Disclaimer: Still not mine. /tear

Author's Notes: Eheheh. ^^; Well, I've got no excuses for this... this being that it is right now February 10, and the last update was done at the end of October. What was intended to be a brief one month hiatus due to NaNoWriMo turned into something much longer, a combination of other projects, work, the holidays, and a lack of cooperation on the part of any of the characters in this chapter all conspiring to give me a healthy dose of Writer's Block. ::sigh:: I suppose it's something all writers have to deal with, ne? Thankfully, everyone finally decided to start talking to me again, and I was able to get this chapter out. Chapter 23 is all blocked out in my brain, but I make no promises on when it'll be ready - not only does it require me to revisit some cutscenes, but I'm also in the process of packing for a move. ^.^ Thank you to everyone who's got this story on alert and favorites, and thanks so much for not minding the long waits. I wish I could get them out faster, but I'd rather give it my best than rush it just to meet a deadline. ::bow::

This chapter has been beta'd by, as always, the tireless Teakwood.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Arcanum: Fatum

Chapter Twenty-Two: Prelude

Her entire body ached, throbbing with a dull pain that reminded her all too much of the time she'd decided to prove that she'd tried swinging from the hayloft and had lost her grip on the rope. Fortunately her father had been on hand to soothe the bruises and aches, but the dull throbbing had stayed with her still for a good two days.

Bethany opened her eyes slowly and found herself staring up at the inside of a thatched roof that looked as if it could use a good repair, lying on a bed that appeared to have been made as comfortable as possible despite the fact that it was little more than a person-sized plank of wood held off the ground by stone blocks, a mattress pad beneath it so flat it might as well be non-existent. She recognized Garrett's cloak draped over her like a blanket, and…was that Carver's shirt bundled up and tucked under her head? She craned her neck slightly to get a better look – yes, that was the blasted ripped seam on the sleeve that she'd repaired more times than she cared to count. He hadn't been wearing it when they'd left Lothering; it must have been in his pack.

She drew in a sharp breath.

Lothering.

Panic seized her as the memories came flooding back at once, adrenaline instantly clearing her head. She remembered Garrett sounding the alarm, the hysteria as people fled their homes with belongings strapped to their backs and whatever weapons they could find in hand. She remembered Ser Byron shouting out orders to the few templars and militiamen who still remained in Lothering, and she remembered grabbing her mother's arm and pulling her after Garrett and Carver, Loch on their heels, as the five of them ran.

She remembered the darkspawn pursuit, launching spell after spell without a care for who might see her, only thinking about her family. Meeting Aveline and her templar husband. Garrett's attempts at reassurance. Being cornered by the darkspawn.

The ogre.

She'd heard some say before that a person could die so quickly of injuries that they wouldn't have felt any pain, wouldn't have had any time to know what was happening them. Bethany, on the other hand, remembered every second of that moment when the ogre had thrown her aside, its tight grip and her subsequent landing forceful enough to shatter bone. She had known, in that brief moment when time stood still, that she was going to die. She even remembered her last thought just before she hit the ground – a prayer that her brothers and mother would escape, even if she didn't.

How am I still alive?

Her hand tightened around something metallic and smooth – in her panic she'd reached up to her throat, but instead of gripping the collar of her dress as she usually did she'd instead grasped onto a silver pendant that was hanging around her neck. Opening her hand, she recognized it instantly – it was the medallion that one of the Grey Wardens had given Garrett before they'd left Lothering. She'd asked about it when he'd returned to the house after seeing them off.

Bethany ran her thumb over the smooth surface, and surprised to find that the metal wasn't cold, as to be expected, but instead gently warm. Magic, she realized. There was magic emanating from the item, and unless she was mistaken it was healing magic. Was this small piece what had made the difference between her life and her death? Well, I'm not going to find out by lying on a piece of wood all day, she thought wryly.

Her muscles protested as she sat up and drew back Garrett's cloak, and she had to move slowly to keep herself from feeling dizzy as she swung her legs over the side to rest her feet on the floor. Her clothing had been changed, she noted; she was clad in a workman's shirt and a pair of trousers, both loose and no doubt all that they could manage to find.

Once she was sitting up and sure she wasn't going to pass out at a moment's notice, she glanced around and took stock of where she was. It looked like a single room apartment designed for little more than sleeping and eating. An identical board-and-pad bed was pressed against the opposite wall, and from the way the dust and dirt had been shifted out around the floor it appeared that several others had been making use of the floor for sleeping as well. The entire place was in need of a good cleaning.

There was also absolutely no place for someone to tuck themselves away unseen, which meant that it was easy for her to deduce that she was alone. Her throat tightened. Where was her mother? Her brothers? Even Loch would have been a welcome sight, but the mabari was nowhere to be seen. Nonsensical fear crept its way into her mind – they wouldn't have left her behind. Would they?

She had just noticed the familiar packs still piled against the wall when the door swung open, flooding the room with sudden light. "You get the packs," Garrett said, one hand on the door handle, his body angled towards whoever was behind him. "I'll get Bethany."

"Be careful with her," Carver's voice came from out of sight. "We don't want to make anything worse than it already is."

"I'm well aware of that, Carver," Garrett said dryly, shaking his head. He turned to go into the room – and stopped dead in his tracks, eyes widening as he found himself staring at the sight of his sister, sitting upright in bed and staring at him, her blue eyes shimmering with tears.

"Bethany!" Garrett let go of the door, rushing towards her. Bethany barely had time to blink before he was on his knees before her and pulling her into a tight hug, and she didn't care that she was still sore and aching; she was hugging him just as hard.

Then the hug with Garrett ended and she was being caught up in another pair of arms, and she clung to her twin with a laugh of pure, unadulterated relief."Don't ever put me through that again, little sister," Carver whispered against her hair. She tightened her grip, pressing her face into his shoulder. She was go glad to see him in one piece, she didn't even chide him for the 'little sister' comment or point out that he was ten minutes older.

Finally Carver let her go, and she had to hold up her hand when it looked like Garrett planned on giving her another hug. "Please," she said with a smile of relief. "Give me a few moments to breathe. Honestly, I don't think either of you know your own strengths."

Carver had the grace to look sheepish, and Garrett just flat out grinned. "Can you blame us?" Garrett asked. "We weren't sure if – when – you would wake up." His smile dimmed, shifting into that look of brotherly over protectiveness that she was so familiar with. "How long have you been awake? How do you feel?"

"I woke up shortly before the two of you came in," Bethany replied. "As for how I feel, well, sore and a little dizzy, but I think I can walk if I have to. Where are we? Where's Mother?"

"We're in Gwaren, or what's left of it," Carver replied with a scowl. "The darkspawn have been steadily sweeping closer, and most of the residents have evacuated. Like we need to be doing."

Garrett nodded. "Mother's down at the docks with Aveline and Loch," he said. "We've booked passage on a merchant ship heading to Kirkwall. They're ready to set sail now; we were on our way to collect you and the last of our supplies."

Bethany looked at her brother. "What about Ser Wesley?" she asked softly. The glaring omission of the templar's name was not lost on her. A templar though he may have been, and therefore an enemy to the apostates that she and Garrett were, he'd still been fleeing from the darkspawn just as they were. That sort of thing bound people together in ways nothing else could.

Carver and Garrett glanced at each other, and she saw her answer in their eyes even before Garrett spoke again. "He didn't make it," he said quietly. "Blight sickness. There was nothing anyone could do." He hesitated, then added in a low voice, "It was Aveline who did it, in the end."

Bethany's hand went up to her mouth, and her heart went out to the other woman in an instant. "Is she…all right?"

"No," Carver said bluntly. "Who would be, after that?"

"Carver."Garrett shot him a warning look, to which he earned a scowl in return, then shook his head and turned back to Bethany. "Mother's offered to let Aveline come to Kirkwall with us, although I don't know if she plans on staying there. For now, though, we'll be traveling together. You said you were able to walk?"

Bethany nodded, and with her brothers hovering over her like the hawks they were so aptly named for, she got herself to her feet as steadily as she could do, waving both of them off when they tried to give her support. She could walk unaided, if she was careful, and the sooner she got herself back to normal the better. She would not be a burden to her family.

It was only after they had collected the last of their supplies and were making their way towards the Gwaren docks, with Carver walking alongside his sister and Garrett a few paces ahead of them, that another question occurred to Bethany. She reached out and snagged her twin's sleeve. "Carver," she said in a low voice, "just how did we manage to get all the way to Gwaren?"

Carver looked at her, his blue eyes dark. He started to speak, then seemed to think better of it and hesitated, darting a quick glance at Garrett's back. "...Later," he said quietly. "Let's…just focus on getting out of this place first, all right?"

Bethany bit her lip. She hated when her brothers kept secrets from her, kept her out of the loop, made her feel left out just because she was a girl – the only girl – and the youngest – a terrible combination. Another time, another question, and she might have pressed until she got what she was looking for. The look in Carver's eyes held her tongue. Whatever had happened – and she knew something must have because she knew geography well enough to know that where they'd been when she'd been knocked unconscious was so far removed from Gwaren that a miracle would have had to occur for them to not only escape the darkspawn but carry her injured body the distance – whatever had happened would have to be a story to be told later.

The cloying stench of death and decay was heavy in the air, despite Gwaren itself having not been breached.

"Later," she repeated firmly, meeting Carver's eyes and holding him to his promise. "But right now, I want to leave this place."

Carver nodded, and understood, and Bethany quickened her pace alongside him as much as she could so that they could catch up to Garrett's waiting silhouette ahead.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

One hour later and the Destrier was setting sail, lines cast off and anchor pulled, the merchant ship carving a slow yet steady path out of the Gwaren harbor. The docks were near empty; only one ship still remained in the harbor, and it was so heavily damaged from a storm it had encountered before docking that there was no chance of it ever sailing again. All of the other refugee ships had already departed, the Destrier being the last, and those who remained either intended to brave the trails northward to Denerim or wait it out in hopes that the darkspawn would bypass them. Hawke wasn't sure which the better option was, and he was glad that that was a choice he wouldn't have to make.

It was all too easy for Hawke to picture Gwaren ending up like Lothering – a blackened, tainted husk once the darkspawn got through with it. There were soldiers and templars both stationed in the city, and it was protected by high walls and rough terrain. The fact that there were only two points of accessibility to Gwaren – the northern trails or the sea – gave them a fighting chance… but Hawke had seen the hordes' numbers. Given enough time, and enough determination, they would break through.

He sighed softly, resting his arms on the ship railing, a soft breeze rippling through the loose strands of hair that had escaped from the tail he'd hastily tied it into before helping with cast-off. Here, on the water, he could smell the salt of the sea, and for a moment he could almost imagine that they weren't fleeing for their lives, that instead they were simply taking a vacation north. Almost…if not for the far distant columns of smoke that rose up from beyond Gwaren, all too apparent signs of devastation and destruction.

He heard soft footfalls come up behind him and stilled, then turned slightly. "Mother," he said in surprise when he saw Leandra standing to his left and slightly back, wearing a cast-off dress that she'd obtained from one of the local women in Gwaren, plain and loose and yet somehow still coming off as elegant on her slender frame. That was Leandra Hawke, through and through; even in the days when they had lived in nothing larger than a one-room gardener's shed, she'd still been lady of the house.

Leandra looked at him and smiled, strained but warm nonetheless, and Hawke felt some of the weight that had been heavy on his shoulders lift then. Since arriving in Gwaren his mother had hardly spoken two sentences to him, most of her focus and concentration spent on Bethany. As it should have been, Hawke knew, but he also knew that it wasn't only Bethany's care that had put strained distance between them.

"What are you doing up here?" he asked. "I thought you'd be below deck with Bethany and Loch."

"And I thought you'd be helping the captain tend to the ship," Leandra replied, her tone deliberately light.

Hawke grinned sheepishly. "Captain Lawson thought it'd be best if I stayed out of the way until we're out in open sea, since I don't much experience on a ship," he said. "Aveline and Carver at least have some idea, thanks to their military training. Not that Ferelden's army actually spends any time in the water, but it means that unless we run into trouble they get drafted instead of me. Although I have a feeling that in return I'm going to be the one in charge of meals."

Leandra looked skeptical. "Oh, dear," she said with a shake of her head. "Perhaps I ought to take the initiative and volunteer myself as a chef for the duration of the trip. No offense, dear, but I've tasted your cooking."

A laugh escaped before Hawke could stop it, but no sooner was it out that he sobered , his smile fading.

"Garrett?" Leandra touched his arm. "What is it?"

He sighed, then shook his head and looked back at the diminishing shoreline. "Does it make sense to feel guilty, Mother?" he asked quietly. "Guilty that we're here, on this ship, all of us together – you, me, Beth and Carver, and even Loch. We made it out, we survived even when we came so close to losing Bethany…but there are so many who didn't. You saw the number of people still in Gwaren. And what about all of those who didn't get out of Lothering in time? And…" He pressed his lips together, unsure of whether to voice the rest of his thoughts.

"The Wardens?" Leandra gently prompted.

Hawke sighed and gave a nod. "It just…it doesn't seem right that they're left to fight the darkspawn themselves, while we're making our way to safety. And with all of the anti-Warden talk that was starting to go around, I've got a feeling allies are one thing they're going to need desperately." He looked down at his hands. "I've got…power, Mother. Power that Father made sure I knew how to use, if I needed to. Is it really right for me to hide it, when I could find a way to make it useful, to help?"

"You're not…you're not thinking about joining the Grey Wardens, are you?" Her voice trembled, coloring with fear and apprehension. Her hand curled around his forearm, gripping him with surprising strength.

"What?" Hawke looked at her, startled by her expression. "No. No, that's not what I'm saying at all." He pushed the loose hair out of his eyes and behind his ear. He hadn't expected that response; the anxiety in her eyes when he brought up the Grey Wardens. It was common knowledge that mage Wardens weren't under the purview of the Chantry, but it was just as known that once you became a Warden that was what you were, and there was no going back. It wasn't a life that Hawke had ever considered for himself.

He took Leandra's hand and squeezed it in gentle reassurance. "That's not what I meant," he promised. "I just wish that there was more I could do. I mean…Ferelden is our home."

Some of the distress vanished from his mother's eyes, though not enough to fool Hawke into thinking he'd assuaged her fears. Her voice was steady, however, when she spoke. "Home is more than just a place, Garrett, more than a house, village, or country. Home is the people around us; the people who help shape our lives. The important thing is that we are all together, all of us."

Hawke knew she was right, that what mattered wasn't the four walls and a roof they'd left behind but that they were all still together, especially after coming so close to losing Bethany. Whatever other misgivings he had, he could be content with that; he had to be content with it. "You're right," he said quietly. "We'll make a new life for ourselves in Kirkwall, or find someplace else in the Free Marches. Start over again, just like we've always done."

He must have sounded convincing – hopefully – because Leandra relaxed fully at his words. She nodded and smiled. "Together," she said firmly.

Then she drew back her hand, releasing her hold on him. "I'm going to go back below deck," she said. "The water looks like it's going to be getting a bit choppy, and I haven't been on a ship in years. I want to check on Bethany and make certain that Loch isn't getting into anything he's not supposed to. Don't fret too much, dear – there's nothing we can do about the past now. All we can do is move forward." She sounded a touch wistful at that, and Hawke knew she wasn't just thinking about Ferelden and Lothering, but also about their father. It had been three years since Malcolm Hawke's passing, and though Leandra did her best to hide it, his loss was still with her.

As she headed back for the steps leading into the ship's interior, Hawke turned back to the railing. The coastline was further away now, still visible yet becoming more and more indistinct. He could still make out the tops of the trees, but could no longer see where land met water, or individual objects lying along the coastline. Soon he wouldn't even be able to see those trees; Ferelden would be nothing more than a thin line on the horizon, and then it would be gone.

He thought of Lothering, of the modest life that his father and mother and built for them there seven years earlier. He thought of distant Ostagar, the day that his brother had announced that he was enlisting in the King's army and the moment that he had realized that because of his magic, he could not. And he thought of Yllia and Alistair, who had swept in and out of his family's life so swiftly it was almost as if they hadn't been there at all – and yet, Carver and Bethany were proof enough they had. He owed both Grey Wardens a debt for his family, and he could only hope that it was a debt that could one day be repaid.

"'Hey, boy!" Lawson's shout came from behind him, towards the ship's wheel. "Git over 'ere an' stop daydreamin'. We need t' get these sails catchin' th' wind or we'll be paddlin' the entire way t'Kirkwall!"

"Coming!" Hawke called, stepped back away from the rail. He gave one last wistful look as the vanishing coast, and then turned to hurry and help Carver and Aveline.

Farewell, Ferelden. And good luck.

*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*.*

Flames crackled in the stonework fireplace, filling the room with warmth and casting shadows on the wall off the darkening room. He stirred from his sleep, shifting on satin sheets as he rolled onto his side, the light bed covers only covering him from waist down, allowing the firelight to play off of tanned skin and dark tattoos that wound their way up his torso.

Slowly he opened his eyes, a lazy smile working its way across his face as a bare back came into focus beside him, tousled chestnut hair falling around delicately sloped shoulders, the tip of a single ear peeking out from the locks. She was still, wrapped tightly in sleep's embrace – which made it almost a pity to wake her.

He propped himself up with one arm, hand tucked against the curve of his jaw, and reached out to place his hand on her shoulder. "Can you hear me, bello?" he murmured, slowly running his fingers along her skin, brushing her hair back to bare her neck. "Or must I wake you in another fashion?" He shifted closer, bringing his body up against hers, moving his head to press a soft kiss to the tip of her ear. His hand slid down along her arm to disappear beneath the covers, a motion that had never failed to rouse her, so he had learned in their time together.

She did not stir.

Something wet touched his questing fingers; his hand went still.

Her skin was cold.

"Bello?" He sat up, quickly drawing his hand out from under the covers, the suddenness of his motion shifting her, causing her to roll onto her back, her hair fanning out beneath her head and shoulders, chestnut strands and golden skin darkened with…

Red.

Red in her hair, where it had dripped and coalesced. Red staining her skin, not an inch of her throat left untouched. Red down her chest, her arms, in their bed, on his hands…

And from the midst of the red, a pair of sightless blue eyes, gazing at him with fear, despair, and betrayal.

A hand clasped his chin, yanked him back, forced his head up; the sharp edge of a blade kissed against his throat. His eyes flew open wide, his breath caught and strangled in surprise.

A voice, low and taunting, in his ear. "Never forget, il mio. This is the price of treachery."

He woke with a gasp, his eyes flying open as he stared blindly into the darkness. For a moment he panicked, thinking himself blind, trapped, when he saw nothing but inky black above; then his eyes adjusted to the shadows and he realized that he was inside his tent, the taupe fabric much darker without the light of his lantern flickering within the confines of the fabric.

Zevran sat up, his muscles protesting at the movement. He'd fallen asleep on top of his bedroll, still glad in his leathers, and the kink in his neck and lower back was a persistent reminder of how foolish that had been. That he hadn't intended to fall asleep was little consolation.

He wanted to tell himself that it had been some outside sound that had roused him from the depths of dreams, but he'd only be lying to himself. The images were too vivid in his mind, and he had to force himself to look down at his hands, to reassure himself that they were not covered in blood.

Gradually he felt his pulse reduce to its normal speed, taking deep breaths to aid it, forcing the tension to ease itself out of his body. Too much emotion, too much stimulus, and the job would be lost even before it had begun. Even now, even as a voice whispered in the back of his mind how unlikely success was regardless of what plan he initiated, his pride refused to let himself simply fail. Just as it had been his pride that had led him to bidding on this job, a job that not even a Talon would accept. His mentor's words echoed in his mind: Patience, discipline, and creativity – the greatest assets an assassin can possess.

He had never had trouble with the third; the first and second could prove more difficult, though he'd found that the more challenging a job, the more they were able to achieve. He had to focus; he could not afford to be distracted by thoughts or memories. The Crow does not hesitate; it sees what it wants, and it takes it through any means available – even if it means going through another Crow to do so.

Yet no amount of focus seemed able to erase the memory of those sightless, cornflower blue eyes.

"Basta," he hissed, giving his head a fervent shake. He rose to his knees and reached for the twin dagger sheaths that lay within arms' reach, sliding the straps over his shoulders and belting them into place. Then he swept back the flap of his tent and emerged, bringing up his hand to briefly shield his eyes from the rising sun.

One of the hirelings he'd acquired for the task noticed him out of the corner of his eye and scrambled to his feet, a telling look of guilt on his face that made Zevran suspect that the man had been watching the insides of his eyelids rather than the perimeter of the camp. Another time and Zevran might have berated him for it, but at the moment he couldn't care less. The woodlands were quiet save for the occasional rustling of leaves by the wind or the soft chirping of birds waking for the morning. This was their third day at camp, and even the members of the minor Crow cell that he'd drafted were beginning to grow restless.

Then, the sound of footsteps rapidly approaching, light-footed in the way that only someone trying to be silent could accomplish, and yet with enough amateurish mistakes that Zevran could pick out each individual step from the cracking of twigs or the rustling of fallen leaves.

He turned towards the sound just as one of the scouts he'd sent out to watch the roadways hurried into the clearing, the elf barely winded; there was no forest that an elf could not travel with ease, regardless of if they'd grown up in one or not. At the sight of the scout Zevran felt a faint thrill wind its way up his back, but the sensation was tempered by apprehension. "Well?" he asked impatiently, waiting to hear the words.

"They're making their way to the east," the scout reported. "We'll be set up right in their path. It shouldn't be more than few hours before they reach us."

Excellent. He'd predicted this location specifically because it was at a crossroads, assuming that the Grey Wardens would choose to stay off of the main roads while traveling in order to remain out of sight. Their last confirmed sighting had been in the village of Redcliffe, which meant they were likely to travel either north or east – either way, they would walk directly into the ambush that he had set up. "How many?" he inquired.

"I counted seven," the scout reported. "Four women, two men, and what looks like a kossith warrior. They've got a mabari with them as well." He looked chagrined. "I couldn't tell who the Grey Wardens were."

Zevran waved it off. "No matter," he said. "We will close the ambush around them all. Rouse the others. I wish to get this job finished." As the scout hurried off to do as he requested, Zevran looked into the forest silently. He knew what the whispers were saying behind his back, about his choice of jobs as of late. He knew why Taliesen had tried to persuade him to retract his bid. And he knew, even if he did not want to admit it, why he had not.

Come, he thought, his fingers curling as if already wrapped around his dagger. Let us finish this – one way or another.