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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight	By : Serena_Hawke-Theirin Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 13108 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age or the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Thin fingers trembled as they unfolded the piece of parchment. The missive had been unsealed before the boy even touched it. The outside of the letter bore only three words, “Haydn Wilhelm Steiber”.

“I just thought you might want to know. Your mam is dead. Killed herself. You tried killing her when you were born and I guess you finally did it. Hope you’re proud of yourself princess.”

Salty tears began to sting the boy’s eyes. Mam was dead. She was dead and it was his fault.

He tried to run. Tried to save her. He made it all the way across the lake, but the templars were already waiting on the other side to drag him back to the tower.

He read the cruel words of his pap again. The ink was faded, which said the letter was old. How long had the templars kept it in their possession?

The boy looked up and peered at the man in white and red armor through his long curtain of thick blonde curls, still damp from his swim. There was no escape. Nothing to return home to anymore.

“Well?” the man goaded. “What do you have to say now, boy?”

The adolescent young man turned his face to the wall. His shoulders shook with his sobs. Tears streamed down his cheeks, creating tracks in the thick dirt put there when the templars ground his face into the muddy bank of the lake.

He could almost hear the smirk on the man’s face as he said, “Oh, that’s right. You’re a mute.”

Cold calloused fingers touched the boy’s chin as his face was jerked forward to look into the man’s eyes of steel. The templar’s lids constricted as he regarded the boy with a sneer.

“Only, I don’t think you are dumb. I think you are simply rebellious. Mark my words, boy. I will personally ensure that you cow to the templar’s will.”

The Maker showed kindness in the form of a knock on the door. An old man wearing enchanter’s robes with long, tousled grey hair and a full beard entered the room. His eyes were full of pity as he stared down at the boy. The boy hated that look.

“I apologize for the interruption, Greagoir,” the old enchanter said. “But you are needed downstairs.”

The templar straightened his back and glowered at the other man. “I am interrogating this mage. Whatever it is can wait, Irving.”

The older man shrugged. “I believe the apprentice’s library has caught fire again. Your men seem to be having the most difficult time putting it out. But…if you wish for me to inform them that you are too busy…”

“Fine!” the templar growled. He snatched the parchment from the boy’s hand then spun on his heel before turning to the other man. “If I find that you had anything to do with this, Irving…”

The enchanter folded his arms over this chest and rocked from heel to toe. “Now, Greagoir, Why in the Maker’s name would I set fire to the library?”

The templar stomped out of the room. The boy was alone with the old enchanter. He seemed kind enough, but the boy didn’t trust any man. His pap had been kind at times. His kindness always led to the hayloft in the barn. There he would profess his love for the boy in terrible, unspeakable ways.

“You’ve had a very trying day, haven’t you son?” the old man asked.

The boy hated that word. Hated what it meant. His body began to tremble. He retreated as far back as he could, awaiting the touch of the man and the shame he knew that would follow.

“There is no need to be frightened,” the enchanter said. “I won’t hurt you. I’m here to help.”

The boy shook his head and drew his long legs up to his chest. He wrapped his skinny arms around them, attempting to create his own protective cocoon. The old man sat down next to him. He didn’t touch the boy. He just sat.

“I am sorry about your mother,” the enchanter told him. “I never meant for you to find out what happened to her. You were in enough misery without that being added to it.”

There was genuine concern in his tone. The boy would still not let down his guard. He had seen too much. Held too many dark secrets in his head. Secrets he would never tell. He snatched the small embroidered pillow that lay next to him and tucked it between his thighs and his chest. It was his pillow. She made it for him. He pressed his brow into his knees.

“It was my fault,” the boy whispered.

“No,” the man disagreed.

He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy recoiled at the touch. The man drew back again.

“It wasn’t your fault, Haydn,” he said.

The boy hated that name. It was the name given to him by his father. He didn’t want to be Haydn. Not anymore. Not ever again.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“What? The old man asked. “Haydn?”

The boy did not speak his thoughts. He simply bobbed his head against his bony knees.

“Well then, what would you rather your name be?” the enchanter inquired.

The boy shrugged. He didn’t know. Didn’t really care.

“I’ve heard the others call you the Ander,” the old man observed. “Why not use that? You can call yourself Anders.”

The boy shrugged again. It was as good a name as any. The Ander. It made him sound more a thing than a person. That’s what he really was, after all. A thing. That’s what Pap said.

“Well, it’s entirely up to you,” the enchanter said as he rose to his feet.

The boy lifted his head as the old man walked to the door. The man stopped, but did not turn. His final words were simple, but would become a defining moment in the boy’s life.

“Just let me know what you decide…Anders.”

The apprentice walked down the corridor of the senior enchanters’ floor in search of anyone who might be able to help her. She had her suspicions about what was ailing her. Suspicions she would never reveal to anyone. Especially him.

Her stomach churned. It did that quite often lately. At that moment, she wasn’t sure if it was from her undiagnosed malady or from panic. But who would she ask for help? He was the best healer she knew. She wouldn’t ask him. If her fears were true, he could never find out.

An older woman with silver hair pulled back in a tight bun approached her. The apprentice groaned. She wouldn’t ask that enchanter. She would go straight to him. If he ever returned. He always returned.

The old woman smiled. The gesture was fake. There was no love lost between the two women.

“Solona, my dear,” she greeted. “The library is at the other side of the rotunda.”

The enchanter was suspicious already. The apprentice took a step back. She couldn’t allow the old woman close enough to diagnose her. Just in case. Her stomach lurched and she nearly vomited. She gulped back the bile.

“Yes, I know Senior Enchanter,” the apprentice said.

The old woman’s brow furrowed. She knew. Somehow she knew. But how could she? The apprentice took a deep breath. She had to calm down.

“He’s not here,” the enchanter informed her.

The old woman thought she was looking for him. He was the last person she wanted to see at that moment. The enchanter was next on that list.

“I’m not looking for him,” the younger woman told her. “I’m looking for…someone else. Besides, he escaped again, or don’t you recall that fact?”

The old woman’s lids constricted. A sly grin traced the corners of her wrinkled lips. Dear Maker. He’s back. The girl’s stomach heaved. Bile burned the back of her throat. The taste on her tongue made it harder to hold in. She swallowed it down and scowled.

“Actually, the templars brought him in just an hour ago,” the enchanter said. “Poor man looked half-starved. He’s in Irving’s office awaiting his punishment.”

The young woman exhaled a resonant sigh. There was genuine concern in the old woman’s eyes. She was in love with him too. He would never return the sentiment. Both women knew that.

“Perhaps I will speak to him later then,” the apprentice told her.

The young woman took a step to the side. She didn’t want to talk about it anymore. He broke her heart when he left. Again. Just the way he always did. Why did she love him so? Why couldn’t she stop?

The enchanter put a hand to the apprentice’s shoulder. The girl stopped in her tracks. The old woman’s eyes went wide. She knew. The apprentice’s worst fear was confirmed. How could she have been so stupid? So careless?

“Follow me,” the enchanter ordered.

She was angry. More angry than the apprentice had ever seen her. The old woman turned and marched through the nearest door. She walked straight to a cabinet near the closest bed and jerked the doors open. Seconds later she shoved a vial of inky liquid into the apprentice’s chest.

“Take that,” she demanded. “Now.”

The apprentice stared at the tiny bottle. It was for the best. He wouldn’t care anyway. No one but her would care. The child would be ripped from her arms upon its birth. It was for the best.

The stable boy was awoken by the sound of a melodic giggle from somewhere beneath his loft. He opened one eye and beheld the darkness around him. It was still night. Alistair turned his head and peered out the window above his bed. The castle was dark. Surely everyone but a handful of guards was sleeping.

It was probably just a dream.

Another giggle followed by the hushed whispers of a man. The boy just wanted to sleep. Who in the Maker’s name was up at this hour anyway? Probably one of the guards having a secret tryst with a servant. The stable was a popular place for such rendezvous.

Alistair covered his ears with his hands. He didn’t want to listen to the moans and groans tonight. He just wanted to sleep. The nobles would begin arriving in the morning. And then, his father. The boy hoped he wouldn’t have to meet with his father again. The last time the man ruffled his hair and remarked on how scrawny he was.

Another giggle. Louder this time.

“Shh,” a man’s voice hissed. “Someone might hear.”

Alistair recognized that voice. It was hard to tell, though. The boy’s curiosity got the better of him. He rolled off his pile of straw so he could crawl to the edge of the loft.

He looked down below and saw a man and a woman. It was dark and hard to make out their faces. The woman wore pink silk that shimmered in the moonlit shadows. She was definitely a noble.

“I don’t care,” the woman said. “I will die if you don’t take me soon.”

Her Orlesian accent was thick. There was no doubt in Alistair’s mind. It was the arl’s much younger wife. But who was the man?

“Have you told him?” the man asked. “About the baby, I mean?”

“Not yet,” she replied. “How I wish I could tell everyone he is yours.”

A baby. The arlessa was having a baby. It wasn’t her husband’s child.

“No, Isolde,” the man refused. “My brother must never find out.”

The stable boy gasped. He should have known. He had caught the two together years before as they writhed together on the floor of the stable like animals in heat.

“What was that?” the woman hissed. “I thought I heard something.”

Alistair scrambled back toward the pile of hay that was his bed. He closed his eyes, pretending to sleep. Someone grabbed his arm and shook him. He opened his lids. The angry blue eyes of the arlessa stared into his.

“What did you hear?” she demanded.

“N…nothing,” the boy stammered his lie.

Frigid fingers twisted into the boy’s filthy hair. The hand jerked his head back. He thought his neck might break.

“If you breathe a word of this to anyone, you vile little mongrel,” she threatened through gritted teeth. “I will cut out your tongue and feed it to the dogs. I don’t care who your father is.”

Tears born of pain and fear streamed down the boy’s grubby cheeks. She was hurting him. It wasn’t the first time. She liked to hurt him. She liked it when Kenton hurt him. Her hatred was apparent. He didn’t know why.

“Sweetheart, he’s just a boy.”

The man’s voice was gentle. Much kinder than hers. She whipped Alistair’s head back and forth. She was angry. Angrier than the stable boy had ever seen her.

“He will tell,” she seethed. “He will tell and I will lose everything.”

The man placed a hand on her shoulder. Her grip on Alistair’s hair didn’t relax. Deep lines appeared in her brow as she regarded the man kneeling next to her.

“Perhaps you can convince Eamon to send him away,” he proffered. “Lock him up in a monastery. Then we could both write to the revered mother and the Grand Cleric and tell them he’s troubled. That he likes to make up stories that cause problems for the family.”

The arlessa’s lids narrowed in thought. “It could work,” she agreed. “As soon as the king departs Redcliffe, so will his little mongrel.”

“Again,” the man’s voice hissed.

The word entered the little girl’s ears and sent a cold chill down her spine. He sounded like a snake. Tears flooded her lapis eyes. She looked up at him, silently begging him to let her stop.

The large man glowered down at her. His thick dark brows furrowed together with anger and impatience. Would he strike her again?

The girl’s face still stung from the last time the palm of his large hand collided with her delicate skin. How many times would he make her do this? How many corpses did he expect her to raise?

She wanted to go home. She wanted her father. He would be waiting for her. How many days had she been trapped in the catacombs with her master? How long would he keep her there? Would she ever be allowed to leave?

“Master Vestalus,” she pleaded. “I can’t. I’m tired.”

“Focus, Miriana!” he barked as he raised his hand to hit her again.

“Please, please don’t,” she begged. “I’ll try. I promise.”

“You will not try,” he countered. “You will do it. I know you are capable of more.”

The girl’s entire body trembled. She raised small, shivering hands and closed her eyes. She called the wisps. She could feel the heat of their tiny lights surround her. She spoke to them, in her head. They whisked away in reply. She could feel them near.

She turned her palms to the sky. The sound of rattling bones echoed throughout the chamber. It was so loud. Too loud. She wanted to cover her ears, but if she did, the spell would be broken.

Her mana was getting low. She could feel it. Perhaps she would faint before her master could pour more potions down her throat. Maybe she would die. Maybe the void would be better. It had to be better than this place. The smells. The sounds. The heavy air full of must and rot.

The girl wiggled her fingers. The resonance of bones and decaying flesh clacked and slapped out a strange rhythm as the child bade the dead to dance. Her master chuckled, delighted by the spectacle. Maybe it was enough. Hopefully it was enough.

The sound of fingers snapped together. She dropped her to her knees. There was a loud crack upon impact. Her small bones felt as if they had been crushed under her own weight.

“Heal them,” the man commanded. “Use the spirits power. Not your own mana.”

A wicked and vile voice whispered in her ear. It had been whispering for days.

“I can help you,” it murmured. “I can make it all go away. I can make him go away. One word. One tiny word, and it will all be over.”

“No,” another voice said. It was clearer. Louder than the first. “Be gone creature of desire. This one is under my protection. You will not have her. You will not harm her.”

The girl’s knees tingled as white magic flowed through them. It was the spirit. The one who spoke to her in her dreams of faraway places. The silver lady in a white dress.

The little girl smiled. “Thank you, Faith,” she uttered beneath her breath.

It was all arranged. By the end of the week, Yavana’s Call would be leaving Minrathous with a new captain. The pirate would miss his ship, of course, but he would be gaining a wife, a child. He would not abandon his son or his daughter the way his father had. The child would know love, from both of its parents.

It was nearly sunset. Maggie should have been there by now. The pirate paced back and forth, the tails of his long leather duster flapping in the early winter breeze. There was no chill in the air. Tevinter was warm year round.

Perhaps he could convince Eleanor and Bryce to visit. Maybe even attend the wedding. Maggie Hawke. It had a nice ring to it. They would love her. Just as he did. She was a good woman.

Where is she?

He continued to pace as worry set in. No. She would be there. She would come. Maggie was a woman of her word. She never lied to anyone, least of all him.

She had been so excited when she told him about the baby. She suggested they get married. That day. Right then and there. He wanted to do it right. Her parents hated him, but she would have the wedding of her dreams, even if he had to pay for it himself.

He spun on the ball of his foot to make another round. Red hair shone in the distance at the other end of the dock. The pirate had butterflies in his stomach. Actual butterflies. He never knew being in love could feel so exhilarating.

He grinned at her. She greeted the gesture with a morose frown. Something was wrong. So very wrong.

He quickened his pace toward her. The movement of her feet slowed. When they finally met in the middle of the dock, he embraced her. Her body stiffened under his touch. She backed away. Her emerald eyes were glistening with fresh tears.

“Is something wrong, love?” he asked.

She stared at the ground. His guts tied in knots. She sighed loudly as she placed the bracelet he bought for her into his hand.

“Mother and father told me not to come,” she explained. “But I thought you deserved better than that. I am getting married. To a magister. At the end of next week.”

He felt his stomach drop. His head felt light. He wondered if he would faint. He swallowed back the lump in his throat as he tried to contain his tears.

“He’s a good man,” she continued. “A healer. It’s a good match as far as the Magisterium is concerned.”

The pirate thought to ask the man’s name. He could slit the man’s throat. Be in and out of the magister’s house before anyone knew he was there. He stared down at Maggie. She continued to study his feet.

“What about the baby?” he asked.

His voice was barely a whisper. She didn’t answer. Did she hear his question? There was another sigh as she turned away from him.

“I took a potion,” she said. “There is no more baby.”

How could she do that? He grabbed her arm. She wrested it away from his grasp.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Those were her final words. She walked away. He thought to run after her. To beg her to go with him. He didn’t. He just stood there as she disappeared into the buildings that lined the harbor. She was gone. His child was gone.

Isabela. He needed Isabela. She had broken his heart in his youth. She had been his first love. Although those feelings were never returned, at least he knew where he stood with his fellow pirate.

He would return to his ship. He would die on that ship. Love was a lie born of the needs of fools and simpletons who never tasted freedom. The pirate captain would never be such a fool again.

I believe there are some events that are so evil it affects the entire world all at once. The murder of a child can weaken the veil and cause anyone in that area to feel a sense of dread or have bad dreams. With the darkspawn attacking Lothering and the children being killed at the Circle, I believe everyone in Ferelden felt it in one way or another. All the members of my family had bad dreams that night. Dreams in which we relived one definitive moment in our lives.

Doc dreamed about the day he found out his mother was dead, but even more than that it was the day he started to let go of his past. The day he decided to leave behind the child he had been and all the abuses that child had been made to endure. It was the day that Anders was born into this world.

Although the two women never liked each other, Wynne never revealed Solona’s secret. Solona always wanted to be a mother and, although she had very little choice in the matter, taking that potion and ending her pregnancy was very hard on her. As a Grey Warden it was impossible for her to carry a baby to term. Solona never told me exactly how many miscarriages she had, but I know there were quite a few. It broke my heart that all I could do was hold her while she cried.

For Alistair, it was the night he found out he was about to be sent away from the only home he had ever known. Although he has told me many times that being sent to the monastery was the best thing that could have happened to him, it was still frightening being sent out into a strange new life. And although he knew the secret of Connor’s birth, he never personally revealed it to anyone. As much as he hated Isolde, he would never be the cause of any child feeling the pain of ostracization the way he did.

Vestalus Pentaghast was a master with no equal when it came to training young apprentices in Spirit magic and Necromancy. Miriana learned things from him that most enchanters from the Circle would never know in their entire lives. Unfortunately, that knowledge came with a price, and the young girl was ostracized for it when she was taken to the Circle in Ostwick a few days after that visit to the Grand Necropolis. An outcast among outcasts as she liked to say. The spirit of Faith that saved her that day had been attached to her and protected her ever since she could remember. It was something that would eventually become both a blessing and a curse.

It is not surprising to me that I had dreamed about the last time I saw Maggie. It was then that I realized all I needed was my ship, my crew, and Isabela. Isabela was very important to me. She was the person I ran to when the world seemed to fall in on me. The night before, I was haunted by dreams of Eleanor and Bryce. The scenes from the keep had somehow found their way through the drunken haze I attempted to shield myself with. At the time, I considered the dream I had to be a welcome respite from the nightmare I was living while awake. I assumed it was my mind telling me what I already felt. I needed Isabela.

Looking back I understand why we were all having these dreams. It was time for us to remember who we were and what we had been through to get us there. It was in a sense, a rallying cry. The world needed us, and we needed to remember that, no matter what the future had in store for us, we were strong enough to overcome.

-G
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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight