Chapter Text
The Blight arrived first in Lothering not as an assault, but as an echo, as ripples outwards from the place the stone had been cast.
First had been the whispers, the rumors of darkspawn spotted on the surface for the first time in ages. Then the proud, wild Chasind, running out of the Korcari Wilds with fear-brimmed eyes. Then King Cailan’s army, marching along the outskirts of town, many soldiers breaking off to visit the Chantry and pray. For victory, certainly, but many for quick deaths before the Blight could turn them into ghouls. Most, both.
Then the first wave of Ferelden refugees, farmers from the Banns to the south, those who had little faith in the Crown’s ability to stop the hordes of darkspawn. There were not enough Grey Wardens in Ferelden to stem the tides of a Blight, they whispered. And some answered that it was no true Blight, just one of the occasional Darkspawn surges to the surface, like Teyrn Loghain claimed. But few truly believed it, in their heart of hearts.
The whole town-- no, the whole kingdom-- was holding its breath, waiting for the battle at Ostagar to determine whether the ripples would become waves.
Among them was the Hawke family, continuing to eke out their meager living on the southern edges of the village, close enough to purchase the supplies they needed but far enough that the magic running deep through the family’s blood was just out of sight of the Chantry’s Templars.
Many refugees entered Lothering cold, hungry, injured, some so desperate that they came directly to the family’s front door to beg for aid, their numbers growing as the village’s small Chantry grew overwhelmed, its resources stretched thin.
It was heartbreaking for the family to have to turn them away, but what else could they do? They could not let people see Bethany’s magic, even if it could be used to help them. Instead, their mother would offer the refugees what little food and blankets they could spare and send her warrior children to accompany them into town, carrying their belongings or even the refugees themselves into the waiting hands of the Chantry.
For those that were injured, the family could not help. Not unless they were unconscious and wouldn’t remember Bethany’s hands over their wounds, mending the flesh and returning their strength. For those who could remember, Bethany was forced to keep her magic to herself, instead spending her days going to the Chantry to listen to the songs, pray, and aid the Sisters as they tended to the refugee camp. Nonmagical means, of course.
The risk of this was not lost on Leandra Amell, who worried after her apostate daughter just as much as she had worried after her apostate husband. Perhaps even more.
She constantly asked her oldest, Naiyah, to watch over Bethany, protect her. Not that her urgings were necessary-- protecting her younger siblings had formed the core of her identity. But the time for that was up.
“It’s a summons to the army, Mother,” Naiyah explained, dangling the letter in front of Leandra’s face. “Carver and I are to join the king’s forces at Ostagar and face the darkspawn.”
At this, Leandra gasped and covered her face, her eyes already growing fearful. “No… not my precious children, too!”
At this, Naiyah crossed her arms and scowled at her mother. “Come now, you didn’t really think we would stay as guards of a village forever, did you? We swore an oath to the Crown, remember? It’s time to make good on it.” She laid her hand on her mother’s shoulder, softening for a moment. “And besides… we need the coin.”
Carver was already on his feet, pushing his twin sister out of the way to begin packing his bags. “She’s right, mother. This is our chance to really do something! To bring honor to the Hawke name!”
Naiyah rolled her eyes, which Leandra seemed not to see. She merely sighed and collected herself, looking pleadingly up at Naiyah. “Please… protect your brother. Keep him safe; don’t you dare let those wretched creatures take him!”
We’re in different companies, so that’s going to be next to impossible , Hawke thought, but didn’t say so. Her mother was distraught enough already. “We’ll be fine, Mother! Have I ever lost a street brawl? Darkspawn have nothing on these ,” she joked, flexing her biceps for emphasis.
Leandra laughed. “I suppose you are right. Hurry then. Bethany and I will take care of the house while you’re gone.”
Behind her, Bethany groaned. “What, housework , Mother?! Is that really important when we have a monstrous army on our doorstep?!”
“It is when any other options mean you won’t be home when your sister and brother return-- you’ll be locked in the Circle.”
Ignoring Bethany’s protests, Naiyah and Carver got to work getting their bags packed and their Ferelden Military regulation armor strapped on. All the while, Naiyah fought to keep the atmosphere lighthearted, teasing Bethany for the marriage proposal she’d received from one of the refugees they’d helped, putting Carver into a headlock so that she could aggressively ruffle his hair. It was all a performance, of course. The sky seemed to be pressing down upon Ferelden, the weight of it only adding to all that Naiyah Hawke carried every day in desperate attempts to keep her family safe, together.
When everything was ready, Naiyah embraced her sister and mother in turn, tight enough to make their backbones remember her touch for quite some time. And then she lifted her greatsword, hooking it onto the back of her armor, and whacked Carver between the shoulderblades. “Alright, kiddo, let’s get going. Don’t want the general to think we’ve deserted.”
He grimaced at the nickname, but chose not to address it. “You think we’ll meet General Mac Tir?”
Naiyah shivered. “Maker, I hope not.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sure enough, Naiyah and Carver were separated almost as soon as they got to Ostagar. It was nigh inevitable, since as her younger brother, Carver had joined the Ferelden military a few years after she did and had been sifted in accordingly. The army would never turn down sword-arms as beefy as the Hawkes’.
The camp was a chaos of noise, the constant shouting of orders, of the clank of armor, of edges of blades grinding against blacksmiths’ whetstones, the barking, whining, and howling of Mabari hounds, the roaring fires, the eerie humming of magic from the Circle’s section of camp. It was everything and everywhere all at once, barely lessening even as day faded to evening, and evening to night.
After a long day of following orders barked out by self-important commanding officers supposedly directly from Teyrn Loghain himself, Naiyah was relieved to finally set up her tent, settling down in front of the bonfire for the night and sharpening her sword.
She wasn’t really cut out for being a soldier, she thought as she ran the whetstone over the blade’s edge. There was too much pageantry, too much ass-kissing in order to get any measure of respect. It was always “stand straight,” “look honorable,” “no stealing”... so irritating. But there was good money to be made as a soldier. Well, there was some money to be made as a soldier, one of few occupations that would pay for her particular skill set. Some part of her thought she would be better off as a mercenary-- at least then she’d be able to make her own rules. But she knew her mother still had nobility in her, wanting to see her children live respectable lives. Anything to throw off the aura of “apostate” that hung over their whole family.
Carver was much better at it than Naiyah was. Always eager to please, to prove himself. She knew that he felt as if she cast a shadow over him. Perhaps this battle would be good for him. Then he might stop hating her so much. But, well, a Carver who didn’t despise her was an incredibly odd thought. She tried to imagine her bitter, angry young brother smiling and thanking her for her help, like Bethany often did, and just found herself laughing and shaking the thought out of her head as she went to turn in for the night. Nah, Carver was only Carver when he was an ungrateful brat.
The following day was spent running drills, stifling yawns in the back of her hand, then pretending she hadn’t done so as soon as the Lieutenant got all up in her face about it.
“Are you tired, Hawke?!”
“No, Lieutenant.”
“If you need some more rest, please feel free! The darkspawn may just be gone by the time you wake!”
Behind her, some recruits snickered, but Hawke only fought a smirk, answering lightly, “Oh no, Ser, you misunderstand. I received plenty of rest. I only wonder if you intend to fight the darkspawn, or if you intend to stop the hordes by boring them to death with your endless prattle.”
The man’s face turned a delightful shade of angry red, and Hawke readied herself for the push-ups, shit-scrubbing, or other punishment he had in mind for her, but fortunately he was interrupted by the passing of King Cailan’s entourage, freezing his rage long enough to bow, though the king seemed not even to see him as he made his way to the entrance of the ruins to greet a new group of arrivals.
Hawke watched the king pass out of the corner of her eye, not wanting to draw more attention to herself than she already had, though she was too curious to avoid looking altogether.
King Cailan looked younger than he actually was, she noted. His face had a kind of… innocence to it, unwrinkled by the passage of time. He seemed eager, excited, completely unfazed by the oppressive fear that had settled over the land. He reminded her of Carver, honestly. Looked nothing at all alike, of course-- perfectly-groomed golden hair and shining golden armor compared to Carver’s black tangles and requisition steel-- but their mannerisms were similar.
The people he was going to greet-- Grey Wardens. Or, well, at least one of them was, the shining silver griffon emblazoning his shield catching the afternoon sunlight. But she didn’t get the chance to look closer, nor see the rest, since her lieutenant returned his attention to her company, barking more orders, though thankfully having forgotten her blatant insubordination.
It was only later, when evening came again and the bonfire in the Grey Wardens’ section of the camp was blazing high did Hawke see the blood-splattered Warden recruits as they returned from some mission in the Korcari Wilds. They passed her tent on their way to rejoin their Commander, too involved in their important business to notice a single soldier scarfing down her supper. Yet, one did. A tall woman, even bulkier than Hawke, with long, ginger hair tightly braided into a rope draped over her shoulder and a sword and shield slung over her back. Pausing in her banter with the handsome young man in Grey Warden armor who could not take his eyes off of her to glance down at Hawke as she passed, giving her an encouraging smile.
In spite of herself, Hawke felt her heart skip a beat. There was something about how the woman had carried herself that was so different from Hawke, the shine of the sword at her back, the kindness in her green eyes, that it made Hawke shiver. That, or the smooth curves of the sizable muscles under her studded-leather armor. Whichever.
But then the woman was gone, passing to the Warden-Commander, and Hawke was distracted by another soldier joining her at the fire, groaning as he commented on her “dramatic beauty.” Yes yes, long black hair and red lips did tend to draw attention. She liked the attention, of course (it kept it away from Bethany), but never with any plans on indulging it. Still, it was best to play nice, or she wouldn’t get paid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The nerves finally came to Hawke when it was time for the army to assemble against the darkspawn under cover of darkness. Orders trickled down from the top like sifted flour, always some of it left behind in the sieve. They were to fight with the Grey Wardens-- no, flank the darkspawn-- no, wait for the signal. It was maddening.
She saw her brother one last time as he followed his company into place, giving him a thumbs-up as he passed, which he returned only with a scowl. His company was to follow Loghain, waiting for the signal from the tower of Ishal, and charge when the time was right. Her company, meanwhile, stood behind King Cailan and the Grey Wardens, ready for the Darkspawn to be lured into a charge. They would see each other on the battlefield soon enough.
And then there was only the waiting, her muscles tensing against the rising silence. Her sword felt unusually heavy at her back as she stared out at the Korcari Wilds below them, as the first of the torches appeared through the trees.
One, then four, then ten, then hundreds, flickering bright with malice, illuminating flashes of shoulders, armor, twisted faces of demented men-like creatures. The horde was quiet, much quieter than she had imagined they could be. It was as if the Darkspawn swallowed all that was before them, even sound itself.
Dwarf-sized genlocks. Big, brawny Hurlocks. Their huge, helmeted alphas. And towering over them, horned shapes that turned even the prideful Naiyah Hawke’s bones to jelly. Ogres.
But she stood fast, stood firm. She had to. She was very near the front lines, only the Ash Warrior berserkers and their painted Mabari standing between Hawke and the Grey Wardens, though she noticed that the tall, ginger-haired woman from before was not among them.
The hope was that Hawke, with sweeps of her huge greatsword, would break the charges of oncoming Hurlocks, knocking them down so that those behind her with smaller blades could finish them off. She imagined Carver was in much the same position in his own company. Such a copycat, not that he’d admit it.
Silence, silence, silence. She smelled incense, glancing to see a Chantry Sister walk serenely by, whispering blessings and prayers to the Maker as she passed, her eyes so cold with fear that she would not meet Hawke’s.
Before her, she heard the king shout for archers, then the twang of hundreds of bowstrings from behind her. The call for hounds, their barks finally truly breaking the silence. They charged forward into the fires of the Darkspawn, pulling many down but there were so many more, so many, they were outnumbered, they were…
No. They were ready. They had reinforcements.
Hawke swallowed down her fear and tensed, seeing her Captain hold up a finger, indicating for them to wait for the King’s order.
“For Ferelden!”
At last, the tension snapped. Hawke’s hands flew to the hilt of her greatsword, sliding it off of her back as her feet and the tide of her fellow soldiers carried her forward, behind the Grey Wardens. Behind the king.
She met the charge before her eyes could make sense of it, swinging her blade in great arcs, large enough to cut down the monsters before they could get close enough to reach her with their own blades. With each swing, blackened blood sprayed into the air, and she was glad for the mouthguard of her helmet, keeping even a drop of it from crossing her lips.
All around her was the screaming, the hissing, the screeching of these unholy beasts, the clang of blades. Her body was moving quickly, faster, faster, as if with each beat of her heart she was cutting down another darkspawn, clearing the way for the soldiers around her. Her eyes were slower than her arms, somehow, barely fast enough to keep her from sweeping down her own allies in her fever-pace. But they were disappearing from her side so fast that it soon didn’t matter. The steel of Ferelden armor was vanishing behind a wall of writhing dark flesh.
She was terrified, more than she had ever been. For her own life, for Ferelden, for her mother and sister back home in Lothering if she failed to protect them here. And yet… she felt immense strength coursing through her veins. Her sword was… so light, all of a sudden. As if made of aluminum rather than steel. She forgot about her armor, her exhaustion. There was only the darkspawn all around her. An ogre, its heavy footsteps shaking the ground enough to destabilize her balance as it roared past her. Just slightly, but enough that she had to raise her sword quickly to parry the blow of a nearby hurlock.
Where was the signal?! Where were Loghain’s men?! Her brother?!
Light as her body felt, she was outnumbered. She had to step carefully over the corpses of men she had only just come to know. The man who had attempted to charm her around the bonfire only earlier that day.
But there was no time to think, to search. There were only the darkspawn.
And then a voice:
“RETREAT!”
She whipped around at the sound of her captain’s voice, meeting his wild eyes with her own. “Captain?!”
“Loghain has called the retreat!” the captain ordered.
“But the king! The king is still fighting! And the Grey Wardens!”
The captain grabbed her by the arm, the pupils of his eyes so dilated they were almost entirely black. “The king is dead. The Grey Wardens have fallen. The battle is lost. Run, Hawke.”
Her heart sank into her feet. It was all too much, too fast. She had to fight, she had to run, she had to cut down all of the darkspawn that had made it past her, so that they could not make it to…
“CARVER!”
Hawke swung her blade again, slicing clean through a genlock grunt. Her brother was somewhere on the battlefield, all the way on the other side of it, and only getting further. And now dozens, hundreds of darkspawn stood between herself and her brother.
The energy that had infused her at the beginning of the battle was still within her now, a fire in her veins that scalded at her flesh and muscle for every moment she was not in motion, not raging through the battlefield and tearing down every enemy in her path. It was empowering, but painful. This was not the first time this had happened, but never in all of her conflicts with wandering bandits and wild beasts had it burned inside of her so fiercely. Never had the fever of battle raged so intensely.
Across the writhing hordes she saw the glint of torchlight against the armor of the Teyrn’s receding forces, but not all had turned away from the battle. Those on the edges of the company were making contact with the Darkspawn that had pushed through the king’s scattered lines, keeping them occupied while the rest of the force pushed back across Ostagar’s main bridge.
Hawke’s legs surged underneath her, the darkspawn lines breaking under her sword, under her boots. She ran, ran, ran, faster than her armor should have allowed, cutting down the grunts in her path and dodging the blows of any enemy larger, ducking the swing of an ogre’s huge fist and cringing as it collided with the armor of her Captain instead, who had attempted to follow in the path of carnage she made. But she could not afford to care. Her commanding officer was unimportant compared to her brother.
She felt a sting in her side, retaliating with the pommel of her sword to knock down its source, then ignoring it.
And then she was there, scanning through the faces of the retreating forces, listening for her brother’s whiny voice. But they were all wearing helmets, not looking for her.
A sword came down just behind her, and she heard the gurgle of a dying genlock as she spun to find the source of the blade.
“How did you get here, Sister?!”
“Carver! Why are you still here?! You should be running!”
“Why, jealous of how many darkspawn I’ve killed?”
“I-- yes, of course, that is what is on my mind instead of saving your stupid ass. Now let’s go!”
She grabbed him by the arm, hauling him away from the hurlock that was about to plant its blade in his unprotected back, even as he resisted her, pulling out of her grip and pointing down at the wound in her side.
“Naiyah, you’re bleeding!”
She hadn’t realized it. The sting had been a blade, one she hoped had not given her the Blight. But she did not feel it. No pain, no blood loss. There was only the running, the fighting.
“Don’t worry about me; let’s get out of here!”
She grabbed his arm again, shoving him ahead of her, behind the receding army, but paused when she heard the beating of enormous wings, a sound that would chill the blood of any warrior facing darkspawn. Could it be? Could it truly be an Archdemon?
She turned to look, still holding her greatsword at the ready, but she was not relieved when she saw a giant eagle descend upon the Tower of Ishal, rather than a Blighted dragon. But it seemed entirely uninterested in the fleeing human forces. And there was not time enough to puzzle over its presence.
Naiyah merely turned back toward her brother, swinging her sword into its hook on the back of her armor. And then they were going across the bridge, the fires and plague of the darkspawn surging behind them. But the Hawkes were fast. They were leaving the battle behind. The Grey Wardens, the king… the possibility for glory.
As the fires of Ostagar faded into the distance behind them, so did the flames burning through Hawke’s body. There was only the sound of her feet against the stone and dirt, the clanging of her brother’s armor next to her.
Finally she was forced to slow down, to look down at the wound. A dagger jab, done from something that had managed to get through the wide arcs of her huge blade. Not as bad as a sword, but deep enough.
She was about to bandage it when she felt a hand at her side, and followed it up to the kind-looking face of a white-haired elderly mage woman, who frowned down at the source of the blood. “You have come very far from the battle with such a grievous wound, child.”
“I’m a very strong girl,” Hawke joked, watching as the mage’s hands began to glow, just like her father’s had every time Naiyah had come home after a particularly nasty street brawl. “You’re from the Circle, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I will be on my way there, soon. But I will stay as long as I can to tend to the injured.”
From behind her, Naiyah heard her brother quip, “oh, what a relief, a mage who isn’t an apostate, for once.”
Naiyah rolled her eyes, focusing on the mage. “Ignore him. I would be grateful for your aid.”
The mage nodded, bringing her hands back to the wound, still glowing. She seemed confused for a moment as she looked at it, her brows furrowing intently. But she said nothing about it before she straightened, smiling. “Your injury has closed. You are lucky-- despite all of the darkspawn blood on your person, none of it seems to have reached you.”
“Ah yes, incredible luck, which puts me at the center of a losing battle against unholy beasts, led by a paranoid traitor,” Naiyah paused, reaching into her armor for her coin purse. “Thank you for your help, uh…”
“Wynne. And there’s no need to pay me. We mages of the Circle are here to tend to the soldiers.”
“And yet I see you haven’t tended to your own wounds,” Hawke pointed out, gesturing to the woman’s twisted ankle.
Wynne’s lips twitched at that, but she elected to ignore it. “I will be fine. And if not, if it is my purpose to die here, then I know that I will have died ensuring that what is left of King Cailan’s army is able to return to their homes.”
She smiled at Hawke, and then at Carver, who was still bonding with the soldiers who had been with him in battle, reveling at their compliments. To them, he certainly must have seemed a hero, cutting through the darkspawn charge with arcs of his huge blade. But none of them had really seen the horror of the Blight. They had not been at the front of the battle, the middle of the nightmare.
“And where are you and your brother returning to?”
“Lothering,” Hawke admitted. “Not far north. I… only pray that we are able to reach it before the horde does.”
Wynne patted her shoulder. “Then you should not tarry here. I wish you luck, child.”
She nodded, turning back to her brother and continuing to urge him forward. “Come on, hero, it’s time to go home.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
They arrived back home just after the Blight’s newest ripple. Refugees were flooding into the village at an increasing rate, all of the farmers whose faith that the king’s army would save them had come to an abrupt end as darkspawn poured out of Ostagar.
There was not space for them all, not tents for them all, and certainly not food for them all. Children searched for mothers that would never return to them, old women begged on the streets for spare coin to spend at corrupt merchants. It was a pitiful sight.
As she came in view of the refugee camp, Naiyah heard barking and saw her Mabari hound, Muffin, come barrelling towards her. For a moment, she got a flash of the Ash Warriors’ hounds charging the lines of darkspawn, but shook it away just in time for Muffin to come to a halt in front of her, leaning his heavy body against her exhausted legs, obviously looking to get pettings.
And she would not deny them. “Oh yes, who’s a good boy! You are! Have you been listening to Bethany? Have you been helping Mother?”
Muffin wagged his little stub of a tail wildly, and Naiyah surmised that probably meant that he’d happily been kept busy.
“Oh, you nasty brute, you were supposed to be helping!” she heard Bethany shout, and couldn’t restrain her smile. It was good to be home again.
Her sister came around the corner at a dead run, stopping when she saw her siblings. “Oh, Maker’s blessing! Naiyah! Carver!” She hurried to embrace them, relief clear on her face. “We’ve heard such awful things from the soldiers and refugees. And they said that you were near the front… Mother was worried you would not come back. I told her that was ridiculous, of course. It would take more than a few darkspawn to stop MY sister…”
She looked down at Muffin. “And I suppose your master coming home is why you suddenly abandoned your hunting mission?” She rubbed his muzzle affectionately. “He was supposed to be using his big nose to find a little girl’s lost doll.”
Muffin barked up at her, then ran off, presumably to continue his mission.
Naiyah watched the dog disappear into the abandoned farmlands, then straightened and turned to Bethany. “We have to move, Sister. The darkspawn are coming. With the king’s forces devastated and Loghain’s marching back to Denerim, there’s absolutely nothing to stop them from tearing right through Lothering. I’m good, but if I could stop an entire army, I wouldn’t be here right now.”
Bethany blanched, frowning out at the refugees. “We can’t just leave them, Naiyah. They just got to safety.”
Carver pushed past them, calling over his shoulder, “there won’t be anywhere safe, soon. They either move or they die.”
Bethany looked back at Naiyah, who shrugged. “That. yes.” She patted her sister on the shoulder, then accompanied her back through the growing refugee camp, passing the Chantry just as Muffin came running back to them with a wet, dirty doll in his mouth.
“Oh, what a good boy!” Naiyah cooed, scratching him behind the ears. “Now let’s go find that toy’s owner, alright?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bethany would not leave until the refugees did. And the Hawke family was not leaving without Bethany. So here they were, still in Lothering, just waiting for disaster to reach them.
The quiet was maddening. After the battle-fever that had pulsed through her in Ostagar, Naiyah couldn’t bear standing still. While Leandra hurried to gather enough supplies for the journey, Carver bragged to the village girls about how many darkspawn he’d killed, and Bethany helped the Chantry Sisters begin to evacuate refugees, Naiyah occupied herself with eliminating beasts lurking on the edge of town, the scavengers growing monstrous on corpseflesh. Anything to distract herself from the waiting.
She cut down yet another giant spider, then swiped a gob of its venom off of her armor with disgust. After digging her hands into the crushed abdomens to search for undigested coins, she turned back toward the village, passing a pair of middle-aged women leaning against a hut’s wall.
“Did you hear? They say Grey Wardens killed the king!”
Hawke felt a lump form in her throat as she passed the gossiping villagers, trying to continue looking nonchalant, not obviously listening.
“But they’re heroes! Warriors against the Blight!”
“Maybe that’s just what they want us to think.”
Naiyah grimaced. So that was Teyrn Loghain’s official story, huh? Revolting. And to think she’d thought of him as a hero.
But starting fights now would just get her labeled as treasonous. She was already halfway toward deserter, so it wasn’t that much of a stretch. Better not to make waves, no matter how much the blatant lies disgusted her.
But as she passed out of earshot of the gossip, she instead came into view of a huge cage at the edge of town, housing a massive, dark-skinned, stonefaced… man? No, there was something off about him…
“Impressive, isn’t he?” a drunk sitting next to the cage mumbled to her. “That thing’s a vicious murderer, one of those Qu.. Quari…”
“Qunari? The horned beasts at war with Tevinter?”
“Yeah, them things.” He hiccupped. “But this one don’t got any! Weird, innit?”
Hawke nodded. “Yes… weird.” And very cool. He looks like he could be handy with a sword. I wonder if I could spring him out… do I know anyone who can pick locks?
But her thoughts were interrupted by the drunk’s continued rambling.
“And this one’s the worst of the lot. Murdered a whole family just tryin’ to help him! Can you believe that! So the Revered Mother, she says… we’re gonna leave him here for the darkspawn to take. And good riddance! Better him than me!” He began to cackle, and Naiyah turned away from him, frowning back at the Qunari warrior.
“Nothing to say, big guy?”
“No.”
“Wonderful.”
She turned away, musing over his use as a decoy, then began to make her way back to the Chantry, looking around for Bethany. She found her chatting with a red-headed Sister who had a charming smile and a slight Orlesian accent. But the red-headed woman smiled and headed back into the building as Naiyah approached, poking her sister in the back with a giant spider leg she’d pulled off of one of her kills. “Hey, Mother says supper will be ready soon.”
Bethany turned, realizing what she was being touched with and smacking it away with a disgusted expression. “Eugh, Naiyah! How am I supposed to eat after seeing you with that ?!”
“What? It’s harmless. Basically a crab leg.”
“Not even remotely the same. Though I do wonder if it would smell the same if you cooked it…”
“Ah, I knew you were the cool twin. I did it to Carver earlier and he screamed and cut it in half with his sword. Such a waste of perfectly good spider leg.” She grinned, swinging the leg out in front of her. “Hey… should I eat it?”
“No.”
“Man, you really convinced me. Can’t believe you’re making me do this!”
When they got back to the house, Naiyah stuck part of the leg into the soup pot to boil and then went back outside and used the other part to play fetch with Muffin.
“I feel so awful for the new refugees,” she heard Bethany complain to their mother through the open doorway. “They say some highwaymen have taken residence just outside the town and are demanding a whole ten silvers just to let anyone through! The brutes!”
Naiyah threw the spider leg again and watched Muffin shoot after it. “We should totally kill them.”
“ Naiyah!” Leandra scolded.
“What?”
“We are not ruthless murderers!”
Naiyah shrugged. “Alright, alright, no murder. I’ll just almost kill them.”
Before Leandra could argue, Carver came home from his own patrol, narrowly avoiding the dog barreling past him with a giant spider leg in its mouth.
“Mother, is supper ready? I’m starving.”
“Hard day trying to seduce girls with your combat prowess?” Naiyah interrupted. “Get any bites?”
“Not when my sister keeps showing up covered in ichor and waving around spider legs.”
“I know , they just couldn’t keep their hands off of me!”
She laughed at Carver’s glare and walked back inside to the soup pot to pull out the now-cooked leg, giving it a sniff. “Oh, Bethany! It really does smell just like crab!”
Leandra pushed them both toward the table, shaking her head. “That’s enough , children. How can you make jokes at a time like this?!”
“Now’s the perfect time to make jokes,” Naiyah argued, dropping into her seat at the table, then cracking the leg in half and digging out the flesh with her finger. “The whole world’s a joke.”
Leandra appeared to ignore that last comment, collapsing into her chair. “We’ve finally been able to stay in one place long enough to form a life, only to have to leave because of beasts pouring out of the wilds!” She sighed, staring blankly down at her bowl of (spider-tainted) soup. “I wish your father were here. He would know what to do.”
“ I’m here, Mother,” Naiyah consoled, dropping the humor for the moment, even as she fought the urge to spit out the spider meat she’d just put into her mouth.
“Yes… you’re… you’re right. Your father would want us to do our best to help the town that has taken such good care of us. I just… there will be so much we have to leave behind…”
“It doesn’t matter, Mother,” Bethany attempted, taking her hand across the table. “We have each other.”
Leandra smiled weakly. “Of course. I have my beautiful children. I’m so… proud of all of you. I just… couldn’t bear to lose any of you.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next day, Naiyah was plenty prepared to go beat some fear of the Maker into the highwaymen’s thick skulls, only to find out that apparently someone else had done it for her.
According to a relieved refugee, a group of three adventurers had run them out, two of them as well-armored as the king’s soldiers had been.
Interesting, Naiyah thought, resting the flat of her blade against her shoulder and looking out at the ruined road. Now who could that have been?
She shrugged and returned to town to help the refugees who could leave do so. The more of them got on the road ahead of her, the better she felt. And the more they worked, the more they heard about the adventurers in town. How they’d made potions for the Elder to distribute, “convinced” the sniveling weasel of a merchant to lower his prices, and even made traps and poisons for the farmers who remained in the town. They seemed like real goody-two-shoes.
She didn’t get a glimpse of the adventurers herself until she was working with Bethany to carry water from the well to the Chantry. Just out of the corner of her eye, a flash of ginger hair in the late afternoon sunlight. She paused, staring at the woman, who was gazing curiously up at the imprisoned Qunari, listening as the busty, dark-haired woman at her side was talking.
Bethany followed her gaze, shifting the water buckets in her grip. “Is that woman… an apostate? She’s so… obvious; I can’t believe none of the Templars have caught her!”
Naiyah shook her head, turning away. “I think the Templars in Lothering are too busy pissing in their trousers to worry about apostates, Sister. You could probably light your hands up right now and no one would notice. Also…” she stepped closer to Bethany, lowering her voice. “Those adventurers… they’re Grey Wardens.”
Bethany gasped, about to turn around, but was stopped by Naiyah’s arm. “What, really?! How do you know?!”
“Shhhh… Loghain is spreading word that the Wardens killed the king. But I saw the battle myself-- I know it’s not true. So I don’t want to incriminate them when they’ve done so much to help. But I saw them in Ostagar. Not the mage, but the other two.”
“Do you think Carver knows?”
Naiyah shook her head. “No… he was in a different part of camp.” She sighed, pushing forward. “I guess I’d better tell him, or he’ll just accuse me of keeping secrets later.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
After that, the Hawke family was far too busy to pay any attention to the Wardens’ exploits in the town. They had to pack what they could carry, sell or give away what they could not. Get as many refugees as possible bandaged and on their feet, whether through magic or not. For a while, she even forgot about the Wardens entirely, until she noticed that the cage on the edge of town was empty.
When she saw it, she paused in her job of chopping wood for the Chantry’s fires, turning to the Revered Mother and asking, “what happened to the Qunari?”
The Revered mother pursed her lips disapprovingly. “A… treasured Sister convinced me to offer the creature mercy, as one of the Maker’s children. That he can pay for his crimes in the service of the Grey Wardens, rather than with his life.” She paused. “I am still uncertain it was a good choice.”
Naiyah forced a gasp. “Whaaat? Grey Wardens?! Here?! I thought they all died in Ostagar!”
Bethany rolled her eyes, but said nothing.
“No, a pair of them escaped,” the Mother answered, apparently oblivious to Naiyah’s acting. “If the Maker wills, they will be able to stop this Blight.” But she pursed her lips again, folding spare blankets with renewed vigor. “Of course, it was only after I handed over the keys to the cage that I discovered that same respected Sister had started a brawl in the tavern.”
Naiyah barked a laugh. “Oh, I wish I had seen that! Which sister was this?!”
The Revered Mother glared at her. “Sister Leliana, if you must know.”
“Who is…?”
She sighed. “You would know her better if you ever visited the Chantry, Naiyah Hawke. But until recently I have seen precious little of you.”
Naiyah shrugged. “What can I say? I suppose I prefer living in the Maker’s world to sitting in some old building and thinking about it.”
The Revered Mother opened her mouth to argue, then closed it, apparently stumped. But then she chuckled, admitting, “you sound like Sister Leliana.”
Naiyah and Bethany laughed, grabbing the blankets and firewood they had been gathering and bringing them into the Chantry to hand over to the hardworking Sisters.
Her burden gone, Naiyah stretched, yawning as she pushed open the Chantry’s doors. “I’m not sure whether I should take that as a compliment or--”
She froze, her eyes on a group of torches in the distance.
“Hmmm… more refugees?” Bethany suggested, already walking toward the flickering lights.
“Yes… refugees…” Naiyah muttered, even as the torches seemed to multiply before her eyes.
But then the screams reached them. The last ripple before the true wave crashed down upon them. Screams, distant at first, then growing closer, louder, more panicked.
“DARKSPAWN!”
Both Bethany and Naiyah were in motion long before the screams could be heard as words, rushing back to their house, their mother, their brother.
And then it was chaos, the screams, the blood, and there was no more time to waste.
“EVERYONE RUN!” Naiyah shouted, for all of Lothering to hear. “Forget your belongings; preserve your lives!”
She could not afford to listen to the footsteps behind her, the Templars rushing out of the Chantry… but not to kill darkspawn. They merely disappeared. And without them, with so many lives on the line it suddenly no longer mattered that Bethany was an apostate. Magic surged through her sister’s fingers, freezing, shocking, burning all that stood between them and their family.
Leandra and Carver met them in the center of town, the Hawke family home already burning behind them. “We’re too late!”
“We have to get everyone out!” Bethany argued.
“Okay, okay, we’ll stay as long as we can. But the moment there’s too many for us to handle, we’re leaving. You understand me, Sister?!” Naiyah shouted, even as she slung her sword out from her back.
“Good! For Lothering!” Carver shouted, already charging into enemy lines.
“Carver, stop charging in like that!” Naiyah chastised, following him in with her own blade.
“Why?! You do it all the time!”
She could not argue with that. She could only focus on stemming the tide, reducing the number of darkspawn that could reach the refugee camp, hoping it would buy them enough time to run. But she also knew that her mother would not leave her children behind, so she would stay although she herself was defenseless.
“Muffin! Stay with Mother!” she ordered her Mabari, even as she cut the head off another hurlock. Muffin barked the affirmative, dropping into a protective crouch at Leandra’s feet.
Naiyah, Carver, and Bethany just focused on holding the beasts back, holding them back, holding them back, but they could not hold the horde’s lines alone. They were gradually getting pushed back, past the Chantry, into the fragile tents of the refugee camp.
Fortunately, they were only seeing genlocks and hurlocks, not the alphas or ogres that had crashed through the lines at Ostagar. But they knew that they were running out of time.
Finally, Naiyah shouted over her shoulder, “Mother, we have to go! Anyone who could have escaped has done so already. If we don’t join them now, we won’t get the chance to!”
Leandra nodded, and the siblings broke away from the battle, running as fast as their legs would take them out of the burning village. But by then, the darkspawn had completely flanked them. If any refugees had escaped, they had long lost sight of them.
They hurried through the hills, thankful for the rough terrain for breaking up the enemy forces enough for the siblings to knock them out of the way. But they couldn’t keep this up forever, even with the battle-fever coursing through Naiyah’s veins again. They ran north, then east, and still, there were darkspawn. Too many for Naiyah to fight and protect her mother and siblings. They had nowhere left to turn.
Then Bethany, coming to a halt. “Wait… where are we going? ”
“Away from the darkspawn, where else?” Carver shot back.
“And then where? We can’t just wander , aimlessly.”
“Well why not? I always wanted to wander aimlessly,” Naiyah quipped.
Leandra ignored her, seeming lost in her own thoughts. And then… she suggested they go to Kirkwall. Where they had family.
Bethany was aghast. “There’s a lot of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother.”
But since no one had any better suggestions, to Kirkwall it was. If, as Carver pointed out, they survived long enough to even get to Gwaren and get a ship to the Free Marches.
And of course, as soon as they had a destination, more darkspawn appeared. They were still just more grunts, easy to slice through, but it meant an end to their conversation. But they were not alone on the battlefield. As Naiyah brought her sword down on another hurlock skull, she caught a glimpse of blood splattered on ginger hair and wondered, for a moment, if she had caught up to the Grey Warden woman.
But no, the woman she saw and heard desperately striking down darkspawn was not the same as the one she had seen first in Ostagar, then in Lothering. She was not quite so tall, nor her hair quite so long. And her eyes did not hold the same gentleness, though perhaps that was because she was locked in combat protecting an injured templar. One with a stab wound in about the same place Naiyah had had one.
Naiyah was still rather impressed when said non-Grey Warden warrior decided to punch the offending hurlock into submission before slicing its head off.
She helped the mystery woman clear out the last of the darkspawn group, but Wesley, as the woman referred to him, was past help. Especially since, just as Bethany moved forward to try to heal his wound, he jumped up and demanded, “Apostate! Keep your distance.”
Bethany drew to a halt, suddenly disgusted. “Ugh, the Maker has a sense of humor. Darkspawn and now a Templar? I thought they all abandoned Lothering?”
“The Darkspawn are clear in their intent. But the mage is always unknown. The Order dictates--”
Okay, now Naiyah was disgusted, too. Some Templars were respectable enough, but she hated when they got all high and mighty on her. Unfortunately, the latter far outnumbered the former. And this one, even at his wife’s urgings, seemed not to get the hint.
“The Order dictates--”
He stepped toward Bethany, and Naiyah instantly moved into his way, drawing up to her full height and glaring directly into his eyes. Challenging him. She did not care if he was a possible arm against the darkspawn. She would kill him if he threatened her sister.
Fortunately, his ginger-haired wife, Aveline Vallen, as she introduced herself, was finally able to talk some sense into him.
After more arguing, Naiyah decided that Aveline, at least, was likeable. Especially when she said, “we fell to betrayal, not the darkspawn. This arm of the darkspawn will not have the same advantage.”
It summarized her own experience in the battle perfectly. Even so many days after it had happened, Naiyah was still haunted by the thought of how differently the battle would have gone if Loghain’s men had charged, like they were supposed to.
But they didn’t have time to dwell on such thoughts. Though she wasn’t excited about going directly back south, she also would rather take an arm of the horde than the main body. South it was.
More darkspawn. Many, too many. She was happy to have another warrior at her back, even as Carver revelled in his battle skills. But he was still so young. So impulsive. He was strong, yes, but he wasn’t as fast as Naiyah. And the proof of that came when they reached the clearing at the top of the hill.
The dust and smoke all around them made it difficult to see. She felt the ogre coming before she saw it, felt its footsteps pound against the packed dirt, giving them time to duck out of the way of its charge. And then it turned toward Mother, and Carver.
“Soulless bastard!” her brother shouted, charging it, sword in hand.
“Carver, NO!”
The ogre lifted him in its hand like a child’s toy, throwing him against the ground once, twice, again, again, each toss punctuated by the sickening crunch of his bones.
For a brief moment, Naiyah Hawke’s world stopped.
She saw her brother crumpled on the ground. His angular face shattered. His eyes shut, his snide, arrogant mouth… completely silent. And that was the first moment in all eighteen years she’d been taking care of her twin siblings that Naiyah had completely, truly...
Failed.
From the moment the twins were born and her father was laying her tiny, fragile brother into her lap and making her promise that she would protect them.
They’re going to rely on you, Naiyah. You’re a big sister, now. You have to keep them safe.
Failed.
Don’t you dare let those wretched creatures take him!
Failed.
But there was no time to grieve. The ogre, the thing, the monster that killed her brother-- her brave, proud brother, who just earlier that day was bragging about how many darkspawn he killed-- was still standing.
Her throat filled with bile, but her arms and legs were moving. She charged the ogre herself, dodging its fist, just like she had in Ostagar, then thrust her greatsword through it once, twice, trusting Muffin to keep her mother safe. She had to do this. She would not be complete until she did this.
She felt like her body was splitting in half, a tear that began in her heart and spread outwards, but she was moving. Striking.
The ogre fell, and yet she did not stop to celebrate it. There was nothing to celebrate now. She merely charged across the battlefield, crashing into a trio of darkspawn that had chosen Bethany as their new target.
You will not take anything else from me, Naiyah thought, bringing her sword down again, again, again, again, until all three were dead, and then again with those in front of her mother.
Blood splattered everywhere. She did not care. Beauty was the furthest concept from her mind, until finally the field was clear. She stood in a pool of gore, blood. Much of it from the darkspawn. But some of it, enough of it… from her brother.
She dropped her sword, letting it clatter against the ground as she ran to her brother’s crumpled body, where her mother was already pleading for him to get up. That he was fine.
“I’m sorry, Mistress,” Aveline consoled. Then, quieter, gentler, “...your son is gone.”
“No! These things will not take Carver…”
Naiyah dropped into a crouch, her insides twisting as she looked between her brother and her mother. “Carver… was a hero, mother.”
“I don’t want a hero!” Leandra snapped, her eyes cold as she looked up at her eldest child over her son’s corpse. “I want my son! How could you let him charge off like that?! Your little brother! My little boy…”
Naiyah closed her eyes, clenching her fists. She didn’t let it happen. She would never have let it happen! But...Carver had never listened to her, anyway.
But she hadn’t tried hard enough.
She could not have stopped her brother.
Couldn’t she have?
He was a grown man. He made his own choices.
But wasn’t it her responsibility to save him from his choices?
It all happened so fast.
But she could have been faster.
Her mind was swirling, battling with itself. Paralyzing her. Only Bethany’s voice pulled her out of it.
“But we can’t stay here.” Her voice cracked, tears forming in her eyes. “Carver wouldn’t want his sacrifice to be meaningless.”
Naiyah swallowed down the bile, taking the moments offered by Ser Wesley’s prayer to put herself back together. To pick her sword off of the ground.
Carver would want them to stay together, to keep moving. But would he? What would Carver want? She’d never understood what Carver wanted. ...But she had to say he would because she couldn’t… she couldn’t fail in her promise to keep Carver safe only to fail in her promise to her father to keep her mother safe, to keep her sister safe, she couldn’t keep failing, she had to keep moving. She didn’t have time to cry, to weep, to grieve.
She had to fight. Fight. Fight. Survive.
And she did, even as more darkspawn appeared. She relied on Bethany to take down some, but there was no end to them. She didn’t know what to do.
And then a shadow fell over the clearing.