Disclaimer: I own absolutely and completely nothing. Bioware has that particular pleasure.
Author's note: Much delayed chapter. I thought Sten deserved a special chapter for himself since I just got my hands on DA2 and the Qunari there made me wish for my non-murdering, not-completely fanatic party member. Opinions, please. I don't even know if it fits. I just enjoyed writing it~
In this chapter: She found his soul. He rebuilt hers.
004.
It's over. It is over. Over. The Blight has been stopped, the Darkspawn have returned to the Dark Roads, the Archdemon lies dead and vanquished as well as its legacy. It is over, finally. Sten allows the word to pass through his lips slowly as if caressing it, tasting it. It tastes sweet, like red wine or the party which might – just might – welcome him upon arrival. It's over. It means so much to him. No more fighting in this odd country, freedom, return home to where things make sense. It is the epilogue to a story, a truly epic one in which he was one of the main characters.
A good thing he is who and what he is. A human would already be drunk on the sheer idea of finishing such a creature. He knows better than that. The sole gesture he allows himself is a smile, faint and almost invisible when none is looking. Perhaps he should show it some time. With luck, it will shock them enough to keep inane questions where they belong. Unsaid.
"Herren, you are dealing with a priceless..no, you fools! You must." Whatever they must, the Qunari chooses to ignore in favor of the dragon. There are already men on each side, cutting and slicing, destroying as it should be done. The old mage oversees the collection of blood, the smith yells about the right way to skin the dragon – as if the fool has actually seen such a specimen in his meager little life – and it's a true credit to his endurance that Sten has kept himself awake over the days which followed the battle. There is a sense of ending in every action and it's not something he has indulged often. There is little reason to keep himself going bar that.
"You! You there!"
There is, however, a great deal of reasons to ignore the smith. Sten remembers just one – he is deadly annoying – before walking towards the great head, laying close and asleep. No one has touched it bar the Warden or even approached it – afraid, perhaps, he understands. It lies with its eyes closed, showered in blood and touches of water and something that looks like precious stones. They shine here and there when the lights hit them, the strangest green hint of color to it.
He kneels without even noticing, reaching out a calloused hand towards the fragments. Because they are fragments, glass or metal, he cannot be sure until he grasps the tiniest piece between slow fingers. It escapes once or twice, mocks and slips away making sure Sten understands what he's holding before he can analyze it properly.
Slipping and mocking, sharp and elusive. Blades are like their owners. Take Asala as example. Sturdy, trustworthy, simple and direct – and perhaps huge. Blades are more than a weapon, he learned and tried to impart in the ignorant elf. To a warrior, weapons are more than a tool, more than necessary. They are what air is to their bodies, soul and personality, everything which makes them them. He tries not to think about any kind of symbolism connected to the shattered pieces. It might make him bothered. Ludicrous to think of, even.
"Why are you losing time? This head must be severed and." There is a reason why Sten doesn't like the smith. He is good at what he does, yes. He enjoys rare materials and his craft changes to a part of one's body instead of a tool. He is also a fool, one who does not respect things which should be respected. All he can think about is this and all he knows is that his hand feels all too comfortable against the human's neck.
"Shut up."
He shuts up. Thankfully.
"You will leave to the other side of the creature." Sten plans things, most of the time. Right now, however, he has no idea of what he is about to say. Only that he should speak and there's this tiny touch of an idea on his mind which grows with every passing moment. It starts making sense the more he stares at the head, large eyes returning his gaze blankly, jeweled head where two souls died. "Wait for me. Do you understand?" A little shake. The human whines and complains but pales. Afraid, good. "Wait."
The best ideas don't make sense. A blade is one's soul. The Archdemon lies dead and it took something with it. And the Warden, the one who killed it, the one whose soul lies all around them wanders away, for all purposes dead or dying. A warrior cannot win without a sword. It cannot live without a soul, Sten believes. He will leave soon and the girl will be left behind carrying neither sword nor soul.
The Qunari kneels to the ground reverently and starts moving gently, with an analytical eye and precise hands. He does not rise for a long time. One piece at a time.
"Human," a voice strong enough to summon the fragile armorer, whether the man is afraid or not. "I have a task for you."
Sten leaves shortly after the ceremony which honors them all. It is odd to see him go after all this time, Tasha thinks, when the giant begins gripping his sparse baggage, the boat which will take him home already preparing to set sail. And Tasha feels sorry for that. Selfish. Wanting to keep him by her side because he is as much as part of her Ferelden as Wynne, Zevran or Alistair. Maybe more. She already lost Morrigan to whatever Fate, she doesn't wish to rebuild her own country. As said, selfish.
But the qunari deserves his home, the scents he spoke of and the sea waves by the shore. What right does she have to demand anything?
"For you." A package is trust into her hands. Simply. Bluntly. Indubitably like him. Tasha swears she'll even miss the ridiculous way he doesn't show emotion, the stern expression as if facing a particularly foolish child.
She smiles up at him, equal parts curiosity and confusion, as careful fingers push the coarse fabric aside to find a sword. From the weight, she would wager it is made of dragonbone, Maker knows she has seen enough of it to last for a lifetime. Elven design, silver and a very faint green tinge to its interior, like water inside steel. The elf hasn't held a sword since the Archdemon. Grasping this one, however, makes her wish to smile and cry for whatever reason, feels like every finger fits around the hilt like it was made solely for them. Peculiar.
"You gave me my soul," he speaks and Asala peeks over his shoulder. "We return you yours."
"We?" Tasha twirls the blade around in absent practice, her arms testing the weapon that really doesn't seem foreign. She is so amazed – happy even – that she never notices Sten's expression, almost a mirror of her own. Almost.
"We." Like equals, they stare at each other and it's likely this moment will never repeat itself. "He and I."
The sword in her hands feels like something known and welcome, precious beyond words. And, for the first time since she walked away from that roof, Tasha feels a warrior. Without his prompt, the woman turns on her heels, looks up, looks to where the city stands, no longer burning, a tall tower in shambles and a last roar in her ears.
"Walk well, Kadan."
Also he walks away, leaving her whole in his wake.
Created by Master Weaponsmith Wade of Denerim, this sword remains one of the most intriguing relics of the Fifth Blight. While there is certainty the prime material for its creation was bone from the Archdemon itself, there seems to be another material meshed into it. Experts claim it as evidence of the God's remaining taint. Greenfang was commissioned for Warden-Commander Tasha Tabris of the Grey Wardens and, upon her death, donated by the Arling of Redcliffe to the Bannorn of the Alienage of Denerim. Its sister sword – Starfang – remaines in Redcliffe.