Well guys, I'm a little late to the party but ready to party. As we are all anticipating the new Dragon Age release, I found myself revisiting perhaps my favorite BioWare story: Dragon Age Origins. This work will be a graphic, novel-like retelling of my favorite characters, their lives, their loves, and their fight for survival. And, of course, all of the cheese required to get a man through such trials.

This story will focus on the positivities of love, conquering one's own inhumanity, and embracing dreams. However, it will also contain explicit sexual themes and references to violence, gore, and sexual assault. I will provide appropriate trigger warnings prior to explicit chapters. Please message me if you'd to avoid the triggers but want to read the story. I will provide you with an altered copy or a chapter summary.

xoxoxoxo,

Hannah

Trigger Warning: References to violence and a brief description of wounds

Sound pulled at Alethea's subconscious, as gently as a stolen caress. It was soft at first, a mere whisper against her ear. It spoke of the rustle of autumn leaves and the gentle patter of fresh rain, of a dimming, crackling fire in a warm hearth, and the crinkling of clean cotton sheets. It coaxed her from her unconsciousness, teasing her senses, and beckoned her with a tether to return to the world. She didn't understand why such a tender call to reality belied the consuming void of darkness that accompanied it.

In an instant, she felt that void. She felt it as clearly as she could feel a blade through her heart. It was dark, angry, and metallic. She felt it as it ripped through her, consumed her, grasped and slithered inside of her, and squeezed her chest with a pressure that she was sure would snap her spine. For a moment, there was nothing else, nothing left; only that cold, shimmering void that beckoned for her to release her soul.

She barely registered the guttural groan that left her lips, a startling contrast to the careless whisper of leaves and warm autumn days. Another sound assaulted her then: footsteps, heavy and sharp, across a wooden floor. Whether it was the cacophony that filled her ears, that consuming darkness, or the piercing light that assaulted her as she cracked open her eyes, she felt as though her head might split. As the rest of her consciousness assaulted her, a deep voice said, "Lady Cousland. You are awake."

Alethea's eyelids scratched across her eyes as she blinked them open; once, twice. For a moment, the light from the windows blinded her. Her eyes watered, clearing to reveal a room she didn't recognize, a bed not her own, and a man whose voice called to the recesses of a buried memory. She attempted to sit up, pain ripping through her back as she came to rest on her elbows.

"You are…" she croaked, her hoarse voice cracking on the words. Her head throbbed, blurring her vision while the room tilted around her. She examined him for a moment, noting a man with olive skin, dark hair touched only slightly by the graying of age, and ebony eyes.

"My name is Duncan, Lady Cousland," that same voice replied. "I am of the Grey Wardens."

"My apologies, Master Duncan," she managed to seethe between her gritted teeth, shutting her eyes against the treacherous turning of the room. "My memory fails me. Am I… am I injured?"

"You are," he replied simply. "You have been unconscious for three days. We have been on horseback for the entirety of it."

It was a nice voice, she decided. His tone held a soft cadence, a noble gilt that reminded her of her father.

Her father.

Alethea shot up from her place on the bed, holding back a pain-filled scream that threatened to tear from her lips. The memories flooded her, shredding through her mind with nothing but destruction. For a moment, she felt the fog on her thoughts release as her memories revealed themselves: her father, her mother, her sister, her nephew… the gore, the fall of her home, and…

The treachery of Arl Rendon Howe.

She snarled as Duncan reached for her, his hand outstretched in a motion she assumed to be one of consoling supplication. She met his gaze with a fury unlike her. Usually so poised, so guarded, so in control; now, she couldn't wall against the animalistic sounds that tore through her throat. Her chest heaved as that void inside of her roared, demanding release, demanding to consume.

He dropped his hand.

"Your injuries are grave, Lady Cousland," he said, his voice reverberating with the same tone it had held before. He held her gaze. "Please do not mistake my focus for apathy. You have suffered but survived. You will throw away the benefit of that survival, your oaths, and the honor of your family if you do not heal. I am not asking you to release your anger, but I am demanding that you restrain it. You have pledged allegiance to fight against an evil far greater than a single man, and I cannot afford for you to forget that pledge."

Alethea's blood coursed through her as she narrowed her eyes at Duncan, the red of her heartbeat filling her every sense. She continued to hold his gaze, absently noting the bloody spittle that left her mouth. Her logic told her that he was right; that her lack of self-control was unacceptable. She was so accustomed to ruling herself, but was sure she now resembled a rabid, snarling beast. Once, only a few days ago, such an unbridled display of emotion would have brought her shame. But as the final memories of her oath to the Wardens, the torture of her family, and the carnage afflicted on her family home snapped back into place, she thought her anger might be the only thread tethering her to life.

After an eternal heartbeat, she dropped her gaze from Duncan and demanded the darkness within her to quell. The energy that had awoken her, kept her conscious, left her as a dying man's breath left his lungs.

She knew the darkness wasn't gone, though; it was merely confined. It was still there, lurking in the recesses of her soul, its teeth snapping at the cage of her control.

Hatred.

She welcomed it.

"Where are we?" she managed to ask as she concentrated on evening her breathing, on reinforcing her control.

"A small village north of the Bannorn and northeast of the Circle," Duncan said, motioning for her to recline. With a hiss at the pain that still thrummed through her, she obliged. "Though we are no longer in immediate danger, our proximity to Highever dictates an expedited journey. I did not dare to stop before now. I pray that decision does not cost your life. Please, uncover the blankets from your abdomen so I may tend to your wounds."

With all the strength she had, she obliged him. It was not until then that she noticed her nakedness. Stripped of her clothing, she wore only a pair of linen trousers. With a furtive glance, her shoulders fractionally relaxed as she surveyed the ocean of bandages wrapping her arms, abdomen, and torso. With the quick, concentrated movements of a man accustomed to managing wounds, Duncan cut the bandages binding her.

In this situation, she knew it was absurd to be concerned with propriety. Modesty would be a fleeting notion when death came to soon claim her, but the court loved scandal. She had taken great strides to protect her and her family's reputation. Duncan, it seemed, would be the first and last man to see her naked skin.

With a flush of self-awareness, she assessed her abdomen and torso. She blinked, taking several moments to examine them. She concerned herself a rationale person, a woman ruled by logic. She was accustomed to caring for the wounded and frequently found herself accompanying her brother's boarder patrols. As a lover of plants, she often used her skills with medicinal herbs to concoct remedies for the men injured on such patrols. Despite her experience and recent exposure to gore, shock at her state settled deep into her gut.

She gagged at the sight of the gaping wound that ran from her navel to hip, revealing the contents of an open abdomen.

Duncan resumed his ministrations and a quick glance at his expression confirmed the gravity of his previous assessment of her wounds. Though she had been injured in numerous practice brawls and skirmishes, she had never faced real combat. She had never found herself on the receiving end of a blade that held intention to kill.

"Why… why does it not hurt worse?" she asked him, nausea rising in her throat. "Am I so close to death that even pain despises my company?"

"I have been applying a salve to numb the pain and ward off festering of the wound, but I fear its healing potential will not be enough. I am surprised you still cling to life," he replied. His words held no malice, only candor. He didn't meet her gaze, and she quickly shut her eyes. "I have sent a missive by falcon to the Circle. If a healing mage does not arrive soon, I will take you there."

She was ashamed of the tears that welled in her eyes. She couldn't die. Not yet-not like this. Not before she might find her brother, or fulfill her vow to Duncan, or…

Not when he still lived.

That darkness roiled once again inside of her. She did not fight it. As it slithered through her, its touch warm and beckoning this time, she released her hold on her consciousness and allowed it to carry her back into the void.