What am I doing? I have more than enough stories going on to start juggling something new...

But.

I like Sten. I find him really intriguing. During my first playthrus of Origins, I didn't really pay too much attention to him: there were too many distractions to really warrant focus on his subtle and succinct ways. Then, while I was looking up info on something else on the DA Wiki, I came across the entry on Sten and read how he was inspired by samurai warriors. I was also curious about how his character was retconned to have actually come into contact with other Theodosian people other than Qunari. He is revealed to be someone fascinated with languages. He's also shown as curious, inquisitive, and intelligent: not at all like the mindless drone some people think of him as.* He stands in such stark contrast to Bull- deliberately so. But...just because Bull is able to show more emotion than Sten, doesn't mean those feelings aren't there. I like imagining Sten as being part of a grand tradition of stoic warrior archetypes, such as the frightfully precise Kyuzo, in "The Seven Samurai," the elegant and sensitive Jin, in "Samurai Champloo" or even the contemplative gangster Jef Costello in "Le Samouraï" and the solitary, melancholy Shane from the classic Western by the same name. What I am trying to say is that other than the fact I am a big samurai nerd, I think that Sten's quiet, more subdued ways conceal and perhaps protect feelings and thoughts that would be unacceptable to his station in Qunari society.

But what happens when his world is turned on its head, as it is when we first meet him: a ronin of sorts in search of his sword, his soul, his very essence and persona? What happens when he is confronted with a world so different...and then again, perhaps not so different? How can all these conflicting thoughts and feelings emerge while respecting the core of the character?

This is a story told in snippets, mostly parallel to the main plot of Origins. The POV shifts between Sten and Livia Cousland.

I started writing it sometime ago and after stepping away from my computer, thought I'd lost it. Searched my files and wanted to slap myself for not saving it. Thought it was kismet. "Oh, well." Thought it was kismet again when I found it much later, as if it had never gone anywhere in the first place.

I hope you enjoy!

*And he likes cookies and kittens. Please: need I say more about this man's astounding depths? ;-)

Chapter 1: Not All Legends Are True

"You must appreciate that spirit can become big or small. What is big is easy to perceive: what is small is difficult to perceive. In short, it is difficult for large numbers of men to change position, so their move- ments can be easily predicted. An individual can easily change his mind, so his movements are difficult to predict. You must appreciate this."

~ The Book of Five Rings, Musashi

That Qunari is unnerving.

Livia scraped her bowl clean of the meager meal with a hunk of the last of their bread rations. She peered at him every now and then as she chewed her food. Ever since the hulking warrior joined their group, she found herself ill at ease, even though she believed she had made the right choice in recruiting him back in Lothering.

Or so I hope.

Sten always sat farther apart from their company around the campfire. Alone. He was like that. Quiet. Curt, and on occasion, acerbic. Serious. Sometimes even exasperating. He had very little patience. And just moments earlier, he had displayed very little patience for Zevran.

"You talk too much in order to say too little," he'd stated dispassionately as Zevran launched into one of his typically florid Antivan roundabout ways to express an opinion.

"And you say too little of nothing, which I suspect is exactly what is going on in your head!" the elf snapped, offended.

Leliana and Alistair had been forced to step in, hands raised in appeasing gestures.

"Everyone calm down and take a deep breath…" Alistair began, nervously following his own suggestion.

Livia had heard something about Sten's people long ago—stories told by a visitor to Highever. A court envoy…perhaps a diplomat? She struggled to remember; she'd been much younger, still a child, but she recalled how her mother had cleared her throat and ordered her to bed pointedly when their visitor launched into tales of indomitable horned warriors landing on the shores of Tevinter.

She had rubbed her sleepy eyes stubbornly.

"But I want to stay!" she'd whined.

"Bed, Livia. Now," her mother warned her sternly. "You'll be having the wildest dreams if you keep listening to these stories," she stated, casting the envoy a glance filled with reproach.

The man, if he was in fact a diplomat, did not seem to be one gifted at picking up on subtleties. He simply ignored her mother.

"Yes…but not dreams. These warriors, these dragon-men, they fell any who are foolish enough to cross their paths. Their bloodlust has tainted the shores of Tevinter red…Nothing deters them, except death itself. No, not dreams… " He leaned towards her from across the table. "Nightmares…" he added dramatically.

Her small frame had shuddered back then.

When Livia first encountered Sten, he'd been locked away by the Chantry in what amounted to little more than a cage. Those unearthly violet eyes impassively observed the wagons departing in droves with the frantic masses of refugees from Lothering. She had frozen, gazing upon him as if he'd stepped out of the envoy's stories. She had been warned she was going to finally lay eyes upon a fabled Qunari and approached the prison warily…But once she stood before him, facing the locked door, his fists tightly gripping the bars, which looked almost dainty in his massive hands, she found herself gaping.

It was the first time she met that inscrutable contemplated each other wordlessly.

"He doesn't have horns," she had uttered wondrously, very softly, so softly she didn't think anyone had heard.

He'd startled her not only by talking back, but also by responding in a fluid, fluent Common.

"You aren't one of my captors. I will not amuse you any more than I have the other humans," he stated stolidly. "Leave me in peace," he demanded.

"What are you?" she asked, still puzzling over the absence of the legendary horns, wondering if there had been some kind of misinformation or confusion.

"A prisoner," he stated emphatically. At her silence he continued. "I am in a cage, am I not? I've been placed here by the Chantry." He peered over her head, at the commotion unfolding all around them. "I am Sten of the Beresaad," he declared, his tongue shaping the word into a foreign sound, "the vanguard— of the Qunari people."

Her patrician upbringing took over, as it tended to do when she found herself disoriented.

"I am Livia Cousland. Pleased to meet you," she stated instinctively, hurriedly, still examining his muscular frame and rugged, harsh features.

His brow furrowed. "You mock me," he accused. She blinked in surprise, disconcerted. Before she could offer anything in her own defense, he resumed. "Or you show manners I have not come to expect in your lands," he concluded. He cast a shrewd glance at the fleeing travelers. "Though it matters little, now. I will die soon enough."

"This is a proud and powerful creature, trapped as prey for darkspawn. If you cannot see a use for him, I suggest releasing him for mercy's sake alone," Morrigan protested behind her.

Alistair offered another persuasive argument on her heels.

"Not to put too fine a point on it, but Qunari are renowned warriors. If we could release him, perhaps he might help us."

Her lips tugged up into a brief half grin. Not bad, Alistair. Duncan would be proud of your keen Warden recruiting instincts.

The Qunari's expression clouded. "I suggest you leave me to my fate," he declared.

Back then it had been only Alistair, Morrigan, a newly recruited Leliana and Gunther, her mabari. If she was going to attempt that cumbersome, unwieldy mission, she would need all the help she could get. She faced the Qunari once more, pulling herself up into a taller stance.

"I find myself in need of skilled help."

"No doubt," he stated dryly. "What help do you seek?"

"I am sworn to defend the land against the Blight," she stated. Among other things, she thought darkly, the shadow of Rendon Howe lurking in her mind.

Her words had an unexpected effect. The Qunari moved closer to the door, examining her more attentively.

"The Blight? Are you a Grey Warden, then?"

"Yes," she admitted, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze.

"Surprising," he remarked. "My people have heard legends of the Grey Wardens' strength and skill…though I suppose not every legend is true."

Alistair coughed behind her. She could almost hear him say, "That was a dis."

"I know," she stated, still in thrall. "Not every legend…" She tilted her head slightly. "Like your missing horns," she noted. "Right?"

He remained silent, their exchange reaching a small impasse.

"Would the Revered Mother let you free?" she wondered, more to Leliana than anyone else.

He ventured a reply. "Perhaps if you told her the Grey Wardens need my assistance. It seems as likely to bring my death as waiting here."

Dust clouds rose from the road as the people fled north, trying to evade the deadly scourge that gradually overtook the southernmost regions. Only the Chantry appeared determined to remain put until the last inhabitant of Lothering had fled. The thought of abandoning someone to such a fate— unarmed and defenseless in a small cage— seemed cruel to her. She had no doubt he would put up a formidable fight, even barehanded, but ultimately the punishment was as definitive as a death sentence. She had never liked such harsh, cowardly sentences—even back in Ostagar she had freed a prisoner from a similar cage for a petty crime.

Leliana indicated her approval of their plan.

"Allow me to speak to the Revered Mother," she proposed. "I will persuade her."

An hour or so later, they had returned, the key ensconced in Livia's hand. She had meant to approach him with calm composure, but upon glancing upon those hands, hands, she had learned just moments earlier, that had brutally slaughtered the very people who had tried to aid him, she moved forward unsteadily. She winced at her unwitting betrayal, the hard gaze she met informing her that he had noticed her falter.

Behind her, the others spoke to newly arrived Chasind tribesmen; they brought worrisome news of darkspawn incursions—a few villages at the foot of the Frostbacks, west of the Korcari, had been swarmed by the warring hordes.

Livia's hand stilled with the key stuck mid turn in its lock. "The Revered Mother said you have been convicted of murder," she stated somberly.

"I have," was all he offered.

"Are you guilty?" She sought out his eyes. They met hers unflinchingly.

"Are you asking if I feel guilt, or if I am responsible for the deed?" He appeared genuinely confounded. "However I feel, whatever I've done, my life is forfeit now."

"Who did you…murder?" she asked faintly. The Revered Mother had grown too distraught to give them the grisly details during their meeting.

"The people of a farmhold. Eight humans, in addition to the children."

She recoiled, her jaw tensing. He waited for a reply.

"And…and you were captured afterwards," she continued, flustered, unable to think of much else except for "murderer," again and again.

"There is no difficulty in capturing prey that surrenders," he reasoned.

She heaved a deep breath. Thank the Maker for small mercies. Probably spared a few more unfortunate souls from an early demise.

Close by, the Chasind spoke animatedly, their heavy accents thick and difficult to unravel. What had Duncan said, though? We are not judges. We welcome all who are willing to wield their swords against the darkspawn. Perhaps in the task, some will find peace, he'd explained as he'd taught her about the Right of Conscription back in those early, bewildering days.

"I confess: I did not think the priestess would part with it," Sten stated, glancing down at the key she'd left in the lock.

"She agreed to release you into my custody," she muttered, turning the key one last time as the bolt rolled back heavily.

"So be it." The rusty door creaked on its hinges as it slowly opened. "Set me free, and I will follow you against the Blight," he avowed.

He stood still before the open door. She said nothing.

"I have spent my life in the vanguard. I know war. And your lands need all the help they can get."

"Let's go," she finally announced, standing aside.

"It is done," he remarked, stepping forward. He towered over her. She imagined that massive hand could easily curl itself around her neck. She gulped uncomfortably.

"I will follow you into battle," he asserted. "In doing so, I shall find my atonement," he stated more quietly.

She raised her head just as Leliana approached them.

"The sins of creation are redeemed. All sins are forgiven. All crimes pardoned. Let no soul harbor guilt. Let no soul hunger for justice," Leliana declaimed, a benevolent smile emerging over her lips. "Maker be praised."

"Can your friend at the tavern find him some armor, perhaps even a sword?" Livia wondered.

Leliana nodded enthusiastically.

"I am sure we can convince him to unburden himself of so much gear before his escape north." She winked. Leliana turned and began to lead the way back to the tavern where they'd first met her only the previous evening.

"After you," Sten nodded.

"No," she quickly retorted.

She watched his broad back, burly shoulders, and rock hard arms swing in front of her, her eyes cold and narrow as they trudged past the harried travelers and their assortment of parcels.

I treated you the way I imagine Duncan would have, but that is as far as it goes. I don't think I will ever trust you at my back…or to have my back, she decided.

Notes: Dialogue between Sten, Warden, Morrigan, and Alistair back in Lothering from the game.