The Seventh Coming - Lithos

Chapter 1: And Walked Alone

Chapter Text

His entire life, Durin Aeducan had felt as though he were walking half asleep. He was not the only one who noticed this. His elder brother had frequently thrown indulgent smiles his way when he caught Durin staring at a wall or gazing up at the high ceilings of the Orzammar cavern, deep in thought, though more recently as Trian’s pride had grown, so too had his harshness. His younger brother, Bhelen, had been less forgiving of his perceived slowness of wit. You have to live in the moment, Durin, he would snap. The Assembly would love a chance to have a King who never pays attention to what they’re doing.

It wasn’t like that. Durin wasn’t slow. He just…

Sometimes, while he slept, he dreamed of things that were unholy. Forbidden. The light of the Sun and Moon; a crown of stars reflected in deep, still water; forests of trees with silver bark and leaves of gold in the autumn…

He never told anyone of these visions. He had no idea where they came from. Dwarves weren’t even supposed to have dreams in the first place. He had never seen a tree in person, let alone the sky. He had no idea whether what he was dreaming was how they really looked.

But there were other visions, some of which came to him even while he was awake. He would look at the Assembly in their rich robes and traditions and think, Such hubris. He would listen to the Shaperate honoring the Memories and wonder, How much have they forgotten? It unsettled him, on those occasions when he felt awake enough to be unsettled. What was wrong with him? Why did he doubt what everyone else held in esteem? Why did he feel nostalgic for things he had never seen, things which were profane? Why did he always feel like either he was half asleep, or the world around him was?

He knew Bhelen was right. He saw the way some of the more conniving members of the Assembly looked at him, like he was a particularly fat nug for the slaughter. He knew it wouldn’t be that easy for them, if they ever did make him King.

Bhelen, however, did not know. And it was that uncertainty, that fear for the future of Orzammar, Durin knew, which spurred him to action. It was almost enough for Durin to forgive him.

Almost.

-x-x-x-

It was supposed to be an auspicious day for Durin. He had been appointed as a Commander within Orzammar’s military guard—a position as honorable as it was meaningless. The dwarves fought only one war, these days, and that line was held by the Legion of the Dead.

“Ah, good. You’re dressed and ready.” A voice drifted from the entrance to Durin’s overly-spacious rooms. He turned. Gorim, the sworn-shield King Endrin had appointed for his second son (as a glorified bodyguard) had come to fetch him for the feast.

Durin nodded slowly at him, his finely crafted over-engraved armor clinking around him. He’d always felt it was too heavy for its size, but he had long since grown accustomed to the weight.

“Lord Harrowmont said the armor should have an accompanying dagger, but I couldn’t find it,” Gorim said with a shrug. “I found a longsword in the same style, however. Should I fetch your shield as well?”

“Of course,” Durin said. “It’s part of the uniform, isn’t it?”

“Understood, my Lord,” nodded Gorim, heading for an armor stand on the side of the room. “Your honored father expects you to make an appearance at the feast, but there should be no rush. Every other noble in Orzammar will be bothering him for the next few hours.”

“Trian will be displeased if I’m late,” Durin said. It was always best to avoid annoying Trian, where possible. The King’s eldest son was a bit like a rock in a river. The water soon learned to move around, rather than through.

…Or so he imagined. Durin had never seen a river, after all.

Gorim just shrugged. “Isn’t Lord Trian always displeased?” he asked rhetorically. “We should have time to visit the Proving Grounds. Lord Harrowmont ordered an open Proving in honor of the day.”

“Well, it wouldn’t do not to show my face at such an event in my own honor,” Durin said, enjoying the way Gorim’s face lit up. He smiled slightly, passing his second and taking the shield. He took the leave as they left the Royal Palace. A young woman darted into Bhelen’s room as they passed. Durin thought he caught a glimpse of a casteless brand on her face. The sight put him in a sour mood. He had only managed to visit Dust Town once, and he had been numb with horror the whole time. This was the last great bastion of dwarven culture?

He paused at the door, then knocked once. No one responded. “Miss?” he called, loud enough to be heard but hopefully quiet enough not to draw attention. “If I might be so bold—my brother Trian should be out for the next few hours, but I’d advise you to make yourself scarce before he returns. He can be… unkind, to those of lesser privilege than himself.”

There was still no sound from Bhelen’s room. With a sigh and a shrug, he kept walking.

“You needn’t look after people like her,” said Gorim with a long-suffering air. “You know she’s just a noble hunter after your brother, right?”

“Highly likely,” Durin murmured. “Stone, what a horror it must be.”

“Hm?”

“The desperation of it.” Durin shook his head. “Noble hunters shouldn’t exist, not because they should be better than they are, but because no one should be in such awful conditions that they find such measures necessary to escape.”

“A radical sentiment,” said Gorim carefully.

Durin sighed. “True enough.”

They left the palace and started down the thoroughfare. As they walked, Durin’s eyes wandered upward, driving to the high ceiling of the Orzammar cavern. Here in the Diamond Quarter, the upper reaches were more than a hundred feet above the streets, and intricately carven and vaulted. In the lower quarters they were far less ornate, and in the slums of Dust Town they were barely better than the bare rock of the cave, only reinforced slightly with—

“Lord Durin! You can vouch for my work, can’t you?” Durin blinked, brought suddenly back to the present. Two people were standing directly in his and Gorim’s path, clearly in the midst of an argument. The one who had spoken was a scholar whom Durin vaguely recognized—a historian by the name of Gertek. Earnest, and generally trustworthy, if a bit prone to sucking up. “Your father loved my History of Aeducan: Paragon, King, Peacemaker!”

And there was the sucking up. “He did,” Durin acknowledged, blinking, trying to catch up to the situation. He turned to the other man, a relatively minor noble of House… “Is there a problem, Lord Vollney?”

“This worm,” spat the noble—and, yes, Durin had gotten his house right—“has written a book that slanders my house! He deserves to die for what he has written of Paragon Vollney!”

Durin closed his eyes momentarily, trying to remember his lessons. Paragon Vollney… named Paragon for… economic contributions, wasn’t it? It wasn’t an unusual claim to ascension. Of those houses in the Assembly, more than half fell under the umbrella of ‘economic contributions.’ What was unusual, however, was that Durin couldn’t remember ever hearing what exactly those contributions had been. Normally it was the discovery of an exceedingly rich ore or lyrium vein, or the invention of a new way of mining or smithing, or the establishment of a new trade route. What had Vollney done, exactly? “What was the slander in question?” he asked, opening his eyes again.

“Lord Vollney was elected Paragon by the narrowest margin in history, a single vote,” said Gertek. Then, desperately, “It is a matter of public record—of fact! Not liking history doesn’t make it untrue!”

“You claimed that Paragon Vollney was a fraud!” bellowed Vollney. What was his given name, again? Durin was sure he had known at some point. “You wrote that he bribed the Assembly!”

“I acknowledged that the vote at the time was mired in accusations of corruption, intimidation, and intrigue,” said Gertek shrilly.

“Bah!” The noble—Brunther? Bruvus?—turned back to Durin. “You hear this! He slanders the name of a Paragon! Surely you would react the same way if Paragon Aeducan was so dishonored?”

“Paragon Aeducan’s confirmation had not a single dissenting vote!” Gertek said.

“After the one dissenter was murdered on the assembly floor by Paragon Aeducan’s supporters,” murmured Durin. That was a lesson he was always careful to remember. He looked Vollney in the eye. “Not only would I not react this way if such things were said about Paragon Aeducan,” he said, “I have been known to say such things about my ancestor myself. My Lord Vollney—if you wish to honor your house and protect your good name, murdering scholars and silencing historians is not the way. Instead, be exemplary in the present. Raise your House up by example. Live to the example of all Paragons, from Vollney to Aeducan, and you will be above any reproach. If you truly believe that Ser Gertek has lied in his book, approach the Shaperate and ask that they consult the Memories themselves. Do not sully yourself with cold-blooded murder in the streets of the Diamond Quarter. It is beneath you.”

Vollney’s—really, what was his name?—jaw was set, but beneath his bluster he looked a little ashamed. “Yes, my Lord,” he said stiffly. “I shall approach the Shaperate tomorrow—after, of course, the coming feast is commemorated.”

Durin nodded. “Stone keep you,” he said as Vollney stalked off.

Gertek sighed in relief. “Thank you, Lord Durin,” he said. “You have shown yourself a true friend to scholarship and history—”

A true friend to scholarship? Durin thought, amused and a little ashamed. Surely a true friend to scholarship would be trying harder to make sure that the excesses of House Aeducan were remembered with the same frequency as those of the lesser houses. I do my best, but… was there a better way to intervene? All I meant to do was prevent a man’s death, but have I stepped into Trian’s blustering shoes inadvertently?

“My Lord Durin?”

Durin blinked at the scholar. “Hm? Oh, ye—”

Gorim elbowed him sharply in the side.

Durin made as smooth a transition as he could. “—eeou were saying? Apologies, I was distracted.”

“Of course, My Lord, of course,” said Gertek, with that same odd mixture of pity and disdain in his eyes that Durin so often saw. “I was merely asking if you wished to endorse the historicity of my account. In order to prevent such conflicts with others of like mind to the Lord Vollney in future. I would be more than grateful for your patronage.”

“Ah,” said Durin. “No.”

The scholar blinked. “...Ah. Well. Might you, perhaps, consult with—”

“No,” said Durin. “Speak with Trian if you want an Aeducan to endorse your pageantry. For myself, I would prefer my histories to be more historical.”

“My Lord!” The scholar drew himself up in shock and offense. “I assure you—”

“I read your History of Aeducan,” said Durin. “And I have also studied all that I was permitted to see at the Shaperate.” There were many Memories forbidden even to Durin—information that remained sensitive today, as well as prophecies which might become unreliable if their contents were made public. But many more were available to him, so long as he was accompanied by a Shaper while perusing. “If you could not acknowledge my ancestor as the murderer that he was,” Durin continued, “then you will have to seek another of his descendants as your patron. Good day.”

Then he turned from Gertek’s astonished face and continued down the thoroughfare, Gorim at his side.

“You recovered well,” Gorim said quietly.

“Thanks to you,” said Durin. “I apologize—I should know better than to default to ‘yes’ by now.”

“You are learning,” said Gorim. “And I am here to assist you until you do.”

They continued through the small bazaar of market stalls that clustered about the lower Diamond Quarter. As he passed a stall of fine surface-dweller silks, a familiar voice called out.

“Atrast vala, Durin!” Durin blinked and turned as Bhelen and Trian approached, coming in the opposite direction. Bhelen was the one who had spoken. His eyes studied Durin’s face. “You look well today, big brother.”

“He means,” growled Trian, “that you do not look like a lackwit, for once. He is also lying. Why are you out here? Have you so little regard for our father that you would fail to attend his feast in your honor?”

“Lord Harrowmont has organized a Proving in honor of Lord Durin,” said Gorim, glancing at Durin.

Durin took the offered opening. “I decided that it would be unseemly for me to miss such an occasion,” he said. “I will return in time for the feast, but to have a Proving organized in my name is an honor I cannot ignore.”

It was an old maneuver. Gorim would take the initiative to seize the thread of a conversation, giving Durin the time to regain his focus and collect his thoughts so that, when he spoke, he did not appear to be scrambling to catch up. In this particular case, it was unnecessary, but Durin appreciated the thought nonetheless.

“Hmph.” Trian grunted but seemed somewhat mollified. “An honor indeed.” He glowered at Gorim, but it was the perfectly mundane glower Trian wore when his mood was neutral, rather than the vicious glare that flashed when he was angry. “See to it that he returns to the feast before the formalities begin.”

“Of course, Lord Trian,” said Gorim.

“He will not need to,” Durin assured his brother, keeping his tone conciliatory. “I know how important this feast is, and how shameful it would be to fail to attend my own father and King.”

Trian looked as close to being satisfied as he ever did. “Good.” Then his expression turned sour again as he met Durin’s eyes. When he spoke, it was slowly, as if he feared Durin would miss his words otherwise. “Do be careful with your soldiers tomorrow. It would be a poor thing indeed for an Aeducan to get honorable Orzammar soldiers killed.”

“I will remember all of the lessons I have received,” Durin promised diplomatically, “from both our tutors and you, elder brother.”

“See that you do.” Trian stomped past him, heading back towards the Palace.

“Nicely handled,” Bhelen muttered with a nod each to Durin and Gorim before jogging after their brother.

They passed through the market, Durin giving a nod and a smile to a pair of noble hunters lingering outside a door. These were much more well-off than the poor casteless woman who had been in Bhelen’s room, but they giggled and batted their eyelashes at him nonetheless.

“They don’t seem all that desperate,” Gorim muttered.

“Everyone craves what they do not have,” Durin replied. “And when there is only one way to get it, well…”

“You almost sound like you object to the castes themselves.”

Durin didn’t answer. Fortunately, he had an excuse in the form of a nearby merchant, hosting a stall of weapons. “My Lord Aeducan! My Lord, if I might…?”

Gorim scowled thunderously at the breach of caste protocol, but Durin just smiled, putting a gentle hand on Gorim’s shoulder to calm him. “Yes?”

“I am sorry for the interruption, my Lord,” said the merchant nervously, almost ingratiating. “I sent an errand boy to the palace earlier with an offering in your honor, but he was turned away by Prince Trian. He bore a dagger, made to accompany your royal house’s armor?”

Durin glanced at Gorim. “You mentioned a dagger. Would this be it?”

Gorim shook his head, looking doubtful. “Not unless this man has some connection to Lord Harrowmont.”

Durin turned back to the merchant. “Was this piece commissioned by the Lord Harrowmont?” he asked.

“It was, my Lord,” said the merchant, with an odd reluctance. Strange.

“Might I see it?”

“Of course, my Lord!” the merchant hastily produced a cloth-wrapped bundle. Opening it revealed a truly fine work—a dagger of careful craftsmanship, engraved with runes and the signage of House Aeducan. “I hope it is to my Lord’s satisfaction. I wish to bless his first command, and one day, when he rules, he will wear it.”

Gorim’s armor suddenly stopped clinking as he froze. “Trian is heir,” he said slowly. “He will rule when King Endrin returns to the Stone.”

“I see,” said Durin quietly. And he did. Despite what many thought, he was at least as clever as his elder brother. He gave the merchant a nod. “I am honored by your gift. I will, of course, accept it in the spirit that it is intended. My compliments to all of the craftsmen involved.”

“Thank you, my Lord!” said the merchant with another low bow. “You bring me great honor!”

“He means,” muttered Gorim as they walked away, “that you’ll bring him great gold if you wear that thing in public, and it’s recognized.”

“I’m aware, Gorim,” murmured Durin.

“Then what were you—”

Gorim cut himself off as they reached the gateway down to the Commons. Two guards were posted there. “Lord Durin,” said one with a shallow bow. “Are you going to the Proving Grounds? Allow us to accompany you.”

“Stone, I forgot about that,” muttered Gorim. “Your father said you weren’t to pass through the Commons unguarded.”

Durin’s lips twitched. “He’s worried I’ll daydream and fall into the chasm?”

“He’s worried,” Gorim said, giving him a look, “that you will be harassed by those merchants who were turned away from the Diamond Quarter. Perhaps rightly.”

“As my Lord Father wishes.” Durin shrugged and gave the guard a nod. “Lead on.”

Later, once they had taken a seat at the Aeducan box in the Proving Grounds and settled in to watch a few matches, Gorim leaned close to whisper. “You heard what that merchant said?” he asked. “It’s not the first time I’ve heard such things. Keeping that dagger, especially if you wear it and Trian recognizes it, will send a message.”

“Refusing it sends a message to Harrowmont,” Durin whispered back, wincing as a particularly brutal blow sent blood scattering across the stones below.

“So does keeping it.”

“Yes.”

Gorim looked at him sidelong. “Are you actually playing the game now?” he asked, a touch hesitant. “You almost sound like…”

“Like I think Trian will be a poor King? I do, Gorim.” Durin took a deep breath. “I’m not what they think I am. You know that. I can do this. More to the point: I must.”

Gorim looked around, as if expecting eavesdroppers, before leaning even closer. “Be careful, my Lord,” he said, so quietly that even straining, Durin could barely hear him over the bustle of the city. “I know he is your brother, but I really would not put much past Trian.”

“If Lord Harrowmont has his way, Trian needn’t know what’s happening until after Father passes and the Assembly’s decision is announced,” Durin answered.

“I suppose that’s true,” Gorim murmured. “Do you want me to start covertly reaching out to key deshyrs?”

Durin thought for a moment, head bowing slightly. “…Yes.”

-x-x-x-

The feast was… trying. Durin did his best to remain in the moment, to smile when expected and look proud and stern when it was called for, to respond to the conversations around him without needing Gorim’s elbow in his side or for his name to be called directly. For the most part, he even succeeded.

Part of his motivation for remaining focused was fear. The ornate, princely dagger remained at Durin’s side all evening, and he saw one or two nobles’ eyes drift to it during the meal. But Trian, on whom he kept a careful eye all evening, never noticed. He was far too busy staying close to their father and blustering to anyone who would listen.

He did, however, loudly mention that he would be ‘watching over’ Durin’s command the following day, ‘just to avoid any unfortunate mistakes.’ The clear vote of no confidence was not unexpected, but nor was it heartening. Not for the first time, Durin wished Trian was, well, better. He didn’t want to go against his brother, but if Trian continued as he was, Durin would have no other choice. Not unless he wanted Orzammar to decline even further than it had already.

But the most interesting conversation of the evening happened as the guests were leaving. Trian bustled away, sternly ordering Durin and Bhelen both to bed in preparation for a busy day.

Then, for the first time today—the first time in several days, actually—he and Bhelen were alone. Not entirely, of course; there were still nobles leaving the manor, servants clearing the tables, loud conversations outside, but for a moment Durin and his younger brother were able to seize for themselves a quiet corner to talk in something like privacy. Only their Seconds, Gorim and a grim man named Vartag Gavorn, stayed nearby, and they did their best to run interference, giving the brothers some privacy.

Bhelen sighed in obvious exasperation. “I swear,” he said, “our dear brother grows more infuriating by the day.”

“Yes,” agreed Durin.

Bhelen eyed him. “You did well this evening,” he said, an odd note to his voice. “I only saw you lose focus once, when Lord Narghell tried to draw you into a conversation about the artisans he was patronizing.”

“Was that what he was talking about?” Durin asked. “I missed the beginning of the conversation, so I thought he was talking about artifacts recovered from the expedition tomorrow.”

Bhelen chuckled. “No, but you could be forgiven for the mistake. The man blusters so much you’d think every scrap of clay his sculptors mold came from the deepest heart of the old empire.” Then his face fell. “I noticed something else when I was watching you today,” he said. His eyes drifted down to the dagger at Durin’s side.

Durin nodded once, stiffly. “Trian,” he said, trying not to say too much aloud, “would have to learn a great deal before he was ready to rule Orzammar.”

Bhelen looked grim. “I agree,” he said. “But as much of an arrogant boor as our brother is, he is no fool.”

“He didn’t notice this,” Durin said, running his finger along the hilt of the dagger. “I was watching him.”

Bhelen chewed his tongue thoughtfully. “I’m impressed that you were so careful,” he said. “You really are improving. But Trian didn’t need to see that dagger tonight, not when he is already concerned about what it represents.” He leaned forward. “Brother—Trian is preparing to move against you.”

Durin’s eyebrow rose. He glanced around, but no one seemed to be near enough to hear them. “What do you mean, move?” he asked.

“What do you think I mean?” hissed Bhelen. “You’re going into battle tomorrow against the Darkspawn. You will be expected to take a forward role in the battle, doubly so if you want to increase your reputation and prestige. In the chaos of battle, well. Anything might happen.”

“You really think he would stoop so far?” Durin asked. “Assassination? From the honorable Trian?”

“I wouldn’t have believed it either,” said Bhelen, with a dark glance back at a small crowd of nobles leaving the manor as a group. “I happened to overhear him speaking with a mercenary this morning. He nearly caught me. I assume he kept me close today to try and determine if I suspected him. I kept my silence, and given he left us alone at last, it seems to have paid off.”

Durin let out a breath. “This is… difficult to believe, Bhelen,” he said quietly. “But I can promise you I will be careful. I will keep my eyes open and ready for ambush tomorrow.”

“If you are ambushed, you will be outnumbered,” Bhelen cautioned. “You know this. The safest option for you would be to strike first. I would support you if necessary.”

“I appreciate the thought, my brother,” said Durin, clasping Bhelen on the shoulder. “I cannot in good conscience be the first to strike against my own sibling, but I will be cautious. I will move with both eyes open, and my head in the present moment. You have my word.”

Bhelen looked frustrated, but nodded. “That’s all I can ask,” he said. “Good luck, Durin. Be safe.”

-x-x-x-

“What do you think of what Bhelen said?” Gorim asked in a low voice. They were standing just inside Durin’s room. In the distance, Durin could hear the singing of a drunken noble stumbling his way back home after the celebration.

“I think it’s a bad sign,” said Durin, just as quietly. “If Trian heard about what Harrowmont is plotting, it’s possible he might seek to have me removed. He’s never been much for sentiment.”

“You sound doubtful.”

“I am,” Durin confirmed. “Because, consider: if one of us, myself and Trian, kills the other, and is exposed? Who becomes my father’s heir?”

Gorim’s eyes widened. “Ancestors, I didn’t even think of that! Do you really think he’s that ambitious?”

“No,” Durin said. “That’s what has me confused. Because I neither think Trian is wise enough to recognize me as a threat, nor that Bhelen is callous enough to eliminate the both of us to take the throne for himself. And yet, I cannot imagine but that one of the two is true.”

“But you don’t know which.” Gorim grimaced. “No wonder you didn’t commit to anything with Bhelen.”

Durin nodded. “Exactly. I need to see which one is my enemy before I know where to strike.”

“And when you do?”

“You’re asking if I’ll kill one of my brothers.” Durin shook his head. “No—not unless I have exhausted every other option. But I would be more than willing to expose one or both.”

Gorim nodded. “Well, my shield is at your back, as always.”

Durin gave him a smile. “I appreciate it, my friend.”

-x-x-x-

The next day, everything fell apart. The dwarves lost great numbers against the darkspawn, and though Durin managed to complete his mission to seize Aeducan’s shield, things only got worse from there.

“Up ahead is that paragon statue,” Gorim said in a whisper as they marched along the path. “Where we met Ivo.”

“I know,” Durin said.

“It had excellent sightlines,” Gorim continued. “And we only have one archer. If I were planning to secretly murder you, that’s where I’d do it.”

“Then we move carefully,” said Durin softly.

In retrospect, he should have seen it coming. Bhelen knew Durin wouldn’t kill their brother without more certainty, so of course he’d sent someone to do it before Durin had a chance to stop them. Of course he had somehow bribed or blackmailed the two scouts into claiming he was responsible.

As he was dragged down to Orzammar’s dungeons, Durin couldn’t even feel angry. He just felt cold. One of his brothers was dead, and the other had shown himself a monster. In all his solitary life, a life punctuated by whispers and giggles and rumors at his expense, he had never felt so alone.

Gorim was taken to the Assembly first. Durin wondered if it would be the last time he ever saw his only friend. For himself, he was thrown into a small cell and left there to think.

Minutes stretched to hours. He thought through Bhelen’s plan, tried to see where the loose ends might be. There was only one left—the trial in the Assembly. If he could just convince them of his innocence…

But Bhelen was smart. He’d somehow gotten Ivo on his side—Ivo, who even traditional Harrowmont acknowledged as an honorable man. Durin had a feeling he had one more dagger in his boot.

He was proven right when Gorim finally appeared and brought him the Assembly’s decisions. “I was sentenced to exile on the surface,” he reported, his eyes hollow, his face still slack with shock. “My knighthood has been stripped from me, and I’m to be removed from the Memories.”

“And now they’ll call for me?” Durin asked. “To sentence me to the same fate?”

Gorim’s eyes squeezed shut with pain. “No,” he murmured. “Bhelen took Trian’s seat and pushed for your immediate sentencing. He had enough deshyrs ready to vote on it in defiance of all tradition. You’re not going to be brought before the Assembly, and you’re not coming with me, either.” Durin noted, with a sort of absent horror, that Gorim’s hands were shaking. His expression was a study in despair. “You’re to be exiled to the Deep Roads,” he said, “to die to the darkspawn.”

-x-x-x-

“I am innocent,” Durin said firmly.

Harrowmont nodded slowly. “I believe you,” he said, his voice sad. “I am sorry.”

“I have one request,” Durin said, “before I go.”

“I will tell your father, I promise,” Harrowmont preempted him, but Durin shook his head.

“I ask that you not tell my father,” said Durin. “Let him believe that the son he has remaining is innocent of all this. Let him believe in Bhelen.”

“You do not think Bhelen will remove your father, as he removed you and Trian?” asked Harrowmont darkly.

“I do not,” Durin said. “Bhelen is callous, cruel, and ambitious—but he does love Orzammar. Endrin is a good king, and Bhelen will respect that.”

“You have great faith in a man who has condemned you to die,” said Harrowmont doubtfully.

Durin shrugged. “I’ve had some hours to think,” he said. “Perhaps it’s naïve to think I know Bhelen after having been so soundly outplayed by him, but I do think so, nonetheless.” He shook his head. “I mustn’t keep you, Lord Harrowmont. If you must tell my father something to comfort him, tell him that I go to a warrior’s death, with head held high.”

“I will,” whispered Harrowmont. He nodded to the guards at his flanks. “Open the way!”

The great gates creaked open. Durin stepped through. Behind him, they closed with a resounding clang.

Durin took a deep breath of the dry underground air, drew his sword and shield, and stepped forward into the dark.

The shrieking of darkspawn echoed through the caverns as he walked. More than once he whirled to face a sound from only feet away, only to realize it had actually come from down a long corridor, echoing oddly.

There were still torches near Orzammar, but he soon passed beyond their light. The darkness grew deep, then black as pitch. Even dwarves could not see in utter darkness. Occasionally, the black was pierced by the faint, blue luminance of lyrium veins in the deep.

For whatever reason, no darkspawn came upon him. Whether he was simply lucky, or if some instinct or protection kept him from them, he could not say.

He walked for what felt like hours until, quite suddenly, the darkness lightened again. Suddenly he could see by a very, very faint gray light. He followed it down a series of corridors as it grew brighter and brighter, surpassing torchlight, surpassing braziers, surpassing any light he had ever seen until at last he turned a corner and had to shield his eyes.

The breeze hit his face, brisk and cold. Wonder in his eyes, he stepped out onto the surface. The sky overhead was a brilliant, clear blue, dotted with cotton clouds. All around him, mountains rose high—he had emerged through an opening in a narrow valley between two peaks. A little below him, a small stream trickled, its passage tinkling light laughter as it traversed the pebbles. High above he heard twittering whistles which must have been birdsong.

This was what the Shaperate held to be profane? This was the forbidden thing whose mere glimpse was enough to warrant banishment?

It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.

Half in a trance, he followed the bubbling stream as it giggled its way down a gentle slope. After a few hundred feet, it trickled into a deep, dark pool, somehow black despite the blue sky overhead. He wondered if water behaved differently in such large bodies, here on the surface—he would have expected the pool to reflect the sky above.

Then he noticed twinkling lights within the water. Frowning, he blinked, but they were still there. He approached, wondering if they were gems or coins fallen into the pool. They were not. By the way the vision of them moved as he did, he realized they were reflected in the water’s surface.

His frown deepened as he looked up, trying to see what might be casting the reflection. There was nothing there but blue sky and a cloud drifting by.

He stepped up to the edge of the water, stooped, and looked in. There he saw his face reflected. As he watched, the twinking lights seemed to form the shape of a crown, resting upon his dark hair.

His hands shook. There was a pressure on his mind, starting small but growing rapidly. The sound of the birds and the brook faded away. In their place, he heard a gravelly dwarf’s voice singing mournfully.

The world was young, the mountains green,
No stain yet on the moon was seen,
No words were laid on stream or stone
When Durin woke and walked alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Above the shadow of his head.

Durin’s eyes squinted against the blossoming ache in his head. His hands, still shaking, pressed against his temples. What was this song? Was this Mirrormere? Did it sing of another Durin, long ago?

Somehow, he knew otherwise. It sang of him. But he had never been here before.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,
In Elder Days before the fall
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond
The Western Seas have passed away:
The world was fair in Durin’s Day.

A low keening erupted from Durin’s throat as the pain grew into a throbbing knife in his skull. What day did he have other than this one? What were these names, Nargothrond and Gondolin, and how did he know them?

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone forever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,
There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
The delver mined, the mason built.
There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
And metal wrought like fishes’ mail,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shining spears were laid in hoard.

The great dwarf-city the singer so mourned was not Orzammar, could never have been Orzammar. It was to Orzammar what pure gold was to pyrite, what mithril was to silver.

…Wait, what was mithril? He couldn’t think. His head was pounding as though a battering ram was seeking entrance to his skull.

Unwearied then were Durin’s folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

This nostalgia, this sense of lost glory… this, Durin knew well. Orzammar felt it, even with the recent rediscovery of Kal-Sharok. The dwarves had suffered a long defeat spanning well beyond the nine ages of the humans. An echo—destiny remembering destiny.

The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge’s fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin’s halls;
The shadow lies upon his tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

And Durin VII the Deathless, Last of His Name, woke up.

Chapter 2: The Light of Sun and Star and Moon

Notes:

Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.

Chapter Text

Durin made camp in a hollow just a few dozen paces from the still water of Mirrormere. He had no bedroll, no blanket, no tent, and no food. This last he corrected while the sun still shone.

Using his dagger as a whittler’s knife, he carved himself a crude spear. Then he walked along the stream, moving slowly and quietly until he encountered a snofleur drinking from the brook.

He carefully approached, staying low among the underbrush. When he judged himself to be near enough, he raised his makeshift javelin and threw it. It struck true. The snofleur squealed, stumbled, and fell, struggling weakly as it bled red onto the grass.

Durin approached, drawing his dagger. He quickly slit its throat before hefting it over his shoulders.

He brought it back to his makeshift camp and quickly found a shard of flint among the detritus of the mountain. He used this to kindle a small campfire, over which he raised a spit. Between careful tending to the burgeoning fire, Durin butchered the snofleur. It was a shame he had no salt—the meat would no longer be fit to eat in the morning if he did not cook it now, and even if he did it would not last more than a day or two. It was wasteful, but he had few options at this point.

It was Durin’s first time eating snofleur—he had heard of the animal, seen it illustrated in imported books describing Orlesian cuisine, but never had it made its way onto the Aeducan table. And if the snofleur had existed in Middle-Earth, he had never seen nor heard of it.

As he sliced strips of meat with his dagger, using his buckler as a plate, he tried to sort through his memories. How long had it been? His last life had been as King in Khazad-dûm beneath the Misty Mountains. How had so much changed? How long had he been asleep?

And why was his resurrection so different, this time? In his previous returns, Durin had been sent back into the same body, granted new youth and new vitality and bidden to rise from his enchanted tomb to lead his people once more. Why had he been born afresh into a newly-made dwarrow’s body, this time?

Could it be that his original body had been lost? He had been slain by one of the ancient Balrogs from the War of Wrath—had the monster destroyed his body so completely that he could not be returned to it?

Not for the first time, Durin wished he could remember what passed between his incarnations. He knew that in those intervening times he returned to Mahal’s hall and dwelt there with the others of his kin, and with his six brothers. But in one of his very few conversations with Mahal while he yet lived, the Smith explained that he would never remember these in-between times when he returned to Middle-Earth.

For the Undying Lands are now sundered from Middle-Earth forever, Mahal had said, sorrow and shame in his voice, and even word of them may not be brought back to those who yet remain here, not even by you.

But he was no longer in Middle-Earth, was he? Thedas bore no resemblance to the lands he had once known. It was possible that they had shifted, whether due to another great war or calamity like the destruction of Beleriand or the sinking of Númenor, or due to natural drift over times so vast Durin could scarcely visualize them. He had once theorized that the minute shifts caused by earthquakes and eruptions might, over thousands of millennia, change the very shape of the world. Had it truly been so long since he had last been here?

But even that could not explain some of the other differences between the Thedas he had spent the past decades learning about and the Middle-Earth he had been acquainted with for millennia. What had happened to the Elves? The modern Dalish taught that they had once been immortal, but the elvhenan of their legends bore little resemblance to the great kingdoms of Nargothrond and Doriath, or even to the diminished realms of Lothlórien, Imladris, and the Greenwood.

It was possible that the passage of time had weathered these stories as it had weathered the languages of Middle-Earth’s peoples. The dwarves had even forgotten khuzdul, the language Mahal had given them at the dawn of days. Could Arlathan be a bastardized name by which the Dalish remembered Gondolin or Rivendell?

But that still failed to explain much. Even in the days of Durin’s sixth life, the Elves had begun their slow return over the Western seas to the Undying Lands. Why, then, were so many elves still here? And how had they lost the immortality with which Ilúvatar had graced His Firstborn people?

And there were more questions, questions whose answers he could not even begin to guess. Whence had come the qunari? How had dragons returned to the world a mere thirty years ago? What was the Blight, and why had it only apparently surfaced long after the days of Durin’s previous lives?

He slept fitfully that night, curled in a crevasse on the edge of the valley as these questions circled ceaselessly in his mind.

Durin spent the next day prospecting.

He had ignored it the day before, but there was a singing in the rock. His ears could not hear it, but it made his heart leap. Something in the mountains was calling to him. Hear us, O King, it seemed to be crying. Hear us and reclaim us, for we have been forgotten!

Whatever providence had led the Darkspawn to ignore him as he escaped the Deep Roads seemed to have passed. When he entered the mine that had borne him from the realms beneath the mountains, he was soon accosted by the creatures, screeching and gnashing their teeth. They bore some passing resemblance to orcs or goblins, but only very vaguely. Like those accursed peoples, the darkspawn were twisted mockeries of other folk. But whatever had created these was not the same force or process that had created the old enemies of Dwarves and Elves.

He cut his way through a small patrol, reveling in the youthful strength of this body and the way he could apply centuries of training to it. He soon found for himself a pickaxe. Then he made his way to a rock face near to one of the sources of the song he could hear inside the mountain’s roots, and began to chip away at the stone.

It came away easily, and soon he exposed a vein of brilliant silver-white ore. The song rose up in jubilation, then fell into a satisfied silence as he looked on in wonder.

Durin had found mithril, here in the Frostbacks around Orzammar. The modern dwarves seemed to have lost the wondrous metal entirely, though they still had vague myths which referenced it, and now he alone could find and mine it.

Slowly, a plan began to take shape. He still lacked much of what he would need, but a small stock of mithril would be able to buy him food and equipment enough to begin a mercantile venture. Perhaps he could find Gorim in Denerim? From there… well, he wasn’t sure where he would go from there. His final goal would be a return to Orzammar, to the throne of his people who needed him. But he needed to find a way first to have his exile reversed, and while mithril would be instrumental in achieving that goal, he wasn’t yet sure how to leverage it.

Still, no matter what happened, he would need it. He raised his pick and began to mine.

It took Durin nearly three months before he was able to make it to the nearest major hub of trade—which happened to be the gates of Orzammar itself. He had managed to acquire supplies in a Fereldan village near where he had awoken, and used their forges to produce for them equipment of iron and steel in payment. He was pleasantly surprised to find that, even though his new body had never worked a day in a forge, his old skills had not been forgotten. The villagers had been awed by his craftsmanship, even when all he was making for them were nails, ploughs, and shovels. They had even believed him when he told them that his work would last long enough to be passed down to their grandchildren, even if they were used every day. Their awe had been encouraging, in a way—it had lifted his flagging spirits, reminded him that his people had once been the envy of the world for their artisanry, and pushed him to return so that he might make them so again.

On his way to Orzammar, Durin gradually acquired some of the goods he would need to begin his work. Mules he had bought in another village in exchange for a week’s work as a smith. A cart he had bought in a hamlet in the Frostback foothills. But it was only here, where trade was more common, that he was finally able to claim the last few items he needed to begin his journey to Denerim.

He had just finished packing his goods into barrels and loading them onto his cart, and was preparing to bed down for a night before beginning his journey in the morning, when he was forced to change his plans completely.

Durin looked up at the sound of voices, loud in the unhappy hush of the encampment. A group of travelers was crossing the stone bridge towards the great gate of Orzammar. His eyes widened as he took them in. Several humans, an elf, a qunari, and—unmistakably—a golem.

His eyes followed them as they approached one of the groups huddled beneath a drooping cloth tent. He watched them challenge another man over something or other. He saw his cronies attack them and die ignominiously.

He stood up slowly and began his approach. One of the humans, a woman with hair red as fire and a longbow in her hand, glanced his way, then nudged their leader, a woman in heavy plate. She turned and regarded him. He knew who she was.

“You’re the wandering Wardens,” he observed. “The group that survived the battle at Ostagar.”

“That we are,” said the woman. Her voice was quiet, low for a woman’s—though still higher than most dwarrowdams’—and somehow resonant. This was a woman accustomed to command. “Who might you be?”

“I am Prince Durin Aeducan,” he said. “And I believe we can help one another.”

“A dwarf prince on the surface?” The redhead asked, raising an eyebrow. “Surely you would have had to surrender your titles to come here, unless Orzammar’s traditions have changed?”

Durin shrugged. “Technically, yes,” he said. “Practically, however… well. It’s a long story.”

“We have time,” said the leader, pulling off her helm and shaking out her shoulder-length brown hair. There was a long scar across her cheek, still angry red for its recent acquisition.

“Very well,” Durin said. “Come, I have food. Sit by my fire, and we will talk.”

They followed him back to his makeshift camp. He offered them what he had—he’d managed to cobble together bread based on a recipe he had once learned from traveling Men passing through Khazad-dûm, which they had called cram, and when served alongside the cheese and salted meat he’d bought, it was a surprisingly pleasant meal.

As they ate, he told them his story. “I was born a little under a century ago, in the Royal Palace of Orzammar, the second son of King Endrin Aeducan—may the Stone welcome him home.”

“King Endrin is dead?” the other armored human, a young man with short blond hair, interrupted with a grimace.

Durin nodded sadly. He’d heard as much when he finally made his way back around the valleys and up here to the gate. By the time he arrived, his father had already passed. Grief, it was said. Durin believed it, but that didn’t mitigate Bhelen’s responsibility.

“That will make it difficult for the dwarves to respect the Wardens’ treaty,” said a woman in ragged, dark robes which did little to shelter her from the cold. Even so, she seemed unaffected, not leaning into his campfire for warmth.

“Indeed,” Durin agreed. “Orzammar’s gate is shut until such time as the Assembly elects a new King, although as Wardens you may be able to enter. Rumor has trickled up that the two contenders are Prince Bhelen Aeducan, my younger brother and the only remaining son to my late father, and Lord Pyral Harrowmont, my father’s friend and closest confidante. I suspect it will be a few weeks, perhaps a month, before Bhelen finds a way to remove Lord Harrowmont as an obstacle.”

“Assassination?” asked the only elf in the group in an Antivan accent.

“If he can manage it,” said Durin. “Otherwise, simple bribery and blackmail of enough of the deshyrs to have him elected over Lord Harrowmont’s protests. He’s already pulled both tricks at least once in the past season alone.”

“Sounds like a story,” murmured the leader. “Go on, please.”

So Durin did. “My father had two other children—the elder, Trian, was the heir until his recent, untimely death. The youngest, Bhelen, was always given to jealousy of his position—a wound which Trian was more than happy to let fester, with his posturing and arrogance.” Durin sighed, shaking his head. “I should not speak ill of the dead. Trian was skilled, intelligent, and capable, but he was prone to pride, and it was that pride, I suspect, which caused his death.

“For most of my life, I was prone to… daydreaming. I gained a reputation for slowness of wit. It was not accurate, but it is difficult to shake such rumors once they have taken hold. I had assumed that this reputation, and the accompanying status I gained as an outcast, would disqualify me from ever aspiring to high office. As it turned out, the exact reverse was true. It seems that there were ambitious deshyrs who might have sought to plant me upon the throne in the hopes of having a king who would be easily controlled. Given that Trian’s blustering pride made him a dangerous choice, especially as the Shaperate believed a Blight might be approaching, I decided to use this opportunity. I resolved to court the Assembly in secret, allowing Trian to think he remained heir, and hopefully taking his place upon our father’s death.”

“Conniving of you,” observed the Wardens’ leader, her tone neutral.

“Not nearly conniving enough, as it turns out.” Durin grimaced. “Bhelen had his own plans. On the night I received my first military commission as a commander of Orzammar’s armies, Bhelen tried to convince me that Trian was jealous of my potential usurpation and intended to have me killed. I was unwilling to act first, so Bhelen took matters into his own hands.

“The next day, a great battle was fought against the darkspawn. I was sent with a small force into a long-lost thaig to retrieve the shield of the Paragon Aeducan himself. While I was there, Trian was lured into my path and murdered. I happened upon his body mere minutes before my father, led by Bhelen, happened upon us. I expect you can guess what happened next.”

“Bhelen framed you for Trian’s death,” the blond man guessed.

Durin nodded. “He knew, however, that I would never simply give up and let him seize power. I was told that he pushed a vote to have me exiled immediately, without even the opportunity to defend myself before the Assembly. In defiance of all tradition, the vote passed—I suspect he bribed a large portion of the deshyrs, and blackmailed many more. I was sentenced to die in the Deep Roads that very day.”

“Yet here you are,” murmured an older woman—fifties or sixties, if he remembered how humans aged. “You must have escaped.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Durin said. “I was sent into the Deep Roads, but I found my way out through a lost tunnel and reached the surface.”

“You must have fought through hundreds of darkspawn to get there,” observed the leader, though her tone gave nothing away of how likely she thought that was.

“You would be surprised,” said Durin truthfully. “I had no light, navigated only by Stone sense, and somehow managed to slip past them mostly unnoticed. I only fought them once I had reached the surface.”

“Impossible,” muttered the blond man. “The Deep Roads are said to be crawling with darkspawn.”

“They were when I fought them to reach Paragon Aeducan’s shield,” said Durin. “I don’t have any explanation for you, I’m afraid, save what I have said.” Privately, he suspected that either Mahal or the one the Elves called Ilúvatar had been with him, down in the dark. But he didn’t know.

“Understood,” said the leader. “Go on.”

Durin shrugged. “That’s most of the tale. I scavenged enough ores and supplies from the upper Deep Roads to trade for food when I next reached a settlement, then made my way back up here to find Orzammar’s gates already closed, and my father already dead.”

“And now you want our help to reclaim your throne,” said the woman in plate.

“I want your help to take Orzammar away from my dear brother,” Durin corrected. “While I do not think Lord Harrowmont will make an excellent King, he will at least do little harm. Feel free to plant him on the throne if you do not trust me. I can still help you, even if you do not champion me.”

“Why would you?” asked the blond man.

“In case you had somehow missed it,” Durin said sardonically, “there’s a Blight on. I expect the Legion of the Dead has been pressed back almost to Orzammar’s very gates by now. Anything I can do to protect my city, and all of Thedas, I will do.”

“Refreshing,” murmured the leader. Then she nodded to herself, as if coming to a decision. “I am Elissa Cousland,” she said, “one of the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, so far as any of us know. My companions are Warden Alistair, the mages Morrigan and Wynne, Zevran Aranai, the lay Sister Leliana, Sten of the Beresaad, and Shale.”

Shale? Durin wondered, looking at the golem. He was suddenly startled when he noticed the intelligence in its—their? Her?—gaze. He had always assumed golems were little more than advanced war-machines, but this creature was intelligent. How could that be? The dwarves had created golems. Even Mahal could not create independent life.

The leader—Elissa—cleared her throat. Durin blinked, shaking off his thoughts, and looked back at her. “Apologies. Prince Durin Aeducan,” he said. Durin the Deathless, Seventh of His Name. “At your service.”

There was a group of humans already arguing with the two dwarves at the gate when they entered the antechamber. Something about their king demanding Orzammar’s allegiance? He suspected these were either uneducated charlatans or patsies sent to die, and resolved to pay them no mind.

The two guards seemed to feel the same way, turning towards his group and to Elissa at its head. They recognized him, of course—he might have been able to slip by unrecognized among servant-caste or casteless, or even among some of the middle castes, but these were Warrior Caste.

“Prince D—,” one began, blinking rather rapidly, before the other elbowed him in the gut.

“Exile,” the second growled. “You were to have died honorably in the Deep Roads. Are you so cowardly as to have fled?”

Durin considered the two for a moment. Before he could speak, Elissa moved slightly so that she was between him and the guards. “Prince Durin is with me,” she said, holding out a scroll. “I am Warden Elissa Cousland, come to ask the Assembly to uphold Orzammar’s ancient treaty in the face of the Fifth Blight.”

Durin suddenly remembered where he had heard the name Cousland. It was a Fereldan noble house. It made sense for a minor member to have been sent to the Wardens… except that Elissa did not hold herself like a minor noble.

The leader of the other group of humans spluttered indignantly. “The Grey Wardens are traitors!” he exclaimed. “They led King Cailan to his death! They are sworn enemies of King Loghain.”

“This is the royal seal,” observed the second dwarven guard, who had taken the scroll from Elissa. He handed it back. “Only the Assembly, in the absence of a sitting King, has the authority to respond. You may pass, Warden.” He looked grimly at Durin. “If you choose to bring this exile with you, it is within your right as a Warden—but know that his presence will win you few friends.”

“I will keep it in mind,” said Elissa.

“You’re letting in a traitor and her pet exile!?” exclaimed the man. Durin had decided that, whatever else he was, he was clearly an idiot. “In the name of the King I demand you execute—”

“Please,” Elissa said, her voice quiet and edged with ice. “Please, finish that sentence. I am begging you.”

The man blinked at her. All the blood fled from his face. “I…” he swallowed, taking a step back, then seemed to rally. “You—you’ll hear of this! King Loghain will—”

“Will what?” Elissa asked. Durin looked up at her and saw that her hand had gone to the hilt of the greatsword on her back.

The man was literally shaking as he turned away. “Enough! Come, men! We will report this to the King!” With that, at a pace that was barely shy of sprinting, he and his entourage fled.

Elissa took a deep breath and pulled her hand off her sword. Her other fist unclenched as she turned back to the gatekeepers. “Apologies,” she said. “We surfacers are in the middle of our own succession crisis, as you may have heard—but as Grey Wardens, that is not our concern.”

The gatekeeper shrugged. “So long as you don’t bring further unrest into Orzammar, your surface issues are your own.” He looked Durin up and down. “See that you don’t bring further unrest.”

Durin just looked at him. “We will do our best,” he lied.

“The guards did make a good point, Warden,” Morrigan said in her low, silken voice as they descended into the mountain. “The dwarves are an exceedingly traditional people. Bringing an exile into their midst, mere months after his sentencing, is not the most diplomatic thing we could do.”

“It’ll win us enemies among Bhelen’s supporters,” Elissa said, eyes forward, “but friends among his enemies. I hope.”

“And I do intend to provide any aid I can in my own right,” said Durin, glancing at Morrigan. “I assure you, I’m not so accustomed to privilege that I can’t do good work.”

“What sort of work, I wonder?” Morrigan mused, looking him up and down with those liquid gold eyes. “You must be able to fight, if the accusation that you murdered your brother was believable, but we can all fight. Can you provide anything more specific? With your nobility stripped from you, what exactly can you offer?”

Durin met her eyes. “I know more about mining and smithing than anyone alive,” he said, and it was no exaggeration. He knew exactly what Orzammar was capable of, and it paled in comparison to the glories of Khazad-dûm at its height. “Give me a day in the Deep Roads and I will find you veins of gold, silver, adamantine and silverite to make all of you wealthier than any king on the surface. Give me a week down there, and another in a smithy, and I will have arms and armor for each of you, lighter than cloth robes and harder than dragonbone. Give me lyrium, and I can weave magic into each piece to make it a marvel the like of which has not been seen in centuries.”

“Bold claims indeed,” said Zevran. He sounded amused, but also intrigued. “I wonder if you can back them up.”

“Test me in any way you like,” Durin challenged. “I am confident in my skills.”

They reached the grand gate at the base of the steps. The party’s escort pushed the metal doors open with a grinding sound.

“—the man who should be King!” The shout greeted them as they stepped through the gate, followed by the unmistakable sound of a blade sinking through armor into flesh. Durin tensed, pushing past Elissa to see…

His eyes met Bhelen’s across the grand square. Bhelen went white as a sheet. Between them, Vartag Gavorn tugged his axe out of the chest of a fallen dwarrow in the colors of Clan Harrowmont. He turned back to Bhelen, then followed his gaze.

Durin found his fists were clenched hard enough that his nails were digging into his palms. He forced himself to relax as he met the murderer’s gaze. I can’t do anything for that poor Khuzd, he told himself, but by keeping silent now I may prevent a riot breaking out.

The killer scoffed, turning back to Bhelen, who seemed to shake himself out of whatever fit seeing Durin had put him in and turned to return to the Diamond Quarter as fast as he could without making it obvious that he was fleeing. The other group was more obvious, scattering away in the face of a man willing to kill in the very center of Orzammar.

Durin ignored the guard greeting Elissa and her crew. He walked past, approaching the fallen dwarrow, lying in a spreading pool of his own blood upon the flagstones. He knelt beside him, reached out, and gingerly closed his eyes. “Rest, brother,” he whispered. “Go now to the halls of your fathers, where Mahal holds dominion, until the world is renewed.”

He stood up and backed away as two members of the guard approached to remove the body, then turned and returned to Elissa and her group, thinking deeply.

Blood in the main square of the Orzammar market! This city was sick. His people were sick. Sick with pride, with tradition, with fear.

But most of all, he thought, remembering the dilapidation he had traversed as he passed through the Deep Roads, we are sick with loss. With grief.

And, as he came to that realization, the very first stirrings of an idea began to whisper in his brain. Not a plan—not yet—but a seed that might grow into one.

“Durin,” Elissa asked quietly when they finally managed to extricate themselves from their escort. “Is it safe for us to split up in this city?”

“That depends on where in the city you wish to go,” said Durin evenly, watching a merchant-caste woman peddle her wares—textiles of middling make, by the looks of them. “And how small the groups into which you will divide are to be.”

“Can you provide details?” Elissa asked patiently.

Durin’s lips pursed, eyes still on the merchant woman. He could practically hear the desperation in her voice, much as she tried to hide it, and he expected it was half of why she was having so little success. All the wealth in this city, and still half our people go hungry. And it will be more if this stalemate over the throne goes on much longer. The stores must be dwindling while the city remains barred to surface merchants.

He shook off his thoughts. “Yes,” he said. “Send no fewer than four at a time into Dust Town—that’s the undercity, where the casteless and near-casteless are driven when they are no longer accepted by polite society. Poverty breeds desperation, and desperation spurs foolishness. And send no one entirely alone anywhere in the city—there are too many taverns on the streets, and too much tension in the air.”

“Clearly,” muttered Alistair, “given we hadn’t been here five seconds before someone was killed right in front of us.”

Durin sighed. “We are a proud people,” he said softly. “Once upon a time, we even deserved that pride. We long to return to those days. It consumes our thoughts.” The merchant woman was hungry. He could see it in her face, her sunken eyes, the way she eyed the stalls of the nearby merchants selling nugmeat and mushrooms. He tore his eyes from her and faced Elissa.

“Every dwarrow in Orzammar is invested in our politics,” he said quietly. “It’s not a matter for only the nobles, although the nobility tends to make all the decisions. Even the casteless care who is king, though many would rather not. We all remember, down to our bones, the golden age that we have lost, when the empire stretched beneath the surface of Thedas from the Frostbacks to the Anderfels. It eats at us that we have been driven from being the greatest unified empire in the recorded history of the world to a single city and another distant colony in what many consider to be open rebellion.” He shook his head. “And now that city has no king, and no clear successor to take the throne. If that absence is not corrected soon, I fear the mountain shall explode with violence and blood.”

“And we will have no dwarven support against the Blight,” said Elissa grimly. “Is there any way we can… hurry the succession crisis along? Whether by backing one of the candidates or by forcing the Assembly to come to a decision?”

“You could back one of the candidates,” said Durin, “but it’s difficult to predict exactly how that would affect the landscape. You are a Warden, which grants you some measure of respect—your order has always been honored here, where the Darkspawn are never far. But you are also a surfacer, and there will be those who take offense to your interference in our internal affairs, regardless of how stone-headed those affairs are. I can’t advise you on what the best course of action is until I’ve had a few hours to get a feel for the mood in this city and listen to some of the gossip on the streets.”

“Fine,” said Elissa, nodding firmly. “I assume you won’t be safe entirely on your own. Who would give you the least trouble to keep with you?”

“Either of you Wardens,” said Durin. “As I said—your order is respected. More so than most surfacers.”

Elissa nodded, eyes darting between her people, considering. “All right. Alistair, you’re with Durin. Follow his lead, keep him safe, and learn what you can here in the Commons. Sten, you take Zevran, Leliana, and Shale down into Dust Town and see what you can find out about how the underclass feels about the election, and anything else that might be going on. Morrigan, Wynne, you two are with me—we’re going up to the Diamond Quarter to see what we can learn from the nobility.”

“Be careful in the Diamond Quarter,” said Durin. “Nobles are an easily-offended lot who keep axes too close to hand and have too few reasons not to use them.”

“I gathered that,” said Elissa darkly. “I was a Lady before I was a Warden—I know how to deal with pompous assholes, even dangerous ones.” She looked around the group. “Reconvene here in two hours,” she ordered. “I want to have a plan of action by the time we find somewhere to bed down for the night.”

Two hours later, Durin returned to the meeting place, an overhang just outside the central square, near one of the many long drops deeper into the earth. He and Alistair were the first to arrive.

“So, any advice on where we can spend the night?” Alistair asked, peering over the edge then looking away, shuddering slightly.

“Not much,” Durin said. “I’ve never had to, nor desired to, stay the night in a public inn here in Orzammar. I always had a home to return to, before this.”

“Oh, right,” said Alistair, wincing. “I am… sorry about all that, by the way. I saw the looks everyone was giving you.”

Durin shrugged. He’d had six lifetimes of respect; he could deal with scorn for a brief slice of his seventh. “It will be set right,” he said simply. “One way or another, this will all be set right.”

“You really think so?”

“I have faith.”

Sten arrived next, leading his team. He gave Durin a curt nod before turning to Alistair. “These dwarves are sick,” he said.

Alistair started. “What, is there a plague?”

“They are choking, drowning in their mad traditions,” said Sten darkly.

“Ohhh. Metaphorically sick.” Alistair relaxed. “That’s a relief.”

“He tried to convert a woman to the Qun,” Zevran reported, sounding amused. “She did not seem… especially receptive.”

“She will learn,” Sten said.

“Of course, my large friend, of course.”

There was a clanking of metal plates as Elissa stomped in their direction from the gates to the Diamond Quarter. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, glowering at Durin, “but I really do not like your caste system.”

“We agree, then,” said Sten.

“As do I,” said Durin frankly. “It was not always this bad, but it has been steadily growing worse these several centuries.”

“I’ve only been out of Highever, what, six months? And already I’m questioning the very existence of nobles as a concept.” She sighed. “Anyway, we talked to Harrowmont’s Second.”

Durin nodded. “Harrowmont is a good man,” he said. “He might even be a good King. Possibly.”

“Well, he sure knows how to drive a bargain,” said Elissa with a grimace. “He wants us to fight for him in the Proving in just a couple of hours.”

“Against Bhelen, I assume?” Durin asked.

“Well, his champion,” said Elissa. “I’m gathering that’s as close as it gets down here.” She snorted. “You speak through others, you fight through others, next you’ll tell me your deshyrs even vote through others.”

“It is, in fact, possible to send a proxy to the Assembly to vote in one’s stead,” Durin told her.

“Maker damn it.” Elissa sighed. “I couldn’t find any way to break the Assembly stalemate without backing Harrowmont or Bhelen, and I already don’t like Bhelen—and not just because of what you told us. So we’re going to head down to the Proving arena, beat the sh*t out of a few dwarves, and see what doors that opens.”

“Understood,” said Alistair, rolling his shoulders. “Where’s this Proving?”

“I can guide you,” said Durin. “Follow me.”

Elissa, Alistair, Zevran, and Wynne emerged from the Proving bloodied but victorious. “Well,” Alistair said with false cheer as they rejoined the rest. “That was… fun. I like to make a habit of killing people whenever I visit a new city.”

“We do seem to be making something of a tradition, don’t we?” Wynne murmured ruefully, looking down at her stained robes. “Are there any reputable launderers in Orzammar?”

“There are,” said Durin.

“That can wait,” growled Elissa, storming past them towards the exit. “I just killed eight people and I still don’t have the dwarves’ support. Forender said he’d meet us at the tavern down the road and I am not waiting.”

They hurried after her, Durin giving quick directions to Wynne to the nearest launderer’s he knew of. Their troupe filed into Tapsters, into a private room.

It was not Dulin Forender who greeted them.

“Warden,” said Harrowmont, turning from the heating magma fountain. His eyes caught on Durin, and softened. “Lord Aeducan.”

“Lord Harrowmont,” Durin responded with a nod. “It has been too long.”

“Nearly five months,” agreed Harrowmont. “I am sorry you could not be here when your father passed. For, as you might guess, multiple reasons.”

“As am I,” agreed Durin.

“You can catch up later,” said Elissa flatly. “Lord Harrowmont, your people have a treaty with the Grey Wardens, and I am tired of having to jump through hoops to get your people to honor it.”

Harrowmont sighed. “I wish I could help you at once—truly, I do,” he said. “But it is more complicated than that. In the absence of a King, it is the Assembly which decides where the army of Orzammar goes, and right now the Assembly is paralyzed with arguing over the succession.”

“Which I just helped you with,” said Elissa flatly.

“Not enough, I’m afraid,” said Harrowmont. “You have tipped the balance—you may even have secured my victory—but unless more is done, the election will drag on for months more.”

Elissa made a frustrated sound before answering. “Fine. How can we get you on the throne more quickly?”

Harrowmont clasped his hands behind the small of his back. “A Carta leader in Dust Town named Jarvia has been terrorizing the citizens of Orzammar for years,” he said. “If you help me remove her, it will show the Assembly that I can protect and lead this city where Bhelen cannot.”

“Fine,” growled Elissa. “I’ll take out this Carta for you, and you get an army for me.”

Harrowmont nodded. “You have my word.” He glanced at Durin. “Lord Aeducan—unless you intend to aid in this assault, I would be honored if you stayed. We have much to discuss.”

Durin glanced at Elissa. “Do you wish my aid?”

Elissa shook her head sharply. “No need,” she said, turning to her team. “Alistair, Leliana, Morrigan—you three are with me. The rest of you, find us somewhere to stay.”

The Wardens and their entourage filed out of the room. Once they were gone, Harrowmont sighed, slumping slightly. “A forceful woman, that one,” he said.

Chapter 3: On Carven Throne

Notes:

Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.

Chapter Text

As always with such plans, things went wrong almost immediately.

Mere minutes after word arrived of the Wardens’ success in Dust Town, a runner had come with another report. “My Lord Harrowmont!” he said with a salute upon the front steps of the estate. “News from the Assembly!”

“We have already heard that the Carta mastermind Jarvia has been eliminated,” said Harrowmont.

The runner, a red-bearded dwarf with dark eyes and a thunderous scowl, shook his head. “Not that, my Lord,” he said. “Bhelen heard the news as well—he is pushing for an expedited vote.”

Harrowmont let out a soft breath that might have been a murmured oath. “I see,” he said.

“Momentum has turned away from my brother,” said Durin from his position leaning against the wall by the manor door. “He knows that it is only a matter of time before, with the support of the Wardens, his chances of election dwindle to nothing. But for right now, the outcome of the election is not yet certain, and he will take the possibility of victory over the certainty of defeat.”

“Yes,” said Harrowmont grimly. “And in his desperation, he will sell any integrity the throne has in order to secure it for himself.” He turned to Durin. “Even the expedited election will give you more than a week if I stall to the best of my ability,” he said. “Is this long enough for you to—” he paused, his eyes flickering to the runner, and to the open street beside them. “—for you to complete the task you proposed?”

“It is,” said Durin firmly. He had mithril enough for a crown already mined, and there were smelters and anvils aplenty to be found in the old thaigs. “More than enough—I can complete that task in a matter of hours. I have further ideas. We should speak with the Wardens when they return.”

“You need not wait long, my diminutive friend,” said Zevran, suddenly right beside Durin. He spun to see the elf pointing down the road—and, indeed, there were Elissa and her team, stalking up the Diamond Quarter road with blood-spattered armor. Even under her full visor, Durin could practically see Elissa’s stormy expression.

“Thank you for the news. You may go,” Harrowmont told the runner, who nodded and dashed off. Then he turned to the approaching Grey Wardens. “I have already heard of your success,” he said. “Unfortunately, so has Prince Bhelen. Come inside, there is much to discuss.”

Elissa stopped short. At the bottom of the steps, her eyes were about a head below Harrowmont’s. “This is the part where you give me another hoop to jump through, isn’t it?” she asked. Though he couldn’t see her face, Durin could practically hear the creaking of her gritted teeth.

“We have multiple options before us,” said Durin. “Please, Lady Cousland, come inside. The situation is complex.”

They reconvened in Harrowmont’s office, Elissa ripping her helm off and giving both Durin and Harrowmont a baleful glare. “I’m starting to resent being led around by the nose,” she said.

“I agree,” said Durin simply. “But I ask only that you believe I have been nothing but forthright with you, and that I will continue to be so. You know I have been exiled from this city for weeks. You know the city has been in stalemate over the election for a month. I sincerely believe that the best way to accelerate it, and to make the armies of Orzammar available to you against the Blight, was always to back one of the candidates. Indeed, we have been proven right.”

“Bhelen has called for an expedited vote,” said Harrowmont. “We have, at most, a little more than a week before a new King is crowned. Unfortunately, I do not believe the election is yet decided. I think it is more likely that I will win than Bhelen, but it is far from certain.”

“And now that you have backed Lord Harrowmont,” Durin said, “I doubt my brother will be willing to help you at all, if he is crowned. So you have a choice: you can simply wait for the election to proceed, or you can attempt to further secure support for Lord Harrowmont and maximize his—and your—chances.”

“And what about you?” asked Elissa, her eyes narrowing at him. “Have you given up on your own ambitions?”

“That is a third option,” said Durin, “and one that need not be exclusive with the second.” He glanced at Harrowmont, then back at Elissa. “This is not the first time the Assembly has been stymied in choosing a new King,” he said. “In the past, one of the most reliable ways to end such a stalemate was for a living Paragon to cast their support for one candidate or another.”

“Oh, right, a living Dwarf god,” said Alistair, rolling his eyes. “And those are just laying about, I’m sure.”

“There is one who may yet be among the living,” said Durin. “The Paragon Branka led her entire house into the Deep Roads some two years ago in search of the lost Anvil of the Void. She never returned.”

“Then she is dead,” said Morrigan flatly. “Or worse. How, exactly, does this help us?”

“It gives us an opportunity,” said Durin, smiling at her. “Consider: we go into the Deep Roads in search of the Paragon Branka. We return with a crown made with a Paragon’s craftsmanship and word that the Paragon Branka has backed Lord Harrowmont—”

“Or Prince Durin,” said Harrowmont quickly.

“—Or myself,” Durin acknowledged with a nod, “for the throne of Orzammar. Who in the Assembly could contend that we did not find Paragon Branka in those circ*mstances?”

“But where would we find a Paragon-made crown?” Alistair asked. “Any in Orzammar will be accounted for.”

“I can make one,” said Durin.

“I am not one to doubt you, my friend,” said Harrowmont, looking closely at him. “But are you sure?”

Durin just nodded. “Much has changed since I left this city, Lord Harrowmont,” he said. “I swear to you, my work will be unmistakable as that of a Paragon.”

“If we back Harrowmont with that, and you’re wrong, we’ll ruin his chances,” said Elissa. She nodded to herself. “So we’ll back you with the crown. Worst-case, then, we haven’t made anything worse, and if Lord Harrowmont is crowned he can still help us with the Blight.” She fixed the old noble with a hard look. “Which you will do, yes?”

Harrowmont nodded. “You have my word on the Stone.”

Elissa nodded. “Fine. It’s a plan. We’ll spend tonight in the city, then head into the Deep Roads in the morning.”

“That will give me time to give you a sample of my work,” Durin decided. “I did promise you arms and armor, after all. Lord Harrowmont—may I use your house’s smithy?”

“Of course, my friend.”

Harrowmont’s jaw dropped when they reconvened in his study the next morning. His eyes fixed on the sword in Durin’s hand, and there they remained. “Where…” he trailed off.

Durin gave him a nod and handed the blade of engraved mithril, hilt-first, to Elissa. “Lady Cousland,” he said. “A sword fit for a Warden-Commander. Its name is fiendsblood.”

He kept its inner-name in Khuzdul, Rokhîzdamum, to himself. He had written the name in runes upon the blade, but the runes were Tengwar and the name inscribed was the Sindarin translation, Iârroeg. Even if none of the modern dwarves of Orzammar remembered Khuzdul—and oh, how that stung, to think that his people had fallen so far as to forget the language Mahal had given them—he would still not be the one to share it with an outsider. There were circ*mstances where Men and Elves had been taught parts of Khuzdul, but this was not one of them.

Elissa took it with a solemnity quite at odds with her usual grim lack of decorum. “I am honored,” she said, and he could see she meant it by the way her gaze traveled up and down the blade. Slowly, then faster, she swung it through the air, testing the weight. “It’s magnificent.”

“Thank you,” said Durin. He had never before been the best smith among his people, but neither had he ever been a poor one. It seemed that, in these latter days, even the old smithcraft was decayed, like leaves of gold moldering upon the forest floor. “I do ask that, if possible, you keep the blade hidden in the city—at least until we return from our expedition. The secret of mithril will be useful eventually.”

“I can do that,” Elissa agreed, still studying the sword.

“Where in the Stone did you learn to forge like that?” Harrowmont asked hoarsely. “I had no idea you could work an anvil at all...”

“It is a long story, old friend,” said Durin. “And a difficult one to believe. Once all this is settled, I will do what I can to find ways to verify some of it, and then I will tell you.”

Harrowmont nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the sword. After a moment, he seemed to shake himself, and forced his eyes onto Elissa’s face. “There is a small complication to the plan,” he said.

Elissa’s eyes narrowed. “How small?”

“Exceedingly,” Harrowmont reassured her. “Branka took her entire house to the Deep Roads, with exactly one exception. Her husband, Oghren, remained behind. If you were to enter the Deep Roads in search of Paragon Branka without at least consulting him, it would be highly suspicious.”

Elissa’s face darkened still further. “Her husband is still here? That seems like something that would have borne mentioning yesterday.”

“Oghren is not exactly what one might picture when envisioning the husband of a Living Paragon,” explained Durin, remembering the ruddy-faced dwarrow with hair like flame, hiccupping his way down the street after Gorim removed him from the palace once again. “He is widely considered a disgrace—a warrior barred from bearing arms in the city, a drunkard, and a nuisance.” His lips twisted. “Then again, until my exile I was also scorned by the people of this city, albeit for entirely different reasons. Lord Harrowmont is correct—it would not be believable to go into the Deep Roads in search of Paragon Branka without at least consulting with Oghren, especially as he has been trying to organize a search party for her these past two years.”

Elissa nodded slowly. “All right. We’ll talk to him, then head into the Deep Roads. Do either of you know where we can find him?”

“Likely at Tapster’s,” said Durin. “Come, I will lead you—I could use a drink in any case. Forging is thirsty work!”

Durin pointed Elissa and her party—today, that was Alistair, Zevran, and Wynne—in the direction of the slumped dwarf near the back of the tavern before making his way to the bar.

“A round for the table,” he ordered, pointing at the booth where the Wardens were now joining the drunken Dwarf.

The bartender looked shifty. Durin sighed. “You need not answer,” he said, passing over a few coins. “Simply take my payment and give me the drinks. And—yes, one for Oghren, too.”

The bartender hesitated for a moment more before nodding and snatching the silver from the bar. A minute later he returned with six ales. Durin took these, three to a hand, and brought them over to the others.

“It’s not like—“ Oghren was muttering when the ale appeared before him. “Hm?” he cut off, blinking at the drink. Then, with the slow, ponderous movement of the profoundly soused, his eyes followed Durin’s arm up to Durin’s face. “Don’t I… know you?” he asked.

“Durin Aeducan,” said Durin with a nod. “Your fellow disgrace.”

“Right. The skysick noble who killed the heir,” said Oghren, words slurred and indistinct.

“If you believe the rumors,” said Durin dryly, taking a swig of his own drink and trying not to wince at the reminder. He might not have much liked Trian, but he had loved him. And he had loved Bhelen, too.

“Mm. Thanks,” said Oghren, taking a fresh drink from his mug. “Now…” He looked up at Elissa with bleary eyes. “What was it you wanted to talk about?”

“Your wife,” said Elissa flatly, patience clearly fraying. “We’re going to the Deep Roads to try and find her.”

“What!?” Oghren tried to stand but only managed to fall over onto Zevran, who smirked down at him in amusem*nt. “You’re going to look for Branka?”

“Yes,” said Elissa, holding his gaze evenly. “And we need to know anything you can tell us about where she might have gone.”

“Sod that, I’m coming with you!”

Elissa’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t think so.”

“Damn it, woman!” Oghren shouted. “I’ve been trying to get people to go after Branka for two—uhh—two years! I’m not letting this chance slip away!”

“I’m not bringing a drunkard down into the Deep Roads to die,” said Elissa coldly.

“I’m not—” Oghren, in a truly shocking moment of clarity, hesitated. “—Okay, so I am a drunkard, but I’m also Warrior Caste! I used to be a champion in the Proving! I was one of the best!”

“You are also out of practice,” said Zevran, running his finger along the edge of his tankard. “Or so we have heard.”

Oghren glowered up at him. “Hand me a weapon and you’ll see how out of practice I am.” He shook his head. “Anyway—I’m coming with you. I’m coming with you or I’m not telling you anything.”

“We do have ways of making you talk,” Zevran said smoothly, as if discussing nothing more consequential than the latest fashion.

“We’re not torturing the poor bastard,” said Alistair. Then he shot Elissa a suddenly apprehensive look. “We, uh, aren’t, are we?”

Elissa hesitated, looking at Oghren. Then she sighed. “No,” she said. “No, we aren’t.” She grimaced, looking around the tavern. Her frown deepened when she saw that they had attracted something of an audience. But her eyes were calculating as she shot Durin a look. “Remind me how long your task will take?” she asked.

“Hours,” said Durin. “Four, perhaps five.”

“Fine, then,” said Elissa, standing. “Wynne, do you think you can, I don’t know—”

“Get him onto his own two feet?” Wynne asked dryly. “I should be able to.” She waved a hand lazily in Oghren’s direction. Durin watched interestedly as a pale blue mist gusted from her, spinning about the drunk’s head like a minute, momentary hurricane.

Ogrhen’s eyes cleared. He blinked once, then hopped to his feet. “Whew!” he whistled. “That’s a rush. Thanks kindly. Now—let’s get down to the Deep Roads! I’m coming, Branka!”

Elissa fell into step beside Durin as they followed Oghren out of the tavern. “What I’m thinking is this,” she said, voice low and easily covered by the suddenly-sober Oghren as he chatted with Alistair and Wynne. “We spend a few days humoring Oghren. When it becomes clear that Paragon Branka is dead, we either find a way to convince him to work with us, or we split upon the pretext of looking for—I don’t know, any survivors, or this Anvil of the Void, or whatever. You lead one group to find a working smithy so you can make yourself a crown, while the other group keeps Oghren busy. When we all get back here, we have a crown.”

“How will we convince Oghren to keep his silence?” Durin asked quietly.

“I have a few ideas,” said Elissa. “Option one is simple—tell him the truth, and see if we can convince him. If that fails, we bribe him with alcohol. If even that fails, we still keep him supplied with alcohol and do what we can to make sure he stays drunk enough to not be credible.”

“Devious,” murmured Durin. He didn’t like deceiving his people, or manipulating Oghren. He didn’t like any of this. But he was doing all he could to avoid harming anyone, and it was his responsibility to reclaim his throne. The dwarves needed him.

He tried not to think about the fact that Bhelen had surely told himself much the same thing.

Only once they were in the Deep Roads did Oghren open up about Paragon Branka’s plans. “The last place she could verify the Anvil of the Void had been was Ortan Thaig,” he said. “So that’s where she was going first. It’s about a day’s travel from here if I remember her old maps.”

“It is,” confirmed Durin, who had studied many of those same maps for years as he meditated upon all his people had lost. Even before he remembered his own nature, the long defeat of the Dwarves had been a constant ache on the edge of his mind. He was sure nearly everyone in Orzammar held the same ache, the same bruise upon their collective consciousness.

“We need to be back here within a week,” said Elissa. “That gives us five days to search, once we’re down there.”

Oghren blinked up at her. “Only a week? Why the rush?”

She glowered at him. “The reason we’re here looking for Branka is because we need a Paragon’s support to decide the election in your city,” she said. “That election is going to be held, Paragon or no Paragon, in as little as a week. We need to be back here for it.”

Oghren grimaced. “Fine. At least it’s something.”

They marched down long corridors of cracked masonry. Every so often, Alistair or Elissa would jerk their head in one direction or another, as if hearing something inaudible to the rest of them.

“Darkspawn,” Elissa explained softly when Durin gave her a curious look.

“Ah.” Durin had heard of the fabled sixth sense of the Grey Wardens, but had never imagined it would be so literal.

They did not go unmolested as they descended into the mountain, not like Durin had when he first emerged into the valley and found Mirrormere awaiting him. But they found nothing more dangerous than the odd roving band of Darkspawn in their path—partly because Elissa and Alistair seemed adept at avoiding them.

This remained true as they passed the ancient Caridin’s Cross (“One of the largest crossroads in the old empire,” as Oghren put it).

But soon they passed Caridin’s Cross and reached Ortan Thaig. Oghren grinned as they rounded a bend and saw the great support pillars before them. Pillars which Durin now realized had been modeled after those of Dwarrowdelf in khâzad-dum .

“Ortan Thaig,” said Oghren, a tone of genuine awe in his voice. “Never thought I’d see this place in the flesh.”

Durin nodded mutely, his eyes following the high arches, the curves of the ancient stonework. He recognized in Ortan Thaig some of the same echoes of the ancient Dwarves that he saw in Orzammar. Like in Orzammar, it was jumbled, but here it was less so. Orzammar was a commingled hodgepodge of the architectures and artisanry of all seven of the old clans, but here in Ortan Thaig there were stronger echoes of the Blacklocks and Stonefoots than of the other clans. Those Dwarves of southern Rhûn must have settled here after whatever had happened to the world to change it from the Middle-Earth Durin remembered to what it was now.

The party delved into the ancient thaig. There were more Darkspawn here, and not all of them were avoidable—they fought more than one Ogre as they searched, following Oghren as he led them along the walls.

“She always chipped away at the walls like this,” said Oghren, running his fingers against a blemish on the ancient stonework. “Branka, I mean. Whenever she was in a new tunnel. She liked to check the rock’s composition.”

And in so doing, destroy the art and history into which that rock had been made, Durin thought, but he kept his disdain to himself. He did not need to like Branka, even in the unlikely event that she was alive. He was Durin the Deathless, and she was of his people. That was enough.

But their search bore fruit in a matter of mere hours. A journal, its paper pages dusty and fading with exposure to the warm underground air, lay in plain view upon a pedestal. It had clearly been placed there with the intent that it be found.

The words were written in the common tongue. They all clustered to read them. The journal had been left, it seemed by Branka—and it bore clear instructions as to where she had gone next.

“She was thinking about me!” Oghren cheered as he finished. “I knew she still cared! Old softie…” Durin did not share his perspective. Branka wrote like a woman obsessed. She had disregarded the advice of her house, her family—and dragged them with her in pursuit of the Anvil.

“The Dead Trenches?” Elissa asked, looking at Alistair.

The other Warden was pale. “One of the deepest parts of the Deep Roads,” he said, meeting her eyes. “It’s the pit you saw. In your dream.”

Elissa gritted her teeth. “That’s what I was afraid you’d say.”

“Dream?” Durin asked.

Elissa pursed her lips, but Alistair answered readily. “Wardens have visions during a Blight,” he said. “It’s how we knew this was one, and not just a minor incursion of the Darkspawn.”

“I saw the Archdemon in those trenches,” said Elissa, voice low. “If we’re still going down there, we need to be very careful.”

“What do you mean, if ?” Oghren demanded hotly. “I’m not giving—”

“Quiet,” Elissa ordered sharply. “If it was just your life you’d be throwing away, then it would be entirely your decision. It’s not, so it isn’t. We take a vote. All in favor of continuing?”

The vote passed by a narrow margin. Durin, Oghren, Shale, and Elissa herself cast votes in favor of carrying on. When he saw that Elissa was in support, Alistair sighed and cast his own as well, bringing them to a narrow majority.

They camped in Ortan Thaig that night. Once Oghren had drifted off into a loudly-snoring slumber, Durin rose and joined Elissa where she was keeping first watch.

She glanced at him, eyes glittering in the light of the small campfire. “Can’t sleep?” she asked.

“I will,” said Durin. “Eventually. But first, I wanted to ask why you wanted to continue.”

Elissa grimaced. “My motives are a bit more selfish than I’d like,” she said. “I want to see the Trenches with my own eyes. I want to prove to myself that the dreams I’ve been having really are visions—that I’m not just losing my mind. Searching for Branka is just a convenient excuse.” She frowned at him. “What about you? I thought you’d have been satisfied with an excuse to fall back and revert to plan B.”

Durin considered this. He remembered the way Oghren’s face had brightened as he read his wife’s words, how tenderly he’d noted her passage. “I want to give Oghren closure,” he said quietly. “My people have lost so much, Lady Cousland. If I can give even one of us a chance to say goodbye, I will take it. If we can find Branka, even dead, I will consider it a success.”

She nodded slowly. “You’ve mentioned that twice now,” she said quietly. “The loss your people feel.”

Durin nodded. “It is everywhere,” he said. “If you know where to look for it. We are a nation of exiles, a people clinging to the ashes of our past. It burns in us, a flame in constant search of further kindling. Almost every foolish or short-sighted decision my people have made these past thousand years, including the Paragon Branka’s attempts to recover the Anvil of the Void, have been made in an attempt to alleviate that pain, to salve that burn.”

“What is the Anvil of the Void, anyway?” asked Elissa. “Why was Branka willing to throw away everything for it?”

“According to legend,” said Durin, “the Anvil of the Void was the masterwork of the Paragon Caridin, and the reason for which he was elevated. According to the Memories, it was the tool whereby my ancestors created Golems, like Shale.”

Elissa raised her eyebrows. “I suppose I can see why she’d want it, then,” she said. “With an army of Golems, Orzammar could push back the Darkspawn. Maybe even retake some of the lost thaigs.”

“Precisely,” said Durin.

“But how was it ever lost in the first place?” Elissa asked. “Was it a Blight? I suppose the army that fought us at Ostagar could have overwhelmed even an army of Shales.”

“I could not say,” said Durin. “The Dead Trenches have not even been entirely lost to us for very long. The fortress of Bownammar remained a stronghold, the headquarters of the Legion of the Dead, until less than two decades ago. But somehow, despite this, the Anvil has been lost since the days of the First Blight. I worry that something more sinister is at work.”

“Sinister?” Elissa asked. “How so?”

Durin did not answer for a moment. “Branka was already a Paragon,” he said. “And there are thousands of causes to which a driven, powerful woman might turn her attention. That she became so obsessed with the Anvil specifically… it may well be mere coincidence, but she seemed from her journal to be rather devoted to this particular goal, to the exclusion of all else. It feels unnatural to me. And anything that derives its name from the Void is not likely to be something anyone should venerate.”

“I did wonder…” said Elissa softly. “In Chantry tradition, the Void is the nothingness outside of the Maker’s sight and grace. It seemed odd to me that an artifact of the dwarves would be named for it—especially one your people seemed to want back .”

“The Void appears in many traditions,” said Durin darkly. “Indeed—it is only we dwarves who do not regard it with dread. The Elvhen believe it to be the home of their dark gods. The Chantry considers it to be the place the Maker’s light does not touch. I do not know what it meant to the Paragon Caridin, nor can I say what it has to do with his anvil, but it bodes ill.”

Durin did not add what little he knew about the Void from his lifetimes of memory. He remembered the fate of Morgoth, cast into the blackness beyond the Doors of Night. He remembered the hungering monstrosity Ungoliant, whom it was said had crawled out from the abyss beyond starlight.

He could not verify that these things were one and the same with the Void for which the Anvil was named. But he suspected.

They reached the Dead Trenches the next day.

Elissa’s face fell as she saw a sheer drop before them, traversable only by a stone bridge to their left. Alistair looked grim too. They approached, and looking over the edge, Durin saw…

His eyes went wide. His stomach dropped to his toes.

There were tens of thousands of flickering torches there, bundled like wheat in bushels at the bottom of the canyon. They were too distant for Durin to see what exactly was carrying them, but he knew what he would see if he drew nearer.

This was a Blight.

There was a roar like an earthquake, shaking the stone beneath their feet. “Hide,” hissed Elissa, her voice a shrill, terrified whisper.

Durin had just long enough to obey before a great figure swooped down from above them. Its half-rotted wings spread almost the width of the chasm. Its whiplike tail was tipped with vicious spikes. Its head moved erratically atop its long neck, twitching as though suffering a fit.

The Archdemon landed upon the bridge not far from them. It reared its head back and roared. Flame billowed forth from its maw—not red and orange, like Durin had expected, but an unearthly violet. Then it dipped its head down, looking at the army below, before spreading its wings and taking off once again.

The party remained perfectly still for a time, huddled in the cover of rocks and rubble overlooking the chasm.

“Ancestor’s tit*,” whispered Oghren. “Was that…”

“The Archdemon,” said Elissa shakily. Durin noticed that her gauntleted hand was clutching Alistair’s own. “That’s what we’re trying to kill.” She let out a slightly manic chuckle. “Maker. Seems insane, doesn’t it?”

“Only a Warden can kill an Archdemon,” said Alistair quietly. “We have to do this, Elissa.”

Elissa swallowed. “I know,” she said. She took a deep breath and, with visible effort, stood up. She released Alistair’s hand and turned back to the rest of the group. “We have work to do,” she said. “Come on.”

There was still, to Durin’s surprise, a small contingent of the Legion of the Dead on a ranging expedition to the outer edges of the Bownammar thaig. They aided these in battle against a force of Darkspawn—larger than any they had yet faced—and pressed onward through the monsters’ erratic patrols, weaving between the corridors of Bownammar and the surrounding caverns.

More than an hour passed in this way, creeping behind the lines of darkspawn, far beyond the patrols of the Legion, into places untouched since the flight from Bownammar by any living dwarf. Or so they seemed—until during a lull in the fighting Durin heard a voice coming from ahead—soft, but echoing strangely in the tunnels.

“First day, they come and catch everyone…”

“Is that…” murmured Oghren, stopping short.

“What?” Durin asked in a whisper.

“I think that’s Hespith,” mumbled Oghren, a complicated expression on his face. “My cousin. Branka’s… lover.”

Durin shot him a look, but Oghren studiously avoided everyone’s gazes.

Elissa had long since put her helmet on, so Durin couldn’t see her face when she ordered, “Keep moving.”

“Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat…” Hespith’s voice came again as they carried on down the tunnel. Then again, “Fifth day, they return and it’s another girl’s turn… Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams… Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew…”

The verses continued, growing stranger and more horrible as they passed another group of Darkspawn. Durin was by nature a curious dwarrow, but he had no desire at all to learn what horror the voice was recounting. He was also dreadfully certain that, by the end of the day, he would know.

He was right.

“Broodmother…”

When at long last they passed the monstrosity that had become of the dwarrowdam Branka had abandoned, when Hespith had crept away into the darkness to continue her long, slow transformation into a Ghoul, Elissa stood perfectly still for five seconds, watching the cave the Blighted dwarrowdam had passed into.

Then she tore off her helm and vomited.

Alistair took his helm off too, and though he did not empty his stomach, his slightly green face and pinched expression suggested it was a near thing. “Morrigan,” he said. “Could you…” he gestured vaguely at the ruined, squamous corpse before them.

Without a word, without even her customary smirk, Morrigan blasted the Broodmother’s body with fire. The smell of burning, sizzling flesh was still somehow an improvement.

Durin had seen many terrible things in his six previous lifetimes, but the most horrible sight he could remember was of an Elf, mutilated upon a rack, halfway through its transformation into an Orc. This was distressingly similar. Just as the old patterns of the Dwarves were echoed in strange ways in their newer thaigs, so the patterns of the Black Foe and the Enemy were echoed in their successors.

Elissa stood. With mechanical motions she pulled her waterskin from the satchel at her belt, uncapped it, and poured a measure of water into her mouth. She swirled it once, then spat it out. Then, without looking even for an instant at the burning corpse, she turned and continued down the tunnel. “Come on,” she said, and though her voice shook, it was not with horror, fear, or disgust. It was with hate. “Let’s find Paragon Branka.”

It was not long before they did—although not before she was able to collapse the tunnel behind them.

“Let me be blunt with you,” were the first words out of Paragon Branka’s mouth, as she stepped out onto a ledge above them, looking down at them with a hint of a sneer on her lips. “After all this time, my tolerance for social graces is fairly—”

“Leliana,” Elissa ordered, staring up at the dwarrowdam. “Shoot her.”

Leliana hesitated.

“Whoa, whoa, wait!” Oghren said sharply. “That’s my wife you’re talking about—”

“I don’t care,” said Elissa flatly. “Shoot her.”

“Shoot me and you’re trapped here,” said Branka, idly examining one of her gauntlets. “You can try to find your way through the gauntlet, but you’ll have to start from scratch without the benefit of what I’ve already pieced together. You’ll never make it through.”

There was silence for a moment. Durin looked up at the Paragon. His eyes were drawn to her own, lit as they were with a strange light, entirely unlike the glazed fever of Hespith’s.

“What gauntlet?” he asked.

Branka looked his way. There was an intelligence still there in her gaze, but it was subordinated entirely to her madness. “The Anvil of the Void,” she said, and she spoke its name like a supplicant pronouncing the name of her God, “is here. Hidden behind a gauntlet of traps set by Caridin himself. The only way through is trial and error, and error is often fatal. I’ve been working on it for nearly two years. I’m nearly through now. You might be the last group I need to test the final few traps.”

“And why should we help you?” asked Elissa with all the warmth of a glacier.

“Because the tunnel is collapsed behind you,” said Branka, “and so the only way out is through.”

Elissa looked at Durin. “You have a habit of pulling out the impossible,” she said, jerking her head at the cave-in. “Think you can get us through that?”

“Not before our supplies run out,” said Durin grimly.

Elissa nodded and turned back to Branka. “Fine,” she said. “Lead the way, O Paragon.”

Branka smiled.

There were more than mere traps in their path. As they carved their way through a pack of Darkspawn, Durin heard Branka muttering to herself in the cover of her ledges above the main path.

“They were all mine… pledged to be my house, and they didn’t want to…”

He tried to put it out of his mind as he fought, as he followed Elissa deeper.

The first of Caridin’s so-called ‘traps’ barely deserved the name. A room filled with toxic fumes, with entirely visible valves around the edges of it.

There were also Golems, visible from the entrance. They were inactive, but Durin was sure they would not remain so.

“Split up,” Elissa ordered. “Go for the valves. I’ll take the far left.”

They disabled the trap before anyone needed to take a breath, then dispatched the Golems with some difficulty. After that was a corridor lined with golems.

“Look out,” Leliana said quietly. “Tripwires. I can disable them.”

So they passed that room without incident.

The third and final ‘trap’ was the most dangerous—a strange, stationary Golem defended by illusory spirits of dwarrows. But Elissa quickly placed her hands on one of the anvils surrounding the four-faced stone monster, and doing so launched a burst of magic at it. Durin followed her lead, as did the others, hovering around the anvils and peppering the Golem with magic until it fell.

“This is a great deal of magic for a dwarven ruin,” Morrigan said, leaning against her staff once the battle was done. “I was under the impression that your kind were incapable of spellcasting.”

“We are incapable of throwing spells as you do,” Durin agreed, “but there are other forms of magic.”

They followed Elissa through a door and out into a vast chamber. Golems of stone and crystal lined the walls. On the opposite end of the room was a lavafall—and before it…

There was a golem of iron standing there, but Durin’s eyes were drawn to the thing behind it. It was an anvil of a strange metal like pale iron, shot through with veins of crystalline lightning. Even at this distance, Durin could feel its presence against his skin like the light of a luminescent fungus, or the breath of some awful monstrosity.

Durin had stood in the presence of Morgoth once during his first life. At the time, he had thought that no other presence could be a more pure and concentrated evil than that of the Black Foe of the World.

The Anvil proved him a fool.

It was not so powerful as Morgoth, not by many leagues. But it was pure in a way he had not been. It had a clarity he had lacked. Morgoth had been a Valar, one of Mahal’s kin, albeit corrupted and twisted. This thing was opposite to the nature of Mahal, to the Song of Him that the Elves called Ilúvatar.

Mahal had once told Durin that Morgoth had brought Discord into the Song. When Durin had asked, Mahal had said in a soft voice that Discord was the unholy offspring of Song and that which was the absence of Song.

The Anvil of the Void was that absence. It was not a thing of Discord, but of Silence.

“My name,” said the iron Golem in a voice that echoed like a ringing bell, “is Caridin. Once, longer ago than I care to think, I was a Paragon to the dwarves of Orzammar. If you seek the Anvil, then you must care about my story, or be doomed to relive it.” The ancient Golem-Paragon spoke with a slow, rhythmic cadence, as though the words were long-rehearsed and seldom put to use.

“I came down here expecting to find no Paragons, and instead I find two,” said Elissa, with a dry lilt to her voice. “I hope you’re more likable than the last one.”

Suddenly, everything fit together in Durin’s mind. “No smith can create life,” he said, finding his throat unexpectedly dry. “You can only relocate it.”

“You understand,” said Caridin gravely. “I did not realize the magnitude of my failure until I felt the hammer myself. At first I took only volunteers—brave souls giving everything in defense of their people. But the King grew greedy, and began to condemn others—prisoners, casteless, political rivals—to the Anvil. Until, eventually, even I fell upon it.”

“Yet you remained free,” said Durin. He glanced at the perfectly still golems along the room’s walls. “Unlike these poor creatures.”

“My assistants knew enough to put me upon the anvil, but not enough to fashion a control rod,” said Caridin. “I remained free. And I used that freedom to cast King Valtor out of my workshop, and seal it away.”

Durin had half-expected that the very nature of the Anvil would corrupt Caridin, so exposed to it was he. But it seemed that this was a true Paragon—despite being sequestered with it for millennia, he had resisted what had taken less than five years to turn Branka into a gibbering madwoman.

“Good. Excellent.” Elissa brought her hands together with a clatter of gauntlets. “So there’s no way we’re letting Branka get her mitts on this thing, right? We agree on this?”

“I implore you,” said Caridin. “Help me destroy the Anvil! No golem can touch it, but you can.”

“No!” came Branka’s voice from behind them, shrill with madness. “You can’t take—”

“Leliana,” said Elissa without turning around.

This time, Leliana did not hesitate.

Oghren let out an aggrieved moan as Branka fell to the ground with a ringing of armor on rock. “Oh, Branka,” he murmured. “You were better than this, once.”

“So shall she be again,” said Durin softly. “She goes now to the halls of Mahal—of the Ancestors,” he quickly corrected himself, “where no shadow nor madness can touch her. She shall remain there, in healing and rest, until the world is renewed.”

There was a sudden sound. Durin turned to see that Caridin had taken a staggering step back. “Of Mahal…” he murmured, resonant voice shaking. “Until the world is renewed… what is your name, young Noble?”

Durin stared at the Paragon. Could it be? Could it be that he was not totally forgotten? “I am Durin Aeducan,” he said. Then, louder, “I am Durin the Deathless, Seventh of His Name!”

When Caridin knelt, it was a cacophony of metal on stone. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I never imagined that I would see the oldest prophecies fulfilled. It is an honor.”

“Rise, Paragon,” said Durin.

Elissa watched Durin with a raised eyebrow as Caridin stood—with some difficulty, as his broad body was disproportionate to his smaller legs. “Care to explain?” she asked.

“In the oldest Memories,” said Caridin, “it was said that the first of the Dwarves to be awakened from the Stone was named Durin, called ‘the Deathless’ for his long life. He lived nearly three thousand years before he finally passed, and his body was interred and preserved. Then, many generations later, he returned to life, and reclaimed his throne once again as King Under the Mountains. It was said that Durin the Deathless would return seven times—”

“Six times,” Durin interrupted. “There has often been some confusion. It was foretold that I would live seven lives , meaning that this life, my seventh, is to be the last.”

“But how can this be?” Caridin asked. “It was said that your soul returned to your body when you returned. Yet the body of Durin the Deathless was lost long ago, in the age before ages.”

“I assume that is why I was reborn rather than merely recalled to life,” said Durin. “I cannot explain the workings of Mahal or of His Father. All I know is that I am here again, and my people need me.”

“How can I assist you, Your Majesty?” Caridin asked.

Durin looked past him at the Anvil of the Void. “First,” he said, “you can tell us how that thing can be destroyed. After that—you can return with us to Orzammar.”

Caridin hesitated for a long moment. “I was not meant to live so long,” he said, and his voice was quiet. “I will follow you, King Durin, if that is your command… but I yearn for rest.”

“You shall have rest,” Durin promised. “I ask only that you accompany us back to Orzammar long enough to legitimize my claim to the throne, and perhaps to share any Memories our modern Shaperate may have lost. Then I will help you to rest, and inter you in the most ancient traditions of our people.”

Caridin nodded. “I am grateful, my King,” he said. “I will follow you.”

The Assembly was not happy to crown a former exile as King of Orzammar. But with the backing of a Paragon—and of the Shaperate, once they consulted the Memories of Durin’s prophecies—they had little choice.

Caridin stood at Durin’s right hand, and Elissa stood at his left, when Pyral Harrowmont lowered the crown onto his head. As the circlet of gold and mithril came to rest upon his hair, Durin looked down at the deshyrs—at his brother, looking up at him with awe and terror. “Bhelen,” he said. “Step forward.”

There was a long moment. Durin could practically see his brother calculating any chance of escape. When he stepped into the center of the Assembly, Durin knew he had found none.

“You had me wrongly exiled,” he said. “You framed me for the death of our elder brother, and had me cast into the Deep Roads to die. Do you deny this?”

Bhelen did not answer.

Durin sighed. “For your transgressions against me,” he said, “you are pardoned.”

Bhelen’s eyes went wide.

“Had I not been exiled, I would not have found Mirrormere lingering in the valley between the Frostbacks,” said Durin. “I would not have remembered myself, my past, my nature. I would not have known what I needed to do. So for what you did to me, I forgive you.”

“Thank you,” murmured Bhelen. “I—”

Durin held up his hand. “However, I survived,” he said. “Trian did not.”

Bhelen paled again.

“Of the murder of our brother,” said Durin, “I find you guilty. I offer you now a choice of sentence. Your first and simplest option is death. Your second option is life in prison. Your third option is to join the Legion of the Dead. What say you?”

Bhelen grimaced.

Durin leaned forward. “Allow me to speak plainly,” he said, “not as your King, nor even as one wronged by you, but as your brother.” He hesitated. “I would be grateful if you chose the second of these options. I could use your counsel on some things, my sibling.”

Bhelen blinked up at him, an incredulous look in his eyes. “ My counsel?” he asked over the sudden murmuring of the deshyrs. “What could you possibly want my opinion on?”

“You always treated the lower castes with more respect than many Nobles,” said Durin. “And yet even so you were able to draw significant support from this Assembly. I would benefit from your political acumen, and to many of the same purposes.”

“Oh?” Bhelen sneered. “And what purposes do you want to see enacted, dear brother? What exactly do you think we have in common?”

Durin took a deep breath. “You respected the lower castes as people, fundamentally no different than you or I,” he said. “I hold the same belief.

“There are tens of thousands of dwarves scattered across the surface of Thedas. These are my people. There are hundreds of casteless in the lowest levels of Orzammar. These are my people. There are hundreds of Legionnaires in the darkest corners of the Deep Roads. These are my people.” Durin folded his hands. “I would have your help bringing back to these dwarrows the dignity they have so long been denied. What say you, Bhelen?”

Bhelen stared at him, open-mouthed. “The casteless—” He swallowed. “You call the casteless your people?”

“I do,” said Durin, ignoring the mutinous mutterings around the Assembly.

Bhelen’s face set. His eyes flared with determination. “I will take the second option,” he said. “I will serve you… brother.”

Durin nodded. “I take from you your caste,” he said. “You are not Noble. You are casteless—but this means something different, now, than it did before. You are still named Bhelen Aeducan. You are still my brother. You are still of my clan. You shall be taken into house arrest in one of the empty houses in the Aeducan compound, and placed under constant guard. Visitation with you will be carefully controlled, for I well know how dangerous you can be when given unfettered access to the deshyrs of this Assembly. Tonight I shall come visit you, and we can begin discussing what can be done to help our people.”

Bhelen held his gaze for a moment. Then, wordlessly, he bowed. At a gesture from Durin, two guards came forward and put their hands upon his shoulders.

Durin cast his eyes at the deshyrs glaring balefully up at him. “For far too long have our people divided ourselves,” he said. “The wealthiest among us have hoarded power and prestige while the poorest bury their starved infants. No more. I will bring unity and clarity to the dwarves of Orzammar, and then I will bring the dwarves of Orzammar back out into the Deep Roads.

“The long decline of the dwarves is over. Our ascent begins today.” He turned to Elissa. “But before all that, I believe I owe you an army.”

Elissa gave him a savage grin.

Two months later, the first of many trading caravans returned from Denerim. It brought with it two familiar faces.

“Welcome back,” Durin said, smiling. “My friends.”

Elissa’s bow was shallow, but her smile was warm. Gorim’s bow, on the other hand, was fastidiously deep. “Your Majesty,” said Durin’s erstwhile second, voice tight with restrained emotion.

“Gorim Saelac,” said Durin, holding out a hand and clasping his oldest friend’s shoulder. “It is good to see you again.”

Gorim met his eyes. A smile spread across his face, hesitant but bright. “You too, my Lord,” he said.

Durin turned to look at Elissa. “Thank you for bringing word to him,” he said. “I hope my soldiers were helpful in the battle?”

“More than helpful,” Elissa said. “Both your soldiers and the gear you gave us.” She rapped her knuckles against her new mithril breastplate. “I felt nearly invincible on the battlefield. My whole team did.”

“I am glad,” said Durin. “I hope we can continue this partnership, Warden-Commander—or is it Queen, now?”

Elissa actually flushed, an expression entirely new on her hard features. “Both,” she mumbled, playing with the diamond ring on her finger. “Not that the Wardens or the nobility are happy about it. I feel like I'm being pulled in entirely different directions, all of them for good reason.”

“I’m in much the same position,” Durin confessed. “There is… so much to be done. Orzammar is deathly sick, and has been for many lifetimes. It will take decades, maybe centuries, before it recovers entirely from the injustices which have been commonplace for so long. I am having to prioritize. I am sure you and King Alistair are facing much the same.”

“Yeah.” Elissa sighed. Then she eyed him shrewdly. “You said something about continuing our partnership?”

Durin grinned. “For many generations, Orzammar has been a solitary kingdom,” he said. “We have traded with the outside world, but our traders are scarcely better than the casteless for having seen the surface. Every few years we lose still more ground to the darkspawn, but we still behave as if the people of the surface are too unimportant for us to concern ourselves with. I see no reason any of that should continue.”

“Durin,” Elissa said, tone dry. “I’m not one of your deshyrs, you don’t need to give me a speech. Just give me the details.”

Gorim made an affronted noise. “That is the King you’re speaking to,” he said sharply, but Durin laid a hand on his arm.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I owe her my throne—I think she’s earned the right to irreverence. Besides, she’s functionally a queen herself.” He looked back at Elissa. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I’ve had precious little opportunity to do anything but grandstand since you left. The Assembly is… reluctant to see any significant changes made to our society. Even my allies, such as Harrowmont, are hard to convince.” He shook his head. “But, in detail—I suggest a treaty of trade and mutual defense, between Orzammar, Denerim, and the Fereldan chapter of the Wardens.”

“The Wardens aren’t traditionally a political organization,” said Elissa, but her tone was carefully neutral.

“I’m not suggesting that the Wardens come to our defense against Orlais,” said Durin, “or that you interfere with the politics of Thedas’ nations. I propose instead that we offer you priority in the mithril trade. In exchange, you help us against the darkspawn as we work to reclaim the old thaigs.”

Gorim breathed in sharply, staring wordlessly at Durin.

Elissa met his gaze. Slowly a smile spread across her features. “I think,” she said, “that we should get Alistair down here to talk details. He’s already talking about trying to tighten relations with some of the Free Marches. We don’t want another Loghain to pop up because they feel like Ferelden is alone in the world.”

“The more the merrier,” said Durin. “Imagine it—a coalition of the nations of southeastern Thedas, working together for the common good. Still independent, but bound together by both friendship and trade.”

“I almost can’t imagine it,” said Elissa, “but what I can seems worth reaching for.” She held out a hand. “I can’t sign anything on my own,” she said, “but I’ll bring Alistair here next time we can get away, and we can iron out the details. Sound good?”

“It sounds excellent,” said Durin, and shook her hand firmly.

Chapter 4: The World is Grey, The Mountains Old

Notes:

Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

Ten Years Later

Durin was in one of Orzammar’s schools when it happened. The young dwarrows were watching him with wide eyes and took to the languages he taught—both spoken Khuzdul and signed Iglishmek—like fish to water.

He was in the process of quizzing them on some of the most common two-consonant words when the mountain suddenly heaved beneath his feet, like a ship pitching on the sea. Several of the children cried out in sudden alarm.

“Hush, little ones,” Durin said in Khuzdul, catching himself on his stone desk and giving them a comforting smile. The quake had already ended by the time he finished speaking. Though the children seemed to find this comforting, he did not. No natural quake passed so quickly—and unnatural quakes tended to be far, far more dangerous.

“That is enough for this lesson, I think,” he said, still speaking in Khuzdul. “Go now, little ones—return to your other teachers. I must return to my duties. The crown waits for no one—not even such clever dwarrowlings as you.”

They giggled and bade him farewell as they filed from the room. His smile fell as he followed, turning instead towards the exit from the schoolhouse.

Gorim Saelac, clad in ornate mithril armor befitting the King’s Second, met him at the gates. “Your Majesty,” he said, bowing.

Durin clasped his arm companionably. “What has happened? Do you know?”

“Not yet,” said Gorim. “But I heard a commotion from the direction of the Market District.”

“Then we shall go and investigate.” Gorim fell into step behind him as he strode down the path at a rapid pace.

Dwarrows were poking their heads out of the doors and windows of their houses. Durin nodded reassuringly to those whose eyes he caught, which seemed to allay at least some of their concerns. It gratified him—if they thought about it, they would have to know he had not yet had time to learn much more than they about whatever was happening, but they saw no need to think about it so far. His people trusted him.

He and Gorim passed into the Market District, and were greeted by the sight of one of the sentries, normally posted outside Orzammar’s main gate on the surface, speaking in hushed tones with the guards near the inner doors. Durin approached.

“—Like a wound in the sky,” the sentry was saying, sounding grim and more than a little frightened. “Never have I seen the like before…” She noticed Durin and turned with a low bow. “Your Majesty.”

“Corporal,” greeted Durin. “What has happened? Did something on the surface cause that quake?”

The corporal nodded darkly. “Something above the surface, perhaps,” she said. “A hole has opened in the sky, and behind it is a strange mist, the color of emeralds.”

“A hole in the sky?” Durin asked blankly. “I don’t understand.”

The scout grimaced. “It is… difficult to describe, Your Majesty,” she said. “But whatever it is, it seems to have been caused by an explosion on the mountainside below it. By the direction, I believe the explosion occurred at the humans’ Temple of Sacred Ashes.”

“The Conclave,” murmured Durin, heart sinking. What had happened? He had hoped the Divine’s presence, universally respected as she seemingly was, would be enough to soothe tempers at least to the point that peace talks would be possible. Had he been wrong? Had the Divine had enemies he had not anticipated?

“Your Majesty,” said the captain on duty in the square, a stout dwarf with black brows so bushy that his dark eyes were entirely in shadow. “What are your orders?”

Durin made a rapid series of decisions. “Send a runner to the house of each deshyr and common-deshyr,” he said quickly. “I shall speak before a joint Assembly, and we shall decide what must be done. Gorim—go to the House Aeducan compound and find Surí; tell her to bring her sketchbook and take her to the surface to draw this hole in the sky. Corporal, return to your post—and make sure the dwarrows on the surface know that the gates of Orzammar are open to them should they seek shelter.”

The captain and corporal bowed, Gorim saluted, and all of them parted ways at speed. Durin himself made a beeline for the Assembly.

The great hall had been expanded greatly in the past decade to accommodate the newly expanded Assembly itself. The eighty deshyrs of the Noble caste were now joined by twelve deshyrs each of the other six castes, with an additional nine deshyrs from among the formerly casteless—now members of the so-called citizen caste. It was a half-measure, a stopgap as Durin worked to gradually deconstruct and dismantle the perversion of the original seven clans which had become the modern castes. It had taken a great deal of work to instate non-Noble deshyrs at all. It had taken still more to eventually bolster their number so that the Nobles were outnumbered, albeit by only a single vote, by all the other castes put together.

The key which had finally made it possible had come, as Durin might have expected, from Bhelen. Durin’s estranged brother had gradually softened over the past several years. As his good behavior continued, Durin allowed him gradually more freedoms. At this point he was even allowed to wander Orzammar freely, albeit under constant guard, and with his every visitation reported back to Durin himself. He spent much of his time now in the Citizen’s Quarter—formerly known as Dust Town—mingling with the dwarrows there. Durin had instructed his guards to let him occasionally ‘slip away’ to visit his lover there, though of course Durin ensured that one of the stealthier guards kept a constant eye on him.

Bhelen almost certainly knew that his ‘escapes’ were a polite fiction. He was too shrewd not to. But he maintained the illusion, and so did Durin.

When Durin had asked him how to convince the Assembly to allow the others of Orzammar to have their own representation, Bhelen had considered the question for several days before producing an idea. “Deshyrs—Nobles in general—want a few things,” he had said. “Wealth, authority, respect, and luxury—including women—are chief among them. The key is to make it possible to gain one of these things by opening the Assembly to others.”

“But surely expanding the Assembly will mean a decrease in their authority?” Durin had asked. “After all, is that not the point?”

“Sure,” Bhelen had agreed. “But I’ve found that authority is actually the least important of the four pillars. Mostly, deshyrs just want authority because it, like wealth, can buy them respect and comfort. So if you can make them trade authority for luxury and comfort, they will take it and call it a bargain.”

“But how can I create that trade?” Durin had asked.

“Simple,” said Bhelen, “though not quick. Take the next few years and gradually increase the responsibility of the deshyrs. Turn their position from a cushy one of plush seats and short days to an exhausting nightmare of ceaseless work. Then propose to them that some of their administrative work could easily be performed by others. Perhaps, for instance, some of the decisions that do not affect the Noble Caste could be enacted by smaller voting bodies made of respected members of the castes they do affect. They will jump at the chance to escape their jobs, and you will have your expanded assembly.”

It had all happened exactly as Bhelen had predicted, and now Durin did indeed have his expanded Assembly. Generally, the whole one hundred and sixty-one deshyrs and common-deshyrs did not meet at once. Instead, issues affecting one or more groups of dwarrows were brought before the representatives of those groups in smaller sessions. Durin had initially presided over every one of these sessions, but at this point the machine had proven itself to work without his direct oversight.

Today, however, they were faced with an issue that concerned every dwarrow in Orzammar and beyond. And so, the entire joint Assembly would be called.

It took a little over an hour for the deshyrs to file in. Not all were in attendance—recent illness had brought low seven common-deshyrs and three Nobles, and these sent proxies in their stead. Once the deshyrs, or their representatives, were seated, Durin began to speak.

“Members of the Assembly,” he said, voice echoing around the stone chamber. “All of you, I am sure, felt the recent tremor. Some of you may have already received word as to its cause. The reports I have received indicate that an explosion occurred at the Conclave. For those who do not concern themselves with the affairs of the surface, this Conclave was a peace talk being held between the leadership of the two factions of the Mage-Templar War ongoing above our heads, overseen by the Chantry’s Divine. I am told that this explosion seems to have torn open a hole in the very sky.”

Murmurs broke out. Several of the deshyrs had already heard this. Many more had not. One, Common-Deshyr Dwalan Ghravad of the Citizen Caste, stood up. “Permission to speak, Your Majesty?” he asked.

Durin nodded his assent and sat upon his carven throne.

Dwalan cleared his throat. “There is further news from the Citizen Quarter that not all may have heard,” he said. “A strange wound in the air, dripping with green ichor, has appeared near the entrance to the mithril mines. When it appeared, strange monsters poured from it. The Legion of the Dead was able to respond quickly and minimize death and panic, but they have been unable to close the wound. It appeared shortly after the tremor, and I am told by Arcanist Dagna Brunn that the creatures which came from it match the description of the demons spoken of by the mages of the surface.”

The murmurs grew louder. Some of the Noble deshyrs seemed skeptical, even disdainful of the report of the branded common-deshyr. Durin, however, was putting things together.

“This suggests,” he said, standing again, “that the hole in the sky is a tear in the Veil. To those unfamiliar, the Veil is the divide between our material world and the Fade, the realm to which humans and elves go when they dream—and the source of their magic. It is also the homeland of spirits and demons.” He looked at Common-Deshyr Voghunn Bravus of the Warrior Caste, who served as the current Commander of Orzammar’s Guard. “Commander Bravus, I want heavy and constant guard on the wound in the Citizen’s Quarter. The Legion of the Dead must be relieved so that they can return to the defense of the paths to the other thaigs.”

“it will be done, Your Majesty,” said Voghunn with a bow.

Durin nodded and cast his eyes over the whole Assembly again. “Whatever problems we face here now,” he said, “they are likely worse on the surface. There is a village near the Temple of Sacred Ashes where the Conclave was held, called Haven. I propose that envoys are sent to Haven, both to learn the details of what has happened, and to offer the assistance of Orzammar and the New Empire in resolving the situation. If one wound in the Veil has appeared in Orzammar, more will have likely appeared elsewhere, and they may continue to appear until the tear in the sky is repaired.”

“Unless this is all an attack upon us by the surfacers,” grumbled one aged Noble deshyr.

Durin ignored him. “I intend to send an envoy of at least ten dwarrows,” he said. “I will decide who to send over the next day. I am open to discussion on the topic. At least four of the envoy will be Warrior-Caste soldiers, so I will require your recommendations, Commander Bravus.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Durin nodded. “I yield the floor,” he said. “Any who wish to discuss these events are welcome to speak.”

He sat, already steeling himself for at least two hours of mediating the coming discussion.

-x-x-x-

Four days later, twenty dwarves set out from Orzammar. Ten were to report to Haven as envoys. The other ten were to report to the reclaimed Kal’Hirol thaig and the fortress of Vigil’s Keep, both of which had been reclaimed shortly after the Fifth Blight by the ever-strengthening alliance between Durin, King Alistair, and Warden-Commander Elissa Cousland. The friendship between Durin and the Wardens who had helped him reclaim his throne had only strengthened with time, and that tie had been a great boon to both Orzammar and Denerim. Trade was growing more profitable by the month, as imported surface produce and meats became fashionable in Orzammar and dwarf-made metalwork became a beloved commodity on the surface.

Durin did his best, however, to keep control of the mithril trade. For now, he was the only dwarrow capable of finding new mithril deposits—although he was seeing hints that some of the younger dwarrows learning khuzdul were starting to develop the same stonesense he possessed. Mithril was thus an exceedingly rare and valuable resource, even more than it had been when it was the primary export of Khazad-dûm. Durin tried to ensure that it was carefully distributed to those who needed it, or whose approval he most needed. This included Elissa’s set of mithril armor, but she was the only surfacer to receive such a generous allotment so far.

The envoys sent to Haven returned after little more than a week on the surface. They brought with them word of unrest—of a brewing conflict between factions of the Chantry, of a rift between the remaining clerical leadership of Val Royeaux and the Left and Right Hands of Divine Justinia in Haven, and of an elvhen woman somehow able to close the Rifts which were opening across Thedas.

They called her the Herald of Andraste, despite her own Dalish heritage.

And around her was growing an organization calling themselves the Inquisition.

Durin listened gravely to the envoy’s report before retiring to his inner council chambers. There he met with his eight closest advisors, one from each caste.

“The Inquisition’s mandate,” said Common-Deshyr Myrka Praghan of the Citizen Caste, “is to stop the expansion of the Breach and the opening of new Rifts. We currently have such a Rift here in the city, with the possibility of more opening any time. We need their assistance.”

“Nothing good ever comes of inserting ourselves in surfacer politics,” said Pyral Harrowmont. The aging deshyr had become Durin’s closest advisor and supporter among the Noble Caste. Despite his initial hesitance over some of Durin’s policies, he had seen with his own eyes how they had borne fruit. But he remained traditional, and was the most frequent voice of dissent on this council. “This brewing civil war among the Chantry is just the sort of thing we should avoid intervening in.”

“The Val Royeaux Chantry is too distant to affect us here,” said Lukan Hesh of the Smith Caste. “The Inquisition is both on our doorstep and reportedly able to close the Rift here in the city. We both need their aid and must avoid their ire—I, for one, have no desire for an Exalted March to be called upon Orzammar.”

“An organization raising a Dalish Elf as the ‘Herald of Andraste’ will not be calling any Exalted Marches, I should think,” said Durin dryly.

“Perhaps not,” agreed Commander Bravus. “But I think an alliance between Orzammar and this Inquisition might well bear fruit. After all—our alliance with Ferelden has returned Kal’Hirol to us, and Fereldan Wardens have aided us in the reclamation of Thaigs Aeducan, Ortan, and Cad’halash. If we can bring the Inquisition into the fold of this coalition, it may mean stronger relations with the Chantry once the current conflict is resolved.”

“Or severely damaged relations, should the Inquisition be labeled heretical,” said Barahn Maruk of the Merchant Caste, but he sounded more thoughtful than concerned. “It’s a risk.”

“But perhaps a worthwhile one,” countered Commander Bravus.

Notes:

Apologies for the lack of an update last week, I was traveling.

Chapter 5: The Trumpets Rang

Notes:

Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.

Chapter Text

Two months passed. The link between Orzammar and the Inquisition grew tighter by the week, as caravans made their way between the city and Haven. Durin saw to it that mithril arms and armor made their way to the Inquisition under heavy guard. There was not enough to outfit the Inquisition’s entire force, even if Durin reneged on his contracts with Amaranthine and Denerim—which he would not do—but he had enough to supply equipment to the Herald herself and her vanguard.

In exchange, Orzammar received a not-inconsequential sum of gold. But, more importantly, they received debts. The Inquisition did not yet have the coffers to buy dozens of warriors’, rogues’, and mages’ worth of mithril equipment, but it did have an Antivan diplomat with a mind like a razor and a network to make even Leliana’s eyebrows rise. In exchange for the wealth of Orzammar, Josephine transferred the debts of nobles across Orlais, Ferelden, and the Free Marches to the Crown of Orzammar. These debts gave Durin something much harder to come by than mere coin. They gave him leverage.

Leverage which was already paying its own dividends. Already he was laying the groundwork to manipulate the civil war in Orlais. He had ambitions—distant ones, perhaps, but not completely out of sight—of buying the Dales back from the Empress, and creating an allied state for the Dalish with a pact of mutual defense. It would cost every last inch of leverage he had with Orlais, but it would be worth it. There was little Orlais could provide him that Ferelden could not—their chevaliers might be the finest heavy cavalry on Thedas, but the distance between them and the Fereldan light cavalry was closing with every set of mithril armor and barding Durin sent in King Alistair’s direction. If a proper force of Dalish halla-riders could be trained to close the gap, Orlais would find itself vestigial to the coalition.

Durin counted on Orlesian disdain for all things both Fereldan and Elvhen to cause them to miss this fact until the Dales had already been reestablished. It wasn’t that he disliked Orlais or wanted them as enemies. He was simply more sympathetic to the plight of the Dalish, so similar to that of his own people, and wanted to rebuild the alliance that had once stood between Khazad-dûm and the Ñoldor of Eregion who lived on its doorstep.

They were both, elves and dwarves alike, shadows of once-great people skulking among the corners of the human realms of Thedas. Durin had always preferred to extend his hand to those besieged by greater forces than to the besiegers.

“You asked to see me?” Durin asked, looking across his stone desk at Malgaran.

Durin’s Mining Caste advisor nodded, looking grim. “Your Majesty,” he said with a shallow bow. “I have received reports of earthquakes in Heidrun Thaig. Sixteen lyrium miners were dead when the missive was sent, over a week ago, and the tremors showed no sign of slowing.”

Durin’s eyes narrowed as he mentally compared the maps of the Deep Roads with those of the surface. Heidrun Thaig was to the northeast of Orzammar. They had not yet cleared the Roads between the thaigs, partly because the paths beneath the Calenhad River delta plunged very deep in order to stay dry. For now, Heidrun was reachable only by the westerly Roads from Kal’Hirol. Reconstruction efforts were, last he heard, ongoing, and the thaig was still sparsely inhabited—but the lyrium mines there, beneath the Storm Coast, were rich enough that they had been active even before Durin had taken the throne.

“Tremors?” Durin asked. “ Multiple tremors, dangerous enough to cause deaths in our mines, and yet localized enough that we felt not a hint of them here, less than a hundred leagues away?”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” said Malgaran, the skin around his eyes tight with displeasure and more than a little worry. “When they began, there was apparently a Shaper exploring the thaig. I suspect she—Valta is her name—may have some idea what may be causing them. She asked the foreman to forward her request for an expedition below.”

“Have you asked the Shaperate what she is researching?” Durin asked.

“I have sent an inquiry,” said Malgaran. “It has gone unanswered.”

Unanswered? Durin allowed himself a frustrated grunt. Despite their support of his kingship and Paragonhood, the Shaperate remained staunchly traditional. The idea of a member of the Mining Caste making demands of them would have rankled. “Very well,” he said, standing. “We shall go see them at once.”

Malgaran blinked in surprise. “I—thank you,” he said. “I know you must be busy. I merely wished to ask if you could inquire at your earliest convenience.”

“This is my earliest convenience,” said Durin. “Come.”

“Your Majesty.” Czibor, the Shaper of Memories for Orzammar, bowed low. “What need have you of the Memories today?”

“Not the Memories, today,” said Durin, noting the way Czibor didn’t so much as look at Malgaran over Durin’s shoulder. “I wish to know of one of your Shapers, and the topic of her research. Valta?”

Czibor gave him a stiff, reticent smile. “Your Majesty, Shaper Valta is scarcely worthy of the title,” he said. “Her research is the topic of disgrace. She retains her title, but has not been permitted to work within the city Shaperate for several years.”

“Nonetheless,” said Durin, “I wish to know what she is researching.”

Czibor sighed. “She has been wandering the outer thaigs and Deep Roads in search of evidence to support a heretical theory of hers,” he said. “A year ago she sent a report detailing carvings which she claimed depicted ancient dwarven gods she called ‘Titans.’ Needless to say, these Titans appear nowhere in the Memories—and, I assume, nowhere in your memories, either?”

“They do not,” Durin acknowledged slowly. “But Shaper Valta believes her research may be able to identify the source of unnatural earthquakes in Heidrun Thaig, which have already slain several lyrium miners. I should like to read this report.”

Czibor’s smile became, if possible, even more wooden. “Of course, Your Majesty. I will have it delivered to your estate tonight.”

“Thank you,” said Durin, turning to leave. He paused at the threshold, glancing back as if in afterthought. “What was Shaper Valta exiled for?” he asked.

Czibor was silent for a long moment. “She refused to perform a routine correction to the Memories,” he said at last.

Durin read between the lines. Alterations to the Memories had grown commonplace in the past several centuries, and ending the practice had been far lower priority than the reformation of the caste system and the expansion of the New Empire. “Who requested this ‘correction’?” he asked.

“Lord Harrowmont, Your Majesty,” said Czibor.

“I see.” Durin made a note to quietly chastise Harrowmont for the indiscretion. It wasn’t worth making a public issue and alienating his closest Noble Caste ally—but the Memories were meant to be sacred. If that sanctity had been respected as it should, perhaps Khuzdul and Mahal would never have been forgotten. “In future,” he said to Czibor, inclining his head in Malgaran’s direction, “I ask that you show the Common-Deshyrs the same respect that you show the others in the Assembly.”

“Yes,” said Czibor through visibly gritted teeth, “Your Majesty.”

As they left the Shaperate, Malgaran glanced at Durin. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said, sounding simultaneously grateful and disappointed. “However, it seems unlikely that this heretic Shaper has any actionable information.”

“Perhaps,” said Durin, “but an expedition into the depths below Heidrun Thaig may still be useful in determining the actual cause of these quakes.” He met Malgaran’s eyes. “And the Inquisition has a foothold in the Storm Coast. This may be an opportunity for us to show the Noble Assembly that the alliance with them has fruit to bear if only we cultivate it.”

Malgaran’s bushy eyebrows rose. “I had not considered that, Your Majesty,” he said. “If I know Commander Bravus, he will say he does not have the warriors to spare on a costly expedition of unknown length. This may solve that problem.”

“My thoughts exactly,” said Durin. “As the humans say, two birds, one stone. I will tender a missive to the Inquisition tomorrow.”

Unfortunately, when tomorrow came, it brought with it word that the Inquisition had more pressing problems.

“Your Majesty,” said the scout, kneeling, his broken arm newly splinted before him. “Haven has been destroyed.”

Durin’s heart stopped for a moment. “What? How? By whom?”

The scout looked up, face grim. “Templars, Your Majesty,” he said. “Templars corrupted by red lyrium. They followed an ancient Darkspawn which matched the description of the Architect—a Darkspawn accompanied by an Archdemon.”

Durin stared at the scout, feeling as though the stone beneath his seat was falling away. “Impossible,” he whispered. “Another Blight? So soon?” He looked over at Gorim, who stood at his right hand. “And still no word from Amaranthine?”

“None, Your Majesty,” said Gorim through gritted teeth. It wasn’t a surprise. The dwarrow occasionally took messages while Durin was occupied with other business, and a few such runners had arrived that day. But if one had brought word from the Amaranthine Wardens, Durin knew Gorim would have reported as much immediately.

Durin took a deep breath. “And the Inquisition?” he asked. “Did any of their leadership escape?”

“When I left them, they had taken a hidden route out of the chantry,” the scout reported. “The Herald was lost creating an avalanche to cover their escape.”

Durin closed his eyes. He had never gotten along especially well with Lavellan, but she had gained his respect—especially when she came to Orzammar on her way to the Redcliffe hinterlands and closed the Rift in the Citizen’s Quarter. Silently he offered a prayer to Mahal— If there is any kinship between the elvhen of Thedas and the Eldar of Middle-Earth, let her be accepted into the halls of Mandos. Let her be welcomed by her kin.

“Very well,” he said aloud. “Did you remind the Inquisition of our standing offer of sanctuary?” Orzammar had been host to agents of the Inquisition a few times over the past two months, mostly as a safe place to stay for a night or two during their journeys through the Frostbacks.

“I did, Your Majesty,” said the scout. “They seemed reluctant to impose so heavily upon Orzammar, but I do not know that they have any other choice. Their relationship with King Alistair has frayed after their offer of sanctuary to the mages who allowed the Tevinters to seize Redcliffe.”

Durin nodded grimly. That had been an unpleasant surprise. His letter to Alistair after the fact had not received a reply yet, but he worried that his dreams of a coalition in the south of Thedas might crumble to infighting before it could even begin. “Understood,” he said quietly. Then he took a deep breath. “Gorim,” he ordered, “fetch Commander Bravus. We must deploy scouts southward, to find and offer aid to whatever remains of our allies.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Gorim, bowing rapidly and bustling off.

“You may go,” Durin told the scout, who bowed and left.

Momentarily alone, Durin rested his elbows on the arms of his throne and rested his chin upon his hands, thinking.

Assuming Leliana, Cullen, Josephine, and Cassandra survived the journey through the Frostbacks, the Inquisition could still recover from this. Haven had never been an especially defensible location, and now that they had closed the Breach, they had no obligation to remain there. He doubted they would want to remain underground permanently—the absence of the sky disagreed even with dwarves who lived their lives aboveground, let alone those whose entire heritage was of the surface—but he could at least provide them a defensible staging area until they found a suitable place to establish new headquarters.

And if they did want to remain underground, Ortan Thaig was currently only sparsely populated, mostly manned only by enough of the Legion and the Army to keep the Darkspawn at bay. He could lease the thaig to them as a fortress, perhaps? It would be hard to justify gifting it to them—the Assembly had not yet seen the value of the alliance with the Inquisition, and being seen giving more to them freely than had already been agreed would only deepen their disapproval. But even if Ortan were leased for only a small fee, and even if that fee were deferred until the Inquisition was back on its feet, it would be easy to spin it as freeing up the resources currently in use to defend the most distant of the reclaimed thaigs connected directly to Orzammar.

Gorim returned, accompanied by Commander Bravus. “Your Majesty,” said Bravus with a bow. “I heard the news. I can have reconnaissance teams deployed within the hour.”

“Do so,” ordered Durin.

As it turned out, however, the Inquisition did not need hosting. For the twelve days before the scouts returned, Durin grew ever more worried. But when they did, it was with excellent, if surprising news.

“The Inquisition has located and claimed a fortress on the peak of Mount Adarrak,” reported Commander Bravus to Durin’s assembled inner council. “They call it Skyhold. My scouts found them in the process of clearing the ruins for habitation. They offered aid, which was accepted. Before they left, they saw the Herald of Andraste being named Inquisitor.”

“The Herald lives, then?” Durin asked.

“She does, Your Majesty,” said the Commander. “Additionally, one of my scouts from House Bryhas”—an Artisan Caste family, Durin noted—“reported that the construction of this Skyhold matched the masonry of the ruins found in the Emerald Graves. The fortress is apparently of elvhen make, and at least as old as the fall of Arlathan.”

Durin leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Fascinating,” he said slowly. “Gorim—go to the Shaperate and ask if any of the Memories refer to this fortress, whether by name as Skyhold, or by the elvhen translation of the name—Tara’las, unless I am mistaken—or merely by its position atop Mount Adarrak.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Gorim, and left.

Durin turned back to Commander Bravus. “Did your scouts report on the state of any roads to this Skyhold?” he asked. “Is there a pass whereby our caravans might reach the Inquisition there?”

“There were signs that a road once existed leading to Skyhold, but it had long since fallen into disuse and been reclaimed by the mountains,” said the Commander. “My scouts believe it originally connected the fortress to Orlais.”

“Or, more likely, to the Dales,” said Durin. He sighed. “We will need those roads repaired and connected to our network as soon as possible,” he said. “Yhalmar—once we part tonight, please communicate with the rest of the Artisan Houses and produce for me a cost estimate for the repair and reconstruction of those roads, as well as an estimate for how long the construction will take.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Ortan Thaig is not far from the roots of Mount Adarrak,” said Malgaran, Durin’s Mining-Caste advisor, quite suddenly. “It might be wise to seek exits from the Deep Roads there. If we can find such a path, it will make the journey much easier for our caravans.”

Durin nodded slowly. “Indeed. Can you organize prospector crews to explore Ortan Thaig in the next week?”

“It will be done, Your Majesty.”

“Thank you,” said Durin. He took a deep breath. “And—all of you. We are, by now, at least vaguely familiar with the rumors of red lyrium. We still do not understand what it is or where it comes from. As far as we know, no veins of the substance are present in the mountains around Orzammar—but we do know that some was present beneath the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and exposed after the explosion. If this substance has truly corrupted most of the Templar Order, it is even more dangerous than we were led to believe. I want all of you on the lookout for any sign of this substance among our people. If red lyrium appears anywhere in the New Empire, I want to know about it immediately, and any exposed dwarrows quarantined away from it until a trained arcanist can see them.”

There was a round of nods. Every one of his counsellors looked grave. The rumors of red lyrium—and of what it had done to some of the people, dwarrows included, who were exposed to it—had concerned all of them. The lyrium trade was a significant part of Orzammar’s economy. That a variant of the substance had such dangerous potential was concerning to all of them.

Gorim returned only a few minutes later. “Your Majesty,” he said. “The Shaperate has found records of a fortress atop Mount Adarrak. Its name was originally Tarasyl’an Te’las.”

“The Place Where the Sky is Held,” murmured Durin. “Or…” he paused. “Did they say what the fortress was originally for?”

“According to elvhen myth,” said Gorim, “it was originally the site of a grand betrayal of their god, the Dread Wolf Fen’Harel, of the other evanuris of their pantheon.”

There was something on the edge of Durin’s understanding—a connection he had almost all the necessary pieces to make, but had not yet hit upon. The Place Where the Sky is Held. But ‘las could also be used as an active verb. Why did that seem important?

“This implies some historicity to the elvhen legends,” said Myrka Praghan, Durin’s Citizen-Caste advisor. “That has… potential implications. Especially for the Inquisition’s mission, and for our alliance’s future relationship with Orlais.”

“How so?” asked Harrowmont blankly.

Praghan folded her hands. “The elves believe the Black City said to be at the heart of the Fade is where their gods were imprisoned,” she said. “If those gods really did exist, there may be some real historical roots to that legend.”

There was something there. Durin still hadn’t figured out how Elves had even come to be in Thedas, let alone how they had seemingly lost their immortality. Did it have something to do with this interlocking web of concepts and history that was slowly unfolding before him? Tarasyl’an Te’las, the Black City, evanuris, Fen’Harel… what am I missing? “I will instruct the Shaperate to investigate our records on elvhen mythohistory,” he said after a pause. “In the meantime, we must concern ourselves with reestablishing trade routes to the Inquisition. Additionally, I would like to visit them at their new stronghold. The situation has shifted dramatically, and very quickly. We may need to renegotiate matters faster than letters can travel. If they are able, I will also request their aid with the matter at Heidrun Thaig.”

Besides, he wanted to ask Solas about all this. The odd elf’s dreams might give him some insight into the purpose of the ancient fortress.

It wasn’t until two weeks later that Durin was able to make the journey to Skyhold. By that point, the prospectors had managed to find a route from Ortan Thaig to the surface, cutting the expected travel time in half even before the roads were fully established.

When he finally saw Skyhold emerge from behind a mountain, Durin was immediately impressed. The fortress was perhaps the most defensible location he had ever seen, at least by surface standards. Not only was it naturally defended by the steep and treacherous mountains, but it was built into a sheer cliffside and approachable by only one stone bridge. Even siege engines would have difficulty ascending the walls, as there was little ground sufficiently level for approach by most angles.

He had seen more defensible dwarven bunkers, but not many.

As he approached the bridge, he saw that the Inquisition had grown considerably since he had last visited. There was a small town gradually building up across the bridge from the fortress, and a steady stream of foot traffic was crossing between the two with impressive constancy.

Before they entered the town, Durin called a halt and once more ordered the trumpeters to announce their presence. This time, a soldier was already running in their direction by the time the horns had ceased.

“Your Majesty,” said the dwarrowdam, kneeling quickly a dozen paces from the head of his entourage. Her mithril armor gleamed in the sunlight. “The Inquisitor asked me to welcome you into Skyhold and invite you into the fortress.”

“Thank you,” said Durin with a nod. “You are quick-footed for one of our kind.”

“That’s my job,” she said as she stood and turned, beginning to lead them across the bridge. “Scout Harding, Your Majesty. Head of the Inquisition’s Reconnaissance Corps.”

“An impressive title,” Durin said. He meant it doubly—it was both impressive that such a young dwarrowdam would have so much responsibility, and that a dwarf had risen so high in the Inquisition at all. Then again, they had declared a Dalish elf their Inquisitor, so perhaps it shouldn’t be such a surprise.

People of all races—albeit mostly human—and all professions parted to allow his column to pass as they traversed the bridge. When they reached the gate, they were greeted by Commander Cullen. “Your Majesty,” he greeted with a bow. He seemed paler than he had when last they had spoken, a condition made all the more apparent by the gleaming mithril armor he wore, and the bags beneath his eyes belied a lack of sleep. The latter Durin could easily attribute to the sheer volume of work involved in reestablishing the Inquisition’s headquarters, but the man seemed sickly, too.

It might just be a chill, but Durin remembered that the man had Templar training. Lyrium withdrawal, perhaps? Had the Inquisition’s supplies of lyrium been lost in the attack on Haven?

“Commander,” Durin greeted aloud. “Much has changed since last we spoke.”

Cullen let out an exhausted laugh. “Indeed it has, Your Majesty,” he said. “As it happens, we do have room to house your entire entourage in the fortress this time, albeit not all in the keep.”

“My dwarrows will appreciate it,” said Durin. “Are the rest of the war council available for discussion, or should we retire for the night?”

“I believe the Inquisitor is currently seeing to something with Leliana,” Cullen said. “But they should be available after dinner—which should be served in about an hour. Corporal!” A soldier nearby stood sharply to attention with a salute. “Lead King Durin’s dwarrows to the guest lodgings and find them beds,” Cullen ordered the man. “I will bring King Durin and his Second to the ambassador’s wing of the keep.”

It was a testament to the strengthening relationship between Durin’s folk and the Inquisition that Gorim did not protest when the rest of their entourage was led away. Durin himself fell into step beside Cullen as they approached the long flight of stairs leading up to the keep. “It’s an impressive fortress,” he commented. “Even in disrepair, it is clearly defensible.”

“Yes,” agreed Cullen, his eyes scanning the battlements above them. “And it’ll be more so once we’ve finished constructing trebuchets to mount on the walls. We’re fortunate Solas knew of it.”

“Solas knew of this fortress already?” Durin asked in surprise.

Cullen nodded. “He helped the Inquisitor lead us here,” he said. “He’s made himself rather indispensable, in fact.” He grimaced. “In more ways than one.”

Durin raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Cullen shook his head. “Never mind me,” he said ruefully. “It’s likely just my old paranoia returning to haunt me. I haven’t been able to find anything on Solas’ history, but given that he was an apostate who had never been interred in a Circle, that should come as no surprise. Nonetheless, I cannot help but be a little worried about his… increasing closeness with the Inquisitor.”

“I see,” said Durin.

Cullen suddenly snorted. “I apologize, Your Majesty,” he said. “I shouldn’t be bothering you with these things. My lips are looser than I would like, at the moment.” He grimaced and put his gauntleted hand to his brow. “I am… a little distracted.”

Headaches were a common symptom of lyrium withdrawal. “Is the Inquisition in urgent need of any particular supplies?” Durin asked diplomatically. “Anything Orzammar can provide?”

Cullen’s expression went wooden. “No, Your Majesty,” he said stiffly.

“You have enough—”

“We have enough lyrium, Your Majesty,” Cullen cut him off.

Durin blinked. “…Ah.” He grimaced. “What little I have read suggests the withdrawal will be difficult for several weeks. Up to four months, I believe.”

Cullen grimaced. “Then it does end?” he asked, a bone-deep exhaustion in his words.

“It does, Commander,” Durin reassured him. “And you have my respect for choosing to overcome this addiction.”

“Even if it makes me less effective?” Cullen asked dryly. “I can no longer neutralize mages, and we are currently, as you may have noticed, rather surrounded by them.”

“You are a Commander first and a Templar second,” said Durin. “An addiction of any kind is a potential lever whereby you can be manipulated. Once you are through the withdrawal period, Commander, I think you will be more effective, not less.”

Cullen paused outside a doorway. He took a deep breath before replying. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” he said. “That is… encouraging.” He gestured at the door. “This suite is vacant, and should have room for both you and your Second. You are welcome to join the Inquisitor and her advisors for dinner in the keep’s main hall in an hour.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

Cullen bowed, turned, and left back down the hall. Durin and Gorim entered the suite.

It was an impressive affair. Two small rooms connected by a cozy sitting-room, complete with a small hearth. There was no wood in the fireplace, but Durin had no doubt that some would be brought if they asked. Which he would, at dinner—the air was chill, here among the peaks of the southern Frostbacks.

“They certainly seem to have bounced back,” said Gorim, looking around the room with a critical eye. “Though their headquarters were destroyed not a month ago, they are already able to offer us better accommodation than when we visited after their initial establishment.”

“Such are humans,” murmured Durin, amused. “Shemlen, as the elvhen call them. Quick to grow and quicker to act.”

“You have not exactly been slow, Your Majesty,” Gorim pointed out.

“No,” Durin mused. “No, I have not. Nor shall I. There is too much yet to do.”

Dinner was brought to the large dinner table in the keep’s grand hall on a series of wooden platters, carried in by a small troop of elf servants. Durin saw by the way Inquisitor Ellara’s eyes lingered upon them that she was at least as uncomfortable with the state of affairs as he was. Her expression was one of pity—on her immediate left, Solas’ expression was carefully blank, but Durin could see his eyes flashing with restrained rage.

The societal issues exposed by its arrival notwithstanding, the food itself was excellent. A wonderfully multicultural spread of recipes, from traditional Dalish roast hart, to a dwarvish nug-and-mushroom spiced hash, to a Tevene flatbread.

The conversation was unexpectedly relaxed. Despite the upheaval of the past few weeks, the Inquisitor and her inner circle seemed to have only grown more comfortable with one another.

Unexpectedly, halfway through the second course, Solas spoke up, looking down the table at a hulking Qunari who had apparently taken the name The Iron Bull.

(“He likes having the article in front of his name,” confided Dorian, a Tevinter mage who sat on Durin’s right. “He says—well, never mind what he says.” That a Tevinter Altus was looking at a Qunari with such affection both shocked and warmed Durin. It gave him hope for his nascent coalition.)

“Pawn to E4.” Solas’ tone was entirely conversational, as if this was a perfectly normal thing to say over dinner.

The Iron Bull grinned, eye flashing.

“Oh, not again,” groaned Dorian, but there was no stopping the tide.

“Pawn to E5,” said The Iron Bull, and they were off.

Durin found himself following the game, the board manifesting in his mind’s eye. Solas played aggressively—brutally so—while The Bull took a more defensive approach, constructing a stronghold of his pieces to take one after another of Solas’ powerful aggressors. The Iron Bull positioned his pieces in an arrow formation pointing towards the center of the board, holding what initially appeared to be a strong position. Solas, however, kept his pieces scattered, fluid—and with long, clear sightlines.

And in the end, with a single, masterful blow, Solas sent his tower all the way across the board, defended by a mage he had kept near the center of the field for half the game, and checkmated The Bull’s king by pinning it against the walls of his own stronghold.

Solas celebrated his victory with only a small smile. The Iron Bull growled, but the lines around his eyes belied his mirth. “I’ll get you one of these days, Solas,” he said.

“I look forward to it,” said Solas.

“Hmph. I’ll bet you do.”

“Must you engage in this foolishness while we are entertaining guests?” asked Vivienne, a dark-skinned Orlesian woman with a northeastern accent. She looked at both Solas and The Iron Bull like poorly-behaved children, but Durin wondered if behind her cultivated expression she was jealous of the performance. He wasn’t sure even he would have been able to play chess on that level without so much as a board.

“I don’t mind in the slightest,” Durin said, smiling. “At least, so long as you are both willing to entertain a game with me after the meal.”

“With a board?” The Bull asked. “Please say yes. I do have a board; Solas just refuses to use it.”

“Keeping the pieces straight sharpens the mind,” Solas said, unapologetic and unruffled. “But I suppose I would be willing to stoop to using pieces if you insist, Your Majesty.”

The next day, Durin joined the Inquisitor and her advisors in their new war room—a much more spacious one than the cramped office they had used in Haven’s chantry. “Thank you for coming, Your Majesty,” said Josephine with a curtsey as he entered, Gorim taking up a guard position at the door. “It means a great deal to have you visit so soon after our relocation.”

“The Inquisition remains an ally,” said Durin, “and a force to be reckoned with. I am happy to aid you in making that clear.”

“Even so,” said Leliana, “I assume your Assembly must be pushing you to negotiate terms more favorable to Orzammar, given our recent defeat.”

“They are,” acknowledged Durin. “And I have an idea for how we may quiet them.”

“Oh?” said Josephine. “Please, Your Majesty, do elaborate.”

“Two weeks ago, around the time of the attack on Haven, earthquakes began to collapse mining tunnels beneath the Storm Coast,” said Durin, looking at the Inquisitor. “I would like to request the Inquisition’s military aid in support of Shaper Valta, who is investigating the cause.”

Leliana raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t the Storm Coast an earthquake region?” she asked. “What cause does Shaper Valta expect to find?”

“She has an unusual theory,” said Durin, “but these earthquakes are clearly not entirely natural. They do not follow the fault lines and come too quickly to be the usual sort. I could send my own forces through the Deep Roads to Shaper Valta’s aid, but those routes are poorly mapped. It would take longer.”

“And this way, we can show that we are as committed to this alliance as you are,” said Josephine, looking at Cullen. “Can we spare the men, Commander?”

“My people aren’t trained to fight pitched battles underground,” said Cullen, shaking his head. “Even the irregulars would struggle.” He looked at the Inquisitor. “If we are to assist, I’m afraid it will need to be your vanguard that we send, Inquisitor.”

“We can do that,” she said slowly. “Yes, we can do that. We have that Red Templar stronghold on the Coast to clear out anyway, and Iron Bull has been pushing me to return there to fight the high dragon we saw when we recruited him.” She gave a sharp nod. “Very well, Your Majesty,” she said. “We will help your Shaper with her investigation. I’ll gather my team and make for the Storm Coast tomorrow.”

Chapter 6: Before the Fall

Notes:

Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.

Chapter Text

Word was slow to return from the Inquisition. Before he had left Skyhold, Durin had hashed out the details of their operation in Heidrun Thaig. Commander Cullen had suggested that the Inquisition’s army construct a lift down into the thaig from the Storm Coast, both to facilitate trade once the earthquakes were stopped and to shorten the travel necessary for Lavellan and her team—the only safe route to Heidrun Thaig currently would have the Inquisitor travelling hundreds of miles all the way across the length of Ferelden, from Skyhold in the southern Frostbacks to Kal’Hirol in northeastern Amaranthine.

“With a little luck,” Leliana had said, “we can get the Inquisitor to your Shaper in less than a month, well before she’s needed at the Winter Palace.”

It had not been quite so fast. The Inquisitor had ended up being delayed in an operation in the Emprise du Lion, which—while much closer to Skyhold—were on the Orlesian side of the Frostbacks. Still, Durin had not needed to wait until after Empress Celene’s masquerade at Halamshiral, a fact for which he was quietly both relieved and grateful.

Malgaran remained as loyal as ever, but the months of delay had understandably displeased him. Durin had ordered the lyrium mining in Heidrun Thaig ceased for the duration of the tremors, and had offered all miners full paid leave for the duration—leave for which he paid directly out of the royal treasury, by now full to bursting with gold won through the mithril trade and reclaimed from lost thaigs. That had mollified Malgaran somewhat, but he remained anxious to see the matter fully resolved.

Fortunately, the delay did end. Word came first from the Inquisition—a report penned in Leliana’s own hand, hand-delivered to Durin’s office five weeks after his own return from Skyhold.

“Sister Nightingale encourages you to read this report in private, Your Majesty,” the elvhen scout said in a low voice, dark eyes glittering in the light of the magma lamps. “I am told it bears… sensitive news.”

“Understood,” said Durin with a sharp nod. “Thank you. You are welcome to stay as a guest in the Aeducan compound as long as you like before your return.”

When the scout had left, Durin took a dagger and opened the sealed envelope. The first line read:

For the eyes of King Durin VII, Last of His Name, Paragon of Orzammar and Lord of the New Empire.

Durin immediately reached for his strongbox and pulled out his collection of ciphers. After all these years, a private code had developed between himself, Alistair, and Elissa—a code with multiple decryption keys. Which Durin was meant to use was determined by the order in which his titles were named.

Leliana was not technically one of the people meant to communicate with this cipher. However, since she was the one to design it on their behalf, it was not especially surprising to see.

The translated message, as one might expect, was far shorter than the encrypted one. It read thus:

King Durin,

The Inquisitor reports that Shaper Valta’s Titan did exist and was the source of the earthquakes. The details are unclear. She speaks of a beating heart of mineral lyrium, and claims that the entire cave system beneath Heidrun Thaig, perhaps including the thaig itself, is mined out of the Titan’s body.

The depths were defended by dwarves called, variously, Sha-Brytol and Umrâkhkarg. Neither is modern dwarvish, but I am told the former is a recognizable dialect. I suspect the second is the khuzdul you keep so secret. I have done my best to keep the word from spreading, out of respect to your traditions.

For that, Durin was grateful. It was khuzdul, unmistakably—translating to honored defenders.

These She-Brytol carried weapons unlike any I have heard of before. They broke upon the deaths of their wielders, but the fragments the Inquisitor retrieved appear to form a projectile weapon which, according to Iron Bull, operates on principles similar to some particularly advanced Qunari equipment. It is unclear how weaponry the Qunari only developed in the past two centuries came to be in the hands of a forgotten dwarven population.

The Sha-Brytol were unwilling to negotiate, or even to speak. They appeared to be defending the lyrium heart of the Titan. Shaper Valta, after exposure to the Titan’s heart, behaved in a noticeably erratic way. She specifically requested your presence, if you were willing to travel to Heidrun Thaig.

Given the unsettling behavior of both Shaper Valta and the Sha-Brytol, it is my personal recommendation that you do not go to her. I suspect blood magic, or something like it. However, if you choose to do so, the Inquisition is happy to offer an escort. Send my agent back to Skyhold with your answer, and if you wish our assistance we will send a company to Orzammar to escort you at once. You should know, however, that when Shaper Valta requested your presence, she did so under your title as Durin the Last.

Best,

Leliana

Durin let the note fall upon his desk, already deep in thought. So—the mysterious Titans existed. And, notably, their defenders retained knowledge of khuzdul. That suggested something more sinister than the slow decline Durin had assumed had befallen his people in his absence. He was reminded of Shaper Valta’s exile for refusing to alter the Memories. Had the Titans been deliberately excised from his people’s history? Had khuzdul itself?

There was only one way to find answers.

He found an unmarked sheaf of paper and began to write, using the same cipher as that which Leliana had used.

Leliana,

I thank you for the information. I shall go to Shaper Valta. I have questions which, I suspect, only she can answer. I do not need an Inquisition escort—I imagine your people are busy with the approaching masquerade in Halamshiral, as well as your other ongoing operations in Orlais. I will take my own guards, as it will be faster than waiting for this letter to pass into your hands and for your response to arrive upon my doorstep.

I appreciate your circ*mspection with regard to the khuzdul word which has fallen into your hands. The language, though long forgotten by my people now, was once sacred to us. To share it with outsiders was profane. It is not a matter of judgement or of pride—the language represents the bond of love and loyalty between my people and Mahal that made us. That both the Lord of Smiths and his language are lost to us is a greater shame in my heart than the fall of the old empire.

I heed also your warning. If you and the Lady Lavellan report that Shaper Valta was unlike herself after this exposure to the Titan, I believe you. However, I do not fear for myself. I am myself, and ever have been. I have been exposed in the past to works of great sorcery, Rings of Power which were meant to twist my mind and bend my will to the service of their master. They failed then, for the Dwarves of old were an unbendable people. Much of that heritage has been lost to my modern kin, but I remain as I was. I am unafraid, and you need not fear for me.

Do not hesitate to call upon me should the Inquisition have need. Orzammar’s gates are open to you, and so they shall remain for as long as you and I remain friends. I hope very much that will be an exceedingly long time.

At your service,

Durin VII

Durin set aside his pen. The letter he folded, placed in an envelope, then sealed with his royal signet. Emerging from the study, he handed it to a servant. “Take this to the elvhen scout from the Inquisition staying at the Aeducan compound,” he ordered, then turned to another across the room and called, “Go and fetch Commander Bravus! I require an hour of his time.”

“What’s happened, Your Majesty?” Gorim asked, voice pitched low and quiet as the servants bustled to obey.

“Word from the Inquisitor’s expedition in Heidrun Thaig,” Durin answered. “I must go—in person. I will need more of an escort than you alone, I think.”

Gorim nodded grimly. “Especially if we’re to travel on the surface,” he said. “Can we spare the dwarrows?”

“That is what I intend to ask the Commander,” said Durin. “If not, I will have to correct that letter.”

As it turned out, they could spare the dwarrows to escort Durin to the Storm Coast. Commander Bravus’ primary concern was something else entirely.

“The Nobles grow restless every time you leave Orzammar, Your Majesty,” he said, glancing at the empty seat in the chamber where, during Durin’s meetings with his advisors, Pyral Harrowmont usually sat. “They have not had a King who left Orzammar in living memory—and they have not had a King who went to the surface anywhere in the Memories at all. Your recent travels to Haven and Skyhold have been unsettling to them. I fear unrest.”

Durin grimaced. “How dire might it grow if I leave within the week?” he asked.

“It depends on how long you are gone,” said Bravus. “If you return in less than two weeks, perhaps as long as a month, it will probably not grow any worse. But if you are gone for more than that… there may be violence, Your Majesty. And it grows only more likely the longer you are gone.”

Durin took a moment to calculate the travel times. “That should be more than enough time,” he said finally. It was only a few days’ travel each way to Heidrun Thaig by surface roads, which gave him at least a week there—far longer than he expected to need, if this Titan truly did just want to speak. “But I must go. I must have answers—and if this Titan was truly able to injure or alter Shaper Valta’s mind, it must be myself in person.”

“Is that wise, Your Majesty?” asked Gorim. “I know you don’t think it can manipulate you, but what if you’re wrong?”

“I am not wrong,” said Durin simply. “I wore Cenya, the Emerald Ring, even as I fought a war against its maker. If Sauron the Deceiver could not control me, nothing in this latter world can. Commander, Gorim and I will need a small company of your fastest scouts. We will travel light and make for the Inquisition’s encampment on the Storm Coast. With luck, and if we push ourselves to haste, I can be back in no more than ten days.”

Commander Bravus bowed. “I will have an escort prepared for you by dawn, Your Majesty.”

Bravus was as good as his word. In less than twelve hours, Durin and his escort of a dozen dwarrows were departing Orzammar. As he walked through the bustling market town that had grown up around the great gates to the city in the past decade, Durin reflected on how much had changed since that day when two Wardens and their entourage stumbled into an assortment of tents and the impromptu bazaar that had sprung up around gates closed by a King’s death.

He passed by dwarrows selling artisanry from the city below, discussing merchant business with human caravaneers from Denerim, Redcliffe, and Amaranthine. He saw an elvhen trader with Dalish vallaslin trading handmade carvings from his people for dwarven gold.

The Orzammar thaig was slowly starting to bleed into the surface, and it made Durin’s heart surge with pride. He remembered the marketplace in Eregion outside the gates of Khazad-dûm, with the Sirannon merrily bubbling behind the merchants’ stalls. There was so much yet to do before his people were once more the Dwarves he remembered—but they were getting there.

They traveled in disguise as a merchant caravan, a covered cart traveling beside their troupe. Once they were a few miles east of the trading post, they parted ways with the loyal caravan which Common-Deshyr Maruk had provided. As the caravan continued eastward, towards Denerim, Durin and his escort turned north, towards the Calenhad River delta and the Waking Sea beyond.

They made good time. By nightfall on the third day of their travel, they reached the watch-fires of the Inquisition’s fortified encampment nestled among the windswept forests. As they drew near enough to be seen, Durin cast off the travel cloak he had worn and donned his crown so that he would be recognized.

The sentries had seen them coming at enough distance that, by the time they were in range, Durin could see no bows raised. However, surprise and confusion were still visible on many faces.

“Your Majesty,” said one soldier with a bow. The man was clad in steel armor whose make Durin recognized from one of Orzammar’s forges. “We had no idea you were coming. I’m Captain Holliday, commanding officer of this encampment. I’m sorry to say we’ve no accommodations prepared for you.”

“Entirely expected,” Durin said. “In the interest of haste, I left Orzammar before Sister Nightingale could receive word of my coming. I am here to follow up on the Inquisitor’s recent investigation in Heidrun Thaig. I believe the Inquisition has a lift leading below?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” confirmed Captain Holliday. He spoke with a slightly drawling accent which Durin vaguely recognized as coming from the western Free Marches. “It’s up the coast a ways, around a fissure in the Long River valley. Will you stay the night with us here before descending?”

“If you would not mind our benefitting from your fortifications,” said Durin, who had heard the distant shrieking of darkspawn on the wind beneath the whistling of the rainstorm as they approached.

“Of course not, Your Majesty.”

The next day, Captain Holliday escorted them up the Long River towards the fissure. As they turned into the valley, putting their backs to the coast, Durin spoke to the man over the sound of the pouring rain. “Have you felt the tremors here on the surface?”

“We did,” Holliday confirmed. “One of the bigger quakes even knocked over one of our palisades. It was an unpleasant business, I don’t mind telling you. But they’ve subsided since the Inquisitor returned.”

“Oh, have they?” Durin asked, surprised.

“They have indeed. No idea why. If the Inquisitor knew, she wasn’t sharing.” The captain’s face, seemingly accustomed to a smile, grew momentarily dour. “Whatever went on down there, it spooked her and her team. Her elf advisor—Solas? He looked like he’d seen a ghost. Barely spoke, even to her.”

Durin hummed thoughtfully. “I have received some word of what they found from Sister Nightingale,” he said. “I am not surprised that the Inquisitor found it unsettling. I am rather unsettled myself.”

The man glanced down at him. “You want some of my men to go down there with you?” he asked.

“That should not be necessary,” said Durin. “But I will send word to your camp if things change. Thank you, Captain.”

Captain Holliday nodded. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

They reached the lift—a rickety wooden construction built over a rocky crevasse in the mountainside. It was manned by a crew of half a dozen Inquisition soldiers in leathers, who saluted Captain Holliday and bowed to Durin as they approached. As they stood by the entrance to the lift, Durin turned to his soldiers.

“Gharvan, Merrick,” he said, gesturing to the two fastest of his escort. “You two remain up here. Should word come from below of my death or capture, make all haste back to Orzammar and bring word to my advisors. Captain Holliday, I ask that you send word at once to Skyhold should such a thing occur.”

“Of course, Your Majesty.” Captain Holliday looked nervous. “Uh, do me a favor and don’t get killed on my watch, would you?”

“I will do my very best,” said Durin. He turned and stepped onto the lift. His entourage followed. With a ponderous creaking, the platform began to descend into the fissure.

Minutes passed as they descended. Durin heard Gorim shifting beside him, his mithril gauntlet clinking audibly as he adjusted his grip on his warhammer. No words were spoken—the only sounds were the steady drip-drip of water trickling down the rock walls, the creaking of the lift beneath their feet, and the slow, tense breathing of half a dozen dwarves. Even the rainstorm above grew quiet as they dropped beyond its reach.

Finally, after more than five minutes, the wooden platform touched gently down upon the uneven stone floor of the cavern. Durin stepped off, scanning the gloom. The light from the sky above filtered down in a long, weak beam, falling upon the lift and its immediate surroundings, but leaving the darkness beyond in deep shadow.

A dwarrow emerged suddenly from that shadow. Durin had noticed his approach, but several of his entourage made audible sounds of surprise and startlement. The dwarrow was clad in the newly issued mithril armor of the Legion of the Dead. His legionnaire’s tattoos marked his brow and peeked out from beneath the sides of his beard.

He knelt, armor clinking against the stone. “Your Majesty,” he said in a rough, deep voice. “I—we had no idea you were coming.”

Durin noted the rank insignias on the legionnaire’s pauldron. “At ease, Commander,” he said. “Rise.”

The dwarrow did, dark eyes flickering among the party. “I’m Commander Renn,” he said, “leader of the Legion here in Heidrun Thaig. I went down with the Inquisitor and—and Shaper Valta, into the depths. I assume that’s why you’ve come?”

“It is,” said Durin. “Report, Commander.”

Renn nodded stiffly. “We passed below the Deep Roads through a fissure,” he said. “We encountered dwarves there—dwarves with armor grafted to their bodies with lyrium. They never spoke, but worked together as if they could read one another’s minds. They carried weapons that launched metal bolts faster than any crossbow. One would have killed me before we even knew to take cover, if it wasn’t for my armor.” He struck his breastplate with the knuckles of his gauntlet with a clang. “They tore through steel as easily as leather.

“They were guarding a—an underground—” He struggled visibly. “It was like the surface. Like an elvhen city, full of greenery and light and even birdsong. There was a city built there, all around a massive lyrium heart. Shaper Valta and the Inquisitor approached the heart and fought some sort of golem. Then Shaper Valta was struck by some kind of magic from the heart. When she stood up she was—different. She told the Inquisitor that she was in communication with the Titan, that it would stop its tremors. And she said the Titan wanted to speak with you, Your Majesty.”

Durin nodded slowly. “And where is Shaper Valta now?”

“Below,” said Renn. “She refuses to go above the lowest levels of the old thaig anymore. I can lead you if you’re ready.”

“Please do,” said Durin. Renn turned, and they followed him, walking down the tunnels and into the old masonry of the thaig. Durin recognized the craftsmanship of this place—more even than Orzammar, it resembled the workmanship of the Longbeards, his own people. Heidrun Thaig must once have been inhabited by the descendants of those who had lived with him in Khazad-dûm long ago.

After several minutes in silence, Durin took a few longer strides to catch up to Renn. “Commander,” he said. “Have there been any tremors since you returned from the depths?”

“One, Your Majesty,” said Renn. “Very small, no serious damage or injuries. Valta said the Titan was moving slightly ‘for safety.’ She didn’t explain what she meant.”

“And the workers? The miners, and the others living here in Heidrun? What has become of them?”

“Work crews have started to go back into the mines in reduced numbers,” said Renn. “They’re being as careful as they can, staying near to the entrances and putting up additional supports.”

“Very good,” said Durin. “What were the final casualties?”

“Twenty-three miners dead, along with five Legionnaires and seven other civilians,” said Renn promptly. “Several deaths were caused when a tremor opened a darkspawn tunnel in the south thaig.”

Durin sighed. “Too many. But it could have been far worse.”

They passed through the inhabited portions of the thaig. Several dwarrows poked their heads out of doors to watch them proceed down the street. Durin nodded in each one’s direction as he passed.

Soon enough, however, they entered the portions of the old city which had not yet been reclaimed. Fortifications remained manned by Legionnaires and by a garrison of Orzammar’s army, but the houses in the deeper portions of the thaig were crumbling wrecks, picked clean for supplies and artifacts but not yet repurposed for modern use.

They crossed a wooden bridge over a wide, deep chasm, and then came face to face with a dwarrowdam in armor of the black iron favored by the Legion of the Dead before they had been outfitted with mithril. Durin guessed, both by the absence of tattoos and the strangely still way she held herself, that this was the one he had come to see.

“Shaper Valta,” he greeted.

She cast her slightly glazed, distant gaze downward, kneeling. “Your Majesty,” she said. “Thank you for coming. It is an honor.”

It was not the words that had Durin suddenly taking a step back, reeling, nor that had his entourage blinking in confusion and concern. It was the fact that every one of those words were spoken in perfectly enunciated khuzdul. Not one of Orzammar’s Shaperate had yet attained such a mastery of the old tongue.

Durin swallowed and opened his mouth to reply. “I am told,” he said, in the same language, “that you wished to speak with me regarding the Titan you found in the depths here.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” said Shaper Valta. “Azsâlul'abad humbly requests an audience with you, oldest and fatherless.”

Azsâlul'abad? Wasn’t that… Durin reached deep within his memory. Azsâlul'abad was the name of a mountain in Middle-Earth. It was just south of the Grey Mountains. The Elves had called it Erebor—in the common tongue, it was known as the Lonely Mountain, for it stood alone, disconnected from the rest of the range of Ered Mithrim.

“This Titan has an old name,” he said.

“It does,” said Shaper Valta. “Will you speak with it? It wishes to hear your voice, which it never heard before.”

Durin took a deep breath. “I will.”

She stood, her gaze seeming to pass over him unseeing. With a bow, she turned and began to descend into the caves.

“Come,” Durin ordered his entourage. “She will lead us to the Titan.”

Renn murmured a soft oath on the Stone, but all of the dwarrows marched with Durin as he followed Valta into the dark.

The light was blinding when they suddenly stepped into it. They rounded a corner, dimly lit after a stretch of total darkness, and emerged into a sight like none Durin had ever before beheld. It was as though a forest kingdom of the Elves had been transposed into the very belly of the earth. Birds twittered among trees growing out of the bare rock ensconcing the cavern. Blue light filled the air, emanating from a rich lattice of lyrium veins converging on a massive crystalline heart in the center of the vast chamber. It refracted through the pale mists drifting upon a strange breeze, lighting the whole chamber as if in daylight.

Durin was conscious of Gorim’s sharp intake of breath beside him. Behind them, the rest of the party made similar expressions of astonishment and awe. Durin himself was struck dumb. Here was something unlike anything he had seen in Thedas or Middle-Earth, a beauty completely outside the experience of his many centuries.

Shaper Valta seemed entirely unmoved by the sight. She scrambled down a slope ahead of them, onto a stone platform which connected to a series of bridges. Durin followed her with his eyes for a moment before turning to Renn. “When did she start behaving… oddly?” he asked.

“When she got close to that heart,” Renn’s eyes, like the others’, were focused on the lyrium heart. However, where theirs were wide with awe, his were narrowed in distrust and dislike.

“Then you shall all remain here,” Durin ordered.

“Your Majesty!” Gorim began in protest.

Durin was unmoved. “I cannot be bent by sorcery or artifice. But in these latter days, that gift is mine alone. I will not risk your minds needlessly. I will speak to the Titan alone. You may follow at a distance, but do not draw near the heart. Am I understood?”

Gorim gritted his teeth. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Durin turned and followed Valta down. She led him across the bridges, over wide, misty gaps, towards the brilliant source of the light. The crystal heart was suspended by crystal strands of blue lyrium over a platform in the center of the cavern.

Gorim, Renn, and the others all halted at the far end of the bridge leading towards that central pedestal. Durin alone followed Valta across it. As he approached it, the soft ringing song of lyrium, ever present in these deep places, grew in crescendo until it was a symphony of joyous, triumphant music.

They reached the end of the bridge, and Valta stood aside, kneeling. Durin stepped past her, gazing up at the lyrium heart. It pulsed with light, its song shifting like harps changing key. The song filled Durin’s ears, and somehow, though there were no discernible voices among the pure tones, the sound resolved itself into words within his mind.

Hail, Durin the Last, First Son of Mahal. The Titan’s voice reminded Durin of the few times he had spoken with Ents as he wandered the forests beyond the Misty Mountains. It was slow, and thoughtful, but rich in both joy and sorrow.

“You are Azsâlul'abad?” Durin asked in khuzdul.

I am, the Titan confirmed. Once I was named Erebor. When your people built halls within my depths, they gave me my name in the tongue of stone. It was by that name which I awoke, and by that name which I slept.

For a moment, Durin didn’t understand. Then the realization washed over him. “You are Azsâlul'abad,” he breathed. “You are the mountain, the Lonely Mountain at the edge of Ered Mithrim, beyond the Sindar Greenwood, where Celduin, the River Running, has its source.”

I am. The Titan’s heart pulsed with light. After the fall of Khazad-dûm at the hands of the Balrog there unearthed, which your people came to know as Durin’s Bane, your grandson Thráin led your people east, to me. There they built a great kingdom, a new home for the Longbeards, and there they remained for many years. Save one brief exile, they remained there until the world was Sundered.

“Sundered?” Durin asked. “What happened? How do you—what are you? I remember no mineral like lyrium in Middle-Earth, nor was magic such as that which mages wield the domain of Men or Elves. How have you come to be here? How can you be that ancient mountain?”

So many questions! The Titan seemed to laugh, the music shivering with mirth. I shall answer them as best I can.

The Third Age ended with the fall of Sauron, who was Master of the Rings of Power, and with the departure of the last of the Noldor and Teleri Elf-kindreds,” he said. “However, the Avari Elves, who had never undertaken the Great Journey into the West, were left behind. They were few in number, in those days, and had been largely forgotten by the rest of their race, and by the other peoples of Middle-Earth. In the following Fourth Age, these Avari multiplied. Free from the threat of Sauron, they emerged from their hidden homes in the East and South and returned to the greener lands their kin had abandoned. It is from these Avari that the elves who came with us to Thedas are descended.

“Came with us to Thedas?” Durin interrupted. “Then Thedas is not the distant future of forgotten Middle-Earth?”

It is, answered Azsâlul'abad, in the same way that a plank in the foundations of a house is the future of a great tree. The tree died to birth the plank, and many of its brethren.

“Died?” Durin stared up at the giant heart of blue crystal. “How—what does it even mean for a world to die?”

I shall come to this, Your Majesty, said the Titan. You have my word. But the story should be told in order, with its beginning before its end. I would have you understand how we came to be here, not just where it is we have come to be.

Durin nodded. “Continue, then.”

I shall. The Titan paused, as if collecting its thoughts. After a moment, it continued. The Fourth Age was prosperous for all the free peoples of Middle-Earth. There was no great shadow like Morgoth or Sauron to trouble the Dwarves, or any of their allies. The greatest strifes of those centuries were regional wars fought between local kingdoms, for all the usual reasons.

Nearly eight centuries of peace went by in that Fourth Age, and in that time the Dwarves multiplied and grew. They reclaimed the lost realm of Khazad-dûm and established a great kingdom all around it in the southern Misty Mountains. But little of that history is known to me, for I had not yet been brought into being.

“Then when were you brought into being?” Durin asked. “And how do you know what you do about the days before?”

I came into being in the final days of the Fifth Age, said Azsâlul'abad. It was a dark and terrible time. The peace of the Fourth Age did not last. I heard some of the history in the years before I entered my long sleep, but I did not know everything. It seems now that much has been forgotten that ought to have been remembered.

“I have found this to be true indeed,” said Durin. “You also do not know how so much was lost?”

I do not. How the Dwarves could have forgotten Khuzdul, forgotten Mahal, I do not know. The Titan sounded grim. But that we Titans were excised from your people’s Memories entirely suggests that it was not a mere accident of long history.

“I agree,” Durin said. “But for now, please, continue. How did the Fourth Age end?”

The turning of the age was marked by the discovery of an artifact buried deep beneath the Ephel Dúath. Azsâlul'abad said. I know not what that artifact was, but I was told that it twisted the minds of the dwarrows who found it. They brought it back with them to their homeland in the Ered Lithui, and that kingdom soon grew dark and strange to their former allies. Strange powers did they wield, and strange obsessions drove them. They began to expand, making war against ever more distant neighbors. But the true horror came to pass as those neighbors, too, began to unlock similar powers, and to drive themselves with similar obsessions.

“This madness spread, not between friends, but between foes?” Durin asked.

So I was told.

“How can that be? What kingdom would accept gifts or missionaries from a rival in open war?”

I do not know, Azsâlul'abad said. Perhaps these gifts were given under friendly guise, like the Rings of Power from the hand of Annatar. Or perhaps the survivors of battles against the enemy were somehow tainted by their weapons and magics. If any of the Dwarves I knew before my sleep knew how this contagious madness spread, they did not tell me.

Durin sighed. He was getting some answers, but they were leading to more questions, and increasingly he was worrying that the things he did not know would one day hurt him and his people. “Very well. Continue, Azsâlul'abad.”

The warlike madness spread, said the Titan. Old alliances fractured. Kingdoms and empires fell to ruin. There were some who resisted, who formed strong bonds of friendship against the darkening world, who relied on one another. But with every passing decade they were pushed further back westward and northward.

In the final days of the Fifth Age, the skies themselves grew dark. Strange shapes descended from beyond the stars, greeted with adulation by the warlike peoples who had come to worship them. The Spider-Queen Ungoliant had returned, bringing with her terrible power. A frail coalition resisted her, with the Iron Hills and the Lonely Mountain in alliance with the Men, Elves, and other folk who lived near them. Others resisted in other corners of the world—Khazad-dûm never again fell into the hands of the enemies of the Dwarves. But those who resisted quickly dwindled. And it was in this darkest hour that Mahal himself returned to the Dwarves.

“Mahal came from the West?” Durin asked, once more cursing the amnesia that prevented him remembering the long years between his returns. “He came to Middle-Earth himself, in person?”

He did. Azsâlul'abad’s tone was reverent. He delved deep into the heart of the Lonely Mountain. He unearthed the tomb of one of your descendents, a revered King Under the Mountain. Within that tomb was buried a great gemstone, the Mountain’s Heart, and into this gem Mahal imparted a single breath of the Secret Fire, which had been dispatched to him for the purpose. And thus was I born.

Mahal forged for me the veins of lyrium blood which sustain me, granted me limbs of stone which move me. He allowed me to pull myself, and all the Dwarves hidden away safe within my caverns, out from the ground of Middle-Earth.

For it had been decreed by Eru Ilúvatar that Arda, beset as it was by the agents of Silent Ungoliant, she who feasts upon her own flesh and is neither sated nor slain, was to be Sundered. As an intraversible gap was laid between Middle-Earth in the East and Aman in the West after the crimes of the Men of Númenor, so would Middle-Earth be shattered after the rise of Ungoliant’s servants. Its people would be scattered among worlds as numerous as the stars in the sky.

Durin’s eyes were wide. As numerous as… “Then there are Dwarves on some of these other worlds, as well?” he asked. “Dwarves to whom I have not returned—to whom, if this is truly my last incarnation, I shall never return?”

There are, said the Titan. At least three worlds received Titans, when Arda was Sundered. I followed Mahal as he traveled, first north to the Iron Hills, then West to the Misty Mountains, awakening Titans as he went. Others among the Ainur traveled to the forests, the rivers, the plains, and gathered other peoples, sometimes creating for them other guardians, in preparation for the difficult journeys to come.

Mahal made us, we Titans, to be homes for the Dwarves wherever they might go. Whatever the shape of the world where Eru’s adopted children found themselves, they would not lack for mountains in which to live. And so, when at last Arda was Sundered with a great clamor and calamity, I came to rest upon the newborn soil of Thedas. I, and several of my siblings. We laid down roots among the mountain ranges, and then we slept, for the voyage to Thedas was long and arduous, and we were tired.

Long have we slept. But now, some of us have awoken. The Titan’s song grew somber. Some of us, I think, have been changed during our slumber. I can hear Methedras singing, and its song is much altered, twisted by corruption and Blight.

“Red lyrium,” Durin realized, awe and horror twisting in his heart. “If lyrium is the blood of Titans, then red lyrium must be… the blood of a Titan infected with the Blight.”

Just so. The music of the Titan softened into something like a sigh. Alas, I fear the long safety of the Dwarves is coming to an end. I can hear the whispers of the Void, of Ungoliant who hungers, growing more present by the day. She reaches greedy limbs, tipped with baited lures, into the fabric of Thedas. It will not be long before someone answers. She is held at bay by whatever strange magic raised up a barrier between the Seen and Unseen of Thedas, but that Veil will not hold her forever.

“The Veil—” Durin could not speak. The realizations were falling one upon the next like dominoes.

The Fade was what had, in Middle-Earth, been known as the Unseen. The Dwarves had always been more distant from that otherworld, which was why even the Rings of Sauron could not twist them into wraiths. Here on Thedas, where the Unseen manifested as the Fade, that meant that Dwarves could not become mages.

The Veil was artificial. It was a deliberately-placed barrier between Seen and Unseen. But who had built it? And what was it meant to keep at bay? Which side was it meant to seal?

And if Ungoliant, the Light-Eater who consumed the Trees before the dawn of the first day, was truly reaching into this world… then his instincts regarding the Anvil of the Void had been correct. The Spider’s baited lure had enticed Branka to obsession. If he and Elissa had allowed her to continue making golems, how long would it have been before the cost became apparent? How long before the crack in the world which allowed the Void’s power to seep through widened enough for more of its influence to spread?

“This is… a great deal to digest,” he admitted at last to Azsâlul'abad.

I understand, it said. I will remain here to answer any questions you have.

Durin glanced over at Valta, still kneeling behind him. “What happened to her?” he asked. “Why have you so altered her mind?”

An accident. The Titan’s voice was regretful. It was the first time I had communed with a dwarf who had not been twisted by the drinking of my blood, the lyrium-madness, in many ages. I connected my mind with hers with too much eagerness, too much haste, and the experience overwhelmed her. She will recover—she is already recovering. In a matter of months, she will be well again. Altered, perhaps, by the experience. She will never again forget khuzdul, and she will remain attuned to the songs we Titans sing, better able to hear us than most. But she will once again be herself.

“I am glad,” said Durin. He turned back to Azsâlul'abad. “My people have mined lyrium for many years,” he admitted, “to fuel our enchantments and the magic of humans and elves. It will be difficult to call a halt to the process—it is the dwarves’ most profitable trade by far.”

There is no need, Azsâlul'abad reassured him. Lyrium was made to be valuable. I replenish it quickly, and I am meant to be of use to you, as are all my kind. I ask only that you are careful, and that you communicate with me as you mine my veins. I will tell you if you begin to drain me faster than I can replenish, but I do not think such a thing will occur for many years to come.

Durin grimaced. “It is unsettling to consider mining the veins of a living, thinking creature,” he said.

Think nothing of it, said the Titan. It is no more strange than drinking the milk of a dairy-cow or eating the honey of a beehive. I feel no pain at the loss of lyrium, so long as it is not enough to be a danger to my life. And in all the centuries I have slept, I have never once been endangered by the mining dwarves above. Fear not for me, King Durin.

“Well, I thank you,” said Durin. “Now, I must go soon, and return to Orzammar. Have you any advice for finding the other Titans’ hearts? I would rather mine lyrium only from those Titans who are awake to monitor their own condition.”

Dig deep, advised the Titan. There will be tunnels already, leading down into our hearts. There are no Balrogs here to unearth, though there may be Blighted things. But I shall sing a song of waking to my brethren, in hopes that they shall wake to call you to them.

“Thank you,” said Durin. Then he turned to Valta. “Shaper,” he ordered, still in khuzdul. “You will remain here as an envoy, a go-between for the Titan and the miners above. See to it that, if Azsâlul'abad feels its life is threatened by our mining, that the miners cease at once, by order of the King.”

“It shall be done, Your Majesty,” promised Shaper Valta.

Durin turned back to Azsâlul'abad. “The elves,” he said. “You mentioned the Avari remained in Middle-Earth after the Third Age. I assume they are the Thedosian elves’ ancestors?”

I can only assume so, the Titan said. When Arda was Sundered, there were no Elves within my belly. But when I came to rest upon Thedas, there were Elves in the forests above. If they came from elsewhere, I know not where.

Durin nodded. “I will likely have more questions, eventually,” he said. “But for now, I must go. My people will be worrying, both by guards here and my advisors in Orzammar.” Fortunately, he was still well within the schedule Commander Bravus had set for him. “I thank you for the insight, Azsâlul'abad. It answers many questions I had.”

I am honored to be of service, Eldest and Fatherless, said Azsâlul'abad. My King.

Chapter 7: Again From Sleep

Notes:

Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading

Chapter Text

Part 7: Again From Sleep

Three Years Later

Durin had watched with delight and pride as Ellana Lavellan’s Inquisition grew by the month. The death of the Magister Sidereal, Corypheus, was only the first of their triumphs. The organization blossomed from a small, half-trained band of idealists to an independent force to be reckoned with.

The political landscape of Thedas had been significantly reshaped in the past few years, not all in ways Durin would have predicted. The Inquisition’s visit to Halamshiral had somehow reconciled Empress Celene with an elvhen former friend. This friendship had been the impetus for the Emerald Graves to be granted once more to the elves. Durin retained good relations with the Dalish and city-elf immigrants to southern Thedas, but his hopes of adding the Dales to his burgeoning coalition were, for now, dashed.

Instead, a stark divide was growing along the Frostbacks. On one side were Ferelden and Orzammar, bound together as they were by the long friendship between King Alistair and Durin. On the other were Orlais and the reconstituted Dales. The Free Marches were split, with Kirkwall and its near trading partners standing with Ferelden while Starkhaven and its defensive pact joined the Orlesian alliance.

And in the center of it all, the Inquisition headquartered in Skyhold, straddling the border between the rival nations.

Thus far, there was no serious risk of war. Orlais and Ferelden retained openly cordial relations, and Durin, Ellana, and Briala of the new Dales all did their best to mediate.

But it seemed that at long last events were coming to a head. Divine Victoria—formerly Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, one of the Inquisition’s founders—had called an Exalted Council. The explicit purpose was to determine the fate and nature of the Inquisition going forward.

The invitation reached Durin’s desk only a few days before a missive from King Alistair.

Durin, read his friend’s note.

Arl Teagan—a friend of mine, but he’s become prideful as a peaco*ck in his old age—is raising a fuss about the Inquisition holding Caer Bronach, as well as retaining patrols within Ferelden and the Redcliffe Arling. It’s his complaint to Divine Victoria, at least in part, that’s caused all of this Exalted Council business.

Thing is, legally, he’s entirely in the right. The Inquisition is technically an unaffiliated military force holding territory unlawfully within Ferelden. I’ve been able to smooth things over for a while, but with the Inquisition showing no signs of disbanding, moving, or buying the lands they occupy from the Crown, I’ve run out of room to maneuver.

Arl Teagan wants to go to the Exalted Council in person, to represent Ferelden. He’s certainly within his rights, and if I were to send a representative, it wouldn’t make sense to send anyone else. But there’s—

Here several lines of text were blotted out, as if Alistair had struggled with what to write before continuing.

Morrigan showed up in Denerim a few weeks ago, he wrote. She and her—our—son. The boy is odd. I think he even unsettles Morrigan, and you know how difficult she is to unsettle. He apparently wants to go to the Exalted Council, and he wants you there, too.

I can’t justify sending my unacknowledged bastard with Arl Teagan, no matter how open the secret of his parentage is. But if I go in person, especially if both Elissa and Morrigan accompany me, then it makes perfect sense. So, really, this is all a long-winded way of asking if you’d be interested in getting the old crew back together in Val Royeaux in a few months?

I understand if you don’t want to travel overland all the way to central Orlais. Kieran is… very insistent. He said to tell you—word for word, he was very insistent—‘We need to speak. Ask the heart what I am.’ I’ve no idea what that means, and I hope you’ll tell me. Whatever strangeness Morrigan did all those years ago, the boy is clearly not what you’d call normal.

Anyway, I do hope you’ll join us. Send word if you will, and I’ll hope to see you soon.

Best,

Alistair

Durin smiled at his old friend’s delightful informality. His face darkened as he read through the description of Kieran. It fell still further as he read the boy’s message.

Ask the heart what I am.

How did the boy even know about the Titans? It was a secret Durin had kept in the interest of security—if it became common knowledge that lyrium was the blood of ancient living mountains, and that these mountains could, if awakened, cause tectonic calamities the like of which Thedas had never known… He did not know how the people of the surface would react, but he doubted it would be graceful.

The boy had been conceived as part of a strange ritual of Morrigan’s invention, or perhaps the invention of her mother. Its purpose was to allow both Elissa and Alistair to survive the assault on the Archdemon during the Blight. By all appearances, the ritual had succeeded. But why a child had been necessary, Durin had no idea.

He stood from his desk and called for a servant to summon Commander Bravus. He needed to make an expedition back to Heidrun Thaig.

-x-x-x-

A dark ritual? Azsâlul'abad asked, rumbling mental voice thoughtful. Hm. And you say this boy was conceived the night before the death of an Archdemon?

“Yes,” Durin confirmed.

Then I have a guess, said the Titan, but it is only a guess.

“The boy seemed to think you would know,” Durin said.

Then I suspect my guess is accurate, Azsâlul'abad mused. The old gods, as you say the Archdemons were once called, did not exist by the time I went into my slumber. But— he stopped suddenly. …Do you know the names of these old gods, perhaps?

“I do,” Durin said, reaching back into his studies of the Blights, which had taken on increased significance after Corypheus’ onslaught. “The Archdemon that the Wardens fought at Denerim was Urthemiel, I believe.”

Ah! Then I do have an answer for you, said Azsâlul'abad with some satisfaction. Urthemiel and his six siblings were our escort when we escaped Middle-Earth. They were lesser Maia, sent to help all of us—Dwarves, Titans, Elves, and Men—to establish ourselves in the new world. They helped us immensely in those first days, but shortly before I fell into sleep, they withdrew from the realms of the Dwarves. I never knew where they went, nor why.

Durin’s mouth, he found, had dropped open. The boy—Alistair’s unsettling naturalborn son—was a Maia ? One of Mahal’s own Zadad kin? “The ritual must have siphoned Urthemiel’s spirit into a form untouched by the Blight,” Durin said. Another realization came cresting behind the first. “This means that the Archdemons are—corrupted Maia?”

It would seem so, said the Titan unhappily. The Blight is a vile thing. It has corrupted at least one of my own siblings, and now I find it has done the same to five of the seven Maia who helped us establish here on Thedas so long ago.

Here in the chamber of the Titan’s Heart, Durin always felt somewhat small. The scope of the living mountain’s being was, while in theory much younger than his own, still immensely ancient—and vast in a way no dwarrow, not even he, could truly match. So when Azsâlul'abad ponderously turned the vastness of his attention entirely on Durin, the sensation was like that of an insect being pinned to a board.

I do not know if the Blight can be exterminated, said the Titan. I do not know if it can be stopped at all. But your final coming, here in these latter days, makes me think that perhaps even that dark narrative is coming to an end.

“You think the world is soon to be renewed,” Durin said.

I do, confirmed the Titan. The elves may not be returning from the West, but those Avari who remained here are rising up again. The veil that separates Seen from Unseen is coming apart at the seams, though that decay has been slowed by your allies. Dragons have returned to the world, and I know not how or from whence. And we Titans, we living mountains, are waking up again. I come back to myself in a time of omens, a time of great change and of prophecy, King Durin, Eldest and Fatherless. Whatever this boy—Kieran, Urthemiel, or whatever name he chooses to use—has to say to you, I advise you heed him.

-x-x-x-

Alistair grinned boyishly when he saw Durin standing in the shade of a cliffside. The man’s face was more lined than the last time they had seen each other, but his golden hair had not yet started to grey. “Durin!” he called merrily, swinging his leg over the side of his horse. His guards quickly moved to follow him, but he was already jogging over to where Durin and Gorim stood with a small escort.

“King Alistair,” Durin greeted, his smile rather wider than he had expected it to be. “It’s good to see you again, my friend.” He looked past Alistair at the woman descending much more sedately from her own horse. Her visor still covered her face, but Durin recognized his own handiwork, and at her hip she still carried Fiendsblood . “And Queen Elissa, too. How are you both?”

Alistair’s smile fell slightly, but he soon rallied. “We’ve been all right,” he said. “Things have been wonderfully calm in Denerim since Corypheus was stopped. Some of the nobles here in the west have been grumbling, of course, but grumbling is about two-thirds of a noble’s job anyway. Wouldn’t want them to feel useless.”

“He’s been uncomfortable this whole trip,” Elissa told Durin conspiratorially. “Having both Kieran and Morrigan here bothers him.”

“I’m not bothered,” grumbled Alistair. “I’m just… uncomfortable.”

“Right,” drawled Elissa, pulling off her helmet. She gave Durin a smile, and not for the first time he was astonished at how warm the expression was. Time had softened Elissa Theirin; time to rest, to grieve for what she had lost and to enjoy what she had gained. The fierce, warlike woman who had marched into the encampment outside Orzammar more than a decade ago was still there, evidenced in the hard glint that came into her eye whenever something earned her ire. But no longer was that anger simmering just below the surface. “How have things been in Orzammar, Durin?” she asked.

“Well enough,” said Durin. “Though I seem to grow busier maintaining the network of alliances between us and our neighbors with every passing hour.”

“You’re the one who wanted to make friends with absolutely everyone,” said Alistair. “Personally, I’m perfectly happy to let someone be my enemy. If only because it gives the nobles someone besides me to complain about.”

“Mine is a kingdom built on commerce and trade,” said Durin. “We cannot trade without partners, despite what some of the Noble Caste might seem to think.” He looked past the two at the small caravan of wagons and carriages which had slowed to a stop at the side of the ancient stone road. “I hope you have room for us in your fleet,” he said. “I fear we will not be able to keep pace with horses.”

“We have plenty of room,” said Alistair, waving airily. “We figured you might need transport. Not a lot of horses in Orzammar, from what I remember.”

“There’s room in Morrigan’s carriage, too,” said Elissa quietly, giving Durin a meaningful look. “Enough for you and Gorim.”

Durin nodded gravely. “Then we shall join them,” he said. “I have a feeling young Kieran and I have much to discuss.”

A few minutes later, all of Durin’s entourage had found placements in one wagon or another, and Durin was hoisting himself up the human-proportioned steps to a particular covered carriage of rich, dark wood, pulled by a pair of black horses. He opened the door into the gloom.

Two pairs of hawkish golden eyes appraised him from the forward-facing bench in the back of the compartment. “King Durin,” said Morrigan with a slow nod.

Kieran said nothing, but his yellow eyes glittered in the dark.

“Lady Morrigan,” Durin greeted, taking his seat so that Gorim could follow him in. “And Kieran—if that is the name you prefer?”

“It is,” said Kieran in a voice as smooth and musical as silk running over harpstrings.

“A pleasure, then,” said Durin. He leaned forward. “I am told you wanted to speak with me?”

Kieran considered him. “I don’t know everything yet,” he said, sounding as thought he was offering a warning. “And some of what I know I don’t think it would be safe to share yet.”

“Safe for whom?” Durin asked.

“Any of us,” said Kieran. “I have some knowledge of the coming weeks, but it is incomplete. The fate of Thedas hangs in the balance. Stray from the path even a little and we will all suffer for it.”

“And you feel you are better equipped to determine the right path than His Majesty?” Gorim asked stiffly.

“He is right to,” Durin said, glancing at his Second. “I am not the one receiving prophecies. There is a reason for it. We must trust him.”

“How refreshing,” Morrigan commented dryly.

Durin’s eyes flickered over her before he turned back to Kieran. “Does she know?”

“Some,” said Kieran. “She knows her part in things—what I had become before she offered me a way out. But our shared history? No.”

Morrigan shot her son a look. “Shared history?” she asked. “Durin, I am told, is the reincarnation of a dwarf from many millennia ago. I was unaware that he had interacted with the old gods of Tevinter in that time.”

“We never met,” Kieran informed his mother, “and we were not—were never—gods, despite what Tevinter liked to think. But Durin and I both remember fragments of the world that came before Thedas.” He looked at Durin. “I suspect your memory is more complete than mine,” he said. “I have only been able to recall snatches. Splinters chipped from the glacier of the past.”

“I only remember the times for which I was alive,” said Durin. “But those periods, I recall well.”

Kieran nodded. “I remember parts of the Sundering,” he said softly. “The black vessels descending from the night sky, and the Silence that blanketed the world. The frost and the flame. We Ainur were sent to hold her back long enough for the people of Arda to take shelter. I remember the thunderous sound as the world was broken. I and my six siblings stayed here, with several of the Dwarves’ Titans and a small population each of Avari and Men. I remember watching the shard of the world unfold itself, unspooling into a world in its own right. I remember being awed by the richness of Song, here—how loud and how beautiful the Fade could be.” He sighed. “And I remember our horror at watching what became of the Avari with so much power at their fingertips.”

“Elvhenan,” Durin realized. “The ancient elvhen empire of Dalish myth.”

“Yes. Elvhenan, and the Evanuris who ruled it.” Kieran’s golden eyes were downturned, looking at his clasped hands between his knees. He looked at once both the young boy of twelve years and the Maia of uncountable centuries, sitting there hunched in the half-light. “They were the first,” he said. “There were few Avari who came, and those few multiplied. The first few generations were told of Arda, of the world that was, but soon it passed into the realm of historians rather than of cultural egregore. And those first Avari, who had been here longest, who had been learning to wield the Song, through the Fade, for longer than any others—they began to turn that power to selfish ends. They fought over land, over resources, over people. Those who were defeated were first pushed to find new territory, then slain, and finally enslaved.”

“Enslaved?” murmured Durin in horror. “The Avari—the Elves—practiced slavery?”

“They did,”said Kieran. “And it was those Avari who remembered Arda who were the worst offenders. Not all—there were some who stayed true, remained in the light. Mythal was leader of these. But many others…” His eyes slid shut. “It is insidious, the Silence,” he murmured. “The Blight is a misdirection, I fear. It is meant to make us think that when one is subverted, it is an obvious thing. But the Silence is only overt, only loud, when it chooses to be.

“More often, it plants its seeds where one feels safest. It waters them with temptation, with fear, with obsession. Slowly, over lifetimes, it works its dark sorcery over all it can reach. We thought ourselves safe when we escaped Arda. We were wrong. Fear and horror planted seeds in all of us. In the Avari, that seed grew into a will to power, a desire to dominate in order to become secure. In the Dwarves, it grew into insularity and stagnation. The Dwarves stopped exploring beyond the network of tunnels provided by the Titans. They stopped coming to the surface to interact with their neighbors. They hid away in the dark and tried to forget. And in Men the seed grew into a haste, a need to outstip and overtake any rival with the march of progress. In that haste, they have become both the most numerous of Thedas’ people, and the most fractured.

“And in us…” Kieran took a shuddering breath. “In us, it engendered a paternalistic hubris. We alone had stood against the Silence. We alone had held it back. We would defend the people of Thedas because they could not defend themselves. And so, when the Blight that the Silence had left to fester in the heart of this world reared its head, we sallied forth to destroy it. In our failure, we doomed hundreds of thousands to die.”

Quiet fell. The only sound was the clop of hooves against the stone outside, and the creak of the wheels below them. “Erebor—the Titan which awoke—believed that we were nearing a culmination,” Durin said. “An ending.”

“We are,” said Kieran. “Things are in motion that cannot now be stopped. And I think it shall begin at the Exalted Council.”

“Why?” Durin asked.

“All of the leaders of Southern Thedas will be gathered,” said Kieran. “As will you, Durin the Last, and I, last of the Seven Drakes to retain his mind. Were I an agent of Silence—as, I remind you, I was for many years—there would be no better target for me to strike.”

“Then what shall we do?” Durin asked.

“Keep eyes and ears open,” said Kieran quietly. “But be careful. We must not be fearful, for fear is one of her webs. We must not be paranoid, for obsession is another. We must not be overconfident, for hubris is a third. Always remember, King Durin, that the greatest danger to your people is always what you will become if she can inject her poison into your blood.”

“Is there any way to stay safe?” Durin found that there was cold sweat on his brow. The naked fear with which Kieran spoke was infectious. “If we cannot be too afraid, or too confident, or too paranoid, what can we be?”

“You can be true to yourself,” said Kieran, “and true to the path. If you know where you are and where you are going, you need not fear the forest no matter how winding the road.”

-x-x-x-

It was a few more days’ travel before they arrived at Halamshiral. They were greeted graciously by Orlesian nobles and Chantry devotees alike. They were wined and dined, and politely prodded over their intentions for the coming discussions. Alistair and Elissa had far worse of it than Durin, for it was in their territory that the Inquisition was established, and it was a Fereldan grievance that had led to this discussion in the first place. Durin was here primarily as a courtesy, due to Orzammar’s status as a trading partner to Ferelden, the Inquisition, and the Dales.

Unfortunately, the past twelve years had not been enough to satiate the Orlesian nobility’s curiosity over a dwarven king who walked beneath the sky. They were eminently polite in their poking and prodding, but being the object of such exotic fascination was never an enjoyable experience.

Fortunately, it lasted only two short days before, at last, the Inquisition arrived. A sizeable host of soldiers marched into Halamshiral, and at their head were three figures on horseback. Commander Cullen and Ambassador Josephine flanked Inquisitor Lavellan as she guided her horse in a stately walk down the grand avenue.

Durin had seen Ellana a few times since the defeat of Corypheus. The first time had been the worst—she had looked as if she had not eaten in a week. He had managed, much to all of her advisors’ pleasure, to convince her to appear at meals by distracting her with business topics which carefully stayed as far as possible from the Fade, Corypheus, or—most of all—her vanished lover.

Solas had seemingly disappeared into thin air after Corypheus fell. Durin had spoken with several people about it. Both Leliana and the Iron Bull were intensely frustrated at their own inability to find any sign of him. Ellana was, as a rule, kept out of these conversations. She knew they were doing all they could to find him, and that was all she needed to hear on a regular basis.

For his part, Durin was still, even two years later, quietly seething. Solas was a friend to him, and he had thought much better of the odd elf. It was not that he was not entitled to part ways with Ellana if that was his wish, but to do so without so much as a word to her or to anyone else at all was cruel. She had loved him—she still did, as far as Durin could tell. He had thought Solas reciprocated. He still wasn’t sure whether he had been wrong, or if perhaps Solas had some reason to vanish so, despite his feelings.

Ellana had grown healthier over the past two years. Light had returned to her eyes, color to her cheeks. She still occasionally lost the thread of a conversation, gazing wistfully out to the horizon, but when she shook free of reminiscence she was once more able to smile.

But today, as she rode slowly into the courtyard of the Winter Palace, she seemed to have regressed. Her eyes were sunken, her face pale. She held the reins gingerly in one hand, while her other—the hand which had been marked at the Conclave almost four years ago—was carefully folded against her torso.

She smiled wanly when she saw them. “Hello, King Durin,” she said, halting her horse beside him and giving him a proximate bow from the saddle.

“Inquisitor Lavellan,” he responded with a nod in return. “How have you been?”

Her smile faded. “I’ve been better,” she said quietly. He saw her flex her marked hand with a concealed wince.”

“Is it hurting you again?” he asked quietly.

She nodded. “It stopped for a while after we closed the breach,” she said. “It started again for a bit until we beat Corypheus. Now… It’s been getting worse for months.”

“I am sorry,” said Durin.

“Me too,” muttered Ellana. Then she sighed. “I’m glad you could make it, though,” she said. “This is going to be hard enough with a friendly face.”

“Are you worried about the outcome of these talks?” Durin asked.

“Sort of? It’s more that I’m not sure what the right outcome is,” said Ellana. “Orlais wants us under their authority. Ferelden wants us disbanded. The Chantry is trying to be apolitical under Cassa—Divine Victoria. My advisors want us to stay independent.” She looked at him. “What about you? What do you want out of this?”

Durin considered that. “I have enjoyed having the Inquisition as a trading partner,” he said, “and I think King Alistair feels the same. I gather that the source of the conflict between the Inquisition and Ferelden is that you hold Fereldan forts without having officially leased the lands from their local teyrnir. Perhaps you can negotiate to do so? Lease the forts legally so that you can continue operating independently?”

“We’d have to lease territory in Orlais, too,” said Ellana, but she sounded thoughtful. “Josephine had a similar idea. We’re just not sure where we could come up with the funds. We’ve been a bit aimless since Divine Victoria was elected. Order has been restored. During the chaos we could get funding through bounties, mercenary work, and our own resource gathering. Now, it seems like every sprig of elfroot is owned by someone else. Our coffers are drying up.”

“That is a problem,” said Durin slowly. “I will have to think about this. We may be able to help one another.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” said Ellana, giving him a grateful look. “We owe you a lot already, Your Majesty.”

“Nonsense,” said Durin. “Everything I have given to you has been in trade for something of equal value. My Assembly would not have it any other way.”

It was even mostly true. Durin was generous, perhaps, but only because with the rediscovery of mithril and the booming growth of the New Empire, he could afford to be. The Noble Assembly had trouble understanding that his generosity was buying them goodwill, but the rest of the Assembly were far more used to the need to build and maintain friendly relations with one’s peers, rather than merely cordial ones.

“Well, your trades of equal value have pulled us out of more than a few serious scrapes,” said Ellana. “So, thank you. I hope to see you at the council, but for now I need to get some rest.” She huffed a small laugh. “Maybe even have a bath. I still have dreams about the baths here in Halamshiral.”

“They are magnificent,” Durin agreed. “Be well, Inquisitor.”

“And you, Your Majesty.”

-x-x-x-

The discussions began, in Durin’s opinion, quite smoothly. Alistair was eminently reasonable—he liked Ellana, and he liked having the Inquisition as a buffer between himself and Orlais. He carefully framed Arl Teagan’s complaint as a legal necessity rather than an attack on the Inquisition’s sovereignty. “We don’t have any objection to the Inquisition operating within reason within Ferelden,” he said, in that easygoing lilt of his, “but it’s causing internal problems for some of our nobility to have lost jurisdiction over keeps within their own holdings without any lease or sale being made.”

“If the Inquisition finds itself forced out of its holdings in Ferelden, said Duke Cyril de Montfort, Empress Celene’s representative, “we would be more than happy to offer them a home within Orlais.”

“The Inquisition already holds several forts within Orlais,” Alistair reminded the duke. “Suledin Keep, for instance.”

“Indeed,” said Duke Cyril haughtily. “And we are not trying to oust them after all the work they have done to secure the surrounding lands.”

“No one’s forcing the Inquisition out of anywhere,” said Alistair, almost soothingly. “I just want to know who’s going to pay Arl Teagan for the use of his fortress in Crestwood.”

And on it went, until they broke for lunch. Ellana disappeared with her advisors, and Durin joined Alistair at his table. The young king’s smile had slid off his face, replaced by a look of profound exhaustion.

“You did well,” said Durin.

“I know,” groaned Alistair. “Elissa’s going to be insufferable about it. She’s been telling me that my studies would start paying off, and blast it all if she wasn’t completely right, as usual.”

“She does have a habit of it,” said Durin dryly.

And so things continued. The first day came and went. Then the second, and the third. A week.

Some things were happening outside the negotiations. Durin was hearing whispers of tensions—scuffles between servants of Orlais and the Inquisition, an ongoing investigation which the Inquisition seemed to be keeping secret. But nothing happened to suggest any immediate danger.

Nothing, that is, until the tenth day of the negotiations. He and Alistair were having lunch together again when the door to their private dining chamber burst open. Durin’s head snapped to it, startled. Elissa Theirin stood there, clad in her full mithril plate, helmet under one arm. Her face was set and grim. Beside her, Gorim was coming to a halt after clearly jogging to keep up with her.

“Alistair,” Elissa said, “I need you to do something for me.”

Alistair blinked at her. “…Okay then. What do you need, darling?”

Elissa didn’t smile at the pet name. “I need you to meet Leliana in the antechamber, and follow her out of the palace,” she said. “We have credible evidence of an assassination plot.”

Durin’s mind immediately went back to what Kieran had said. Were I an agent of Silence, there would be no better target for me to strike.

Alistair stood up. “Sure,” he said, false levity in his voice. “So long as you’re coming with me.”

“Don’t fight me on this, Alistair—”

“I am not leaving you here to deal with whatever this is on your own!” Alistair said sharply.

“I’m not on my own,” said Elissa, frustrated. “Ellana and her team are here too, as are Morrigan and Kieran.” She glanced at Durin. “Kieran wanted me to ask you if you’d stay,” she added with obvious reluctance. “I told him it was a terrible idea for the same reason both Alistair and I staying is a terrible idea.”

“And yet I agree with Kieran,” said Durin, standing. “I must stay.”

“Then I am, too!” Alistair growled. “I’m a king, not an invalid!”

“Neither of you should stay,” Elissa snapped back. “I can’t tell Durin not to, but I can certainly tell you.”

“No!”

“Let the record reflect,” said Gorim with some displeasure, “that I don’t think you should stay either, Your Majesty.”

“The record will so reflect,” said Durin.

Alistair gritted his teeth, shooting Durin a glare. “Why should I leave if you aren’t?”

“Alistair,” said Durin softly, reaching out and laying a hand on Alistair’s arm. “I’m only staying because I think this has something to do with my past. My distant past. Elissa is right—Ferelden must have one of its monarchs safe. If Orzammar had another monarch, I would send them away too.”

For a moment, Alistair kept glaring. Then he visibly deflated. “Fine,” he said. He shot Elissa a look. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Elissa, audible relief breaking into her voice. As he stomped past her, she put an arm before him and drew him in for a kiss. “I love you,” she said. “I’ll see you soon. I promise.”

Alistair nodded, a little less stiffly, and left the room.

Elissa turned to Durin. “There’s an eluvian in a storage room near here,” she said. “It’s active. As far as we can tell, a Qunari invasion force is planning to use the network to attack several priority targets across Thedas at once.”

“How on earth did the Qunari gain control of the eluvian network?” Durin asked blankly.

“No idea,” said Elissa. “We can ask their leader once we capture her. Come on.”

Durin and Gorim had to jog to keep up with Elissa’s long stride as she stormed through the Winter Palace. They were soon joined by Ellana and her team—Dorian, the Iron Bull, and Varric. Kieran followed after them, Morrigan on his heels. The woman seemed genuinely worried as she looked down at her son, and Durin felt a pang of sympathy. Raising a Maia with uncountable millennia of memory bundled into his tiny body couldn’t be easy.

“Good, everyone is here,” said Kieran. “Come.” He walked to the eluvian, which was already humming with the power of an active portal, and ran his finger along the edge. The shimmering blue portal flickered and faded for an instant. When it returned, it was instead a rich, royal violet. “There,” he said in satisfaction. “That should take us directly to him.”

“To who?” Durin asked. But he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“Fen’Harel,” said Kieran, and suddenly everything made sense. “Come.”

Before any of them could stop him, the boy stepped into the portal and vanished. Morrigan cursed under her breath and followed him. Elissa was next, followed by Ellana and her team.

Durin brought up the rear. By the time he stepped through, their quarry had already stepped over the crest of the nearby hill and was looking down at all of them in astonishment.

Solas had changed his attire significantly. Once shapeless apostate’s robes had given way to an ornate vestment of silk and wolfhide. His eyes seemed to glow blue like stars in his head. Beside Durin, Ellana had gone completely stiff, staring up at him.

“…How?” Solas asked blankly.

“I hijacked your eluvian,” said Kieran simply. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“I… rather do, actually,” said Solas. “I was in the middle of trying to regain control of the network from the Qunari. I would rather not have to do so with you as well.”

“No need,” said Kieran. “You can have it back soon enough. But we should speak first.”

Solas’ lips thinned. Durin saw his eyes linger on Ellana. “Yes,” he said quietly. “I suppose we should.”

“You’re Fen’Harel,” whispered Ellana. She sounded broken, as if the world was coming down around her ears. “The Dread Wolf.”

“That is what they took to calling me,” said Solas quietly. “I…” he hesitated, gazing down at her with undeniable tenderness. Durin found it hard to remain angry. “May I explain? Please? I—would like you to understand. If it’s possible.”

Ellana let out a slow, shuddering breath. “Fine,” she said. “Talk—” But before the word was even fully formed, she was doubling over with a choked cry of pain. Green light flared from the mark on her palm, crackling with power. Tiny arcs of viridian lightning seemed to be crawling up her arm, like the jaws of a hungry thunderstorm.

Solas’ face hardened. “Before anything else,” he said. “The Anchor is killing you, ma vhenan. Please—let me remove it. If I do not, you will be dead in a matter of days.”

Ellana was on her knees, breathing heavily. “…Fine.”

Solas stepped forward, eyes flashing blue-white. Elllana let out a startled gasp. Then, slowly, she stood up and stepped back.

Her arm did not go with her. It hung in the air, the flesh rapidly decaying into a sickly green mass, roiling like one of the rifts Ellana had closed so many times two years ago.

Solas stepped forward and laid his hand on the floating forearm. It dissolved into light and coalesced in his own palm. He smiled grimly, without mirth. “There we are,” he said.

“We’d appreciate an explanation, if you please,” said Kieran. His voice was oddly unfocused, as if he were thinking of something else entirely. Durin glanced his way and saw that his eyes were not on Solas at all, but on the eluvian behind him. “I would like to know the conclusions you’ve drawn.”

Solas gave the boy an odd look but nodded after a moment. He clasped his hands behind his back and began. “The Evanuris styled themselves as gods,” he said, “which is how they are now remembered by the Dalish. But they were no more than extremely powerful mages. Mages who went entirely power-mad, as bad as the worst Magister. All save Mythal. She genuinely cared for her people. I served her. I tried to help her change the culture of the elvhen from within—until they did something I could never forgive. They killed her.

“And so I rebelled. I freed their slaves. Those who wished to make their own lives, I taught to farm and forage. Those who wished to fight, I armed and trained. The Evanuris called me Fen’Harel, and my followers claimed the name as a badge of pride.

“But in the end, they were too powerful. I knew I could not hold out against them forever—not by conventional means. So I chose unconventional ones. I went to one of my strongholds, in what you now know as the Frostback Mountains, and I wove a spell unlike any that has been made before or since. I raised the Veil between the Fade and the material world—and, in doing so, I doomed us all.”

“That is how the elvhen lost their immortality,” Kieran said softly, and Durin wondered if he was just realizing this now. “Cut off from the Unseen, they are as mortal as Men or Dwarves.”

“Yes,” confirmed Solas. “I tried to free my people, and I did. But the cost was everything that made them who they were. When I awoke, several years ago, from my long stasis after creating the veil, I was horrified. I realized what a mistake I had made—and I vowed to undo it.” He gestured with his newly marked palm, still luminous in green, and Durin realized with a sinking sensation that the mark which had allowed Ellana to heal the Veil would allow him to destroy it.

“You’re planning to destroy the Veil,” said Dorian flatly. “Solas—need I remind you that we saw what a world with no Veil looks like? Ellana and I saw you in that future, and you certainly didn’t look to me like you had gotten what you wanted.”

“Corypheus, in that future, had infected the world with the Blight,” said Solas. “That is not a necessary component to this. But… I will not deny that the destruction of the Veil will likely be every bit as cataclysmic as its creation. This world will likely burn just as surely as mine—as ours—did.”

“And that’s worth it to you?” Ellana asked. “It doesn’t matter to you if all of us die so long as a bunch of ancient slavers get to walk free again?”

“It is not the evanuris I’m concerned with,” said Solas. “But what I did has stolen, collectively, millions of years of life from our people. What I want does not matter—I have a duty to ensure that death ends.”

“You are ending nothing,” Durin found himself saying. “Solas—your people are still immortal. They merely do not live out that immortality here. But you remain Elves. Even the Avari who never went into the West are not without the gift of the Firstborn.”

“I understand that you believe that,” said Solas, looking at him with something like pity. “Take heart, King Durin—I doubt your people will suffer the worst of this. Dwarves produce no mages, and so will not be visited by spirits nearly as often as the people of the surface. With all you have done to advance your people, I expect your civilization will survive the coming calamity.”

“They will not.”

Durin looked at Kieran. The boy’s voice was deep, quiet, and thick with terrible prophecy. “If you were unleashing what you think you are, Dread Wolf, you might be right,” said the Maia in child’s form. “But you are not.”

“I expect that my knowledge of the magic involved is more complete than your own,” Solas said frostily. “I assure you, I have considered the details carefully.”

“No. You have not.” Kieran had been gazing off into the distance behind Solas, as if lost in thought, but now his gaze sharpened as his attention fixed entirely upon the ancient elf. “You believe Corypheus tainted the Breach with the Blight. Follow that thread. Where did his Blight come from?”

“It certainly did not come from the Black City,” said Solas. “The Blight existed before the Veil.”

“Yes,” said Kieran. “We brought it with us—tiny pockets of it, clinging feebly to existence in crevices that were not burst open by the Sundering. But it feeds on the Song—on the Unseen. You sealed the Unseen away, and some of the Blight with it. What do you think it has been doing all this time?”

“Growing,” murmured Durin in horror. “Spreading. Unchecked and unchallenged.”

“Precisely,” said Kieran. “The Breach, and the world it created in that dark future you saw, Inquisitor—yes, they were tainted by the Blight. But it was Blight which crept in from the other side.” He narrowed his eyes at Solas. “If you open that path before we are ready, you will doom us all as surely as if you had let Corypheus have his way.”

“And you claim to know this—how?” Solas said with some suspicion.

“I know because I was here,” hissed Kieran. “I was here when we arrived on Thedas. I was here when the Evanuris began their conquest. I was here when they fell. I was here the last time some misguided fools tried to open the door into the Fade, and I was the one who paid the price. I have seen the mind behind the Blight—I have felt her venom in my blood, her webs within my brain. I know what I am talking about, Solas Mythallion, for I am Urthemiel, unchained once more.”

Solas’ face had gone slack. “The Archdemon,” he murmured.

“No,” said Kieran. “Not any longer. Nor am I an old god of any kind. I am Maia, of the Host of Ilúvatar, and I tell you this—you must not tear open the Veil yet.”

“I have a duty to—wait.” Solas’ eyes narrowed. “Yet?”

Kieran nodded sharply. “Things are in motion,” he said. “I have heard them in my dreams. The horn-calls of Aman, the drums of war. One day—one day soon—the Veil will open. But we must wait until we have friends, as well as enemies, on the other side. They will be there soon enough. A matter of a few years, perhaps, if not months.”

“Friends?” Durin asked. “In the Fade?”

“Beyond it,” said Kieran. “Ours is not the only world struggling with the children of Silence. Ours is not the first. I have not yet had time to do more than start trying to reach my fellows, out there across the vast gulfs of eternity, but I can vaguely feel them. If you will step away from the precipice, if you will give me more time, I can make contact, and we can begin working to reestablish the unity that was lost when the world was broken.”

For a moment, Solas visibly hesitated. Then his face hardened. “Every day that passes,” he said, “is another thousand elvhen who die to my mistake.”

“They are not dying,” said Kieran, “they are being brought over to the West. That is the fate of your kind. You are immortal. There is no death for you, not like for Men, or even like the stone-stasis of the Dwarves. You are more like us Ainur.”

“I cannot simply believe that,” said Solas. “I am sorry.” He turned to go—

—and was stopped by two figures suddenly standing in his path. Durin, who had started forward himself, stared blankly. Kieran had somehow crossed the dozens of feet of distance between him and the elf with barely a sound—a mere single syllable of undiluted Song. The boy, too, was staring up at the other figure with awe and some fear.

The woman had stepped out of thin air as though through a hidden door. She wore mithril plate unlike any Durin had ever crafted. Her hair streamed out of her helm like a plume. Her dark eyes were fixed on Solas with disappointment and pity. And—with a start of terror—Durin realized that upon her finger was a Ring of Power. The band was pure silver, unadorned with any gem, and Tengwar shone on it in luminous green; its colors were the same as the Ring he himself had once worn.

“Yes,” said Sauron—for who else could this woman, possessed of an unknown Ring of Power, possibly be? “And every one of those Avari carried word back to us. You’re lucky we made it in time.”

Solas blinked at her. “What—”

“They’re in your head,” she said quietly. “It’s what they do, when they don’t know any better—they get to you through your desires, your fears, your obsessions. They convince you to ignore what they don’t want you to see, to focus on what they need you to do, all without ever making their presence obvious. But if you know how to look, you can see the cracks—see the evidence of their passage.”

“You suggest that I am being manipulated,” Solas said. “Magically.”

“You would have experience,” Durin called, unable to hold back the bitterness. “Sauron.”

Sauron visibly flinched, eyes darting in Durin’s direction. “What—oh. King Durin.” Her lips twitched into a weak attempt at a smile. “We heard you were here, but I didn’t expect you to be right here.”

“Wait,” Gorim’s voice was thoughtful, but rapidly giving way to horror. “Sauron? I know that name. Isn’t that—”

“The Maia who gave cursed Rings of Power to me and many other kings among Men and Dwarves in the Second Age,” Durin growled, eyes fixed upon the Maia’s pale face. “Yes.”

“I—I don’t go by that name anymore,” said Sauron, and her voice was oddly small. She sounded contrite, sincere in a way that was almost convincing.

“As I recall, you never did,” Durin pointed out through clenched teeth. “That name was one we gave to you because Mairon no longer adequately described you, after all you had done.”

Sauron grimaced. “Yes. And you were right.” She took a deep breath. “It’s not for me to say whether I deserve the name,” she said. “But I have changed. And those who believe that change is sincere call me Mairë now.”

Part of Durin wanted to scoff. Sauron’s Rings had never managed to transform him so completely as they had the Kings of Men to which she gave them, but he still remembered the haze of gold-lust that had slowly settled over him, over many years. He still remembered the same happening to his brothers. He remembered seeing Celebrimbor, who had crafted the river-gate to Khazad-dûm long before, being raised broken upon the orcs’ banners.

And yet now that same being stood, in a fair form that should have been forbidden to her, trying to convince Solas to turn aside from his madness. Was Solas right? No—Kieran would be intervening if she were trying to drive Solas to a worse action. And he could see in her face—she was not the same manipulative creature that had once worked duplicity on him. Something had changed.

“I believe you.” It was not Durin who spoke, but Kieran. His voice was soft, his eyes wide. The fear in them had been replaced with awe. “You are so—bright, now. And though I never saw the old Rings of Power… the one on your finger may be Discordant, but it is soft. Gentle.”

Durin gritted his teeth. “I… we will speak later,” he said. “If you have a way to stop Solas inviting Ungoliant to Thedas, I invite you to proceed.”

“Only words,” said Sauron—Mairë?—before turning back to Solas. “You betrayed the Evanuris because they killed Mythal,” she said quietly. “Five hundred and twenty-seven days ago, you found her still alive. What, Solas, did you do?”

Solas recoiled. “How do you— How do you know about that? Who are you?”

“How do I know?” Mairë asked. She gestured, and another square hole opened in the world. A woman stepped out. Her brow was adorned with an angular crown. Her golden eyes were fixed on Solas with sympathy. Her ears were pointed, and her long hair was black as night. For a moment, Durin saw behind her a strange chamber of light and metal before the door closed again.

“I told her, of course,” said the new arrival. “As soon as I awoke, and realized what you were doing. Solas—you must listen. You are being manipulated. You are better than this.”

“Am I?” Solas’ voice was choked, practically hysterical. “Are you sure of that?”

“Yes.” The voice wasn’t Mythal’s, or Sauron’s, or Kieran’s. It was Ellana. She had stepped up the hill and now stood nearly within arm’s reach of Solas. Her remaining hand reached out towards him. “You are, ma vhenan. Please. Don’t do this—not before we’ve at least talked about our options.”

“The right choice is often hard,” Mairë said, with something wistful in her voice that Durin could not imagine was feigned. “That doesn’t mean that the hard choice is always the right one, Solas.”

Solas stared down at Ellana’s outstretched fingers. For a long moment, no one moved. Then, something in his face broke. His hand, shaking, reached out and took hers.

-x-x-x-

“It took us longer than it should have to find you,” Mairë—for that was apparently the name the woman who had once been Sauron had now taken, in her redemption—said apologetically. She sat around the same table where, not four hours ago, Durin and Alistair had been having a quiet lunch between politicking. At her sides sat three figures. The first was a man clad in blue armor that should have been too heavy for him to carry, let alone fight in, yet who moved with a grace beyond most Men Durin had known. The second was Mythal, her face set in a expression at once sad and satisfied. The third was an ageless man with black and grey speckled hair. Durin recognized the latter, though this was not a face he had worn any time in Durin’s memory. Something about the Maia Olórin—who had once been called Mithrandir, Gandalf, and a host of other names—was immediately recognizable.

“It all worked out, as far as I’m concerned,” said Kieran dryly. He, Durin, Alistair, and Elissa were seated on the other side of the table. Josephine stood in a corner, alternating between staring at the otherworldly visitors with some awe and fear and busily taking notes on her pad. “You have impeccable timing.”

“It would be a coincidence,” said Mairë with a small smile, “if anything ever was. But, really, we had everything we needed to find you months ago. We were looking as soon as things were settled enough to dedicate resources to it, since we already knew you, Durin, had incarnated again. We should have pieced things together once the Avari who were coming back started telling us about the resurgent dwarven empire in their world—but it didn’t really come together until Mythal appeared a year and a half ago.”

“At which point,” said Olórin, “we had to find a world with a separated Seen and Unseen. Unfortunately, that is not as simple as it sounds.”

“Surprisingly hard to tell, from the outside,” agreed Mairë. She looked at Kieran. “So—you prefer Urthemiel, or Kieran?”

“Kieran, if you please,” said the boy-Maia.

Mairë nodded. “As a rule, I prefer my reborn ID too,” she said. “I’ve started using Mairë for simplicity’s sake—easier to explain things, with the association to my first name. But, if we’re past the introductions, I prefer Taylor.”

Kieran nodded. “How did you end up reborn?” he asked. “It took—a great deal of work, on the part of my mother, and—” he nodded respectfully at Mythal, “—her mother, to make this happen for me.”

“Eru,” said Mairë—Taylor—simply. “I guess He decided He wasn’t done with me yet. I’m grateful for it.”

“As am I, for my second chance,” said Kieran quietly.

Taylor nodded sympathetically. “Anyway,” she turned, “Mythal. We really do need to break open your son’s Veil. As long as the Unseen—the Fade, you called it?—stays segregated here, it’s a spawning ground for their brood.”

“Agreed,” said Mythal. “But it must be done without bringing about the end of civilization on Thedas.”

“Right,” agreed Taylor. “I think there’s two parts to that. The first is making sure the civilizations on this side are ready for it. The second is making sure nothing comes through from the other side the moment the barrier goes down. To that end,” she turned to Durin, “would you be willing to help me and the other smiths and tinkers arm a force to take the fight to the Fade?”

Durin blinked. “You want to send an army in there,” he said. “Into the Unseen itself, to fight the Children of Ungoliant.”

“Hey,” said Taylor with a wry grin. “At least the Unseen is our territory. Better than fighting them in theirs.”

“I suppose so.” Durin took a deep breath. “Yes. I would be happy to. But my people—I am still a King. I cannot give away my people’s resources. We will need compensation.”

Olórin laughed. “Heaven save us from the eternal pragmatism of the Dwarves!” he chortled. “But yes—you shall have your payment, Your Majesty. The wealth of uncountable worlds is at all of our fingertips, though times are too dire for us to simply enjoy most of them.”

“If that’s agreed,” said Elissa, “I’d like to change the subject. “What’ll happen to Solas?”

Taylor’s face fell slightly. “That depends on him and Ellana,” she said. “If he’s really been convinced that he was being manipulated, then we might be able to break their hold on him. But it’s not an easy thing to do, and it’ll take a lot of work—on his part, Ellana’s part, and the part of whoever we set to help them. But it’s worth doing if he’ll let us.”

“And then what?” asked Alistair grimly. “Lest we forget—he apparently gave Corypheus the orb he used to destroy the Conclave. He’s directly responsible for the Breach, and all the deaths that followed.”

“Yes,” said Taylor quietly. “And he’ll carry that weight for the rest of his immortal life. He’s not getting off easy, King Alistair.”

“If he can be helped, he should be,” said Durin. “His flaw was that he lived in the past. We cannot do the same ourselves in our haste to correct what he has done.”

“But he should perhaps be separated from the people of Thedas,” suggested Kieran. “Both those he hurt and those he was misguidedly trying to help. Perhaps there is some other world, or some other front, that could use his talents?”

“Not a bad idea,” mused Taylor. “Not a bad idea at all. And separating him from the immediately local phrases of the Song might help to break the hold the Silence has on him. Sure, we can do that. I’m sure we’ve got somewhere he can be transferred.”

“Perhaps one of the other worlds with populations of Avari descendants?” suggested Olórin. “It might do him good to see that his people yet thrive elsewhere.”

“Sure,” said Taylor. “We should look over our options with the others later.” She stood up. “For now, though,” she looked down at Durin with a small, sad smile. “It’s good to finally meet you, King Durin—and not on opposite ends of a war, this time.”

“Indeed,” said Durin, standing himself and giving her a shallow bow. “I look forward to working with you. But if you were planning on offering me another Ring of Power, I hope you understand if I decline.”

“Oh. No.” Taylor’s voice was suddenly soft and sad. “No—Cenya has another home now anyway.”

Durin looked up at her and saw grief in her eyes. He made an immediate decision not to pry. “Understood,” he said. “Now—despite all the excitement of the past day, I believe Alistair and I still have to negotiate with Orlais regarding the fate of the Inquisition.”

“Politics wait for no one,” said Olórin, amused. “Go, King Durin. We shall speak again soon.”

Durin nodded as Alistair stood. Together they turned and walked out the door into a world that would never be the same.

-x-x-x-

Durin stood two dozen paces away from Orzammar’s grand gate, staring fixedly at the doors. Gorim stood at his immediate right, and at their sides were assembled his advisors. More dwarrows of all castes were packed into the edges of the city square, held at bay by a perimeter of guards. He heard the clamor of their dozens of hushed conversations like the roaring of a waterfall around his ears.

He tried not to fidget. It was far more difficult than usual. Every minute seemed to last an hour as he stood and waited. Consciously, he knew it could not have been more than five since he had taken his position. That fact did not help.

Finally, after an interminable wait, the stone doors creaked ponderously open. For any other guest, the doordwarrows would have stepped in first, then stepped aside to allow the guest to pass. This time, the guest stepped in alone, for he needed no announcer.

He did not look as Durin remembered. The last time they had met in Durin’s memory, he had stood taller than most Men or Elves, and his brown beard had been trimmed short. Today, he appeared in the guise of a Dwarf clad in interlocking plates of mithril, and his beard was long and luxurious. But his eyes were the same lightning-blue that Durin remembered.

For a moment, Durin forgot how to breathe. Then he remembered, inhaled deeply, and called out. “Greetings, Mahal, father of all Dwarves! Welcome to the city of Orzammar!”

A dead silence had fallen by the time the words finished passing his lips. More than a hundred dwarrows’ eyes were fixed on the Vala standing on the city’s threshold. But the ancient Ainu had eyes for only one. His boots rang on the stone floor like tiny hammers on tiny anvils as he crossed the square. After seven long seconds he stood eye to eye with Durin.

Mahal smiled. The movement dislodged a single tear gathering in his eye. “I have missed you,” he said, reaching out and folding Durin into an embrace. “My son.”

Durin closed his arms around his father and bowed his head. If he wept, they were tears of joy.

The End

The Seventh Coming - Lithos_Maitreya (2024)

Chapter 1: And Walked Alone

Chapter Text

Chapter 2: The Light of Sun and Star and Moon

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 3: On Carven Throne

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 4: The World is Grey, The Mountains Old

Notes:

Chapter Text

Notes:

Chapter 5: The Trumpets Rang

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 6: Before the Fall

Notes:

Chapter Text

Chapter 7: Again From Sleep

Notes:

Chapter Text