The strength of a family, like the strength of an army, is in its loyalty to each other.

- Mario Puzo

For two weeks, Ferelden's last free fishing vessel cascaded over the infamous Waking Sea, forced to endure a thrashing from its many ferocious storms; tossed here and there by white-capped waves of such mountainous size and unstoppable power they could have been mistaken for the death throes of nature herself. Above, dense clouds of smoky grey swelled and spread until the sky was blotted out, as though a great fire had covered the world beneath. With the grim cloud came the low, brutal growl of thunder and whip crack of lightning. The rain came down in unceasing icy torrents. To all aboard, it felt like the Blight's black, death-dealing hand had reached out, clawing at the fleeing boat tauntingly, telling them that it would come after them should their homeland fail.

Day and night traded places as time trundled on in the ship's stinking hold. The nauseating bombardment of waves above, around and beneath kept every refugee awake at night, meaning they could only steal sleep for brief, unsatisfying periods during daylight hours. Vomit spewed from the mouths of the unprepared, adding to the array of evil stenches. One hour into the voyage, the thick blanket of dark green wool draped over the grate above was swollen with rain and dripping with maddening consistency. Three hours later it was peeled back and scarce food supplies were dropped in: stale bread slices, hard cheese wedges and poorly-sealed canteens. First sight of these helpings of manna reduced most recipients to near savagery. Man, woman and child scrambled towards the sustenance in momentary rays of light before attacking one another; tugging at slices of bread, scratching hands that clasped cheese pieces, almost biting canteens open and hitting anybody they considered encumbered with too much of all three. It worsened when the heavy shadow returned. Those in the hold protesting their countrymen's divisive behaviour found themselves outnumbered, drowned out by the yelping and snarling and the hurried slurping of water.

But none of the opportunists had anticipated Aveline, who soon put an effortless stop to their greed. Under her unflinching supervision, food and water was carefully partitioned, passed around and stored in the likely event of further shortage. She never once needed to even acknowledge her sword.

When the redheaded woman returned to her spot against the curved wood and hissed a demand of "Why didn't you help me?" to Bradon she was given only a vague, faraway noise in return.

The young warrior was immersed in another plan. This one centred on getting Bethany into Kirkwall unnoticed. Well, she isn't the problem really, he thought. His sister's knack for befriending templars and Chantry Sisters alike (often in a genuine manner – she was far from manipulative) had aided the family a great deal, acting as a healthy counterbalance to her father's occasional bluntness and cheek with professional Andrastians, until any suspicious sighting in or around Lothering that could have passed as magic never resulted in her even being considered a suspect.

Bradon shifted onto his side until he was facing Bethany's silhouette. She was curled up beside Leandra, head resting on her shoulder. Not Bethany then. No heavy risk, but the staves… He sighed and felt his lids drooping heavily over stinging eyes.

"Hey," he whispered, nudging his sister softly, "Beth?"

"I don't know!" she moaned in a muffled voice, sounding like a restless dreamer caught between the Fade and the waking world.

"What?"

"I don't know how we're going to sneak me into Kirkwall," Bethany's eyes opened halfway and she smiled in the gloom, "or my conspicuous equipment for that matter."

"It's not you I'm worried about," Bradon said. "Well I am, but – you know what I mean. You've had a lifetime to practice blending in and evading capture. Inanimate objects, on the other hand…"

He ran one over each staff; one of them smooth, the other rough and worn; one embodying youthful energy, the other exemplifying aged wisdom; both powerful and irreplaceable.

Bethany's head jerked up when she noticed what he was doing, and her whole body found a temporary boon of vitality. Bradon caught an unmistakeable glimmer of worry in her eyes, despite the sparse light.

"Bradon you know I can't afford to get rid of-"

"I'm not enforcing it," he said evenly, caught once more between two unfavourable courses of action. Throwing the staves overboard into the roiling and receding peaks of water seemed the lesser of two evils right now, but no amount of reasoning would stop it from being an evil. "I'm just reminding you that we don't currently have any loose floorboards to hide these things under."

She regarded him with curious eyes and snickered. "Well, this isn't exactly a top-notch vessel; pulling the floor out from under us shouldn't prove too hard."

A smile spread over Bradon's tired, dirty face; a smile totally unlike the detestable fakery he had pulled earlier. This one felt like the first genuine expression of merriment in years; something anachronistic, something borrowed from a sun-kissed time preceding all the ashes and pools of blood and heaps of bodies that already threatened to define his life. For that small moment, as matching brown eyes met amid a sea of misery and over a sea of horrors, Bradon felt the pangs of each bruise and cut regress into comforting warmth, even his lids lightened.

"You overestimate my abilities," he said, allowing a telling touch of flippancy access to his voice, and his smile to become a cheeky grin. "An easy mistake for an adoring younger sister to make, I suppose."

Bethany giggled from combined amusement and disbelief. "Too true! So much for hoping you'll overpower every templar and take over the city when we dock."

"Give it time Beth. Give it time."

She yawned and closed her eyes again. "Well, I can count on you making me laugh at least."

"Of course," said Bradon, raising his voice over the noisy expulsions of another vomiting shipmate. "That's all I can really outright promise anymore," he added mostly to himself.

Joking had come easily to Bradon back in Lothering; he'd always felt that he somehow owed it to his family. With Father juggling the responsibility of family with the simultaneous indulgence and suppression of his very nature, Bethany learning in a likewise manner, Carver torn between his love for them and resentment of them and Mother keeping everyone in check, Bradon tried to ease the hardship, for himself as much as the rest of them. He knew now that he'd taken it all for granted. Almost any life was preferable to the one they currently lived, and the one it seemed they would face.

"We could always ask Occie to bury them somewhere for us," Bethany said, breaking her brother's trail of thought.

Occie chirped and started frantically scratching the boards beneath, trying to dig like he had done back in Lothering where his countless trinkets and treasures still lay hidden deep in the ground. After a few moments and several worried glances from the other refugees who were unsure of the hound's power, Occie looked to Bradon, awaiting his master's permission to continue.

"Not now," Bradon chuckled, tapping the dog's back. "But it's a good idea for when we dock, provided he can get away quickly enough. I doubt they'll let us just walk in there unsupervised."

"Hmmm," his sister murmured. The soft sands of Kirkwall's notorious Wounded Coast would provide Occie with a haven of potential hiding places, for the staves and many other things. "Cheer up," she added when seeing her brother's still-fallen face. "Have you already forgotten what's waiting for us? Soon we'll have a rich, resentful relative to leech off."

Leandra shifted and mumbled something incoherent yet rather aggrieved. Bradon and Bethany lowered their voices further, unwilling to impart further worry on a woman who had been through more than enough already.

Bradon considered the idea. "Wow, you're right, I almost had forgotten."

"If he hasn't blown…"

Bradon stopped listening. He tried to envision some form of luxury for the three of them, bereft of Lothering's biting winters, large spiders and intrusive templars; a place where song and laughter filled a never-ending maze of gold-rimmed, tapestried halls, all of them leading to an indulgence of grandiose chambers: rooms of unblemished white marble banded with silverite and white steel, rooms with vaulted ceilings and crystal chandeliers, food-heavy tables stretching so far they strained the eye; a place where Mother could live out her days at peace, where Bethany could enjoy the fullness of an unrestrained life, where Carver would be immortalised in a proud portrait.

He failed. Following the thought of Carver, every chamber his now fading mind's eye wandered through became empty, dark and dusty. The vaulted ceilings cracked and crumbled. Cobwebs stretched from each prong of the now grime-covered chandelier. Where there had been song was only silence, then the distant weeping of a woman…then a shadowed mass appeared in the middle of the neglected floor, and Bradon wandered towards it, backed by a strange light that flickered as candles did. Carver stared up at him, his face whiter than the marble had been, his eyes lacking all the light and life of the former vision. The weeping faded away, and Carver's pale lips parted. Blood, dark and terrible, seeped out like a thick slithering snake. The weeping was replaced by a slow, methodical creaking noise.

"It hurts brother, feeling your spine come apart so slowly…"

Bradon squeezed his eyes shut.

"Bradon?

….Bradon?"

"What?" he gasped.

Several heads turned in their direction, and the few visible faces appeared even more worried than they had been during Occie's brief bout of tunnelling.

"I said, if Uncle Gamelan hasn't blown it all on Orlesian cheeses and…ladies of the evening," Bethany said, turning pink and avoiding her brother's eyes, though whether she did so from embarrassment over what they were discussing or fear over his sudden change of mood, he did not know.

"Don't be too surprised if he has."

Their mother had never spoken highly of Gamlen, keeping minimal and vague correspondence with the man and speaking of him only when the strength and regularity her children's questioning had made evasion impossible.

"You look as tired as I feel, big brother."

"Hmmph," Bradon grunted, rubbing his nose and trying to supress a yawn.

"One problem at a time right?" Bethany's eyes closed and she settled herself back on their mother's still shoulder. "Darkspawn troops, darkspawn ogres, ancient beings, Wilds, boat ride. The rest can wait, I suppose."

"Alright," Bradon said with finality, and another half yawn. He grabbed a nearby blanket and checked it for any rot or vomit, before draping it over her. "Try to get some sleep; you've probably done more spellcasting today than the last ten years combined."

Bethany made a drowsy noise and curled up further.

"I don't want to Bradon," she whimpered quietly, sounding like a frightened child once more.

"Why?"

"I'll see him Bradon."

Bradon gulped, having been so wrapped up in the insanity of the day he'd forgotten. "So will the rest of us Beth. I've…got nothing to say but that."

"I'm sorry," she exclaimed, loudly and unexpectedly, as he had done when pulled from the horrific imaginary Hawke Estate.

Bradon frowned and faced her again. Several other crouched bodies in the hold shuffled around, ruffling their damp blankets and clothing, some trying to move away from the vocal siblings, some appearing as if they wished to begin listening in.

"Sorry for what Beth?"

"For being a piece of luggage," she whimpered. Her eyes shone. "For holding you and Carver back from so much and forcing you to do so many chores you didn't want to. For all the stupid risks I took. Father's lessons were as much about the taming of pride as they were about controlling magic." She began to cry. "I could never bring myself to admit how burdensome I've been! We're out of Lothering and I'm still an obstacle to our safety; I'm still-"

"Sorry for your inborn nature?" hissed Bradon scathingly. She couldn't fall apart; not now; not when they were so close to a new and freer life, just as Father had intended. "You should never be. Ever. No Maker would punish someone for the gifts or inclinations it gave them. Magic comes as naturally to you as breathing. Steer clear of anyone who tries to instil shame because of that."

Bethany appeared pleased, though still somewhat resistant. "But Carver-"

"Loved you Beth. He protected you his whole life, he gave his life for all of us. I'll be there as long as you need me, and I know that won't be forever."

Bradon unconsciously touched the spongy, bruised part of his abdomen where the genlock bolts had struck as Bethany's self-shaming and resistance to his words melted away into a deeply assured gratitude. She opened her mouth again, but her cut her off.

"Don't think you owe me anything either," he said firmly. "We're family, we're equals. That settles it."

Bethany leaned up kissed his cheek. "Thanks Bradon," she whispered.

The refugees enjoyed a few minutes of what came close to silence. The cruel sea seemed to have tired itself out for the moment. Bradon curled up between his family and Aveline, before ordering Occie to do the same.

"Bradon?" Bethany sounded very close to sleep.

"Yes?"

"When we were…fighting the ogre back there…" Her voice cracked and broke off.

"What?"

"Do you remember when it charged at us? In the stone circle?"

"I do." The moment had been a blur and adrenaline rush, but he could recall the lumbering beast, the brief certainty of his own impending death and then the inexplicable safety.

"What do you think happened?"

"Me?" He yawned. "I think you underestimate your abilities."

~o~0~o~

Aveline was seated against the hull. She had been watching the two of them with one interested eye open and a curiosity that grew with each passing moment.

"Don't worry!" Bradon said, jerking his shaggy head in her direction. "I haven't forgotten about you. Do you want three Hightown mansions or four?"

Aveline opened her other eye and regarded him with mixed feelings, impressed at the younger man's ability to find humour in such a situation and at the same time rather irked by it.

"A tempting offer," she drawled. "But I think you know where I'll end up."

"The City Guard?" Bradon said without letting a second pass.

"Yes." She pulled her fat, grey iron longsword out of the darkness and placed it on her lap, stroking the blade's flat side, which was still thinly caked with a layer of black poison. "Being a fighter was…" she clicked her tongue and turned to him …"pretty much all my father conditioned me for."

"And your mother?" Bradon blurted, a little too abruptly.

Aveline's eyes fell back to the blade, devoid of anger but very much alight with the effort of a carefully-considered answer. The younger warrior sat up once again and crawled to her side.

"I'm sorry," Bradon said. "I hope you understand my intentions weren't intrusive."

Aveline nodded, eyes still on the blade. Her stiff neck muscles twitched.

Bradon tried another smile, and found his face was beginning to sting from so many attempts. "It must be a side-effect of the life debt thing between us. You end up getting far too nosy."

She raised an eyebrow. "Just that?"

"Well, us Hawkes are like that for a reason. That's the funny thing about having a single dark, family secret keeping us all together; hiding Father and Bethany's magic from the world meant the Hawkes never hid anything from each other. Made me a little too open with other families, I suppose. Just…take it as a sign that I like you."

"Done," said Aveline, "though I suspected as much when you were busy saving my life." She set the blade down. "You're quite a fighter, Hawke."

"Thanks. You're not so bad yourself."

"Though your balance could do with some work, and you expend energy too quickly."

Hawke blinked and Aveline leaned further back, bathing her face in deeper shadow. Was that a smirk on her face?

"And you could be a little faster too," she continued.

"Well now!" he laughed. "Somebody's making some bold claims!"

Aveline's tone was calm, though had an edge of enjoyment to it. "Just a fact, Hawke. A future Guard Captain must make these observations if her team is to survive. Consider yourself practice."

"I'm honoured, future Captain. We'll have to spar when we reach Kirkwall." He winked at her challengingly. "No backing down; not after what you just said."

"Done, Master Hawke."

"And I thought my harshest fighting critics would die with Father and Carver." He shook his head. "No, it's wrong to think like that. Father only ever wanted me to protect myself properly. Carver…well…he cared deep down, never won a brutal sparring match without stopping to ask me if I was okay several times when all the onlookers had departed."

"It's good that you've all stayed close," Aveline said softly. "Wesley saw so many families torn apart by magical births – the worst involved overzealous parents drowning…" She stopped and grimaced, closed her eyes, disgusted with herself. "I'm sorry," she lowered her voice and looked around to see if anybody had overheard, "saying such things in here of all places."

Bradon was more surprised than horrified. "I must admit, wise and fair as my father was, I always suspected the family was getting a rather one-sided account. I'd never heard of anything like that, only gloomy tales of faceless, armour clad boogeymen snatching babies from their beds or dragging shackled children into the Towers."

"And you were not lied to. Wesley didn't deny for a moment that the Order was home to more than a few corrupt templars. He was focused primarily on the purity of his own duty, never categorised mages as some nameless, faceless mass of dogs to be disciplined, never did the same to the other templars either. He always tried to remind himself and others that both sides consist of individuals. I think if all templars saw things the same way, half of the Chantry's problems would vanish overnight. Still, nothing disturbed me more than hearing about what goes on in Par Vollen among the kossith."

"I think we can just agree that mages are pissed on wherever they are."

A hint of jocularity creased Aveline's otherwise thoughtful face. "Not quite how I would have phrased it but, yes. It's a poisoned chalice to be a mage or find yourself tasked with organising their-"

"Imprisonment," said Bradon flatly, eyes on the wooden floor.

"Which brings us to something else I'd rather get out of the way now."

"What?"

Aveline came out of the shadow altogether. "Earlier I told us we could hate each other when we were safe from the horde-"

"That's not going to happen Aveline! Not after everything we've already-"

"I know Hawke. But the fact remains: I was married to a templar."

The word stuck in her throat, seemed to fill it with bile, with poison. Was.

"And you want to know if this is going to be a source of on-going tension when I move my careless, adventurous backside to the devout Kirkwall, likely fending off templars left, right and centre?" he droned.

"Something like that, yes."

His voice regained its former gentleness. "You don't have anything to worry about. I'll admit; I've no love for the Order's goals as a whole but…like you said; it is made up of individuals. The only thing that frightens me as much as than seeing Bethany treated like a nameless, faceless enemy is seeing myself do the same to a templar. Maker, sometimes I even forget Carver was named after one."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. But to answer that question: no."

"Good," she stated with surprising relief.

The boat began to rock again, and the thunder bellowed above.

"Aren't you now going to tell me that as a City Guard, you may end up with no choice but to seek out Bethany?"

She frowned. "I'm surprised you'd think that, Hawke."

"I don't really, but it's a question that needs to be asked at least. An apostate in Kirkwall is going to come up on somebody's paperwork at some point."

Aveline raised a hand to her cheek, trying to hide a blush by scratching a non-existent itch. "I don't like saying it outright but…you have my word. I'll do everything I can to look the other way, but I can't guarantee the same where the other guards are concerned."

"I'm not asking you to. That's all we need."

"Glad to put your worries to rest. I'm sure it's been on your mind for a while."

"It has," said Bradon, suddenly remembering another pressing matter. "Almost as much as my curiosity over how a brilliant military tactician could pull a stupid move like betraying the Wardens and the King's army."

Aveline groaned in exhaustion and gifted him with an impressed, yet reluctant smile. "You're sharp Hawke. But we'll go over everything tomorrow."

"Done." Bradon returned to his position on the floor. "And again: thank you."

"Just one more thing," said the redhead. Hawke heard the well-hidden amusement return to her. Her body didn't have the reserves to recount Ostagar, but she could ask this question.

"What are you really going to do when we arrive at Kirkwall Bradon? You don't strike me as the type to just sit around spending coin in a huge house. And no offense, but you don't seem City Guard material either."

"None taken. Mother always said the City Guard were very fond of their little anti-mage slurs."

"And my mother told me a lot about Lothering; about how its winters were harsh even by Ferelden's standards, and that this made them some of the nation's toughest people. How many of its younger, stronger men were driven to the military to avoid the static dullness of village life, and adventuring after that. You're out of the military now. So I was wondering…"

He laughed again. "Adventuring, of course!"

Aveline sighed and closed her eyes for the last time that day. "Good to know."

It took a while for sleep to take her, fear of the inevitable dreams were to blame over everything external.

Oh Wesley, what could have been. You should be here, by my side, debating the Hawkes over the sanctity of your duties until I nag you into submission.

She could still hear the slashing of genlock metal that had sent him spiralling into death. If he had been more alert…no: if she had been sharper with a shield…her face fell into her hands and she took another deep, calming breath. This was going nowhere. Would she doom herself to years of it?

Aveline didn't know which of them to blame, and liked the idea of having nobody to blame even less.

She could still hear the witch's words: 'Is it fate or chance? I can never tell.' If one such clearly as old and wise as Flemeth could not unravel the mysteries of such things, what hope was there for her?

Everything's changed. You have others who depend on you now. Honour him by fully living every day his sacrifice gave you.

~o~0~o~

All through the first night at sea, and for many that followed, Bethany dreamed purely in memories…

These are typical days of Ferelden summer; bright and pleasant and warm yet always underscored by a subtle chill that never quite manages to depart. Lothering's villagers stroll through tall, yellow grass and over stretches of cobbled stone and hardened mud, exchanging smiles and pleasantries in a brief but unfailingly sincere manner, the way only a humble villager can. Girls in patched dresses skip on the ancient grey bridge, rolling their eyes at the boys, who shout and scream on slippery mud slopes beneath, playing Wardens and Griffons until their mothers emerge from thin air armed to the teeth with washcloths, ready to rub those dirty faces pink.

Young, golden-haired Sister Marchand delights all with her singing of the Chant. Though like the weather, all piety in Lothering's young men brought on by the sight of Andraste's standard on her robe or the Word in her voice is underscored by shameful desires that will not be reawakened until Sister Leliana's brief tenure.

Bethany Hawke is cooped up in the family cottage again: just her and the mosquitoes, and the gift she must supress until the next midnight outing with Father. He's on the road again, looking for another dusty tome. Mother's in the Chantry, keeping suspicion low – "The first sign of harbouring a mage is letting everybody know you're afraid to leave them alone in the house. Please don't give me a reason to be afraid, darling."

Bethany smiles at this: mother never uses the word 'apostate,' and frowns at Father whenever he uses it like a badge of honour to be worn on the breast for all to see. She'll never forget Mother's words – "Apostate? You never deserted the Maker. You never deserted anyone, Bethy. You're as He made you."

She leans out of the window at first, hearing the tuneful Chant over the breeze as black silky ribbons of hair flutter over her eyes and are plastered across her face. She brushes them away with an irked sigh. With her view clear, she watches Bradon and Carver duel in the nearest barley field with long, blunted wooden swords, giggling at their complete lack of restraint. Before long, Carver misses a parry and Bradon's weapon slams into his knee. Carver's sword disappears into the thin towers of yellow and he hops around absurdly, both hands over what will no doubt be a thick red welt within the next few minutes. She can't hear the resulting argument; they're too far away. Perhaps when Bradon's stopped gloating and Carver's calmed down, she can try another healing spell. Granted, human knees are a little more complex than Farmer Garoth's injured chicken's wing, but why not embrace the challenge?

It'll be nice to have a pleasant surprise prepared for Father.

And then she was awake in the sickly-smelling dark. Here was the final lesson, the one he'd spent all this time preparing her for. It taken so much to make her realise: but Malcolm Hawke had been preparing her for the day she could look upon the Highroad and realise he would never return to compliment or critique her spells, but that she would try harder nonetheless. He had been preparing her for the day a loved one would be taken from her, beyond the grasp of the most well-cast healing spell, but that she would accept the inevitability of death, and treasure the time spent with that person, not blaming herself or the limitations of healing magic, or any other kind for the tragedy.

That which is best in me, not that which is most base.

Love, not magic, was that which was best in her. And her greatest strength could only be her acceptance of weakness.

"I'll make you proud Father," she whispered.

~o~0~o~

After the brief scare earlier – and of course, everything else he'd endured that day, Bradon was surprised to find himself immersed in such conventional dreams (or as close as any man can feel to surprise while unconscious). His mind surrendered to the usual tantalising fantasy; the glory of a great warrior. This one involved some blurry-edged vision of himself stood atop an unnamed mountain with the beauty of the world laid before him; pools of clear blue and the lively burst of a gushing waterfall beneath and luminous clouds impregnated with sunlight drifting contentedly above. His body felt strong and toned. Fresh, untarnished air filled his lungs and a cooling breeze massaged his face, which now bore a beard twice the thickness and length it once was. Even his heartbeat had an assertive strength; muscle and vein pumped against feather-light white steel mail and volcanic plates immaculately-curved to fit him. His hand grasped a dwarven-made dragonbone greatsword lined with gems, runes and the blood of an unseen, vanquished foe.

"I'd be dreaming of this too."

He spun around. The sword fell from his hand, over the edge and out of sight. Carver's white, smiling lips were still sashed with that crawling red snake of blood.

"You may achieve this one day. This is the first I've been a part of these visions, isn't it? You never saw us in this together. You never considered me strong enough."

The creaking began again, louder than the gushing water and howling wind. "Do you feel better knowing I'm out the way? Mother and Father's little prodigy, Occie's proud master, Bethany's idol."

"Carver," Bradon choked, unable to look into the other man's eyes, which were truly dead yet somehow still malevolent. The mail and plate became excruciatingly heavy, pulling him down like a prisoner's chains.

He awoke beneath a coating of cold sweat, quivering despite the stuffy humidity. "You never thought you were worthy of me or Father, did you Carver?" he breathed. "And only because I never told you that I knew you were."

~o~0~o~

Leandra's sleep was deeper than it had ever been; untouched by dream or vision. This was no accident, but a product of an iron-clad will. She would not be ashamed of her grief for a moment, but she would also not permit it to control her every thought and deed. It would not invade her sleep or poison her dreams. She had been the wife of Malcolm Hawke. She was the mother of two children who would surely live up to his name. She would rest her mind and her body properly, enabling her to help Aveline through the early days of widowhood, and her children through the shock of Carver's departure. Leandra's sleep was that of a determined wife, mother and friend. The darkspawn horde was already a thing of the past, but Kirkwall would be a different struggle, riches or no riches.

Leandra had left Kirkwall a pregnant, giddy Amell. She would return a proud Hawke, and defend her Malcolm's children to the death.