AN: My first DA fic...I ought to quote Bartrand here...Ahem. The account of Hawke fighting the arishok. Spoilers for DA2 'till the end of Act 2. Rated for gruesome images and some bad language and heck it's Dargon Age.
"Parshaara!" The arishok's shout sends a tremor through the noble hostages, just as Fenris pulls his blade from the last qunari's chest. As the glow of the elf's lyrium-marks fades, the arishok steps down the stairs that leads to the viscount's chair of office. His eyes dart over our group, and for a moment I wonder how he sees us, the lost and strange pure chance brought together.
"Enough," he repeats in the human tongue, quiet this time, but the arishok has a way of silencing a whole room. Again he looks at us, watches as Merrill dismisses the stone that has protected her fragile body in the fight, takes in how Aveline tries to wipe some of the blood of her face with the back of her equally soiled gauntlet, lets his gaze linger on Fenris' stark-white hair and lyrium-tattoos, stares at me as I stare at him, unblinking, unmoving.
I've dealt with the arishok before and found him quite to my liking, if a bit sour, so I curl my lips into my best smile and wait.
"You are basalit-an, after all. Few in the city command such respect." He's playing with that frighteningly big axe of his and I silently congratulate myself for keeping a calm façade. But that's what I do. "So tell me, Hawke…" He is standing before me now, and I fear I might permanently damage my neck by craning it that far back. The arishok is taller than any other qunari, and even the shortest qunari has a head on me. And I'm not small.
"You know I am denied Par Vollen until the Tome of Koslun is found. How would you see this conflict resolved without aid?"
Oh dear…why is he asking me? I can hear Aveline's boots shuffle over the floor, though I doubt she has a good idea. Awkward silence fills the room. "Isabella stole the book," I finally say. "If we find her, you can have the tome, return to Par Vollen, and everything is fine again."
If possible, the arishok scowls even harder. "One of your companions, was she not?"
This sounds bad. "Well," I say, drawing the word as long as possible, "if you put it that way-"
The qunari cuts off my sentence with a move of his heavy head. "You will answer for the crimes of those who serve you." Looking at that axe of his, I can imagine how. "Their offense is yours." No kidding? I don't even want to know what crimes Isabela has committed, let alone take the responsibility for them. Instinctively I want to take a step back.
"Arishokost. Qun-aneen ebra-toh." Fenris sounds as calm as ever; I bet he's even smirking, but I don't dare to take my eyes off the arishok. "You have granted this woman basalit-an. By this admission, she now has the right to challenge you."
Suddenly my spine seems to consist of ice.
The arishok looks almost disgusted at this. "If you were truly familiar with our ways, you knew I would never fight a female."
Challenge? As in…single combat? I can't say I'm happier than the arishok.
"She isn't female," Fenris objects. If I survive this, he'll pay for that comment. "She is basalit-an, not a part of the qun."
The qunari lifts his axe off his shoulder. The muscles on his bared chest move under the dark skin as he shrugs. "What say you, Hawke? Do you agree to a duel?"
No way ever. The arishok has probably twice my armed and armoured weight in muscles alone, and unlike me he hasn't been fighting all evening. I smirk and mimic his shrug pathetically. "Anything special I should know?"
"We fight to the death." Damn. "You and I alone." Daaamn. "Kill me, and the duty that binds me is ended." Good… "The others will return to Par Vollen." Even better.
"And if you kill me?" I try when he doesn't continue.
"Then you are dead." His answer puts me off again. Andraste's arse, I haven't asked for this. Note to self: Scantily clad young woman are trouble. Next time I'll leave her standing at the counter. Makes it easier, for me and for my city.
I broaden my smile. "Let's give them a show."
The qunari usher the caught nobles up the dais and my companions have no choice but follow. I cast a glance at them but don't meet their eyes; I think I'd be sick if I did. The icy feeling has spread over my whole back and then straight to the knees.
Aveline is standing next to me. She hands me some potions. I stare at her hands. Two healing potions, a few stamina potions.
Hawke and the two potions versus tons of muscle.
I secure them to my belt.
Is my vision blurring? Just the exhaustion. Just-
Maker, I'm going to die.
I haven't sheathed my sword during the whole conversation with the arishok, and my right wrist is numb from the weight. I flex my fingers, rotate my hand, then grip the hilt of the sword tightly and take a fighting stance.
Humans, elves, and qunari have left the lower space, leaving it wonderfully empty for our little duel. I look at my fighters once again. A saarebas stands near them, threatening to unleash his raw magic the moment they try to help me. At least there's a lot of room for us to move, with only two pillars as thick as the trunk of the alienage's tree disturbing the feeling of wideness yet confinement.
There is no signal, no announcement, nobody shouting, "Go for the eyes!" but I can feel it has begun. The arishok keeps that axe of his in his right and draws a long, broad sword from its sheath with his left. Two weapons. As if I'd stand a chance against him if he had no arms and armour at all. He looks ready to take on whole Kirkwall at once; I feel ready to run back to Lothering.
No escape.
We wait.
I certainly won't make the first move, but the arishok doesn't seem like he wants either. He reminds me of a breathing statue, immobile, rooted to the spot, impossible to topple.
And then he runs.
He isn't quick; I'm slightly faster. But the sudden movement startles me and I can barely throw myself aside to avoid the axe aimed at my face. I spin around and bolt behind a pillar. In running, I cast a glance behind me; he's clumsy. Too much weight for quick turns.
I stay behind the pillar and when he comes a-rushing, I swing my sword at him, without bothering to aim; this is hopeless anyway. The blade glances off a pauldron and bites deep in the qunari's left arm, but he doesn't seem to acknowledge it. His sword crashes against the stone at the level where my head was moments before but I'm already off, heading for the other pillar.
Again, I stay put, listening to my breathing and the qunari's heavy steps. The quiet is deafening. Where are the screams of fury and pain, the clash of swords and the sound of blood spurting from severed veins? This isn't battle, this is slaughter.
I don't want to die.
When he comes 'round the pillar, I deliver another blow, make another mad dash, feel his sword connect with my shoulder-plate, throwing me off, but not drawing blood. Not yet.
Take the city, if you must.
By the fourth round of this little game I'm panting and sweating like I've just fought a whole group of ogres. I fumble a potion from my belt and down it on the run, then throw the empty bottle in the arishok's general direction. New strength calms my shaking muscles and I keep running.
Take Isabela. Take Uncle Gamlen.
The templars want eternity, don't they? I find it, in the endless quiet of this fight. Time doesn't matter. It goes on forever and ever, pillar after pillar, slash after slash. I run, he follows with silent determination, unhindered by the shallow wounds that disturb the red markings on his dark skin with crimson droplets.
Take Bodahn and Sandal. Take Anders. Take Varric.
Is this payment? A slow death, to pay for Father's and Carver's and Mother's, and Bethany's abduction?
Take Merrill, Fenris, Aveline. Take the drunkards, take the elves, take the nobles, take the Coterie and the Carta.
It's surprising how much time I have for thinking as I slide over a floor littered with fine crushed glass, the last remnants of downed stamina potions. For thinking about my family, for regretting. I met Bethany out there, for the first time in years, and I didn't manage to tell her how much I miss her, how much I'm sorry, for everything.
Take her – take Bethany. Take the Circle and the Chantry. Take this whole damn city, just…
I roll around, the axe bites into the stone next to my head, and as dark spots appear in my vision, I grab with numb fingers for the next vial.
…let me live! Take all I have, it's nothing to me, just let me live, please…
I'm on my feet again. I open the small bottle, set it to my lips, but then I stumble and the foul-tasting liquid runs down into my burning lungs. I cough, and I have to stop, for a moment, nothing more.
…I didn't ask for this! Please, please, PLEASE, I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die, I don't want to die!
And then he's upon me, and the axe crashes down on my leg, and it's poor dumb luck the limb isn't severed. I fall, or the floor rushes up to meet me, and I remember: No rules.
Who cares, Qun or no Qun, freedom or slavery – let them have the city, just not my life.
Somehow I manage to stab the arishok, in the abdomen, or in the groin, or who cares, I can't see it through the veil of pain. What matters is that he delays the killing blow, and in tandem the two of us down a healing potion.
Who are they to me? Who are they that I should die for them?
I'm off once more, but it's over. I have to use the second potion to mend my leg fully – the alchemists say you should wait a few minutes, but I'm already dead.
The qunari stands before me. All of a sudden. Out of the blue. I get to admire his towering mass once more when-
No! No, no, no, nononononono!
-his sword, that mean thing, impales me and, Maker, he lifts me with one hand and I want to scream it hurts, Andraste make it stop, and he shakes me and I feel the cold thing moving in my gut and I can't scream the air is gone.
Please.
The arishok drops me and I crumble to a small heap of agony to his feet. He lifts his axe to finish me off, and with the last bit of sense in me I hit him with the pommel of my sword in the groin. I'm sure all the other men in the room are wincing in shared agony as the qunari doubles over, and the thought brings a tiny smile to my lips and a tiny bit of strength to my arms, and I stab him.
Just like that.
Should've worn a gorget, that arrogant qunari. Heck, should've worn armour.
My blade slices through flesh, scrapes over bone, and then a shower of blood nearly drowns me.
And of course he collapses on me. Twice my weight in raw meat and he falls on me and crushes what's left whole in my body. The good news: my pretty face is unharmed. The bad news: most of the arishok is lying on my abdomen.
Typical.
Varric will either love this or loathe this. Hawke, the great hero, managed to free Kirkwall from the terrible qunari but found a tragic end in the arms of her dead enemy when he crushed her to death.
I think I have to work on that. It doesn't sound good yet. Will they get me a statue? I seriously hope so. Meredith might object though, that bitch.
Somebody is lifting the weight from me, which sends a new wave of pain through me. Somebody is at my side. "Hawke?" a woman's voice asks. I know her.
"Bethany?" Nah, Bethany has no orange hair. That's orange, isn't it? Oh, shiny! There's a glowy thing beside me, and it moves. "Beth'ny, stop that trick!"
"Get Anders!" shouts the orange woman. "Get a damn mage! Does anyone have a potion? Merrill – no, Fenris, let her. Merrill, can you do something?"
A pale face, upside down, with big green eyes like a doll. "I can try." I think the doll is smiling. Why is it upside down?
Ah, now that's pain! Is that Shiny, Orange, or Doll? Doesn't matter, it's wrong – ouch! I tell them. "Shiny, stop," I say. My voice sounds weird.
Doll giggles. "I think she'll be fine. Hawke, can you hear me?"
I'm Hawke? Maker yes. I'm Hawke, and I hate it.