Origins
1. Beginnings
The summer sun shone brightly into the garden, warming the skin of the six year old child as she played with her doll beside the courtyard fountain. Today's game was tea-parties; she talked to the doll as if it was an honoured guest at her table, offered it cheese and biscuits, and tea warm from the pot. Though the doll could not talk back, the girl giggled at the imaginary conversation that flowed through her mind.
"Child... come here for a moment," said a voice behind her. Turning, the girl saw the Lady of the house, and quickly hurried over. Mother had told her that the Lady was to be spoken to courteously, if at all. It wouldn't do to insult the Lady. The girl sketched a hasty curtsy, pulling the pleats of her skirt aside in an attempt to mimic the gesture she had seen her mother make so often. "There is no easy way for me to say this, child," the Lady continued. "You know that for some time now, your mother has been feeling unwell?"
"Yes," she said quietly. Her mother grew weary so easily these days. She no longer had time for playing dolls after attending the Lady all day.
"I am afraid that your mother has... passed on. Do you know what that means?" The girl shook her head. "It means that she has gone away, and she can never come back. The Maker is looking after her now, and he will continue to do so until you can one day be together again."
"I... I want my mother," the girl began to cry.
"Shhh, hush now, hush. There there, good girl. I know this is hard for you, but your mother was a good woman, and she attended me well. Before she passed away, she asked if you could stay here, and I agreed. She wanted to provide for you, even after she was gone. Though I have never had children of my own, I am quite happy for you to stay here until you grow old enough to make your own decisions in life."
"Wh... when can I see... see my mother again?" asked the girl, doing her best to quiet her sobbing.
"Not for a very long time. Only when you are older even than me. Now, would you like a sweet pastry before dinner?"
"Mother said I'm not supposed to eat sweets before dinner," the girl said solemnly.
"Well, I say it's okay, just for this one time. And after dinner, you can sit in my withdrawing room whilst I work on my tapestry, and you can listen to the minstrel. Would you like that?"
"Y... yes," she sniffed.
"Very good. Come along then, Leliana."
The Lady held out her hand, and the girl took it. As she was led into the house, she looked back at the doll that her mother had bought for her; it had fallen to the floor in her haste to reach the Lady, and it was lying alone and forlorn in the dust. She considered asking the Lady if she could run back for it, but quickly dismissed that idea. If Lady Cecilie thought she was being a nuisance, she might not let her listen to the minstrel singing later, and she did so love the singing.
o - o - o - o - o
Dozens of small, dirty bodies were pressed into the holding cage of the warehouse. The building reeked of sweat and stale urine, of vomit and brewing ale. Sometimes it was cattle sold here, sometimes horses. Occasionally there were goods on sale, but today, it was slaves. The adults were kept caged on the far side of the warehouse, away from the children. Nonetheless, some still cried out for their young ones, screaming their names, hoping for a reply.
One young boy pushed himself as close to the side of the cage as possible, to avoid being crushed by the larger children next to him. He was small for his age, even for an elf, and his short blond hair was caked in mud and grime. His large blue eyes were widened in fear, and he looked desperately towards the adult cages, looking for a familiar face. He had been raised by the whores of the brothel where his Dalish mother had worked and died, and he was left to fend mostly for himself, stealing meals where he could, fighting both dogs and other hungry youngsters to keep them his own. That was how the men had captured him; the had lured him into an alley with food, then pounced on him as he ate.
"Bring out the first block," called a voice from the centre of the warehouse. The boy heard the cage opened, and ten of the children were ushered out. "This boy is a fine, strong child from a working family. Used to labour, he will not balk at his duties, nor shirk them. He'd make an excellent labourer, particularly in the fresh air. A perfect addition to any farm hold. Bidding starts at fifty silvers."
One by one, the children were bid upon, and led away to their new masters. Another ten were led out, and the process started again. Eventually there were only eight left, and the cage door opened one last time. The boy clung to it with his fingers, not wanting to leave, not wanting to stand on the high block in front of all those strangers, not wanting to be led away to an unknown fate. It took two of the men to unhook him from the cage; one to uncurl his fingers from the cold iron bars, and another to pull his small body away before he could cling on again. The crowd, meanwhile, laughed at his efforts.
"A fine, spirited young elf," the auctioneer joked as his captors carried him onto the block and stood him at the head of the line of children. "Strong for his age, and street-wise too. We foresee a good martial career for this one, whether it be army or personal guard. Who will start the bidding at fifty silvers?"
The bidding continued until somebody offered three sovereigns. After that, there were no more offers. The boy was led to another holding area, where six boys were already standing under the watchful eye of a tall, leather-clad man. The man took out a piece of parchment and a quill.
"What's your name, boy?" he asked.
"Zevran," said the boy.
"Hmm. I've heard worse. You can keep it. Stand here with the others, and do not talk."
Zevran took a place beside the other boys. All human, they dwarfed him, and immediately made him feel defensive. Bigger children had stolen his meal from him on more than one occasion, usually through brute force. Zevran had learnt that to keep his food safe, he had to use his small size to his advantage, and often climbed to great heights, to places that could hold his weight but not theirs, to eat his food.
The bidding was over, and no more children were added to the holding area. Another man appeared, and tied a rope around the wrist of one of the boys, and then moved onto another, then another. Zevran was tied last, and he flinched as the rope was pulled tight around his wrist, burning his skin.
"Come this way," said the man, taking up the end of the rope and tugging on it gently. "Follow me, and no tricks from any of you, or it'll be lashes for all of you."
Zevran followed the boy in front of him, and they were led towards a room at the side of the warehouse. When the door closed behind them, one of the men pushed aside a pile of wooden crates, revealing a flight of steps descending into darkness. He lit a torch and passed his to the man who held the rope. When he began to descend, the boys followed, and the crates were put back across the exit, blocking out all light.
For Zevran, the journey felt like some sort of dark dream. The only thing that seemed real was the torchlight, and he followed this like a moth drawn towards a candle. In the cold, dark tunnel, the fire was both comforting and hypnotic. When the tunnel became stairs, leading upwards, another door was thrown open and daylight flooded the tunnel. Zevran squeezed his eyes shut, protecting them against the cold, harsh sunlight.
They were led on through a series of tight back alleys until they reached a foul-smelling building. Several older boys, dressed in matching brown outfits, stood beside a dozen buckets of water.
"Clean 'em up," said the man, tossing the end of the rope to one of the boys. More boys advanced, began stripping the clothes from the captives. Zevran shivered with cold as his clothes were tossed onto a nearby open fire. Then one of the boys poured water from one of the buckets over his head and began washing him down from head to toe with warm soapy water. There was a sharp smell of astringent, and Zevran spluttered as the de-lousing mixture found its way into his mouth. Then more water was poured over him, washing away the dirty, soapy foam. Clean clothes were thrust at him, and he dressed as ordered.
"Come along this way," said one of the boys, pulling sharply on the end of the rope. He led them into the building, where unfamiliar smells assaulted Zevran's nose. He heard voices shouting orders, and through one open doorway saw two young women stretching out an animal hide, scraping the hair and fibres from it. The women waved at the boy leading them, and he waved back with an impish grin.
After several twisting, turning corridors, they were led to a flight of rickety wooden stairs, and began to ascend. The smell of leather and tanning faded a little as they climbed, and Zevran found himself at last in a warm, cramped roof space. There were at least fifteen other boys, ranging in age from five to ten, and all of them human. He and the other newcomers were led to six empty, low beds, and told to sit there and wait. The rope was removed from their wrists, and they were left alone.
Eventually the older boys returned, carrying between them a large pan. Zevran smelt the sweet aroma of cooking food, and his mouth began to water. When the other boys formed a line in front of the pan, he followed, taking the last place in the queue. One by one the youngsters were handed a wooden bowl and given three ladles of hot broth and a roll of bread. Broth and bread in hand, Zevran retreated to his bed and watched the other children warily. But all seemed content with their meals, and none looked like they were on the verge of stealing his, so he tucked into his food, sipping broth straight from the bowl.
After the shock of being captured, after the trauma of being held in the warehouse overnight, after the cold journey through the subterranean tunnels and the sudden bathing, the warm food was a welcome change. Not having to fight for it was also a welcome change. Maybe this place wouldn't be so bad after all. It was already warmer than where he normally slept, and if they were fed like this once a day, he would never have to scrounge for food again.
"Have the new ones been washed and fed?" asked a man as he entered the room.
"All of them," said one of the elder boys.
"Good." The man turned to face the six newcomers, and Zevran found himself staring at the human. His clothes were black, finely cut, and resplendent with gold thread trimming and pearls sown as buttons. His dark hair was combed back over his head, and his mustache was thin, curling upwards at the tips. "Forget who you were," said the man. "Forget your families. From now on, the Crows are your family. We will take care of you, we will clothe you and feed you, and we will teach you. In return, you are required to learn. You will learn what we teach you, and you will learn to obey when you are given an instruction. Whilst you are here, Cass and the other older boys will watch over you. Do not cause trouble, do not try to run away, or you will be punished. But if you are good, if you take all your lessons to heart, then you will be rewarded. This is how the Crows work; if you are good, you get nice things. If you are bad, you get bad things."
"Where... where are my parents?" asked one of the boys. Zevran did not know whether he was being brave or foolish.
"Your parents do not want you anymore. That is why you are here," said the man. "Forget about them." He turned towards the eldest boy. "Cass, show them the ropes. Make sure they know the rules before the end of the week. Their first lesson will begin then."
With that, the man left, and Cass gestured for them to follow him. He showed them the leather workshop downstairs, and pointed out the owner, who rented out the roof space to the Crows for a very modest fee. He showed them where to draw fresh water from the well, where to wash, where to leave their damaged or out-grown clothes to be replaced, and he showed them where they could and could not go. As night fell, he took them back upstairs and left them by their beds.
Unused to sleeping with so many other children nearby, Zevran climbed into his bed and pulled his quilts over and around him. Some of the other children, the ones who had been there longer, were engaged in quiet conversation. Mostly it was whispering, and he could not overhear most of what they said. The new boys, the ones who had been bought along with him, were silent, one or two wide-eyed with fear. The boy who had asked for his parents was sobbing quietly two beds away.
There was creaking from the stairway, ominously loud in the darkness of the night. All whispering stopped, and a deathly silence descended over the room. The door creaked open, and Zevran closed his eyes as he heard footsteps approach.
"What about this one?" asked a voice.
"Ugh, elves," said another voice, and he recognised it as Cass's. "'Sides, I heard his mother was a whore; no telling what you might catch from him."
The footsteps moved on, and stopped not far away, beside the bed of the sobbing boy.
"This one, then?"
"Yeah, he'll do," said Cass.
"Hey, what's your name, kid?"
"Oli... Oliver," the boy sniffed.
"Well Oliver, it's your lucky day. You get to come and sleep in our room tonight. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"
"I... I want my mother," Oliver cried.
"You'll get over her," said Cass. "Don't worry, we'll help you take your mind off her. Just you come with us."
As three pairs of footsteps retreated to the door, Zevran opened one eye. Cass's arm as around Oliver's shoulders as he comforted the boy, telling him how much he'd enjoy being a Crow. When the door shut behind them, the light from the stairs went with it, and the room was plunged again into darkness. There was no more talking from the other boys that night, but as Zevran lay in the dark, trying to find sleep, he was sure he heard whimpering from another part of the building.
o - o - o - o - o
"Morrigan! Come here, my dear."
Morrigan looked up from her observation of a caterpillar, and saw her mother approaching. She placed the caterpillar back on the leaf, and brushed the soil from her clothes as she stood.
"Yes, mother?" she asked.
"I want you to come with me for a moment and look at something."
She took her mother's hand and allowed herself to be led towards the road. Her mother stopped short of the road itself, remaining hidden in the trees. She pointed with one knobby finger, and Morrigan followed the line. Further down the road were a several tall, shiny figures. She had seen similar groups of men twice before, in her eight years of life, and she knew what was about to come.
"More templars, mother?" she asked.
"That's right. Foolish men, always trying to interfere with my life. But we know what to do with foolish men, don't we?"
"More fun!" the girl giggled.
"That's right, more fun! Now, I want you to do just like you did last time. Let them see you crying, and then lead them down to the riverbank. You remember the old badger sett that we found there? When you get there, I want you to hide in that, and don't leave until I come for you. Understand?"
"Yes mother, I understand. Does this mean we have to move again?"
"Afterwards, yes. But that can't be helped. If we don't move, more of the fools will keep coming. Go now, child. I'll be waiting down by the river. Remember the badger sett."
Morrigan nodded, and climbed down the shallow bank to the road. She took a handful of dirt and rubbed it into her cheeks, then forced herself to cry, the tears tracking lines down the dust on her face. Quietly, she crept ahead of the templars, standing in the middle of the road so that they could not fail to see her. Then, she screamed.
It was the sort of blood-curdling scream that chilled anybody who heard it to the bone. Her mother had spent a long time teaching her to properly scream, and her hard work had paid off. The templars rushed forward, and Morrigan turned and ran. She had been just six years old when she had first done this, and she had quickly learnt that if the men drew too close, she could use her smaller size to her advantage. And so she squeezed herself through patches of thorns and briars that the large men struggled to scramble through, she dodged amongst thick tree trunks, wove her way through narrow nettle-strewn trails, until at last she came to the river.
As her mother suggested, she made her way to the entrance of the badger sett, and crawled down into the hole. When she came to the burrow, at the end of the tunnel, she turned around, and looked up at the distant sunlight that filtered in through the hole. The first time she had entered the sett she had been terrified of the darkness, of the oppressive feeling of the earth closing in on her. But her mother said that you could not have light without darkness; it was the darkness that might light so special.
It didn't take long for her mother to begin her fun. Though Morrigan could not hear the words that were spoken, either by her mother or by the templars, she heard the screams of agony begin. They lasted for some time; her mother was quite adept at inflicting pain without killing. Eventually, though, the cries ceased, and silence fell upon the land.
"You can come out now," her mother called down into the sett. Somewhat reluctant to leave the warmth of the burrow, Morrigan slowly made her way up to the light.
"Is it over, mother?" she asked, pulling herself out of the hole.
"Yes, my dear. Look." Her mother gestured toward the templars, now little more than twisted, charred corpses.
"What did you do to them?"
"Ah, that is something I will teach you when you are much older. For now, you should work on the magic I have taught you. Controlling the elements is something that will come in very useful to you in the future."
"Why do they keep coming, mother?" she asked, following her mother back to their home.
"Because templars will ever be fools, unquestioning hounds of the Chantry who believe that apostates - that means unsanctioned mages like you and I - are a danger to their precious society. According to them we are an abomination unto their Maker. Ha!"
"Is that why we live out here, and not with the rest of the humans?"
"Your mind is full of questions today, Morrigan. What has brought this on?"
"Nothing," she said quickly with a blush, afraid that her mother would sense her idle fancies.
"You're curious about other people, aren't you? I can't say that I blame you. I used to be curious about things too, once upon a time. The truth is, we live out here because it there is no place for apostates. We would be quickly found and hunted down. Also, I tired long ago of humanity. If you ever live as long as I, you will understand. When you've been everywhere and seen everything, nothing feels new anymore. Plus, having to put up with people is quite a chore. They talk about unimportant things... the weather, clothes, things that I have no interest in anymore. When you are old enough, you can go to one of the villages and see humanity for yourself, if you like."
"How old will I have to be?" she asked excitedly.
"Hmm. When you are fifteen, you will be old enough to mingle with others. There is much for you to learn before then, of course. And not just magic, either. If you are to walk amongst people, I must impart knowledge and wisdom to you. You must learn what is and is not acceptable, and how to move without drawing attention to yourself. If you are caught, you will most likely be killed."
"Won't you come with me, mother?"
"Bah, do not be foolish, child. I came out here to escape humanity. I have no desire to return to it. No. This journey will be yours alone. You will always have a home with me, of course. And speaking of which, we need to move ours, before more of those tin-headed fools show up and get themselves killed."
Morrigan skipped happily ahead on the path towards home. Fifteen was still some way off, but she couldn't wait. She would finally be able to meet other people, and see for herself if they were as strange as her mother claimed.
o - o - o - o - o
A cold breeze blew through Castle Redcliffe, causing the tapestries on the walls to ripple gently. Crouched outside the door to Arl Eamon's bedroom with his ear pressed to a crack, Alistair shivered. He didn't like the winter months, when the weather confined him to the Castle. This year was even worse; Eamon's new wife, a young Orlesian woman named Isolde, had moved into the Castle following their wedding in late autumn, and ever since she had arrived she had done nothing but harangue Alistair. She hated him, he was sure, but he didn't know why. He had always been polite and courteous to her, had never stared, never mentioned her strange accent that made her unintelligible at times. The woman just couldn't stand him.
"...know you want to do what's best for him, but haven't you done enough already? What about doing what's best for me, for our child?" Lady Isolde's voice had a pleading tone he had never heard before. Normally she was icy, aloof. Why would she be begging Eamon?
"But Isolde, I can't just cast him aside. This is the only life he's ever known."
Arl Eamon sounded sad, and Alistair realised they were talking about him. Eamon had taken him in after his mother had died when he was a baby, and practically raised him as his own son.
"I wouldn't ask you to cast him aside, but surely there are other places he can be happy? I think, once our baby arrives, he will not like it so much here. Everybody will be paying attention to our child, and he may resent that. People will have less time for him than he is used to. Would it not be kinder to spare him that?"
"I... suppose you're right. I will speak to him about it."
"Thank you, my love. It will be for the best, you'll see."
Alistair hurried away from the door, knowing that Eamon would pay him a visit shortly. Safely in his room, he closed his door and changed for bed, diving under the covers with his mind afire.
Where could Eamon send him? Surely not to Denerim, to his father, to the man who wanted nothing to do with him? No, Eamon would not send him to a place where he would be unwelcome and treated with scorn. Maybe... maybe he would be sent to Eamon's brother, Teagan. Alistair liked Teagan; he was always smiling, always had a kind word for his adoptive nephew. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? But it wouldn't be home...
There was a knock on his door, and he took a deep breath before calling that it was alright to enter. Arl Eamon came into his room, closing the door behind him.
"Ah, in bed already, I see. I hope I didn't wake you, Alistair," he smiled, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"No, I was just saying my prayers to the Maker," he lied.
"That's good. Your mother would approve. She was a very devout woman." As Eamon spoke, Alistair subconsciously fingered the pendant that hung from his necklace. It had been his mother's, the only thing he had left of her, and it depicted the undying flame of Andraste, bride and prophetess of the Maker. "For some time now, I've been thinking... wondering... what she would want for you, and if I am doing right by her wishes by keeping you here."
"I like it here. This is my home."
"Yes. Yes it is. But I would like to make a suggestion. I know you might not like the idea at first, but I would like you to give it some thought."
"What is it?" he asked suspiciously.
"After your mother passed away, there were some who suggested that you be raised by the Chantry. It is not uncommon for orphans to end up there. I was against the idea at the time, because I believed that you deserved some sense of family. Because I had no children of my own, it was no problem for you to stay here. Now that you're older, and life around the Castle is changing, I think it might be best if you spent some time at the Chantry. They can give you a far better education than I, and you will have a chance to make friends of your own age. I know it can be lonely for you, here."
"You want to get rid of me?"
"Not at all. You will still be welcome here, for religious holidays and special occasions. This will still be your home. But I know that you can become much more than you would be if you remained here. You will be with boys and girls of your own age, you will be cared for and educated, and I believe you will enjoy it there. There is a monastery, where the templars and priestesses are trained. It's not far away, and I could visit you."
"And if I don't want to go?" he asked, feeling tears forming in his eyes.
"I would still ask that you try it. Spend a year there, see how much you can learn, how much fun you will have. If you don't like it, you don't have to stay, but you cannot know unless you try. Think about it for a while. You won't be going anywhere until spring, at least. Just try to get used to the idea. I'm sure that once you're there, you'll love every minute of it."
When Arl Eamon left, Alistair jumped from his bed and rooted through his wardrobe for the biggest bag he owned, then began stuffing it with clothes and shoes. If Arl Eamon wanted him gone, then he would go. But he wouldn't wait until spring, he wouldn't live in a place he wasn't wanted. He wouldn't put up with Isolde's gloating, condescending smiles at having 'won' and forced Eamon to send him away. One of the knights could escort him to the monastery in the morning. There was no point in waiting.
As he packed, the pendant around his neck banged back and forth against his chest. Angry, he pulled the chain, breaking it at the clasp, and threw the necklace with all his strength at the nearest wall. It hit the wall and shattered, sending a rain of broken pieces over the floor. Aghast, he knelt down beside the broken pieces, began hunting for them. It wasn't easy, with only the firelight to see by, and he could find only a handful.
How could he have been so stupid? The one piece of his mother that he had left, had been broken by his own anger. But perhaps it was better this way. His mother had died, leaving him alone. His father wanted nothing to do with him, and now even Arl Eamon, the one person who had ever cared for him, didn't want him around anymore. Perhaps he just wasn't supposed to have family, to be wanted anywhere. If so, a clean break would be best. Yes, he would leave tomorrow.
