The Seventh Coming [Dragon Age/Lord of the Rings] (Complete)
- Thread starter Lithos Maitreya
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- Crossover
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- SoCal, USA
"From the lowest dungeon to the highest peak, I fought him, the Balrog of Morgoth."
I do love the foreshadowing of the Deep Roads and The Place where the Sky Holds in conjunction with a journey through the Frostbacks…
I do love the foreshadowing of the Deep Roads and The Place where the Sky Holds in conjunction with a journey through the Frostbacks…
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Awesome chapter, thanks Lithos. And like Jan said, you forgot the threadmark.
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
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- United States
I somehow didn't notice that I was getting comments. I'll threadmark now, thanks!
Part 6: Before the Fall
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.
Word was slow to return from the Inquisition. Before he had left Skyhold, Durin had hashed out the details of their operation in Heidrun Thaig. Commander Cullen had suggested that the Inquisition's army construct a lift down into the thaig from the Storm Coast, both to facilitate trade once the earthquakes were stopped and to shorten the travel necessary for Lavellan and her team—the only safe route to Heidrun Thaig currently would have the Inquisitor travelling hundreds of miles all the way across the length of Ferelden, from Skyhold in the southern Frostbacks to Kal'Hirol in northeastern Amaranthine.
"With a little luck," Leliana had said, "we can get the Inquisitor to your Shaper in less than a month, well before she's needed at the Winter Palace."
It had not been quite so fast. The Inquisitor had ended up being delayed in an operation in the Emprise du Lion, which—while much closer to Skyhold—were on the Orlesian side of the Frostbacks. Still, Durin had not needed to wait until after Empress Celene's masquerade at Halamshiral, a fact for which he was quietly both relieved and grateful.
Malgaran remained as loyal as ever, but the months of delay had understandably displeased him. Durin had ordered the lyrium mining in Heidrun Thaig ceased for the duration of the tremors, and had offered all miners full paid leave for the duration—leave for which he paid directly out of the royal treasury, by now full to bursting with gold won through the mithril trade and reclaimed from lost thaigs. That had mollified Malgaran somewhat, but he remained anxious to see the matter fully resolved.
Fortunately, the delay did end. Word came first from the Inquisition—a report penned in Leliana's own hand, hand-delivered to Durin's office five weeks after his own return from Skyhold.
"Sister Nightingale encourages you to read this report in private, Your Majesty," the elvhen scout said in a low voice, dark eyes glittering in the light of the magma lamps. "I am told it bears… sensitive news."
"Understood," said Durin with a sharp nod. "Thank you. You are welcome to stay as a guest in the Aeducan compound as long as you like before your return."
When the scout had left, Durin took a dagger and opened the sealed envelope. The first line read:
For the eyes of King Durin VII, Last of His Name, Paragon of Orzammar and Lord of the New Empire.
Durin immediately reached for his strongbox and pulled out his collection of ciphers. After all these years, a private code had developed between himself, Alistair, and Elissa—a code with multiple decryption keys. Which Durin was meant to use was determined by the order in which his titles were named.
Leliana was not technically one of the people meant to communicate with this cipher. However, since she was the one to design it on their behalf, it was not especially surprising to see.
The translated message, as one might expect, was far shorter than the encrypted one. It read thus:
King Durin,
The Inquisitor reports that Shaper Valta's Titan did exist and was the source of the earthquakes. The details are unclear. She speaks of a beating heart of mineral lyrium, and claims that the entire cave system beneath Heidrun Thaig, perhaps including the thaig itself, is mined out of the Titan's body.
The depths were defended by dwarves called, variously, Sha-Brytol and Umrâkhkarg. Neither is modern dwarvish, but I am told the former is a recognizable dialect. I suspect the second is the khuzdul you keep so secret. I have done my best to keep the word from spreading, out of respect to your traditions.
For that, Durin was grateful. It was khuzdul, unmistakably—translating to honored defenders.
These She-Brytol carried weapons unlike any I have heard of before. They broke upon the deaths of their wielders, but the fragments the Inquisitor retrieved appear to form a projectile weapon which, according to Iron Bull, operates on principles similar to some particularly advanced Qunari equipment. It is unclear how weaponry the Qunari only developed in the past two centuries came to be in the hands of a forgotten dwarven population.
The Sha-Brytol were unwilling to negotiate, or even to speak. They appeared to be defending the lyrium heart of the Titan. Shaper Valta, after exposure to the Titan's heart, behaved in a noticeably erratic way. She specifically requested your presence, if you were willing to travel to Heidrun Thaig.
Given the unsettling behavior of both Shaper Valta and the Sha-Brytol, it is my personal recommendation that you do not go to her. I suspect blood magic, or something like it. However, if you choose to do so, the Inquisition is happy to offer an escort. Send my agent back to Skyhold with your answer, and if you wish our assistance we will send a company to Orzammar to escort you at once. You should know, however, that when Shaper Valta requested your presence, she did so under your title as Durin the Last.
Best,
Leliana
Durin let the note fall upon his desk, already deep in thought. So—the mysterious Titans existed. And, notably, their defenders retained knowledge of khuzdul. That suggested something more sinister than the slow decline Durin had assumed had befallen his people in his absence. He was reminded of Shaper Valta's exile for refusing to alter the Memories. Had the Titans been deliberately excised from his people's history? Had khuzdul itself?
There was only one way to find answers.
He found an unmarked sheaf of paper and began to write, using the same cipher as that which Leliana had used.
Leliana,
I thank you for the information. I shall go to Shaper Valta. I have questions which, I suspect, only she can answer. I do not need an Inquisition escort—I imagine your people are busy with the approaching masquerade in Halamshiral, as well as your other ongoing operations in Orlais. I will take my own guards, as it will be faster than waiting for this letter to pass into your hands and for your response to arrive upon my doorstep.
I appreciate your circumspection with regard to the khuzdul word which has fallen into your hands. The language, though long forgotten by my people now, was once sacred to us. To share it with outsiders was profane. It is not a matter of judgement or of pride—the language represents the bond of love and loyalty between my people and Mahal that made us. That both the Lord of Smiths and his language are lost to us is a greater shame in my heart than the fall of the old empire.
I heed also your warning. If you and the Lady Lavellan report that Shaper Valta was unlike herself after this exposure to the Titan, I believe you. However, I do not fear for myself. I am myself, and ever have been. I have been exposed in the past to works of great sorcery, Rings of Power which were meant to twist my mind and bend my will to the service of their master. They failed then, for the Dwarves of old were an unbendable people. Much of that heritage has been lost to my modern kin, but I remain as I was. I am unafraid, and you need not fear for me.
Do not hesitate to call upon me should the Inquisition have need. Orzammar's gates are open to you, and so they shall remain for as long as you and I remain friends. I hope very much that will be an exceedingly long time.
At your service,
Durin VII
Durin set aside his pen. The letter he folded, placed in an envelope, then sealed with his royal signet. Emerging from the study, he handed it to a servant. "Take this to the elvhen scout from the Inquisition staying at the Aeducan compound," he ordered, then turned to another across the room and called, "Go and fetch Commander Bravus! I require an hour of his time."
"What's happened, Your Majesty?" Gorim asked, voice pitched low and quiet as the servants bustled to obey.
"Word from the Inquisitor's expedition in Heidrun Thaig," Durin answered. "I must go—in person. I will need more of an escort than you alone, I think."
Gorim nodded grimly. "Especially if we're to travel on the surface," he said. "Can we spare the dwarrows?"
"That is what I intend to ask the Commander," said Durin. "If not, I will have to correct that letter."
As it turned out, they could spare the dwarrows to escort Durin to the Storm Coast. Commander Bravus' primary concern was something else entirely.
"The Nobles grow restless every time you leave Orzammar, Your Majesty," he said, glancing at the empty seat in the chamber where, during Durin's meetings with his advisors, Pyral Harrowmont usually sat. "They have not had a King who left Orzammar in living memory—and they have not had a King who went to the surface anywhere in the Memories at all. Your recent travels to Haven and Skyhold have been unsettling to them. I fear unrest."
Durin grimaced. "How dire might it grow if I leave within the week?" he asked.
"It depends on how long you are gone," said Bravus. "If you return in less than two weeks, perhaps as long as a month, it will probably not grow any worse. But if you are gone for more than that… there may be violence, Your Majesty. And it grows only more likely the longer you are gone."
Durin took a moment to calculate the travel times. "That should be more than enough time," he said finally. It was only a few days' travel each way to Heidrun Thaig by surface roads, which gave him at least a week there—far longer than he expected to need, if this Titan truly did just want to speak. "But I must go. I must have answers—and if this Titan was truly able to injure or alter Shaper Valta's mind, it must be myself in person."
"Is that wise, Your Majesty?" asked Gorim. "I know you don't think it can manipulate you, but what if you're wrong?"
"I am not wrong," said Durin simply. "I wore Cenya, the Emerald Ring, even as I fought a war against its maker. If Sauron the Deceiver could not control me, nothing in this latter world can. Commander, Gorim and I will need a small company of your fastest scouts. We will travel light and make for the Inquisition's encampment on the Storm Coast. With luck, and if we push ourselves to haste, I can be back in no more than ten days."
Commander Bravus bowed. "I will have an escort prepared for you by dawn, Your Majesty."
Bravus was as good as his word. In less than twelve hours, Durin and his escort of a dozen dwarrows were departing Orzammar. As he walked through the bustling market town that had grown up around the great gates to the city in the past decade, Durin reflected on how much had changed since that day when two Wardens and their entourage stumbled into an assortment of tents and the impromptu bazaar that had sprung up around gates closed by a King's death.
He passed by dwarrows selling artisanry from the city below, discussing merchant business with human caravaneers from Denerim, Redcliffe, and Amaranthine. He saw an elvhen trader with Dalish vallaslin trading handmade carvings from his people for dwarven gold.
The Orzammar thaig was slowly starting to bleed into the surface, and it made Durin's heart surge with pride. He remembered the marketplace in Eregion outside the gates of Khazad-dûm, with the Sirannon merrily bubbling behind the merchants' stalls. There was so much yet to do before his people were once more the Dwarves he remembered—but they were getting there.
They traveled in disguise as a merchant caravan, a covered cart traveling beside their troupe. Once they were a few miles east of the trading post, they parted ways with the loyal caravan which Common-Deshyr Maruk had provided. As the caravan continued eastward, towards Denerim, Durin and his escort turned north, towards the Calenhad River delta and the Waking Sea beyond.
They made good time. By nightfall on the third day of their travel, they reached the watch-fires of the Inquisition's fortified encampment nestled among the windswept forests. As they drew near enough to be seen, Durin cast off the travel cloak he had worn and donned his crown so that he would be recognized.
The sentries had seen them coming at enough distance that, by the time they were in range, Durin could see no bows raised. However, surprise and confusion were still visible on many faces.
"Your Majesty," said one soldier with a bow. The man was clad in steel armor whose make Durin recognized from one of Orzammar's forges. "We had no idea you were coming. I'm Captain Holliday, commanding officer of this encampment. I'm sorry to say we've no accommodations prepared for you."
"Entirely expected," Durin said. "In the interest of haste, I left Orzammar before Sister Nightingale could receive word of my coming. I am here to follow up on the Inquisitor's recent investigation in Heidrun Thaig. I believe the Inquisition has a lift leading below?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," confirmed Captain Holliday. He spoke with a slightly drawling accent which Durin vaguely recognized as coming from the western Free Marches. "It's up the coast a ways, around a fissure in the Long River valley. Will you stay the night with us here before descending?"
"If you would not mind our benefitting from your fortifications," said Durin, who had heard the distant shrieking of darkspawn on the wind beneath the whistling of the rainstorm as they approached.
"Of course not, Your Majesty."
The next day, Captain Holliday escorted them up the Long River towards the fissure. As they turned into the valley, putting their backs to the coast, Durin spoke to the man over the sound of the pouring rain. "Have you felt the tremors here on the surface?"
"We did," Holliday confirmed. "One of the bigger quakes even knocked over one of our palisades. It was an unpleasant business, I don't mind telling you. But they've subsided since the Inquisitor returned."
"Oh, have they?" Durin asked, surprised.
"They have indeed. No idea why. If the Inquisitor knew, she wasn't sharing." The captain's face, seemingly accustomed to a smile, grew momentarily dour. "Whatever went on down there, it spooked her and her team. Her elf advisor—Solas? He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Barely spoke, even to her."
Durin hummed thoughtfully. "I have received some word of what they found from Sister Nightingale," he said. "I am not surprised that the Inquisitor found it unsettling. I am rather unsettled myself."
The man glanced down at him. "You want some of my men to go down there with you?" he asked.
"That should not be necessary," said Durin. "But I will send word to your camp if things change. Thank you, Captain."
Captain Holliday nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."
They reached the lift—a rickety wooden construction built over a rocky crevasse in the mountainside. It was manned by a crew of half a dozen Inquisition soldiers in leathers, who saluted Captain Holliday and bowed to Durin as they approached. As they stood by the entrance to the lift, Durin turned to his soldiers.
"Gharvan, Merrick," he said, gesturing to the two fastest of his escort. "You two remain up here. Should word come from below of my death or capture, make all haste back to Orzammar and bring word to my advisors. Captain Holliday, I ask that you send word at once to Skyhold should such a thing occur."
"Of course, Your Majesty." Captain Holliday looked nervous. "Uh, do me a favor and don't get killed on my watch, would you?"
"I will do my very best," said Durin. He turned and stepped onto the lift. His entourage followed. With a ponderous creaking, the platform began to descend into the fissure.
Minutes passed as they descended. Durin heard Gorim shifting beside him, his mithril gauntlet clinking audibly as he adjusted his grip on his warhammer. No words were spoken—the only sounds were the steady drip-drip of water trickling down the rock walls, the creaking of the lift beneath their feet, and the slow, tense breathing of half a dozen dwarves. Even the rainstorm above grew quiet as they dropped beyond its reach.
Finally, after more than five minutes, the wooden platform touched gently down upon the uneven stone floor of the cavern. Durin stepped off, scanning the gloom. The light from the sky above filtered down in a long, weak beam, falling upon the lift and its immediate surroundings, but leaving the darkness beyond in deep shadow.
A dwarrow emerged suddenly from that shadow. Durin had noticed his approach, but several of his entourage made audible sounds of surprise and startlement. The dwarrow was clad in the newly issued mithril armor of the Legion of the Dead. His legionnaire's tattoos marked his brow and peeked out from beneath the sides of his beard.
He knelt, armor clinking against the stone. "Your Majesty," he said in a rough, deep voice. "I—we had no idea you were coming."
Durin noted the rank insignias on the legionnaire's pauldron. "At ease, Commander," he said. "Rise."
The dwarrow did, dark eyes flickering among the party. "I'm Commander Renn," he said, "leader of the Legion here in Heidrun Thaig. I went down with the Inquisitor and—and Shaper Valta, into the depths. I assume that's why you've come?"
"It is," said Durin. "Report, Commander."
Renn nodded stiffly. "We passed below the Deep Roads through a fissure," he said. "We encountered dwarves there—dwarves with armor grafted to their bodies with lyrium. They never spoke, but worked together as if they could read one another's minds. They carried weapons that launched metal bolts faster than any crossbow. One would have killed me before we even knew to take cover, if it wasn't for my armor." He struck his breastplate with the knuckles of his gauntlet with a clang. "They tore through steel as easily as leather.
"They were guarding a—an underground—" He struggled visibly. "It was like the surface. Like an elvhen city, full of greenery and light and even birdsong. There was a city built there, all around a massive lyrium heart. Shaper Valta and the Inquisitor approached the heart and fought some sort of golem. Then Shaper Valta was struck by some kind of magic from the heart. When she stood up she was—different. She told the Inquisitor that she was in communication with the Titan, that it would stop its tremors. And she said the Titan wanted to speak with you, Your Majesty."
Durin nodded slowly. "And where is Shaper Valta now?"
"Below," said Renn. "She refuses to go above the lowest levels of the old thaig anymore. I can lead you if you're ready."
"Please do," said Durin. Renn turned, and they followed him, walking down the tunnels and into the old masonry of the thaig. Durin recognized the craftsmanship of this place—more even than Orzammar, it resembled the workmanship of the Longbeards, his own people. Heidrun Thaig must once have been inhabited by the descendants of those who had lived with him in Khazad-dûm long ago.
After several minutes in silence, Durin took a few longer strides to catch up to Renn. "Commander," he said. "Have there been any tremors since you returned from the depths?"
"One, Your Majesty," said Renn. "Very small, no serious damage or injuries. Valta said the Titan was moving slightly 'for safety.' She didn't explain what she meant."
"And the workers? The miners, and the others living here in Heidrun? What has become of them?"
"Work crews have started to go back into the mines in reduced numbers," said Renn. "They're being as careful as they can, staying near to the entrances and putting up additional supports."
"Very good," said Durin. "What were the final casualties?"
"Twenty-three miners dead, along with five Legionnaires and seven other civilians," said Renn promptly. "Several deaths were caused when a tremor opened a darkspawn tunnel in the south thaig."
Durin sighed. "Too many. But it could have been far worse."
They passed through the inhabited portions of the thaig. Several dwarrows poked their heads out of doors to watch them proceed down the street. Durin nodded in each one's direction as he passed.
Soon enough, however, they entered the portions of the old city which had not yet been reclaimed. Fortifications remained manned by Legionnaires and by a garrison of Orzammar's army, but the houses in the deeper portions of the thaig were crumbling wrecks, picked clean for supplies and artifacts but not yet repurposed for modern use.
They crossed a wooden bridge over a wide, deep chasm, and then came face to face with a dwarrowdam in armor of the black iron favored by the Legion of the Dead before they had been outfitted with mithril. Durin guessed, both by the absence of tattoos and the strangely still way she held herself, that this was the one he had come to see.
"Shaper Valta," he greeted.
She cast her slightly glazed, distant gaze downward, kneeling. "Your Majesty," she said. "Thank you for coming. It is an honor."
It was not the words that had Durin suddenly taking a step back, reeling, nor that had his entourage blinking in confusion and concern. It was the fact that every one of those words were spoken in perfectly enunciated khuzdul. Not one of Orzammar's Shaperate had yet attained such a mastery of the old tongue.
Durin swallowed and opened his mouth to reply. "I am told," he said, in the same language, "that you wished to speak with me regarding the Titan you found in the depths here."
"Yes, Your Majesty," said Shaper Valta. "Azsâlul'abad humbly requests an audience with you, oldest and fatherless."
Azsâlul'abad? Wasn't that… Durin reached deep within his memory. Azsâlul'abad was the name of a mountain in Middle-Earth. It was just south of the Grey Mountains. The Elves had called it Erebor—in the common tongue, it was known as the Lonely Mountain, for it stood alone, disconnected from the rest of the range of Ered Mithrim.
"This Titan has an old name," he said.
"It does," said Shaper Valta. "Will you speak with it? It wishes to hear your voice, which it never heard before."
Durin took a deep breath. "I will."
She stood, her gaze seeming to pass over him unseeing. With a bow, she turned and began to descend into the caves.
"Come," Durin ordered his entourage. "She will lead us to the Titan."
Renn murmured a soft oath on the Stone, but all of the dwarrows marched with Durin as he followed Valta into the dark.
The light was blinding when they suddenly stepped into it. They rounded a corner, dimly lit after a stretch of total darkness, and emerged into a sight like none Durin had ever before beheld. It was as though a forest kingdom of the Elves had been transposed into the very belly of the earth. Birds twittered among trees growing out of the bare rock ensconcing the cavern. Blue light filled the air, emanating from a rich lattice of lyrium veins converging on a massive crystalline heart in the center of the vast chamber. It refracted through the pale mists drifting upon a strange breeze, lighting the whole chamber as if in daylight.
Durin was conscious of Gorim's sharp intake of breath beside him. Behind them, the rest of the party made similar expressions of astonishment and awe. Durin himself was struck dumb. Here was something unlike anything he had seen in Thedas or Middle-Earth, a beauty completely outside the experience of his many centuries.
Shaper Valta seemed entirely unmoved by the sight. She scrambled down a slope ahead of them, onto a stone platform which connected to a series of bridges. Durin followed her with his eyes for a moment before turning to Renn. "When did she start behaving… oddly?" he asked.
"When she got close to that heart," Renn's eyes, like the others', were focused on the lyrium heart. However, where theirs were wide with awe, his were narrowed in distrust and dislike.
"Then you shall all remain here," Durin ordered.
"Your Majesty!" Gorim began in protest.
Durin was unmoved. "I cannot be bent by sorcery or artifice. But in these latter days, that gift is mine alone. I will not risk your minds needlessly. I will speak to the Titan alone. You may follow at a distance, but do not draw near the heart. Am I understood?"
Gorim gritted his teeth. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Durin turned and followed Valta down. She led him across the bridges, over wide, misty gaps, towards the brilliant source of the light. The crystal heart was suspended by crystal strands of blue lyrium over a platform in the center of the cavern.
Gorim, Renn, and the others all halted at the far end of the bridge leading towards that central pedestal. Durin alone followed Valta across it. As he approached it, the soft ringing song of lyrium, ever present in these deep places, grew in crescendo until it was a symphony of joyous, triumphant music.
They reached the end of the bridge, and Valta stood aside, kneeling. Durin stepped past her, gazing up at the lyrium heart. It pulsed with light, its song shifting like harps changing key. The song filled Durin's ears, and somehow, though there were no discernible voices among the pure tones, the sound resolved itself into words within his mind.
Hail, Durin the Last, First Son of Mahal. The Titan's voice reminded Durin of the few times he had spoken with Ents as he wandered the forests beyond the Misty Mountains. It was slow, and thoughtful, but rich in both joy and sorrow.
"You are Azsâlul'abad?" Durin asked in khuzdul.
I am, the Titan confirmed. Once I was named Erebor. When your people built halls within my depths, they gave me my name in the tongue of stone. It was by that name which I awoke, and by that name which I slept.
For a moment, Durin didn't understand. Then the realization washed over him. "You are Azsâlul'abad," he breathed. "You are the mountain, the Lonely Mountain at the edge of Ered Mithrim, beyond the Sindar Greenwood, where Celduin, the River Running, has its source."
I am. The Titan's heart pulsed with light. After the fall of Khazad-dûm at the hands of the Balrog there unearthed, which your people came to know as Durin's Bane, your grandson Thráin led your people east, to me. There they built a great kingdom, a new home for the Longbeards, and there they remained for many years. Save one brief exile, they remained there until the world was Sundered.
"Sundered?" Durin asked. "What happened? How do you—what are you? I remember no mineral like lyrium in Middle-Earth, nor was magic such as that which mages wield the domain of Men or Elves. How have you come to be here? How can you be that ancient mountain?"
So many questions! The Titan seemed to laugh, the music shivering with mirth. I shall answer them as best I can.
The Third Age ended with the fall of Sauron, who was Master of the Rings of Power, and with the departure of the last of the Noldor and Teleri Elf-kindreds," he said. "However, the Avari Elves, who had never undertaken the Great Journey into the West, were left behind. They were few in number, in those days, and had been largely forgotten by the rest of their race, and by the other peoples of Middle-Earth. In the following Fourth Age, these Avari multiplied. Free from the threat of Sauron, they emerged from their hidden homes in the East and South and returned to the greener lands their kin had abandoned. It is from these Avari that the elves who came with us to Thedas are descended.
"Came with us to Thedas?" Durin interrupted. "Then Thedas is not the distant future of forgotten Middle-Earth?"
It is, answered Azsâlul'abad, in the same way that a plank in the foundations of a house is the future of a great tree. The tree died to birth the plank, and many of its brethren.
"Died?" Durin stared up at the giant heart of blue crystal. "How—what does it even mean for a world to die?"
I shall come to this, Your Majesty, said the Titan. You have my word. But the story should be told in order, with its beginning before its end. I would have you understand how we came to be here, not just where it is we have come to be.
Durin nodded. "Continue, then."
I shall. The Titan paused, as if collecting its thoughts. After a moment, it continued. The Fourth Age was prosperous for all the free peoples of Middle-Earth. There was no great shadow like Morgoth or Sauron to trouble the Dwarves, or any of their allies. The greatest strifes of those centuries were regional wars fought between local kingdoms, for all the usual reasons.
Nearly eight centuries of peace went by in that Fourth Age, and in that time the Dwarves multiplied and grew. They reclaimed the lost realm of Khazad-dûm and established a great kingdom all around it in the southern Misty Mountains. But little of that history is known to me, for I had not yet been brought into being.
"Then when were you brought into being?" Durin asked. "And how do you know what you do about the days before?"
I came into being in the final days of the Fifth Age, said Azsâlul'abad. It was a dark and terrible time. The peace of the Fourth Age did not last. I heard some of the history in the years before I entered my long sleep, but I did not know everything. It seems now that much has been forgotten that ought to have been remembered.
"I have found this to be true indeed," said Durin. "You also do not know how so much was lost?"
I do not. How the Dwarves could have forgotten Khuzdul, forgotten Mahal, I do not know. The Titan sounded grim. But that we Titans were excised from your people's Memories entirely suggests that it was not a mere accident of long history.
"I agree," Durin said. "But for now, please, continue. How did the Fourth Age end?"
The turning of the age was marked by the discovery of an artifact buried deep beneath the Ephel Dúath. Azsâlul'abad said. I know not what that artifact was, but I was told that it twisted the minds of the dwarrows who found it. They brought it back with them to their homeland in the Ered Lithui, and that kingdom soon grew dark and strange to their former allies. Strange powers did they wield, and strange obsessions drove them. They began to expand, making war against ever more distant neighbors. But the true horror came to pass as those neighbors, too, began to unlock similar powers, and to drive themselves with similar obsessions.
"This madness spread, not between friends, but between foes?" Durin asked.
So I was told.
"How can that be? What kingdom would accept gifts or missionaries from a rival in open war?"
I do not know, Azsâlul'abad said. Perhaps these gifts were given under friendly guise, like the Rings of Power from the hand of Annatar. Or perhaps the survivors of battles against the enemy were somehow tainted by their weapons and magics. If any of the Dwarves I knew before my sleep knew how this contagious madness spread, they did not tell me.
Durin sighed. He was getting some answers, but they were leading to more questions, and increasingly he was worrying that the things he did not know would one day hurt him and his people. "Very well. Continue, Azsâlul'abad."
The warlike madness spread, said the Titan. Old alliances fractured. Kingdoms and empires fell to ruin. There were some who resisted, who formed strong bonds of friendship against the darkening world, who relied on one another. But with every passing decade they were pushed further back westward and northward.
In the final days of the Fifth Age, the skies themselves grew dark. Strange shapes descended from beyond the stars, greeted with adulation by the warlike peoples who had come to worship them. The Spider-Queen Ungoliant had returned, bringing with her terrible power. A frail coalition resisted her, with the Iron Hills and the Lonely Mountain in alliance with the Men, Elves, and other folk who lived near them. Others resisted in other corners of the world—Khazad-dûm never again fell into the hands of the enemies of the Dwarves. But those who resisted quickly dwindled. And it was in this darkest hour that Mahal himself returned to the Dwarves.
"Mahal came from the West?" Durin asked, once more cursing the amnesia that prevented him remembering the long years between his returns. "He came to Middle-Earth himself, in person?"
He did. Azsâlul'abad's tone was reverent. He delved deep into the heart of the Lonely Mountain. He unearthed the tomb of one of your descendents, a revered King Under the Mountain. Within that tomb was buried a great gemstone, the Mountain's Heart, and into this gem Mahal imparted a single breath of the Secret Fire, which had been dispatched to him for the purpose. And thus was I born.
Mahal forged for me the veins of lyrium blood which sustain me, granted me limbs of stone which move me. He allowed me to pull myself, and all the Dwarves hidden away safe within my caverns, out from the ground of Middle-Earth.
For it had been decreed by Eru Ilúvatar that Arda, beset as it was by the agents of Silent Ungoliant, she who feasts upon her own flesh and is neither sated nor slain, was to be Sundered. As an intraversible gap was laid between Middle-Earth in the East and Aman in the West after the crimes of the Men of Númenor, so would Middle-Earth be shattered after the rise of Ungoliant's servants. Its people would be scattered among worlds as numerous as the stars in the sky.
Durin's eyes were wide. As numerous as… "Then there are Dwarves on some of these other worlds, as well?" he asked. "Dwarves to whom I have not returned—to whom, if this is truly my last incarnation, I shall never return?"
There are, said the Titan. At least three worlds received Titans, when Arda was Sundered. I followed Mahal as he traveled, first north to the Iron Hills, then West to the Misty Mountains, awakening Titans as he went. Others among the Ainur traveled to the forests, the rivers, the plains, and gathered other peoples, sometimes creating for them other guardians, in preparation for the difficult journeys to come.
Mahal made us, we Titans, to be homes for the Dwarves wherever they might go. Whatever the shape of the world where Eru's adopted children found themselves, they would not lack for mountains in which to live. And so, when at last Arda was Sundered with a great clamor and calamity, I came to rest upon the newborn soil of Thedas. I, and several of my siblings. We laid down roots among the mountain ranges, and then we slept, for the voyage to Thedas was long and arduous, and we were tired.
Long have we slept. But now, some of us have awoken. The Titan's song grew somber. Some of us, I think, have been changed during our slumber. I can hear Methedras singing, and its song is much altered, twisted by corruption and Blight.
"Red lyrium," Durin realized, awe and horror twisting in his heart. "If lyrium is the blood of Titans, then red lyrium must be… the blood of a Titan infected with the Blight."
Just so. The music of the Titan softened into something like a sigh. Alas, I fear the long safety of the Dwarves is coming to an end. I can hear the whispers of the Void, of Ungoliant who hungers, growing more present by the day. She reaches greedy limbs, tipped with baited lures, into the fabric of Thedas. It will not be long before someone answers. She is held at bay by whatever strange magic raised up a barrier between the Seen and Unseen of Thedas, but that Veil will not hold her forever.
"The Veil—" Durin could not speak. The realizations were falling one upon the next like dominoes.
The Fade was what had, in Middle-Earth, been known as the Unseen. The Dwarves had always been more distant from that otherworld, which was why even the Rings of Sauron could not twist them into wraiths. Here on Thedas, where the Unseen manifested as the Fade, that meant that Dwarves could not become mages.
The Veil was artificial. It was a deliberately-placed barrier between Seen and Unseen. But who had built it? And what was it meant to keep at bay? Which side was it meant to seal?
And if Ungoliant, the Light-Eater who consumed the Trees before the dawn of the first day, was truly reaching into this world… then his instincts regarding the Anvil of the Void had been correct. The Spider's baited lure had enticed Branka to obsession. If he and Elissa had allowed her to continue making golems, how long would it have been before the cost became apparent? How long before the crack in the world which allowed the Void's power to seep through widened enough for more of its influence to spread?
"This is… a great deal to digest," he admitted at last to Azsâlul'abad.
I understand, it said. I will remain here to answer any questions you have.
Durin glanced over at Valta, still kneeling behind him. "What happened to her?" he asked. "Why have you so altered her mind?"
An accident. The Titan's voice was regretful. It was the first time I had communed with a dwarf who had not been twisted by the drinking of my blood, the lyrium-madness, in many ages. I connected my mind with hers with too much eagerness, too much haste, and the experience overwhelmed her. She will recover—she is already recovering. In a matter of months, she will be well again. Altered, perhaps, by the experience. She will never again forget khuzdul, and she will remain attuned to the songs we Titans sing, better able to hear us than most. But she will once again be herself.
"I am glad," said Durin. He turned back to Azsâlul'abad. "My people have mined lyrium for many years," he admitted, "to fuel our enchantments and the magic of humans and elves. It will be difficult to call a halt to the process—it is the dwarves' most profitable trade by far."
There is no need, Azsâlul'abad reassured him. Lyrium was made to be valuable. I replenish it quickly, and I am meant to be of use to you, as are all my kind. I ask only that you are careful, and that you communicate with me as you mine my veins. I will tell you if you begin to drain me faster than I can replenish, but I do not think such a thing will occur for many years to come.
Durin grimaced. "It is unsettling to consider mining the veins of a living, thinking creature," he said.
Think nothing of it, said the Titan. It is no more strange than drinking the milk of a dairy-cow or eating the honey of a beehive. I feel no pain at the loss of lyrium, so long as it is not enough to be a danger to my life. And in all the centuries I have slept, I have never once been endangered by the mining dwarves above. Fear not for me, King Durin.
"Well, I thank you," said Durin. "Now, I must go soon, and return to Orzammar. Have you any advice for finding the other Titans' hearts? I would rather mine lyrium only from those Titans who are awake to monitor their own condition."
Dig deep, advised the Titan. There will be tunnels already, leading down into our hearts. There are no Balrogs here to unearth, though there may be Blighted things. But I shall sing a song of waking to my brethren, in hopes that they shall wake to call you to them.
"Thank you," said Durin. Then he turned to Valta. "Shaper," he ordered, still in khuzdul. "You will remain here as an envoy, a go-between for the Titan and the miners above. See to it that, if Azsâlul'abad feels its life is threatened by our mining, that the miners cease at once, by order of the King."
"It shall be done, Your Majesty," promised Shaper Valta.
Durin turned back to Azsâlul'abad. "The elves," he said. "You mentioned the Avari remained in Middle-Earth after the Third Age. I assume they are the Thedosian elves' ancestors?"
I can only assume so, the Titan said. When Arda was Sundered, there were no Elves within my belly. But when I came to rest upon Thedas, there were Elves in the forests above. If they came from elsewhere, I know not where.
Durin nodded. "I will likely have more questions, eventually," he said. "But for now, I must go. My people will be worrying, both by guards here and my advisors in Orzammar." Fortunately, he was still well within the schedule Commander Bravus had set for him. "I thank you for the insight, Azsâlul'abad. It answers many questions I had."
I am honored to be of service, Eldest and Fatherless, said Azsâlul'abad. My King.
Part 6: Before the Fall
Word was slow to return from the Inquisition. Before he had left Skyhold, Durin had hashed out the details of their operation in Heidrun Thaig. Commander Cullen had suggested that the Inquisition's army construct a lift down into the thaig from the Storm Coast, both to facilitate trade once the earthquakes were stopped and to shorten the travel necessary for Lavellan and her team—the only safe route to Heidrun Thaig currently would have the Inquisitor travelling hundreds of miles all the way across the length of Ferelden, from Skyhold in the southern Frostbacks to Kal'Hirol in northeastern Amaranthine.
"With a little luck," Leliana had said, "we can get the Inquisitor to your Shaper in less than a month, well before she's needed at the Winter Palace."
It had not been quite so fast. The Inquisitor had ended up being delayed in an operation in the Emprise du Lion, which—while much closer to Skyhold—were on the Orlesian side of the Frostbacks. Still, Durin had not needed to wait until after Empress Celene's masquerade at Halamshiral, a fact for which he was quietly both relieved and grateful.
Malgaran remained as loyal as ever, but the months of delay had understandably displeased him. Durin had ordered the lyrium mining in Heidrun Thaig ceased for the duration of the tremors, and had offered all miners full paid leave for the duration—leave for which he paid directly out of the royal treasury, by now full to bursting with gold won through the mithril trade and reclaimed from lost thaigs. That had mollified Malgaran somewhat, but he remained anxious to see the matter fully resolved.
Fortunately, the delay did end. Word came first from the Inquisition—a report penned in Leliana's own hand, hand-delivered to Durin's office five weeks after his own return from Skyhold.
"Sister Nightingale encourages you to read this report in private, Your Majesty," the elvhen scout said in a low voice, dark eyes glittering in the light of the magma lamps. "I am told it bears… sensitive news."
"Understood," said Durin with a sharp nod. "Thank you. You are welcome to stay as a guest in the Aeducan compound as long as you like before your return."
When the scout had left, Durin took a dagger and opened the sealed envelope. The first line read:
For the eyes of King Durin VII, Last of His Name, Paragon of Orzammar and Lord of the New Empire.
Durin immediately reached for his strongbox and pulled out his collection of ciphers. After all these years, a private code had developed between himself, Alistair, and Elissa—a code with multiple decryption keys. Which Durin was meant to use was determined by the order in which his titles were named.
Leliana was not technically one of the people meant to communicate with this cipher. However, since she was the one to design it on their behalf, it was not especially surprising to see.
The translated message, as one might expect, was far shorter than the encrypted one. It read thus:
King Durin,
The Inquisitor reports that Shaper Valta's Titan did exist and was the source of the earthquakes. The details are unclear. She speaks of a beating heart of mineral lyrium, and claims that the entire cave system beneath Heidrun Thaig, perhaps including the thaig itself, is mined out of the Titan's body.
The depths were defended by dwarves called, variously, Sha-Brytol and Umrâkhkarg. Neither is modern dwarvish, but I am told the former is a recognizable dialect. I suspect the second is the khuzdul you keep so secret. I have done my best to keep the word from spreading, out of respect to your traditions.
For that, Durin was grateful. It was khuzdul, unmistakably—translating to honored defenders.
These She-Brytol carried weapons unlike any I have heard of before. They broke upon the deaths of their wielders, but the fragments the Inquisitor retrieved appear to form a projectile weapon which, according to Iron Bull, operates on principles similar to some particularly advanced Qunari equipment. It is unclear how weaponry the Qunari only developed in the past two centuries came to be in the hands of a forgotten dwarven population.
The Sha-Brytol were unwilling to negotiate, or even to speak. They appeared to be defending the lyrium heart of the Titan. Shaper Valta, after exposure to the Titan's heart, behaved in a noticeably erratic way. She specifically requested your presence, if you were willing to travel to Heidrun Thaig.
Given the unsettling behavior of both Shaper Valta and the Sha-Brytol, it is my personal recommendation that you do not go to her. I suspect blood magic, or something like it. However, if you choose to do so, the Inquisition is happy to offer an escort. Send my agent back to Skyhold with your answer, and if you wish our assistance we will send a company to Orzammar to escort you at once. You should know, however, that when Shaper Valta requested your presence, she did so under your title as Durin the Last.
Best,
Leliana
Durin let the note fall upon his desk, already deep in thought. So—the mysterious Titans existed. And, notably, their defenders retained knowledge of khuzdul. That suggested something more sinister than the slow decline Durin had assumed had befallen his people in his absence. He was reminded of Shaper Valta's exile for refusing to alter the Memories. Had the Titans been deliberately excised from his people's history? Had khuzdul itself?
There was only one way to find answers.
He found an unmarked sheaf of paper and began to write, using the same cipher as that which Leliana had used.
Leliana,
I thank you for the information. I shall go to Shaper Valta. I have questions which, I suspect, only she can answer. I do not need an Inquisition escort—I imagine your people are busy with the approaching masquerade in Halamshiral, as well as your other ongoing operations in Orlais. I will take my own guards, as it will be faster than waiting for this letter to pass into your hands and for your response to arrive upon my doorstep.
I appreciate your circumspection with regard to the khuzdul word which has fallen into your hands. The language, though long forgotten by my people now, was once sacred to us. To share it with outsiders was profane. It is not a matter of judgement or of pride—the language represents the bond of love and loyalty between my people and Mahal that made us. That both the Lord of Smiths and his language are lost to us is a greater shame in my heart than the fall of the old empire.
I heed also your warning. If you and the Lady Lavellan report that Shaper Valta was unlike herself after this exposure to the Titan, I believe you. However, I do not fear for myself. I am myself, and ever have been. I have been exposed in the past to works of great sorcery, Rings of Power which were meant to twist my mind and bend my will to the service of their master. They failed then, for the Dwarves of old were an unbendable people. Much of that heritage has been lost to my modern kin, but I remain as I was. I am unafraid, and you need not fear for me.
Do not hesitate to call upon me should the Inquisition have need. Orzammar's gates are open to you, and so they shall remain for as long as you and I remain friends. I hope very much that will be an exceedingly long time.
At your service,
Durin VII
Durin set aside his pen. The letter he folded, placed in an envelope, then sealed with his royal signet. Emerging from the study, he handed it to a servant. "Take this to the elvhen scout from the Inquisition staying at the Aeducan compound," he ordered, then turned to another across the room and called, "Go and fetch Commander Bravus! I require an hour of his time."
"What's happened, Your Majesty?" Gorim asked, voice pitched low and quiet as the servants bustled to obey.
"Word from the Inquisitor's expedition in Heidrun Thaig," Durin answered. "I must go—in person. I will need more of an escort than you alone, I think."
Gorim nodded grimly. "Especially if we're to travel on the surface," he said. "Can we spare the dwarrows?"
"That is what I intend to ask the Commander," said Durin. "If not, I will have to correct that letter."
-x-x-x-
As it turned out, they could spare the dwarrows to escort Durin to the Storm Coast. Commander Bravus' primary concern was something else entirely.
"The Nobles grow restless every time you leave Orzammar, Your Majesty," he said, glancing at the empty seat in the chamber where, during Durin's meetings with his advisors, Pyral Harrowmont usually sat. "They have not had a King who left Orzammar in living memory—and they have not had a King who went to the surface anywhere in the Memories at all. Your recent travels to Haven and Skyhold have been unsettling to them. I fear unrest."
Durin grimaced. "How dire might it grow if I leave within the week?" he asked.
"It depends on how long you are gone," said Bravus. "If you return in less than two weeks, perhaps as long as a month, it will probably not grow any worse. But if you are gone for more than that… there may be violence, Your Majesty. And it grows only more likely the longer you are gone."
Durin took a moment to calculate the travel times. "That should be more than enough time," he said finally. It was only a few days' travel each way to Heidrun Thaig by surface roads, which gave him at least a week there—far longer than he expected to need, if this Titan truly did just want to speak. "But I must go. I must have answers—and if this Titan was truly able to injure or alter Shaper Valta's mind, it must be myself in person."
"Is that wise, Your Majesty?" asked Gorim. "I know you don't think it can manipulate you, but what if you're wrong?"
"I am not wrong," said Durin simply. "I wore Cenya, the Emerald Ring, even as I fought a war against its maker. If Sauron the Deceiver could not control me, nothing in this latter world can. Commander, Gorim and I will need a small company of your fastest scouts. We will travel light and make for the Inquisition's encampment on the Storm Coast. With luck, and if we push ourselves to haste, I can be back in no more than ten days."
Commander Bravus bowed. "I will have an escort prepared for you by dawn, Your Majesty."
-x-x-x-
Bravus was as good as his word. In less than twelve hours, Durin and his escort of a dozen dwarrows were departing Orzammar. As he walked through the bustling market town that had grown up around the great gates to the city in the past decade, Durin reflected on how much had changed since that day when two Wardens and their entourage stumbled into an assortment of tents and the impromptu bazaar that had sprung up around gates closed by a King's death.
He passed by dwarrows selling artisanry from the city below, discussing merchant business with human caravaneers from Denerim, Redcliffe, and Amaranthine. He saw an elvhen trader with Dalish vallaslin trading handmade carvings from his people for dwarven gold.
The Orzammar thaig was slowly starting to bleed into the surface, and it made Durin's heart surge with pride. He remembered the marketplace in Eregion outside the gates of Khazad-dûm, with the Sirannon merrily bubbling behind the merchants' stalls. There was so much yet to do before his people were once more the Dwarves he remembered—but they were getting there.
They traveled in disguise as a merchant caravan, a covered cart traveling beside their troupe. Once they were a few miles east of the trading post, they parted ways with the loyal caravan which Common-Deshyr Maruk had provided. As the caravan continued eastward, towards Denerim, Durin and his escort turned north, towards the Calenhad River delta and the Waking Sea beyond.
They made good time. By nightfall on the third day of their travel, they reached the watch-fires of the Inquisition's fortified encampment nestled among the windswept forests. As they drew near enough to be seen, Durin cast off the travel cloak he had worn and donned his crown so that he would be recognized.
The sentries had seen them coming at enough distance that, by the time they were in range, Durin could see no bows raised. However, surprise and confusion were still visible on many faces.
"Your Majesty," said one soldier with a bow. The man was clad in steel armor whose make Durin recognized from one of Orzammar's forges. "We had no idea you were coming. I'm Captain Holliday, commanding officer of this encampment. I'm sorry to say we've no accommodations prepared for you."
"Entirely expected," Durin said. "In the interest of haste, I left Orzammar before Sister Nightingale could receive word of my coming. I am here to follow up on the Inquisitor's recent investigation in Heidrun Thaig. I believe the Inquisition has a lift leading below?"
"Yes, Your Majesty," confirmed Captain Holliday. He spoke with a slightly drawling accent which Durin vaguely recognized as coming from the western Free Marches. "It's up the coast a ways, around a fissure in the Long River valley. Will you stay the night with us here before descending?"
"If you would not mind our benefitting from your fortifications," said Durin, who had heard the distant shrieking of darkspawn on the wind beneath the whistling of the rainstorm as they approached.
"Of course not, Your Majesty."
-x-x-x-
The next day, Captain Holliday escorted them up the Long River towards the fissure. As they turned into the valley, putting their backs to the coast, Durin spoke to the man over the sound of the pouring rain. "Have you felt the tremors here on the surface?"
"We did," Holliday confirmed. "One of the bigger quakes even knocked over one of our palisades. It was an unpleasant business, I don't mind telling you. But they've subsided since the Inquisitor returned."
"Oh, have they?" Durin asked, surprised.
"They have indeed. No idea why. If the Inquisitor knew, she wasn't sharing." The captain's face, seemingly accustomed to a smile, grew momentarily dour. "Whatever went on down there, it spooked her and her team. Her elf advisor—Solas? He looked like he'd seen a ghost. Barely spoke, even to her."
Durin hummed thoughtfully. "I have received some word of what they found from Sister Nightingale," he said. "I am not surprised that the Inquisitor found it unsettling. I am rather unsettled myself."
The man glanced down at him. "You want some of my men to go down there with you?" he asked.
"That should not be necessary," said Durin. "But I will send word to your camp if things change. Thank you, Captain."
Captain Holliday nodded. "Of course, Your Majesty."
They reached the lift—a rickety wooden construction built over a rocky crevasse in the mountainside. It was manned by a crew of half a dozen Inquisition soldiers in leathers, who saluted Captain Holliday and bowed to Durin as they approached. As they stood by the entrance to the lift, Durin turned to his soldiers.
"Gharvan, Merrick," he said, gesturing to the two fastest of his escort. "You two remain up here. Should word come from below of my death or capture, make all haste back to Orzammar and bring word to my advisors. Captain Holliday, I ask that you send word at once to Skyhold should such a thing occur."
"Of course, Your Majesty." Captain Holliday looked nervous. "Uh, do me a favor and don't get killed on my watch, would you?"
"I will do my very best," said Durin. He turned and stepped onto the lift. His entourage followed. With a ponderous creaking, the platform began to descend into the fissure.
Minutes passed as they descended. Durin heard Gorim shifting beside him, his mithril gauntlet clinking audibly as he adjusted his grip on his warhammer. No words were spoken—the only sounds were the steady drip-drip of water trickling down the rock walls, the creaking of the lift beneath their feet, and the slow, tense breathing of half a dozen dwarves. Even the rainstorm above grew quiet as they dropped beyond its reach.
Finally, after more than five minutes, the wooden platform touched gently down upon the uneven stone floor of the cavern. Durin stepped off, scanning the gloom. The light from the sky above filtered down in a long, weak beam, falling upon the lift and its immediate surroundings, but leaving the darkness beyond in deep shadow.
A dwarrow emerged suddenly from that shadow. Durin had noticed his approach, but several of his entourage made audible sounds of surprise and startlement. The dwarrow was clad in the newly issued mithril armor of the Legion of the Dead. His legionnaire's tattoos marked his brow and peeked out from beneath the sides of his beard.
He knelt, armor clinking against the stone. "Your Majesty," he said in a rough, deep voice. "I—we had no idea you were coming."
Durin noted the rank insignias on the legionnaire's pauldron. "At ease, Commander," he said. "Rise."
The dwarrow did, dark eyes flickering among the party. "I'm Commander Renn," he said, "leader of the Legion here in Heidrun Thaig. I went down with the Inquisitor and—and Shaper Valta, into the depths. I assume that's why you've come?"
"It is," said Durin. "Report, Commander."
Renn nodded stiffly. "We passed below the Deep Roads through a fissure," he said. "We encountered dwarves there—dwarves with armor grafted to their bodies with lyrium. They never spoke, but worked together as if they could read one another's minds. They carried weapons that launched metal bolts faster than any crossbow. One would have killed me before we even knew to take cover, if it wasn't for my armor." He struck his breastplate with the knuckles of his gauntlet with a clang. "They tore through steel as easily as leather.
"They were guarding a—an underground—" He struggled visibly. "It was like the surface. Like an elvhen city, full of greenery and light and even birdsong. There was a city built there, all around a massive lyrium heart. Shaper Valta and the Inquisitor approached the heart and fought some sort of golem. Then Shaper Valta was struck by some kind of magic from the heart. When she stood up she was—different. She told the Inquisitor that she was in communication with the Titan, that it would stop its tremors. And she said the Titan wanted to speak with you, Your Majesty."
Durin nodded slowly. "And where is Shaper Valta now?"
"Below," said Renn. "She refuses to go above the lowest levels of the old thaig anymore. I can lead you if you're ready."
"Please do," said Durin. Renn turned, and they followed him, walking down the tunnels and into the old masonry of the thaig. Durin recognized the craftsmanship of this place—more even than Orzammar, it resembled the workmanship of the Longbeards, his own people. Heidrun Thaig must once have been inhabited by the descendants of those who had lived with him in Khazad-dûm long ago.
After several minutes in silence, Durin took a few longer strides to catch up to Renn. "Commander," he said. "Have there been any tremors since you returned from the depths?"
"One, Your Majesty," said Renn. "Very small, no serious damage or injuries. Valta said the Titan was moving slightly 'for safety.' She didn't explain what she meant."
"And the workers? The miners, and the others living here in Heidrun? What has become of them?"
"Work crews have started to go back into the mines in reduced numbers," said Renn. "They're being as careful as they can, staying near to the entrances and putting up additional supports."
"Very good," said Durin. "What were the final casualties?"
"Twenty-three miners dead, along with five Legionnaires and seven other civilians," said Renn promptly. "Several deaths were caused when a tremor opened a darkspawn tunnel in the south thaig."
Durin sighed. "Too many. But it could have been far worse."
They passed through the inhabited portions of the thaig. Several dwarrows poked their heads out of doors to watch them proceed down the street. Durin nodded in each one's direction as he passed.
Soon enough, however, they entered the portions of the old city which had not yet been reclaimed. Fortifications remained manned by Legionnaires and by a garrison of Orzammar's army, but the houses in the deeper portions of the thaig were crumbling wrecks, picked clean for supplies and artifacts but not yet repurposed for modern use.
They crossed a wooden bridge over a wide, deep chasm, and then came face to face with a dwarrowdam in armor of the black iron favored by the Legion of the Dead before they had been outfitted with mithril. Durin guessed, both by the absence of tattoos and the strangely still way she held herself, that this was the one he had come to see.
"Shaper Valta," he greeted.
She cast her slightly glazed, distant gaze downward, kneeling. "Your Majesty," she said. "Thank you for coming. It is an honor."
It was not the words that had Durin suddenly taking a step back, reeling, nor that had his entourage blinking in confusion and concern. It was the fact that every one of those words were spoken in perfectly enunciated khuzdul. Not one of Orzammar's Shaperate had yet attained such a mastery of the old tongue.
Durin swallowed and opened his mouth to reply. "I am told," he said, in the same language, "that you wished to speak with me regarding the Titan you found in the depths here."
"Yes, Your Majesty," said Shaper Valta. "Azsâlul'abad humbly requests an audience with you, oldest and fatherless."
Azsâlul'abad? Wasn't that… Durin reached deep within his memory. Azsâlul'abad was the name of a mountain in Middle-Earth. It was just south of the Grey Mountains. The Elves had called it Erebor—in the common tongue, it was known as the Lonely Mountain, for it stood alone, disconnected from the rest of the range of Ered Mithrim.
"This Titan has an old name," he said.
"It does," said Shaper Valta. "Will you speak with it? It wishes to hear your voice, which it never heard before."
Durin took a deep breath. "I will."
She stood, her gaze seeming to pass over him unseeing. With a bow, she turned and began to descend into the caves.
"Come," Durin ordered his entourage. "She will lead us to the Titan."
Renn murmured a soft oath on the Stone, but all of the dwarrows marched with Durin as he followed Valta into the dark.
-x-x-x-
The light was blinding when they suddenly stepped into it. They rounded a corner, dimly lit after a stretch of total darkness, and emerged into a sight like none Durin had ever before beheld. It was as though a forest kingdom of the Elves had been transposed into the very belly of the earth. Birds twittered among trees growing out of the bare rock ensconcing the cavern. Blue light filled the air, emanating from a rich lattice of lyrium veins converging on a massive crystalline heart in the center of the vast chamber. It refracted through the pale mists drifting upon a strange breeze, lighting the whole chamber as if in daylight.
Durin was conscious of Gorim's sharp intake of breath beside him. Behind them, the rest of the party made similar expressions of astonishment and awe. Durin himself was struck dumb. Here was something unlike anything he had seen in Thedas or Middle-Earth, a beauty completely outside the experience of his many centuries.
Shaper Valta seemed entirely unmoved by the sight. She scrambled down a slope ahead of them, onto a stone platform which connected to a series of bridges. Durin followed her with his eyes for a moment before turning to Renn. "When did she start behaving… oddly?" he asked.
"When she got close to that heart," Renn's eyes, like the others', were focused on the lyrium heart. However, where theirs were wide with awe, his were narrowed in distrust and dislike.
"Then you shall all remain here," Durin ordered.
"Your Majesty!" Gorim began in protest.
Durin was unmoved. "I cannot be bent by sorcery or artifice. But in these latter days, that gift is mine alone. I will not risk your minds needlessly. I will speak to the Titan alone. You may follow at a distance, but do not draw near the heart. Am I understood?"
Gorim gritted his teeth. "Yes, Your Majesty."
Durin turned and followed Valta down. She led him across the bridges, over wide, misty gaps, towards the brilliant source of the light. The crystal heart was suspended by crystal strands of blue lyrium over a platform in the center of the cavern.
Gorim, Renn, and the others all halted at the far end of the bridge leading towards that central pedestal. Durin alone followed Valta across it. As he approached it, the soft ringing song of lyrium, ever present in these deep places, grew in crescendo until it was a symphony of joyous, triumphant music.
They reached the end of the bridge, and Valta stood aside, kneeling. Durin stepped past her, gazing up at the lyrium heart. It pulsed with light, its song shifting like harps changing key. The song filled Durin's ears, and somehow, though there were no discernible voices among the pure tones, the sound resolved itself into words within his mind.
Hail, Durin the Last, First Son of Mahal. The Titan's voice reminded Durin of the few times he had spoken with Ents as he wandered the forests beyond the Misty Mountains. It was slow, and thoughtful, but rich in both joy and sorrow.
"You are Azsâlul'abad?" Durin asked in khuzdul.
I am, the Titan confirmed. Once I was named Erebor. When your people built halls within my depths, they gave me my name in the tongue of stone. It was by that name which I awoke, and by that name which I slept.
For a moment, Durin didn't understand. Then the realization washed over him. "You are Azsâlul'abad," he breathed. "You are the mountain, the Lonely Mountain at the edge of Ered Mithrim, beyond the Sindar Greenwood, where Celduin, the River Running, has its source."
I am. The Titan's heart pulsed with light. After the fall of Khazad-dûm at the hands of the Balrog there unearthed, which your people came to know as Durin's Bane, your grandson Thráin led your people east, to me. There they built a great kingdom, a new home for the Longbeards, and there they remained for many years. Save one brief exile, they remained there until the world was Sundered.
"Sundered?" Durin asked. "What happened? How do you—what are you? I remember no mineral like lyrium in Middle-Earth, nor was magic such as that which mages wield the domain of Men or Elves. How have you come to be here? How can you be that ancient mountain?"
So many questions! The Titan seemed to laugh, the music shivering with mirth. I shall answer them as best I can.
The Third Age ended with the fall of Sauron, who was Master of the Rings of Power, and with the departure of the last of the Noldor and Teleri Elf-kindreds," he said. "However, the Avari Elves, who had never undertaken the Great Journey into the West, were left behind. They were few in number, in those days, and had been largely forgotten by the rest of their race, and by the other peoples of Middle-Earth. In the following Fourth Age, these Avari multiplied. Free from the threat of Sauron, they emerged from their hidden homes in the East and South and returned to the greener lands their kin had abandoned. It is from these Avari that the elves who came with us to Thedas are descended.
"Came with us to Thedas?" Durin interrupted. "Then Thedas is not the distant future of forgotten Middle-Earth?"
It is, answered Azsâlul'abad, in the same way that a plank in the foundations of a house is the future of a great tree. The tree died to birth the plank, and many of its brethren.
"Died?" Durin stared up at the giant heart of blue crystal. "How—what does it even mean for a world to die?"
I shall come to this, Your Majesty, said the Titan. You have my word. But the story should be told in order, with its beginning before its end. I would have you understand how we came to be here, not just where it is we have come to be.
Durin nodded. "Continue, then."
I shall. The Titan paused, as if collecting its thoughts. After a moment, it continued. The Fourth Age was prosperous for all the free peoples of Middle-Earth. There was no great shadow like Morgoth or Sauron to trouble the Dwarves, or any of their allies. The greatest strifes of those centuries were regional wars fought between local kingdoms, for all the usual reasons.
Nearly eight centuries of peace went by in that Fourth Age, and in that time the Dwarves multiplied and grew. They reclaimed the lost realm of Khazad-dûm and established a great kingdom all around it in the southern Misty Mountains. But little of that history is known to me, for I had not yet been brought into being.
"Then when were you brought into being?" Durin asked. "And how do you know what you do about the days before?"
I came into being in the final days of the Fifth Age, said Azsâlul'abad. It was a dark and terrible time. The peace of the Fourth Age did not last. I heard some of the history in the years before I entered my long sleep, but I did not know everything. It seems now that much has been forgotten that ought to have been remembered.
"I have found this to be true indeed," said Durin. "You also do not know how so much was lost?"
I do not. How the Dwarves could have forgotten Khuzdul, forgotten Mahal, I do not know. The Titan sounded grim. But that we Titans were excised from your people's Memories entirely suggests that it was not a mere accident of long history.
"I agree," Durin said. "But for now, please, continue. How did the Fourth Age end?"
The turning of the age was marked by the discovery of an artifact buried deep beneath the Ephel Dúath. Azsâlul'abad said. I know not what that artifact was, but I was told that it twisted the minds of the dwarrows who found it. They brought it back with them to their homeland in the Ered Lithui, and that kingdom soon grew dark and strange to their former allies. Strange powers did they wield, and strange obsessions drove them. They began to expand, making war against ever more distant neighbors. But the true horror came to pass as those neighbors, too, began to unlock similar powers, and to drive themselves with similar obsessions.
"This madness spread, not between friends, but between foes?" Durin asked.
So I was told.
"How can that be? What kingdom would accept gifts or missionaries from a rival in open war?"
I do not know, Azsâlul'abad said. Perhaps these gifts were given under friendly guise, like the Rings of Power from the hand of Annatar. Or perhaps the survivors of battles against the enemy were somehow tainted by their weapons and magics. If any of the Dwarves I knew before my sleep knew how this contagious madness spread, they did not tell me.
Durin sighed. He was getting some answers, but they were leading to more questions, and increasingly he was worrying that the things he did not know would one day hurt him and his people. "Very well. Continue, Azsâlul'abad."
The warlike madness spread, said the Titan. Old alliances fractured. Kingdoms and empires fell to ruin. There were some who resisted, who formed strong bonds of friendship against the darkening world, who relied on one another. But with every passing decade they were pushed further back westward and northward.
In the final days of the Fifth Age, the skies themselves grew dark. Strange shapes descended from beyond the stars, greeted with adulation by the warlike peoples who had come to worship them. The Spider-Queen Ungoliant had returned, bringing with her terrible power. A frail coalition resisted her, with the Iron Hills and the Lonely Mountain in alliance with the Men, Elves, and other folk who lived near them. Others resisted in other corners of the world—Khazad-dûm never again fell into the hands of the enemies of the Dwarves. But those who resisted quickly dwindled. And it was in this darkest hour that Mahal himself returned to the Dwarves.
"Mahal came from the West?" Durin asked, once more cursing the amnesia that prevented him remembering the long years between his returns. "He came to Middle-Earth himself, in person?"
He did. Azsâlul'abad's tone was reverent. He delved deep into the heart of the Lonely Mountain. He unearthed the tomb of one of your descendents, a revered King Under the Mountain. Within that tomb was buried a great gemstone, the Mountain's Heart, and into this gem Mahal imparted a single breath of the Secret Fire, which had been dispatched to him for the purpose. And thus was I born.
Mahal forged for me the veins of lyrium blood which sustain me, granted me limbs of stone which move me. He allowed me to pull myself, and all the Dwarves hidden away safe within my caverns, out from the ground of Middle-Earth.
For it had been decreed by Eru Ilúvatar that Arda, beset as it was by the agents of Silent Ungoliant, she who feasts upon her own flesh and is neither sated nor slain, was to be Sundered. As an intraversible gap was laid between Middle-Earth in the East and Aman in the West after the crimes of the Men of Númenor, so would Middle-Earth be shattered after the rise of Ungoliant's servants. Its people would be scattered among worlds as numerous as the stars in the sky.
Durin's eyes were wide. As numerous as… "Then there are Dwarves on some of these other worlds, as well?" he asked. "Dwarves to whom I have not returned—to whom, if this is truly my last incarnation, I shall never return?"
There are, said the Titan. At least three worlds received Titans, when Arda was Sundered. I followed Mahal as he traveled, first north to the Iron Hills, then West to the Misty Mountains, awakening Titans as he went. Others among the Ainur traveled to the forests, the rivers, the plains, and gathered other peoples, sometimes creating for them other guardians, in preparation for the difficult journeys to come.
Mahal made us, we Titans, to be homes for the Dwarves wherever they might go. Whatever the shape of the world where Eru's adopted children found themselves, they would not lack for mountains in which to live. And so, when at last Arda was Sundered with a great clamor and calamity, I came to rest upon the newborn soil of Thedas. I, and several of my siblings. We laid down roots among the mountain ranges, and then we slept, for the voyage to Thedas was long and arduous, and we were tired.
Long have we slept. But now, some of us have awoken. The Titan's song grew somber. Some of us, I think, have been changed during our slumber. I can hear Methedras singing, and its song is much altered, twisted by corruption and Blight.
"Red lyrium," Durin realized, awe and horror twisting in his heart. "If lyrium is the blood of Titans, then red lyrium must be… the blood of a Titan infected with the Blight."
Just so. The music of the Titan softened into something like a sigh. Alas, I fear the long safety of the Dwarves is coming to an end. I can hear the whispers of the Void, of Ungoliant who hungers, growing more present by the day. She reaches greedy limbs, tipped with baited lures, into the fabric of Thedas. It will not be long before someone answers. She is held at bay by whatever strange magic raised up a barrier between the Seen and Unseen of Thedas, but that Veil will not hold her forever.
"The Veil—" Durin could not speak. The realizations were falling one upon the next like dominoes.
The Fade was what had, in Middle-Earth, been known as the Unseen. The Dwarves had always been more distant from that otherworld, which was why even the Rings of Sauron could not twist them into wraiths. Here on Thedas, where the Unseen manifested as the Fade, that meant that Dwarves could not become mages.
The Veil was artificial. It was a deliberately-placed barrier between Seen and Unseen. But who had built it? And what was it meant to keep at bay? Which side was it meant to seal?
And if Ungoliant, the Light-Eater who consumed the Trees before the dawn of the first day, was truly reaching into this world… then his instincts regarding the Anvil of the Void had been correct. The Spider's baited lure had enticed Branka to obsession. If he and Elissa had allowed her to continue making golems, how long would it have been before the cost became apparent? How long before the crack in the world which allowed the Void's power to seep through widened enough for more of its influence to spread?
"This is… a great deal to digest," he admitted at last to Azsâlul'abad.
I understand, it said. I will remain here to answer any questions you have.
Durin glanced over at Valta, still kneeling behind him. "What happened to her?" he asked. "Why have you so altered her mind?"
An accident. The Titan's voice was regretful. It was the first time I had communed with a dwarf who had not been twisted by the drinking of my blood, the lyrium-madness, in many ages. I connected my mind with hers with too much eagerness, too much haste, and the experience overwhelmed her. She will recover—she is already recovering. In a matter of months, she will be well again. Altered, perhaps, by the experience. She will never again forget khuzdul, and she will remain attuned to the songs we Titans sing, better able to hear us than most. But she will once again be herself.
"I am glad," said Durin. He turned back to Azsâlul'abad. "My people have mined lyrium for many years," he admitted, "to fuel our enchantments and the magic of humans and elves. It will be difficult to call a halt to the process—it is the dwarves' most profitable trade by far."
There is no need, Azsâlul'abad reassured him. Lyrium was made to be valuable. I replenish it quickly, and I am meant to be of use to you, as are all my kind. I ask only that you are careful, and that you communicate with me as you mine my veins. I will tell you if you begin to drain me faster than I can replenish, but I do not think such a thing will occur for many years to come.
Durin grimaced. "It is unsettling to consider mining the veins of a living, thinking creature," he said.
Think nothing of it, said the Titan. It is no more strange than drinking the milk of a dairy-cow or eating the honey of a beehive. I feel no pain at the loss of lyrium, so long as it is not enough to be a danger to my life. And in all the centuries I have slept, I have never once been endangered by the mining dwarves above. Fear not for me, King Durin.
"Well, I thank you," said Durin. "Now, I must go soon, and return to Orzammar. Have you any advice for finding the other Titans' hearts? I would rather mine lyrium only from those Titans who are awake to monitor their own condition."
Dig deep, advised the Titan. There will be tunnels already, leading down into our hearts. There are no Balrogs here to unearth, though there may be Blighted things. But I shall sing a song of waking to my brethren, in hopes that they shall wake to call you to them.
"Thank you," said Durin. Then he turned to Valta. "Shaper," he ordered, still in khuzdul. "You will remain here as an envoy, a go-between for the Titan and the miners above. See to it that, if Azsâlul'abad feels its life is threatened by our mining, that the miners cease at once, by order of the King."
"It shall be done, Your Majesty," promised Shaper Valta.
Durin turned back to Azsâlul'abad. "The elves," he said. "You mentioned the Avari remained in Middle-Earth after the Third Age. I assume they are the Thedosian elves' ancestors?"
I can only assume so, the Titan said. When Arda was Sundered, there were no Elves within my belly. But when I came to rest upon Thedas, there were Elves in the forests above. If they came from elsewhere, I know not where.
Durin nodded. "I will likely have more questions, eventually," he said. "But for now, I must go. My people will be worrying, both by guards here and my advisors in Orzammar." Fortunately, he was still well within the schedule Commander Bravus had set for him. "I thank you for the insight, Azsâlul'abad. It answers many questions I had."
I am honored to be of service, Eldest and Fatherless, said Azsâlul'abad. My King.
- Location
- Madness realms
That Dread Wolf fella was pretty spectacular once upon a time.
Love the Ungoliant reveal, can't wait for more.
Love the Ungoliant reveal, can't wait for more.
What happend in Arda's Fifth Age (before, possibly also including Ungolianth's arrival) very much sound like a Worm entity visit. I remember there's supposed to be a link between this story and Annatar, but the telling of the Titan doesn't quite match that one's timeline.
Very Eru to have creation (many worlds settled) out of destruction (of Arda).
Very Eru to have creation (many worlds settled) out of destruction (of Arda).
Part 7: Again From Sleep
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
Many thanks to @BeaconHill for betareading.
Part 7: Again From Sleep
Three Years Later
Durin had watched with delight and pride as Ellana Lavellan's Inquisition grew by the month. The death of the Magister Sidereal, Corypheus, was only the first of their triumphs. The organization blossomed from a small, half-trained band of idealists to an independent force to be reckoned with.
The political landscape of Thedas had been significantly reshaped in the past few years, not all in ways Durin would have predicted. The Inquisition's visit to Halamshiral had somehow reconciled Empress Celene with an elvhen former friend. This friendship had been the impetus for the Emerald Graves to be granted once more to the elves. Durin retained good relations with the Dalish and city-elf immigrants to southern Thedas, but his hopes of adding the Dales to his burgeoning coalition were, for now, dashed.
Instead, a stark divide was growing along the Frostbacks. On one side were Ferelden and Orzammar, bound together as they were by the long friendship between King Alistair and Durin. On the other were Orlais and the reconstituted Dales. The Free Marches were split, with Kirkwall and its near trading partners standing with Ferelden while Starkhaven and its defensive pact joined the Orlesian alliance.
And in the center of it all, the Inquisition headquartered in Skyhold, straddling the border between the rival nations.
Thus far, there was no serious risk of war. Orlais and Ferelden retained openly cordial relations, and Durin, Ellana, and Briala of the new Dales all did their best to mediate.
But it seemed that at long last events were coming to a head. Divine Victoria—formerly Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, one of the Inquisition's founders—had called an Exalted Council. The explicit purpose was to determine the fate and nature of the Inquisition going forward.
The invitation reached Durin's desk only a few days before a missive from King Alistair.
Durin, read his friend's note.
Arl Teagan—a friend of mine, but he's become prideful as a peacock in his old age—is raising a fuss about the Inquisition holding Caer Bronach, as well as retaining patrols within Ferelden and the Redcliffe Arling. It's his complaint to Divine Victoria, at least in part, that's caused all of this Exalted Council business.
Thing is, legally, he's entirely in the right. The Inquisition is technically an unaffiliated military force holding territory unlawfully within Ferelden. I've been able to smooth things over for a while, but with the Inquisition showing no signs of disbanding, moving, or buying the lands they occupy from the Crown, I've run out of room to maneuver.
Arl Teagan wants to go to the Exalted Council in person, to represent Ferelden. He's certainly within his rights, and if I were to send a representative, it wouldn't make sense to send anyone else. But there's—
Here several lines of text were blotted out, as if Alistair had struggled with what to write before continuing.
Morrigan showed up in Denerim a few weeks ago, he wrote. She and her—our—son. The boy is odd. I think he even unsettles Morrigan, and you know how difficult she is to unsettle. He apparently wants to go to the Exalted Council, and he wants you there, too.
I can't justify sending my unacknowledged bastard with Arl Teagan, no matter how open the secret of his parentage is. But if I go in person, especially if both Elissa and Morrigan accompany me, then it makes perfect sense. So, really, this is all a long-winded way of asking if you'd be interested in getting the old crew back together in Val Royeaux in a few months?
I understand if you don't want to travel overland all the way to central Orlais. Kieran is… very insistent. He said to tell you—word for word, he was very insistent—'We need to speak. Ask the heart what I am.' I've no idea what that means, and I hope you'll tell me. Whatever strangeness Morrigan did all those years ago, the boy is clearly not what you'd call normal.
Anyway, I do hope you'll join us. Send word if you will, and I'll hope to see you soon.
Best,
Alistair
Durin smiled at his old friend's delightful informality. His face darkened as he read through the description of Kieran. It fell still further as he read the boy's message.
Ask the heart what I am.
How did the boy even know about the Titans? It was a secret Durin had kept in the interest of security—if it became common knowledge that lyrium was the blood of ancient living mountains, and that these mountains could, if awakened, cause tectonic calamities the like of which Thedas had never known… He did not know how the people of the surface would react, but he doubted it would be graceful.
The boy had been conceived as part of a strange ritual of Morrigan's invention, or perhaps the invention of her mother. Its purpose was to allow both Elissa and Alistair to survive the assault on the Archdemon during the Blight. By all appearances, the ritual had succeeded. But why a child had been necessary, Durin had no idea.
He stood from his desk and called for a servant to summon Commander Bravus. He needed to make an expedition back to Heidrun Thaig.
A dark ritual? Azsâlul'abad asked, rumbling mental voice thoughtful. Hm. And you say this boy was conceived the night before the death of an Archdemon?
"Yes," Durin confirmed.
Then I have a guess, said the Titan, but it is only a guess.
"The boy seemed to think you would know," Durin said.
Then I suspect my guess is accurate, Azsâlul'abad mused. The old gods, as you say the Archdemons were once called, did not exist by the time I went into my slumber. But— he stopped suddenly. …Do you know the names of these old gods, perhaps?
"I do," Durin said, reaching back into his studies of the Blights, which had taken on increased significance after Corypheus' onslaught. "The Archdemon that the Wardens fought at Denerim was Urthemiel, I believe."
Ah! Then I do have an answer for you, said Azsâlul'abad with some satisfaction. Urthemiel and his six siblings were our escort when we escaped Middle-Earth. They were lesser Maia, sent to help all of us—Dwarves, Titans, Elves, and Men—to establish ourselves in the new world. They helped us immensely in those first days, but shortly before I fell into sleep, they withdrew from the realms of the Dwarves. I never knew where they went, nor why.
Durin's mouth, he found, had dropped open. The boy—Alistair's unsettling naturalborn son—was a Maia? One of Mahal's own Zadad kin? "The ritual must have siphoned Urthemiel's spirit into a form untouched by the Blight," Durin said. Another realization came cresting behind the first. "This means that the Archdemons are—corrupted Maia?"
It would seem so, said the Titan unhappily. The Blight is a vile thing. It has corrupted at least one of my own siblings, and now I find it has done the same to five of the seven Maia who helped us establish here on Thedas so long ago.
Here in the chamber of the Titan's Heart, Durin always felt somewhat small. The scope of the living mountain's being was, while in theory much younger than his own, still immensely ancient—and vast in a way no dwarrow, not even he, could truly match. So when Azsâlul'abad ponderously turned the vastness of his attention entirely on Durin, the sensation was like that of an insect being pinned to a board.
I do not know if the Blight can be exterminated, said the Titan. I do not know if it can be stopped at all. But your final coming, here in these latter days, makes me think that perhaps even that dark narrative is coming to an end.
"You think the world is soon to be renewed," Durin said.
I do, confirmed the Titan. The elves may not be returning from the West, but those Avari who remained here are rising up again. The veil that separates Seen from Unseen is coming apart at the seams, though that decay has been slowed by your allies. Dragons have returned to the world, and I know not how or from whence. And we Titans, we living mountains, are waking up again. I come back to myself in a time of omens, a time of great change and of prophecy, King Durin, Eldest and Fatherless. Whatever this boy—Kieran, Urthemiel, or whatever name he chooses to use—has to say to you, I advise you heed him.
Alistair grinned boyishly when he saw Durin standing in the shade of a cliffside. The man's face was more lined than the last time they had seen each other, but his golden hair had not yet started to grey. "Durin!" he called merrily, swinging his leg over the side of his horse. His guards quickly moved to follow him, but he was already jogging over to where Durin and Gorim stood with a small escort.
"King Alistair," Durin greeted, his smile rather wider than he had expected it to be. "It's good to see you again, my friend." He looked past Alistair at the woman descending much more sedately from her own horse. Her visor still covered her face, but Durin recognized his own handiwork, and at her hip she still carried Fiendsblood. "And Queen Elissa, too. How are you both?"
Alistair's smile fell slightly, but he soon rallied. "We've been all right," he said. "Things have been wonderfully calm in Denerim since Corypheus was stopped. Some of the nobles here in the west have been grumbling, of course, but grumbling is about two-thirds of a noble's job anyway. Wouldn't want them to feel useless."
"He's been uncomfortable this whole trip," Elissa told Durin conspiratorially. "Having both Kieran and Morrigan here bothers him."
"I'm not bothered," grumbled Alistair. "I'm just… uncomfortable."
"Right," drawled Elissa, pulling off her helmet. She gave Durin a smile, and not for the first time he was astonished at how warm the expression was. Time had softened Elissa Theirin; time to rest, to grieve for what she had lost and to enjoy what she had gained. The fierce, warlike woman who had marched into the encampment outside Orzammar more than a decade ago was still there, evidenced in the hard glint that came into her eye whenever something earned her ire. But no longer was that anger simmering just below the surface. "How have things been in Orzammar, Durin?" she asked.
"Well enough," said Durin. "Though I seem to grow busier maintaining the network of alliances between us and our neighbors with every passing hour."
"You're the one who wanted to make friends with absolutely everyone," said Alistair. "Personally, I'm perfectly happy to let someone be my enemy. If only because it gives the nobles someone besides me to complain about."
"Mine is a kingdom built on commerce and trade," said Durin. "We cannot trade without partners, despite what some of the Noble Caste might seem to think." He looked past the two at the small caravan of wagons and carriages which had slowed to a stop at the side of the ancient stone road. "I hope you have room for us in your fleet," he said. "I fear we will not be able to keep pace with horses."
"We have plenty of room," said Alistair, waving airily. "We figured you might need transport. Not a lot of horses in Orzammar, from what I remember."
"There's room in Morrigan's carriage, too," said Elissa quietly, giving Durin a meaningful look. "Enough for you and Gorim."
Durin nodded gravely. "Then we shall join them," he said. "I have a feeling young Kieran and I have much to discuss."
A few minutes later, all of Durin's entourage had found placements in one wagon or another, and Durin was hoisting himself up the human-proportioned steps to a particular covered carriage of rich, dark wood, pulled by a pair of black horses. He opened the door into the gloom.
Two pairs of hawkish golden eyes appraised him from the forward-facing bench in the back of the compartment. "King Durin," said Morrigan with a slow nod.
Kieran said nothing, but his yellow eyes glittered in the dark.
"Lady Morrigan," Durin greeted, taking his seat so that Gorim could follow him in. "And Kieran—if that is the name you prefer?"
"It is," said Kieran in a voice as smooth and musical as silk running over harpstrings.
"A pleasure, then," said Durin. He leaned forward. "I am told you wanted to speak with me?"
Kieran considered him. "I don't know everything yet," he said, sounding as thought he was offering a warning. "And some of what I know I don't think it would be safe to share yet."
"Safe for whom?" Durin asked.
"Any of us," said Kieran. "I have some knowledge of the coming weeks, but it is incomplete. The fate of Thedas hangs in the balance. Stray from the path even a little and we will all suffer for it."
"And you feel you are better equipped to determine the right path than His Majesty?" Gorim asked stiffly.
"He is right to," Durin said, glancing at his Second. "I am not the one receiving prophecies. There is a reason for it. We must trust him."
"How refreshing," Morrigan commented dryly.
Durin's eyes flickered over her before he turned back to Kieran. "Does she know?"
"Some," said Kieran. "She knows her part in things—what I had become before she offered me a way out. But our shared history? No."
Morrigan shot her son a look. "Shared history?" she asked. "Durin, I am told, is the reincarnation of a dwarf from many millennia ago. I was unaware that he had interacted with the old gods of Tevinter in that time."
"We never met," Kieran informed his mother, "and we were not—were never—gods, despite what Tevinter liked to think. But Durin and I both remember fragments of the world that came before Thedas." He looked at Durin. "I suspect your memory is more complete than mine," he said. "I have only been able to recall snatches. Splinters chipped from the glacier of the past."
"I only remember the times for which I was alive," said Durin. "But those periods, I recall well."
Kieran nodded. "I remember parts of the Sundering," he said softly. "The black vessels descending from the night sky, and the Silence that blanketed the world. The frost and the flame. We Ainur were sent to hold her back long enough for the people of Arda to take shelter. I remember the thunderous sound as the world was broken. I and my six siblings stayed here, with several of the Dwarves' Titans and a small population each of Avari and Men. I remember watching the shard of the world unfold itself, unspooling into a world in its own right. I remember being awed by the richness of Song, here—how loud and how beautiful the Fade could be." He sighed. "And I remember our horror at watching what became of the Avari with so much power at their fingertips."
"Elvhenan," Durin realized. "The ancient elvhen empire of Dalish myth."
"Yes. Elvhenan, and the Evanuris who ruled it." Kieran's golden eyes were downturned, looking at his clasped hands between his knees. He looked at once both the young boy of twelve years and the Maia of uncountable centuries, sitting there hunched in the half-light. "They were the first," he said. "There were few Avari who came, and those few multiplied. The first few generations were told of Arda, of the world that was, but soon it passed into the realm of historians rather than of cultural egregore. And those first Avari, who had been here longest, who had been learning to wield the Song, through the Fade, for longer than any others—they began to turn that power to selfish ends. They fought over land, over resources, over people. Those who were defeated were first pushed to find new territory, then slain, and finally enslaved."
"Enslaved?" murmured Durin in horror. "The Avari—the Elves—practiced slavery?"
"They did,"said Kieran. "And it was those Avari who remembered Arda who were the worst offenders. Not all—there were some who stayed true, remained in the light. Mythal was leader of these. But many others…" His eyes slid shut. "It is insidious, the Silence," he murmured. "The Blight is a misdirection, I fear. It is meant to make us think that when one is subverted, it is an obvious thing. But the Silence is only overt, only loud, when it chooses to be.
"More often, it plants its seeds where one feels safest. It waters them with temptation, with fear, with obsession. Slowly, over lifetimes, it works its dark sorcery over all it can reach. We thought ourselves safe when we escaped Arda. We were wrong. Fear and horror planted seeds in all of us. In the Avari, that seed grew into a will to power, a desire to dominate in order to become secure. In the Dwarves, it grew into insularity and stagnation. The Dwarves stopped exploring beyond the network of tunnels provided by the Titans. They stopped coming to the surface to interact with their neighbors. They hid away in the dark and tried to forget. And in Men the seed grew into a haste, a need to outstip and overtake any rival with the march of progress. In that haste, they have become both the most numerous of Thedas' people, and the most fractured.
"And in us…" Kieran took a shuddering breath. "In us, it engendered a paternalistic hubris. We alone had stood against the Silence. We alone had held it back. We would defend the people of Thedas because they could not defend themselves. And so, when the Blight that the Silence had left to fester in the heart of this world reared its head, we sallied forth to destroy it. In our failure, we doomed hundreds of thousands to die."
Quiet fell. The only sound was the clop of hooves against the stone outside, and the creak of the wheels below them. "Erebor—the Titan which awoke—believed that we were nearing a culmination," Durin said. "An ending."
"We are," said Kieran. "Things are in motion that cannot now be stopped. And I think it shall begin at the Exalted Council."
"Why?" Durin asked.
"All of the leaders of Southern Thedas will be gathered," said Kieran. "As will you, Durin the Last, and I, last of the Seven Drakes to retain his mind. Were I an agent of Silence—as, I remind you, I was for many years—there would be no better target for me to strike."
"Then what shall we do?" Durin asked.
"Keep eyes and ears open," said Kieran quietly. "But be careful. We must not be fearful, for fear is one of her webs. We must not be paranoid, for obsession is another. We must not be overconfident, for hubris is a third. Always remember, King Durin, that the greatest danger to your people is always what you will become if she can inject her poison into your blood."
"Is there any way to stay safe?" Durin found that there was cold sweat on his brow. The naked fear with which Kieran spoke was infectious. "If we cannot be too afraid, or too confident, or too paranoid, what can we be?"
"You can be true to yourself," said Kieran, "and true to the path. If you know where you are and where you are going, you need not fear the forest no matter how winding the road."
It was a few more days' travel before they arrived at Halamshiral. They were greeted graciously by Orlesian nobles and Chantry devotees alike. They were wined and dined, and politely prodded over their intentions for the coming discussions. Alistair and Elissa had far worse of it than Durin, for it was in their territory that the Inquisition was established, and it was a Fereldan grievance that had led to this discussion in the first place. Durin was here primarily as a courtesy, due to Orzammar's status as a trading partner to Ferelden, the Inquisition, and the Dales.
Unfortunately, the past twelve years had not been enough to satiate the Orlesian nobility's curiosity over a dwarven king who walked beneath the sky. They were eminently polite in their poking and prodding, but being the object of such exotic fascination was never an enjoyable experience.
Fortunately, it lasted only two short days before, at last, the Inquisition arrived. A sizeable host of soldiers marched into Halamshiral, and at their head were three figures on horseback. Commander Cullen and Ambassador Josephine flanked Inquisitor Lavellan as she guided her horse in a stately walk down the grand avenue.
Durin had seen Ellana a few times since the defeat of Corypheus. The first time had been the worst—she had looked as if she had not eaten in a week. He had managed, much to all of her advisors' pleasure, to convince her to appear at meals by distracting her with business topics which carefully stayed as far as possible from the Fade, Corypheus, or—most of all—her vanished lover.
Solas had seemingly disappeared into thin air after Corypheus fell. Durin had spoken with several people about it. Both Leliana and the Iron Bull were intensely frustrated at their own inability to find any sign of him. Ellana was, as a rule, kept out of these conversations. She knew they were doing all they could to find him, and that was all she needed to hear on a regular basis.
For his part, Durin was still, even two years later, quietly seething. Solas was a friend to him, and he had thought much better of the odd elf. It was not that he was not entitled to part ways with Ellana if that was his wish, but to do so without so much as a word to her or to anyone else at all was cruel. She had loved him—she still did, as far as Durin could tell. He had thought Solas reciprocated. He still wasn't sure whether he had been wrong, or if perhaps Solas had some reason to vanish so, despite his feelings.
Ellana had grown healthier over the past two years. Light had returned to her eyes, color to her cheeks. She still occasionally lost the thread of a conversation, gazing wistfully out to the horizon, but when she shook free of reminiscence she was once more able to smile.
But today, as she rode slowly into the courtyard of the Winter Palace, she seemed to have regressed. Her eyes were sunken, her face pale. She held the reins gingerly in one hand, while her other—the hand which had been marked at the Conclave almost four years ago—was carefully folded against her torso.
She smiled wanly when she saw them. "Hello, King Durin," she said, halting her horse beside him and giving him a proximate bow from the saddle.
"Inquisitor Lavellan," he responded with a nod in return. "How have you been?"
Her smile faded. "I've been better," she said quietly. He saw her flex her marked hand with a concealed wince."
"Is it hurting you again?" he asked quietly.
She nodded. "It stopped for a while after we closed the breach," she said. "It started again for a bit until we beat Corypheus. Now… It's been getting worse for months."
"I am sorry," said Durin.
"Me too," muttered Ellana. Then she sighed. "I'm glad you could make it, though," she said. "This is going to be hard enough with a friendly face."
"Are you worried about the outcome of these talks?" Durin asked.
"Sort of? It's more that I'm not sure what the right outcome is," said Ellana. "Orlais wants us under their authority. Ferelden wants us disbanded. The Chantry is trying to be apolitical under Cassa—Divine Victoria. My advisors want us to stay independent." She looked at him. "What about you? What do you want out of this?"
Durin considered that. "I have enjoyed having the Inquisition as a trading partner," he said, "and I think King Alistair feels the same. I gather that the source of the conflict between the Inquisition and Ferelden is that you hold Fereldan forts without having officially leased the lands from their local teyrnir. Perhaps you can negotiate to do so? Lease the forts legally so that you can continue operating independently?"
"We'd have to lease territory in Orlais, too," said Ellana, but she sounded thoughtful. "Josephine had a similar idea. We're just not sure where we could come up with the funds. We've been a bit aimless since Divine Victoria was elected. Order has been restored. During the chaos we could get funding through bounties, mercenary work, and our own resource gathering. Now, it seems like every sprig of elfroot is owned by someone else. Our coffers are drying up."
"That is a problem," said Durin slowly. "I will have to think about this. We may be able to help one another."
"It wouldn't be the first time," said Ellana, giving him a grateful look. "We owe you a lot already, Your Majesty."
"Nonsense," said Durin. "Everything I have given to you has been in trade for something of equal value. My Assembly would not have it any other way."
It was even mostly true. Durin was generous, perhaps, but only because with the rediscovery of mithril and the booming growth of the New Empire, he could afford to be. The Noble Assembly had trouble understanding that his generosity was buying them goodwill, but the rest of the Assembly were far more used to the need to build and maintain friendly relations with one's peers, rather than merely cordial ones.
"Well, your trades of equal value have pulled us out of more than a few serious scrapes," said Ellana. "So, thank you. I hope to see you at the council, but for now I need to get some rest." She huffed a small laugh. "Maybe even have a bath. I still have dreams about the baths here in Halamshiral."
"They are magnificent," Durin agreed. "Be well, Inquisitor."
"And you, Your Majesty."
The discussions began, in Durin's opinion, quite smoothly. Alistair was eminently reasonable—he liked Ellana, and he liked having the Inquisition as a buffer between himself and Orlais. He carefully framed Arl Teagan's complaint as a legal necessity rather than an attack on the Inquisition's sovereignty. "We don't have any objection to the Inquisition operating within reason within Ferelden," he said, in that easygoing lilt of his, "but it's causing internal problems for some of our nobility to have lost jurisdiction over keeps within their own holdings without any lease or sale being made."
"If the Inquisition finds itself forced out of its holdings in Ferelden, said Duke Cyril de Montfort, Empress Celene's representative, "we would be more than happy to offer them a home within Orlais."
"The Inquisition already holds several forts within Orlais," Alistair reminded the duke. "Suledin Keep, for instance."
"Indeed," said Duke Cyril haughtily. "And we are not trying to oust them after all the work they have done to secure the surrounding lands."
"No one's forcing the Inquisition out of anywhere," said Alistair, almost soothingly. "I just want to know who's going to pay Arl Teagan for the use of his fortress in Crestwood."
And on it went, until they broke for lunch. Ellana disappeared with her advisors, and Durin joined Alistair at his table. The young king's smile had slid off his face, replaced by a look of profound exhaustion.
"You did well," said Durin.
"I know," groaned Alistair. "Elissa's going to be insufferable about it. She's been telling me that my studies would start paying off, and blast it all if she wasn't completely right, as usual."
"She does have a habit of it," said Durin dryly.
And so things continued. The first day came and went. Then the second, and the third. A week.
Some things were happening outside the negotiations. Durin was hearing whispers of tensions—scuffles between servants of Orlais and the Inquisition, an ongoing investigation which the Inquisition seemed to be keeping secret. But nothing happened to suggest any immediate danger.
Nothing, that is, until the tenth day of the negotiations. He and Alistair were having lunch together again when the door to their private dining chamber burst open. Durin's head snapped to it, startled. Elissa Theirin stood there, clad in her full mithril plate, helmet under one arm. Her face was set and grim. Beside her, Gorim was coming to a halt after clearly jogging to keep up with her.
"Alistair," Elissa said, "I need you to do something for me."
Alistair blinked at her. "…Okay then. What do you need, darling?"
Elissa didn't smile at the pet name. "I need you to meet Leliana in the antechamber, and follow her out of the palace," she said. "We have credible evidence of an assassination plot."
Durin's mind immediately went back to what Kieran had said. Were I an agent of Silence, there would be no better target for me to strike.
Alistair stood up. "Sure," he said, false levity in his voice. "So long as you're coming with me."
"Don't fight me on this, Alistair—"
"I am not leaving you here to deal with whatever this is on your own!" Alistair said sharply.
"I'm not on my own," said Elissa, frustrated. "Ellana and her team are here too, as are Morrigan and Kieran." She glanced at Durin. "Kieran wanted me to ask you if you'd stay," she added with obvious reluctance. "I told him it was a terrible idea for the same reason both Alistair and I staying is a terrible idea."
"And yet I agree with Kieran," said Durin, standing. "I must stay."
"Then I am, too!" Alistair growled. "I'm a king, not an invalid!"
"Neither of you should stay," Elissa snapped back. "I can't tell Durin not to, but I can certainly tell you."
"No!"
"Let the record reflect," said Gorim with some displeasure, "that I don't think you should stay either, Your Majesty."
"The record will so reflect," said Durin.
Alistair gritted his teeth, shooting Durin a glare. "Why should I leave if you aren't?"
"Alistair," said Durin softly, reaching out and laying a hand on Alistair's arm. "I'm only staying because I think this has something to do with my past. My distant past. Elissa is right—Ferelden must have one of its monarchs safe. If Orzammar had another monarch, I would send them away too."
For a moment, Alistair kept glaring. Then he visibly deflated. "Fine," he said. He shot Elissa a look. "Don't you dare die on me."
"Wouldn't dream of it," said Elissa, audible relief breaking into her voice. As he stomped past her, she put an arm before him and drew him in for a kiss. "I love you," she said. "I'll see you soon. I promise."
Alistair nodded, a little less stiffly, and left the room.
Elissa turned to Durin. "There's an eluvian in a storage room near here," she said. "It's active. As far as we can tell, a Qunari invasion force is planning to use the network to attack several priority targets across Thedas at once."
"How on earth did the Qunari gain control of the eluvian network?" Durin asked blankly.
"No idea," said Elissa. "We can ask their leader once we capture her. Come on."
Durin and Gorim had to jog to keep up with Elissa's long stride as she stormed through the Winter Palace. They were soon joined by Ellana and her team—Dorian, the Iron Bull, and Varric. Kieran followed after them, Morrigan on his heels. The woman seemed genuinely worried as she looked down at her son, and Durin felt a pang of sympathy. Raising a Maia with uncountable millennia of memory bundled into his tiny body couldn't be easy.
"Good, everyone is here," said Kieran. "Come." He walked to the eluvian, which was already humming with the power of an active portal, and ran his finger along the edge. The shimmering blue portal flickered and faded for an instant. When it returned, it was instead a rich, royal violet. "There," he said in satisfaction. "That should take us directly to him."
"To who?" Durin asked. But he had a feeling he already knew the answer.
"Fen'Harel," said Kieran, and suddenly everything made sense. "Come."
Before any of them could stop him, the boy stepped into the portal and vanished. Morrigan cursed under her breath and followed him. Elissa was next, followed by Ellana and her team.
Durin brought up the rear. By the time he stepped through, their quarry had already stepped over the crest of the nearby hill and was looking down at all of them in astonishment.
Solas had changed his attire significantly. Once shapeless apostate's robes had given way to an ornate vestment of silk and wolfhide. His eyes seemed to glow blue like stars in his head. Beside Durin, Ellana had gone completely stiff, staring up at him.
"…How?" Solas asked blankly.
"I hijacked your eluvian," said Kieran simply. "I hope you don't mind."
"I… rather do, actually," said Solas. "I was in the middle of trying to regain control of the network from the Qunari. I would rather not have to do so with you as well."
"No need," said Kieran. "You can have it back soon enough. But we should speak first."
Solas' lips thinned. Durin saw his eyes linger on Ellana. "Yes," he said quietly. "I suppose we should."
"You're Fen'Harel," whispered Ellana. She sounded broken, as if the world was coming down around her ears. "The Dread Wolf."
"That is what they took to calling me," said Solas quietly. "I…" he hesitated, gazing down at her with undeniable tenderness. Durin found it hard to remain angry. "May I explain? Please? I—would like you to understand. If it's possible."
Ellana let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Fine," she said. "Talk—" But before the word was even fully formed, she was doubling over with a choked cry of pain. Green light flared from the mark on her palm, crackling with power. Tiny arcs of viridian lightning seemed to be crawling up her arm, like the jaws of a hungry thunderstorm.
Solas' face hardened. "Before anything else," he said. "The Anchor is killing you, ma vhenan. Please—let me remove it. If I do not, you will be dead in a matter of days."
Ellana was on her knees, breathing heavily. "…Fine."
Solas stepped forward, eyes flashing blue-white. Elllana let out a startled gasp. Then, slowly, she stood up and stepped back.
Her arm did not go with her. It hung in the air, the flesh rapidly decaying into a sickly green mass, roiling like one of the rifts Ellana had closed so many times two years ago.
Solas stepped forward and laid his hand on the floating forearm. It dissolved into light and coalesced in his own palm. He smiled grimly, without mirth. "There we are," he said.
"We'd appreciate an explanation, if you please," said Kieran. His voice was oddly unfocused, as if he were thinking of something else entirely. Durin glanced his way and saw that his eyes were not on Solas at all, but on the eluvian behind him. "I would like to know the conclusions you've drawn."
Solas gave the boy an odd look but nodded after a moment. He clasped his hands behind his back and began. "The Evanuris styled themselves as gods," he said, "which is how they are now remembered by the Dalish. But they were no more than extremely powerful mages. Mages who went entirely power-mad, as bad as the worst Magister. All save Mythal. She genuinely cared for her people. I served her. I tried to help her change the culture of the elvhen from within—until they did something I could never forgive. They killed her.
"And so I rebelled. I freed their slaves. Those who wished to make their own lives, I taught to farm and forage. Those who wished to fight, I armed and trained. The Evanuris called me Fen'Harel, and my followers claimed the name as a badge of pride.
"But in the end, they were too powerful. I knew I could not hold out against them forever—not by conventional means. So I chose unconventional ones. I went to one of my strongholds, in what you now know as the Frostback Mountains, and I wove a spell unlike any that has been made before or since. I raised the Veil between the Fade and the material world—and, in doing so, I doomed us all."
"That is how the elvhen lost their immortality," Kieran said softly, and Durin wondered if he was just realizing this now. "Cut off from the Unseen, they are as mortal as Men or Dwarves."
"Yes," confirmed Solas. "I tried to free my people, and I did. But the cost was everything that made them who they were. When I awoke, several years ago, from my long stasis after creating the veil, I was horrified. I realized what a mistake I had made—and I vowed to undo it." He gestured with his newly marked palm, still luminous in green, and Durin realized with a sinking sensation that the mark which had allowed Ellana to heal the Veil would allow him to destroy it.
"You're planning to destroy the Veil," said Dorian flatly. "Solas—need I remind you that we saw what a world with no Veil looks like? Ellana and I saw you in that future, and you certainly didn't look to me like you had gotten what you wanted."
"Corypheus, in that future, had infected the world with the Blight," said Solas. "That is not a necessary component to this. But… I will not deny that the destruction of the Veil will likely be every bit as cataclysmic as its creation. This world will likely burn just as surely as mine—as ours—did."
"And that's worth it to you?" Ellana asked. "It doesn't matter to you if all of us die so long as a bunch of ancient slavers get to walk free again?"
"It is not the evanuris I'm concerned with," said Solas. "But what I did has stolen, collectively, millions of years of life from our people. What I want does not matter—I have a duty to ensure that death ends."
"You are ending nothing," Durin found himself saying. "Solas—your people are still immortal. They merely do not live out that immortality here. But you remain Elves. Even the Avari who never went into the West are not without the gift of the Firstborn."
"I understand that you believe that," said Solas, looking at him with something like pity. "Take heart, King Durin—I doubt your people will suffer the worst of this. Dwarves produce no mages, and so will not be visited by spirits nearly as often as the people of the surface. With all you have done to advance your people, I expect your civilization will survive the coming calamity."
"They will not."
Durin looked at Kieran. The boy's voice was deep, quiet, and thick with terrible prophecy. "If you were unleashing what you think you are, Dread Wolf, you might be right," said the Maia in child's form. "But you are not."
"I expect that my knowledge of the magic involved is more complete than your own," Solas said frostily. "I assure you, I have considered the details carefully."
"No. You have not." Kieran had been gazing off into the distance behind Solas, as if lost in thought, but now his gaze sharpened as his attention fixed entirely upon the ancient elf. "You believe Corypheus tainted the Breach with the Blight. Follow that thread. Where did his Blight come from?"
"It certainly did not come from the Black City," said Solas. "The Blight existed before the Veil."
"Yes," said Kieran. "We brought it with us—tiny pockets of it, clinging feebly to existence in crevices that were not burst open by the Sundering. But it feeds on the Song—on the Unseen. You sealed the Unseen away, and some of the Blight with it. What do you think it has been doing all this time?"
"Growing," murmured Durin in horror. "Spreading. Unchecked and unchallenged."
"Precisely," said Kieran. "The Breach, and the world it created in that dark future you saw, Inquisitor—yes, they were tainted by the Blight. But it was Blight which crept in from the other side." He narrowed his eyes at Solas. "If you open that path before we are ready, you will doom us all as surely as if you had let Corypheus have his way."
"And you claim to know this—how?" Solas said with some suspicion.
"I know because I was here," hissed Kieran. "I was here when we arrived on Thedas. I was here when the Evanuris began their conquest. I was here when they fell. I was here the last time some misguided fools tried to open the door into the Fade, and I was the one who paid the price. I have seen the mind behind the Blight—I have felt her venom in my blood, her webs within my brain. I know what I am talking about, Solas Mythallion, for I am Urthemiel, unchained once more."
Solas' face had gone slack. "The Archdemon," he murmured.
"No," said Kieran. "Not any longer. Nor am I an old god of any kind. I am Maia, of the Host of Ilúvatar, and I tell you this—you must not tear open the Veil yet."
"I have a duty to—wait." Solas' eyes narrowed. "Yet?"
Kieran nodded sharply. "Things are in motion," he said. "I have heard them in my dreams. The horn-calls of Aman, the drums of war. One day—one day soon—the Veil will open. But we must wait until we have friends, as well as enemies, on the other side. They will be there soon enough. A matter of a few years, perhaps, if not months."
"Friends?" Durin asked. "In the Fade?"
"Beyond it," said Kieran. "Ours is not the only world struggling with the children of Silence. Ours is not the first. I have not yet had time to do more than start trying to reach my fellows, out there across the vast gulfs of eternity, but I can vaguely feel them. If you will step away from the precipice, if you will give me more time, I can make contact, and we can begin working to reestablish the unity that was lost when the world was broken."
For a moment, Solas visibly hesitated. Then his face hardened. "Every day that passes," he said, "is another thousand elvhen who die to my mistake."
"They are not dying," said Kieran, "they are being brought over to the West. That is the fate of your kind. You are immortal. There is no death for you, not like for Men, or even like the stone-stasis of the Dwarves. You are more like us Ainur."
"I cannot simply believe that," said Solas. "I am sorry." He turned to go—
—and was stopped by two figures suddenly standing in his path. Durin, who had started forward himself, stared blankly. Kieran had somehow crossed the dozens of feet of distance between him and the elf with barely a sound—a mere single syllable of undiluted Song. The boy, too, was staring up at the other figure with awe and some fear.
The woman had stepped out of thin air as though through a hidden door. She wore mithril plate unlike any Durin had ever crafted. Her hair streamed out of her helm like a plume. Her dark eyes were fixed on Solas with disappointment and pity. And—with a start of terror—Durin realized that upon her finger was a Ring of Power. The band was pure silver, unadorned with any gem, and Tengwar shone on it in luminous green; its colors were the same as the Ring he himself had once worn.
"Yes," said Sauron—for who else could this woman, possessed of an unknown Ring of Power, possibly be? "And every one of those Avari carried word back to us. You're lucky we made it in time."
Solas blinked at her. "What—"
"They're in your head," she said quietly. "It's what they do, when they don't know any better—they get to you through your desires, your fears, your obsessions. They convince you to ignore what they don't want you to see, to focus on what they need you to do, all without ever making their presence obvious. But if you know how to look, you can see the cracks—see the evidence of their passage."
"You suggest that I am being manipulated," Solas said. "Magically."
"You would have experience," Durin called, unable to hold back the bitterness. "Sauron."
Sauron visibly flinched, eyes darting in Durin's direction. "What—oh. King Durin." Her lips twitched into a weak attempt at a smile. "We heard you were here, but I didn't expect you to be right here."
"Wait," Gorim's voice was thoughtful, but rapidly giving way to horror. "Sauron? I know that name. Isn't that—"
"The Maia who gave cursed Rings of Power to me and many other kings among Men and Dwarves in the Second Age," Durin growled, eyes fixed upon the Maia's pale face. "Yes."
"I—I don't go by that name anymore," said Sauron, and her voice was oddly small. She sounded contrite, sincere in a way that was almost convincing.
"As I recall, you never did," Durin pointed out through clenched teeth. "That name was one we gave to you because Mairon no longer adequately described you, after all you had done."
Sauron grimaced. "Yes. And you were right." She took a deep breath. "It's not for me to say whether I deserve the name," she said. "But I have changed. And those who believe that change is sincere call me Mairë now."
Part of Durin wanted to scoff. Sauron's Rings had never managed to transform him so completely as they had the Kings of Men to which she gave them, but he still remembered the haze of gold-lust that had slowly settled over him, over many years. He still remembered the same happening to his brothers. He remembered seeing Celebrimbor, who had crafted the river-gate to Khazad-dûm long before, being raised broken upon the orcs' banners.
And yet now that same being stood, in a fair form that should have been forbidden to her, trying to convince Solas to turn aside from his madness. Was Solas right? No—Kieran would be intervening if she were trying to drive Solas to a worse action. And he could see in her face—she was not the same manipulative creature that had once worked duplicity on him. Something had changed.
"I believe you." It was not Durin who spoke, but Kieran. His voice was soft, his eyes wide. The fear in them had been replaced with awe. "You are so—bright, now. And though I never saw the old Rings of Power… the one on your finger may be Discordant, but it is soft. Gentle."
Durin gritted his teeth. "I… we will speak later," he said. "If you have a way to stop Solas inviting Ungoliant to Thedas, I invite you to proceed."
"Only words," said Sauron—Mairë?—before turning back to Solas. "You betrayed the Evanuris because they killed Mythal," she said quietly. "Five hundred and twenty-seven days ago, you found her still alive. What, Solas, did you do?"
Solas recoiled. "How do you— How do you know about that? Who are you?"
"How do I know?" Mairë asked. She gestured, and another square hole opened in the world. A woman stepped out. Her brow was adorned with an angular crown. Her golden eyes were fixed on Solas with sympathy. Her ears were pointed, and her long hair was black as night. For a moment, Durin saw behind her a strange chamber of light and metal before the door closed again.
"I told her, of course," said the new arrival. "As soon as I awoke, and realized what you were doing. Solas—you must listen. You are being manipulated. You are better than this."
"Am I?" Solas' voice was choked, practically hysterical. "Are you sure of that?"
"Yes." The voice wasn't Mythal's, or Sauron's, or Kieran's. It was Ellana. She had stepped up the hill and now stood nearly within arm's reach of Solas. Her remaining hand reached out towards him. "You are, ma vhenan. Please. Don't do this—not before we've at least talked about our options."
"The right choice is often hard," Mairë said, with something wistful in her voice that Durin could not imagine was feigned. "That doesn't mean that the hard choice is always the right one, Solas."
Solas stared down at Ellana's outstretched fingers. For a long moment, no one moved. Then, something in his face broke. His hand, shaking, reached out and took hers.
"It took us longer than it should have to find you," Mairë—for that was apparently the name the woman who had once been Sauron had now taken, in her redemption—said apologetically. She sat around the same table where, not four hours ago, Durin and Alistair had been having a quiet lunch between politicking. At her sides sat three figures. The first was a man clad in blue armor that should have been too heavy for him to carry, let alone fight in, yet who moved with a grace beyond most Men Durin had known. The second was Mythal, her face set in a expression at once sad and satisfied. The third was an ageless man with black and grey speckled hair. Durin recognized the latter, though this was not a face he had worn any time in Durin's memory. Something about the Maia Olórin—who had once been called Mithrandir, Gandalf, and a host of other names—was immediately recognizable.
"It all worked out, as far as I'm concerned," said Kieran dryly. He, Durin, Alistair, and Elissa were seated on the other side of the table. Josephine stood in a corner, alternating between staring at the otherworldly visitors with some awe and fear and busily taking notes on her pad. "You have impeccable timing."
"It would be a coincidence," said Mairë with a small smile, "if anything ever was. But, really, we had everything we needed to find you months ago. We were looking as soon as things were settled enough to dedicate resources to it, since we already knew you, Durin, had incarnated again. We should have pieced things together once the Avari who were coming back started telling us about the resurgent dwarven empire in their world—but it didn't really come together until Mythal appeared a year and a half ago."
"At which point," said Olórin, "we had to find a world with a separated Seen and Unseen. Unfortunately, that is not as simple as it sounds."
"Surprisingly hard to tell, from the outside," agreed Mairë. She looked at Kieran. "So—you prefer Urthemiel, or Kieran?"
"Kieran, if you please," said the boy-Maia.
Mairë nodded. "As a rule, I prefer my reborn ID too," she said. "I've started using Mairë for simplicity's sake—easier to explain things, with the association to my first name. But, if we're past the introductions, I prefer Taylor."
Kieran nodded. "How did you end up reborn?" he asked. "It took—a great deal of work, on the part of my mother, and—" he nodded respectfully at Mythal, "—her mother, to make this happen for me."
"Eru," said Mairë—Taylor—simply. "I guess He decided He wasn't done with me yet. I'm grateful for it."
"As am I, for my second chance," said Kieran quietly.
Taylor nodded sympathetically. "Anyway," she turned, "Mythal. We really do need to break open your son's Veil. As long as the Unseen—the Fade, you called it?—stays segregated here, it's a spawning ground for their brood."
"Agreed," said Mythal. "But it must be done without bringing about the end of civilization on Thedas."
"Right," agreed Taylor. "I think there's two parts to that. The first is making sure the civilizations on this side are ready for it. The second is making sure nothing comes through from the other side the moment the barrier goes down. To that end," she turned to Durin, "would you be willing to help me and the other smiths and tinkers arm a force to take the fight to the Fade?"
Durin blinked. "You want to send an army in there," he said. "Into the Unseen itself, to fight the Children of Ungoliant."
"Hey," said Taylor with a wry grin. "At least the Unseen is our territory. Better than fighting them in theirs."
"I suppose so." Durin took a deep breath. "Yes. I would be happy to. But my people—I am still a King. I cannot give away my people's resources. We will need compensation."
Olórin laughed. "Heaven save us from the eternal pragmatism of the Dwarves!" he chortled. "But yes—you shall have your payment, Your Majesty. The wealth of uncountable worlds is at all of our fingertips, though times are too dire for us to simply enjoy most of them."
"If that's agreed," said Elissa, "I'd like to change the subject. "What'll happen to Solas?"
Taylor's face fell slightly. "That depends on him and Ellana," she said. "If he's really been convinced that he was being manipulated, then we might be able to break their hold on him. But it's not an easy thing to do, and it'll take a lot of work—on his part, Ellana's part, and the part of whoever we set to help them. But it's worth doing if he'll let us."
"And then what?" asked Alistair grimly. "Lest we forget—he apparently gave Corypheus the orb he used to destroy the Conclave. He's directly responsible for the Breach, and all the deaths that followed."
"Yes," said Taylor quietly. "And he'll carry that weight for the rest of his immortal life. He's not getting off easy, King Alistair."
"If he can be helped, he should be," said Durin. "His flaw was that he lived in the past. We cannot do the same ourselves in our haste to correct what he has done."
"But he should perhaps be separated from the people of Thedas," suggested Kieran. "Both those he hurt and those he was misguidedly trying to help. Perhaps there is some other world, or some other front, that could use his talents?"
"Not a bad idea," mused Taylor. "Not a bad idea at all. And separating him from the immediately local phrases of the Song might help to break the hold the Silence has on him. Sure, we can do that. I'm sure we've got somewhere he can be transferred."
"Perhaps one of the other worlds with populations of Avari descendants?" suggested Olórin. "It might do him good to see that his people yet thrive elsewhere."
"Sure," said Taylor. "We should look over our options with the others later." She stood up. "For now, though," she looked down at Durin with a small, sad smile. "It's good to finally meet you, King Durin—and not on opposite ends of a war, this time."
"Indeed," said Durin, standing himself and giving her a shallow bow. "I look forward to working with you. But if you were planning on offering me another Ring of Power, I hope you understand if I decline."
"Oh. No." Taylor's voice was suddenly soft and sad. "No—Cenya has another home now anyway."
Durin looked up at her and saw grief in her eyes. He made an immediate decision not to pry. "Understood," he said. "Now—despite all the excitement of the past day, I believe Alistair and I still have to negotiate with Orlais regarding the fate of the Inquisition."
"Politics wait for no one," said Olórin, amused. "Go, King Durin. We shall speak again soon."
Durin nodded as Alistair stood. Together they turned and walked out the door into a world that would never be the same.
Durin stood two dozen paces away from Orzammar's grand gate, staring fixedly at the doors. Gorim stood at his immediate right, and at their sides were assembled his advisors. More dwarrows of all castes were packed into the edges of the city square, held at bay by a perimeter of guards. He heard the clamor of their dozens of hushed conversations like the roaring of a waterfall around his ears.
He tried not to fidget. It was far more difficult than usual. Every minute seemed to last an hour as he stood and waited. Consciously, he knew it could not have been more than five since he had taken his position. That fact did not help.
Finally, after an interminable wait, the stone doors creaked ponderously open. For any other guest, the doordwarrows would have stepped in first, then stepped aside to allow the guest to pass. This time, the guest stepped in alone, for he needed no announcer.
He did not look as Durin remembered. The last time they had met in Durin's memory, he had stood taller than most Men or Elves, and his brown beard had been trimmed short. Today, he appeared in the guise of a Dwarf clad in interlocking plates of mithril, and his beard was long and luxurious. But his eyes were the same lightning-blue that Durin remembered.
For a moment, Durin forgot how to breathe. Then he remembered, inhaled deeply, and called out. "Greetings, Mahal, father of all Dwarves! Welcome to the city of Orzammar!"
A dead silence had fallen by the time the words finished passing his lips. More than a hundred dwarrows' eyes were fixed on the Vala standing on the city's threshold. But the ancient Ainu had eyes for only one. His boots rang on the stone floor like tiny hammers on tiny anvils as he crossed the square. After seven long seconds he stood eye to eye with Durin.
Mahal smiled. The movement dislodged a single tear gathering in his eye. "I have missed you," he said, reaching out and folding Durin into an embrace. "My son."
Durin closed his arms around his father and bowed his head. If he wept, they were tears of joy.
Part 7: Again From Sleep
Three Years Later
Durin had watched with delight and pride as Ellana Lavellan's Inquisition grew by the month. The death of the Magister Sidereal, Corypheus, was only the first of their triumphs. The organization blossomed from a small, half-trained band of idealists to an independent force to be reckoned with.
The political landscape of Thedas had been significantly reshaped in the past few years, not all in ways Durin would have predicted. The Inquisition's visit to Halamshiral had somehow reconciled Empress Celene with an elvhen former friend. This friendship had been the impetus for the Emerald Graves to be granted once more to the elves. Durin retained good relations with the Dalish and city-elf immigrants to southern Thedas, but his hopes of adding the Dales to his burgeoning coalition were, for now, dashed.
Instead, a stark divide was growing along the Frostbacks. On one side were Ferelden and Orzammar, bound together as they were by the long friendship between King Alistair and Durin. On the other were Orlais and the reconstituted Dales. The Free Marches were split, with Kirkwall and its near trading partners standing with Ferelden while Starkhaven and its defensive pact joined the Orlesian alliance.
And in the center of it all, the Inquisition headquartered in Skyhold, straddling the border between the rival nations.
Thus far, there was no serious risk of war. Orlais and Ferelden retained openly cordial relations, and Durin, Ellana, and Briala of the new Dales all did their best to mediate.
But it seemed that at long last events were coming to a head. Divine Victoria—formerly Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, one of the Inquisition's founders—had called an Exalted Council. The explicit purpose was to determine the fate and nature of the Inquisition going forward.
The invitation reached Durin's desk only a few days before a missive from King Alistair.
Durin, read his friend's note.
Arl Teagan—a friend of mine, but he's become prideful as a peacock in his old age—is raising a fuss about the Inquisition holding Caer Bronach, as well as retaining patrols within Ferelden and the Redcliffe Arling. It's his complaint to Divine Victoria, at least in part, that's caused all of this Exalted Council business.
Thing is, legally, he's entirely in the right. The Inquisition is technically an unaffiliated military force holding territory unlawfully within Ferelden. I've been able to smooth things over for a while, but with the Inquisition showing no signs of disbanding, moving, or buying the lands they occupy from the Crown, I've run out of room to maneuver.
Arl Teagan wants to go to the Exalted Council in person, to represent Ferelden. He's certainly within his rights, and if I were to send a representative, it wouldn't make sense to send anyone else. But there's—
Here several lines of text were blotted out, as if Alistair had struggled with what to write before continuing.
Morrigan showed up in Denerim a few weeks ago, he wrote. She and her—our—son. The boy is odd. I think he even unsettles Morrigan, and you know how difficult she is to unsettle. He apparently wants to go to the Exalted Council, and he wants you there, too.
I can't justify sending my unacknowledged bastard with Arl Teagan, no matter how open the secret of his parentage is. But if I go in person, especially if both Elissa and Morrigan accompany me, then it makes perfect sense. So, really, this is all a long-winded way of asking if you'd be interested in getting the old crew back together in Val Royeaux in a few months?
I understand if you don't want to travel overland all the way to central Orlais. Kieran is… very insistent. He said to tell you—word for word, he was very insistent—'We need to speak. Ask the heart what I am.' I've no idea what that means, and I hope you'll tell me. Whatever strangeness Morrigan did all those years ago, the boy is clearly not what you'd call normal.
Anyway, I do hope you'll join us. Send word if you will, and I'll hope to see you soon.
Best,
Alistair
Durin smiled at his old friend's delightful informality. His face darkened as he read through the description of Kieran. It fell still further as he read the boy's message.
Ask the heart what I am.
How did the boy even know about the Titans? It was a secret Durin had kept in the interest of security—if it became common knowledge that lyrium was the blood of ancient living mountains, and that these mountains could, if awakened, cause tectonic calamities the like of which Thedas had never known… He did not know how the people of the surface would react, but he doubted it would be graceful.
The boy had been conceived as part of a strange ritual of Morrigan's invention, or perhaps the invention of her mother. Its purpose was to allow both Elissa and Alistair to survive the assault on the Archdemon during the Blight. By all appearances, the ritual had succeeded. But why a child had been necessary, Durin had no idea.
He stood from his desk and called for a servant to summon Commander Bravus. He needed to make an expedition back to Heidrun Thaig.
-x-x-x-
A dark ritual? Azsâlul'abad asked, rumbling mental voice thoughtful. Hm. And you say this boy was conceived the night before the death of an Archdemon?
"Yes," Durin confirmed.
Then I have a guess, said the Titan, but it is only a guess.
"The boy seemed to think you would know," Durin said.
Then I suspect my guess is accurate, Azsâlul'abad mused. The old gods, as you say the Archdemons were once called, did not exist by the time I went into my slumber. But— he stopped suddenly. …Do you know the names of these old gods, perhaps?
"I do," Durin said, reaching back into his studies of the Blights, which had taken on increased significance after Corypheus' onslaught. "The Archdemon that the Wardens fought at Denerim was Urthemiel, I believe."
Ah! Then I do have an answer for you, said Azsâlul'abad with some satisfaction. Urthemiel and his six siblings were our escort when we escaped Middle-Earth. They were lesser Maia, sent to help all of us—Dwarves, Titans, Elves, and Men—to establish ourselves in the new world. They helped us immensely in those first days, but shortly before I fell into sleep, they withdrew from the realms of the Dwarves. I never knew where they went, nor why.
Durin's mouth, he found, had dropped open. The boy—Alistair's unsettling naturalborn son—was a Maia? One of Mahal's own Zadad kin? "The ritual must have siphoned Urthemiel's spirit into a form untouched by the Blight," Durin said. Another realization came cresting behind the first. "This means that the Archdemons are—corrupted Maia?"
It would seem so, said the Titan unhappily. The Blight is a vile thing. It has corrupted at least one of my own siblings, and now I find it has done the same to five of the seven Maia who helped us establish here on Thedas so long ago.
Here in the chamber of the Titan's Heart, Durin always felt somewhat small. The scope of the living mountain's being was, while in theory much younger than his own, still immensely ancient—and vast in a way no dwarrow, not even he, could truly match. So when Azsâlul'abad ponderously turned the vastness of his attention entirely on Durin, the sensation was like that of an insect being pinned to a board.
I do not know if the Blight can be exterminated, said the Titan. I do not know if it can be stopped at all. But your final coming, here in these latter days, makes me think that perhaps even that dark narrative is coming to an end.
"You think the world is soon to be renewed," Durin said.
I do, confirmed the Titan. The elves may not be returning from the West, but those Avari who remained here are rising up again. The veil that separates Seen from Unseen is coming apart at the seams, though that decay has been slowed by your allies. Dragons have returned to the world, and I know not how or from whence. And we Titans, we living mountains, are waking up again. I come back to myself in a time of omens, a time of great change and of prophecy, King Durin, Eldest and Fatherless. Whatever this boy—Kieran, Urthemiel, or whatever name he chooses to use—has to say to you, I advise you heed him.
-x-x-x-
Alistair grinned boyishly when he saw Durin standing in the shade of a cliffside. The man's face was more lined than the last time they had seen each other, but his golden hair had not yet started to grey. "Durin!" he called merrily, swinging his leg over the side of his horse. His guards quickly moved to follow him, but he was already jogging over to where Durin and Gorim stood with a small escort.
"King Alistair," Durin greeted, his smile rather wider than he had expected it to be. "It's good to see you again, my friend." He looked past Alistair at the woman descending much more sedately from her own horse. Her visor still covered her face, but Durin recognized his own handiwork, and at her hip she still carried Fiendsblood. "And Queen Elissa, too. How are you both?"
Alistair's smile fell slightly, but he soon rallied. "We've been all right," he said. "Things have been wonderfully calm in Denerim since Corypheus was stopped. Some of the nobles here in the west have been grumbling, of course, but grumbling is about two-thirds of a noble's job anyway. Wouldn't want them to feel useless."
"He's been uncomfortable this whole trip," Elissa told Durin conspiratorially. "Having both Kieran and Morrigan here bothers him."
"I'm not bothered," grumbled Alistair. "I'm just… uncomfortable."
"Right," drawled Elissa, pulling off her helmet. She gave Durin a smile, and not for the first time he was astonished at how warm the expression was. Time had softened Elissa Theirin; time to rest, to grieve for what she had lost and to enjoy what she had gained. The fierce, warlike woman who had marched into the encampment outside Orzammar more than a decade ago was still there, evidenced in the hard glint that came into her eye whenever something earned her ire. But no longer was that anger simmering just below the surface. "How have things been in Orzammar, Durin?" she asked.
"Well enough," said Durin. "Though I seem to grow busier maintaining the network of alliances between us and our neighbors with every passing hour."
"You're the one who wanted to make friends with absolutely everyone," said Alistair. "Personally, I'm perfectly happy to let someone be my enemy. If only because it gives the nobles someone besides me to complain about."
"Mine is a kingdom built on commerce and trade," said Durin. "We cannot trade without partners, despite what some of the Noble Caste might seem to think." He looked past the two at the small caravan of wagons and carriages which had slowed to a stop at the side of the ancient stone road. "I hope you have room for us in your fleet," he said. "I fear we will not be able to keep pace with horses."
"We have plenty of room," said Alistair, waving airily. "We figured you might need transport. Not a lot of horses in Orzammar, from what I remember."
"There's room in Morrigan's carriage, too," said Elissa quietly, giving Durin a meaningful look. "Enough for you and Gorim."
Durin nodded gravely. "Then we shall join them," he said. "I have a feeling young Kieran and I have much to discuss."
A few minutes later, all of Durin's entourage had found placements in one wagon or another, and Durin was hoisting himself up the human-proportioned steps to a particular covered carriage of rich, dark wood, pulled by a pair of black horses. He opened the door into the gloom.
Two pairs of hawkish golden eyes appraised him from the forward-facing bench in the back of the compartment. "King Durin," said Morrigan with a slow nod.
Kieran said nothing, but his yellow eyes glittered in the dark.
"Lady Morrigan," Durin greeted, taking his seat so that Gorim could follow him in. "And Kieran—if that is the name you prefer?"
"It is," said Kieran in a voice as smooth and musical as silk running over harpstrings.
"A pleasure, then," said Durin. He leaned forward. "I am told you wanted to speak with me?"
Kieran considered him. "I don't know everything yet," he said, sounding as thought he was offering a warning. "And some of what I know I don't think it would be safe to share yet."
"Safe for whom?" Durin asked.
"Any of us," said Kieran. "I have some knowledge of the coming weeks, but it is incomplete. The fate of Thedas hangs in the balance. Stray from the path even a little and we will all suffer for it."
"And you feel you are better equipped to determine the right path than His Majesty?" Gorim asked stiffly.
"He is right to," Durin said, glancing at his Second. "I am not the one receiving prophecies. There is a reason for it. We must trust him."
"How refreshing," Morrigan commented dryly.
Durin's eyes flickered over her before he turned back to Kieran. "Does she know?"
"Some," said Kieran. "She knows her part in things—what I had become before she offered me a way out. But our shared history? No."
Morrigan shot her son a look. "Shared history?" she asked. "Durin, I am told, is the reincarnation of a dwarf from many millennia ago. I was unaware that he had interacted with the old gods of Tevinter in that time."
"We never met," Kieran informed his mother, "and we were not—were never—gods, despite what Tevinter liked to think. But Durin and I both remember fragments of the world that came before Thedas." He looked at Durin. "I suspect your memory is more complete than mine," he said. "I have only been able to recall snatches. Splinters chipped from the glacier of the past."
"I only remember the times for which I was alive," said Durin. "But those periods, I recall well."
Kieran nodded. "I remember parts of the Sundering," he said softly. "The black vessels descending from the night sky, and the Silence that blanketed the world. The frost and the flame. We Ainur were sent to hold her back long enough for the people of Arda to take shelter. I remember the thunderous sound as the world was broken. I and my six siblings stayed here, with several of the Dwarves' Titans and a small population each of Avari and Men. I remember watching the shard of the world unfold itself, unspooling into a world in its own right. I remember being awed by the richness of Song, here—how loud and how beautiful the Fade could be." He sighed. "And I remember our horror at watching what became of the Avari with so much power at their fingertips."
"Elvhenan," Durin realized. "The ancient elvhen empire of Dalish myth."
"Yes. Elvhenan, and the Evanuris who ruled it." Kieran's golden eyes were downturned, looking at his clasped hands between his knees. He looked at once both the young boy of twelve years and the Maia of uncountable centuries, sitting there hunched in the half-light. "They were the first," he said. "There were few Avari who came, and those few multiplied. The first few generations were told of Arda, of the world that was, but soon it passed into the realm of historians rather than of cultural egregore. And those first Avari, who had been here longest, who had been learning to wield the Song, through the Fade, for longer than any others—they began to turn that power to selfish ends. They fought over land, over resources, over people. Those who were defeated were first pushed to find new territory, then slain, and finally enslaved."
"Enslaved?" murmured Durin in horror. "The Avari—the Elves—practiced slavery?"
"They did,"said Kieran. "And it was those Avari who remembered Arda who were the worst offenders. Not all—there were some who stayed true, remained in the light. Mythal was leader of these. But many others…" His eyes slid shut. "It is insidious, the Silence," he murmured. "The Blight is a misdirection, I fear. It is meant to make us think that when one is subverted, it is an obvious thing. But the Silence is only overt, only loud, when it chooses to be.
"More often, it plants its seeds where one feels safest. It waters them with temptation, with fear, with obsession. Slowly, over lifetimes, it works its dark sorcery over all it can reach. We thought ourselves safe when we escaped Arda. We were wrong. Fear and horror planted seeds in all of us. In the Avari, that seed grew into a will to power, a desire to dominate in order to become secure. In the Dwarves, it grew into insularity and stagnation. The Dwarves stopped exploring beyond the network of tunnels provided by the Titans. They stopped coming to the surface to interact with their neighbors. They hid away in the dark and tried to forget. And in Men the seed grew into a haste, a need to outstip and overtake any rival with the march of progress. In that haste, they have become both the most numerous of Thedas' people, and the most fractured.
"And in us…" Kieran took a shuddering breath. "In us, it engendered a paternalistic hubris. We alone had stood against the Silence. We alone had held it back. We would defend the people of Thedas because they could not defend themselves. And so, when the Blight that the Silence had left to fester in the heart of this world reared its head, we sallied forth to destroy it. In our failure, we doomed hundreds of thousands to die."
Quiet fell. The only sound was the clop of hooves against the stone outside, and the creak of the wheels below them. "Erebor—the Titan which awoke—believed that we were nearing a culmination," Durin said. "An ending."
"We are," said Kieran. "Things are in motion that cannot now be stopped. And I think it shall begin at the Exalted Council."
"Why?" Durin asked.
"All of the leaders of Southern Thedas will be gathered," said Kieran. "As will you, Durin the Last, and I, last of the Seven Drakes to retain his mind. Were I an agent of Silence—as, I remind you, I was for many years—there would be no better target for me to strike."
"Then what shall we do?" Durin asked.
"Keep eyes and ears open," said Kieran quietly. "But be careful. We must not be fearful, for fear is one of her webs. We must not be paranoid, for obsession is another. We must not be overconfident, for hubris is a third. Always remember, King Durin, that the greatest danger to your people is always what you will become if she can inject her poison into your blood."
"Is there any way to stay safe?" Durin found that there was cold sweat on his brow. The naked fear with which Kieran spoke was infectious. "If we cannot be too afraid, or too confident, or too paranoid, what can we be?"
"You can be true to yourself," said Kieran, "and true to the path. If you know where you are and where you are going, you need not fear the forest no matter how winding the road."
-x-x-x-
It was a few more days' travel before they arrived at Halamshiral. They were greeted graciously by Orlesian nobles and Chantry devotees alike. They were wined and dined, and politely prodded over their intentions for the coming discussions. Alistair and Elissa had far worse of it than Durin, for it was in their territory that the Inquisition was established, and it was a Fereldan grievance that had led to this discussion in the first place. Durin was here primarily as a courtesy, due to Orzammar's status as a trading partner to Ferelden, the Inquisition, and the Dales.
Unfortunately, the past twelve years had not been enough to satiate the Orlesian nobility's curiosity over a dwarven king who walked beneath the sky. They were eminently polite in their poking and prodding, but being the object of such exotic fascination was never an enjoyable experience.
Fortunately, it lasted only two short days before, at last, the Inquisition arrived. A sizeable host of soldiers marched into Halamshiral, and at their head were three figures on horseback. Commander Cullen and Ambassador Josephine flanked Inquisitor Lavellan as she guided her horse in a stately walk down the grand avenue.
Durin had seen Ellana a few times since the defeat of Corypheus. The first time had been the worst—she had looked as if she had not eaten in a week. He had managed, much to all of her advisors' pleasure, to convince her to appear at meals by distracting her with business topics which carefully stayed as far as possible from the Fade, Corypheus, or—most of all—her vanished lover.
Solas had seemingly disappeared into thin air after Corypheus fell. Durin had spoken with several people about it. Both Leliana and the Iron Bull were intensely frustrated at their own inability to find any sign of him. Ellana was, as a rule, kept out of these conversations. She knew they were doing all they could to find him, and that was all she needed to hear on a regular basis.
For his part, Durin was still, even two years later, quietly seething. Solas was a friend to him, and he had thought much better of the odd elf. It was not that he was not entitled to part ways with Ellana if that was his wish, but to do so without so much as a word to her or to anyone else at all was cruel. She had loved him—she still did, as far as Durin could tell. He had thought Solas reciprocated. He still wasn't sure whether he had been wrong, or if perhaps Solas had some reason to vanish so, despite his feelings.
Ellana had grown healthier over the past two years. Light had returned to her eyes, color to her cheeks. She still occasionally lost the thread of a conversation, gazing wistfully out to the horizon, but when she shook free of reminiscence she was once more able to smile.
But today, as she rode slowly into the courtyard of the Winter Palace, she seemed to have regressed. Her eyes were sunken, her face pale. She held the reins gingerly in one hand, while her other—the hand which had been marked at the Conclave almost four years ago—was carefully folded against her torso.
She smiled wanly when she saw them. "Hello, King Durin," she said, halting her horse beside him and giving him a proximate bow from the saddle.
"Inquisitor Lavellan," he responded with a nod in return. "How have you been?"
Her smile faded. "I've been better," she said quietly. He saw her flex her marked hand with a concealed wince."
"Is it hurting you again?" he asked quietly.
She nodded. "It stopped for a while after we closed the breach," she said. "It started again for a bit until we beat Corypheus. Now… It's been getting worse for months."
"I am sorry," said Durin.
"Me too," muttered Ellana. Then she sighed. "I'm glad you could make it, though," she said. "This is going to be hard enough with a friendly face."
"Are you worried about the outcome of these talks?" Durin asked.
"Sort of? It's more that I'm not sure what the right outcome is," said Ellana. "Orlais wants us under their authority. Ferelden wants us disbanded. The Chantry is trying to be apolitical under Cassa—Divine Victoria. My advisors want us to stay independent." She looked at him. "What about you? What do you want out of this?"
Durin considered that. "I have enjoyed having the Inquisition as a trading partner," he said, "and I think King Alistair feels the same. I gather that the source of the conflict between the Inquisition and Ferelden is that you hold Fereldan forts without having officially leased the lands from their local teyrnir. Perhaps you can negotiate to do so? Lease the forts legally so that you can continue operating independently?"
"We'd have to lease territory in Orlais, too," said Ellana, but she sounded thoughtful. "Josephine had a similar idea. We're just not sure where we could come up with the funds. We've been a bit aimless since Divine Victoria was elected. Order has been restored. During the chaos we could get funding through bounties, mercenary work, and our own resource gathering. Now, it seems like every sprig of elfroot is owned by someone else. Our coffers are drying up."
"That is a problem," said Durin slowly. "I will have to think about this. We may be able to help one another."
"It wouldn't be the first time," said Ellana, giving him a grateful look. "We owe you a lot already, Your Majesty."
"Nonsense," said Durin. "Everything I have given to you has been in trade for something of equal value. My Assembly would not have it any other way."
It was even mostly true. Durin was generous, perhaps, but only because with the rediscovery of mithril and the booming growth of the New Empire, he could afford to be. The Noble Assembly had trouble understanding that his generosity was buying them goodwill, but the rest of the Assembly were far more used to the need to build and maintain friendly relations with one's peers, rather than merely cordial ones.
"Well, your trades of equal value have pulled us out of more than a few serious scrapes," said Ellana. "So, thank you. I hope to see you at the council, but for now I need to get some rest." She huffed a small laugh. "Maybe even have a bath. I still have dreams about the baths here in Halamshiral."
"They are magnificent," Durin agreed. "Be well, Inquisitor."
"And you, Your Majesty."
-x-x-x-
The discussions began, in Durin's opinion, quite smoothly. Alistair was eminently reasonable—he liked Ellana, and he liked having the Inquisition as a buffer between himself and Orlais. He carefully framed Arl Teagan's complaint as a legal necessity rather than an attack on the Inquisition's sovereignty. "We don't have any objection to the Inquisition operating within reason within Ferelden," he said, in that easygoing lilt of his, "but it's causing internal problems for some of our nobility to have lost jurisdiction over keeps within their own holdings without any lease or sale being made."
"If the Inquisition finds itself forced out of its holdings in Ferelden, said Duke Cyril de Montfort, Empress Celene's representative, "we would be more than happy to offer them a home within Orlais."
"The Inquisition already holds several forts within Orlais," Alistair reminded the duke. "Suledin Keep, for instance."
"Indeed," said Duke Cyril haughtily. "And we are not trying to oust them after all the work they have done to secure the surrounding lands."
"No one's forcing the Inquisition out of anywhere," said Alistair, almost soothingly. "I just want to know who's going to pay Arl Teagan for the use of his fortress in Crestwood."
And on it went, until they broke for lunch. Ellana disappeared with her advisors, and Durin joined Alistair at his table. The young king's smile had slid off his face, replaced by a look of profound exhaustion.
"You did well," said Durin.
"I know," groaned Alistair. "Elissa's going to be insufferable about it. She's been telling me that my studies would start paying off, and blast it all if she wasn't completely right, as usual."
"She does have a habit of it," said Durin dryly.
And so things continued. The first day came and went. Then the second, and the third. A week.
Some things were happening outside the negotiations. Durin was hearing whispers of tensions—scuffles between servants of Orlais and the Inquisition, an ongoing investigation which the Inquisition seemed to be keeping secret. But nothing happened to suggest any immediate danger.
Nothing, that is, until the tenth day of the negotiations. He and Alistair were having lunch together again when the door to their private dining chamber burst open. Durin's head snapped to it, startled. Elissa Theirin stood there, clad in her full mithril plate, helmet under one arm. Her face was set and grim. Beside her, Gorim was coming to a halt after clearly jogging to keep up with her.
"Alistair," Elissa said, "I need you to do something for me."
Alistair blinked at her. "…Okay then. What do you need, darling?"
Elissa didn't smile at the pet name. "I need you to meet Leliana in the antechamber, and follow her out of the palace," she said. "We have credible evidence of an assassination plot."
Durin's mind immediately went back to what Kieran had said. Were I an agent of Silence, there would be no better target for me to strike.
Alistair stood up. "Sure," he said, false levity in his voice. "So long as you're coming with me."
"Don't fight me on this, Alistair—"
"I am not leaving you here to deal with whatever this is on your own!" Alistair said sharply.
"I'm not on my own," said Elissa, frustrated. "Ellana and her team are here too, as are Morrigan and Kieran." She glanced at Durin. "Kieran wanted me to ask you if you'd stay," she added with obvious reluctance. "I told him it was a terrible idea for the same reason both Alistair and I staying is a terrible idea."
"And yet I agree with Kieran," said Durin, standing. "I must stay."
"Then I am, too!" Alistair growled. "I'm a king, not an invalid!"
"Neither of you should stay," Elissa snapped back. "I can't tell Durin not to, but I can certainly tell you."
"No!"
"Let the record reflect," said Gorim with some displeasure, "that I don't think you should stay either, Your Majesty."
"The record will so reflect," said Durin.
Alistair gritted his teeth, shooting Durin a glare. "Why should I leave if you aren't?"
"Alistair," said Durin softly, reaching out and laying a hand on Alistair's arm. "I'm only staying because I think this has something to do with my past. My distant past. Elissa is right—Ferelden must have one of its monarchs safe. If Orzammar had another monarch, I would send them away too."
For a moment, Alistair kept glaring. Then he visibly deflated. "Fine," he said. He shot Elissa a look. "Don't you dare die on me."
"Wouldn't dream of it," said Elissa, audible relief breaking into her voice. As he stomped past her, she put an arm before him and drew him in for a kiss. "I love you," she said. "I'll see you soon. I promise."
Alistair nodded, a little less stiffly, and left the room.
Elissa turned to Durin. "There's an eluvian in a storage room near here," she said. "It's active. As far as we can tell, a Qunari invasion force is planning to use the network to attack several priority targets across Thedas at once."
"How on earth did the Qunari gain control of the eluvian network?" Durin asked blankly.
"No idea," said Elissa. "We can ask their leader once we capture her. Come on."
Durin and Gorim had to jog to keep up with Elissa's long stride as she stormed through the Winter Palace. They were soon joined by Ellana and her team—Dorian, the Iron Bull, and Varric. Kieran followed after them, Morrigan on his heels. The woman seemed genuinely worried as she looked down at her son, and Durin felt a pang of sympathy. Raising a Maia with uncountable millennia of memory bundled into his tiny body couldn't be easy.
"Good, everyone is here," said Kieran. "Come." He walked to the eluvian, which was already humming with the power of an active portal, and ran his finger along the edge. The shimmering blue portal flickered and faded for an instant. When it returned, it was instead a rich, royal violet. "There," he said in satisfaction. "That should take us directly to him."
"To who?" Durin asked. But he had a feeling he already knew the answer.
"Fen'Harel," said Kieran, and suddenly everything made sense. "Come."
Before any of them could stop him, the boy stepped into the portal and vanished. Morrigan cursed under her breath and followed him. Elissa was next, followed by Ellana and her team.
Durin brought up the rear. By the time he stepped through, their quarry had already stepped over the crest of the nearby hill and was looking down at all of them in astonishment.
Solas had changed his attire significantly. Once shapeless apostate's robes had given way to an ornate vestment of silk and wolfhide. His eyes seemed to glow blue like stars in his head. Beside Durin, Ellana had gone completely stiff, staring up at him.
"…How?" Solas asked blankly.
"I hijacked your eluvian," said Kieran simply. "I hope you don't mind."
"I… rather do, actually," said Solas. "I was in the middle of trying to regain control of the network from the Qunari. I would rather not have to do so with you as well."
"No need," said Kieran. "You can have it back soon enough. But we should speak first."
Solas' lips thinned. Durin saw his eyes linger on Ellana. "Yes," he said quietly. "I suppose we should."
"You're Fen'Harel," whispered Ellana. She sounded broken, as if the world was coming down around her ears. "The Dread Wolf."
"That is what they took to calling me," said Solas quietly. "I…" he hesitated, gazing down at her with undeniable tenderness. Durin found it hard to remain angry. "May I explain? Please? I—would like you to understand. If it's possible."
Ellana let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Fine," she said. "Talk—" But before the word was even fully formed, she was doubling over with a choked cry of pain. Green light flared from the mark on her palm, crackling with power. Tiny arcs of viridian lightning seemed to be crawling up her arm, like the jaws of a hungry thunderstorm.
Solas' face hardened. "Before anything else," he said. "The Anchor is killing you, ma vhenan. Please—let me remove it. If I do not, you will be dead in a matter of days."
Ellana was on her knees, breathing heavily. "…Fine."
Solas stepped forward, eyes flashing blue-white. Elllana let out a startled gasp. Then, slowly, she stood up and stepped back.
Her arm did not go with her. It hung in the air, the flesh rapidly decaying into a sickly green mass, roiling like one of the rifts Ellana had closed so many times two years ago.
Solas stepped forward and laid his hand on the floating forearm. It dissolved into light and coalesced in his own palm. He smiled grimly, without mirth. "There we are," he said.
"We'd appreciate an explanation, if you please," said Kieran. His voice was oddly unfocused, as if he were thinking of something else entirely. Durin glanced his way and saw that his eyes were not on Solas at all, but on the eluvian behind him. "I would like to know the conclusions you've drawn."
Solas gave the boy an odd look but nodded after a moment. He clasped his hands behind his back and began. "The Evanuris styled themselves as gods," he said, "which is how they are now remembered by the Dalish. But they were no more than extremely powerful mages. Mages who went entirely power-mad, as bad as the worst Magister. All save Mythal. She genuinely cared for her people. I served her. I tried to help her change the culture of the elvhen from within—until they did something I could never forgive. They killed her.
"And so I rebelled. I freed their slaves. Those who wished to make their own lives, I taught to farm and forage. Those who wished to fight, I armed and trained. The Evanuris called me Fen'Harel, and my followers claimed the name as a badge of pride.
"But in the end, they were too powerful. I knew I could not hold out against them forever—not by conventional means. So I chose unconventional ones. I went to one of my strongholds, in what you now know as the Frostback Mountains, and I wove a spell unlike any that has been made before or since. I raised the Veil between the Fade and the material world—and, in doing so, I doomed us all."
"That is how the elvhen lost their immortality," Kieran said softly, and Durin wondered if he was just realizing this now. "Cut off from the Unseen, they are as mortal as Men or Dwarves."
"Yes," confirmed Solas. "I tried to free my people, and I did. But the cost was everything that made them who they were. When I awoke, several years ago, from my long stasis after creating the veil, I was horrified. I realized what a mistake I had made—and I vowed to undo it." He gestured with his newly marked palm, still luminous in green, and Durin realized with a sinking sensation that the mark which had allowed Ellana to heal the Veil would allow him to destroy it.
"You're planning to destroy the Veil," said Dorian flatly. "Solas—need I remind you that we saw what a world with no Veil looks like? Ellana and I saw you in that future, and you certainly didn't look to me like you had gotten what you wanted."
"Corypheus, in that future, had infected the world with the Blight," said Solas. "That is not a necessary component to this. But… I will not deny that the destruction of the Veil will likely be every bit as cataclysmic as its creation. This world will likely burn just as surely as mine—as ours—did."
"And that's worth it to you?" Ellana asked. "It doesn't matter to you if all of us die so long as a bunch of ancient slavers get to walk free again?"
"It is not the evanuris I'm concerned with," said Solas. "But what I did has stolen, collectively, millions of years of life from our people. What I want does not matter—I have a duty to ensure that death ends."
"You are ending nothing," Durin found himself saying. "Solas—your people are still immortal. They merely do not live out that immortality here. But you remain Elves. Even the Avari who never went into the West are not without the gift of the Firstborn."
"I understand that you believe that," said Solas, looking at him with something like pity. "Take heart, King Durin—I doubt your people will suffer the worst of this. Dwarves produce no mages, and so will not be visited by spirits nearly as often as the people of the surface. With all you have done to advance your people, I expect your civilization will survive the coming calamity."
"They will not."
Durin looked at Kieran. The boy's voice was deep, quiet, and thick with terrible prophecy. "If you were unleashing what you think you are, Dread Wolf, you might be right," said the Maia in child's form. "But you are not."
"I expect that my knowledge of the magic involved is more complete than your own," Solas said frostily. "I assure you, I have considered the details carefully."
"No. You have not." Kieran had been gazing off into the distance behind Solas, as if lost in thought, but now his gaze sharpened as his attention fixed entirely upon the ancient elf. "You believe Corypheus tainted the Breach with the Blight. Follow that thread. Where did his Blight come from?"
"It certainly did not come from the Black City," said Solas. "The Blight existed before the Veil."
"Yes," said Kieran. "We brought it with us—tiny pockets of it, clinging feebly to existence in crevices that were not burst open by the Sundering. But it feeds on the Song—on the Unseen. You sealed the Unseen away, and some of the Blight with it. What do you think it has been doing all this time?"
"Growing," murmured Durin in horror. "Spreading. Unchecked and unchallenged."
"Precisely," said Kieran. "The Breach, and the world it created in that dark future you saw, Inquisitor—yes, they were tainted by the Blight. But it was Blight which crept in from the other side." He narrowed his eyes at Solas. "If you open that path before we are ready, you will doom us all as surely as if you had let Corypheus have his way."
"And you claim to know this—how?" Solas said with some suspicion.
"I know because I was here," hissed Kieran. "I was here when we arrived on Thedas. I was here when the Evanuris began their conquest. I was here when they fell. I was here the last time some misguided fools tried to open the door into the Fade, and I was the one who paid the price. I have seen the mind behind the Blight—I have felt her venom in my blood, her webs within my brain. I know what I am talking about, Solas Mythallion, for I am Urthemiel, unchained once more."
Solas' face had gone slack. "The Archdemon," he murmured.
"No," said Kieran. "Not any longer. Nor am I an old god of any kind. I am Maia, of the Host of Ilúvatar, and I tell you this—you must not tear open the Veil yet."
"I have a duty to—wait." Solas' eyes narrowed. "Yet?"
Kieran nodded sharply. "Things are in motion," he said. "I have heard them in my dreams. The horn-calls of Aman, the drums of war. One day—one day soon—the Veil will open. But we must wait until we have friends, as well as enemies, on the other side. They will be there soon enough. A matter of a few years, perhaps, if not months."
"Friends?" Durin asked. "In the Fade?"
"Beyond it," said Kieran. "Ours is not the only world struggling with the children of Silence. Ours is not the first. I have not yet had time to do more than start trying to reach my fellows, out there across the vast gulfs of eternity, but I can vaguely feel them. If you will step away from the precipice, if you will give me more time, I can make contact, and we can begin working to reestablish the unity that was lost when the world was broken."
For a moment, Solas visibly hesitated. Then his face hardened. "Every day that passes," he said, "is another thousand elvhen who die to my mistake."
"They are not dying," said Kieran, "they are being brought over to the West. That is the fate of your kind. You are immortal. There is no death for you, not like for Men, or even like the stone-stasis of the Dwarves. You are more like us Ainur."
"I cannot simply believe that," said Solas. "I am sorry." He turned to go—
—and was stopped by two figures suddenly standing in his path. Durin, who had started forward himself, stared blankly. Kieran had somehow crossed the dozens of feet of distance between him and the elf with barely a sound—a mere single syllable of undiluted Song. The boy, too, was staring up at the other figure with awe and some fear.
The woman had stepped out of thin air as though through a hidden door. She wore mithril plate unlike any Durin had ever crafted. Her hair streamed out of her helm like a plume. Her dark eyes were fixed on Solas with disappointment and pity. And—with a start of terror—Durin realized that upon her finger was a Ring of Power. The band was pure silver, unadorned with any gem, and Tengwar shone on it in luminous green; its colors were the same as the Ring he himself had once worn.
"Yes," said Sauron—for who else could this woman, possessed of an unknown Ring of Power, possibly be? "And every one of those Avari carried word back to us. You're lucky we made it in time."
Solas blinked at her. "What—"
"They're in your head," she said quietly. "It's what they do, when they don't know any better—they get to you through your desires, your fears, your obsessions. They convince you to ignore what they don't want you to see, to focus on what they need you to do, all without ever making their presence obvious. But if you know how to look, you can see the cracks—see the evidence of their passage."
"You suggest that I am being manipulated," Solas said. "Magically."
"You would have experience," Durin called, unable to hold back the bitterness. "Sauron."
Sauron visibly flinched, eyes darting in Durin's direction. "What—oh. King Durin." Her lips twitched into a weak attempt at a smile. "We heard you were here, but I didn't expect you to be right here."
"Wait," Gorim's voice was thoughtful, but rapidly giving way to horror. "Sauron? I know that name. Isn't that—"
"The Maia who gave cursed Rings of Power to me and many other kings among Men and Dwarves in the Second Age," Durin growled, eyes fixed upon the Maia's pale face. "Yes."
"I—I don't go by that name anymore," said Sauron, and her voice was oddly small. She sounded contrite, sincere in a way that was almost convincing.
"As I recall, you never did," Durin pointed out through clenched teeth. "That name was one we gave to you because Mairon no longer adequately described you, after all you had done."
Sauron grimaced. "Yes. And you were right." She took a deep breath. "It's not for me to say whether I deserve the name," she said. "But I have changed. And those who believe that change is sincere call me Mairë now."
Part of Durin wanted to scoff. Sauron's Rings had never managed to transform him so completely as they had the Kings of Men to which she gave them, but he still remembered the haze of gold-lust that had slowly settled over him, over many years. He still remembered the same happening to his brothers. He remembered seeing Celebrimbor, who had crafted the river-gate to Khazad-dûm long before, being raised broken upon the orcs' banners.
And yet now that same being stood, in a fair form that should have been forbidden to her, trying to convince Solas to turn aside from his madness. Was Solas right? No—Kieran would be intervening if she were trying to drive Solas to a worse action. And he could see in her face—she was not the same manipulative creature that had once worked duplicity on him. Something had changed.
"I believe you." It was not Durin who spoke, but Kieran. His voice was soft, his eyes wide. The fear in them had been replaced with awe. "You are so—bright, now. And though I never saw the old Rings of Power… the one on your finger may be Discordant, but it is soft. Gentle."
Durin gritted his teeth. "I… we will speak later," he said. "If you have a way to stop Solas inviting Ungoliant to Thedas, I invite you to proceed."
"Only words," said Sauron—Mairë?—before turning back to Solas. "You betrayed the Evanuris because they killed Mythal," she said quietly. "Five hundred and twenty-seven days ago, you found her still alive. What, Solas, did you do?"
Solas recoiled. "How do you— How do you know about that? Who are you?"
"How do I know?" Mairë asked. She gestured, and another square hole opened in the world. A woman stepped out. Her brow was adorned with an angular crown. Her golden eyes were fixed on Solas with sympathy. Her ears were pointed, and her long hair was black as night. For a moment, Durin saw behind her a strange chamber of light and metal before the door closed again.
"I told her, of course," said the new arrival. "As soon as I awoke, and realized what you were doing. Solas—you must listen. You are being manipulated. You are better than this."
"Am I?" Solas' voice was choked, practically hysterical. "Are you sure of that?"
"Yes." The voice wasn't Mythal's, or Sauron's, or Kieran's. It was Ellana. She had stepped up the hill and now stood nearly within arm's reach of Solas. Her remaining hand reached out towards him. "You are, ma vhenan. Please. Don't do this—not before we've at least talked about our options."
"The right choice is often hard," Mairë said, with something wistful in her voice that Durin could not imagine was feigned. "That doesn't mean that the hard choice is always the right one, Solas."
Solas stared down at Ellana's outstretched fingers. For a long moment, no one moved. Then, something in his face broke. His hand, shaking, reached out and took hers.
-x-x-x-
"It took us longer than it should have to find you," Mairë—for that was apparently the name the woman who had once been Sauron had now taken, in her redemption—said apologetically. She sat around the same table where, not four hours ago, Durin and Alistair had been having a quiet lunch between politicking. At her sides sat three figures. The first was a man clad in blue armor that should have been too heavy for him to carry, let alone fight in, yet who moved with a grace beyond most Men Durin had known. The second was Mythal, her face set in a expression at once sad and satisfied. The third was an ageless man with black and grey speckled hair. Durin recognized the latter, though this was not a face he had worn any time in Durin's memory. Something about the Maia Olórin—who had once been called Mithrandir, Gandalf, and a host of other names—was immediately recognizable.
"It all worked out, as far as I'm concerned," said Kieran dryly. He, Durin, Alistair, and Elissa were seated on the other side of the table. Josephine stood in a corner, alternating between staring at the otherworldly visitors with some awe and fear and busily taking notes on her pad. "You have impeccable timing."
"It would be a coincidence," said Mairë with a small smile, "if anything ever was. But, really, we had everything we needed to find you months ago. We were looking as soon as things were settled enough to dedicate resources to it, since we already knew you, Durin, had incarnated again. We should have pieced things together once the Avari who were coming back started telling us about the resurgent dwarven empire in their world—but it didn't really come together until Mythal appeared a year and a half ago."
"At which point," said Olórin, "we had to find a world with a separated Seen and Unseen. Unfortunately, that is not as simple as it sounds."
"Surprisingly hard to tell, from the outside," agreed Mairë. She looked at Kieran. "So—you prefer Urthemiel, or Kieran?"
"Kieran, if you please," said the boy-Maia.
Mairë nodded. "As a rule, I prefer my reborn ID too," she said. "I've started using Mairë for simplicity's sake—easier to explain things, with the association to my first name. But, if we're past the introductions, I prefer Taylor."
Kieran nodded. "How did you end up reborn?" he asked. "It took—a great deal of work, on the part of my mother, and—" he nodded respectfully at Mythal, "—her mother, to make this happen for me."
"Eru," said Mairë—Taylor—simply. "I guess He decided He wasn't done with me yet. I'm grateful for it."
"As am I, for my second chance," said Kieran quietly.
Taylor nodded sympathetically. "Anyway," she turned, "Mythal. We really do need to break open your son's Veil. As long as the Unseen—the Fade, you called it?—stays segregated here, it's a spawning ground for their brood."
"Agreed," said Mythal. "But it must be done without bringing about the end of civilization on Thedas."
"Right," agreed Taylor. "I think there's two parts to that. The first is making sure the civilizations on this side are ready for it. The second is making sure nothing comes through from the other side the moment the barrier goes down. To that end," she turned to Durin, "would you be willing to help me and the other smiths and tinkers arm a force to take the fight to the Fade?"
Durin blinked. "You want to send an army in there," he said. "Into the Unseen itself, to fight the Children of Ungoliant."
"Hey," said Taylor with a wry grin. "At least the Unseen is our territory. Better than fighting them in theirs."
"I suppose so." Durin took a deep breath. "Yes. I would be happy to. But my people—I am still a King. I cannot give away my people's resources. We will need compensation."
Olórin laughed. "Heaven save us from the eternal pragmatism of the Dwarves!" he chortled. "But yes—you shall have your payment, Your Majesty. The wealth of uncountable worlds is at all of our fingertips, though times are too dire for us to simply enjoy most of them."
"If that's agreed," said Elissa, "I'd like to change the subject. "What'll happen to Solas?"
Taylor's face fell slightly. "That depends on him and Ellana," she said. "If he's really been convinced that he was being manipulated, then we might be able to break their hold on him. But it's not an easy thing to do, and it'll take a lot of work—on his part, Ellana's part, and the part of whoever we set to help them. But it's worth doing if he'll let us."
"And then what?" asked Alistair grimly. "Lest we forget—he apparently gave Corypheus the orb he used to destroy the Conclave. He's directly responsible for the Breach, and all the deaths that followed."
"Yes," said Taylor quietly. "And he'll carry that weight for the rest of his immortal life. He's not getting off easy, King Alistair."
"If he can be helped, he should be," said Durin. "His flaw was that he lived in the past. We cannot do the same ourselves in our haste to correct what he has done."
"But he should perhaps be separated from the people of Thedas," suggested Kieran. "Both those he hurt and those he was misguidedly trying to help. Perhaps there is some other world, or some other front, that could use his talents?"
"Not a bad idea," mused Taylor. "Not a bad idea at all. And separating him from the immediately local phrases of the Song might help to break the hold the Silence has on him. Sure, we can do that. I'm sure we've got somewhere he can be transferred."
"Perhaps one of the other worlds with populations of Avari descendants?" suggested Olórin. "It might do him good to see that his people yet thrive elsewhere."
"Sure," said Taylor. "We should look over our options with the others later." She stood up. "For now, though," she looked down at Durin with a small, sad smile. "It's good to finally meet you, King Durin—and not on opposite ends of a war, this time."
"Indeed," said Durin, standing himself and giving her a shallow bow. "I look forward to working with you. But if you were planning on offering me another Ring of Power, I hope you understand if I decline."
"Oh. No." Taylor's voice was suddenly soft and sad. "No—Cenya has another home now anyway."
Durin looked up at her and saw grief in her eyes. He made an immediate decision not to pry. "Understood," he said. "Now—despite all the excitement of the past day, I believe Alistair and I still have to negotiate with Orlais regarding the fate of the Inquisition."
"Politics wait for no one," said Olórin, amused. "Go, King Durin. We shall speak again soon."
Durin nodded as Alistair stood. Together they turned and walked out the door into a world that would never be the same.
-x-x-x-
Durin stood two dozen paces away from Orzammar's grand gate, staring fixedly at the doors. Gorim stood at his immediate right, and at their sides were assembled his advisors. More dwarrows of all castes were packed into the edges of the city square, held at bay by a perimeter of guards. He heard the clamor of their dozens of hushed conversations like the roaring of a waterfall around his ears.
He tried not to fidget. It was far more difficult than usual. Every minute seemed to last an hour as he stood and waited. Consciously, he knew it could not have been more than five since he had taken his position. That fact did not help.
Finally, after an interminable wait, the stone doors creaked ponderously open. For any other guest, the doordwarrows would have stepped in first, then stepped aside to allow the guest to pass. This time, the guest stepped in alone, for he needed no announcer.
He did not look as Durin remembered. The last time they had met in Durin's memory, he had stood taller than most Men or Elves, and his brown beard had been trimmed short. Today, he appeared in the guise of a Dwarf clad in interlocking plates of mithril, and his beard was long and luxurious. But his eyes were the same lightning-blue that Durin remembered.
For a moment, Durin forgot how to breathe. Then he remembered, inhaled deeply, and called out. "Greetings, Mahal, father of all Dwarves! Welcome to the city of Orzammar!"
A dead silence had fallen by the time the words finished passing his lips. More than a hundred dwarrows' eyes were fixed on the Vala standing on the city's threshold. But the ancient Ainu had eyes for only one. His boots rang on the stone floor like tiny hammers on tiny anvils as he crossed the square. After seven long seconds he stood eye to eye with Durin.
Mahal smiled. The movement dislodged a single tear gathering in his eye. "I have missed you," he said, reaching out and folding Durin into an embrace. "My son."
Durin closed his arms around his father and bowed his head. If he wept, they were tears of joy.
The End
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- Location
- San Francisco
I must've missed the part where you mentioned this would be a shorter story. Nevertheless, it was good! I'm not familiar with the lore and story of Dragon Age, but nevertheless, I had fun all the way through!
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
The primary reason this story is shorter is so that I can get to Of Many Colors faster. Prologue will be posted in two weeks!
- Location
- USA
- Pronouns
- She/Her
And so it ends. I haven't played the Dragon Ages since Origins, so I'm missing important context on many of the characters and events here, but nonetheless I enjoyed the story; even absent that background, the elements from the Tolkien side of the crossover, plus my familiarity with Origins, were sufficient to let me find the setting-fusion appropriately interesting, and Durin made for an enjoyable protagonist.
Meanwhile, off on the typos front:
I suspect that the first "we must not be paranoid", here, was meant to be "we must not be afraid", thus preserving the rhetorical impact of the triple and thus motivating Durin's question at the end of the quote.
Meanwhile, off on the typos front:
I suspect that the first "we must not be paranoid", here, was meant to be "we must not be afraid", thus preserving the rhetorical impact of the triple and thus motivating Durin's question at the end of the quote.
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
Good catch, I'll correct that.
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
Out of curiosity, do you mean this as "I would have liked that ending," or as "I would have preferred even that ending over this?"
KnightDisciple
Love God. Do Right. Fear No Man.
- Location
- Midwest, USA
1.) I like that this was "short and sweet". It's one thread of many.
2.) Was that Armsmaster in the meeting?
3.) I am suddenly picturing Olorin as Michael Fassbender with salt-and-pepper hair.
@Lithos Maitreya
2.) Was that Armsmaster in the meeting?
3.) I am suddenly picturing Olorin as Michael Fassbender with salt-and-pepper hair.
@Lithos Maitreya
Lithos Maitreya
Character Witness
- Location
- United States
It was indeed! I got halfway through drafting a whole additional scene with Aiwendil and Dragon before deciding it didn't add anything important and replacing it with Mahal at the ending.
Because would be the Lewisian thing to do.
A truly excellent choice. It was a truly, remarkably good ending.
- Location
- Puerto Rico
Good ending.
Though I will admit that I also feel disappointed.
There were so many things I wanted to see Durin interact with, from the Winter Palace mission, Grey Warden mission (which included a trip to the Fade), the Jaws of Hakkon, and the final battle against Coryphaeus.
And most important of all....
NO BALROG FIGHT!!!
Though I will admit that I also feel disappointed.
There were so many things I wanted to see Durin interact with, from the Winter Palace mission, Grey Warden mission (which included a trip to the Fade), the Jaws of Hakkon, and the final battle against Coryphaeus.
And most important of all....
NO BALROG FIGHT!!!
Yes the lack of a BALROG FIGHT!!! was sad. However, it is important to remember that Balrog probably represents unrestrained greed.And most important of all....
NO BALROG FIGHT!!!
Just liked. It was not bad crossover but not to my tastes