- Location
- Russia
Ah, yes, the choice between Pavel I (but more ruthless) and Nicholas II (but more stagnant).
The Seventh Coming [Dragon Age/Lord of the Rings] (Complete)
- Thread starter Lithos Maitreya
- Start date
- Crossover
Arimai
Curmudgeon
@Lithos Maitreya I believe that you counted wrong. This is the eighth time Durin has been reborn.
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
There is a contradiction in the canonical sources. Tolkien both says "Durin will return seven times" and also says "Durin VII is also called Durin the Last". My interpretation of this is that the first of Durin's eight lives was the very brief time before he was laid in sleep after Eru adopted him, and that because that lifetime was like, sum total five minutes, they decided to 0-index it.
Arimai
Curmudgeon
It's a valid interpretation. Not how I interpret the source, but I can't find fault in your reasoning.
Part 3: On Carven Throne
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.
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 circumstances?"
"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 circumstances 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 amusement. "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 tits," 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.
Part 3: On Carven Throne
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 circumstances?"
"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."
-x-x-x-
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 circumstances 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!"
-x-x-x-
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 amusement. "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.
-x-x-x-
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.
-x-x-x-
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 tits," 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…"
-x-x-x-
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."
-x-x-x-
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.
-x-x-x-
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.
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- Pronouns
- Masculine
So... let me understand this.
The Archdemon is killed using the ritual of Morrigan's. And she goes off with her and Alstair's child. And Alstair and Lady Cousland marry and rule together.
Durin rules as his name, his true nature and name revealed to all. And the Silence of the Anvil of the Void is Shattered.
That about right, Lithos?
And... yeah. The Broodmother section was every bit as horrible as I expected it to be. Good work not describing the fight. It was... horrific indeed.
Especially realizing any of the women in the party could have become the same thing.
And Durin is now proceeding to unite the and reform the Dwarves with his brother's help. And bring the Dwarves into a new age. Working with Ferelden and the Wardens... god. Mithril armor on all of them would have made that insanely powerful.
Mithril and control of it is going to remain something that is going to be very, very important in the future. Especially when Kirkwall and later shit happens.
I wonder if Durin will be in Kirkwall when the bullshit happens. Looking forward to seeing Hawke.
Further, I can't wait to see how things go all the way into Inquisition.
Durin and Solas have... a lot to talk about.
Though I am looking forward to Flemeth and Durin sitting down for some tea. And good Dwarven Ale.
The Archdemon is killed using the ritual of Morrigan's. And she goes off with her and Alstair's child. And Alstair and Lady Cousland marry and rule together.
Durin rules as his name, his true nature and name revealed to all. And the Silence of the Anvil of the Void is Shattered.
That about right, Lithos?
And... yeah. The Broodmother section was every bit as horrible as I expected it to be. Good work not describing the fight. It was... horrific indeed.
Especially realizing any of the women in the party could have become the same thing.
And Durin is now proceeding to unite the and reform the Dwarves with his brother's help. And bring the Dwarves into a new age. Working with Ferelden and the Wardens... god. Mithril armor on all of them would have made that insanely powerful.
Mithril and control of it is going to remain something that is going to be very, very important in the future. Especially when Kirkwall and later shit happens.
I wonder if Durin will be in Kirkwall when the bullshit happens. Looking forward to seeing Hawke.
Further, I can't wait to see how things go all the way into Inquisition.
Durin and Solas have... a lot to talk about.
Though I am looking forward to Flemeth and Durin sitting down for some tea. And good Dwarven Ale.
- Location
- Software
The most depressing and horrible part of the game, that's for sure. I'm honestly impressed by the commentary that it looks like the Orcs... I suppose Tolkien's influence in DA is bigger than I remembered.
Part 3 changelog
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
After discussion on SpaceBattles, I've made a minor change to the end of this chapter. Here's a brief changelog:
The following line:
has been replaced with:
Seeing as I played my Cousland as a lesbian who ended up with Leliana, I'll defend her ending up as Chancellor.
(I later went on and recycled her character as a paladin in like a million different things, but that's another story.)
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
No new chapter this coming Monday. I've been traveling all week and will still be doing so until Wednesday, and haven't had the time to do the outlining and editing I wanted to.
I've also been rethinking my outline and might end up combining the next two chapters into one behemoth of over 12k words. I'm currently drafting chapter 7, so if I find I can't cover all the ground I'd like there I might do that.
I've also been rethinking my outline and might end up combining the next two chapters into one behemoth of over 12k words. I'm currently drafting chapter 7, so if I find I can't cover all the ground I'd like there I might do that.
- Location
- zamboanga
I hope you show more of the dwarf's improvement. I hope you show the other noble families following Durin and showing us that not all dwarves nobles are idiots.
Part 4: The World is Grey, The Mountains Old
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.
Part 4: The World is Grey, The Mountains Old
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.
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.
"Reports from Val Royeaux indicate that Orlais is already cautious about our growing strength," said Yhalmar Wallask of the Artisan Caste. "Supporting an organization with ties to the Dalish on their borders might push them from neutral to enmity."
"They are right to be cautious," said Lyarna Bleven of the Servant Caste with a tight smile. "We are more powerful now than we have been in centuries, perhaps millennia. We can tip the balance of this Chantry conflict in favor of the side we choose. And if we choose the Inquisition, that may also help to strengthen the bond with the Dalish which we have already laid the groundwork for in renaming Cadash Thaig back to Cad'halash."
The city of Cad'halash had, after the fall of Arlathan, been a refuge for the exiled elvhen people. However, in an effort to preserve their alliance with Tevinter, the ancient dwarves had declared the city to be in rebellion, destroyed it, and raised House Cadash and the Cadash Thaig in its place. Durin's decision to restore the city to its original name had not been a strong statement in support of the Dalish, but it had not gone unnoticed by those clans passing through the Frostbacks either.
Finally, Noskar Malgaran, Common-Deshyr of the Mining Caste, spoke up for the first time. He was perhaps the most shrewd of Durin's inner circle, unless Bhelen was included in that number. He also was unquestionably loyal to Durin after the rediscovery of mithril made the Mining Caste suddenly one of the most important in all of Orzammar. "The question is," he said, "do we wish to remain neutral, preserving the alliances we have already made, but avoiding further commitments? Or do we seek to form a coalition of allies here in southern Thedas, with which we can pursue ever more ambitious goals? The latter road is riskier, but its rewards are sweeter, should we succeed." He met Durin's eyes. "The choice, as ever, is yours, Your Majesty."
Durin bowed his head over the stone table, feeling the weight of the crown upon his brow. He brought his hands together in thought. "I would know where each of you stand," he said at last. "If these are, fundamentally, our two choices—where do each of you fall?" He looked up and met the eyes of each deshyr. "All in favor of neutrality and caution, say aye."
"Aye," said Harrowmont, Wallask, and Hesh. Noble, Smith, and Artisan.
"And all in favor of further diplomatic overtures and the construction of a coalition?" Durin asked.
"Aye," said Bravus, Praghan, and Bleven. Warrior, Servant, and Citizen.
Durin looked first at Common-Deshyr Maruk. "You abstain?"
Maruk grimaced. "I prefer to have longer to think such decisions through, Your Majesty," he said. "I did not expect to be deciding Orzammar's fundamental approach to foreign policy this evening."
Durin chuckled. "I suppose that is fair," he said. Then he turned to Malgaran. "And you?"
"Much the same," he said. "Only I do not think I have a strong opinion either way. Trade with Ferelden and the Wardens is already profitable. The dwarves are on the ascent already, and slowing our pace will not undo that work. We have time. However, I confess that I am eager to see what we might gain by this coalition." He blinked slowly at Durin. "I defer, your Majesty, to your expertise. The great question in my mind is how effectively we can mitigate the risks."
Durin nodded. "I would like to sleep on this tonight," he said. "We shall reconvene tomorrow, before the meeting of the Noble Assembly, to make a decision."
His cabinet of advisors bowed and departed.
Durin himself waited for them to leave, then stood and left his study. Gorim fell into step beside him as he emerged from the Grand Manor of House Aeducan, then turned and walked towards a much smaller house in the compound. The guards at the door bowed as he approached. One opened the door for him.
Bhelen was waiting in the small house's sitting room when he entered. "Brother," he greeted. "I hear you've been busy today."
"Exceedingly," said Durin, sitting down. "I would trouble you for your opinion on something."
"You know I'm always happy to have some kind of influence," said Bhelen, smirking slightly. "Not many prisoners enjoy the privilege."
Durin ignored this. "If you had to decide," he said, "between giving Orzammar a slow, careful ascent, ensuring it could stand on its own two feet; or a riskier, meteoric rise at the head of a diplomatic coalition of allies on the surface; which would you take?"
Bhelen's face went grave as he leaned forward. "This isn't a hypothetical, I take it?"
"It is not."
Bhelen considered the question in silence. "If I were King," he said at last, "I would choose the more careful option. I do not trust easily or often. I would be too afraid of my own allies to trust in their support."
Durin nodded. He made to speak, but Bhelen was not finished.
"I am not King," he said. "You are. And you trust more easily—but you are also better at ensuring that trust is reciprocated. When I made alliances, they were frail things of convenience. When you make them, they are tighter bonds of mutual respect and friendship. I'm not such a fool as to ignore that."
"Then you would advise a coalition?"
"I'm telling you that I don't feel qualified to advise," said Bhelen flatly. "You're the diplomat, not me. If you think your potential allies can be trusted, then I think you can use them well for mutual benefit. But you have to be the one to decide if they can be trusted."
Durin nodded slowly. "Thank you," he said. "I will consider this."
"Do that."
The next day, Durin stood before the assembled deshyrs of the Noble Caste. He cleared his throat. "I have decided," he said, "that it is in the best interests of Orzammar and of the New Empire to seek closer relations with this nascent Inquisition. Are there any pressing objections?"
There were a few, but Durin sat and allowed Harrowmont to respond to these. The clear implication that Durin had not ignored the counsel of a respected member of the Noble Caste went a long way to soothe their concerns. Once the discussion had largely subsided, Durin stood again. "To this end," he said, "I shall lead a diplomatic envoy to Haven."
In the sudden silence, Harrowmont turned to him. "Lead?" he asked. "In person?"
Durin nodded. "In person," he confirmed.
The Assembly exploded. "It is not done!" shouted one particularly loud noble. "Never in Orzammar's history has the King gone to the surface!"
Durin called for quiet. It took a long time before the Nobles obeyed.
"Never in Orzammar's history has the elected King been a dwarrow who had already been to the surface, either," Durin said. "I have already been beneath the sky in this life—let alone the many times I walked beneath the stars in my previous ones. I will go in person in order to show the Inquisition that we consider them legitimate, to show that we respect their authority in their area and to impress upon them our own authority in ours."
There was grumbling, but it was muted. After ten years with Durin as King, the Nobles had learned to tell when he could not be convinced to turn aside.
"In my absence," Durin said, "I leave Lord Harrowmont as my steward. Pyral—I trust your judgement. Do your best to heed the rest of my advisors."
Harrowmont bowed. "It shall be so, Your Majesty."
It took a few days to organize the envoy. Commander Bravus insisted on a much heavier guard for Durin than the six soldiers who had accompanied the initial group. In the end, a full regiment of the Army of the New Empire accompanied Durin and Gorim to the surface and across the mountains to the village of Haven.
They approached the village from across a lake, frozen by the mountain winter. As far as Durin knew, they had not been seen until they were nearly to the ice's edge. When they reached the shore, Durin called his trumpeters to announce their presence. The dwarven horns rang out, shaking the snow from the nearby trees.
A few minutes passed. Around him, Durin's soldiers shuffled their feet. "Are they ignoring us?" Gorim asked Durin in a low voice.
"No," said Durin quietly, his keen eyes watching the soldiers in the camp outside the village palisade scrambling for their gear. "They are undermanned and underorganized. They will come soon."
He was right. A few minutes later, a hastily-organized column approached, walking around the lake. They were led by a blond man in armor lined with fur. In his gait, Durin saw what he suspected was a Templar's training.
Durin stepped forward to meet him—staying near enough his own dwarrows to withdraw if necessary. "Hail, Inquisition!" he called as they approached.
"Hail," responded the Templar with a stiff nod, his eyes on Durin's ornate crown-helm. "We recently hosted an envoy of scouts from Orzammar. They were uncertain whether or who King Durin would send after them. I assume you are His Majesty's agent?"
Gorim let out a cough beside Durin that might have been covering a laugh. Durin himself smiled as he pulled off his helmet. "I am King Durin Aeducan of Orzammar," he said. "I have come to discuss the needs of the Inquisition, and the possibility of treaty between its people and mine."
The Templar stiffened, nostrils flaring. "My—my apologies, Your Majesty," he said, recovering quickly. "I am Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition's forces. Apologies for the delay in greeting you; we would be honored to host you in Haven, humble as it is."
"It is much appreciated," said Durin with a nod. "We accept your invitation."
His contingent followed the Inquisition into the village. It was humble, but there was something Durin recognized in the faces that watched him as he passed. It was something he had worked very hard to bring back to his own people.
Hope, even in the face of fear.
They reached the main gates of Haven's palisade after a few short minutes' march. "We have limited space in the village," said Cullen apologetically. "And what space we have is crowded already. I can vacate one or two houses for you and your people, Your Majesty, but it will take some time."
One or two of the houses Durin saw would not be enough to house all his dwarrows. "There is no need, Commander," he said. "We will make camp…" he looked around,then pointed to a clearing near the edge of the lake. "There. I hope that will be no issue?"
"Of course not," said Cullen firmly. "I can see about finding lodging in the Chantry for Your Majesty and your immediate guard—"
Durin shook his head. "I will remain with my dwarrows," he said. "I would not benefit from a warm bed while any of them sleep in the snow. Fear not: we dwarves have endured far worse conditions."
Cullen grimaced. "If you insist, Your Majesty," he said, clearly uncomfortable. "Shall I take you to the rest of the War Council?"
"In but a moment," said Durin, turning to his men. "Darul, Wulfhild, you two accompany Gorim and myself. The rest of you, begin making camp. We will return shortly."
His dwarrows bowed and moved to obey. Durin turned and nodded at Cullen. "Lead on, Commander."
They followed him into the village. Just inside the gate, Durin was greeted by a sight he had not expected.
"Varric Tethras," he greeted in surprise.
"Your Majesty," said Varric with a bow. His tone was, as always, slightly sardonic. "This has to be the first time in centuries a King of Orzammar came to the surface to slum it with us cloudgazers. It's an honor."
Gorim growled slightly but said nothing. Durin frowned. "You know you are welcome to return, Serah Tethras," he said. "The Orzammar Thaig is no longer closed to those who have been, as some would say, 'tainted' by the surface."
"Sure," agreed Varric as he rose, grin clearly visible on his shaven face. "But there are still some who say that, aren't there? I'm fine up here, thanks."
Durin shrugged. "It is, as always, your decision."
As he continued after Cullen, the Commander glanced down at him. "You've met Varric before?" he asked.
"Once," said Durin. "He came to Orzammar shortly after my coronation. I believe he wished to confirm some of the rumors for himself."
"He never mentioned that," said Cullen darkly.
"Serah Tethras is a private individual," said Durin simply.
They reached the chantry atop the hill. As they entered, Durin was impressed by the quality of the stonework. The tile floors were well-maintained, and the high arches and vaulted ceiling lent a rich echo to their footsteps. It was no dwarf-work, but it was of a high quality for human masonry.
They reached a door behind the altar before they came to a stop. "Beyond this door is the War Room," said Cullen. "While you are welcome to bring your Second, Your Majesty, I must ask that your other guards stay outside. They may stand guard at the door."
Gorim made a reluctant noise, but did not protest. He just looked at Durin, who nodded. "Very well," he said. "Darul, Wulfhild—remain here. Gorim, with me."
They followed Cullen inside. The center of the room was occupied by a table, which had a large and detailed map of Ferelden and Orlais spread across it. Four people were already standing around it. There was an Antivan woman with painted lips and a rich silken gown, whose eyes widened with recognition the moment she laid eyes on Durin. To her left, a Nevarran woman with a square, scarred face and the armor of a Seeker of Truth gave him a suspicious look without any sign that she knew his face. On the far right was a Dalish elf with vallaslin marking her dedication to Mythal.
But to the left of her…
"Sister Leliana," greeted Durin with a smile.
"Your Majesty," Leliana replied. Her smile was not the warm one he remembered from her time in Orzammar ten years ago. She had hardened, and her lips were sharp-edged scimitars.
"King Durin Aeducan," said the Antivan woman, blinking rather rapidly. "I—this is most unexpected."
The Nevarran Seeker's eyes widened. "The King of Orzammar?" she asked. "I thought the dwarven nobility never ventured to the surface."
"As a rule, we do not," Durin agreed. "I am, for various reasons, something of an exception. I felt it best to come in person to speak with the Inquisition."
"What about?" The Dalish woman's voice was soft, almost demure. Her eyes, however, were diamonds in the dim light.
Durin considered his answer. "In my tenure as King of Orzammar," he said, "we have been gradually forming and tightening alliances with various organizations here on the surface. Various dwarven merchant guilds and houses have been granted citizenship once more, and our bond with both the King of Ferelden and the Grey Wardens headquartered in Amaranthine are, I am sure, common knowledge. It is my hope that the Inquisition might be a similar ally in future."
"And what do you hope to gain from this alliance?" asked the Herald of Andraste, her sharp eyes fixed on Durin's own. "What can our small Inquisition offer the growing New Empire of the dwarves?"
"Among other things," said Durin dryly, "I hope you can close the Rift—as I am told you call them—which has opened in the Citizen's Quarter of Orzammar. More than that, your organization's charter is one I would certainly like to see fulfilled." Durin had seen the Breach hanging in the sky, growing ever nearer as he approached Haven: a festering, poison-green wound in the vault of the sky. "A weakening of the Veil bodes ill for all of Thedas. I would see the damage undone."
The Dalish elf raised one slim eyebrow. "How farsighted of you," she said. "Very unusual for anyone of influence, in my experience."
"Show some respect," growled Gorim.
Durin gently laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him. "There are, of course, further motives," he said. "It is my hope that the alliance between Orzammar, Ferelden, and the Amaranthine Wardens might expand. Through the Inquisition, I hope we can build stronger ties, once the current crises are overcome, with the Chantry. In the long run, I would much rather Orzammar be surrounded by friends than by neutral nations. We have reopened the Cad'halash Thaig to the Dalish, and I would see that nascent relationship strengthened. Depending on how the Mage-Templar War is resolved, I would see Orzammar as a friend to the factions which emerge from the ashes of Circles and Templars." He smiled slightly. "My people have enough enemies to fight beneath the earth. I would very much like to have as few as possible above it."
The Herald watched him for a moment more, then nodded stiffly. "Apologies for my suspicion, Your Majesty," she said stiffly. "As I'm sure you are aware, my people have had poor luck in our interactions with those of other races who wear crowns upon their heads."
"I hope, one day, to be able to overcome that entirely natural suspicion of the Dalish people," said Durin.
Leliana cleared her throat, shooting the Herald a look just shy of a glare. "Your Majesty," she said. "If I might introduce Ellana Lavellan, Herald of Andraste." The Dalish elf gave him a gesture that might have been a low nod or a shallow bow. "This is Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast—"
"The Right Hand of the Divine," Durin realized with a nod.
"An honor, Your Majesty," said Cassandra with a bow.
"—and Ambassador Josephine Montilyet," finished Leliana.
"Your Majesty," said Josephine with a curtsy. "I hope our negotiations will be as fruitful as you envision."
Durin smiled at her. He had a feeling that, out of all the people in this room, she would be the one he spoke with most often.
The initial meeting with the Inquisition's leadership did not last long. After the introduction and initial pleasantries, they scheduled a few further discussions, then parted ways. It was getting on to late afternoon, and so Durin returned to his dwarrows' camp to rest.
The next day, after a grueling meeting with Josephine over the particulars of lyrium and mithril trade—the woman smiled like silk and drove a bargain like a siege engine—he exited the chantry to find a new figure waiting for him.
"Your Majesty," said the elf, a bald man clad in shapeless robes, a simple staff in one hand. But beneath those shapeless robes, Durin noticed his shoulders were broad. "An honor."
"Greetings," said Durin with a nod. "You have me at something of a disadvantage, I am afraid."
The elf straightened, his expression composed and neutral. "I am Solas," he said. "A wandering apostate. I wonder if I might have a word?"
Durin raised an eyebrow. "Very well," he said. "So long as it does not take overlong."
"I shall be brief," Solas promised, glancing around. "Might we withdraw to somewhere with fewer prying ears?"
"Anything you wish to say to His Majesty can be said in the presence of witnesses," Gorim said darkly.
"Of course," said Solas. "Only, I noticed you did not announce yourself to the Inquisition as Paragon-King Durin the Deathless, Seventh of His Name, and I wondered if you would like to avoid the questions that might raise."
Durin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Very well," he said. His nature was not exactly secret, but it was not often shared outside of Orzammar. Without the eyewitness testimony of the now-passed Caridin, and the accounts of the Shaperate, it was simply not something those on the surface would find it easy to believe. It was generally simpler to avoid the complications which arose when it was brought up.
He and Gorim followed Solas to a secluded ring of houses up a small hill from the chantry. There Solas turned to face him. "Your Majesty," he said. "I have wandered for many years, sleeping in places with long histories. When I do so, I often have visions of the past, reenacted by spirits of Memory in the Fade. It is said that you also have some memory of days long past."
"It is true," said Durin with a nod. "Though the days I remember are so long ago, now, that they are no longer recognizable as history."
Solas nodded as if this was unsurprising. "The very earliest memories I have seen," he said, "suggest that there was a very different world before our own—long before the human golden age of Tevinter, or the dwarvish one of their subterranean empire, or my own people's age of Arlathan."
"This is true," said Durin softly. "We called it Arda, that world, and the lands we inhabited upon it were called Middle-Earth."
"Arda," said Solas, as if testing the name on his tongue. "I have heard that name whispered in the oldest dreams."
"That is… a relief to hear," Durin confessed. "Sometimes I have feared that I am mad. So very much has been lost."
"Never doubt the past you remember," Solas advised. "Your own memory, Your Majesty, is more reliable than any record passed down for millennia." His face twisted ever so slightly. "Men, elves, and dwarves all lie. And only a few lies need be told before the history is unrecognizable from the truth."
"You speak from experience," Durin said.
Solas did not answer immediately. "I wished to ask if you remembered Arlathan, from your past lives," he said. "If you even met the Elvhen, in those ancient days, and what they were like."
"I knew elves," Durin said. "They did not call themselves Elvhen, in those days, for their language was different."
Solas watched him, his dark blue-green eyes intent, as Durin collected his thoughts. "The Elves were the oldest of the peoples of Middle-Earth," he said. "My own folk were second, followed by Men. In those days, the Elves were noble of bearing and of disposition, and powerful enough that their great nations formed the great powers of the land. They built great cities: Nargothrond, Gondolin, Menegroth, and others. They were a blessed people—mighty in the sorcerous arts, brilliant in artisanry, and terrifying warriors on the battlefield. In one of my lifetimes, various realms of Elves made war against my own people, and they were dangerous foes." He sighed. "But by the time of my sixth life, in the Third Age, the Elves were beginning to pass out of Middle Earth, following the summons into the Utter West. It was said that they would all be gone by the Age's end. I know not how your people came to return, nor why."
"What were these summons?" Solas asked lowly. "Why were my people called into the West?"
Durin grimaced. Religion was a difficult concept in these latter days. The dwarves had grown accustomed to their reverence of silent Ancestors and unresponsive Stone. He had tried to quietly remind them of Mahal, but it was slow going. Solas might not be Dalish, but he likely had his own religious beliefs—beliefs which would likely be incompatible with the fact, verifiable by Durin's own memory, of the Valar's existence. "They were called by the highest agents of their God," he said eventually.
Solas frowned. "The ancient Elves worshiped a god?"
"They did," said Durin. "Eru Ilúvatar. We Dwarves considered Him the father of Mahal, who created me and the other Seven Fathers of the Dwarves. The existence and nature of Mahal I can verify, having known and spoken with him myself. However, none but the Ainur, the kindred of the Valar, ever stood in the presence of Ilúvatar himself. So His existence, I cannot directly verify. I do not doubt it, however."
Solas pursed his lips. "…I see," he said at length.
Durin did not think he did. "I do not often speak of these things," he said, "because I know it is often contradictory to what the people of these latter days believe to be true."
"I do not doubt your sincerity," said Solas, though with some hesitance. "I merely doubt the existence of an all-powerful creator-god like the Chantry's Maker. Too many things seem to contradict the idea."
"This was a common concern among my people and the race of Men, as well," said Durin. "Why, if Ilúvatar is so powerful, are there still hurts in this world? Why must we die when Elves do not? For your people were immortal, in those days."
Solas looked at him with a sudden, strange hunger. "And? Why? Was there an answer?"
Durin shrugged helplessly. "If there was one, it was never told to me," he said.
Solas' face fell slightly. "I see." He straightened slightly and shrugged. "Well. I thank you for your time, Your Majesty. I would be honored if we could speak of this again, someday."
"I sincerely hope that we have the opportunity," said Durin. "It is not often that I am able to tell tales of the elder days, and still rarer that I am believed."
Solas gave him a small smile. "It was my pleasure, truly." Then his face fell. "It is sometimes hard, even for me, to understand the scope of all my people have lost."
"This, I understand," said Durin gently. "But we who remember the past can carry its lessons into the future. We cannot go back, but we can make the future better."
Solas did not answer.
Part 4: The World is Grey, The Mountains Old
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.
"Reports from Val Royeaux indicate that Orlais is already cautious about our growing strength," said Yhalmar Wallask of the Artisan Caste. "Supporting an organization with ties to the Dalish on their borders might push them from neutral to enmity."
"They are right to be cautious," said Lyarna Bleven of the Servant Caste with a tight smile. "We are more powerful now than we have been in centuries, perhaps millennia. We can tip the balance of this Chantry conflict in favor of the side we choose. And if we choose the Inquisition, that may also help to strengthen the bond with the Dalish which we have already laid the groundwork for in renaming Cadash Thaig back to Cad'halash."
The city of Cad'halash had, after the fall of Arlathan, been a refuge for the exiled elvhen people. However, in an effort to preserve their alliance with Tevinter, the ancient dwarves had declared the city to be in rebellion, destroyed it, and raised House Cadash and the Cadash Thaig in its place. Durin's decision to restore the city to its original name had not been a strong statement in support of the Dalish, but it had not gone unnoticed by those clans passing through the Frostbacks either.
Finally, Noskar Malgaran, Common-Deshyr of the Mining Caste, spoke up for the first time. He was perhaps the most shrewd of Durin's inner circle, unless Bhelen was included in that number. He also was unquestionably loyal to Durin after the rediscovery of mithril made the Mining Caste suddenly one of the most important in all of Orzammar. "The question is," he said, "do we wish to remain neutral, preserving the alliances we have already made, but avoiding further commitments? Or do we seek to form a coalition of allies here in southern Thedas, with which we can pursue ever more ambitious goals? The latter road is riskier, but its rewards are sweeter, should we succeed." He met Durin's eyes. "The choice, as ever, is yours, Your Majesty."
Durin bowed his head over the stone table, feeling the weight of the crown upon his brow. He brought his hands together in thought. "I would know where each of you stand," he said at last. "If these are, fundamentally, our two choices—where do each of you fall?" He looked up and met the eyes of each deshyr. "All in favor of neutrality and caution, say aye."
"Aye," said Harrowmont, Wallask, and Hesh. Noble, Smith, and Artisan.
"And all in favor of further diplomatic overtures and the construction of a coalition?" Durin asked.
"Aye," said Bravus, Praghan, and Bleven. Warrior, Servant, and Citizen.
Durin looked first at Common-Deshyr Maruk. "You abstain?"
Maruk grimaced. "I prefer to have longer to think such decisions through, Your Majesty," he said. "I did not expect to be deciding Orzammar's fundamental approach to foreign policy this evening."
Durin chuckled. "I suppose that is fair," he said. Then he turned to Malgaran. "And you?"
"Much the same," he said. "Only I do not think I have a strong opinion either way. Trade with Ferelden and the Wardens is already profitable. The dwarves are on the ascent already, and slowing our pace will not undo that work. We have time. However, I confess that I am eager to see what we might gain by this coalition." He blinked slowly at Durin. "I defer, your Majesty, to your expertise. The great question in my mind is how effectively we can mitigate the risks."
Durin nodded. "I would like to sleep on this tonight," he said. "We shall reconvene tomorrow, before the meeting of the Noble Assembly, to make a decision."
His cabinet of advisors bowed and departed.
Durin himself waited for them to leave, then stood and left his study. Gorim fell into step beside him as he emerged from the Grand Manor of House Aeducan, then turned and walked towards a much smaller house in the compound. The guards at the door bowed as he approached. One opened the door for him.
Bhelen was waiting in the small house's sitting room when he entered. "Brother," he greeted. "I hear you've been busy today."
"Exceedingly," said Durin, sitting down. "I would trouble you for your opinion on something."
"You know I'm always happy to have some kind of influence," said Bhelen, smirking slightly. "Not many prisoners enjoy the privilege."
Durin ignored this. "If you had to decide," he said, "between giving Orzammar a slow, careful ascent, ensuring it could stand on its own two feet; or a riskier, meteoric rise at the head of a diplomatic coalition of allies on the surface; which would you take?"
Bhelen's face went grave as he leaned forward. "This isn't a hypothetical, I take it?"
"It is not."
Bhelen considered the question in silence. "If I were King," he said at last, "I would choose the more careful option. I do not trust easily or often. I would be too afraid of my own allies to trust in their support."
Durin nodded. He made to speak, but Bhelen was not finished.
"I am not King," he said. "You are. And you trust more easily—but you are also better at ensuring that trust is reciprocated. When I made alliances, they were frail things of convenience. When you make them, they are tighter bonds of mutual respect and friendship. I'm not such a fool as to ignore that."
"Then you would advise a coalition?"
"I'm telling you that I don't feel qualified to advise," said Bhelen flatly. "You're the diplomat, not me. If you think your potential allies can be trusted, then I think you can use them well for mutual benefit. But you have to be the one to decide if they can be trusted."
Durin nodded slowly. "Thank you," he said. "I will consider this."
"Do that."
-x-x-x-
The next day, Durin stood before the assembled deshyrs of the Noble Caste. He cleared his throat. "I have decided," he said, "that it is in the best interests of Orzammar and of the New Empire to seek closer relations with this nascent Inquisition. Are there any pressing objections?"
There were a few, but Durin sat and allowed Harrowmont to respond to these. The clear implication that Durin had not ignored the counsel of a respected member of the Noble Caste went a long way to soothe their concerns. Once the discussion had largely subsided, Durin stood again. "To this end," he said, "I shall lead a diplomatic envoy to Haven."
In the sudden silence, Harrowmont turned to him. "Lead?" he asked. "In person?"
Durin nodded. "In person," he confirmed.
The Assembly exploded. "It is not done!" shouted one particularly loud noble. "Never in Orzammar's history has the King gone to the surface!"
Durin called for quiet. It took a long time before the Nobles obeyed.
"Never in Orzammar's history has the elected King been a dwarrow who had already been to the surface, either," Durin said. "I have already been beneath the sky in this life—let alone the many times I walked beneath the stars in my previous ones. I will go in person in order to show the Inquisition that we consider them legitimate, to show that we respect their authority in their area and to impress upon them our own authority in ours."
There was grumbling, but it was muted. After ten years with Durin as King, the Nobles had learned to tell when he could not be convinced to turn aside.
"In my absence," Durin said, "I leave Lord Harrowmont as my steward. Pyral—I trust your judgement. Do your best to heed the rest of my advisors."
Harrowmont bowed. "It shall be so, Your Majesty."
-x-x-x-
It took a few days to organize the envoy. Commander Bravus insisted on a much heavier guard for Durin than the six soldiers who had accompanied the initial group. In the end, a full regiment of the Army of the New Empire accompanied Durin and Gorim to the surface and across the mountains to the village of Haven.
They approached the village from across a lake, frozen by the mountain winter. As far as Durin knew, they had not been seen until they were nearly to the ice's edge. When they reached the shore, Durin called his trumpeters to announce their presence. The dwarven horns rang out, shaking the snow from the nearby trees.
A few minutes passed. Around him, Durin's soldiers shuffled their feet. "Are they ignoring us?" Gorim asked Durin in a low voice.
"No," said Durin quietly, his keen eyes watching the soldiers in the camp outside the village palisade scrambling for their gear. "They are undermanned and underorganized. They will come soon."
He was right. A few minutes later, a hastily-organized column approached, walking around the lake. They were led by a blond man in armor lined with fur. In his gait, Durin saw what he suspected was a Templar's training.
Durin stepped forward to meet him—staying near enough his own dwarrows to withdraw if necessary. "Hail, Inquisition!" he called as they approached.
"Hail," responded the Templar with a stiff nod, his eyes on Durin's ornate crown-helm. "We recently hosted an envoy of scouts from Orzammar. They were uncertain whether or who King Durin would send after them. I assume you are His Majesty's agent?"
Gorim let out a cough beside Durin that might have been covering a laugh. Durin himself smiled as he pulled off his helmet. "I am King Durin Aeducan of Orzammar," he said. "I have come to discuss the needs of the Inquisition, and the possibility of treaty between its people and mine."
The Templar stiffened, nostrils flaring. "My—my apologies, Your Majesty," he said, recovering quickly. "I am Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition's forces. Apologies for the delay in greeting you; we would be honored to host you in Haven, humble as it is."
"It is much appreciated," said Durin with a nod. "We accept your invitation."
His contingent followed the Inquisition into the village. It was humble, but there was something Durin recognized in the faces that watched him as he passed. It was something he had worked very hard to bring back to his own people.
Hope, even in the face of fear.
They reached the main gates of Haven's palisade after a few short minutes' march. "We have limited space in the village," said Cullen apologetically. "And what space we have is crowded already. I can vacate one or two houses for you and your people, Your Majesty, but it will take some time."
One or two of the houses Durin saw would not be enough to house all his dwarrows. "There is no need, Commander," he said. "We will make camp…" he looked around,then pointed to a clearing near the edge of the lake. "There. I hope that will be no issue?"
"Of course not," said Cullen firmly. "I can see about finding lodging in the Chantry for Your Majesty and your immediate guard—"
Durin shook his head. "I will remain with my dwarrows," he said. "I would not benefit from a warm bed while any of them sleep in the snow. Fear not: we dwarves have endured far worse conditions."
Cullen grimaced. "If you insist, Your Majesty," he said, clearly uncomfortable. "Shall I take you to the rest of the War Council?"
"In but a moment," said Durin, turning to his men. "Darul, Wulfhild, you two accompany Gorim and myself. The rest of you, begin making camp. We will return shortly."
His dwarrows bowed and moved to obey. Durin turned and nodded at Cullen. "Lead on, Commander."
They followed him into the village. Just inside the gate, Durin was greeted by a sight he had not expected.
"Varric Tethras," he greeted in surprise.
"Your Majesty," said Varric with a bow. His tone was, as always, slightly sardonic. "This has to be the first time in centuries a King of Orzammar came to the surface to slum it with us cloudgazers. It's an honor."
Gorim growled slightly but said nothing. Durin frowned. "You know you are welcome to return, Serah Tethras," he said. "The Orzammar Thaig is no longer closed to those who have been, as some would say, 'tainted' by the surface."
"Sure," agreed Varric as he rose, grin clearly visible on his shaven face. "But there are still some who say that, aren't there? I'm fine up here, thanks."
Durin shrugged. "It is, as always, your decision."
As he continued after Cullen, the Commander glanced down at him. "You've met Varric before?" he asked.
"Once," said Durin. "He came to Orzammar shortly after my coronation. I believe he wished to confirm some of the rumors for himself."
"He never mentioned that," said Cullen darkly.
"Serah Tethras is a private individual," said Durin simply.
They reached the chantry atop the hill. As they entered, Durin was impressed by the quality of the stonework. The tile floors were well-maintained, and the high arches and vaulted ceiling lent a rich echo to their footsteps. It was no dwarf-work, but it was of a high quality for human masonry.
They reached a door behind the altar before they came to a stop. "Beyond this door is the War Room," said Cullen. "While you are welcome to bring your Second, Your Majesty, I must ask that your other guards stay outside. They may stand guard at the door."
Gorim made a reluctant noise, but did not protest. He just looked at Durin, who nodded. "Very well," he said. "Darul, Wulfhild—remain here. Gorim, with me."
They followed Cullen inside. The center of the room was occupied by a table, which had a large and detailed map of Ferelden and Orlais spread across it. Four people were already standing around it. There was an Antivan woman with painted lips and a rich silken gown, whose eyes widened with recognition the moment she laid eyes on Durin. To her left, a Nevarran woman with a square, scarred face and the armor of a Seeker of Truth gave him a suspicious look without any sign that she knew his face. On the far right was a Dalish elf with vallaslin marking her dedication to Mythal.
But to the left of her…
"Sister Leliana," greeted Durin with a smile.
"Your Majesty," Leliana replied. Her smile was not the warm one he remembered from her time in Orzammar ten years ago. She had hardened, and her lips were sharp-edged scimitars.
"King Durin Aeducan," said the Antivan woman, blinking rather rapidly. "I—this is most unexpected."
The Nevarran Seeker's eyes widened. "The King of Orzammar?" she asked. "I thought the dwarven nobility never ventured to the surface."
"As a rule, we do not," Durin agreed. "I am, for various reasons, something of an exception. I felt it best to come in person to speak with the Inquisition."
"What about?" The Dalish woman's voice was soft, almost demure. Her eyes, however, were diamonds in the dim light.
Durin considered his answer. "In my tenure as King of Orzammar," he said, "we have been gradually forming and tightening alliances with various organizations here on the surface. Various dwarven merchant guilds and houses have been granted citizenship once more, and our bond with both the King of Ferelden and the Grey Wardens headquartered in Amaranthine are, I am sure, common knowledge. It is my hope that the Inquisition might be a similar ally in future."
"And what do you hope to gain from this alliance?" asked the Herald of Andraste, her sharp eyes fixed on Durin's own. "What can our small Inquisition offer the growing New Empire of the dwarves?"
"Among other things," said Durin dryly, "I hope you can close the Rift—as I am told you call them—which has opened in the Citizen's Quarter of Orzammar. More than that, your organization's charter is one I would certainly like to see fulfilled." Durin had seen the Breach hanging in the sky, growing ever nearer as he approached Haven: a festering, poison-green wound in the vault of the sky. "A weakening of the Veil bodes ill for all of Thedas. I would see the damage undone."
The Dalish elf raised one slim eyebrow. "How farsighted of you," she said. "Very unusual for anyone of influence, in my experience."
"Show some respect," growled Gorim.
Durin gently laid a hand on his shoulder to calm him. "There are, of course, further motives," he said. "It is my hope that the alliance between Orzammar, Ferelden, and the Amaranthine Wardens might expand. Through the Inquisition, I hope we can build stronger ties, once the current crises are overcome, with the Chantry. In the long run, I would much rather Orzammar be surrounded by friends than by neutral nations. We have reopened the Cad'halash Thaig to the Dalish, and I would see that nascent relationship strengthened. Depending on how the Mage-Templar War is resolved, I would see Orzammar as a friend to the factions which emerge from the ashes of Circles and Templars." He smiled slightly. "My people have enough enemies to fight beneath the earth. I would very much like to have as few as possible above it."
The Herald watched him for a moment more, then nodded stiffly. "Apologies for my suspicion, Your Majesty," she said stiffly. "As I'm sure you are aware, my people have had poor luck in our interactions with those of other races who wear crowns upon their heads."
"I hope, one day, to be able to overcome that entirely natural suspicion of the Dalish people," said Durin.
Leliana cleared her throat, shooting the Herald a look just shy of a glare. "Your Majesty," she said. "If I might introduce Ellana Lavellan, Herald of Andraste." The Dalish elf gave him a gesture that might have been a low nod or a shallow bow. "This is Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast—"
"The Right Hand of the Divine," Durin realized with a nod.
"An honor, Your Majesty," said Cassandra with a bow.
"—and Ambassador Josephine Montilyet," finished Leliana.
"Your Majesty," said Josephine with a curtsy. "I hope our negotiations will be as fruitful as you envision."
Durin smiled at her. He had a feeling that, out of all the people in this room, she would be the one he spoke with most often.
-x-x-x-
The initial meeting with the Inquisition's leadership did not last long. After the introduction and initial pleasantries, they scheduled a few further discussions, then parted ways. It was getting on to late afternoon, and so Durin returned to his dwarrows' camp to rest.
The next day, after a grueling meeting with Josephine over the particulars of lyrium and mithril trade—the woman smiled like silk and drove a bargain like a siege engine—he exited the chantry to find a new figure waiting for him.
"Your Majesty," said the elf, a bald man clad in shapeless robes, a simple staff in one hand. But beneath those shapeless robes, Durin noticed his shoulders were broad. "An honor."
"Greetings," said Durin with a nod. "You have me at something of a disadvantage, I am afraid."
The elf straightened, his expression composed and neutral. "I am Solas," he said. "A wandering apostate. I wonder if I might have a word?"
Durin raised an eyebrow. "Very well," he said. "So long as it does not take overlong."
"I shall be brief," Solas promised, glancing around. "Might we withdraw to somewhere with fewer prying ears?"
"Anything you wish to say to His Majesty can be said in the presence of witnesses," Gorim said darkly.
"Of course," said Solas. "Only, I noticed you did not announce yourself to the Inquisition as Paragon-King Durin the Deathless, Seventh of His Name, and I wondered if you would like to avoid the questions that might raise."
Durin's eyes narrowed slightly. "Very well," he said. His nature was not exactly secret, but it was not often shared outside of Orzammar. Without the eyewitness testimony of the now-passed Caridin, and the accounts of the Shaperate, it was simply not something those on the surface would find it easy to believe. It was generally simpler to avoid the complications which arose when it was brought up.
He and Gorim followed Solas to a secluded ring of houses up a small hill from the chantry. There Solas turned to face him. "Your Majesty," he said. "I have wandered for many years, sleeping in places with long histories. When I do so, I often have visions of the past, reenacted by spirits of Memory in the Fade. It is said that you also have some memory of days long past."
"It is true," said Durin with a nod. "Though the days I remember are so long ago, now, that they are no longer recognizable as history."
Solas nodded as if this was unsurprising. "The very earliest memories I have seen," he said, "suggest that there was a very different world before our own—long before the human golden age of Tevinter, or the dwarvish one of their subterranean empire, or my own people's age of Arlathan."
"This is true," said Durin softly. "We called it Arda, that world, and the lands we inhabited upon it were called Middle-Earth."
"Arda," said Solas, as if testing the name on his tongue. "I have heard that name whispered in the oldest dreams."
"That is… a relief to hear," Durin confessed. "Sometimes I have feared that I am mad. So very much has been lost."
"Never doubt the past you remember," Solas advised. "Your own memory, Your Majesty, is more reliable than any record passed down for millennia." His face twisted ever so slightly. "Men, elves, and dwarves all lie. And only a few lies need be told before the history is unrecognizable from the truth."
"You speak from experience," Durin said.
Solas did not answer immediately. "I wished to ask if you remembered Arlathan, from your past lives," he said. "If you even met the Elvhen, in those ancient days, and what they were like."
"I knew elves," Durin said. "They did not call themselves Elvhen, in those days, for their language was different."
Solas watched him, his dark blue-green eyes intent, as Durin collected his thoughts. "The Elves were the oldest of the peoples of Middle-Earth," he said. "My own folk were second, followed by Men. In those days, the Elves were noble of bearing and of disposition, and powerful enough that their great nations formed the great powers of the land. They built great cities: Nargothrond, Gondolin, Menegroth, and others. They were a blessed people—mighty in the sorcerous arts, brilliant in artisanry, and terrifying warriors on the battlefield. In one of my lifetimes, various realms of Elves made war against my own people, and they were dangerous foes." He sighed. "But by the time of my sixth life, in the Third Age, the Elves were beginning to pass out of Middle Earth, following the summons into the Utter West. It was said that they would all be gone by the Age's end. I know not how your people came to return, nor why."
"What were these summons?" Solas asked lowly. "Why were my people called into the West?"
Durin grimaced. Religion was a difficult concept in these latter days. The dwarves had grown accustomed to their reverence of silent Ancestors and unresponsive Stone. He had tried to quietly remind them of Mahal, but it was slow going. Solas might not be Dalish, but he likely had his own religious beliefs—beliefs which would likely be incompatible with the fact, verifiable by Durin's own memory, of the Valar's existence. "They were called by the highest agents of their God," he said eventually.
Solas frowned. "The ancient Elves worshiped a god?"
"They did," said Durin. "Eru Ilúvatar. We Dwarves considered Him the father of Mahal, who created me and the other Seven Fathers of the Dwarves. The existence and nature of Mahal I can verify, having known and spoken with him myself. However, none but the Ainur, the kindred of the Valar, ever stood in the presence of Ilúvatar himself. So His existence, I cannot directly verify. I do not doubt it, however."
Solas pursed his lips. "…I see," he said at length.
Durin did not think he did. "I do not often speak of these things," he said, "because I know it is often contradictory to what the people of these latter days believe to be true."
"I do not doubt your sincerity," said Solas, though with some hesitance. "I merely doubt the existence of an all-powerful creator-god like the Chantry's Maker. Too many things seem to contradict the idea."
"This was a common concern among my people and the race of Men, as well," said Durin. "Why, if Ilúvatar is so powerful, are there still hurts in this world? Why must we die when Elves do not? For your people were immortal, in those days."
Solas looked at him with a sudden, strange hunger. "And? Why? Was there an answer?"
Durin shrugged helplessly. "If there was one, it was never told to me," he said.
Solas' face fell slightly. "I see." He straightened slightly and shrugged. "Well. I thank you for your time, Your Majesty. I would be honored if we could speak of this again, someday."
"I sincerely hope that we have the opportunity," said Durin. "It is not often that I am able to tell tales of the elder days, and still rarer that I am believed."
Solas gave him a small smile. "It was my pleasure, truly." Then his face fell. "It is sometimes hard, even for me, to understand the scope of all my people have lost."
"This, I understand," said Durin gently. "But we who remember the past can carry its lessons into the future. We cannot go back, but we can make the future better."
Solas did not answer.
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I am literally older than Orzammar. Stop acting like you are my mother.
Now drink your milk.
Man I could read dozens if not hundreds of conversations between these two.
I will however settle for reading him convincing Solas to go to the undying lands.
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- Location
- Canada
That's an interesting question. We know the way is closed on Earth except by a very thin elven-path laid open which only a single man managed to stumble upon, but could an Elf in blood, knowing what he is seeking find a way to Aman from Thedas?
If Eru notices? Yeah. He'll surely open the way. Not like anyone could stop hi......Wait. Does this mean the Chantry isn't totally wrong in this universe?
SpokenSoftly
(Verified Fruity) (Potassiest Write-Tan)
- Location
- The nearest fruit bowl
A man who calls a clear sky at noon "maroon" isn't saved from incorrectness by virtue of "maroon" and "blue" both being colors.If Eru notices? Yeah. He'll surely open the way. Not like anyone could stop hi......Wait. Does this mean the Chantry isn't totally wrong in this universe?
A true Omnipotent god however is by virtue a singular entity.
Thus either the Maker whom we have no direct proof in game/lore is simply a mislabeled misunderstood Eru or he is a something NOT ONLY not omnipotent, but also perpetually absent.
You do not simply shit in another god's backyard.... And considering Durin is here? We're in Eru's.
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Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
No update this Monday. I'm traveling until Thursday, and I need a little longer to draft chapter 7 and make sure the pacing works as is. Sorry!
Part 5: The Trumpets Rang
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.
Part 5: The Trumpets Rang
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."
Part 5: The Trumpets Rang
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.
-x-x-x-
"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."
-x-x-x-
"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."
-x-x-x-
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.
-x-x-x-
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.
-x-x-x-
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."
-x-x-x-
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."
-x-x-x-
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."
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I have no doubt that somebody dug too deep again.
I wonder what greed will release this time.
I just realized something. The whole situation with the Balrog in Moria could be seen as a metaphor for greed itself.