Dawn of the Magic Age (fanfic)
Title: Dawn of the Magic Age
Rating: M (violence and sex)
Characters: MaleRogueHawke/Anders, Carver/Merrill, Sebastian/???, the rest of Hawke's party later
Genre: Drama, Adventure, Romance
Status: Ongoing
Summary: The war in Kirkwall has set forth a drastic ripple effect across all of Thedas. The faith, politics and energies of the entire continent are changing, and Hawke's crew finds themselves yet again in the middle of a war they had no intention of causing, this time with a leader none of them ever expected.
Prologue: Unguided Choices
Chapter 1: The Threads
Chapter 2: Understanding
You may pity my reliance on faith, but I pity your inability to surrender to yours.
***The Planasene Forest***
In Hawke’s dream it was Bethany who was singing the song. He heard her voice, too, but he couldn’t understand any of the words. She was sitting on the ground in the middle of a field Hawke remembered from Ferelden, and he was standing over her. Part of him was worried that someone was coming to attack her, but he didn’t know who, or how he was going to protect her. He wanted to stop her from singing, but when he looked down at Bethany’s face she was staring off into the horizon, like she could see time and was singing toward the future. Despite his fear of losing her and his selfish desire to keep her from the world as a means of protecting her, Hawke understood that she had to finish her song. When she turned to face him and continued singing it seemed that a peace had fallen over her. Her eyes slid shut and Hawke smiled, but when she opened her eyes again they were glowing blue and her skin was cracking open to let magic pour out.
Hawke awoke with a desperate inhalation, not realizing that his attempts to scream in the dream were, in reality, choking him. He rubbed his temples and shook his head, but the blighted song was still playing in his mind.
It took a good minute or two for him to realize that it was Anders who was singing it. Now that Hawke was awake, the rouge could finally listen to and recognize the sounds of the language, and while he didn’t understand a word of Tevinter (save for a few of Fenris’ more colorful outbursts) he was sure that was it.
The song was hymn-like in the same way as the Chant of Light. It was calming, so much so that he didn’t try to awaken Anders, opting instead to continue listening. Hawke had never heard the mage sing before, and while Anders wasn’t particularly good or bad, the nature of the song made the moment deeply intimate.
The sun wasn’t very high in the midday sky; meaning the two of them had only gotten a few hours of sleep since making camp at dawn. Hawke sat up and shifted until he was on his knees and sitting on his heels as he watched over his lover.
When the song was over Anders’ eyes fell open and his face lit up with a peaceful, rested expression. He stared up at Hawke without blinking for a moment before finally announcing in a quiet mumble, “I had a dream.”
“A dream?” Hawke echoed. “Not a nightmare?”
“No nightmare,” Anders answered. His eyes began to narrow with suspicion, ruining the brief moment of peace between them. “That’s odd.”
“What was it about?”
Anders ignored the question. “Since when do abomination Grey Wardens not have nightmares? And then to actually have a pleasant dream on top of it.”
“Anders, what was the dream about?”
“I think someone is messing with my mind. Trying to send me messages. I’ve been dreaming, actually dreaming, ever since the night before the Chantry attack.” Anders scrambled to his feet and began pacing across the dead leaves of the clearing they’d made camp in. “The dreams seem to promise peace in Orlais; peace for both of us. You’re there, and the Templars and the Chantry, they’re listening to me. I’m telling them that they cannot continue down this path of fear-fueled oppression. I call them sadists and they’re listening.”
Hawke couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Your most precious dream is calling Templars sadists to their faces? If I had known I would have gotten you that for your birthday instead.”
“Hawke,” Anders warned.
“Right, yes, Orlais, serious, dreams, I know,” Hawke relented as he stood up and brushed himself off.
“I’ve never even been to Orlais, but when I dream about the inside of the Grand Cathedral I feel like I have. These dreams aren’t from my mind, someone has to be putting them there.”
“And the hymn?”
Anders finally stopped pacing. “How’d you know about the hymn?”
“You sing it while you’re dreaming. It’s cute,” Hawke commented as he reached up to brush the back of his fingertips along Ander’s cheek. “You should sing in Tevinter for me more often.”
“You do know I don’t speak a word of Tevinter, right? Or I thought I didn’t. You know, I don’t understand the hymn, but I do. I couldn’t translate it for you, I probably couldn’t even describe the meaning to you if I tried, but I understand it. It’s… rather beautiful.”
Hawke tried to move his face in front of Anders’ so the mage was looking at him instead of past him. “I’m not following. Do you still want to go to Orlais?”
“It’s the only option. Whoever is guiding me-”
“Us,” Hawke corrected.
At that Anders did smile a bit. “Whoever is guiding us is powerful enough to channel images into my brain. There’s no escaping it, we might as well go say hi.”
“Well then, I’m ready to go greet this terrible person if you are,” Hawke announced as he began packing up their camp. “To think they’re making you have pleasant dreams. The nerve of some people.”
***The Vimmark Mountains***
Deciding the sleeping situation had been incredibly awkward, but after repeatedly starting sentences at the same time, interrupting each other and laughing nervously, Carver and Merrill found a spot large enough and flat enough that they could sleep safely and far enough apart to avoid any questionable intimate proximity.
Carver found a small spot surrounded by boulders on three sides that he would never have fit in but Merrill settled in to it just fine. He stayed up for a few hours while she slept, keeping watch before finally putting out the fire and situating himself at the only exposed side of Merrill’s mini fortress.
There had always been something different about the sound of Templar armor. It was probably the unique properties of the metal, which was laced with lyrium to protect them from magic, but it was almost like the material sounded like authority and pretentiousness. It brought Carver from slumber to full attention immediately, and he was glad he fell asleep gripping his sword.
The sound was coming from his left, so he rose to his feet and pretended he was heading in that direction anyway. When he rounded the corner he feigned surprise, but after recognition sunk in he didn’t have to fake it anymore.
“Ser Wren?”
“Carver? Carver, my boy, what are you doing out here?” Wren was an older Templar with grey-salted, golden blond hair and a constant beard stubble to match. He had a shorter-than-average stature and was less effective in actual combat situations, but he was also a fantastic leader and trainer. He could always pull more drills out of the recruits, and while he was all smiles when they were drinking ale and telling stories, the smart ones were always ready for him to switch modes at any moment.
Carver laughed nervously but resisted the urge to glance back and check his campsite. He kept his eyes forward as he took a mental inventory of what was visible in the clearing. Smoldering pile of ash. Small brown pack full of food.
Merrill’s staff.
His mental debate between keeping Wren away from the clearing or making up a lie about the staff had him so panicked that he didn’t realize he never answered his superior.
“Carver!” Wren barked. “What in Thedas has you so distracted that you’d rudely ignore a commanding officer? I know for a fact you’ve been trained better than this.”
“No, ser, I know,” Carver babbled. “I just-”
Before Carver could make the situation any worse Merrill went ahead and did it for him. He wasn’t surprised, though, not in the least. While his time with Merrill had been short, he gathered that situational appropriateness was never and would never be one of her strengths.
Carver couldn’t make out the words of the song, but Merrill’s tone echoed off the rocks and suggested the subject was something uplifting, if not a little religious. He slapped an embarrassed grin across his face and turned back to Ser Wren. “Lady friend,” he explained with authentic embarrassment.
“Oh,” Wren noted before a knowing smile crept across his face. “Well, that explains it. I take it you’re also looking to report to the garrison in Starkhaven?”
“Of course, ser, the Order needs me,” Carver lied. “I just, after what’s been going on I could use-” He felt like an idiot, being so crass, but he hoped his over-sharing would make Wren want to leave quicker.
“Say no more, my boy,” Wren interrupted. He reached up and clasped a hand on Carver’s shoulder, an awkward gesture considering their height difference. It forced Carver to bend over under the weight of the man’s hand. “But join us again soon. A war is coming. Maker, a war is already upon us. We need bright and talented people such as yourself now more than ever.”
Carver almost forgot all about Merrill for a moment as he took in the weight of the compliment. Wren didn’t flatter. Wren yelled when you needed to work harder. Wren scheduled extra training sessions in your weakest skills. Earning Wren’s respect was satisfying because it was difficult.
In the ensuing silence, however, Merrill’s singing rang a little clearer in the observant Templar’s ears. “Is that… Tevinter?”
“Is it?” Carver asked. He figured he couldn’t understand it because it was in Dalish.
“You shacking up with a magister?”
“No, ser, I would nev-”
“Then let’s meet her, shall we?” While Wren’s tone made his words sound like a suggestion he pushed by Carver like it was a threat. When the two rounded the corner Merrill’s twisted wooden staff couldn’t have looked any more like a beacon of treachery.
Carver knew an attack was coming, and while Wren had more experience he also had a sheathed weapon. Instead of wasting precious time drawing his blade, the commander raised his shield and bashed Carver in the chest, knocking him to the ground. The heavy sword in Carver’s hand slid out of his grasp and kicked up a massive cloud of dust.
By the time Carver could get up and feel around the settling brown cloud for his weapon, Wren had already drawn his sword and was taking cautious steps toward the opening to Merrill’s sleep space. Carver frantically groped around and when he finally found the blade he coughed out some dust and followed the lines down to the hilt of his sword.
Wren’s assumptions ended up costing precious extra seconds. In his mind he pictured a tall, well-dressed Tevinter woman standing behind the rocks eating or perhaps packing up her things. When he was greeted by the sight of a petite, asleep, Dalish elf he let his surprise and confusion freeze him for a moment. When Merrill finished the last line of her song, however, she opened her eyes, met Wren’s gaze, and reminded him what he was there for.
Carver’s mind rushed through a list of weak points in Templar armor. Armpit, behind the knees; all targets that were too small. The second a good idea and a clear opportunity presented itself, Carver acted without thinking.
One moment he was looking at the back of Wren’s head, the next he was looking at Merrill’s horrified expression.
There was a delay in the time it took for Wren’s body to slump to the ground, falling on top of the head that had been severed cleanly a second before. Carver’s eyes were on Merrill but he wasn’t looking at her. Adrenaline had him seeing white spots that pulsated with his heaving breaths.
“Carver, oh Creators, Carver, what happened?”
“Why were you singing?” Carver asked, though his voice sounded far away.
“Singing? Singing what? I was asleep. I was having a wonderful dream too, about Orlais and how waiting for me there was someone who would make me feel accepted and respected; like I’d be a part of something that only I could help with. You were there, too. You were a part of it. And it had to be you. But then I woke up to-” Merrill didn’t finish, opting instead to stare at the pieces of the Templar piled unceremoniously on the ground.
They were both uncomfortable with how comfortable they felt around a gruesomely murdered body. Merrill even stared right at the cleanly severed flesh and the stained white bone in the center of it. Years ago she would have cried or gotten sick or ran away, but not anymore. Now her mind was far beyond shock or disgust.
“Did you know him? Was he at least a bad person?”
“No,” Carver answered honestly as he finally began to drop his guard, “but I wasn’t going to let him murder you for no reason.”
“I see. And what was I singing?”
“According to Wren, some Tevinter song.”
“Tevinter? I don’t know Tevinter.”
“That’s not really important right now. We should go. Wren might not have been traveling alone.”
“You,” Merrill paused and scratched nervously at her arm, “You go on ahead. I’ll be right there.”
“Merrill we can’t afford to-”
“Maybe no one else has to die on this journey. Please, just… give me a moment.”
Carver couldn’t imagine what Merrill could possibly get up to in the span of a few minutes, but he still worried as he left to pack up the camp. After about a minute had passed he heard Merrill approaching, as well as what sounded like water moving in a container.
“Can you come here for a bit?” Merrill asked.
When Carver looked up the elf was standing on a rock a few feet away from him. “Why?” he wondered, even as he did what she asked.
Merrill focused very intently on using her canteen to wet the cloth in her opposite hand; using any excuse to avoid eye contact. “Well we might, ya know, um, run into… other… there might be other people, on the path I mean, or the way, on the way to Orlais. But yes, if we run into someone and you’re…” she trailed off, hoping he would get the point.
He didn’t. “I’m…?”
Merrill took a deep breath and pressed the wet cloth against Carver’s face before wincing like she expected him to burst into flames as a result of the contact. When all he did was scowl, she took it as a positive sign and her intentions finally became clearer.
Carver was silent as Merrill moved the cloth over a splatter of blood on his left cheek and applied pressure while moving her fingers in a swiping motion. After each spot was scrubbed off she shifted the cloth a bit to gain access to a clean patch.
When she finished with his face she wordlessly went on to clean his armor. For some reason it was very different from the way she wiped off his face. While one would assume direct skin contact would be more intimate, it felt more motherly than sensual. Also Carver couldn’t see his own face, so the help was actually necessary. To clean his armor, however, Merrill needed to take his large hand in her small, delicate one and move his arm toward her. With his arm extended she was able to run the cloth down it in one swift motion. She repeated the process with the other arm, and then moved to his breastplate. Carver drew in a long breath, and his chest rose to meet the pressure of Merrill's hand.
“There,” she said to his chest, “All done.” She hopped down from the rock with a characteristic bounciness Carver had not expected her to have back already.
“Is that all you did? Get a cloth and some water?”
Merrill ignored his question and turned back to him with a forced smile. “We should get going, don’t you think?” She bent down and picked up her staff, and Carver never noticed the new amulet she tucked into her shirt.
***Cumberland***
Staying on the main path on horseback allowed Sebastian to reach the edge of the Planasene Forest in a little over two days. His companion seemed to have taken a vow of silence, and didn’t say a word to him the entire trip. At night he undid her bindings and every morning he awoke to her sitting on her heels and staring at him.
Sebastian had noticed that the woman was incredibly weak on her feet and clumsy when she walked. Over time he began to realize why she wasn’t escaping: she couldn’t. She could barely handle holding herself up, how else was she going to get to Orlais than on horseback?
They seemed to be caught in a vicious cycle of using each other, in which Sebastian wanted her for information and as bait for Anders, and she needed transportation, food and protection. Sebastian, however, was confident that at the end of it all he would come out on top. He just had to be patient.
Sebastian had remained on the lookout for Anders on the path through the forest, but when he never caught sight of the mage or Hawke he assumed the two had gone through the Vimmark Mountains instead. It was a much longer path, but less traveled and probably a safer bet for two traitors fleeing justice. Eventually, however, they’d have no choice but to use the Imperial Highway to get to Val Royeaux, and Cumberland was a great choke point to catch them at.
It was also a huge city, made even more huge by the flood of Kirkwall refugees, whose numbers were still swollen from the post-Blight boom of Fereldens. Every shop was buried under a cacophony of voices, each one trying to sell off valuables for food, weapons or a room at an inn, and it was predicted the situation was only going to get worse. Sebastian was lucky there was still room at the stable for his horse.
Unsure of what to do next, Sebastian took care of his most glaringly obvious problem first. Dragging around a grown woman wearing nothing but a bedsheet was earning him far more attention than he wanted.
“Pick one,” he told her when they approached an apparel shop. The owner, an older Antivan women, was so thrilled to see someone actually shopping instead of bartering that she insisted on seeing to them herself.
“I am not fond of dresses,” she explained in a deadpan voice. She wasn’t even looking at her options.
“Do you prefer the sheet then?”
The woman finally settled on a rather unisex set of heavy, forest green robes with white fur trim. Sebastian figured she chose them because they looked like Circle robes and she wanted everyone to know he was carting around an apostate. Unfazed, he purchased the garments, as well as some shoes, and waited while she changed in a back room.
When they finally arrived at an inn it had been booked solid for two days already. Sebastian could feel how out of place he looked in expensive, finely crafted armor practically begging for any room they could spare. A waitress at the inn overheard the conversation and noted the pain the Tevinter woman was in. “If you and your wife don’t mind sharing, messere, there’s a list of people willing to split the cost of their rooms to save some coin.”
Neither Sebastian nor the mage woman felt like correcting someone who was trying to help them. They agreed to split a room with a mother and her newborn child, the widow of a Templar who died in the Mage Rebellion.
After purchasing some wood the two arrived at their small, austere room well past sundown. There were two beds, each pushed against the left and right walls respectively, and the widow was already sleeping in the one on the left, curled around her sleeping child in an attempt to keep them both warm. Her dress was made of expensive purple and pink silks, but it had become dirty and tattered at the hem.
The Tevinter mage used a spare bit of cloth from her robes and tied her hair back so she could build a proper fire without setting herself ablaze. Sebastian knew she was going to use magic, but he found he would rather stop the shivering of the poor widow whose space he was invading than go on a tirade about magic being used in his presence. Plus, did Andraste not say magic was meant to serve man?
When the sleeping woman awoke to the sound of wood crackling in the fireplace, which was located between the two beds and in the wall opposite the door, she looked down at her son and mustered a half-hearted smile.
“Andraste bless you both,” she whispered. “I did not know where my son and I were going to sleep tonight, and our ship to Orlais does not leave until tomorrow.”
“Do not worry yourself, serrah,” Sebastian told her. “I believe the Maker was watching over us tonight, and I am glad we could help one another.” He noticed that his mage companion was curled very awkwardly in front of the fire, as if she was attempting to physically distance herself from the conversation. An odd reaction, he noted, to such a simple mention of the Maker.
The widow tried to reposition herself without waking the baby in her arms, but her failure could be heard in the wail that bounced off the walls of the cramped room. Someone on the other side of the wall began pounding and demanding someone “shut the bastard up.”
Sebastian, being the youngest in his family, had literally no experience with children. He stepped back to let the mother try to calm the baby, but was surprised when the apostate crawled toward the bed.
“Let me,” she said, nodding her assurance when the mother gave her a skeptical look. She took the child and turned so she could sit on the floor with her back against the bed. From that position she was able to rock her body forward in a gentle swaying motion until the baby began to calm down again. “Rest,” she whispered back to the mother, “I will watch him for the night.”
There was only the briefest of “thank you”s before the exhausted widow fell back asleep.
Sebastian stared down at his prisoner for longer than he intended. He probably would have continued to if she hadn’t spoke up.
“Do you not trust me? Do you think I intend to harm this child simply because I am a mage?”
“No, but-” Sebastian considered how to word the question delicately, but decided being blunt was a better course of action. “Are you an Adrastian?”
“Am I… and Andrastian?” The question had her so confused she stopped rocking and the baby began to stir. She quickly tucked his face into her shoulder and resumed her swaying.
“Yes, do you believe in the teachings of Andraste?”
“Why don’t you enlighten me? What exactly are the teachings of Andraste? Tell me who she was.”
Sebastian sat on the empty bed and placed his hands on his knees. He shook his head and a laugh almost escaped his throat. “Do they teach nothing of Andraste where you’re from?”
“I am sure it differs from your interpretation severely.” Her low, condescending tone of voice and the use of the word “interpretation” made Sebastian’s jaw tighten, but if she was asking he was most assuredly going to give her plenty to listen to.
“Andraste was a slave in Tevinter,” he began to explain, but his companion looked like she was already displeased. “What?”
“Start at the beginning. Where was she born?”
“That… is up for debate. Most make pilgrimages to Denerim, but some believe she was born in Jader instead.”
“Which do you think is correct?”
“Denerim is where I have journeyed on past pilgrimages.”
“What if she was not born there?”
Sebastian was already getting frustrated. “And why are you suddenly so curious about my thoughts on Andraste’s birthplace?”
The baby seemed to be asleep so the Tevinter woman finally stilled and rested against the widow’s bed. “Do you not worry that your pilgrimages are for naught? What if she was indeed born in Jader?”
“I believe the spirituality of the premise is more important than the authenticity of the location.”
The woman blinked hard and tried to start a few different sentences, but no words came out. “You,” she started, her tone angry, but she took a deep breath and her face relaxed into what looked like disappointment. “You would truly rather feel good about yourself than know the truth? To question your superiors? Are you so afraid of uncertainty that you would prefer to remain blind?”
“Is that how magisters view faith in the Chantry? Blindness?” He felt the volume of his voice rising and stopped himself for the sake of the child and his mother. “You may pity my reliance on faith, but I pity your inability to surrender to yours.”
“Do not presume you know anything about my faith.”
“And yet you have the audacity to claim you know so much about mine?”
Unwilling to answer the question, the apostate changed the subject. “She was a slave in Tevinter?”
“Yes,” Sebastion continued as if he’d never been interrupted, “but she escaped and returned to Ferelden, where she married a warlord named Maferath and rallied her people, the Alamarri, to fight against the Imperium. She knew the magisters were weakened by the First Blight, but she couldn’t defeat them with her army alone. So she prayed for guidance every day even though no gods answered her pleas. Finally she began to sing to them, and the Maker was so enchanted by her voice and her resolve that he invited her to join Him and His side.”
“Meaning?”
“To be his bride.”
“Really?” the woman almost laughed. “Explain to me how that marriage would work.”
“Do not pervert the honor of being the Maker’s chosen. It was not a… consummated marriage by any means. It was a recognition of Andraste’s character. And true to that character which the Maker so valued she instead implored Him to help her people bring down justice on the Imperium. Even after the First Sin, even after man betrayed the Maker by turning to the Old Gods, she was able to persuade him to forgive us. He rained down fire on her enemies and ravaged Tevinter with droughts that killed their crops and dried their fresh water reserves. Andraste lead the Exalted Marches up from the south and quickly proved her prowess as a leader.”
“I take it something changed all that?”
“Yes, Andraste’s mortal husband, Maferath. There is no excuse for why a man would become so weak as to betray not only the Maker’s chosen, but his own wife.”
“Do you… do you really value the vow Maferath took when he became Andraste’s husband over the fact that she was the Maker’s chosen?”
“He was her husband before the Maker heard her voice. It is one of the reasons we Brothers in the Chantry vow to take no bride but Andraste.”
“So you honor Andraste by never…” she cleared her throat to get the message across without being crass.
“Yes,” Sebastian answered, his voice unashamed, “Men especially must prove they can overcome these sins. Through chastity we demonstrate that we are devoted, faithful and without distraction. Still, Maferath represents the worst in all of us: men and women alike. It is the traits he showed when he betrayed Andraste that are the reason why the Maker has abandoned us.”
“What happened when he betrayed her?”
“She was burned in public, a gruesome death befitting of no one. This was declared by Archon Hessarian, but it was decided by his wife, Lady Vasilia. She made her husband promise that he would use Andraste’s death as a symbol and a message, not just a punishment. He agreed to have her executed in the town square of Minrathous with an audience of both her enemies and her soldiers. She did not struggle, however, nor did she scream or plea for her life. When Hessarian saw her true strength in that moment he regretted his decision and instead granted her a quick death to end her suffering.”
“How?” the woman asked as she shifted to scratch an unconscious but sympathetic itch on her legs.
“He stabbed her though the heart,” Sebastian answered. “She died instantly. Some say the Maker spoke to Hessarian in those last moments, but I would like to believe he made the decision on his own. He was the first Andrastian. He spread word of her valencein the form of the Chant of Light and made sure the Alamarri knew of Maferath’s betrayal.”
“And do you believe it? Do you believe every word of it?”
Sebastian looked down and directly into the woman’s eyes. “I do.”
“Do you believe the Maker will ever return?”
“I do not possess the hubris to claim I know the Maker’s intention, but by following a religion that preaches the importance of self-reflection and repentance we can begin to demonstrate that we are ready for such forgiveness.”
“Is there anything you think you would not do if it would grant this world the Maker’s favor once again?”
An uneasy silence seeped into the air, and behind Sebastian’s eyes there was a flood of thoughts flickering by as he fought to answer her. “Why… would you even ask such a thing?”
“Never mind then,” she dismissed. “We should get some rest anyways.”
After a moment of consideration Sebastian gave her little more than a nod and laid himself across the bed he was sitting on. The old springs in the mattress gave a whiny creak that had the prince wincing in anticipation before the baby even began to cry again.
The mother stirred and Sebastian went to apologize, but something the apostate woman did stopped them both. She placed her hand on the baby’s chest and rubbed soothing circles as she began to hum him a song.
The woman’s voice, even as just a hum, was still light and reassuring, enough so that for the first time she seemed feminine to Sebastian; her blonde hair tied back at the base of her neck, forest green skirt laid out for the baby to rest on and the hint of a genuine smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
At first he thought it was the Chant of Light, which had enough parts to last for days, many of which he didn’t know by heart yet. Regardless of the piece’s title, the hummed lullaby began to work as much on him as it did on the child. He barely registered when the song began to have words.
“Is that,” he tried to ask as he drifted off. “Is that Tev… Tevin…” But he was out before he could finish his question, and in the morning he found he couldn’t remember a word of it.
Rating: M (violence and sex)
Characters: MaleRogueHawke/Anders, Carver/Merrill, Sebastian/???, the rest of Hawke's party later
Genre: Drama, Adventure, Romance
Status: Ongoing
Summary: The war in Kirkwall has set forth a drastic ripple effect across all of Thedas. The faith, politics and energies of the entire continent are changing, and Hawke's crew finds themselves yet again in the middle of a war they had no intention of causing, this time with a leader none of them ever expected.
Prologue: Unguided Choices
Chapter 1: The Threads
Chapter 2: Understanding
You may pity my reliance on faith, but I pity your inability to surrender to yours.
***The Planasene Forest***
In Hawke’s dream it was Bethany who was singing the song. He heard her voice, too, but he couldn’t understand any of the words. She was sitting on the ground in the middle of a field Hawke remembered from Ferelden, and he was standing over her. Part of him was worried that someone was coming to attack her, but he didn’t know who, or how he was going to protect her. He wanted to stop her from singing, but when he looked down at Bethany’s face she was staring off into the horizon, like she could see time and was singing toward the future. Despite his fear of losing her and his selfish desire to keep her from the world as a means of protecting her, Hawke understood that she had to finish her song. When she turned to face him and continued singing it seemed that a peace had fallen over her. Her eyes slid shut and Hawke smiled, but when she opened her eyes again they were glowing blue and her skin was cracking open to let magic pour out.
Hawke awoke with a desperate inhalation, not realizing that his attempts to scream in the dream were, in reality, choking him. He rubbed his temples and shook his head, but the blighted song was still playing in his mind.
It took a good minute or two for him to realize that it was Anders who was singing it. Now that Hawke was awake, the rouge could finally listen to and recognize the sounds of the language, and while he didn’t understand a word of Tevinter (save for a few of Fenris’ more colorful outbursts) he was sure that was it.
The song was hymn-like in the same way as the Chant of Light. It was calming, so much so that he didn’t try to awaken Anders, opting instead to continue listening. Hawke had never heard the mage sing before, and while Anders wasn’t particularly good or bad, the nature of the song made the moment deeply intimate.
The sun wasn’t very high in the midday sky; meaning the two of them had only gotten a few hours of sleep since making camp at dawn. Hawke sat up and shifted until he was on his knees and sitting on his heels as he watched over his lover.
When the song was over Anders’ eyes fell open and his face lit up with a peaceful, rested expression. He stared up at Hawke without blinking for a moment before finally announcing in a quiet mumble, “I had a dream.”
“A dream?” Hawke echoed. “Not a nightmare?”
“No nightmare,” Anders answered. His eyes began to narrow with suspicion, ruining the brief moment of peace between them. “That’s odd.”
“What was it about?”
Anders ignored the question. “Since when do abomination Grey Wardens not have nightmares? And then to actually have a pleasant dream on top of it.”
“Anders, what was the dream about?”
“I think someone is messing with my mind. Trying to send me messages. I’ve been dreaming, actually dreaming, ever since the night before the Chantry attack.” Anders scrambled to his feet and began pacing across the dead leaves of the clearing they’d made camp in. “The dreams seem to promise peace in Orlais; peace for both of us. You’re there, and the Templars and the Chantry, they’re listening to me. I’m telling them that they cannot continue down this path of fear-fueled oppression. I call them sadists and they’re listening.”
Hawke couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Your most precious dream is calling Templars sadists to their faces? If I had known I would have gotten you that for your birthday instead.”
“Hawke,” Anders warned.
“Right, yes, Orlais, serious, dreams, I know,” Hawke relented as he stood up and brushed himself off.
“I’ve never even been to Orlais, but when I dream about the inside of the Grand Cathedral I feel like I have. These dreams aren’t from my mind, someone has to be putting them there.”
“And the hymn?”
Anders finally stopped pacing. “How’d you know about the hymn?”
“You sing it while you’re dreaming. It’s cute,” Hawke commented as he reached up to brush the back of his fingertips along Ander’s cheek. “You should sing in Tevinter for me more often.”
“You do know I don’t speak a word of Tevinter, right? Or I thought I didn’t. You know, I don’t understand the hymn, but I do. I couldn’t translate it for you, I probably couldn’t even describe the meaning to you if I tried, but I understand it. It’s… rather beautiful.”
Hawke tried to move his face in front of Anders’ so the mage was looking at him instead of past him. “I’m not following. Do you still want to go to Orlais?”
“It’s the only option. Whoever is guiding me-”
“Us,” Hawke corrected.
At that Anders did smile a bit. “Whoever is guiding us is powerful enough to channel images into my brain. There’s no escaping it, we might as well go say hi.”
“Well then, I’m ready to go greet this terrible person if you are,” Hawke announced as he began packing up their camp. “To think they’re making you have pleasant dreams. The nerve of some people.”
***The Vimmark Mountains***
Deciding the sleeping situation had been incredibly awkward, but after repeatedly starting sentences at the same time, interrupting each other and laughing nervously, Carver and Merrill found a spot large enough and flat enough that they could sleep safely and far enough apart to avoid any questionable intimate proximity.
Carver found a small spot surrounded by boulders on three sides that he would never have fit in but Merrill settled in to it just fine. He stayed up for a few hours while she slept, keeping watch before finally putting out the fire and situating himself at the only exposed side of Merrill’s mini fortress.
There had always been something different about the sound of Templar armor. It was probably the unique properties of the metal, which was laced with lyrium to protect them from magic, but it was almost like the material sounded like authority and pretentiousness. It brought Carver from slumber to full attention immediately, and he was glad he fell asleep gripping his sword.
The sound was coming from his left, so he rose to his feet and pretended he was heading in that direction anyway. When he rounded the corner he feigned surprise, but after recognition sunk in he didn’t have to fake it anymore.
“Ser Wren?”
“Carver? Carver, my boy, what are you doing out here?” Wren was an older Templar with grey-salted, golden blond hair and a constant beard stubble to match. He had a shorter-than-average stature and was less effective in actual combat situations, but he was also a fantastic leader and trainer. He could always pull more drills out of the recruits, and while he was all smiles when they were drinking ale and telling stories, the smart ones were always ready for him to switch modes at any moment.
Carver laughed nervously but resisted the urge to glance back and check his campsite. He kept his eyes forward as he took a mental inventory of what was visible in the clearing. Smoldering pile of ash. Small brown pack full of food.
Merrill’s staff.
His mental debate between keeping Wren away from the clearing or making up a lie about the staff had him so panicked that he didn’t realize he never answered his superior.
“Carver!” Wren barked. “What in Thedas has you so distracted that you’d rudely ignore a commanding officer? I know for a fact you’ve been trained better than this.”
“No, ser, I know,” Carver babbled. “I just-”
Before Carver could make the situation any worse Merrill went ahead and did it for him. He wasn’t surprised, though, not in the least. While his time with Merrill had been short, he gathered that situational appropriateness was never and would never be one of her strengths.
Carver couldn’t make out the words of the song, but Merrill’s tone echoed off the rocks and suggested the subject was something uplifting, if not a little religious. He slapped an embarrassed grin across his face and turned back to Ser Wren. “Lady friend,” he explained with authentic embarrassment.
“Oh,” Wren noted before a knowing smile crept across his face. “Well, that explains it. I take it you’re also looking to report to the garrison in Starkhaven?”
“Of course, ser, the Order needs me,” Carver lied. “I just, after what’s been going on I could use-” He felt like an idiot, being so crass, but he hoped his over-sharing would make Wren want to leave quicker.
“Say no more, my boy,” Wren interrupted. He reached up and clasped a hand on Carver’s shoulder, an awkward gesture considering their height difference. It forced Carver to bend over under the weight of the man’s hand. “But join us again soon. A war is coming. Maker, a war is already upon us. We need bright and talented people such as yourself now more than ever.”
Carver almost forgot all about Merrill for a moment as he took in the weight of the compliment. Wren didn’t flatter. Wren yelled when you needed to work harder. Wren scheduled extra training sessions in your weakest skills. Earning Wren’s respect was satisfying because it was difficult.
In the ensuing silence, however, Merrill’s singing rang a little clearer in the observant Templar’s ears. “Is that… Tevinter?”
“Is it?” Carver asked. He figured he couldn’t understand it because it was in Dalish.
“You shacking up with a magister?”
“No, ser, I would nev-”
“Then let’s meet her, shall we?” While Wren’s tone made his words sound like a suggestion he pushed by Carver like it was a threat. When the two rounded the corner Merrill’s twisted wooden staff couldn’t have looked any more like a beacon of treachery.
Carver knew an attack was coming, and while Wren had more experience he also had a sheathed weapon. Instead of wasting precious time drawing his blade, the commander raised his shield and bashed Carver in the chest, knocking him to the ground. The heavy sword in Carver’s hand slid out of his grasp and kicked up a massive cloud of dust.
By the time Carver could get up and feel around the settling brown cloud for his weapon, Wren had already drawn his sword and was taking cautious steps toward the opening to Merrill’s sleep space. Carver frantically groped around and when he finally found the blade he coughed out some dust and followed the lines down to the hilt of his sword.
Wren’s assumptions ended up costing precious extra seconds. In his mind he pictured a tall, well-dressed Tevinter woman standing behind the rocks eating or perhaps packing up her things. When he was greeted by the sight of a petite, asleep, Dalish elf he let his surprise and confusion freeze him for a moment. When Merrill finished the last line of her song, however, she opened her eyes, met Wren’s gaze, and reminded him what he was there for.
Carver’s mind rushed through a list of weak points in Templar armor. Armpit, behind the knees; all targets that were too small. The second a good idea and a clear opportunity presented itself, Carver acted without thinking.
One moment he was looking at the back of Wren’s head, the next he was looking at Merrill’s horrified expression.
There was a delay in the time it took for Wren’s body to slump to the ground, falling on top of the head that had been severed cleanly a second before. Carver’s eyes were on Merrill but he wasn’t looking at her. Adrenaline had him seeing white spots that pulsated with his heaving breaths.
“Carver, oh Creators, Carver, what happened?”
“Why were you singing?” Carver asked, though his voice sounded far away.
“Singing? Singing what? I was asleep. I was having a wonderful dream too, about Orlais and how waiting for me there was someone who would make me feel accepted and respected; like I’d be a part of something that only I could help with. You were there, too. You were a part of it. And it had to be you. But then I woke up to-” Merrill didn’t finish, opting instead to stare at the pieces of the Templar piled unceremoniously on the ground.
They were both uncomfortable with how comfortable they felt around a gruesomely murdered body. Merrill even stared right at the cleanly severed flesh and the stained white bone in the center of it. Years ago she would have cried or gotten sick or ran away, but not anymore. Now her mind was far beyond shock or disgust.
“Did you know him? Was he at least a bad person?”
“No,” Carver answered honestly as he finally began to drop his guard, “but I wasn’t going to let him murder you for no reason.”
“I see. And what was I singing?”
“According to Wren, some Tevinter song.”
“Tevinter? I don’t know Tevinter.”
“That’s not really important right now. We should go. Wren might not have been traveling alone.”
“You,” Merrill paused and scratched nervously at her arm, “You go on ahead. I’ll be right there.”
“Merrill we can’t afford to-”
“Maybe no one else has to die on this journey. Please, just… give me a moment.”
Carver couldn’t imagine what Merrill could possibly get up to in the span of a few minutes, but he still worried as he left to pack up the camp. After about a minute had passed he heard Merrill approaching, as well as what sounded like water moving in a container.
“Can you come here for a bit?” Merrill asked.
When Carver looked up the elf was standing on a rock a few feet away from him. “Why?” he wondered, even as he did what she asked.
Merrill focused very intently on using her canteen to wet the cloth in her opposite hand; using any excuse to avoid eye contact. “Well we might, ya know, um, run into… other… there might be other people, on the path I mean, or the way, on the way to Orlais. But yes, if we run into someone and you’re…” she trailed off, hoping he would get the point.
He didn’t. “I’m…?”
Merrill took a deep breath and pressed the wet cloth against Carver’s face before wincing like she expected him to burst into flames as a result of the contact. When all he did was scowl, she took it as a positive sign and her intentions finally became clearer.
Carver was silent as Merrill moved the cloth over a splatter of blood on his left cheek and applied pressure while moving her fingers in a swiping motion. After each spot was scrubbed off she shifted the cloth a bit to gain access to a clean patch.
When she finished with his face she wordlessly went on to clean his armor. For some reason it was very different from the way she wiped off his face. While one would assume direct skin contact would be more intimate, it felt more motherly than sensual. Also Carver couldn’t see his own face, so the help was actually necessary. To clean his armor, however, Merrill needed to take his large hand in her small, delicate one and move his arm toward her. With his arm extended she was able to run the cloth down it in one swift motion. She repeated the process with the other arm, and then moved to his breastplate. Carver drew in a long breath, and his chest rose to meet the pressure of Merrill's hand.
“There,” she said to his chest, “All done.” She hopped down from the rock with a characteristic bounciness Carver had not expected her to have back already.
“Is that all you did? Get a cloth and some water?”
Merrill ignored his question and turned back to him with a forced smile. “We should get going, don’t you think?” She bent down and picked up her staff, and Carver never noticed the new amulet she tucked into her shirt.
***Cumberland***
Staying on the main path on horseback allowed Sebastian to reach the edge of the Planasene Forest in a little over two days. His companion seemed to have taken a vow of silence, and didn’t say a word to him the entire trip. At night he undid her bindings and every morning he awoke to her sitting on her heels and staring at him.
Sebastian had noticed that the woman was incredibly weak on her feet and clumsy when she walked. Over time he began to realize why she wasn’t escaping: she couldn’t. She could barely handle holding herself up, how else was she going to get to Orlais than on horseback?
They seemed to be caught in a vicious cycle of using each other, in which Sebastian wanted her for information and as bait for Anders, and she needed transportation, food and protection. Sebastian, however, was confident that at the end of it all he would come out on top. He just had to be patient.
Sebastian had remained on the lookout for Anders on the path through the forest, but when he never caught sight of the mage or Hawke he assumed the two had gone through the Vimmark Mountains instead. It was a much longer path, but less traveled and probably a safer bet for two traitors fleeing justice. Eventually, however, they’d have no choice but to use the Imperial Highway to get to Val Royeaux, and Cumberland was a great choke point to catch them at.
It was also a huge city, made even more huge by the flood of Kirkwall refugees, whose numbers were still swollen from the post-Blight boom of Fereldens. Every shop was buried under a cacophony of voices, each one trying to sell off valuables for food, weapons or a room at an inn, and it was predicted the situation was only going to get worse. Sebastian was lucky there was still room at the stable for his horse.
Unsure of what to do next, Sebastian took care of his most glaringly obvious problem first. Dragging around a grown woman wearing nothing but a bedsheet was earning him far more attention than he wanted.
“Pick one,” he told her when they approached an apparel shop. The owner, an older Antivan women, was so thrilled to see someone actually shopping instead of bartering that she insisted on seeing to them herself.
“I am not fond of dresses,” she explained in a deadpan voice. She wasn’t even looking at her options.
“Do you prefer the sheet then?”
The woman finally settled on a rather unisex set of heavy, forest green robes with white fur trim. Sebastian figured she chose them because they looked like Circle robes and she wanted everyone to know he was carting around an apostate. Unfazed, he purchased the garments, as well as some shoes, and waited while she changed in a back room.
When they finally arrived at an inn it had been booked solid for two days already. Sebastian could feel how out of place he looked in expensive, finely crafted armor practically begging for any room they could spare. A waitress at the inn overheard the conversation and noted the pain the Tevinter woman was in. “If you and your wife don’t mind sharing, messere, there’s a list of people willing to split the cost of their rooms to save some coin.”
Neither Sebastian nor the mage woman felt like correcting someone who was trying to help them. They agreed to split a room with a mother and her newborn child, the widow of a Templar who died in the Mage Rebellion.
After purchasing some wood the two arrived at their small, austere room well past sundown. There were two beds, each pushed against the left and right walls respectively, and the widow was already sleeping in the one on the left, curled around her sleeping child in an attempt to keep them both warm. Her dress was made of expensive purple and pink silks, but it had become dirty and tattered at the hem.
The Tevinter mage used a spare bit of cloth from her robes and tied her hair back so she could build a proper fire without setting herself ablaze. Sebastian knew she was going to use magic, but he found he would rather stop the shivering of the poor widow whose space he was invading than go on a tirade about magic being used in his presence. Plus, did Andraste not say magic was meant to serve man?
When the sleeping woman awoke to the sound of wood crackling in the fireplace, which was located between the two beds and in the wall opposite the door, she looked down at her son and mustered a half-hearted smile.
“Andraste bless you both,” she whispered. “I did not know where my son and I were going to sleep tonight, and our ship to Orlais does not leave until tomorrow.”
“Do not worry yourself, serrah,” Sebastian told her. “I believe the Maker was watching over us tonight, and I am glad we could help one another.” He noticed that his mage companion was curled very awkwardly in front of the fire, as if she was attempting to physically distance herself from the conversation. An odd reaction, he noted, to such a simple mention of the Maker.
The widow tried to reposition herself without waking the baby in her arms, but her failure could be heard in the wail that bounced off the walls of the cramped room. Someone on the other side of the wall began pounding and demanding someone “shut the bastard up.”
Sebastian, being the youngest in his family, had literally no experience with children. He stepped back to let the mother try to calm the baby, but was surprised when the apostate crawled toward the bed.
“Let me,” she said, nodding her assurance when the mother gave her a skeptical look. She took the child and turned so she could sit on the floor with her back against the bed. From that position she was able to rock her body forward in a gentle swaying motion until the baby began to calm down again. “Rest,” she whispered back to the mother, “I will watch him for the night.”
There was only the briefest of “thank you”s before the exhausted widow fell back asleep.
Sebastian stared down at his prisoner for longer than he intended. He probably would have continued to if she hadn’t spoke up.
“Do you not trust me? Do you think I intend to harm this child simply because I am a mage?”
“No, but-” Sebastian considered how to word the question delicately, but decided being blunt was a better course of action. “Are you an Adrastian?”
“Am I… and Andrastian?” The question had her so confused she stopped rocking and the baby began to stir. She quickly tucked his face into her shoulder and resumed her swaying.
“Yes, do you believe in the teachings of Andraste?”
“Why don’t you enlighten me? What exactly are the teachings of Andraste? Tell me who she was.”
Sebastian sat on the empty bed and placed his hands on his knees. He shook his head and a laugh almost escaped his throat. “Do they teach nothing of Andraste where you’re from?”
“I am sure it differs from your interpretation severely.” Her low, condescending tone of voice and the use of the word “interpretation” made Sebastian’s jaw tighten, but if she was asking he was most assuredly going to give her plenty to listen to.
“Andraste was a slave in Tevinter,” he began to explain, but his companion looked like she was already displeased. “What?”
“Start at the beginning. Where was she born?”
“That… is up for debate. Most make pilgrimages to Denerim, but some believe she was born in Jader instead.”
“Which do you think is correct?”
“Denerim is where I have journeyed on past pilgrimages.”
“What if she was not born there?”
Sebastian was already getting frustrated. “And why are you suddenly so curious about my thoughts on Andraste’s birthplace?”
The baby seemed to be asleep so the Tevinter woman finally stilled and rested against the widow’s bed. “Do you not worry that your pilgrimages are for naught? What if she was indeed born in Jader?”
“I believe the spirituality of the premise is more important than the authenticity of the location.”
The woman blinked hard and tried to start a few different sentences, but no words came out. “You,” she started, her tone angry, but she took a deep breath and her face relaxed into what looked like disappointment. “You would truly rather feel good about yourself than know the truth? To question your superiors? Are you so afraid of uncertainty that you would prefer to remain blind?”
“Is that how magisters view faith in the Chantry? Blindness?” He felt the volume of his voice rising and stopped himself for the sake of the child and his mother. “You may pity my reliance on faith, but I pity your inability to surrender to yours.”
“Do not presume you know anything about my faith.”
“And yet you have the audacity to claim you know so much about mine?”
Unwilling to answer the question, the apostate changed the subject. “She was a slave in Tevinter?”
“Yes,” Sebastion continued as if he’d never been interrupted, “but she escaped and returned to Ferelden, where she married a warlord named Maferath and rallied her people, the Alamarri, to fight against the Imperium. She knew the magisters were weakened by the First Blight, but she couldn’t defeat them with her army alone. So she prayed for guidance every day even though no gods answered her pleas. Finally she began to sing to them, and the Maker was so enchanted by her voice and her resolve that he invited her to join Him and His side.”
“Meaning?”
“To be his bride.”
“Really?” the woman almost laughed. “Explain to me how that marriage would work.”
“Do not pervert the honor of being the Maker’s chosen. It was not a… consummated marriage by any means. It was a recognition of Andraste’s character. And true to that character which the Maker so valued she instead implored Him to help her people bring down justice on the Imperium. Even after the First Sin, even after man betrayed the Maker by turning to the Old Gods, she was able to persuade him to forgive us. He rained down fire on her enemies and ravaged Tevinter with droughts that killed their crops and dried their fresh water reserves. Andraste lead the Exalted Marches up from the south and quickly proved her prowess as a leader.”
“I take it something changed all that?”
“Yes, Andraste’s mortal husband, Maferath. There is no excuse for why a man would become so weak as to betray not only the Maker’s chosen, but his own wife.”
“Do you… do you really value the vow Maferath took when he became Andraste’s husband over the fact that she was the Maker’s chosen?”
“He was her husband before the Maker heard her voice. It is one of the reasons we Brothers in the Chantry vow to take no bride but Andraste.”
“So you honor Andraste by never…” she cleared her throat to get the message across without being crass.
“Yes,” Sebastian answered, his voice unashamed, “Men especially must prove they can overcome these sins. Through chastity we demonstrate that we are devoted, faithful and without distraction. Still, Maferath represents the worst in all of us: men and women alike. It is the traits he showed when he betrayed Andraste that are the reason why the Maker has abandoned us.”
“What happened when he betrayed her?”
“She was burned in public, a gruesome death befitting of no one. This was declared by Archon Hessarian, but it was decided by his wife, Lady Vasilia. She made her husband promise that he would use Andraste’s death as a symbol and a message, not just a punishment. He agreed to have her executed in the town square of Minrathous with an audience of both her enemies and her soldiers. She did not struggle, however, nor did she scream or plea for her life. When Hessarian saw her true strength in that moment he regretted his decision and instead granted her a quick death to end her suffering.”
“How?” the woman asked as she shifted to scratch an unconscious but sympathetic itch on her legs.
“He stabbed her though the heart,” Sebastian answered. “She died instantly. Some say the Maker spoke to Hessarian in those last moments, but I would like to believe he made the decision on his own. He was the first Andrastian. He spread word of her valencein the form of the Chant of Light and made sure the Alamarri knew of Maferath’s betrayal.”
“And do you believe it? Do you believe every word of it?”
Sebastian looked down and directly into the woman’s eyes. “I do.”
“Do you believe the Maker will ever return?”
“I do not possess the hubris to claim I know the Maker’s intention, but by following a religion that preaches the importance of self-reflection and repentance we can begin to demonstrate that we are ready for such forgiveness.”
“Is there anything you think you would not do if it would grant this world the Maker’s favor once again?”
An uneasy silence seeped into the air, and behind Sebastian’s eyes there was a flood of thoughts flickering by as he fought to answer her. “Why… would you even ask such a thing?”
“Never mind then,” she dismissed. “We should get some rest anyways.”
After a moment of consideration Sebastian gave her little more than a nod and laid himself across the bed he was sitting on. The old springs in the mattress gave a whiny creak that had the prince wincing in anticipation before the baby even began to cry again.
The mother stirred and Sebastian went to apologize, but something the apostate woman did stopped them both. She placed her hand on the baby’s chest and rubbed soothing circles as she began to hum him a song.
The woman’s voice, even as just a hum, was still light and reassuring, enough so that for the first time she seemed feminine to Sebastian; her blonde hair tied back at the base of her neck, forest green skirt laid out for the baby to rest on and the hint of a genuine smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.
At first he thought it was the Chant of Light, which had enough parts to last for days, many of which he didn’t know by heart yet. Regardless of the piece’s title, the hummed lullaby began to work as much on him as it did on the child. He barely registered when the song began to have words.
“Is that,” he tried to ask as he drifted off. “Is that Tev… Tevin…” But he was out before he could finish his question, and in the morning he found he couldn’t remember a word of it.