Funeral
Lydia Thorne, age 24, has been a Grey Warden for seven months. Her friend and mentor, surface dwarf Pyle, has invited her to attend a Calling Ceremony for his companion, Rodrick. Faced with the inevitability of her eventual death, Lydia reflects on life, loss, and the choices in between.
Please consider the fic below my contribution to the OC death tag 🙏🏼
Also big thanks to @trashwithvariety for helping me brainstorm for this story 🥰😘❤️
Warning: Mentions of death and claustrophobia, andddd a sex scene.
Wool, silverite, and leather. A high collar. A brown belt and gloves. A chestplate, adorned with the ever-famous griffons, now extinct, sitting proudly as though not just a memory. That same crest on her right shoulder. A single, shining medal meticulously placed over her heart, as if a symbol of ownership.
The brilliant navy-blue regalia she had always dreamed of wearing sat stiffly upon her body now. She stood so as not to anger it, wondering, briefly, if the armor would creak or groan were she to move even an inch. She didn't test it, of course. She kept the posture that was all but beaten into her over the last several months. Straight like an arrow. Still, stoic, a perfect image of a perfect Junior Warden. Obedience was not so foreign to her. What was, however, was the stifling air of Orzammar.
She didn't know the Warden, though tonight's festivities were centered around him. Junior Wardens were not often invited to these things. Not unless they were close with the guest of honor, anyhow. No. Pyle had invited her, insisting that she acquaint herself with the end of a Warden's life. His hand had rested between her shoulder blades as they entered Orzammar earlier that day, a smile playing on her face as he whispered to her. Her heart was thrumming anxiously in her chest. Ever since Lydia met Pyle in Crestwood, he had taken a shine to her. He was impressed when, four days after his departure, Lydia caught up with his patrol to follow him to Weisshaupt. He'd been even more impressed when Lydia survived her Joining, and he vowed to keep an eye out for her. To teach her about Warden life. To make sure she was strong enough to face the Blight. To walk in Eva Surana's footsteps. And she trusted him.
And so here she was, at his behest. In a hot, stuffy, underground cave turned kingdom. According to Pyle, all Calling celebrations were held in Orzammar.
It was an honor and a privilege to attend such an, as it was put, extravagant celebration of life. It was even more of an honor and a privilege, Pyle told her, to survive long enough to have such a celebration.
Those words, so carefully relayed to her over last night's campfire, deep in the Frostback Mountains, chilled her bones even more than the cold.
Lydia rolled her shoulders as she watched the Dwarves in charge of the ceremony set up. She'd been tempted to ask if they needed help. She was a fine baker and a good enough cook, having had years of experience while living in Crestwood. Her intentions fell shy of asking, however, as the Dwarves moved with practiced efficiency. Desire to help gave way to curiosity. How often had they prepared for a Calling? The more she thought of it, and the more she watched these Dwarves move as though every detail was second nature, the more her stomach churned.
She seemed to be the only one still fully standing at attention. Her fellow Wardens, while remaining at their posts, had melted into various conversations. She relaxed just a bit, slightly disappointed that her armor didn't groan as she moved. She let her hand fall to the pommel of her sword, flexing her fingers around it. It was unfamiliar. It felt dead beneath her touch, just as dead as her staff was alive. She exhaled through her nose. It’d been a few weeks since Lydia last saw her staff. She was being made to train in warrior-style combat, as there weren't enough senior mages amongst their ranks to teach her. It was fine. Lydia had only ever been a successful magic student when she taught herself. She couldn't imagine that nine years away from the Circle would change that.
The longer she stood in the great stone chamber, the more she could feel the walls closing in on her. She felt it when she and the other Wardens first entered Orzammar that morning. The sound of the massive doors shutting behind them. The immediate closing out of daylight. The seemingly endless descent into the kingdom. It was as though she alone was responsible for making sure the ceiling didn't collapse on them. She looked around for Pyle, but he was nowhere to be seen. Of course not. He would be with Rodrick, the guest of honor. They would want some private time, of course, before joining the main party. Lydia could hardly blame them.
It would be their last chance, after all.
Lydia knew well, both from Pyle and from the senior Wardens who debriefed her once she underwent the Joining, what came at the end of a Warden's life, and the purpose of these Calling ceremonies. The Archdemons' song would grow too loud, too persistent, and the Warden would know it was their time. This is when the Grey Wardens and the Dwarves of Orzammar would honor an ages-old pact. The Dwarves would host these events as thanks for the Wardens' sacrifice. In return, the Warden who embarked on their Calling would traverse the Deep Roads and take a final, heroic stand against the darkspawn.
To be here, though. To bear witness to such an end. She cleared her throat, hoping it would still the shiver that ran down her spine. The fact that fear could freeze her so, even in the stifling, stagnant air, amazed her.
The clinking of silverware distracted her from her thoughts. The Dwarves were setting places along a single, massive table in the chamber. Others still were lighting fires in the great sconces along the walls. Lydia flexed her fingers as she watched each one be lit. She could offer to help. She could have them all ablaze within moments if they would just let her. She used to do it every day. But no. They would do it themselves. They had to do it themselves. Though she would not embark on her Calling tonight, her presence, too, was honored.
~
It was another hour before the rich smells of meat permeated the space, and another hour still (Lydia couldn't believe they were being made to wait so long), before the Grey Wardens were gathered to sit.
Lydia sat between two older Wardens, neither of whom she knew very well. One of them, a woman with black hair and golden brown eyes, was from Ferelden, though she'd been recruited in Kirkwall. The other, a middle-aged man with a thick mustache, was from Orlais, his accent proving difficult for Lydia to understand. They made small talk with her for a few minutes before turning to chat with the people on their other sides. Lydia was left scanning the rest of the table. Warden Rodrick, his long red hair loose around his shoulders, was sitting at one end of the table. He was engaged in a happy conversation with Pyle, the two of them laughing over something Rodrick said. Lydia worried her lip as she watched him. His hands were gloved and clenched into fists as they rested on the table, his thumbs rubbing absentmindedly on the crooks of his forefingers. Though his face glowed with mirth, the dark circles around his eyes betrayed the truth.
He had, as Pyle explained it, tried to delay his Calling for nearly a year. When Lydia asked him how it was possible to delay such a thing, Pyle had shaken his head, patting his hand firmly on her knee. It wasn't possible, he told her. Rodrick had simply ignored the Calling– pretended he couldn’t hear it. There was a reason why Wardens were meant to embark on their final journey into the Deep Roads when the song became too loud. Though he wouldn't share the explicit details as to why it had to be that way, Lydia could see it all over Rodrick's face. Eyes sunken into the sockets. Greyish veins running from the sides of his head and down his neck into his shirt, the attempt to hide it with long hair and a high collar not entirely working. He was pale— the type of pale that implied illness. Lydia had seen it once before. When she was 19, her father had that same look. She remembered tending him, wiping cold rags on his forehead, holding back tears as he whispered to her, assured her that everything would be alright. He was ghostly, pallid, and near death. That look… that desperate warning to both the self and others… Well, her father had survived his illness. But Rodrick? As she watched him, his thumbs ever rubbing against his forefingers, Lydia wondered both why he would ignore the Calling for so long and why he would give in now. The questions terrified her to her core.
It took some effort to peel her eyes away from Rodrick, turning instead to look at the others. The table was made to seat fifty people. Fifteen of them were Orzammar officials, the ones in charge of tonight's ceremony. Among their number was King Bhelen, whom Lydia was shocked to see attending, but who, as explained by Pyle, owed his throne to none other than Eva Surana herself. The other thirty-five were Grey Wardens. She knew quite a few faces, having fought alongside some of them. Others she had met on the journey to Orzammar. Her eyes fell on Kel, who was on the other side of the table and a few seats down. He was chattering away with the man sitting next to him. Fighting alongside him was an overstatement. He found every opportunity to get in her way, or to stir up trouble, or wind her up, and she was glad that he didn't meet her gaze. Well… mostly glad.
The Dwarven servants finally emerged from the kitchens bearing large platters of what seemed to be roasted nug. Steam rose from each one in such great volume that Lydia thought it might fill the room. After the nugs came glass plates of fresh vegetables, which Lydia supposed were imported from the surface. She briefly wondered which farms were responsible for the produce being placed before them with such flourish. Following the vegetables were baskets filled to the brim with steaming loaves of bread. One basket was placed delicately in front of Lydia, and she felt a sudden ache in her heart. She cleared her throat, hoping the sound would drown out the thoughts that suddenly tickled at the edge of her mind.
She was happy to see, then, that the servants were bringing out bottles of wine. In her haste for a distraction, she nearly forgot herself, reaching out to grasp the stem of her wine glass. As her fingers wrapped around it, a servant reached over her shoulder and filled her cup. Lydia quickly pulled her hand back, ashamed, and thanked the servant, who huffed dismissively and moved on to pour for the next person.
She cleared her throat again. As the servants rounded the table, filling glasses, the organizer of the Calling Ceremony informed the group that dinner would begin in just a few minutes.
A few minutes was right. King Bhelen stood from his seat at the other end of the table. He beckoned them all to grab their glasses. He spoke with an air of importance that must have taken years to master, and Lydia briefly wondered if he'd been the same as a young man, back when his life was touched by Eva Surana. Her thoughts didn't have much time to wander, however, as King Bhelen welcomed the “Esteemed Order of the Grey” to his “humble kingdom” and then offered another, distinguished welcome, directly to Warden Rodrick. Once that was done, he sighed, smiling with pride at his address, before diving into a speech about Rodrick. It was long and loud and bombastic, and Lydia quickly revised her earlier musing to consider if Warden Surana had really chosen Bhelen, or if he just talked her in circles so long that she’d do anything to get him to shut the fuck up.
It was clear from the way he spoke that he knew nothing about Rodrick. Though Lydia understood why their host would insist on making the first speech, she thought the privilege would have best fallen to someone who knew him better– one of the other Wardens, perhaps, like Pyle. Bhelen spoke about honoring the sacrifice of Wardens throughout history, about carrying on a centuries-old tradition. He thanked Rodrick for his service to Thedas and for the final act against the darkspawn that he would soon commence. Then everyone raised their glasses, toasting to the guest of honor, and drank. Lydia stole a glance at Rodrick, who downed his wine with his eyes screwed shut. Her heart quickened at the sight of him. How much wine would it take for him to look forward to his impending journey? How much wine would it take for him to forget about it, or to change his mind? Lydia didn't know.
They served themselves after the toast. Lydia filled her plate shamelessly with roasted nug and vegetables. The man on the right nudged her, offering a plate of what he said were cave beetles. Lydia stilled for a moment before taking it from him and putting two on her dish (she was so hungry that she was even looking forward to trying it). Then, she handed the plate to her left. The chamber grew loud with conversation as everyone ate. Lydia didn't contribute, however. She was focused on stuffing her face. The nug was tender and juicy and had a kick to it that she both enjoyed and had to take a swig of her wine about. The cave beetles were crispy and surprisingly delicious. Lydia even resolved to swipe a few slices of bread, determining as she ate that they were good, but not the best she'd had.
The conversation around the table dimmed as meals were finished, and a throat clearing from the far end made Lydia look over. Warden Rodrick stood, the circles around his eyes looking more prominent in the firelight. He smiled at everyone and greeted them. He thanked them for their presence at what he called a “party” and began his own speech. Lydia listened intently, sipping from her wine glass. He told the story of how he became a Warden, though it was less an act of heroism and more saving his own neck from the chopping block. A few people laughed at that, obviously having shared similar conscriptions. He talked about leaving his homeland, Tevinter, for the first time. About being scared. About facing regret. Lydia's heart squeezed at this. She finished her wine, and a servant came and refilled her glass.
He continued, his cheeks coloring with a faint pink that warred with the pallor. He talked about his Joining and about those who didn't survive. He regaled them with his regret of not being present to help fight the Fifth Blight. He talked about fighting darkspawn, about finding purpose, about discovering potential he never knew he had, about making friends and losing them, about meeting Pyle, and what he meant to him.
Lydia took another drink as he continued, seemingly recounting key events from his nearly thirty-one years as a Warden. How he never expected to make it this far. How his Calling came both as a shock and as a welcome friend. Lydia scanned the room again, noticing how expressions fell at his mention of the Calling. Each of them at this table, all thirty-four others, would face that one day. She wondered how many of them feared it, as they might fear being murdered in the night. She wondered how many more pretended not to share in that fear. And, of course, she wondered how many of them would be facing their Calling soon after Rodrick, and how many wouldn't make it that far. Her eyes fell on Kel again, who was drinking from his own wine glass. His gaze met hers this time, lowering the glass from his lips in favor of flashing a roguish smile, and he gave her a wink. She rolled her eyes and used it as an excuse to look away from him. To ignore him before he could annoy her further. But she couldn’t ignore the sudden heat pooling low within her.
The end of Rodrick's speech was met with a round of applause and another toast. Then, he promptly returned to his seat and placed restless hands on the table. Pyle put his hand over Rodrick's and whispered to him.
After dinner, the Wardens split from the Orzammar officials, heading to a more open space— if open would be the right word to describe a giant underground cave. The area was decorated in the blues, browns, and silvers of the Order. Two banners bearing the Warden's griffon insignia hung proudly from the walls outside what seemed to be a tavern. Lydia felt a brief thrill of excitement shoot through her at the thought that she might get to try some Dwarven ale. Her head was already swimming pleasantly from the wine.
For the next few hours, the taps seemed to flow endlessly, and Lydia was momentarily happy to have been invited to such a lively celebration. She was pleasantly surprised to find that Dwarven ale was as delicious as it was strong. And, though it felt like being punched in the chest, Lydia wondered how she was able to survive for so long without it. The Wardens, drunk and jovial, laughed and called to each other, excitedly sharing in each other's merriment. The sounds of their mirth rose even above that of the bards', whose music echoed throughout the kingdom. Lydia stood on the sidelines, tankard in hand, swaying from side to side as the others joked, danced, and basked in their comrades' company. But Rodrick was once again nowhere to be seen. The realization extinguished her joy. She supposed he'd slipped away to gather his things, and her heart ached. Pyle was a ways to her right, sitting at the bar and drinking quietly. Lydia thought to approach him, but the hunch in his shoulders deterred her. She didn't understand the depths of his feelings, though they radiated so thickly off of him. Worrying her lip again, she looked up at the stone ceiling, a pit forming in her stomach so quickly at the sight of the crushing weight upon them that she turned back to her siblings in arms and took another swig from her tankard. She'd never felt so disconnected from the outside world as she was now. Well, yes, she had. And she didn't want to think about it.
She would feel the sun on her face again soon enough.
~
The Warden in charge of their expedition was loud when she knocked on Lydia's door to wake her the next morning. While Lydia mostly held no animosity towards being woken so suddenly, the pounding in her head made her wish that she could be buried in the stone itself. As she dressed once again in her ceremonial armor, strapping her stupid, non-living blade to her hip, she wondered if there was an application she could send. A short time later, she and the other Wardens were led away from their accommodations and back "outside." The group was quieter this morning than they were last night, and Lydia knew that their heads were splitting just as much as hers. She remembered getting in late, stumbling to her thankfully private room, and promptly expelling much of the ale she'd consumed onto the floor.
Their destination was a ways from Orzammar proper. It was cavernous, even more so than the kingdom itself. Each step echoed off the walls. The high ceilings lowered, and Lydia felt a sudden longing for the much more spacious Orzammar. She took a deep breath as they continued, feeling a slight resistance from her lungs, but she forced an inhale and then an exhale. Sweat dripped down the back of her neck already. She didn't dare lift a hand to wipe it.
The Wardens were brought before a set of massive and foreboding stone doors, and Lydia knew instantly that it was the entrance to the Deep Roads. Sudden trembling overtook her, and she struggled for a few moments as she steadied herself. She willed herself to be brave, to ignore how crushing the walls were around her, to distract herself from the heat and staleness of the air. She licked her lips, eyeing the doors. They were still shut, for now.
Lydia and the other Wardens were shepherded to the side of the doors. They got into position in the order of their rank. As she was a Junior Warden, she was made to stand towards the end. There was one other Junior Warden who stood to her right. Lydia's being a mage labeled her an Acolyte, and thus she ranked higher than the young warrior stationed beside her.
Following the Wardens were the Orzammar officials and King Bhelen. After them came the head of the chantry in Orzammar. His name was Brother Burkel. Last, walking solitarily a half hour after everyone else arrived, came Warden Rodrick.
Rodrick approached the group with an air of dignity. Lydia couldn't help but stare wide-eyed at him. His brilliant silverite armor seemed to glitter in the light. His giant war hammer was strapped securely to his back, and he had an additional leather pack slung over his shoulder. His long hair was tied in a bun, the greyish veins showing prominently on his neck. No one dared comment on his condition. Each of them would someday, like Rodrick, bear those same veins.
Not a word was spoken. Rodrick made his way towards the doors, his footsteps, unlike the others' earlier, barely made a sound. Brother Burkel stood before him, blocking the doors and facing Rodrick as he approached, and Rodrick took a knee, bowing his head. The chantry didn't attend every Calling ceremony, Pyle had mentioned to Lydia a few nights ago. But, as an Andrastian man, Rodrick wanted his final memory of life to be of his faith in the Maker.
Brother Burkel recited a prayer, his hand gently placed on Rodrick. Around her, several people bowed their heads and prayed along. Others, those who didn't believe in the Maker, did not. After a moment, Lydia bowed her head too, closing her eyes and listening to the prayer. The Brother prayed for Rodrick's soul. For his body. Thanked him for his service to Thedas, and by extension, the Maker.
The Maker.
Lydia kept her head lowered. The same Maker whose absence from his own Golden City caused the Blight. The same Maker who, as a result, pointed his finger at the mages for all eternity. The same Maker who put magic in her blood. The same Maker whose will tore her from home at the age of five, to be thrown behind prison walls. Lydia took a deep breath, shaking the thoughts from her mind. She opened her eyes and lifted her head, watching and listening as Brother Burkel finished his prayer for Rodrick. Rodrick stood as Burkel walked to the sidelines, staring now at the massive doors, only looking away from it when Bhelen replaced Burkel.
King Bhelen extended his hand towards Rodrick, and Rodrick accepted it.
"Thank you for your sacrifice, Warden," Bhelen said to him. Rodrick nodded, and though Lydia couldn't see the look on his face, she had to imagine he was forcing a smile. Or, maybe he wasn't.
The King moved to the sidelines, just as Burkel had done earlier. Again, Rodrick looked up at the stone doors before him. Lydia knew that Pyle was somewhere closer. But Rodrick didn't dare look at him. And though Lydia couldn't see his face, she could see his hands. They were the same as last night. Clenched into fists. Thumbs rubbing at the crooks of his forefingers.
Two guards approached and slowly opened the doors, their massive weight causing them to groan loudly. When was the last time they'd been roused from slumber like this? She kept her eyes trained on the doors as they revealed the Deep Roads beyond, unwilling and unable to look away. She expected a breeze to pass them. But no. All that was there was more still air.
The Deep Roads began in a barely lit and empty corridor. At the end of it was a pitch-black and seemingly endless nothing. It was uncertain how far past the point of visibility the Deep Roads ran. Lydia had never been inside the Deep Roads before, but she’d heard stories. She strained herself to see anything that wasn’t stone, and to hear even the smallest sound of something alive within, but there was nothing. She was stunned by how quickly the light gave way to the darkness beyond it. And in that beyond, if something was hiding, it was entirely silent and entirely invisible. It sent something deep and primal into her bones, and she felt herself shake.
Rodrick was faring no better. She watched him. He was frozen, his head never turning from the grave before him. He would be buried here and now, no matter how long he survived against the darkspawn. And not a single person said anything. No one pushed him. No one encouraged him to take those first, those final steps through the doors. No one called out to him. It was as though he was suddenly alone, or like he had always been alone, even during last night’s dinner. And he was trembling.
Lydia all but held her breath as she watched him finally, finally, take a step towards his Calling. They were slow. Small. Tentative. Rodrick's thumbs worked at his forefingers all the while. In the silence of the moment, Lydia could hear a single, shaky breath, and she assumed it was his. He didn't dare look back. He didn't offer any last words. He simply walked, silently, moving as though he needed to force each leg to continue. She wondered how desperate he was to turn and run, or if he was desperate at all.
Finally, he passed through the threshold and made it a few feet into the Deep Roads, his body threatening to be swallowed by the endless darkness waiting for him. The guards didn't wait any longer. They began closing the doors, which once again complained loudly as they moved, and Lydia swallowed, her breath coming fast. Though she stood perfectly still as she was trained to do, her heart struggled against her ribs. She watched Rodrick with a sudden longing. Not to join him, no. To pull him from there. But she didn't. She stood. Watched.
After drinking up every fleeting sight of Warden Rodrick she had left, the doors closed decisively behind him, sealing him away forever, separating him from the living.
The Wardens in attendance saluted Warden Rodrick. And they knew he wouldn't be able to see it.
~
They would spend the night in Orzammar and head back to Weisshaupt tomorrow morning.
Lydia sucked in a deep breath when she heard the news, holding it there until she felt lightheaded. She hadn't expected that they'd be made to stay even longer, especially when their reason for being here was now traversing the Deep Roads.
But it was part of the ceremony: the celebration of life, the feast, the speeches. It all culminated in the final salute, the final act, the first steps beyond the doors and into the jaws of the darkspawn.
Today would be spent in silent contemplation. In appreciation of Warden Rodrick's life. In an offering of support during the first day of his journey.
Lydia found herself back at the tavern, nursing a tankard of ale. The taste of it burned away the lingering bitterness that she failed to wash from her tongue last night. It settled uneasily in her stomach, and she screwed her eyes shut, taking another drink.
Support.
Had they wanted to support him, they would have killed him this morning. Better to die by sword, or dagger, or arrow, or even a bolt of lightning from her or a fireball from that Kirkwall Warden. Better to die at the hands of those he trusted. To be considered enough. To be loved enough. To be honored enough. To be spared from a prolonged death in the Deep Roads after his lengthy service.
Had they wanted to support him, they would have followed him. They would have supported him by fighting alongside him one last time. They would have walked right through those doors with Rodrick and into the Deep Roads. They would have been swallowed by the never-ending darkness and travelled further down. Down. Down. Down.
Lydia pushed the tankard away, the ale suddenly violently turning in her stomach. Shutting her eyes didn't help. Taking deep breaths didn't help.
Seven months. That's how long she'd been a Warden. Wardens could last up to thirty years before facing the Calling.
She pushed herself away from the table. Made her way out. She was desperate for the brush of a cool breeze. A warm breeze. Anything. It wasn't her time. She knew that well. Still, though, she felt like she needed to gulp down as much air as she could while she still had the chance.
Was there honor in asking to be run through when her time came?
Was there honor in trying to avoid it, as Rodrick had?
Was there honor in trying to run? She had run before. From the Circle. From Crestwood. It was the only thing she was good at.
Was there really even any honor in making that final journey alone, after a lifetime of fighting alongside others?
Would she even live long enough to make that journey?
She made her way to her assigned quarters, moving slowly. She didn't want to upset her stomach any more than she already had.
She refused to look towards the Deep Roads entrance.
How far would Rodrick be by now? It had been several hours. If Lydia was right, they were going on late afternoon. Did he make it far? Did he run into Darkspawn yet? Was he still alive?
If they were to open those doors back up, would they find his corpse just on the other side?
Ugh.
Lydia reminded herself that they'd be heading back to Weisshaupt tomorrow. She was looking forward to their long trip if it meant finally getting the fuck out of this place. If she didn't come back until her own Calling, it would be too soon.
She spent the rest of the evening in her quarters, reading. She couldn't stand to explore any more of Orzammar, though several of her peers had invited her. She couldn't even stand to seek out Pyle. To see how he was. To offer an ear or a shoulder. It was all too much. She saw the empty look on his face as they dispersed from that morning's service. She saw the way he lingered by the doors, accompanied by only one other person. And she had turned her back and walked away. She probably wouldn't speak to him again until they were back in Weisshaupt.
She found herself lying awake in bed that night, much too late for her liking.
It was hot. Too hot. She'd kicked her blankets off long ago. Rolled up her pants. She was tempted now to peel off her shirt.
She knew ice magic, sure. And being so close to natural stores of lyrium, she should feel invigorated. But no. She couldn't focus long enough to channel mana. To cool her body. To offer herself some iota of relief from the suffocating heat.
Had the room always been this small? It was no palace, of course. And she was happy to have been given her own room. But. The walls. The ceiling. Even in the dark room, dimly lit by candlelight, it seemed as though the stone was slowly closing in around her.
She sat up.
How large were the pathways in the Deep Roads? Were they tight like this? Were they vast and high-ceilinged like the kingdom of Orzammar? Would Rodrick need to lower himself on his hands and knees, pulling himself through crawlspaces so narrow that each movement, each dragging motion, would threaten to crack his ribs?
Lydia felt like her ribs might crack, too.
If the ceiling were to fall on her now. To crush her. If Orzammar were to collapse in on itself now. Bury them. Seal them away from the world above. Would anyone even notice? Would their deaths, their silent disappearance, remain a mystery forever? Would anyone ever find them? Would anyone even think to look?
Would they suddenly feel like Rodrick, slowly fading from sight, from existence, from memory?
How long until that inevitable fate came for her?
She pulled herself out of bed, opened her door, and walked down the hall.
She stopped in front of another door a ways down and knocked.
There was shuffling from the other side. Footsteps. The door slid open, and there was Kel, his hair a tousled mess. His brown eyes were heavy with sleep. He gave her a tired smile and let her in.
She half expected him to tease her. To goad her into a reaction by cornering her, putting his hands low on her waist. By asking her between hot kisses on her jaw, down her neck, to her clavicle, if she was so afraid of sleeping alone that she needed some help. Damn him. She expected him to do it. She relied on him to do it. To give her a reason to turn on her heel and storm out. To return to her room.
But he didn't.
Instead, he shut the door behind him, then turned to her. He didn't say anything. He was good at knowing when she needed silence. Good at meeting her pace. At letting her decide when she was ready, and when she was willing to step into his space.
Before she knew it, they were intertwined. They kissed fervently, her legs wrapped around him as he held her up. She pulled her shirt over herself, quickly, and his lips moved down from hers, trailing further and further. Then she was on her back, Kel above her. His hands found the curve of her breasts. The crease of her hips. The softness of her inner thighs. He'd touched her the same way many times before.
They agreed not to do this again. They'd promised each other that last time would be it. That they'd keep it light. Professional.
Legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging in. His hands braced on either side of her head. He thrust into her, quick and deep. His face buried in the crook of her neck, kissing her.
And still.
The ceiling.
The threat of collapse. How long would it take for Rodrick to become overwhelmed? Was he still alive? Was he fighting now, at this very moment, while Kel had her beneath him, pressing into her over and over, moaning as her nails scraped down his back? How long until they found the body? Would anyone find the body? Would he be stumbled upon without anyone knowing who he was, the silver griffon chestplate the only indicator that a Grey Warden had once been there? That's all they were to anyone else.
The walls were ever-present around her. The inevitability of drawing her last breath beneath the stone. The same stone that so many of her Order had fallen under. The crushing weight was closing in on her. Drilling. Pounding.
"Kel."
She pulled her hands from his back in favor of pushing at his shoulders. He looked at her for a moment, their eyes meeting. And he understood what she wanted. Obeyed her request. Flipped them over.
Her hands were on his chest now, pressing into him. She leaned forward, rolling her hips with urgency as he bucked up to meet her.
She let out a low moan as another roll of her hips pushed him deeper inside. He grabbed her waist, and she was unsure of whether it was to steady himself or her. Another roll and she realized that they were going too slow for her tastes. Too slow for how little time they had to live.
"Harder," she said, the sharpness of her tone cutting through the heat between them. Kel obliged, grunting as he met her faster, harder, almost as urgently as she wanted him to be.
How long would they really have left, she and Kel? Or any of them, for that matter?
She couldn't look at him, instead staring at the dark wall by the head of his bed. He'd wanted her to sit on his face. He was all sly smiles when he asked, his hand placed firmly on her ass. But the thought of needing to use the stone as support. For balance. She couldn't do it.
"Kel, faster," she demanded. She dragged her hands down his body and up her own. Grabbing. Stroking. Finding warmth and softness, a contrast to the room around her.
"I'd rather not rush, Crestwood," Kel said. She flashed him a look, that stupid grin plastered seemingly permanently on his stupid face. Then she looked back at the wall.
She didn't answer him.
He urged again.
"Lydia, what's the rush? We have all night." He slowed down, and she huffed in annoyance. He slid his hands slowly up her waist, brushing his fingers gently across her stomach, sweeping out to her sides. Moving up, up. Threatening even more gentle touch.
That was the last thing she needed from him right now.
Not stilling for even a moment, Lydia grabbed one of his wrists, squeezing it. He moaned suddenly, bucking into her hard and deep, and she moaned too, cursing his name under her breath. She pushed his hand, forcefully, to her clit. She kept it there for a moment, moving her hand up until she could place her fingers over his, guiding his touch. Then she returned to her own body. Sides. Collarbones. Breasts.
He took the hint, finally. The tentative fingers between her legs grew faster, confidently rubbing in circles, and her eyes squeezed shut. Finally, a reprieve from the massive grave around them. Finally unable to focus on anything other than the building pressure within her.
And when the tension snapped, when the room grew loud with the sound of Lydia's voice crying Kel's name, all she could think of was that they'd both wasted their time.
~
The freezing air of the Frostback Mountains was a welcome change from the torture she'd been subjected to for the last few days. The armor, too. It was softer, thicker, made to be moved in, to protect, rather than to wear like a costume, to stand in like a pretty ornament on display.
She'd tucked her leather gloves into her pack as they left Orzammar, eager to feel the cold rush of wind slipping through her fingers. She was unendingly grateful for it. The wind. The sun. The sky. The ability to look up and bask in the grandeur of it all. Of the clouds. Of the birds flying overhead. Of the trees swaying in the breeze. It was a privilege that she fought for all those years ago and didn't want to lose again. But now there was something extra. A tether, invisible to the naked eye, kept her chained to Orzammar, to the Deep Roads, until the time came for her to return, and for the doors to seal shut behind her forever.
Pyle approached her a while after they left. He'd clapped her on the back, between the shoulder blades, as he'd done many times before, and he said nothing. Just a smile, a small one, pinched forcefully from between tight lips. Lydia couldn't think of anything to do but nudge her arm into his. She didn't know what to say. How could she? No matter what she tried, no matter what she said, it wouldn't change the fact that the Grey Wardens had experienced a loss. That Pyle had experienced a loss. That Rodrick…
Well, it wouldn't change the fact that one day, they would all join him.
Lydia pulled her cowl off, feeling the wind blow back the stubborn curls that were finally growing to a suitable length. She knew she would have her hands full when she got back to Weisshaupt. She was thankful for the break from warrior training. It was grueling. Heavy equipment. A strict workout routine. It was physically harsher than anything she ever had to do as a mage. She wondered how much longer she'd be made to fight with a sword before they'd let her focus on magic again.
She looked over at Kel, who walked quietly beside her, and he looked at her too, raising his eyebrows and offering an absentminded smirk. Ugh. There would be rogue training first. She almost looked forward to learning the bow and daggers, even if her trainer would be… him. But still, trainers aside, nothing felt quite as good as the static of lightning flowing through her veins.
Pyle and a few others split off at a crossroads after a few hours of walking. They would be returning to their normal posts, or going off on missions, or on other expeditions, rather than returning to Weisshaupt with the larger group. Pyle had given her a tight hug, stealing much of her breath as she protested with a smile on her face, laughing that he'd break her spine. She knew that he would be headed to Minrathous soon to speak with Rodrick's family. But first, he'd go to Denerim for a spell, to check in. It was his home, after all, and he never knew which visit would be his last.
Home.
Lydia thought about what Rodrick had said the other night, during his speech. He'd been so scared to leave Tevinter, even though it meant saving his life. And he'd returned only sparingly, with visits becoming less and less frequent as time went on. There just weren't many chances, he had said. He wished there had been more. Lydia wondered if he was still thinking of it, miles beneath the ground she was walking on.
She allowed her eyes to follow Pyle and the others as they disappeared down the other path. Her eyes trailed him, then the trees, then the sky peeking through them. They were in Ferelden at this very moment. It was home to her, once. And this trip was the first time she'd been back since she ran.
A letter had come for her before they left Weisshaupt. It was small and flimsy, and was signed in her mother's hand. It was the fourth one she'd received in her seven months with the Order. She left it on her pillow. Told herself that, when she got back, she would sit and read it. But she knew, no matter how much she tried to convince herself otherwise, that she wouldn't. She knew she would take it, hold it between gentle fingers. Close her eyes. Pretend she could feel her mother's touch, and her father's, on that same paper.
And she would leave it sealed. Add it to the little bundle of unopened letters from her parents that she kept in her pack, stuffed under her bed, out of sight.
Her eyes wandered back towards the other path. She could follow Pyle, just as she did those months ago. She could go to Crestwood. See her mother and father. Hug them. Tell them that she was okay. That she was alive and fulfilling the fantasy that she had worshipped for so long. Cry. Tell them that they were right. That it was nothing like she'd dreamt. That she regretted it with every fiber of her being. She could tell them that she'd received their letters, and that she received the history book she so lovingly abandoned when she ran— the book they sent as a reminder of her choice.
And she could tell them about Rodrick. About how he, too, left his home. About how he was now in the Deep Roads, sealed away from the world just as the contents of their letters were sealed away from her. Facing his death alone. And she could tell them that that fate was awaiting her, too.
But no. She couldn't go back to Crestwood, not like this. What would they think of her, were they to see her now? Would they open their door to her again, as they did all those years ago? Would they still know her? Would they still love her? Or, would she be a stranger to them, blood tainted with a darkness that would never leave? Would they look upon her with warmth? With betrayal? Would they look upon her at all? Those letters… What if they confirmed the very feelings she feared? She couldn't bear to think of the disappointment written upon those pages, of the chastisement, of the sorrow she caused in their lives, of the hole she burned into the fabric of their family.
It was better to turn her back on them entirely. Better to pretend as though those letters were lost in transit, or that they were never written at all. Better to pretend that her parents never loved her to begin with. That they never tried to shield her, though unknowingly, from the deep, crushing death that was now inching ever towards her. Better to pretend that they never existed at all, and that any tie she had to Ferelden had just been a dream.
Better to return to Weisshaupt with the other Grey Wardens. There was much to be done, after all.
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