A Farewell to Lothering - Chapters 1 - 3
Title: A Farewell to Lothering
Author: basbaker
Rating: M for later chapters
Word Count: 8668
Characters: F!Hawke, Carver, Bethany, Leandra, Ser Bryant
1
The Chantry was thin of worshipers. Normally, for the largest service of the week, the sanctuary was so full that latecomers were forced to stand in the back or along the sides of the double row of pews. But then, nothing had been normal since King Cailan's army rode past nearly a month ago. When word spread that darkspawn were amassing in the Korcari Wilds and that Ferelden might be on the verge of an actual Blight, men had quickly taken up arms and enlisted in the king's regiment. The majority of the people left in Lothering were women and children. Of the remaining men, most were old or infirm. The templars were an exception.
The commander of these, Knight-Lieutenant Ser Bryant, stood to one side of the dais that supported the altar and the podium from which the Revered Mother spoke. He looked out over the congregation from this post, resplendent in his burnished armor of silver plate-and-mail worn over the Order's burgundy and gold brocade robe. To the casual observer he appeared focused on the Revered Mother's words, but his thoughts were far removed from the Chant.
Since being appointed to Lothering over a year ago, the Templar had come to know each of the villagers by name. Looking over those now gathered, he could easily picture the ones who were not present, and he was surprised by just how many faces were absent. Knowing that men had enlisted to help fight off the darkspawn threat was one thing, but seeing the empty spaces where those men should have been was something else. He thought, not for the first time, that he would have gone with them if he could. But he had a different duty.
Recalled to it, he shook off his musings and tried to concentrate on the Revered Mother's voice as she began to quote from Transfigurations.
“Many are those who wander in sin,
Despairing that they are lost forever,
But the one who repents, who has faith
Unshaken by the darkness of the world
And boasts not, nor gloats...”
As he listened, Bryant's attention was caught and held by a figure kneeling near the back of the room. With her head bowed, a fall of honey-colored hair concealed her features. But he had no need to see them. He would have known Jillian Hawke anywhere. He could picture the wide, intelligent gray eyes filled with humor and fringed by long, dark lashes. He could see the fair skin and delicate oval of her face. He knew that she had high cheekbones, a straight nose and a generous mouth that tended to curve into a smile as if of its own accord. She had a slightly obstinate chin that suited her nature well, as he had learned over the past year. Since he could also count on one hand the number of times he had seen her attend services in that year, the templar was intrigued.
“...shall lead her safely
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go toward Light...”
As the Revered Mother's voice droned on, reciting words he'd heard hundreds of times before, Bryant's thoughts drifted to his first day in Lothering - the day he had met Jillian.
The light was blinding as he stepped from the smoky common room of Dane's Refuge out into the street. Winter was not quite finished with southern Ferelden, and a thick covering of snow from last night's storm still lay white and gleaming on rooftops and on the frozen streets. The weather did not stop Lothering's citizens from going about their business however, and thin pathways made by trudging feet were brown, wandering trails that criss-crossed one another through the village square.
In that first instant of stabbing light, when the bright sun overhead reflected from the snow at his feet, Ser Bryant saw none of this. He should have taken a moment to let his eyes adjust, but instead he stepped forward with his usual determined stride. Almost immediately he collided with a soft, small object that let out an indignant squawk as her backside met the ground.
Too late, his eyes recovered from the dazzling sunshine and he found himself staring down at a young woman bundled up against the cold. The basket that she had been carrying still rocked on its side, its contents of bread and cheese and various sundries spilled in colorful confusion on the snow. As the basket stilled, he pulled his dark, horrified gaze from it and back to her. To his dismay, he realized that a basket was not all she carried. A wooden bucket was still clenched in her mitten-covered hands, but the milk that it had contained was no longer within it. Where it had gone was painfully obvious. The woman's hair was plastered to her head and milk dripped steadily from her nose and chin. The front of the dress that she wore beneath her heavy cloak was drenched.
As embarrassed as he was at his own carelessness, he felt worse for her. More than one passerby laughed outright at the ridiculous scene, though they hastened on again when they saw the stern look directed their way by the new Knight-Lieutenant. A look was all he spared them before turning his attention back to the unfortunate young lady.
“Maker, I am so sorry,” he began, rushing forward to begin grabbing up her belongings, restoring them to the basket.
She sputtered, and for a moment he was horrifyingly certain that she had begun to cry. But when she dropped the bucket and raised her hands to wring milk from her hair, he saw that she was laughing. Her body shook with it, and when she realized that her mittens were soaked and making things worse, she laughed harder. Ser Bryant felt something stir inside him at the uninhibited sound of it. It was infectious. A smile broke over his face, his teeth flashing white against dark skin.
“Please, my lady, let me help you.” He set the basket upright and turned to hold out a gauntlet-clad hand to her.
Getting her mirth under control, she finally looked up at him, raising one of her hands in its sodden mitten to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun overhead. Ser Bryant, seeing her face clearly for the first time, was arrested by two things. The first was that, even dripping milk, she was stunning. The second was that her first real sight of him stopped her laughter dead. He heard her involuntary gasp as her eyes widened in alarm then promptly narrowed and darted away from his, as if she was looking for an avenue of escape. He was certain that she tensed, prepared to bolt, but she stayed put.
She looked back up at him then, making a thorough study of his features just as he did hers. He had to wonder what exactly she saw, because her fear melted away to be replaced by interest, and then frank admiration. Fascinated by the swift changes of expression, he was almost startled when her hand gripped his. He collected his scattered wits and pulled her easily to her feet, noting as he did so that she was light, and reached no higher than his shoulder.
Since she still hadn't spoken and seemed disinclined to, he began again.
“My lady, please forgive me. I should have been more careful. I would not have caused you such trouble for the world.” Hah, he thought, not bad. His mother would be proud. Apparently those lessons in courtly manners that he and his brothers had suffered through to please her had not been a complete waste.
“Not at all,” she finally spoke, and the laughter was back. He was surprised to find that her voice was cultured, that of an educated woman. Whether the amusement was for herself or for him he couldn't say, but he certainly hoped that he hadn't made a fool of himself with his little speech.
“I should have been paying attention to where I walked,” she admitted, smiling up at him now. “I was distracted.”
This, of course, he could not allow.
“Not at all,” he echoed her. “The fault is entirely mine. I blundered right into you.”
“But you wouldn't have if I had been watching where I walked instead of looking at the hilltop,” she said, countering him with a grin. “So you see, the fault is mine.”
While she spoke, he bent to pick up her basket, then reached over to deftly remove the bucket she had retrieved from her hands as well. She immediately stripped off her wet mittens and tucked them into a pocket of her cloak, then lifted her cupped hands to her lips, blowing warm air into them.
“What hilltop would that be?” he asked her.
She turned slightly to point at a tall, rocky hill that rose up into the sky a slight distance behind the Chantry. The bare branches of an obviously ancient oak tree stood out in stark relief against the pale blue of the winter sky. To Ser Bryant, who was seeing it for the first time, the view seemed oddly poignant. He found himself wondering how long the tree had stood there, and what the view of Lothering must look like from it. Was there any part of that steep hill that allowed access to the summit?
“I can see how that would be distracting,” he allowed. When she began to look satisfied, he continued, smiling inwardly. “But it hardly makes this your fault. Your preoccupation is perfectly understandable, but I have no excuse. I was merely clumsy.”
She gave a pointed look to his armor and the sword at his side, only partially visible thanks to the heavy cloak of fur-lined, burgundy wool that swathed him. “Oh yes, because you templars are known for your lack of coordination or grace.”
Ser Bryant bit back a laugh, but his grin widened. “Exactly. So you agree with me then.” And before she could argue further, he transferred bucket and basket to his left hand and gripped her elbow in a chivalrous clasp with his right.
“And since we have agreed that it is entirely my fault, the least I can do is to escort you safely home,” he said cheerfully. He didn't stop to wonder at how much he was enjoying himself. At any other time, with any other person, he knew that he would have apologized, helped the unfortunate to right themselves, and then gone directly on his way.
“That really isn't necessary,” she said, smiling but firm.
“Are you certain? I would feel much better about knocking you down like a clumsy oaf if I knew you had made it back home without further incident.”
“She said no.”
The voice, hard and unyielding and undeniably masculine, brought Ser Bryant's head up sharply. The youth, for he looked to be no more than sixteen or so to the much older knight, stood a short distance away. He was tall for his age and probably muscular if the breadth of his shoulders beneath the simple cloak he wore was enough to judge by. For an instant Ser Bryant wondered if the woman he had been speaking to (or flirting with, if he was honest with himself) was promised, or even married. But then he saw that the boy bore a startling resemblance to her, though their coloring differed. His hair was black as jet and his eyes a deep blue to her soft, pale gray. When the youth spoke again, his suspicions were confirmed.
“Are you coming, Sister? It's not getting any warmer out here you know.”
“I'm coming, Carver,” she said, the irritation clear in her voice. Then she looked back to him, apologetic. “My brother will escort me home. I'll try my best to teach him some manners on the way. I'm Jillian, by the way. It was nice to meet you, Ser Bryant.”
Carver made a disgusted sound and she rolled her eyes, pausing only long enough to accept her belongings from Ser Bryant before turning away to join her brother. He grabbed her arm and began speaking to her in an angry undertone as they walked away. When they reached the edge of the street and turned toward the town's northern gate, she jerked her arm free and cast a solemn look back at Ser Bryant.
He lifted a hand to wave but was not surprised when she turned away again without responding. It was only then that he realized that she had called him by name. He had only been in town for a day, but word traveled fast in places like this. Still, the fact that she knew made him smile. Perhaps Lothering would not be such a bad place to serve after all.
The sound of another voice in the Chantry startled Bryant from his daydreaming. The robed brother to his right was reciting another portion of the Chant in preparation to dismiss the congregation. The service was over already? Chagrined, the Knight-Lieutenant sent up a quick prayer for forgiveness to Andraste. Perhaps it was best that Jillian Hawke never came to the services if this was the result, he decided ruefully.
“And then shall the Maker return to us.
And then shall the Maker return to the Black City in Heaven.
And then shall the Chant of Light make it pure.
Let all Mankind be humbled.
Let all repeat the Chant of Light.
Only the word dispels the darkness upon us.”
“May the Maker watch over us and guide our footsteps in the days to come. Go forth in His name,” the Revered Mother intoned at last, head bowed and hand stretched toward the congregation in blessing.
Ser Bryant wasted no time. The moment that the Revered Mother left the dais to return to her chambers, he started down the aisle. Jillian had already exited, but if he was quick, he thought he might just catch her.
2
“Mistress Hawke!”
Jillian slowed her steps, recognizing at once the voice that called out to her. No one else in Lothering had that deep, smooth voice, or spoke with the inflections of Ferelden's nobility. Only Ser Bryant. The first time she had ever heard it, Jillian had felt something inside her unfurl in response. The passage of time had done nothing to mitigate her reaction. If anything, it had grown stronger the more she came to know the templar.
It wasn't only his voice, she knew. There was also the fact that Ser Bryant was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. His coloring was very dark, and though this was not unheard of, particularly in southern Ferelden, it was uncommon enough to make him stand out. His hair and eyes both were so dark brown as to be almost black. His skin was the rich brown of aged mahogany, like the old jewelry box that her mother skill kept from when she was a girl in the Free Marches. He kept his straight hair shoulder-length, but always neatly pulled back from his face by a small braid at either temple.
To Jillian, he looked exotic. But his features were also noble and refined - the kind that she supposed made sculptors giddy since most statues seemed to boast them. He had a high brow, a strong, straight nose and a square jaw. He preferred to be clean-shaven, and the smooth skin revealed the slightest cleft in his chin. His age, which she guessed to be some ten or so years older than her own twenty-three, was betrayed by the faint dusting of silver at his temples and the lines of experience etched into his brow. His looks and his voice combined with the man himself as she had come to know him over the course of a year made for a dangerously appealing package.
He caught up to her just as she stepped onto the bridge over the small arm of the Drakon river that ran through the center of the village. She kept her pace slow and smiled when he matched his steps to hers.
“Good day to you, Ser Bryant.”
“And to you, Mistress Hawke. Did you enjoy the service?”
Hearing the subtle note of teasing in his voice, she slanted him a dry look. “Are you implying that there is some reason why I wouldn't enjoy it?”
“Not at all! Knowing that it must be your first, I was simply anxious to hear your impressions. The building you were in is called the Chantry. The words the Revered Mother spoke were from a doctrine that we call the Chant of Light.”
His solemnly spoken words surprised a laugh from her. She stopped walking and turned to face him fully, an impish light in the eyes that lifted to his.
“You might have noticed that I don't often attend services.”
“I admit that I have,” he replied, that same mock-seriousness keeping his handsome features straight. “But if you will allow me to say so, your presence there today was a welcome sight. You should attend more often.”
“Yes, well... we Hawkes are not the most pious of the Maker's creatures, I'm afraid,” she said lightly.
It wasn't as though she did not want to attend services at the Chantry more often. She would go every week except for two things: the Chantry was full of templars, and she was an apostate. She was not quite so stupid or confident of her abilities to believe that she could hide her talents from a dozen or more templars week after week, indefinitely. If she wanted to keep herself and her family safe, the best course of action was to avoid the place, and so she did. Or so she had, until today.
Realizing that she had been quiet for too long and seeing the sudden curiosity in Ser Bryant's dark eyes, she summoned a smile and shrugged. When she turned to resume walking, he fell in beside her again and took her elbow in a firm, warm clasp. It was hardly the first time that he had done so, but she was no less aware of the contact for that.
In the year that she'd known him, Ser Bryant had become a good friend. Whenever he saw her in or around the village, he made it a point to join her and while away a pleasant half hour or more just talking. He had even managed to make a friend of Conabar, her mabari, who tended to keep other people away whenever she brought him into the village with her. And for Jillian, who kept herself isolated from Lothering's people aside from the work she did to help support her family, having someone to talk to was a luxury. Having Ser Bryant to talk to was so enjoyable that she was certain it had to be a sin. And if she had spent some of her idle moments lately wishing that he could be more than just a good friend, well, what harm was there it that?
“I was really just there this morning to pray for Carver - and for the king's army, of course,” she picked up the conversation again. “But mostly for Carver.”
“That's right,” Ser Bryant said. “He enlisted in King Cailan's regiment.”
“Yes, and Mother hasn't stopped wringing her hands and checking out the windows since. The more days that pass without word, the worse she gets. I don't know if I should worry more about Carver or about my mother if something happens to him, Maker forbid.”
Pressure at her elbow made her slow, and she looked up into Ser Bryant's eyes with brows lifted. The serious look on his face, filled with concern and something deeper, suddenly made her stomach flutter.
“Jillian,” he said softly, dark eyes holding hers, “Everything will be alright, I promise you. Carver will be back home again any day now. And if I am wrong - Andraste send that it is not so - I can make sure that you and your mother and sister are cared for.”
Fighting to keep the irony from her smile at the thought that a templar was offering his protection, all unwitting of course, to two apostates, she lifted a hand to briefly squeeze his. “It is very kind of you, Ser Bryant, but a templar has far more important things to do than look after a handful of grieving women. And you are Knight-Lieutenant, don't forget. But it was a sweet thing to say, and I appreciate it.”
“I can think of very few things more important to me than your safety,” he retorted. “And I am not only a templar you know. My cousin is Arl of South Reach and my own family have extensive holdings. I am not without resources. Promise me you will at least consider it.”
But she remained silent. He looked as if he would say more and then thought better of it. After a moment, by unspoken agreement, they resumed walking. Jillian could feel the tension in the tall figure next to her and wished that she could say something that would make everything all right again. She suspected that she had offended him with her refusal of his offer, however gentle she had tried to make it.
For a moment, looking into his sable eyes so filled with earnest care for her, she had fiercely wished that things were different - that she was just another village woman, able to actually consider a future with a man like this. But she was no dreamer. Jillian had dealt in reality from the day her father had died; she'd had no choice.
As they neared the north gate, she saw what she had forgotten about in her discussion with Ser Bryant. She had gone this way out of habit, but now, seeing the cage just outside of the low stone wall to the village proper, Jillian remembered why she had meant to take a different route home. Within the cage was a tall, powerfully built figure. His close-braided hair was white, she knew, but now looked dirty gray from weeks without washing.
He was a Qunari, imprisoned for killing an entire farming family on the outskirts of Lothering. Ser Bryant had told her some of the story, and what he had refused to tell her was worse than the details he'd actually given. Jillian was as angry as any of the villagers over what the Qunari had done, but she still couldn't stand to walk by and see him caged day after day while the Revered Mother left his “fate” to the Maker. What fate could there be for him? The templars should have killed him and been done with it. What need for this humiliation and suffering?
Jillian stopped shy of the gate, forcing the Qunari from her thoughts with an effort. She turned to regard Ser Bryant again. He was looking down at her impassively and she winced at the cool expression. Yes, she had certainly offended him. But when he saw the shadow in her eyes, his own softened and he lifted a hand to brush a strand of honey hair from her cheek.
“Just think about it. It is all I ask.”
“I will think about it,” she said honestly. She would think about little else, she was certain, even if she had no intention of ever accepting his aid. Her reward was seeing the smile return to his eyes. “But I doubt it will be necessary. As you said, Carver will be back any day.”
“Then in the meantime, do you and your family have everything you need? I would be happy to come by and help with whatever chores normally fall to your brother.”
“Thank you, Ser Bryant, but we have all we need for now,” she replied. “Although I do miss his sour looks and general discontent. Are you any good at those?”
The templar's rich laughter turned heads. The speculative looks of the villagers made Jillian smile almost as much as Ser Bryant's laugh.
“I am afraid not, Mistress Hawke. And even if I were generally that sort of man, I doubt I could ever be so in your presence.”
“Alas,” she said, and heaved an exaggerated sigh. She was glad they were back on familiar ground.
“But what I can do is walk you home,” he suggested.
“Well, I'm not sure it will be the same without Carver here to glare daggers at you and drag me off before you can have your way with me, but I suppose you may.”
“Walk you home, or have my way with you?”
Jillian felt heat creeping into her cheeks and shot Ser Bryant a warning look that didn't quite manage to hide the laughter she held back. And he saw it too, curse him. He gave her a smile that she would have had no hesitation in calling wicked if he wasn't a templar.
“Forgive me,” he said with contrition that almost seemed genuine. “If it makes you feel better, I will be doing penance for that question later.”
“I hope it carries a heavy penalty then.”
“Not really. But if you want me to be well and truly punished, I am willing to discuss all the ways you can bring it about.”
Jillian couldn't help it. A giggle escaped her. Her eyes were dancing as she deliberately turned him so that they were walking back the way they had just come.
“In that case, we had better take the long way home.”
“I am my lady's humble servant.”
3
A sharp wind blew from the south, but Jillian barely felt it. Her anger was still fresh and hard inside her, buffering her against the blustery day. The walk from home and the demanding climb had done nothing to soothe it, and she was glad. Anger kept the pain at bay.
She stood atop the hill looking down at the spire of the Chantry and the little clusters of houses and shops that huddled nearby, making up the whole of the village proper. From here, the Drakon river looked like a dull, dark ribbon cast carelessly onto the landscape, dividing the village into unequal parts. Not far outside the walls, to the north, was the Mill. No one in Lothering had ever called it anything else as far as she knew. Like the hill she stood upon and the tree that crowned it, like the Imperial Highway that marched endlessly on to the west, the Mill was simply a part of this place. The view and that sense of permanency that it imparted normally comforted her, but today she was in too much turmoil.
The weather, on the other hand, suited her mood perfectly. The sky was a sullen gray with the promise of snow hanging heavy in the crisp autumn air. In the ten years since her family had settled in Lothering, she had come to know what that meant. The first snow of the season would be on the ground by morning.
It would be the last time for a while that she would be able to come up here, because once winter set into southern Ferelden, snow and ice would blanket the land for weeks on end. Even she was not headstrong and reckless enough to attempt climbing the treacherous slope in those conditions. She was quite possibly the only one foolish enough to climb it in the first place. Certainly she had never seen any sign that others came up here. This place was hers. It had been that way since the day her father died, when she had been just hurt enough and just lost enough to not care whether she fell attempting the climb. Instead she had found a difficult, hazardous path of sorts. And at the top of the hill, her muscles like lead and her lungs on fire, she had lain on the fragrant carpet of grass, stared up through the leafy branches of the oak tree at the blue sky beyond, and found solace. From that day forward, she had sought out the place whenever she felt the need for solitude.
The fact that her last time alone here for the year had been tainted by yet another argument with Carver brought a renewed flash of anger. A particularly strong gust of wind whipped her dark cloak away from the hand that held it closed and tugged at her hood. Hair and cloak alike were streaming banners for a moment, and then the gust died down and the hilltop was again still. Jillian pulled her cloak back around her and turned away from the sight of the quiet village below. She lowered herself to the ground between two thick, gnarled roots and rested back against the oak tree. A handful of sere leaves still clung to its branches here and there, and a few the wind hadn't carried away crunched sharply beneath her.
This was her favorite spot. It was comfortable and sheltered from the wind. Sitting between the thick roots that erupted from the ground like a dragon's claws, she felt completely protected and completely isolated. Right now she needed both.
Why had she let Carver goad her? She knew better than he ever would that she could not let herself be courted by any man in Lothering, let alone a templar. Hadn't she held herself aloof from the village from the time that she began looking more like the woman she would become than the girl she was? Hadn't she taken every possible precaution to ensure that she attracted the least possible notice from the templars? Hadn't she taught Bethany to do the same? Hadn't she let herself gain a reputation as frigid rather than encourage even a single advance from any of the village men? Though she would admit that the latter had never been very hard. She had never been attracted to any of the men in the village. Until Ser Bryant.
That, of course, was the problem. She was attracted to Ser Bryant, the templar, and dangerously so. Carver, always on a sharp lookout for any threat to his sisters, either because of their magic or simply because they were both more attractive than was good for them, had been quick to take note of the difference in Jillian whenever Ser Bryant was nearby. And he was nearby all too often for her brother's liking. Today she had made the mistake of letting him walk her a short way past the village, and Carver, on his way into Lothering to find her, had seen them together. That was all it took.
“Are you daft? Why can't you just bloody stay away from him?” Carver had asked, fury in his deep blue eyes.
“There is nothing wrong with letting him walk me through the village, Brother!” she shot back.
“There's nothing right with it! You know what's going to happen when he finds out what you are. He's going to bring every templar in the Chantry out here to collect you, and the rest of us. You and Bethany will be locked up and Mother will likely die of heartbreak. Me? I'll probably just rot in prison for the rest of my life.”
“What exactly do you think I'm doing when I walk with him? Showing him magic tricks? Setting random haystacks on fire just for fun? Don't be so dramatic,” she chided him, striving for a lighter tone in the face of her brother's growing ire.
“I don't know what you're doing and I don't flaming care. But I know what he's doing,” he said darkly. “And you're playing right into his hands. You don't know, because you don't go into the village often enough, but that templar doesn't give any of the women a second look. Only you. He's intent on having you, Jill, and you need to stay away from him. For all our sakes.”
At that, Jillian felt all of her own anger and frustration at their entire existence in Lothering bubble to the surface. The words tumbled out of her and she doubted that she could have stopped them had she tried.
“Do you think I don't bloody know that?” she demanded irately, voice rising. The fact that she was yelling was even more surprising than the language she used, and it shocked Carver into silence.
“I have spent the last three years doing nothing but making sure that I kept what I am hidden and helped Bethany to do the same. Every morning I wake up knowing that today might be the day that everything we've built here falls to ruin, unless I'm careful. Unless I hide. Unless I bloody cease to be Jillian Hawke and instead turn into a cold recluse, mistrusted and disliked by everyone because they think I believe I'm better than they are when really I'm just terrified that I might grow too comfortable, that my vigilance will lapse and I'll fail to stop Bethany from making a mistake, or that I'll slip up and destroy all our lives.
“Father made me promise to take care of the family, to help Mother to stay strong, to help you to keep yourself from throwing your life away as a lowly caravan guard or a mercenary, to train Bethany and keep her safe from the world, and from her own innocence. And I do that, Carver. I do all of that, and I help support the family besides.
“And tell me this, Brother. What have I ever asked for in return? You and Bethany and Mother have your friends - Andraste's ashes, you even have a girlfriend! - but what do I have? Duty and responsibility.
“Ser Bryant doesn't look at me the way the villagers do. He doesn't see the educated, stuck-up daughter of Malcolm Hawke. He talks to me, Carver. He teases me. And for the first time, I have a glimpse of what it might be like to have a friend. Why is that so terrible?”
He had remained quiet during her little tirade, perhaps understanding, possibly feeling guilty, and definitely getting angrier because of it. But at her last question, his already strained patience snapped.
“Are you serious? He's a templar, Sister! A flaming templar!” He took a step closer to her, and his expression became a sneer. “And friends is it? Don't pretend, Sister. From the first blighted day he came to town, you've been acting like a mabari bitch in heat.”
That was when she hit him.
She, who had never physically raised her hand against another person in her life, had balled up her fist and punched Carver right in the jaw. His head whipped to the side, but the blow had surprised him far more than it had hurt. He looked back at her incredulously, taking a single dangerous step forward before he visibly got his anger under control. Then, with a last contemptuous look that raked her from head to toe, he had spun around and stalked away.
And now Jillian sat alone on her hilltop, head tilted back and eyes closed. But the anger was gone, leaving a cold emptiness in its place. Tears leaked steadily from the corners of her eyes and she held her arms clutched protectively around her middle where an ache that refused to go away gnawed at her. She cried silently, her slender form unconsciously rocking back and forth. And when the tears finally stopped, she scooted down until she lay on the ground. Pillowing her head against her arm, she stared numbly into the distance until her eyes slipped closed and sleep took her.
When she awoke, two things made themselves known to her. The first was that she was freezing. Every muscle in her body felt stiff and achy, and she sighed inwardly at how stupid she had been to go to sleep here. And then, hard on the first realization came an even less welcome one. Night was falling. She bolted upright, pushing tousled hair from her face. She had been asleep for hours!
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she berated herself as she got to her feet. The light was fading quickly. If she didn't move now, there was no way she would get a safe distance down the slope before the darkness claimed it. But there was no way she could climb at all if she tried it with numb hands and feet.
Thanking the Maker that she was on her hilltop, sheltered from the eyes of Lothering, she let the rigid control she kept on her magical energy loosen just a tiny bit. Then, concentrating, she built the energy into heat. A soft golden radiance suffused her, hidden from below by the high rim of the hilltop. If it had been fully dark, she would have never attempted it, instead taking her chances at spending the night up here in the cold. But there was light left still; enough, she trusted, to erase the muted glow of her spell. The magic washed over her in warm, gentle waves, similar to the healing energy that Bethany practiced with far greater proficiency than she could herself. Jillian sighed happily, wiggling her fingers and toes.
But when a sound intruded on her awareness, the glow winked out immediately and she tensed. The magical energy still pulsed just at the back of her consciousness, waiting to be called forth as she readied a far stronger, far more dangerous spell. As still as the stones on the hilltop she waited, barely breathing, for the sound to repeat. She wasn't even sure what she had heard, and she saw nothing to account for it. Then, so quickly that it startled an oath from her, a nuthatch burst from its hiding spot nearby, winging upward into the branches of the oak.
“Brave bird,” she said dryly, when she could trust herself to speak without squeaking. “You almost got a Fist of the Maker right to your feathery little head.”
Wasting no more time, she moved to the edge of the summit and began the slow, careful climb back down.
“You're a million miles away, darling,” Leandra Hawke chided her eldest daughter mildly. “Did you hear what I said?”
Jillian blinked, focusing on her mother as the memories faded away. “No, Mother, I'm sorry. What was it?”
“I asked if you remembered to stop by Miriam's house to deliver my message while you were in the village.”
“I...” She had forgotten it completely the moment Ser Bryant called her name. “I forgot. I'm sorry. I'll go back right now if you like.”
“Too late now,” Leandra said in a tone shaded just regretfully enough to produce the maximum amount of guilt in her already unhappy daughter. “It's almost dark, and Carver isn't here to escort you.”
“Really, Mother,” Jillian said, keeping exasperation from her tone, “I am in no danger walking the mile to the village. I can take Conabar.” The hound, hearing his name, lifted his large head from his paws for a moment.
“It will keep,” Leandra said firmly. “But what has gotten into you, Jillian? You've done nothing but stare out the windows and daydream all day. It's not like you to forget things, either. Are you feeling ill?”
The Hawke women sat in the small front room of their house that Leandra insisted on calling the parlor. To Jillian, it had always seemed a grand name for a room that barely boasted enough space for the three chairs and low table that it contained. But Leandra had decorated it in soft, feminine colors, using fine fabrics for the seats and keeping all of the wood polished to a high sheen with beeswax. A braided rug that was Jillian's sole contribution to the room rested on the floor in front of the shallow fireplace. Conabar, her fawn-colored mabari, rested at his ease there. When he realized that he wasn't going to the village after all, he yawned widely and put his head back down. His golden eyes remained on Jillian.
Bethany, who sat in the chair nearest to the fire, looked up from her embroidery and spoke teasingly. “I imagine it has something to do with a certain templar...”
“Bethany, hush,” Jillian said at once, but a blush stole into her cheeks.
Leandra, seeing this, raised her eyes heavenward. “Maker take pity on my fool of a daughter.” There was no heat in her words, merely resignation. “I wish you wouldn't let him walk with you, darling. I know that there is little harm in it, as long as you stay wary, but still... why tempt fate?”
Uncomfortable, Jillian shrugged under her mother's gaze and looked back out the window once more. Night cloaked the land, but the early spring rainstorm that had passed through recently had left clear weather in its wake. A nearly full moon was enough to illuminate the gently rolling hills around their farm and the spires of the Imperial Highway beyond them.
“Have you seen him, Mother?” Bethany asked. “He has got to be the most handsome man in Lothering.” She put a hand to her brow and feigned a swoon. “And he has eyes only for Sister.”
Jillian felt her lips twitch. She tried to give Bethany a repressive look, but it failed completely when her sister giggled.
“You know it's true.”
“All I know is that he is not for me,” Jillian said quietly, the smile that had grown in response to Bethany's mirth fading away once more. “Even if I was selfish and stupid enough to let him court me, Carver would likely kill the both of us.”
Leandra's hand covered hers, and she looked over to see her mother smiling with gentle understanding. “Carver only wants to protect you, love. I know that he can be... difficult. The two of you have never seen eye-to-eye about anything. But try to remember that he loves you.”
“I know he does,” she responded, dismayed to see the tears welling in her mother's eyes. “Don't worry, Mother,” she said, awkwardly patting Leandra's hand. “He will be home soon, I know it. I even went to the Chantry service this morning to pray for him. All will be well.”
“And the roof stayed up?” Bethany teased. “Proof enough that the Maker is feeling charitable toward you, I'd say.”
When Leandra gave a shaky laugh, Jillian shot her sister a grateful look. She never knew what to do when their mother got emotional. She tended to keep her own feelings inside, especially those she considered weak, and thus had no idea what to say to another when they displayed their own softer sides so openly.
“I'm sure you're right,” Leandra said, pushing to her feet and assuming a more cheerful air. “So instead of sitting here worrying, I'm going to make us some tea.”
The sisters watched her exit the room, and then Bethany turned back to Jillian. “So what happened with Ser Bryant today? I want all the juicy details.”
“Nothing happened,” Jillian replied just as quietly. Her eyes crinkled with humor. “What do you suppose might have happened, right in the middle of the village square?”
“I can always hope. One of these days you're going to bring home a story of dashing Ser Bryant falling to one knee before you and pledging his undying love. He will beg you to be his bride and you will say yes, knowing that love conquers all - even between mage and templar.”
“Bethany!” Jillian laughed. “Have you been reading Mother's Orlesian books again?”
“No! She won't let me. Besides, most of those are too tragic. Apparently love in Orlais isn't true love unless someone dies to prove it. That defeats the purpose if you ask me.”
“That's one of the things I love about you, Bethy. You're practical.”
“And you're avoiding the question,” she retorted. “What happened?”
Jillian sighed, realizing that she had to give her sister something if she ever expected her to let the matter lie.
“He offered us his protection,” she admitted reluctantly. “You, Mother, and me. He said that if something were to happen to Carver - not that anything will, so don't look like that! - that he could make sure that we're cared for.”
“How romantic!” Bethany sighed. “And what did you say?”
“I told him thank you, but no thank you. But he made me promise to think about it.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Are you thinking about it?”
“I'm trying not to.”
“Honestly, Jillian!” Bethany exclaimed. “I don't know a single girl or woman in the village who doesn't sigh when he walks past in that fine armor of his. Believe me, they all wish he would give them even a grain of the attention he gives you. And you are trying not to think about him.”
Jillian only smiled. She wouldn't ruin her sister's night by pointing out all the reasons why thinking about Ser Bryant was a very bad idea. Bethany's outlook on life was not nearly as jaded as her own, and there was no need to rush it. As long as her sister had herself and Carver around to look out for her, she could gradually come to grips with all the ways magic set them apart from other women.
Saved from having to reply by the return of their mother, Jillian rose to take the tea tray from her and set it down on the table. Conabar lifted his head to sniff the air, mildly interested in what was on the tray. But since tea and cakes were not really on his preferred menu, he subsided with a disgruntled huff.
“Don't pout,” Jillian chided him, and received a bland look for her pains before he closed his eyes with an air of finality.
“Shall I pour, Mother?” Bethany set aside her embroidery and lifted the delicate teapot painted with wild roses at its base and rim.
As she tipped the pot, Conabar suddenly pulled himself upright, a low grumble starting in the back of his throat. The grumble became a growl as he stood stiff, hackles lifting. Jillian didn't hesitate to leap up and rush to the other room to grab her staff. Just as her hand closed around it, a fist thudded heavily against the door. Once, twice, three times. The teapot clattered back onto the tray and Jillian hastened back to her mother and sister, a dozen spells springing to her mind. Conabar gave a howling bark that raised the hairs on her neck as the pounding came again.
“Who's there?” she called out with far more courage than she felt.
“Mistress Hawke! Jillian... It's Ser Bryant. Please, I need to speak with you.”
“Oh thank the Maker,” she breathed, relief leaving her weak-kneed. She put her staff aside, out of sight, and moved to open the door.
“Are you mad?!” Bethany hissed. “What if he's here to do more than just talk?”
“He isn't,” Jillian said. But suddenly she doubted. She undid the latch slowly, trying to ignore the heavy thudding of her heart. Her hand on Conabar's head was enough to still the mabari as she pulled open the door. The large form of Ser Bryant filled the frame. His face was grave. Jillian kept herself from looking behind him for more templars only with an effort.
“What is it, Ser?” she asked softly. There was no hiding her apprehension, but surely that was normal for anyone under these circumstances? She devoutly hoped so.
“We've received news,” he told her without preamble, seeing her anxiety and not wanting to prolong it for even a second. “The king's army was defeated at Ostagar. The darkspawn horde will come north. It will come here.”
Jillian was only dimly aware of her mother's anguished wail somewhere behind her, or of Bethany's quick leap to Leandra's side as she began to slide to the floor. Her gray eyes were huge in a face drained of color, and it was only with a supreme effort of will that she managed to form her thoughts and give them voice. She saw Ser Bryant wince, but was beyond realizing how hollow and lost she sounded.
“How? Is it a rout? Has the army fallen back to regroup?”
Ser Bryant took her hands in his and she noted in some inconsequential part of her awareness that his hands were strong and warm.
“No, Jillian. There are rumors - I am unsure what to believe. Teryn Loghain's army passed by on their way to the bann. He sent a messenger to tell us what has happened. He said that the Grey Wardens betrayed King Cailan and led him to his death. They've been declared outlaws. But I heard from another who was there that the teryn did the betraying.” He shook his head, obviously bothered by the conflicting reports. “But they agree on one thing. The king's army was slaughtered. Any survivors had to flee for their lives, into the Korcari Wilds, or if they are lucky, northward ahead of the 'spawn.”
“Slaughtered,” she repeated numbly. All she could see was Carver's determined face as he told them that he was going to join the regiment and help defeat the darkspawn. She had never seen him look so proud and full of purpose or so convinced of his path. Despite the fact that he would have to fight the soulless creatures, she would have sworn that he was happy.
Ser Bryant touched her cheek with gentle fingers, bringing her wandering thoughts back to him. “I have to get back to the Chantry,” he told her regretfully. Somehow that made her feel even worse. “The Revered Mother has ordered us to begin preparations to leave. I need to oversee things.”
“Of course. Of course the Chantry must save its holy relics,” Jillian said with a note of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Lothering's people must simply do for themselves.”
“We will help as many as we can, Jillian, I promise you. I will stay as long as I am needed - or as long as I am able. But you must think about what I said to you today. I will do everything in my power to help you - to aid your family. But I can only do this if you allow me.”
“I... will talk to Mother,” she said softly. “I doubt she will agree, not when there is the slightest chance that Carver will return to us, but I'll talk to her.”
Relief washed over the templar's face and before Jillian knew it, he had pulled her forward into a swift, crushing hug. She felt his lips move against her hair and heard his deep, smooth voice.
“Thank the Maker,” he quietly prayed.
And then he was gone.
A/N: I had started to work on the next chapter of Where Duty Lies, but I got sidetracked by the sudden urge to play Origins again. And then when I started playing Origins, I got sidetracked by the sudden urge to write about an Origins character that has lingered in the back of my mind from the first moment he was introduced to me. So I dropped the game and picked up the pen, so to speak, and began working on this. I apologize for the delay to my main story, but I have to get this one out of the way if I'm going to concentrate on the other.
That said, this story is about Hawke's life in Lothering in the last days before the darkspawn arrive. It's a love story. In a way it's a prequel to Where Duty Lies, though there are some discrepancies between the two in regards to Jillian's love life. I'll very likely edit the main story to agree with this. Hopefully that won't upset anyone who likes the main story just as it is. The changes will be minor.
Finally, this promises to be much shorter than Where Duty Lies simply because it occurs over the course of days rather than years. I've posted 3 chapters of it together and will probably wait to post again until I've got another three hammered out. I doubt it will go longer than eight. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.
Oh, and of course, BioWare owns all. :)
Author: basbaker
Rating: M for later chapters
Word Count: 8668
Characters: F!Hawke, Carver, Bethany, Leandra, Ser Bryant
1
The Chantry was thin of worshipers. Normally, for the largest service of the week, the sanctuary was so full that latecomers were forced to stand in the back or along the sides of the double row of pews. But then, nothing had been normal since King Cailan's army rode past nearly a month ago. When word spread that darkspawn were amassing in the Korcari Wilds and that Ferelden might be on the verge of an actual Blight, men had quickly taken up arms and enlisted in the king's regiment. The majority of the people left in Lothering were women and children. Of the remaining men, most were old or infirm. The templars were an exception.
The commander of these, Knight-Lieutenant Ser Bryant, stood to one side of the dais that supported the altar and the podium from which the Revered Mother spoke. He looked out over the congregation from this post, resplendent in his burnished armor of silver plate-and-mail worn over the Order's burgundy and gold brocade robe. To the casual observer he appeared focused on the Revered Mother's words, but his thoughts were far removed from the Chant.
Since being appointed to Lothering over a year ago, the Templar had come to know each of the villagers by name. Looking over those now gathered, he could easily picture the ones who were not present, and he was surprised by just how many faces were absent. Knowing that men had enlisted to help fight off the darkspawn threat was one thing, but seeing the empty spaces where those men should have been was something else. He thought, not for the first time, that he would have gone with them if he could. But he had a different duty.
Recalled to it, he shook off his musings and tried to concentrate on the Revered Mother's voice as she began to quote from Transfigurations.
“Many are those who wander in sin,
Despairing that they are lost forever,
But the one who repents, who has faith
Unshaken by the darkness of the world
And boasts not, nor gloats...”
As he listened, Bryant's attention was caught and held by a figure kneeling near the back of the room. With her head bowed, a fall of honey-colored hair concealed her features. But he had no need to see them. He would have known Jillian Hawke anywhere. He could picture the wide, intelligent gray eyes filled with humor and fringed by long, dark lashes. He could see the fair skin and delicate oval of her face. He knew that she had high cheekbones, a straight nose and a generous mouth that tended to curve into a smile as if of its own accord. She had a slightly obstinate chin that suited her nature well, as he had learned over the past year. Since he could also count on one hand the number of times he had seen her attend services in that year, the templar was intrigued.
“...shall lead her safely
Through the paths of this world, and into the next.
For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,
She should see fire and go toward Light...”
As the Revered Mother's voice droned on, reciting words he'd heard hundreds of times before, Bryant's thoughts drifted to his first day in Lothering - the day he had met Jillian.
The light was blinding as he stepped from the smoky common room of Dane's Refuge out into the street. Winter was not quite finished with southern Ferelden, and a thick covering of snow from last night's storm still lay white and gleaming on rooftops and on the frozen streets. The weather did not stop Lothering's citizens from going about their business however, and thin pathways made by trudging feet were brown, wandering trails that criss-crossed one another through the village square.
In that first instant of stabbing light, when the bright sun overhead reflected from the snow at his feet, Ser Bryant saw none of this. He should have taken a moment to let his eyes adjust, but instead he stepped forward with his usual determined stride. Almost immediately he collided with a soft, small object that let out an indignant squawk as her backside met the ground.
Too late, his eyes recovered from the dazzling sunshine and he found himself staring down at a young woman bundled up against the cold. The basket that she had been carrying still rocked on its side, its contents of bread and cheese and various sundries spilled in colorful confusion on the snow. As the basket stilled, he pulled his dark, horrified gaze from it and back to her. To his dismay, he realized that a basket was not all she carried. A wooden bucket was still clenched in her mitten-covered hands, but the milk that it had contained was no longer within it. Where it had gone was painfully obvious. The woman's hair was plastered to her head and milk dripped steadily from her nose and chin. The front of the dress that she wore beneath her heavy cloak was drenched.
As embarrassed as he was at his own carelessness, he felt worse for her. More than one passerby laughed outright at the ridiculous scene, though they hastened on again when they saw the stern look directed their way by the new Knight-Lieutenant. A look was all he spared them before turning his attention back to the unfortunate young lady.
“Maker, I am so sorry,” he began, rushing forward to begin grabbing up her belongings, restoring them to the basket.
She sputtered, and for a moment he was horrifyingly certain that she had begun to cry. But when she dropped the bucket and raised her hands to wring milk from her hair, he saw that she was laughing. Her body shook with it, and when she realized that her mittens were soaked and making things worse, she laughed harder. Ser Bryant felt something stir inside him at the uninhibited sound of it. It was infectious. A smile broke over his face, his teeth flashing white against dark skin.
“Please, my lady, let me help you.” He set the basket upright and turned to hold out a gauntlet-clad hand to her.
Getting her mirth under control, she finally looked up at him, raising one of her hands in its sodden mitten to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun overhead. Ser Bryant, seeing her face clearly for the first time, was arrested by two things. The first was that, even dripping milk, she was stunning. The second was that her first real sight of him stopped her laughter dead. He heard her involuntary gasp as her eyes widened in alarm then promptly narrowed and darted away from his, as if she was looking for an avenue of escape. He was certain that she tensed, prepared to bolt, but she stayed put.
She looked back up at him then, making a thorough study of his features just as he did hers. He had to wonder what exactly she saw, because her fear melted away to be replaced by interest, and then frank admiration. Fascinated by the swift changes of expression, he was almost startled when her hand gripped his. He collected his scattered wits and pulled her easily to her feet, noting as he did so that she was light, and reached no higher than his shoulder.
Since she still hadn't spoken and seemed disinclined to, he began again.
“My lady, please forgive me. I should have been more careful. I would not have caused you such trouble for the world.” Hah, he thought, not bad. His mother would be proud. Apparently those lessons in courtly manners that he and his brothers had suffered through to please her had not been a complete waste.
“Not at all,” she finally spoke, and the laughter was back. He was surprised to find that her voice was cultured, that of an educated woman. Whether the amusement was for herself or for him he couldn't say, but he certainly hoped that he hadn't made a fool of himself with his little speech.
“I should have been paying attention to where I walked,” she admitted, smiling up at him now. “I was distracted.”
This, of course, he could not allow.
“Not at all,” he echoed her. “The fault is entirely mine. I blundered right into you.”
“But you wouldn't have if I had been watching where I walked instead of looking at the hilltop,” she said, countering him with a grin. “So you see, the fault is mine.”
While she spoke, he bent to pick up her basket, then reached over to deftly remove the bucket she had retrieved from her hands as well. She immediately stripped off her wet mittens and tucked them into a pocket of her cloak, then lifted her cupped hands to her lips, blowing warm air into them.
“What hilltop would that be?” he asked her.
She turned slightly to point at a tall, rocky hill that rose up into the sky a slight distance behind the Chantry. The bare branches of an obviously ancient oak tree stood out in stark relief against the pale blue of the winter sky. To Ser Bryant, who was seeing it for the first time, the view seemed oddly poignant. He found himself wondering how long the tree had stood there, and what the view of Lothering must look like from it. Was there any part of that steep hill that allowed access to the summit?
“I can see how that would be distracting,” he allowed. When she began to look satisfied, he continued, smiling inwardly. “But it hardly makes this your fault. Your preoccupation is perfectly understandable, but I have no excuse. I was merely clumsy.”
She gave a pointed look to his armor and the sword at his side, only partially visible thanks to the heavy cloak of fur-lined, burgundy wool that swathed him. “Oh yes, because you templars are known for your lack of coordination or grace.”
Ser Bryant bit back a laugh, but his grin widened. “Exactly. So you agree with me then.” And before she could argue further, he transferred bucket and basket to his left hand and gripped her elbow in a chivalrous clasp with his right.
“And since we have agreed that it is entirely my fault, the least I can do is to escort you safely home,” he said cheerfully. He didn't stop to wonder at how much he was enjoying himself. At any other time, with any other person, he knew that he would have apologized, helped the unfortunate to right themselves, and then gone directly on his way.
“That really isn't necessary,” she said, smiling but firm.
“Are you certain? I would feel much better about knocking you down like a clumsy oaf if I knew you had made it back home without further incident.”
“She said no.”
The voice, hard and unyielding and undeniably masculine, brought Ser Bryant's head up sharply. The youth, for he looked to be no more than sixteen or so to the much older knight, stood a short distance away. He was tall for his age and probably muscular if the breadth of his shoulders beneath the simple cloak he wore was enough to judge by. For an instant Ser Bryant wondered if the woman he had been speaking to (or flirting with, if he was honest with himself) was promised, or even married. But then he saw that the boy bore a startling resemblance to her, though their coloring differed. His hair was black as jet and his eyes a deep blue to her soft, pale gray. When the youth spoke again, his suspicions were confirmed.
“Are you coming, Sister? It's not getting any warmer out here you know.”
“I'm coming, Carver,” she said, the irritation clear in her voice. Then she looked back to him, apologetic. “My brother will escort me home. I'll try my best to teach him some manners on the way. I'm Jillian, by the way. It was nice to meet you, Ser Bryant.”
Carver made a disgusted sound and she rolled her eyes, pausing only long enough to accept her belongings from Ser Bryant before turning away to join her brother. He grabbed her arm and began speaking to her in an angry undertone as they walked away. When they reached the edge of the street and turned toward the town's northern gate, she jerked her arm free and cast a solemn look back at Ser Bryant.
He lifted a hand to wave but was not surprised when she turned away again without responding. It was only then that he realized that she had called him by name. He had only been in town for a day, but word traveled fast in places like this. Still, the fact that she knew made him smile. Perhaps Lothering would not be such a bad place to serve after all.
The sound of another voice in the Chantry startled Bryant from his daydreaming. The robed brother to his right was reciting another portion of the Chant in preparation to dismiss the congregation. The service was over already? Chagrined, the Knight-Lieutenant sent up a quick prayer for forgiveness to Andraste. Perhaps it was best that Jillian Hawke never came to the services if this was the result, he decided ruefully.
“And then shall the Maker return to us.
And then shall the Maker return to the Black City in Heaven.
And then shall the Chant of Light make it pure.
Let all Mankind be humbled.
Let all repeat the Chant of Light.
Only the word dispels the darkness upon us.”
“May the Maker watch over us and guide our footsteps in the days to come. Go forth in His name,” the Revered Mother intoned at last, head bowed and hand stretched toward the congregation in blessing.
Ser Bryant wasted no time. The moment that the Revered Mother left the dais to return to her chambers, he started down the aisle. Jillian had already exited, but if he was quick, he thought he might just catch her.
2
“Mistress Hawke!”
Jillian slowed her steps, recognizing at once the voice that called out to her. No one else in Lothering had that deep, smooth voice, or spoke with the inflections of Ferelden's nobility. Only Ser Bryant. The first time she had ever heard it, Jillian had felt something inside her unfurl in response. The passage of time had done nothing to mitigate her reaction. If anything, it had grown stronger the more she came to know the templar.
It wasn't only his voice, she knew. There was also the fact that Ser Bryant was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. His coloring was very dark, and though this was not unheard of, particularly in southern Ferelden, it was uncommon enough to make him stand out. His hair and eyes both were so dark brown as to be almost black. His skin was the rich brown of aged mahogany, like the old jewelry box that her mother skill kept from when she was a girl in the Free Marches. He kept his straight hair shoulder-length, but always neatly pulled back from his face by a small braid at either temple.
To Jillian, he looked exotic. But his features were also noble and refined - the kind that she supposed made sculptors giddy since most statues seemed to boast them. He had a high brow, a strong, straight nose and a square jaw. He preferred to be clean-shaven, and the smooth skin revealed the slightest cleft in his chin. His age, which she guessed to be some ten or so years older than her own twenty-three, was betrayed by the faint dusting of silver at his temples and the lines of experience etched into his brow. His looks and his voice combined with the man himself as she had come to know him over the course of a year made for a dangerously appealing package.
He caught up to her just as she stepped onto the bridge over the small arm of the Drakon river that ran through the center of the village. She kept her pace slow and smiled when he matched his steps to hers.
“Good day to you, Ser Bryant.”
“And to you, Mistress Hawke. Did you enjoy the service?”
Hearing the subtle note of teasing in his voice, she slanted him a dry look. “Are you implying that there is some reason why I wouldn't enjoy it?”
“Not at all! Knowing that it must be your first, I was simply anxious to hear your impressions. The building you were in is called the Chantry. The words the Revered Mother spoke were from a doctrine that we call the Chant of Light.”
His solemnly spoken words surprised a laugh from her. She stopped walking and turned to face him fully, an impish light in the eyes that lifted to his.
“You might have noticed that I don't often attend services.”
“I admit that I have,” he replied, that same mock-seriousness keeping his handsome features straight. “But if you will allow me to say so, your presence there today was a welcome sight. You should attend more often.”
“Yes, well... we Hawkes are not the most pious of the Maker's creatures, I'm afraid,” she said lightly.
It wasn't as though she did not want to attend services at the Chantry more often. She would go every week except for two things: the Chantry was full of templars, and she was an apostate. She was not quite so stupid or confident of her abilities to believe that she could hide her talents from a dozen or more templars week after week, indefinitely. If she wanted to keep herself and her family safe, the best course of action was to avoid the place, and so she did. Or so she had, until today.
Realizing that she had been quiet for too long and seeing the sudden curiosity in Ser Bryant's dark eyes, she summoned a smile and shrugged. When she turned to resume walking, he fell in beside her again and took her elbow in a firm, warm clasp. It was hardly the first time that he had done so, but she was no less aware of the contact for that.
In the year that she'd known him, Ser Bryant had become a good friend. Whenever he saw her in or around the village, he made it a point to join her and while away a pleasant half hour or more just talking. He had even managed to make a friend of Conabar, her mabari, who tended to keep other people away whenever she brought him into the village with her. And for Jillian, who kept herself isolated from Lothering's people aside from the work she did to help support her family, having someone to talk to was a luxury. Having Ser Bryant to talk to was so enjoyable that she was certain it had to be a sin. And if she had spent some of her idle moments lately wishing that he could be more than just a good friend, well, what harm was there it that?
“I was really just there this morning to pray for Carver - and for the king's army, of course,” she picked up the conversation again. “But mostly for Carver.”
“That's right,” Ser Bryant said. “He enlisted in King Cailan's regiment.”
“Yes, and Mother hasn't stopped wringing her hands and checking out the windows since. The more days that pass without word, the worse she gets. I don't know if I should worry more about Carver or about my mother if something happens to him, Maker forbid.”
Pressure at her elbow made her slow, and she looked up into Ser Bryant's eyes with brows lifted. The serious look on his face, filled with concern and something deeper, suddenly made her stomach flutter.
“Jillian,” he said softly, dark eyes holding hers, “Everything will be alright, I promise you. Carver will be back home again any day now. And if I am wrong - Andraste send that it is not so - I can make sure that you and your mother and sister are cared for.”
Fighting to keep the irony from her smile at the thought that a templar was offering his protection, all unwitting of course, to two apostates, she lifted a hand to briefly squeeze his. “It is very kind of you, Ser Bryant, but a templar has far more important things to do than look after a handful of grieving women. And you are Knight-Lieutenant, don't forget. But it was a sweet thing to say, and I appreciate it.”
“I can think of very few things more important to me than your safety,” he retorted. “And I am not only a templar you know. My cousin is Arl of South Reach and my own family have extensive holdings. I am not without resources. Promise me you will at least consider it.”
But she remained silent. He looked as if he would say more and then thought better of it. After a moment, by unspoken agreement, they resumed walking. Jillian could feel the tension in the tall figure next to her and wished that she could say something that would make everything all right again. She suspected that she had offended him with her refusal of his offer, however gentle she had tried to make it.
For a moment, looking into his sable eyes so filled with earnest care for her, she had fiercely wished that things were different - that she was just another village woman, able to actually consider a future with a man like this. But she was no dreamer. Jillian had dealt in reality from the day her father had died; she'd had no choice.
As they neared the north gate, she saw what she had forgotten about in her discussion with Ser Bryant. She had gone this way out of habit, but now, seeing the cage just outside of the low stone wall to the village proper, Jillian remembered why she had meant to take a different route home. Within the cage was a tall, powerfully built figure. His close-braided hair was white, she knew, but now looked dirty gray from weeks without washing.
He was a Qunari, imprisoned for killing an entire farming family on the outskirts of Lothering. Ser Bryant had told her some of the story, and what he had refused to tell her was worse than the details he'd actually given. Jillian was as angry as any of the villagers over what the Qunari had done, but she still couldn't stand to walk by and see him caged day after day while the Revered Mother left his “fate” to the Maker. What fate could there be for him? The templars should have killed him and been done with it. What need for this humiliation and suffering?
Jillian stopped shy of the gate, forcing the Qunari from her thoughts with an effort. She turned to regard Ser Bryant again. He was looking down at her impassively and she winced at the cool expression. Yes, she had certainly offended him. But when he saw the shadow in her eyes, his own softened and he lifted a hand to brush a strand of honey hair from her cheek.
“Just think about it. It is all I ask.”
“I will think about it,” she said honestly. She would think about little else, she was certain, even if she had no intention of ever accepting his aid. Her reward was seeing the smile return to his eyes. “But I doubt it will be necessary. As you said, Carver will be back any day.”
“Then in the meantime, do you and your family have everything you need? I would be happy to come by and help with whatever chores normally fall to your brother.”
“Thank you, Ser Bryant, but we have all we need for now,” she replied. “Although I do miss his sour looks and general discontent. Are you any good at those?”
The templar's rich laughter turned heads. The speculative looks of the villagers made Jillian smile almost as much as Ser Bryant's laugh.
“I am afraid not, Mistress Hawke. And even if I were generally that sort of man, I doubt I could ever be so in your presence.”
“Alas,” she said, and heaved an exaggerated sigh. She was glad they were back on familiar ground.
“But what I can do is walk you home,” he suggested.
“Well, I'm not sure it will be the same without Carver here to glare daggers at you and drag me off before you can have your way with me, but I suppose you may.”
“Walk you home, or have my way with you?”
Jillian felt heat creeping into her cheeks and shot Ser Bryant a warning look that didn't quite manage to hide the laughter she held back. And he saw it too, curse him. He gave her a smile that she would have had no hesitation in calling wicked if he wasn't a templar.
“Forgive me,” he said with contrition that almost seemed genuine. “If it makes you feel better, I will be doing penance for that question later.”
“I hope it carries a heavy penalty then.”
“Not really. But if you want me to be well and truly punished, I am willing to discuss all the ways you can bring it about.”
Jillian couldn't help it. A giggle escaped her. Her eyes were dancing as she deliberately turned him so that they were walking back the way they had just come.
“In that case, we had better take the long way home.”
“I am my lady's humble servant.”
3
A sharp wind blew from the south, but Jillian barely felt it. Her anger was still fresh and hard inside her, buffering her against the blustery day. The walk from home and the demanding climb had done nothing to soothe it, and she was glad. Anger kept the pain at bay.
She stood atop the hill looking down at the spire of the Chantry and the little clusters of houses and shops that huddled nearby, making up the whole of the village proper. From here, the Drakon river looked like a dull, dark ribbon cast carelessly onto the landscape, dividing the village into unequal parts. Not far outside the walls, to the north, was the Mill. No one in Lothering had ever called it anything else as far as she knew. Like the hill she stood upon and the tree that crowned it, like the Imperial Highway that marched endlessly on to the west, the Mill was simply a part of this place. The view and that sense of permanency that it imparted normally comforted her, but today she was in too much turmoil.
The weather, on the other hand, suited her mood perfectly. The sky was a sullen gray with the promise of snow hanging heavy in the crisp autumn air. In the ten years since her family had settled in Lothering, she had come to know what that meant. The first snow of the season would be on the ground by morning.
It would be the last time for a while that she would be able to come up here, because once winter set into southern Ferelden, snow and ice would blanket the land for weeks on end. Even she was not headstrong and reckless enough to attempt climbing the treacherous slope in those conditions. She was quite possibly the only one foolish enough to climb it in the first place. Certainly she had never seen any sign that others came up here. This place was hers. It had been that way since the day her father died, when she had been just hurt enough and just lost enough to not care whether she fell attempting the climb. Instead she had found a difficult, hazardous path of sorts. And at the top of the hill, her muscles like lead and her lungs on fire, she had lain on the fragrant carpet of grass, stared up through the leafy branches of the oak tree at the blue sky beyond, and found solace. From that day forward, she had sought out the place whenever she felt the need for solitude.
The fact that her last time alone here for the year had been tainted by yet another argument with Carver brought a renewed flash of anger. A particularly strong gust of wind whipped her dark cloak away from the hand that held it closed and tugged at her hood. Hair and cloak alike were streaming banners for a moment, and then the gust died down and the hilltop was again still. Jillian pulled her cloak back around her and turned away from the sight of the quiet village below. She lowered herself to the ground between two thick, gnarled roots and rested back against the oak tree. A handful of sere leaves still clung to its branches here and there, and a few the wind hadn't carried away crunched sharply beneath her.
This was her favorite spot. It was comfortable and sheltered from the wind. Sitting between the thick roots that erupted from the ground like a dragon's claws, she felt completely protected and completely isolated. Right now she needed both.
Why had she let Carver goad her? She knew better than he ever would that she could not let herself be courted by any man in Lothering, let alone a templar. Hadn't she held herself aloof from the village from the time that she began looking more like the woman she would become than the girl she was? Hadn't she taken every possible precaution to ensure that she attracted the least possible notice from the templars? Hadn't she taught Bethany to do the same? Hadn't she let herself gain a reputation as frigid rather than encourage even a single advance from any of the village men? Though she would admit that the latter had never been very hard. She had never been attracted to any of the men in the village. Until Ser Bryant.
That, of course, was the problem. She was attracted to Ser Bryant, the templar, and dangerously so. Carver, always on a sharp lookout for any threat to his sisters, either because of their magic or simply because they were both more attractive than was good for them, had been quick to take note of the difference in Jillian whenever Ser Bryant was nearby. And he was nearby all too often for her brother's liking. Today she had made the mistake of letting him walk her a short way past the village, and Carver, on his way into Lothering to find her, had seen them together. That was all it took.
“Are you daft? Why can't you just bloody stay away from him?” Carver had asked, fury in his deep blue eyes.
“There is nothing wrong with letting him walk me through the village, Brother!” she shot back.
“There's nothing right with it! You know what's going to happen when he finds out what you are. He's going to bring every templar in the Chantry out here to collect you, and the rest of us. You and Bethany will be locked up and Mother will likely die of heartbreak. Me? I'll probably just rot in prison for the rest of my life.”
“What exactly do you think I'm doing when I walk with him? Showing him magic tricks? Setting random haystacks on fire just for fun? Don't be so dramatic,” she chided him, striving for a lighter tone in the face of her brother's growing ire.
“I don't know what you're doing and I don't flaming care. But I know what he's doing,” he said darkly. “And you're playing right into his hands. You don't know, because you don't go into the village often enough, but that templar doesn't give any of the women a second look. Only you. He's intent on having you, Jill, and you need to stay away from him. For all our sakes.”
At that, Jillian felt all of her own anger and frustration at their entire existence in Lothering bubble to the surface. The words tumbled out of her and she doubted that she could have stopped them had she tried.
“Do you think I don't bloody know that?” she demanded irately, voice rising. The fact that she was yelling was even more surprising than the language she used, and it shocked Carver into silence.
“I have spent the last three years doing nothing but making sure that I kept what I am hidden and helped Bethany to do the same. Every morning I wake up knowing that today might be the day that everything we've built here falls to ruin, unless I'm careful. Unless I hide. Unless I bloody cease to be Jillian Hawke and instead turn into a cold recluse, mistrusted and disliked by everyone because they think I believe I'm better than they are when really I'm just terrified that I might grow too comfortable, that my vigilance will lapse and I'll fail to stop Bethany from making a mistake, or that I'll slip up and destroy all our lives.
“Father made me promise to take care of the family, to help Mother to stay strong, to help you to keep yourself from throwing your life away as a lowly caravan guard or a mercenary, to train Bethany and keep her safe from the world, and from her own innocence. And I do that, Carver. I do all of that, and I help support the family besides.
“And tell me this, Brother. What have I ever asked for in return? You and Bethany and Mother have your friends - Andraste's ashes, you even have a girlfriend! - but what do I have? Duty and responsibility.
“Ser Bryant doesn't look at me the way the villagers do. He doesn't see the educated, stuck-up daughter of Malcolm Hawke. He talks to me, Carver. He teases me. And for the first time, I have a glimpse of what it might be like to have a friend. Why is that so terrible?”
He had remained quiet during her little tirade, perhaps understanding, possibly feeling guilty, and definitely getting angrier because of it. But at her last question, his already strained patience snapped.
“Are you serious? He's a templar, Sister! A flaming templar!” He took a step closer to her, and his expression became a sneer. “And friends is it? Don't pretend, Sister. From the first blighted day he came to town, you've been acting like a mabari bitch in heat.”
That was when she hit him.
She, who had never physically raised her hand against another person in her life, had balled up her fist and punched Carver right in the jaw. His head whipped to the side, but the blow had surprised him far more than it had hurt. He looked back at her incredulously, taking a single dangerous step forward before he visibly got his anger under control. Then, with a last contemptuous look that raked her from head to toe, he had spun around and stalked away.
And now Jillian sat alone on her hilltop, head tilted back and eyes closed. But the anger was gone, leaving a cold emptiness in its place. Tears leaked steadily from the corners of her eyes and she held her arms clutched protectively around her middle where an ache that refused to go away gnawed at her. She cried silently, her slender form unconsciously rocking back and forth. And when the tears finally stopped, she scooted down until she lay on the ground. Pillowing her head against her arm, she stared numbly into the distance until her eyes slipped closed and sleep took her.
When she awoke, two things made themselves known to her. The first was that she was freezing. Every muscle in her body felt stiff and achy, and she sighed inwardly at how stupid she had been to go to sleep here. And then, hard on the first realization came an even less welcome one. Night was falling. She bolted upright, pushing tousled hair from her face. She had been asleep for hours!
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she berated herself as she got to her feet. The light was fading quickly. If she didn't move now, there was no way she would get a safe distance down the slope before the darkness claimed it. But there was no way she could climb at all if she tried it with numb hands and feet.
Thanking the Maker that she was on her hilltop, sheltered from the eyes of Lothering, she let the rigid control she kept on her magical energy loosen just a tiny bit. Then, concentrating, she built the energy into heat. A soft golden radiance suffused her, hidden from below by the high rim of the hilltop. If it had been fully dark, she would have never attempted it, instead taking her chances at spending the night up here in the cold. But there was light left still; enough, she trusted, to erase the muted glow of her spell. The magic washed over her in warm, gentle waves, similar to the healing energy that Bethany practiced with far greater proficiency than she could herself. Jillian sighed happily, wiggling her fingers and toes.
But when a sound intruded on her awareness, the glow winked out immediately and she tensed. The magical energy still pulsed just at the back of her consciousness, waiting to be called forth as she readied a far stronger, far more dangerous spell. As still as the stones on the hilltop she waited, barely breathing, for the sound to repeat. She wasn't even sure what she had heard, and she saw nothing to account for it. Then, so quickly that it startled an oath from her, a nuthatch burst from its hiding spot nearby, winging upward into the branches of the oak.
“Brave bird,” she said dryly, when she could trust herself to speak without squeaking. “You almost got a Fist of the Maker right to your feathery little head.”
Wasting no more time, she moved to the edge of the summit and began the slow, careful climb back down.
“You're a million miles away, darling,” Leandra Hawke chided her eldest daughter mildly. “Did you hear what I said?”
Jillian blinked, focusing on her mother as the memories faded away. “No, Mother, I'm sorry. What was it?”
“I asked if you remembered to stop by Miriam's house to deliver my message while you were in the village.”
“I...” She had forgotten it completely the moment Ser Bryant called her name. “I forgot. I'm sorry. I'll go back right now if you like.”
“Too late now,” Leandra said in a tone shaded just regretfully enough to produce the maximum amount of guilt in her already unhappy daughter. “It's almost dark, and Carver isn't here to escort you.”
“Really, Mother,” Jillian said, keeping exasperation from her tone, “I am in no danger walking the mile to the village. I can take Conabar.” The hound, hearing his name, lifted his large head from his paws for a moment.
“It will keep,” Leandra said firmly. “But what has gotten into you, Jillian? You've done nothing but stare out the windows and daydream all day. It's not like you to forget things, either. Are you feeling ill?”
The Hawke women sat in the small front room of their house that Leandra insisted on calling the parlor. To Jillian, it had always seemed a grand name for a room that barely boasted enough space for the three chairs and low table that it contained. But Leandra had decorated it in soft, feminine colors, using fine fabrics for the seats and keeping all of the wood polished to a high sheen with beeswax. A braided rug that was Jillian's sole contribution to the room rested on the floor in front of the shallow fireplace. Conabar, her fawn-colored mabari, rested at his ease there. When he realized that he wasn't going to the village after all, he yawned widely and put his head back down. His golden eyes remained on Jillian.
Bethany, who sat in the chair nearest to the fire, looked up from her embroidery and spoke teasingly. “I imagine it has something to do with a certain templar...”
“Bethany, hush,” Jillian said at once, but a blush stole into her cheeks.
Leandra, seeing this, raised her eyes heavenward. “Maker take pity on my fool of a daughter.” There was no heat in her words, merely resignation. “I wish you wouldn't let him walk with you, darling. I know that there is little harm in it, as long as you stay wary, but still... why tempt fate?”
Uncomfortable, Jillian shrugged under her mother's gaze and looked back out the window once more. Night cloaked the land, but the early spring rainstorm that had passed through recently had left clear weather in its wake. A nearly full moon was enough to illuminate the gently rolling hills around their farm and the spires of the Imperial Highway beyond them.
“Have you seen him, Mother?” Bethany asked. “He has got to be the most handsome man in Lothering.” She put a hand to her brow and feigned a swoon. “And he has eyes only for Sister.”
Jillian felt her lips twitch. She tried to give Bethany a repressive look, but it failed completely when her sister giggled.
“You know it's true.”
“All I know is that he is not for me,” Jillian said quietly, the smile that had grown in response to Bethany's mirth fading away once more. “Even if I was selfish and stupid enough to let him court me, Carver would likely kill the both of us.”
Leandra's hand covered hers, and she looked over to see her mother smiling with gentle understanding. “Carver only wants to protect you, love. I know that he can be... difficult. The two of you have never seen eye-to-eye about anything. But try to remember that he loves you.”
“I know he does,” she responded, dismayed to see the tears welling in her mother's eyes. “Don't worry, Mother,” she said, awkwardly patting Leandra's hand. “He will be home soon, I know it. I even went to the Chantry service this morning to pray for him. All will be well.”
“And the roof stayed up?” Bethany teased. “Proof enough that the Maker is feeling charitable toward you, I'd say.”
When Leandra gave a shaky laugh, Jillian shot her sister a grateful look. She never knew what to do when their mother got emotional. She tended to keep her own feelings inside, especially those she considered weak, and thus had no idea what to say to another when they displayed their own softer sides so openly.
“I'm sure you're right,” Leandra said, pushing to her feet and assuming a more cheerful air. “So instead of sitting here worrying, I'm going to make us some tea.”
The sisters watched her exit the room, and then Bethany turned back to Jillian. “So what happened with Ser Bryant today? I want all the juicy details.”
“Nothing happened,” Jillian replied just as quietly. Her eyes crinkled with humor. “What do you suppose might have happened, right in the middle of the village square?”
“I can always hope. One of these days you're going to bring home a story of dashing Ser Bryant falling to one knee before you and pledging his undying love. He will beg you to be his bride and you will say yes, knowing that love conquers all - even between mage and templar.”
“Bethany!” Jillian laughed. “Have you been reading Mother's Orlesian books again?”
“No! She won't let me. Besides, most of those are too tragic. Apparently love in Orlais isn't true love unless someone dies to prove it. That defeats the purpose if you ask me.”
“That's one of the things I love about you, Bethy. You're practical.”
“And you're avoiding the question,” she retorted. “What happened?”
Jillian sighed, realizing that she had to give her sister something if she ever expected her to let the matter lie.
“He offered us his protection,” she admitted reluctantly. “You, Mother, and me. He said that if something were to happen to Carver - not that anything will, so don't look like that! - that he could make sure that we're cared for.”
“How romantic!” Bethany sighed. “And what did you say?”
“I told him thank you, but no thank you. But he made me promise to think about it.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Are you thinking about it?”
“I'm trying not to.”
“Honestly, Jillian!” Bethany exclaimed. “I don't know a single girl or woman in the village who doesn't sigh when he walks past in that fine armor of his. Believe me, they all wish he would give them even a grain of the attention he gives you. And you are trying not to think about him.”
Jillian only smiled. She wouldn't ruin her sister's night by pointing out all the reasons why thinking about Ser Bryant was a very bad idea. Bethany's outlook on life was not nearly as jaded as her own, and there was no need to rush it. As long as her sister had herself and Carver around to look out for her, she could gradually come to grips with all the ways magic set them apart from other women.
Saved from having to reply by the return of their mother, Jillian rose to take the tea tray from her and set it down on the table. Conabar lifted his head to sniff the air, mildly interested in what was on the tray. But since tea and cakes were not really on his preferred menu, he subsided with a disgruntled huff.
“Don't pout,” Jillian chided him, and received a bland look for her pains before he closed his eyes with an air of finality.
“Shall I pour, Mother?” Bethany set aside her embroidery and lifted the delicate teapot painted with wild roses at its base and rim.
As she tipped the pot, Conabar suddenly pulled himself upright, a low grumble starting in the back of his throat. The grumble became a growl as he stood stiff, hackles lifting. Jillian didn't hesitate to leap up and rush to the other room to grab her staff. Just as her hand closed around it, a fist thudded heavily against the door. Once, twice, three times. The teapot clattered back onto the tray and Jillian hastened back to her mother and sister, a dozen spells springing to her mind. Conabar gave a howling bark that raised the hairs on her neck as the pounding came again.
“Who's there?” she called out with far more courage than she felt.
“Mistress Hawke! Jillian... It's Ser Bryant. Please, I need to speak with you.”
“Oh thank the Maker,” she breathed, relief leaving her weak-kneed. She put her staff aside, out of sight, and moved to open the door.
“Are you mad?!” Bethany hissed. “What if he's here to do more than just talk?”
“He isn't,” Jillian said. But suddenly she doubted. She undid the latch slowly, trying to ignore the heavy thudding of her heart. Her hand on Conabar's head was enough to still the mabari as she pulled open the door. The large form of Ser Bryant filled the frame. His face was grave. Jillian kept herself from looking behind him for more templars only with an effort.
“What is it, Ser?” she asked softly. There was no hiding her apprehension, but surely that was normal for anyone under these circumstances? She devoutly hoped so.
“We've received news,” he told her without preamble, seeing her anxiety and not wanting to prolong it for even a second. “The king's army was defeated at Ostagar. The darkspawn horde will come north. It will come here.”
Jillian was only dimly aware of her mother's anguished wail somewhere behind her, or of Bethany's quick leap to Leandra's side as she began to slide to the floor. Her gray eyes were huge in a face drained of color, and it was only with a supreme effort of will that she managed to form her thoughts and give them voice. She saw Ser Bryant wince, but was beyond realizing how hollow and lost she sounded.
“How? Is it a rout? Has the army fallen back to regroup?”
Ser Bryant took her hands in his and she noted in some inconsequential part of her awareness that his hands were strong and warm.
“No, Jillian. There are rumors - I am unsure what to believe. Teryn Loghain's army passed by on their way to the bann. He sent a messenger to tell us what has happened. He said that the Grey Wardens betrayed King Cailan and led him to his death. They've been declared outlaws. But I heard from another who was there that the teryn did the betraying.” He shook his head, obviously bothered by the conflicting reports. “But they agree on one thing. The king's army was slaughtered. Any survivors had to flee for their lives, into the Korcari Wilds, or if they are lucky, northward ahead of the 'spawn.”
“Slaughtered,” she repeated numbly. All she could see was Carver's determined face as he told them that he was going to join the regiment and help defeat the darkspawn. She had never seen him look so proud and full of purpose or so convinced of his path. Despite the fact that he would have to fight the soulless creatures, she would have sworn that he was happy.
Ser Bryant touched her cheek with gentle fingers, bringing her wandering thoughts back to him. “I have to get back to the Chantry,” he told her regretfully. Somehow that made her feel even worse. “The Revered Mother has ordered us to begin preparations to leave. I need to oversee things.”
“Of course. Of course the Chantry must save its holy relics,” Jillian said with a note of bitterness creeping into her voice. “Lothering's people must simply do for themselves.”
“We will help as many as we can, Jillian, I promise you. I will stay as long as I am needed - or as long as I am able. But you must think about what I said to you today. I will do everything in my power to help you - to aid your family. But I can only do this if you allow me.”
“I... will talk to Mother,” she said softly. “I doubt she will agree, not when there is the slightest chance that Carver will return to us, but I'll talk to her.”
Relief washed over the templar's face and before Jillian knew it, he had pulled her forward into a swift, crushing hug. She felt his lips move against her hair and heard his deep, smooth voice.
“Thank the Maker,” he quietly prayed.
And then he was gone.
A/N: I had started to work on the next chapter of Where Duty Lies, but I got sidetracked by the sudden urge to play Origins again. And then when I started playing Origins, I got sidetracked by the sudden urge to write about an Origins character that has lingered in the back of my mind from the first moment he was introduced to me. So I dropped the game and picked up the pen, so to speak, and began working on this. I apologize for the delay to my main story, but I have to get this one out of the way if I'm going to concentrate on the other.
That said, this story is about Hawke's life in Lothering in the last days before the darkspawn arrive. It's a love story. In a way it's a prequel to Where Duty Lies, though there are some discrepancies between the two in regards to Jillian's love life. I'll very likely edit the main story to agree with this. Hopefully that won't upset anyone who likes the main story just as it is. The changes will be minor.
Finally, this promises to be much shorter than Where Duty Lies simply because it occurs over the course of days rather than years. I've posted 3 chapters of it together and will probably wait to post again until I've got another three hammered out. I doubt it will go longer than eight. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it.
Oh, and of course, BioWare owns all. :)