Work Text:
For avoiding justice, you are exiled from Ferelden.
Exile.
Gregory Dedrick slung his pack across his back, everything he still owned, and kept walking. There were no lands left that would take him. No home to return to. Nothing left.
But still he did what he must, he carried on. His feet ached and his heart beat heavy in his chest but he carried on.
There was nothing else left to do.
Nothing left but to keep on going.
It was his order that killed them all. He knew this, he’d lived with it for ten years. It was a heavy decision but one that needed to be made. Somebody had to be the one to make the difficult choices and live with the consequences. It may as well be him.
It wasn’t the first heavy decision he’d ever made, nor was it the last. Ever since his family left the Anderfels in his teens he’d known. People like him were just more capable of making those decisions. The Inquisitor was one such person and Dedrick had to respect the man for it.
That was why he accepted his exile and carried on. Because it had been the right decision when he made it.
His only sin had been going soft when the survivors of the Blight stood at the water’s edge and cried out for their drowned loved ones. He hadn’t told them then. Instead he’d lied, allowing them to believe it had been the darkspawn who wrecked the dam’s controls.
He’d let them believe it was the darkspawn who killed their families.
But that was true, wasn’t it, if a cowardly truth. They were all blight-sick, the sunlight hurting them, black rot creeping up their hands and faces, all of them dying slowly. Or worse, not even dying at all. The ghouls would have killed them all in their madness, crawling out of the darkness with blind eyes and blackened claws. A quick merciful death was the last gift he could give them.
The only mercy.
“I should have died with them,” he mused aloud, not for the first time.
He heard the cluck cluck of the bird before he saw it.
The road stretched desolate, winter and demons and the mountains all conspiring to turn this stretch of the Ferelden borderlands into a lifeless wasteland. And yet, there were signs of life below the snows: the fence along the road that he traveled, the mounds of haystacks halfway disassembled by druffalo sneaking mouthfuls from the stacks, skeletal trees beginning to bud in the trickling of melting snows, the black rooster perched on the fencepost watching him.
Dedrick’s stomach rumbled. He had trail rations, hard tack, dried meat. But fresh eggs would be welcome. A rooster like this, with full feather coat and large girth, meant chickens nearby; one large fat male protecting its entire flock. He approached the bird, wondering how it would react.
The rooster cocked its head, clucking as it watched. Then it stretched its neck and crowed before flapping clumsily off the post with too many wings into the melting snows of the field. The rooster ran off away from the road, its iridescent tail shining behind it.
He followed it.
He should have told them when it happened.
If given the same choices all over again, Dedrick would have done the same. He’d have sent all the blight-sick into the caves under Crestwood and then had the sluiceways shut. Again.
But, if he had that chance to do it all over, he’d have told everyone why.
Someone always had to make the tough choices. That was the one thing he learned from his parents, from his childhood in the Anderfels. Someone always had to be the one to step up and make those tough decisions, it might as well be him. Someone always had to take the first step.
Yes there would have been outrage, unrest, screaming and wailing. There was anyway. But he’d rather face that than the ten years of quiet secrecy. He hated that quiet shame.
He’d had enough shame in his life already.
Shame was what drove his wife to leave him after what happened to their son.
Their son. He’d not thought of his son in years. His strange, distant son. Soft. He was Fereldan, his mother’s boy, never learned how to take charge and take command. Never stood up for what he should have.
And then the barn. The boy with fire in his hands, demons in his mind, magic in his voice.
The boy stopped being his son that day. Dedrick made the decision his wife refused to, the hard decision because someone had to. He summoned the Templars to take the boy and never saw him again. Suddenly it was as though he’d never had a son, him and his wife rendered childless.
Shame drove her to leave. Shame at what she’d tried to hide from him, from Crestwood, from the Templars, from the Maker.
The rooster’s crow drew him from his thoughts. Dedrick stopped walking and looked around.
Snows melted as he descended out of the mountains into Orlesian territory. The first grasses of spring sprang up through the dead ground, the muddy field crossed with the footprints of a whole flock of chickens. But he didn’t see any other sign of the birds. There weren’t even any farms visible in this area, no dwellings on the horizon for miles yet, just rolling fields of snow and grasses and nothing.
Maybe he should just keep moving on. He felt decidedly unwelcome here. But where was the road?
Maybe he could book passage on a ship back to the Anderfels. He’d not smelled hot sand and desert-dry grasses for decades now.
Then he remembered ten years ago and the stench of Blight and how he smelled that same reek on the hot winds of his childhood.
No, he wouldn’t go back.
But where would he go?
Where was the road?
Where was the blighted road?!
Then he saw it, the black rooster. It flapped too many wings and crowed then ran off again. He followed it, pausing only when he found a nest. It was abandoned, the hen nowhere to be seen. Why were the eggs still warm? Wait, where was the rooster now?
It didn’t matter. He stopped to collect the eggs, fresh food for later.
The mountains stretched behind him, spring in full bloom around him. The fire crackled, small and comforting and warming as he rested his aching feet. He’d been walking through fields for days now, he hadn’t stopped since the Inquisition soldiers handed him a pack of supplies and pointed west down the mountain. West out of the Frostback Mountains, west out of Ferelden, west out of their jurisdiction. Exile was the best that the Inquisitor could do.
He should have died for this. He should have died then, told the survivors exactly what he’d done to save their lives, let them toss him into the swirling waters to die. He would have welcomed such a death. At least it meant everyone else would survive.
Someone has to make the tough decisions.
“Someone has to.”
Dedrick looked up from the fire. Where had that voice come from?
He started in shock at the man who sat just beyond the edge of firelight. Red Satina hung low on the horizon, casting a dim glow across the landscape. The tree above him rustled in the night breeze, his flat bedroll spread out below him. The remains of his meal made for poor offerings for a guest; he’d eaten the last of the bread and sucked down three raw eggs. There were more eggs for later and if he could track down that blasted black rooster again and wring its neck he’d have roast chicken for days.
Instead this shadow sat beyond the edge of his fire, a man in black cloak and hood. It was a fine cloak, the ruff of feathers around the shoulders rustling in the wind.
“Someone has to make the tough decisions,” the figure said. “Someone has to take that responsibility. Someone has to take the first step.”
“Exactly,” Dedrick said, wary about this stranger. He should have noticed someone in the fields, even in the night like this. There were too many demons out during these times to trust dark strangers like this.
But then there was something oddly familiar about this man.
“Have I seen you before?” Dedrick asked.
The man didn’t answer, settling back in the shadows beyond the fire.
Dedrick sat across the fire from this dark figure, unsure what to do or what to say. He didn’t trust it, he didn’t like this.
He sat there all night, waiting for the figure to make a move. But nothing happened, not even when he blinked and the man was gone.
The black rooster sat on the fencepost and Dedrick scowled at it. The blasted creature crowed again then flapped too many wings to look impressive and large. It hopped off the post and ran off into the grasses, its iridescent black tail leading him. Mocking him. Drawing him. But it made no sense, where was it taking him?
Just as the man last night made no sense. Dedrick hadn’t slept, he knew that beyond all shadow of a doubt. His own exhaustion spoke the truth of that. And yet, he hadn’t seen the figure approach nor leave. It was just there and then it wasn’t. Worse, it had been there all night, just sitting and watching in that fine feathered cloak.
The strange familiarity of the figure wasn’t lost on him.
It was probably some demon following him. Well he wasn’t a mage, he knew better than to accept any sort of deal, and besides he had nothing a demon might want. He barely had himself, everything he owned he carried on his back. He had a few day’s worth of hard tack left, a waterskin, a couple of cold raw eggs, and a burning desire to catch that stupid rooster so he could roast it.
And a lifetime of regrets.
The rainstorm came up quickly, cold spring rain pounding down and Dedrick curled up beneath the fallen log, trying to stay warm. He couldn’t keep a fire going in the rain and his winter cloak was heavy and sodden around him. The wool stank of wetness, weighing him down in the stench of water.
Water.
His thoughts lingered, drifting to the people in the caves. Had they suffered, he wondered. Had it been quick like he hoped, like he planned, or had they resisted and swam and fought. The blight-sick were too weak to do much to save themselves, save those who were already too far gone to die. Those probably fought, lingered, screaming and scrabbling like darkspawn trying to claw their way out of the caves through the stone.
Maker, his thoughts wouldn’t stop dwelling.
Instead he fought to think of happier times, of Old Crestwood before the Blight. The farming community spread across the fields, toiling in the shadow of Caer Bronach. Orlais and Ferelden feuding over the land, stories of a queen in exile.
He remembered the master smith in his wagon with the strange merchant and the unnerving black horse.
He remembered Eileen, his wife, and her beautiful blonde red hair. Her smile lit the day, her voice filled the barn, her touch enflamed his world.
He remembered his son and what happened next. He was only ten years old… eight? twelve? He’d forgotten…
“You had a son.”
Dedrick gasped in shock. There, just outside his hiding place, stood the man in the black cloak. It had stopped raining and he groaned, uncurling from his cold cloaked huddle. The woolen cloak hung heavy on his frame, sapping his strength and warmth. Maker, he was freezing. He needed to make a fire or it would be a long cold night.
And this strange man in the feathered cloak stood there, his fine black cloak spreading out into the grass and mud around him. The hood over his face hid his features, the shadows under that hood hiding the rest.
“Begone, foul demon,” Dedrick snapped, or tried to, his voice shaking.
The figure whirled away, the cloak flapping in the mist with the sound of feathered wings.
Dedrick couldn’t believe that had worked. Demons didn’t actually obey commands like that, did they? No, it must have been a man. It couldn’t have been anything more than just a strange man in a fine feathered cloak. Even if the man’s tracks looked nothing like human feet, marks like giant rooster claws gouged into the mud.
Dedrick sat before the fire, a winter hare skinned and stretched over the flames. He turned the hare to keep it cooking evenly, the meat crisping and drying and smelling like a feast indeed after the past week.
A week. Only a week since he’d been exiled. Right? Only a week. Surely not much longer. Winter was always much harder in the mountains, it was well known that the Frostbacks held onto winter like a miser held gold. In that time he must have descended out of winter’s grasp into spring.
And been followed by a demon.
It had to be a demon. There was no other possibility. The man in the feathered cloak didn’t act like anything normal or sane. At best it might be some Fade-touched apostate and that was really nothing more than a demon delayed. Magic was a bane like that, ruining everything it touched. Magic ruined his family, tearing it apart. Not just his wife and son but before that. Magic drove them from the Anderfels.
Magic tore apart the world.
Magic tore apart Crestwood.
Magic ruined everything.
“Everyone blames magic. They might as well blame the moon for why wolves howl.”
Dedrick had expected this. The demon was back, the figure in black hood and fine feathered cloak having appeared just outside the light of his fire. “Who are you?” he demanded.
The demon moved closer to the light, firelight shining on the iridescent feathers of his mantle. They were black, all of them black like the cloak he wore, like the hood that covered his features, like the rooster he followed out here. But then he pushed that hood back just enough to show Dedrick his face.
He looked like a man, a strangely familiar man. Dedrick would have sworn he’d seen this man before, he’d known him before. But that was impossible. Besides, it might all be an illusion, the hood still shadowed the demon’s eyes.
Dedrick pulled the roasting rabbit from the fire, testing it. It seemed cooked enough and rules of hospitality insisted he offer first. He offered the rabbit to the demon.
The demon held up one gauntleted hand to refuse. At least Dedrick hoped those were gauntlets, that it was a trick of the fire and the night that made them look like melted iron claws. He nodded and took the first bite.
“Why shouldn’t I blame magic?” he asked as he ate.
“Magic is the force of nature,” the demon said. “It’s what’s done with that force that deserves blame.”
“Magic tore apart the sky.”
The demon scoffed and the expression was so familiar it hurt. Where had he seen it before? “A darkspawn tore apart the sky using magic. The sky didn’t decide.”
“Magic tore apart my life.”
The demon smirked and the expression sent a chill down Dedrick’s spine. Why was this demon so familiar? “You tore apart your own life,” the demon said. “You made the tough decisions and then you hid from it. Your shame damned you, Gregory. You were right, you should have told them what you’d done as the waters rose.”
“They would have killed me.”
“There are worse things than death,” the demon said.
“There’s living with what I’ve done,” Dedrick agreed. The rabbit tasted like ash in his mouth and he swallowed heavily. But somehow he knew that wasn’t the demon’s doing. No, if this truly were a demon then he was sure it had much worse in store for him.
“You’ve done many things,” the demon agreed. “I heard you talking about many of them as you walked. Many many things.”
This had to be a demon. There was no other explanation. “You’ve been following me.”
“On the contrary, you’ve followed me,” the demon countered. “There’s something familiar about you, Dedrick, that drew you to me even before I heard the cries for vengeance from the caves below Crestwood. I wonder what it might be.”
“I can’t imagine.” The demon was lying. Dedrick hadn’t followed anything out here, nothing except that cursed black rooster with too many wings.
Yet the thoughts came unbidden, poisoned by the familiarity of the demon’s face. He looked to be about the right age but it wasn’t possible. His son was taken by the Templars to be locked away with all the other unholy mages. Surely he would still be there…
…except all the Circles had fallen.
The demon smiled and pulled back his hood. With his eyes closed he…
Andraste, no…
Mayor Gregory Dedrick looked on in horror at the face of his own son, lost to the Templars so many years ago.
He had his mother’s blond-red hair, her smile, her graceful neck. But the face was one he’d seen in the mirror every day until the Blight, when he left that mirror to drown in Old Crestwood.
And then the demon opened black eyes and smiled with so many sharp teeth.
“Everyone always blames magic,” the demon said. “They never blame the Templars who drive the mage to terrible deeds just to survive. They never blame the families who discard their children as monsters. They never blame the Unjust world that drives a spirit to lose its Virtue and Fall. It’s always magic. But I know better and so should you. Magic is just the force of nature; it’s like blaming the wind for blowing instead of blaming yourself for failing to prepare for the storm.”
This had to be some demonic trick. Demons could do that, everyone knew it. But…
But he wasn’t in the Fade. He was in the world. Demons didn’t have that kind of power here in the world, did they?
“What happens now?” Dedrick asked.
The demon shifted and the feathers all rustled and sweet Andraste, it wasn’t a cloak was it. It was all that demon, all of it. He’d followed it… The rooster with four wings…
“There’s one thing I need from you, the same thing you know you deserve. But before that…”
Maker, the demon was going to kill him. It was almost a relief to know this would all be over soon.
“I have a question of you, as I’m sure you have a question of me.”
This truly was a demon before him. Only a demon could torment him with the opportunity to ask only a single question! If anything, if ANY part of the demon’s visage were true, if anything the demon said was real, then how could he ever reduce himself to just one single question!
“But first, allow me to tell you a tale.”
The demon spoke, spinning a tale of such woe and desperation, of depths and despair, of demons and spirits, of Blight and Wardens, of love and hate, of Justice and Vengeance…
Night broke into day and then fell back to night as the demon spoke, Dedrick sitting in rapt attention as Vengeance told the tale of themself, of Anders and Justice, of Karl and Hawke, of Vigil’s Keep and Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall. The demon’s words washed over him, painting vivid memories of a world that he’d never known, that he’d denied himself, of the son he’d given away.
It was a world he’d never understand.
That was the cruelest stroke of all, it seemed. That he’d known this only at the end, and only at the voice of the demon that had joined with his son, of a spirit of Justice driven to Fall to Vengeance by the cruelty of an Unjust world.
“And now, I have my question of you,” the demon said. “When I was taken to the Circle, I refused to speak for a year. They called me ‘the Ander’ for want of a name. I let them, for my name was the one thing I decided they could never take from me. But time is cruel, isn’t it. They called me ‘Anders’ for so long that I answered to it and forgot my own name. Tell me, Father, what was my name?”
Dedrick felt silent tears falling down his face as he gave the demon his answer.
“Thank you,” the demon said and smiled, a soft smile that looked almost human. He stood up, standing on taloned feet with long bone spurs. The feathers rustled, four great wings shifting on his back as he stood before Dedrick.
Dedrick stayed on the ground, kneeling before the black rooster he’d followed of his own accord, the demon Vengeance that stood before him with dark wings spread, his own son consumed by magic. He looked up and knew then what his question had to be. There was no other question he could ask.
“Can you ever forgive me?” Dedrick asked.
The iron claws on the side of his face were warm and alive. Black eyes with warm gold centers stared down at him in a face he’d missed for so long it felt like a lifetime. The demon smiled and gave his answer.
Then those hands gripped tight. There was a crack and then…
…nothing.
The black rooster crowed at the crossroads where a body hung in a tree, draped through the boughs. It might have been bandits or some deranged individual; it was clear no unthinking beast had entwined the body in the tree limbs like that.
Maybe it was demons. The body had clearly been savaged by something with claws, the body cavity ripped apart and the organs removed. Many of them were missing, others dangled from the body in loops of viscera as a flock of black chickens clucked and pecked and perched and feasted on the entrails.
Whatever happened to him, it appeared he was already dead when the body was savaged. There was no other explanation for the look of peace on the man’s face.