Haven 8-9 A Test of Faith
8
The talk of Brother Genitivi and the behavior of the Disciples of Andraste had left Duran with the impression that there might indeed be something here deserving of the title "Urn of Sacred Ashes." But whether the legend was entirely true, he still doubted. Until now.
As they stepped into what seemed to be the final temple, the very air shifted. It felt as though all their burdens were lifted, replaced by a warmth that spread through each of them.
"This is truly a holy place," Leliana murmured, turning in slow circles to take in the intricate carvings and murals adorning the walls.
In front of the massive door leading deeper into the temple stood a man clad in ancient armor, his sword resting in one hand. He exuded an aura of calm and authority, and when he spoke, his deep voice resonated through the chamber.
"A pilgrim seeking to prove themselves worthy of the Urn. It has been so long since any have come, save for the cult's followers. So long..."
Duran briefly explained their encounters with the cult and the battles they had endured. The man listened intently, nodding as he replied, "Kolgrim's ancestors once declared themselves a new prophet, proclaiming the resurrection of Andraste. Thus, they came to revere the dragon as the prophet reborn."
Introducing himself as the Guardian of the Sacred Ashes, the man described his oath to protect the Urn from the unworthy. His words were rich with history, his presence nearly timeless, leaving Duran to wonder if the man was truly hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of years old.
"You wish to prove yourself worthy?" the Guardian asked. "Then you must endure the trials of the Gauntlet. Only those who pass its tests may approach the Urn. Do you accept this task in honor of Andraste?"
Duran glanced at his companions. Determination was etched on each of their faces, and with a nod, he agreed.
The Guardian paused, his gaze settling on Duran. "But before you proceed, I must ask: Within your heart lies great regret… Bhelen's schemes led to Trian's death and your exile. Do you feel responsible for your brother's death?"
The question struck Duran like a hammer. He had worked hard to push those memories aside, but now they flooded back with unrelenting force. Trian had been a harsh, arrogant brother, unsuited to kingship, but still… he had been family. Duran had dreamed of ruling Orzammar himself, but never at the cost of Trian's life.
After a moment of heavy silence, Duran spoke, his voice steady but tinged with sorrow. "This may sound harsh, Guardian, but I want to be honest with you. I do not feel I failed Trian. Yes, I wish I had been more cautious of Bhelen's intentions—such betrayal should never have been possible among us. Do I feel guilt over Trian's death? No. But do I miss him, despite all his faults? Yes. Every day."
The Guardian inclined his head. "Ah, a man who does not dwell on his mistakes or those of others. Your gaze is fixed firmly on the future, driven and resolute. Let us see how your companions fare."
Turning his piercing eyes to Alistair, he continued, "Alistair, your mind and dreams are consumed with regret over Duncan's death. You believe you should have died in his place—that you, a bastard no one loves or values, are unworthy of life. Am I correct?"
Alistair hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. "Well, I might have put it a bit more tactfully, but… yes, you're right."
The Guardian's expression softened. "You are learning to face the darkness in the world, to accept its existence. And now, Leliana…"
He shifted his attention to the bard. "Why do you claim that the Maker has not abandoned us? Why do you speak of a vision as though you were chosen, equal to the prophet Andraste herself?"
Leliana's eyes widened in shock. "What? I never—"
The Guardian interrupted, his voice unyielding. "You fled the chaos of your life in Orlais to a cloister in Lothering, fearing you would lose yourself. But even there, you sought the Maker's favor not out of humility but for the attention it brought you. And you did so in His name?"
Anger flared in Leliana's expression. "How dare you! I know what I saw!"
The Guardian's voice remained calm. "I see I have touched a truth within you, one you are not yet ready to face. But your journey continues, and you are on the right path."
Finally, his gaze turned to Morrigan. "Ah, Morrigan, daughter of Flemeth…"
Morrigan cut him off sharply. "I will not entertain your foolish games, Spirit. Begone!"
The Guardian inclined his head, unfazed. "Very well. A strong mind, yet one not closed to the truths of this world. I respect your wishes."
Then, as if remembering something, he turned toward Brother Genitivi, who had been standing quietly at the back.
"And you, Brother Genitivi, scholar and seeker of truth. You have devoted your life to uncovering the secrets of Andraste's legacy. Yet, I sense doubt in your heart. Do you fear that your pursuit has been in vain?"
Genitivi hesitated, caught off guard by the question. "I… I sometimes wonder if I am chasing a shadow. If the Urn is but a symbol, not a reality, then what have I accomplished? But even so, I have faith that the pursuit of truth has value in itself."
The Guardian nodded solemnly. "A seeker who questions but does not falter. Your faith, though shaken, remains steadfast. You, too, may proceed."
With that, the Guardian stepped aside, his form dissolving into shimmering light.
"May you prove yourselves worthy," he said, his voice echoing faintly as it faded into the chamber.
Duran glanced at his companions and found renewed resolve in their eyes. Together, they stepped forward, ready to face the trials of the Gauntlet and uncover the truth of the Urn of Sacred Ashes.
9
The Trials of Andraste: A Personal Reckoning
In the first stage, they learned about Andraste's rise from her companions' spirits. Tales of betrayal by Maferath and the remorseful Archon Hessarian, who ended her suffering and subsequently spread her faith, unfolded before them.
Andraste's life was marked by suffering, betrayal, and unwavering faith. She endured the trauma of slavery, chronic illness, and personal loss, yet rose to become a prophet and a leader. Despite her efforts to free her people and spread the Maker's word, she was ultimately betrayed by her husband and martyred. Her legacy, however, inspired generations and reshaped the faith of Thedas.
The second stage, however, was far more personal.
As Duran stepped into the next chamber, he suddenly found himself back in the Deep Roads. His companions were nowhere to be seen.
The cavern was silent, save for the faint dripping of water from unseen stalactites above. The air was cold, biting through Duran's armor and settling deep into his bones. Tightening his grip on his weapon, he scanned the area, the polished surface of his shield reflecting the faint glow of lyrium veins etched into the stone walls.
This place felt untouched by time, an ancient and forgotten chamber deep within the Deep Roads—a sanctuary for the Stone's secrets.
The sense of being watched crept over him as soon as he entered the chamber. His instincts prickled, the hairs on the back of his neck rising.
"Duran Aeducan," a deep, resonant voice called, echoing off the stone walls.
Duran froze, the sound stirring memories he had tried to bury. Slowly, he turned, his heart pounding.
There, standing in the faint glow of the lyrium, was a figure clad in ornate dwarven armor, unmarked by time. The face was unmistakable: Trian Aeducan, his elder brother.
"Impossible," Duran whispered, his voice barely audible.
Trian's eyes glowed faintly, an eerie light that marked the presence of a spirit within. He looked as he had in life—proud and strong, with the imperious expression Duran had known so well. Yet now, there was something else—a trace of sorrow that softened his presence.
"Is it?" Trian asked, his voice heavy with the weight of unspoken truths. "The Stone remembers, little brother. And so do I."
Duran's grip on his weapon tightened, though he made no move to strike. "Why are you here, Trian? What magic binds you to this place?"
Trian tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "Magic? No. This is the Stone's doing. The ancestors have granted me this moment—a chance to speak with you."
He took a step closer, his form shimmering faintly. "I am not here to fight, Duran."
Duran's jaw clenched. "Why should I believe you? You never trusted me in life. Why should death be any different?"
Trian's expression faltered, the glow in his eyes dimming. "Because I have seen the truth," he said quietly. "The truth of what happened to me and the truth of what it cost us both."
Duran hesitated, the venom in his words fading as unease crept in. "The truth?"
"Bhelen," Trian said simply.
The name hit Duran like a hammer. "You know," he said, his voice low and bitter. "Then you know it was him, not me."
Trian nodded. "I know. I know Father accused the wrong brother and that my pride blinded me. In doing so, I condemned you to a fate you did not deserve."
Duran took a step back, his mind reeling. The words he had longed to hear—words he never thought would come—hung in the air between them.
"I hated you," Duran admitted, his voice raw. "For how you treated me, how you saw me as a threat rather than a brother. When I was exiled, I cursed not only Bhelen's name but yours as well…"
Trian's expression grew pained. "And I earned that hatred. I see that now, clearer than I ever did in life. My pride was my downfall, Duran. And in my fall, I dragged you down with me."
The silence between them was thick, broken only by the distant drip of water.
"Why now?" Duran finally asked. "Why appear to me now?"
Trian's gaze softened. "Because you stand at a crossroads, little brother. Your path will shape not only your fate but the fate of our house, our name—even the world itself. I cannot undo what has been done, but I can tell you this: Do not let my mistakes become yours. Do not let pride blind you as it did me."
Duran's throat tightened as emotions swirled within him—anger, sorrow, regret—all threatening to overwhelm him. But beneath them was something else: a flicker of understanding.
"What would you have me do?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Trian stepped closer, his spectral form almost within reach. "Remember who you are—not just an exile, not just a warrior. You are Duran Aeducan, of the line of kings. Carry that name with honor, for what it can mean if wielded with wisdom and strength. And never disregard your feelings. They always mean something. Be honest with yourself."
Duran stared at his brother, the weight of his words settling heavily upon him. Slowly, he nodded.
"I will," he said, his voice steady. "I will honor our name and strive to be a better man than any who came before us."
Trian's form began to fade, the glow of the lyrium around him growing brighter. "Then my purpose here is fulfilled," he said, his voice distant now. "Go, Duran. Carve your name into the Stone. Make it one the ancestors will remember. And one last thing: Father is proud of you."
And with that, Trian was gone, leaving only the faint glow of the lyrium and the silence of the cavern.
Duran stood there for a long moment, his hands resting on the Aeducan shield. When he finally turned to leave, his steps felt lighter, his resolve stronger.
The past could not be undone, but it could be faced. And the future was still his to shape.
As he passed through the next door, he found himself standing before the final test:
The group stood at the edge of a seemingly endless chasm. The voice of the Guardian echoed through the chamber:
"Those who hold true faith will prove their worth, even when facing the abyss."
"I will go first," Leliana declared, her determination evident. „Let me take this step with you my dear," said brother Genitivi as he limmped forward. Without hesitation, they stepped into what appeared to be the void.
Duran watched, astonished, as Leliana seemed to walk across an invisible bridge, her steps unwavering.
The others followed cautiously, one after the other.
"By the Stone," muttered Duran, his voice shaky. "Worse than having no stone above your head is having no ground beneath your feet."
Step by step, he crossed the bridge, his heart pounding until he finally reached the other side.
Once they were all across, they entered a vast hall. At the center stood an altar, with a wall of fire blazing just beyond it.
Alistair pointed toward the platform on the other side. "Look—that must be the Sacred Ashes! By Andrastes Bre—Maker's Breath," he added, catching himself with a sheepish grin.
Brother Genitivi, who had been following closely, whispered in awe, "This… this is incredible. We are so close."
He stepped forward to the altar, his scholarly curiosity overriding the tension of the moment. Translating the ancient script aloud, his voice rang through the chamber:
"Whether beggar or king, sinner or lawkeeper, man or woman, elf, dwarf, or human—cast off your mortal shells and reveal your true selves. Walk through the fire and let your sins be cleansed."
A heavy silence followed. The words hung in the air like a challenge none of them were eager to face.
Alistair's face turned an impressive shade of crimson as he stammered, "The altar doesn't actually mean… I mean, it can't mean what I think it means, right?"
Leliana's lips curled into a wickedly playful grin. "And what do you think it means, Alistair?" she purred, stepping closer. Her nimble fingers began to unfasten her leather armor, one buckle at a time, her gaze never leaving his.
Duran sighed audibly, knowing full well Leliana was reveling in Alistair's discomfort.
"Maker's mercy…" Alistair muttered, his voice cracking slightly as he spun away, his eyes fixed firmly on the wall.
Morrigan, watching the exchange with growing irritation, cut in with a cold edge to her voice. "Let me make this very clear. If any of you so much as think about sneaking a glance, it will be the last thing your pitiful eyes ever see." Her sharp glare swept over the group, leaving no doubt of her seriousness.
Reluctantly, Duran, Alistair, and Brother Genitivi began to remove their armor, each avoiding eye contact with one another or the women behind them. The clinking of metal and rustling of fabric echoed awkwardly through the chamber.
Behind them, Leliana hummed softly, a melody with just enough suggestion to make Alistair fidget uncomfortably.
Once their garments were discarded, Leliana's voice rang out, brimming with amusement. "Oh, Alistair," she teased, "where did you get that delightful new scar running down your broad, oh-so-masculine back?"
Alistair started to turn, his lips already parting for a rebuttal, but Duran's hand shot out, clamping firmly onto his shoulder.
"Alistair," Duran said evenly, though his own voice wavered slightly, "I'm very sure Morrigan was not joking this time. Keep your eyes on the target. Straight ahead. Eyes. On. The. Target."
Alistair gulped and nodded, his eyes snapping forward with the intensity of a soldier facing battle.
Duran himself was not immune to the temptation to look back, but the icy promise in Morrigan's warning loomed large in his mind. His life, he decided, was far too precious to risk for even the briefest glance.
Taking a deep breath, Duran stepped forward and into the flames. To his astonishment, the fire didn't burn; it caressed his skin like a warm breeze, leaving only a faint tingling sensation.
The others followed, each emerging unscathed from the trial. The heat of the flames was nothing compared to the smoldering tension that had filled the room moments earlier.
As they reached the other side, the Guardian appeared before them.
"Congratulations, travelers!" he proclaimed. "You have proven yourselves worthy to gaze upon the Urn of Sacred Ashes. You may take from it a portion, but use it wisely, for the good of others."
With those words, the Guardian vanished as swiftly as he had appeared.
The group quickly redressed and ascended the stairs toward the Sacred Ashes. Every step felt significant, the air thick with reverence.
As they reached the top, Leliana fell to her knees, her voice trembling as she recited verses from the Chant of Light.
Morrigan circled the urn, her expression skeptical yet tinged with wonder. "So, the rumors were true after all," she murmured.
Even Alistair grew quiet, bowing his head in silent prayer.
Brother Genitivi, tears streaming down his face, whispered, "It's real. After all these years… it's truly real."
Duran stood silently, his mind racing. By the Stone, what had they just experienced? What did this mean for his own beliefs?
Andraste was real. Not just a legend, not just a story. Her ashes were here, tangible and true. And they seemed to possess the miraculous properties described in the old tales.
With the utmost care, Duran took a small portion of the ashes and wrapped them in a cloth he had brought.
After several moments of quiet reflection, the group began their descent.
Brother Genitivi walked beside them, his voice trembling with awe. "This discovery will change everything—for history, for faith, for all of Thedas."
Duran said nothing, lost in his thoughts what this would really mean.