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He can barely remember how peace of mind feels like. Hour after hour, day after day there is the Anvil, and screams, and lyrium. Underneath all this is the soft song of the Stone, proud of her children, and lamenting their sacrifice all at once. It's less comforting than it used to be.
He always asks twice if they understand what they consent to. They always say yes.
They never do.
At first there was enough volunteers to fill the forge three times over. Young and old. Warriors, merchants, artisans, servants, castless. All ready and willing to give up themselves for the victory, for their king, and for their kinsmen.
He talked to them all. He learned their names. He filled their mouth with lyrium and forged their bodies into weapons. He send them off to be the wall against the tide of darkness threatening to swallow them all.
Each day he sits down and adds more to the list, making sure their names will be remembered, even after he makes them forget.
Sometimes when he enters home at the end of the day, it feels as if he goes back in time. Before the screams, the lyrium, the blood. It is quiet, the air feels lighter and sweeter without the smoke of the forge. The Stone's song is different, too. Gentler. Kinder. Reminding him that in here, he is protected from the darkness. That in here, he is safe.
The first time he meets Shayle of house Cadash, they're young, ambitious and ready to do whatever they can to show the world their worth. The Blight is flooding the Deep Roads. Darkspawn's threat is a constant noise in the background, falling thaigs and lists of casualties too terrifying to not become deaf to it. But they are young enough to believe themselves immortal, so they laugh, and drink, and dance.
Every year their group of friends gets smaller, and they begin to understand why their parents know funeral rites by heart.
Neither of them knows, how to do things halfway. They give themselves fully to the crafts they were born to pursue. Shayle takes up the axe he made for her at the beginning of their courtship and cuts herself a path to the king's guard. He locks himself in the workshop and forges the impossible. He tells no one what the price is. He knows it will be worth it, when she smiles, proud and hopeful.
"Only volunteers," he repeats over and over, when the victories begin to make their king grow greedy. In his mind he can see the army king envisions, the victories and the lives saved, but he hears the soft, mournful song of the Stone and sees Shayle's sharp eyes. "Only volunteers."
It should not surprise him, when one day she is waiting in the workshop. He knows she is right. He hates it.
That night he stays by the tablet, writing her name with all the care only guilt and grief can lend. He looks away as what used to be her is leaving the gates, leading another grand battle, giving them another victory.
Then there are orders and blood, there is no peace, no home. The Stone mourns with him and hates with him, and never lets him forget. In the end, when he sees what they intend, he is almost grateful, hoping for the respite, for the peace of the end.
There is none.
He is not sure how much time passes before she finds her way back to him. There is no reunion, no joy, no memory. There are mortals searching for the Anvil, speaking of kings and blights, but the world matters little to him after all this time. All he knows is that Shayle is no more, but in the lyrium-shine of Shale's eyes he sees the same sharpness and he is at peace. Not all mistakes can be fixed, but maybe some can.
"You have my eternal thanks, stranger. Atrast Nal Tunsha. May you always find your way in the dark."