More Dragon Age fic by rubypop. A direct continuation of my previous fics, "The Consequences" and "To Bleed the Mage." Read Parts 1 and 2 before continuing (click on my profile!).
Hunger
by rubypop
Chapter 1
She had only been a child.
Years ago, years before the Blight, before her time in Kirkwall, Hawke walked the plowed fields of Lothering. She was barefoot, against the chiding of her mother — she loved the texture of the soft, loamy soil between her toes, the cool springtime breeze that carried with it the scent of things growing. She was not an uncommon sight as she wandered the outskirts of the village alone, and the farmers always smiled and greeted her, this dark-headed child who explored with no need of anyone to look after her.
She was searching for goldberries. Her younger brother, ruddy-faced and indignant, had insisted on their existence, and dared her to find them. "The butcher's son told me so," he whined when she taunted his gullibility. "He says they grow out by the Wilds, along the city wall. Solid gold, they are. He says they give you strong magic — you go an' see, if you're so special!"
She and their sister Bethany had been delighting themselves for some time with modest shows of budding magic. At first they reassured the sulking Carver that his own magic still had yet to show, and should he wait long enough he would be rewarded, but as his impatience grew they determined to needle him mercilessly: they fired tiny spurts of flame over the dinner table, and giggled over suddenly-frozen dandelions that shattered at his touch. It was all in good fun, they reasoned, but a sense of competition was brewing, and Hawke readily accepted the challenge to find the fabled goldberries.
She paused now in the field, wriggling her toes with pleasure at the cold soil oozing beneath her feet. She scraped at the dirt with her heels, and when she glanced up again she spied a line of armored men at the village gate.
Instinctively, she ducked her head. She knew without looking that Knight-Captain Clerval was leading them. Her mother had warned them all to stay clear of the Templars, though for many years Hawke could not see why — these great armored men who kept the gates free of bandits, who stayed ever watchful at the doors of the Chantry. And kind-eyed Ser Clerval had rescued the apothecary's children from a bear (she recalled, guiltily, how she had dared them to explore the caves by the river). He'd carried the young sobbing boys back to their mother, and given her the skin of the beast itself.
But Ser Clerval was not always kind. Just weeks ago, she had awoken in the night to screams and shouting. The windows of Roland Tynham's home had lit up with flickering blue light and crackling sparks, and the crash of splintering furniture echoed through the once-silent evening. In mere moments the ruckus had quieted down, and she watched the Templars leave through the front door: one led a frail woman by the manacles at her wrists, and she walked with her head bowed and eyes running with tears. The Templar behind her carried the still, outstretched form of a man whose linen shirt was darkened with blood. When he turned to glance back into the house, the moonlight caught on the ridges of the fallen man's gaping chest — his heart had been cleaved open.
Ser Clerval emerged at last. The sword he carried was dripping blood.
He unrolled a sheet of parchment and nailed it to the door. He then signaled the other Templars and, trembling, she watched them lead the crying woman away.
The following morning, she'd stood clinging to her mother's skirts as they joined a whispering crowd at Roland Tynham's now-vacant hovel.
"'By the order of the Grand Cleric,'" her mother was reading from the parchment on the door, "'and in Andraste's name, the Templar Order declares this home tainted by maleficarum. Roland Tynham is condemned to death for the sacrilege of blood magic. His surviving assets are heretofore seized for dissemination by the Chantry.'
"Blood magic, poppycock," she scoffed then. "Roland was a good man. He would never dabble in the likes of it." She shook her head.
The Templars were marching in a solemn line from the gate, following Ser Clerval, who sat atop an enormous blue roan. Hawke held her breath in the open field.
Not long after the death of Roland Tynham, Hawke was chasing dragonflies by the riverbank. She ran with her skirts bunched in one hand, trying inexpertly to snatch a bottle-green dragonfly straight out of the air. The sky was growing dusky with the sinking sun, and despite her best efforts the river water had splashed all over her dress. Cold and frustrated, she stomped her little foot and fired a bright spark from her outstretched hand. The spark caught the dragonfly and sent it smoldering and spiraling to the pebbled shore.
She beamed in triumph and, when she turned, she saw Ser Clerval making his way toward her from across the field.
She froze. The image of Roland Tynham's opened chest flashed through her mind, and Ser Clerval's dripping sword.
He was smiling gently as he approached, taking his time. His sword rocked at his side. He nodded to her when he reached the shore.
"What are you always doing out here all alone, little one?" he inquired, and though she listened for a hint of suspicion in his voice, she detected none.
"Nothing," she said. She toed the shallow water that ran over her feet. Then, trying to sound tough, she said, "Hunting bears."
His face lit up with surprise and he laughed. "Andraste's sword, they must be running scared," he said.
Her lower lip poked out. She couldn't decide if he was making fun of her.
He crossed the shore and knelt down before her.
"Although I did see something peculiar as I was returning from my patrol," he said.
Her heart jumped. Thinking quickly, she said, "I was catching fireflies."
His dark eyebrows lifted. "Fireflies?"
"Yes, serah."
"Quite an extravagant firefly I saw then, from so far away."
She gripped her skirt. Cold river water dribbled between her fingers.
"It was a really big one," she offered.
He smiled.
"A clever tongue," he chuckled, not unkindly. He ruffled her hair with one hand. "You're one of Leandra Amell's little ones, are you not?"
"Yes, serah," she said.
"What is your name, if I may ask?"
"Marian."
"Marian. A lovely name." His hand lingered on her head, heavy and strong. "Tell me, little Marian. How old are you now?"
She thought for a moment, and counted on her fingers. "Eight," she said.
"Ah. I see. So you are almost a woman."
She stuck out her lip again. "I don't know."
"Why, you are. In just a few short years, I imagine you shall be married."
She made a face, prompting him to laugh again.
"That does not appeal to you, does it?"
She shook her head.
"Well. As do many things, that will change. And a young lady such as yourself goes through a great deal of changes during this time." He tipped his head to one side and leaned toward her conspiratorily. "Have you noticed anything — strange, about yourself lately?"
She shook her head again, slowly this time, not quite knowing what he meant.
"Have you come into any unusual talents, I mean?"
"Oh. Well, certainly." She wished, suddenly, that he weren't so near, that he would remove his hand from her head. "I can jump much farther than I used to," she said, forcing a note of pride into her voice. "All the way across the brook!"
He chuckled. At last he lowered his hand, propping it on his knee. "I see. Jumping brooks and hunting bears. You are quite the force to be reckoned with, my dear."
She fidgeted with her skirt then, and glanced at the sky. "It — it's getting dark," she said. "I've got to go home, or Mummy will be angry with me."
"Just a moment, then," he said, and reached out to take her wrist.
She dodged, sidestepping him, and when her foot came down there was a loud crunch against the pebbles. His eyes dropped, but she was already running back to the village, her heart pounding, leaving him to stare at the scorched remains of the obliterated dragonfly.
Hawke thought back to all of this as she watched the Templars approach.
She began to walk casually, trying to look as though she were daydreaming, as Ser Clerval's gaze alighted on her. She decided to hum, and felt as though a long, strong thread connected them, she and Ser Clerval, drawing them closer together. She stole a glance at him, regretting it instantly. From atop the majestic horse, he caught her eye and nodded. She quickly looked away.
They passed one another, and Hawke hurried past the line of Templars, ducking her head.
She sighed with relief as she crossed the field to the great stone wall. She paused at the first step, feeling a sudden hum in the thread, and looked back.
Ser Clerval was signaling to the other Templars, had pulled his horse to one side as they walked on. Two other Templars joined him, glancing at her.
She took off running, scrambling up the stone steps. One of the Templars shouted; she heard the thunder of hooves.
She raced along the wall, her bare feet smacking against the stones. She crossed the bridge — and heard rattling armor, heavy boots on wooden planks. She could not outrun them.
Before her stretched the Wilds — miles of wilderness and tangled brush that her mother had strictly forbidden her from going near. "It's 'cause of the Witch of the Wilds," Bethany would whisper. "She'll gobble you up, she will!"
She was ready to face any witch, if it meant escaping poor Roland Tynham's fate.
She sprang forward, sliding down a slope choked with nettles, which tore at her arms and legs. The Templars were shouting, commanding her to stop, she dove into a tangle of brambles, wriggling between the dark, thick branches.
She glanced back. They were right behind her — Ser Clerval's horse reared up at the brambles, tossing its jet-black mane. Ser Clerval had drawn his sword, was chopping now at the thorns. Hawke hit the ground and crawled away, her fingernails scraping through the dirt.
"Leave me alone!" she cried.
Hooves pounded the ground behind her. She spun onto her back and thrust both hands into the air.
Flames erupted from her fingers, sudden and hot, surprising even her. The horse reared again, braying, and Ser Clerval yanked the reigns as he struggled to control it.
"She is a mage!" one of the Templars called out.
The flames died too soon — she still knew too little of this mysterious power — and she had only singed the horse, could smell the acrid burning of its smoke-blue mane. She snatched thorns from her hair and squirmed through the brush.
"Do not run!" Ser Clerval said, hacking away the remaining brambles. "No harm will come to you, little one."
"You're lying!" she cried. She shoved herself from the ground and bolted away.
The other two Templars had burst through the brush, thorns glancing from their armor, and they gave chase. She flung a spark of flame at the nettles beneath her feet, and they ignited. She turned a corner, glancing back — the Templars had extended their hands, whispering spells of their own to cleanse the fire with ease.
When she turned back around, Ser Clerval's horse thundered to the ground before her. Her feet skidded in the dirt; he must have circled around her when she was distracted, had leaped from a rocky hillside without her even seeing.
He had raised a hand, approaching her.
"You must cease this," he said firmly. "Else you set light to the whole of the Wilds."
"I don't want to die," she said.
"You will not," he said, though he did not sheathe his sword. "We will not harm you. But you must return with us."
"Liar," she stammered. "You — you killed Ser Roland. You stabbed his heart."
Ser Clerval's face softened at the tremor in her voice.
"Mother says — Mother says the Templars hurt us. They steal away children and lock us up and they kill us. And Ser Roland . . . he never did anything wrong."
The nettles rustled behind her. The other Templars stood waiting.
"Your magic is untrained," Ser Clerval said carefully, "and new. I would not lie to you, little one: no harm will come to you. Roland Tynham was a maleficar — he was not a good mage like yourself. He tried to ensnare us with blood magic —"
"I saw fire that night," she said. "Fire and ice."
She heard one of the Templars take a step, and Ser Clerval raised his hand again, silently.
"There is nothing you can do, little Marian, save heed my words. There are plenty of children at the Circle. It is safe there, for your kind."
"No," she said. "I won't go."
Ser Clerval pursed his lips for a moment, looking rueful. He nodded then to the Templars, who went to grab her.
She panicked, flung out her arms, and the earth rumbled beneath them, shifting, and it ruptured, throwing the two Templars off of their feet. A chasm opened behind her, collapsing, as the earth gathered into a sharp spear that erupted beneath Ser Clerval.
It was a moment in time that was seared into her memory. The horse reared up, and the spear of earth caught it, gouging it between the ribs. She heard the muted thud of penetrated muscle, the crack of splitting bone. And the horse screamed — a terrible, squealing wail of agony that drove her little fists to her ears. The smell of blood hit her — so much blood, more than she had ever seen — as Ser Clerval was thrown, striking the gnarled base of a tree. The horse was thrashing against the earthen spike, its magnificent coat speckled with red, and foam dropped from its mouth, flung every which way.
Horrified, she fled, caring not if they saw where she went, wanting nothing more than to leave this place, to run until she heard the dying animal's cries no more.
Her surroundings whipped by in a blur. She did not know which direction she had taken, could not tell if she ran farther into the Wilds or would somehow find her way back home. She wondered, vaguely, if she had killed Ser Clerval, and found that she did not care if she had.
#
On and on she ran, twisting and turning through the wilderness, until the sky had begun to darken, and she could run no more. Her little chest heaved, and she shuddered with exhaustion. Scratches covered her arms and legs from the reaching nettles; mud and calluses marred her aching feet. She paused for breath by an overgrown tree and glanced around, hoping to glimpse the stone wall through the trees. There was nothing beyond the prison of wilderness surrounding her.
She squatted to the ground, hugging her knees. She would have cried, if she were prone to such a thing; but instead she silently despaired, wondering if the Templars still searched for her, or — worse yet — if they had returned to Lothering for her family.
She was unaccustomed to such guilt and dread, and they pierced her heart terribly. She chastised herself for mentioning her mother, for speaking to Ser Clerval at all. How stupid I must be, she thought, for chasing dragonflies in the first place. How could she be so careless, so childish? Was she not almost a woman? She buried her face in her hands.
Night descended with a chilling pall. She wandered aimlessly, utterly lost. She could scarcely see a thing, and was too consumed by dread to light a torch lest they see her. And so on she went, convinced she was going in circles, jumping at every sound, the snap of a twig, the buzz of insects.
She came to a cave, and felt along its lip with her fingers. The thought of sleep was tantalizing; the lure of a hiding place gave her hope. She went cautiously inside, plunging now into absolute darkness.
#
Within the cave, she smelled old earth, still water, the encroaching odor of niter.
She heard distant echoes of things that dripped, the scratching of some small creature, the hesitant shush of her own bare footfalls.
She saw a muted blue glow in the distance.
She went toward it, mystified. It was faint, seemed to come from very far away — but it was there, yes, a gentle suffusion of light unlike anything she had ever seen, save for the emissions of magic that had lit up Roland Tynham's windows.
Magic, she thought. Surely there was something for her here, some magical essence that could help her?
She took another step, and found herself stumbling. Her heel had come to rest on a fragile shelf of rock, and beneath her toes there was nothing. The rock was crumbling, her balance lost. She was falling now, and threw out both hands to catch herself, but there was nothing, nothing now, she was falling. Her shoulder struck a wall as she dropped, and within seconds she hit the ground, sprawling on water-slick rock.
She grunted and slumped down, dizzy, uncertain of how far she had fallen.
She shivered. Her palms slid against the rock as she pushed herself up. Her head pounded so loudly that she wondered how hard she had hit it — found she couldn't be sure.
When she turned, she saw two bright lights, like eyes, peering at her from the darkness.
