AN: Brace yourselves, my friends; we're going back in time. Ooooooh.

Analepsis 2 – Origins

Amery

They weren't the most skilled fighters in this tourney— that was painfully apparent— but Amery wasn't about to let a little thing like being outmatched stop him. Ducking and grabbing up a handful of dirt, he sent it flying up into the eyes of the powerfully ugly swordsman (probably a mercenary judging by his weaponry, not to mention his sour demeanour and pungent odour) who'd thought Amery was just about finished. The man cursed, sweeping his blade out blindly, and Amery took the opportunity to sidestep and kick the blighter square in the knee. Another hard kick when the man went down, this one to an armoured shoulder, and Amery pounced on his back and pressed his dagger against a vulnerable spot on his neck.

Not quite trusting Ugly not to try and beat him bloody despite his win, Amery made certain the Wardens had taken note before scrambling off the enraged man. Ambrose was on the edge of the training yard, feet balanced on the lowest rung of the thick wooden fence, and Amery darted over to join his brother like an archdemon was hot on his heels. There was bravery, sure, and then there was being damned stupid.

Ambrose was laughing, and Amery joined in a bit breathlessly as he hopped up to sit next to him. Ugly was getting to his feet, wiping at his face, and the Wardens were already calling for another bout to get started. The dark, dangerous glare Amery found himself on the receiving end of was a bit unnerving, but not unexpected. Drawing on the familiar presence of his brother, Amery blew the mercenary a kiss.

"Oh you arse," Ambrose muttered between weakening giggles, jabbing him sharply with one elbow. "You're going to get us both killed."

"Ah, you always say that, you ninny." Reaching up, he wrapped one arm around Ambrose's neck and dragged him down until their cheeks pressed together. "Smile for the angry gentleman."

No, it didn't matter that they were outmatched— they were going to be Grey Wardens. That was the end of it, full stop. Amery would rather dive head first into the Waking Sea and swim all the way to Antiva than slink back to an empty, desolate home and ultimately drink himself to an early grave. That would simply give their Da too much satisfaction, Maker bless and keep the filthy old codger…

It was ridiculous, having been free of the bastard's foul mouth and the sting of his belt for nearly five years, that Amery could still hear his voice plain as day. Nothing but rage, scorn, and the ignorant fear of a man too steeped in superstition to see anything but the mark of evil in his twin boys. Twins, nearly perfect mirrors of each other… changelings, he'd called them. Spirits sent to torment him for some sin or other, ignoring the fact that the only spirits that truly tormented him came in flasks and tankards.

It didn't matter how many times the Chantry priests assured him that such a birth was not a punishment, but a blessing. These changelings had stolen his wife, a blood sacrifice to fuel their unnatural existence, and he'd never forgive them for it. That paranoia drove him further into the bottle, further into bitter resentment and violence. Amery and Ambrose, named by the midwife rather than by their own Da, had learned early to cling to each other.

It didn't matter. They'd always spent more time sneaking into taverns and sleeping in neighbours' barns than at home, and eventually their father had simply drunk himself into the ground. It was a relief for everyone when it finally ended— maybe even for the vicious, twisted old man still consumed by grief.

Shaking off the haze of memory when Ambrose elbowed him again, Amery spared a glance up at where the Wardens stood, watching two new blokes clanging about the yard. The blond elf was smirking, saying something to the human that made the man roll his eyes, but it was the dwarf who'd caught Amery's interest. Anybody called Commander was usually worth a little extra notice, and in this specific instance, it was this Commander whom Amery had been working to impress.

So he'd waited as a few other hopefuls squared off, keeping a close eye on what made the dwarf frown and what made her nod approvingly. He'd noted the two blades on her back and the fluid grace of her movements, and when it was his turn for a bout, he had a pretty good idea how to show off. Quick, precise attacks, nothing flashy and no movement wasted, drawing on every ounce of skill he possessed. There would be no second chances in this tourney, he was certain. Every moment had to count.

He did his best, just as he knew Ambrose would do shortly when his turn came. They'd make it, together, as always. Regardless of anything else, Amery had faith in them.

Ambrose

It would have been much easier to just join some mercenary band, but Amery had never done anything in half-measures and so Ambrose hadn't either. The whole of the bannorn was still smarting from the darkspawn, and the Wardens were being touted as the greatest bloody heroes Ferelden had seen since River Dane… now seemed like a fine time to pack up and try for something great. Minor thieving and general skulduggery wasn't the finest way to make a living, truth be told, and Ambrose had actually been a bit relieved when Amery started yakking about the Grey Wardens' call for recruits.

Mercenary work was a tad too nasty, anyway, with pay more important than morals. That was fine when filching a pie, but not so easy to accept when it meant sliding a sword into someone's belly. It was the same with piracy, and even with joining the army, depending on who was leading the charge.

The Grey Wardens, on the other hand, seemed just the right mix of heroics, broad-minded morals, and adventure. Unlike his brother, Ambrose wasn't entirely swept up in tall tales and the thought of spiting their father, but he was warm to the idea of making something special out of a life that had so far been rather unsatisfactory. Slaying darkspawn and other terrible beasties seemed a worthy enough goal, and Maker knew he'd never shut Amery up about it unless they gave it a try.

It wasn't until he stepped into the yard of Vigil's Keep that he realised the truth of what Amery had been saying for over a fortnight. This was the moment to prove they were more than what they'd been, to become better… and that would certainly be something.

It wasn't until the Commander of the Grey had peered into him, making something small and frightened squirm under her scrutiny, that he realised he ached to be better. Amery, that smug bastard, had known it all along.

And somehow, by the grace of the holy Andraste, somehow they'd done it. After the dust had cleared and the day was finished, he and his brother were the only two left standing in that damned training yard. They hadn't skilfully defeated all comers or anything so grand and unexpected, and Ambrose was nursing a broken nose by the feel of it, but incredibly they'd managed to do something right. The rest were sent packing, while they were asked to stay.

Offered a place in the Grey Wardens. Wouldn't their Da have choked on that one.

Eddard

Leaning his head back against the cold, unforgiving stone of Vigil's Keep, Eddard prayed silently that the wind might shift at least a little. As it was, the fierce spring storm was blowing in from the Bannorn rather than from the sea, and the great walls stretching up behind him offered no protection. His cheeks felt raw from the stinging rain, his nose and fingers had gone numb, and he truly did not wish to contemplate the mire that was congealing under his armour.

When he'd first been turned away, he'd been determined to stand at the gates until either the Warden Commander's resolve or the fortress itself cracked. After suffering under that frosty dwarven woman's stare, he'd not been entirely convinced which was more likely.

There had been others, all come to enlist with the Grey, but they'd been refused as well— over forty, farmers and a few young freeholders, and some of them quite competent. Eddard had been the only one of noble stock, though he'd hardly advertised it, so perhaps there had been others he simply hadn't recognised. They'd come, as the call for recruits had asked, and they'd fought each other in a simple tourney, but the dwarf had not been impressed.

Nearly four-dozen, and all but two lucky sods had skittered off with their tails between their legs, told they were not meant to be Wardens.

Yes, he'd been determined to stand and wait, to stay steadfast until allowed another chance to prove himself, but now that he'd passed one very wet night and a long, miserable day, he'd given in and sat in the foul mud. It was seeping up between the rings of his mail, through leather and wool, but he'd already been soaked to the skin regardless. His greatsword, a fine veridium blade given to him by his father when he'd come of age, was resting carefully on his bent knees, spared the worst of the sludge.

His father, who was likely sitting patiently and comfortably within the estate, much more concerned with the demands of his bannorn and his wife than his second son's most recent fantasy. An old man with more than enough children to secure his legacy, and little patience for heroes…

When the darkspawn had torn across the south like a plague, they had been lucky. The Blight was ended before the bulk of the horde could reach their lands, but not before roving bands devastated some of the outlying farmholds. Eddard's sisters and stepmother were sent to stay with relatives in the Free Marches, while his father travelled to Denerim in preparation for the Landsmeet, leaving sons and soldiers behind to defend the farmers. Between the darkspawn and the civil war, there had been so much needless death.

It was a foul, bloody business— weeks of darkspawn raids, bandits, and other marauding horrors. It was also enough to shake Eddard free of the wastrel he'd been in danger of becoming, and show him another path. He could be a protector, a Grey Warden, sworn to safeguard innocent people without politics getting in the way. While knights and nobility had squabbled and spilled each other's blood, the Grey Wardens had recognised the true threat and ended it. They had not sat idle while the land burned around them.

Let Conall inherit Father's title, and Angus and Malcolm fight over their own shares. The girls would marry well, Maker willing, and the family's future would be assured. Eddard wasn't shirking any great responsibilities, no matter what his father's silent, heavy scowl might have implied.

The wind was howling madly through the trees, and Eddard very pointed ignored the gurgling of his stomach. He'd finished off the last bit of his bread that morning, and now night was falling once again, but he wasn't going anywhere. He'd starve outside these bloody gates before he gave up.

"Well now, funny meeting you here." At a sound of a man's voice quite nearby, Eddard jerked awake. Just when had he nodded off, blast it? His hand was tight around his sword's hilt in an instant, but he relaxed somewhat when he recognised the cloaked man smiling down at him. One of the Wardens— and King Maric's bastard son, or so the rumours went.

"Whoa, easy—" The man held up empty, gauntleted hands. "I've just come to check on how the siege was coming along. Lovely weather for it."

Blinking away the rain that had beaded in his eyelashes, Eddard shifted his stiff muscles and dragged himself to his feet. He might look like a drowned rat, but he wasn't about to speak to this Warden huddled down in the mud.

"Good evening, ser," he said politely, trying not to sniff like a child with a cold.

"Just Alistair, please." The Warden's friendly expression dimmed under his hood. "Listen friend, you should know that the Commander's not one to change her mind. I am sorry, but you're wasting your time here."

Swallowing back another rush of disappointment, Eddard managed to dredge up what he hoped was a charming, confident smile of his own. "Beg pardon, but it is my time to waste. I've no intention of leaving."

"I see." The Warden shifted, muck squelching under his boots, then reached into the large pouch that hung heavy from his belt. A moment later, Eddard found himself scrabbling to catch a bright red apple tossed in his direction. "I would give you my cloak, but I'd probably end up joining you out here if I did."

Glancing between the Warden and the unexpected gift of fruit, Eddard was at a bit of a loss. There was something in the man's manner that gave him hope, for some reason he couldn't quite place. "I— thank you, ser— Alistair."

"Don't mention it." Pausing, the Warden glanced up at the Keep a bit warily. "Ah, yeah, but in all seriousness. If you happen to find yourself speaking with the Commander, please don't mention it."

"Of course," Eddard agreed, unwilling to pry when this man seemed willing to talk to him. It was a start, at least. "Not a word."

"Good man." Apparently finished with his visit, the Warden reached up to clap him on the shoulder, then turned back and trudged into the Keep.

Eddard watched him go, feeling whatever determination the rain had managed to wash away flood back into his body. He would wait, no matter how long it took.

Lowering himself back down into the mud, Eddard grinned and bit into his apple.

Rimon

He scrubbed at his eyes, ready to blame the redness on the campfire smoke if Keliani happened to ask. They were another half-day's travel away from Amaranthine, and even though this had been his idea to begin with, Rimon could still feel the embarrassing sting of tears beginning to prickle.

He'd never been out of Denerim before, except when they'd fled the darkspawn. It was… too quiet out here in the country, especially at night. The air was clear and fresh, though, and he wasn't about to be cut down by a patrol of guards just for wearing his sword.

He couldn't get his mother's tears out of his mind, the way she'd cried and hugged him close, but had never asked him to stay. Would it have been harder to leave if she had, or easier? He wasn't sure.

"You're burning the rabbit." Startled, he couldn't stop a confused, ridiculous sound from escaping his lips. Maker, he was such a child sometimes.

Keliani simply shook her head, reaching over to turn the spit they'd rigged up over their small fire. Neither of them knew much about hunting, but somehow they'd managed. "We could go back, you know."

Frustration flaring, he found his voice. "What? No chance. You go back, if that's what you want."

She didn't answer him, staring into the fire, and Rimon was struck again by how much she'd changed since the battle. He wasn't entirely certain, but he couldn't remember seeing her smile since before they'd engaged the first wave of darkspawn that poured into the Alienage. It had been— oh Andraste's blood, it had been an utter nightmare, but they'd made it through together. They'd gotten the children out into the relative safety of the hills, just as Valendrian had told them, and had even managed to take out a few of the 'spawn on their way.

He'd never get the smell of those foul beasts out of his nose, or be content to walk about unarmed. It was that second bit where the Denerim guards would take issue. Given the options before him, becoming a Grey Warden didn't sound awful. So, when the rumours had begun to trickle in that the Wardens were looking to recruit, and that scores of hopefuls had already been tested and turned away, Rimon made up his mind.

He refused to grow old and complacent in the Alienage, even surrounded by the family he already sorely missed… if he managed to see old age. He wouldn't— couldn't go back to the way things were, not when he had seen the end of the world looming so close and terrible. Not when he could do something worthwhile.

Keliani might not smile anymore, but she was still his oldest friend. She wanted this too; she felt the same strength and drive to be better that he did, even if she was too damned stubborn to admit it.

"I'll die with my sword in my hand," he murmured, mostly to himself, but he didn't miss the way Keliani's jaw tightened. "As a Grey Warden, or an uppity knife ear. I know which I'd prefer, at any rate. Now, pass that rabbit, if you please?"

Keliani

It hadn't been a hard decision, really, to follow Rimon into this insanity. She had no blood family to leave behind, except an aunt with too many of her own children to care for, and the familiar streets had begun feeling terribly crowded with ghosts and memories. Too many of them gone, dead of plague, stolen away to Tevinter, or slaughtered, either in the purge or after by the darkspawn. Too much death and loss— what was one more orphan, old enough to be married but still a child? One more mouth, but this one too loose when it came to telling off human guardsmen. Trouble, and more than the Alienage needed.

Not that they'd ever said that to her, especially not Valendrian. She had no doubt the hahren would have taken her into his own home, if the need arose, and that was more than she could have borne. They might not say it, but she knew she brought trouble where none was due— too proud by half, with a sharp tongue and a strong sword arm. She'd never be a good match to marry off, always courting trouble instead of young men, always letting her temper get ahead of her good sense…

So that was how she'd found herself trudging north to Amaranthine, to the fortress called Vigil's Keep, in search of the Hero of Ferelden. More specifically, Rimon's mad plan to scamper off and join the Grey Wardens was how she found herself thrashing some thickheaded giant of a shem around a practice ring, blocking surprisingly dexterous swings of a massive greatsword. Her opponent was sweating, great sopping beads of it, but otherwise showed no signs of slowing down. The human had bulk on her, reach and strength too, but she was holding her own while Rimon watched and waited, already having finished his own bout.

He'd done well, paired off against another shem who was slighter and darker than her opponent, but also incredibly quick with a pair of daggers. It hadn't been an easy fight, but after a slow start and a few missteps, Rimon had fought like a bloody terror, and the shem had finally fallen with a shield slammed into his gut. Keliani hadn't been able to stop her shout of encouragement when Rimon had made that final move, and the exclamation had earned her a beaming smile in return.

Eventually, just when she started to truly feel the shaking in arms and the burning in her lungs, the Wardens called a halt to the fight. Her opponent lowered his sword without hesitation, sucking in breaths like a bellows, and actually grinned at her. Arrogant shem.

"A draw, and a fine match," the Warden Commander announced, then motioned to a bucket and trough waiting just at the edge of the training yard. "There's water if you'd like. Ed, you look about ready to keel."

"Just getting my second wind, Commander," the giant shem replied, catching the sheath and baldric one of the other Wardens tossed in his direction, and sliding his sword into it. Keliani fought back the rush still singing through her veins, forcing herself to sheath her own blade. It had never been this difficult to keep control of herself after a battle; not before the darkspawn.

Rimon was beside her, a familiar hand on her shoulder and joyous words yammering in her ear, but the feeling of a gaze settling heavy on her drew her attention. The Warden Commander, who had seen the horrors of Denerim even after Keliani had made it outside the walls with the children, who had saved them from the regent's treachery and the cruelty of Tevinter slavers…

The weight of that gaze made Keliani shiver, but she met it unblinking, regardless.

Soren

He'd understood, even kneeling before the Paragon, that this would be a punishment for his weakness. Winning a few rounds in the Provings with his strength and his skill was not a mark of the Ancestors' favour, but of their scorn— he would earn a place among these Grey Wardens, and in doing so he would leave Orzammar behind. Even if he managed to survive long enough to hear his Calling, to die in the Deep Roads rather than beneath the terrible, gaping maw of sky that waited above, he would be lost to the Stone.

It was worth it. His daughter lived, and that was enough. Perhaps he'd never been a true son of Orzammar after all.

"Soren—" His name from the lips of a Paragon… even from a sky-touched, branded kinslayer, that was something. It should have been, at least, had he not felt so very numb. "You've shown great promise today. I would welcome you into the Grey Wardens, but only if that is what you truly want."

Had he given her reason to doubt his sincerity? He had tried so hard to stifle his reluctance, with thoughts of a life surrounded by reminders of his shame, but this Paragon had been an Aeducan princess. His fumbling omissions and false reassurances would not convince her.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Soren dredged up as much truth as he dared.

"Leaving Orzammar will be difficult, Paragon," he said quietly, his throat tight. "But I believe I can better serve my family and my people as a Grey Warden. It is my greatest wish to join your ranks."

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and it startled him enough to look up. The Paragon, a living Ancestor, stared down at him questioningly.

"I see." He forced himself to breathe— if he was refused, he would simply find some excuse to join the Legion. This was merely the cleanest, easiest option.

Eventually, she nodded, and Soren felt his stomach clench. Whether in anticipation or dread, it didn't matter. "Then the Wardens are glad to have you."

Remya

The rest of those sodding, good-for-nothing cave ticks had scuttled back to the slums at the first sign of a guard, but Remya couldn't afford another mistake. The carta might be broken, but just like the darkspawn, there would never be an end to it. She needed this job to go right, to go perfect, if she was ever going to make a name for herself, ever going to be anything but some toothless beggar or cut-up whore—

"Stop right there, brand!" That had been how it started to go sour, but it wasn't the first time Remya had been called out by some copper-plated guardsman. She was quicker, always.

Pockets stuffed near bursting with coin, having already disposed of all the purses with their cleanly sliced ties, Remya cursed the damning jangle that marked her as she darted off into the crowds. She'd always stuck to the Commons before, never much farther than the stupid sots stumbling out of Tapster's, but this had been important and risky, and she was going to be the one who got it right.

All it took was some mud dried across her brand and her hair loose like she never wore it, along with some decent rags filched from a servant caste clothesline. On close inspection, she was still just a filthy duster putting on airs with a clean tunic, but it was good enough (along with a bit of stealth) to get her into the Diamond Quarter and her very first touch of real gold.

After she'd been made, however, it became dangerously apparent that she didn't know these streets, and these guards weren't quite so dim or so few as the one's further down— it was an utter cock up, or soon to be.

All turned about, Remya ducked into one of the pristine side streets that passed for alleys amongst the nobles and crouched behind a pile of crates. Her luck was quickly running low, her heart pounding hard in her ears, but she could still hear the tramping of heavily armoured feet close behind. Swallowing back the bitter, metallic taste that was crawling up the back of her throat, she pulled her daggers out of their sheaths, formerly hidden in the folds of her borrowed clothes.

The hilts were pitted with rust, but she'd wrapped them in scraps of leather she'd found here and there, giving her a solid grip. The blades, well, she'd taken better care of those swathes of cheap iron than she'd ever taken care of anything, ever. They weren't pretty, but they hardly had to be when they cut just as well as any glittery silverite toothpick the nobles toted about. Sharp blades, sharper wits, and nothing to lose except a life only she'd miss… and not miss it for long, if things went too poorly.

Her scar was tugging her eye, and she rubbed her face roughly with the back of one wrist. Frowning meant the thickened skin would pull, her lid would droop, and that might mean the difference between taking an axe to the neck and dodging a killing blow. Schooling her expression into a feral kind of grin, the one that kept both eyes open, she waited until the shouts of guards had moved farther down the Quarter, then took a deep breath and slunk back out towards the main street.

She managed to avoid notice for a while, until finally she could see the stairs down, back to the Commons, but there were a half dozen guards standing watch. Six bruisers, plated in thick, well-made armour, with axes and greatswords nearly bigger than her…

"Oh you stupid sodding bitch," she snarled softly, and flicked the daggers around from where they'd been pressed against her forearms. There was still a chance, a small one, that she'd manage to get past before they spilled her guts all over these nice, clean streets.

It didn't quite work out as well she'd hoped, but if she was going to be slaughtered like a squealing nug, she wasn't going down easy. The guards surrounded her, but she'd already managed to knock one blighter free of a couple of teeth, and unman another with a mean kick to the stones. There was shouting farther up, more guards no doubt, but Remya could already feel her muscles burning, weakening, and the edges of her vision were going dark. She wasn't going to last, not against so many men with years of training and full bellies.

She feinted away from the flat of a blade aimed at her head— they might very well be trying to take her alive for an execution, rather than muddy up the Quarter with casteless blood— and one of them grabbed her from behind. Snapping her head back, she hoped to feel the wet crunch of a nose breaking, but instead the world exploded into flashing lights and agony. A helm, fucking arsefaces, and the crack of her skull against the unyielding metal made her slump pitifully.

Still conscious, but just barely, Remya grasped for blades that had already fallen from her limp fingers, and her tongue felt too thick to curse. The world was wavering around her, spinning like she'd downed a barrel of moss wine, and if there'd been anything in her stomach but ache and emptiness, she'd have already lost it all over her boots.

"Guards, stand down!" Oh, holy bleeding Stone, that voice split through her head like a smith's hammer. "Release her, damn it."

The arms binding her were suddenly gone, and Remya blinked stupidly as everything fell away with them. Her knees, smashing into the street as she dropped like a boulder, screamed bloody murder all up her spine. She gasped, struggling to hold herself up with hands braced and back bowed, but instincts still warned her of the shadow suddenly looming over her.

"Take a moment, girl," the voice was saying, a woman's, and Remya gritted her teeth. Some deshyr's daughter, maybe, highborn and still soft-hearted—

There was a rattle of armour, thudding steps, and another gruffer voice joined the fray. Slowly coming back to herself, Remya didn't dare move. "Paragon, this brand is a common thief—"

Paragon? Oh sweet sodding Ancestors—

"Not so common," the woman interrupted, words firm and a bit sharp. Very slowly, Remya pushed herself up enough that she was kneeling, gaze darting between the furious guard and the unflinching, stony-eyed woman with a dark blue brand as big as Remya had ever seen. It marked her cheek, her forehead, even down her nose, and yet she was clean and proud, dressed in fine leathers, and had the guard called her Paragon? "She did manage to keep you all quite busy, Captain. The Wardens may have need of such a recruit."

Some tall creature, maybe even an elf if his ears were any clue, appeared at the woman's shoulder. "Ah, yes," the elf-thing said, words drawled strange and smooth. "I do like this one. There is fire in her… or poison, perhaps. Interesting, either way."

The Paragon's mouth twitched up into a faint smile, but Remya didn't relax even a whisker. There was an angle here, a catch, but she hadn't sussed it yet.

Then there was a hand reaching down, held out in clear offer, and Remya glared up at the woman with no attempt to hide her mistrust.

Leofric

He stood at perfect attention as Arl Eamon spoke to the Grey Wardens, pointedly ignoring any lingering sense that he was a fatted calf being sent to market. If his arl commanded him to infiltrate the Warden ranks, or indeed to storm the Deep Roads naked and empty handed, Leofric was bound to oblige him.

He would do his duty to the best of his abilities, as always. When the arlessa had sent him and the other knights off chasing legends, he'd gone without question. When Ser Perth had commanded he stand vigilant at the windmill while ghastly horrors clad in the flesh of friends and neighbours poured from the castle, intent on slaughtering every living soul in Redcliffe, he had done so.

When this dwarven Warden had ordered him to stay alive, as his vision grew blurry and his blood pooled dark around him, gushing from the hideous mess that had once been his shoulder, he had managed even that. Even after seeing her face, sunken and rotted, and realising that he had indeed lost everything.

Leofric was not a man to shirk his duty.

"Learn what you can," the arl had told him, some weeks before. "I will have messengers stationed about Amaranthine, waiting for your reports. I cannot stress enough, Ser Leofric, just how vital this task may be for the good of Ferelden."

He hadn't asked for clarification; none was needed. The web of deceit and suspicion that ran rampant amongst the nobility had never been a realm he trod willingly, but that did not mean he was ignorant of its existence. It might be distasteful— particularly so, in this case— but he would complete his task.

And if, as was terribly likely, the Grey Wardens discovered his spying and drummed him back to Redcliffe in chains, or had him flayed and hanged from the ramparts… Well, those were concerns for another day. He did not fear death, not since facing it so literally and so physically, and he would overcome his reticence. If Arl Eamon required his self-respect, the man would have it, just as faithfully as he had his sword arm.

His fate, he left in the hands of the Maker.

Carran

"I recognise you." Ignoring the voice as politely as possible, Carran kept chopping, losing himself in the swing of the axe and the monotony of splitting logs. He wasn't anyone important enough to recognise, and with the entire farm to run on his own, he hardly had the time— "Carran, wasn't it?"

That was unexpected, and his next swing hit off-centre, peeling off a bit of kindling rather than making two good sticks. Biting back a curse, Carran turned to find he had quite a surprising audience.

"Warden—" He knew this woman, she'd bloody well saved his hide all those months before, and now she was outside his home, standing under his crab apple tree. "What— I, er, hello?"

She smiled at him, crossing her arms, and the expression was equal parts kind and amused. Back some distance farther, waiting on the road, stood two human men and an elf, all of whom seemed vaguely familiar, plus a pair of dwarves he'd never seen before. "Hello, yourself. How've you been, lad?"

Assurances of his well-being rushed to the tip of his tongue, but it was there they stalled. How could he be anything but fine and hale and grateful, when he'd managed to survive? What right did he have to complain about anything when over half the village had fallen to demons or darkspawn, and he was still standing, still chopping damned wood? He wasn't a child, too weak to overcome foolish nightmares of putrid, shambling bodies and tainted 'spawn… he had no reason to feel such guilt, sitting sour and cold in his gut. It was the Maker's will, even if he didn't understand it.

The Grey Warden, the Hero of Ferelden, wasn't smiling anymore. Bollocks, he'd been quiet too long, or his hesitation had shown on his face, or something—

"I'm fine, ma'am," he finally managed, ashamed by the gravel in his voice. "Uh, ser. Thank you for asking. And yourself?"

There was a long, silent moment, tense enough that Carran felt his ire flare— no. No, he wasn't some hot-headed brute, and more than anyone, this Warden deserved his utmost respect. He was a good man, like his father had been, and he was going to do everything he could to be worthy of this second chance even if it killed him.

The Warden's gaze wandered back somewhere behind him— to the three white remembrance stones set at the side of the house, no doubt— and Carran tried desperately to keep his spine from stiffening. He was fine.

Finally, blessedly, the stoic woman spoke. "I'm actually out recruiting," she said, catching his eye again. There was something… calculating about her, something shrewd. It made him a bit wary. "And if I recall correctly, you're rather skilled with a blade. The Wardens could use a man like you."

It was a splash of ice water, sending his heart hammering. "Me? A Grey Warden? Just… just like that?"

The Warden shrugged slightly. "Well, it's not quite so simple, but yes. The offer stands."

To be away from this place, all the memories that clung to it… that alone might be worth it. The thought nearly made him dizzy.

He'd promised the Maker he'd be a better man, swore on his family's pyres that he'd make them proud of him. He'd assumed that meant smartening up and tending the farm like the good son he should have been, before the Blight, but maybe it could be something else.

He glanced around the farm, at the garden he'd have to harvest soon enough and the barn empty of livestock. It felt like a tomb. "I… all right. I'm honoured, ser."

AN: I'm not sure if you've noticed, but there are a fair number of original characters in this story. I know, I know; news of the hour, right?

In an attempt to get my bearing after my hiatus, I started writing some of what you see above, determined to hear their voices again. It sort of... took off. So, hey, recruitment tales. Hope you like!