Stroud is one of the great unsung characters in Dragon Age, in my opinion. The man's entire family was killed and he stood on his honor to become a Warden anyway and spent years and years fighting the Blight and training people and generally being a bad ass, only for most of the fan-base to leave him in the Fade without a second thought. I usually leave him behind myself, because I can't stand to see a grown dwarf cry over Hawke, but still - I seriously love Stroud and it tears me up every single time. He deserves way more fan love than he gets. I wanted to write something worthy of him.

Thanks for reading!

There would never have been a happy ending.

From the beginning, Bronwen had known that there was no future ahead of them. Stroud - ever the practical one, ever the Warden - would not allow her even to pretend. It would only hurt more, he had said, to hope for something that she knew was impossible. And so she had loved him in the present tense only, never daring to think of the future until the moment that it finally arrived.

It had not begun that way. She had gone looking for answers, the solution to the cryptic puzzle that was the Wardens' disappearance from Ferelden and Orlais. With Hawke's help, she had found Stroud - a fugitive from his own order, but a possible ally. The first time she had seen him, it had been at the end of his sword. He was being hunted. He could not be too careful. He had apologized to her later in his chivalric Orlesian way, and Bronwen had assured him in her own less-formal Marcher fashion that she understood all too well. If they had left it that way - as colleagues - would it have been easier in the end?

The second time she had seen him had made them friends. He was preparing to leave for the Western Approach, to scout the ruins there with Hawke in preparation for the Inquisition's arrival. The major threat of the undead in Crestwood had been vanquished, and she had gone alone to bring him some supplies for the journey from the Inquisitions stores, one ally to another, as well as a small gift of her own. She had been carrying the bottle of strong Orlesian brandy in her pack for practical reasons - for use as a mild sedative when the odd arrowhead had to be dug from the flesh or the battle-rattles needed to be settled - but something in the back of her mind had prompted her to give it to the Warden.

"Something to get the sand out of your teeth when you're in the Approach," she had joked with him.

That was the first time she had seen Stroud smile. The former chevalier's face was harshened from years of marching and fighting in all weather and only crudely shaven after weeks of running from his fellow Wardens. His face was dark with stubble. But she had found him handsome for all of that. His blue-grey eyes were alive and intelligent and the hardness dropped from them when they looked into Bronwen's own. She had become determined to see that smile again.

It was in the desert that they had become more than friends. The depth of the Wardens' desperation and the awful, unthinkable horror that they were working towards had made the situation more urgent. While the groundwork was laid for the siege of Adamant Fortress, Hawke and Stroud had taken to working from the restored Griffon Wing Keep, and it was there - on a clear night, with the desert stretching away from them until the only separation between earth and sky was the stars - that she had found Stroud on the walls and had joined him.

"Are you afraid?" she had asked him in a quiet lull of the conversation as they leaned against the ancient parapet, the stone still warm from the blistering heat of the day, and looked out into the darkness.

"A Warden cannot afford to be afraid," he had told her, though Bronwen was not entirely sure that he meant it. He was normally so serious that, when she was able to break through his immense self-discipline and put him at ease, it was sometimes hard to tell when he was teasing her.

"Can a Warden afford to love?"

He had turned to her then, regarding her, though his face was in shadow. In a different life, he would have been only a chevalier and she would have been only a Marcher noblewoman. But their real lives were far more complicated and they could not forget that.

"You have burdens enough without taking on mine."

"Or, we could both set ours down for a little while and simply enjoy the moment together."

Bronwen could still remember the touch of his calloused hand - so gentle for a swordsman - on her cheek as if it had happened only a moment before. He had smelled of leather and the desert and the sharp, masculine scent of sweat. His voice when he spoke had been soft.

"I would love you best by telling you to stay away. There is only loss at the end of this road. I would spare you that. However much I am tempted."

In the end, however, temptation had won out. They could afford to spend little time together - there was far too much work to be done and neither of them would have shirked their duty over private desires. But it made the few moments here and there all the sweeter. And it made the work easier, Bronwen had realized, to go out and fight beside her companions with the knowledge that she belonged to someone, that there was someone for her to come back to, even if that someone was far away - even if it was only for a little while. She had given Stroud her necklace - a small silver pendant bearing the Trevelyan crest - as a token, and he wore it against his skin underneath his armor and tunic whenever they were apart. Always the chevalier, bearing his lady's favor into battle.

The night before the final push had been the hardest. The planning continued late into the night, and Bronwen had emerged from the command tent drained and on edge. Knowing she should sleep, she bid her companions goodnight and crawled onto her bedroll in the privacy of her tent with a deep sigh. But she could not sleep. Something inside of her twisted painfully - fear, but not for herself. She had waited until the camp was still before she slipped out, finding her way through the ranks of tents until she found the one she was looking for at the edge of the army camp.

Stroud, too, was still awake. At her light scratch on the tent flap, he opened it. His broad face was solemn, tired, but his expression eased to see her. He let her in.

It was rare that she saw him out of his silver and blue scale armor, but he had been dressed lightly in a tunic and breeches in the warm night. There were scars on his arms - training injuries, battle injuries, they all bled together in the end. She noted the brief glitter of her necklace at his neck in the light of the oil lamp.

Their time was too brief for pleasantries. He had kissed her, releasing the tightly curled ball of anxiety in her belly somewhat, and they had sat together in the lamplight - her back to his chest - enjoying the rare pleasure of a moment alone despite the seriousness of what lay ahead of them.

"When this is over," he had told her, finally, his thick arms encircling her like a breastplate as she leaned against him, "if we live, I will have to remain with the Wardens or return to Weisshaupt. They will have to be informed."

"I know."

"This day was always going to come, my love."

"I know."

She could hear his heart beating behind her and closed her eyes, her hands finding his large ones as he leaned his forehead against her shoulder, his breath on her neck.

"When I'm gone, if you can, find someone else to love. Do not spend your life alone because of me."

"Jean-Marc," she had begun to protest, painfully, but he had shushed her gently. The tent was silent, save for the distant night sounds of the camp. Bronwen had blinked tears from her eyes, turning in his arms to lean her smooth cheek against his rough one and wrap her arms around him tightly. "I will always love you. Wherever you are. Remember that."

They had snuffed the lamp and made love there in the darkness for the first time. Afterwards, she lay in his arms, wrapped tightly against his body, and slept until the wee hours of dawn when the camp began to come alive again. She had not cared if she was found there. Some things were more important than her reputation.

In the anemic light, she had helped Stroud armor himself. The final kiss had been too brief, but she was needed elsewhere. Her own armor and weapons waited. He kissed her knuckles, holding them to his lips for a moment, his eyes closed tightly as he steeled himself, before he released her.

"Maker protect you, my lady."

To say that the battle had been hard fought was an understatement. Though fighting demons had become almost commonplace for the Inquisition's warriors, Adamant was infested with them and the Wardens fought fiercely - as fiercely as if they battled a Blight. And in their own minds, they did. Through it all, Bronwen's heart had pounded with only two thoughts, repeated over and over like a mantra. Let us win this. Let me see him one more time.

The second prayer had been granted, as the tower crumbled beneath their feet under the weight of the dragon and her quick thinking had sent them all tumbling through the green fire of the rift instead of down to the stones far below. At least - she had thought upon opening her eyes in the murky wasteland of the Fade and seeing her companions, Hawke, and Stroud - they were together in this. Hope had kept her going, through the taunts of the Nightmare demon, through the pain of the memories that were returned to her, through the uncertainty of how they were ever going to find their way out and the knowledge that every moment meant more deaths back at the fortress. Hope and the desperate need to save the lives of her friends and her lover. And then . . .

The Nightmare had loomed up above them, unimaginable in size and terror - a colossal spider-like monster that dwarfed by many magnitudes even the enormous Pride demons that Bronwen had fought before. Venom dripped from fangs the size of ballista bolts. It rose up between them and the rift that would take them out of the Fade, blocking their only escape.

Hawke insisted on staying to cover them, drawing the creature away so that the Inquisition party could escape. Stroud insisted that it be him instead. The Wardens had caused this. A Warden should be the one to shoulder the burden. They bickered over who was responsible, and it was all Bronwen could do not to scream at them. She cast her eyes, hopelessly, over the gargantuan horror and then looked back to see both the Champion and the Warden looking to her, their faces grave. She was the Inquisitor. She was the one in charge. It was her decision.

This day was always going to come, my love .

Hawke was the one who had first hand experience with Corypheus. Hawke was the one who had enough pull with all the different splintered factions of Thedas to try and help the Inquisition wring some sanity back into the world. And Stroud - Stroud was a Grey Warden. If any of the Wardens survived Adamant, they would need someone to rebuild them. But, it did not ultimately have to be Stroud. His eyes - as blue as the griffon on his breastplate - gazed back into hers, tired, grieved, but unflinchingly, intractably determined. Her heart shattered in her chest.

"Stroud," she answered, forcing the name to be heard, though everything within her revolted against it.

Her companions were silent. Hawke shook his head, turning away sharply, a pained scowl on his face. Stroud's expression did not change. He stepped forward, his eyes never leaving her own. The corners of his lips lifted very slightly. His last smile. For her.

"Inquisitor. It has been an honor."

There was no trace of bitterness or regret, nothing but sincerity and love in his words. The last she would ever hear from him. Before she could say anything further, he moved quickly past her. She watched, desolate, as he readied his sword and charged towards the Nightmare without a moment's hesitation.

"Come on, Boss," Iron Bull had called, grasping her arm as she stood frozen, watching the man she loved for the last time as he clashed with the beast, his sword cutting ribbons through its underside as he baited it away from their route of escape. The others were running, but her feet felt rooted. It was only as the big Qunari dragged her forward, almost lifting her from the ground, that she began to move on her own. Stroud would die to protect them. She could not make his sacrifice in vain.

When it was over - when the fortress had fallen, when the Venatori magister's unconscious body had been recovered for judgement later, when the speeches had been made and the Wardens were enlisted to the Inquisition's cause, and when her duties were finally done - Bronwen walked out into the desert alone.

The sand sifted around her legs and boots and her surcoat flapped lightly in the breeze. The sweet mercy of dusk had fallen and the air was cooling. In the distance, she could see the fires of Griffon Wing Keep lighting the horizon as the stars began to peek out from the velvet night. Behind her, she could hear the sounds of celebration for the victory and mourning for the dead in the war camp at Adamant. Corypheus still waited out there somewhere, although they had struck him a hard blow. There was still work to be done. The world went on around her, though Bronwen could feel an empty stillness inside of her chest where once her heart had been. It had been left behind in the Fade, with so many other things.

There is only loss at the end of this road. I would spare you that.

Stroud was gone. She had nothing of him now but her memories, not even a body to weep over. She was always going to lose him. It was the fate of all Grey Wardens and he had never concealed that from her. But, even as her shoulders shivered with the force of her grief, she knew that she would not have traded even one instant with him to save herself the pain of his absence now.

"Inquisitor," a voice said from behind her. The last thing that Bronwen wanted was company, but she turned, drawing a mental veil down to hide the misery in her face. Blackwall stood a few yards behind her. The big man looked rough - bruised, cut, and bone-weary after the battle - but his expression was concerned. He stepped forward. "Are you alright, my lady?"

She had told no one about her tryst with Stroud. They had spent so little time around each other over all and they had kept their affairs so private that Bronwen knew that few would ever even suspect it. She did not want to talk of it - not now. It felt right to carry it in secret for while, just as her love for Stroud had been carried in secret.

"It has been a very long day," she told the Warden, hearing her voice come out even and steady, if tired. She sighed.

Blackwall crossed the distance between them to stand next to her. Of her friends in the Inquisition, he was her closest. He had been at her side for practically every mission since the beginning. There had been a mild flirtation at first, but the destruction of Haven had made everything far too complicated for that to continue. And then there had been Stroud. Her life, it seemed, was full of Wardens that she could care for, but never keep.

"I wanted to thank you. For what you did today. For the Wardens," he told her, awkwardly. She tried to smile, but knew that it did not reach her eyes.

"What Clarel did was wrong, but I understand why she did it. The rest were following their orders. They're good soldiers. It would be wrong to punish them for that." Bronwen looked back out into the desert, drawing in a deep breath. "Stroud would have wanted them to stay and reclaim their honor."

Blackwall nodded. He had been there, too, for the man's final moments. They stood in silence and watched the last orange rays of evening sink below the distant mountains. Blackwall stirred and reached for something at his belt.

"I ran into Stroud yesterday evening, before all of this. He wasn't certain he would have time to say goodbye after everything was over, as he would be needed elsewhere. He gave me something and made me promise to share it with you in his place, since I would be remaining with the Inquisition. Just in case."

The brown bottle of Orlesian brandy looked no different than it had when Bronwen had given it to Stroud back in Crestwood those many weeks ago. Her face wrinkled with the effort of stemming the tears that threatened to flow down her cheeks. It was exactly the sort of thing that Stroud would have done. Practical to the very end.

"He was a good man. Everything a Warden should be," Blackwall told her, somberly. Although he had spoken to Stroud only once or twice, it was clear that he had great respect for the other Warden. They were brothers in arms, after all. "I thought it might be fitting to use this to raise a toast to his memory."

Bronwen nodded, without looking up, and listened as Blackwall eased the cork out of the bottle with a hiss. He offered it to her.

"To Warden Stroud," he said. She took it, numbly, and lifted the rim to her lips.

"To Warden Stroud." She drank, the sweet liquor burning on her lips as his kisses once had. "Maker watch over him, wherever he is now."

She passed the bottle back to Blackwall and they stood together for a while, sharing the brandy and remembering, reminding each other that it would be worth it in the end. That they would make it worth it. At last, in the darkness, she stumbled back to camp with the bottle clutched against her stomach and Blackwall's arm slung around her shoulders for support and for comfort.

Do not spend your life alone because of me.

She would always love Stroud. She would never forget him. In her mind, he would always be there watching her from the Fade, always part of her. One day, if the Chantry was right, she would see him again.

In the meantime, he would never have allowed her to give up on her life for his sake. She would honor his request. She would let her friends make her smile and laugh again. She would allow Blackwall to comfort her when the darkness got to be too much. In time, after helping him through his own troubles, she allowed herself to love him as much as she would have loved Stroud. And when, now and then, someone noticed an unremarkable empty brown bottle sitting in a place of honor among the Inquisitor's possessions, Bronwen would smile. And she would remember.