#OH AND there's the burning down of Starkhaven's Circle and those mages coming to Kirkwall and trying to escape + turning to blood magic

[starkhvn]

When it hits me out of nowhere that some conspiracy theorists must say Sebastian helped Anders sneak those explosives into the Chantry. Who better to do it than a brother of the faith and right hand to Her Grace?

[shannaraisles]

Rylen Appreciation Week - Day 1

[Read on AO3]

Knight-Captain Rylen, the Templar

"This is insubordination! I am your commanding officer!"

Knight-Captain Rylen looked back at Ser Bevan, Knight-Commander of Starkhaven, from across the wide desk.

The title was a technicality only - there was no Circle in Starkhaven, hadn't been for years, not since the fire that had gutted their tower and destroyed so many phylacteries. Ser Bevan had risen to the rank of Knight-Commander in the months that followed, for his dogged pursuit of the escaped mages and the way he had organized the men and women under his command to escort them safely to other Circles in the Free Marches. Technically, there was no need for a garrison of templars in Starkhaven while there were no mages to protect, but the Chantry had deemed it necessary to maintain them there. To help keep order, they said. What was unspoken was the tacit approval from the Grand Cleric in Kirkwall of the way Ser Bevan had struck terror into the hearts of anyone who dared cross the Templar Order in Starkhaven.

What was also unspoken was the contempt many of Ser Bevan's subordinates held for him, knowing that his actions were built on fear and paranoia. He had modeled himself on Knight-Commander Meredith, and their barracks - once a place of as much contemplation and faith as it had been a military arm of the Chantry - had become a festering sore. In his terror of what might be, he turned a blind eye to knights that abused their position to cause harm to those without influence or wealth; he kept from promotion the moderates that would have curbed those abuses in his name. It was a blessing that he had no mages to terrorize. Rylen had been Knight-Captain long before Ser Bevan was promoted to rank above him, and despite attempts to demote or remove him, none of the charges had stuck. The Knight-Commander was forced to tolerate a Knight-Captain who moderated his orders, who interpreted them kindly when they insisted on punishment for those innocent beyond a reasonable doubt. But there was only so much a man could take, and that final line was there in front of him. He was ready to cross it.

"Then take command, ser!" Rylen countered, his voice forceful but not without respect. "Our brothers and sister in Kirkwall need support. They need lyrium, ser!"

"Supplies are being secured for them through Chantry channels," Ser Bevan insisted. "We will not interfere."

"They've had no supplies sent since before the bloodbath at the Gallows," Rylen ground out, trying to keep his temper in the face of his seething superior. "If even half the garrison there survived, they'll be on short rations, and they've still mages to guard and keep well there. We have a surplus of lyrium ourselves, ser. We've the means to aid them."

"That lyrium, Knight-Captain, is for the use of templars in Starkhaven and no other -"

"Aye, and if that were truly the case, Knight-Commander, you would not have had us on half-rations for the last month! Your punishment for an infraction that did not happen is excessive, and we'll not tolerate it much longer!"

That was the lack of lyrium talking, Rylen knew. They had all suffered for one woman's refusal to back down when Ser Bevan demanded she give up the location of her informant. Ser Giselle had stood her ground, denying their commander the opportunity to take swords into the Alienage to kill an elf whose only crime had been to share a rumor of the Champion of Kirkwall hiding there briefly before leaving the city. Rylen had stood with her; so had many others. They knew their Knight-Commander was walking a dangerous line, had hoped to keep him from making the mistake that would paint them all as murderers. Instead, Ser Giselle had been stripped of her knighthood and turned out of the Order, and as punishment for her integrity, they had all been placed on half-rations of lyrium until such time as Ser Bevan chose to lift the sanction. Even his most loyal templars, the abusers and murderers they had become, were punished, and their outrage had been swiftly silenced in a series of expulsions from the Order. But the sanction had not been lifted, and the Starkhaven templars had suffered together through the headaches, the nausea, the shakes and vivid nightmares. They supported one another and yes, a small group of them had chosen to also support the expelled Giselle, supplying her with lyrium pooled from their own meager rations, to allow her to keep functioning while she laid low among the elves that recognized the sacrifice she had made to protect them from what she now suffered.

Ser Bevan snarled at him, his round face reddening with fury. "Are you threatening me, Knight-Captain Rylen?"

"No, ser. When I threaten you, I will have my sword in my hand, and you will have a blade in your own. This is a warning, ser - a reminder that you are not as secure on your throne as you believe."

The Knight-Commander stared at him, and for the first time, Rylen thought he saw the fear in the man's eyes. So he was not as far gone as many of them had thought, it seemed, still enough the man he used to be at some core part of himself to recognize that abusing a garrison of a hundred men and women was not the wisest course of action for a man alone with no coherent Chantry support.

"The supply lines to Kirkwall have been disrupted, ser," Rylen reminded him. "Not only by the explosion, but by the slavers and bandits that have descended on the city. We received a delivery of lyrium ourselves this morning. If we take it to Kirkwall and remain on half-rations ourselves, we can support our brothers and sister there. Without lyrium, what little order they have restored will be lost as they struggle with their own withdrawal. For all we know, they've none left at all."

"And my prayers are with them, Knight-Captain." But Bevan frowned, passing a hand over his eyes as he sighed. "My responsibility is to the Order here in Starkhaven. I will not deprive them to aid others."

"We are already deprived!" Rylen took a step forward, shaking with the effort of keeping his own anger in check. "We have suffered a bare fraction of what they will suffer - it is our duty to lend them aid!"

Ser Bevan drew himself up, his face like thunder. "I am your commanding officer."

"Then you are failing in your duty to the Order, Ser Bevan. And I will not follow a man who sees a problem that can be solved and does nothing."

Rylen straightened his shoulders. He was crossing that line, here and now, and he knew he would likely never be able to walk across it again. But enough was enough. He could not stand by and watch, not when he had the means to help.

"I have already given orders, ser," he informed the senior knight. "The delivery we received this morning has not been unloaded from the carts. I intend to ask for volunteers among our rank to form a relief guard and escort that lyrium to Kirkwall."

"If you persist on this course, you will find yourself no longer a brother of the Order." Ser Bevan's voice was dark with menace, but Rylen could see it for what it was - a last attempt to intimidate a man of integrity whose tolerance he had finally pushed too far. "Think very carefully about the path you are proposing to walk."

Rylen drew a deep breath. "I have been thinking, ser," he answered, surprised by how calm he sounded. He wasn't entirely sure how that was possible; anger was burning inside him at the sheer belligerent ineptitude of his superior officer. "For months, I have thought, and watched, as you ignore the increasing troubles in the world. Troubles that are right on our doorstep, troubles we could help to solve if you would just lift a finger. I have stood by and said little as you follow the path already walked by Knight-Commander Meredith, even knowing so clearly where it will lead. I have seen enough to know that you will do nothing to prevent the madness that is coming over you, and in that madness, you will let the world burn before raising a hand to douse the flames. So I must act, ser."

"Oh, you must, must you?" Ser Bevan was still quiet, but the hard edge of his anger was fading. It was doubtful that anyone had drawn the parallel between himself and the insane Meredith so clearly for him before this moment. The horror of her end at the Gallows, so recent and so raw, was not a path to contemplate lightly. "You believe that you know better than your superiors, your betters?"

"No, ser, not in all things." Rylen set his jaw, gathering his words as he sought to appeal to the flicker of conscience he could see in the other man's eyes. "But I do know this. The world is falling to chaos, and there's not a damned thing I can do to stop it. I swore an oath, ser, an oath to the Maker Himself to protect and serve the people of Thedas. All people, ser, be they human, elf, dwarf, or mage. Aye, I've no power to protect them all, and our wee corner has more peace than perhaps we deserve. But I see a problem I can fix, and I will do it. You may expel me from the Order if you wish, but templar or no, that lyrium will reach Kirkwall."

There was a long silence, both men testing their wills against one another - the old guard pitted against the new; a man who feared the chaos erupting around them and reacted in anger to control what little he could, against the man who needed to mitigate at least some of that chaos and would risk everything to do it. Neither was wholly right, nor wholly wrong, but this could not go on.

Ser Bevan sighed, the anger in his eyes fading as sense returned to his gaze for the first time in months. "The Order is not what it once was, Ser Rylen," he said wearily. "We have lost our way, and I fear matters will only worsen before the Divine acts. But I feel ... glad ... that you have not forgotten what we were meant to be. You are a fine captain, Rylen. A better man than I."

"I am a younger man, ser," Rylen corrected him, his own anger easing as the battle lines were drawn back. "Not a better one. You have done as you thought best, though I regret few will agree with your methods. I must do what I think best."

"And no longer mine to command." The Knight-Commander straightened, reaching for a quill and parchment. "You may take twenty-five from our garrison here, if they wish to go. Deliver the lyrium and offer aid to the Gallows and Kirkwall. I will inform the acting Knight-Commander of your transfer to his command, and arrange for Kirkwall's lyrium to be delivered here for the foreseeable future, for safe passage to the City of Chains under our guard. With Andraste's grace, we may all return to full rations within a matter of weeks."

Relief coursed through Rylen's limbs, the tension in his muscles easing. "Thank you, ser. Maker be with you."

Ser Bevan nodded absently, the quill already scratching over the parchment before him as Rylen saluted and left the office, marching down to the courtyard to address the templars he called brother and sister. It wasn't a perfect solution to the problem, but it was something. And in all this madness, doing something was infinitely preferable to watching the world go to the Void unhindered.

[jawsandbones]

A commission done for the lovely @ravenshadows08 featuring Hawke, Fenris and their son, Carver. See how to commission me by clicking here!

Recommended Listening: Arrival of the Birds & Transformation - The Cinematic Orchestra

She hates how clumsy she’s become. Her balance has been thrown off, she weight shifted. She seems to bump into everything now, and she’s lost track of how many times she’s stubbed her toes. “I’m carrying a horse,” she says as she settles down onto the bed. She sighs with contentment as she leans her head back, eyes closed, and sinks into the pillows. She rolls a hand over her curved belly, feels the baby kick against her palm. “A horse who will not stop kicking.” She’s bruised and aching, but Fenris only chuckles at her complaints. He settles down at the bottom of the bed, pulls her feet into his lap.

He sets his hands to work massaging her, from heel to toe. Hawke opens her eyes to smile gratefully down at him. “Your son is a warrior in the making,” she tells him. He presses thumbs into her feet, the way he knows won’t tickle her, but instead soothes away pain.

“You don’t know that,” he says, “we could have a daughter.” Hawke chuckles, moving her hands in small circles, feeling the way the baby moves against her touch.

“A son. I can feel it. He’ll be as handsome as his father.” Fenris moves from where he’s sitting, up the bed beside her, and presses a kiss against her forehead.

“Or a daughter, as lovely as her mother.” They’ve been back and forth on the subject countless times. They know that no matter a girl or a boy, they will love their child just the same. Hawke leans against Fenris as he adjusts his arm around her, eyes closing as she cherishes his embrace. In this corner of the castle it’s quiet, and she listens to the way the fire crackles.

They had taken shelter where the Chantry least expected them to. The rumor of Sebastian’s hate for what was done in Kirkwall was spread far and wide. This was due in no small part to some well-placed rumors by Varric. In truth, the moment they learned that the Seekers were hunting for the Champion, Sebastian had reached out and offered them sanctuary. No one would ever accuse the devout King of Starkhaven of lying.

On the nights when Hawke goes to bed early, Fenris and Sebastian will sit in front of the fire in one of his many rooms. Sebastian always brings out the good wine for him. It feels like those nights spent together in Kirkwall, but here, the foundation of friendship is solid. Sebastian was the one who visited him the most, after he had left Hawke. He allowed Fenris his silence, no words needing to be spoken, an understanding that Sebastian would be there for him.

Fenris was glad they could continue that friendship here. Kirkwall was not the same without him. “Are you ready?” Sebastian asks, raising the glass to his lips. Fenris inhales deeply, exhales the same way.

“I am unsure,” he confesses. “There are days I feel I am. Others, I am… not.” Sebastian gives a low chuckle. During the day, Fenris distracted himself by training Sebastian’s guard. It was the least he could do, in return for his protection. Sebastian earned loyalty easily, and no whisper of the Champion’s presence ever left the courtyard. Hawke would watch him instruct the others, an elf at the head of the guard, drilling them mercilessly. It always brought a smile to her face.

He’s used to seeing her there, at the corner of his vision. He likes having her there – after all, it keeps her out of any mischief she could get up to anywhere else. One day, he sees her shoot up from the chair she’s sitting in. “Fenris!” Her voice cuts across the training yard, and he turns to see her face paled and almost white. He drops the sword he’s holding, makes his way to her immediately.

Around the barrier that separates the yard, he can see her hand on her stomach, her pants soaking wet. “It’s time,” she says, hunching over in pain. With her other hand she reaches for him winds it in his tunic. He stands as still as a stone and does not move, simply staring at her wide-eyed.

“Fenris,” she says with a cool calmness, “I need you to help me. Help me.” At her plea, he snaps into action. An arm around her waist, her arm around his shoulders. He half carries her to their room, helping her into the bed. He undresses her carefully, setting aside her spoiled trousers. He props up pillows for her, ensures her comfort before taking her hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“I’ll get the healer,” he tells her, and she nods vigorously, sweat on her brow and a grimace at her lips. He races through the halls, apologizing as he weaves around others, running to the healer. He arrives panting and breathless, wheezing out his words. “The baby. It comes.” The healer, a sweet old woman, gives him an amused smile as she pats him on the back.

“We’d best get going then, shan’t we?”

When the healer hands their baby to Hawke, Fenris can barely breathe. She coos at it, rubs small chubby cheeks with a gentle finger. She turns her gaze towards him, gives him a beaming smile. “I told you so,” she says. Their son. His son. He takes his place standing beside her, looks down at the babe at her breast. There are already soft curls of dark hair on his head, his face red with fussiness. When his eyes open, they’re a swirling mixture of blue and green. “What would you like to call him?”

“Carver,” Fenris answers instantly. Hawke turns towards him, her eyes filling with tears.

“Oh. Oh.” Carver reaches up with small hands, finds his mother’s finger and holds it tight. “Hello Carver,” Hawke whispers.

While Hawke sleeps, Fenris cradles the baby. He sits in a rocking chair, the bundle tight in his arms. He moves slowly back and forth, unable to take his eyes from Carver. His ears end in small points and his skin is more kin to Fenris’s than it is to Hawke’s. Carver won’t be getting burned like his mother in the summer months. There’s the hint of freckles on his cheeks, and at that, Fenris has to smile. He sees both of them in their child. A perfect amalgamation.

Over the next few years, the healer gets increasingly tired of seeing Fenris. “It’s just a cold, serrah,” she tells him. Or, “it was a small fall, serrah.” Until, “you have a hardy child serrah Fenris, he is fine.” Hawke laughs at each and every worry, secretly pleased that Fenris is such a worry-wart. He keeps a protective eye on Carver, and it is plain to see the love he bears for his child.

It’s in the way Fenris holds his hands as he teaches Carver how to walk. The way he carries Carver on his hip as he barks orders at the guard. The way he sleeps curled around him, Carver’s grubby little hands in Fenris’s hair. It’s in the way he smiles at his son, watches with pride as he grows.

Sebastian takes every opportunity to spoil him, gifting him with enough things to make Hawke to finally put her foot down. “Enough is enough, he’s got more things than he knows what to do with. He’s three Sebastian, what is he going to do with a pony?” It puts an end to the larger gifts, but both Hawke and Fenris are keenly aware of the sweets Sebastian sneaks to Carver.

When Carver is old enough, he joins Fenris in his drills. He takes his place beside the guard, wooden sword in hand, and follows every instruction his father gives. “I’m going to be a warrior, just like father,” he tells Hawke as she tucks him in at night. His eyes sparkle with admiration, and he begs Hawke to tell him stories about their younger days. She tells him of Fenris defeating bandit and demon, and of the dragon they brought down.

When Hawke leaves his room, Carver leaps from his bed to take up his sword once again. He holds it high above his head, practices a cutting motion. He’s going to fight. He’s going to be a hero. Just like his parents. He’s going to be a warrior just as good as his father. After all, Fenris is the strongest and best warrior in all of Thedas.

The first time isn’t on purpose. Carver wakes from a nightmare, his pillow frozen solid. The second time is an accident. He wants to light the candle, but the match isn’t working, and, and, and suddenly the dresser is aflame. The panic begins to set in around the third time, when some passing servant teases him about his ears and suddenly there’s electricity at his fingertips. The nightmares begin to get worse.

He knows what he is, he just won’t admit it. He knows what they do to mages. They’ll take him away from the castle, they’ll take him from mother and from father, they’ll take him and lock him away. He stops showing up for the drills. He runs from his parents, from Sebastian, keeps himself hidden. He can control it. No one ever has to know. He can still be a warrior. He cries underneath his window, wooden sword in his hands.

That’s how Fenris finds him, all curled up and trying to make himself small. He buries his face in his hands, his knees pulled up against his chest. Fenris kneels down before him. “Carver,” he says, “whatever it is, you can tell me. Your mother and I are worried.”

“I can’t.” Voice small and muffled, full of anguish.

“Carver…” Fenris reaches out and places a hand on his arm. He’s surprised when Carver practically recoils, pulls away. “Please, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

“I can’t!” Carver repeats, looking up at his father with wide eyes.

��Yes, you can. Carver, we –”

“I can’t!” At this outburst, the curtains above Carver’s head burst into flame. Carver gives an anguished cry, launches himself away from the wall to cower against his bed. Fenris slowly rises to his feet, his eyes on the curling flame. A mage. His son is a mage. The flames die, flicker down into nothingness. Wordless, Fenris makes his way towards Carver and gathers him in his arms.

“It’s alright,” Fenris says, rubbing his back. Carver clings to him, fists winding into his shirt. Fenris holds his son tightly. He would allow no Templars at his door. He would not allow his son to be taken. He would also not leave him defenseless against the demons.

Carver sleeps between Fenris and Hawke that night. They would not have him face this on his own. Hawke sweeps locks of hair from Carver’s forehead, presses a kiss against the space she has created. “We need someone to teach him,” Hawke whispers. Fenris frowns, but knows she is right. “Someone we can trust. We need to ask Anders.”

“No.”

“Fenris. He’s the only one. Do you want some strange mage teaching our son magic?” Fenris squeezes his eyes closed, shakes his head. “I’ll send a letter in the morning.”

Carver stands by Fenris when Anders arrives, Fenris’s arm protectively around his son. Hawke reaches out to Anders, sweeps him into a hug. Anders almost wants to laugh when he sees that Carver’s expression is an almost exactly replica of Fenris’s. It was easy to see whose child he was. Sebastian carries much the same stance as Fenris, his arms crossed. He’s not hostile, not particularly, but he’s not welcoming either.

“I’ll need to see what he can do,” Anders says to Hawke. Fenris squeezes Carver’s shoulder reassuringly, pushing him to step forward.

“I don’t want to be a mage. I’m going to be a warrior,” Carver blurts out. Anders smiles, bends down to Carver’s level.

“Has your Uncle Varric told you stories about Inquisitor Trevelyan?” Anders asks as Carver detaches himself from his father to stand before his tutor.

“A few. I know she’s a mage.”

“Did he tell how she’s a warrior as well? In battle, she wields a large sword of magic and light. A sword larger than your father.” At that, Carver’s eyes light up. “How about we make a deal. I’ll tell you about Trevelyan and the Hero of Ferelden, and you try and learn some spells.” Carver thinks for a moment, and then nods eagerly.

“I’ll be sitting in on these lessons,” Fenris says as Anders rises back to his feet. Anders runs a hand through his hair and laughs.

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”