Rise to Power (discontinued)

by JoeLaTurkey

Dragon Age 2 novelisation. Watch Bradon Hawke rise from lowly refugee to Kirkwall's Champion, making friends and enemies, falling love and changing the world. MHawke/Isabela

2. Death and Destiny

"I do not believe in a fate that falls on men however they act; but I do believe in a fate that falls on them unless they act."

- G.K. Chesterton

Varric's eyes misted over with an excited flare that had nothing to do with the room's unique lighting. Those fortunate or unfortunate enough to have heard his unique wordcraft back in Lowtown knew that only reminiscence could bring on this sparkle. The opening chapter of Hawke's saga was not a story he had personally been a witness to, but that made it so much better for him. Not because he was about to fabricate anything, but because of Hawke's fearless and rather brutal honesty about the whole affair.

Varric spoke, his voice soft yet strong. He took special care to lace every word with a touch of wonder, re-telling the tale but somehow able to do so with the impressed tone of a man watching it unfold for the first time. His oversized chair no longer 'belittled' him in any more than a physical sense; it was actually beginning to give him some authority. Cassandra saw at once why he had become so accomplished in the field of tale-spinning.

"The Blight had been unleashed on Ferelden. Darkspawn poured out of the Wilds, clashing with the army at the ruins of Ostagar," he said solemnly. "As we all know, the battle was a disaster. King Cailan died on the field with half of his men, betrayed by his most trusted general. Unopposed, the Horde marched onto Lothering. The village burned and many innocents were slaughtered. Bradon Hawke's family barely escaped in time. They soon met Aveline and Ser Wesley in a similar predicament-"

"Stop right there," Cassandra snapped. "You're being vague, Varric. I want it in more detail."

"Why so insistent, Seeker?"

"I must know his motives. Everything depends on it. The smallest thing could tell us so much."

Varric sighed and shrugged. "Sometimes a guy trying to protect his family and build a future for them is just a…guy trying to protect his family and build a future for them."

"The Champion's father was an apostate, his also sister an apostate, he spent years aiding additional apostates-"

"How nice of you to save us the time of going over every instance of Hawke offering the templars aid by omitting all of them," Varric said cuttingly.

Cassandra continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Yet you sit here and tell me he wasn't to blame for the anti-Chantry terrorism that's torn our world apart?" Her voice was as sharp as her iridescent armour.

"Hawke's predicament was…" Varric furrowed his reddish brow, choosing his next words with greater caution than he'd cared to utilise so far…"more complicated than that," he finished at last. His eyes then widened. "Wait…you caught that?" Varric's only direct insistence of Hawke's innocence had come while his captors were obscuring his features and taking extra special care to rough him up a little.

"Yes, we have ears," Cassandra barked. "Are you having second thoughts?"

"No, I stand by my word," Varric stated. "And if you want details, fine. But don't bother complaining when the story gets lurid."

~o~0~o~

Leandra Amell came to Ferelden a fugitive from her own family with nothing but the clothes on her back, a few stolen coins and the man she loved. She had left behind all of Kirkwall's power, riches and comfort, but nonetheless escaped from the unhappy future confinement of an arranged marriage. And she could only ever have done this for Malcolm Hawke – a young man who had done centuries of living. A man with more class and decency than any highborn lord she'd seen, and a man who showed her beauty and excitement in things she had for so long considered beneath her.

Humble Lothering was perfectly compatible with her new worldview, and there they built a life of peaceful bliss together. Leandra never knew she would find such contentment in rural village life, but did, and before long knew for sure she would not trade it for anything. Eventually they were blessed with three children: Bradon, and two years later: the twins Carver and Bethany. All three inherited Malcolm's black hair and dark brown eyes, but only Bethany inherited his outstanding gift; his curse. Malcolm Hawke was an apostate mage, and his daughter was doomed to live the imperilled life he led. But such a damning family secret only brought them all closer, and planted into the children a maturity that usually waited years to sprout and blossom.

Bradon's early years saw him as an almost exact replica of his father, though with perhaps a little more cheek and levity; an image of what he would have been without magic. Carver proved far more cautious and thoughtful, developing both envy and a most reluctant idolisation of Bradon. As they aged, the Hawke brothers clashed many times in many ways, but for all their differences they cherished Bethany. Malcolm never once let them forget the harsh reality of his own struggle as a mage, and insisted that unless they stood by her, she'd fare the same.

Bethany went through her early life ruled by a sweet sadness; knowing her burdensome gift meant she may never find a love of her own, but refusing to let her sorrow show lest it spread, or she be thought ungrateful. In fact, she was grateful beyond words for having a father who understood and two brothers protecting her night and day – yet not a day went by without her wondering how things could have been. Many of Lothering's boys watched her with eager eyes, most desiring her friendship and some wanting more. Many times she in turn desired to forge friendships and give her heart away, only to watch Bradon and Carver's protective anger stifle such efforts. She was magically talented, and her father's training was superb. But the risk of exposing her power was always there. Watching so much rejection being carried out on her behalf hurt, but far worse were the times when she had to do it herself. She wounded smitten young men with mumbled, insincere words, saying she wasn't interested and hiding her own breaking heart with a brave smile. How terrible it was, to resent your family daily for doing the very things keeping you safe.

As much as he loved his family, and happy as he was to be living in idyllic peace after such a turbulent early life; Malcolm Hawke was still a brilliant and studious mage, and could never successfully subdue the ambitious inclinations present in all such people. It was important to never draw more attention than necessary in little, unspectacular Lothering where life's sometimes boring slowness birthed so many rumours, yet Malcolm still thirsted for greater knowledge and sharper spellcasting. He still yearned to find out and pass on the proud history of his people; still wished his Bethany's gift didn't go to waste. To him there was always another elusive tome to track down and decipher, or famed essay on the Fade to critique and annotate.

On many autumn and winter nights where cold darkness ruled, driving onlookers into their homes, Malcolm trekked down the great, faded marble of the Tevinter Highroad, stopping in a secluded glade beyond the reach or wit of any villager, blood mage or bandit. There he would freeze gently flowing streams, reduce ancient trees to ash with raging fire, call to nature's most untameable beasts to him in humbled obedience, bring forth the potent force of lightning, form rock from nothing and push the very boundaries of his own being and the Fade beyond. All schools of magic – save the forbidden art – were explored to their very depths during these nights.

When Bethany was old enough she accompanied him, though this did not come about without a great deal of opposition from Leandra, who had never taken kindly to him wandering the Highroad at night in the first place. After days of heated debate, she eventually relented, and a new light came into Bethany's life.

Her father would cause hard fruit to ripen and fall into her hands, he hid little boxes in the trees which could only be opened with the right spell. Gold sovereigns fell out of them, accompanied by the words 'Don't tell your mother.' One night he even bewitched thousands of fireflies to spell out her name. Bethany could at last see for herself the true wonders of magic's many schools and eagerly partook; though all lessons came with stern warnings about the horrors of blood magic, and to ensure she would never stray onto such a path, Malcolm told her cautionary tales of those who did. He spoke of ordinary human and elven mages who started out as untarnished and innocent as she, but upon first using blood magic became hideously grotesque mutations of their former selves. His most vivid tale was of an elven First Enchanter becoming a massive beast of 'bloated corpulence with an octupuslike head, and a face that became a mass of feelers,' that chilled her to the bone.

When he wasn't teaching magic, dazzling and gifting her with his unique trickery or warning against magical dangers, Malcolm let her know beyond all doubt that she was not alone. He thrilled his daughter with stories from his own days on the run – stories of like-minded apostates who did great things. And every night he told Bethany she was a finer talent than all of them. And thus they bonded in ways beyond the basics of the arcane arts. Malcolm taught her to hunt and fish, craft runes and brew obscure elixirs, along with ways to hide the necessary ingredients on her person from the templars.

In all this, there was never a lesson more often repeated, never a lecture more profound than the sickeningly long list of Chantry injustices and templar atrocities. Malcolm did not discourage belief in a Maker – or indeed many Makers in many forms, as life outside of Chantry dogma; among elves dwarves and even qunari, had exposed him to a wider range of worldviews than most Fereldans enjoyed – neither did he deny the nobility of magic existing to serve man and never forcibly rule over him (on more than one occasion, Leandra berated him for foul language use whenever the Tevinter Magisters came up in dinner table conversation). Nevertheless he was sure above all things that this did not excuse such authoritarian imprisonment of his people. Self-control could exist outside the Circle system, and he considered Bethany the finest example of this. Those words made her love him even more.

On their last night out together in the quiet Ferelden woods, Malcolm introduced her to the beginning of adulthood for the mage: he fashioned her staff. It was the most glorious and awe-inspiring sight of her young life, for her father's inexperience in staff-crafting did not still him for even a moment.

At the height of full moon he clove an elder tree with a lightning strike and immediately went to work on the still-glowing length of wood. He worked until sunrise. He toiled and tested, he carved and chanted, he wove lyrium in immaculate patterns, risking grievous injury.

Bethany watched from afar, safely wrapped in his cloak and warmed by a fire enchanted to resist the harshest weather. The rain fell and her father's efforts only intensified. Through torrents of it, with shaking hands and chattering teeth Malcolm continued working, refusing the fire's warmth; telling her he must do this in the moonlight, in purest nature while 'the stars were right.'

The end result was a staff even mightier than his, but Malcolm didn't stop there. The following day, before they returned home, he decorated the masterwork, crowning it with a feather from each and every native Ferelden bird, entwining it with winding lines of hawks and mabari hounds, even carving Na damae lath'din into each handgrip.

Bethany's staff was a conduit of ice and fire; reflecting her own personal magical preference, the extremes of Ferelden weather and the runes encrusted at each end. But sadly its place at home was beneath the floorboards alongside his. He gave her only one afternoon to handle it in the house, and that was just for polishing. It would not be touched again until the Fifth Blight.

Upon forging his daughter's staff, Malcolm was able to at last spend more time with his sons, knowing guiltily that Leandra had been left with an uneven and unfair load in raising them. In 9:26 of the Dragon Age, he ventured out alone one night and returned the following evening with two things: a mabari pup and – unbeknownst to anyone – the wasting sickness that would end his life. He had intended to encourage the heroic ambitions present in Bradon and Carver, as they had grown as tall and robust as he. He harboured a vision of two great warriors fighting for his peoples' cause with the might Ferelden mabari at their side. But Malcolm would never see this occur. His illness was pernicious and without mercy. Malcolm spent his final days brewing a potion that could not save him but would at least prevent his infection from spreading. He died the following year when winter fell, with a smile on his prematurely-aged face after drawing nothing short of oaths from Carver and Bradon that they would protect their mother and sister no matter what.

The newly-named pup Octavius (or 'Occie' – after the first mage Commander of the Grey and Malcolm's favourite historical figure) was soon a mature, fearsome creature, and with Malcolm gone, chose the new man of the house as his master for life. It was Malcolm's hope that this final gift would keep his loved ones together. But instead, the family was driven apart. Bradon's pride at being chosen kept him away from his duties, chasing Lothering's young maidens and starting more than a few alcohol-fuelled fights in the local tavern. Without her mentor, Bethany grew restless and resentful. Without Malcolm to counsel him and soothe his hot temper, Carver grew sick of Bradon's good fortune and the efforts needed to continue hiding his sister. Devoid of any other prospects in life, both brothers joined the army when they came of age.

Ferelden, a nation marred by chill all year round, was in the final days of summer when the Fifth Blight loomed and the boys left. Lothering's far stretching fields and farmlands were always a pretty sight; they glowed gold under the sun, moved into a soft sway by the breeze. Even they could bring no comfort to Bethany and Leandra Hawke.

And when autumn fell, the leaves withered and died with the nation's spirit and king. Horrifying rumours soon had every resident hooked. One rumour unified them all: the Grey Wardens had betrayed the king, deserted the field and were still at large. Bethany and Leandra did not care for this speculation, as the truth was disconcerting enough. The bulk of their protectors were dead, the boys were missing and the Blight was left unopposed. Leandra's last memory of true happiness was their return with Teyrn Loghain's army.

But the Hawke family reunion was as fleeting as it was blissful. In the weeks that followed, aiding the influx of wounded and homeless occupied all their time. Lothering descended into chaos, strained almost to breaking point. The sudden emergence of a towering, stone-hearted qunari warrior and subsequent bloodbath tore several friends from the Hawkes. Surely their hardship had peaked at this point? Their busy lives gave no time to grieve, and they learned no details of the monster's evasion of justice and escape from Lothering.

Nobody could adequately prepare for what soon followed.

The darkspawn horde came at sunrise and showed to mercy. In mere minutes, Lothering vanished in a storm of fire and blood. They came wearing the rotting skin of Ostagar's vanquished. Family, friends and lovers of the king's soldiers witnessed the horror of seeing so many familiar faces stretched over darkspawn heads or hanging, shrunken and withered from veridium armour. Before long, verdant green and buttery autumn yellow turned black and red. The air carried all the fruits of their evil; Blight disease, fiery embers and flies fast growing fat on spilled peasant blood. Lothering's soft, gentle stream was soon choked with corpses Its buildings became a pile of smouldering black skeletons. Some welcomed death, falling on their knees before poisonous, notched blades, robbed of sanity. Some met their end fighting. There was a maddened honour in hurling oneself at the endless sea of horrors with nothing but a pitchfork or bare fists.

But some were more fortunate, able to grasp onto a semblance of sanity and courage, fleeing to the northern hills while their homes burned and their families died. Among these fortunate people were the Hawkes.

~o~0~o~

Leandra fell behind her children. They were running directionless through an unending stretch of rock and dry ground. She saw the future of her family in the same light: barren and hopeless. No matter their skill or experience, countless travellers disappeared into the northern wastes every year, crushed by a rock-fall, dying of thirst after days of wandering lost through unmapped paths or going mad after being forced to eat the weeds when all other food supplies ended. Some followed mirages of long-dead loved ones into ravines.

There was one advantage to braving the northern wastes and that was the lack of wildlife, dangerous or otherwise. With armed, murderous darkspawn troops chasing them, the Hawkes were robbed of this one advantage.

Exhaustion claimed Leandra and she collapsed. Dust flew up around her like a mocking spectre of death, clinging to the sheen of sweat on her face and dirtying her already patched dress. She brushed long grey hair from her eyes, hoping to see her precious children continue to safety. Leandra could hear the gleeful howls of approaching hurlock and genlock warriors, wishing it to at least be a quick death. There were few deaths more ghastly than Blight poisoning. Better she die with a severed spine or opened throat than waste away from their corruption, feral and monstrous.

But Leandra's fall came in a miraculously advantageous place. She succumbed to fatigue at a narrowing of the brown rock, where the ranks of their darkspawn chasers grew thin and vulnerable. At the narrowing's end, where the cliffs opened out to a wider space of desolate featurelessness, Bethany Hawke sprang into action with every lesson from her beloved father raging in her mind's eye. She carried two staffs: one a chipped, aged object tied to her back; the other a magnificent, vibrant weapon in her hand. She would honour them both.

Perched on a rough protrusion of stone like bird of prey, Bethany summoned her weapon of choice with a wave of the arm. Heat welled within and streaked through her outstretched hand, a pained cry of equal parts fury and effort escaped her. She had never performed this spell in such uncontrolled, dire circumstances, but the sight of her helpless mother activated instinct and grim victory was found in the form of a wall of flame bursting from the very air. It shot from one end of the trapping path to the other, crackling with eerie solidarity before intensifying, shooting outwards as if attacking prey. The pursuing darkspawn were moving far too quickly to stop. Flame seared their sickly skin, further increasing their foul stench. Their cries were high-pitched; pathetic even to Leandra's stunned ears. The darkspawn collapsed in a pile of spiked metal and burned bodies. Some made it through the wall before expiring.

As the first wave writhed and withered, Bethany jumped into the line of slaughter to grab her mother, silently signalling her hidden brothers with a nod when Leandra was safely out of the way. She could only sustain the wall for so long, for there was no wood.

A genlock made it through first; squat, dark green and bat-eared. It grinned at the seemingly defenceless women. Overlarge teeth stuck out of a mouth unable to contain them. It smelled the women, pug nose twitching with repulsive vigour. There was a depraved greed in its sunken eyes.

And then its head was rolling in the dust. Bradon Hawke emerged from the smoke left behind by Bethany's trap. His grey iron greatsword was of standard military issue, but its newest coating of darkspawn blood at least added some worth.

"Carver!" he called. Genlocks were weak alone, only ever fighting in packs. Bethany's incendiary aid had been good while it lasted, but the residual cloud of smoke could have been hiding anything.

Sure enough, two more followed. Bradon brought his lengthy blade to the sky in a vicious uppercut, taking off the first one's jaw before hacking into its shoulder and getting the sword edge stuck. The second genlock approached him fast, mace held aloft. Bradon kicked the stuck (now dead) genlock off his sword and brought the blade back in an expectant parrying motion.

"THIS ONE'S MINE!"

Carver Hawke flew onto the scene from his own hiding place. He halved the mace-wielding genlock's head from above, and proudly earned a smattering of black blood on his own greatsword and tunic.

"Thanks," Bradon muttered reluctantly.

Carver's moment of smug satisfaction was over in a second, as three hurlock spearmen bounded down the pathway before he could open his mouth. Hurlocks were far taller and stronger than their genlock counterparts. The Hawke brothers beheld no true faces but gaunt grey, corpse-stiff masks with rows of teeth like yellow needles. The beasts had no noses, loudly sucking in air through rough cut slits.

Bradon went in for the kill first, clear droplets of sweat beading on his forked beard. He ducked a spearhead thrust, slicing the attacker's thigh and throwing it over his muscled shoulder. Upon rising he slashed the second one's throat in a single, fluid motion. It fell with a pathetic gurgle.

Carver engaged the third. This enemy's thrust missed the young man's side by inches, tearing a hole in his tunic. Carver's counterstroke was swift. He took off the hurlock's left arm and quickened its end with a decisive stab into the space between veridium gorget and breastplate. He then noticed the surviving hurlock splayed on the rock behind Bradon.

"Keep up big brother!" Carver sneered. He ended the beast's life with a downward stab before Bradon could. "It looks like I'm leading right now."

Again, he had spoken too soon. More enraged fiends came from the narrowing.

"We'll take these together," Bradon muttered, momentarily forgetting the competitive urges his brother inspired.

They moved in, shoulder-to-shoulder and blades forward. The Hawke brothers had inherited their father's imposing physical frame, meaning neither could fight with much finesse or refinement, but it was said that Bradon had the edge nonetheless. The fighting which followed was messy, confined to the claustrophobic walls. A tangle of blows, limbs and grunts filled the space. Putrid breath and spittle coated the brothers' faces, but they didn't back down.

"Help us Beth!" Bradon yelled as he pushed a limp genlock off him to engage another.

"I'm trying!" she retorted angrily. "It's hard to just…use magic openly when you've spent you're whole life being taught how to hide it!"

Bethany conjured a second ball of flame between her fingers, but her mother stifled the effort by grabbing her arm.

"No!" Leandra cried. "You might hit the boys."

The struggle continued. Bradon and Carver continued to push forward. No longer able to fully utilise weapons, the darkspawn gnashed their teeth, clawed at the human faces.

And then it was over. A heap of the dead remained. Bruises were forming on Bradon and Carver's faces. Their clothing was drenched in blood.

Carver wiped some from his face. "I think that's all of them," he said.

"For the moment," Bethany added darkly.

Leandra was still breathless. Her life was gone. None of her voice's former strength remained. "Maker save us, we've lost it all. Everything your father and I built…"

Bradon looked over his shoulder to the streak of rising black smoke that had been his home just a few hours ago.

He stepped forward and placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm so sorry mother. I know how much Lothering meant to you but…" Bradon put on his best smile, though he could never force it to reach his eyes. "At least we're alive, that's no small feat." He looked at his siblings, urging for their support.

"Yes, you're right," his mother breathed.

"Where's Occie?" said Carver. In the madness of fight and flight, it seemed nobody had kept track of their hound.

"I told him to go ahead of us, to the Tevinter watchtower ruins," said Bradon. "Don't worry," he added at Bethany's apparent outrage. "It's a lot harder for a mabari to succumb to Blight poisoning." He scowled. "I wish we'd had more of them at Ostagar."

"Why send him away like that? We needed him!" Carver huffed.

"There are only two clear-cut paths ahead of us," said Bradon. "One further north by the watchtowers, one further west by the Wildling camps on the marshland. I told him to scout along both, he can get there faster, maybe before the darkspawn numbers are too great. We choose depending on what he can tell us."

"And if he doesn't come back?" said Carver with narrow eyes.

Bradon held his gaze without fear. "Then I'd have killed Father's last gift to us and will take full responsibility."

"We should've run sooner!" Bethany hissed. "Why did we wait so long?"

"Why are you looking at us?" Carver demanded. "Bradon and I have been running since Ostagar. Your responsibilities have never gone beyond hiding at home!"

"And I suppose that's my fault?" she shot back, squaring up to him. He towered over her by a foot, but Bethany had never let that stop her before.

"It's your fault we were almost exposed at Feastday last year! Trying to impress Wendell Thorne with fiery tricks! What were you thinking?"

"Oh there you go again; deciding what I can and can't do with my private life! And what does that have to do with Ostagar? I should be glad you've found something new to complain about at every opportunity."

"If you want any more lovely, long bouts of family dysfunction I suggest you make sure that family lives long enough for that to happen!" Bradon barked, stepping in between both of them as he'd done on so many occasions since their father's death. If we stand around, we'll die, and I'll be damned if this is the last argument we're ever having!"

"No more running!" Carver huffed, facing Bradon. He was eighteen, a man grown now, and sick of the cold sensation of his father and older brother's shadows. "I may have seen more than enough of these things at Ostagar, but I didn't kill nearly enough!"

"What fascinating priorities you have!" Bradon hissed.

Carver drew in a determined breath, screwing up his smooth, boyish face. Since their adolescence, Bradon had teased him about everything from his inability to grow the trademark Ferelden beard to his fewer romantic conquests.

But Bradon's next words were chosen more carefully. "Look: you're a good soldier Carver," he said softly. "You can find work in the service elsewhere. And I trust Bethany. I know you do too."

"Please, listen to your brother!" Leandra urged.

Carver crossed his bulging arms, leaning back in a challenging way that everyone else had always secretly considered rather effeminate. "Then lead on brother," he drawled.

They didn't get far before the rock dipped downhill into a second, vulnerably tight fissure. A pack of well-armoured genlocks on the far side clustered into a tight shield formation and started forwards.

"Beth," said Carver, eyeing them with hatred.

Bethany stepped to the front and pointed her staff at the approaching combatants. A thin white vein of energy erupted from the tip. It struck the genlocks with a crackling sound, forming a layer of thin ice which soon flew apart. This did nothing but anger them further.

"Come on Beth, try harder!" Bradon urged.

"Sssh!"

She tried again. The second spell lasted long enough to form something of a cocoon, though was still not strong enough. Their enemies had been slowed, but time was running out.

Bethany flushed. "Oh just-"

She flipped the staff and fired off a huge jet of conflagration that blew back everyone's hair, almost knocking herself over.

The genlock shield barrier broke and they fled to their agonising deaths.

"Dad's preferred method anyway," she muttered with smug satisfaction. Malcolm's keen arcane pyromania and urges to use magic domestically had resulted in a few near-disasters for the Hawke family cottage before Leandra put her foot down.

Bradon's eyes were wide. "Wow…I envy your first suitor."

A pleasant surprise awaited them at the bottom, where the valley opened out further: more darkspawn; all too wrapped up in a merry round of body looting to notice the arrival of three humans.

Feeling luck sway in their favour for a change, the brothers executed a lethal surprise attack. Each strike and parry was far more desperate and adrenaline-fuelled than had been at Ostagar; as in such a hurried departure, neither had managed to seize a single reliable weapon or armour plate. Some, not all darkspawn poisoned their weapons with their own blood, meaning even one nick could lead to a painful end. It was a risk nobody wanted to take, but they had no other choice.

"Onward then," said Bradon grimly when the carnage was over.

"Mother…" said Carver, before they could continue. His voice had gone strangely quiet. He was pointing at one of the more ransacked human corpses. "Is that…"

"Brother Lewis?" said Bethany, joining his side to get a better look.

"Lews," said Leandra. There went another piece of her former life. "His name is…his name was Lews."

The soiled rags that had been Lews' Chantry robe and the emptied remains of his pack were all they had to identify him. Everything else was in ruin. He was sprawled in a grotesque pose; twisted; racked by pain in his final moments. A dry, sanguineous layer caked his whole body. Shards of bone stuck out of every limb, eerily white in the morning sun. His lifeless left eye was a mass of pus and pulp. There was no right eye.

Brother Lews' departure had been preceded by days of mounting madness. As soon as he heard the news of Ostagar, he began seeing demons everywhere. He had grown thin and pale-faced, wandering through the packed streets at night, screaming himself hoarse about their impending doom. Then one morning he fled to the wastes without a word.

"Even Sister Leliana couldn't calm him," Carver muttered to his older brother as they all beheld the hideous sight. Carver enjoyed bringing up Sister Leliana, as it seemed she was one of the only women in Lothering able to elude Bradon's 'conquest chronicles.'

"I wanted him to make it so badly," Bethany whispered. "He's got a large family in Starkhaven. They would have taken care of him."

"Let's…" Leandra shook herself, and summoned the grit her husband would have expected of her. "Let's just keep going."

"Occie!" Bethany gasped.

The mabari hound came hurtling down a barren hillside; strong-limbed, chestnut brown fur rippled with muscle. Black droplets tipped his teeth. He stopped before them with a wagging tail and eager eyes.

"Which way boy? Where are their numbers thinnest?" Bradon enquired. He felt excitement welling up inside. This could be their way out.

Occie tapped a thick paw on the ground twice.

"The watchtowers!" said Bradon, resuming his run already. "The darkspawn must have burned all of them out earlier. There may be no troops left up there!"

"Varric…"

~o~0~o~

"I'd rather you didn't recite the macabre details with such glee," Cassandra said in disdain.

Varric shrugged. "It's not my fault they piled on so much death and grimness right at the beginning."

"Who's 'they?' " Cassandra demanded, disturbed at how quickly this dwarf had relaxed and begun to enjoy himself.

"Slip of the tongue," said Varric dismissively. "And besides, we can't always get what we want. I'd rather be interrogated by Sister Nightingale."

Cassandra scowled at him. "She is on an errand for the Divine."

"Oh? I didn't know the Divine needed a new pair of shoes. Just a joke!" he hastily added before she could erupt again.

"She wouldn't volunteer for this job even if she could," said Cassandra. "Believe me dwarf, nobody in Thedas considers my task enviable. And Sister Nightingale does not appreciate the stories you've spun about her."

"I was only ever complimentary!" Varric protested. "Sister Nightingale – voice sweet and beautiful as the heart she guards so determinedly, with silken hair red as the blood she spills…"

"Get on with it."

"You can stab another book if it makes you feel better. Go ahead, I won't protest; never really was the academic type."

"Varric!"

"Alright, alright…"

~o~0~o~

Maker's morning breath, the Tevinter Towers were built to last millennia. What could have done this so quickly? Bradon thought after half an hour of swiftly following Occie's lead, all the while keeping alert for further attacks. They had gone past dozens of ancient, long abandoned watchtowers of the Tevinter Imperium, ablaze in the wake of devastation. They were heading uphill, soon to reach the highest path along the wastes, yet the surrounding rock seemed to be getting darker. Early morning sunlight added no lustre or life to it.

"Occie seems really focused," Carver observed, jogging by his brother.

"He can smell the outer Korcari marshland," said Bradon. "If the horde is advancing onto the Bannorn, there should be few remaining in the Wilds. All we have to do is steer clear of-"

"Wait!" Bethany interjected, stopping behind everyone else.

They had reached a high hillside. The view was far from scenic, revealing nothing but more harsh mountains that dotted the landscape like brown, broken giant's teeth as far as the eye could see.

The remaining Hawkes stopped and their hound stopped. "What is it, darling?" said a breathless Leandra.

"Where are we even going?" Bethany moaned.

Carver scowled at her. "Away from the darkspawn. Where else?"

"And then where? We can't just wander aimlessly once we're in the clear!"

"We can 'wonder' for a little while, as long as we're not separated. All that matters is we end up somewhere where the Blight can't reach us," Carver countered. His temper was almost non-existent these days where Bethany was concerned.

"And then what? You didn't answer my question!" she trilled. "There's a full-blown Blight out there. We may be able to survive today, but tomorrow…" She trailed off, too angry and worried to continue.

"Why don't we turn to our all-knowing leader?" Carver asked in a sour tone.

Bradon had no answers.

Leandra dropped her head thoughtfully. "We can go to Kirkwall," she said after a long moment.

Every Hawke child was taken aback by 's eyes were wide and her voice turned high. Her magic and additional responsibilities in the wake of their father's death had made her strong and competent, but for a fleeting, unnerving moment, Bradon and Carver saw little more than a frightened little girl before them.

"There's a lot of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother," said Bethany, fighting to keep her trembling voice calm.

And that was only the tip of this iceberg. Kirkwall's Templar Order may have adhered to Chantry doctrine, but Chantry ethics on mage treatment seemed unimportant to them from what Bethany had heard of the infamous state. Dark rumours surrounded every Circle, but none more than Kirkwall's.

"I know that, darling," said Leandra softly. "But we still have family there, and an estate." Her face fell. "I hope so at least."

The most uncomfortable silence so far descended. Leandra had never spoken very highly of their uncle Gamelin, taking care to win the hearts of her children with endless tales of how wonderful the conquest of true love was and how vacuous the traditional Amell customs were concerning just about everything.

"We have a family member there mother," Carver said. "A man who never even writes to you. And no promise of sharing his estate."

"There's nothing left for us here," said Bradon. "I'd rather be denied an existing hope than flee from a dead one."

"We'll be entering the eye of the storm!" Carver retorted. "One trap to another. Don't you remember anything father told us about apostate life? Especially in somewhere like the Marches!"

"I can speak for myself," said Bethany icily. "But…I agree with Carver."

"Look," said Bradon. "There are still thousands of darkspawn nearby. We can navigate now, but come nightfall, we won't have that luxury. We should be moving with a destination in mind."

Leandra nodded. "Gwaren's the nearest settlement. If we hurry we can take ship."

Bethany grimaced, resigned to this course of action. "Fine. If that's what we're doing, let's at least be quick about it."

They set off down a drooping pathway, curving around the cliff edge.

Carver remained unconvinced. "I we survive that long. I'll just be happy to get out of here." He skipped ahead of the family with a spring in his step.

"Wait, Carver!" Bradon called. He felt a sudden flood of foreboding. The perilous road ahead still had a swathing of morning mist clinging to it. None of them could see what lay ahead with any clarity.

Octavius stopped, growling. Darkspawn noises soon joined the dog's, and Carver finally got the message.

Not a moment too soon. A black dart shot from the mist straight towards him, so close it ruffled his hair.

"Shit! Crossbowmen!" roared Bradon, drawing his sword and leaping in front of his mother. "Sorry for saying 'shit' mother! Carver get back here!"

Carver complied. "What are we going to do?"

More bolts came with lethal speed, striking the rocks around, missing by inches.

Bethany pushed her way to the front. "I'll deal with this," she said. There was a determined calm in her voice.

Bradon turned to her. "Beth, are you su-"

"Yes! Just give me a moment." She gripped her staff and took a deep breath.

An encasing of translucent lilac energy began to enshroud them with a pleasant whooshing sound. The arcane shield was an essential piece of magic for every mage, but a dreadfully difficult one nonetheless. Those unable to produce it after more than seven years training were never even allowed a Harrowing. Bethany had performed the spell only once, and only to protect herself, never a larger group.

"Ah," muttered Carver at the realisation. "Did Father manage to teach you it?" he said to his sister.

"Eventually," she said, eyes narrow with concentration. The enemy fire had stopped, leaving an unsettling quiet before them. But there was no mistaking Occie's continual growling.

Bethany's breathing intensified. She could recall the lesson clear as day. Her father had spent the entire night throwing slimy frogs at her, saying if he wanted her to stop all she had to do was block. After a few hours she finally conjured the shield, so angry she wanted to go back home and never return to their secluded spot.

The energy field thickened, pulsing with lambent power. "Okay," she whispered. "Let's move, quickly!"

They advanced. In mere seconds the volleys resumed. The surface of Bethany's shield rippled with every shot like water disturbed by falling pebbles.

"Not far now," she choked after two dozen paces. "We're getting close to them…"

An upcurving ledge of rock hove into view. Two genlock crossbowmen were stood on top, surprised to see their foes get so far.

"Occie! Attack" Bradon snarled.

The hound leapt forward and toppled both genlocks at once. Their throats were in shreds seconds later.

Beyond the ledge were three more crossbowmen aiming their weapons on flat ground.

"Look out!" Bethany yelled as two of them fired at Bradon. She had only a split second to conjure a shield. It flickered over him…

Both bolts hit Bradon in the stomach and he went down.

"BRADON!" screamed Leandra.

"NO!" Carver cried. He charged alongside Occie.

Bethany felled one of the guilty darkspawn with her strongest blast of ice yet. The encasing cracked, tearing its face off.

Carver and Occie laid into the other two with barbarism in their hearts.

"It's okay! It's okay you two!" Bradon panted as a horrified Leandra tended to him, trying to find the wounds. He stood up, feeling sharp pain in his abdomen, but no mortal injuries. "They just bruised me. You did well Beth. Better than I could have asked."

As Carver, Occie and Bethany finished off their respective opponents, Bradon and Leandra looked down to the clearing where their pathway ended, seeing the day's most unexpected sight so far.

A handsome, orange-haired woman wielding a broad longsword blocked a hurlock's cut and sliced off its head in remarkable display of skill.

~o~0~o~

Aveline Vallen knew they would probably be dead within the hour and figured she might as well go out in style. With a sword in hand and a purpose to guide her movements, she was as fearsome as any man.

Her husband Wesley of the Templar Order was almost spent from fighting in such a large suit of armour. His short black hair was damp with blood. Sweat flowed from his pallid face over the intricate Andrastian symbol. The massive steel plates covering him were dented and cracked in areas. He could carry their weight no longer. With his final ounce of strength he thrust out his shield, caving a hurlock's face in with the mass of kite-shaped steel. With this foe vanquished he turned to the still strong Aveline beheading another.

As a templar, the detection and destruction of blood magic was Wesley Vallen's consecrated duty. If he had been dealing with the forbidden rites of humans or elves, he would have been able to sense the approaching evil and alert Aveline. But the darkspawn were a mystery; a void of enigmatic darkness in the world. It was not to be.

Behind him, a genlock assassin called on the hateful lore of demons. A gash opened in its arm and the discharge bubbled and steamed. Soon magic had rendered it completely invisible. It drew two daggers from spiked veridium armour and slashed both at Wesley's sword arm. The elbow joint was only protected by leather, and the notched blades sliced through flesh and bit into bone.

Pain exploded in Wesley's body as his sword fell away over the pathway's edge, out of sight. He cried out and fell against the cliff slopes, awaiting the final blow.

A final blow that never came. Upon opening his eyes he saw Aveline tackle the beast. The hilt of her sword was at the genlock's throat.

Aveline's green eyes were aflame. She clenched her jaw, prominent chin trembling with fury. Coppery hair hung loose from a headband. Her voice was a feral growl. "YOU WILL NOT HAVE HIM." She thrust the hilt down and black blood spattered over victor and vanquished alike.

Still on the hard, rocky ground, Wesley gazed into his wife's eyes and tried to voice his thanks. Only feeble wheezing came out. A strange burning sensation was spreading through his arm.

"No!" she hissed so only he could hear. "They won't. Not while I breathe."

Darkspawn numbers continued to swell around them. It seemed Aveline would indeed draw her last breath soon. She held him up with one arm and used the other to lift his shield, shrouding them both as they entered death's unknowable embrace.

It was here they met the Hawkes: Bradon and Carver charging in with grey iron blades in dire need of whetting, Occie crushing genlock bones with filed teeth, Bethany firing volleys of elemental magic and Leandra watching with a mixture of fear and pride.

The last darkspawn soon fell. Using thin but sturdy leather straps, Aveline quickly tied her longsword and Wesley's shield to her back, kneeling at her husband's side. "Stop squirming Wesley," she urged. "You'll make it worse."

None knew it yet, but the Taint was in Wesley's blood. His spasms were involuntary. There was nothing that could be done. She may as well have told him to cease loving her.

"Apostate! Keep your distance!" he snapped, eyes on Bethany's staves. In carrying out his Maker's Will in what were surely the last moments of his life, Ser Wesley found one final surge of power and purpose. He rose to his feet and limped toward her on trembling legs.

Bradon and Carver's reaction was automatic, written on their very hearts. They stepped in front of Bethany shoulder-to-shoulder and raised their weapons. Occie bared his teeth and growled. Bethany groaned.

Bethany's voice was colder than the approaching winter. "Well, the Maker has a sense of humour," she spat. "Darkspawn and now a templar. I thought they all abandoned Lothering. Why stay somewhere with nobody to persecute or subjugate?"

"My husband and I never reached Lothering," said the redheaded Aveline, stepping to the knight's side to support him once more.

Wesley's eyes were still on Bethany. "The 'spawn are clear in their intent, but a mage is always unknown. The Order dictates…"

Bradon and Carver's grips tightened. Their eyes narrowed. Wesley could barely summon enough energy to get his words out, but considering what they'd just been through, neither brother cared to take any risks.

Aveline's head fell. "Wesley," she sighed.

"You will not take my daughter!" said Leandra, joining her sons.

Wesley's shook his head in defiance. His whole body shuddered from the strange heat. He was running out of time and would not go to the grave with an unfinished sanctified task before him.

"That woman is an apostate." His voice was a breathless rasp. "The…Order…dicta-"

"Did he just call me a 'woman?' " said Bethany. "There's a first." She faced her overbearing brothers. "I told you I'm not a child in need of your protection anymore!"

Bradon made the first move, thrusting his sword into the dirt with alarming strength and squaring up to Wesley. If this stubborn templar didn't get the hint he'd soon receive clarification in a far less subtle manner.

Aveline pulled her husband back before the situation spiralled into a madness that would leave all of them dead and rotting at the arse end of Ferelden. "Dear they saved us. The Maker understands."

They saved you, Wesley thought. But that was more than enough. He relented, offering the black-haired young warriors a subtle bow.

Aveline breathed a sigh of relief. "I am Aveline Vallen. This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We can hate each other when we're safe from the horde."

Bradon held up a calloused hand. "This is an unusual time and place to be hunting apostates, Ser. I thought your Order departed for the Bannorn with the remaining Chantry priests," he said. "And all the food any money," he added in an undertone.

Wesley wiped sweat from his face with his good arm. "I was en route to Denerim on business for the Order, but simply had to turn south when I heard of Ostagar."

Bethany's eyebrows flew up. "Now who's disobeying the Maker's laws?"

Aveline chose to ignore this. A smile flickered over her otherwise impervious face. "Bad luck – and judgement – brought us together here before the attack," she said.

"My first priority is Aveline's safety," Wesley panted.

"The nice templar has been convinced to postpone his Divinely-given hunt for illegal mages," Bethany chirped in the voice she had reserved for Chantry sisters all through childhood, though the attempt at innocence was lacking here. "So let's not dwell upon it, shall we."

"Wise girl," Aveline murmured.

"You're awfully quick to offer your allegiance," said Bradon.

"So is any man with a large enough wound and…dear enough wife to protect," Wesley countered. Aveline touched his arm.

"Another blade between us and the darkspawn? I'll take it," Carver said.

"So long as the horde is their first concern," Bethany added.

Wesley gave a reluctant nod. "My duty as a templar is clear but that…is for another day. If we are granted that opportunity."

Bradon pulled his sword back from the ground. "If I help grant you it, why don't you forget that 'other day' completely?" he said in a dangerously low voice

"Yes!" Aveline insisted. "You have our word."

"For a while it looked like we were the only ones that escaped the darkspawn," Leandra said, hoping to establish at least some common ground.

"We haven't really escaped anything yet," said Bradon. "Ostagar was the King's chance to nip it in the bud. He failed. We all failed."

Aveline's eyes widened. "You were there?" she said, surprised. She examined both brothers and nodded after a few moments. "Yes! I see it now. Third company, under Captain Varel? I was stationed with Ser Cauthrien and the Teyrn." Her eyes darkened at the final word.

Bradon nodded. "Yes. We fought for the first half hour or so, but Varel had to split our battalion in two when the Tower of Ishal's signal was delayed. Our half re-joined the Teyrn's men in the feint of a retreat. The others stayed with King Cailan and Warden Commander Duncan in the lower courtyard. Eventually we were all taken off the field."

"The plan was to temporarily imbue the darkspawn with confidence and then crush them with a surplus of reinforcements," said Carver, looking to Aveline. "But according to the Teyrn, their numbers were too great. By the time their ogres arrived we had to retreat."

Aveline pined for the days when she could think as impressionably as these younger men were doing right now. "Actually…" she began. The words were crushing, relentless like a blacksmith's hammer. But these people deserved the truth as much as she.

"Actually, we fell to betrayal, not just the darkspawn. This arm of the horde will not have the same advantage."

"What?" said Leandra.

"Betrayal?" Carver snorted. "What are you talking about?"

"It's very a long story, we'll discuss it later," said Aveline urgently.

Bradon nodded and looked to Wesley. "How bad is that wound?" His head was swimming with shock at Aveline's news. The Hawkes had been too busy aiding refugees to fully engage with Lothering's local politics, and had shrugged off rumours of Grey Warden treason…but Aveline had mentioned betrayal…he shook his head. That was for another time.

"I think my sword arm's a loss, even with healing," said Wesley. He held it out.

The laceration looked days old already. Red flesh was greying and acrid-smelling. Wesley's veins looked like cracked, bloodless wires.

"Then you'll have mine, Wesley. As always," said Aveline. She fixed her gaze back on the Hawkes. "For now, we move with you. The northern path to Gwaren is cut off, the main body of the horde gathers there. We barely escaped with our lives."

"Well we can't go west!" Bethany protested, remembering Occie's warning.

Leandra's face fell into her hands and she broke down. Bethany embraced her.

"Then we're trapped!" Carver exclaimed. "South will take us straight into the Korcari wilderness, that's no way out! And it's never wise to spend more than a day out in these wastes."

"If the options are south or die, I'll take my chances with south," said Bethany over her mother's shoulder. "We need to move, I'd rather not be a sitting target!"

"Sitting around, waiting for the templars in Lothering for the last several years seemed preferable enough," Carver said under his breath. Bradon stepped between the twins before more squabbling could hinder their progress and endanger them all further. Bethany bit back her response at the sight of her oldest brother's facial expression.

Faraway fingers of smoke from Lothering still stroked the skies. Leandra took one last look at everything. At nothing.

"Then we'll go south," said Aveline. She addressed Leandra. "Your children fight well, mistress…?"

"Hawke," said Leandra. "Leandra Hawke. These are Bradon, Carver and Bethany." Each child nodded in affirmation of their names.

"Thank you for the aid," said Aveline. "I fear Wesley and I may not have survived another minute without you."

"How could the darkspawn get this far so quickly?" Wesley muttered, weak and weaponless.

"You take point, I'll guard the rear," Aveline said briskly, ignoring Wesley's question and looking at Bradon. "And keep sharp!"

Bradon heard an unmistakeable militarism in her tone, and knew straight away how she had got so far alone.

They set off in a tightly-knit group at a quick pace, going around another mountainside. Leandra and Wesley were in the centre. Carver guarded the left. Bethany was on the far right, prepared to produce another arcane shield if she needed to.

Carver stepped forward and nudged Bradon. "I'll keep watch if you need to stop for a moment." Carver's face and tone were unusually soft.

"Thanks," said Bradon. "But this Aveline looks like she could hold just about anything off. I've never seen anything quite like it."

And so they proceeded for another two hours, over hills and under arches in the rock, through mountainous fissures and crags until they finally seemed near low ground. Every so often they would come across a hurlock straggler, but the darkspawn numbers seemed suspiciously few. Bradon wondered why Occie had warned against proceeding anywhere but north.

When they reached low ground, more darkspawn attacked, this time from both all sides and in greater numbers. True to her word, Aveline braced at the rear while Bethany focused her maligned talent on keeping the frontal attackers at bay with torrents of fire.

When the visceral fray was over, Carver took his first deep breath. Bradon felt a pronounced heaviness in his sword and a sore fatigue in his muscles. He wondered how much more running and fighting he was capable of. Hunger and thirst had gripped everyone. Wesley was growing paler by the minute.

"Quick, before they regroup!" Aveline warned, somehow still energised. "We must press towards the Wilds."

Then they reached a most curious area. Laid out before a wide cliff slope was a clearing of smooth, dusty ground circled by an almost perfectly symmetrical pattern of stones. Sharp wooden stakes bearing human skulls were stuck into the ground, forming an inner circle.

Bethany shook. Her teeth began to chatter, though nothing in the weather was causing it. "The Fade is thin here," she whispered. "Something's not quite-"

"Look!" hissed Carver, pointing at a pool of blood from a slain genlock. It was sloshing and welling about, moving in disturbed, restless ripples.

The ground beneath trembled. The pool rippled again. A great, thudding noise began to pulse from afar, increasing by the second. Occie did not growl this time, but whimper and cower.

"Blood magic," whispered the now chalk-skinned Wesley. "The thin Fade…don't the darkspawn use blood magic to control-"

"Yes," said Bradon. "I think we're about to discover what's been destroying all these towers."

A great shadow covered them all. It took an overlong moment to realise this shadow was being cast by a fifteen foot monstrosity descending on all of them from a plateau high above. Aveline tackled Wesley to one side, Occie did the same to a surprised Carver.

Bradon, Leandra and Bethany somehow all found themselves outside the circle in an instant.

The ogre landed, quaking the ground with its dozen-ton carriage of armoured purple flesh. It was crowned with two huge horns that curled off its head like diseased growths. Its eyes were white suns, impossible to behold. Spittle expelled by its great roar flew between overabundant yellow fangs and drenched Wesley and Aveline.

But the ogre was stilled for a moment, taken aback by such a range of scattered prey. Wesley's stinking wounds marked him for death first, and the ogre complied. It reached for the felled templar with idle confidence.

Aveline dived over her husband with an outthrust sword in hand. The tip tore their would-be killer's hand between finger and thumb and it drew back, howling from a mix of pain, fury and frustration.

Carver saw a flash of opportunity in the ogre's recoiling and let rage overtake him. He tore his leg from Occie's restraining jaws and ran at the creature.

"YOU SOULLESS BASTARDS!" he cried, entering the most dangerous duel of his young life.

Carver threw all his strength into an ambitious overhead cut, only to hit the ogre's vambrace. The pathetic clink of blunting blade on armour was the last sound he ever heard.

A clawed, amethyst hand seized his head with crushing intensity. Carver never saw the faces of his companions, never heard their screams. He hit the nearest outcropping with mortal speed. His spine came apart like an autumn leaf. His mouth sagged open, and streams of blood flowed out.

"CARVER!"

Forgetting all tiredness, Leandra dived over the rows of rock and sprinted to her son's side. All that mattered was his health. Even Carver's killer didn't exist to her in that moment. Nothing else existed.

"Mother no!" Bradon yelled.

Before the beast could strike Leandra, Aveline was on its back. She plunged her sword into its right shoulder, getting at least eleven inches of the blade in behind the collarbone.

Following this, Bradon ran between the ogre's legs and sliced the right inner thigh with all his might. Seconds later, Occie's teeth were sunk into the clawed hand that had seized Carver. The ogre's great limbs flailed from many pains in many places, but Aveline and Occie still clung to it.

Bradon tried to cut the second thigh. Midway through the action he met a wild strike from the ogre's free hand. His sword shattered and he was thrown back violently.

With Bradon out of the way, the ogre was finally able to grasp Aveline and Occie. Their end was seconds away…

Until a rage-driven magic spat from Bethany's staff. Flame brushed the ogre's wicked eyes, reducing its lids to curls of baked flesh that hid the ground with a hard thud along with Occie and Aveline. The young mage became the huge darkspawn's new focus and it charged at her with its head bent forward like a bull ready to gore its prey. She greeted it with a second spouting of fire, rolling out of its way a split-second later.

Bradon, Aveline and Occie struggled to get up as the ground shook again from the force of their foe smashing through the outer circle of stone and colliding with the cliff. Bradon rushed to Carver's side and took up his little brother's sword. Aveline's weapon was still in the ogre's shoulder. She untied the shield from her back and held it aloft, bracing herself. Bradon crouched by her side in a similarly readied pose.

"Wesley, get out of here!" Aveline shouted as the unarmed templar began limping towards her.

"Occie, get back here!" Bradon yelled as the dog ran off out of sight.

The ogre turned to them with both horns splintered. Wesley, Bethany and Leandra crouched behind Bradon and Aveline.

"Any ideas?" Bradon muttered to the group.

"One," said Bethany. "Just stay still. Trust me."

The ogre brandished what was left of its still lethal horns and charged again. Bradon and Leandra felt a shiver in the air they could already associate with the arcane shield.

The shield had been cast before the ogre's lacerated right leg. While not this was not a strong enough barrier to completely stop the darkspawn, it was enough to stifle the injured leg and trip the beast mid-run.

Bradon leapt forward and thrust Carver's sword into the ogre's detestable, unprotected eye as Occie re-emerged with Wesley's sword in his teeth. The beast writhed and cried out, but Bradon only pushed in further.

Aveline gladly accepted Wesley's sword and fully blinded the ogre as Bradon withdrew Carver's.

"Stand back!" he yelled.

She pulled back a few feet as Bradon spun on his heel, bringing the sword around in a murderous sweep. He slashed the darkspawn's thick throat open, breaching a floodgate of black blood over them both.

The ogre gurgled and went still with a final, hateful snarl.

"Well..." said Aveline after a moment of stunned silence. "That was-"

She was on her back with the wind knocked out of her and pain coursing through her limbs. The ogre was somehow still alive and high above, staggering about with an open throat like the walking dead.

"Oh no you DON'T!"

She opened her eyes and saw Carver Hawke's sword in the ogre's side, beneath the ribs. Bradon howled from the effort, pushing the wounded darkspawn back with its hilt.

"You've...killed...enough!" he spat through gritted teeth.

He tore the sword out and the ogre stumbled back, landing spread-eagled on the sharp wooden stakes which dug into its back, ending its life at last.

The killing of a darkspawn ogre was the ultimatum of skill and courage to countless Thedosian warriors. It still is. Yet no spark of triumph could uplift the victors' hearts.

"It's a Blight to be sure," Aveline gasped. "A 'darkspawn raid?'…the Teyrn…he must know it deep down."

Bradon tore his eyes off the dead miscreation. "What do you mean?"

Aveline only shook her head. "Again; that can wait. I'll explain when we take ship. Wesley needs to get to a healer quick."

Behind them, a mad-eyed Leandra continued trying to wake her son. "Carver wake up! The battle's over we're fine!" She was almost hoarse.

"I'm sorry mistress. Your son is gone," said Aveline, throwing solemnity into her tired voice.

"No…I promised their father…I left everything else in life behind to be with him. I promised I'd at least keep the children safe."

She shook him again and again and again. Carver's darkened eyes saw nothing. His severed spinal cord began to creak and squelch. He flapped like a string-less puppet; humiliated even in death. Blood was still flowing from his open mouth.

"Carver…" she sobbed. "Carver!"

Occie whimpered and nudged the younger Hawke brother to no effect.

Bradon said nothing. His own grief raged inside – beyond tears or words. He needed to say something, anything.

"He's…" Bradon's throat was dry. His spirit was crushed. "He's a hero mother."

"I don't want a hero! I want my son!" She turned from Carver's body to him, eyes shining with enraged tears. "How could you let him charge off like that? Your little brother! My little boy!"

Bradon would face countless horrors in the years to come. He would know the agony of many wounds, but nothing would ever cut deeper than those words. No cry of the living or dead would haunt his dreams more than Leandra Hawke's. No failure would belittle him more.

"Mother please…" Bethany was a child again, with a runny nose and tear-stroked face. "We can't stop now."

"I didn't want to lose a son!" Leandra shrieked.

"Then don't make it worthless!" Bethany retorted, far too stricken to consider the tact of her own words.

"Allow me to commend your son's soul to the Maker, Mistress." Wesley looked and sounded almost as close to the afterlife as Carver. He raised his rotting arm, bowed his head and uttered: "Ashes we were, and ashes we become. Maker, give this young hero a place at your side. Let us take comfort in the memories shared, and the peace we know he finds in eternity."

The others murmured the expected response, but found nothing of comfort in the prayer.

"I'll never forget you Carver," Leandra whispered, kissing her son's forehead for the final time.

She sobbed again. The sound was ghastly to Bradon, more harrowing than any darkspawn shriek. He vowed to do everything within his power to prevent it in all future endeavours. No parent deserved to be subjected to this.

Bradon took her left arm, Bethany gently grasped her right. Their mother's breath came in shudders, she couldn't move unaided.

"He's father's problem now," said Bradon. "And vice versa."

Bethany and Leandra made noises halfway between sobs and laughs.

"And we'll come back to bury him one day. I promise."

The passage of time was lost to them on their next trek. Eventually, after what may have been hours, the group reached a more open space; a crossroads between many mountains, before more smouldering ruins of the last Tevinter watchtowers.

"Flames, we're too late!" Aveline snapped when a fresh company of detestable foes arrived, scuttling out of every pore in the ruin like disturbed spiders.

"There's no end to them," Bethany moaned.

~o~0~o~

Until just over three decades ago, they had been considered extinct; hell-spawned relics confined solely to history pages chronicling a darker time, and present only in the dreams of children and fancies of madmen. But their re-emergence marked out an age for them in the calendar.

A high dragon was perched on the uppermost gnarled peak. Even on a mountain, beyond the average mortal's reach it exuded age greater than stone, size beyond the combative efforts of the finite and cruelty beyond any hurlock. Its colour was that of blood where only the killing cut could reach – a deep crimson, a red given off by crawling lava, a red that maddened watchers of the skies when wrapped around a comet trailing through the heavens. A gargantuan wing obscured its most evil features, but only for a saving moment.

The dragon unfurled, stretching out into its full form and revealing a many-horned head mounted on a neck as spiked as it was long. It was a colossal, scaly being made all the more nightmarish against the backdrop of sun and infinite sky. Every inch was sinewy and sharp-tipped yet without a discernible weak point.

The dragon roared, and filled the world with a sound billowing from the most cursed reaches of the Black City that carried itself over each peak and through each valley of the wastes; the unified cry of all tormented souls. The ground quivered as if afraid. The Fade thinned further, and something malevolent and immaterial that did not belong in the world of love and life seemed to enter it.

Leandra drew in and gasped out shuddering breaths, Aveline's sword tumbled from her limp hand, Wesley's legs failed him and the Hawke siblings froze in an embrace. All of them looked upon a beast of titanic proportions seemingly able to manipulate the seismic sway of the very foundations of the earth with little more than its carrion roar. Despite their reputation as the Maker's manifested wrath, the darkspawn shivered and tried to flee. Their own cries were more enfeebled than ever against the dragon's.

The dragon dived, rending the air with its huge form and inflamed outpouring of breath. A dozen rows of darkspawn were immolated beyond anything Bethany could have conjured. The rest would meet far more gruesome ends.

It may as well have had half a hundred appendages, for in the full fury of its attack, nobody could tell. Limbs longer and thicker than every Ferelden tree became blurs whipping like the wind. An uncontrolled savagery entered its eyes; yellow eyes swimming with knowledge and power. There may have been no method to its gleeful, violent madness, but that just made it all the more frightening. No matter how much or how little control the dragon had over its actions, there was still a demonic malignancy woven into every one. It cracked bone as if breaking a spider's web, bypassed armour as if poking through wet paper. The mightiest hurlock stood no chance.

When the slaughter was over and the ground blanketed by blood, light – white and gold – erupted all around the dragon in a swirling cage. All watching averted their already tired eyes with grunts of pain. This was beyond gazing into the sun.

And then it faded. A peculiar sight remained.

Standing with light washing over the body like liquid gold was not the high beast in shrunken form, but a woman. The light vanished, and the fighters saw an old woman with smooth white hair and a heart-shaped face that hinted at remarkable former beauty in years passed. She wore garments unseen in any part of the modern world: a studded gorget and jerkin of unknown material that appeared halfway between dragon skin and leather. It had the dragon's colour. Her bone-white hair was pulled back; coiled and sharpened by an iron headdress into an almost perfect imitation of a high dragon's crown. Black feathers too large to have belonged to any raven were clustered over the woman's thin shoulders. Needless iron armour covered her arms and legs.

They may have been the vestments of the Chasind in a time long since lost. A time soon to return.

And then the Hawkes and Vallens noticed her eyes. She had the dragon's eyes: yellow and knowing; seeing every secret of their hearts. A cape, also sharing the colour of the dragon's coat, flowed behind her in the wind, never catching fire for all the residual flames it touched.

Bradon and Bethany stepped forward to greet her while the others tended to Wesley who was now slumped against an outcropping.

"Well, well…what have we here?" she said. Her voice was one of many sounds and suggestions. It was a gentle rasp: the sigh of a venomous snake embracing mesmerised pray. It seemed to promise things that were not known, as if it were a bastardisation of the Siren Song. But the embrace of love was not promised here. Instead she voiced the enticing promise of power, of gnostic enrichment.

She silently approached them. "It used to be we never got visitors to the Wilds, but now it seems they arrive in hordes!"

A fear unlike anything Bradon had ever felt claimed him. It was subtle and confused. He had no idea what to make of this. This…woman had saved all of them, but for what? And she seemed a woman of such curious opposites – a voice both worn by age and devoid of weakness – shapeshifting magic both archaic and refreshingly alive.

He stiffened and tried to throw some authority into his voice.

"I don't know what you are, but-"

"But what?" she challenged, clearly amused. "How foolish to enter a fight so unprepared! You don't even know what it is you face." She sighed. "Foolish boy, you'll learn. You know so much less about my motivations, my goals."

More silence. Bradon sheathed Carver's sword onto his back. The witch took it for permission to continue. "If you wish to flee the darkspawn, you should know you are heading in the wrong direction."

She turned away and examined the unforgiving deserts and highlands as if beholding a great painting.

To Bethany, this woman seemed to be no more than an extremely powerful apostate. "Wait! You can't just leave use here!" the young mage cried.

The woman turned very slowly. "Can I not?" she let out a dry, almost inhuman laugh. "Of course I can't…for I came across a most peculiar sight." She moved closer to Bradon and threw up armoured arms. "A mighty ogre, vanquished! Who could perform such a feat?"

"All of us," said Bradon tersely.

"Oh, humble heroes do bore me so," said the witch. "I've met far too many. It never ends well for them. But now my curiosity is sated, and you are safe for the moment. Is that not enough?"

Bradon's confusion returned; equal parts gratitude and terror. The witch spoke for him.

"They are everywhere or soon will be, well…" she chuckled to herself, "that's for those boys to decide." She looked up at him. "Where is it you plan to run to, hmmm?"

Bradon could not shake the feeling this woman knew already.

Bethany's credulity remained. "We need to get to Kirkwall – in the Free Marches?" she inquired.

"Kirkwall?" the crone laughed with fire in those esoteric eyes. "My, my; that is quite the voyage you plan. Your king will not miss you, hmm?"

"King Cailan was betrayed," said Bradon, not wanting to know how she had figured out their profession. "There's nothing left for any of us here but more death."

She turned away again, beholding the cruel Wilds. "If you only knew," she whispered. "I see…hurtled into the chaos you fight…and the world will shake before you."

Bradon's hand returned to the hilt of Carver's sword.

"Is it fate or chance? I can never decide," the witch muttered to herself. She then straightened and turned. "It appears fortune smiles on us both today. I may be able to help you yet."

"I'd like to know who and what you are first," Bradon said coldly.

"I know what she is," said Aveline, rising from her beloved's side. "The Witch of the Wilds. Witches that steal children. I thought it was a Chasind legend until just now."

The accused cackled, showing her extreme age as her face creased. "As if I had nothing better to do!"

Bethany joined Bradon's side. "So you…are just another apostate?"

The witch smiled. "Yes my dear. Just like you."

The accused merely shrugged and smiled. "As for the Chasind legend…yes; some call me that. Also Flemeth. Asha'bellanar. An old hag who talks too much. Does it really matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde in exchange for a simple delivery to a place not far out of your way. Would you do this for a 'Witch of the Wilds?' boy?"

Bradon frowned at her. "Forgive me…but…you would go through all that trouble to have something delivered?"

"NO!" Wesley choked.

"You might call it; an 'appointment' to keep," said the witch. "It is far more convenient to all parties involved for us to do it this way. How nice to know that you're not without your own needs."

"How much trouble will this delivery be exactly?"

"About as much trouble as my saving you not five minutes ago."

"If that's true," said Bradon carefully, not wanting to anger such a being with ingratitude, "then why not do this yourself the conventional way?"

"Are you saying you don't want to bargain?"

Wesley groaned and cried out again. "Don't do it!"

"I'm saying I'm sure you can handle yourself," said Bradon.

"Thank you, but do not fall into that trap. My prowess has been rather exaggerated. Your friendly templar associate sounds like he's facing Urthemiel himself."

Urthemiel would frighten me less, thought Bradon. I know what he is and where he came from.

"What do the rest of you think?" Bradon asked, though his eyes never left the supernatural wonder before him.

"Wesley's dying. We need to leave now," said Aveline as her husband began to writhe beyond her and Leandra's efforts to restrain him.

"If you need to, leave me behind," he choked. Black foam continued stifling his breath. "But don't make a deal!"

"NO!" Aveline repeated. "I said I'd drag you out if I had to. I'm not done dragging yet. Even if it means making a deal with this…" she trailed off.

"It's all we can do Bradon." said Bethany.

A thousand doubts and questions fought one another for the spotlight in Bradon's head. But then he remembered making that silent vow, and nodded. "We have no choice."

Flemeth nodded. "We never do. There is a clan of Dalish elves just outside the city of Kirkwall."

She placed an iron bas-relief of a high dragon into his hand. It was colourless and ancient-looking. Its grubby chain had been twisted and bent in several areas.

"Deliver this amulet to their Keeper, Marethari," said Flemeth. "Do as she asks of you and any debt between us is paid in full. But before I take any of you anywhere, there is another matter."

Bradon turned around to the heap of bloody steel, leather and flesh that was Wesley. The templar was terrible to behold. Black foam frothed between his white lips. A mesh of dark veins began appearing as the infection neared its peak.

Wesley let out a strangled scream. In a split second, Aveline was on her feet again, sword drawn. "No! Don't touch him!" she warned.

Flemeth showed no fear. "What has been done to your man already poisons his very blood."

"You lie!" Aveline shouted.

"She's right Aveline…" Wesley's voice cracked feebly as his life slithered away. The burning sensation was everywhere. "I can feel it, the corruption. It is a terrible thing to be a prisoner, trapped in your own body. I'd rather…be free of it."

"Do something!" Bethany pleaded, looking hopefully, pleadingly into Flemeth's unreadable yellow eyes.

Flemeth shook her head. "There is but one cure: to become a Grey Warden."

"And they all died at Ostagar," said Hawke, reminding himself of the grim truth just as much as everyone else."

"Not all," Flemeth said. "But the last are now beyond your reach."

"Aveline," Wesley begged. "Please."

"You can't ask this of me!" Aveline had only vague memories of tears. "I won't!"

"Please," he whimpered. "It's so slow…it hurts so much. I'd do it myself. But I just can't."

Bradon knelt beside both of them and felt his mother's hand squeeze his shoulder.

"He's your husband Aveline. Only you can decide his fate," said Leandra. Her voice was soft as silk. It carried a terrible, intimate familiarity with such things.

Insistence bordering on anger entered Wesley's now hideous face. "Aveline, I'm fading. Not just my body, my being.I will not have my final moments marred my forgetting all memories of you…I want my end to come while still able to recognise your beautiful face…please!"

She drew the dagger from its scabbard on his side.

"Be strong my love. You've never failed before."

She raised it.

"Remember the way we were, not how it ended."

She unfastened and eventually opened his armour. Her hands shook. Tears streamed unopposed.

"Goodbye Aveline. I love you."

Aveline brought the knife down, and pierced the heart that had been hers for so many years.

The most horrifying silence yet surfaced. Leandra, still in shock at Carver's demise, watched with hollow eyes.

"Without and end, there can be no peace," Flemeth rasped.

But in Aveline, there was only numbness. All four stranded companions stood wordless, enveloped by unrealised grief, sickened by their guilt, hating themselves for outliving people they had loved so much.

Flemeth led them forward. "It gets no easier. Your trials began today. Not even I can say for sure where or how they will end." Her cloak fluttered in ever-growing wind, flowing around her with the authority of a high dragon's wing.

~o~0~o~

"Flemeth?" Cassandra barked, not wanting to believe it.

Varric at last broke his finger pyramid. "I thought that might interest you. Thanks for confirming my thoughts by not interrupting straight away."

Varric's words struck her deep, but it did not show. "You expect me to believe a myth swooped out of the Wilds to save the Champion?" she said.

Varric met her eyes with grim determination. "And once again you seem to be forgetting just how much I know. I spoke to Sister Nightingale, Seeker. I know about the Warden. I know he owes Flemeth his own life." He gave her a simpering grin. "I'm not sure your dagger-toting colleague would appreciate Flemeth being written off as legend." His sweet grin turned sour. "Damn, you should have heard her go on about how amazing it was to watch him 'slay' her. 'Ooo 'e was so courageous! Zere was only a leetle chance of success but 'e triumphed like a true 'ero!' "

This unnerved Cassandra more than anything previously said. She had had him brought in assuming he would treat her to the occasional impudent remark but eventually give in to fear and recite a straight story. She was not prepared to hear him offer insights into the Andrastian Seekers like this.

"Very well," Cassandra said upon regaining composure. "I suppose I should not be surprised to hear of her involvement."

"Yeah, I liked my version better too," said Varric with a small laugh. "I hear in the Warden's version, she not only talked like and old hag, she dressed like an old hag and turns into a purple dragon. Can you believe that?"

"What else aren't you telling me, then? What of this amulet she gave him?"

"In time, Seeker, in time. There's a lot of ground to cover before we get to that."

She gave him a reluctant gesture of approval. "Continue. But don't tell me they all flew to Kirkwall on a dragon!"

"Let me assure you Seeker: nothing so fanciful. Yet."

---

Man, what a gruelling chapter. It felt strange adding humorous bits.

I decided to give the genlock assassins blood magic powers to explain their ability to achieve invisibility.

Let's face it: Dragon Age's 2 is still an extremely controversial game. With this novelisation I hope to develop a seamless flow between side missions and main missions, and will include some chapters covering the events between each act. But I'm not claiming any kind of writing superiority.

There will also be no character-bashing, and no unfair treatment of a character's respective fanbase.

There are countless mysteries in Dragon Age 2, rest assured all of these will be included and discussed by our characters at length. If you feel something's missing, let me know in your reviews.

References in here include lots and lots of H.P. Lovecraft, Harry Potter,The Sword In The Stone (purple dragons ftw!) and The Name of the Wind.