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Chapter Text

Oghren Kondrat knew he was a simple man. Not simple like ‘kicked in the head by a bronto’ or Taint-addled simple, but he’d been a warrior long enough to know his tastes were plain and few: good booze, busty women and a decent axe to swing around the battlefield. That was enough, right?

It hadn’t been enough for Branka. Hadn’t been enough for the Diamond Quarter sods either. Since she’d left and taken the entire sodding House with her, their pitying looks for poor ol’ abandoned Oghren had slowly turned to apathy, then irritation, and then disgust. No, they weren’t gonna go look for her. She could be anywhere, she could be dead, it wasn’t worth the lives to go on some wild goose chase.

His entire sodding House had left him behind like yesterday’s nug shit. Branka had left him in favour of the sodding Deep Roads and some long dead Paragon. True, he hadn’t been the best husband in the Diamond Quarter, or even the Commons, but he’d been on his best damn behaviour. He hadn’t beaten her the way some idiots did their wives. And what had it gotten him? A house that was far too empty for him to bear setting foot in, and a debt to Tapsters big enough that some carta thugs would have loved to get their grimy hands on it.

He’d been left behind to become a joke, stripped of his House and everything Branka’d brought with her. She may as well have taken his clothes while she was at it, left him starkers in the middle of the Commons for all to see. If he was a lesser man he would’ve let the resentment boil to hatred and anger, lashing out at everyone around him. He wasn’t a lesser man. He took that resentment and put it behind every swing of his axe on the battlefield. But he didn’t have an axe now. They’d taken it from him, after… That didn’t matter now. He’d find something down in the Roads to hit darkspawn with.

“There’s ol’ Oghren again, passed out under the table. Bet he lives there,” he muttered to himself as he passed by Tapsters. “Give him s’more ale, a cartload full. It’ll be gone in a heartbeat! Har har, the sods don’t even know me. They don’t want to.”

He wasn’t hungover today. Wasn’t usually, but he hadn’t even drunk a mug last night. He could only drown so much of his heartbreak in ale, and he’d needed the coin for more important things. Repairing his armour, rope, rations, whetstones, lantern oil, flint, waterskins...

He’d waited in vain for more than two years, either for Branka to emerge from the Roads with the Anvil she’d gone down to find, or for the Diamond sods to get their thumbs out their arses and drum up a band of men to go down with him. If neither was gonna happen, he’d have to do it himself, show them all he wasn’t some useless drunkard who’d lost his stones to a mosslicking harpy years ago.

And he’d heard from the tavern gossips last night that there was a Grey Warden in Orzammar. A Grey Warden. Sure, not anything special, every so often one came through on their way to the Deep Roads never to return from that Calling of theirs and half of Orzammar turned out to gawk at a member of the order, but that hadn’t been what made Oghren decide to finally take matters into his own hands. Heh heh, own hands.

This Warden was gonna go down to the Roads in search of Branka, alive or dead, on Prince Bhelen’s orders. Oghren knew why Bhelen wanted Branka found, everyone did. Bhelen wanted the Anvil as much as they both did Branka. Oghren would be damned if he was gonna sit around and wave the Warden off on their search. At the end of the day, it was his sodding House, and his wife. He’d go with the Warden, whether they wanted him or not. If they were a surfacer, he could always be useful as a guide down there.

So, Oghren rose bright and early, gathered his things, and now he stood at the entrance to the Deep Roads, heavily guarded as always.

“Kondrat,” the Mines Commander nodded as he approached.

“Nevvin,” Oghren nodded in turn.

“Are you gonna try again and convince us to come with you into the Deep Roads, leave Orzammar unguarded against the darkspawn?”

Oghren scowled beneath his mustache.

“For once, nah. I’d get more use out of hitting my head against a wall than talking to you again. Has the Warden been through here yet? Have to talk to ‘em.”

Nevvin sighed, and folded his arms.

“Not today, I’ve been standin’ here since mornin’ and no one but you has approached. We’re not sure if the Warden’s company is still here, they might have gone topside.”

Oghren frowned. Great, just what he needed. He’d girded his loins, only to be let down before anything good happened. Story of his life. He looked past Nevvin and the other guards, down towards the cavernous entrance to the Deep Roads.

“In that case, I’ll not convince you to come to the Roads with me. Just let me by, and I’ll be outta your hair, huh?”

Nevvin rolled his eyes.

“Kondrat, we’ve been over this so many times,” He sounded exasperated. “Has the booze pickled your brain? You need permission from a noble House in order to go down into the Roads.”

Oghren bristled.

“Ah, where were you two years ago? I am part of a noble House, the same House as the living Paragon Branka, my damn wife!”

“You mean you were,” Nevvin answered, undaunted. “She buggered off to the Roads and didn’t take you. I think that sends everyone a clear message about whether or not you’re part of her House, Kondrat. One that still hasn’t worked its way through your thick skull.”

Oghren worked his jaw, focusing through his rage. He couldn’t lose his temper again.

“You slimy little son of a nug humper...” He growled, keeping his gauntleted fists clenched tight at his sides so he wouldn’t reach for the flask of drink tucked into a side pouch or punch Nevvin’s lights out. He didn’t have an axe to swing anymore.

“Are you gonna kill me the way you did the Meino lad, make him choke on his own blood and vomit over a bar tab? I suppose it’ll be a little harder now, given how you’re not allowed to carry weapons in the city anymore.”

“You shut your soddin’ mouth, lad-” he snapped, but Nevvin continued.

“Or has the guilt finally caught up to you? Will this be the great Oghren Kondrat’s final act, goin’ down into the Roads to let the darkspawn and deepstalkers take his life because he doesn’t even have the honour to end it himself?”

Oghren felt the tension building in his muscles, realised that he and Nevvin were leaning towards each other like a fight would break out any second, the rest of the guards watching intently, ready to pounce. It probably would. Nothing would make him happier right now than punching the little sod square in his smug face. But he couldn’t attack the Mine Commander. He was outnumbered one to five, and if he did fight the nobles would take what few possessions he had left. They’d kick him out of Orzammar. But punching Nevvin would be worth it. He didn’t have much else to lose now. He’d lost everything. Branka. His House. His family. His weapons. He wasn’t about to let some jumped up warrior casteling talk down to him like he’d crawled fresh out of Dust Town.

Oghren felt his knuckles click as he flexed his fingers and prepared to swing for Nevvin, but something stopped him at the last moment. A change came over Nevvin and his lackeys. They’d stopped looking at him, stopped bristling for a fight. They were looking past him, over one shoulder.

It was probably some dressed up Diamond sod, drawn by the ruckus to finally come throw him out of Orzammar on his arse. What had taken them so long? Oghren forced himself to relax, starting with his shoulders and ending with his fists.

Oghren turned around to see a group of freakishly tall people walking towards him and the entrance of the Roads. They were led by a clean shaven young man - or maybe a woman, looking at the lean form and long black hair - with very dark skin and pointed ears, clad in worn leather armour like a duster. Hm, an elf.

The rest of the group was another elf Oghren swore was a woman, dressed in fancy looking leather armour, a human woman who had hair the same red colour as his beard, and a sodding giant of a grey-skinned man in heavy plate armour bringing up the rear. The four of them must’ve drawn so many looks on their way through the bustling Commons.

At first Oghren thought the leading elf’s eyes were colourless and he was blind, but when he walked confidently towards them, looking first at the guards and Nevvin over and then Oghren, Oghren realised his eyes were a jarringly light grey. Oghren stepped forwards before Nevvin could, intercepting the group.

“This might be statin’ the obvious, but any of you surfacers happen to be Grey Wardens? I’ve been privy to rumours that he - or was it she - was searching for Branka on Prince Bhelen’s orders.”

“I’m the Grey Warden, and that would be he.” The elf answered in a strange, lilting accent and a low masculine voice.

Oghren noticed the bow and quiver on his back, the black tattoos on his forehead like a casteless brand, and the battered set of leather armour covered in scrapes. Hardly a casteless brand to a surfacer. Still, the steel grey eyes told no lies; the elf was a Warden. Not a very impressive one. The elf looked more like a bit of debris washed in from the surface than a Warden.

“Hm,” he grunted as he looked the elf over. “If you’re the best they’ve got then standards must have fallen up on the surface,” Oghren wanted to laugh at the affronted look that flashed across the elf’s face. “But I suppose that would account for an elf being down here.” He reached up to scratch his chin. Now was as good a time as any to try and hitch a ride. “Say, I have a favour to ask you.”

“Do you make a habit of insulting everyone you meet?” The elf asked.

Oghren rolled his eyes. Of course elves took every slight to heart, they were sentimental piles of mush wrapped up in leather armour. Piles of mush wouldn’t last long down in the Roads.

“Ah, stuff your head. There are more important things to worry about than your soddin’ feelings here. I have a bleeding Paragon to find. I should come with you.”

“Kondrat-”

“Stuff it, Nevvin. Look, Warden, I’m not sayin’ I should be your first pick for a dance partner at Her Highness's inaugural ball or whatever, but you’ll need a man like me down in the Deep Roads. And if the rumours are true and you’re lookin’ for Branka, I’m the only one in the whole of soddin’ Orzammar who knows what she was looking for. That might be pretty helpful for your search.”

“Why haven’t you gone after her yourself?”

“Believe me, I’ve tried. But she was headin’ for a lost thaig. No one’s seen it for five hundred years and I searched as far as I could alone. It would take teams of warriors searching weeks on end to cover enough ground to give us any hope of finding it. Which, I assume, is what Bhelen’s men have done. And they’ve shared what they found with you,” Oghren watched the elf’s expression of interest falter for a moment, his eyes widen and the corners of his lips twitch downwards, his nostrils flare. A flicker, gone in the time it would’ve taken Oghren to blink. A tell. He’d hit his mark with a lucky assumption. He smiled beneath his mustache.

He was as loud and rage fuelled as the next dwarf, but he was a warrior at heart. He knew how to read his opponents and allies. “But they haven’t found Branka herself,” he continued, encouraged by the success. “And that means whatever they’ve got is not enough if you don’t know what she was lookin’ for. To find Branka you need someone who knows how she thinks.” Like her husband, for example. “She was a brilliant girl, but half the time she’d add two and two and make fifty.”

“I’m a hunter, a tracker. A good one, at that.” The Warden answered. Oghren scoffed.

“Up on the surface world, maybe. Have you ever hunted or tracked down in the Deep Roads, lad? Not much light, everything’s made of stone.” The elf looked away, sheepish. “Thought not. Look, if we pool our knowledge we stand a chance of finding Branka and the thing she’s looking for. Otherwise, good sodding luck down in the Deep Roads, surfacers.”

The Warden studied him with those sharp grey eyes. Oghren stared back with his head held high, daring the elf to refuse. The Warden was only half a head taller than him.

The elf looked away, back at his companions.

“Excuse me a second, I need to discuss this with them.” With that, he turned and rejoined his little entourage. Oghren stood patiently with Nevvin’s irritated gaze burning the back of his neck like a forge fire. He ignored that, watching the four surfacers chatter amongst themselves but he was too far away to catch what they were saying. He was surprised to feel nerves squirming in his stomach. Stone, he hadn’t felt nervous in years, decades even. Not since he was a whelp on his first battlefield. Would the surfacers bring him along? He liked to think he’d made a good argument. Besides, he knew his way around most of the Roads from darkspawn skirmishes and his previous expeditions looking for Branka. He and he alone knew what to look for to find Branka, being her sodding husband and all. But he needed men to join him. Only a suicidal fool went alone into the Roads for long.

But what if they decided not to bring him along? The question came from the same part of his mind that replayed what he’d done to the Meino lad when he couldn’t sleep sober, the same part that had engraved Branka’s final words to him into his brain so he couldn’t forget them no matter how much alcohol he tried to drown them in. What if these squeaky clean surfacers decided they didn’t need ol’ Oghren either? One gauntleted hand twitched reflexively - not for the handle of a weapon he no longer had, but for the neck of a bottle or the handle of a tankard. Oghren stared at the surfacers standing just out of earshot, trying to glean some answer from their expressions or the few words he could make out. Ancestors, he wanted a drink.

He supposed he could invite himself along, sod Nevvin and the rest of the guards. The surfacers needed a guide down in the Roads, and with all of the commotion of needing to elect a new king soon the guards were needed in the city to stop any more riots and ambushes breaking out in the streets far more than they were needed to guard the entrance to the Roads or escourt a bunch of surfacers on their search for a thaig that’d been lost for over five hundred years. He knew it, Nevvin knew it.

“You want to go with them on this wild goose chase?” Nevvin spoke up. “It’s been two years, Kondrat. She’s probably dead.”

“Yeah, I know. But this way I get out of your short and curlies for, what, a few weeks? Months? And hey, if I happen to die down there as well, I bet you’ll be the first to break open a cask of the good stuff.”

Nevvin grunted like an old bronto.

“That’s always a possibility…”

“Yeah. So long as you raise the first toast to me, I’ll stay down there as food for the darkspawn and deepstalkers and won’t come back to haunt you.”

“I think I’ll actually miss you coming down here on the regular.”

“Really?” Oghren chuckled, looking at Nevvin in disbelief. “I won’t miss your ugly mug. Face like a smacked arse.”

“I won’t miss your smell, either. Wonder if any of the surfacers will have a weak enough stomach and throw up from it?”

“Har, har. Want me to follow through on that punch we talked about earlier?”

“And stop you from going into the Roads and finally leaving me alone? Never.”

“Then shut it.”

He watched as the surfacers seemed to reach an agreement, the grey-eyed Warden turning back to him.

“Will you behave yourself?”

Oghren scoffed.

“It’s the Deep Roads. I’ll kill darkspawn. Outside of that, what difference does it make?”

“Okay, it sounds like we have a deal. Once we have supplies and are ready to go down to the Deep Roads, you can come with us,” he spoke. Oghren nodded agreement, glancing the rest of the group over. The redheaded human smiled at him, the fancy looking elf looked distinctly unhappy, and the giant seemed bored. “You can tell us more about Branka on the way down, too.”

“Smart Warden. The name’s Oghren Kondrat, by the way.”

“Theron Mahariel. We’ll meet back here once we’ve got supplies.”

Chapter Text

Over three weeks later, a dwarf and three surfacers emerged from the Roads tired and filthy, the death of a Paragon and the destruction of the legendary Anvil of the Void weighing on their shoulders.

“You all survived,” Was the first thing from Nevvin’s mouth when the small group trudged past him. “Did you find Branka?”

“Yeah, and a lot of trouble.” Oghren replied, and he stopped walking despite wanting nothing more than to crawl into a bed.

“I… Take it she’s no longer a living Paragon?”

Oghren winced. He’d dreamed for so long of overcoming the odds and finding her alive. They had. But alive didn’t always mean healthy and whole. The harpy had lost her mind, attacked them, attacked her ex-husband. And now she lay dead somewhere in the bowels of the earth, by his hand. Another memory to haunt him on the sober, sleepless nights.

“No, she ain’t.”

Nevvin’s expression softened beneath his mustache.

“Sorry about that, Kondrat.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Oghren turned to follow the group up to the Commons, but Nevvin cleared his throat.

“Kondrat, I see you found an axe down there. You know what the Shaperate ruled.”

Oghren sighed heavily. Right when he’d gotten used to having a weapon in his hands again, remembered how to swing it and lay waste to a barrelful of darkspawn, it would be taken from him again.

“I know, I know.”

“Give it to me before anyone else sees and has you arrested.”

“Look at you, lookin’ out for me all of a sudden,” Oghren mused as he reluctantly unbuckled the axe sheath from around his waist. “I’m startin’ to think you missed me, and I wasn’t even gone a month.” He looked down at the axe. A shoddy thing he’d grabbed from a corpse a few days into the trek, but he’d needed a weapon. It had served him well for the rest of the time down in the Roads, the blade had sung as he cleaved darkspawn limbs and buried it in that broodmother’s back. He didn’t want to part with it, not now.

“Ah, sod off.” Nevvin grumbled as he held out his hand for the axe.

Oghren took a breath and handed it over. Ancestor’s tits, it was no less painful a second time. If anything, it was more painful. A reminder of what he’d missed. With a heavy, empty feeling in his heart, Oghren rejoined the group.

“It’ll take us a few days to tie up loose ends with Bhelen,” Theron explained later after they’d all bathed and changed into cleaner clothes, over a round of Tapster’s finest. Oghren had already downed two ales. “Thanks for your help in the Deep Roads, Oghren.”

“Mm hm.” He grunted back, drumming his fingers on the stone table as he waited impatiently for a third mug.

Yeah, they’d survived the Roads. For what? Branka was dead, the Anvil destroyed. Now he was back, weaponless again. Houseless. Wifeless, well and truly this time. He wasn’t a warrior that’d killed a broodmother and a Paragon. No-one in Orzammar would believe him if he told them. He was a joke, the town drunk. What was the point in fighting it anymore? He had nothing left to fight for in Orzammar or the Roads. Just the drink. That was the one this that hadn’t abandoned him, cause it never would.

He ignored the rest of the surfacers’ conversation in favour of his drink. He didn’t bat an eyelid when they left to go give Bhelen the news. He stayed in Tapsters where he belonged, drinking until the world and his brain were fuzzy round the edges, the way it should be. He didn’t have anywhere better to be. The Diamond sods had taken Branka’s house when she’d left, because it wasn’t in his name. No Diamond Quarter for him. He couldn’t bear going back to the Kondrat House. They’d turn him away, blood ties or no. All he had was Tapsters.

So he sat and drank the time away, celebrating and commiserating Branka and the Roads. Eventually the regular crowd began to gather. Oghren barely looked up from his new perch at the bar. But he did when one of the regulars wandered over to take the rickety seat next to him. He squinted through the haze of alcohol, trying to figure out who it was. A rough hand clapped him on the shoulder in greeting.

“Kondrat! Where’ve you been for the last three weeks?”

He could recognise the voice, at least, even if the face was a little blurred. Another lad from the warrior caste, what was his name…? Bran? Bren? Ah, sod. He smiled at the question instead, puffing his chest out in pride. He had quite the story for this crowd, maybe he’d impress a few ladies enough to make ‘em swoon, and he’d have to help ‘em up to a comfortable bed like a good gentleman?

“Well, I guess Nevvin didn’t say anything about where I was, but that’s alright. There’s a good story to it.” He answered, turning round in his seat to look out at the scattered patrons, mug in hand and barely wobbling.

“Bet he was in the baths the whole time, finally doin’ something about that smell.” Someone called up before he could begin. Oghren scowled in the voice’s direction.

“He does smell a lot fresher.” Bran or Bren next to him agreed over the rim of his tankard.

“Ah, sod off, if all you’re gonna do is mock me.”

Bran/Bren shook his head.

“Nah, nah, we wanna hear.”

Oghren blinked until his vision cleared and he could see Bran/Bren’s smile. Dimly, the rational part of his mind sounded a warning bell, but the idiot rest of him ignored it. He wanted to believe so much that these other dwarves, the hardworking lifeblood of the Commons, had finally accepted him and were past treatin’ him like a joke at best or casteless at worst. So he did.

“Well, y’know the surfacers that came down here? They wanted to go down to the Roads lookin’ for Branka, Nevvin didn’t want to get off his arse to get an expedition to guide them, so I went down with ‘em,” he began, falling back into his earlier good mood as he retold the best parts of the three week expedition to his interested audience. He only embellished one or two parts - the size of the ogres, switching around a few details of that one shriek ambush on a crumbling bridge so it was him who stood alone hacking at the monsters while the surfacers lay unconscious or too injured to fight rather than the two elves doing the work.

When he got to the part about destroying the Anvil, he had to stop for a moment to wet his dry throat. Storytelling was thirsty work. He smiled to himself, not from the drink, but the warm feeling of pride that burned in his chest. He’d done all of that, more than anyone else in Orzammar had bothered to do.  He’d really gone down to the Roads and found Branka. He’d survived it to boot and now he had people who were finally listening to him. Sure, Branka hadn’t, she hadn’t come back with him like he’d hoped, but he’d actually sodding done something. Not bad for a warrior with no House or weapons.

As he drained his mug, Oghren heard some hushed chatter from his audience, muffled laughter.

“Sshhh, he’ll hear!” Someone spoke, a little too drunk to remember how to whisper.

A chill crept up Oghren’s spine, freezing the warmth of pride. He set his mug down and peered out at his audience. In the flickering light of the numerous candles he could see one or two covering their mouths or looking away from him, their shoulders twitching as they laughed silently. He wasn’t talking, the story wasn’t even that funny despite his tries. Why were they…?

The chill became a sickening realisation that left an awful feeling in his stomach, like he’d eaten bad meat. They weren’t laughing at the sodding story, they were laughing at him like children in a schoolhouse now a few rounds of drinks had loosened their inhibitions. They weren’t taking him seriously. They never had. It was like he’d never left. Like he’d not been gone for three weeks down in the Roads. The surfacers, the broodmother and Branka were some weird daydream he’d had, and nothing’d changed. He was still the laughing stock of the city.

“Ah, real mature,” he snapped as he set his mug down on the stone bar top with a harsh bang. Behind him he heard Alfen the bartender make a noise of disapproval, which he ignored in favour of blearily staring down his now-silent audience. “Laughin’ at me like I’m some soddin’ court jester or a dancin’ nug. You lot don’t even have the stones to laugh in my face.” He scowled at them. For one dumb minute he’d thought they’d liked him.

“Sorry, Kondrat,” Bran/Bren answered, and Oghren looked over at his drunken smile. “But this is quite a story you’re comin’ up with. We’ve missed havin’ you around,” he chuckled. “Ol’ Oghren’s at it again!” He yelled with an enthusiastic wave of his half-full tankard that sent drink slopping onto the floor. His chair rocked unsteadily under him, one of the legs shorter than the other. “Huh, guess I got the dodgy chair...”

“I’m not makin’ it up.” Oghren protested, his irritation growing. They weren’t taking him seriously.

Bran/Bren laughed, and clapped a clumsy hand on Oghren’s shoulder.

“Shhure, sure. Don’t get your frilly whites in a knot, we’re just teasin’. It’s like you really want us to believe you went down to the Roads,” Bran/Bren gestured with his tankard again to emphasise his point as he leaned against Oghren, “killed a broodmother an’ your ex-wife, Cairdin was still alive as a golem an’ you-”

“It really happened.” Oghren gritted his teeth.

“-destroyed the Anvil our mas and das told us little nuggets about before bedtime.”

“It did.”

Bran/Bren ignored him.

“Now, where’ve you really been these last three weeks, huh?”

In his hazy state Oghren decided he’d had enough. Enough of being treated like some… Some joke. Enough of the pitying looks. Enough of being ignored or laughed at or… Sod, what was the other thing? Enough of the Diamond sods. Enough of Bran/Bren leaning against him like they were friends. They weren’t. They may’ve shared a caste, but that had been two years ago. Without a weapon and a House, he may as well be casteless.

He pushed Bran/Bren’s arm off his shoulder, only intending to get the younger man out of his personal space, but in his drunken state and growing irritation, he pushed hard enough to make Bran/Bren’s uneven chair lurch onto it’s shorter leg. The momentum of his shove combined with the abrupt shift of Bran/Bren’s weight caused it to topple and send the younger dwarf to the ground with a yell and a shower of ale. The tavern grew deathly silent.

Oghren stared as Bran/Bren picked himself up. There was the dry clinking of clay shards shifting against the stone floor; the lad’s tankard must’ve broken in the fall.

“The fuck was that for, Kondrat?” he complained loudly. “My drink… You’re payin’ for the next one!”

Something about looking down on Bran/Bren staggering to his feet turned the annoyance to pure, refined anger. Kondrat . Not Oghren. Never Oghren. Nevvin’s smug face flashed across his mind’s eye. His hands curled into fists at his sides even as he tried to take deep breaths and ignore the voice begging him to swing a punch. He was a berserker, he knew his limits well. He knew he’d reached his breaking point. He wanted to hit things so damn much.

The trouble with alcohol was that, well, it was easier to give into temptation when drunk. To blame it on the booze afterward. He’d done it so many times before. He wanted to punch things. It was the easiest solution, the best outlet his hazy brain could think of in the moment. So he punched.

As Bran/Bren’s head drew level with his chest, Oghren slipped down from his stool. His fist connected with the side of Bran/Bren’s jaw hard and fast, sending the other dwarf back to the floor with a grunt of pain.

“Hey, if you’re gonna start fightin’ in my tavern, take it outside!”

Oghren ignored Alfen’s protest. Bran/Bren was getting back to his feet, one hand clutching his injured cheek. There was the crimson glint of blood between his fingers, and Oghren belatedly remembered he was still wearing his gauntlets with the spiked knuckles.

When Bran/Bren straightened up there was anger burning in his eyes. Good. Oghren liked to fight a riled opponent.

“C’mon then,” he slurred at the younger dwarf. “I shoved you offa your chair, spilled your drink, ruined your night. Make mine .”

“Yeah?” Bran/Bren wiped his bloodied jaw across the back of his hand as he staggered back. “You’re gettin’ a fight, Kondrat.”

Bran/Bren’s fist came out of nowhere to connect with his mouth. Oghren reeled back from the blow, pain burning around his mouth. He could feel the trickle of liquid run into his beard. Blood. He swiped his tongue experimentally. A split lip. No teeth knocked loose. He grunted, spat blood onto the floor, and readied himself for the next attack.

Bran/Bren charged towards him, a little sloppy from the drink. Oghren stumbled out of the way, away from the counter and instead, Bran/Bren collided with the wooden stool Oghren had just been sitting on. Man and chair hit the floor with a clamour of splintering wood. Oghren could hear Alfen yelling at them, telling them to get out, along with the noise of chairs scraping over stone as Bran/Bren’s friends got to their feet.

He ignored it all in favour of the red mist that was settling over everything. Bran/Bren got to his feet unsteadily, kicking away the remnants of the stool. His head was bowed to look down at the mess, which was how Oghren noted his head was very close to the edge of the stone countertop…

The impulsive little voice from earlier returned, this time goading him to grab Bran/Bren by the side of the head and make sure he didn’t get up again anytime soon. He did as it said, one gauntleted hand closing around a chunk of Bran/Bren’s hair. The Meino lad flashed across his mind’s eye, bleeding as his mouth met the edge of a table again and again-

With a single firm motion, he slammed the side of Bran/Bren’s head into the flat stone countertop. The younger man wheezed in pain and when Oghren let his head go he slumped down to the floor in front of the bar, his eyes glazed over, but he was still breathing.

“That’s it!” Alfen snapped over the commotion. “Hylda, go fetch the guards!”

Oghren watched one of the waitresses run out the door. He turned round to face the rest of Tapster’s patrons, staggering as the quick motion made his head spin.

“Anyone else wanna fight ol’ Oghren? Not like I got anythin’ better t’do!” He yelled, his own voice deafening to his ears. He didn’t have anything else to do. No-one believed he’d gone down to the Roads, they didn’t believe he was anything but the town drunk, a washed up has-been.

He glared at the other dwarves. He could only see their shadowed outlines in the dim candlelight. He couldn’t see their faces, their expressions. He could guess well enough. Anger, disgust, pity. The way everyone in Orzammar looked at him, everyone but the surfacers, and they’d left him, just like everyone else.

Behind him, Bran/Bren groaned and shifted where he sat.

“Stay down if y’know what’s good for ya, lad.”

The rasping of steel drew his attention back to the other dwarves, and after squinting he realised some were drawing their weapons. An uncontrollable laugh bubbled up in his chest as he reached for his own in turn, but his hand met empty air. Oh yeah. He’d forgotten about that. Sod.

The growing chaos was interrupted by the door opening again. Oghren turned towards it blearily along with the rest of the tavern patrons, fully expecting to see dwarves in full guard armour ready to haul him away. That was quick; they must’ve been right outside. Silhouetted against the light that spilled into the tavern were two forms that were too tall and thin to be dwarves. The two surfacer elves?

One of them stepped into the tavern, the darker one with the tattooed forehead. The Warden. Theron.

“Oh. Hey, Warden. Thought you’d all left.”

“No, we haven’t yet. We came to give you your share of Bhelen’s reward...” He looked around at the stalled chaos, taking in the sight of Oghren squaring off with the rest of the tavern with just his fists, the broken chair and tankard, Bran/Bren slumped against the foot of the bar. Oghren wiped the blood from his chin as the world came back into focus for a moment and then drifted away.

“I… Is everything alright?”

Oghren gave the tavern a thoughtful look.

“Nope.”

“You’re givin' him coin?” Alfen spoke up, “Throw it here, Kondrat has more than two years’ worth of unpaid tabs to settle before I’ll let him open another one. And he needs to pay for the damage he’s just caused.”

“Hey!” Oghren protested as the bag of coin sailed past him; his fingers brushed the purse but he was too sluggish from the drink to catch it. Alfen grabbed it, pocketing it quickly.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me, Kondrat! This was the last straw. You’re banned from Tapsters, and after what you’ve done to Bron here-” Bron, that was it! “I don’t think the guards will let you stay in Orzammar for much longer.”

If he was sober, Oghren knew he would have found the news of exile terrifying. As it was, he merely shrugged and picked his tankard up in one hand and with the other wiped away the blood from his split lip before it dried in his beard.

Orzammar had taken everything from him, it wasn’t like they could take anything beyond the armour he wore or the scant coin he had. All they could do was exile him to the surface. No longer a proud warrior of Orzammar, but a Stone-blind, cloud headed surfacer. Just like the group he’d shown around the Deep Roads. The same group standing right in front of him, gawking at him the way everyone else did. He squinted at them in the murky light. No, they weren’t gawking at him. They’d come back.

“If he’s going to the surface, he may as well come with us.” The Warden pointed out. Alfen grunted.

“Does it look like I give a damn what happens to him? He’s caused enough trouble here.”

The Warden’s grey eyes snapped to Alfen, and the bartender seemed alarmed at the intensity of the stare.

“I wasn’t talking to you.” Theron answered in a voice as cold as ice.

Those grey eyes settled on Oghren next, expectant. He took a swig, draining his tankard down to the last drop. The ale tasted bitter in his mouth. Metallic, too, but that was the blood in his mouth.

“Aye, it’s not like I’d know anyone topside beyond two elves and a giant.”

“Theron,” he heard the fancy blond elf say with low urgency as he looked over his shoulder. A moment later the surfacers stepped into the tavern to make way for Hylda and the stone-faced guards following on her heels.

Oghren turned to Alfen, trying not to sway on his feet.

“For what it’s worth, Al, m’sorry. Sorry for...” Sorry for the years of unpaid tabs, for all the fights and destruction and uncountable other offences. But his tongue refused to work. “Just, sorry. Yeah?”

Alfen looked from him to the guards and back.

“Yeah, Oghren.”

Chapter Text

Two days later, and peace finally returned to Orzammar. Bhelen was crowned, and the Shaperate exiled Oghren Kondrat to the surface. Now he stood in the entryway to Orzammar, too afraid to take another step and be out topside under the sun.

He didn’t have much on him. The armour he wore, a bag of scant possessions, a few flasks of Orzammar’s finest booze and a tent that had eaten up what remained of his coin. He’d not seen a copper of his cut of Bhelen’s reward, and he hadn’t expected to. The guilt was starting to gnaw at him, even as the fear made him want to piss his breeches.

Here he was, exiled from Orzammar. Branka was dead, he had nothing left. And yet the surface world was one big, terrifying unknown to him. The doors of Orzammar were open, letting sunlight flood in. He stood at the edge of the shadows as if the light would burn him, squinting to make out the details of the world outside. Bright, far too bright. Was it always like that? He could hear the rush of wind, the faint chatter from the scattered market that had sprouted like mushrooms around Orzammar’s entrance, merchants denied entry but determined to sell their goods all the same. He could see outcroppings of grey stone jutting up from the ground that was covered in patches of blinding white or dark green-brown like mould. It was cold, not helped by the constant wind that blew around.

The creaking of leather to his right reminded him that he wasn’t alone anymore. The Warden, Theron, stood on the step beneath his, looking at him patiently. The rest of the Warden’s group weren’t waiting for him, no doubt eager to get moving to wherever they had to be next. But the darker elf stayed.

“Is it always so bright?” Oghren grumbled, looking up at the sky. That more than anything else was the cause of his fear. So big, so blue, so empty. Gone was the Stone over his head, replaced with a ceiling higher than any thaig cavern he’d ever seen. He stared up at the sky, wondering how those fluffy white things stayed up there. What were they called again? And the light...

“Not when it’s night time,” Theron answered. “And don’t look directly at the sun, either. You’ll go blind.”

“I wasn’t,” Oghren answered through gritted teeth, blinking away the kaleidoscope that blinded him as well as the tears as his gaze was forced downwards. The surface world was too bright and cold, and if he looked at the source of the light - the sun - for too long it’d blind him. Damn weird place.

“Mm-hm,” the elf hummed, clearly unconvinced.

Oghren scoffed. Yeah, he’d heard tales about the surface world before, but he’d never expected to see it with his own two eyes. He looked down at the light at his feet, inches away from his toes.

“Are you coming with us?”

Oghren looked back over his shoulder, back into the depths of Orzammar. His life had been there. As a nugget, his ma and da telling him stories in front of a warm hearth once they’d finished yelling and throwing stuff at each other, all the victories and losses as a Provings champion, the Roads, Branka, the drink, the looks of pity, the thrill of bar fights, the Meino boy… That was his old life. Now he stood on the threshold of Orzammar about to enter a new world. He’d travel with the Wardens and their company across Ferelden, and he wouldn’t be banned from carrying a weapon ever again. A new life, to boot. No more memories of Branka and Hespith, no more pitying looks, no more ‘ol’ Oghren at it again’.

Oghren Kondrat took a deep breath in, glad he’d sobered up for this.

“Yeah, yeah,” he sighed. “Give me a minute.”

“Sure, take your time,” Theron turned to his slowly retreating group. “Alistair, we’ll catch up!” He called to an armoured human lad who raised his hand in acknowledgment. Then he turned back to Oghren, weight rested on one foot. Oghren stared up at the sky again - not at the white sun that’d temporarily blinded him, but the blue sky.

“By the Stone, I feel like I’m about to fall off the world with all that sky up there.”

“You won’t. Not with your armour and beard weighing you down, at least.”

Oghren cast a critical look over the elf’s light leather armour and cleanshaven jaw, his lithe form. Theron would probably float away into the void long before he did. He’d heard a rumour somewhere that elves couldn’t grow facial hair. He squinted, but couldn’t see any sign of stubble, hadn’t seen any on either elf during that three week expedition down the Roads. Elves, faces as smooth as a babe’s arse. Theron and the fancy one could be young as teenagers, for all he knew.

“If I’m floatin’, you are too.”

“I’d prefer to have both feet firmly on the ground.”

There was a lull in the conversation. Oghren watched the white fluffy things - sheep! That was the name for them! - creep across the sky. Where were they going? What made them move? The wind? Theron stood unmoving as a statue to the Ancestors.

“Aren’t you gonna tell me to hurry up?”

“Why would I? We have a long road ahead, true, but I’d like you to be ready for it.”

“Why are you so bothered about me?” He grunted. “Bet your stones haven’t even dropped yet.”

Theron shrugged.

“You’ve just been exiled to the surface. As a dwarf, I doubt you’ve been up here before,” Oghren nodded minutely in agreement. “It must be a lot to take in at once. Besides, you’re part of the team now.”

Oghren searched the elf’s face for any hint of a lie. Theron stared back at him evenly, expression neutral but honest.

He was part of a team of surfacers now? Ha, his ma would have hated this! No, no. Orzammar was behind him now, and ahead lay the surface world. He could step right into a new life, leave the past behind. He looked down at the large shadow of Orzammar he stood in, the bright sunlight only a step away.

“Ah, quit worryin’, I’ll be fine out here.” He lied, taking a breath before he stepped out into the light. It was bright, too bright. He squinted as the shadows fell away behind him. “C’mon, we’re wastin’... Whaddya call it? Daylight?”

“We’ll get you any weapons you need before we leave,” Theron promised as they began catching up to the others.

The surface world was bright and loud. But the weight of the brand new axe at Oghren’s side was worth it. It had to be.

The group walked away from Orzammar’s gates, and Oghren watched in gruff awe as the surface world unfolded before him. Outside the Stone, everything was impossibly big and far apart. The group walked, and walked, and kept walking until Oghren’s feet were sore, down a rough dirt track down into the foothills of the Frostback mountain range. The sun hung in the sky like the world’s biggest lantern. The... Trees around them were strange. The brown posts that stuck out of the ground stayed nice and still as stone, but the green things on top moved and shuddered and made rustling noises like they were alive. It was unsettling for the first hour or so until he got used to it.

Theron walked beside him, which surprised Oghren. Usually leaders, y’know, led their men, rather than walk near the back and make someone else lead. Then again, when that someone was a sodding giant of a man and a dwarf-sized horse of a dog, maybe they usually led?

Oghren looked around for something to take his mind off his aching feet. He found himself staring round at all the trees, the varying shades of green and yellow they were. He hadn’t expected nature to be so damn colourful. The smells were different, too. Colder and sharp enough to give him a headache, and the breezes kept changing direction. There was so much noise on the surface from the wind and the trees. Oghren wasn’t sure if he liked it all or not.

What he didn’t like, he’d quickly become certain of, was the fact the group seemed to whistle whenever he wasn’t looking. After one particularly loud whistle he was sure must’ve come from either elf flanking him, he’d had enough.

“Alright, quit that or I shut you up!” He snapped, which caused the group of taller surfacers to pause and stare at him in confusion.

“What?” One of the two ladies asked with a frown.

“That… That racket you all keep makin’, the whistlin’! Can’t a dwarf have a moment of quiet with his thoughts?”

“So much for gratitude, it seems.” He heard the fancy elf mutter.

“Zev!” Theron hissed. Then, to him, “No-one’s whistling, Oghren. Leliana and Alistair sometimes do, but…”

Oghren scowled, and listened. A few moments passed, and then he heard it again, a loud, shrill kind of whistle from ahead and to the left.
“There! Did y’hear it?”

Theron’s frown of confusion smoothed out into wide-eyed realisation.

“Oh! Oghren, it’s not someone whistling, it’s birdsong.”

“Birdsong?” Oghren narrowed his eyes doubtfully. He’d seen a few birds in the Diamond quarter - small, drab things in cages. Cute little novelties imported from topside to sit in a deshyr’s parlour until it eventually sickened and died. He looked in the direction of the whistle.

“So how many birds are there?”

“Hundreds, thousands, just within this mountain range,” Theron answered without skipping a beat. Oghren scoffed. Nah, he had to be lying, there was no way there were so many.

“You’re makin' that up, Warden.”

Theron studied him.

“I’m not. Here, once we’ve made camp for the night I’ll prove it to you.”

That reminded Oghren of another worry he’d had as the group began walking again.

“By the way, is the surface world this bright all the time? Does it ever…” He fumbled for the right word as he wiped sweat from his brow. The light was warm. His armour was heavy.  “Go away?”

He saw Theron’s lips twitch upwards into a smile.

“It will soon,” he promised. “You’ve never seen a sunset, have you?” The elf’s smile widened into a grin. “We’ll have to make camp a little earlier tonight, somewhere facing west. I want to see Oghren’s reaction to the sunset!” He called ahead.

“Now you mention it, so do I, amor.”

Oghren wondered if he should be nervous.

“Thought you told me not to look directly at it?” Oghren complained later from his seat on a fallen tree. His back was to the newly-pitched campsite, and before him lay an admittedly stunning view of the untamed Ferelden wilderness. He could see the horizon without any trees blocking the way, and now finally he realised the scale of the surface world. There was a whole country out there, and according to no less than three of the group there was even more of the surface world out there, either on the other side of the Frostbacks or across seas and oceans. Oghren quietly decided it was too much to get his head round at once.

“Not at this time of day, when the sun’s going down-” Theron began.

“What? Where’s it goin’?”

“Not too sure, but it rises anew every morning from the opposite direction.”

“Perhaps it goes underground and warms all the lava in Orzammar and the Deep Roads?” The fancy elf suggested from where he tended the cooking pot over the fire.  Oghren had been amazed when the campfire was being built - the surfacers burned wood like it was nothing, like it wasn’t supposed to be used for bows or crossbows or bar stools. In fact, it lay all around and didn’t cost a small fortune to get imported. They didn’t use coal; he hadn’t seen any, and he supposed he could understand why if wood was everywhere. Coal was messier, besides. Beside the fancy elf, the giant sighed heavily.

“Pasharaa. That is not where the sun goes. It goes... Curse the Common tongue. This world goes around the sun.”

“But we see the sun and all the stars move across the sky. Wouldn’t it make more sense for them to go around us?” Theron pointed out.

“No.”

“I prefer my idea.” Zevran ventured smugly.

“I have neither the time nor grasp of the Common tongue to explain what the Qunari know, but I have enough of both to tell you those theories are ridiculous.”

“How rude.”  

Oghren frowned as the giant and fancy elf began to bicker, and turned back to his own elf who was looking at him from where he sat a little too close for comfort. Orzammar was a cramped, heated place, and personal space was highly valued.

“D’you have to moon over me like that? What’s the big deal?” He grumbled until Theron edged down the log to a more respectable distance.

“Look at the sky.”

“It’s… Not as blue?” Oghren blinked. As the sun began to sink towards the horizon line the sky around it was changing colours. A weak piss-yellow that merged with the blue, then it deepened to first gold, then a vivid orange the colour of his hair, bright as a forge, as the sun began to fall behind the horizon. The sun itself went from burning white to yellow, orange, until the remaining half was a violent red that reminded him too much of blood, of the Meino lad. He took a long pull from his flask.

As he sat there, he also watched the fluffy sheep change colour too. From white to a blue-grey, yellow streaked with orange and pink; a confusing mix of colours. Up on the surface the uncovered void changed colour regularly and no-one was concerned about it? Damned strange place. Oghren took another, longer drink. Damn strange. But the colours were pretty, at least.

“The sheep are changin' colour.” He commented.

“Sheep?” Theron frowned. “There aren’t any sheep around here.”

“Course there are! Up there, in the sky.” Oghren gestured.

Theron looked up at the sky and then struggled to contain his laughter.

“Oghren, those are clouds. Sheep are animals, livestock. They can’t fly.” He explained, trying to stop laughing.

“Well, how was I supposed to know?” Oghren scowled, his face burning as Theron laughed at him. The hushed laughter of Tapster’s flashed through his mind again, and he clenched his free hand into a fist. “I’ve heard of sheep bein’ white, fluffy things, and those clouds up there are white and fluffy!”

Theron studied him for a moment, glanced down at his clenched fist, and then stopped laughing. Good.

“Fair enough, but we’ll probably see real sheep once we reach farmland, so prepare to be disappointed.”

“Aye.” Oghren nodded, and they grew quiet again as they studied the sky. Eventually, he spoke up again, somewhat gruffly. “The colours are… Nice.”

“I get the sense you’re pulling your punches, Oghren.”

“Hey, I’m not a mushy, sentimental kinda guy. Generally, dwarves aren’t. It’s you elves that are mushy enough to talk about your feelings.”

Theron glanced over his shoulder towards the rest of the camp.

“I promise I won’t tell any of them.” He whispered.

Oghren squinted at the elf, again searching for any trace of a lie in his lean features. Once again, Theron’s expression was one of simple honesty.

“Fine. I wasn’t expectin’ the colours, and they’re... Beautiful.” He admitted reluctantly. Theron grinned at him. Softhearted sod who talked about forest gods. “But I’m not about to cry about it.” 

“Zev, when will dinner be ready?” Theron asked over one shoulder, finally dropping his interest in Oghren’s reaction to the sunset.

“Half an hour, I would say.”

Theron nodded, and got to his feet.

“Just enough time for me to go check the traps.”

He whistled for the dog, and the two left camp.

Theron returned sometime later when the smell of hot stew was making Oghren’s stomach growl. The sun had almost finished setting, not much more than a sliver of glowing red that squatted on the horizon like a burning coal. The clouds and sky around it were turning from red to a surprising dusky pink. Oghren had turned his back on the vivid red long ago, but he turned back when he saw Theron’s approach.

Theron plonked himself down back down on the log - once again, too close for Oghren’s comfort, but the annoyance was quickly forgotten when he saw the strange wooden cage Theron had on his lap. Something small and dark moved inside it. A rat?

“Uh, what’s in the cage? Supper?” Or an offering to the forest gods the elf had talked about earlier?

“No. A source of the whistling you were complaining about earlier.” Theron answered, holding the cage up to eye level so Oghren could get a better look. A finger-sized body, two thin legs, a dark eye glittering like a chip of obsidian as it stared out at him. A bird. He watched it hop and flutter around the cage. It was so small. It paused every so often, opening its mouth to give a loud whistle. A song. A call.

“You say there’s thousands of these things?”

Theron nodded.

“All across Thedas. Hundreds of different types, too. Birds that prey on other birds, like hawks, kestrels, buzzards, owls…”

“And they can fly, right? Move through the air like it’s nothin’?” Oghren asked, nodding to the little caged bird.

“Do you want to see it?”

Theron barely waited for a second nod before he opened one side of the cage. The bird protested as it was cornered and caught, but grew silent when it was gently pulled out of the cage. It sat unmoving in Theron’s palm, allowing elf and dwarf to get a good look at its dark eyes and brown plumage. Oghren saw how the brown feathers weren't just one shade. A pale underbelly and dark back like a deepstalker, flecked with black. The grey beak was ringed with yellow skin. On the end of each thin leg were three small toes. It took off in a brown blur. Oghren followed it’s movement, expecting it to fall to the ground any second, but it didn’t. The tiny, frail little thing bobbed on the air and rose dizzyingly higher as it sped away on some evening breeze. Soon it was a dark speck against the sky, and then it grew too small for Oghren to follow anymore.

Theron sighed as he set the empty cage down on the ground by their feet. Oghren tore his gaze away from the soft gradient of colours in the sky the bird had vanished into, looking down at the stable ground beneath his feet. The ground didn’t sway in the breeze like the trees did. It remained solid and unmoving like the Stone. The Frostbacks and Orzammar were at his back, sturdy reminders of what were now in the past behind him. No more Branka, Nevvin, Diamond sods. No more Meino lad...

“Have you ever heard about Dalish elves?”

Oghren glanced up from the ground before he could lose himself in the dark tunnels of his own mind.

“Nah. Why?”

“Just wondering how much you know of the surface world.” Theron shrugged, turning around where he sat so he now faced the fire. Oghren followed suit, glad of the flames and not being able to see the bloody sky. Fire was another familiar element from Ozammar. Bright and warm, kept fed like a creature and it would grow and roar, although this one sparked and cracked as the wood burned.

“Not a lot.”

“Hm. I’m a Dalish elf. Some elves live in human cities under their rule, but the Dalish live free in the wild places far from civilisation.”

Oghren raised an eyebrow at the idea. That would be like a group of dwarves deciding to live down in the Roads. Like… Well, Branka, he supposed. But with less insanity and death and betrayal, he hoped.

Theron cleared his throat as bowls of stew were served up and passed out, handing one to Oghren.

“The Dalish never stay in one place for longer than a few weeks. Travelling is in our blood. We live in… They’re not really houses, they’re more like wagons or caravans, made out of bits of wood and they’re pulled by a combination of magic and silver deer.”

Oghren stared at the elf in disbelief. Theron noticed, and smiled through the flush that was barely visible in the orange light of the fire as the daylight faded.

“You’re kiddin’, right?”

“No, but when I talk about it like that, it does sound very strange.”

“And here I am, out topside for the first time. I’ve lived all my life in Orzammar, in the last dwarven city.”

“And I lived all my life in a massive forest, rarely seeing the outside… My point is that I think you and me are more alike than we seem, Oghren.”

Oghren paused with his first spoonful of stew halfway to his lips.

“How so?”

“When you were standing on the steps of Orzammar, it reminded me of a time when I’d done that at the edge of the Brecilian. We were both uncertain about what would happen next, we were leaving everything we knew behind and afraid of the future.”

Oghren scoffed, putting his spoon back into his bowl and puffing out his chest.

“Speak for yourself, lad. I’m not afraid of the future, or the surface world,” He lied. “I’m glad to be leavin’ Orzammar behind, those sods never cared about me.”

“Well, you’re with us now, for however long you want to be after the Blight’s been stopped,” The other Warden chipped in from where he sat across the campfire.

“Yeah,” Oghren nodded. “Look out, ladies. Oghren Kondrat’s been unleashed onto the surface world! Lock up your bosoms! Ha!”

Dinner was a quiet affair, and Oghren resisted the urge to drink for the rest of the evening. For one, he only had two flasks of booze and no idea of when the group would find a tavern, and he also didn’t want to spend his first night topside in a drunken haze. It soon proved to be a good decision, because once a welcome darkness fell, Oghren happened to glance up at the void of the sky to see what colour it’d turned and nearly fell off his seat in surprise. Dusted across the deep blue-black sky were teeny-tiny points of light like crystals in a cave ceiling. These lights were much dimmer than the burning white sun that dominated the sky during the day.

“What are all those lights up there?”

“Those are the stars, my short dwarven friend,” The fancy elf supplied, tilting his head up to regard the night sky as well. “They look like tiny sparkling diamonds on a sea of blue velvet, no?”

“A little. They’re nice.” Oghren grimaced at a particularly cold gust of air. He sat for a while to watch the stars glimmer like rough gems and talked with the surfacers, learning more about how the surface world was reacting to the Blight and where the group was headed next. He was the first to turn in for the night.

His tent was strange. He wasn’t used to cloth walls. Down in Orzammar, the Stone was warm and all that was needed. The tent canvas, he quickly learned, didn’t do much to keep out the cold. Neither did the furs piled on his bedroll, once he’d undressed and burrowed down under them. It was all too… Soft. He was used to a hard, smooth and slightly warm stone bed, but here he was lying on the cold and bumpy ground. But the close confines of the tent were a welcome change to staring up into the vast sky or across untold miles of air and land towards the horizon and worrying he’d get lost in the unbridled expanse of nothingness.

His aching feet were finally able to rest, if a little cold. As he lay there in the familiar, comforting dark and listened to the quiet conversations the rest of the group were having outside, he realised how drained he was. He was exhausted. Must have been all the fresh air and bright daylight.

His sleep, as always, was deep and dreamless.

Chapter Text

The clouds rolled in as the group reached the end of the foothills. The clouds weren’t white and soft-looking like the ones he’d first seen outside Orzammar. These one were low slabs of marble grey, a colour mirrored by the Wardens’ eyes. Oghren studied them every so often as they walked and the clouds gathered overhead. And then the rain began to fall.

The other night Theron had explained something else about the surface world that was second nature to an elf who’d lived in the forest all his life: rain. Oghren had found the concept of rain difficult to fathom. Water falling from the sky and taken for granted? It sounded ridiculous.

Here it was, pattering down onto the road around them, on everywhere in a great sheet that made everything shimmer. Freezing cold to boot. Was it safe to drink? The water that didn’t fall from the sky tasted weird to Oghren. It wasn’t metallic or gritty like he’d expected it to be.

The rain continued as they travelled eastwards across the hinterlands. It turned the roads to mud churned up by countless boots, hooves and wagon wheels. Mud! There'd never been this much of it in Orzammar. The ground was solid still, but squishy and slick. The mud held tracks, Theron and the witch explained, until it dried and crumbled back into dirt. Mud also got everywhere, clinging to boots and legs and his hand when he’d picked some up to inspect it closer. It left dark streaks when he tried to wipe it away.

The group was soon damp and walking with teeth gritted against the cold as they sloshed through the mud.

“When will it stop?” Oghren asked when the novelty of rain had worn off. The freezing water began to drip down his moustache and beard. His only answer was a shrug.

“There’s a town up ahead we should reach by sunset. Maker, I miss horses.” Alistair sighed as he folded up what Oghren could only assume was a map.

“We’ve had this talk. We can’t afford horses for the whole group.” The redheaded lady answered, pushing wet strands of hair out of her eyes.

“I know. I wish we could.”

Oghren didn’t know what horses were, but if they were anything like brontos he wished there were a pair around to make travelling quicker.

They reached the town not long after sunset, the worst of the rain behind them. Using Bhelen’s coin they bought five rooms for the night as well as meals at the cramped, warm little inn. The waitress smiled at them as she directed them to tables by a roaring hearth. An elf girl who was all skin and bones and wild brown hair. She was attractive enough that Oghren considered using his best moves on her. The drinks arriving distracted him.

Surfacer ale was interesting. Made from grain, honey, and Ancestors knew what else. This ale was on par with the booze in his flasks, and definitely better than the watered-down swill served at Tapsters. The food was nice and hearty, exactly what a man needed after a long day of travelling in the cold to warm his stomach. And no-one here was laughing or glaring at him. The waitress had smiled at him. She didn’t know him and she was smiling. Oghren glanced around between mouthfuls. She cleaned tables or served the other customers, usual waitress stuff. Whenever she returned his gaze he ducked his head and pretended she hadn't caught him staring. Her eyes were deep brown. The group’s conversation washed over him. Stone, what was wrong with him? Maybe he needed more drink? Yeah, the drink always helped.

With a bellyful of hot food and cool ale, sitting close to the fire meant once the plates were gone Oghren found himself getting drowsy. It had been a long day on the road.

Looking around the group, it seemed they were all in similar states. The two elves sat close together, engrossed in some whispered conversation. The other Warden was trying to engage Sten the giant in some kind of conversation about a cage. The redhead was busy bribing the dog to give her a paw in exchange for a scrap of meat pie. The witch was toying with the leftovers on her plate, and as soon as she felt his eyes on her she glared at him. Oghren rolled his eyes at her and returned to the dregs of his ale.

The waitress arrived and began clearing away the plates, moving around the table. Oghren took his chance while the drink made him bold, after she’d collected his plate.

“Hey, lady.”

The waitress paused, one hand full of dirty cutlery as she stacked the plates three high on the other. Strong lady. Oghren liked that in a woman. She smiled at him again.

“Yes, serah? Can I get you anything else?”

Her voice was like music. She had a broad Fereldan accent, so unlike the two elves he travelled with. Oghren swallowed.

“You single?”

She frowned. The cutlery clinked together as she set it down on the top plate. He realised the table had gone silent around him, and the group was staring at him and the waitress. Good thing he was used to an audience.

“Yes…?” She answered.

Good, good. Oghren never liked to make the same mistake twice.

“You like horses, the stables?”

“Excuse me?”

“Wanna go take a roll in the hay?” He offered with a charming smile back at her. Across the table, the fancy elf laughed into his drink and began choking. There was a muttered “Oh Maker .” from one of the humans. The giant sighed. The waitress looked away from him as the fancy elf coughed up a storm, and then back at him. The smile was gone, but there was amusement shining in her warm eyes.

“I’m not sure how long you’ve been on the surface for, ser dwarf. It's often a good idea to get a woman’s name before you ask her to go to bed with you.”

She picked up the final plates and left.

“Sod.” Oghren watched her shapely… Retreat.

The redhead was the first to break the silence.

“That could have gone better, no?”

“Agreed.” The fancy elf wheezed as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “And she was right, dwarf. In my experience with women, things tend to go better if you are more subtle in your seduction.”

Oghren huffed. As if he would take the advice of some swishy, nug-licking elf!

“Some women like it when a man’s straight with ‘em. Everyone knows what they’re gettin’ into.”

“Mm, some, not all women like it, correct? Case in point...” The fancy elf clicked his tongue and nodded at the waitress as she emerged from the back with a tray of drinks for another table. Oghren scowled at him.

“Oghren,” the redhead interjected, leaning across the table. “Trust me when I say a lot of women enjoy flattery before they’re asked to bed. It’s something of a game.”

“One that everyone wins by the end of the night. And it doesn’t just work on women, right, mi amor ?” The fancy elf looked at Theron, who flushed pink under his dark skin.

Oghren shook his head. What were they giving him advice for?

“I still like my way.” He insisted. “It works. It’s all down to the ol’ Oghren charm. They know what to look forward to, y’know?”

“Several baths afterwards, I would imagine. That is a most offensive odour, even after the rain.” The witch muttered.

“Hey! It’s not that bad… Right?”

A look round the table told him that it was. He sighed and wished his tankard was full again.

“So, what are we doing for rooms tonight?” Alistair spoke up for the first time since the waitress had approached the table.

“I already have my bed partner.” The fancy elf informed them with a smug grin.

“We’ll take the dog, too,” Theron added.

“Will you and I share again, Morrigan?” The redhead asked. The witch - Morrigan grimaced.

“If you criticise my sleeping clothes again I will turn into a spider.”

“Do you go around giving everyone impossible tasks? Besides, that wasn’t criticising, I was only telling you of some tailors you could visit.”

“That leaves myself, the dwarf and the lesser Warden,” The giant, Sten, spoke over the brewing argument. He looked them both over as if they were muck on the bottom of his boot. “And given how I have already spent three weeks in the bowels of the earth with the dwarf and his bowels, I have no wish to share a room with him.”

“I guess that means you’ll have a room all to yourself tonight, Oghren,” Theron said.

“Good. More room to put my stuff.”

Oghren turned out to be glad of having the room to himself; the bed took him by surprise when he set eyes on it.

It was big, made for a human. It stood a good two foot off the ground to make his life difficult, with a wooden frame that looked flimsy and creaked worryingly under his weight. Some kind of thin, scratchy mattress and a flat pillow. No furs this time, but several layers of blankets that were impossible to figure out for a good half hour. Warm, despite being scratchy and lumpy and somehow worse than the tent. It was better than sleeping on the floor; he was getting too old for that. Like so many things, Oghren knew the bed was another surface thing he would have to get used to. There was no returning to Orzammar now.

The next morning, as the group finished breakfast and prepared to leave, Oghren went up to the elf waitress from last night. She regarded his approach with cool brown eyes as she cleaned mugs.

“Before I go, uh…”

“Do you need any food for the road, ser?” She asked.

“Naw, naw. I was just wonderin’ if I could get your name. I doubt we’ll ever cross paths again, but-”

“But it’s a start.” She cut across. “It’s Jenn. Safe travels to you and your group, ser.” Her lips widened in a polite smile. Oghren cleared his throat, unsure of what to say next. The tavern door creaked open.

“Oghren, you coming?” One of the men called behind him.

“Yeah, yeah, keep your britches on!” He yelled back. With a hasty goodbye to Jenn, he followed the group out into the bright morning sunlight.

A week later and the Frostbacks were receding into the distance behind the group. Oghren stopped looking over his shoulder to check how small and insignificant they were. They now headed for somewhere called Lake Calenhad to get support from a towerful of mages plonked on an island. A towerful of mages, he had to see that for himself.

Oghren walked at the back of the group. This time, the dog and Theron walked with him while the other Warden took the lead. Great. A war hound he could look square in the eye flanked him on one side, and an elf half a head taller than him walked on the other.

Everyone was too damn tall here, barring the animals and some other surfacer dwarves he’d seen but not spoken to. Speaking of surfacer dwarves, he wondered if he’d run into Felsi at some point? Then again, the surface world was big, bigger than he’d expected. It wasn’t like she’d be waiting at a tavern right by this Lake Calenhad or tower of mages...

“Copper for your thoughts?”

The question jolted him from his thoughts, and he could only respond with a vacant “Hnuh?”

“What are you thinking?” Theron repeated although he didn’t have to. Oghren looked at him and saw Theron studying him like he was some kind of novel curiosity. It had been over a month since they’d first met, would he ever stop doing that?  The corners of Theron’s eyelids creased with concern. Damn the lad’s soft heart. It’d get him killed one day, no matter how good a shot he was with a bow.

“Ah, nothin’ important. Where we’re goin’, mostly.”

“Are you missing Orzammar?”

Oghren hesitated at the question. Sure, he’d been thinking of Orzammar, but had he been missing it? He missed his warrior days, being able to swing an axe round a battlefield and celebrate it. But those days in Orzammar were long gone, and now here he was, an axe at his side and ready to be a warrior again.

He missed the dull background noise of smiths hard at work. He missed the chatter of the marketplace. He missed the omnipresent low roar of cold, stagnant air moving through underground tunnels. Up here, the noises were new and loud and sudden, the air was sharper and fresher and constantly moving, and it was so bright. The sun was warm against his face - not as warm as Orzammar, but warm enough.

He missed Branka, but that was the Branka he’d known before she turned into a shrill, insane harpy. That Branka had abandoned him for some dusty old smith’s tools and his cousin. He didn’t regret killing her. And he felt guilty about that lack of regret. She’d been his wife, they’d loved each other once upon a time, he should have felt guilty when he’d watched her die. But he hadn’t. He’d stood by as a surfacer destroyed the Anvil of the Void. Then he’d tried to drink himself into oblivion while the same surfacer crowned Orzammar’s next ruler. No wonder everyone in Orzammar saw Oghren Kondrat as no better than a dancing nug.

He’d been glad to leave Orzammar but it was the only thing he’d ever known. If he ever went back the Diamond sods would make him get a surfacer brand, and that would make the exile permanent and on their terms alone, not his.

Ancestor’s tits. He both missed and didn’t miss Orzammar. His family was dead, his warrior’s honour was long gone along with his caste, House, everything. He didn’t have anything left to lose in Orzammar but the drink. He took a breath. The emotions were a confusing, bubbling mess. He didn’t want to think about them anymore, and he sure didn’t want to talk about them.

“It’s difficult. I don’t wanna talk about it.” He answered shortly. Theron frowned at him.

“Are you sure? Talking could help-”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Ancestors, I thought it was only women who talked about feelings. Now quit buggin’ me about it, I’d like to think about other things.”

“Like what?”

“Voluptuous women, what else? I'm just the right height to give a human girl a good time, y’know.”

That knocked the concerned look off Theron’s face.

“You’ve only been on the surface two weeks, how did you… No, I really don’t want to know.”

Oghren laughed at how flustered the elf was.

“Oghren has his ways, elf. I bet you woo yours with poetry or somethin’. You seem like the type to use flowery language.”

The elf’s cheeks had turned red under his dark skin.

“I… Not really.” He muttered, looking away. Oghren stared at him in disbelief. Oh, Ancestors, Theron wasn’t one of those stuffy no-fun sorts, was he?

“What, don’t tell me you haven’t wooed a woman?”

“If you must know, I-”

“I heard talk of wooing?” Both Theron and Oghren jumped at the sound of the fancy elf right behind him.

“Creators, Zev, weren’t you ahead of us a second ago?”

“How astute of you, amor.”

“Soddin’ elves!” Oghren cursed, thumping his chest to make sure his heart was still beating after that scare.

“To put it plainly, Oghren, I haven’t wooed a woman and I don’t really intend to." Theron continued, the blush fading from his cheeks as the fancy elf fell into step beside him. “And don’t try to avoid talking about Orzammar forever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Oghren answered dismissively, already making plans to get Theron laid at the next town they stopped at. The elf was stubborn, Oghren would give him that. “Why don’t you intend to?”

The two elves exchanged a look.

“Do you want to tell him, amor, or shall I?”

“It’s never easy for me, Zev.”

“Tell me what?”

“Oghren, me and Zevran are… Close.”

“I can see that. The two of you’re gonna end up steppin’ on each other’s heels.”

“My smelly dwarven friend, what he means is that we’re together .” To emphasise his point, Zevran reached over and took Theron’s hand. Oghren looked at the two in disbelief.

“Together,” He echoed, staring at their joined hands. Oh. Like Branka and Hespith. Although hopefully with less crazy and affairs. The two elves seemed a lot happier, to boot. Huh. “Hm. Well, so long as you two keep it down at night. For once, I don’t want those sorts of mental images.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow.

“Oghren not thinking about sex between two consenting adults? Will we next find Andraste’s ashes on a mantlepiece somewhere?”

“Ah, shuddup. Keep those hands where I can see ‘em, you two.”

“No promises, Oghren.” Theron chuckled.

Oghren grimaced as Theron pressed a kiss to Zevran’s offered cheek.

“Ugh. Couples. Please tell me you’re married already, young love is the worst.”

The next few days were peaceful as they travelled through farmland. Theron was quick to point out some sheep that stared at the passing group from across a field. Oghren found them underwhelming.

By now, Theron wasn’t the only member of the group asking him question after question about Orzammar. It was getting old fast. Particularly when they started poking at the sore spots by asking him more personal questions like, “How did you meet Branka?” or “What was it like, growing up in Orzammar?”

So, Oghren resorted to an old trick and began feigning drunkenness. He’d uncork a flask more than he usually would, stopper the neck so he didn’t get more than a taste of the booze he wanted to ration and make a show of drinking. Then, he’d start mumbling to slur his words a little or stagger every so often. He’d used it a few times at Tapsters to get out of paying tabs for a while longer or to get free drinks. Given he was a regular, he was surprised at how often it’d fooled people. Even Alfen.

Part of him truly did want to get drunk. Part of him wanted to drown all the unpleasant memories in ale and wine until he couldn’t think straight. Until he couldn’t remember the Meino lad or Bron or Branka or anything. Not even his own name. He didn’t want to remember any of that mess from Orzammar. But he was up on the surface now, on the road. He didn’t know when there would next be a fight, and he could hardly swing an axe around the thick of battle while drunk. He’d be just as likely to hit one of his newfound allies as an enemy. He couldn’t forget. And the booze from Orzammar would run out eventually.

It was easier to act drunk than to have to answer all the prodding and poking questions he didn’t want to think about. He was Oghren Kondrat, a washed up old warrior turned public disgrace turned exile. His whole life, summed up in one blunt, crude sentence. It was enough. Why couldn’t they understand that? Was it a surfacer thing to try and pick at fresh wounds?

Time wore on and Oghren began to get used to the myriad aspects of surfacer life. He realised over nights spent laughing around a campfire that this strange, ragtag group only poked and prodded because they cared about him.

It was more than Orzammar had ever done for him, for all the last dwarven city seemed like one big community. Orzammar had only cared about him when he was young and successful, the reigning champion of the Proving Grounds. They’d roared his name then, proud of it. As soon as his life had started to go down the shitter, the Diamond sods, Branka, Nevvin, they'd all turned their collective back on him. His name wasn’t anything for them to be proud of anymore.

The surfacers he’d only known for three weeks had come back for him in the end. Even if it was to only give him his cut of a job, but they’d wanted him to come along with them rather than let him be cast out alone and helpless on his arse. They hadn’t gotten sick of him yet, which was a good sign. They cared about him enough to let him hang around.

Maybe, just maybe, he’d found an honest group of friends after all. Ones that wouldn’t turn their backs on him or shut him out of their lives when he stopped living up to their expectations. Maybe surface life wouldn’t be so bad after all if he had others to back him up when things got rough? It was giving him a fresh start; no-one up here knew about ol’ Oghren the drunk, Kondrat the Proving Ground champion. They’d get what they saw of him, Oghren of Orzammar. No, Oghren the surfacer. Oghren the warrior? Oghren the... Something. He’d work on that later.

Maybe he didn’t have to let Orzammar decide whether he had honour and was worth something, either?  He could start life with a blank slate. No more Branka, Nevvin, Meino lad, Cairdan, no more Diamond sods looking down their noses at him. Up here on the surface where everyone and everything was too tall and water fell from the multicoloured void of the sky, anything was possible. A dwarven warrior could do whatever he wanted for the rest of his new life under the sky.