Story [Dragon Age 2] Catch -- There's really no such thing as an apostate in Kirkwall any more.

Title: Catch
Author: karebear
Rating: PG
Characters: Female Mage Hawke, supporting roles by romantic Anders, Meredith, and Carver mainly
Summary: In fact, when you play Hawke as a mage, you end up with an apostate who runs errands for the Knight-Commander of the Templars under explicit threat. But at that point, can you really be called an apostate any more?
Standard Disclaimer: I own none of the characters herein nor the world they inhabit. It?s just that, dammit, Bioware has done it again, and caught me up in one of their tangled webs.


?Let me be very clear on this matter, then: You are an apostate. One who operates freely only because you have been a protector to this city. If I suspect that is no longer the case, then I may decide your status needs to change.?
- Knight-Commander Meredith



She wonders how in the hell Anders can manage to walk through these halls without shaking. It?s only his presence that lets her stand in front of the Knight Commander, lets her speak without making it obvious that inside of her, childhood fears rise up so strong she feels like she is about to vomit, every time.

But then, she supposes, Anders had been a Grey Warden, and Wardens are supposed to be beyond fear. Not to mention, Anders carries the personification of Vengeance inside him, crackling electric through his blood.

Meredith?s eyes are cruel, always hardened, ice-cold. It would take an idiot not to notice the sword clenched tightly in her grip whenever they speak.

Hawke spouts off stupid, sarcastic banter when she?s nervous, always has. Carver hated her for it when they were children, constantly threatened to turn her in to the Templars if she didn?t shut up. He meant it as a joke, of course he was only teasing, little boys were supposed to harass their sisters, it?s why the Maker created them in the first place.

But that didn?t stop her from waking up in the middle of the night, pillow wet and face soaked with tears, blankets tangled from all the running she had tried to do in her sleep.

Carver always woke up with her, held her until her eyes were dry, as long as it took until she was able to gather enough air in each breath, until her heart was no longer racing, but simply present, it?s beat solid and steady under her skin.

He never apologized, never had to. They both understood that though his words had a part in her nightmares, they were not the cause of them. They both understood that words were superficial, meaningless when confronted with the reality of a decade of restless nights.

That too was why the Maker created brothers.

It was always Bethany who wanted to be a Mage, who reveled in her talents and ran at their father?s side as he showed them the things they were capable of. Hawke hated it, and hated him for poisoning her blood. She refused to accept the lessons he tried to give her, as though by denying what she was she could make it go away. As though by sheer stubborn willpower she?d be able to convince the Templars that she wasn?t a Mage, wasn?t an Apostate, because she didn?t want to be one.

Of course, no amount of wanting or fervent prayer could bury the magic that lit up inside her, bursting forth from soul and skin. Contrary to what others thought, fire and force didn?t flow out from her body, launching from her fingertips because she wanted it to. It only came when she wasn?t thinking, when she felt threatened, hurt, angry. When she was afraid.

She was afraid all the time.

As frightened as everyone was of people like her, there was no comparison to what it felt like to be her, constantly afraid of this power she had never asked for and could not control.

So why was she even more afraid of what would happen when (she?d always known it would be when, never if) the Templars caught her, corralled her, controlled her?

The thought had nagged at her, tickling at the base of her brain in every quiet moment.

She could stop running any time. It would be easy. She knew how.

She knew she wasn?t the only one w