This story has been in my head and in my documents for ages. I've already got several chapters written, its just the matter of posting them (I'm a mum of two young boys - time is something rare in my house!). I'm a massive fan of DA and Bioware, but always felt limited by the fact playing a human warrior meant playing a noble. This fic stars an OC - having gone through the Blight already, who was not of noble or happy beginnings. It starts in 9:33 and stars/references most DA:Origins DAII characters. I'm writing this not only to share a story, but to also improve my writing and developmental abilities.

I hope it is enjoyed. Helpful criticism is welcome. Swearing and sexual situations are found within. Bioware owns all.

Chapter 1

The sea was rough, the ship merely a piece of driftwood in the crashing waves that battered the vessel around. Eve Darrow sat in her cabin, a box of a room with a small hammock, a crate for a table and a small stool it's only furnishings. She had given up the battle to sleep as the ship, The Revenge it was called, rocked and swayed as if it were a toy in the Makers own hands, and now sat stiffly in the corner trying not to be thrown from one wall to the other, thankful the sparse furniture had been nailed to the floor.
Eve was glad she had an empty stomach; it lurched as much as the ship and anything she would have eaten would have quickly reappeared. As it was, this storm had lasted since late afternoon and all crew had abandoned normal duties to try and keep the ship above the waves and in to better waters.

She could hear the captain, Jarod he said to call him, an Antivan man in his late forties with skin like leather, eyes as black as pitch, an oiled beard he often caressed like a lover, and more gold on his fingers than crew on his ship, shouting abuse at his hadn't a clue what he was yelling, starboard? Port side? Rigs? Ships were not Eve's specialty. Not even close. A Ferelden was she, proud of it too, let the Orlesian's call them Dog Lords as if their Mabaris were something they weren't proud of. Bet they couldn't stop a Blight in a year and slay an Archdemon with an army of elves, dwarves and mages. Eve's mouth turned down as her mind led her along dark twisted paths of memories she didn't want to think about, didn't want to remember. It was all too painful. Too much death, pain, loss. Yes, an Archdemon was slain, an Architect too in recent months. She had helped people, made a difference to lives, for the better in most cases, but none of it made up for the black, empty void inside. First the Grey Wardens at Ostagar, fools she always thought to blindly follow a pride seeking King so easily betrayed by a madman who called himself friend. There were the elves and the werewolves, misguided fool of a Keeper lost in his anger allowed to grow and fester after an un-naturally long life. That trek through the forests was followed by Redcliffe who suffered under a misguided mother and demon possessed son who she was forced to execute. That blood would never truly be cleansed from her soul. Then there was the Circle, mages slaughtered or turned to blood magic. Her father, her mad, terrible tyrant Templar of a father had ranted and raved to her as a child in his lyrium induced insanity about how they could never be trusted, that mages were all abominations waiting to happen. She had never believed him, but seeing that tower, mages and Templars alike pulled apart, possessed by demonic desires, she began to think maybe he hadn't been totally wrong. But she still wasn't monster enough to kill them along with Uldred, couldn't bring herself to listen to that voice that sounded so much like her father spitting venom at her like he did when was alive. Damn him, damn the circle, damn the mages and the Templars too. She gained Wynne as an ally that day, but when she broke down in camp that night silently and alone in her tent, repressed memories of a childhood fraught with pain crippling her, she had damn near lost her mind. Except Alistair had been there. Alistair with a lonely and pained childhood of his own, with his equally skewed view of family. He understood. Didn't judge her weak tears. He listened till her voice was rough with emotion and spoke softly with her, mirroring the same broken look in her eyes when they shared stories of their lives before the Grey. He gave her friendship that she never thought she needed or could ever be worthy of. They all did, Leliana, Zevran, Wynne, Oghren, even Sten, Shale and Morrigan in their own ways. But Alistair, his memory was still like an open seeping wound only two and a half years after, he hadn't just been a friend, but a beacon of light and hope for a future in a present that was so uncertain, and later, a lover. He was the calm after nightmares of horrors that made her mute, the warm touch of another, the embrace she craved, needed, adored. But no more. Alistair the friend and lover had been slain even before the Archdemon. He wasn't dead and Eve didn't know if that made it worse, as awful as it sounded in her head. He was, as far as she knew, well and fine. But she supposed the life of a beloved King always would be better for one's health than that of a mere Grey Warden.

She still wished she hadn't let him battle Loghain at the Landsmeet, lopping of his head before anyone could tell him to stop. Forcing her to call him King instead of Anora as Queen because that stupid cow had said she'd have him executed for her father's death as soon as she took the throne. It was obvious afterwards that Eamon, little gnat of a man, had been whispering in Alistair's ear and by the time he got round to speaking to her, to Eve, the one he loved and he once said would love forever, it was all 'Sorry we can't be together, there will be expectations, I shall need heirs, Grey Wardens are basically sterile, you aren't good enough to be my wife but maybe you could be my mistress?' He'd ended up with a black eye, a fat lip and she had split knuckles and a broken heart.

All her memories of him ached, where once she had treasured the memory of his tender touches, of his support, or his love as they trekked through the dark horrors of the deep roads looking for a paragon, creeping through the ruins of Andrastes resting place for a pinch of ashes amid the mad cult of her worshippers. Now those thoughts tightened her chest and twisted her stomach. But she wouldn't cry over it. The last tears came the night after the Landsmeet, her comrades and friends had comforted her as best they could when she wasn't telling them to leave her be as she drank herself in to oblivion on some shitty liquor behind the locked door of the room in the Arls estate, staring at the bed only that morning she and Alistair had shared. But by morning, nursing a hangover the likes she hadn't seen since she'd been a mercenary, which she refused to let Wynne heal her from, she dried her tears, straightened herself out, hefted her great sword on her back and got on with it.

She got on with it all, without shedding another tear over the next year and a half. Marching to Redcliffe, talking Alistair in to impregnating Morrigan, she had drunk a lot that night. Shitty liquor again, apparently Eamon had no taste when it came to alcohol or wives. Marching back again to Denerim. Slaying an Archdemon, recovering from said slaying - Morrigan might have said a Grey Warden needn't die to slay it, but it didn't mean she didn't come away with several broken ribs, a broken pelvis, and losing more blood than she should have survived from. Being named Hero of Ferelden, a Kings Coronation, becoming Commander of the Grey in Ferelden and Arlessa of Amaranthine. Fighting talking darkspawn, recruiting new wardens, sentencing others to death. The tainted potion had no logic with whom it chose. Making friends with a fade spirit, a runaway Mage, the son of the previous Arl-come-murderer and torturer, a dead dwarf and slaying The Architect and Mother. She lost Anders and Justice both not long after. She found Morrigan at one point but not her and Alistair's whelp. She spent months overseeing the rebuilding of Vigils Keep and the City of Amaranthine, clearing out pockets of darkspawn stragglers too stupid to go back in to the Deep Roads. She avoided and ignored Alistair's letters and later his royal orders to go back to Denerim to 'talk'. She wrote once saying The King had no jurisdiction over the Grey Wardens, that they were too busy to make social visits and that he should contact Weisshaupt instead. She didn't hear from him again. Unless Varel was hiding that correspondence - Maker bless that man. Occasionally she gave in to her base desires and fucked around. She wasn't a virgin before Alistair and she wasn't a bloody Chantry Sister either. She wasn't dead, not yet. Her heart was closed off, the men she took to her bed knew that, maybe even admired that about her, and though she might be scarred, she knew she was not an ugly woman. Not even in to her middle twenties, still young, she had plenty of admirers. If sometimes her heart wished her occasional lovers were taller or blonder, with eyes like honey and broader shoulders, she ignored it.

Oghren had once said, not long before she set out on this voyage, after she had forced him into making amends with Felsi and to be the father she knew he could be to their child, that he was concerned for her. She was always so angry and careless with her life, and she should 'sodding keep the berserker bollocks to those nughumping darkspawn!' She laughed at him, clapped him on the back and told him she was fine. She pretended she didn't see the lie reflected in his drink mottled face.

Then there was a letter from Weisshaupt. Why aren't you dead? What happened? Come immediately for questioning. Come
Eve had paled at the words. Accusations. Interrogation. Alone in the Anderfels. That's what she saw in the formal overly polite words.
Fuck that, she thought, and fuck this. She was only a Grey Warden because Duncan conscripted her from the depths of Fort Drakon after a mercenary job gone to shit. The wrong man dead. Her sword bloody. So yes, Duncan rescued her from their interrogation, torture, rape, the hangman a noose, that she was destined for. She was thankful, but she hadn't asked for this, none of it. If anything she had done more than was expected of her, more than what was considered duty. She wasn't stupid, she knew if she went to Weishauppt she wouldn't come back. They'd find out by whatever means they could why she was alive, a shame on the memory of the Grey Wardens dying to end the Blights before her. She often regretted her selfish desire to live, for making Alistair fuck a woman he detested - that was surely the final nail in the coffin of the relationship they once had. But it was done, she was alive, and Maker be damned, she wasn't going to make all the regrets and loss count for nothing.

She wrote back saying she would leave as soon as she was able. Nathanial was left in charge in her stead. He wasn't happy about it but, well, he wasn't often happy about much, except maybe the occasions they shared a bed. She didn't tell him about why she was going, or about Morrigan. Why involve someone else in her troubles. Varel booked passage on a ship to Antiva, after that her travel arrangements were her own. No one had any reason to suspect she was not following orders. She was not a commander that shared her duties with her subordinates, shared her worries, her stresses. Once maybe, a lifetime ago, not now. She socialised with them as much as she could stand as the cold, hard Commander, ate with them, trained them, and mentored them. But she showed them no weakness. Only a select few found themselves in her private quarters, a tumble in the sheets would sometimes follow, but then they would leave, they knew to leave. All very professional.

She left for Antiva. The journey uneventful, no storms, easy sailing. They knew who she was in her warden armour, heavy plate with the griffon emblazoned proudly on the front. She told them she was on her way to Weisshaupt. There was no reason not to believe her. She tracked down Zevran. He had his own problems, but he did not falter once when she asked him for help. He still had contacts and ways to make things happen and she had gold. A lot of gold.
I need to die, she told him. He had laughed and recommended a poison and that they should share a night together before she took her life. She told him the body need not be hers, and agreed to the night together. Why not, there was no Alistair anymore, and Zevran had always been boastful of his prowess. He had often embellished some of his stories in camp, but apparently not that.

She didn't have enough time to feel guilty over the woman with the near enough shade of crimson coloured hair to match hers, with an only slightly more slender build, a severe lack of scars and calloused hands. Eve didn't ask where they found her, who she was, how she died. She suspected Zevran thought she would when he had told her a body was found and all she had said was 'good'. A slight frown of his brown eyes and downturn of his full lips that lasted only a moment was enough for Eve to realise that he too thought her changed. That the old Eve, the one that spared his life would have worried over a life taken in her name. But he said nothing. Zevran understood the walls people put up and why. Anyone else would have asked what had happened to her to make her so, hmmm, cold was the word a new recruit had once said thinking Eve out of earshot, but Zevran knew why, and knew not to say anything.
They dressed the girl with Eve's armour. Not the sword, Eve wouldn't let that go, it meant too much, and it was believable enough that attackers would have taken the weapon anyway. They dumped her in an alley not far from the docks. They lit her alight. Watched her burn from the rooftops.

Eve had paid a ship to take her to Tallo in the Anderfels. A long journey, a lot of gold. They were a ship that often took provisions for the Wardens, they were going to be expecting her, they were staunch Grey Warden supporters, and they would worry if she didn't turn up. A letter had gone on to Weisshaupt to let them know of her travel arrangements. They would look for her and they would find her charred remains. The Crows would be blamed. Zevran had liked the idea that he would bring those that killed the Hero of Ferelden to justice when he eventually took them over.
He helped Eve cut her long hair, sighing with every long lock that dropped to the floor. Zevran still said she looked beautiful. Eve couldn't help but stare at the scar on her face, a long line of bumpy tissue along her jawline from her left ear to the centre of her chin. Another reminder of her childhood, a memory of her crazed father trying to cut off her face because she looked too much like her mother and he thought she was a demon. Lyrium addled bastard.
'Wont people recognise your scar, ma bella?' Zevran asked, tracing it softly.
'No.' Eve shook her head, she either wore a helmet or had her hair styled so the scar was covered. Only a handful of people had seen it up close. People she would not see again or avoid. Soon she would be dead; a scar would be forgotten even if she was glimpsed.

Eve Darrow died 24th Cloudreach 9:33. Eve Thorne was born not much later. She didn't see the point in changing her first name. Apparently it was quite common now. A lot of post Blight daughters being named as such, some grown women even changing their name. Better to live on few lies and be accepted, than too many and be suspected.
Zevran said he would keep her new life a secret, he didn't try to hide the sadness in his eyes when they said farewell to each other. Eve didn't pretend not to feel it herself. But she did not cry.

Eve Thorne bought passage on The Revenge, they were going to Kirkwall, it seemed as good a place as any, there were no warden outposts there for starters.
She didn't have the protection of being a Grey Warden and Hero that she did on the Ship to Antiva. A few men tried their luck on that passage but were easily rebuffed. On Eve's second week on The Revenge rebuffing sex starved sailors was not easy. She'd given one a broken nose and another a broken hand. So she did what any survivalist would, she got close to the Captain. He wasn't that repulsive after all, he had good wine and decent stories. She didn't even have to sleep with him, and the crew soon got the message, and Eve secured safe passage for the remaining weeks on board.

A large wave hit the side of the ship breaking Eve from her reverie. Enough! She thought, enough wallowing. Eve Darrow is dead, her memories and her past are dead. Eve Thorne can be anything, she doesn't have to live in the shadow of regrets and death. She is free to come and go as she pleases. Her friends have all moved on with their lives, their mourning will be short, life will go on, the world will continue.

She smiled to herself, she told herself she was free, born again, alive. But deep down even she wasn't fool enough to believe it.