Harsh, Cold Lessons

The cold. That's what she remembers the most.

It was winter, and she was outside chopping wood. It was a chore she hated doing, and a chore she only recently got mildly good at. At least now the wood she chopped didn't have on one half what looked like a stick, and on the other half what still looked like a log when she split it. She also noticed that she was becoming stronger. The axe was slowly getting lighter in her hands as she raised it above her head to bring it crashing down on an unsuspecting log that was ready to be split.

Her hands, which had been soft and velvety for the longest time, were now calloused and tough from all the hard work that needed to be done around the house, and Mother hated it. She missed how soft her hands used to be and was saddened that they would never be like that again because of all the work that needed to be done. There was no way that Father could do it all by himself, so, naturally, she had to step up and help him.

The only reason she was outside chopping wood in the frozen snow with the frigid wind was because of her younger twin sister, Bethany. Bethany had the second child act mastered even though she was the youngest. It was like her and her twin sisters' roles had been switched. This meant that Bethany was very selfish, and her selfishness and search to make a name for herself had lead her to a recruiter for King Cailan's army, who obviously wasn't going to pass up a strong rogue with pretty good looks. Bethany was recruited then and there, and none of her family knew about it.

When Bethany finally told everyone that she was joining the army, Carver, the oldest sibling of the three, had wordlessly gotten up and left their house. The sister with the velvet soft hands had assumed it was to escape and not have to listen to Father's angry speech or Mother's sob story about how she didn't want her baby dying while fighting for a cause she might not wholly believe in. She was wrong, though. Carver hadn't left to avoid the Mother and Father's attempt to get Bethany to rethink her decision, and she found out halfway through Father's teachings.

After Bethany had been sent to her room, Father continued on his schedule like nothing had happened, picked up a big, heavy book, and plopped it down in front of the his child with the velvet soft hands who loved lessons from her Father, but wasn't exactly giddy with excitement about the recent lessons. Father was trying to teach her Tevinter, and she had found the language incredibly hard to learn. Not only was it tough to read, but how you were supposed to speak it was something she did not understand.

"How can you speak a language that's so cold and harsh just when reading it?" she asked Father once, her eyes, which were the color of the sea after a storm, sparkling with innocence.

To which Father had replied, "Well, the Tevinters are a harsh, cold, and cruel people; so it's only fitting that the language match them. And as for your question," he added, his own eyes, which were a mirror of the daughter he was teaching, sparkling with mischief, "to speak the language all you have to do is think mean thoughts. Like lighting kittens on fire or defiling a statue of Andraste in one of the Chantrys."

"That's not true Papa," she responded before giggling uncontrollably with Father's thunderous laughter complimenting her giggles.

Carver had come back in silently while Father and her were halfway through Father's teachings, and silently sat himself down next to her. Father was on the other side, trying to make her practice rolling the r's that were in words better. He didn't interrupt. He waited silently for Father and her to finish up the lesson on a harsh and cold language.

Once they had wrapped up the lesson and closed the book, Carver tapped his sister on the knee with two fingers. It was something they had always done since they were little. She always had to question everything, always had to know who, what, when, where, how, and/or why. Her inquisitive nature had gotten herself in trouble more than once in trouble under the classification of interrupting. The two fingers being tapped on the leg was something that Carver had come up with and had always used until his sister got old enough to not need it anymore, and what it basically was saying when he did it was, "Shut up and listen."

The sister with the velvet soft hands looked at her brother questioningly before her eyes widened in terror at the three words her brother spoke.

"I joined, too."

What! she thought and wanted to scream at him, but, like her brother wanted, she stayed silent and waited to see what happened.

"I hope it's not to make a name for yourself like Bethany who can't see beyond her own, selfish goals and care about others," Father had said coldly. His eyes were glistening with an anger he was trying to smother.

"It isn't," Carver replied shortly. He was looking down at his hands, keeping his eyes hidden underneath his long, jet black hair.

"Then why!" His sister couldn't take the slowness of the conversation anymore. She couldn't take the quiet and so she stood up abruptly, knocking the chair down behind her, and turned to face him. He promised to never leave! He told me that he would always stay here to protect all of us! She felt betrayed.

"To make sure that Bethany doesn't get herself killed."

His intention was noble and she knew it was the right thing to do, but for every time that Bethany and him got something to themselves, she had been left out in the cold. She only had two things in her life that were hers and that no one could take away from her. One was her Father's lessons, but she was hating having to learn Tevinter right now. The other was her mabari war hound, Hewie, who she poured her soul and troubles into when Bethany and Carver had so many freedoms she was denied because of Mother and Father's attempt to keep at least one of their children innocent.

"But you promised!" she screamed at Carver before running out into the fields with Hewie in toe, who had been originally sleeping on a rug in the family room. When he sensed his mistress' pain he followed her without hesitation.

Now she was freezing her toes off while Bethany and Carver were sitting pretty up in Denerim training for the army.

It had been two months since they left and Mother and Father were worried about their child that had stayed behind. Sure she was getting stronger and finally getting the hang of doing the hard work Carver and Bethany had always done, but she wasn't as talkative as she used to be. She no longer shared everything with them by telling them how she was feeling or about what she did that day. She also started to take long walks with Hewie, too. She confided everything to that mabari and he rarely left her side. Well, except for today and that was because he hated the cold almost as much as his mistress hated chopping wood.

THWACK!

The last log she needed to chop had just been cleaved in two. Carrying the pieces and the axe in her hands, she trudged through the snow and towards the house. Setting the wood on the pile that had already been started in the summer, she headed over to the shed and put the axe away.

She lived about a mile away from the small village of Lothering. The people who lived in Lothering often commented about how it was a bad idea for them to live so far outside of the village. Something could happen to them and it would take hours before anyone else would hear about it, but that's how her family liked it. That's how Father stayed out of the sight and wrath of the templars.

Cold air blew around her, kicking snow up into the air and nipping at her ears and nose. She moved slowly through the snow that clung to her ankles and prevented her from walking with ease and went over by the fence. She was waiting for Father, who had left to get a couple of things he needed for his job in this village.

He was a healer. Both kinds. He was a master of herbs and a master of entropic spells and spirit healing. He could fix everything, but he only used his magic when he knew that herbs would fail where his Maker given gifts wouldn't. This had caused them to move quite a few times in the past when the templars started sniffing around.

A lone figure appeared on the snow a ways down the "road" that lead from their house to Lothering. Her heart filled with warmth as she saw it was Father and that he had made it back all right. The warmth was short lived, however, when she noticed that Father was stumbling along instead of walking at his normal, bright pace. At first she figured he was just having difficulty with the snow, old age settling in and all, but when he collapsed in the snow she knew something was wrong.

"Papa!" she cried out before hopping the fence and dashing towards him.

The distance between them closed rapidly and soon she was only a few meters away from Father. Why is the snow red! Snow's not supposed to be red! her mind was muddled and she was in both shock and panic when she saw the extent of the wounds Father suffered.

"My dear girl," Father said weakly as she dropped to her knees in the snow next to him. She started to look at the wounds and started to put pressure to try to stop the bleeding, but both of them knew that wouldn't stop his imminent death.

"Papa, how did this happen!" she asked in desperation, her voice filled with pain and panic at what his future most likely held. "Why did this happen! Who did this!

"Sshh..." he replied softly, holding a blood covered finger up to her lip. "You mustn't interrupt, you know that," he caressed her cheek before his hand fell on top of his chest and he winced in pain.

"But you're...let me—" she started.

"No!" he cut off what she was going to say. "The templars, they did this and are on their way. Here," he said quickly, reaching into his coat and pulling out something large and wrapped in a white cloth, "throw this into that tree over there, and don't let the templars find it!" Father thrust it into his daughter's hands.

She did as she was asked and chucked it into the trees branches. Pine needles fell with it as it landed by what she presumed was the trunk. She could no longer see it and hoped that the pine needles and snow would keep it concealed.

That's when the dreaded sound of clinking metal reached her ears.

Templars were not good at sneaking up, not that it mattered. The sound of their metal armor striking and rubbing against itself as they walked was enough to strike fear in to all mages, apostates or no. It was a sound that made them realize that all their previous freedoms were gone, or that they were soon to be taken away from them.

"Papa, you need to get up!" she begged him, her voice sounding much more urgent now. "We need to get you home!"

She started to shake him and pull on him, trying to get him up...but it was no use. He didn't even try to move. Father just lay there, blood pouring out of him. In his eyes she saw something she had never seen before. Defeat.

All her life Father had told her to never give up and that if she wanted something bad enough to go after it and let nothing stop you. But here he lay as a living contradiction to what he had always told her. He had given up. On himself, on his freedom, she didn't know; but she saw his defeat and didn't accept it.

"Come on, Papa!" she screamed at him. She was enraged that he was going to give up and let himself die. She didn't want him to leave her. "You have to get up! Get up! Papa, please! We need to move!"

"Seize her!" a foreign voice called, and the clinking of metal surrounded her.

Hard metal hands grabbed her shoulders as she was dragged from Father. She struggled against them, kicking, jerking, pulling. She did everything she could to get away from them and help Father, but it was all for naught.

Two templars had a hold of her and three more appeared in front of her. Father was helped onto his knees by two of the other templars and kept in place by them, each gripping one of his shoulders with enough force to break it.

"Get away from him!" she roared, throwing herself forward and away from the templars that had a strong hold on her.

The templar with the fancy helmet turned towards her and gave a snort of disgust, "Be thankful that we have decided not to punish you and the rest of your family, girl."He turned back to Father and gave a short laugh of what she thought was amusement. "Thought we could run away, didn't we?"

Father said nothing. He didn't even look up.

"Hm. Very well then, I'll make this short." Fancy helmet templar cleared his throat. "You, Malcolm Hawke, stand accused of fleeing the Circle, of fleeing the templars that were in every place that you took residence in, of practicing magic outside of the Circle without permission from any First Enchanter, and of being an apostate." The fancy helmeted templar took a deep, loud breath. "Do you deny any of these claims?"

"Yeah," Father responded hoarsely, "just one though." He looked up at the fancy helmeted templar, his eyes having the old spark she always loved to see. The spark of mischief. "I am not an apostate. I am a mage who wanted to have a happy life, which I did. I am a mage who wanted to have a family, which I did. I am a mage who wanted to taste freedom and have it, which I did. AND I am a mage who wanted to live away from templar pricks, such as yourself, which I did and still am going to do because I am going to be at the Maker's side soon."

"You got that right!" The fancy helmeted templar reached for his sword and the next scene played out slower than normal for her.

She saw the templar grip his sword and pull it out of its sheath, the sound of metal slipping out of leather filling her ears. Then she saw him bring back his arm to gain power and momentum before he finally rammed the sword through Father's stomach. Father let out a soft gasp of pain that sounded like a scream echoing in her ears. His eyes widened with shock before the templar ripped out his sword. It glistened with blood that dripped from its end, adding to the red that already stained the snow. Father sagged forward and the templars who were holding him let him fall face first into the snow.

"NO!" she screamed, tears tracing her cheeks before she finally was able to tear herself from the templars that held her.

She lunged at the fancy helmeted templar and knocked him on to his back in the snow. His breath was forced from him and she landed on him, tearing his helmet off of him so that she could get at his face.

A few strong blows landed on his face as she wailed on him. She broke his jaw and nose and gave him a few bruises, as well as a future black eye, before she was finally pulled off and thrown into the snow

Landing hard on her side, her eyes fell on Father that was stiller than he was supposed to be. More tears filled her eyes and a soft whimper escaped her. Why is this happening? she asked herself. Why couldn't we live in peace a few more years?

"The bitch is fucking crazy!" the fancy helmeted templar roared. "Put her out of her misery!"

One of the templars moved towards her, sword drawn; but someone was looking out for her, and the final blow never came.

Hewie came out of nowhere. Either he had been hiding in the snow, waiting for the opportune moment to come to his mistress' rescue; or he had been so fast and quiet that no one had seen or heard him coming.

He lunged at the templar who had made towards his mistress with the sword and knocked him on his ass before he started to attack. Biting, clawing, growling he tore the templars arm to shreds, and when another swung at him to get him off, he nimbly dodged out of the way and backed off. Hewie had made his point and stood in front of his mistress in a defensive stance still growling and snapping to get them away.

All of them knew that you weren't supposed to mess with a mabari, especially one that was protecting someone and stayed as far from her and her mabari as the fancy helmeted templar would let them.

Yelling orders at his templars, the fancy helmeted templar tried to get them to kill her for hitting him. None of them would have it though. They were either afraid of Hewie or they saw that they had already punished her enough by taking Father away from her.

She could no longer hear the templars. Out of the corners of her eyes she could see some lips moving, heads nodding, and hands moving which symbolized a discussion, but the words didn't register with her. Whether she knew it or not, she was in shock. What had happened had finally caused her brain to shut down, caused it to shut down so that the pain would only reach her in doses and not crush her.

Then they started to walk away. Soon they were out of her vision. And finally they were completely gone and Hewie relaxed and went over to his mistress.

She was gone, lost in what had happened, but he was going to bring her back.

He started by nudging her, rocking her from side to side, but still she would not move. Next, he tried licking her. Her face, her hands, any exposed skin he would run his rough tongue across, but still she would not move. Then, he started to bark in her ears. It was a sound she had often hushed him for and told him to use only when needed, but not even that moved her. Finally, he growled a deep and throaty growl before he sank his teeth into her arm.

"Ah!" she cried as she sat bolt upright, cradling her arm.

Hewie whimpered a little, hanging his head and wagging his little stump of a tail.

"Thank you, Hewie," she whispered as she wrapped her arms around him and hung by his neck. "Thank you."

She let go and crawled over towards Father. He was still face down and blood was everywhere. Tears flooded her eyes and flowed down her cheeks as she rolled Father onto his back. His eyes were half open and no light flickered in them. No breath came from him. No beat would ever return to his heart, and she felt as if her world was over. Father was no longer here. Carver wasn't here either. Nor Bethany.

All she had was Hewie and Mother. Mother wasn't going to be all here though when she found out Father was gone. It was just her, and it was going to be only her for a while.

The days after Father's death blurred together to her, but one thing did stick out during that time. A service was held for him by the Revered Mother even though she wasn't supposed to hold one for apostates.

When she asked the Revered Mother about this she simply replied, "Malcolm may have been an apostate, but he was much, much more than that. He was a good man with a noble heart that caused him to help a great many people even if he gained little to nothing from it," The Revered Mother shook her head slightly. "Men like that are hard to find these days, and when you do find them they deserve the best one can offer them when they pass on. The best I can offer is a proper service, and he will not be denied that no matter how much the templars complain about it."

She was shell shocked at the Revered Mother's answer. Surely a woman of the Chantry would not have such a cool and understanding head when it comes to apostates. The Chantry always said the worst about apostates and branded them as maleficarum even if the title was baseless.

The Revered Mother had seen her shock and tried to put her mind at ease, "Did you think I would hate all apostates?" she laughed a little. "Apostates may not follow the rules of the Chantry, but that doesn't mean they are going against The Will of the Maker."

Her heavy heart became lighter for a few beats, "Thank you," she whispered before returning back to the villagers and friends that attended Father's service.

The villagers of Lothering used to comment on how bad it was for them to live away from the village. Now they gossiped about how Mother and her remaining daughter were coping.

Mother was doing well for a fresh widow. She plastered on a fake smile with hollow eyes. She ate and did everything that needed to be done like everything was normal, but the sorrow and pain never stopped being reflected in her eyes. They say that the eyes are the windows to the soul, and Mother's eyes never had any light in them since Father died. Even after a few weeks something that could have resembled light had yet to be seen in her eyes by anyone, which they found curious. People forget sometimes that it takes time for a broken heart to heal.

The remaining daughter in the house was considered to be coping much better by people on the outside because they only heard news from Mother, but that wasn't true. Mother had lied to protect her daughter.

The truth was that she wasn't eating that much. She barely focused on anything that needed being done. She sat in Father's study for hours upon hours just staring at the books that they had read and practiced from. She barely spoke, and when she did speak, it was usually in Tevinter, a language that was cold and harsh. It was a language she had hated learning, and the last thing Father had been able to teach her. Her dreams in the Fade were plagued by something worse than any demons: memories. Every night she relived what had happened on the snowy day after she had finished chopping the wood. Every night she woke up screaming and sobbing uncontrollably with Mother's arms around her and Hewie's head resting on her legs as they attempted to comfort her. She had been extremely close to her Father, and that made things all the harder. That was why she couldn't bring herself to open the large object that had been wrapped in the white cloth Father had wanted her to hide from the templars. Before she would go to bed and be plagued by memories, she would take out the clothed object from its hiding place and set it on her lap, starting at it with glazed eyes, not daring to look and see what it was.

Three weeks had passed since Father's death, and Carver and Bethany had finally come home. Both of them couldn't believe what had happened and tried questioning their sister to get every little detail on what had happened, but they failed. She would only reply in soft, short answers that would barely answer the questions.

After a day of this, Bethany finally got fed up and began screaming at her older sister. "You selfish bitch! We have every right to know how Father died and you keep it to yourself! You care only about how it has hurt you, but it is killing me not knowing the entire story!" Bethany was in her sister's face now. "You obviously didn't care about him, or else you would have saved him! Even if you couldn't save him, you'd at least know that he'd want his entire family to know how he died and tell them! But you aren't because all you see is yourself!"

Bethany was expecting someone to snap, either her sister or Mother. She wasn't expecting Carver to, though. None of them were.

Within seconds of the end of Bethany's little speak, Caver had forced her up against a wall and was staring at her with fury written on his face and in his eyes. Through tightly clenched teeth he said, "Don't you ever talk to her like that again! If you hadn't went and signed up for the army none of this would have happened! The only reason I joined was to keep you alive and put Mother and Father's mind at ease! If we had been here Father wouldn't have needed to go to Lothering where the templars found him out! If anything it was you who killed him! It was your actions that brought his death!"

He let Bethany fall to the ground, tears streaking from her eyes. Carver was breathing hard. Never in all his life had he been so angry. He was usually the voice of peace and was never angry, but Bethany's selfishness had finally gotten to him.

The youngest was crying on the floor; the oldest, trying not to lose the rest of his cool. As for the middle child, she stood up from where she had been seated and moved towards Carver, resting a hand lightly on his arm before ascending up the stairs that led to her room.

Once there she quickly dressed in her nightgown and retrieved the clothed object from her hiding place. Every night she would pull it out and look at it, but had never opened it...until today, that is.

With trembling hands she slowly peeled away the cloth to reveal a great big book that was bound in leather and had many symbols of different types of enchantments burned into it. She opened the book to the first page, the title page. Two words were printed on it. "Malcolm Hawke." It was in Father's handwriting, and as she turned the page, her heart leapt into her throat.

"My magic will serve that which is best in me, not which is most base.
This grimoire was started by a Hawke and will pass down through my lineage to those who have been given my curse of magic."

That was the first paragraph on the page, and it shocked her. She never knew he felt so strongly against magic. The writing was old, however, and as her eyes moved down the page she found herself reading something that had only recently been added.

"To my daughter,
I hope that my grimoire will guide you along your path and enable you to travel it safely. Remember what I have taught you, and never let yourself be led astray. You are strong and wise, and though you may always be that little girl who accidentally froze our entire barn under a thick sheet of ice in my eyes, know that I am proud of the woman you have become. My dear Alexandria, do not hate what you are, and do not fear it. Live your life as a free woman and mage without hesitation. Be proud of who you are. Be proud that you are a Hawke.
Love,
Father"

Tears graced Alexandria's eyes as she finished reading the last words from Father. I will do you proud, Papa, she vowed silently to herself. I promise that and to live as you wanted me to live. As a free and proud mage.