#like we learned about the healing/mana wisps MUCH LATER

[pirate101wipper]

i played through a little bit of the free w101 and can i just ask why are the tutorial bits back to back now????

like why am i being force fed info every few lines???

[tsuraiwrites]

Fic: rewriting the epilogue (1)

repost of fic from my old writing blog to my main.

Anders and Hawke have created a sanctuary for mages. Now they must protect what they've built.

Previously

Hawke no longer makes a habit of taking in strays. No, that’s all Anders’ purview these days, in the months when their flight from Kirkwall turned to a solid march on circle after circle. Starkhaven was the first after they fled the red-stained city. Then the letters start to come, Following their group in the claws of ravens and the occasional sharp-eyed songbird.

They all boil down to help us, too.

He follows Anders on to the next site, helping the mages who decide to stay with them – to give others what they’ve craved through all the years shut away. For once it’s not Hawke that’s looked on with fear and awe, that admiration that always irked him but seems to settle over Anders like a tailored cloak. It shows when Anders heals their wounds, treats malnutrition and old whipping scars and nary a soul flinches away anymore when Justice shines through the cracks in his skin. Anders lends a listening ear to the man who recounts his narrow escape from Tranquility when the Templars found out he would occasionally hear voices that weren’t there. Justice flies into a rage, vows of vengeance on his lips in the face of the barely-pubescent girl who flinches from the touch of grown men, crying when Justice kneels before her. “What was done to you was wrong. Not your fault, only their sickness and hate. We will protect you. Shield you from harm until you learn to protect yourself. This we swear: they will never touch you again.” Despite the tears and the sinister blue glow, the girl throws herself into Justice’s arms.

“Thank you thank you thank you.”

They stay. They fight, for the cause and for their new leader. The children follow Anders like ducklings and he teaches them to cast a steady barrier so no one and nothing can harm them.

Later, Hawke teaches them to cast fire over the barrier, superheating their hands – to go for the neck, the eyes and groin, any gaps armor may not cover. They take to it swimmingly and Anders sighs at him as the children soon come for burn salve less and less.

Merrill finds them after the second circle lies in ruins, bringing with her news of Templars on the march. Justice burns bright but does not rage, turning steely eyes on her. “You know much of magics not taught in circles – not the demon filth, but that which is practiced by the elven peoples?”

Her smile is bright in the falling dusk. “Yes of course! I would be happy to teach anyone who wants to learn!”

“Then stay.”

Their party soon grows too big to travel, ungainly and winding down the road – an easy target.

Anders sits beside him one night with a world-weary sigh. Hawke sets aside the nearly-finished staff he was working on setting a crystal into and wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Tired?”

“Just worried. We’re not safe, we never will be on the run like this.”

Hawke hums, turning to look his lover in the eyes. “Then we need to stop running.”

Understanding and a flicker of blue lights Anders’ gaze, enough to acknowledge Justice’s agreement. His answering smile is enough to make Hawke’s heart flutter.

They debate the Planasene forest but no one wishes to settle that close to Kirkwall, most especially the former Gallows mages. Instead they head northwest between Wildervale and the Nevarran border, miles away from the closest town, and start to build. The children and apprentices practice their levitation spells, lifting trunks and great boulders in a joint effort to build a defensible wall between tall, still-rooted trees. Merrill teaches everyone the fireproofing runes used on elven aravels and several days are spent carving them into the walls. One human and one elven apprentice prove adept at Keeper magics, and they are tasked with weaving living roots throughout the border to serve as both an alarm system and defense should someone try to sneak by.

The elven apprentice uncovers a burrow in the meanwhile, running back to their interim camp with two tiny brown kittens in her arms. Hawke knows even before Anders lets out a delighted sound that it’s too late – more strays. At least Dog takes the presence of the kittens well, hopping around the nest Anders makes for them with typical mabari enthusiasm. Hawke can only sigh and make affirmative noises when presented with the tiny fluffballs. The smaller one mews plaintively until he gives in to scratching it under the chin and pretends not to notice Anders beaming at him. Nothing gets done for the next few hours.

Later, he directs the mages with specialties in water and earth magic to dig a well, deep enough to serve their little settlement as it grows. As a force mage, Hawke can’t do much other than help stabilize the rocks as they shift, but he learns by watching and talking with the older enchanters who’ve taught generations of apprentices. Others gather eventually, chipping in their ideas and asking questions until work grinds to a halt as everyone joins the discussion. He has the fleeting thought that this – the discussion, the ideas volleying back and forth between enchanter and apprentice alike – are what the Circles could and should have been: a place to learn so much more than a single apostate on the run could ever pick up, and safe to boot.

That night Anders brings the kittens to the tent they’ve claimed until shelters can be built. Hawke sighs and doesn’t argue, stripping off the armor that’s become a second skin over the years and laying his staff by the pile of furs that serves as their bed.

Anders is humming, forgoing the stack of parchment that is his continually-rewritten manifesto in lieu of stroking one sleeping kitten’s fur. There is a softness to his face that brings warmth to Hawke’s chest. He shuffles over to the man, lifting a hand to cup his face and kissing him with all the love he can muster. The skin under his hand cracks blue as he pulls away, Justice looking out through Anders’ eyes and both as close to content as he’s ever seen them.

“Love you,” he says, to both of them. They smile back, pulling him up to their face for another kiss.

“We love you, too.”

Feynriel comes to Hawke in a dream. No longer a boy but not quite a man in his eyes, the somniari has nonetheless become something of a friend to him, occasionally reaching all the way from Tevinter to give aid to their cause. The way he bends dreams to his will and walks the Fade from border to border in an instant has been instrumental to alerting the Circles as to what’s happening and planning breakouts for the rebel mages.

“Trouble,” Feynriel says, stirring apart the calm little corner of the Fade Hawke had been floating in. “You’ve got a legion of Templars heading your way now that they know you’re not moving.”

“A legion. How many?” He doesn’t bother asking why Feynriel didn’t go to Anders; they both know that while Justice is cut off from the Fade itself, the spirit still creates an impenetrable wall between it and anything that would seek to influence Anders.

“Thirty, at least. Maybe up to fifty. It’s…hard to tell with so many in one place.” He sounds apologetic. Hawke sighs but doesn’t allow dread to grow in his chest. He and a bare handful of battle-capable mages took on greater numbers in the Gallows. Nonetheless, they now have children and the few Tranquil who agreed to come under the protection of the rebels to think about. In addition, he and Anders had planned to head out soon.

“What about Ostwick?”

“There have been whispers of a pre-emptive Annulment. The Knight-Commander there guards his dreams, but Trevelyan has seen evidence of correspondence with the Chantry. He may be waiting on a writ from the Divine.”

His fists clench as Hawke bites his lip to keep from sighing again. “Thank you. I'll talk to my people and Anders, see what they want to do.”

Feynriel smiles wanly, the wisps of Fade-stuff already blurring his edges. “Keep in touch, Hawke.”

“You know I will.”

Even if the clank of armor didn’t give them away, the screams of approaching Templars getting caught, then torn apart by animated roots and tree branches certainly does. The noise is enough to wake the mages not already on watch.

“Hmm, seems like they’re having a little trouble,” Hawke muses, twirling his staff with a vicious grin. “Shall we be polite hosts and head out to meet them?”

Anders doesn’t laugh, Justice too far at the forefront to let the humor of the moment distract them, but he nods and leads the way to the gate. A web of impenetrable, thorny roots strung between two thick trees serves to bar any entrance or exit. Merrill is already there, bouncing down the roots from the top of the wall with feet so light she barely makes a sound.

“They’re here!” she sings, tone airy but with eyes full of vicious glee. Already, several Dalish clans have been caught in the backlash of the rebellion. Between Feynriel and ravens they’ve done what they can to warn the elves away from any great force, but bloodshed is inevitable and not every clan can swallow their pride long enough to accept aid from a group of flatears and shems, no matter how well-intentioned.

Justice sucks in a breath. “Where is Orsino? He volunteered for guard duty this night, did he not?”

“Oh! He’s so eager to get started, I already helped him up the wall,” she exclaims, pointing up to the side of the gate furthest from them. Hawke looks up just in time to see the former First Enchanter – now clad in far more practical light armor – square his shoulders. Mana crackles through the air and they watch as the man thrusts his staff forward – multiple fireballs shoot outwards, engulfing the area beyond in heat and light as the shouts of pain and anger redouble.

“That’s our cue, I think,” Hawke says, turning to Merrill. “Going to let us out?”

Merrill bounces on her feet again, turning to call out: “Paloma, Elan! Come open the gate!” Her apprentices emerge from amidst the tents, the young elven girl already making gestures at the shuddering plants.

Whistles pierce the air as flaming arrows start to appear. Before any of the mages on the ground can make a move, Orsino releases a great gust of wind that howls through the encampment like a pack of lonely wolves. It turns each shaft back where it came from.

“Take that!” he shouts, spitting past the stone and roots. The Templars are now close enough Hawke can hear their curses in return.

“Ready!” Elan calls, the boy gesturing toward the nearly-invisible gap at the gate as it slowly starts to widen.

“Let’s go!” Merrill grabs Justice by one arm and Hawke by the other, rushing through at a breakneck pace. The gate groans, closing swiftly behind them.

The Templars are legion, but also in chaos, their formation already broken as nature itself seems to rain her wrath down on them.

Hawke grins.

“Suck on a fireball!” Justice cries in Anders’ voice, gaining the closest warriors’ attention just in time for the explosion to catch them full in the face.

Merrill steps forward then, a dagger already out and pressed to her wrist. Red mist rises around her but neither man pays it any mind, too used to the blood settling and lifting off their skin as the woman’s power surges.

“Maleficar!” someone shouts, and that’s when the real battle begins.

The battle lasts long enough that he loses track of time, but when Hawke looks up from shoving his staff blade through the throat of a downed and dying Templar, dawn is already starting to lighten a strip of the sky Hawke can see through the trees. The armored man below him chokes, gurgles, dies.

He stands, wrenching the staff out and flicking away the blood before downing his last lyrium potion. They will have to bring more with them when they come back from Ostwick – even with only the older mages using them in desperate straits, supplies dwindle quickly and Hawke knows that they will have to make some sort of deal with the dwarves soon. Varric’s last letter discussed it in not so many words, making light of his growing connections within the Merchants’ Guild. Despite his conflicted feelings about Anders’ actions in Kirkwall, the dwarf has always come through for them. His friendship is one of the few treasures Hawke has left in the world.

Another of those treasures stands from their stoop, still burning Fade-blue underneath the blood and singed clothing. The air is clogged with the stench of death, burning flesh, and the sharp smell of too much lightning called down in too small a space. Justice leans on Anders’ staff as they look out over the field, trying to spot any flash of movement or even the twitch of a slow death in the clearing that surrounds the gate.

There’s another sharp cry and Hawke turns just in time to see Merrill smash in the head of a crouching hunter with her Stonefist. The Templar’s dagger drops from nerveless fingers even as the fresh corpse thuds dully to the ground.

“All done,” Merrill says, her usual cheer dimmed by weariness. Black streaks her arms, her blood clotting unnaturally quickly as she walks back their way.

“Have we finished them all?” Hawke asks warily, not quite willing to release the battle adrenaline unless the settlement’s safety is assured.

“I sense no hostile presences,” Justice rumbles, finally turning away from the scene of carnage to scan the wall behind them. “But where is Orsino?”

On cue, Hawke and Merrill whip around to view the stone above them. It’s deserted. “Shit.”

He and Justice both turn to Merrill, but before they can ask her to let them in the thorns rustle and part.

Elan runs straight through to them, not pausing to take in the field of death beyond the three. “We need a healer! C-come quick,” the boy pants, nearly falling over as he spins back around.

Justice bolts immediately, not pausing for even a moment as Hawke and Merrill quickly fall into line after him.

The scene is not good, though thankfully not as gruesome as Hawke imagined.

One of the apprentices lies propped against the wall, another pressing hard against a wound on the girl’s shoulder with a wad of cloth that looks to be part of a robe. Not ten feet away, two Templars in hunter armor lie crumpled as their blood seeps into the ground, a dagger still embedded in one’s neck.

And between them, a blank-faced woman stands with blood on her hands and the Chantry sun emblazoned on her forehead.

“Andraste’s tits,” Anders swears, the light in him dimming but not disappearing as he hurries to the stabbed apprentice’s side and starts tugging the cloth and her clothes away with one hand, the other glowing with healing magic. “What happened? Is anyone else hurt?”

“N-no, serah,” the boy who’d been putting pressure on the wound says. “Just Brigit, here. The-the Templars must have snuck past, got over the thorns somehow, because one appeared in front of us and just…just stabbed her. Didn’t even say anything. Thought we were all going to die, but…” he gestures to the Tranquil woman who looks back, still without expression. “Elise saved us. Ripped the knife right out of his hand and just…killed him. Then the other one, but no one even saw that one until he was lying on the ground, so.” He looks at the woman and offers her a wan smile. “Thank you, you saved our lives.”

Elise blinks, but otherwise does not move even to wipe the blood off her hands. “Thanks are unnecessary. You are my charges, I am responsible for your safety and continued existence,” she responds with eerie flatness.

Hawke turns to her, ready to take up the conversation with Anders and Justice occupied. “This is true? How did you know they were there?”

“Caywen speaks truth. I did not know anyone had come past the wall until Brigit was injured.”

“And you responded quickly enough to do this?” Hawke gestures, somewhat skeptical. He or Anders could have done it, yes, but they had decades of experience fighting Templars to lean on.

The woman blinks again, slowly. “I trained as a Templar for four and a half years before my magic manifested. I am familiar with their tactics and techniques.” Her response is not the least bit defensive, merely explanatory.

He can’t think of anything to say in response. Logically, there had to be some trainees who turned out to be mages when Templars started training orphans and volunteers so young, but he’d never met a mage – or Tranquil – who would ever admit to it. One would think they wouldn’t want those mages around at all, considering their inside knowledge. He pauses, another thought occurring to him. “Has anyone seen Orsino?” he asks the mages gathered between tents and the other interim structures.

“Here, Hawke,” the man himself answers, pushing through the crowd. One of the elf’s hands glows bright green where it’s wrapped over the nape of a vaguely-familiar middle-aged enchanter, pushing the man forward and then to his knees when they reach the space in front of Hawke and the others. Hawke blinks, taken aback by the roughness Orsino displays toward his fellow mage.

“Who’s this?” he asks before he can think better of it. Anders stands, wobbling a little on his feet before Hawke reaches out to steady him.

“Samuel Murray, of Starkhaven, if I remember correctly,” Anders rasps, his memory for names and faces always leagues beyond Hawke’s.

The man on his knees grimaces but it’s Orsino who replies, practically spitting in his anger.

“A spy!”

It takes a lot to convince Justice not to just end Murray right there when his crimes are laid bare for all to hear. Contacting Templars with one of their ravens, passing along the settlement’s location, defenses, and number of battle-ready mages all in the name of the Loyalists. Anders does nothing to stop Justice from reaching forward right in front of everyone and instead Hawke has to catch him by the arm.

“Justice, think,” he hisses. “If you kill him without arbitration, you become the one with all the power. That’s not the self-governance we’re fighting for.”

“He betrayed the cause, put everyone here in danger. He must die for his crimes,” Justice replies, not bothering to moderate his voice. The whole camp has assembled by this point, some already voicing their agreement, others muttering dissent but not openly shouting him down.

Hawke sighs, because he is just as angry, just as ready to strike the spy down where he stands for the harm he tried to bring down on those they swore to protect. But this is not the time, and playing sole judge and executioner in this situation would only hurt their cause in the long run.

It takes more whispered words and Hawke’s hand over the back of Justice’s neck in a soft parody of Orsino’s hand over Murray’s to get justice to calm enough to listen. The spirit subsides, lifting his chin as he and Anders gaze out over the gathered crowd.

“We will put it to a vote,” Anders says, angry and tired all in one. “Everyone past the age of majority gets a say.”

“Exile,” Justice finishes, “or execution.”

It comes so very close. Exile is not the ideal solution – all of them can see that, even the mages formerly of Starkhaven who were once Murray’s friends. They may drive him off, but the spy already carries so much information; their numbers, defenses, techniques, and location. The last is now a moot point – made apparent by the pile of fresh corpses settling by the gates – but it still settles uneasily with Hawke even as they escort the spy none-to-gently past the thorns.

Murray doesn’t curse them or attempt any magic. He merely glares, spitting at Anders’ feet then turning to walk away into the forest. If a thorny vine happens to lash out at his ankles as he passes, no one can be bothered to censure Merrill for it.

Life goes on – it has to. The older mages strip the Templar corpses of their weapons and armor, salvage cloth scraps and bits of leather while the younger ones are sent into the forest under supervision to gather wood for a pyre. As little respect as they have for their oppressors, no one would deny them the right to a sparse Andrastian funeral, if only to keep any spirits from resurrecting the corpses. The work is not quick; by the time all the armor is separated from weapons and clothing it is almost evening.

Orsino uses only one of his powerful fireballs to set the pyre alight. Hiding their location is a lost cause. Even if the nobles of Wildervale have yet to make a move for or against them, there is no doubt that they and everyone else will soon know where the free mages have taken shelter.

Hawke inspects the huge pile of scavenged metal then moves to join an exhausted Anders on a fallen log nearby. He doesn’t say anything as Anders leans into him with a ragged sigh. He can hear the clank and bustle of the evening meal being prepared beyond the wall, shouting as some of the children start to become lively again. There’s a low murmur of voices across the clearing where several men and women cluster together, watching the pyre with tight eyes and relaxed hands.

“I don’t want to leave them,” Anders mutters, turning his face into Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke doesn’t have to ask what he means.

“We have Ostwick to think about.”

“But what if the Templars attack again? Think what you will, Garrett, but you know the three of us can’t take on a circle alone.”

“So we take some of the better offensive mages with us, and leave the rest here. Merrill and her apprentices can defend the outside, the others can be safe behind the walls.” Hawke puts an arm over his shoulder, squeezing the thinner man against his side. “If all else fails, that Tranquil, what was her name-?”

“Elise.”

“Elise still has the skill to protect the young ones, Orsino can lead the rest. We’ll be gone three weeks at most, less if I can actually get my haste spell to work with yours. They’ll be fine.”

“You can’t know that.”

Hawke thinks for a long moment, silent as he looks over the churned earth and red pooling in what’s left of the battlefield. When Merrill regains her energy, she will take the earth mages into the clearing to turn over fresh dirt until every inch of blood and other viscera has disappeared.

“You could stay. I can take a handful of the enchanters with me, Ostwick is larger than Starkhaven, but I think we could-”

“No,” Anders almost yells, bolting upright, Justice writhing under his skin. “We will not see you parted from us, Garrett. You promised-”

Hawke grabs their hands and squeezes, trying to impart some comfort. “I know, love. But it’s either that or all three of us go. Unless you think we should leave Ostwick to its fate…?” It’s not a real question, but he has to ask.

Justice dies down, leaving Anders to shudder and close his eyes. “No. No, of course not.” A breath. “We’ll go, but…” he trails off, sighs, then gets to his feet, grabbing at Hawke as he goes. “I’m tired. Let’s sleep.”

Anders leads the way back through the gate to their tent, never once letting go of Hawke’s hand. The kittens are already curled up asleep, well-fed if the bulge of their tiny stomachs is anything to go by. Anders gives each a small stroke before he sits to take off his boots.

Hawke strips efficiently, neither of them speaking until they both lie under the covers, Anders tucked up against Hawke’s neck. He holds Anders close as tension slowly seeps out of the blond man’s body and his breath evens out.

They will leave the day after tomorrow, perhaps the day after that. There are more of their people out there, trapped and suffering – Hawke can only close his eyes and hope that the choice they make now is the best route to their lasting freedom.

Orsino hands them a letter. “They’ve called for the Rite in Ostwick. Thought you should know.” is scrawled across a piece of torn, dirty parchment.

“Fuck,” Hawke hisses.

“Raleigh Samson sent this?” Justice asks. Orsino’s correspondence with the man is well-known to them, one of the few ravens in their possession used almost exclusively for the Templar to pass information along. Hawke still doesn’t like it, but so far nothing the man’s sent has proven false.

Orsino nods, face twisting in anxiety. Hawke hands the parchment back to him before he destroys it with his clenching fists.

“We need to leave, now,” Anders says. “Tell those coming with to be ready within the hour. It’ll be a hard march, but we must hurry.”

Ostwick is a shitstorm from start to finish. After Starkhaven and Kirkwall itself, they should have anticipated the Templars’ preparation for their arrival.

The Rite is already under way.

They lose two of their own in the first hour. Another is gravely wounded and Hawke must stop their forward march to defend Anders as he heals the fallen man.

Templars come at them in waves, and when they eventually do reach the mages, one’s already given into temptation. Their form indistinguishable as human, rage demon lava eating through their skin as they attack anything that moves. It’s all a nightmare and honestly, Hawke could have gone his whole life without what they find in the apprentice quarters.

Row upon row of children, quietly stabbed or beheaded in their beds. A few managed to make it to the door before being cut down. Bile builds in his throat as Hawke uses magic to hook the nearest Templars closest to him and rip them apart at their necks. Behind him, Trevelyan begins retching over one of his students’ mangled bodies.

Of the Circle one-hundred and fifty mages strong, only sixty-four make it out alive. There are no children.

Not one Templar walks away.

The settlement welcomes them back with gates that bristle with thorns grown a deep red at the tips – and shining bands of steel laid into the rocks and trees that make up the walls. The walls themselves stand twice as high, now. Between that and the reinforcement of metal woven everywhere, it is easy to see that the free mages have not been idle in their absence. Hawke wonders for a moment where on Thedas they found all the metal such a work requires, but notices the piles of salvage from their battle are long-gone. Someone has figured out a use for all the discarded armor, it seems.

Elise meets them at the front, blank as ever but now with two daggers at her belt and, most surprising of all, decked out in armor instead of the typical robes worn by Tranquil. The armor bears no insignia – someone has beaten the sword of mercy out of the chestplate, leaving only slightly-dented metal behind. “You are back,” she observes when they get close enough, casting her eyes over their large party. “It is gratifying that you did not die, Keeper Merrill would be most upset.”

“Uh, thanks?” Hawke says, not really sure how to react to such a blunt remark.

“Have things been made ready for the new mages yet?” Anders cuts in, his voice tired. He’s not alone in that; the majority of the people behind them are dead on their feet, held up only by their staves or each other.

Elise nods. “Redthorne has been preparing for weeks. We have more than enough food and shelter for the moment.”

Hawke’s eyebrows go up, but it’s Anders who asks, anxiety leaking into his tone, “Redthorne? What is that? Something we need to know about?” Justice surfaces at the surge of emotion, but Elise only blinks back at them.

“It is the name of this settlement, as of thirteen days ago. After the Templar attack the week before, the gate’s color has shifted. Keeper Merrill suggested-”

“Wait, wait!” Hawke interrupts, alarm setting his hair on end. “Two weeks ago? We left the day after the Templars came, and that was three weeks ago!”

“There was another attack,” Elise responds, slowly, as if Hawke has suddenly lost the ability to comprehend Common. “They came in greater numbers, but the Keeper and First Enchanter Orsino led quite competently and no lives were lost on Redthorne’s side.”

There is a flash, Justice blazing so brightly that several of the Ostwick mages cry out in alarm, still unused to the spirit’s manifestations. “They dare,” he thunders. “After everything, how thoroughly we put them down, they dare to attack again so soon? Templars – we will end them all!” He is interrupted from his tirade by a rustle of the gates and Merrill’s clear, bell-like voice calling out.

“Hawke, Anders! Oh, Justice! I’m so glad to see you!” She flings herself at them, heedless of the danger an angry spirit represents as she hooks her arms around Justice and Hawke’s necks to pull them into a hug. Hawke can feel Justice go completely stiff beside him, but he neither protests nor lashes out against her, a testament to the control the spirit has gained over the years. “Feynriel visited my dreams to tell me what happened,” Merrill murmurs, voice low. “I’m so sorry. I hope we can make everyone feel welcome here.” She raises her voice, then. “Please everyone, come in! I’m Keeper Merrill. We’ve got hot food and bedding for anyone who needs it.”

Groans of happiness and relief echo through the clearing, and Hawke can only follow Merrill’s tugging as she leads everyone through the gates and into their new home.

It is, of course, Justice who notices Merrill is wounded. “You’re limping,” the spirit growls, stopping Merrill’s ongoing chatter about the settlement’s – Redthorne’s – growth over the past few weeks. Hawke is startled when the elf blushes to the tips of her ears.

“Ah, yes, you see, one of the Templars in the last attack landed a hit on my leg. Nothing to be concerned about, of course!” she says, waving her hand in a frantically dismissive fashion. “I'm afraid I’m just not as skilled at healing as Anders is, so I’ve been putting poultices on it. But there’s so much to do around here, I can’t possibly take the time to put it up.”

Justice is scowling fiercely now, looking at her legs as if he could make out the wound through her leggings. “What of your filthy blood magic, mortal? That is typically more than enough to keep enemies out of range.” It’s strange, to hear the spirit ask after blood magic – Hawke is treated to his disapproval of the art every time the topic is brought up, but over the years Merrill, Justice, and Anders have reached a tentative agreement wherein if blood magic utilizes only her own blood and that of their enemies and never for summoning demons or other nefarious deeds, the spirit and mage will accept her use of it. And now it appears to have failed her.

“One of the hunters had the Litany of…Adralla?” she bites her lip, looking away from them. “It stopped my blood magic before I could cast, then another caught me in a Silence. I don’t know what I would’ve done if Orsino weren’t there.”

Justice looks at her for a long moment, blaze-blue eyes unreadable. “We…are glad you are alright. Anders wishes to know if you will allow him to heal you?”

Merrill perks up immediately. “Oh, of course, if you’re not too tired? If you are, I can wait until you’ve rested, it’s really no problem-”

Hawke swears that the spirit rolls his eyes. “Come with us, I understand mortals have an aversion to taking off their lower clothing in public.”

Despite his bone-deep exhaustion, his mental fatigue in the face of what he witnessed at Ostwick, he can’t help but smile as two of his oldest friends walk away, becoming three when Anders comes to the forefront to chide Merrill for not taking care of herself properly.

Two people show up at Redthorne’s gate a week later – unarmed and unarmored, the man and woman wear homespun clothing and have naught but a nag carrying a few packs on its back between them.

“Please,” the woman says in a thick Northern brogue when Hawke and Anders step warily out to meet them. “We heard this was a refuge for mages from Kirkwall and Starkhaven. It’s just, is there any chance we could-” she tapers off, tears starting to stream down her travelworn face.

“It’s our son,” the man says, hugging the woman close to him. “He was taken when he was naught but eight. Do you…do you know if he’s with you? And if so, can we see him? Please, serah.”

Before Hawke or Anders can speak, a small, stuttering voice calls from behind the gate. “Mum? …Da?”

The woman’s head snaps up, her face breaking out in an expression of such pure joy that her tears may as well not be there. “Elan? Oh, it’s you!” Running footsteps sound behind them, and Hawke turns just in time to see Merrill’s male apprentice, barely a teenager, dart past him and throw himself into his parents’ arms. “Maker, oh Maker. My baby boy. I thought I’d never see you again, I’m so happy,” the woman says, before she begins to sob. It’s only when Elan turns to look at Anders, his eyes pleading, that Hawke realizes the crowd behind the gate is silent – as if holding their collective breaths.

“Please, Serah Anders. Can- can they stay?”

And what else can Anders do but smile and agree.

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