A/N: Thank you, lisakodysam, for beta reading another story. You are extraordinarily patient, and I appreciate your help and friendship more than I can express.
David Gaider has stated: Templars are discouraged from marrying or raising children since it is impractical to live apart from ones' dependents. However, such unions are occasionally permitted, provided that the templar's spouse has his or her own means of support, for example, owning land or a title.


Prologue

Father Sky and Mother Earth warred against the Great Serpent for many centuries, and, when all seemed lost, they placed their hopes and dreams in the stars. Each night, the stars shone down upon their children, and the children believed.

But, as time passed, the children of Father Sky and Mother Earth forgot the Great Serpent and the war that was fought on their behalf. They no longer saw hopes or dreams in the stars; they saw only points of light that illuminated the darkness.

It is said that, in the time of the next great upheaval, the stars will tumble from a burning sky and only those who truly believe will find their way again. From a book of Chasind Folktales***

Vimmark Mountains – Corypheus's Prison 9:06 DA

"You'll have to submit to this if you want to survive, Malcolm," the Grey Warden commanded patiently, extending a goblet.

Malcolm stared at the cup being presented to him, the dark viscous liquid clinging to the bowl of the chalice. First the blood magic he'd had to resort to in order to create the seals and now a blood magic ritual? Maker, how had it come to that?

"I won't become what you are," he replied coldly. "You're nothing more than a kidnapper and murderer."

"I'm not asking you to become a Warden. If I had known you'd become tainted…" the Warden began and trailed off. "I do what must be done," he finished quietly, once again extending the goblet. "I don't expect you to understand, Malcolm."

"And if I refuse?" Malcolm asked grimly.

"Then you'll succumb to the taint within a matter of days, your wife will lose a husband and your child will be born without a father."

"You bastard," Malcolm snarled. "You kidnap my pregnant wife, force me to do your bidding and now you would have me become a Grey Warden?"

"No. I don't ask that of you. If you survive the Joining then I will ensure you are left alone, to live your life as you see fit. It is the least I can do."

What choice did he have? Malcolm Hawke rubbed his forehead. The taint form the darkspawn was burning in his blood; he could feel it poisoning him. For a moment, he considered rejecting it and letting the poison flowing hotly in his veins kill him. Leandra's reputation might be ruined but at least she would be taken care of. What could he give her, other than a life built on lies and subterfuge? A life constantly running from what he was?

He would make their life worth the sacrifices. Somehow.

"And if I take this? What happens?"

"It won't cure you, but it will slow the taint down, giving you twenty or thirty years more than you have right now."

Malcolm listened intently as Larius explained what his future held as the taint slowly killed him. It would have to be enough.

"If I ever see you near my family, I will kill you where you stand, Larius," Malcolm averred and then took the chalice, drinking deeply.

As it turned out, it gave him twenty-one years and he was grateful for each one of them.

~~~oOo~~~

East of Lothering – 9:20 DA

Malcolm glanced at Laria, who was striding beside their cart, her eyes scanning the surrounding countryside. Guilt and pride warred within him as he took in his daughter's serious expression. She would have been a shield-maiden in the King's Guard had their circumstances been different.

Tall for her age, and as slender and tensile as a willow branch, she had his dark brown hair and pale grey eyes. He teased her about her riotous curls, cut short so that she could wear a helmet when fighting. She teased him about the grey threading through his own dark curls. They were close, brought together by their determination to keep the family safe, and, when he felt guilt over her lost childhood, he had only to remember her name to be reminded that guilt would not protect his family when he was gone. Only strength and resolve would.

They found the old farmhouse, deserted and rundown, on the edge of town. "Come along, Laria, let's see how well you can barter," Malcolm said. "Carver, watch over Bethany and your mother."

Nearing the town, Laria placed her hand on the hilt of her shortsword. Malcolm reached out and covered her hand with his own, squeezing gently. "It's best if we try a slightly more diplomatic approach, Laria," he counseled, softening his words with a smile. "A soft voice of reason will always be preferable to a sharp blade."

They were able to purchase the small farmhouse and surrounding land with just enough left over for a bag of grain and a milk cow. It was a start. Another one. Maker, he hoped it would be the last one.

"Now, go and see if there are any jobs on the Chanter's Board, Laria."

~~~oOo~~~

East of Lothering – 9:27 DA

The spring morning wore a mantle of endless blue. Before him, gently rolling hills, proudly dressed in fresh green grass, bade him welcome. A mist, lacy white fingers caressing the silver strand of the nearby river, beckoned him. The air was crisp and sweetly clean.

Stretching, he found himself whistling as he stirred the ashes and added kindling to the banked fire. After four years serving in the Denerim chantry, he had forgotten how beautiful and refreshing a spring morning could be. He turned his face up to the sun, eyes closed, breathing deeply.

He continued to whistle as he left the camp, a kettle set upon a rock near the fire. His destination was the river for a quick wash before breakfast. He didn't want to present himself to the Revered Mother of Lothering with the grime of travel still on him. By his reckoning he was less than an hour from the town.

As he approached the river, his whistle faded and he cocked his head. Someone else was already using the river for a wash, by the sound of the splashing. Scanning the riverbank, his eyes landed on a pair of trousers and jerkin hanging on a low branch of a willow tree. A pair of worn leather boots, scuffed and well-loved, were all that stood sentinel. His eyes continued on to the river and he saw the back of a head, capped by dark hair, as it emerged from the mist-shrouded water like some Fade spirit rising from a dream.

"Ho there, young man, are you mortal or are you a remnant of my dreams?" he called out, thinking that company, after so many solitary days on the road, would be welcome.

His words were greeted with an indignant and quite colorful curse, delivered in a surprisingly feminine voice. The owner of the voice turned to face him, wearing a wary frown and the river. He saw only a vague outline, an impression of gentle curves, before the mist gathered around her like a pale gown.

"You trespass, ser. This is Hawke land."

"Truly? Is the sky not the domain of a hawk?" he asked, offering the mist-enshrouded creature a smile. He was still not convinced that she was mortal. The day was so perfect, the smells and sights almost holy in their beauty. "Come now," he added, waving a hand, "surely you are not content to simply order me away? Will you not fly for me, hawk?"

The woman ducked under the water to emerge further down river a moment later. "I don't know who you are, ser, but you'd best find your way off this land."

Reaching out, he snagged the trousers from their home and dangled them over the water.

"Shall I bring these to you?" he asked with a smile, ignoring her suggestion that he leave.

"No! I would prefer if you would just leave the way you came," she replied quickly and firmly.

"Yes, I imagine you would, but as you are in my dream, I would prefer you come fetch them."

"I assure you, ser, that if you don't leave immediately, you'll discover this is not a dream but a nightmare."

He laughed and stepped back, carefully replacing the trousers on the branch. "I'll do as you wish, my lady, but such a chivalrous act should be rewarded. My camp is just over that small rise. I've tea and breakfast cooking. Join me."

"Certainly not."

"Have it your way," he replied with a shrug, once more snatching the trousers before striking out in the direction of his camp.

"Wait!" she cried on a note of panic.

"Oh? Has my lady changed her mind and decided to accept my invitation?"

"I'm not your lady! Drop those trousers!" she snapped indignantly.

Laughing, he turned and gave her a wink. "Which trousers?" he asked, his hand moving to the thick leather belt at his waist.

"You wouldn't dare!"

He smiled, removing his hand. "No, I would not," he confessed. "Now, I'll leave these here and trust in your sense of fairness," he added, placing the trousers on a nearby rock.

As he walked back to his camp, he heard the sound of splashing water and soft laughter. He dug into his kit and pulled out a spare mug and set about steeping tea. Hearing her approach, he stood to watch.

She was tall and slender with clear grey eyes. Her short hair curled around her face as it dried, tendrils of dark brown clinging to her cheeks. She smelled of spring, and, for the first time since he'd joined the order ten years earlier, he felt as if he had finally found what he'd been searching for.

~~~oOo~~~

Laria watched him climb the small embankment and couldn't help but laugh. He was outlandish and charming, as different from the men of Lothering as night was from day. He was foreign and exotic, as if he hailed from Rivain, and his dark hair was touched in places by lighter streaks of brown, just as his dark eyes were touched with deep golden flecks. Despite herself, she made her way to his camp, intrigued.

She should be outraged, or, at the very least, wary. He was no doubt a brigand or a vagabond who would as soon fleece her as befriend her, but she felt completely at ease with him . She was not accustomed to such behavior, in herself or in the men of Lothering. Several had tried to court her but she held herself aloof, knowing what her father expected of her.

At twenty-one, she was considered too old to marry by many. She was not deaf to the rumors about her, though she chose to ignore them. Many found her intimidating, especially those with whom she trained. While the prevailing attitudes towards women soldiers had softened in the years since the rebellion, men did not find the warrior arts particularly appealing in a wife. She had been content in that knowledge, but suddenly she wished she was not wearing her father's cast-offs, or that she had thought to bring her brush with her. Such thoughts made her angry with herself, as well as the man who sat across from her, his dark eyes amused.

"Might I know your name, my lady?" he asked, handing her a steaming cup of tea.

"Laria Hawke," she replied and watched as his eyes lit with laughter.

"So this is, in truth, a Hawke's land."

"Did you think I was lying?" she inquired with a deceptively sweet smile.

"No, I actually believed I was having a dream. I'm still not sure I'm awake."

"I am more than willing to kick you or slap you, in the interest of proving that you are, indeed, awake," she offered with a smirk.

He threw his head back with a shout of laughter that did odd things to her stomach. She was attracted to him in a way she had not been with the few other men she had kept company with. They had been merely a means to an end, a need to sate her curiosity. This man was different and some part of her cried out a warning, just as another part of her said it was too late.

"Now that I have satisfied your curiosity, will you tell me your name?"

He smiled at her, and there was an intimacy in his smile that made her feel young and giddy. It made her feel attractive. It was heady and appealing and she felt herself blushing; a rare event for her.

"My friends call me Aerin."

"And your enemies?" she asked, feeling an answering smile come unbidden to her lips.

"Nothing fit for a lady's ears," he replied smoothly.

"And you've no surname?" she pressed.

"As it happens, I do. If you are intent on knowing all of me, Lady Laria, so be it. I am Bryant Aerin Sinclair."

Laria felt her stomach and heart plunge headlong to her boots. The new Knight-Captain of Lothering? Oh Maker, what a fool she was. No vagabond or brigand, but a mage-hunter. Disappointment and embarrassment flooded into the empty space left by her stomach's departure. She jerked to her feet on legs that felt shaky. The bright morning sun seemed to mock her as she bade him a hasty and clumsy farewell. Maker's breath, the first man she'd ever been truly attracted to was the one man she needed to avoid, lest he discover her father and sister were apostates.

She heard him call after her but she didn't hear his words, only the echo of her own disappointment.

For the next two weeks, whenever she and her father went to town, she ran into him. He seemed to be everywhere. Where the previous knight-captain, Ser Fallon, had been content to stay within the chantry's walls, he was not. He walked among the villagers, stopping to chat with them. If she went to see Danal inside Dane's Refuge, he was there, talking to Barlin. If she and her father brought elf-root and bane's tongue to Elder Miriam, he was there, discussing a parishioner's health.

One morning, when she saw him walking in their direction, she stopped and told her father to continue without her because she was going to visit with her friend, Allison. She felt her father's eyes following her and, when she reached Allison's cottage, she looked back to see he and Ser Bryant deep in conversation.

That night, her father asked her to accompany him to the river. "The fish are getting lonely," he teased her, and so they walked down through the newly-planted field and sat on the river's edge.

"The new knight-captain seems an honorable man," her father began quietly as he baited his line. Laria felt as if he was also baiting her. She shot him a wary glance.

"I suppose. It's a shame he's a templar and not to be trusted," she finally said when she was sure her voice wouldn't betray her.

"Laria, not all templars are evil any more than all mages are well-intentioned. Surely I've taught you to look beyond a person's calling," he chided softly. "I've known a number of moral and honorable templars."

"Be that as it may, Father, you have also taught me that the safety of the family is of the utmost importance."

She heard her father sigh. "My dear, do you not think you could find a man who will accept your duty to your family?"

An echoing sigh escaped her as she cast her line into the river. "No. A man will only distract me from that duty," she replied firmly.

"Maker's mercy, Laria. I don't want you to forfeit everything for the sake of your family. I never wanted that. And should you persist in doing so, you will come to resent them."

"Leave it, Father. Ser Bryant is a templar and I live with apostates."

"I'm afraid it's too late to leave it. Besides, not all templars take a vow of chastity. They are even permitted to marry."

"Oh Father, what have you done?" Laria asked, horrified, her fishing pole forgotten on the ground beside her.

"Helped fate along its course, I trust," he replied enigmatically and refused to speak further on the matter.

Moments later she realized why her father was trying to arrange her future. His illness was accelerating and it was time for him to hasten it, he told her. Suddenly, the matter of the knight-captain seemed completely unimportant.

~~~oOo~~~

His luck, and life, were running out. He felt it in the impatient heat in his blood, in the twisted nightmares that robbed the entire family of sleep some nights. There was so much he still wanted to do, but, as he looked at his family, gathered around the table eating breakfast, he felt the joy of a man who had lived a good life, surrounded by those he loved. He would not spend his remaining time questioning his choices or decisions or bemoaning his ill-luck.

Regret was just a whisper of sorrow in his thoughts as he turned to his eldest. She met his gaze as she met life, directly and without guile. She nodded imperceptibly before pushing away from the table and standing, tugging nervously at the buckles of her leather jerkin. It was the only outward sign that she understood his time was coming to an end.

He had meant to tell her the entire story, a story even Leandra hadn't heard, but, in the end, he told her only that he had a wasting illness and that, when he knew the end was near, he would take measures to end his life, rather than draw it out. She had been eighteen when he told her and she had taken it with a preternatural calm. He shouldn't have been surprised. He had raised her to become the head of the family almost from the time she could walk.

Now, at the age of twenty-one, she was about to do that very thing. She should have a family of her own by now, but she had carefully rejected a number of young men who had braved her fearsome demeanor. Malcolm had been sure Quince Barlin would be the one to make it through her defenses, but she hadn't even blinked when she told him she wasn't interested.

Was he selfish to have raised his daughter to take his place as protector and provider? Many would say he was, and there had been a number of times he had questioned himself. Yet, she seemed content to follow the path fate had placed her on. Or was that something he needed to believe to assuage his guilt? Perhaps, he allowed himself to hope, she and Ser Bryant might find their future was together, rather than apart.

He sat on the bank of the river, Laria beside him. "I ask only two things of you, Laria. Watch after your mother and the twins. This life has been difficult for your mother, but she hasn't once complained. She'll need your strength when I'm gone."

"Of course, Father," his daughter replied, her voice steady and reassuring.

"The other is to open your heart to the possibilities of love, Daughter. The Maker has given the heart such capacity to love, and I won't have you deny yourself that joy out of fear or a sense of duty," he continued quietly. "If a noble woman and an apostate can find happiness, surely a templar and an apostate's daughter can, as well."

She slipped her hand into his and nodded once. "I will…try, Papa," she whispered reluctantly.

It had been years since he'd heard her call him that. He squeezed her hand and said, "That is all I have ever asked of you."

They sat in silence for several moments and then he spoke again. "I need you to visit Elder Miriam. She will be expecting you and has a potion for me. I need to speak to your mother and the twins while you're gone."

He watched her until she was a small dark spot on the horizon, thanking the Maker for her courage and strength…she would need both in the coming weeks.

Foolishly, he hoped she would allow her heart to find its destiny.

~~~oOo~~~

A/N: Laria is of Greek origin and means: the stars are mine.

***I actually made up this bit of Chasind Lore. I'm evil that way.