I hate funerals, Natia Brosca decided. She wouldn't have one herself, when the time came: she would rather her corpse be burned, as the humans did, than returned to the Stone which had cast her out. But it was a fitting end for the Prince Aeducan. He had looked towards Orzammar every day, and deeply regretted the split between his brothers which had -in the end- led to both of their deaths.

"My friends, we are gathered here today to pay our respects to the Grey Warden who saved us all." Alistair looked grave, wearing his new, golden armour, the same the late King Cailan had worn before being cut down at Ostagar. "He gave his life to destroy the Blight, a sacrifice we must never forget. It was no accident that he was there, either. He was special, and each of us has had our life touched by him in some way. He put me on this throne, and showed me how important it was I be here. The Grey Wardens couldn't have asked for anyone finer. How do you properly honor someone like that? The Grey Wardens are building a magnificent tomb at Weisshaupt, right next to Garahel's, but I'd like to do something as well. Gorim of House Aeducan, please step forward."

Nat had only met the other dwarf once before, when their group had first gone to Denerim seeking the Chantry scholar Brother Genetivi. He stood forth now, looking grave, his armor shined to a polish that it had lacked in the merchants' quarter.

"You were Duran Aeducan's manservant?"

"I was, until he was exiled from Orzammar. I was quite sorry to see him go."

Not that sorry, Natia thought, watching him. He did seem genuinely sorrowful that the Prince was dead, but his hair wasn't cut in mourning. She wondered if he'd cut it when he'd first been exiled to the surface, thinking his liege dead in the Deep Roads, and thus didn't feel he had to do so again.

"I understand that the king has asked for the body to be sent back to Orzammar?"

"Well, no disrespect meant but we don't burn our dead. We bury them in the ground, return them to the Stone," Gorim said. "And the King says that he's to be buried in Orzammar next to his father, as an Aeducan. All honors restored."

Nat wondered if anyone present- other than she, Gorim, and Oghren- knew exactly how significant that was. The humans probably thought that they were backwards heathens, of course, and the elves- she didn't have any idea how they treated their dead, actually. To be buried next to his father, as an Aeducan once more: Duran would have loved that. But he was dead, and thus felt nothing any longer. She wished she could share that non-feeling.

"That's good. I've spoken with King Harrowmont. Ferelden will be sending men to help keep the darkspawn at bay. We won't ignore the dwarves any longer." Alistair glanced over at her briefly. She knew he was wondering if she'd take him up on his offer to lead the Warden outpost in Orzammar. There would be plenty of new recruits to manage; it would certainly keep her busy.

"Glad to hear it, your Majesty." The redheaded dwarf bowed and stepped back again.

"Let all know that the arling of Amaranthine, once the land of Arl Howe, is now granted to the Grey Wardens. There they can rebuild, and hopefully live up to this example. Friends, let us hope that he has gone on to a better place and that he knows just how thankful we are for what he has done here." Alistair looked down at the body of Prince Duran Aeducan, laid out in peaceful repose. "You will be missed, my friend. By us all."

Gorim left with the procession carrying the Prince Aeducan's body to Orzammar, as he had been restored to the Warrior Caste. Natia didn't say a word to him; he didn't know that her relationship with the Prince Aeducan had been much improved since their early days of working together. Natia climbed the walls of Denerim and sat on the edge watching them go until the last gleam of metal had disappeared into the distance, then watched a bit longer, wishing hopelessly that it was all a lie, a practical joke, that the Prince Aeducan would come riding back down the road and laugh and call-

"Hey, Brosca!" a familiar voice hollered, and Natia jerked out of her imaginings to scowl at the probably already drunk dwarf on the ground below. "Come on down, there's a party to get to and a King to crown!"

"Nug-humper," she called back, but got down from her perch anyways. If she didn't show up, they'd probably send Zevran to find her, and she didn't feel like listening to him go on about the fleetness of life and the ephemeral nature of love, especially not after she'd seen his earring glinting in Darrian's ear. Love is for fools, he'd told her some months ago, you only get one life- so you might as well spend it having a good time, no?

Alistair had insisted on delaying the coronation until the Prince Aeducan's funeral, which was all well and good but it meant that everyone else was moving on from mourning. She knew they had to; Denerim, and all of Ferelden, was still in ruins- but that didn't mean she liked it. Oghren, at least, knew how she felt; he'd spent three years in mourning for the wife who'd left him to march her whole House into the Deep Roads, only to find that she was still alive and they had to kill her. Duran had only died a few days ago.

"Get drunk," Oghren had advised her, looking far more melancholy than usual, and mostly sober for once. "Get very drunk, then go hit things with a big stick."

"I'm no berserker," she had scoffed in reply, but now it sounded good. She would love to take out her fury on Urthemiel, but the Archdemon was dead and gone and with it her Prince. She'd have to settle for the practice courts later.

Said redhead dwarf waited for her at the base of the wall, grinning widely. "Our Alistair, King of Ferelden! Who'da thought it, eh?"

"World works in strange ways," said Natia with a philosophical shrug. "Who knows, maybe you'll end up Commander of the Grey."

Oghren made a crude gesture and pointedly did not offer her any of the dwarven ale he'd pilfered from the Orzammar warriors.

They picked their way through the rubble, taking a meandering path through the former merchants' quarter, taking a shortcut through the elven quarter- they called it an alienage, Ancestors only knew why- and cutting through what used to be a brothel.

The crowds had already gathered in the streets to watch the royal procession, Alistair Theirin and Elyssa Cousland in the lead, sweep majestically up towards the Chantry, which had miraculously escaped the beating the rest of the city had taken. The former Queen came behind them, to give them her crown in a symbolic transfer of power, and retinue of multiple officials went behind them.

Natia and Oghren fell in with the procession as it went by them, Oghren even refraining from making any crude jokes and ruining the solemnity of it all. Darrian Tabris raked his long blond hair back and grinned at her, his earring flashing in the bright sunlight.

"Hey, little dwarf! I hope you have a speech ready- you are the Best Man, after all." His hand snaked out to tussle her mourning-short hair, and she dodged it easily, rolling her eyes at him.

"Yes, I know. I still don't see why. Sodding Alistair, why'd he have to do that? Daylen would be a better choice, I mean he's actually a man..."

Zevran Arainai, walking on the other side of Darrian, chuckled softly. "I am sure Neria agrees with you there, my dear Warden," he said, wiggling his eyebrows, and Natia rolled her eyes again. Too often, their assassin seemed a purely sexual being. He had never understood Daylen Amell's non-sexuality, and still didn't understand why he and Neria Surana loved each other. He convinced himself they had a secret sexual relationship and made innuendos whenever he could to cover up his own confusion. She remembered when she'd first seen him, raising daggers in preparation to attack, murder in his eyes, and then hesitation when he'd seen the size of their party.

"There are rather more of you than I'd been led to believe," he'd said, and laughed. "The Wardens may not die here, but I will give you something to remember!"

Darrian bumped the other elf gently with one shoulder. "This is meant to be a solemn occasion," he said seriously, bright eyes dancing. "Alistair and the Bloodhound are getting married and crowned today, after all!"

Nat couldn't help it; she laughed. Trust the city-bred elf to keep calling Elyssa Cousland by her hated nickname. "I dare you to toast the Bloodhound at their wedding feast," she said, only half-joking; imagining the noblewoman's expression would keep her entertained for weeks. "Where is Neria, anyway? I see Daylen.."

The tall dark-skinned mage was absorbed in his own world, as he so often was. She noticed that he'd shorn off his beard, perhaps in mourning for the Prince Aeducan- she had. His normal rich mage robes were nowhere in sight, nor was his elegant staff; she supposed that even though he was a Warden, the sight of a loose mage would make people frightened. His usual companion, the slender elven mage Neria Surana, was not visible. Normally, her bright white hair let her stand out in any crowd.

Elyssa's mabari, Calenhad, bolted, barking madly, after a couple of stray cats in a nearby alley. Another dog raced after him, unusual in its shaggy black-and-white fur.

"There she is," said Darrian, not pointing. All of them knew what Neria looked like shapeshifted into a dog.

The doors of the Chantry swung open, admitting everyone. Alistair and Elyssa were swept up by a crowd of Chantry lay-sisters, who probably intended to get them out of their ceremonial armor and into the regal clothes preferred by the nobility. Nat wondered if they'd manage to get Elyssa into a dress. Probably not. The Bloodhound never enjoyed wearing formal clothes, though she should have been used to it as the daughter of a Teyrn.

"Come on, come on, we're all sitting up here," Leliana appeared out of nowhere, urging them towards the front of the Chantry. Rows of wooden benches were filling up; the Orlesian meant for them to sit in the reserved seats at the front. "Natia, you sit at this end, that way you'll be able to see."

Leliana could be condescending sometimes, though she never meant it that way. Nat stood aside to let the others file into the pew and ended up sitting next to Neria, now back to her regular self, dressed as comfortably as Nat was.

"No dogs allows, eh?" she said in an undertone, chuckling.

"Hush," ordered Neria, face poker-blank, but her blue eyes smiled.

A Chantry woman in brightly coloured robes stepped up to the dais and began to speak, spinning a tale of their year fighting the Blight: how they'd gathered allies from all four corners of Ferelden, how they'd destroyed the Archdemon, how Alistair had saved the country from civil war by executing Loghain Mac Tir after defeating him in single combat in the Landsmeet. She spoke of how bravely they had fought against the darkspawn: how the brave Prince Aeducan had died after delivering the final blow to the great dragon-demon, how well Alistair and Elyssa had led the forces in routing the remnants of the darkspawn horde. Nat didn't pay much attention, instead finding her gaze riveted on the stained glass windows. The Maker has turned his face from us, the Chantry teaches. I can believe that. Never really thought the Ancestors had any power- that was Duran's belief, though. Remember the Stone, he always said. Remember the Stone from which we came and to which we shall return. Well, how are you liking the Stone, my prince?

A stir in the crowd brought her back to herself. Alistair, looking kingly in red and gold clothes, and Elyssa, looking beautiful with her long auburn hair for once out of its braid, walked up the aisle together. They had managed to get her out of her black Cousland leathers into a dress, and she looked far more the part than Alistair, walking with the quiet noble dignity that she had learned from her parents.

The two knelt before the dais and the Chantry woman spoke a few words over them, her hands raised in benediction; Nat didn't listen to what she said, instead closely watching the faces of her human friends. Elyssa looked refined, noble, born for duty; none of Alistair's apprehension was visible on his face. In his regal clothes, he looked very similar to the late King Cailan, though he didn't look as kingly as he did in his half-brother's golden armour.

"Rise, Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden! Rise, Elyssa Cousland, Princess-Consort!"

Natia Brosca had sworn off of drinking after what had happened that night in the Deep Roads, so she didn't stay at the post-coronation party; she made an appearance, but soon left for the peace of the practice courts, unable to stand the sight of so much good cheer. She felt as if the world had ended with the Prince's death, but here it was, moving on as if nothing had happened. They could have had another thirty years. Why didn't they have another thirty years?

Darrian found her while she was throwing knives into one of the man-shaped targets. "We'll be leaving soon," he said in an undertone, leaning down so she could hear him. "Zevran has some...unfinished business with the Crows, and I've got to watch his back."

"I'd offer you a hand, but Antiva isn't exactly my cup of tea," said Nat, hefting a throwing knife in her left hand. She hadn't practiced with her off-hand for a while; her skills were getting rusty. "And they might object to a Carta dwarf showing up on their territory."

The elf laughed. "I would accept the offer, my dear dwarf, if you weren't as subtle as a rampaging bear."

He spun one of her knives between long fingers, then his hand blurred forward and the knife struck the target at a bad angle. Nat scowled; again, she hadn't noticed him picking her pocket. She wasn't much of a thief.

"Still haven't got the hang of it," he muttered, and shrugged carelessly. He was a better pickpocket, but couldn't throw knives to save his life. Couldn't throw grenades or poisons, either, and definitely couldn't be trusted around a bow.

"So when are you going? You can't miss the wedding feast."

"Of course not. We'll slip out before dawn, while our new King and Queen are too busy with each other to assign us duties." Darrian cartwheeled around Nat as she walked to the target and pulled out her knives. "Speaking of duties, have you made up your mind yet?"

"I'm not going back to Orzammar," Nat said, avoiding the question, and yanked out the final knife with a particularly vicious tug. "Those nug-shit deeplords can go and swive themselves."

"I take it you haven't shared this bit of wisdom with our fearless leader." He handed back her knives, which-again-he'd taken without her noticing.

"The Bloodhound doesn't want me going down there anyways- thinks I'll have the deeplords ready to remove the Wardens from Ferelden again within a day." Nat smiled slightly. "She's probably right. They're already squabbling over whether or not to make the Prince a Paragon, what would they make of me?"

"You can travel with us out of Denerim, if you want to avoid that, then," the elf said. He sat on the fence that bordered the practice courts. She climbed up to sit next to him, legs dangling over the ground comically.

"Very generous of you. Listen to you and Zevran? I gag at the thought." She didn't voice her true reason: she hoped that Alistair would give her something to do, anything to do, that would keep her mind off of loose sand.

"Ha!" Darrian jumped down. "Well, if you change your mind, we'll be leaving at the fourth hour after midnight. I think Zev's pirate friend is going to give us a lift."

"Atrast tunsha." She paused for a moment, then added quietly, "Don't get yourself killed, salroka."

The post-coronation party transitioned easily into a grand wedding feast, at the end of which the new King and Queen would depart as newlyweds to enjoy their new palatial quarters. Before they said their vows to each other, Nat came back in her finest formalwear, a gift from her Prince that he'd gotten for her in Orzammar, and stood on a table to deliver a speech and a toast.

"Evening, ladies and gents- and you over there, you're no gent, you're a bloody dwarf, evening to you too!" She poured herself a glass of ale and held it up. "We're here today to celebrate the union between two of the oldest, noblest bloodlines in Ferelden, the union which will resolve a year of civil war. And by that I mean Alistair and Elyssa, here, didn't exactly get along from the beginning! In fact, I think they still hate each other. Why else would I hear loud sounds coming from- why are you looking at me like that, Alistair? I think it's a good thing that she can yell louder than you."

Nat grinned at the beet-red Alistair and winked at the normally composed Elyssa, who had a flush on her cheeks, clearly repressing the urge to throttle her new husband's "Best Man."

"I'm not sure why Alistair chose me as his Best Man-well, Best Dwarf, anyways. But I'm honored to stand by his side today and bless this marriage. You couldn't have picked a better one, Alistair, although I'm sure she could have picked better than you- I mean, you're only a human, after all." Nat winked broadly and raised her glass. "Valos atredum, my good friends! May you live long, happy lives and have twenty loud children!"

The assembled crowd let out a loud cheer and many of them tapped their glasses with their spoons, which meant the still red Alistair and Elyssa had to turn and kiss.

"The bedding! The bedding! A wedding and a bedding!" A chant struck up, and amidst the laughter Nat drank her ale in one long pull and hopped off the table, thumping the glass down on the formerly white tablecloth as she went. The newlyweds stood, holding hands, and ran out the back door to avoid the crowd, which suddenly wanted a traditional bedding.

"Ah, weddings," said Oghren in a nostalgic voice, and wiped a tear from one eye. "Beautiful speech, Brosca!"