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Theron hadn’t wanted to die like this. He’d expected it, yes, but expecting was nowhere near the same as wanting. He’d wanted to die out in the forest, perhaps with the sun on his face one last time, so his body could return to the forest and finally repay the life it had given him.
He had not wanted to die in the darkness, slumped against cold stone with a maddening song in his mind and a body that had been torn open and broken. The darkspawn were butchers, hadn’t even ensured he was dead before they had moved back down the tunnel they'd swarmed up, shrieking and snarling to each other like a rowdy pack of beasts with teeth and eyes glinting and glistening.
The ranger took a deep breath, even though it pained him. His armour was sundered, quiver finally empty. For once, he had been unable to salvage his arrows. He reached a shaking hand out, and once again traced the familiar curve of his bow, and where that curve was interrupted by a fine spray of splinters. It had broken at last, and that had been his downfall. The snap and crunch of splintering wood had echoed the snap and crunch of bone a few seconds later.
Theron coughed, and tried to spit blood. It dribbled pathetically out of his mouth and down his chin; each ragged gasp for air echoed in the cramped stone tunnels he knew, had always known, would be his tomb. He could hear his own wheezing, the bubble of fluid in his throat. Why was it taking so long? He was in agony.
He blinked heavily, face damp and streaked with what he assumed was blood and tears. When had he started to cry? Not that it mattered now. Nothing mattered now. He would die, eventually, bleeding out if something didn't smell him first. Alone, freezing cold, unable to even see his nose in the all-consuming darkness. What was the point in thinking he could survive this? And even if he did, through some Creators-sent miracle, the Calling would not fade away.
Theron closed his eyes again, the darkness unchanging. The only constant now was the song that had driven him this far beneath the earth. The so-called honourable death for a Grey Warden. He could feel his strength fading. How long had it been since that group of darkspawn had left? Seconds, hours? He felt like he’d been sat on the floor for days. There was no way to tell time down here. He had no idea how long he’d been travelling the Deep Roads for, either. Weeks, perhaps? Long enough for his rations to run low - nug and deepstalker were oh so tasteless, but he managed, even if the water tasted like metal and grit. Long enough for his flint to have finally broken. He had only his senses to rely from then on out, clicking his tongue and straining his ears so he didn’t walk into a wall or off a hidden drop as he carried on.
When the Dalish elf forced his eyes open again, there were two people crouched in front of him. Somehow, he could see them clearly, even though they carried no light with them. A woman with long black hair and a bow slung over her shoulder, and a man with a gnarled old staff. Both were elves. Theron stared at them intently, seeing glimpses of himself in them both.
“Da’assan.” The woman said, her voice as gentle as the wind in the crowns of the trees, that one word so full of patient love. She reached out and gently stroked the curve of Theron’s cheek with the archery-callused pad of her thumb, kindling the embers of memories he’d thought he’d forgotten long ago as she wiped away his blood and tears, the way she had done even to the day she'd left him.
“Mamae.” The ranger answered, even that word a pitiful struggle. He coughed up blood again, but it didn’t seem to concern either of his watchers. Theron stared at them, afraid that if he closed his eyes again that they would be gone when he opened them again. “Are… You proud of me… For saving the world?” He asked as the male elf drew his staff from his back to lean against it as he crouched there.
“Of course we are. You have led such an important life.” His father answered, voice steady, firm with wisdom and magic. Theron smiled through his agony. That was all the mattered now.
“The legend… About halla leading elves to the afterlife… Is it true?”
Theron’s eyelids were heavy; he struggled with himself to keep his eyes open. He couldn’t feel his feet anymore, but he couldn’t see them either. How could he be sure that he even had feet in the darkness?
His parents smiled at him, and his mother nodded.
“Shall we sing to you, da’assan? Your pain will end soon.” She asked, sitting down beside him. If his blood stained her leather armour, she did not seem to notice or care.
“Mm. Ma ghilana mir din’an. I’m ready.”
Clearing her throat, she began to sing. Her voice was as clear as a bird’s, resonating up and down the stone tunnel. A point of light in the crushing darkness that was about to swallow Theron whole.
“Da’len na melana sahlin
emma ir abelas,” She began, and the flow of the song blocked out even the sweetness of the Calling. His father joined in, a deeper harmony that wove through each rising note. The rush of the wind and the roar of the waterfall.
“Souver’inan isala hamin
vhenan him dor’felas
in uthenera na revas
vir sulahn’nehn
vir dirthera
vir samahl la numin
vir lath sa’vunin.”
Theron licked his damp lips, tasting blood and salt. He was crying again, wanting to sing along but unable to. The pain was too much, and he was afraid to ruin the beautiful harmony.
He closed his eyes, focusing on breathing through the pain and light-headedness as the echoes of the song slowly died away, leaving silence in his ears, and only silence. It was as if the song of the Calling had been momentarily stunned.
When he opened his eyes again, he realised that his parents were gone, and he was alone again. He could barely turn his head to look around now, but a dim glow from somewhere far to his left made him look anyway. He stared blankly at it as the glow became stronger, the deep orange of torches. Was it more darkspawn? Perhaps they would kill him, and speed his journey.
With his back against the wall, the ranger could feel the vibrations of something walking along with the light. It took him a long time until he realised he could hear the footsteps, as well as voices. Or perhaps it was seconds. Time meant nothing here. Darkspawn didn't talk.
“…to be down here somewhere! Keep looking!”
Theron blinked sluggishly, mind unable to process the accent that he had already heard a thousand times. The pain in his lungs lanced, and made him let out a weak noise of pain at last, preventing him from identifying who it was that had just spoken. He felt so tired now. The torches were growing closer; he watched the orange glow creeping towards him over the curved stone like a pale imitation of a sunrise. How long would it take him to find his parents again?
“Stop! Is that-” The voice interrupted his slowing thoughts, and Theron shut his eyes tightly against the sudden brightness of the torches that blinded him, the world switched from black to white in a second of agony.
“He’s been down here for so long in the dark… Step back a bit.” A second voice said, and the lights faded somewhat. Couldn’t whoever it was just leave him alone for a few more minutes?
He heard someone step towards him, a shocked hiss of air through teeth as they neared.
“So much blood.”
“He’s so pale. I think we found him just in time… Perhaps too late.” That was the second voice.
“Mi amor, can you hear me?”
What…?
“If he’s unconscious now…”
“Shut up! Mage - Andrew, or whatever your name was, get over here. Ahora!”
“It’s Anders. I’ve told you five times already.” The second voice grumbled, and Theron felt rather than heard the owner step closer, the pad of soft feet against blood-slick stone that hadn’t seen light in centuries.
There was an uncomfortable prickling sensation all over him, like dozens of tiny needles. The ranger tried to squirm away.
“I think he just twitched, so he didn’t fall unconscious, thank the Maker.” The second voice reported to the first, alarmingly close.
“He never did like healing magic.”
“Then he’s going to love what I’m going to have to do next…”
Pain tore through him as a fire, radiating from his abdomen and arching through his ribs and lungs as the feeling of thousands of invisible needles followed in the wake. He could feel his feet again.
“Did you really need to stick your hand in there?” The first voice was oddly shrill with tightly compressed rage.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll just let him spill his entrails all over the floor next time.” The second speaker answered, defensively sarcastic. The feeling of needles returned, washing over the ranger unstoppably. It felt like his skin was trying to crawl off his bones. Very unsettling. But it also pricked at his mind, drawing away some of the fog that had begun to settle and push the song back.
“Will he survive the journey back now he’s had the honour of your magic fingers poking around inside him?”
“we can only pray. Let me just put him to sleep, and then help me get him onto the stretcher.”
Theron managed to open one eye with a supreme effort. The world was blurred, a haze of black and orange, but he could see two silhouettes. One of them was crouched down to his immediate left, a human with one glowing hand covered in blood, and the other standing a few paces away, fidgeting.
“Zevran.” It didn’t hurt to talk or breathe as much as it had before, but he still had to cough up blood again. The person standing up froze, and then closed the distance in what seemed to be one stride, falling to his knees in the slick of blood.
Now he was closer, Theron could see that it was indeed Zevran, his brow creased in worry. The ranger took a breath.
“I saw them, Zevran. They… They said they were proud of me.” He managed to say, long past caring whether it was actually audible or coherent, and he closed his eyes with a weary sigh. He nodded once in acquiescence to the healer, and felt a second rush of magic run through him, easing him gently into a sleep where the Calling wouldn’t be able to find him, where he clung tightly to the memory of his parents’ voices and faces instead.