Chapter Text
Chapter One
Codex - History of Kirkwall Part 1
It's difficult for many to comprehend today, but there was a time when Kirkwall was believed to be the very edge of the world.
It was Emerius then, named after its founder Magister Emerius Krayvan, and it was but one outpost on the very fringe of the Tevinter Imperium. There the magister's serfs worked at the quarries for the jet stone needed for the mighty temples of Minrathous. After a slave rebellion nearly burned the temple to the ground in the great city, it was determined that a centre for slave trade would need to be established well away from the more civilized parts of the Imperium. (Though account may be exaggerated, since the notorious Archon Vanarius Issar narrowly escaped assassination at the hands of an elven slave at the time.)
Because the new slave outpost would become wealthy beyond imagining, competition among prospects reportedly took over twenty years to resolve, resulting in great bloodshed in the frontier, well away from the archon's eyes. Magister took arms against magister, mostly in the form of small armies of serfs and mercenaries. Over half the slaves in existence allegedly died in these battles before Emerius was finally chosen, thanks to the marriage of Krayvan's son to the archon's daughter.
Within a mere decade, the mighty fortress was erected on the cliff where Kirkwall now stands. Over one million slaves passed through its gates before the Imperium eventually fell, an unimaginable number by today's standards. The Krayvan family itself became patrons of the next three archons and was one of the driving forces behind the extension of the Imperial highway into Ferelden valley, a move that would cost them considerable political influence after the resistance of the Alamarri tribes. During its height, Emerius was a jewel to rival the mightiest of the Imperial cities and the greatest centre of civilization outside Tevinter.
—From Kirkwall: the City of Chains, by Brother Genitivi
*
Hawke awoke from the nightmare which had haunted him since Bethany's death only to
find that the nightmare hadn't ended. They were still stuck in the bowels of a ship bound for Kirkwall, the one city he would never have chosen. Hawke had heard rumours that there were more templars in Kirkwall than ordinary civilians. Mages wouldn't be safe in Kirkwall. He wouldn't be safe in Kirkwall but it was his mother's wish to return to the city of her birth and Hawke hadn't the heart to deny her. Leandra Hawke had lost her husband and her daughter in too short a time. Hawke wasn't going to deny his mother her heritage no matter how dangerous it might be for him. They'd make the best of things like they always did.
Daylight shone down from the grille above them and Hawke stared at the cloudless blue sky wondering what he could have done to prevent his sister's death. Maybe if he'd been faster or knew a different spell. Or maybe if he'd known some better healing magics Bethany might still be alive. Carver had been vociferous in blaming his older brother and for once Hawke had no witty comeback for he knew it was true. It was his fault Bethany was dead and nothing anyone said or did would change that. Even his mother blamed him; it was there in the cold looks she gave him, although she hadn't quite said it to his face.
"Please, won't someone help this poor man?" A voice wailed from the other side of the hold. Hawke glanced over and saw a woman cradling a white-haired man in her arms. The woman's gown was stained crimson with blood.
"He ain't a man," said one of the other passengers. "He's an escaped slave by the looks of things. Do you see those rough patches round his wrists and neck? That's where he was bound in a collar and shackles. I reckon there might be a good reward in it once we get to Kirkwall."
Hawke wasn't in a very sociable mood but he knew he couldn't just stand by and watch the man bleed to death. It wouldn't bring his sister back but it might help provide some balm for his troubled soul. "Slavery's illegal in Kirkwall," Hawke said as he approached the woman and the wounded man. "You'll get no reward there." Hawke knelt down next to them. At first he thought the white hair indicated great age, but the stranger's face was smooth and Hawke saw a pointed ear peek out from a lock of white hair. An elf then, so he might indeed be old, but you could never tell an elf's age just by looking at him "Are you a friend of his?"
"No, serah, but I just couldn't let him die! I don't know what's wrong, I don't know where all this blood is coming from. He doesn't appear to be wounded."
Hawke suspected the elf might be suffering from some sort of bloody flux. The conditions on board ship were worse than primitive, with human waste next to what little food there was. It was a wonder more people hadn't got sick. If that was the case and the elf was bleeding from his back passage, it probably wasn't something he would want broadcast to the whole ship, but there was no privacy to be had.
One of the passengers growled at Hawke. "You're an apostate. You're not even trying to hide your staff. If we won't get money for the slave, we'd get money for you. I'm sure the templars would pay handsomely for a renegade mage."
"Touch my brother and I'll kill you," said Carver as he appeared suddenly behind the man, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"And I'd help," said Aveline as she joined Carver. Hawke glanced at both of them in surprise. His brother defending him he could understand, but Aveline? The widow of a templar and she wouldn't report him to the templars? The disgruntled passengers moved off, grumbling to themselves.
"What's going on?" Carver asked.
"This elf is very ill. Could you and Aveline sort me out some sort of screen for privacy? I know if it was me lying here I wouldn't want the whole world to see me either. Miss, can you go with them?"
The young woman nodded and the three of them headed off to find something they could use as a screen. Hawke had never seen many elves, his father had always forbidden him to go to the Alienage in Denerim when they lived there for a time and there were no elves in Lothering that he knew of. He'd heard stories, of course, everyone had. This elf had strange curlicue designs of tattoos on his arms and similar markings on his face and neck. His chest was hidden by a brown leather tunic and cuirass so Hawke couldn't see whether the tattoos were on his chest too. Was he one of the Dalish elves, then? When the Dalish came of age, they underwent a ceremony to place Vallaslin, tattoos created with their own blood. It had always sounded painful to Hawke.
Carver and the others returned with some cargo crates that they hastily made into a makeshift room. It wasn't a clinic or infirmary, but it was the best they could do on the ship.
"Thanks," said Hawke.
"Do you need any help?" asked Aveline.
"Not at the moment, but could you and Carver stay nearby, just in case?"
They both nodded and Hawke closed his eyes. He held his hands out over the elf's body as he communed with the Fade and scanned the elf for any injuries and sickness. A pale shadow of the elf's body appeared in the Fade before him, twisting and turning this way and that, allowing Hawke to see at once what the problem was. It wasn't a flux, as he'd first suspected. There was a shallow wound on the elf's back and there was something magical about the weapon which had inflicted it. Hawke could sense the mana still on the elf's back from whatever dagger or knife had been used. A sword would have left a much bigger hole. The blade had been infused with something that prevented the blood from clotting. Ordinarily, such a shallow wound should not have been that dangerous, but the elf could die from the unexpected bleeding if Hawke couldn't stop it.
Hawke opened his eyes and found himself staring down at the brightest, greenest eyes he'd ever seen. His throat caught. He'd heard that elves were beautiful, but nothing could have prepared him for how beautiful they truly were.
"Do not touch me with your foul magics, Mage!" said the elf, struggling to sit up and looking as if he wanted to get as far away from Hawke as he could.
"You need healing," Hawke said simply. "That wound on your back will kill you if you aren't healed."
"Nonsense, it's a scratch, nothing more."
"And scratches usually bleed that much, do they?" Hawke gestured to the elf's saturated clothes and the pool of blood.
The elf looked down and paled on seeing the crimson stains. "What – I don't – what is this?"
"There is some dark magic in the wound. The blade used had demonic magic within it. The bleeding won't stop without help. Please, allow me to heal you."
"Are you one of them?" the elf demanded. "A blood mage? An abomination?"
"Of course not!" said Carver. "My brother is a healer. He's had no dealings with demons. He's far too sensible for that."
"Do you need to use magic to heal me?" the elf slumped against one of the crates, as even speaking was taking a lot out of him.
"Not necessarily," said Hawke, realising that the elf, despite his bravado had some fear of magic and did not want it used on him. "I have a herbal tonic which will help slow the bleeding, but I'd need to stitch up the wound to close it. It would be painful, I have nothing with me to use as anaesthetic. Magic would heal you that much quicker, though. And I'm not sure anything besides magic is going to stop this bleeding, I'm sorry."
"Do what you must." The elf slumped against the crates once more and Hawke could see both his hands making a fist.
"I'm Aemond Hawke, this is my brother Carver and this is Aveline Vallen."
"Hawke is a good man," Aveline said softly. "He saved us from the darkspawn as we ran from the Blight. He will not harm you."
The elf looked at the three of them, his eyes wide. "I – I do not know my real name. My previous master called me Fenris, his little wolf."
Hawke held out his hand and Fenris stared at it, as if not quite knowing what to do. "It's customary among my people to shake hands when you greet a friend," said Hawke, grinning. "Do elves not do that?"
"I don't know. I've never met another elf, or if I did I have no memory of it."
"We can talk later, after I've healed you. That wound isn't going to close by itself. Are you ready, Fenris?"
"What must I do?"
"You just need to keep still. I will cast healing magics on you and in a few moments you will be as right as rain."
"What a strange expression," said Fenris. He nodded and seemed resigned to his fate."I am ready."
*
Fenris closed his eyes, hoping against hope that this time magic wouldn't hurt him. Healing magic must differ from offensive spells, the ones Danarius and Hadriana most often used on him. The pain they could inflict was extraordinary. Fenris didn't want the pain. He didn't want to look weak in front of these people. Aveline and Carver looked like hardened warriors and Hawke was a mage. He could kill Fenris with a click of his fingers.
In the following few seconds, Fenris lost all hope that healing spells would be different. Agony flared through his markings and his whole body arched in a rictus of pain. Someone was howling, screaming and it took a while to realise that the screams were coming from his own throat. Fenris tried to stop screaming, tried to accept the agony stoically, but it was no use. He could no more be silent than he could stop the sun from rising. Fenris' throat ached, his head throbbed as he screamed and screamed, unable to even crawl away from the torment Hawke was inflicting upon him. His body was no longer under his control but under control from a mage, just like before.
No! His life was his own now and no mage was going to control him ever again. Fenris concentrated as hard as he could, trying to ignore the pain. He lashed out with his arms and legs and he heard Hawke grunt as he was pushed aside. The agony subsided and Fenris could breathe easily again. Carver rushed to Hawke's side and glared in Fenris' direction.
"He was trying to help you!"
"I'm all right, Carver. Just winded." Hawke crawled back to where Fenris was sitting slumped against the crates. "I'm sorry, Fenris. I had no idea magic would pain you so. It's your markings, isn't it? They aren't just tattoos, are they?"
"No. They are lyrium. They were carved into my flesh against my will, in a ritual I remember only for the agony it caused me."
"Oh, Maker," said Hawke. "Someone carved lyrium into your skin? I can't imagine how painful that must have been."
"No, you can't," said Fenris bitterly. "The agony defies description."
"Fenris, I'm sorry. I haven't yet finished closing your wound. A few minutes more, that's all I need to heal you."
A few minutes? A few minutes of agony that felt like eternity, but Fenris was no coward. The pain would stop eventually, but he hated how little control he had during it. It was as if his world consisted of nothing else but the aches in his whole body.
"Then gag me," said Fenris.
"Gag you?" asked Hawke, as if he'd never heard of the word before.
"I don't want the whole ship to hear me making a fool of myself again. Gag me so I can't scream."
"Screaming because you are in excruciating pain is not making a fool of yourself," said Hawke.
"If you wish to heal me properly, gag me. Please," said Fenris and hated himself for having to plead for anything from a mage.
"Very well, then," said Hawke, ripping the sleeve from his linen shirt. Fenris gaped at the highly defined muscles on Hawke's bare arm. He had always assumed that most mages, like the magisters, where inherently lazy and used magic even for the most simple of tasks. Seeing Hawke's bulging biceps, he realised that couldn't be true in this case. There was no way Hawke had gained such a physique without some form of physical labour.
Hawke twisted his torn sleeve into a makeshift gag and reached towards Fenris' head with it. Fenris tried to scramble away, but there was nowhere to go, he was already right against the crates. His heart thudded against his ribs and his markings flared, anticipating danger, like so many times before.
"No!" Fenris gasped and grabbed the linen from Hawke's hands. "I will do it. I do not like to be touched."
Hawke nodded, as if he dealt with prickly ex-slaves and their issues all the time. Fenris knew deep down that this mage at least did not intend to harm him, but it was still difficult to give up control. Fenris remembered all too well the times Danarius had gagged him so he couldn't scream or cry for help. Not that he ever did, even when he wasn't gagged, for he knew no one in that mansion would ever come to his aid. Screaming did nothing except earn him more punishments.
"Er, your markings are glowing," said Carver.
Fenris held out his arms in front of him and they all could see the lyrium glowing blue underneath his skin. "The magister who gave me these markings, he created me as a living weapon. When my markings glow, my body becomes something else. I don't know how I can do it, but I can reach through a man's chest with my bare hands and squeeze his heart where it sits. They are also my protection and flare when they sense danger."
"Well, you're not in any danger now," said Aveline, shaking her red hair away from her face.
"Am I not?" asked Fenris. "I am at the mercy of a mage and two warriors."
"I won't harm you, Fenris. I swear it," said Hawke.
Fenris nodded and tied the gag around his mouth. For some reason, even though his instincts were screaming at him to never trust a mage, he found he did trust this one.
Hawke would keep his promises.