A/N: For those of you who would like a refresher on the epicness of Ostagar, here is a wonderful link to all the sadness: .com/watch?v=GVrXW0WVXYw. I originally intended to gloss over everything that happened at Ostagar, only using it to explain how Enaara and Hawke found each other. Probably I could've put tons more into what happened there before the battle, but I regret to say I lacked inspiration for it, so I deeply apologize. The battle itself was only going to be a few paragraphs, but I quickly realized that I couldn't skip over something so epic, so I took an extra day to really flush it out. I hope you all enjoy it.
Ostagar
The road to the south was long and Enaara spent at least half of it crying herself to sleep. It wasn't that she was afraid of going to war and dying; she was afraid of never seeing Cullen again, depressed that she would not wake up each morning and pass him in the hallway or meet him in the library. She missed their stolen nights where they held each other and loved each other. She was desperate to kiss him again.
And her sorrow left an empty hole inside her that seemed to get deeper and deeper the farther from the tower they traveled.
One of the nights, when she had thought everyone asleep and she was up late crying, she felt a small tap on her shoulder. The mage Paul—the boy without anyone to say goodbye to him—knelt quietly behind her, a handkerchief extended toward her.
Embarrassed, she took it and dabbed at her tears.
"Thank you," she whispered. He nodded and she noticed his expression was always the same: a sort of blank sadness. "Ah… Paul, right? I'm sorry if I woke you."
"You cry every night." It was a statement, not a question. They stared at each other awkwardly. "You… miss the templar?"
She blushed, thought of Cullen's face, and felt teary-eyed again. She nodded, fighting the waterworks.
"Why?"
"I love him."
He didn't say anything, just stared blankly at the ground. She wasn't sure what he was waiting for but his socially awkwardness was making her uncomfortable.
"I noticed there was no one to send you off," she began slowly.
"I don't have any friends."
"Not… any?" she asked, disbelieving. He shook his head. "How come?"
He shrugged. "Don't cry, Enaara," he said quietly, monotone. "I'm sure the templar is thinking of you, too." Then he stood up, returned to his bedroll, and laid down with his back to her.
That was the start of her and Paul's awkward friendship. During the day, it gave her something to think about—being a friend to this strange boy who had none; she didn't want him to die alone, without a single person in the world to care. It also made her miss Jowan something fierce, which added to her nightly tears.
Eventually, however, Enaara exhausted her internal supply and she was able to stop crying. The rest of the journey to the south was spent exhausting her energy into being friends with Paul and the other mages. The group bonded, terrified to go to war alone.
Then the war party arrived at Ostagar—a gleaming fortress ruin at the edge of the Korcari Wilds. They arrived at sunset, casting the fortress as a golden ruin and the forest as an orange-emerald sea. They were greeted by army officials and escorted to the Magi encampment where the templars had set up a secure perimeter.
She noticed Senior Enchanter Wynne on her way in and smiled, happy to see she was alive and well—the first time she'd found a reason to smile since she left the tower. She wanted to talk to her but the templars forbade them from leaving the encampment until they were all checked in and accounted for. It took hours and, by the time they were done, night had settled over Ferelden and they were not allowed to leave.
The next morning, she got an early start and explored the camp. She got her chance around lunch to talk with Wynne, and the old woman was pleased to see her, though regretted they were under such circumstances.
/
Two days later, Enaara received a note. She folded it open and was surprised at the text: Naara, meet us by the Warden campfire after dinner. Perplexed, she anticipated the meeting all day. When the time finally came, she nervously set out across the muddy yard, frowning at the two bodies silhouetted by flame. She drew nearer and saw the smiling faces of two familiar people.
"Aras! Carver!" Enaara exclaimed, racing to meet her cousins. She leapt into their outstretched arms, beaming. "You're here! I can't believe you're here!"
"Where else would we be?" Carver asked, smirking. "It's you I'm surprised to see, cousin."
"You look well," Aras said, squeezing her arm.
"And you," she countered, "both of you."
Carver flexed jokingly and then nudged her. "I remember when you were this big!" He measured to his knee. She gave him a look.
"Me?" she asked. "You were the same as me! Poor Bethany, she was so tiny… And Aras, well, it's a wonder you grew up with such a complex, Carver."
"Who told you about that?" he snapped. Aras laughed.
"I get letters…" She and Aras exchanged knowing smiles and Enaara took a minute to admire her cousin.
Aras Hawke was a little taller than she was with the strength and agility of a talented rogue. Her striking blue eyes were vibrant against her jet black hair, silky and short. Her smile, too, was radiant. She was even prettier than she remembered, the last time she saw her being when she was five—only a few years before she was taken to the Circle.
"I see Bethany isn't here… Aunt Leandra and Uncle Mal did well hiding her from the Circle."
"Yes," Aras replied. "She's safe in Lothering with mother. Father, I regret to tell you, is gone."
Her face fell. "I'm so sorry… I loved Uncle Malcolm. He had such a lively and warm spirit. When?"
"Three years ago," Carver replied. "It was rough at first but we've done well."
"Let's not talk about it," Aras said gently. "We've only just found each other after losing you, cousin. In this dark time, we should live our moments to the fullest. Stick with Carver and I as most you can. We'll look after you."
"Thank you," Enaara said sincerely. "It is nice to be among family again."
/
The war against the Blight was one battle after the next, all victories, and the morale among the men were at an all-time high, though the absence of an archdemon made everyone wonder if King Cailan's efforts were overboard.
After one skirmish, Enaara approached Paul and smiled, reaching out to mop the blood around the gash on his forehead.
"Are you all right?" she asked quietly. He nodded numbly.
"It stings a little."
"It doesn't look that bad… Let's see…" She closed her eyes, mumbled the healing incantation, and felt the warm glow leave her body and enter his. The cut sealed up almost instantly. "There, good as new."
She patted his brow to clean up the rest of the blood and then passed him the handkerchief. He blushed and looked down at his feet.
"Thanks…" he mumbled shyly. He dared to glance back up at her and blushed even more. It made her a little uncomfortable and heartsick for him. She recognized the look—the embarrassed flush of a person in love. She could do nothing for him.
And in return, her thoughts turned to Cullen and she desperately missed him all over again.
/
Enaara found solace in the company of her family, but every day she looked for Jowan and prayed to see his face. He never came and she worried about him at home, afraid he might try something foolish. She also thought of Cullen, and prayed most for him…
One afternoon when she came away from the statue of Andraste from a quick prayer, she bumped into a red-headed woman wandering like she was lost.
"Excuse me," the woman said, and Enaara frowned.
This woman had the most vibrant head of dark red hair she'd ever seen, cut short with one braid down the side. Her pale complexion was common in the northern regions and her electric blue eyes were stark. She looked entirely devoid of life—drained of all spirit and of all joy—and her eyes were raw from excessive crying.
Enaara watched her walk on and felt drawn to her sadness.
/
Later that night when she was with her cousins peeling oranges, she saw the red-head again, returning from the Korcari Wilds with the other Grey Warden recruits. A mabari bounced happily and barked at her and she knelt down, smiling and petting it lovingly.
"Who is she?" she asked her cousins.
"Jayda Cousland," Aras replied, "the new Grey Warden recruit. Rumor has it her entire family was killed by a betrayal from a friend of the family. Her brother, Fergus, was here ahead of her. He's been on patrol since she arrived. He doesn't even know."
"They're going to make her fight?" Enaara asked incredulously and popped a slice of orange in her mouth.
"She has nothing left but her anger, I imagine," Carver said somberly. "If I were her, that's all I'd want to do…"
Enaara glanced back at him and Aras grinned.
"He's taken with her," she explained. Carver blushed.
"I am not."
"You are. I've seen you." Aras smiled at her. "She's kept to herself though, and the Wardens. She and Alistair seem to have somewhat of a bond." She eyed her brother. "It makes Carver jealous."
"It does not!" he exclaimed angrily, but the girls just laughed and continued to peel their food.
The peace of that night was their last… With the following evening, so came the horde.
/
The thunder rumbled in the sky ever onward and the flash of lightning came with a crack. The sky was like a dark abyss, thick with smoke-like clouds. The rain started softly—light pellets of water wetting the anxious battlefield. More streaks flickered overhead, connecting earth and sky in a sudden spark. There was more groaning of thunder and then the delicate patter of the rain against the stones of Ostagar and the armor plating of its army.
They stood in rows, each and every one of them. At the head of the force stood the proud Ash Warriors with their painted mabari war-hounds, all fang-bearing vicious. The fighters formed ranks behind them, sturdy and calm, and threaded among them were silver-clad templars with giant kite shields bearing the holy sun. Up on the crudely constructed scaffolding and high on the fortress balustrades, archers waited with bows notched and half-relaxed, eyes alert. Another group of archers stood center on the ground, three rows deep. Lastly, the few mages present formed concentrated groups across the back of the assembly, with two senior enchanters perched on top of the east and west colonnades.
There were two types of siege weapons present on the battlefield. Four ballistae spread across the valley where they army was nestled, armed with barbed bolts designed for ogres and archdemons. High above them on the great bridge, six catapults formed a line.
They waited, and it did nothing to preserve their calm. Chantry sisters patrolled the aisles of troops swinging censers back and forth and quietly entreating to the Maker. The chains jingled in their hands, incense smoke wafting and mingling with pit fire fumes, and their gold and peach-colored robes stood out among the bronze armored soldiers—a fragile flutter through the cold, metal war band.
The eerie absence of the enemy was as unsettling as meeting them in battle—or so they thought. The first signs of the enemy spiked adrenaline and damaged whatever internal peace remained as the depth of the Wilds lit up with a soft, orange glow. Enaara swallowed the lump in her throat and commanded her heart be still. She yanked her staff out of the sleeve on her back and noticed many other mages did the same.
The glow spread as tall as the trees, moving closer through the forest. A fury of floating, orange balls whisked among the leaves like bright fireflies and the stale breeze brought the smell of burning wood and the flurries of white ash. Embers and sparks floated lightly among the pines, heading skyward.
Duncan followed King Cailan onto the field, through the parted ranks to the head of the force. They exchanged words but none that she could hear. She watched them—the cool confidence of her King and the stoic power of the Warden-Commander. A golden lion and the silver eagle.
A thick fog rolled out of the trees along the ground supernaturally. They could almost hear faint whispers. More thunder rumbled and lightning flashed through the clouds, bringing in another fresh gust of soft rain and a blast of cool air.
The darkspawn stamped softly through the damp Wilds and emerged from the trees as if carried by the fog. Their vicious swords and spiked armor clinked and chinked with their tread. The orange glow behind them pressed closer and the brightly glowing balls danced even brighter. Their snarls and grunts could barely be heard over the storm, but they were still heard and the monstrous sound burrowed into their ears.
One tall figure stepped out ahead of the others, leading them forward, and he kept moving when the rest of the horde stopped. Ram-like spikes curved out of his helmet and another lightning flash revealed a menacing warlord.
A sweep across the enemy ranks was unnerving. The monsters clanged their swords together, against rock, and anxiously bobbed back and forth, growling and roaring with glee. These creatures were eager for war, no fear of death or of the afterlife. There were no families waiting for them at home. Mindless, bloodthirsty fiends of the deep, hissing and shrieking madly with only one desire: to kill.
None were prepared for how monstrous their enemy was, swelling in numbers far greater than their own. Facing the horde now, the whole world seemed to shrink around them, and Enaara momentarily felt as though she were the only one on the field. Another man must have felt the same, because his head was shaking, jaw slack, and he began backing up. Another soldier held out his fist, stopping him; he shook his head sternly, silently communicating to stay strong, and so the frightened soldier swallowed his fear and stepped back in line.
Enaara took a deep breath and let that soldier's outstretched fist and firm headshake steady her as well.
There was a deep inhale over the valley and then the warlord stepped forward and let out a terrifying growl. The plunge came as hundreds of darkspawn shrieked and darted forward, leaping over stones and stomping through mud, swords and axes and maces raised high; the ground trembled violently with their charge and their battle cries sounded in concert with the storm.
Suddenly every sword was drawn, every bowstring pulled taut, and every mage gripped a staff; they sunk into a half crouch, steadying themselves against the shuddering earth and steeling their hearts for the coming chaos.
King Cailan twisted at the waist and yelled over the noise.
"Archers!" he cried.
They dipped their arrowheads into a fire trough along their feet and reared back their golden-shafted bows. Aiming high as though intending to shoot the flaming forest itself, they waited sturdily for their commander's signal. The general at the head held his arm high, glaring at the advancing horde, measuring the shrinking distance between the opposing forces. Then suddenly his arm came down and a host of flaming arrows arced across the field like flaming stars and rained down on the howling beasts.
The screams and shrieks of the darkspawn were nerve-rattling. Blood mists shot up into the air as the arrows sunk deep into heads, chests, stomachs, and thighs, and bodies instantly dropped out of rank. The brothers at their sides did not stop running, howling without fear; they jumped their dying own, ignoring the mutilated fleshy masses as their bodies singed and boiled, catching fire.
"Hounds!" Cailan cried and was nearly cut off by a great crash of thunder. Heavier droplets fell in a thicker torrent.
The masters heard the call and unleashed their barking fiends. A flood of mabari raced up the sloping, grassy field, their muscles flexing under red and tan and black leathery skin. The sturdy, staunch dogs leapt into the darkspawn ranks, barreling them over. Their jaws clamped onto limbs and throats, teeth ripping and tearing through deformed skin, soft armor joints, and riveted mail. They ducked under swinging blades and jumped from monster to monster, thinning the advancing rank.
The yelps of dying dogs, brave and strong, brought a wince to nearly every man waiting in the King's army—waiting for their turn to die.
And the advancing rank just kept coming, undisturbed by their decrease in numbers.
"Sound the catapults," Cailan announced to his nearby captain. Then, he drew his sword and raised it high into the air. "For Ferelden!" he cried.
All the voices of the army at Ostagar rose up in unison as the flood of Fereldens swept onto the battlefield. Enemy arrows whistled overhead and flaming boulders soared across the sky from the Wilds, headed straight for Ostagar. The King's catapults returned siege fire and giant stones plunged into the far side of the field and rolled through the forest, snapping trees and crushing darkspawn.
The armies met in a great collide, weapons hacking murderously at enemies that always seemed within arm's reach. The heavy steps of ogres advancing on the field scattered soldiers and the thunk-thunk of ballistae sang a melodious bass as they speared through the sea of combatants.
Enaara spread out with her fellow mages, moving within effective range of the fighting. The ground cracked and snapped at her feet, roots clinging desperately before they ripped away as a mass of stony earth was forced into the air and hurled into the fray. In her peripherals, she saw fireballs flash and icy bursts ripping into enemies. From above, there came another rain of fiery arrows. She spun her staff across her knuckles, whipped it in front of her as energy crackled through the wooden rod. A chain lightning spell ripped into the nearest darkspawn and leapt off of him, splitting three ways and disabling the darkspawn by him.
The banging and clapping of swords and armor rang up in the valley, echoing off the great stone walls rising up on either side of them. The chaos of war overcame strategy and a survival instinct charged to the surface, setting aside the mentality of duty and mission and replacing it with a primal need to kill to stay alive.
And all around her, she saw Fereldens fall with the darkspawn, some lying side by side in death. The mabari hounds had been almost entirely exhausted, mottled corpses crushed beneath the stomping boots. Chantry sisters with their colorful robes were stomped on, streaked black, blotted brown with mud, and splattered with red. Another flash of flaming arrows whisked overhead and was returned with a counter-shot from near the Wilds. Large boulders continued to be exchanged in the sky, crushing stone and tree, person and monster alike.
A massive rock hit the outer wall and a hail of stones came quickly on the battlefield, sinking deep into the ground and squashing several fighters under the debris. The heavy pound of ogre feet pulled Enaara from the horrible scene and she flinched backward as the horned beast roared and charged. There was a loud thunk and a barbed bolt smacked into his chest, spearing him through and propelling him back into his own monstrous comrades.
Enaara immediately started moving, racing across the field to a better vantage point. She slid to a stop, threw out her arms, and unleashed a pulse of energy that swept over the crowd with invisible force, knocking back a row of darkspawn from her Ferelden allies. Some nodded quick thanks before charging ahead, and Enaara kept moving, ducking between engaged combatants. Her target was slowly advancing from the south, spikes branching ornamentally from his helmet. The sick glow of magic pulsed and flared between his fists and the garbled tongue he growled she knew to be a spell.
She pounded her staff into the earth, dispelling the emissary with a pulse of spirit magic. He hissed angrily and turned his sights on her, barking orders to his legions. She swept her staff again, uttered another spell, and lifted her hand high in the air. Suddenly, the creatures lifted up, caught in the gravitic ring; she slammed her fist into the earth and the darkspawn all dropped, smashing against the stones and discarded pikes and axes of fallen brethren.
The rain pounded the fields with the projectiles of enemy and ally fire. Blood soaked the earth as much as the rain and the confusion of the battle raged on. She didn't know how long they had been there fighting, how many had died. She only saw corpses everywhere and people still fighting in multitudes. One of those corpses she recognized—the trampled form of an awkward mage named Paul.
Then suddenly the tower of Ishal came alive and the head burst into flame, spearing into the black sky with hope. With renewed vigor, the Fereldens cried out and pushed harder, slashing and striking at their enemies with victorious strength, even as thousands more darkspawn poured out of the Wilds and onto the field.
But the flanking charge never came.
A void of hopelessness sank over the valley. The questions they should've wanted answers to never formed in their minds: what happened up there, why did they not charge, would no one ever come? It was useless thought in the pit of abandonment where men lay dying, exhausted, and wounded.
And they just kept fighting, empty and unknowing, as if the cold and black night would never end.
Enaara winced, staff whirling to fight off enemy attacks more often than she could manage to cast a spell. More booming steps sounded across the field and she saw the ogre sweeping enemies aside, focused entirely on their golden clad king.
"No!" she cried, trying to move forward, but there were too many darkspawn between her and Cailan. She stumbled back, staff raised to parry a strike from a Hurlock's weapon; it got stuck under the blood gutter and was ripped out of her hands. When he turned to slash her, his face met a spirit bolt and he shrieked, stumbling back.
Enaara dove for her staff but could never get close, stumbling backward as she dodged stomping fighters, eyes constantly diverting further in the valley. The ogre reached out and latched onto Cailan, pulling him into the air. A loud roar rained spittle and then his burly fingers closed onto her king, squishing the armor and the man inside. Blood sprayed and heavy droplets spattered the monster as he howled victoriously and then tossed the limp form across the field.
She fell back, wind knocked out of her, and stared wide-eyed at the bloody heap of her mottled king. A flash of silver and white darted through the chaos and Duncan jumped onto the ogre, short swords digging viciously into the monster's chest. He stabbed him again and again, as if climbing up his massive stature, and the monster collapsed. Duncan then stumbled over to Cailan's corpse, now lying in a thick, red pool and he collapsed over him.
All around them, the last of the Fereldens were cut down, darkspawn racing up the field and overtaking the valley. Suddenly, a pair of hands grabbed her arms and hoisted her up. Her cousins Aras and Carver stood protectively by her and, as Aras pulled her to safety, Carver hacked into every darkspawn that attempted to stop their retreat.
"We have to leave!" Aras exclaimed, blue eyes stark in the darkness. "Now!"
And even as they ran, shrieks and cries went up amid the roars and growls. The thunderous charge of the darkspawn horde seemed eternally at their heels, and as the few survivors retreated into the Wilds, the terror of their screeches and yelps followed them. The valley of Ostagar drowned in a glut of blood.
They disappeared into the black forest, hearts pounding, eyes wide, matted in blood, and the smell of death all around them. Enaara looked up one last time and the burning flame of Ishal was the last thing she saw.