Anger, rage, hatred. All of it had slowly begun to simmer within him. Day by day being coaxed into the light. And it was easy. He had a surplus of such feelings. Being the forgotten one for so long. The other Hawke. The younger Hawke. Junior. Red practically seeped from his very essence with the torrent of wrath within his soul.
He hadn't always been like this. He could remember a time when he had little care in the world. But such memories grew more fleeting with each passing day. Memories fading into mere feelings. And that myriad of feelings he'd had gave way to anger. Frustration. It pulsed within him until the rage became all that he knew.
"I have a new assignment for you." He remembers Samson telling him. But even that memory is fleeting. Melding with the purpose that drives at him like a whip. Sending him onward with his fellow Templars on the trail of a mage. A dangerous mage. A threat to their master's Will.
It is cold when they find the mage. Fresh flurries of snow began to fall as they close in on their ambush. The mage is not alone, but the elf at her side provides little trouble. She is fighting valiantly as he watches from a hilltop. Left and right his fellows are felled. The name of her love cracking upon her lips. A shrill cry in the midst of battle.
The last of his fellows falls. He is all that is left. The mage is injured, favoring her left side and limping. But the fire does not disappear from her gaze as she stares him down. He raises his shield, drawing his sword and charging forward.
A battle-cry dies on her lips as he draws closer. She stops mid stride. Calls out a name that he barely recognizes. She screeches like a banshee, pleading with him to stop. To remember who she is. Who he is. But it doesn't matter. She doesn't matter. Instead he smirks, lunging forward as the steel of his blade seeks its mark. She shrieks again. This time pain distorts the words. He spins, the blade stopping just short of her neck as he finally catches her eyes.
There's something there. Something he thinks he should remember. But then it's gone. For no pleasant memories can be called back into his mind. He has nothing but his rage. He drops his shield, adjusting the grip on his sword for two hands as he reels it back again. His swings downward and his sword cleaves not flesh and bone but mere dirt and snow. A snarl of frustration erupts from his lips, but it is cut off. Dying off into a gurgle of blood.
Sword falls from his grasp, vision swimming as he tries to focus. To surface from the feelings. But all he feels is cold. The red twists and contorts; a vision of his sister blurry in his cloudy gaze. Something hot and refreshing blazes against his skin. He reaches up. No goal. No purpose. Merely searching.
A soft coo breaks the painful silence. A shush. An apology. A promise of better things to come. And then he remembers.
Sister.