Seasons turned. Ten years passed, then twenty. The Free Marches erupted into war, and there were rumours of a blond apostate and his accomplice forcing the Chantry's hand. Ferelden had remained steady, however, under the rule of Queen Anora, and held its own against the tide of fighting. The wardens had helped, under the capable hand of Nathaniel Howe, and things eventually settled back… if not to normal, then at least to a place where the people of Thedas could continue to live out their lives, mostly unmolested. The world had changed, yes, but some things would forever stay the same.

Orzammar had faced many trials in the thirty years since the fifth blight. Bhelen's reforms had done a lot to bolster the flagging population, but simmering resentment against former casteless was still a cause for unease and unrest. Still, though, it was the place where wardens came for their Calling. Even the Amaranthine wardens made the trek to Orzammar. Sometimes traditions were worth upholding.

This warden, however, arrived with no ceremony, no others of his kind. He showed no obvious signs of the taint, either, but simply set up camp at the entrance to the deep roads. He was not short of coin, but he consumed little, his spare frame and sharp features taking in all who arrived in the city.

The guards ignored him after a time, although he paid one to give him news of any other wardens who arrived for their Callings.

A tall, greying, heavily built warden, accompanied by two women, one red haired and one wheat-blond with piercing yellow eyes, arrived at the gates of Orzammar the midwinter after the man had set up his vigil at the entrance to the deep roads. The man embraced both women at the entrance and spoke earnestly to them for a time, before turning away. The two women watched him leave, clasping hands, before the red-haired woman turned her head into the shoulder of the other and wept.

It was an uncommon enough occurrence, with wardens, that they be accompanied by family. Most wardens came alone, or with other wardens. Wardens with families were few and far between, now more than ever. This warden - he seemed familiar to some of the residents of Orzammar, but it was not commented on, at least, not openly. He was treated to a night of honour at Tapsters, in which he participated eagerly enough, before shouldering his sword and shield and setting off for the inevitable end of all Grey Wardens. He seemed cheerful enough, less dour than most of his kind, although he glanced once at the giant double doors that led to the surface with a kind of longing, before turning his back on the outside world for the last time.

One shopkeeper noted that the warden stopped at the entrance to the deep roads and spoke with the man who sat there, leaning on the hilt of his sword, for quite some time. He could not hear what they said, although the conversation seemed amicable enough. He was quite surprised, however, when the two men clasped hands and walked into the deep roads together.

No one saw either of them again.

He approached the dark entrance with little trepidation. The deep roads held little fear for him now, not with the Calling seething in his blood. He knew it was a different feeling to that which Duncan felt, all those years ago, but he still felt a connection to his old mentor, knowing he was going to the death that Duncan had always believed he would have. He had left Duncan's sword with Leliana. There was no need for it to be lost and forgotten in the deep roads, when there were plenty of other blades just as deadly and less beloved.

When he noticed the figure sitting with his arms resting on his knees he recognised him immediately. Despite the years that had separated them, he had seen this man sitting just so too many times not to realise immediately who it was. He huffed a breath of surprise, although truly, he shouldn't have been. It made perfect sense that things should come full circle like this.

He unhooked his sword from his back and clasped it point down in front of him, looking down at the bent head and waiting.

"Alistair," Aedan said, looking up into his face. "I've been waiting for you."

"Somehow that doesn't surprise me."

Aedan looked haggard. More so than he would have expected. The usually meticulously neat blond hair was ragged around the brow, pulled back messily from his stubbled face. He was clean and well equipped, but Alistair could see the man had been living rough for some time now.

The grin that crossed the man's features held more humanity in it than Alistair had ever seen. "When you get to our age, in our job, there is very little that can surprise us, I suppose," he said. Alistair was forced to smile in agreement.

"Did you want to try ending our Calling out here?" Alistair said. "The dwarves will probably let us go at it without interfering. We can see if the wardens have managed to keep you up to standards."

"No. That's not why I'm here," Aedan sighed and looked to the side. "I've had word, periodically. Of Ferelden. And Gareth. And even you, from time to time. The Anderfels is a long way Alistair, but I gathered what news I could."

"I can't imagine what it must have been like, to be so far from your son," Alistair said.

A twist of the lips reminded Alistair of the old Aedan, the ruthless one, the man they had spent so much effort breaking. "No, I don't suppose you could."

"Why were you waiting for me, Aedan?" Alistair said. "If not to try to kill me. Why not go to your Calling alone?"

"I thought we might make this final stand together," Aedan said.

Alistair blinked. This he had not seen coming. "For the sake of the Maker, why?"

Aedan fingered the hilt of the sword that lay on the ground next to him. It was the Cousland sword, the one he'd carried all through the Blight, the one he'd plunged into the heart of Rendon Howe in the basement of the Arl of Denerim's estate.

"It seemed fitting," Aedan said finally. "I don't pretend to agree with what you did, and I never expect you to agree with me, I'm not that stupid. But we fought together for two years, you and I. I still think that means something."

Alistair raised an eyebrow. With all that had happened, in the past twenty years, he could understand what made a man like Aedan believe in what he did as right. People had done so many worse things, since that warehouse in the back streets of Denerim, in causes that they believed were worth more than the people's lives they destroyed. And in the end, Aedan had stopped the Blight. Alistair supposed if he knew then what he knew now, he may have let Aedan keep the power he so desperately wanted.

Then again, he might not.

"You're right," Alistair said. "I don't have to agree with you." He replaced his sword and held out his hand to help Aedan to his feet.

"And I will never agree with you," Aedan said, taking his hand and heaving himself up.

Alistair smiled a grim smile and nodded at his fellow warden. "Let's go get ourselves killed," he said.

Author's Note: That's the end. Thank you all very much for reading and giving me feedback, it's been another great journey, one that I hope I get to take over and over again with many new fics! Blood Wound will continue and bleed into Saoirse and Anders in DA2, but I believe this universe is done now. Farewell Aedan, it was a joy to hate you and love you and put you through horrors!