A/N: This was written for the prompt 'Misguided' from the BSN Anders Prompt Group. Written with my canon Hawke in mind, and inspired by the letter scene from V for Vendetta. My brain went off on a bit of a tangent here, but it's still mostly relevant, I hope!

Remember, Remember

He hit the floor of the cell hard as he was roughly shoved inside, scraping hands and knees. That was surely going to leave a mark. He turned back to face the templar who had dragged him here for his latest offence – disrupting Sister Tabitha's incessant preaching about how magic is a curse placed upon those deemed unworthy by the Maker with a well timed fireball to her skirt – and stared defiantly up at the armour clad man. Although he tried not to show it, the templar cut an imposing figure from this angle, tall and broad as he was, framed in the light from the doorway, his face cast in shadow.

"Just be glad you're new here filth." The man spat. "Let's see how you feel after a week or two in here. Bet you won't be so cocky then, eh?" The templar kicked his leg for good measure, then slammed the door shut.

The cell went dark as his eyes tried to adjust to the gloom barely lessened by the tiny window in the top left corner, and he heard the soft click of the lock. So this was to be his life for the foreseeable future. Wonderful.

After days of nothingness he began to pace, just to give himself something to do. He was already beginning to lose track of what the time was. He kicked out at the wall in frustration, and it was strangely loose where his foot made contact with it. He bent down to investigate, heart leaping in his chest at something new to occupy his thoughts. As he pulled a brick free of the wall he heard a strange scratching sound in addition to the scrape of the masonry. He lifted the brick and found a neatly folded piece of paper. A spell to get him out of here perhaps? He hastily opened the parchment and held it up to the scant light from the window. It was a letter, written in small neat script, and on closer inspection, in blood. Not something from a conventional spell book then. His curiosity piqued he began to read.

I know there is no way I can convince you that this isn't a trick, but I don't care. I don't know what is going to happen to me, and I wanted to tell someone my story.

I am the daughter of Thedas' most infamous apostate and the Champion of Kirkwall. Not that you would know who they are, as the Chantry would like to believe that their legacy died with them.

Father was a revolutionary, enraged by the notion that mages are damned by default of birth, and constantly fighting for freedom from the shackles of the Chantry. He was also an abomination, merging with a spirit of Justice, which focused his resolve. Mother came to be a woman of some means and influence in the city of Kirkwall, she saw past the monster to the man within, and coming from a family of apostates, was sympathetic to his cause. It was inevitable that they fell in love.

It was they who were responsible for the destruction of the Chantry in Kirkwall, despite what any revered mother might tell you. However misguided their actions, they sent out a message to the rest of Thedas – that mages wanted their freedom.

As the Circles rose up against their oppressors my parents went into hiding. I arrived some years later. Despite the war raging around us, I remember my childhood fondly, coming into my power with a gentle teacher and loving support. I was lucky.

But after more than a decade of fighting, people became more desperate. Blood mages ran amok, and many mages, not knowing how to live outside the Circle used their powers for ill. The general populace rose up against them. Without the support of the people many mages lost heart and then it was easy for the templars to subdue them. Gradually things returned to the way they had been for the last thousand years, except this time the Chantry would take no chances. Mass unmarked graves are all that remains of the great mage rebellion.

I loved my father dearly. But he would have been horrified by what followed in the wake of the war he started. I am glad he is not here to see it. He was killed, executed, by the Prince of Starkhaven no less. A former brother of the Chantry who forced father to his knees as he begged for my life, forced mother to watch as the man she loved was cruelly beaten, before aiming at the base of father's skull and loosing his 'righteous' fury. Proof, if any were needed, that one need not be an abomination to exact bloody vengeance upon those we feel have wronged us.

Mother and I managed to remain hidden for many years after that man took father away from us, although she was never quite the same. But eventually mother's luck ran out, and Chantry Seekers followed her home. They took us away, separated us, locked me in here. I don't expect I shall ever see her again.

So this is my confessional, in the hope that you will take what you have learned and share it. The Chantry, the Templars, they do not want anyone in this place to know what happened. Although I cannot condone my father's actions, I also cannot deny the need for action. If the Chantry thinks it can continue to enslave generations of people who have committed no crime, save that of simply existing, with no repercussions then they are sorely mistaken. A time will come when they can contain us no longer.

Mage children will continue to be born. They can lock us away, strip away all that we are, until the tiniest flicker is all that is left. But within that flicker lies hope, and the desire of all beings to be free, to live and love as we choose. For believe me when I say, that even though I do not know you, you are my brother, my sister, my friend, and I love you, with all my heart.

I love you.

Valerie Hawke

He clutched the letter to his heart as he finished, hot tears making their way down his face. In the days which followed the letter, kept carefully and lovingly folded in an inside pocket, was the only thing which kept away the whisperings of demons prickling at the edges of his thoughts.

Nearly three weeks after he had first been imprisoned the door opened, and he was almost blinded by the light which flooded his cell. He was pulled out, marched down a corridor, and after being checked over by a senior enchanter, dumped unceremoniously back into his dormitory.

At the earliest possible opportunity he made his way over to a group of apprentices he knew had all had run-ins with the templars in the past. They didn't seem inclined to talk to him, he assumed because he had been so recently released from solitary, as they turned away from him. He walked up quickly and grabbed one of them by the arm so that they couldn't ignore him.

"You don't happen to know of someone called 'Hawke' do you?" He asked.

"Not personally, no." Said the older boy, eyeing him, and the room warily. "She's over there." He pointed to a tall woman reaching to pull a book from a high shelf in the far corner.

Her coppery-blonde hair was tied back in a neat pony tail, and she was so thin as to be almost waif-like. As he made his way over to her he noted the collection of bruises along her slender wrist. She succeeded in her task as he drew level, and noticing his presence she turned to him.

"Hello, may I help you?" The voice which escaped her lips was not what he had expected - eerily calm and placid. Bright green eyes set in an ageing face regarded him with a glassy stare, dulled by the angry red sun upon her forehead.

The letter in his pocket had ignited something in him, and now that he looked upon this woman's tranquil face it was ablaze in his heart.