Origins Theme, Fenris' Theme, The Dalish Elf Encampment, Jungle Book Theme (you read that right)

Apprentice Guerrin

Epilogue

Hawke was the one to recite the oath in the rain:

"Join us, brothers and sisters.

Join us in the shadows where we stand vigilant.

Join us as we carry the duty that cannot be forsworn.

And should you perish, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten.

And that one day we shall join you."

"Connor Guerrin, you are called upon to submit yourself to the Joining. Step forward."

He did. The chalice was cold. And the blood- it burned…

Two weeks later…

The city of Highever was draped across the cliffs of the Waking Sea, several days ride from West Hill. Her port was not as grand or busy as Amaranthine's natural harbour further east, but it was still a point of interest along the Fereldan coast. Her soft grey stone made for wide streets, warm homes, and towering buildings brushing against the spring fog and winding towards the high seat of Teyrn Fergus Cousland, master of the city and its surrounding lands.

The Warden Commander had a pleasant view of Teyrn's castle from his window. The inn was located in the city's midtown area, close to the market district, and their rooms were on the second floor of the great stone building. An inn with warm wool rugs and high windows wasn't usually the sort of place where a trio of elves would find themselves staying for well over a week, but Soren had coin, Zevran had his smile, and Velanna kept her hood down over her scarred face.

His Wardens had boarded a ship for Val Royeaux six days ago, with orders to carry on to the Western Approach and take the situation there in hand until Soren could join or recall them. Morrigan had taken her leave before they'd reached the city, and Zevran had been gone for four days now on a special errand.

He'd regained the use of his hand and arm. His shoulders no longer hurt and he could sit up comfortably, irritated by the loss of his staff but careful not to show it as he slowly regained control of his magic. He could walk and made a point of doing so, although he knew running and long travel were still out of reach. Between Zevran, Morrigan, and Oghren, he had been confined to bedrest from the time he awoke in the Inquisition's camp until he finally ordered his last friend out of the city.

Velanna, or the Stray as Morrigan had insisted on calling her, knew better than to tell him about his own health. She also did not leave the suite without his permission in case her appearance caused a fright or spread rumours. The last thing Highever needed was whispers of strange elves spreading blight in the market.

From the nailbeds on her hands were dark grey veins of corruption. She insisted it didn't hurt, but the same darkness had bled from her eyes and the corners of her mouth. The tips of her ears had curled and blackened. The skin was not dead because she could pull the ends and unroll them, but she admitted that most of the sensation had vanished. Years without the sun had caused her complexion to leech out and lighten to unsettling levels. Her hair was thin, white, and lank. She looked starved and took her meals cautiously, eating very little at a time and often stowing things in her pockets for later.

After Zevran left Soren and Velanna were left locked in the same set of rooms for four straight days together. He hoped she was as unhappy with the arrangement as he was, and had the added benefit of being the one to arrange it. Nathaniel had not wanted to leave and go half-way across Thedas, but Velanna could not be expected to make the same journey and Soren refused to risk her running off or betraying his company again. He had commanded Howe to leave with the others because the darkspawn in Orlais needed to be checked and they needed every Grey Warden Ferelden could spare.

"You want to know where the nest is." She finally said, and Soren kept gazing out the window at Highever castle.

"Of course I do." He answered, wondering if it would rain today. "And why you finally left it."

"You don't trust me."

"Of course I don't."

"Then why keep us alone together? What if I turn on you?"

"Oh, please do." He looked across the room to where she was standing by the burning fire. It was spring, but Highever was chilly. "I'm sure Nathaniel would enjoy confronting either of us about the other's death."

She was silent after that, curled in around herself and standing with her shoulders hunched. She'd lost a lot of her pride down there.

"If I said I was sorry, would it make a difference?" She asked.

"To Nathaniel? Possibly."

"To you." He made sure he was looking at the painting hanging on the wall when she threw a glance at him over her shoulder. It was a blue vase spilling orange and red flowers. He wondered where they'd found the blue pigment from. "Commander."

He took a breath, considered an honest answer.

"If you've spent the last ten years sowing broodmothers, then no." He told her flatly. "If all your efforts were to end the Calling then… maybe."

"Utha was the only broodmother." Velanna said in a hushed voice. "Seranni wasn't a Grey Warden, when she began to succumb to the taint the Architect let her drink deathroot and fall asleep. She got to die on her own terms, on the surface, deep in the Brecillian forest. Utha wanted to spend her last hours under the sky and I… couldn't make it happen."

"And that wasn't enough to show you how wrong your path was?" He asked, wondering if she might-

"You agreed with him once too." And she did, she did remember and she did try to use it against him. "And then as soon as the Mother was dead, you-"

"Tried and failed to find him." Soren filled in. "He had his reasons but they started the fifth blight, Velanna." And then: "We've argued about this before but I think you agree with me this time."

"I…"

"Seranni wasn't a Grey Warden, but Utha was?" He tried to see the logic in this twisted puzzle. The answer did not please him, but he found it. "Did he want to know if a Grey Warden would become an Awakened darkspawn? An Awakened broodmother like the one we killed in the bone pit? Would her spawn be Awakened as well and resist the Calling from birth?"

"No." Velanna told him, but there was a tremble in the way she said it and stared down in the fire. "It didn't work. She began to change and the pain was too much, she signed for him to stop- she was a Silent Sister before joining the Wardens and had no tongue! He pretended not to see it, he lied, and he just kept forcing her to consume more and more. He forced the flesh down her throat and her hands just wept no, no, no…" And her faith had finally broken. Soren could feel content with that.

"I'm sorry for what you endured." He told her.

"I thought I was the one who was supposed to apologize?"

"Yours wouldn't make much difference." She'd been foolish and wrong. "Maybe mine will."

They passed another two quiet, uncomfortable days at the inn, until finally Zevran came back.

"Who said you could be out of bed? Go lay down." Were the first words out of his mouth.

"Hello, Zevran. Welcome back." Soren was standing at the window, simple clothes and boots on as he'd just returned from a steady walk around the market. He felt stronger, strong enough to keep on his feet just to spite his road-weary friend. "Were you successful?"

"I found them and then some." Oh? His cloak was speckled with the same rain Soren had narrowly avoided. He had mud and grass caking the bottom of his boots which the innkeeper would not appreciate. His bandolier held several new shimmering bottles and his daggers were safely stowed at his belt. He had the bright-eyed look of a week's worth of hardy exercise and Soren admitted he was jealous. "Where's Velanna?"

"I'm here." She uttered quietly. The suite was several tidy rooms connected to one antechamber, and she approached cautiously from the door to her own room. Soren could have moved them after the rest of the Company departed, but had enjoyed the antechamber along with the stability of not re-settling into another place. The Innkeeper probably thought he'd stolen the money.

"Did you two have a lovely heart-to-heart?" Zevran asked her coyly.

"I don't think either of us has one of those." Velanna's venom felt tired, and Soren smiled as he kicked one ankle in front of the other where he was leaning. He felt a twinge in his leg but tested it anyways.

"Well?" He asked, courteous enough to wait for Zevran to finish his laugh. "If you'll make the introductions then you can rest."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of missing these next few minutes, my friend." Somehow that answer did not inspire confidence. "You may want to sit down, Soren."

"I think I'll stand." He said, but felt his smile slip.

"Have it your way!" Zevran was still standing with his back in the open doorway, but then he took a step in and to the right, clearing his throat with a dramatic little huff. "May I present An'neth Athras Zathrian, Hunter for her Clan."

Soren heard Velanna make a soft sound and vanish back into her room but he called her back. She did not come willingly, but unless she intended to crawl out the window and drop to the street below she had nowhere to run.

"Keeper Lanaya sends her regards, Grey Warden." The awkward behaviour from Velanna gave the elven hunter pause as she entered the room under a mossy green cloak cut with patterned swirls of different fabric. She pulled the hood off her short orange hair and revealed the Vallaslin etched into her skin. She had a long and narrow face with a bold nose and slender ears, her green eyes severe as she stood rigidly, ill-at-ease with her surroundings. "She sent me as an escort and messenger to report Clan Zathrian's willingness to aid you. In the spirit of continued friendship, our Clan is willing to offer what we can."

Soren pushed away from the wall, standing properly before he inclined his head slowly.

"The Grey Wardens of Ferelden offer their thanks, Huntress." He said, "May the Dread Wolf never stalk your camp from the shadows."

"Since when do you give a Dalish blessing?" Velanna asked him harshly, her cloak fetched from the other room and hood up over her disfigured face. Soren regarded her briefly, and then explained the situation.

"Hunter An'neth," He said, addressing the Dalish. "This is Velanna, one of the People and recently freed from the Deep Roads. She has information that is extremely valuable to the Grey Wardens, but in her present condition is no longer fit to fight or travel to such dangerous places. She is a mage and is deeply versed in Elven History, she and your Keeper will have plenty to discuss. Please, give my personal thanks and well-wishes to Keeper Lanaya. Amaranthine's Wending Wood will always welcome your clan's aravels."

"What?" Velanna sounded breathless, and Soren regarded her blankly. "What are you doing? I thought you were going to drag me back to Vigil's Keep?"

"Would you prefer that?" He asked, slowly. "I remember you chaffing around so many shem'len and stone walls. Nathaniel will be gone until at least the end of spring and I can't recall you having many friends among the servants or guards at the Vigil. I intend to follow the others to Griffon Wing Keep in Orlais as soon as I'm well enough and frankly I don't trust you to be left unsupervised at the Vigil or expect you to fare well in the middle of a desert, not yet. Unless you want me to lock you up, Velanna, then the only reasonable solution is to send you to the Dalish."

"I'm a deserter." She whispered, her blight-stained eyes wide and staring at him from under her hood. "Why would you…?"

"I hate to quote a Disciple, Velanna, but I think you've suffered enough for your choices. I can be angry with someone without setting out to destroy them and I would rather see you healed instead. Shall we waste more of Hunter An'neth's time or are you going to gather your things?"

"I…" She was speechless, good, it meant she couldn't argue with him. "When do you expect me to come back?"

"When you're ready." He answered. "When you can handle it. If that time never comes then you never return and the Dalish get to keep you. The only condition I set on you is this, Warden Velanna: you are going back to your people, but you're also going to one of my friends and if anything happens to Clan Zathrian because of your presence there, I will end you. Am I fair?"

"Fen'harel himself could not get past me." She pledged. It sounded like spite and that pleased him.

"Go."

Velanna clasped a hand and touched it to her breast, then quietly vanished back into her room. She was shaken and probably thought he was lying, but honestly he was glad to be rid of her for now. She returned a moment later with her staff and likely nothing else, she'd brought very few things with her to begin with. When she crossed the floor with it she hesitated and made the hunter fidget nervously.

"I would like to be gone from this place, Hahren." The woman murmured.

"Commander, you're… certain about this?" If she kept asking him then he was going to change his mind. Instead he sighed and waved her away.

"There are four elves in this room, Velanna, the innkeeper will be thrilled to watch two of us leave. Off with you."

"Thank you, sir- Soren, thank you." There was something there, something that made the rims of her eyes burn red, her lips parted and beginning to pull. It was an emotion caught between disbelief and joy and he was not as invested as she was.

"Dismissed!"

"Come, dah'len."

"Grey Warden," the hunter acknowledged him one more time and then quickly turned and followed Velanna out of the room.

Soren closed his eyes with a sigh, running his hand over the back of a chair and slowly setting himself down-

"You had your chance!" Zevran mocked, and that was when he heard the soft commotion outside between the two women and- "And now for a visit from-"

"Enough, enough!" A new, male, voice said. "I know how to be patient and polite but no more games. Surana!"

A tall human entered the room with dark brown hair cut and swept to the side in the Ferelden style, his black jerkin sporting a dark steel breastplate, his gloves and coat cut finely and threaded with embroidery on the cuffs. Soren had sunk half-way into his chair and immediately caught his weight on both arms, his half-healed shoulders screaming as he forced himself back up on to his feet.

"Teyrn Cousland," He said, suddenly winded when pain skated down his back and the weight made his leg shake under him. "I was not expecting-"

"Are we being polite or direct this afternoon?" The Teyrn interrupted him, and Soren felt his tongue roll back inside his mouth.

"Perhaps both, your lordship."

"No, that won't do." Cousland berated and his tone was alarming. Amaranthine and Highever were on good terms with each other and that had always extended to the offices of the Arl and the Teryn. "It won't do at all, in fact- in fact." The Teyrn interrupted himself and raised one hand to bite his knuckle, clearly trying to keep from saying something that would not improve whatever this was. The Teyrn twisted towards the door and called. "Your Grace!" Gra-?

"You kept the Teyrn and the King outside?" Soren hissed, winded from the shock as he stared at Zevran. And the fool was laughing at him, grinning from ear to pointed ear.

"And this is why you'll never make me Seneschal of anywhere." Zevran crooned. But Soren could make him a lot of other things. Like a toad. A small, green, slimy toad. That spell didn't actually exist but no one needed to know that but him.

"See, I knew having Zevran bring the Dalish girl in first would ruin your composure." King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden announced, stepping through the doorway in a vest of structured leather panels, edges of fur lining his shoulders and the cuffs of his long sleeves. His blonde hair had grown darker over the years, brushed back instead of sitting up at the front like it once had, lines under his eyes from the stress of his life in Denerim. But today he stuck his chest out when he walked and was so kind as to shut the door behind him when he entered. He strut himself forward and presenting his right hand, fingers hanging and wrist up high, clearly mixing a bit of snark in with a touch of mockery when he left his hand hanging so high that Soren had to reach up and bring it back down to a level he could work with.

"Are we being polite or direct today, your majesty?" Soren asked, touching his lips to the fat gold ring on Alistair's finger, the only proper greeting between and Arl and his King.

"Definitely direct." Alistair quipped, and then, "Maker's breath, what did you do to your hand?"

"Magic, sire. Magic and darkspawn."

"You were right, Fergus." Alistair addressed to the Teyrn. "Have at him then." What?

"Arl Surana." Teyrn Cousland said in loud voice. "Honoured as I am to find the Hero of Ferelden resting in Highever, I would have greatly preferred not to find you, but to have been told of your arrival!"

"Ah." He had thought of that, but then- "My lord-"

"The Innkeeper claims you have been in these rooms for nearly three weeks and not one word has been sent to the castle!"

"Teyr-"

"Do not interrupt! It's once in a blood moon that someone gets a hand over you and I'm going to enjoy it!" Cousland shouted and Soren felt his tongue roll tightly in his mouth to make sure he didn't interrupt again. "The excellent rapport between Highever and Amaranthine is of great importance not only to the Teyrnir but also to the crown! And it is on the basis of that friendship that I expect the Arl of Amaranthine to announce himself and stay under my roof when he is in my city!"

Soren felt himself tense up from scalp to toes with the effort not to flinch back. He did not like being made to feel like an Apprentice again, in fact he downright resented it, but his magic did not tempt him either. Fergus Cousland wanted to take a strip off of him for being slighted and he was not going to let it devolve into a dog fight.

"We arrived in Highever as a company of eight Grey Wardens, my lord." He explained stiffly. "I would not bring such a large and well-armed company into your house with no warning. And I personally was not capable of presenting myself to you and the Banns of Highever."

"You arrived as such but where are they now?" Cousland demanded.

"On a ship bound for Orlais. It departed last week."

"And you did not come to my hall when they left, because?"

"I thought to spare your house the rumours."

"What rumours?"

"That elven woman who left with the Dalish," Alistair finally cut in, sounding suspicious but not harsh. "She didn't look quite right, hood up and wrapped up like that in a warm room. What was the matter with her?"

"All the appearances of Blight poisoning, but none of the actual symptoms." Soren answered again, keeping his words clear. "She is a Grey Warden we thought lost in the Deep Roads. No immediate danger to anyone, but far less likely to harm a Dalish clan than a human city."

"Wait," Alistair pondered out loud. "If she's a Dalish elf who was lost down there then doesn't that make her…" His eyes went wide and his mouth dropped with a gasp. "And you didn't just- turn her to ashes!"

"I was… distracted."

"Nearly killed by whatever did that to your hand you mean." The King rebuked, and then pointed at Zevran to explain how he could possibly have known that. "He's got a big mouth y'know."

His temper slipped a little. Giving Zevran a black look Soren rolled his wrist hard and conjured a red flame that danced over his palm.

"Oh I'm trembling, m'lord…" Zevran threw a false sniffle into his act and he closed his fingers around the spell to snuff it out. Cousland was not impressed.

"You could have at least requested my apothecaries to help look after you." He complained.

"I have been well taken care of, your lordship. Highever is a pleasant and peaceful place to recover and until today I'd thought that I'd kept a low profile in the district. It seems I was mistaken."

"No, you aren't. I mean, you did." Cousland corrected. "If His Majesty had not spotted your messenger leading the hunter this way we never would have known."

"So this is your fault," Soren directed at Zevran, who gave an animated shrug.

"She's Dalish, she's not good with being inconspicuous on a crowded street."

"You have my apologies, Teyrn Cousland. And seeing how it's only Zevran and I who are left I will humbly accept your hospitality."

"And you'll grovel." Alistair suddenly piped up, looking excitedly at the Teyrn. "You can make him grovel, you know, I'll back you up."

"Erm, thank you, Your Majesty, but no." Cousland declined and Soren felt his teeth stop grinding. "Raising my voice is about as far as I'd like to take things. And yes, Arl Surana, I will expect you and your companion to join my table this evening and remain at the castle until your business takes you elsewhere. I will clear your expenses with the innkeeper, as well as whatever your men paid for their passage to Orlais."

"You are very kind, your lordship." And Cousland nodded to him, a good sign that he was ready to leave.

"Good day, Your Majesty." The Teyrn said, and waited for Alistair to present his hand and allow him to leave. The Teyrn left the suite and once the door was closed again the king gave a deep, melodramatic sigh.

"Sit down, Soren."

"That whole thing was more polite than direct," He commented, reaching back slowly for his chair.

"Sit the fuck down, Soren." Alistair repeated in a much harsher voice, and it made him look up curiously as he did, in fact, sit down. "Alright. I'm going to make this easy for you. Because we're friends. In the sentence 'Arl Eamon's son has been blank'ed by the Grey Wardens' is the word I'm looking for recruited or conscripted? Take your time. I have all day."

"When was the last time I conscripted anyone?"

Alistair slammed both hands on the arms of his chair, leaned down and shouted, "YOU STOLE ARL EAMONS'S SON YOU SON OF A BITCH!"

"That's such a harsh word." And a harsh voice. How rude.

"But I know you!" Alistair continued, standing up and raving with his arms in the air. Zevran was sitting on the windowsill grinning at them with a pipe stem between his teeth. "You recruit everyone and their aunt but you never give them the Joining anymore! So where is he? Where are you hiding him? Where is Connor? I'm taking him with me to Denerim."

"Why?"

"Because his family wants to see him that's why! What other reason could I have?"

"His family hasn't spoken to him since he was in Redcliffe during the war, I doubt they want him that badly."

"Hold it there! You don't know the Guerrins like I do."

"You're right, I know their son."

"Soren!"

"How do you even know he's with me?"

"Because we have this amazing thing called letters and I have one from the Inquisitor telling me that you, the Hero of Fucking Up Local Politics, have him with you!"

"Had." Soren corrected.

"Had him with you." Alistair's face and probably his heart both fell at once. "Oh no…"

Soren slouched in his chair, not all the way, but enough to take the pressure off his leg again. He would have to lay down before tackling the walk to Highever castle.

"I gave him the Joining." He admitted softly, reverently.

"Oh, Maker, no…"

"He survived." He sighed.

"Oh- Oh! That's not a bad thing you- you pointy eared little bastard! Don't scare me like that!"

"But it's so easy…" The same whimsical tone, because even when Alistair took him by the collar and shook him hard for it, the pain was still worth the slight. He tried to laugh but wound up gritting his teeth together and coughing gently. "Ow, ow…"

"You deserve it!"

"I do."

"Alright, where in Orlais did you send them then?"

"The Orlesian part."

The King began laughing. Not a good or a nice laugh, but a loud and rather manic one.

"I'm going to kill you!" he cried.

"What do you want me to do, Alistair?" He asked, "Bring the entire company back just so one of my Wardens can get dragged into Denerim's politics? Abandon the situation on the Western Approach just because you'd like me to? I'm sorry, my friend, but I won't. In fact, if I don't go right after them to Orlais then I might join you back in Denerim and have a few words with Arl Guerrin myself."

"Why would you do that?"

"Because as far as Connor Guerrin is concerned, Alistair, Rowan Guerrin doesn't exist. No one's ever told him he has a sister."

"Why didn't you before you sent him off to Orlais?"

"Because I was sending him off to Orlais." Congratulations for answering your own question, Alistair. "We'll address it when he comes back."

"Which will be approximately when, exactly? Sometime in this age I hope?"

"He's a Grey Warden now, Alistair. You know what that means." The king heaved a slow, heavy sigh…

"It means he does whatever the fuck he wants now." Alistair griped. "Great. Brilliant. Fuck. I bet you expect me to smooth this all over with the Landsmeet now? Make sure they don't get all scared at the thought of Arl of the Grey Surana snatching their children out of their beds at night?"

Soren put his burnt palms together.

"Ma serannas, my King."

"Fuck you, the sound of you speaking elven is the most pretentious noise in Thedas. Fuck you."

Zevran laughed so hard he almost fell from the window.

Two Months Later…

No one had told Connor the Western Approach was a sodding desert. He was Ferelden-born and raised on the shores of Lake Calenhad, the hottest temperature he had any right to be exposed to was right around 'what's that big bright thing in the sky?'. The sun went from being just unnecessarily harsh and brilliant to absolutely burning in minutes, scorching the sand and bleaching out most of his hair in the first week. He hadn't been this blonde since his childhood, and he didn't appreciate the way only half of his face tanned. His forehead and cheeks and chin all darkened up until he looked Antivan, but the scarred skin across the bridge of his nose and covering both eyes stayed a glaring eastern white.

At least he had his eye-sight, he told himself every time he caught a look at his reflection or noticed someone staring. The scars hadn't bothered him until Hawke had let him get a good look at his now two-toned face on the back of his helmet in this Maker-forsaken sunlight.

No one had told him that the Approach's darkspawn problem was the most virulent in all of southern Thedas either. They didn't have scattered Deep Roads entrances peppering the landscape, oh no, they had miles and miles and sodding miles of a great big canyon where all of it was infested with the damned things. They gave him the worst headaches of his life, always scurrying around at the edge of his thoughts and making his vision blur.

All this and nevermind how the Approach had bubbling pits of sulphur that tried to choke you out when the winds changed. Or the sand that everything sank into and the little grains that knew how to get into every crease and crevasse of anything, cloth or flesh. And the wind that ripped down their tents and scared the horses and made navigation impossible when their few landmarks just up and vanished in a sudden storm. And had he mentioned the entire sodding army of Darkspawn?

Had he mentioned how they only came out in the middle of the maker-forsaken night?

"I want to go back to the Deep Roads." He finally groaned. Next to him, sharing the fragment of shade cast by their knocked-down tent, Hawke started shaking with laughter. It was their turn to try and get a bit of sleep under the sun's bleeding rays and Connor elbowed the Grey Warden hard in the back.

"Fuck!" He swore through his laughter. "No! It's still funny. I don't care."

"The Inquisition said they were going to station me out here," Connor hissed. "Permanently." Hawke roared with laughter at something that wasn't even all that funny. "Are you alright?"

"I have sand in places sand should never be…" Hawke's laughter tapered off until it sounded like he was whimpering. "I want to go back to the Deep Roads too…"

"Lead, I'll follow."

"Maker, where's the Commander? He should have been here weeks ago."

"If you were him, would you come?" Connor rolled onto his stomach, adjusting the linen cloth wound around his face and head so he could both breathe and sleep without fearing the sun. He was laying on his robe, hating the fur between him and the sand. Well, most of the sand.

"No you don't get it," Hawke gasped. "You get bleached out and your face looks weird. Surana's an elf. Surana burns."

"I think we've all had enough of the Commander being burned, Hawke."

"No but these are funny burns. I mean, he just goes this awful cherry red and gets so cranky."

"You are so lucky he's on the other side of Thedas right now."

"Why? Because things can't get any worse?"

Things got worse.

"Did you…?" Connor opened his eyes inside the shroud.

"What was that?" He heard Hawke ask.

They both sat up, Connor pulling the shroud off his head and shaking the sand from his hair. He felt through the loose sand next to him until he found the iron and dawnstone body of the staff Genevieve had helped him haggle for in Val Royeaux after getting off that forsaken ship. Apparently the first rule of being a Grey Warden was 'don't get attached to your gear', but he wasn't good at that yet, and had promised not to blow this one up like his first one.

The first thing Hawke did was find his waterskins and quickly swing both of those over his shoulders, Connor following suit because it didn't seem like a bad idea. He was buckling on his supply belt when they felt it again, and he pushed both hands down flat on the sand.

"Maker's breath!"

"Where're the others?"

Their horses were still tethered to the post where they'd left them, the animals protected by a thin band of shade cast by a set of tumbled old rocks, a trickle of spring water all that made this place a semi-decent camp ground. Connor left his robe on the sand and swung his staff onto his back where the hook caught it, glad he hadn't taken his gloves or boots off.

He followed Hawke up the great sand-dune that made up the 'wall' of their camp, braving the sun and glare as they both pulled their shrouds up to keep their heads from burning away in the intense heat. The wind caught the sound of voices and flung them across the dunes, and the two of them peered out through the waving heat.

"Oh, there they are." Hawke said in a very relaxed way. "Those couple of dots there." Looked like… Oghren… Nathaniel… and… yes, that shiny one was Genevieve.

"Are they… running?" Connor squinted hard through the glare.

"Horses behind them." Hawke stuck an arm out over the hot sand. "Over there, see them?"

"A little. Don't look like bandits."

"Bandits way the piss out here?"

"That's why they don't look like them." Hawke looked like he wanted to say something, then rolled his eyes with a huff instead.

"What in Andraste's name are they running from?" He asked instead. "The horsemen aren't archers. They're too far away. I don't…"

It happened again. It was deep and made the sand shake. A few grains tumbled down the side of the dune, dust lifting from the ground like smoke. Connor admitted he was disturbed by it, but then squinted through the heat again. The others were getting closer.

"I'm getting my armour." Hawke said and then slid down the dune.

"Hey wait- what's that sign?" Connor asked.

"What sign?" He asked, already at his blanket and pulling his breastplate on over his head.

"The Constable's making it. He keeps… swinging his hands in front of his face."

"When are you gonna just start calling everyone by their names? Have you ever heard any of us call him 'Constable'? Should we all just call you 'Ensign' from now on?"

"Hawke."

"I need more than 'swinging hands', Guerrin. What's it look like?" Connor tried as hard as he could to see, and it didn't work. He knew it was a sign, he knew he'd seen it before.

But he'd also seen Nathaniel in that flat-out, dead man's sprint before. And Genevieve was running so hard he could hear her armour jangling from here. Oghren? Oghren was shouting. Probably swearing, but definitely-

"I think it's…?" The ground beat again, confusing him. That was also the moment when through the haze he recognized the colours of the company riding fast on the heels of the Grey Wardens. A mercenary company in the pay of the Inquisition? With a massive Qunari at the head with wide bull's horns?

"What're the Chargers doing out so close to the canyon…?"

"What! I can't hear you, Guerrin!"

"Why's The Iron Bull riding around without the Inquisitor…?" He only did that when there were reports of… of… "Oh Maker-"

"Connor!"

"No, no, no- Not dying like this-" He wasn't dying like this! Not here! Not today! "Hawke it's a-" Oghren's voice overcame him:

"DRAAAAAAAGOOOOOOOON!"

The sand exploded and Connor flung himself down the dune, sliding feet first and snatching up the sleeve of his robe before falling into a tumble. The earth-shattering bellow of a High Dragon sent the desert trembling as Connor felt Hawke grab one of his arms while he stuck the other through his robe. The enchanted garment stitched itself shut over his chest just as Nathaniel jumped clear across the sun and sky, Genevieve and Oghren's heavily armoured bodies following in a messy burst of silverite and orange sand.

The air rumbled with heat and noise and something black and massive struck through the air and slashed its way through the desert sun. Its wake ripped the sand dune to pieces and Connor threw both hands out in front of him, elbows locked and teeth caging a terrified scream in his mouth.

The glyph bloomed in an array of white and blue magic, repelling the wall of wind and sand that tried to sweep over and smother them. He didn't cast it large enough but it was still there, and it worked. When Connor felt himself being pushed steadily back by the force of his own spell something tall and solid was there to stop him. The sand wall collapsed with a deep hiss and as soon as he was staring up at a smooth angle of fallen sand he realized what he'd run up against, sweat beading down his neck.

"I'm on- the wrong side of- your shield." He grunted through clenched teeth, and when Genevieve pulled the silverite piece back Connor let his arms and his spine both go limp and he hit the ground on his knees. Stunned with relief.

"My sword-" Hawke gasped as the dust settled. "My- fucking sword! No! Look at all this shit sand everywhere! NO!"

"Please tell me both of you grabbed your water before that happened."

"I don't care about the water I want my fucking sword, Howe!"

"Where the fuck did the horses go?" Oghren scratched out between deep gasps of hot, dusty air. The post and the animals were gone.

"Back to Ferelden." Genevieve answered, sounding breathless as she knocked Connor's shoulder with her hand. "Up, if you can, and thank you. I need your help to dig the spring out from under all that."

"Oi!" A new voice, one that came from over them and back thirty feet to where the other side of the dune had previously been. Connor saw the tall outline of a Qunari warrior, bare grey skin beaded with sweat and legs astride a mount that could not be a horse, not with all those horns and claws and scales. The warrior tossed both bare arms out in dismay. "You let it get away!"

"Hah-" Connor felt broken. He'd just had a High Dragon fly over his head and destroy their camp. They had three hours left before sundown and the next wave of Darkspawn trying to make a rush for Griffon Wing Keep north of them. "I want to go back to the Deep Roads." Genevieve laughed and pulled him to his feet.

"Start digging, Hawke," Nathaniel called out in mockery. "It'll be dark soon."

"FUCK!" Hawke was Hawke.

"I can help you look once I clear out the well." Connor offered, and Hawke turned with hands flashing and told where he most explicitly could shove his sentiments. Like any language the easiest things to learn were the insults.

'No sword.' He signed back, because he thought he was clever. 'I have-' And then he conjured several small arcs of purple lightning between his fingers.

"That's it- you're dead!"

"Warden Hawke!" Oghren bellowed from what remained of the old stone blocks. "Go find your sodding sword! Warden Guerrin!" Connor jumped. "Go find the sodding water! Warden Howe!"

"I found the horses!" Nathaniel's voice trailed from somewhere over the sand.

"Of course he fucking has… Warden Bouclier!"

"Oh? A job for me too?" She asked.

Oghren pointed a sand-coated finger at the Qunari now striding towards them and taking measured watch over their camp's attempts to reconstruct.

"Kick his sodding ass!" The Dwarf ordered. Bouclier turned with her head tilted, helmet tucked under her arm and leaking sand from the eyeholes, sweat staining her dark skin as she gave a charming smile.

"Well," The Iron Bull hummed at the challenge. It was worth noting that he was at least two feet and a hundred pounds heavier than Genevieve. "You Grey Wardens do owe me an Abyssal High Dragon. So why not? And then afterwards I'll get you lot to help me track down where it went."

"And when I win, sir, you and your men will help us against the Darkspawn tonight. Deal?"

"I do like a betting woman. You're on."

"I'm-" Connor interrupted lamely, sticking a thumb over his shoulder. "Gonna go look for water."

"I'll help." Hawke was quick to come along after him.

And that day went along quite like every other day out in the forsaken stretch of blighted land known as the Western Approach. The High Dragon was kind of cool though, it stuck out a little, albeit not as much as the eyeless hairless thing that crawled out of Connor's flask on a completely different day and made him throw the whole thing into the canyon. That was worse than the dragon. That was much worse than the dragon.

But do you know what wasn't worse?

"Warden Guerrin!"

"Grey Warden? Message from Griffon Wing Keep, sir, for your Constable."

"Are you one of the Ferelden Wardens? The Inquisitor spoke highly of you when she visited us."

"Warden Guerrin, here are the supplies your Captain requested."

He, Connor Guerrin, was a Grey Warden.

Fin.

[Sequel Posted: DISGRACE OF REDCLIFFE]

[Playlist] Dragon Age: Origins, Inquisition & 2 OSTs. Imagine Dragons Smoke and Mirrors. TSFH's Battlecry & Archangel. Audiomachine's Magnus & Phenomena. Florence + The Machine's Between Two Lungs. Rachel Platten "Fight Song", John Legend "All of Me", Lukas Graham "7 Years", A Great Big World "Say Something", GoT Season 3 "A Lannister Always Pays his Debts", The Jungle Book 2016 OST, Homestuck Flare (Cascade).

Thank you so much for reading! Please leave a review below and let me know how you felt about the ending!