Bird Songs: Farewell
Mourn Before the Morn: Kirkwall
-Prologue-
She inherited the storms, and he was born of rain. She lived by the sea, and he resided within chantry walls, under religious structures of golden idols and virginal cloth; the jewel of the city, handcrafted and garnished with relics of gold and pearl and crimson banners. There, the air is stagnate in the aroma of stale incenses and long, burning wax candles; each lit in honor of the fallen. Names adorn the board, all engraved, all prayed for by the passing of chantry sisters – or a residing brother. Hands pressed together, and eyes averted heavenward.
Now, what stands in the chantry's place is nothing more than an ash graveyard; the air is thick with smog, snowing embers that faded into void, the pungent smell of singed flesh and cloth hung heavy and burned the living's lungs; the smell lingered for days and stuck to clothing. There's voices in the distance, all plagued silent but haunting, begging for the lost to branch out from the clutter of rafters and establishment. But they're all dead; not even their ghosts could vouch for their former existence.
Marian Hawke applies her skill to hoist up one of the wooden beams by her shoulders, singed and still fresh with smoldering flame; the light illuminates faintly against the fog, and burned like a beacon, pegging her to start her search for survivors in this plot. Where she hoped for the living hidden away in shallow, premature graves, she was greeted with a horrifying revelation of curled and charred bodies; one of which was clutching a small, stuffed dog to their breast, charred black and still smoking within their grasp. She couldn't tell the gender by the burning deformation, she just knew that the body was small and fragile, curled protectively around their prized possession: a child caught within the blast.
Noble-bred, or panhandler, their lives all mattered the most.
"Maker," the name falls from Hawke's mouth more than once that day; her limbs feel too heavy for her body, her mouth too dry and her jaw too slack to form proper speech. Hawke clears her throat when she feels the vengeance of tears threaten to give way, arms held laden with cloth and a small frame of a child that would be left unidentified and fed to the mass pyre in respect; she feels like she is standing on the throat of the world.
The back of her throat burns raw by the stench of billowing smoke stacks and decomposing flesh, but she chooses not to comment. Not today. And so she works in silence, helping refugees clear out the dead and extinguish the flames that still wished to consume and destroy everything Hawke worked for in Kirkwall.
Fenris claps her shoulder, and grips the area to comfort her; she shrugged his hand off with a soft smile, lips thinned and eyes hard. They've seen nothing but death all day. They, too, feeling the dreary effects of the walking dead that plagued the city: mothers stand outside, clutching air, bare-faced, praying that the Maker would devour them in flame. Children, orphaned by the explosion stand huddled, begging for scraps of food from the city guard. Men bicker for work, or lay in burden, drunk out of their minds; depression pooled in their self-conscious.
While Hawke makes way with clearing ash and rubble, she reflects on seven years' worth of events; what clearly led to the ultimate demise of the chantry was – foretold, rather foreshadowed. Subtle hints here, and there; while the one that set the structure aflame laid in permeant slumber under Lowtown, her hands were left lathered in the blood of innocence and betrayal; she begged for Anders' body to be reclaimed and set aside for a proper pyre before the looters got ahold of him, she practically had to scream at Sebastian to remind him of his humanistic side, his lay brother duties, remember himself before the explosion; before vengeance ravished his mindset and fed his anger with losing more of his family and his home.
Sebastian finally budged once Hawke called out, "You are not the man I married in that chantry! Not anymore. Did that man also burn up? Was he also consumed by those flames?! Before me, a man stands screaming for revenge. But when has vengeance ever been the true answer? You can't spend the rest of your days, cradling the hand of revenge to your chest, Sebastian. One day – that same hand will reach up and choke you."
Sebastian's knuckles went white by his grasp, teeth gnawed over a dry, lower lip; his eyes mirrored the haunting - that damnable pride that was bred into him since royal birth. A hotly prince that lost everything he held dear; a fallen, third-born monarch; it struck a chord when he heard the devastation reel against his wife's voice. He hated her for being right. He hated how much he loved her. But if she hadn't killed Anders at the time, if she hadn't put the dog down in his place, he would have declared war. He wasn't blind to his own anger.
Hawke didn't kill Anders out of her husband's benefit. She did it in the name of Kirkwall. Where she will forever love Anders as a brother, she knew that more people would die in the blaze of war rather than the chantry explosion.
Defeated, empty-hearted, Sebastian rallied Fenris with him to help scout out Anders' body deep in Lowtown. As a chantry brother, Sebastian read Anders his scripture over his body – if he so hoped to be bound to the Maker's side – and prepared a proper burial pyre, even while Sebastian truly believed Anders didn't deserve the honor of being prepared and wrapped in burial cloth and set aflame with the rest that perished by his own misgivings.
Perhaps reading the very scripture Anders loathed would be revenge enough to Sebastian.
He believed Anders should've been left out on the edges of the Free Marches, underneath the unforgiving, glowering sun, and his carcass feasted upon by the wildlife. But the way that Hawke used her voice – gave him pause.
Things in Kirkwall will never be the same, the sea foretold that much, the people that rummaged and ramshackle the bones of the chantry told another tale; the city fell underneath a haze, and the common tongue of farewell became a second language, another custom, amongst the people of Kirkwall. People left in droves, while the others that couldn't afford to leave the confines of the city, laid in gutters and awaited proper treatment and help and handouts that they rightfully deserved.
When Hawke isn't clearing out the remains of the chantry, fishing for the bodies of the fallen, she's supplying her own medical talent – to whoever would have her; a mage amongst the mix was still a shaky topic to some of the survivors. Some even shied away from Hawke's hand when she pulled the treads of the Fade from her fingertips and promised to ease their pain; the curse supplied by the Maker is a heavy burden to bear.
There were still Templars that laid in wait, still consumed by the songs of the red lyrium that ate at their veins and their minds.
Kirkwall is left with a burning scar.
-x-
A/N: Thanks to whomever took the time to read my little snippet. Though vague, I will try to update this. I'm not entirely serious about this fic (only doing it for fun and to give me a break out of college finals).