Dawn of the Magic Age (Fan Fic)
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 politics and energies of Thedas are changing, and Hawke's crew finds itself in the middle of a morally-difficult holy war. Relationships and faith are put to the ultimate test as a few destined leaders are forced to shoulder more responsibility than they can handle, while their loved ones feel powerless to help
NOTE: I only have one reader in this community (who I whole-heartedly appreciate, by the way) and I feel that, with the frequency at which I update, maybe I'm cluttering up the area? Would any members prefer I not post here anymore, considering I'm also posting this on AO3 and FF.NET?
Prologue: Choices
Chapter 1: Threads
Chapter 2: Understanding
Chapter 3: Trust
Chapter 4: Risk
Chapter 5 Part A: Passage
Chapter 5 Part B: Capture
Chapter 6: Cornered
Chapter 7: Revelation
***???***
Hawke didn't know whose ship he was on, why he was on it, where it was going or even what the date was. As soon as the six of them had escaped the Grand Cathedral they ran for what felt like hours until someone brought them on board a ship and dumped them off in tiny rooms with rickety cots. Hawke was placed in a room with Anders, though he spent the vast majority of the time unconscious. He awoke occasionally to shift his position, go to the bathroom or check on his companion, but all-in-all he was barely aware of the hours that passed except for the sunlight that filtered in through the gaps in the wood.
Eventually Hawke's body couldn't sleep anymore. He spent a good ten or so minutes staring at the ceiling, stretching his legs, scratching his beard and trying to piece together everything that had happened.
“How are you feeling?”
Hawke turned on his cot and found that Anders was awake as well, though the mage's voice was still low and groggy.
“Terrible,” Hawke admitted, “though I guess it's better than lying poisoned in a secret Chantry mage prison, so maybe I shouldn't complain.” He lifted his dirty sheet up and inspected his body. “Please tell me you stripped off my armor.”
Anders grunted as he took stock of his apparel as well. “Ugh, where're my clothes?” he asked, though he didn't put forth any effort toward finding them.
Hawke rolled onto his side and threw half his blanket over Anders. In exchange he took half of the mage's.
“What are you doing?” Anders asked.
“Pretending we're back in Kirkwall, waking up in bed together. Come on, help with my fantasy. Start complaining that you have to get to the clinic so I can convince you to stay and have sex with me instead.”
Anders tried and failed to look unamused, opting instead to roll onto his back and rub his eyes as he laughed. While Hawke would have given anything not to have to ruin the moment, there were a lot of questions that needed answering.
“Anders, is that woman really-” He felt silly even finishing the question.
Luckily Anders did it for him. “Andraste? Maker, I hope so. Otherwise I truly have gone mad, which still isn't out of the running yet.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Anders continued to stare at the ceiling. “Tell you what? That in my dreams I'd hear Andraste herself calling me to Orlais? Would you have even believed me? I didn't even believe me.”
“Well, I believe you now,” Hawke stated. “If we're both not crazy and this woman really is Andraste... I mean, doesn't that mean good things for your cause?”
“I'm trying not to get too ahead of myself. I still don't even know what she wants from me.”
“Well, if you'd like a reminder of the simpler things in life, I can tell you what I want from you,” Hawke offered.
That comment earned him some eye contact. “Really? Now?”
With a surprisingly deft quickness, Hawke maneuvered himself under the sheets until he was on Anders' cot, straddling the other man's waist. “Really,” he replied before resting his hands on the wooden brace above the mage's head. “Now.”
“We don't even know where we are.”
“Hm,” Hawke hummed as he leaned in to press his lips against Anders' neck. “Sounds dangerous.”
“Someone might walk in on us.”
Hawke moved his hips down over Anders' and grinned as he bit down on the flesh under his lips, suddenly very thankful for whoever did the work of stripping his lover shirtless for him. He pulled back and ran his fingertips down the curve of Anders' jawline. “Lucky them.” He tried to lower himself once again, but hands on his chest stopped him.
“Everything is about to change,” Anders told him, though it came out sounding strangely like a warning. “I don't know what's outside that door. I don't know where we're going or what I'll have to do to get there, but whatever it is I want you to know that I won't take a moment you spend by my side for granted.”
Hawke took hold of one of the hands pressed against his rumpled crimson shirt. “It sounds like you've finally realized that I'm not going anywhere. Good.”
An affectionate, longing sigh escaped Anders' lips. He slid his free hand behind Hawke's neck and coaxed the rogue down. When their lips finally met it was an open, giving kiss that reminded Hawke of a gesture of surrender. Fingertips found their way under Hawke's half-untucked shirt and trailed their way across a topography of skin and muscle that they would never be too familiar with.
As stunningly handsome as he found his lover, Hawke had a habit of keeping his eyes shut during these moments. It was easy enough to see fear or anger on the mage's face, but love; that was heard. Anders' entire breath and heartbeat changed, laced with a clearly audible longing that transformed every sound into an inarticulate plea or, if Hawke teased him enough, an absolute demand.
Weeks had passed since they could truly be together, and for a moment Hawke broke away to stare at the door of their small room as if the fixture was guilty of something terrible. He tried to ignore it, but his inability to do so only fueled his eagerness to steal this one last moment for both of them.
Anders pushed Hawke's body away long enough to pull off the red shirt before urgently demanding the return of his lover's attention. The mage's bottom lip dragged across Hawke's chin and jaw before his tongue came to press against the corner of the other man's mouth. Their faces had to slant at completely different angles in order for them to meet in a kiss, but it was worth it for every fraction of closeness that impatience could buy them.
Hawke's hips continued to meet Anders' desperate, wanton grinding with calculatingly deliberate positioning and pressure. He could have remained there for hours, losing track of where Anders' hands were and had been, but the poor construction of the cot gave a loud and interrupting crack that stilled both men in an instant.
“I'm pretty sure these cots aren't meant to sleep two,” Anders observed.
“And I'm pretty sure I can get creative in a pinch,” Hawke said as he took stock of the rest of the room. Their discarded clothes and armor were all over the floor, and something was sitting atop a small table on the opposite side of the room. Hawke shrugged the blankets away as he climbed off the cot and, upon closer inspection, realized that it was a glass vial and a scrap of paper.
'Take your time boys' was all the note said, but it was enough to tell Hawke exactly whose ship he was on even before he pulled the cork out and discovered what was in the vial.
“What is it?” Anders asked from behind him.
Before the rogue could answer, a pair of warm arms wrapped themselves around his waist and pulled him back against his lover's body. Hawke reached back and threaded his fingers in short, dirty, blond locks, trying not get caught up in how much he missed the feel and the leverage of longer hair.
Coarse stubble scratched its way across Hawke's shoulder as hands moved down to his thighs, thumbs massaging their way down the creases in the leather. As good as that felt, however, it was the way that Anders exhaled against the nape of his neck that drove Hawke to spin them around and lift the mage onto the table.
It took no time at all for Anders to wrap his legs around Hawke and crash their bodies together with an ardent fervor not felt by either of them in a long while. Hawke made quick work of the lacing on Anders' pants before taking care of his own, all the while kissing the other man under the strong, aggressive guidance of the mage's hands. Blunt nails scraped behind his ears and down his neck. Hawke groaned from somewhere deep and low in the back of his throat, so impatient to touch Anders and feel Anders that undressing kept getting interrupted by a desperate need for contact.
As frustrating as it was to separate, Hawke knew everything was going to have horrible consequences if he didn't. He pulled Anders off the table and left the poor man standing there while he grabbed a sheet off the cots and slid his own pants down his legs so he could step out of them. Thankfully Anders got the hint and stripped himself down as well, watching impatiently as Hawke threw the sheet over the small, splintery table.
“Are you... alright with...?” Hawke began to ask, knowing full well Anders understood him without needing to hear the rest.
“Maker, yes,” Anders answered, grabbing Hawke's hips and moving them both to the shorter end of the table. Hawke grinned and took a knee, biting at the skin by Anders' hip bone as he uncorked the glass bottle once again, pouring a good majority of the oil inside onto his hand.
Slick fingers groped a trail up the back of Anders' thigh as Hawke moved his lips to the skin under his lover's naval, the sudden pull of fingers in his hair encouraging him to go forward. Hawke took Anders into his mouth and pressed his fingers into the other man's body as part of one fluid, synchronized motion that tore from Anders a dichotomous groan of pleasure in pain.
The way Anders tugged at his hair and thrust into his mouth was a fair enough trade as Hawke's fingers inched further in. When Hawke pulled his mouth back, his cheeks tight around the length of his lover's cock, he looked up and watched as Anders faltered and had to use the table to catch himself. It reminded him of all the spontaneous activities they'd gotten up to on his desk back in Kirkwall; Anders' knees shaking as his breaths hissed out from between clenched teeth.
The hand in Hawke's hair loosened and traveled under his chin, applying enough pressure for the rogue to realize he should stand. He checked the floor and the table for the vial before Anders waved the item in his hand with a grin.
“My my, dear Anders,” Hawke pretended to chastise. He leaned in to wipe his hands off on the sheet, pinning Anders between him and the table. “Wherever did you learn a skill as despicable as stealing?”
Anders smirked and poured the rest of the oil into the palm of his hand. “Before you get all presumptuous on me, it wasn't you, though you're a terrible influence in plenty of other ways.”
Hawke, as always, had a playful retort waiting, but it was abandoned as soon as a lubricious hand wound its way around his cock and stroked him into being fully hard. Anders gave a few confused, innocent blinks as he turned his ear toward Hawke. “What was that? Were you going to say something?”
Hawke delighted in the yelp that resulted when he lifted Anders up and laid the man out on the table.
Despite being shocked, Anders laughed and propped himself up on his elbows. “You ass,” he derided, grinning as Hawke leaned forward to loom over him. As further proof that he favored being honest and insistent about what he wanted, Anders' legs returned to Hawke's waist once more.
Even on the first, slow thrust the table wobbled in a way that promised terrible structural integrity. Hawke, however, was one to make a hobby out of doing what seemed impossible. Anders could hear the creaking as well, and he laughed at the frustrated concentration on his lover's face. That laugh quickly became a moan, however, as Hawke finally began to find a balance.
The key was for Hawke to hold Anders steady as he rocked into the mage, which was a fine stipulation in his opinion. He wasn't one to lament the obnoxious quirks that made eager, spontaneous trysts what they were. He tucked his palms under Anders' knees and set a steady pace, trying to ignore the creaking from the table in favor of admiring the view, watching as Anders threw his head back and stroked himself at a much faster pace than Hawke's thrusting.
They'd been together non-stop for months, and barring a quick, hands-only tumble at the beginning of their journey, neither of them had enjoyed any sort of physical release, be it with each other or themselves. It didn't really matter that their illicit little rendezvous didn't last very long. What mattered was the stupid grin on Hawke's face as he recognized all the details that made sex with Anders what it could never be with anyone else. The way Anders never closed his eyes but never looked at Hawke either, only stealing glances when he thought the rogue wasn't paying attention. The way those powerful, magical hands could never seem to find a purchase.
When Hawke's muscles began to tighten from his thighs to the pit of his stomach he clamped his hands onto Anders' hips and ignored the threat of destroying the table in favor of snapping his hips forward in sharp jerks. He thought about slowing down, to make it last longer or to be more attentive to Anders' needs, but the heels digging into his back wouldn't allow that.
As soon as Hawke finished he grabbed Anders' arms and dragged him off the table before pressing the mage against the nearest wall. They met in quick kisses between pants and groans as Hawke pumped his hand in his a desperate attempt to bring Anders to completion.
After they were both spent and exhausted, the two men knelt on the floor, laughing at the absurd look of dirt, dust and flaked-off pieces of wood clinging to their skin. It felt good to know that at the end of it all, no one could take those moments away from them. Andraste herself had appeared before them, and while it was probably going to change all of Thedas, Hawke hoped it wouldn't change what they had, even as he found himself staring at the door once again.
***Waking Sea***
When he woke up, Carver was actually relieved to find he'd been stripped out of his armor before being put to bed. The crest of the Order hadn't been something he wore with pride since the moment he killed Wren. It felt like a brand, the kind burned into the flesh of traitors or slaves. It felt like a punishment.
Merrill was on the other cot in their small room, sleeping so deeply that Carver held his hand above her mouth for a moment to make sure she wasn't dead. She'd been through enough, and while he desperately wanted to talk to her, he knew it was better to let her rest.
He left the room and headed for the ship's deck in nothing but the red, blue and gold robes he wore under his armor, swearing at the bright sun that not only beat down on him from the sky, but reflected off the calm ocean waters as well. He brought his arm up to shield his eyes as he left to figure out where in Thedas he even was.
“Still filling out a skirt like a champ, I see,” someone said from behind him. He turned to face the person, but his unwillingness to look anywhere near the sun left him staring down at pair of tall brown boots. “Excuse me, Ser, but my breasts are up here ya know.”
“Isabela?” Carver guessed.
“Who else could have followed you and your crazy-ass brother all the way to Orlais? I was actually in the middle of gathering a small group to come crash your Chantry party when I saw you all just running toward me and panting like Mabari in heat.”
“Ever the poet, huh Isabela?”
Carver was finally able to lift his eyes in time to watch her shrug. “What can I say, it's a gift.”
“Speaking of gifts, think you'd be kind enough to get me some distinctively not-Templar clothes?”
“I can see what's around,” she offered as she turned and motioned for Carver to follow her.
As they traveled below deck Carver finally began to remember bits and pieces of the night before. “Is everyone alright? Where are they?”
“Everyone was alive last I checked, though the way you all passed out as soon as you got on board made my crew think otherwise. I am dying to hear just what in the name of Andraste's granny panties is going on, but I know I should be a good girl and wait until everyone wakes before I start with the inquisition.”
Carver winced in response to Isabela's special brand of expletives. “You might want to calm down the blasphemous idioms for the time being.”
“Why, because some woman claims to be Blessed Andraste herself?” Isabela laughed. “I'll believe it when I see her turn water into wine. And it better be good wine, too.” She stopped in front of a rickety door that was broken off its hinges to the point where it couldn't even shut properly. The door handle had to be used to lift the wood up so it could be swung back. “Maker, Castion took terrible care of this ship.” The storage room was so cluttered that Isabela was practically wading through the junk to find extra clothes. When she resurfaced she was holding what looked like piles of scrap. “White shirt, brown pants. Sound good?”
“Are they even remotely clean?” Carver asked, even as he took them from her hands.
“Keep wearing the dress for all I care,” she dismissed. “But that's what I have to offer you; take it or leave it.”
“No, this is fine. Thank you, Isabela,” he said as he turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To change?”
Isabela crossed her arms and pouted. “Well you're no fun.”
Refusing to give in to her baiting, Carver held the clothing up as gesture of gratitude and headed back to his room.
There was a delicateness to Carver's movements as he re-entered the room. He tried to stay as far away from Merrill's cot as he could, shedding his robes before immediately slipping on the leather pants, all the while trying to push aside disturbing guesses as to where the clothing had been. He had just gotten them up to his hips when the old wood of the cot behind him creaked, and before he could even get the laces done up Merrill was already yelping with embarrassment.
“Creators! Ma abelas, Carver, I didn't know-”
“No, no,” Carver shouted, “I shouldn't have-”
“-that you were here and I could just leave if you need to-”
“-just barged in here and started changing-”
Both of them stopped short in the middle of their mutual rambling and just stared at each other in stunned silence. The rigid set of Merrill's jaw made it obvious that she was trying to maintain eye contact, but her eyes repeatedly drifted down to Carver's bare chest.
With fumbling fingers Carver rushed to throw the shirt over his head. “I'm glad you're awake,” he said as he navigated his arms through the long, weathered white sleeves, “I wanted to talk to you. Are you... alright?”
Merrill gawked at him for a full and silent minute. “What are you even doing here?”
“Merrill,” Carver started, stepping forward and immediately regretting it when the elf flinched away from him. He sighed heavily and let his head just hang for a moment before he picked himself up and began speaking again. “I don't have anything to say that will excuse what I did. Just know that I'd never do anything to hurt you. I put us in that situation and I didn't even get us out. If you hadn't used that secret Dalish phrase they never would have known that I was on your side and I'd probably still be sweating in the Templar barracks, cursing myself for failing you.”
“Secret phrase?” Merrill asked. “I didn't tell anyone anything.”
“Didn't you say something in Dalish before they took you inside?”
“No, I didn- Oh!” she realized. “Oh, no, that was nothing. It was just- I was upset. I wasn't thinking. It was stupid. Really, it's nothing.”
Carver took a hesitant step toward the cots. “It's what let the Resolutionists know they could trust me. I couldn't have been 'nothing.' What did you say?”
The way Merrill hid behind her sheet, the fabric pulled taught and resting just under her chin, someone could have easily thought she was naked behind it. She looked as if she'd rejoice if the cot could just swallow her whole and take her away from their conversation. “Elgar'nan, it's really- it's warm in here, huh?” It was then that Carver noticed there was a genuine sway to Merrill's posture, and he watched as she cradled her head in her hands. “I don't feel... are we on a ship?”
“Merrill, what did you say?” Carver pressed.
“I need to get on deck,” she stated, tearing the sheets off her body and swinging her legs over the side of her cot. Carver noticed that she was missing her neckerchief and her pauldrons, but other than that she was fully clothed.
Merrill tried to stand, but she couldn't even take one step forward before her entire body swayed in an uneven circle. Carver lunged forward and caught her, using one hand to press into her back and hold her against his chest.
Merrill inhaled a shaky breath and refused to even look at him. “Oh, my, aren't you- you're very strong.” She swallowed and nodded as she pulled her arms up to provide space in between their bodies.
“He asked me if I loved you,” Carver found himself saying before he even thought of the words. He was just as shocked as Merrill was that he'd even said them.
The two of them finally made eye contact and waited for the other to address all their unanswered questions.
“I'll leave, if you want,” he offered one last time, even as he moved his free hand up to Merrill's cheek.
“No, no, it's not that. I never wanted you to go anywhere,” she admitted. “I just- I just-”
Knowing full well that Merrill would talk for an eternity if not interrupted, Carver tilted her head back and moved his face closer until she was talking against his lips. In a rapid sequence of events Merrill threw her arms around Carver's neck and pulled him down, making him gasp at her sudden forwardness. After finding he liked bold, aggressive Merrill, Carver guided her gently by sliding his hand behind her head. As soon as the moment had begun, however, Merrill was pounding her small fists against his chest, wrenching her face away from his.
An intense fear of pressuring the elf into something she didn't want made Carver let go immediately, but when she bent over and threw up on the floor, he still found himself smiling, his palms rubbing comforting circles on her back.
***The Void's Deceit, Waking Sea***
Sebastian had probably been done sleeping for hours before he finally opened his eyes. He kept trying to will away the reality of his situation, blurring the rickety wooden ceiling into the cold stone of his old Chantry quarters. Both rooms were austere enough, and the beds equally uncomfortable.
When he did finally stand up he realized his scale mail and his armor were on the floor, leaving him in just his black tunic and pants. He knelt down on the floor and set about gathering his things, pulling on his armored jacket before hesitating, holding the leather belt in his hands. When he first received his armor he hated it, knowing full well that it was meant to disguise his parents' exile of him by pretending as if joining the Chantry was some gift-worthy occasion.
As the years and the anger passed he began to hate it for entirely different reasons. Many of the other Sisters and Brothers were as poor as they were devout, forgoing worldly possessions for the standard issue robes of the Chantry, and Sebastian's expensive armor made it impossible for him to look or feel as if he belonged there.
Sebastian looked into the carved white face on the front his belt and almost laughed at the state of his life at that moment. Had it actually been real?
She had to be somewhere on the ship, and while Sebastian didn't feel remotely ready to face her, he knew he didn't have much of a choice in the matter. Deciding his coat and boots were enough, he stepped out into the hall and headed in the direction of conversation.
The crewmen were all terse and busy, only giving Sebastian answers in the form of vague points and head tilts. It made finding the captain's quarters difficult, but he eventually came to a door marked with bronze detailing. He knocked and Isabela called for him to left himself in.
When he stepped inside he hardly recognized his companion. Her hair was now pulled back in a tight braid, leaving nothing to hide the various scars on her face and neck. She'd been given new clothes too; a pair of beige pants and a brown leather vest laced up over a red blouse.
She was sitting in a chair with Isabela kneeling in front of her. The captain was making adjustments to a metal contraption that resembled a cross between a cage and armor, with steel strips that ran vertically and horizontally around the mage's feet, ankles and shins. It had a tight fit to it, however, far tighter than any usual armor.
“There, better?” Isabela asked as she stood up and offered a hand to the other woman, who took it.
“Better,” she agreed. “Do you mind gathering the others? I would like to speak with everyone now.”
“Oh, goodie, story time. I'll be right back.” On her way out the door Isabela leaned in toward Sebastian's ear. “Feel free to make the most of your alone time.”
“That won't-” he tried to argue, but she obviously wasn't listening.
“You are no prisoner here, I would like for you to understand that,” the woman explained as she shifted back and forth, testing the feel of her braces. “The Maker chooses, but a Chosen with no drive or ambition is more a hindrance than a hero.”
“Chosen?” Sebastian echoed. “For what?”
“I am not the Maker, Sebastian. I do not make these decisions, nor do I understand them. I can only try to interpret to my own calling and recognize in others when they are trying to do the same. But that is something to discuss when everyone is present. Now that I have you here, alone, I would like to apologize for misleading you.”
Sebastian was at a loss for words. He still couldn't think of her as being who she claimed to be, even if his instincts in the Grand Cathedral demonstrated that some part of him absolutely did. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me? Do you even believe me now?” She paused for a beat to let him reply, his silence answering for him. “And I have no interest in exercising an authority earned through generations of lies on my behalf.”
“You look like a beggar,” they could hear Hawke saying from down the hall.
“It was all Isabela had,” Carver shot back. “I can't keep running around in the uniform of the Order. Not after I betrayed them to defend you.”
“Ugh,” Merrill groaned. “Please don't fight.”
“Just keep chewing on that ginger root, kitten,” Isabela told her. “It'll do wonders. And next time-” As soon as the group got to the doorway it was as if they were suddenly weighed down by the atmosphere. Everyone entered and stood arm's length apart, staring at various corners and spots on the floor. No one knew how to even start the conversation.
“So, you're Andraste,” Hawke stated outright. He shrugged and looked around the room. “What? Someone had to say it.”
Andraste nodded and motioned for everyone to step further into the room. Though she needed the support of the walls in order to walk, she was able to maneuver herself over to the door and shut it. “I am,” she said as she returned to her chair. Instead of sitting, however, she stood behind it and used the back to keep herself balanced. “I would like to tell you all the truth about where I come from and what I have done, if that is all right with you.”
Anders stepped forward with an imploring look in his eyes. “If you are willing to tell us, I would be honored to hear it. I... I cannot believe you're a mage. Or maybe I always did and I just never allowed myself to.”
Andraste stared at the floor and gathered her thoughts before beginning. “Some truth still remains in the Chantry's lore. I was indeed born in Denerim,” she stated, turning a bit to acknowledge Sebastian, “and my mother was named Brona. She and my father, Aloso, were the children of powerful Tevinter mages, but they were both born without magic. It made them pariahs in the Imperium. Their parents turned them into indentured servants and forced them to serve their own families as lesser citizens. After they met and found they had much in common, my parents would meet up every day after their families retired for the evening. Then, one night, they agreed to take all the coin they could steal and run south until the Imperium was wholly and truly behind them.”
“Oh,” Merrill sighed before clamping her hands over her mouth. “Sorry, it's just such a sweet story.”
“Do not worry yourself, it is a story I am proud of,” Andraste admitted. “My parents were not mages, and yet they were the strongest people I ever had the privilege of knowing. They felt blessed by every year that passed without me showing signs of magic, but they knew their bloodlines, and they understood that my being a mage was essentially inevitable. Their attempts at denial were shattered around the time I turned seven, but we all understood that the only place for me to receive proper training was in the Imperium, and I did not want to leave, so I taught myself to control my magic enough to pretend it simply did not exist.”
“What a... bizarre situation,” Anders observed. “I can't decide if it sounds nothing like the plight of mages today or exactly the same.”
“My parents had been honest with me about their experiences in Tevinter, so why would I want to go there myself? There was no hierarchy in our little fishing village. We were a community, and everyone pulled their own weight. I spent my days plowing my family's farmland on the outskirts of town, and at night my parents taught me old folk songs in their native tongue. My father spoke of my voice to the others in town, bragging about how he had a son to plow his fields and a daughter to sing him to sleep, all wrapped up in one child. I was able to live that lie until I was eighteen, but over the years my magic had grown as I did, and yet no one had been available to teach me how to control it. I did not want to break my parents' hearts, but I did not want to hurt them either. One night I climbed a nearby hill to contemplate my future, and I felt compelled to sing; as if my song were somehow an offer to the world in exchange for guidance. The response was subtle at first, but it eventually burned though me and ignited a sense of purpose the likes of which I had never experienced before, and that night I left to seek training in the Imperium.”
“The Maker called you to Tevinter?” Sebastian asked. “You went willingly?”
“I did not know at the time that it was the Maker who was the source, or better yet, I did not give a name to the divinity. Still, I arrived in the city to claim my birthright, and I was offered tutelage by my mother's parents. They were incredibly happy to have me there; to know that their daughter was a fluke and their line was still strong with magic. I excelled in my studies, and they did everything they could to train the young Denerim farmhand out of me. They stuffed me in gowns and painted my face and paraded me in front of their friends, having me perform magic to impress them. I would love nothing more than to tell you that I only tolerated that lifestyle for a few short years, but that is not the case. Instead I stayed for more than a decade, became a magister and even owned slaves, some of whom were from the Alamar region, same as me.”
“Boring,” Isabela complained. “This story is in desperate need of a racy, torrid affair.”
Andraste only smiled. “Patience, my dear Isabela.”
“You're joking,” the pirate accused.
“I was thirty-two when Ealisay showed up on the slave market in Minrathous. No matter where my travels took me, I never met a woman whose beauty compared to hers. She had been my best friend since childhood. We grew up singing together, and we had made-” she paused and grinned for a moment, her mind very obviously in the past, “-beautiful music together.”
Isabela stepped forward and, in one smooth glide, slid her legs along either side of the chair's back, seating herself with rapt attention. “Go on...”
“Isabela!” Sebastian snapped with far more intensity than he meant. He had no idea what his emotions were doing at that moment, listening to a woman who was supposedly Andraste detailing her life as a Tevinter magister. He wasn't sure if he was more upset about having been lied to by the leaders of his faith, or the disappointment that was learning the truth.
“Unbunch your panties, Choir Boy. Shouldn't you be happy that I'm taking an interest in your faith and your... lovely prophetess?”
“This is not my faith!” he yelled. When everyone turned to stare at him he sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “You will have to forgive me. This is, admittedly, a lot to take in.”
The gentle nod Andraste gave made Sebastian feel immediately forgiven, albeit still foolish. “I am telling you of my time as a magister not so you may know, but so you may learn,” she explained. “I bought Ealisay and took her back to my estate, but she did not work for me. Instead she shared my bed and my wealth, though she begged me every night to run away with her back to Denerim, or to at least release my slaves. I explained to her that without servants I would lose my social standing, and without the Imperium I would not have proper magic training, which was a lie considering I had finished my studies year before. Then one night I hosted a party, for no other reason beside social custom, and it somehow descended into a jealous, backbiting argument between many of us over bloodlines and abilities. One of the magisters, a petty little man by the name of Junius, decided to demonstrate his prowess by slitting Ealisay's throat and using her blood to summon enough Shades to kill most of the guests and destroy my home. When it was over I dug through the rubble looking for Ealisay's body, but there had been too much carnage for me to tell what was even left of her.”
There was an awkwardness which permeated the room during the ensuing silence. No one expected Andraste to take her hands off the back of the chair and sweep her eyes across the room, staring into each of them for a moment before moving on.
“I did not know what to do. I was so sure that I had been on my destined path, and yet being a magister had left me ashamed, alone and homeless. I packed a small bag and ventured back to that hill in Denerim, the last place I had felt any real purpose, and found my parents had both died in my absence. I prayed for guidance, any kind of guidance. I promised the world that I would be anything it needed me to be if it would only tell me what that need was. I vowed that I would use my abilities with confidence and yet with great humility, for I had already allowed it to consume my dignity and my compassion once before. To validate my promise I stood on that hill and I sang the first song my mother ever taught me, and I-” She paused and shook her head. “I cannot describe it. I felt... heard. I felt a grand sort of approval, suddenly justified in my desire to eradicate the oppression and the subjugation that I myself had once perpetuated. I intended on returning to Minrathous to convert other magisters, but half-way through my journey I received word that the Blight had begun again and was wreaking havoc across all of Tevinter.”
“Wait a second,” Hawke interrupted. “Did you say the Blight began again?”
“Ah, yes, your lore states that it was the first of the Blights,” Andraste remembered. “That is not true. I cannot tell you when the first Bight was or if the Imperium did indeed cause it, but there had been one before, and another before that. Only one during my lifetime, however. With Tevinter no longer an option I turned back to Denerim, knowing full-well that I was receiving a sign from the divine being to whom I had been praying. I sent word out that I was gathering an army, and I asked for an audience with the leader of the Alamarri militia. That is how I met Maferath.”
Sebastian closed his eyes but dared not make a sound in reaction to that development. A naïve part of him was hoping Maferath was another falsehood of the Chantry's lore; that no such a coward had ever actually existed.
“My, he was so strong,” Andraste recalled. “No magic, just whatever strength he had earned for himself. I respected him immensely, and I did not want to mislead him, so I told him everything. I told him about my abilities, my past, my destiny and my intentions. I told him I wanted to bring about the fall of the Imperium, and he tried to tell me it was impossible.”
“That's rather genius though,” Carver commented. “I mean, you gather and train an army while they're fighting a Blight, and once it's over you're primed and ready to strike.”
“That was the plan I presented to him, and he accepted it. I sent one small, brave company of messengers to the outskirts of the Imperium to track down escaped slaves and tell them to join our cause. There was one in particular I was hoping to get in contact with; the elf who had been my bodyguard while I was a magister. A man by the name of Shartan.”
“Shartan was- he was your slave?” Merrill asked.
“Yes, and luckily he had survived long enough to flee the Blight. One messenger tracked him to an elvhen settlement in the Arlathan Forrest where he too was gathering an army. Shartan almost had the man killed, which is not surprising considering he was carrying a letter from me of all people. When Shartan arrived with his army at our training camp in Denerim, he simply threw the letter at my feet and said 'the enemy of my enemy.' I promised his people their own land, and in return he taught me how to use a sword. While he did not have magic himself, he was aware of the ancient elvhen training given to those who wished to marry their magic and their strength into one cohesive combat style.”
“The Mihim'elgar?” Merrill asked. “You were one of the Arcane Warriors? There... there aren't even any left among the Dalish, and there hasn't been one for over a century. If you knew even a little of- Creators, the things we could do with that knowledge.”
“When we have the time I will teach you what I can, I promise,” Andraste told her. “Shartan's training prepared me well for the coming war, and between the Alamarri, the elves and the former slaves we had a powerful army. Maferath accepted my help in training them during the four years it took the Anderfells and the Imperium to stop the Blight. Eventually the soldiers came to regard us as their joint leaders, so it made sense for us to get married.”
She stopped for a moment then, and Sebastian thought he saw her grind her teeth in frustration. “No,” she snapped as if she were arguing with herself, “I am trying to be honest with you, and while it is easier to believe Maferath and I never once loved each other, and were wed out of convenience, that is not the truth. I felt as if he was a part of my promise to the Maker, and we even had a son together. Eventually, however, we received word that the Archdemon was in Minrathous, doing battle with the Grey Wardens, and that the Archon had been killed in the fight. When it was finally over and the last of the darkspawn had either retreated or been killed, we marched. Their armies were weak, they did not expect us, and they had just elected a new Archon, Hessarian, who had no idea what he was doing. We came up from the south and decimated their remaining armies, all the while torching their farmlands and tainting their fresh water. Every night we would celebrate our victories, and over time we began to develop a religious doctrine that expressed the ideals of our cause. Some of us were mages, and we recognized that the Imperium's hubris and sadism was not how we wished to be governed or represented. We formed a list of tenets, the foremost being 'Magic should serve man, not rule him.'”
At first Sebastian felt embarrassed by his grave misuse of the phrase throughout his life, but the more he thought about the circumstance of mages in Thedas today, the less it related to Andraste's situation. “But what of demons and abominations?” he asked. “Surely you understood the threat that mages were to themselves and others.”
“Really, this again?” Anders asked. “My, you really are an expert at being stubborn and redundant.”
“No,” Andraste interrupted. “He presents an important point.” She turned and faced the prince, giving him her full attention. “Though, as with many things I have said tonight, I do not believe the answer is what you would like it to be. Abominations are the result of inadequate training. In the Imperium, all mages must pass their Harrowing, and they are trained from birth to do so. If your Templars and your Chantry allowed mages to received proper mentoring instead of shunning their gifts, then you would not have a problem with possession. Instead you have left them to choose between passing their Harrowing and being locked up for the rest of their lives or living on the run, unchecked, as fugitives.”
As much as he hated to admit it, Sebastian had to acknowledge the logic in her argument. Only Circles had to resources to perform a Harrowing, and joining the Circle meant a commitment to what was basically life-long imprisonment.
“Moving on,” she began, “Maferath did not seem as invested in forming a new faith as I was. The army was beginning to favor my leadership to his, especially those human soldiers who surrendered themselves to the Maker's guiding light. Every night they asked me to sing of His glory, and over time I saw bitterness and jealousy begin to grow within my husband. We were on a highly successful war path, however, and did not have the time to entertain petty squabbles.” A bitter laugh escaped before she whispered to herself. “So petty...”
Sebastian stepped forward, awkwardly unsure of what to do with his hands. He wanted to comfort her, but he had no idea what would be appropriate. “If you do not wish to drag these memories to the surface, you do not have to,” he offered. Whether he believe her or not; whether he liked what she had to say or not, he was not the kind of person who enjoyed watching others suffer, and Andraste did not seem ready to relive her betrayal.
“It is not so simple,” she told him. “I remember that day as if I am stuck reliving it constantly. Maferath had gone out on a scouting expedition that lasted days longer than it was intended to, and when he returned he suggested we split the army, with him taking most of the soldiers for a frontal assault and me leading a small band in a flanking maneuver. When I stopped to await the signal at the hold point, however, I was ambushed by the Archon's wife, Lady Vasilia, and her army of magisters. Two people survived the attacked. Two,” she repeated with a grave and angry emphasis. “That was only because they wanted Shartan and I alive for a public execution, though that did not happen until a good two months after our capture.”
There was no explanation needed regarding what happened in those two months. Andraste's face became empty, and Sebastian felt tortured just from watching as her psyche tried to distant her from the painful memories.
“I rejoiced when they told me it was time,” she spoke in a monotone. “I was originally told I was set to be beheaded, as Shartan had been the week prior, but Vasilia would not have it. She wanted everyone to see what happened when the might of the Tevinter Imperium was questioned, both as a matter of pride and a matter of warning. In that moment I should have felt fear or, at the very least, a desire to escape,” she told them, her voice brightening a bit, “but I cannot remember a time when I had felt more calm. I... knew my death would have far more meaning than my life. As they tied me to the stake I noticed Archon Hessarian was conflicted and I told him, from the deepest part of my being, that I forgave him and that I hoped the Maker would heal his wounded soul. When the crowd threw their torches into the kindling at my feet I did not move or make a sound. Seconds felt like their own eternities as I stood there listening to them cheer on my torturous demise. I remember a brief glimpse of Hessarian running toward me with a sword in his hands and tears in his eyes before everything went black.”
“You... died?” Carver asked.
“Have you been at the Maker's side this whole time?” Sebastian wondered.
“Alas, I cannot tell you what happens after death, as I am sure that what happened to me does not happen to others. I... awoke- though I do not know if that is even a proper word for it- some time later to a cacophony of voices and complete darkness. It was not even drakness, it was just nothingness. Over time I came to realize that these voices were the prayers of the living. I listened to your civilizations as they morphed into what they are today. I followed the evolution of my teachings and watched as generation by generation it became a perverse power struggle in my name. It was frustrating and infuriating much of the time, but there were still moments of light that insured I never lost faith in our world.”
When Andraste reached down and began to undo the lacing on her vest everyone else in the room traded confused looks, but she continued to tell her story as she did it. “Not long after the Chantry in Kirkwall was destroyed I awoke somewhere in the area you refer to as 'The Wounded Coast,' still clad in the burnt remains of the prison garb I wore to my execution. My lower body was burned beyond recognition and my chest,” she said as she pulled her vest open and her shirt down, “had been impaled.”
The burns did not reach as high as the area Andraste had exposed, which was just above her left breast, but the scar there was far worse than the already-horrific wounds on her legs. This one looked to be from an impossibly deep wound that made it seem as if her skin had caved in. It was long, reaching all the way to her collar bone, but Sebastian could also see that it was mercifully clean and precise.
“I laid there for days,” she continued, letting go of her blouse so that only half the scar was visible, “hidden amongst the rocks, trying to relearn how a human body worked. I stumbled around, attempting to regain some mobility, but my legs were damaged to the point of being almost completely numb. I stole what I needed in order to survive, but when I overheard the mercenaries discussing the bounty on Anders' head I channeled enough magic to get myself through warning them off before I was...” she turned and eyed Sebastian thoroughly,“...interrupted.”
“If you were reaching out Anders and Merrill why was I the one who found you?” Sebastian asked.
“I wondered that myself,” she answered honestly. “I knew of you. I had heard your prayers and the prayers of your family. To put it bluntly I did not feel confident relying on you. During our travels, however, I began to reflect on the matter and I believe I am beginning to understand more about my purpose here. I know you probably have more questions, but I am weary and in need of rest. May I ask that we retire for the evening, and continue these discussions tomorrow?”
As much as it pained Sebastian to return to his room with the answer to his entire life's purpose still lingering on the horizon, he knew they had asked enough of her for the evening. “I am sure no one here wishes for you to continue under duress,” he assured her.
“Well, The Void's Deceit isn't going to steer herself,” Isabela dismissed as she stood up and dusted herself off. “If you ever want to get drunk and discuss what sons-of-bitches our husbands were, you know where to find me,” she added with a wink before she disappeared toward the deck.
Sebastian followed everyone else out as well, watching as Hawke and Anders went in one direction, Hawke bringing his hand up to gently rub at the back of Anders' neck. In the other direction Carver was leading Merrill down the hall by the small of her back, smiling and nodding and perhaps even listening as the elf prattled on excitedly about what they'd just heard.
He returned to his room but made no attempt to go to sleep. Instead he paced about the place and tried to think of what Andraste herself could possibly want from him. Hearing that he had a role in the Maker's plan, and what that role was, was all Sebastian had ever prayed for, and now he was being denied an answer. He knew his annoyance and his impatience were selfish, but the more he let it fester the more he needed to know something, anything about why it was he who was chosen to find her.
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 politics and energies of Thedas are changing, and Hawke's crew finds itself in the middle of a morally-difficult holy war. Relationships and faith are put to the ultimate test as a few destined leaders are forced to shoulder more responsibility than they can handle, while their loved ones feel powerless to help
NOTE: I only have one reader in this community (who I whole-heartedly appreciate, by the way) and I feel that, with the frequency at which I update, maybe I'm cluttering up the area? Would any members prefer I not post here anymore, considering I'm also posting this on AO3 and FF.NET?
Prologue: Choices
Chapter 1: Threads
Chapter 2: Understanding
Chapter 3: Trust
Chapter 4: Risk
Chapter 5 Part A: Passage
Chapter 5 Part B: Capture
Chapter 6: Cornered
Chapter 7: Revelation
***???***
Hawke didn't know whose ship he was on, why he was on it, where it was going or even what the date was. As soon as the six of them had escaped the Grand Cathedral they ran for what felt like hours until someone brought them on board a ship and dumped them off in tiny rooms with rickety cots. Hawke was placed in a room with Anders, though he spent the vast majority of the time unconscious. He awoke occasionally to shift his position, go to the bathroom or check on his companion, but all-in-all he was barely aware of the hours that passed except for the sunlight that filtered in through the gaps in the wood.
Eventually Hawke's body couldn't sleep anymore. He spent a good ten or so minutes staring at the ceiling, stretching his legs, scratching his beard and trying to piece together everything that had happened.
“How are you feeling?”
Hawke turned on his cot and found that Anders was awake as well, though the mage's voice was still low and groggy.
“Terrible,” Hawke admitted, “though I guess it's better than lying poisoned in a secret Chantry mage prison, so maybe I shouldn't complain.” He lifted his dirty sheet up and inspected his body. “Please tell me you stripped off my armor.”
Anders grunted as he took stock of his apparel as well. “Ugh, where're my clothes?” he asked, though he didn't put forth any effort toward finding them.
Hawke rolled onto his side and threw half his blanket over Anders. In exchange he took half of the mage's.
“What are you doing?” Anders asked.
“Pretending we're back in Kirkwall, waking up in bed together. Come on, help with my fantasy. Start complaining that you have to get to the clinic so I can convince you to stay and have sex with me instead.”
Anders tried and failed to look unamused, opting instead to roll onto his back and rub his eyes as he laughed. While Hawke would have given anything not to have to ruin the moment, there were a lot of questions that needed answering.
“Anders, is that woman really-” He felt silly even finishing the question.
Luckily Anders did it for him. “Andraste? Maker, I hope so. Otherwise I truly have gone mad, which still isn't out of the running yet.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
Anders continued to stare at the ceiling. “Tell you what? That in my dreams I'd hear Andraste herself calling me to Orlais? Would you have even believed me? I didn't even believe me.”
“Well, I believe you now,” Hawke stated. “If we're both not crazy and this woman really is Andraste... I mean, doesn't that mean good things for your cause?”
“I'm trying not to get too ahead of myself. I still don't even know what she wants from me.”
“Well, if you'd like a reminder of the simpler things in life, I can tell you what I want from you,” Hawke offered.
That comment earned him some eye contact. “Really? Now?”
With a surprisingly deft quickness, Hawke maneuvered himself under the sheets until he was on Anders' cot, straddling the other man's waist. “Really,” he replied before resting his hands on the wooden brace above the mage's head. “Now.”
“We don't even know where we are.”
“Hm,” Hawke hummed as he leaned in to press his lips against Anders' neck. “Sounds dangerous.”
“Someone might walk in on us.”
Hawke moved his hips down over Anders' and grinned as he bit down on the flesh under his lips, suddenly very thankful for whoever did the work of stripping his lover shirtless for him. He pulled back and ran his fingertips down the curve of Anders' jawline. “Lucky them.” He tried to lower himself once again, but hands on his chest stopped him.
“Everything is about to change,” Anders told him, though it came out sounding strangely like a warning. “I don't know what's outside that door. I don't know where we're going or what I'll have to do to get there, but whatever it is I want you to know that I won't take a moment you spend by my side for granted.”
Hawke took hold of one of the hands pressed against his rumpled crimson shirt. “It sounds like you've finally realized that I'm not going anywhere. Good.”
An affectionate, longing sigh escaped Anders' lips. He slid his free hand behind Hawke's neck and coaxed the rogue down. When their lips finally met it was an open, giving kiss that reminded Hawke of a gesture of surrender. Fingertips found their way under Hawke's half-untucked shirt and trailed their way across a topography of skin and muscle that they would never be too familiar with.
As stunningly handsome as he found his lover, Hawke had a habit of keeping his eyes shut during these moments. It was easy enough to see fear or anger on the mage's face, but love; that was heard. Anders' entire breath and heartbeat changed, laced with a clearly audible longing that transformed every sound into an inarticulate plea or, if Hawke teased him enough, an absolute demand.
Weeks had passed since they could truly be together, and for a moment Hawke broke away to stare at the door of their small room as if the fixture was guilty of something terrible. He tried to ignore it, but his inability to do so only fueled his eagerness to steal this one last moment for both of them.
Anders pushed Hawke's body away long enough to pull off the red shirt before urgently demanding the return of his lover's attention. The mage's bottom lip dragged across Hawke's chin and jaw before his tongue came to press against the corner of the other man's mouth. Their faces had to slant at completely different angles in order for them to meet in a kiss, but it was worth it for every fraction of closeness that impatience could buy them.
Hawke's hips continued to meet Anders' desperate, wanton grinding with calculatingly deliberate positioning and pressure. He could have remained there for hours, losing track of where Anders' hands were and had been, but the poor construction of the cot gave a loud and interrupting crack that stilled both men in an instant.
“I'm pretty sure these cots aren't meant to sleep two,” Anders observed.
“And I'm pretty sure I can get creative in a pinch,” Hawke said as he took stock of the rest of the room. Their discarded clothes and armor were all over the floor, and something was sitting atop a small table on the opposite side of the room. Hawke shrugged the blankets away as he climbed off the cot and, upon closer inspection, realized that it was a glass vial and a scrap of paper.
'Take your time boys' was all the note said, but it was enough to tell Hawke exactly whose ship he was on even before he pulled the cork out and discovered what was in the vial.
“What is it?” Anders asked from behind him.
Before the rogue could answer, a pair of warm arms wrapped themselves around his waist and pulled him back against his lover's body. Hawke reached back and threaded his fingers in short, dirty, blond locks, trying not get caught up in how much he missed the feel and the leverage of longer hair.
Coarse stubble scratched its way across Hawke's shoulder as hands moved down to his thighs, thumbs massaging their way down the creases in the leather. As good as that felt, however, it was the way that Anders exhaled against the nape of his neck that drove Hawke to spin them around and lift the mage onto the table.
It took no time at all for Anders to wrap his legs around Hawke and crash their bodies together with an ardent fervor not felt by either of them in a long while. Hawke made quick work of the lacing on Anders' pants before taking care of his own, all the while kissing the other man under the strong, aggressive guidance of the mage's hands. Blunt nails scraped behind his ears and down his neck. Hawke groaned from somewhere deep and low in the back of his throat, so impatient to touch Anders and feel Anders that undressing kept getting interrupted by a desperate need for contact.
As frustrating as it was to separate, Hawke knew everything was going to have horrible consequences if he didn't. He pulled Anders off the table and left the poor man standing there while he grabbed a sheet off the cots and slid his own pants down his legs so he could step out of them. Thankfully Anders got the hint and stripped himself down as well, watching impatiently as Hawke threw the sheet over the small, splintery table.
“Are you... alright with...?” Hawke began to ask, knowing full well Anders understood him without needing to hear the rest.
“Maker, yes,” Anders answered, grabbing Hawke's hips and moving them both to the shorter end of the table. Hawke grinned and took a knee, biting at the skin by Anders' hip bone as he uncorked the glass bottle once again, pouring a good majority of the oil inside onto his hand.
Slick fingers groped a trail up the back of Anders' thigh as Hawke moved his lips to the skin under his lover's naval, the sudden pull of fingers in his hair encouraging him to go forward. Hawke took Anders into his mouth and pressed his fingers into the other man's body as part of one fluid, synchronized motion that tore from Anders a dichotomous groan of pleasure in pain.
The way Anders tugged at his hair and thrust into his mouth was a fair enough trade as Hawke's fingers inched further in. When Hawke pulled his mouth back, his cheeks tight around the length of his lover's cock, he looked up and watched as Anders faltered and had to use the table to catch himself. It reminded him of all the spontaneous activities they'd gotten up to on his desk back in Kirkwall; Anders' knees shaking as his breaths hissed out from between clenched teeth.
The hand in Hawke's hair loosened and traveled under his chin, applying enough pressure for the rogue to realize he should stand. He checked the floor and the table for the vial before Anders waved the item in his hand with a grin.
“My my, dear Anders,” Hawke pretended to chastise. He leaned in to wipe his hands off on the sheet, pinning Anders between him and the table. “Wherever did you learn a skill as despicable as stealing?”
Anders smirked and poured the rest of the oil into the palm of his hand. “Before you get all presumptuous on me, it wasn't you, though you're a terrible influence in plenty of other ways.”
Hawke, as always, had a playful retort waiting, but it was abandoned as soon as a lubricious hand wound its way around his cock and stroked him into being fully hard. Anders gave a few confused, innocent blinks as he turned his ear toward Hawke. “What was that? Were you going to say something?”
Hawke delighted in the yelp that resulted when he lifted Anders up and laid the man out on the table.
Despite being shocked, Anders laughed and propped himself up on his elbows. “You ass,” he derided, grinning as Hawke leaned forward to loom over him. As further proof that he favored being honest and insistent about what he wanted, Anders' legs returned to Hawke's waist once more.
Even on the first, slow thrust the table wobbled in a way that promised terrible structural integrity. Hawke, however, was one to make a hobby out of doing what seemed impossible. Anders could hear the creaking as well, and he laughed at the frustrated concentration on his lover's face. That laugh quickly became a moan, however, as Hawke finally began to find a balance.
The key was for Hawke to hold Anders steady as he rocked into the mage, which was a fine stipulation in his opinion. He wasn't one to lament the obnoxious quirks that made eager, spontaneous trysts what they were. He tucked his palms under Anders' knees and set a steady pace, trying to ignore the creaking from the table in favor of admiring the view, watching as Anders threw his head back and stroked himself at a much faster pace than Hawke's thrusting.
They'd been together non-stop for months, and barring a quick, hands-only tumble at the beginning of their journey, neither of them had enjoyed any sort of physical release, be it with each other or themselves. It didn't really matter that their illicit little rendezvous didn't last very long. What mattered was the stupid grin on Hawke's face as he recognized all the details that made sex with Anders what it could never be with anyone else. The way Anders never closed his eyes but never looked at Hawke either, only stealing glances when he thought the rogue wasn't paying attention. The way those powerful, magical hands could never seem to find a purchase.
When Hawke's muscles began to tighten from his thighs to the pit of his stomach he clamped his hands onto Anders' hips and ignored the threat of destroying the table in favor of snapping his hips forward in sharp jerks. He thought about slowing down, to make it last longer or to be more attentive to Anders' needs, but the heels digging into his back wouldn't allow that.
As soon as Hawke finished he grabbed Anders' arms and dragged him off the table before pressing the mage against the nearest wall. They met in quick kisses between pants and groans as Hawke pumped his hand in his a desperate attempt to bring Anders to completion.
After they were both spent and exhausted, the two men knelt on the floor, laughing at the absurd look of dirt, dust and flaked-off pieces of wood clinging to their skin. It felt good to know that at the end of it all, no one could take those moments away from them. Andraste herself had appeared before them, and while it was probably going to change all of Thedas, Hawke hoped it wouldn't change what they had, even as he found himself staring at the door once again.
***Waking Sea***
When he woke up, Carver was actually relieved to find he'd been stripped out of his armor before being put to bed. The crest of the Order hadn't been something he wore with pride since the moment he killed Wren. It felt like a brand, the kind burned into the flesh of traitors or slaves. It felt like a punishment.
Merrill was on the other cot in their small room, sleeping so deeply that Carver held his hand above her mouth for a moment to make sure she wasn't dead. She'd been through enough, and while he desperately wanted to talk to her, he knew it was better to let her rest.
He left the room and headed for the ship's deck in nothing but the red, blue and gold robes he wore under his armor, swearing at the bright sun that not only beat down on him from the sky, but reflected off the calm ocean waters as well. He brought his arm up to shield his eyes as he left to figure out where in Thedas he even was.
“Still filling out a skirt like a champ, I see,” someone said from behind him. He turned to face the person, but his unwillingness to look anywhere near the sun left him staring down at pair of tall brown boots. “Excuse me, Ser, but my breasts are up here ya know.”
“Isabela?” Carver guessed.
“Who else could have followed you and your crazy-ass brother all the way to Orlais? I was actually in the middle of gathering a small group to come crash your Chantry party when I saw you all just running toward me and panting like Mabari in heat.”
“Ever the poet, huh Isabela?”
Carver was finally able to lift his eyes in time to watch her shrug. “What can I say, it's a gift.”
“Speaking of gifts, think you'd be kind enough to get me some distinctively not-Templar clothes?”
“I can see what's around,” she offered as she turned and motioned for Carver to follow her.
As they traveled below deck Carver finally began to remember bits and pieces of the night before. “Is everyone alright? Where are they?”
“Everyone was alive last I checked, though the way you all passed out as soon as you got on board made my crew think otherwise. I am dying to hear just what in the name of Andraste's granny panties is going on, but I know I should be a good girl and wait until everyone wakes before I start with the inquisition.”
Carver winced in response to Isabela's special brand of expletives. “You might want to calm down the blasphemous idioms for the time being.”
“Why, because some woman claims to be Blessed Andraste herself?” Isabela laughed. “I'll believe it when I see her turn water into wine. And it better be good wine, too.” She stopped in front of a rickety door that was broken off its hinges to the point where it couldn't even shut properly. The door handle had to be used to lift the wood up so it could be swung back. “Maker, Castion took terrible care of this ship.” The storage room was so cluttered that Isabela was practically wading through the junk to find extra clothes. When she resurfaced she was holding what looked like piles of scrap. “White shirt, brown pants. Sound good?”
“Are they even remotely clean?” Carver asked, even as he took them from her hands.
“Keep wearing the dress for all I care,” she dismissed. “But that's what I have to offer you; take it or leave it.”
“No, this is fine. Thank you, Isabela,” he said as he turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
“To change?”
Isabela crossed her arms and pouted. “Well you're no fun.”
Refusing to give in to her baiting, Carver held the clothing up as gesture of gratitude and headed back to his room.
There was a delicateness to Carver's movements as he re-entered the room. He tried to stay as far away from Merrill's cot as he could, shedding his robes before immediately slipping on the leather pants, all the while trying to push aside disturbing guesses as to where the clothing had been. He had just gotten them up to his hips when the old wood of the cot behind him creaked, and before he could even get the laces done up Merrill was already yelping with embarrassment.
“Creators! Ma abelas, Carver, I didn't know-”
“No, no,” Carver shouted, “I shouldn't have-”
“-that you were here and I could just leave if you need to-”
“-just barged in here and started changing-”
Both of them stopped short in the middle of their mutual rambling and just stared at each other in stunned silence. The rigid set of Merrill's jaw made it obvious that she was trying to maintain eye contact, but her eyes repeatedly drifted down to Carver's bare chest.
With fumbling fingers Carver rushed to throw the shirt over his head. “I'm glad you're awake,” he said as he navigated his arms through the long, weathered white sleeves, “I wanted to talk to you. Are you... alright?”
Merrill gawked at him for a full and silent minute. “What are you even doing here?”
“Merrill,” Carver started, stepping forward and immediately regretting it when the elf flinched away from him. He sighed heavily and let his head just hang for a moment before he picked himself up and began speaking again. “I don't have anything to say that will excuse what I did. Just know that I'd never do anything to hurt you. I put us in that situation and I didn't even get us out. If you hadn't used that secret Dalish phrase they never would have known that I was on your side and I'd probably still be sweating in the Templar barracks, cursing myself for failing you.”
“Secret phrase?” Merrill asked. “I didn't tell anyone anything.”
“Didn't you say something in Dalish before they took you inside?”
“No, I didn- Oh!” she realized. “Oh, no, that was nothing. It was just- I was upset. I wasn't thinking. It was stupid. Really, it's nothing.”
Carver took a hesitant step toward the cots. “It's what let the Resolutionists know they could trust me. I couldn't have been 'nothing.' What did you say?”
The way Merrill hid behind her sheet, the fabric pulled taught and resting just under her chin, someone could have easily thought she was naked behind it. She looked as if she'd rejoice if the cot could just swallow her whole and take her away from their conversation. “Elgar'nan, it's really- it's warm in here, huh?” It was then that Carver noticed there was a genuine sway to Merrill's posture, and he watched as she cradled her head in her hands. “I don't feel... are we on a ship?”
“Merrill, what did you say?” Carver pressed.
“I need to get on deck,” she stated, tearing the sheets off her body and swinging her legs over the side of her cot. Carver noticed that she was missing her neckerchief and her pauldrons, but other than that she was fully clothed.
Merrill tried to stand, but she couldn't even take one step forward before her entire body swayed in an uneven circle. Carver lunged forward and caught her, using one hand to press into her back and hold her against his chest.
Merrill inhaled a shaky breath and refused to even look at him. “Oh, my, aren't you- you're very strong.” She swallowed and nodded as she pulled her arms up to provide space in between their bodies.
“He asked me if I loved you,” Carver found himself saying before he even thought of the words. He was just as shocked as Merrill was that he'd even said them.
The two of them finally made eye contact and waited for the other to address all their unanswered questions.
“I'll leave, if you want,” he offered one last time, even as he moved his free hand up to Merrill's cheek.
“No, no, it's not that. I never wanted you to go anywhere,” she admitted. “I just- I just-”
Knowing full well that Merrill would talk for an eternity if not interrupted, Carver tilted her head back and moved his face closer until she was talking against his lips. In a rapid sequence of events Merrill threw her arms around Carver's neck and pulled him down, making him gasp at her sudden forwardness. After finding he liked bold, aggressive Merrill, Carver guided her gently by sliding his hand behind her head. As soon as the moment had begun, however, Merrill was pounding her small fists against his chest, wrenching her face away from his.
An intense fear of pressuring the elf into something she didn't want made Carver let go immediately, but when she bent over and threw up on the floor, he still found himself smiling, his palms rubbing comforting circles on her back.
***The Void's Deceit, Waking Sea***
Sebastian had probably been done sleeping for hours before he finally opened his eyes. He kept trying to will away the reality of his situation, blurring the rickety wooden ceiling into the cold stone of his old Chantry quarters. Both rooms were austere enough, and the beds equally uncomfortable.
When he did finally stand up he realized his scale mail and his armor were on the floor, leaving him in just his black tunic and pants. He knelt down on the floor and set about gathering his things, pulling on his armored jacket before hesitating, holding the leather belt in his hands. When he first received his armor he hated it, knowing full well that it was meant to disguise his parents' exile of him by pretending as if joining the Chantry was some gift-worthy occasion.
As the years and the anger passed he began to hate it for entirely different reasons. Many of the other Sisters and Brothers were as poor as they were devout, forgoing worldly possessions for the standard issue robes of the Chantry, and Sebastian's expensive armor made it impossible for him to look or feel as if he belonged there.
Sebastian looked into the carved white face on the front his belt and almost laughed at the state of his life at that moment. Had it actually been real?
She had to be somewhere on the ship, and while Sebastian didn't feel remotely ready to face her, he knew he didn't have much of a choice in the matter. Deciding his coat and boots were enough, he stepped out into the hall and headed in the direction of conversation.
The crewmen were all terse and busy, only giving Sebastian answers in the form of vague points and head tilts. It made finding the captain's quarters difficult, but he eventually came to a door marked with bronze detailing. He knocked and Isabela called for him to left himself in.
When he stepped inside he hardly recognized his companion. Her hair was now pulled back in a tight braid, leaving nothing to hide the various scars on her face and neck. She'd been given new clothes too; a pair of beige pants and a brown leather vest laced up over a red blouse.
She was sitting in a chair with Isabela kneeling in front of her. The captain was making adjustments to a metal contraption that resembled a cross between a cage and armor, with steel strips that ran vertically and horizontally around the mage's feet, ankles and shins. It had a tight fit to it, however, far tighter than any usual armor.
“There, better?” Isabela asked as she stood up and offered a hand to the other woman, who took it.
“Better,” she agreed. “Do you mind gathering the others? I would like to speak with everyone now.”
“Oh, goodie, story time. I'll be right back.” On her way out the door Isabela leaned in toward Sebastian's ear. “Feel free to make the most of your alone time.”
“That won't-” he tried to argue, but she obviously wasn't listening.
“You are no prisoner here, I would like for you to understand that,” the woman explained as she shifted back and forth, testing the feel of her braces. “The Maker chooses, but a Chosen with no drive or ambition is more a hindrance than a hero.”
“Chosen?” Sebastian echoed. “For what?”
“I am not the Maker, Sebastian. I do not make these decisions, nor do I understand them. I can only try to interpret to my own calling and recognize in others when they are trying to do the same. But that is something to discuss when everyone is present. Now that I have you here, alone, I would like to apologize for misleading you.”
Sebastian was at a loss for words. He still couldn't think of her as being who she claimed to be, even if his instincts in the Grand Cathedral demonstrated that some part of him absolutely did. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me? Do you even believe me now?” She paused for a beat to let him reply, his silence answering for him. “And I have no interest in exercising an authority earned through generations of lies on my behalf.”
“You look like a beggar,” they could hear Hawke saying from down the hall.
“It was all Isabela had,” Carver shot back. “I can't keep running around in the uniform of the Order. Not after I betrayed them to defend you.”
“Ugh,” Merrill groaned. “Please don't fight.”
“Just keep chewing on that ginger root, kitten,” Isabela told her. “It'll do wonders. And next time-” As soon as the group got to the doorway it was as if they were suddenly weighed down by the atmosphere. Everyone entered and stood arm's length apart, staring at various corners and spots on the floor. No one knew how to even start the conversation.
“So, you're Andraste,” Hawke stated outright. He shrugged and looked around the room. “What? Someone had to say it.”
Andraste nodded and motioned for everyone to step further into the room. Though she needed the support of the walls in order to walk, she was able to maneuver herself over to the door and shut it. “I am,” she said as she returned to her chair. Instead of sitting, however, she stood behind it and used the back to keep herself balanced. “I would like to tell you all the truth about where I come from and what I have done, if that is all right with you.”
Anders stepped forward with an imploring look in his eyes. “If you are willing to tell us, I would be honored to hear it. I... I cannot believe you're a mage. Or maybe I always did and I just never allowed myself to.”
Andraste stared at the floor and gathered her thoughts before beginning. “Some truth still remains in the Chantry's lore. I was indeed born in Denerim,” she stated, turning a bit to acknowledge Sebastian, “and my mother was named Brona. She and my father, Aloso, were the children of powerful Tevinter mages, but they were both born without magic. It made them pariahs in the Imperium. Their parents turned them into indentured servants and forced them to serve their own families as lesser citizens. After they met and found they had much in common, my parents would meet up every day after their families retired for the evening. Then, one night, they agreed to take all the coin they could steal and run south until the Imperium was wholly and truly behind them.”
“Oh,” Merrill sighed before clamping her hands over her mouth. “Sorry, it's just such a sweet story.”
“Do not worry yourself, it is a story I am proud of,” Andraste admitted. “My parents were not mages, and yet they were the strongest people I ever had the privilege of knowing. They felt blessed by every year that passed without me showing signs of magic, but they knew their bloodlines, and they understood that my being a mage was essentially inevitable. Their attempts at denial were shattered around the time I turned seven, but we all understood that the only place for me to receive proper training was in the Imperium, and I did not want to leave, so I taught myself to control my magic enough to pretend it simply did not exist.”
“What a... bizarre situation,” Anders observed. “I can't decide if it sounds nothing like the plight of mages today or exactly the same.”
“My parents had been honest with me about their experiences in Tevinter, so why would I want to go there myself? There was no hierarchy in our little fishing village. We were a community, and everyone pulled their own weight. I spent my days plowing my family's farmland on the outskirts of town, and at night my parents taught me old folk songs in their native tongue. My father spoke of my voice to the others in town, bragging about how he had a son to plow his fields and a daughter to sing him to sleep, all wrapped up in one child. I was able to live that lie until I was eighteen, but over the years my magic had grown as I did, and yet no one had been available to teach me how to control it. I did not want to break my parents' hearts, but I did not want to hurt them either. One night I climbed a nearby hill to contemplate my future, and I felt compelled to sing; as if my song were somehow an offer to the world in exchange for guidance. The response was subtle at first, but it eventually burned though me and ignited a sense of purpose the likes of which I had never experienced before, and that night I left to seek training in the Imperium.”
“The Maker called you to Tevinter?” Sebastian asked. “You went willingly?”
“I did not know at the time that it was the Maker who was the source, or better yet, I did not give a name to the divinity. Still, I arrived in the city to claim my birthright, and I was offered tutelage by my mother's parents. They were incredibly happy to have me there; to know that their daughter was a fluke and their line was still strong with magic. I excelled in my studies, and they did everything they could to train the young Denerim farmhand out of me. They stuffed me in gowns and painted my face and paraded me in front of their friends, having me perform magic to impress them. I would love nothing more than to tell you that I only tolerated that lifestyle for a few short years, but that is not the case. Instead I stayed for more than a decade, became a magister and even owned slaves, some of whom were from the Alamar region, same as me.”
“Boring,” Isabela complained. “This story is in desperate need of a racy, torrid affair.”
Andraste only smiled. “Patience, my dear Isabela.”
“You're joking,” the pirate accused.
“I was thirty-two when Ealisay showed up on the slave market in Minrathous. No matter where my travels took me, I never met a woman whose beauty compared to hers. She had been my best friend since childhood. We grew up singing together, and we had made-” she paused and grinned for a moment, her mind very obviously in the past, “-beautiful music together.”
Isabela stepped forward and, in one smooth glide, slid her legs along either side of the chair's back, seating herself with rapt attention. “Go on...”
“Isabela!” Sebastian snapped with far more intensity than he meant. He had no idea what his emotions were doing at that moment, listening to a woman who was supposedly Andraste detailing her life as a Tevinter magister. He wasn't sure if he was more upset about having been lied to by the leaders of his faith, or the disappointment that was learning the truth.
“Unbunch your panties, Choir Boy. Shouldn't you be happy that I'm taking an interest in your faith and your... lovely prophetess?”
“This is not my faith!” he yelled. When everyone turned to stare at him he sighed and rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “You will have to forgive me. This is, admittedly, a lot to take in.”
The gentle nod Andraste gave made Sebastian feel immediately forgiven, albeit still foolish. “I am telling you of my time as a magister not so you may know, but so you may learn,” she explained. “I bought Ealisay and took her back to my estate, but she did not work for me. Instead she shared my bed and my wealth, though she begged me every night to run away with her back to Denerim, or to at least release my slaves. I explained to her that without servants I would lose my social standing, and without the Imperium I would not have proper magic training, which was a lie considering I had finished my studies year before. Then one night I hosted a party, for no other reason beside social custom, and it somehow descended into a jealous, backbiting argument between many of us over bloodlines and abilities. One of the magisters, a petty little man by the name of Junius, decided to demonstrate his prowess by slitting Ealisay's throat and using her blood to summon enough Shades to kill most of the guests and destroy my home. When it was over I dug through the rubble looking for Ealisay's body, but there had been too much carnage for me to tell what was even left of her.”
There was an awkwardness which permeated the room during the ensuing silence. No one expected Andraste to take her hands off the back of the chair and sweep her eyes across the room, staring into each of them for a moment before moving on.
“I did not know what to do. I was so sure that I had been on my destined path, and yet being a magister had left me ashamed, alone and homeless. I packed a small bag and ventured back to that hill in Denerim, the last place I had felt any real purpose, and found my parents had both died in my absence. I prayed for guidance, any kind of guidance. I promised the world that I would be anything it needed me to be if it would only tell me what that need was. I vowed that I would use my abilities with confidence and yet with great humility, for I had already allowed it to consume my dignity and my compassion once before. To validate my promise I stood on that hill and I sang the first song my mother ever taught me, and I-” She paused and shook her head. “I cannot describe it. I felt... heard. I felt a grand sort of approval, suddenly justified in my desire to eradicate the oppression and the subjugation that I myself had once perpetuated. I intended on returning to Minrathous to convert other magisters, but half-way through my journey I received word that the Blight had begun again and was wreaking havoc across all of Tevinter.”
“Wait a second,” Hawke interrupted. “Did you say the Blight began again?”
“Ah, yes, your lore states that it was the first of the Blights,” Andraste remembered. “That is not true. I cannot tell you when the first Bight was or if the Imperium did indeed cause it, but there had been one before, and another before that. Only one during my lifetime, however. With Tevinter no longer an option I turned back to Denerim, knowing full-well that I was receiving a sign from the divine being to whom I had been praying. I sent word out that I was gathering an army, and I asked for an audience with the leader of the Alamarri militia. That is how I met Maferath.”
Sebastian closed his eyes but dared not make a sound in reaction to that development. A naïve part of him was hoping Maferath was another falsehood of the Chantry's lore; that no such a coward had ever actually existed.
“My, he was so strong,” Andraste recalled. “No magic, just whatever strength he had earned for himself. I respected him immensely, and I did not want to mislead him, so I told him everything. I told him about my abilities, my past, my destiny and my intentions. I told him I wanted to bring about the fall of the Imperium, and he tried to tell me it was impossible.”
“That's rather genius though,” Carver commented. “I mean, you gather and train an army while they're fighting a Blight, and once it's over you're primed and ready to strike.”
“That was the plan I presented to him, and he accepted it. I sent one small, brave company of messengers to the outskirts of the Imperium to track down escaped slaves and tell them to join our cause. There was one in particular I was hoping to get in contact with; the elf who had been my bodyguard while I was a magister. A man by the name of Shartan.”
“Shartan was- he was your slave?” Merrill asked.
“Yes, and luckily he had survived long enough to flee the Blight. One messenger tracked him to an elvhen settlement in the Arlathan Forrest where he too was gathering an army. Shartan almost had the man killed, which is not surprising considering he was carrying a letter from me of all people. When Shartan arrived with his army at our training camp in Denerim, he simply threw the letter at my feet and said 'the enemy of my enemy.' I promised his people their own land, and in return he taught me how to use a sword. While he did not have magic himself, he was aware of the ancient elvhen training given to those who wished to marry their magic and their strength into one cohesive combat style.”
“The Mihim'elgar?” Merrill asked. “You were one of the Arcane Warriors? There... there aren't even any left among the Dalish, and there hasn't been one for over a century. If you knew even a little of- Creators, the things we could do with that knowledge.”
“When we have the time I will teach you what I can, I promise,” Andraste told her. “Shartan's training prepared me well for the coming war, and between the Alamarri, the elves and the former slaves we had a powerful army. Maferath accepted my help in training them during the four years it took the Anderfells and the Imperium to stop the Blight. Eventually the soldiers came to regard us as their joint leaders, so it made sense for us to get married.”
She stopped for a moment then, and Sebastian thought he saw her grind her teeth in frustration. “No,” she snapped as if she were arguing with herself, “I am trying to be honest with you, and while it is easier to believe Maferath and I never once loved each other, and were wed out of convenience, that is not the truth. I felt as if he was a part of my promise to the Maker, and we even had a son together. Eventually, however, we received word that the Archdemon was in Minrathous, doing battle with the Grey Wardens, and that the Archon had been killed in the fight. When it was finally over and the last of the darkspawn had either retreated or been killed, we marched. Their armies were weak, they did not expect us, and they had just elected a new Archon, Hessarian, who had no idea what he was doing. We came up from the south and decimated their remaining armies, all the while torching their farmlands and tainting their fresh water. Every night we would celebrate our victories, and over time we began to develop a religious doctrine that expressed the ideals of our cause. Some of us were mages, and we recognized that the Imperium's hubris and sadism was not how we wished to be governed or represented. We formed a list of tenets, the foremost being 'Magic should serve man, not rule him.'”
At first Sebastian felt embarrassed by his grave misuse of the phrase throughout his life, but the more he thought about the circumstance of mages in Thedas today, the less it related to Andraste's situation. “But what of demons and abominations?” he asked. “Surely you understood the threat that mages were to themselves and others.”
“Really, this again?” Anders asked. “My, you really are an expert at being stubborn and redundant.”
“No,” Andraste interrupted. “He presents an important point.” She turned and faced the prince, giving him her full attention. “Though, as with many things I have said tonight, I do not believe the answer is what you would like it to be. Abominations are the result of inadequate training. In the Imperium, all mages must pass their Harrowing, and they are trained from birth to do so. If your Templars and your Chantry allowed mages to received proper mentoring instead of shunning their gifts, then you would not have a problem with possession. Instead you have left them to choose between passing their Harrowing and being locked up for the rest of their lives or living on the run, unchecked, as fugitives.”
As much as he hated to admit it, Sebastian had to acknowledge the logic in her argument. Only Circles had to resources to perform a Harrowing, and joining the Circle meant a commitment to what was basically life-long imprisonment.
“Moving on,” she began, “Maferath did not seem as invested in forming a new faith as I was. The army was beginning to favor my leadership to his, especially those human soldiers who surrendered themselves to the Maker's guiding light. Every night they asked me to sing of His glory, and over time I saw bitterness and jealousy begin to grow within my husband. We were on a highly successful war path, however, and did not have the time to entertain petty squabbles.” A bitter laugh escaped before she whispered to herself. “So petty...”
Sebastian stepped forward, awkwardly unsure of what to do with his hands. He wanted to comfort her, but he had no idea what would be appropriate. “If you do not wish to drag these memories to the surface, you do not have to,” he offered. Whether he believe her or not; whether he liked what she had to say or not, he was not the kind of person who enjoyed watching others suffer, and Andraste did not seem ready to relive her betrayal.
“It is not so simple,” she told him. “I remember that day as if I am stuck reliving it constantly. Maferath had gone out on a scouting expedition that lasted days longer than it was intended to, and when he returned he suggested we split the army, with him taking most of the soldiers for a frontal assault and me leading a small band in a flanking maneuver. When I stopped to await the signal at the hold point, however, I was ambushed by the Archon's wife, Lady Vasilia, and her army of magisters. Two people survived the attacked. Two,” she repeated with a grave and angry emphasis. “That was only because they wanted Shartan and I alive for a public execution, though that did not happen until a good two months after our capture.”
There was no explanation needed regarding what happened in those two months. Andraste's face became empty, and Sebastian felt tortured just from watching as her psyche tried to distant her from the painful memories.
“I rejoiced when they told me it was time,” she spoke in a monotone. “I was originally told I was set to be beheaded, as Shartan had been the week prior, but Vasilia would not have it. She wanted everyone to see what happened when the might of the Tevinter Imperium was questioned, both as a matter of pride and a matter of warning. In that moment I should have felt fear or, at the very least, a desire to escape,” she told them, her voice brightening a bit, “but I cannot remember a time when I had felt more calm. I... knew my death would have far more meaning than my life. As they tied me to the stake I noticed Archon Hessarian was conflicted and I told him, from the deepest part of my being, that I forgave him and that I hoped the Maker would heal his wounded soul. When the crowd threw their torches into the kindling at my feet I did not move or make a sound. Seconds felt like their own eternities as I stood there listening to them cheer on my torturous demise. I remember a brief glimpse of Hessarian running toward me with a sword in his hands and tears in his eyes before everything went black.”
“You... died?” Carver asked.
“Have you been at the Maker's side this whole time?” Sebastian wondered.
“Alas, I cannot tell you what happens after death, as I am sure that what happened to me does not happen to others. I... awoke- though I do not know if that is even a proper word for it- some time later to a cacophony of voices and complete darkness. It was not even drakness, it was just nothingness. Over time I came to realize that these voices were the prayers of the living. I listened to your civilizations as they morphed into what they are today. I followed the evolution of my teachings and watched as generation by generation it became a perverse power struggle in my name. It was frustrating and infuriating much of the time, but there were still moments of light that insured I never lost faith in our world.”
When Andraste reached down and began to undo the lacing on her vest everyone else in the room traded confused looks, but she continued to tell her story as she did it. “Not long after the Chantry in Kirkwall was destroyed I awoke somewhere in the area you refer to as 'The Wounded Coast,' still clad in the burnt remains of the prison garb I wore to my execution. My lower body was burned beyond recognition and my chest,” she said as she pulled her vest open and her shirt down, “had been impaled.”
The burns did not reach as high as the area Andraste had exposed, which was just above her left breast, but the scar there was far worse than the already-horrific wounds on her legs. This one looked to be from an impossibly deep wound that made it seem as if her skin had caved in. It was long, reaching all the way to her collar bone, but Sebastian could also see that it was mercifully clean and precise.
“I laid there for days,” she continued, letting go of her blouse so that only half the scar was visible, “hidden amongst the rocks, trying to relearn how a human body worked. I stumbled around, attempting to regain some mobility, but my legs were damaged to the point of being almost completely numb. I stole what I needed in order to survive, but when I overheard the mercenaries discussing the bounty on Anders' head I channeled enough magic to get myself through warning them off before I was...” she turned and eyed Sebastian thoroughly,“...interrupted.”
“If you were reaching out Anders and Merrill why was I the one who found you?” Sebastian asked.
“I wondered that myself,” she answered honestly. “I knew of you. I had heard your prayers and the prayers of your family. To put it bluntly I did not feel confident relying on you. During our travels, however, I began to reflect on the matter and I believe I am beginning to understand more about my purpose here. I know you probably have more questions, but I am weary and in need of rest. May I ask that we retire for the evening, and continue these discussions tomorrow?”
As much as it pained Sebastian to return to his room with the answer to his entire life's purpose still lingering on the horizon, he knew they had asked enough of her for the evening. “I am sure no one here wishes for you to continue under duress,” he assured her.
“Well, The Void's Deceit isn't going to steer herself,” Isabela dismissed as she stood up and dusted herself off. “If you ever want to get drunk and discuss what sons-of-bitches our husbands were, you know where to find me,” she added with a wink before she disappeared toward the deck.
Sebastian followed everyone else out as well, watching as Hawke and Anders went in one direction, Hawke bringing his hand up to gently rub at the back of Anders' neck. In the other direction Carver was leading Merrill down the hall by the small of her back, smiling and nodding and perhaps even listening as the elf prattled on excitedly about what they'd just heard.
He returned to his room but made no attempt to go to sleep. Instead he paced about the place and tried to think of what Andraste herself could possibly want from him. Hearing that he had a role in the Maker's plan, and what that role was, was all Sebastian had ever prayed for, and now he was being denied an answer. He knew his annoyance and his impatience were selfish, but the more he let it fester the more he needed to know something, anything about why it was he who was chosen to find her.