Chapter Text
The flames of ruin in Lothering reach toward the smoke dark sky like clawed fingers, streaking whirlwinds of flame in the heart of town. Smoke choked the air as the Hawke family gathers what few possessions they can carry, the sounds of battle drawing ever closer. Garret and Carver had burst through the door an hour before, speaking of absolute defeat at Ostagar. The king was dead and a nightmare horde was on the way.
Soon after the town was overrun by darkspawn, despite the sheer number of bear traps set around the fields. Their house was just on the outskirts.
"We need to move now," Garret said, his shield was on strapped to his right arm at the ready to used, while his left hand rests on his sword hilt. His warrior's training keeps his voice steady despite the chaos around them. "The darkspawn won't wait for us to finish packing.”
"We've been running since Ostagar!” Carver huffs out as he frantically fills a tiny knapsack, he takes the amulet with Peaches portrait.
Marian clutched her staff in her hands, with her measly bag already prepared and tied around her hips, electricity crackling faintly along the length of polished burned ash in response to her anxiety. "Come on, Mother, please. We have to go."
Leandra held a small portrait of Malcolm against her chest—one of the few reminders of her late husband she refuses to leave behind. "This was our home," she whispers.
"And it's gone," Carver said bluntly, "We can grieve later. Right now, we survive."
Bethany emerged quickly from her room, travel gear on and bag of supplies strapped to her back, she placed a gentle hand on their mother's shoulder. "Father would want us to live, Mother, we need to hurry. He'd want us to protect each other."
Everyone is outside without time for a parting glance to their home for the last 6 years. They ran for the hills, it was impossible to get to the imperial highway, it was completely overrun by monsters.
They'd been walking for nearly an hour when the first darkspawn emerged from the shadows, between the ruined trees blackened from flame and the taint’s corruption. Hurlocks, their monstrous visage barely recognizable as once-human, stride forward with twisted weapons raised. Garret immediately takes point, shield up, sword ready.
"Stay behind me," he commands. "Marian, Bethany—support from range. Carver, watch our flanks."
The battle is chaotic and terrifying. These aren't training dummies or people holding back, these are horrific creatures that want them dead. Marian's hands shake as she channels her first combat spell, frost shards that pierce darkspawn hide with wet, sickening sounds. Bethany fights down nausea as she watches her magic burn through flesh and bone.
But they work together. Garret holds the line while his siblings rain destruction from behind. They move well as a unit, covering each other's weaknesses. By the time the last hurlock falls, they're all breathing hard but uninjured.
"Is that... is that all of them?" Bethany asked, her voice small.
A shriek answers from above—that horrible, ear-splitting wail that gives the darkspawn their name. The creature drops from a jagged ledge above, all claws and speed and malevolent intelligence. This fight is harder, faster, more desperate. The shriek moves like liquid shadow, and only Carver's quick blade work keeps it from breaching the line.
When Marian's lightning finally brings it down, they all stand in the sudden silence.
"Small raid parties," Garret said, wiping blood from a shallow cut on his cheek. "Seven in less than a mile. And there are so many more out there."
That's when the ground begins to shake.
The ogre crashed through the remains of a stone wall like it was made of paper. Twelve feet of twisted muscle and bone, eyes burning with pure loathing. It spots them and roars—a sound that seems to shake their bones.
"Everyone back!" Garret shouted, but there's nowhere to go. The creature is too close, too fast.
It charges with deceptive speed for something so massive. Garret planted his feet, shield braced, but nothing could have prepared him for the sheer force of impact. The ogre doesn't charge his shield—it grabs it, massive fingers wrapping around the metal rim, and squeezes.
The sound is indescribable—metal shrieking, bones snapping, Garret's agonized scream was an awful din cutting through the night. The ogre lifts him by the shield, his arm trapped and crushing, then hurls him to the ground like a broken doll.
Garret hits the rubble hard and goes completely limp, unconscious from shock and pain. His shield remains twisted around what's left of his arm.
"GARRET!" Carver roars, raising his sword and charging forward in blind fury.
"NO!" Marian's hand shot out, ice magic freezing her brother in place just in time. Her staff crackled with building energy as more darkspawn poured into the clearing—drawn by the ogre's roar, by the scent of blood and terror.
"GET AWAY BEASTS!"
The lightning bolt that erupts from Marian's staff is unlike anything she's ever channeled before. White-hot and massive, it strikes the ogre center mass and chains outward, arcing to every darkspawn in the vicinity. The night becomes day for one brilliant, terrible moment as electricity dances between targets, and when it fades, nothing moves in the clearing but the Hawke family.
The ogre lies smoking, its massive form still twitching with residual energy. The other darkspawn are reduced to smoking piles of ash and charred bone.
Bethany is already running toward her fallen brother, her hands glowing with healing light. "Stay with us, Garret. Stay with us!"
Marian drops beside them, her face pale with shock. The acrid smell of burned flesh and ozone fills the air as she helps her sister channel healing magic into Garret's shattered form. But even as the magic works to save his life, they can all see the truth—the arm is beyond repair, crushed beyond what any healing can restore.
"I'm sorry," Bethany whispers, tears streaming down her face as she works. "I'm so sorry, but I can't—"
"Save... my life," Garret manages through gritted teeth and on the edge of delirium.
The healing magic flows between the sisters, knitting what can be saved, stopping the bleeding, fighting off potential infection and shock. But when they're finished, Garret's right arm is gone, severed cleanly at the shoulder—a mercy compared to the mangled ruin it had become.
"Oh Maker no, I should have been faster," Marian whispers, her voice breaking. "If I had just cast the lightning bolt a minute sooner—"
"This is your fault." Leandra's voice was like a blade, cold and sharp. Fear-fueled anger. "If you hadn't hesitated—if you had acted when you should have—" Leandra could barely get her words out, it was a furious babble the words crashing into each other.
The sound of the slap echoes across the ruined clearing. Marian's head snaps to the side, a red mark blooming across her cheek. It was a hard strike. Her mother had slapped her once before; because she was being wild at the market and was nearly crushed by a cart at 12, this was much worse.
"Mother!" Bethany gasps, looking up from where she's still tending to Garret.
"Enough!" Carver's voice cracks like a whip as he moves to step between Leandra and Marian. "Marian saved all our lives. That lightning bolt killed the ogre, or have you forgotten?"
"Your brother just lost his right arm because—"
"Because it’s a fucking Blight," Garret said, struggling to sit up with Bethany's help. His voice is weak. "Not because of anything Marian did or didn't do." He looks at his sister, seeing the way she holds herself—shoulders hunched, feeling like she deserved the scorn. "You saved my life. All our lives."
Leandra's face crumbled, grief and fear warring with anger. Tears stream down her cheeks as the reality of their situation crashes over her; one son maimed, everything familiar burning around them and losing herself to madness.
Before she can speak again, the sound of approaching footsteps makes them all freeze. Carver immediately moves to shield the group, his sword still drawn.
"Please," a woman's voice calls out. "We mean no harm."
A figure emerged from the smoky darkness—a tall, red headed woman in light plate armor, supporting a wounded templar whose breathing comes in labored gasps. Despite her obvious exhaustion, she carries herself with the bearing of a soldier.
"I am Aveline Vallen," she said. "This is my husband, Ser Wesley. We're fleeing Ostagar."
“Templar?” Carver spits it out like an insult. Weasley wheezed piteously against Aveline’s side and said, “I’m in no condition to go mage hunting, whelp.”
Bethany immediately moved forward, her hands already glowing with diagnostic magic. After a moment's examination, her face grows grave. "He's been tainted," she said gently.
Wesley manages a weak smile despite the corruption already spreading through his veins. "The darkspawn got closer than I would have liked." His voice is steady, but they can all see the telltale signs—the sweats, the darkening veins, the way his eyes occasionally lose focus.
"We should keep moving," Aveline said, her voice betraying her reluctance to leave her husband behind. "The roads are dangerous, but staying here with so much smoke and noise..."
As if summoned by her words, inhuman growls echo from multiple directions. More darkspawn, drawn by the sounds of battle and the scent of blood. Not feeling the weight of his shield, Garret instinctively reaches for his sword with his right hand, grasping with empty air where his arm should be.
"I can't—" he starts, frustration and helplessness warring in his voice.
"You don't have to," Marian said firmly. Lightning crackles along her staff, and her eyes burn with determination. "I've got this."
The battle erupts around them—a desperate fight in the burning ruins of their former home. Marian's magic lights up the night in brilliant displays of ice and lightning. Frost shards pierce darkspawn hide while electrical storms dance deadly patterns through their ranks. Carver fights beside her with reckless courage, his blade singing through the smoky air. Even Bethany adds her offensive spells when healing isn't immediately needed, fire blooming from her fingertips.
But the darkspawn keep coming. For every one they fell, two more seem to emerge from the shadows. Aveline fights valiantly despite her exhaustion, but Wesley can barely stand. Leandra huddles behind an overturned cart, clutching her husband's portrait.
Just when their strength begins to fail and hope seems lost, a roar sounded from the sky and shook the ground. A High Dragon rising out of the smoke, suddenly attacked raining black fire from the sky upon the darkspawn. As it lands in front of the ragged group, it glows and shifts and in its place stands a woman. Her hair shone with dark jewels in purple, black and blood red. It was styled like the horns of the dragon she just was. Her eyes glow amber like a great cat’s, holding depths of knowledge and power that no mortal should possess. When she moves, reality seems to bend slightly around her, like a bit of the Fade.
Marian is in awe. "Who are you?"
"Flemeth," Aveline breathed out, recognition and primal fear mingling in her voice.
The Witch of the Wilds smiled, and it was frightening. "Clever girl. Yes, I am she." Her gaze swept over their ragtag group, lingering on Wesley's tainted form and Garret's missing arm. "You're all rather worse for wear, aren't you?"
"Can you help him?" Aveline asked desperately, indicating her husband. "The taint—surely someone with your power could cure it? Right?"
Flemeth's expression grows…gentle, almost motherly, which somehow makes her more terrifying rather than less. "Child, the song of the Old Gods runs too deep in his veins now. But." She reaches into her robe sleeve and produces a small, ornate amulet that seems to pulse with energy. "I can offer you something else. A chance."
She presses the amulet into Marian's hands. The moment it touches her skin, Marian gasps—she can feel the magic contained within, ancient and powerful beyond measure. "Take this to my daughter in Kirkwall. Keeper Marethari of the Dalish. Tell her it's time."
"Kirkwall?" Leandra steps forward, hope flickering in her eyes for the first time. "But that's where we're heading..."
"Then fortune smiles upon you," Flemeth said, though her tone suggests she doesn't entirely believe in this fortune being kind. "Though the road ahead will test you all in ways you cannot imagine." Her ancient eyes find Garret's, and he feels as though she's seeing straight through to his soul. "Regret is something I know well. Take care not to cling to it, it poisons the soul. You'll learn that lesson well before journey's end."
With a casual gesture that belies the immense power behind it, she opens what looks like a tear in reality itself—a shimmering portal that shows glimpses of distant hills and morning light. "This will take you safely past the worst of the darkspawn hordes. But from there, you walk your own path."
As the family prepare to step through the portal, Wesley caught Aveline's hand with surprising strength. "I love you," he whispered, and his voice is clear as a bell despite the corruption ravaging his body. "Remember that. Whatever comes after, remember that I chose to love you every day we had."
Aveline's tears fall freely now, and she doesn't try to hide them. "I will. I promise. I'll carry it with me always."
Flemeth watches the exchange with ancient eyes, then speaks gently. "You know what must be done."
Aveline's hand moves to her sword hilt, trembling slightly. "I... I can't..."
"You can," Wesley said softly, covering her hand with his own. "You're the strongest person I know. Don't let me become something I'm not."
The Hawke family, understanding that this is a private moment, step through Flemeth's portal one by one—first Leandra, then Bethany helping Garret, then Carver with their few possessions.
Marian pauses at the threshold, looking back at the legendary witch.
"Why are you helping us?" she asks.
Flemeth's smile is enigmatic. "Pragmatism of course, young mage. Or perhaps because the wheel of fate requires a push now and then."
She looks at the amulet still clutched in Marian's hand. "Guard that well. I meant it for your hand. We stand upon the precipice of change. An inevitable plummet into the abyss. Watch for the moment... and when it comes, do not hesitate to leap. It is only then you learn whether you can fly."
Marian sees Aveline drawing her sword with shaking hands and Wesley's weak smile. She looks away and leaps.
Marian emerged onto a hillside overlooking the coast of the Waking Sea.
"Well," Carver finally said, "I suppose we keep walking."
Garret nods, already learning to balance differently without his right arm but he feels...unbalance. The phantom pain is constant. "Whatever it is that lies ahead. We'll be facing it together," he says simply, carrying the weight of an oath.
Marian considers her family—broken in some ways, scarred by loss, but undefeated. Her cheek still stings from her mother's slap, and she wonders if Leandra will ever forgive her for surviving when Garret was maimed. She feels the weight of Flemeth's amulet and it kindles something fierce in her chest. Whatever waits for them in that distant city, whatever trials and tribulations lie ahead, they will face them as Hawkes always have: standing against the storm and living to see the sun.
She imagines what it would be like to become a dragon; to rain down fiery death on her enemies and to simply fly across the sea.
Aveline catches up to them an hour into their journey down the coastal path, her sword sheathed freshly cleaned. Her hands tremble slightly and her eyes are red with grief. She falls into step beside Marian without a word, and their group feels complete now—bonded by circumstance and trauma.
The road to Kirkwall is before them, dangerous and uncertain. But they are alive and sometimes that is victory enough. The morning sun climbs higher, burning away the last wisps of smoke from Lothering, and with each step forward, they leave their old lives further behind.
Whatever they were before, everything they hoped to be—all of that has been stripped away by fire and blood. But from the ashes, something new will rise. The City of Chains no doubt has its own dark welcome waiting for refugees like them.
But they would fly again.