A/N: First, thank you, Lisa, for the wonderful, and speedy, beta!
Second, an apology for not updating sooner...the holidays and a houseful of guests prevented me from writing! I hope everyone's holidays were great!

A Turning Blade

How quickly turns the blade when ill-fortune befalls. Old Chasind proverb.

Our forefathers tell us that during the Bitter Harvest, when the crops failed and the ground baked, a young maiden was brought forth and offered to Father Sky that he might once again bring rain to the lands.

"What crime has this maiden committed that you willingly sacrifice her?" Father Sky demanded, dismayed that the people had such little faith in him. Silence greeted the question and Father Sky shook his head, greatly saddened. Turning to the maiden, he asked for her name.

"I am Aithne, oh great Father, and I surrender my life to you if it means our crops will not fail and the children will not suffer."

Father Sky nodded. "So be it, child, but let it rest upon the shoulders of those who offer you so willingly and yet do not make a sacrifice themselves."

Father Sky took up the maiden and placed her in the cool night sky, before returning and unleashing a mighty storm of wind and lightning upon the arid lands. He watched with great sorrow as fires sprang up from the lightning. Mother Earth wept as she watched her forests and fields blacken. But both knew that through fire came purification and so they let the fires burn.

After the conflagration had consumed the forests and fields, a lone flower began to bloom in the scorched soil. As white as snow, it had a crimson center. It was a burning flower, many whispered, and those who witnessed its beauty, wept.

"This shall be known as Aithne's Heart; a reminder of one woman's courage," Father Sky commanded, before releasing the first drops of rain to fall on the parched lands.

Chasing Chasind Lore, No Stone Unturned by Brother Genitivi**

~~~oOo~~~

A warm, dry spring gave way to a blazing hot summer. In all her years in Lothering, Laria had never seen the fields so withered, or the river so low. People were whispering about drought and famine, demanding that Bann Ceorlic or Arl Bryland do something. There was nothing any of them could do, but it didn't stop the farmers from wanting a scapegoat or expecting help.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she tossed the rag aside and went back to watering the desiccated stalks, knowing she was watering death, yet unable to relinquish her hope. A lone cloud passed before the sun, mocking as the shadow passed over the earth, and she stood, stretching her back. The entire Lothering Valley was suffering the effects of too little rain and too much heat. As the unrest grew, she worried that sooner or later someone in town would blame the apostate for the weather and the failed crops. She and Carver took turns patrolling each night, worried that a mob, incited by fear and hunger, would come in search of Bethany.

"Laria Hawke! Look at you! Come in and clean up immediately!" her mother scolded in a stern voice.

Startled by the woman's tone, Laria glanced down at her worn trousers, now a dull brown from the dust caked into the fibers, before looking up at her mother. Standing with a regal grace, Leandra wore her plain gown with all the dignity of a woman of means. Her grey hair was carefully coifed, her blue eyes serene.

"Mother, I need to finish the watering," Laria began to protest, even knowing that her words fell on deaf ears.

"Carver can manage, dear. I want you with me today. We need to send a message to the townsfolk that we are in the same situation as they are. It will not do for them to see that we are afraid of them, or ashamed of Bethany. Do you understand?" Leandra asked calmly.

"Mother, are you sure that's wise?" Bethany asked, stepping into the blistering sun with great reluctance. Her fair skin was no match for the burning orb, and she shielded her eyes against the glare.

"Wise or not, Bethy, Mother is right. If we don't show ourselves in town, they'll think we have a reason to hide. And as superstitious as some of them can be, it won't take much for one of them to incite others."

"Then I should go as well, as a reminder that I'm nothing to be afraid of," Bethany said calmly.

"No! Maker's breath!" Carver yelled, moving to Bethany's side in a protective stance. "If you go into town it'll just serve as a reminder that you are a mage!"

Laria nodded reluctantly. "It's a noble gesture, Sister, but I think it best if you stay with Carver. Mother and I will go into town under the pretext of selling eggs, and I'll have a look around."

"We'll also stop at the chantry. I've fresh plum jam for Her Eminence and it won't hurt to remind her that not three months ago Bethany saved her life."

Reminded yet again of her mother's canniness, Laria bit back a chuckle at Carver's look of astonishment. Those who saw Leandra Hawke as self-indulgent or haughty, saw only the surface of the woman. Underneath was someone who had spent her entire adult life on the run. She had had learned to read people and situations quickly and accurately as a means of survival.

"Give me a few minutes to clean up. Carver, hitch up the cart and make sure that Mab has water, while you're at it."

Carver's chin jutted belligerently at her instructions but he glanced at Bethany and lowered his head, striding off without a word. With a relieved breath, Laria went in search of clean clothes. She grabbed up her soft leathers and her sword before heading down to the river's edge.

The Drakon was not nearly as cool as it should have been, and she was able to walk out to the middle of the wide river before the water began to push and pull at her. Even then it lapped at her chin when it was normally over her head. She ducked under and allowed the deeper, cooler water, to wash away her weariness.

Struggling into her leathers a few minutes later, she sank onto a rock, trying to catch her breath and her thoughts. If there was even a hint of trouble, duty and promises to her father dictated that she gather the family and move. She closed her eyes, mentally tracing roads from an unseen map of Ferelden. There were a number of small farming towns to the southwest, or they could travel to the Bannorn where there were many places to hide if they were careful and worked hard. Maker, she didn't want to move, to leave friends and the roots that had taken hold within the community.

She ran her fingers through her damp curls, before strapping her sword belt around her waist. "Thank you, Carver. While I'm gone, finish watering the garden. I think the wheat is already lost, but we can't afford to lose everything."

"Please," he hissed. "Please. Could you just bloody say that word once in awhile? I'm not your servant."

Shame, as well as impatience, twisted in her as she helped her mother onto the cart. Andraste's grace, she was becoming a harridan and she was so tired her head hurt. "Please, Carver, would you please finish watering the garden, please? Please would you also watch over Bethany?" she shot back, her voice low and dripping with sarcasm.

"See? That's why I don't bother talking to you," he snapped, grabbing the buckets in his large hands and stalking to the well.

Maker's breath! Did everything and everybody have to be so bloody difficult? She handed her mother the reins and glanced over at Bethany, who wore a look of such disappointment that it stabbed into Laria's conscience. Sighing, she conceded silently that she was completely out of line. She cast off her ill-humor, at least for the moment.

"I'm sorry, Carver," she said, moving to place a placating hand on his arm. "I'm hot and tired, but that's not your fault. Please take care of things while I'm gone," she said softly.

"Of course," he replied with a slight smile. "That wasn't too difficult, was it?" he asked with a teasing glint in his blue eyes. She slapped his arm lightly.

"Damned difficult, actually," she responded and then turned and pulled herself onto the cart.

"We'll try to be back before dusk. Please be careful, Bethy. There's a sense of disquiet in the air."

Without mercy, the sun glared down upon the faded landscape with white-hot intensity. The sky was a milky blue, as if the sun's anger had leached the color from it. Rolling hills wore brittle brown mantles, and rows of withered stalks bowed down in submission as they rode past neighboring farms. Fear began to nibble at Laria's thoughts.

From a distance Lothering shimmered in the late afternoon heat, the tower of the chantry almost lost in the brown haze that had developed over the valley. She'd asked Quince Barlin about the haze because she'd never seen anything quite like it. He'd explained that it was dust and smoke. The farms to the east were burning off their own fields, rather than risk a wildfire. As if too hot and tired to do more than sigh, the wind allowed the smoky haze to hang in the air, heavy and oppressive.

"I think the chantry should be our first stop," her mother remarked serenely as they neared town. Laria didn't answer, merely guiding Mett towards the large building that dominated Lothering. After helping her mother down, she handed the reins to Deaglan, a young lad with a gentle touch. "Feed and water him and there'll be silver in it for you, Deaglan," she told him and he eagerly took the reins, nodding.

"It'll be done, Mistress Laria, that'n more!"

Her eyes wandered to the large, carved doors, hoping to see Aerin and then she blinked, appalled at having such a selfish thought. They weren't there for a personal visit; they were there to ensure Beth's continued safety. Yet her eyes turned away from the door with great reluctance. It had been weeks since she had been able to come into town for a sparring session. Weeks since someone had genuinely cared enough to ease her burden, if only for a few moments. Was that what he did? Ease her burdens? She rubbed a weary hand across her eyes. It didn't really matter, at least not at present.

Chanter Devons looked gravely at them, intoning: "For heaven or for earth, for sea or sky. All that existed was silence. Then the Voice of the Maker rang out, the first Word."

Mustering up a faint smile, she responded, "And His Word became all that might be: Dream and idea, hope and fear, Endless possibilities."***

The chanter bowed before he continued with the canticles, a sad smile winging across his face before it once more became a calm mask. He knew why they were there and he was concerned for them, she had seen it in his eyes for the briefest instant. Fear began to gnaw with hungry determination at her stomach, dissolving her remaining calm.

"While you're visiting with Her Eminence, I'm going to Dane's Refuge. Nothing happens in this town that doesn't start first in the taproom," she informed her mother.

"I hope we haven't waited too long," Leandra replied quietly, a hint of anxiety edging her words. As if aware of it, she lifted her head, a confident smile sitting comfortably on her lips.

In that moment, Laria felt a stirring of pride for the unexpected strength in her mother, but underneath was a frisson of resentment that she had not exhibited that strength more often through the years. Once again appalled at her thoughts, Laria pushed them down into a dark and unvisited place.

She made her way quickly to the tavern, exchanging greetings with acquaintances but not stopping to chat. There was a quietness about the day; a stillness. It was as though the town was holding its collective breath. Laria felt her nerves stretching, thin and sharp.

Pushing the tavern door open, she was greeted by an awkward silence; the silence that meant she'd interrupted a conversation not meant for her ears. She ignored the murmuring wave of bodies shifting uncomfortably, instead walking up to the polished countertop.

"I'll have a pint, Danal, and the latest gossip, if you'll indulge me," she said casually, trying to ignore the butterflies that had sprung to life in her stomach.

"It's good to see you, Laria," Quince greeted from across the room, raising his mug in invitation.

Her relief was immediate and brought a brief smile to her lips. Only her pride prevented her from turning and making her way out of the tavern. Danal leaned forward and offered her a rare smile. "You're welcome here, as always, Laria Hawke," he announced loudly.

A rumbling of discontent from one side of the room caught her attention and she glanced at a table set away from the others. An older man, with a grim countenance and a nervous tic, glared at her. He was surrounded by his son and several other men that Laria recognized as day laborers and local farmhands.

"Good afternoon, Master Pelham," she said quietly, striving for a light and friendly tone.

Harvice Pelham was a taciturn farmer who spent more time in Dane's Refuge than in his fields. His oldest son, Alvern, sat beside him, eyeing her with an embarrassed grimace. Her hand tightened reflexively on her sword hilt. He understood that his father was looking for a scapegoat, for someone to blame for the weather. And she understood it as well.

"Hardly a good afternoon for most of us, young Hawke. Seems like something – or someone – has caused a drought."

Nerves thrumming, she nodded. "I'm well aware of the lack of rain, Master Pelham. We stand to lose our wheat and I'm doing everything I can to save the vegetables."

Danal set a tankard of ale down in front of her and gave her a sympathetic smile. "Best ignore him. He's been drinking most of the day, Mistress Laria," he warned in a low voice.

"Why are you here, girl? Come to gloat?"

"Don't be daft, Harvice. She just said she stands to lose her wheat, same as the rest of us. Don't be a braying old fool," Quince chided in disgust.

"Listen to young Quince, all full of vinegar and piss. Of course he isn't thinking with his brain, is he?" Pelham challenged with a leer.

"Shut it, old man. If you'd spent half as much time digging a deeper well as you've spent in here bellyaching and drinking, your crops might have had a chance," Quince retorted.

"Protecting your lady? What a laugh. Everyone knows she's not interested in men," Harvice scoffed.

A part of Laria was furious. She could feel the hot color creeping up to stain her cheeks, could feel her fingers tremble with anger, but another part of her was acutely embarrassed by the assertion. She moved to sit across from Quince, taking a long pull of ale.

"Seems to me we ought to be talking about ways to save our farms," Adam Morley said quietly.

"That's just what I was saying. Time to get rid of the accursed one," Harvice stated, leaning forward and shaking a finger at Laria. "It's her fault we've had no rain," he continued, warming to his topic.

No longer content to gnaw at her, fear spilled into her blood, twisting through her stomach. She tightened her hand on her hilt and stood slowly. "The only accursed one I see in here is you, Harvice Pelham. You didn't think she was accursed when she mended your broken leg three months ago. Nor did you think her anything but helpful when she tended your wife's sickbed a fortnight ago."

"The Maker knows what she is! She has brought his wrath down upon us!" the man yelled, pushing himself out of his chair and moving toward her, menace contorting his face.

Her sword slid effortlessly out of its scabbard and she pointed it at Pelham. A profound silence fell, her heart's wild beating the only sound in her ears. She blinked once and took a deep breath to steady her arm. "The first man who steps on Hawke land with harmful intent is the first man that will perish by my sword," she avowed, forcing herself to meet Pelham's pale green eyes.

"We'll see what Revered Mother Glynis has to say about that!" Pelham shouted, striding towards the door.

She watched him leave and then turned to the rest of the men grouped around his recently vacated chair. "If anyone else wishes to blame a girl for the vagaries of the weather, I suggest they rethink that notion," she said, amazed at how steady her voice was. She forced herself to meet each man's gaze. Tears burned savagely at her throat and she gritted her teeth, determined not to allow them passage. Her stomach clenched and turned over, but she stood her ground.

"Thank you for the company, Quince," she said quietly and walked out of the tavern on shaky legs. With a sigh of relief, she lengthened her stride, intent on reaching the chantry as quickly as possible. Another sigh of relief escaped as she stepped inside the cool, dark building.

"My Lady Hawke," Aerin said, looking equally cool and completely unruffled in his polished plate. "Lady Leandra is still visiting with Her Eminence."

That feminine part of her that she denied all too frequently wanted nothing more than to throw herself into his arms and have a good cry. His calm demeanor and faintly amused smile turned her heart into giddy loops. Instead, she glanced around the cavernous chantry and asked, "Has Harvice Pelham been in here?" in a voice that was cold and commanding. She felt distanced from herself, watching a scene unfold before her.

"What is it, Laria?" Aerin asked, voice deepened by his concern. He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to rest comfortingly on her shoulder.

"He's rabble-rousing, blaming Bethany for the drought and crop failures. I'm afraid that some of these people will listen. I won't let them drive us from our home. Not this time," she responded grimly. "He's convinced the revered mother will be forced to act against an apostate."

Her voice was a harsh whisper, and she glanced around the nave. A few worshippers were bent in supplication as they prayed, oblivious to her. Several brothers and sisters moved about the chancel and Brother Elbert was in his customary spot, lighting candles and tending the Holy Brazier. Everything seemed so ordinary and again, she felt as though she were drifting above the scene, as if it wasn't real.

"He's not been here, my lady, but I'll send some of the templars out to find him. I'm confident he was just talking; the man's too lazy to actually do anything."

She turned to him, anger bringing her closer to herself. "If only I had a sovereign for every man who was thought to be too lazy to do more than talk," she said bitterly and shrugged his hand off.

"You're right, of course. For want of a meal, men will do anything, won't they?" he asked softly and his voice beckoned her, bade her to lower her walls as it warmly wrapped around her.

"Please, Aerin, find Pelham and keep a watch on him. He's desperate enough to be dangerous."

A tear trickled down her face, scalding her skin and she sniffed. Maker, she would not lower her guard, not now, not ever.

"I'll do whatever I can, you know that, my lady," he reiterated, once more placing a steadying hand on her shoulder, his expression warm and compassionate. Temptation lay in his eyes, desire in his voice. She closed her eyes, so ready to talk that the words spilled into her mind, a cacophony in her head.

"Laria, there you are, dear! I had the most fascinating discussion with Revered Mother Glynis."

Her eyes widened, and, with a combination of relief and regret, she turned towards the sound of her mother's voice. Aerin's arm fell away and for a minute she felt bereft, abandoned. She hadn't realized before that moment just how hungry for touch the spirit became when neglected.

"Ah, Knight-Captain Bryant, you are looking well."

"Thank you, Lady Leandra. It is always a pleasure to see you," he responded with a small bow and a warm smile.

"Come, Daughter, if we're to be home before dusk, we should leave. Ser Bryant, you are most welcome to call on us at any time," Leandra added with a coy smile that brought a blush scurrying into Laria's cheeks.

"Then expect to see me soon," he said, his smile including them both.

He was too charming and too handsome by far, but she played their conversation over in her head the entire way home.

~~~oOo~~~

Bethany glanced up from her sewing and frowned at Laria. "Did you hear that?"

Laria tipped her head, listening intently. She frowned and then felt her blood drain away from her. A faint call, reedy and pained, out in the darkness, where Carver was patrolling. Laria rose with alacrity, slipping her sword out of its scabbard with a whispered snick of leather against the well oiled blade. "Mother, take Bethany into the tunnels. Now!" she added sharply when the older woman opened her mouth to protest.

She slipped out of the house, quietly shutting the door behind her and waited for a minute while her eyes adjusted to the darkness. Another muffled cry and then a low thud. Her need to call out to Carver, to reassure herself that he was all right nearly overwhelmed her common sense. She bit her tongue, tasting the salty copper of blood.

Squinting into the night she saw several shapes - bulky and furtive - against the side of the barn. She crouched low, making her way slowly across the open yard. There were at least three distinct shapes, possibly more. Heart pounding painfully in her chest, she crept forward. A twig snapped, followed by a guttural curse and a soft grunt, which told her exactly where at least one of the men was. The knowledge sent her nerves screaming along her skin.

She caught him from behind, surprising them both with her sword's quick, short thrust upward. She felt the blade move through soft flesh and graze bone. Her stomach lurched and her thoughts stumbled with the awareness that she had just mortally wounded a man. Her gorge rose as bile filled the back of her throat. She gagged, momentarily stunned, as the body listed sideways and then sank with a loud thud.

"Florrin? You there?" hissed a familiar voice, nearly on top of her. She sank down beside the body of Florrin and tears momentarily blurred her vision. Florrin Hacklesworth? The apothecary? Maker, she'd just killed Lothering's only purveyor of potions.

Pelham was so close she could smell his unwashed body; redolent of old ale, rancid oil, sweat and onions. Her stomach jerked and rolled. An odd echo of staccato heartbeats deafened her momentarily.

"Maker's arse, Florrin, let's get this done!" Pelham hissed again. "Jolby?"

"Yeah," grunted a voice several paces away. Jolby Drumble? Her heart sank in dismay. The day laborer hired out only when he couldn't cadge drinks at Dane's Refuge. He had three children by Widow Winona, for all that they hadn't married. A man of great girth and porcine features. She shuddered, her legs trembling with the need to move.

"Seems Florrin lit out. Go torch the barn while I get that apostate," Pelham hissed.

Her world exploded then as she pushed up from her crouch and launched herself in his direction, throwing herself at him with such force that they both careened against the well-house before crashing to the ground.

He rolled on top of her, pinning her to the ground. "Go!" he yelled, before returning his attention to her.

He was brutally efficient, his fingers digging into her throat and pushing on her windpipe. A loud rushing sound filled her ears, and she bucked and flailed, trying to dislodge him. The world was beginning to darken, fuzzy lights shimmering in the distance and she knew if she didn't dislodge him quickly, she'd be dead.

She twisted and turned, freeing first one hand and then another, an agonizingly slow process, or so it felt as her breath was choked from her. With her hands free, she brought them up and sank her fingers into his eye sockets, pushing her thumbs into his nostrils for purchase as she continued turning and twisting her body.

He screamed, an undulating squeal of pain that seemed to reverberate all around her. When he fell back, clutching his eyes, she scrabbled to find her sword, plunging it into his throat, cutting him off mid-shriek.

She tried to speak, to yell at Jolby to run, but her throat was too raw to do more than croak, savaged by Pelham's throttling. She pulled her sword out and shuddered at the silent ease with which it slid through Pelham's flesh.

"You crazy bitch! You killed Harvice!" Jolby screamed, raising a torch high above him as he surveyed the scene. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

"Run, Jolby. Run away now and you'll live," she whispered hoarsely.

"Fuck you, bitch!" he snarled. He raised his hand and brought it back. Steel bit into her shoulder, sending her reeling. He'd thrown a small dagger at her and she looked at it in surprise, before looking back up at the huge man now moving towards her with remarkable grace.

He was still a dozen paces from her when his chest exploded in a fiery mass, sending him to the ground, where he lay writhing in pain. Magic sizzled in the air above and around her and she sank to her knees, her sword falling into the dust as she gripped her shoulder.

"Don't pull it out!" her mother cried out in warning.

Numbly, Laria nodded, her breath coming out in halting gasps. She bowed her head and waited for it to calm so she could speak. "Find Carver," she whispered, her voice husky and harsh.

"I'll do it, Bethany, dear. You look after your sister."

"Oh Bethy," Laria gulped, tears flooding her eyes and racing down her cheeks. Great sobs were pushing at her agonized throat. She fought against them, refusing to let them come until she knew how Carver was. What if he was – she blinked, refusing her thoughts to lead her in that direction. She whimpered as the dagger was removed and then sighed gratefully as Beth's healing magic seeped into her shoulder. Please, please, please be alive, Carver.

"He's fine!" came her mother's relieved voice a minute later and then her sobs broke, spilling into the courtyard with noisy abandon.

Hastily scrambling away from her sister, Laria's stomach emptied and her sobs turned into pathetic little gasps as her tears continued. She looked down at her clenched fists. Blood was on her hands, literally and figuratively. She had killed without thought, without hesitation and the knowledge that she was capable of such action brought more tears tumbling down to splash forlornly in the dirt. Angry, she stood on shaky legs.

"Bethany, go back into the house."

"What? Why, Laria? I've already seen the men, if you're trying to spare me," her sister replied, an unspoken rebuke in her words.

"You saved my life, and I thank you for that, dear heart, but you used magic to do it and if I don't do something to mask that, everyone will know it soon enough. We can't afford to have that happen."

She watched as comprehension bloomed in her sister's blue eyes. The color drained from her cheeks and she staggered back. "Oh Maker, forgive me," Bethany whispered, searching Laria's face.

"It's all right, sister. The Maker knows you acted in self-defense. Now go inside, Beth," she ordered sternly.

A rebellious tilt of Bethany's chin gave way to a tremble and a nod. Laria stood and quickly moved to the barn. She gathered up several oil lamps and a torch and then knelt beside Jolby's body. She poured the oil from the lamps all in one spot, the spot where Bethany's fireball had torn his chest open. She lit the torch and then wrapped his hands around it, dropping hand and torch on his chest, singeing herself in the process. She fell back and jerked to her feet, stepping away and pressing her hands to her mouth as the smell penetrated the sultry night air.

"Maker's breath! What's that smell?" Carver asked, dropping beside her. A large lump had formed on the side of his head, and his eyes were huge in his pale face. She mustered up a weak smile.

"That's Jolby Drumble. He set himself on fire trying to burn the barn down."

"Maker, what happened? Are you all right?"

Was she? Would she ever be? She had killed to protect her family, but would the authorities see it that way? And when would more townsfolk turn on her family? Tomorrow? In a week? At the next sign of hardship? Her tears, dried by the flames that licked greedily at Jolby Drumble, relented and finally quit.

She drew a bucket of water from the well and doused the flames, her nostrils filled with the stench of burnt flesh, her stomach once more protesting. "As soon as you are able, I need you to ride into town and report this to the authorities."

"Me? This is your bloody mess!" Carver protested, moving away from her and the acrid smell of the smoldering body beside her.

"Don't do this, Brother," she whispered in warning, her voice still rough and her throat an aching misery. "I need you to bring the authorities back here. They'll want to examine everything and make a determination. I imagine they'll escort me into town to await that determination."

"I – Maker, you're right. But don't worry, Laria, it was self-defense and Maker damn any man who says differently!" he defended stoutly.

Yes, but that doesn't make me feel any less unclean, her thoughts whispered, echoing starkly in her head. She closed her eyes just as the first, distant rumbling of thunder rolled across the dark sky. She swallowed a bitter snort of derision.

A few minutes later, rain sluiced down her face, washing the blood away, but leaving behind the new wounds that scarred her soul.

A/N: ** Aithne means 'fire' and is an old Gaelic name. Her lore is a mix of Native American lore and my imagination. The 'saying' was one I made up, based on other, similar sayings.

***Canticles: part of Threnodies 5:1.