Riot
"There is a fire inside of this heart and a riot about to explode into flames. Where is your god?" –Hurricane, 30 Seconds to Mars
She is not surprised that the city is in flames. Meredith watches the orange forked tongues lick at the homes and shopkeepers' stalls, watches the smoke fill the night sky. She closes her eyes and breathes deep and the acrid taste of burning fills her mouth and sears her lungs. Kirkwall has been smoldering for years; it was only a matter of time before it erupted into a cleansing fire.
The night wind carries shouts and screams of those who abided having the heathens in their midst. They tolerated the unholy Qunari and in doing so turned their faces from the Maker. Where is their god now?
With a comfort that only comes from her knowledge of the Chant and her work for the Maker, Meredith takes to her small boat. The oarsmen are too frightened to speak to her, too nervous to row into the firestorm raging just across Kirkwall's harbor. She fixes her eyes on the ever-nearing dock that will put her in the heart of the heathens' territory. Her stern countenance is all that keeps the rowers rowing.
Meredith sets foot on the dock and strides through the dusty streets. Buildings are blackened with ash. Screaming people run amok, not even trying to save their homes. Foolish, Meredith chides them inside her mind. Foolish for abiding the heathens' presence in the Maker's city. She silently repeats Transfigurations 10: The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next. For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.
It's clear to her from the start that the docks and the crooked streets of Lowtown are lost. It is Hightown that concerns her. Have the heathens taken the Chantry? Would the Grand Cleric think to fortify herself within the sacred walls? Worry for Elthina makes Meredith hasten, moving easily in her plate armor as she would in regular clothing. These days her armor is her regular clothing; it would not do to get caught off guard, as this night proves.
She ascends the stairs that lead out of the stinking depths of Lowtown and into the fresher air and cleaner streets and homes of Hightown. She leaves the screaming chaos behind, but the silence sharpens her senses. The nape of her neck tingles as if a bony finger is stroking the hairline beneath her circlet and veil. Her skin prickles but she has trained long years to staunch the discomfort.
Magic.
Footsteps across the stone-paved courtyard catch her attention and she turns. The tingling grows stronger and Meredith moves closer, hand on the hilt of her greatsword. She squints in the dim light; the fires have not quite made it to Hightown, and the moonlight struggles to pierce the smoke.
Four people fight off a band of Qunari. One wields a greatsword similar to Meredith's; it seems too large and awkward for his lithe frame, but he wields it easily. The short dwarf she's heard of before: Varric Tethras, whose brother betrayed him in that damned fool Deep Roads expedition. Only luck saw him out of it alive, and wealthy to boot. The other she recognizes as Aveline Vallen, captain of the city guard. Her temper is as fiery as her hair, and she has an over-developed sense of fairness; Meredith has been needling the Viscount to do something about that, but Dumar has been distant these days. He hardly sees outside his Keep; he hardly knows what Kirkwall has become.
But the fourth individual puts Meredith on edge. The short, ragged-cropped dark hair, light skin, and easy movements belong to Varric's Deep Roads partner, Hawke. No one's quite sure what her first name is; even shacked up in the refurbished Amell estate, Hawke isn't one for proper society. Nor should she be, as a vile, filthy apostate.
Meredith's skin crawls more from disgust than from the magic rolling off of Hawke. She fires spell after spell from her carved wooden staff, hardly blinking. If anything, it looks like she's having fun.
Meredith's stomach turns slightly. There's never been enough proof that Hawke is a mage. There have been whispers and hints, but never enough to go on. Even her own brother is a templar! And when Hawke came back from the Deep Roads a rich woman and ascended from Fereldan refugee to Kirkwall society's upper echelons in a matter of days, Meredith knew she'd have to tread lightly.
She watches Hawke now, wielding dangerous Force Magic: she need only lift her staff a bit and the Qunari around her rise into the air before slamming down into the paving stones. Several charge Hawke's band of misfits and she spins around, her staff sweeping out in an arc. They all tumble down, unable to catch their footing. Hawke lifts her staff once more and then drops the bundle of squirming Qunari into the pavement where Aveline works to cut them down.
The tingle of powerful magic makes Meredith feel as if insects are crawling beneath her skin, and she tears her eyes from Hawke to see one of the collared Qunari mages conjuring a ball of blue-white lightning. She can't see his eyes behind the mask he wears, but she is certain he does not see her. Nor does Hawke. She is too busy fighting back more of the heavily armed Stens to notice.
Meredith rushes the Saarebas with her sword held before her like a lance. Just before she strikes him she gathers her willpower and lets loose a wave of cleansing that clears the air of magic. She drives her sword into his torso, twisting to do maximum damage. With the taint of his magic gone Meredith can breathe more easily. She turns.
Hawke has collapsed to her knees, holding the staff for support. Her mana is probably low from the fighting, and she probably got the tail end of the Cleanse. Serves her right for being a dirty apostate masquerading as a rightful citizen of Kirkwall. "Rise," Meredith commands, and Hawke just stares up at her with narrowed eyes as bright blue as the Waking Sea. Hawke uses her staff to pull herself to her feet and though she must lean on it, she stands as straight as she can and meets Meredith's eyes. "I saw you use magic," she states.
"Desperate times call for desperate measures," Hawke says in an even voice. If she is worried about a Holy Smite or about being carted off to the Gallows on the spot, she doesn't show it. "The Arishok and the other Qunari have taken the aristocracy hostage in the Viscount's Keep."
Meredith takes stock of where they are standing; it's not far from the Keep. Interesting. Hawke is among these people and can hardly give them the time of day at any other time, but now that the city is burning around them she's rushing to their rescue. "What do you propose?"
Hawke shrugs. "I haven't thought that far ahead yet."
They stare one another in the eye, two women who know what must be done in spite of their differences. Behind Hawke, Aveline and the sword-bearing elf shift their weight while Varric seems interested in his crossbow. "You are an apostate," Meredith says softly, and for the briefest moment Hawke's eyes flick away. "Your brother makes a good templar; I'm sure you'd enjoy joining him."
Hawke's jaw clenches and her fingers wrap more tightly around her staff. Meredith smiles. "The Arishok knows you. Go to the Keep. Speak with him and ask him to relent. This is your one chance to serve the city and save yourself," she says, loud enough so the others can hear her, and know that she knows their friend's dirty little secret.
Hawke nods. "That can be done." But she looks pale and drawn. Weak, especially after this last round of fighting.
Meredith has seen the Arishok. He could be nearly three times the size of Hawke.
Meredith has to watch where she treads in this city.
The Arishok does not. The Arishok is a man with nothing left to lose. The most dangerous kind of man. Hawke has the threat of her brother and of her very freedom hanging over her. She won't dare refuse.
Meredith watches Hawke and her party ascend the stairs of the Viscount's Keep. It's a calculated risk she's willing to take if it means clearing her home of the heathen Qunari and getting rid of one more apostate, maleficar or not.
She goes to the Chantry, miraculously spared the wrath of the Qunari. She prays before Andraste. She prays for the safety of the city and for the strength to lead it, especially when a messenger brings word that the Viscount is dead. Kirkwall will need a strong ruler now, and Meredith intends to be that person.
Morning sun shines, pale and trembling, through the skylights. The shadows make Andraste's golden statue look almost sad, as if the Maker's Bride knows what has become of Kirkwall. Meredith exits the Chantry into the dawn and prays Transfigurations 12: My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace; Touch me with fire that I be cleansed.
Tell me I have sung to Your approval.
The tired and shocked nobles trickle out of the Keep, some bleeding, others stumbling, but all having learned their lesson and more likely to follow the Maker's ways now. The smoke curling up from Lowtown is less dense, and though the courtyards are littered with corpses, those can be burned and the city restored. Meredith with make certain of that…
The last people are leaving the Keep, and Meredith knows them all too well. The pirate woman's clothing is dingy and torn, showing more of her (if that's even possible). Varric and the elf follow, the elf's sword finally too much for his willowy frame. Then Aveline, with a bruised eye and bleeding lip. "The Arishok is dead," she announces, her voice strained with fatigue. "The relic has been returned to the Qunari, and the rest have agreed to return to Par Vollen."
Meredith nods, but something's not quite right. They're all tired, but not upset.
The air in the courtyard tingles. Her hair stands up ever so slightly.
Hawke emerges from the Keep, limping and holding onto her staff for dear life, but very much alive.
Shit.
In the end Meredith thanks Hawke in a public panegyric that leaves everyone in Kirkwall cheering for their newly proclaimed Champion. None of them care she's an apostate; she saved the city. Meredith knows that she should keep her friends close, and her enemies closer, and she knows how to bide her time.
Besides. She's not in the mood for another riot.