Title: Carry on My Wayward Son
Rating: Mature, just in case
Pairing: m!Hawke/Anders
Summary: Having been forced to choose between Anders and Fenris, Mages and Templars, Rivvin Hawke made a decision that would change his life forever .. and now, he wishes the world to know his story.
Introduction: The Hawke Manifesto
They say one must start at the beginning, and when one is telling the tale of the beginning of the end, well, the beginning is -definitely- the place to start. Still with me after that bit of head-scratching nonsense? Good. Because, unfortunately, not all of this is going to make sense, messeres. A story of revolution, love, betrayal, and politics does not always make the best of sense, you see. But, as long as someone may one day stumble upon this and take from it a lesson of understanding, then everything will have been worth it. No matter how it ends.
So, let us get to the bare basics, shall we? My name is Rivvin Hawke, and I am the Champion of Kirkwall. By the time someone finds this, I have a feeling that name and title will have become a stigma as abhorred and hated as the titles of Blood Mage, Abomination, and Demon. I assure you, the events that led to the downfall of the Hawkes was not intentional, or in any way planned by me. And let it be known, I was not a Blood Mage when Kirkwall fell. That is a heinous rumor started by a Lyrium twisted bitch who could not stand the thought of any one else being recognized as a protector of Kirkwall. Sometimes, I find myself wondering if this could have been prevented if I had never been given that Title. But, no .. this is all far larger than a simple Apostate who had the courage, the -balls- to have a life outside of the Circle and the oppression it represents! This is about the evolution of human nature, and the need for equality. This is about facing fear and having the guts to embrace acceptance, rather than hide behind subjugation.
But, I am getting ahead of myself. The reason for these .. memoirs, I guess, is a good enough word, is the hope I have that maybe, one day, people will understand the decisions I made, and the reason the existence of Thedas will never be the same again. As stated earlier, the beginning is the best place to start.
Chapter 1: Exodus
A sickly sky the color of half burnt driftwood seemed to paint the perfect picture of the emotion and turmoil that ran through our small group of survivors as we made our way clear of the city of Lothering; another mark of blackness in the tapestry of the Fifth Blight. The taint of Darkspawn had cut a swath of death and decay across the Southern edge of Ferelden, and the villagers of Lothering could feel that darkness creeping up to nip at their heels. Ever proud, ever stubborn, so many refused to evacuate until it was too late; innocent lives plucked from the face of Thedas and returned to the Maker's side all for the sake of human entitlement and the belief of ownership over the land. They could not abandon their farms, their village, even if it meant saving their life.
My family did not cling to a farm, or a homestead; we did not worry about what possessions we could drag along the dusty roads in the course of our escape. We only worried about the life left behind. My brother. The fool was far too happy to run off to Ostagar and face down the darkspawn before this could all actually be called a Blight. He saw the downfall of King Cailan, and ran for all that he was worth. He was -not- a coward! An idiot, sure .. a fool, a dumbass, an annoying pain in my backside that seemed to know every button to push to drive me into a frenzy of anger and uproar! But -never- a coward. He fought right alongside the bravest, but he was not so foolish as to die simply because he was there, and there were blades waiting to cut his throat while everyone else retreated.
Mother .. poor, sweet Mother, she refused to budge a single inch until news of Carver's death or escape reached her ears in Lothering. With Father killed by a band of thieves and cutthroats three years past, she would be damned if she left without news of her youngest. And it came, eventually, in the form of a half-dead Carver huffing and puffing to catch his breath as he berated me for not getting the others out sooner. Of course, if I -had- left already, and he managed to catch up with us, he would have demanded to know why I had not waited for him. Any action taken by me was a slight against my brother's very existence. The fact that I -lived- was an affront to him .. and yet, that never stopped me from loving him. A fool brother is, after all, still a brother.
There were four of us in the beginning; My Mother, me, and my brother and sister, twins, Bethany and Carver. My brother had studied in the arts of the Warrior. And my sister and I .. well .. we were Apostates; Mages that -dared- to live outside of the Circle of Magi, that -dared- to believe freedom is a natural, Maker-Given right, no matter what manner of creature you are! Yes, Mages are different, they carry the power of magic in their veins, but is that any reason to rip us from the arms of our Mothers and Fathers and sequester us in prisons around Thedas! No! That is as unnatural as telling a Dwarf they may never leave Orzammar, or telling an Elf they have no right to exist outside of the forests, or as anything more than a common slave! You would no sooner cut a warrior's hands from their bodies, or rip the tongue from a bard for the simple act of existing, so why do they insist on trying to lock away a Mage's Maker-Given talents! Andraste said that Magic should serve man, not rule over it .. in no way did she preach the Domination of Mages by the Chantry! But, I digress .. we are speaking of the beginning, not the end.
Once Carver was in tow, cursing and belittling me with every labored breath that squeaked past his lips, we began to run. Oh, we didn't just run, we made a bloody -art- of running! We dodged the darkspawn as if we were Grey Wardens capable of sensing their presence .. not that it lasted, of course. One moment, we were running down the winding rock paths that lead away from Lothering, the next, the darkspawn were hot on our heels, the stench of darkness and decay clinging to them as they tried to end our lives. There is a certain exhilaration in fighting to survive, in doing everything possible to retain one's life, but even in the midst of that struggle, that exhilaration, I found myself terrified that I would lose my family. Father was gone, Bethany and I were considered abominations against the Maker for refusing the embrace of the Circle, and Carver ... anger me as much as he does, he is my Brother, and I love him dearly.
Together, Bethany and I dispatched a large group of darkspawn while Carver did everything he could to protect Mother, though she was exhausted and already so mentally strained that it is a wonder my brother did not have to carry her at that point. Maybe it would have been better if Bethany carried her ... or at least allowed Mother to lean upon her, to draw upon her strength. Maybe things would have been different ... A lesson, to whoever is reading this; Regret is the greatest pain of existence. It will gnaw at your sanity, erode your emotions, and rob you of every identifiable characteristic that, well, makes you, you. Regret is a greater danger than any Blood Mage, demon, or Abomination.
We continued onward until we ran into the impossible; a Templar in the darkspawn infested paths leading away from Lothering. Now, there is something you must understand; Templars were not that big a deal in Lothering, not in the days before the Fifth Blight began. They kept to themselves, we kept to ourselves. They did not actively hunt Apostates unless they were foolishly making themselves known. And even then, the Templars usually found some way to find you help, rather than turn you over to the Circle. There were a few that were troublesome when we were kids, but they never lasted very long. It seemed, no sooner did they 'rock the boat,' than they found themselves missing, or relocated. What happened to the ones that went missing, I'm not sure. It was rumored that they were sent south to the Wilds, where the Witch of the Wilds disposed of them .. but those were just Rumors.
The Templar was a man named Ser Wesley, and like most Templars from various parts of Ferelden, he had a self-righteous stick shoved so far up his arse that he could do little more than regurgitate the mantra of the Chantry, despite the fact that my sister and I had just burned our way through a large horde of darkspawn to try and save the life of himself and his pretty wife, Aveline! He had the gall to immediately cry Apostate and when he dared step toward my sister as if he would apprehend, or execute her right there on the spot, it took all of my willpower not to reach out and snap his puny neck! Sorry, again, that is probably more than you need to know, and I am sure that it does very little to dissuade whatever rumors have begun to creep up about my hate for Templars and the Chantry, and my hand in the events that precede these memoirs. However, I am using this as an example; despite the fact that Bethany and I had done nothing more than try to save Wesley and Aveline from the horde, the Templar thought us wrong, undeserving of freedom or rights. He would have killed us on the spot, put himself, his wife, and my family in danger, simply because the -Chantry- said so.
And yes, I'll be the first to admit that I was not so .. disgusted by the Chantry part of the Templars at that point. I was still young, naive, even. Not innocent. I had not been truly innocent for so long. But, I was naive enough to think it -unfair- that the Templar could see us in such a light, after what had happened. He hurt my feelings. I know how childish that sounds, but he did, and I was more wounded than angered. I should have been pissed. But anger is something I learned later. Maybe .. maybe if I had stayed naive, stayed young, then I would not have played a part in all of this. Yeah, and if wishes were sovereigns, I'd own Thedas right now, and none of this would matter. Hope, wishing, and regretting are never worth it.
Aveline convinced Ser Wesley that the Maker understood the fact that Bethany and I were Apostates, since we had been in the right place, at the right time, to help save their lives. I wonder if Aveline regrets ever meeting me? I wonder if they -all- regret meeting me .. if they daydream of lives that never intersected with mine, that never placed them in the path of such horrible destruction .. but again, wishes and all of that ...
So, Aveline and her wounded husband joined our little band of rabble and those of us that were capable of fighting, everyone but Wesley and Mother, continued to fight our way through the seemingly unending creatures that continued to pour from the hillsides to try and kill us. We were doing really good, grabbing what we could that looked useful along the way. Yes, that's right, I am admitting to the looting of corpses, the picking of locks on treasure chests, and the gathering of herbs and what not as we needed them. It may not be the most pleasant of thoughts, but those acts saved our lives .. and I am sure hundreds of others were doing the same thing all along the routes out of Lothering. Just as I know that if we had died on the wayside, others would have picked our carcasses clean for anything that would give them a fighting chance to continue forward. And they would have my -blessing- to do so. I would rather they get some benefit from those things I no longer need, than to fall to some creatures blade for want of what they could have taken from a dead body. It is morbid, but so is life.
Unfortunately, our luck did not hold out. We had found a clear route toward the Korcari Wilds, had battled down the newest band of Hurlocks when the ground began to shake and tremble beneath our booted feet. I watched with a detached confusion as a group of rocks began to shimmy and shake, seeming to dance across the ground as if trying to escape something. In the next moment, a spittle spewing Ogre crested the hill in front of us, charging with a berserkers singular concentration, and I had never been so afraid in my life. Maybe that is why I hung back, maybe that is why my staff did not raise to begin combat. In the next moment, Bethany was there, praying to the Maker that men used to condemn us with, to give her strength. She charged the Ogre, staff raised high, features contorted in a mask of adrenaline induced rage and Hawke born determination. She was determined and stubborn like the rest of us.
The Ogre plucked her from the ground like some child's harvest doll, and the horror of warmth that smelled like copper splattering my face and clothes finally spurred me into action. With Carver and Aveline at my side, we charged. I remember the sound of swords cutting flesh, of shields bouncing off armour as the other two struggled to take the creature down. I raised my staff, cast spell after spell; ice, fire, so many elements rained down upon the unearthly bastard that had taken my sister from me, until I finally reached back to grab the only blade I ever carried. In a fit of rage and vengeance, I climbed the Ogre's body and stabbed that blade deep into it's brain, killing it as painfully as I could.
Even as it's body, now limp and still warm with the heat of escaping blood that poured from so many lacerations across it's form, fell to the ground with a sickening thud that once more shook the Earth, I could feel the emptiness spreading through out me. The Creature's death did nothing to alleviate the pain of my sister's murder. It only got worse after that. I had to turn and watch my Mother cradling my sister's bloodied, lifeless body, telling her that she could wake up again. I remember those words .. they were almost identical to the words I whispered when I knelt beside my Father's prone form three years prior, begging him to wake up, to be alright. The death of my Father was the first time I used my magic to hurt another person. I killed the bandits that killed him, and it did very little to erase that pain then, so I am not sure why I expected this time to be any better. Again, naive, almost childish.
Then the blame came. Of course Mother would look at me square in the eyes, tears streaking her weathered cheeks, and tell me it was all my fault. I had -failed- to protect my Sister .. -I- let her die. I could have been faster, stronger, BETTER. In that moment, the first seed of adulthood had truly begun to take hold. In that moment, I learned guilt, regret, and blame. My shoulders sagged with the burden of death, of loss, and the knowledge that it was all my fault. Silently, I bore that accusation, my young heart taking it as the sort of irrefutable fact only a Parent can speak. Mother said it, therefore, it was true. I was a failure. I had the cheeks and hands dipped in blood as further proof.
But grief was not a luxury we could afford at that moment. Bceause they were still coming, swarming around us in a sea of churning, undulating monsters. Their blades were held high, their bows threaded, arrows ready to fly. And if this has in any way seemed surreal up to this point, it's about to cross the line into absurd; that does not make it any less true. Out of nowhere, a High Dragon swooped down, the smell of sulfur and ash descending upon us mere moments before flames shot from it's gaping maw, incinerating the darkspawn that waited to rip us apart. The aroma of burning flesh that had long since gone rancid with the Taint made me sick to my stomach, but I did not care about that at the moment. The only thing my exhausted mind could afford to consider was if the creature was friend or foe. Rational thought, right? As if! One did not count a High Dragon a friend, even in the tamest, best of circumstances. But I still found myself trying to decide if it would be friend or foe. Imagine my surprise, and the blow to an already half-insane mind, when that Dragon become an attractive older woman with hair like horns and eyes the most amazing color. They seemed to penetrate straight to the soul and somehow deduce my every secret without hesitation. She frightened me .. she excited me, something I had never really felt before, and at that moment, I think I would have gladly thrown myself to her feet and offered her anything she wished, if she would simply take me away from there. And my family, of course. I would always seek their safety before chasing my own happiness. Maybe the love of my family is the only reason I never fell to the curse of Blood Magic, why I never listened to the seductive whisperings of the Demons that haunt the Fade. They were once my only strength.
We left Bethany's body where it fell, we all stood back as the Dragon introduced itself as Flemeth, and made a deal to transport us away from the darkspawn, for the returned favor of delivering a talisman to a Dalish tribe that lived close to Kirkwall, the city of my Mother's ancestors, the Noble Amells. I had no choice; this strange Witch was the only one who could help me save the remainder of my family, so we agreed. I still remember how it felt to climb upon her back; the feel of her rough, leathery scales against my cheek as I lay it upon the joint of her wing. I was clinging to her back, Mother and I between her wings, Aveline settled across her neck. I could feel the power of her lift off straining against the wing joint, snapping the wing membrane taut as she caught a current of air and rode it toward our destination. It was magical .. and it was ominous in some way. The excitement of being airborne was destroyed by some dire portent that tugged at my every instinct before suddenly disappearing and leaving me in awe of the journey before us.
I remember the stench of burning darkspawn flesh mingling with ever green trees and the heady scent of wild flowers that sprouted below us as we sailed across the skies. For one, single moment, I could forget the fact that I was an Apostate that had just lost my sister, who was also my best friend, that was considered a failure that had -allowed- her die, as far as my Mother was concerned, and that my brother, my only other sibling, would have rather -I- died, because it would mean he would no longer live in my shadow. Such wonderful, brotherly love.
The journey seemed far too swift, the pain of having to climb off the Dragon's back brought a sense of loss that seemed far greater than the loss of my sister; of course, that was just because shock had still dulled my senses to the fact that I would never again see Bethany smile, or chide her for casting a spell when she knew how dangerous it was. Eventually, I would come to understand just what I had lost that day, and it would be the beginning of the hardening of a once open, loving, and -forgiving- heart. Maybe, if the blight had never happened, I would have remained in Lothering, and none of this would have happened. Or, maybe, it would have been worse. None of us could have anticipated the course that justice would take.
The end of our journey with Flemeth was abrupt, and left us standing a little ways from a small port town where we hoped to pay for a boat it Kirkwall. None of us were hopeful, of course. So many refugees were probably fleeing to Kirkwall as well, and for the moment, we were nothing more than a few added bodies in a time of sorrow and exodus.