1. that you were here
Bethany first realizes that her life is about to change when she leaves Lothering's Chantry.
With Carver gone, Bethany finds herself more often than not in the Chantry. She comes to pray, to listen to the Chant, and simply to sit in quiet contemplation. Or, and this is more likely, she'll venture out into the gardens of the Chantry, looking for Sister Leliana.
Having only ever known the countryside of Lothering, Leliana's stories of courtly intrigue, brave knights, and faraway countries are all terribly exciting to Bethany. She listens, frequently with bated breath and what feels like millions of questions on the tip of her tongue, to each. Leliana is patient with her, sweet, and she smiles brightly whenever Bethany interrupts her to ask a question.
She tries her best to remember each story that Sister Leliana tells her perfectly, so that she can retell it later that night at the dinner table. Even if he scoffs about her stories, Carver always lets her finish and Gareth is always an attentive listener; he asks her questions when she stumbles, waits patiently whenever she has to pause to remember a detail or gather her thoughts. Their mother smiles at the stories, sometimes contributing one or two of her own – usually from the early days of her marriage to their father.
She misses Carver terribly. It's strange, Bethany thinks, to be without her twin. When they were small, they had been inseparable, even when they grew older and Carver took to nailing her braid to her bed. It had always been the two of them; never seeing one without the other. She keeps hearing Carver's voice. In the dead of the night, the sound of him sitting and sharpening his sword in front of the fire; him and Gareth talking in soft voices late into the night.
Their home feels empty with Carver gone. Bethany hadn't thought that she would miss him so much, but she does.
Bethany keenly feels Carver's absence today. It's market day and usually Carver is the one whom she accompanies into the village. With him gone, Gareth had stepped in as her escort and the errand runner. He's gone to haggle with someone over the price of… something. Bethany hadn't been interested in it, so she didn't care. She'd left Gareth in the marketplace to sort out whatever needs to be done and made her way to the Chantry.
The first sign that something is wrong is that Sister Leliana is not in the Chantry. Or its gardens.
She asked the other initiates, but none can tell her where she is or where Bethany can find her. When she leaves the Chantry, she feels a little more lonely.
Leaving the grounds of the Chantry, she nearly walks into a small crowd of villagers gathered there.
Bethany arrives to hear the last of the whispered conversations.
"–heard that they demanded Arl Bryland and his men to march with them."
"What are we to do now?"
Rolling onto the balls of her feet, Bethany peers over the assembled villagers. She catches sight of a gleam of armour and her stomach flip-flops. Carver?
But scanning the passing troops nets her nothing. If Carver were there, he wouldn't be marching through their village, ignoring the calls from people as they ask what's wrong, for news of Ostagar. He would be assuring them, answering their questions, and searching for his siblings in the crowd because of course they would be there.
Carver isn't here.
Bethany's stomach drops out. The dread is slow to sink in, a chilliness that seeps into her blood and creeps through her body. She glances away from the column of soldiers, gaze flickering quickly through the small gathering area that constitutes Lothering's marketplace. Her heart beats rapidly against her ribcage. Where is Gareth?
She spots her older brother across the way. His face looks bloodless, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape. He looks around, spots her; Bethany sees his shoulders sag with relief, the way his lips press into a line, and that's the confirmation: something is very wrong.
The last of the column passes through, nothing but a few wagons in their wake, and for the briefest stretch of time, there's an unnatural stillness in the market. It's as if the entire gathered crowd is holding its breath, waiting; Bethany's certain that the tension is palpable. She can't move, petrified to the spot.
Everything starts moving very quickly.
Someone lets out a horrifying, broken and high-pitched keen of a wail.
The crowd breaks apart, like a stepped on ant hill. People rush in every direction, running into each other. Children are crying. In the distance, Bethany hears someone calling out for their husband, their family. The noises all bleed together into a horrible maelstrom of sound.
Jostled by the crowd, Bethany finds herself near what was once the butcher's stall. Sim, however, is nowhere to be seen, but she can hear the loud, cacophonous cries of his chickens along with the wailing of one of his children.
She looks around, trying to spot Gareth, but the crowd pulses back and forth. She can't see him.
"Gareth!"
Bethany tries to push her way into the crowd, crying out her brother's name, but she can't force her way in. She sprawls to the ground, someone having pushed her . Her hands sink into the mud, stifling the sparks that shot out of her fingertips. Her magic always bubbles to the surface when panic sets in. Control, she remembers from her father's lessons; breathe deep and control it.
But she can't find Gareth!
She struggles out of the mud, dragging herself. It keeps sucking her hands back in whenever she tries to push herself up. Her breath shakes as she draws in one breath, than another; each one is let out in a chattering exhale. Even in the late summer heat, Bethany feels cold. She can't stop shaking.
"Are you alright?!"
Warm, callused hands close around her upper arms and Bethany lets out a sob. She throws herself against her brother's chest, clings tightly to him, and hiccups. She has to keep telling herself to keep breathing as she clings to him.
"Where's Carver?" Bethany manages, at last. Her voice shakes, sounding small and childish as she asks. But she has to know, has to hear it from Gareth because that will make it real.
Gareth looks as afraid as her, only hiding it better. The corner of his mouth trembles as he looks her over, hands cupping her face and tangling in strands of her hair. Bethany doesn't care; Gareth's here and that means that everything will be fine. Even if Carver isn't here, Gareth's always protected them both.
"He's not here," Gareth replies. He glances back, at the crowd that's rapidly dwindling as everyone rushes back to their homes, then looks back to her. His mouth is now set in a firm line, "We need to get home; mother will need to know."
Bethany nods, stumbles to her feet, and leans into Gareth's chest. She clings to her brother's arm, the same way that he clings to her hand. The two of them run from Lothering, huddled together and stumbling, and begin the long journey back to their home.
With her breath burning in her lungs, Bethany can't shake the feeling that everything is about to change.
They don't run the entire stretch of muddied dirt track, but it's a close call. Bethany's not certain why there's urgency burning deep inside her gut; only that it drives her feet to move, as though she's lit a fire in her boots. She grips Gareth's hand, her palm slick with sweat, and swears that she can feel the hammering of his pulse against hers.
Her lungs are burning from exertion and something she's too afraid to name by the time their house comes into sight. Not even the sight of its familiar door, or of smoke rising from the chimney, is enough to calm her.
No. Instead, it's terrifying in its familiarity. Each timber, each line, is one that Bethany knows by memory. She's traced the lines in the wood with her hand; there's a burn against the back door that she caused once during practice. All of it is all that Bethany has ever known. It is home.
It offers her no comfort now.
Their mother looks up when they practically fall through the door. Gareth closes it behind them, sliding the little used bar into place to keep it locked. From his place at the fire, Waffles cocks his head up, tilting it towards them. His mouth falls open, tongue lolling out. He sobers quickly, climbs to his feet, and approaches them.
Bethany's hand feels cold, clammy, and empty when he lets go of it. She blinks, sways on her feet. Waffles nudges her hand, making a soft huffing noise as he does.
"You're back ear..." Their mother's smile falters when she sees them, her voice petering out. Her eyes flicker from Bethany's muddied hands, their red-faces, to Gareth's; with each image, her confusion grows. "What's happened?"
"Teryn Loghain's men just marched through Lothering," Gareth replies. His voice only has the barest tremor to it. "The rest of the army was nowhere to be seen."
"No. No! That can't be! Carver, he – you're lying!"
Bethany remembers how their mother crumpled to the floor when their father fell ill. She'd simply fallen to her knees, weeping into her hands. It had taken time, before she'd been able to stand again. After that, she hadn't left their father's side. When Gareth's and her magic failed to cure him, their mother had sunk further and further into her sorrow, saying nothing to any of them. Even when he'd finally passed, in the dead of the night, she wouldn't leave his side until he was finally taken to the pyre.
After that, she had always seemed slightly… distant. It was as though their father had taken a small part of her with him to the Maker's side. And while the grief might have lessened with the passage of years, their mother never was the same again.
Gareth steps forward, lays a hand on their mother's shoulder, "It doesn't mean that Carver's – we'll have to wait. Whatever's happened, we'll get news soon. I'll go back into Lothering tomorrow and see what everyone's saying; but… we should be prepared."
Prepared for the worst. Bethany finishes her brother's sentence in her head. It sends a chill straight down her spine. She bites her lip, clasps her muddy hands together, and sends a silent litany of prayers to the Maker.
Carver cannot be dead. She prays and prays that he'll return to them, whole and healthy. He'll be beaming and tell them stories of the battle at Ostagar – of the bravery of the Grey Wardens against the darkspawn and of King Cailan and the army routing the darkspawn. Gareth will worry over Carver's scars, their mother will fuss, and Bethany will tease him about all the new scars he'll have gained.
Their brother will come home, with full honours and having served their king faithfully. Maybe his commanding officer will come, to tell them of how dutiful and courageous Carver was, to relay the commendations he will have obviously received. Their mother will worry, fuss, and swell with pride at hearing such. Meanwhile, she and Gareth will smile at him, proud, and try hard not to be of note.
Carver's always been the silent backbone of their family. Bethany cannot imagine life without him; she will not allow herself to.
True to his word, Gareth ventures back into Lothering early the next morning. Waffles goes with him, loyally following his chosen master as any good mabari would.
Bethany remains with their mother, at home, doing the laundry and cleaning the house. She also ventures out to check the crops, which are due to be harvested in the coming few weeks. Everything is as it should be, but Bethany cannot shake the growing knot of anxiety in her chest.
"He should have been home before now," Leandra says. She looks out the window for the fourth time, at the sky which is painted in bleeding hues of orange and red. "It's getting late."
Bethany smiles at her, squeezes her mother's hand, "Gareth will be fine, mother. He can look after himself; something must have kept him is all."
But she doesn't quite believe the words herself.
She looks out the window, sees the dark silhouette of her brother, "There he is now."
Leandra opens the door, stands outside to wait for him. Bethany lurks by the door, leaning against the frame, and watches as Gareth and Waffles approach.
The dying light of day throws Gareth's face into sharp relief, emphasizes the growing dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't slept well the night before, worrying, and then he'd gotten up at first light that morning; he'd taken his stave with him when he'd left, something he rarely did.
His mouth is set in a firm line, eyes shadowed, and he shakes his head. Bethany notices the tremor in his hands and her stomach drops out completely.
It's confirmation of every dark thought.
"You look awful, sweetheart," Leandra says. She takes Gareth's arm, gently pulls him in. "Warm yourself by the fire, then tell us the news."
Gareth rests his stave against the wall inside the door. Though he listens to their mother and drops into a chair near the fire, it doesn't lessen the trembling in his hands. He flexes them, slowly, and stares at the ground.
Bethany folds herself onto the floor next to her brother, leaning against his chair, and Leandra pulls one away from their small table to sit near him. The three of them sit there, silently, for a long stretch of minutes before Gareth finally speaks.
"Ostagar was – it was a disaster," Gareth says, at last. His voice is slow, hollow, and he drops his face into his hands. "One or two deserters were in Dane's, telling tales to anyone who would listen about how Loghain quit the field. The king – the king is dead."
Leandra's jaw trembles, her hands ball into fists, "And Carver?"
Gareth shakes his head, "I asked, to see if anyone of them knew him. But they didn't know; all they could tell me was that whoever survived would eventually come to Lothering. And that we would be smart to flee as well."
"No," Leandra says. "Lothering is our home. We're not going anywhere."
"But mother," Bethany interjects, "if the king is dead… then the darkspawn..."
"They won't come here. This isn't a Blight."
Gareth exchanges a look with Bethany and shakes his head infinitesimally. There's no reasoning with their mother when she gets like this; Carver inherited his stubborn streak from her.
"We should still be prepared," Gareth replies. "There will be refugees, at the least. We'll need to do what we can for them and we'll wait for Carver. He'll come home, mother. He will, I promise."
The tense line of Leandra's shoulders relaxes, slightly, and she smiles at Gareth, "Of course he will. Carver's always been a good boy."
There's more that Gareth wants to say, Bethany can see it in his eyes, but he won't say it in front of their mother. She'll worry herself into a mess and there's no arguing with her then. Instead, Gareth waits until it's just the two of them, when they go out to collect firewood from the side of the house.
"It's a Blight," Gareth says, softly. "It was much, much more than the large raid we were told about. One of the deserters said that the Wardens had sent for reinforcements from Orlais."
"What happened to them?"
Gareth's shoulders sag. "According to one man, they were all killed on the field."
Bethany's blood chills. In every story she's heard, the Wardens are the ones who rally nations to their banner, all to fight the darkspawn. It's always a Grey Warden who slays an Archdemon.
"What will we do?" Bethany's voice trembles. Not even she can stop an entire legion of darkspawn on her own.
Casting a glance back at the door, Gareth sighs, "Pack, but do it discreetly. We don't want to worry mother – not yet."
With numbness spreading through her, Bethany nods. She's seen Gareth at the fire, late at night, checking over the long blade of his stave. Hers will need to be checked as well. Bethany makes a list in her mind of everything that they'll need to pack, what few belongings they have, and what they can afford to leave behind.
The thought of abandoning all she's ever known is daunting. But it's better than the alternative.
"But we'll wait for Carver, right?" Bethany whispers, as they slowly return to the door.
Gareth nods, "We won't abandon him."
"We need to leave!" Carver bursts through the door, its hinges shaking from the force of the blow.
Carver's filthy, dirt smeared across his face, his hands stained with a dull brown that Bethany identifies, after a moment's consideration, as blood. His greatsword, a parting present from their father before his passing, drips water to the floor; he'd cleaned it, then, before he'd come in. Likely in the water trough for the druffalo.
"What–"
"Mother," Carver takes Leandra by the shoulders, stares into her eyes. "The darkspawn are coming. We need to leave. Now."
"This isn't a Blight!" Even as she says it, her voice shakes. Leandra no longer sounds as sure as she did days earlier, when Gareth initially brought home the news of Ostagar.
"It is."
Carver looks so much older than Bethany remembers him looking. There's a darkness in his eyes that hadn't been there when he left and the set of his mouth and jaw is much harder. He looks to Gareth, "We need to move."
"I know. Bethany?"
"Everything's packed," Bethany replies. "Well, everything that we can carry."
"But we… Lothering is our home," Leandra murmurs, dazedly. She isn't looking at any of them, instead staring blankly at the wall. When she does look at them, her eyes are wide, her mouth shaking.
Bethany's already pulling the packs out from where she'd hidden them under Carver's cot. Hers and their mother's are the heaviest, leaving Gareth and Carver with lighter packs – if there is to be any fighting, better the two of them. Bethany can support from the rear and Gareth will remain in the middle, keeping all of them alive.
"There won't be anything left if we don't leave now," Carver replies harshly. His hand grips their mother's shoulder tightly, as though that alone will convince her of the seriousness of the situation.
Leandra sways on her feet, eyes unfocused, for the briefest of moments. Then her eyes harden and she nods. "Yes. Yes, we'll go."
Bethany distributes the packs, which earns her a smile and a pat on the back from their mother. She feels a little bubble of pride, knowing that she's done good.
It's late in the afternoon, turning to evening, when they leave.
Leandra looks back, eyes lingering for a long moment on their home. It's the one that she built for their family with their father; his final monument to them. Bethany knows from her mother's stories and Gareth's faint recollections that it isn't their first home – that was somewhere farther to the north, near Highever. But it's the only home that she has ever known.
There are so many memories here. Bethany's magic awakened here, their father taking her into the fields to teach her control, to master her magic. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. She can smell the wheat in the fields, the crackle of a fire, and the smell of smoke and leather that their father always carried with him.
"Remember, Bethany: Magic must serve what is best in you, not that which is most base."
She remembers her father's lessons, the rough scrape of his hands on hers. His hands had been callused, she recalls, from years of hard work and swordplay; he'd taught Carver everything he knew, and Gareth as well.
Deep inside her, Bethany feels the harsh strike of knowledge.
She will never see Lothering and her home again.
It terrifies her, to know that she will never return to these hills or feel the brush of the breeze. Lothering is all she's ever known, her home since she was a small little girl. It's all that she remembers. And she will never see it again. She won't ever walk along its dirt roads with Gareth, laughing and needling him with questions. She won't tease Carver about his crush on Peaches – hopeless, because she's only got eyes for Gareth, who doesn't even know she exists – and there will be no more stories from Sister Leliana.
The chill settles into her, one that doesn't leave, even when they settle in for the night.
They're not as far from Lothering as Carver would like; Bethany can read that in the line of his mouth and the way that he keeps snapping at Gareth about every little thing. But their mother is exhausted and they're losing light quickly. It's simply too dangerous to stumble their way forward in the dark.
Bethany starts a small fire, carefully feeding it with what bits of tinder that they can find. Their meal is simple. Under them, the ground is hard and they use their packs as pillows.
"I'll take the first watch," Gareth says. His eyes turn sharp. He stops Carver before he can object, "You've been running for days; you need rest and you'll need your strength. Get some sleep. I'll wake you in a few hours."
Carver scowls. "Always so sacrificing, aren't you, brother?"
Bethany flicks a pebble at him. "He'll be the one who has to carry you when you collapse from exhaustion because you're too thick-headed and stubborn to listen."
Rubbing his forehead where the rock hit, Carver turns his scowl on her. "You always take his side."
"Someone has to be the voice of reason," Bethany replies. She adds softly, "He's right, you know. You look like you're about to collapse."
That Carver doesn't argue further with her speaks to the truth of the matter. Instead, he grumbles as he plumps up his pack and settles in against the large boulder that Gareth's perched himself on top of. In only seconds, Carver's fast asleep, his chest slowly rising and falling, snoring softly. His snores are matched by Waffles', who has elected to curl up next to Carver – close enough to watch over the both of them.
Bethany smiles at the sight before she too settles down to sleep, next to their already sleeping mother.
She glances up at Gareth. She can only see him in profile, illuminated by the faint light of the veilfire he's conjured for light. His eyes are shadowed, the lines of his face in sharp relief, and his skin lit up in flickering shades of green; he looks so much older, Bethany thinks, than his twenty-one years and it hurts her to realize that.
Bethany watches him till she falls asleep, lulled by the veilfire pulsing in time with her brother's breathing.
It's a hard pace that Carver pushes.
Bethany learns this in the dim light of early morning. The sun has barely crested above the horizon, fog clinging stubbornly to the land and swirling about her as she sits up. Her body aches from sleeping on the ground and she's still exhausted. Behind her, she can hear the soft breathing of her mother, who slumbers on.
It was Gareth who woke her, a hand on her shoulder and a gentle shake. Though she slept less than him, he's awake and moving about their small camp with purpose. She hears him and Carver speaking in soft voices, their heads close and angled towards each other. Gareth nods at something that Carver says, the corner of his lips tugging up a little.
The fire that Bethany conjured the night before has long since gone out. Someone, most likely Carver, has kicked dirt and leaves over it to hide it. There will be no warmth this morning, just the cold light of Gareth's veilfire until the sun finishes rising.
"Mother?" Bethany lays a hand on her mother's shoulder, squeezing it gently. "Mother, it's time to wake up; we need to keep moving."
Her expectation was that her mom would be slow to rouse, maybe sucked into that quagmire of desolation that Bethany saw in her eyes the night before over their cold supper. She can only guess at how their mother feels, leaving behind their home of the last sixteen years – all that Bethany and Carver have ever known – and the home that she built with their father after years of running.
But Leandra sits up, a little bleary-eyed but otherwise perfectly alert. She smooths back her hair and smiles at Bethany. "We'll have time to eat first, though. Otherwise we won't last long."
Breakfast consists of very little but some cured meat and bread that Bethany tucked into their mother's pack. Likely, Bethany thinks, the bread will be the first of their supplies to go – there's little of it and it's what will spoil first.
They've travelled far enough that their home is no longer visible in the distance. Bethany isn't sure of where they're going – they're headed east, so she's assuming that their destination is South Reach on the edge of the Brecilian Forest. But she isn't sure, and the looks on Carver and Gareth's faces aren't promising, so she chooses to say nothing.
For the most part, they travel in silence. Even when they pause in the evening to rest for the night and have their meal, there's little conversation. Each of them is lost in their own thoughts, though Bethany's caught Carver and Gareth having quiet arguments more and more frequently. Again that night, they stand watch: though Carver takes the first shift.
The next morning dawns, cold and grey, but the same as the morning before. They eat a quick breakfast, before beginning their long trek again.
It's late in the morning, possibly early afternoon, when Bethany briefly looks behind them as they crest a low hill. Lothering's no longer visible, hidden as it is behind the rolling hills, but Bethany spots the cloud of thick, black smoke rising from where she remembers the village.
She gasps, "Lothering…"
The sight of Lothering burning works as a catalyst, driving them to move faster. Carver presses them hard, at a pace that neither Leandra nor Bethany are used to. Even Gareth struggles with it, though he refuses to complain; instead, he helps their mother whenever she stumbles. There are worry lines about Carver's face that she doesn't remember having been there before as he pushes them to keep moving, to run when they can.
All of them know: Lothering has burned. The darkspawn will turn to the countryside now.
The hoard doesn't rest. It keeps going and going; there is no stopping it. Their head start now seems even more precious than it was before.
There is no time for rest now.
Three days out from Lothering, their luck runs out.
Bethany hardly recognizes the countryside now. The green has all been bled out of it, replaced by the occasional burnt out husk of what once was someone's home and a sparse, grey landscape. Even though she hardly ventured out of the borders of their home, nothing looks as it should: there is no green, no trees.
And there are darkspawn.
She has never used her magic to kill before. It would have frightened her, before, at how easily it comes to her.
Fire comes easiest to her. Ice is a little more challenging, but Bethany thrives when it comes to the elements. She launches an icicle at one, impales it straight through, and down it goes.
There are two more to take its place.
Fire sparks at her fingertips. The wall of flames she conjures to block off the advance of the hoard sparks red-blue. With another flick of her staff, she freezes another in place.
Carver's blade flashes, catches the light, as he decapitates the darkspawn. The head flies a good three or four paces from its body. With the release of the spell, it drops to the ground. It lands with a sick sounding plop.
Sucking in a breath, Bethany tries to steady the roaring of her blood in her ears. Her heart thuds rapidly in her chest and there is an excitement tingling through her limbs that she's never felt before. The thrill of battle, Bethany thinks, and on the heels of that realization comes coursing in a fear: the easy addiction to the rush of it, the thrill of killing.
It frightens her to know how easy killing can be. All it took was the most minute flick of her staff, a silent gesture with her hand, and the elements rushed to her call.
She turns in time to see Gareth wrenching the long blade of his stave from the chest of one of the darkspawn. His forehead is smudged with dirt and sweat, but the skin of his face is bloodless; his birthmark stands out, stark red against his skin. His eyes are wide, flickering from Bethany, to Carver, to their mother who unfurls herself from her hiding place.
"I think that's all of them," Carver says, sounding only slightly winded.
Glancing back to the wall of fire she conjured, Bethany adds, "For the moment."
"We need to keep moving." Gareth flicks his stave, the dark, greasy blood of the darkspawn he just killed flies off in a gruesome little arc. "The darkspawn could be on us at any moment."
There's a sharp flash of light and Bethany feels energy flood through her veins, the little aches and pains of fighting – something that she isn't used to – fade away, replaced by a warm buzz of energy.
Gareth's fingers are still glowing a faint white at his side. The warm amber of his eyes, too, has an almost unnatural glow to it – the result of his magic. Bethany has long been fascinated by her brother's magic, the ease by which he wields it and how it makes her feel when he casts. It's one that's tinged with a small amount of envy that she's never been able to quite shake; she has some small talent for healing, but to Gareth it's an innate one.
In all of their lessons with their father, magic came easily to Gareth and he wielded it with the same ease as he did his stave. For Bethany, it was harder; she begrudged her magic, hated that it took her away from Carver, marked her as being different. But when it came to the destructive power of fire and ice, it flowed naturally from her fingers – like breathing. It wasn't fair.
But now is not the time to linger on those feelings. She's always been grateful for Gareth's abilities – his skill as a healer has gotten them through so many hard and trying times, soothed her and Carver on many nights – and it has proven to be infinitely useful now.
As much as Bethany would like to stop, catch her breath, and steady the shaking of her fingers, she knows that they can't. The fire she conjured is already beginning to flicker and die. Bethany wonders if lyrium would have helped her casting – given it that boost to last for much longer – but it doesn't matter. They are running out of time.
Instead, they regroup: Leandra in the centre, Bethany bringing up the rear, with Gareth and Carver taking the lead. Then, they press on. Their mother stumbles as they hurriedly make their way up the hill through its narrow pass, but Bethany catches her and steadies her as best she can, while keeping an eye on the path behind them.
It looks, so far, like they may have escaped the hoard. For the moment.
Shielding her eyes with her hand as they crest the hill, Bethany asks a question that's been burning at the back of her throat for two days now. "Where are we going?"
Carver looks back at her, frown clearly telling her that this is the stupidest question that she has ever asked before, "Away from the darkspawn, obviously."
"And then where? We can't just wander aimlessly!" Bethany bites back the rest of her words. She's exhausted, despite how her body thrums with Gareth's magic at present. It lingers and will, for as long as there is that glow in her brother's eyes, but she knows too well the strain that it puts on him. He cannot keep it up forever.
"Wherever we go, what's important is that we don't separate," Gareth says softly. The circles under his eyes are darker now, like two deep purple bruises. "We need to stay together. For now, Carver's right: we need to get away from the darkspawn."
"Oh, now you agree with me," Carver spits. "Last night, you were saying that I–"
"We can go to Kirkwall," Leandra says. It's the first thing that she's said to them in two days – beyond begging for the Maker to watch over them all.
Gareth blinks, eyes wide, "Kirkwall? Are you sure that's wise?"
"There's a lot of templars in Kirkwall, mother." Templars they've been living in fear of for their entire lives; they're why their parents couldn't settle down for years, why they had to flee their first home in Highever.
"I know that," Leandra sighs. She crosses her arms, looks at her feet for a moment, then looks to each of her children, "But we still have family there and an estate. It's far from the darkspawn and our family's status would offer protection and security."
Bethany highly doubts that. Status doesn't protect a mage. People fear magic and rightly so. The templars won't care if she's the daughter of the king; if she is was a mage and they know, she will be sent to the Circle immediately. Or executed as an apostate.
She looks to Gareth, hoping that he'll talk their mother out of this absurd idea of hers. But when she looks to him, she sees the exhaustion in his face, the tremble in his hands, and knows that they cannot keep running forever. Her brother would sooner run himself ragged than let any harm come to any of them – even if it meant overextending himself. Already his eyes, she realizes, are taking on that glassy fever sheen.
And their mother is stubborn, once she sets her mind on something. Bethany sighs, weighing the decision.
Kirkwall is very far and across the sea. But it would take them far away from the coming Blight and their mother is right: they do have family there. Family and an estate. The estate promises them status and so long as she and Gareth keep to themselves as they always have, then their neighbours will have no reason to believe that two apostates have just arrived.
Even if they'll be trapped in a city full of templars, they'll find a way to make it work. Bethany bites her lip, worries it with her teeth, as she thinks about what it could mean if they were found out. She could take all of the blame of it herself; Gareth's magic is far less showy than hers. If someone did find out, she would simply turn herself in and claim to be the family's only apostate. No need for anyone to look at them closer.
"Then we need to get to Gwaren and take ship," Bethany says, at last. She hates admitting that it's their only option.
"If we survive that long," Carver snorts. "I'll just be happy to get out of here."
"Then we need to keep moving. No one's hurt?"
Gareth would know if they were, but it makes Bethany smile to hear him ask.
They continue on, following the dirt path through the hills that used to be a road. Alongside them are the twisted, black remnants of what once were trees. The air is thick with ash, so much so that Bethany is amazed that none of them have choked on it. Above them, the sun beats down and sweat beads and trails down the back of her neck.
She's a little surprised that they have seen no one yet. Certainly, Bethany had thought that more people would have fled Lothering. Wouldn't they meet a number of them on their way? But Bethany's lost all sense of direction – it's entirely possible that they're taking a different route. The hills about Lothering are scattered with dirt tracks that separate and link its network of farms.
There were the hunting tracks, too, Bethany recalls dimly from overheard conversations. She only knew of them, but she trusts that Carver and Gareth know where they're going. They will reach Gwaren soon, then be on their way to Kirkwall and leave the coming Blight behind them.
Bethany focuses on that, to ignore the burn of exertion in her legs and the way that the ash claws at her throat as she sucks in each breath. Soon, she hopes, they'll be able to rest, if only for a little while. Just long enough to catch her breath.
It's late into the afternoon when Bethany hears the clang of steel. The now familiar sounds of combat.
She doesn't see the source of it until they come round, the hill having blocked her view of the path ahead.
There are people here. Two of them. Fighting the darkspawn.
Bethany can only catch sight of red hair, hear a woman shout, "You will not have him!"
She blinks, follows after her brothers as they charge forward. But she's quick enough to catch sight of a woman tackle one of the attacking darkspawn to the ground, whereupon, the woman begins to punch it repeatedly, before she takes up its own weapon and decapitates it.
Bethany's breath catches in her throat at the sight of familiar red cloth, spattered with blood now but still recognizable.
She turns her gaze from it, focusing on the darkspawn. Breathe in, let out a blast of fire. Breathe out, concentrate, and launch a volley of razor-sharp ice blades at two more. Bethany watches them go down, black blood gurgling from their wounds. They do not rise.
Carver easily slices a swath through them, greatsword flashing in the light. Two of them are caught in the swing of his blade, their torsos severed and they crumble to the ground in halves. Towards them, Bethany carefully launches a series of fire blasts. Just in case.
A little ways to the side and ahead of her, Gareth parries the blade of one. He twirls his stave around, following it in an elegant swirl of his own, and runs the darkspawn clean through. Jerking his stave out of its target, it trails a ribbon of black behind it, as Gareth brings his stave in a wide, sweeping strike to another darkspawn's neck. Then, he lands a hard kick to its chest, sending the darkspawn flying backwards. It tumbles over the edge, falling down the sheer drop-off.
She brings her focus back to the fight, flames swirling about her as she does. Three more, four more fall to Bethany's spells before it ends.
Breathing hard, Bethany straightens and wipes her brow. There's still adrenalin singing sweetly through her body; the siren call of battle and she rolls onto the balls of her feet. She feels bouncy, high-strung, as though she could conquer everything in this moment. The freedom of letting her magic loose is an intoxicating one.
It's a pair of people that they've saved from the darkspawn: a man and a woman. The man's stumbled to his feet and Bethany sees the slosh of blood from under his armour, despite the red-haired woman putting pressure on it.
Cautiously, Gareth approaches them, with Carver and Bethany close behind them. Their mother lingers in the back, hands clasped tightly together and looking between the two newcomers with wide, trembling eyes.
The man wears the armour of a templar.
"Stop squirming, Wesley," the woman says. "You'll make it worse."
"If he's hurt, I can–" Gareth begins to say, but he's cut off.
"Apostate! Keep your distance!" He points his shaking blade at Bethany.
Bethany snorts, because only a templar would spit in the face of a mage who offers him help, "Well, the Maker has a sense of humour. Darkspawn, and now a templar. I thought they had all abandoned Lothering."
Gareth shifts, putting himself firmly between the templar and Bethany. Carver steps up beside him, greatsword still in hand, casting the man a dark look.
"The spawn are clear in their intent," the templar, Wesley the woman called him, says. His voice is halting, catching on the words, and it's clear that he remains on his feet through sheer willpower alone. The hand that doesn't hold his sword is clamping a blood-soaked cloak to the wound in his side. "But a mage is always unknown. The Order dictates–"
"Wesley," the woman says, softly. She lays a hand on his shoulder, the other on his shaking sword arm.
"The Order dictates…" Wesley repeats, again. There's something wrong with his eyes, Bethany thinks, as she looks at them; they're unfocused, with a faint white filmy quality to them.
"Wesley, they saved us." The woman's voice is firmer this time, but still soft. It only carries because of how close all of them stand. "The Maker understands."
Wesley's sword wavers, but he is slow to lower it. His mouth is turned down in a severe frown when he finally acquiesces, "... of course."
If she's being honest, Bethany is amazed that he doesn't just drop his sword then. She may not be an expert, but it's clear to her that the grip he has on his sword is a boneless one. The tip of it digs into the dirt, the hilt of it resting in his hand.
The woman lets out a breath, but she offers them a small, though wary and exhausted smile, "I am Aveline Vallen. This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate each other when we're safe from the horde."
"We're the Hawke family – I'm Gareth, my siblings Bethany and Carver, and our mother, Leandra," Gareth says, lowering his staff slowly. Though he inclines his head at the both of them, his eyes remain fixed on the wound at Wesley's side. Trust her brother's bleeding heart to worry about a templar who was just about to arrest or kill them, "How bad is that wound?"
Wesley blinks, sways on his feet and he drops his blade. He glances down at his wound, as though stunned by its presence, "I think my sword arm's a loss, even with healing."
"Then you will have mine. As always," Aveline says, smiling at her husband. She's taken his shield, Bethany realizes, and there's a sword sheathed at her waist.
There's a ghost of a smile on Gareth's lips. He steps forward and Bethany sees the little swirls of magic about his fingers as he raises it, "Let me stop the bleeding, at least."
He presses his hand above Wesley's and the glow increases, bright blue-white and soft. It flares and then lingers for a few moments, even after Gareth pulls his hand away. His palm is stained with blood, but he wipes it on his pants.
Carefully, Aveline pulls away the wad of cloak from Wesley's side. No blood gushes forth, though the cloth and his armour remain stained with it. She looks at the wound, then to Gareth. Her smile this time, however, is warmer. "Thank you."
Wesley stares. "You're–"
Gareth shrugs a little half-shrug, face softening into a tiny, exhausted smile, "An apostate? Yes. A spirit healer? Also yes. This is a strange time for you to be hunting apostates. Last I heard, the majority of the templars had left with the priests."
Laying her hand on Gareth's arm, Bethany squeezes it and grins, "The nice templar has been convinced to postpone his hunt for illegal mages. So let's not dwell upon it, shall we?"
"Wise girl," Aveline murmurs.
Wesley gapes, reminding Bethany very much of the fish that could occasionally be found in the Lothering marketplace. He closes his mouth with a click of his teeth, eyes darting to the side as though weighing his options about how much he should be telling them. Perhaps his better nature wins out in the end, because he responds with what Bethany can only assume is honesty.
"I was traveling to Denerim on business for the Order, but I had to turn south when I heard of Ostagar," Wesley lays his blooded hand on top of his wife's, gives it a squeeze. He also gives her a small smile and it shocks Bethany to see; he looks so… human in that moment.
"We found each other as I fled north," Aveline replies. Her mouth is tight, twitches, as she admits, "I was at Ostagar. For now, however, we move with you. You should know: North is cut off. We barely managed to escape the main body of the horde."
Carver swears, quite colourfully Bethany thinks, and ignores the scandalized look that their mother shoots him. He looks at Gareth, scowling, "Then we're trapped! There's only the Wilds to the south and that's no way to go!"
Jaw tightening, Gareth shoots Carver a look, "We don't have a choice. The darkspawn have us fenced in; we go south."
"But–"
"Carver, listen to your brother," Leandra says. She's shaking, avoiding looking at the ground that's now dotted with darkspawn corpses and sticky with their blood.
Muttering something under his breath, Carver storms ahead of them, angrily wiping his blade to clean it of darkspawn blood. Aveline gives him a worried look, but says nothing.
There's nothing to it, now, but to keep moving. Even if Bethany's none too pleased by their newest additions. She can't do anything about it, however, and instead decides that she will give them as much space as she possibly can. Rather than stay with their mother, she jogs ahead, chasing after her twin.
It's going to be a very long journey. Bethany can only pray that they survive it.
On the second day since meeting the templar Wesley and his wife, Aveline, Bethany begins to believe that their ordeal is nearing its end.
They've encountered few darkspawn since then and they've been easily dealt with. It's easier, having another warrior around, and Aveline has proven her mettle time and again. Though she admits that the shield is not her preferred weapon, she wields it with ease and strength. Bethany was particularly impressed when Aveline smashed it into the face of one hurlock and the blow split its head in two.
It had been a messy kill, yes, but it had certainly been impressive.
Wesley, for his part, keeps his distance from her and Gareth. Though, she notices, that he keeps a wary eye on Gareth, as though he'll suddenly explode into an abomination at any moment. While he avoids her just as much, he doesn't give her quite the berth that he does her brother.
And it irks Bethany, creates an itch of irritation under her skin that she cannot shake. Gareth's done nothing but help Wesley, healed him when he didn't have to and been nothing but kind to him – despite Wesley being a templar and he an apostate. Her brother is the least dangerous mage that Bethany knows; true, he's lethal in a fight, but not with magic. No, in that respect, Bethany is the one to fear.
It confuses her, leaves her short-tempered and she glares at Wesley as they continue their desperate flight. A small, nasty little part of her takes some pleasure in seeing him stumble, but Bethany shoves that aside; it's unimportant, because it's always covered in an avalanche of guilt. She should not feel this way.
Late in the morning of that second day, however, something happens.
Bethany knows that the darkspawn exist because many, many ages ago, the magisters entered the Golden City, tainting it black and bringing the blight to the lands. By that logic, the darkspawn should have their own magic.
She had given little thought to darkspawn mages, though certainly they must exist.
They are confronted with one that morning.
Neither herself nor Gareth have ever fought another mage. Their father never included that scenario in their training. But Wesley instructs Aveline and Carver on how best to approach the situation, though he himself cannot fight, while Bethany stays in the rear providing cover. She rains down fire and ice upon their enemies, keeping them at bay and interrupting the emissary's casting.
"You must keep it from casting," Wesley had said. "Then take it out as quickly as possible."
Wesley's face has taken on a waxy, grey pallor that makes Bethany's stomach tighten and quiver. The veins on his neck have begun to stand out, straining purple-black against his skin. While no one has said anything, Bethany has seen the tense lines about Gareth's eyes and mouth, the soft glow about his fingers, and how Wesley looks at him with resignation in his eyes.
They know what's to come.
Bethany doesn't think of it. She focuses on the battle ahead of them; she needs to stay alive. If her concentration slips, even a little, then all of them might die. Her job is to keep the darkspawn at bay, far enough from Leandra and Wesley and from her.
The brunt of the fighting falls to Carver and Aveline, with Gareth providing support. Bethany brings up the rear of their fighting party, as always. Leandra is behind Bethany, supporting a gradually weakening Wesley whose balance and strength is fading fast. It's unlikely, Bethany thinks, that he'll survive till Gwaren.
She doesn't voice this thought, afraid of how Aveline might react.
Instead, the six of them hurry up the slight incline towards a plateau. They leave behind them the charred corpses of darkspawn. That's been the only sight for days. Darkspawn and more darkspawn. None of them have slept properly in days. It's been almost nothing but constant movement, with only brief pauses of a few hours for some much needed rest.
That none of them have collapsed of exhaustion yet is a miracle. But that will only take them so far and Bethany feels that their luck is slowly running out. The pace they've set can't be maintained forever, not even with Gareth there to shore them up when needed.
How he's not run himself into the ground yet, Bethany doesn't know. She doesn't want to think about it.
They stumble their way onto the plateau, breathing heavily. Bethany's side burns. Breathing causes pain to flare up sharply behind her ribs. Her throat feels as though it's been scraped raw, though she had taken a huge drink of that horribly murky water pulled from the banks of the small stream that ran through the back of their land.
She'd kill for even a mouthful of the awful swill that Barlin passed off in Dane's as ale.
"We must reach the Wilds," Aveline says, her blade dripping blood. "And quickly, before the darkspawn have a chance to regroup."
"Will they?" Bethany asks, clutching her stave tightly. Her hands are trembling.
"Likely, the darkspawn that we've encountered have either been scouting parties or stragglers – those who have broken away from the main body of the horde," Aveline replies. "There's a chance that their absence might cause some stir and more will come to investigate."
Carver, staring out towards the horizon where the sun is beginning to set, says, "That's the last thing we need. We can't take on the entire horde ourselves."
"Then we'll just have to keep moving," Gareth says. His own stave drips blood from its blade. The dark circles under his eyes are darker than before and Bethany wonders if they'll ever fade. Even the glow of his eyes has dimmed, somewhat. "We can't stay here and wait for them to come for us."
Carver's got anger in the set of his jaw as he whirls around. "Oh sh–"
The ground trembles, shakes violently beneath their feet. Fear strikes Bethany. The ground is about to split open, spilling hundreds if not thousands of darkspawn into the world. She thinks they are all about to die.
But the ground does not split open. The horde does not spill out in a wave of death.
What charges onto their plateau is huge. It towers over all of them – even Carver. Crowning its head are a pair of huge, twisting horns, each of which is thicker than Bethany's arm. It charges straight through, nearly sending Carver flying; he only avoids it with a quick leap backwards.
Bethany has only heard whispers of such a darkspawn. An ogre, they call them.
It turns, quickly. Dark, soulless eyes catch sight of Leandra, who has stumbled and is trying to climb back to her feet.
Swallowing down the lump of fear that's jumped into her throat and lodged itself there, Bethany shifts to stand in front of her mother. She plants her feet, sucking in a deep breath.
It will not take her mother from her.
"Maker, give me strength," Bethany murmurs. She forces all the energy she has, all that's left, into her hands, pushes it out through her fingers. Fire burns, bright, orange, and red, exploding across the mottled skin of the ogre.
It roars. Bethany's ears start ringing.
She doesn't get time to think about that, about the pain.
The ogre lunges, grabs her.
Bethany is jerked off her feet. Her head snaps back. All the air rushes out of her lungs. Her head is swimming, she's light-headed.
Those are the last sensations Bethany feels.
Her world explodes in pain. Everything burns. There is blood in her lungs. She cannot breathe. She tries, but copper and salt pour into her lungs. Blood.
She does not feel it when she hits the ground. Tossed aside like a small child does a doll.
Bethany's eyes stare blankly up to the sky.