Epilogue

Their small hut, like countless others crowded near the Alienage, was a testament to a life stripped to essentials, built from the plainest materials and softened only by the barest comforts. The rough wooden frame supported walls of wattle and daub, branches crisscrossed and plastered with thick clay, dried to a gritty, uneven finish. The roof above, thatched with straw and patched over the years with bundles of dried reeds, sagged under the weight of rain and time, shielding little more than it could hold back.

Inside, Reid stood beside the simple, weathered armor stand, methodically strapping on his armor. Each piece clinked softly as he buckled and tightened it with practiced care, his movements precise despite the limitations of his left hand. It was a modest set, scuffed and dented from years of service to Master Vernon's household, but still sturdy enough to keep him protected in the city's rougher parts, where he sometimes had to venture. Leaning against the stand was a sword, its hilt wrapped in leather smooth from countless battles. Though the blade was chipped and dulled in places, it remained well-cared for, a piece of pride amidst the otherwise humble trappings of his life.

He glanced over at Elowen, sitting at the low, uneven-legged table, its surface scarred and blackened by the ash from the hearth beside it, sorting through the herbs with a look of focused contentment. "Spindleweed for ailments of the lungs, foxmint for a restless stomach, and witherstalk to prevent conception," she murmured to herself as her one good hand moved delicately, fingers grazing over the dried leaves before she held each bunch close to her face, brushing the sprigs beneath her nose to catch their distinct scents.

Having lost her sight, her remaining senses had sharpened, especially her sense of smell. Now, with a single breath, she could not only identify each herb but also judge its quality, knowing instantly whether it was fit for a potion. With only one hand, the work took patience and time, but that didn't seem to trouble her. The methodical task, the rhythm of sorting and sifting, brought her satisfaction—a small comfort in their challenging lives.

Despite her limited options, Elowen had insisted on doing something, anything, to aid with the household's meager income. There was a grace to her persistence, a resolve to contribute that Reid admired. Her work for the Sisters—assessing the quality of the herbs donated to the Chantry and arranging them into easy-to-use bundles—earned little, but those few extra coins could mean a loaf of bread or a fresh candle. And each coin mattered, with what he owed to Master Vernon weighing on him as it did. The debts from when he first came to the capital had clung to him like a shadow, eating away at his wages before they even reached his hand. Yet they had found a way to manage, and for that, he was grateful.

As Reid fastened the last strap of his armor and adjusted his eyepatch, a bright ray of morning sun streamed through the small window, casting its light upon Elowen, who remained absorbed in her herbs. Her silvery-white hair caught the sunlight, transforming it into threads of moonlight that shimmered delicately, exuding a soft glow that rendered her almost otherworldly. For a brief instant, time suspended itself, and he found himself transfixed, breath caught in his throat. How curious it was, he thought, that even after all the years they had shared, despite the scars and burns that marred her form, every time he looked at her in moments like this, she seemed as achingly beautiful as ever.

A surge of affection welled up within him, and he felt a sudden urge to be close to his wife, to feel her warmth before the day's long stretch took him away. He stepped toward Elowen, and as she heard him approach, she tilted her head ever so slightly. "What is it?"

Reid paused beside her and reached out, his fingers hovering near the luminous strands. "It's just, the light…it suits you, Wen," he murmured, his voice low, almost reverent. "You look radiant." His fingers brushed lightly through her hair, letting the soft locks fall through his calloused fingers.

Turning her face toward him, Elowen paused in her work, though her unseeing murky eyes rested somewhere just beyond his shoulder. "Would you like to kiss me?" she inquired, as straightforward and unguarded as ever.

Reid chuckled under his breath, finding her bluntness endearing, though it had once left him fumbling for words. Her directness was one of the quirks he had come to appreciate, a reminder of his wife's unfiltered spirit. "Yes," he replied, smiling, "I would."

His hand moved to cup her face, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. Slowly, he leaned down, his lips brushing against hers in a soft, lingering kiss. Her steady hand found its place on his arm, and she responded with a quiet sweetness that made his heart ache in the best way possible.

After a moment, he pulled back, pressing his forehead against hers, breathing in the soft scents of herbs that clung to her skin. He was reluctant to leave the simple, comforting intimacy of her presence, but duty called, as it always did, and with one last gentle touch to her cheek, he pulled away. "You've got me stalling here, love. I should be on my way."

Elowen nodded, her hand already returning to her task. "Be safe."

"I'll be back before dark," he assured her as he walked over to the cloak hanging on the rusty hook near the entrance. Draping the thick fabric over his shoulders, he glanced back at his wife engrossed in her work and left.

As he stepped out of the door, the cool, mist-laden air enveloped him, carrying the scent of stale wood smoke and the sour stench of excrement from the alleys. The familiar mix clung to the neglected corner of Denerim, as constant as the cobblestones beneath his worn boots. A lone crow cawed somewhere above, and he drew his cloak closer, heading down the street in the direction of the Martyr's Square. Passing through it was his best chance of reaching the Market District before the usual morning crowds made the lanes almost impassable.

When he reached the square, he stopped taking in the scene before him. Two guards were scrubbing the cobblestones around the towering statue of the Martyr of Ferelden. Blood, most likely pig's, stained the base and had splashed up onto the statue itself, where a tall man in heavy armor held a sword high, a helm shaped like a lion head obscuring his face. His shield was raised, eternally mid-guard, and even as stone, he seemed to emanate a fierce, solemn energy. Reid noted, with faint interest, the weariness of the guards, muttering to each other as they worked, red-rimmed eyes betraying their exhaustion. The blood wasn't fresh; whoever had vandalized the statue must have done it under cover of night.

The Martyr, made in likeness of Cullen Stanton Rutherford, had been a point of bitter controversy since its erection a few years ago, following the Landsmeet's decision to honor him as a hero. According to the official story, Rutherford had sacrificed himself in a final battle against a dark Magister named Corypheus—a battle that the rest of his companions, including his wife and the Emperor of Orlais, had allegedly done nothing to win. The narrative cast his wife as a delusional zealot who had bound him to her by lies and treachery, while the Emperor was portrayed as a mad tyrant, both of them reduced to mere bystanders in the grand martyrdom of the Ferelden hero.

It was a tale that had taken hold of the young generation, who revered Cullen as a symbol of Ferelden's strength and pride—someone who had stood tall against world-shaking evil and paid the ultimate price for it. To them, he was a legend, a shining figure in a land often overshadowed by Orlais and its imperious might. Reid had heard the praises in the taverns and streets: how Cullen was the true power behind the fall of Corypheus, how his sacrifice had spared the world from greater ruin. To these folk, he was a hero, the embodiment of Ferelden's grit and resolve.

But not everyone shared that view. He knew that well enough. There were plenty who despised the statue and the man it represented. Whispers of darker truths circulated through the country—the rumors of Cullen's madness, of his kin-slaying, and cannibalism. Some called him a butcher, others a shame upon Ferelden, a man who had lost his humanity long before his final stand. Those who held to these beliefs vandalized the statue whenever they could, scrawling accusations of his crimes or dousing the monument in blood to remind people of the other side of the story, the one that, in their eyes, the Landsmeet had conveniently silenced.

Reid didn't care, though—not one way or the other. It wasn't that he was indifferent to the idea of heroes or to the notion of truth. But there was too much weight on his shoulders—debts to Master Vernon, the constant grind to keep his household afloat—to let himself get swept up in the debates of dead men and their legacies. Heroes, villains... in the end, none of it put food on the table or kept them warm during winter.

Turning away from the scene, Reid tightened his grip on his sword belt and continued down the narrow streets, leaving behind the square, the statue, and the arguments of those who had time to worry about such things.

As the imposing gates of the Vernon's Estate came into view, he steadied his breath. He could already anticipate the merchant's displeasure—an unspoken storm waiting just beyond the grand doors. Vernon was a shrewd man, one who tolerated no extra expense and valued profits above all else. Yet with the world changing as it had under the rule of Divine Victoria, the costs of securing even a simple trade route had skyrocketed, and Reid knew Vernon was on the verge of exploding.

It had been nearly eight years since the Spymaster of the Inquisition had ascended to the Sunburst Throne to become Enlightened Divine Victoria, turning Thedas upside down with her radical reforms. Her influence on the Chantry and its doctrine had been profound—even blasphemous, some would argue.

Victoria had dismantled the Circle system reestablished by the Inquisitor, leaving towers empty and seals broken, with the Harrowing abolished and mages freed. No longer confined or treated as abominations waiting to happen, they were citizens—protected, with rights and a place in society that did not come with shackles. But her vision for change didn't end there. The priesthood, once exclusive and locked to tradition, now welcomed all races into its ranks. The Chantry itself had been rededicated to the principle of charity, the ancient Canticle of Shartan was restored to the chant, and for the first time in ages, marriage was permitted within the priesthood's walls.

It was more than reform. It was a new vision for Thedas itself, yet change, as ever, brought its consequences—many of them dire and more deadly than even Victoria had foreseen.

All over Thedas, entire parishes broke away from the Orlesian Chantry, refusing to acknowledge a Divine who had "forsaken tradition." Fanatical sects arose, each louder and more extreme than the last, preaching against the "heresies" of the Sunburst Throne. Assassinations became a whispered tool of opposition, with clerics and reformists alike vanishing without a trace. Amidst the chaos, the merchants and nobles who had once filled the Chantry's coffers with gold turned their backs, refusing to support an institution they believed had betrayed their ideals. Donations dried up, and soon many Chantries faced the harsh reality of dwindling resources, struggling to maintain their very existence. Without the ample support of the elite, orphanages shuttered their doors, and food lines for the destitute grew painfully short. The poor—those whose lives Victoria had sought to improve—found themselves more desperate than ever.

Freed from the Templars' oversight, mages no longer shared the unifying threat of the Circle of Magi. With their chains broken, they scattered—and with their newfound freedom, chaos followed. Some turned their powers to healing, scholarship, and defending the innocent. Others, however, seized entire towns, establishing sanctuaries they claimed were essential for protection against "peasants conditioned by centuries of fear."

In these sanctuaries, power had no leash, and the mages turned to blood magic as often as they breathed. Their bloody rituals wore the Veil thin, tearing at the boundary between worlds. Soon, the neighboring villages found themselves defenseless, overrun by abominations, demons, and maleficarum. Entire communities vanished overnight, leaving nothing but scorched ruins and twisted remains that told silent stories of horror.

The Templars, meanwhile, lacked the strength to maintain order or stop the chaos from spreading. They were tired and fraying at the edges, their numbers dwindling with every passing year. Recruits were rare—few saw any honor in a life tethered to a certain addiction, a lifetime of half-lives and early deaths in service to an Order that had become little more than glorified city guards.

The decision to open the priesthood to all races was meant to be a groundbreaking stride toward inclusivity, a bold rejection of the rigid traditions that had defined Andrastianism for centuries. But the act challenged deeply held beliefs and stirred resentment among the old guard. The backlash was swift and merciless. Riots erupted across the major cities, with furious mobs storming the Chantry temples where these newly ordained elves and dwarves served. By dawn, the sanctuaries lay in ashes, reduced to smoldering ruins, and the bodies of the non-human Brothers and Sisters lay scattered, bearing silent witness to the cost of change.

And Divine Victoria? She did not sit idly by as the world she had worked so hard to reshape threatened to shatter around her. She turned to Emperor Michel himself. With the Orlesian ruler her puppet in all but name, Imperial troops flooded the streets, sword and shield meeting any protest with ruthless violence. Public floggings, stonings and executions became the order of the day in many cities.

Meanwhile, Victoria wielded her spies with precision, sniffing out sedition in every corner of Thedas. Messages were intercepted, whispers silenced before they could become shouts. Merchants who dared speak against her found their businesses mysteriously bankrupt, their ships sabotaged, and their homes burned to the ground. Nobles who questioned her decrees soon found themselves stripped of titles and lands, entire families exiled or executed on charges of treason.

In the end, they still called her many things behind her back—heretic, tyrant, and defiler of faith. Yet none dared to confront her openly.

Reid held a personal grudge against the woman—not for her sweeping reforms or her iron-fisted cruelty, but for a simpler, more immediate reason. While bandits had always been a nuisance, they became emboldened by mages who had chosen to ally with them, unleashing nature's fury on Vernon's caravans. Lightning, fire, and even hailstorms rained down on the guards, enabling thieves to seize valuable goods. Vernon, of course, painfully aware of his dwindling finances and faltering business, directed his frustration about it toward Reid for years.

His thoughts were interrupted by the guards at the door offering him a brief nod as he passed. Inside the room, he found Vernon hunched over a ledger, brow furrowed and fingers drumming a rapid, irritated rhythm on the desk. The man didn't look up as he entered.

"I received your latest report on another attack on the eastbound caravans," the old man began, his tone brittle with accusation. "Thirteen guards dead, half the goods lost. I am starting to wonder why I pay you at all."

Reid held his expression steady, his gaze fixed and unyielding. This wasn't their first conversation like this, and Vernon's clipped manners and casual disdain had long since worn thin. "I've been insisting we hire some local mercenaries, ones with experience dealing with mage raiders. But you refu—"

"Excuses, excuses," Vernon's voice rose, a flush creeping up his neck as he finally lifted his gaze to meet Reid's. "How many times do I need to tell you that you need to figure out a way to protect my caravans without bleeding my coffers dry. If you can't handle the task at hand, maybe this isn't the right line of work for you."

What followed was the familiar back-and-forth, a dance of frustration and reason. Vernon stood firm, unwilling to part with more of his precious gold for security, while Reid insisted that he couldn't conjure miracles without proper funding. The discussion spiraled, as it always did, into Vernon promising to dock Reid's pay for incompetence and Reid retorting that then he would simply wither away from hunger, leaving Vernon scrambling to find a replacement willing to work for the paltry wages he was offering. And just as always, the meeting concluded with the merchant hurling curses at him as he made his way out of the office to resume his duties.

After endless hours poring over maps, negotiating with mercenaries, and trying—yet again—to stretch Vernon's stingy budget to cover the cost of more guards for the trade routes, the estate had quieted. Another day was over, and it was finally time to head home and find solace in the small comfort of his own space.

Yet, as he approached the courtyard, something caught his eye. He saw one of the handlers, a grizzled old man named Joran, crouched by the side of an aging mabari, his fingers tangled in the coarse, graying fur along the dog's neck. The mabari, named Bo, leaned heavily on his handler, one of his hind legs dragging slightly across the ground, his head drooping in exhaustion. His muzzle was flecked with white, and his teeth, once sharp and formidable, were now loose, some of them already missing. Bo's eyes, though still filled with life, had grown cloudy, the light in them dim as the years weighed him down.

Joran looked up as Reid approached, his face drawn and streaked with the traces of silent tears. He gave him a resigned nod. "Vernon's orders came in today," he whispered, voice thick with grief. "Wants him put down. Says a dog that can't guard his post is a drain on the estate."

Reid felt a pang of anger at Vernon's callousness, a man who saw value only in coin and utility. To him, the mabari was nothing more than an aging asset, a cost on the ledger. "I'm sorry," he said softly, his words meant for both, the hound and the human.

Joran nodded, returning his attention back to the hound. "It's not the first time I've had to let one go because of illness or age," he admitted. "But Bo… he's different. He's been with me since he was just a pup. Always at my side, rain or shine. We've watched each other's backs more times than I can count. He doesn't deserve to go like this… I'd take him, keep him comfortable for what time he's got left, but my babe has a bad cough every time she is near the hounds..." The handler took a deep, trembling breath, and in his desperation, looked up at Reid yet again, hope flickering briefly in his eyes. "I know it's a lot to ask, but could you… could you take him? He's a good dog, a good boy…"

Reid stared at the old man, his mind racing. Taking in a mabari was no small responsibility—he'd need care, time, and, more importantly, food. Coin for which, quite frankly, Reid didn't have. Their household was already stretched thin; adding another expense was an utterly irresponsible thing to do. Yet, as he looked down at Bo, who gazed back with those loyal, cloudy eyes, he realized he simply couldn't refuse. He kneeled down and placed a hand on the hound's head, scratching behind his ear. "I'll take him," he said softly. "He deserves a warm place by the fire, someone to look after him in his old age. I'll make sure he's cared for." At his words, the mabari's whole body relaxed under the touch, as if he knew he was in safe hands.

The handler exhaled, relief mingling with sorrow. He placed a hand over his eyes as he struggled to find his voice. "Thank you, Reid. I … I'll be forever grateful."

He gave the man's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "You can come see him anytime you like."

The handler nodded, offering a faint, sad smile. With a final pat, Joran released Bo, his hand lingering a moment too long, as if unable to fully part with his old friend. "Take care of him, boy," he murmured. "Take care of him like you took care of me."

The old mabari gave a soft bark in reply, and Reid gently coaxed him to his feet.

As Reid guided the hound down the winding path toward home, he couldn't help but wonder how he might explain his decision to Elowen. In truth, he wasn't overly concerned; it was almost certain she'd agree without hesitation. In all of Thedas, he could scarcely imagine a more agreeable soul. He was blessed, without a doubt, to have such a calm and understanding woman by his side—someone whose patience and grace seemed endless, even in the face of his sometimes impulsive choices.

He glanced down at Bo, who panted softly, moving with that familiar mabari dignity despite his limp. "Come on, old boy," he murmured as they neared the poorer part of the city.

In the distance, he could already make out the thatched roof of their small hut.

As they reached the door, Reid could see the soft flicker of candlelight spilled through the small window, casting a welcoming glow as the sun dipped below the horizon. He exhaled a small sigh of relief; everything was in order. The Sister had been by.

Sister Marta came every evening, her arms laden with bundles of dried herbs for Elowen to assess and sort for the following day. By the time she left, she'd collected the bunches his wife had arranged, but her work went far beyond delivering herbs. In her infinite kindness, Marta had taken on nearly every household chore, aware of how much Elowen struggled to manage alone.

Together, the two women made a team. Elowen would prepare vegetables and bring them to Marta to chop, then stir the pot while the Sister tended the fire to ensure the food cooked evenly. Sister Marta also took up the broom daily, sweeping the dirt floor while Wen wiped the crumbs and rests of the herbs from the table, making the humble hut as tidy as possible. Even the more tedious tasks - emptying the chamber pot, scrubbing the sparse laundry—were shouldered by Marta without ever being asked. And each evening, before she departed, the Sister would light the candles near the windows. In the hours after dusk, this light gave the confirmation of occupancy, a subtle yet effective deterrent against the bandits that sometimes prowled near the city's edge, wary of a home whose owners were inside.

Reid led Bo up the path to the hut, his heart racing just a little as he opened the door. Inside, the familiar scent of herbs and bean stew greeted him. Elowen stood by the hearth, stirring a pot with a practiced grace, her movements sure and steady despite her lack of sight. Her long white hair was tied back, and her face, though she couldn't see him, lit up the moment she heard the door creak open. "Reid?" she greeted warmly, her voice as soothing as ever. "Is that you?"

He gave Bo a reassuring pat before stepping inside. "Yes, it's me, love."

She tilted her head, listening carefully before sniffing the air. There was a pause. "You're not alone."

Reid swallowed, feeling a lump in his throat as Bo gave a low, tired whine, his large body shifting beside him. "Wen, I… have a mabari with me." He led Bo further into the hut, the old dog panting as he settled down on the floor, exhausted from the walk.

Elowen's left the big wooden spoon she was using to stir the stew and stepped closer, extending her hand carefully. Reid gently guided her palm to Bo's head, letting her feel the fur beneath her fingertips. She knelt beside the dog, her fingers moving with practiced sensitivity over the hound's muzzle and body.

"This is Bo," he explained, watching as Elowen's fingers traced the outline of the mabari's ears. "He's an old hound who's served the estate for years. Vernon… he ordered him to be put down, said he was no longer fit for his duties. But the handler—Bo's handler—he asked me to save him, take him in."

Elowen's hands stilled on the hound's neck, and she sat quietly for a moment, processing his words. Reid knew that though she couldn't see Bo's tired, clouded eyes or his limping hind leg, she could feel every bit of his frailty beneath her touch. "And you couldn't bring yourself to say no," she said calmly; there was no accusation in her tone, just a statement of fact.

Reid sighed, crouching down beside her. "I couldn't help it, Wen. He's a good dog—loyal, kind. I know it'll stretch our budget, and I know we're barely getting by as it is. And I should have asked you first, especially since you'll be the one taking care of him while I'm out, and I—"

She rested her hand gently on his arm, halting his words. "It's alright." She turned back to Bo, running her fingers through his fur, her touch soft. "You did the right thing."

Bo gave a satisfied sigh and settled down on the floor. Elowen rose, her hands finding Reid's arm again. "It'll be good to have the company. And besides, we all deserve to know peace in our final years."

Reid's chest swelled with gratitude as he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. "You're too good to me, you know that?"

She shook her head gently, returning his embrace. "No, Reid. I think it's you who's too good to me."

He chuckled, a soft, rumbling sound. "Then let's just agree that we're made for each other." With a reluctant sigh, he slowly released her, his hands lingering a moment longer. "Now, let me shed this cursed metal, and then, finally, we can sit down and share a meal."

Elowen nodded and let him go to unfasten his armor.

Piece by piece, Reid set down his well-worn breastplate and bracers, followed by his cloak, its edges frayed and speckled with mud. When he finished, they settled down to their meal: a thin, watered-down stew of beans, a few potatoes, and some carrots. Nothing fancy, but warm and filling enough for two people at the end of a long day.

Reid poured a bowl and set it aside to cool for Bo while they ate. By the time they'd finished, the hound was sitting up expectantly, his eyes fixed on the food. With a grin, he placed it in front of him, and Bo eagerly dug in.

Reid's smile faded, though, as he watched the dog lap up beans and potatoes. "You know, Wen," he murmured. "He won't last long on what we're eating. Hounds like him need meat."

Elowen paused for a moment as if sifting through thoughts before settling on something solid. "Sister Marta's husband," she began, "he's a butcher. Always had a soft spot for hounds, that one. Treats his mabari like it's his own kin. If I mention Bo's situation, I'm sure he'll spare some chicken necks or legs. Might even part with a few slices of pig skin now and then."

Reid relaxed, the worry lifting a bit as he nodded. He reached over to pat Bo, who was licking the last scraps from his bowl with a satisfied grunt. "Let's hope so."

As they finished tidying up after the meal, it was time to turn in for the night. Their bed, tucked in the far corner of the room, was simple and worn, its rough-hewn planks creaking under even the gentlest touch. The mattress—little more than straw bundled in fraying cloth—offered meager support, and the single blanket, once a deep hue, had long since faded, its warmth now a distant memory. But they had learned to make do, spending their nights wrapped tightly around each other to chase away the creeping cold.

By the hearth, Bo had curled himself into a ball near the glowing embers, his form seeking the last warmth of the fading fire. Reid knew, however, that as the night deepened and the embers dimmed, the cold would settle in, and Bo would feel it in his old bones. So, once they were tucked under the covers, he turned to Elowen, his voice soft. "Would you mind if Bo slept with us? Just until we can get him a good, thick rug?"

"Of course not. He needs the warmth as much as we do," she replied instantly.

Reid patted the space beside him, his left hand tapping the bed softly as he called out, "Come here, Bo."

The dog lifted his head, blinking up at him with tired, questioning eyes. For a moment, he hesitated, but then he slowly rose, padding toward the bed. With a bit of effort, Bo hoisted himself up, his paws sinking into the worn mattress as he settled down beside Reid. He pressed close, resting his large, grizzled head on Reid's side, letting out a contented sigh.

Reid smiled softly, wrapping one arm around Elowen, drawing her even closer as he pressed a gentle kiss into her hair. His other hand reached down, finding Bo's thick, weathered fur, his fingers resting there in a silent bond with the old, faithful creature who had now become a part of their small family. The three of them lay there, surrounded by the quiet hum of the night, cocooned in their shared warmth. And as Reid closed his eyes, feeling the rise and fall of breath on either side of him, he felt, in that simple moment, an unspoken peace and comfort he wouldn't trade for anything in the world.