Note/Disclaimer: this is the first of a bunch of old DA2 shorts I've decided to post. Sorry for absurd amount of line breaks.
I don't own Dragon Age.
He's born on a cold winter night, to young and unprepared parents.
They never stay in one place for long.
He doesn't question it.
It's been that way for as long as he can remember.
He's four when the twins are born.
He doesn't really know what to make of his new siblings.
He refuses to believe he was ever that small.
He's eight when it's discovered he has magic.
A spark of anger, a rush of energy, and flames begin to eat at the hem of Mother's dress.
She screams in surprise and fear, and he realises with shock what he's done.
He runs.
He doesn't look back.
He doesn't hear Mother call his name.
Father finds him cowering behind a tree, and tells him that he is not alone, that there is no shame in it, that the templars won't come.
He can see the fear and sadness in Father's expression.
They leave the next day.
He's eleven when frost creeps across Bethany's room and spreads throughout the house while she's in the grips of a nightmare.
She's in tears.
Father seems resigned.
They leave again.
He's twelve when they move to Lothering.
The village is small and quiet.
His parents say they will stay here.
He doesn't believe them.
A templar almost finds them.
He expects to leave.
They don't.
Carver wants to join the templars.
He can't see it as anything but a slight against their family.
Nothing has felt as satisfying as his fist connecting with Carver's jaw.
Bethany begs them to stop, but he doesn't care.
Father has to pull them apart.
They've lived there for five years.
He finally feels confident enough to reach out a little.
He's seventeen when he makes his first real mistake, it's almost catastrophic.
Father berates him for hours – he must be more careful, he must keep it under control, or he will jeopardise the stability they've worked so hard for, and Bethany and Carver deserve better.
He bristles at that; after all, where was the concern for stability when he was young?
It's one of their worst fights.
He's nineteen when Father gets sick.
He knows what it means, how it will end.
Mother can't stop crying.
Bethany retreats to her room, barricading herself inside.
Carver furiously punches a wall before storming out.
There's nothing he can do.
There are some things even magic can't save you from.
Father asks him to look out for their family when he is gone.
It's a promise he doesn't want to make, but he does.
Father dies with the faintest of smiles.
He goes to his room, and closes the door.
He isn't ready.
He's twenty-two when Carver leaves for Ostagar.
He's scared, but won't admit it.
They all are.
The village evacuates.
They don't leave, not without Carver.
Waiting is agony.
Against all odds, Carver returns to them alive.
They immediately plan to leave.
They aren't fast enough.
They've lived there for ten years.
It destroys him to leave.
He knows they won't be coming back.
He watches on helplessly as an ogre grabs Bethany and slams her repeatedly into the ground, before carelessly tossing her aside.
Mother snarls at him for not protecting her.
He keeps his head down and remains silent.
He doesn't argue.
He knows that she's right.
The darkspawn charge again, and they're forced to abandon Bethany where she lay, broken and bloodied in the dirt as they flee for their lives.
He never forgives himself.
The storms don't let up as the ship rocks perilously from side to side.
All that effort to escape certain death, only to die here.
He would laugh, if he weren't so busy silently cursing fate.
Kirkwall is filled with the scared and desperate, having spent all their remaining coin to get here only to be turned back.
He hates how they're being treated.
He hates understanding why.
The smuggler smiles as he hands her the owed coin.
She's convinced he's worth it – after all, it's not every day she's offered an apostate's services.
He gives her a forced smile as bile wells up in his throat.
He's twenty-three when he's finally cut loose from indentured service.
There are more templars in Kirkwall than he's seen in the rest of his life combined, and he doesn't have anyone to protect him anymore.
Paranoia begins to gnaw at his mind.
Bartrand Tethras glares up at him; it seems to take all the dwarf's self-control not to spit at his feet before storming off.
He isn't deterred.
He needs this expedition.
Varric Tethras quirks his eyebrow and gives him a sly smile while cheerfully offering an alternative that reaps a far greater reward.
He agrees.
He needs this expedition.
He falls into a familiar routine; taking odd jobs wherever he can, occasionally picking up strays who become friends along the way.
They're a strange bunch, but the camaraderie between them is undeniable.
He hasn't been this happy in a long time.
The Deep Roads are endless, and he's trapped in them.
He can't tell what he hates more; the winding passages, the darkspawn constantly snapping at their heels, the dwarf who betrayed them, or the fact that he should have seen this coming.
He wonders if he's ever going to see the sun again.
Carver's dying.
For so long, that's all he can think about.
Carver's dying.
He's going to lose him, just like how he lost Bethany and their father before her.
He'll be damned before he lets that happen.
The Warden watches him, arms folded, with an expression of pity and exasperation.
Carver sags in his grip, barely able to remain standing.
It isn't a mercy.
If the boy comes, he comes now.
It's quiet, without Carver.
Letters are few and far between, but at least he still gets them.
He treasures them.
He's twenty-six when Mother shuffles towards him before her strength fails her and she collapses, broken, into his arms.
There's nothing to keep her alive anymore.
Part of him is almost glad.
She fears for him, but she's at peace.
He wants to die.
Isabela is gone.
He isn't surprised.
The Qunari's attack on the city is swift and concise.
He barely escapes with his life.
For a moment, he considers fleeing the city, but it's only for a moment.
He already ran once.
He refuses to do it again.
Isabela comes back.
He is surprised.
The Arishok stands before him, tall and proud with his blades drawn, loudly declaring that if he refuses to hand the thief over, there is only one way to settle the matter.
He grips his staff tightly, fully aware that he's throwing his life away for the sake of a friend.
He isn't afraid.
He has nothing left to live for.
The Arishok is dead, the Qunari defeated, the city saved, and a Fereldan apostate is crowned the Champion of Kirkwall.
Isabela is silent and closed off.
He's glad she came back.
She thinks he's reading too much into it.
He's twenty-nine when he's roped into a tense political debate.
The entire city seems to be divided, with his being the deciding vote.
He doesn't want to take sides.
He knows the real trouble is only just beginning.
The arguments grow increasingly fanatical.
Both sides are getting desperate.
He hates how mages are treated.
He hates understanding why.
He watches on in horror as a huge plume of fire erupts and the chantry is decimated.
Anders stands there with a triumphant smile as the grand cleric dies, and all chance for peaceful compromise is removed.
Nausea claws at his gut as the city falls.
Freedom isn't worth this.
Nothing is worth this.
Blood pools on the ground as Anders breathes his last.
It's more than what the grand cleric and everyone who'd been inside the Chantry with her got.
After everything that was done, it's more than Anders deserves.
He hates himself for it.
The mages balk as Orsino falls to madness.
He carves his way through the templars who would kill them simply for existing.
He feels like the only sane one left.
Meredith barks at her soldiers, ordering them to attack.
They don't respond.
She lashes out with unbridled fury, expecting him to accept death at her hands.
He is the only sane one left.
He's lived there for seven years.
He doesn't look back as he leaves it all behind.
He's walked away from too many burning wastelands for one lifetime.
He watches on as, one by one, his friends peel off and return to their lives.
He wishes he could do the same.
He's thirty-three when he finally comes out of hiding.
The Herald of Andraste looks at him with tired eyes, and they exchange a knowing glance.
The Nightmare looms overhead, sneering down at them, taunting them with everything they've ever feared.
He isn't afraid.
All of his worst fears have already been realised.
He staggers as he is thrown from the realm of dreams and his feet hit solid ground once again.
No one really knows what just happened.
He feels numb.
It should have been him.
He's thirty-six when the familiar sight of Kirkwall greets him.
He's tired, but he's finally home.
And that, just in and of itself, is something to live for.