holding a narrow spot in the ravine the clan had been traversing. Ronin had been twelve at the time, but old enough to wield a bow with enough skill to cripple several of the attacking tribe.

The victory had cost him an eye and a little mobility in his right leg, but he was still one of the most respected warriors of the clan. He'd taken to dual wielding his cane and a dar'misaan, using the crook to latch onto a limb, be it leg or arm, and wrench it horribly, sending the captive to the ground to receive a stab.

The Chasind who survived the battle called him "Tanika Sumanitu Taka," the Old Wolf. Any of the other tribes who knew him treated him with the greatest respect and kept their own clans from attacking the Sabrae.

He waved to Ronin as Ashalle did the same to Altáriël. The bonding ceremony had begun.

Tamlen was cut off as Ronin grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around. He opened his mouth to continue spouting his nerves, but closed his mouth with a click as he followed Ronin's pointing finger.

Across from him stood his angel, his gift from the Creators, his Merrill, smiling at him in all her splendor. His nerves settled, his breathing and heartbeat slowed, and he stood more relaxed, not tight with fear as he had been. He met his father`s eyes as he strode forward, his head held high, and smiled as his father positively swelled with pride.

Tamlen and Merrill arrived before the Keeper at the same time, their armed shadows following close at hand. As they faced the Keeper, the Seconds stepped to stand beside the Keeper, facing the crowd with a covered hand close to a weapon and a heat mirage emanating from uncovered fingers.

Tamlen's father placed his hand on his son's shoulder as Ashalle did the same for Merrill, whispering a few words of encouragement in their ears. The Keeper smiled, ready to begin her part in the ceremony.

"Brothers and sisters! Today we celebrate the bonding of Tamlen and Merrill, one of our finest hunters and my First," said Marethari, her voice carrying over the silent crowd with the help of a minor spell, making it easily heard by all. "We would be celebrating a month from now, but someone has to leave."

Ronin grinned as the crowd let out a few chuckles at his expense, repressing the urge to pick at the ironbark in his armor or duck his head like he would usually do. A part of his mind noted that the small crack had leaked the tension out of the air, making Merrill and Tamlen relax. Those two are going to explode if this keeps going, thought Ronin, chuckling inwardly.

"As our ancestors have done before us, so we shall do now. We are the lifeblood of the Elvhen, the last of the true elves and we keep our ways from fading from the world. We are the last of the Elvhenan!"

"Never again shall we submit," chorused everyone present, finishing the oath, Tamlen and Merrill louder than most.

Marethari nodded serenely and reached down to grasp their hands, their fingers intertwined. She separated their hands, rotating them around so that they faced each other and that their hands were palm up, about two inches of space separating their fingertips.

A white braid circle was produced from Marethari's pocket and laid across both hands, on top of the heel of their hands, just below their palms. It was made from halla mane, some of the most delicate yet durable substances the Dalish had on hand. Water would run along it and simply flow right off instead of soaking it up like normal threads would. A blanket made of halla tresses would dry in a minute and could be soaked in water for an hour and still remain the same way, which is why most hunters used it as bowstrings and the like.

This braid, however, was not for any random use. This was part of the oaths a married couple made to each other.

"Tamlen, do you swear to care for Merrill for as long as you live?" asked Marethari, looking Tamlen directly in the eye.

"Yes."

Ronin smiled as he heard the force Tamlen was putting into that simple word. He'll walk into the darkspawn for her.

At Tamlen's positive answer, Marethari pulled a small ornamental knife from her belt and swiftly cut a line through his palm.

"Tamlen, do you swear to honor Merrill for as long as you live?"

"Yes."

Another cut.

"Tamlen, do you swear to protect Merrill for as long as you live?"

"Yes."

A final cut.

Tamlen's hand now had three parallel slices through his palm, just above the braid. Marethari folded his fingers around the braid, soaking up the blood with the hair and staining half the circlet scarlet with his blood. He hadn't made a sound as the lines were carved, merely smiling at Merrill without flinching, his love clear on his face.

Marethari turned to Merrill, cleaning the knife on a small piece of cloth. "Merrill, do you swear to care for Tamlen for as long as you live?"

"Yes." Merrill's answer was as fervent as Tamlen's, maybe more so.

Her palm was cut, just as fast as Tamlen's, and, just like him, she made no noise, merely smiling as happy tears formed in her eyes.

"Merrill, do you swear to honor Tamlen for as long as you live?"

"Yes."

"Merrill, do you swear to protect Tamlen for as long as you live?"

"Yes."

With Merrill's cuts made, Marethari put away the blade and folded Merrill's fingers, staining her half of the braid crimson.

"As your blood mingles in the braid, so do your souls. Let no man put asunder what has transpired today," intoned the Keeper, a smile on her face as she raised a small box under the bloody braid. When the braid was sealed in the box, she stopped the bleeding with a touch of magic and faced the new couple towards the crowd. "Bound by blood and vow, as is tradition. Welcome them, brothers and sisters!"

Everyone screamed their approval as Tamlen swept Merrill into his arms and kissed her. Fists were thrown into the air as the hunters voiced their support of their lethallin, giving them a hunter's high pitched battle cry.

Ronin raised his fist as he inhaled, but stopped short.

What are those, he wondered, watching a trio of spheres fly through the air towards the crowd, slowly arcing towards the ground.

The hair rose on the back of his neck as he saw they was glass balls filled with powder and, beyond the edge of the aravel, he saw a trio of armored helms, eyes peering through the horizontal eye slit.

"Get dow-" was all he got out when the balls hit the ground and everything turned white as light and thunder deafened his senses.