* I do not own Dragon Age. All characters and story belong to Bioware. The following is my simple offering to the franchise. Also, if you like this story then please read The Ballads of Lady Hawke and The Fenris Wolf. It is the prequel to this series.
To the fans who were with this story from the beginning: Lovers At A Great Divide is getting a major face lift. I'm adding more content to the chapters I have already posted, then plan on posting new entries into my Fenris/Hawke saga. Again, your reviews are highly appreciated. Thank you all for your patience, support and dedication to this tale. I appreciate it greatly.
She found herself wandering the dank deserted hallways of one of her greatest losses and biggest regrets. Mother, I should have come to you sooner. I failed you, thought Hawke. The dispirited daughter sighed heavily, releasing the air within her lungs slowly. So slowly it burned. Her throat felt acrid. Dry. Shakily, Hawke brushed a strand of hair out of her eyes, only to be dumbfounded by the wetness she felt there. She had unconsciously been weeping. Hadn't she already shed an ocean's worth of tears? How could one person possibly carry so much liquid?
I guess I must be made of water. Amused by this revelation, Agnes began to chuckle. Her sobs quickly morphing into stilted laughter. Funny how ones life can implode on one in an instant. Once she had a father, a house, an easy existence in a small town with her family and the next, nothing. Zilch. Father became ill, dies. Hawke, reeling from the sudden absence of her beloved Papa has no time to grieve. She's thrust into the role of the head of household. She had no other choice. Dearest mother had become hysterical in her sorrow, doing nothing but crying all day.
Fast forward three years, and the dark spawn attack Lothering in a flurry of gratuitous violence. Aggie rounds up her family, as the screams of her neighbors terrify her ears. With their home set ablaze the Hawke clan flees. Hoards overtake them. A mighty Blighted troll easily flanks Hawke's exhausted form. Too weary to out maneuver the creature, Agnes shuts her eyes tight against the troll's final blow. It never arrives. Her sister, Bethany, erects an Arcane shield around her. Before Hawke can react, the gruesome monster throws her sister over a hundred feet from where Beth had stood. Hawke cries out in agony, as her sister's skull cracks unforgivingly: Brain matter saturating the ground around Bethany's fresh corpse.
One year later, we find the surviving members of the Hawke family once more rebuilding their lives. Without much fortune, Agnes and Carver do odd jobs around Kirkwall to keep themselves afloat, and to ensure their mother is comfortable. Hurting for gold, Hawke decides to follow Varric into the Deep Roads. His brother, Bertrand, has set up an expedition to unearth more Dwarvin artifacts. Carver, not wanting to be left behind, ingratiates himself into Hawk's scouting party. "It can't be helped sis," Carver gloated. " I am of age. You may deny me this privilege, but mark my words: I will go despite being in your company or not." What a mistake that was. . . .
Two weeks into the excursion and the adventuring went south. Maker help them! Dark spawn were met at every turn. The monsters swarming in ghastly configurations, seeming to crawl out from the rock to destroy them. In the commotion, Carver fell. One of those disgusting zombies bit him, infecting little brother with the Blight. The Grey Wardens owned Carv's soul now. The youth's very existence no longer offering any personal meaning for him. Because of me, Carver is a man possessed by a creed he never wished to join, and an order he never cared to fight for. Flash forward to the present, three years after her most recent tragedy, and Hawke's mother lies dead. A victim of blood magic.
Sitting amongst the dirt and filth of Low Town, Hawk traces the outline of where her mother had collapsed. This was the spot Aggie had held her, well, what was left of her. The mage almost wretches at the memory. That murderous cock-scum Quentin had transformed Leandra Amell into a badly sown patchwork of body parts. The skin was of all different hues, mainly of an opaque white color and paper thin. So paper thin that the translucency of the flesh enabled Hawke to see the blood flow through the bulging veins. Stitches ran in circles up and down and around the length of her mother's "new" body. Some barely closed up, dripping ichors onto the floor. Oh, and the smell! Maker the smell! Mama no longer permeated the scent of daffodils and honey, but of decay. The only true recognizable feature was her mother's eyes. Through them, Hawke could see her parent's soul.
Shivering, Agnes hugged herself tightly. If only she had been more attentive! Listened to the details of her mother's day to day activities, as opposed to tuning her out. Hawke sighed. She supposed she hadn't ever truly forgiven her mother for abdicating the role of patriarch, and thrusting it onto her. Most of Aggie's youth had been stolen away, thanks to her mother's depression. Now, it was too late for the young woman to ever forge any real relationship with her. As Leandra used to say Aggie was her father's daughter, while the littlest ones (Bethany and Carver) were her living shadows. Never Hawke. Never the eldest one. . . .
"Why didn't I noticed those damned lilies," Hawke shouted. Her outburst echoed off of the ceiling beams in turbulent ferocity, scaring nearby vermin back into their holes. Angry with herself, Hawke let out an ear splitting shriek of frustration. It all was too much. Too much. Fists clenched, the mage summoned the forces of nature to do her bidding. She wanted to destroy this filthy place; obliterate it from existence. In a cacophony of noise and color and earth and fire and ice what little furniture remained of Quentin's was decimated.
Amid the wreckage of what once was a madman's dwelling, Hawke hummed with electricity. The magic within her aching with insatiable veracity. She watched it dance all purple and cackling atop her skin; she was mesmerized by the power of it. Abruptly, he flashed before her memory. There was Fenris before her, his face contorting in pure revulsion. Truly what has magic touched that it didn't spoil? Hawke frowned, shaking. She tried fruitlessly to dislodge the hated mantra from her brain, but to no avail. Fen's words were a discordant bell ringing within her ears. She could no more escape his accusatory question than she could escape the Devil himself.
Biting her lower lip, Agnes felt defeated. Perhaps her gifts weren't gifts at all? Perhaps the sum of her talents could only be classified as a curse. An unseemly canker on mankind; an incurable epidemic. For it was spell craft which had twisted her mother into an unrecognizable corpse bride. Had been magic, which had acted as the catalyst for one bereaved husband's plummet into insanity. Hell, it was no wonder Carver resented her supernatural abilities. It decimated joy. Caused their family to adopt the lifestyles of nomads. Constantly they were on the move, trying to put as much distance between themselves and the chantry. The craft had ruled their lives entirely.
And what of Anders? He was what Fenris liked to can an "abomination." What the templar order considered a maleficarum: A demonically possessed mage. But, it's not as simple as all that, is it? Andy is an honorable man, still very much in control of his own actions. And it's not as if he shares himself with a demon, but with Justice. Anders had met the spirit during a mission for the Grey Wardens. Justice was a righteous ghost of the Fade; his purpose was to aid humanity, not pervert it. At some point during their friendship, however, Justice needed a new host to survive. He came to Anders, requested his help, and Anders had obliged. But now. . . now Justice mutated into Vengeance, and Vengeance would do whatever It felt necessary to get the "ethical" outcome It required. Any innocent lives lost during Vengeance's escapades were considered collateral damage to the specter. It would seem that, no matter where Hawke turned, sorcery only led her down twisted paths.
In despair, Hawke sunk to her knees. She pulled at her robes, scrutinizing the material for any stains. She felt self-conscious. Unclean. She thought of Gascard DuPries, another fine example of magical corruption. She had naively trusted the Orlesian, thinking him the incensed brother out to avenge his sister's death. Oh how wrong she had been. Stupid, stupid girl! All Gascard had wanted was his master's deplorable secrets. I bet he knew mother would be Quentin's next victim long before the abduction happened. And I just stood there, consoling the git for his awful loss. . . .
Aggie swallowed hard. She wished she had gutted the creep before he had fled Kirkwall. Perversely, she smiled at the thought of ripping his lean body asunder bit by bloodied bit, making him suffer for hours. That son-of-a-whore would have deserved it too. But, the reality had been this: Hawke had let Gascard go free.
At the time, Agnes felt that by giving the misguided man his freedom, she was keeping her own soul in check. For her won peace of mind, she wanted to be the bigger person and the better mage. By punishing DuPries, Hawke feared she too would sink into the very depravity that both apprentice and master had succumbed to. However, revisiting her mother's torture chamber had reawakened the mage's initial need for retribution. Her mind had shifted; her soul had flipped in favor of violence. Some men were meant to pay for their crimes. She wanted her pound of flesh.
Aggie grimaced, remembering the cheeky look Gascard had given her while saying goodbye. It had been one laced in arrogance and gloating satisfaction. Maker, what have I unleashed upon the world, Hawke lamented. What future horrors will that wretch commit? And all because of her damn "honor." Maker have mercy on her! She had seen the apostate for what he was, a villain, and had let him disappear back into the crowds of the unassuming masses.
It wasn't as if Hawke had believed DuPries' solemn vow to quit sorcery, let alone blood magic. No, the bastard was much too hungry for power. It had shown in his face, had radiated off his person in musky waves. Hawke scoffed at the memory. Repulsed by the thought of Gascard, Agnes clenched her fists in rage. She sat in wrathful contemplation for a good long while. Sat until her knees ached in protest, and her nimble fingers glistened with blood. Aggie had balled her hands too tightly. Opening her hands, Hawke frowned at the deep gouges she discovered there. The wounds were puffy from irritation, not far from infection either.
Without thinking, Hawke beckoned for the soothing hot tendrils of restorative magic to engulf her. In minutes, the inflammation in her palms had receded, leaving only the angry gouges to heal. About to continue her ministrations, Hawke turned to notice a curious rat scurrying towards her. It's tiny black pupils almost seeming accusatory. "I'm hurt! Healing myself isn't a crime," Hawk spat at the animal. The rat squeaked in response then sat it's fat ass in the dirt. "Fine, judge me like everyone else does. Condemn me for my spell weaving, Maker knows I do. . ."
Defeated, Hawke decides to leave Low Town. She gathers up her staff and what other few belongings she had brought with her to Quentin's hideout. Shuffling her feet homeward, Aggie lets her palms buzz in pain, ignoring her abilities for the evening. Her wounds could stay forever fresh if they so chose, their ache mattered little to her. All the forlorn lass wished for really was a bath, her warm bed and a chance to grieve her losses alone. Alone. Damn how that word stabbed at Agnes' heart.
If only there were someone she could turn to? A firm lithe body to engulf her, keep her safe from her current nightmares? But, in truth, there was no one. Sure, she had her friends. Her merry men as she often called them. Yet. . .their camaraderie wasn't the comfort the lady found herself starving for. Hawke hungered for a different kind of companionship. . . .
Again, Fenris waltzed into Agnes's thoughts. He stood before her in all his towering glory. Green orbs were slick with need, his arms lacing around her possessively. Those clawed gauntlets of his sending shivers of gooseflesh all over Aggie's exposed skin. Made her clothes feel too stiff against her; made her center flush with damp need.
Hawke could almost feel their lips crashing together in sloppy succession. She remembered how both of them were thirsty with desire. How the pent up tension between them was finally released in touches, tongue and tenderness. Gods, how the heat of his breath had made her quake! The harried whispers of his pleasured sighs prickled at her ears, sending Hawke reeling in climax. Sent her falling off a cliff in ecstasy as he explored her. . .as she prodded him in places she never dreamed before.
Cheeks blushing, the mage cursed beneath her breath. It was shameful how much she missed him. Missed him more than she even missed father, mother or Bethany. She needed him, needed the protection he offered. Needed the love of her dearest wolf. Life was cruel however. Hawke's one-time lover would never be hers again. Fenris could no more love Hawke than she could deny her feelings for him. Too much had happened between them since the night Fen had laid her down, and thrusted himself deep inside her. Far too much.
Collapsing within the confines of her room, Hawke lay still. A parade of fresh tears dampened her pillow case. Wearily, the sorceress buried herself beneath blankets and covers and quilts, trying to hide from the bruising sadness which surrounded her. The only lullaby soothing her to sleep being the dull ache of her puffy palms. It wouldn't be until three months later that Hawke used her magic again, protecting Fenris of all people on the battlefield in a circle of fire. As for her hands? Those would be forever scarred, much like the lady's heart.