The door to Anders' clinic was almost knocked off its hinges, flapping inward and slamming hard against the wall. The sounds of commotion and shouting from outside swiftly invaded the sparsely-populated room within.

"Get her inside!"

"On the cot closest to the door! Hurry!"

"Shit, shit, shit…"

Anders was first, staff held at the ready in case of any surprises. He swept his weapon over the area, a furious scowl on his gaunt face, then motioned for the others to follow. Varric hurried behind him, wringing his hands and cursing incessantly. Merrill scampered inside next with wide eyes and a pale face. Fenris was hot on her heels, carrying a limp and bloodstained body in his arms. Aveline brought up the rear, still barking orders to the guards that had followed them all the way down to Darktown.

"I want hourly patrols combing the streets for any last pockets of resistance!" the tall woman shouted. "If you even think you see horns, you attack first and ask questions later. We're not losing any more people to those brutes tonight."

"But Guard-Captain," one of the guards said, "the Arishok is dead! Hawke killed him!"

"Oh! So I suppose that means the bloody army of horn-headed soldiers that followed him just have to pack up and leave, then? Because one mage killed one Qunari, the whole blighted mess is over?"

Aveline shoved the man's shoulder, spinning him around to face the door. "You aren't paid well enough to try and think these things through, Wilkins. Just do your job and make sure the fighting is over. I don't care if you have to go toe-to-toe with the Arishok's ghost, you make sure that they don't control even an inch of our city by dawn's light. Am I understood?"

The guards obediently sprinted off to their assigned tasks. Their passing revealed the three armored knights standing behind with swords and shields held at the ready. Their armor was torn, dirty, and splattered with both human and Qunari blood. But their drawn swords – and the engraved Templar insignias on their breastplates – suggested they weren't done fighting yet.

Merrill took one look at the trio, squeaked, and hid her head back behind the doorframe. Her heart hammered in her chest as she pressed herself against the wall and listened to the conversation taking place outside.

"Stand aside, Guard-Captain." The Templar's voice was low and gravelly, echoing within the confines of his heavy plate-armor helmet. The man stepped forward, obviously intent on entering the clinic. Yet Aveline replied exactly as Merrill prayed she would.

"No."

"We know that Hawke woman is a mage. Champion or no, apostates are not tolerated in Kirkwall. Stand aside."

"No."

"Guard-Captain, you're a good woman. Don't make us do this." The sharp sound of steel scraping free of a scabbard sliced through the chaos of the clinic. Merrill covered her mouth with both hands and prayed not to make a sound. Further inside, Varric glanced up with a steely look in his eye. He drew Bianca into his arms, loaded and ready for battle. He would defend Hawke, to the death if need be.

In that moment, Merrill was more grateful for the dwarf's presence than she'd ever been before.

There was an answering ring of a drawn sword from Aveline's position. "That woman in there just saved all of your wretched lives, Knight-Lieutenant. And it's possible she did so at the cost of her own. I will not let you prance in there and cart her off to the Tower like that sacrifice meant nothing."

"You leave me no choice—"

A new voice cut in, booming, stronger, and deeper than the offending Templar's. "Knight-Lieutenant Lorenz, stand down at once!"

Merrill hazarded a peek around the corner to see another group of battle-weary Templars approaching, led by a tall man with curly blond hair and a dusting of dark stubble across his chin. Though his armor was worn and scratched and his face was bruised and covered in blood, she recognized the human from his patrols around the alienage.

The other Templars obviously recognized him as well. The Knight-Lieutenant stepped forward and protested, "Knight-Captain Cullen, we are well within our rights to—"

"This is a special case," Cullen interjected forcefully. "As are many things this night. I am no happier about it than you are, but I have orders from Knight-Commander Meredith herself to leave the Champion be."

One of the Templars spat in the dirt. "Sod the Knight-Commander and her orders. The fucking apostate can either come with us or get the brand like all the others."

Cullen moved before even Merrill's honed elven senses could react. He stepped forward and lashed out with a powerful punch to the nose that flattened the offending Templar. The Knight-Captain leveled an accusing finger at the man, now sprawled on the ground, while the Templars behind him drew their swords.

"The city may be ablaze," Cullen barked, "but you are still a Templar. And that means you will follow orders!"

He took a menacing step forward. "Templars do not take matters such as this into their own hands, no matter how dire the circumstances. We serve the Chantry, not our own selfish hatreds. So you will stand up, you will remember your training, and you will realize that when a superior gives you an order, you obey."

The man clutched at his bleeding and broken nose for a few moments, then grudgingly nodded and choked out, "Y-yes, Knight-Captain."

"Good." Cullen rested his hand on the pommel of his sword and turned to Aveline. Merrill ducked back out of sight before anyone could see her spying.

"I apologize for the Knight-Lieutenant's misconduct," Cullen sighed from beyond the doorway. "I'll station two loyal Templars outside to ensure there are no further interlopers to hinder Hawke's recovery. I won't try to guess how you know of this place, Guard-Captain, but you have my word that you and your friends will be protected."

There was a long, suspicious pause from Aveline. "Why are you doing this?"

"I have no love for mages," Cullen replied, his voice tight. "But I have my orders. And the Champion saved hundreds, maybe thousands of lives tonight. She's proven herself in my eyes and in the eyes of the Knight-Commander. For now. The Templar order is not an easy one to impress, but Hawke has managed it. That comes with certain… amenities."

Aveline slowly sheathed her sword. "Thank you, Knight-Captain."

"You have dangerous friends, Aveline," Cullen replied. "Much scrutiny will be placed upon them in the days to come, now more than ever. I urge you to remain cautious. Hawke will not be under our protection for long."

He bowed his head at the neck. "There are matters I must attend to. Once order has been restored, I will return and personally see to Marian Hawke's safety."

You needn't bother, Merrill thought. Marian will be back up and fighting again in no time. It'll all be all right.

She looked over her shoulder at Hawke, lying limp on the cot while Anders frantically worked over her. Blue-white illumination pulsed from his palms, bathing Hawke with healing light. Such magic, the kind that knit bones and sealed parted flesh, was extremely painful. But Hawke didn't so much as flinch. She just… lay there.

Merrill's heart clenched and she closed her eyes, offering up a prayer; to the Creators, the humans' Maker, or anyone else who may be listening.

Please, she thought desperately. Please, please let her be all right…

Heavy bootsteps signaled that Cullen had turned to leave, but not before yet another – though far more familiar – voice interrupted him.

"Where is she?"

She glanced around the corner to see Cullen hold out a hand to a Templar soldier storming toward them. The new Templar ripped his helmet off and let it clatter into the dust. Its removal revealed a square, chiseled face, tousled black hair, and cold blue eyes.

"Templar Hawke," Cullen said forcefully. "You were ordered to remain on guard at the –"

Carver interrupted him again, his voice carrying a demanding authority Merrill had never before heard coming from the surly young man. "Where is my sister?"

Cullen sighed, realizing the futility of a confrontation, and gestured behind him to the clinic. "Inside. You are relieved from duty until she is stable or you feel you are fit to return."

Carver offered no thanks and simply pushed past the other Templars, sprinting into the clinic. He was instantly at Anders' side. Once she was sure the over-attentive Templars had left, Merrill was too.

Marian was lying on the cot before them, unconscious, with so much blood soaking her clothes that they were stained black. She was bleeding from at least twenty different wounds, and a gaping, gory hole dominated her midsection. Merrill's stomach churned just to see it, but she refused to look away. Her heart was hammering a relentless beat against her ribcage, and in the lightheadedness of worry and adrenaline she noted that Hawke's face would look almost peaceful if not for all the blood staining it.

Her chest rose and fell, so lightly that even Merrill's sharp elven senses strained to pick it out. Her fingers twitched against the cot and her eyelids fluttered chaotically. Blood stained her lips, which Merrill gingerly dabbed away with the scarf she usually wrapped around her neck.

The Arishok's blade bit deep, slicing into Hawke's stomach before the horned giant lifted the mage bodily off her feet, skewered on the end of his sword. Hawke screamed; a bloodcurdling shriek of pain that made Merrill's blood run cold. She tried to push forward to help, but felt another Qunari blade pressed against her throat.

This fight was for Marian to face alone.

Merrill squeezed her eyes shut and forced the memory away. She never wanted to see that sight again, even in her mind's eye; a helpless Marian, screaming as a sword nearly as large as she was stabbed deep into her torso. Even the recollection of that tortured, agonized shriek still left her shivering.

"Well?" Carver demanded of the mages that surrounded his sister. "What are you waiting for? Aren't you going to use a spell or something?"

Anders was working almost too quickly for Merrill to follow; sterilizing tools, setting aside gauze and thread, and pouring alcohol over his hands. He didn't even bother to glance at Carver.

"Doesn't work that way."

"What do you mean, it doesn't work that way?" Carver snapped. "You're the bloody healer! How are you going to—"

Anders whirled on him. Fury and fear burned in his blue eyes in equal measure. "Look at her! She has multiple lacerations and contusions, she's bleeding internally and she's suffering from concussion. Three of her ribs are broken, as is her forearm, her collarbone, and her right leg. And that's all without even touching on the massive gaping bloody hole in her stomach!"

He spun back to Hawke and began to cut at her thick, armored robe, tearing it away in thick strips of leather to get at the wounds that lay beneath. "You think a fucking magic potion is going to clear all this up? Magic helps, but it doesn't do bloody everything."

Fenris sneered behind them, but simply folded his arms and said nothing. Aveline, meanwhile, nudged Varric and said, "Keep an eye on the door. Make sure the Templars standing guard outside mind their business and don't get overly interested in what's going on here."

The stocky dwarf nodded, his teeth clenched so hard Merrill thought his jaw would break. Before he turned to leave, he put a hand on Hawke's limp shoulder and squeezed it. She heard him murmur, "Hang in there, Hawke. We're not done with you yet."

No we're not, Merrill thought. She reached out and clasped Hawke's hand tightly in her own. It was limp, weak, and very cold. We're not done with you, Marian. Not by a long shot.

Marian Hawke tumbled head-over-heels through the dark. Her head spun, mind whirling as sights, sounds, and sensations flashed around her. Coherent thought had long since fled, and in its place was chaos.

She saw Merrill, tears streaming down her face and smudging the light layer of makeup Isabela had taught her to apply. The image dissolved, replaced by a trio of angry-looking Templars. They too were quickly lost in the maelstrom. She felt her body jerking, as if something was tugging her in every direction at once. A great rushing filled her ears, like she was caught in the midst of a terrible windstorm. Her entire body pulsed with agony, but no scream tore itself from her lips. She tried to move, but found herself confined to her chaotic, senseless whirlwind.

Then, through the din, came a voice. It was deep and calm, bearing a strong, cultured-sounding Free Marcher accent. It was a man's voice, and one that – even in the maelstrom – was almost familiar.

"Easy there, little Sparrowhawk. Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

Hawke whirled and more images barraged her. The Arishok, the viscount's headless corpse, Isabela's distinctive blue bandana as she disappeared into the depths of Lowtown with the Qunari tome under her arm. She saw Kirkwall burning, saw bodies clogging the once-busy and vibrant streets. She saw the moonlight glint off the razor edge of a Qunari battleaxe a moment before it pierced her chest and brought a fresh wave of agony spiraling through her system.

"Sparrowhawk," the man's voice returned, "you're going to have quite a tumble if you keep rushing around like that."

Her lips twitched and, though speaking brought on fresh new pains, hoarsely whispered out words she had long ago forgotten.

"I'm… I'm not a… not a Sparrowhawk. I'm… a dragon!"

A deep, kindly chuckle from the man's voice. "Don't dragons usually breathe fire? And have great scaly wings?"

"I-I can breathe fire!"

"I know you can. But best not let your mother catch sight of you doing so. You may be a dragon, but she can be the fiercest of dragonslayers when she wants to be, believe me."

She arched her back as more images assaulted her. She saw the dragon, perched high above her on a cliff overlooking the battlefield. It spread its leathery scarlet-black wings and screeched, so loud the air seemed to shatter. The attacking darkspawn broke and fled, but not fast enough. While Mother wept over Bethany's broken body, it swooped down low and torched the fleeing creatures with a roar.

Hawke groaned, echoing the roar with a feeble one of her own.

Another gentle chuckle from the disembodied voice. "Easy, Sparrowhawk. Or am I to be the dragon's dinner?"

"You… you will if you don't watch out…"

"In that case, I'd best be moving on. Why don't you go out and play for a bit? I'll finish up supper in the meantime."

The thought stuck in Hawke's brain like a thorn in her boot. "Go… go out and play. Go out and play…"

Maker help me…

The next moment she opened her eyes and the maelstrom was gone. In its place was a simple rustic kitchen. The table was set for dinner, while a pot of soup bubbled over the fireplace. The sun was setting outside, painting the interior a beautiful orange-red.

Standing over the fireplace was a tall, muscular man in a sleeveless leather jerkin. A thick black beard, expertly groomed, covered his jaw, complimenting his equally jet-black hair. His eyes sparkled with a warm humor; the same shade of steel gray as Marian's own.

He leaned against the mantle and folded his arms, gesturing at Marian with the soup spoon. "Now you stay in the yard, Sparrowhawk. The forest is no place for a little girl. It's crawling with elves, werewolves, and manticores, you know."

"Elves, werewolves, and manticores don't frighten a mighty dragon!" Marian cried, spreading her arms and flapping them like wings. "I'll burn them all to cinders!"

"Let's pass on the cinders for today, darling," the bearded man said with a smile, turning back to the soup pot. "Your mother just finished sweeping out the kitchen."

Marian sighed. He was no fun. "Yes, Papa."

"Good. Now run along and I'll call you when the soup is finished."

Marian quickly sprinted outside, spreading her arms and letting out a high-pitched squeal that, to her ears, sounded every bit as powerful as a dragon's roar. Her father watched her go, a smile curling his lips, then turned back to take care of supper.

Marian pounced at a pigeon outside the door, roaring and watching it burst into an indignant and noisy flight into the trees. She stomped after it, flapping her arms and imitating the thundering wingbeats of a great and mighty dragon.

"Flee feeble pigeon!" she cried. "You can't stand against my power!"

But the pigeon just flapped up into the trees and out of sight. She watched it go, a frown on her small, round face. She stamped her feet in the dirt and huffed. "Don't fly away! I'm a dragon! You can't just fly away from a dragon!"

The pigeon had obviously never heard of such a rule; it just disappeared into the trees with a rustle of leaves. Marian stalked off with fists clenched, kicking a rock with one patched and ragged boot.

"Stupid pigeon," she muttered, kicking at the rock again. "I wish there were some elves around here. They would run from a dragon."

She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jerkin – which was as ragged as her boots – and huffed again. She could see her breath on the cool autumn air, the chill seeping through her patchy coat. She cast one last glance over her shoulder in the direction of the defiant bird, then stalked off past the side of the house.

The house wasn't anything special; a simple log cabin that Papa had built just over two months ago. Hawke still remembered that day, watching as her father carved and assembled the trees with little more than his mind. He and mother had debated the wisdom of using magic for hours before finally deciding that it was the quickest and safest way to find much-needed shelter.

Papa had lifted his arms, carrying the great fallen logs in shimmering cradles of light. Hours he had worked, long into the night, while Marian huddled around a small campfire and Mother, her belly swollen with the unborn twins, had paced worriedly just beyond the light of the fire. Marian could still remember the wonder at seeing her father's magical powers first-hand.

Now, two months later, their hastily-erected cabin had become more cozy and comfortable. In a word it was more… homely.

She had to admit, as she trudged around the trunk of a thick tree stump Papa used to chop wood for the fireplace. For this he had decided not to use magic and instead preferred an old, dull woodcutter's axe he had bought from the village for far more than it was worth. They hadn't eaten for three days afterward, but they had at least been warm.

She moved on past the chopping stump, continuing to kick at the rock.

She missed the old village. Everything was so boring out here in the woods. It was pretty and there was no lack of interesting wildlife to observe, but there were no people here.

She hadn't had friends back in the village – they hadn't stayed long enough to get to know the other children – but she still missed the bustle. She missed the crowded markets, missed the kindly woman who had given her a tiny red handkerchief from the clothing stall; a handkerchief that was currently stuffed into her pocket as usual. She missed the cranky baker with the elven servant, the elven servant who would sneak her sweetrolls when her master was away.

She sighed and watched another puff of breath dissolve into the air. Her boots crunched on dead branches and fallen pinecones. A pair of deer fawns pricked their ears up at her approach and scattered deeper into the forest, flashing their snow-white tails.

She'd never been to any kind of school, but she'd seen the other children in the village. She had fantasized what it would be like. She wondered what it would feel like to be able to pretend, even for a short time, that she was like all the other children. That she was "normal."

She traded kicking her rock for kicking a dry and dusty pinecone; it was easier on the worn toe of her boot. She watched it dance across the forest floor ahead of her.

The sad truth was that she wasn't normal. She wasn't normal and she never would be. Papa had told her that long ago, when her magic first began to manifest. It had been a simple thing; they had been sitting at the table of their last house in the village. Marian had been poking at her supper with her spoon, moping at the bland and boring meal.

She couldn't explain what had happened. She had been staring into the depths of her wooden bowl, grumbling about the tasteless mash set before her. Then there was a rumble over the air and her metal spoon had twisted into a neat figure-8.

All the color had instantly drawn out of Mother's face, a tiny whimper falling from her lips. Her spoon had clattered into her bowl and she had clenched her trembling hands into fists on the tabletop. She hadn't spoken, but her lips had mouthed the words, "Oh, Maker no."

But Papa… his reaction had been far worse. He hadn't gone pale or dropped his spoon. He hadn't pleaded for it to be untrue like Mother. He had simply sighed and pushed his bowl away. His steel gray eyes – the exact shade of Marian's own – were suddenly very sad and tired. He seemed to have aged years in the span of only seconds.

She had never seen her father look so weary. So… defeated. And she never wanted to see it again.

"Marian," he had murmured, his deep voice very quiet. "We need to talk."

She huffed and broke into a run, planting her boots in a puddle and making the biggest splash she could manage. She giggled at the spray, then found her pinecone again and set off once more into the forest. She knew Papa had forbidden her to go so far into the trees, but it was so boring wandering around the same tiny clearing time and time again.

After all, she thought, kicking her pinecone far off into the trees, I'm a dragon. And no one tells a dragon what to do!

Papa and Mother had argued after that first incident with the spoon. Oh how they had argued. She hadn't understood all of what they were saying, but she had distinctly heard the words apostate, Templars, and all your fault. Papa had said something about Mother overreacting (whatever that meant) and that her fear would pass.

After the argument, Papa had returned to the kitchen table, where Marian had been playing with her carved wooden horse. He had eased himself into the chair across from her with one of his kindest, warmest smiles.

"Can I talk to you, Sparrowhawk?"

She had continued playing with her horse. She'd known this talk was coming.

Over the course of the next few hours, Papa had told her all about magic and magic users. He had told her that her powers were a great gift, and that they would help her do incredible things. He told her that she could do whatever she wanted; summon gouts of fire, manipulate the very essence of life and – one day perhaps – even transform her own body.

But he had also told her about the dangers of magic. He had told her about all the people who would want to harm her: the bounty hunters, the witch-burners, and most dangerous of all, the Templar Order. All would pursue her as they pursued him, and so she needed to be very careful with her newfound abilities.

That's why I want to be a dragon, she thought dejectedly. No Templars have ever killed a dragon before! No bounty hunters would drive a dragon from its home!

Not to mention the fact that dragons could fly. With their great, bat-like wings, they could soar to any place they wished. If she could transform into a dragon, like Papa's stories about the Witch of the Wilds, she could go anywhere she wanted.

No more would she be confined to the dull tracts of this forest. She could soar away to her old village, to distant and exotic Val Royeaux, or even the great metropolis of Kirkwall; Mother had long claimed they had family there. Marian hadn't known any family besides her parents, so the thought intrigued her. Would they be like her? Would they be magic-users as well? Would they sport the same steel-grey eyes and raven-black hair?

But these distant lands of Kirkwall and Orlais were beyond her grasp, at least for the moment. It was unlikely that she would sprout wings and fly away so, for now, this dull forest would have to do.

"But," she muttered to herself, eying her faithful pinecone, "that doesn't mean I can't still be a dragon!"

She dropped into a crouch, folding her arms tight to her chest and stomping toward the pinecone.

"Rawr!" She imagined the pinecone shivering in fright at her lumbering footsteps. "I'm coming for you! Rawr!"

The pinecone was too afraid to move.

"I'm a mighty dragon!" she cried, flexing her fingers and imagining them as long, razor-sharp talons. Her shoulderblades flexed as if spreading imaginary wings.

"I'm hungry, little pinecone!" she roared, "and I'm going to eat you up!"

She pounced, her boots crunching the pinecone against the forest floor. She quickly found it had been joined by others. The forest floor was littered with the things. She narrowed her gray eyes at the sight. "So, you've assembled an army to stop me? That won't stop such a mighty dragon! Rawr!"

It was near-effortless; she threw her hands out and the air between her palms and the pinecones shimmered. A heat wave buffeted her face and the nearest pinecone began to glow red-hot around the edges. A second later it burst into flame with a tiny pop.

Marian giggled, clapping her hands in delight. They popped! She hadn't known they would pop!

She raised her arms again and flexed her fingers. Two more cones to her left popped like corn kernels on a stove.

"See?" she laughed. "See what happens when you face a dragon? Burn, pinecones, burn!"

More pinecones crackled all around. Pop, pop, pop. She danced amid the cinders, hopping from foot to foot and throwing her hands out like she was batting away swarms of insects. Her magic grew stronger, until bolts of fire were flashing from her palms and consuming the pinecones all around her.

She laughed and finally let her hands fall to her sides. Sweat was beading her forehead both from the heat and the exertion of using mana. She wasn't as strong as her father. Not yet. He could have set this entire forest ablaze if he wanted to. She, by comparison, was worn out after throwing a few tiny balls of sparks.

"Whew," she breathed. "And that, you silly pinecones, is why you don't mess with a dragon."

Behind her, a branch snapped.

She whirled with a very un-dragon-like squeak, her hands coming up to cover her mouth. Her heart seemed to have suddenly stopped beating, and every inch of her body felt like it had been plunged into ice.

A man was standing behind her, some distance away. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with long black hair and a thick beard. A pocked, melted-looking scar disfigured part of his face. He was built like the pictures of the great warriors in her storybooks. And he was wearing the most beautiful armor Marian had ever seen.

It was covered in elegant swoops and engravings, every plate polished to such a sheen that it caught the rays of the sun until it shimmered. A thick scarlet cloak was wrapped around his shoulders and his legs were protected by a series of drapes and tassels that fluttered sluggishly in the warm forest breeze.

Emblazoned across his chest was the engraved image of a flaming, downturned sword. A Templar sword.

Marian took a step back, eyes wide and never leaving the insignia on his chest. She had never seen a Templar in real life before; Papa had very purposefully settled in villages with no local Templar presence. She'd heard the stories of course. And she could easily say that this man was at once more beautiful and more terrifying than any of Papa's tales.

She took a step back, her boots crunching on scorched pinecones.

"Please…" she whimpered, holding a hand out. "Please, I didn't mean to…"

The man reached down to his belt, grasping the pommel of his sword. It scraped free of its scabbard with a dull, metallic rasp. Then his lips formed the terrifying word, the word that meant death for her and everyone like her.

"Apostate," the Templar hissed.

Marian didn't bother pleading for mercy any longer. She simply turned and sprinted as fast as her little legs could carry her, deeper into the suddenly dark and unforgiving forest.

Author's Note: I really liked writing this chapter. Despite all the adventures DA fans have had with Hawke, we never really get to learn much about her childhood. Exploring this period of her life is going to be an entertaining - and very interesting - challenge.

Hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. Until next time!