A big thank you for all the reviews and faves and alerts – my email was literally flooded, which certainly took me by surprise.

This chapter wasn't originally on the kinkmeme, because it's gotten a bit plottier than the idea behind the meme and the fic is getting quite wordy without these character insights. However, I did want to explore the dynamics in the Hawke family a little more, along with the backstory that brings them to Tevinter, and it will be done through these interludes. How many there'll be, I can't really say, but they will get intertwined with the narrative whenever it shifts away from Hawke and Fenris.

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Interlude I

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Leandra Hawke would be the first to agree that she was indeed love's fool.

From an early age, there had been nothing denied to her, nothing she couldn't do or have, and she grew up aware of her privilege. As a young girl, she had been somewhat stuck up, fully conscious of and confident in her talent at anything she set her mind to, be it answering questions about ancient history or being the belle of any ball her parents made her attend.

Then, at a mere nineteen years in the Maker's world, all things changed for her. She had been in the middle of a leisurely stroll through Hightown to the markets, to indulge in a few new ribbons, when she crossed paths with a man who was apparently wearing a dress. Before the thought could register in her mind, she had been pulled into a corner by this strange man and he started talking to her in the manner of a grandfather asking his granddaughter to slow down, that his bones weren't as young as they used to be.

Leandra was almost ready to scream for the band of templars passing by, especially since the man's rather amusing hat betrayed distinctly non-grey hair, but she had been too dumbstruck first and then too… intrigued? She didn't really know, but she could see bits of the man's face under his disguise and there was something imploring about his tone. A cutpurse would have taken her things and ran, but this man…

This man was a mage, she discovered when they were several streets away from the templar patrol, whereupon the man shed his mask of cloth and perhaps magic, and he thanked her as much as he apologized for this impertinence. Leandra laughed at first, despite her own concern, and asked to hear more. He was much younger than his previous hunched posture indicated and not altogether unfortunate-looking.

She found herself sitting in a seedy bar in Lowtown – just in case, as the templars rarely came there – for the first time ever and listened to the mage's tales, jests and thanks.

His name was Malcolm, though just Mal was more than enough, he said with a charming wink. His occupation, she had already guessed, so that wasn't discussed further, especially not in public. He was twenty-four or twenty-five – he couldn't really precisely tell – and he was from Ferelden. That explained his peculiar behavior in part, but Leandra didn't really know if the way he made her laugh was related to his foreign heritage. It was just… so different from the haughty noble little princelings she was supposed to make conversation with, those potential marriage matches.

Mal bought her a drink, despite her protests. She had never had true alcohol before, only watered down wine, despite its fanciness. Her other objection had been that she could easily buy half the pub, but the stubborn mage had insisted. Otherwise, he wouldn't be able to live with himself, he had said. The market thoroughly forgotten, Leandra spent hours with the runaway mage at a run-down table among scoundrels, having the time of her life.

Of course, the templars eventually brought him back to the Circle, but he later told her that he didn't view it as a failing. He had been trying to escape Kirkwall and make his way through the Free Marches, but the chance meeting had changed his plans. Leandra returned home that night with her lips still bubbling with laughter and a spring in her step. Even Gamlen's mutterings didn't manage to wear her down.

They began meeting in secret. It was a difficult thing to manage, because her gaining entrance to the Gallows needed a reason beyond "I am the heir of the Amell family." Not that she didn't try, of course, but it was the first time Leandra was finding her path blocked. But she had a purpose now, a desire, and she always went after what she wished.

Their meetings became more frequent. Innocent, at first, because Leandra was wary of magic; she didn't understand it, beyond the fact that it was supposed to be dangerous. But the flowers brought to bloom early for her sake, be it in the wild or in a picture of ice, managed to change her mind. She learned so much, experienced happiness and began to think that perhaps she could be happy with less than jewels and gowns and titles.

Mal had nothing of his own, of course. Nothing of true substance, nothing that could feed a family – and where was she going with such thoughts? He was a mage, confined to the Gallows, and knew no trade other than the one he had been born with. And she, for all her education, had been raised to have things done for her. She couldn't imagine trying to make a living as a seamstress, quick as she was with the needle.

But when the mage kissed her in the shadow of the stars, Leandra tended to forget things as rank and station. She forgot even about magic and the differences in their situation. And she disregarded the great rule her governess had always tried to beat into her head, that her body was meant for her husband only and the Maker would damn her forever if she disobeyed that.

There was a solution to that, of course. She was barely twenty when Mal proposed to her with a ring made of living flowers that wrapped around her finger gently, securely. Daisies were her diamonds and forget-me-nots her sapphires; Leandra was enchanted at once. She had spent many a sleepless night thinking about this moment, imagining how she might respond. The fact that she never told her parents about her secret meetings helped her courage, but didn't really alter her decision.

I cannot give you gold or gowns or palaces, Mal had said. But you'll never lack for love and devotion; I will move the stars themselves to ensure your happiness.

And she, the gullible fool, imagined herself the happiest woman in Kirkwall. Things would surely fall into place without any kind of problem.

She hoped to tell her parents that night at dinner, overjoyed with her good fortune. The house she entered was fit for a celebration, both as a belated party and as a means of introducing her properly to one Guillaume, Comte de Launcet.

Older than her by ten years, the Orlesian noble had fled his country with his family after running afoul of some chevaliers, it seemed. Now, he intended to start afresh in Kirkwall – and what better way than to marry the daughter of the most powerful family in the city? Leandra would have been appalled by the mere sneering smile she was awarded with, as if to say she met the Orlesian's expectations. But she had arrived in the middle of the event dressed much below her station and with a song in her heart.

She took one look at the Comte's prominent widow's peak and darting eyes and displayed her vibrant ring for all to see.

Her parents didn't take it at all well.

Not only was it a societal scandal, her mother rambled hysterically to her, that she had accepted a man's proposal without considering their opinion, but she had embarrassed them before prominent foreigners. Her father was more concerned with the practicalities – the fact that his formerly dutiful daughter had been seeing a man behind their backs, for a year, no less, that this man was a mage of the Circle and a Fereldan at that! A more perfect checklist of unsuitable qualities of her future husband she couldn't have prepared for him even if she tried!

Leandra spent the night sealed in her room, crying bitter tears. They had given her every argument she had already presented to herself and resolved. She still wished to marry this man, this mage, even if it caused her parents such distress. It was still as if love could conquer all.

The servants were under orders not to let her leave, but she managed to sneak a letter to the Gallows through a trusted elf woman who took pity on her. Mal's response was swift and more unconventional, with the paper flying into her room folded into the shape of a songbird.

He intended to leave the Circle, it said. He had only stayed this long because of her and now that it seemed that they couldn't be together if they remained in Kirkwall, there was no reason for him to stay. If she wished, they could call off the engagement – the paper was a little blurry here, though whether due to spilled water or tears she couldn't really tell – and he would leave with his love for her, never to darken her doorstep again.

But… if she was still willing to brave the unknown with him, then he would wait for her for a day at a designated place near the main city gate. The templars would start searching the outskirts first, not the city itself, so he had a little time to get a disguise.

There had been no hesitation.

And so, despite her father's shouts, despite her mother's curses, she had found herself on a ship to Ferelden with her husband, both of them dressed the part of refugees. They were forced to sell her jewels to survive that first year, but they managed relatively well.

Mal's father had been a craftsman, he said, a woodcutter, but to apprentice himself at twenty-six seemed a waste of money and energy to them. Instead, he employed his well-read background to become a bookseller's aide, transcribing works of written word into the night. And Leandra, utilizing all that she knew about gentility and good manners, worked hard to mimic all she remembered of her own chambermaids at whatever lord's estate was nearby.

They lived well, all things considered. Both of them were educated, well-bred (in her case) and greatly resourceful (in his). And then, the village midwife suddenly told her of her pregnancy.

Leandra had known this would be expected of her eventually, but she had supposed that Malcolm's magic would have somehow influenced the effects of their love-making; after all, in the six months they had been together in Kirkwall, she had never become heavy with child, and she could admit with rosy cheeks that it hadn't been due to any chastity on her part.

Mal didn't share her concerns about her being a horrible mother; on the contrary, he added some of his own. Magic passed through blood, he told her, and there was a possibility that their child might inherit his power. It was why a union of two mages was deeply frowned upon by the Chantry and why children born of them were immediately confiscated and watched closely.

The Chantry, they avoided like the Blight. The priests might have paid good money for the services of a scholar, but the proximity of templars always made her husband twitchy. With good reason, too. The first time Leandra saw a poor apostate get caught by her hunters, she almost cried out that it was the templars who were committing a crime, not the woman who was crying at their feet.

The first Hawke child was born a few days ahead of schedule, but it was as healthy a baby girl as one could wish for. It was summer, with fruit shining on trees and fireflies lighting up the sky, and tired and drowning in work as she was, Leandra felt happiest when she saw her husband hold her daughter for the first time. In her after-birth weakness and, witnessing this joy, she had allowed her husband to choose the name.

She was a little less pleased to find that her husband selected that of some kind of Fade creature of legend or whatnot. Nevertheless, it was a pretty name, Illyria, and so she saved working out her frustrations for their bedroom instead of her fists, on the condition that she be consulted if they had another child.

Her husband apparently wished to apologize so profusely that he proceeded to put not one, but two children into her womb once they figured out how to care for the first.

The years were good to them, to the young family, and Leandra believed those to be the happiest years of her life. Mal hid his talents well, becoming an attentive father as his initial flightiness mellowed out into a willingness to stay with his family through thick and thin. The son he had longed for was named in the honor of a man who had helped him reach his happiness – Leandra knew the tale well by then – and all seemed well for those too brief, wonderful years.

Then, her lovely daughter zapped a rat that had scared her with a bolt of electricity.

Just like that, they were on the move again, because Highever was a pious teyrnir, with templars watching closely and the life of a mage-child one that had to be sheltered like a candle in a storm.

Fortunately, Malcolm was an apt teacher, something she would never have guessed at their initial meeting, and soon Leandra no longer had to worry about either of the twins crying because their ball had been set on fire when they refused to play with Illyria.

Their troubles returned only when the ball was set on fire without any intervention from their eldest and they found Bethany holding it in her hands with ease, scowling at Carver for his not being able to catch it. Leandra thought her hands would be scorched, but her husband saw immediately that their peaceful life in Dragon's Peak was then entirely over.

The flaming ball had been hard to find. They managed to escape before the templars arrived, if only barely.

Lothering became a pleasant enough stop for their journey south, pleasant enough that they stayed in that place for several years. Again, the Chantry was a nuisance, but they settled into the life of farmers well, providing their children with all the love and education they could afford. What they lacked in wealth they made up for in the love they had for each other, even though it was a strain on her shoulders, living with three people who shared something she could never have or grasp. Her son felt that burden far heavier than she, though, especially when it became clear that Malcolm was raising his eldest as the one to take care of the family should anything happen.

But it was their life, their home, and Leandra found happiness once more, stroking her husband's graying hair as he told her about tales from Denerim, the exploits of their new king, or listened about how it would soon be time to start finding suitable husbands and one possible wife for their ever-growing children.

She could have spent her entire life in Lothering, content with her lot, even if the sting of her parents' rejection of her decision hurt still. There were no more children on the way and Carver was long past the age of displaying signs of magic. There seemed to be no more surprises along their path that couldn't be avoided with a little care.

"Leandra… we need to leave." her husband was saying imploringly. "This village won't be safe for us any longer, not now."

A templar had attacked them; a templar who hadn't even known that they were truly mages. One man who had drowned his sorrows a little too deep over some petty grievance or another and finally hoped to proclaim his affection for some village maiden – whether it was actually one of her daughters was inconsequential at this point. They had been forced to defend themselves, one thing had left to another, and here they were. The bottom line was, the man was dead.

Bethany was still somewhat traumatized by the turn of events, huddling in the corner while they tried to make sense of what they should do. Carver was scowling in the corner, his eyes still burning with negative emotion, though it seemed more than just the residue of his anger at the templar.

"But why so far?" Leandra demanded. "We could go to Redcliffe, or Gwaren, or somewhere far away from here!"

"And what then? Do we simply keep starting over if our lives are disturbed? I am no Dalish, my love. I want to stop running at some point."

"We already left one land for the sake of settling. How will it be different if we undertake another journey?"

"Life is different in Tevinter, Mama." Illyria was holding a map, as if things were already settled and they were going to go, no matter what. "Magic isn't frowned upon at all. Mages can live anywhere they like-"

"Yes, and non-mages are often given the great honor of being slaves." Carver was firmly against the idea. He wasn't as well-read as the others in the family, but his knowledge was the most Chantry-related. "The magocracy has a tight hold on that decrepit place. Here, we can at least live as we like. Poor, but free."

"Or we can be poor but alive in Tevinter." Illyria countered, "There, we have a chance at freedom. But if they catch any of us here… we're free on borrowed time here."

Malcolm nodded, disregarding the drawbacks he was well-aware of for the sake of convincing his family. "This country is my home, but life is complicated enough for a single apostate on the run. We cannot just keep running forever. When we are old and our children have progeny of their own, how will we continue our wandering? I wish to live my life in peace, free of the Chantry's nonsensical laws. If we are to keep retreating, why not go to a place where there will be no further attack?"

As a Chantry-educated noble, Leandra had heard tales about the magocracy and its blood magic in the dark lands governed by the Black Divine. And the sound of the place so far away from what she was used to sounded somewhat frightening; the move to Ferelden had been quite easy, with many refugees migrating from either side to the other.

Tevinter was… different.

A decrepit imperium that had outlasted any attempts to subdue or destroy it, even that of Andraste herself. And, for all their strange customs, mages were indeed allowed to walk freely among the mundane.

"Bethany, dear, you haven't said anything yet." Her beautiful girl was sitting in the middle of their little circle, her eyes still a little unfocused. "What do you think about this idea?"

Seeing the bleak look in her little girl's eyes hurt Leandra; out of their three mages, Bethany was the only one who truly wished to be rid of her powers. But she usually agreed with her sister and her father, even on matters outside of magic.

"I've always wanted to be normal. In Tevinter, magic is normal." Dark hair was falling into her face, and, for a moment, Leandra was reminded of her youthful hesitation about following her heart into exile. Except the prize was hardly within sight for her children and the journey a little different than the one she had taken to get here. "Perhaps we will fit in there."

"We'll still be Fereldans, even when our magic is accepted, darling." At least Malcolm seemed to hold some semblance of a realistic outlook of their chances. "But it won't be much different from when I entered the Free Marches for the first time. We can do this."

"Well, wonderful for you three. I guess Mother and I will just be coming along to carry your bags." Carver rarely went so openly against his father, even though his sisters were a different story.

It was nonetheless a gap between them that Malcolm felt deeply; his son was the only one he couldn't truly educate himself, having no knowledge of the blades that so interested the boy. Carver had received a Chantry education, different from his sisters in that way, and would likely be able to get a job as a guardsman at some estate. In Tevinter, his prospects would of course be dimmed.

"You are all my family, Carver, and no one here will be making anyone less than equal." That reply averted the storm, for the moment. "We're all in this together; if we go, we go together, all of us. We can always return eventually, if you find the country not to your liking, but it's our best option now."

"Why not return to Kirkwall, then?" Leandra's final suggestion was a desperate move on her part. She knew well enough the number of letters that had gone unanswered, the many years she had hoped for some kind of response.

Malcolm took her hand gently, looking into her eyes with the tenderness that had won her over. "My love, we have no word from your family to give us any indication of what welcome we'd receive." Leandra knew he was thinking her parents would hand him to the templars, at best, but she still believed that wouldn't be the case. "Besides, Kirkwall is a dangerous city for any mage."

"We all know the stories of the Gallows." Bethany shuddered.

"Send letters if you wish." Malcolm squeezed her hand encouragingly, but she could see that he truly didn't believe they had a chance of returning there safely. "But we need to leave soon and put distance between us and this place."

"Mama, we can do this." Illyria's smile was strained but determined, if a touch less confident than most of the time. "We can make a life there. It'll be fine, I know it will."

And, finally, she was once more won by promises of a life under the stars, a home that might never be and a future in a distant land. Leandra Hawke was no longer a selfish chit who put her own guilt before anything else, before the safety of her darlings. Yet, as she once more set sail away from her husband's land – just the way she had entered it, it might as well have been the same ship, for all she knew - she was forced to wonder if it wasn't hope that had made fools of them all.