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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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Arms wide open, I stand alone.
I'm no hero, and I'm not made of stone.
Right or wrong, I can hardly tell.
I'm on the wrong side of heaven, and the righteous side of hell.

~Five Finger Death Punch
One day southwest of Gherlen’s Pass, Anders turned toward the Frostback Mountains and straight into an early spring snowstorm. Although winter was at an end, the weather in the mountains was still perilous, and he was only in the foothills. It was a treacherous passage, especially given his injuries, but it was better than the alternative. Traveling along the Imperial Highway put him at risk of being caught, and he wasn’t going to allow that to happen again.
When he was finally able to drag himself out of that grove of trees off the banks of Lake Calenhad, Anders made the decision that he was never going back to Kinloch Hold. With Solona dead, there was absolutely nothing to keep him there anymore outside the templars’ and Greagoir’s will. He would rather be killed than return, and he was prepared to die fighting if necessary.
Snow crunched heavily under the butt of the staff he was utilizing to support his injured leg. Healing the break had been a slow-going process, but it was finally improving. If only he could find some proper fitting boots, it would help. The ones he swiped at the farmhold he came across outside the small village of Satbury were at least two sizes too small. The clothes he found drying on the line didn’t even come close to conforming to his overly tall frame. The trousers were too snug at the inseam and the ends of the legs didn’t quite reach the tops of the boots. The wool tunic was itchy, overly tight at the shoulders, and the sleeves were much too short, but the new accoutrements were a damned sight better than mage’s robes. Being naked in the snow was preferable to those vile things.
Robes were a glaring symbol of his oppression, a way for the Chantry to mark him as a potential danger to the rest of the world. Never again would he wear them. Never again would he be a prisoner. He would die a free man, whether dying in his bed in some out of the way village or forcing the hand of some overzealous templar, he would not be a mage of the Circle another day of his life.
He pulled the hood of the heavy wool cloak over his head and bowed against the whistling wind and driving snow that assaulted his face. He needed to find shelter before he became completely lost in the impending storm. He only hoped he could wait out the Maker forsaken weather. His stolen food supply had run out that morning, but it wasn’t as if he had never gone without sustenance before. The year he spent in that stinking dungeon taught him he wasn’t above finding alternate means of nourishment, and with his knowledge of flora and fauna, he knew what was safe to eat within caves and what wasn’t. He would endure. Until he found a more permanent home or the templars came to claim his life, Anders would survive.
“How much further do you think it is?” Carver asked his older sister.
Gabrielle shivered against the cold and pulled her father’s old coat tighter around her chest. It had been three days since what was left of the Hawke family and Aveline had ventured out of Southron Hills and into the Brecilian Forest. By Aveline’s estimations, they would need to travel through the forest for five days once they were out of the mountains before they reached Gwaren. Gabrielle prayed their companion was correct because the frigid weather was becoming unbearable. Even the tall trees couldn’t shelter them completely from the biting wind that blew in the southern lands.
At least there’s food and water here…and no darkspawn.
That was one of the greatest blessings of trekking through the forest. Although it was the wrong time of year for edible berries in that part of Ferelden, there was plenty of game to be found, and Aveline was a fair cook over an open fire. They had even been fortunate enough to locate large, hollowed-out pines along the way for shelter from the wind. It was certainly the most pleasant part of their trip so far. Still, Gabrielle was looking forward to finding civilization again.
“At least two more days,” the apostate replied.
“Great,” Carver groused. “More fennec for supper.”
“Would you rather go back to eating cave mushrooms?” his sister questioned with annoyance. “I think I might a few left in my pack.
As fed up as Gabrielle was with her brother’s complaining, it was better than the alternative. The only thing worse than his bitching was listening to her mother’s insults and her plans for Gabrielle’s future once they reached Kirkwall. For most of the journey, Aveline remained at the front of the procession while Gabrielle took position at the rear. Unfortunately, that meant she was forced to walk directly behind Leandra much of the way.
Leandra spent hours carrying on about how Gabrielle needed to start wearing dresses and makeup. “And for the Maker’s sake, we have to do something with that rat’s nest you call hair. Bethany always took care of herself. Why can’t you take pride in your appearance the way your sister always did?”
Then, there was Gabrielle’s favorite. “When we get to Kirkwall, I’ll fetch Pierre. I’m sure his shop is still in business. When he’s finished with you, you’ll hardly recognize yourself. I mean, don’t get me wrong dear, you’ll still have a demon of a time finding a husband with your lack of curves and masculine features, but I’m sure we can find someone who would be willing to marry you even with all your flaws. There are always nobles who care more about bloodlines than appearance.”
Carver’s company was actually a welcome change after the last three days of dealing with her mother, although she could still hear Leandra telling Aveline how much easier it would have been for Bethany to find a suitable husband than it would be for Gabrielle. The apostate heaved a sigh and turned her attention back to her surroundings.
It had been nearly a week since any of them had seen Flemeth. The last time they were attacked by darkspawn, as a matter of fact. It seemed that was the only time the witch ever appeared. She had no desire to spend time with her traveling companions. Occasionally, a shadow would darken the sky overhead for a few moments. Gabrielle just assumed that it was the old woman following along in dragon form, but she never got a good enough look to be sure.
Carver stopped short and turned around with a worrisome frown. “Hey, Gabby?”
She scowled. She was in a foul mood and certainly didn’t want to talk to her brother right then. “What do you want, Carver?”
“How are we supposed to get to Kirkwall? Do we even have enough coin to secure passage for all four of us?”
As irritating as her brother often was, his concern was a valid one. Gabrielle had managed to scrape together a sovereign’s worth of silver and copper she had tucked away in her wardrobe when they escaped, but she knew damn well it wouldn’t be sufficient to get even one of them to Kirkwall, let alone all of them. They were flat broke with nothing of value. Nothing save her father’s staff.
It was one of a kind, fashioned from volcanic aurum magically folded over ash so it wouldn’t be too heavy to carry or wield. The detail of the stave was magnificent, with the nude form of Andraste offering her body to the Maker with outstretched arms at the top. Surrounding her, the symbol of the Circle, upside down and open, representing freedom from the oppression of the Chantry imposed mages’ prisons. Along the body of the staff, perfect diamond shapes were etched into the metal. The stave wasn’t a weapon as much as it was a labor of love. A project Malcolm Hawke had worked on ever since Gabrielle could remember.
Her mother would be furious that she was even considering selling it, but she knew there was no choice in the matter. It was priceless to the family, the only thing they had left to remember Malcolm by, save the old clothes and boots Gabrielle wore. Unfortunately, it was also all they had to ensure they were able to get out of Ferelden before the Blight spread any further.
“Don’t worry about it, Carver,” Gabrielle told him, the expression she bore warning him to drop the subject. “I’ll take care of it.”
A genlock was sent hurtling into the trees by the toe of Sithig’s sizeable boot just before the Avvar sliced the attacking hurlock to his left in half at its waist. Using a greatsword to kill the night-gangers was still an unwieldly task for Sithig. His battleaxe had been lost on the field at Ostagar, and the two-handed blade was all the Chasind healer, Olga, had at her disposal when the Avvar departed her hut. Getting accustomed to the balance of the thing was the most difficult part of battle, but he was appreciative of the fact that he was better equipped to kill the tainted creatures when they managed to get too close.
He considered taking the axe of one of the first hurlocks he fought, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it upon remembering the words his father spoke long ago following his first battle when he attempted to retrieve an axe from a dead foe. As he bent to pick it up, his da had put a hand to his shoulder and shook his head.
“Son, stealing the weapon of an enemy at the end of battle is like stealing his soul. An axe or a hammer becomes part of a warrior the first time it tastes enemy blood, just as much as his hand or arm. It is the privilege of the Lady of the Skies to take that man’s limbs, not yours. If you steal that axe, Hakkon will turn his back to you. You will be forever cursed and your honor will be lost, never to be recovered.”
As much as he disliked the greatsword and as difficult as it was to use, Sithig was forever bound to the blade. Olga told him it was a gift from a former lover, a smith. It was a show piece, something to grace her wall, and never meant to be used in battle because, at six feet long and just over twelve pounds, it was too large and cumbersome for any normal man to wield.
It wasn’t as if the Avvar disliked the look of the sword. It was actually quite unique and beautiful in its blade’s curvature and sharp points. The metal itself was a muted silver with grey and black streaks curling over its length like tendrils of smoke, giving the impression of stone more than steel. What stood out the most, however, were the fine lines of glowing aquamarine etched along its surface in a pattern likely only understood by the man who crafted it. Olga’s lover told her the sword was fashioned from metal he discovered in a smoking crater after watching a star fall from the heavens, and named the blade Starfang in honor of that finding.
When the last night-ganger fell dead at his feet, Sithig sheathed Starfang into the scabbard on his back and returned to the road. The journey toward Redcliffe had been an arduous one. Most of the Avvar’s traveling from the northern marshlands had taken him through the hills and forests of the Hinterlands until he finally reached the southern portion of the Imperial Highway that ran along Lake Calenhad.
By his estimation, he was only a day or two from Redcliffe Village, which made him wonder if he had made a mistake listening to the words of a witch that came to him in a dream. It seemed the right thing to do when he left Olga’s hut. The old healer even encouraged him to heed his vision, but he had yet to see a sign of anything that might guide his way toward fate’s intended destination.
He stood there, in the middle of the highway, pondering his next move. The Blight was still raging all around him, evidenced by the dozens of night-gangers he had been forced to fight along the way. From what he had witnessed in the aftermath of Ostagar, he was the only Grey Warden left in all of Ferelden. His new clan was gone, just as his old one. How was he expected to fight the night-gangers alone? Duncan had told him the Blight could only be stopped if a Warden took the head of the archdemon, but where should he begin to ensure that task was completed?
Sithig was no hero. In fact, he was quite the opposite. It was his foolishness, his desire to avoid more bloodshed that had wiped out the entire Stormhold clan, save a dozen warriors, and got his wife and son killed. His actions had angered Hakkon, evidenced by the Lady of the Skies’ refusal to allow his entry into the winds.
He tried to regain his honor at Ostagar, but the failures of his past ensured the Lord of War’s absence on the battlefield. It was his curse, his past errors in judgement that caused the massacre at Ostagar. Perhaps if he hadn’t been there, Hakkon would have found favor with the noble King Cailan and his soldiers.
During their travels together, Alistair had once joked that he felt much safer fighting alongside Sithig because with the Avvar watching his back, it was like having a moveable mountain for protection. Sithig only wished that were true. If it were, perhaps he would have been able to at least save Duncan and the king.
As the Avvar began to trudge further down the road, his thoughts turned to Alistair and Solona. The two couldn’t have been more opposite, but the love they shared was obvious to those around them. It was a sentiment that had vexed Duncan, but it was one Sithig understood well. For the Avvarian people, love that grew in battle and adversity created the strongest bond. One that would endure the ties of marriage and last a lifetime. He only wondered if either of them spoke their feelings before death took their young lives.
Sithig glanced to his right, and something within a small grove of trees near the lake caught his eye. Through a gap in the brush, in a clearing, a fallen log was sitting on the far side of a firepit. With the amount of refugees fleeing the night-gangers, the Avvar wouldn’t have given it a second thought on a typical day, but his instincts bade him to take a closer look.
The pit had been filled with dirt to douse a fire. By the way the earth was caked, it appeared that it had been several days since any embers had burned within. The dead grass covering the ground seemed to barely have been disturbed at all, which indicated that the camper or campers didn’t linger there more than an evening, typical behavior for evacuees. In fact, there was nothing remarkable about the campsite at all, leaving the Avvar feeling foolish over stopping in the first place.
Before he turned to head back to the road, Sithig decided to scan the area one last time. A few yards away, near a slightly flattened patch of grass, he spotted something he had missed on his first perusal. He squinted, attempting to discern the nature of the object as he ambled toward it. It wasn’t until he was almost standing on top of the thing that he realized what it was. His breath hitched in his throat. Lying in the grass next to his foot was a small lump of clay that was fashioned into what was supposed to be a bird, but hardly resembled one at all. Sithig had seen the figurine once before, when it dropped out of Solona’s pack one morning when they were gathering their things to leave a cave in the cliffs outside Ostagar.
That figurine being in that abandoned campsite could only mean one thing. Solona was alive, which meant Alistair most likely survived the battle, as well. He wondered which direction they traveled, and prayed to Korth they hadn’t gotten too far ahead of him. Then he remembered the witch’s words.
Travel toward the village of Redcliffe. Along that road, you will find the path you seek.
Redcliffe. The witch mentioned it specifically. That had to be where they were going. The Avvar’s heart felt lighter than it had in weeks. He retrieved the object from the ground and gingerly placed it into the largest pouch at his belt, taking great care not to break it. It would be whole when he returned it to its owner, he would make damn sure of that.
Doc has told me more than once over the years about his decision regarding any attempt the Circle may have made to recapture him. Although the man was never prone to violence, I fully believe he would have fought to the death to prevent going back to the tower or any other Circle for that matter. There were many things Varric wrote in his books about Anders, but I believe allowing himself to get captured by the templars in Amaranthine was one of those bones of contention that irritated Doc most. I can’t say that I blame him. After everything he was put through at Kinloch, and knowing what was waiting for him if he returned, I would have decided the same if it were me.
I always hated the way Leandra treated Gabs. When I first met the woman and found out she was my birth father’s wife, I wanted to like her, think of her as a mother. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t bring myself to ever do it after I saw the way her words affected my sister. There were many factors that caused Gabs to maintain a low opinion of herself, but I honestly believe Leandra’s harsh words made up the bulk of them.
Solona told me years later that she was never really certain what compelled her to take that “ridiculous, ugly bird” with her when she left the tower, especially given what Jowan had just done. She said she supposed she was simply waxing sentimental at the time. After all these years and everything my family has seen and gone through, I’m inclined to believe it was a bit more than that. Fate always seemed to have a hand in our actions in one way or another, and Sithig finding that tiny figurine in the middle of an abandoned clearing just served as another example of that fact to me.
-G
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The True Tale Of The Fifth Blight