How to Kill a Hawk (e)
Hawks are great predatory birds, with silky wings that open over the sky as their eyes gaze at those beneath them. Their wings beat gracefully against the air as t hey soar over the clouds. Hawks are acknowledged as violent, gruesome predators; they dive from the sky to pin down their prey with their sharp claws, these natural daggers digging into their prey's flesh.
Merrill did not mind killing blood mages; if they had the audacity to attack her fellows and threaten their safety, they deserved death. These mages' statuses of thieves and dangerous murders did not persuade Merrill to provide any mercy, anyway. Her own blood battled against theirs, turning to sharp, crimson daggers burying themselves in the enemies flesh as their lips moved in a silent dying scream. Despite the Dalish elf's naivety toward Hawke and his companions' behaviors, unable to understand the ways of humans and dwarves, Merrill knew humans' anatomy well enough. Her magic landed in critical areas and the blood mages died in seconds. She was grateful at the swift fatality her magic held—she did not believe in killing the enemy slowly. Apparently, Hawke agreed with her.
The Champion's staff swung in blurs, crackling in fire and lightning, its blade tearing through flesh and bone. Merrill could not comprehend how Hawke could move it with such speed while focusing with his magic blazing in the palm of his other hand. It twisted and moved through the mages, burning their insides or decapitating them. His magic's harsh, bitter scent kept Merrill's mind sharp and capable, and when Hawke's booming order reached her ears, she fulfilled the command perfectly.
The blood mages fell in groups, Fenris and Anders easily cutting though their own enemies. Merrill was impressed by their skill, each wielding his weapon with deadly precision, their scowls set in stone on their faces as the blood and gore splattered them. Despite their hatred towards her, Merrill could not help beaming at them, the pride filling her chest. The knowledge that she was simply acquainted with them filled her with joy, fueling her movements as she protected them and Hawke—her new clan. Her new family.
Crippling a hawk is the most effective way to kill it. Pierce or break its wings, rendering it flightless so it is unable to take back its kingdom in the sky.
Fenris sneered as the last of the damnable blood mages fell to his sword, the blade connecting with a satisfying crack. Once the mage had whimpered his final breath and fell, Fenris pulled his weapon out from the body, feeling his lyrium markings dim and ache slightly. He released in a sigh as he examined the battlefield, grimacing at the gore peppered over the ground. The elf was always willing to rid the world of blood mages, but the aftermath was never a pleasant sight. Especially when dinner was close to the hour.
The grinding of dirt resounded behind him, and Fenris turned around to see Abomination stepping toward him, his face splattered with the scarlet liquid of the enemy. He leaned on his staff as he caught his breath.
"Where is Hawke?" Fenris asked in his gravelly voice.
Abomination blinked and looked around, the distant sounds of battle still echoing in the wind. "I imagine he is still in the fray," the mage answered, straightening as he gazed at the tip of the hill. He pointed. "Over there, I believe?"
Fenris grunted and jogged his way up the hill. The elf held a grudging respect toward the mage named Hawke. He did not give into temptation like other mages. Fenris had been completely embarrassed about the demon encounter in the Fade. Hawke had remained vigilant and stubborn as he growled at Fenris not to submit to the demon's words, even as the elf had already considered the demon's proposal before accepting it. After awakening from the Fade, Fenris had felt obligated to repay Hawke for his foolishness, and followed him through dungeons, dragon caves, tunnels, and whatever Maker forsaken place there was to venture. It was odd, not hating Hawke. The man was too likeable, his sarcastic quips managing to break tension as easily as a knife carved through soft butter.
And he was strong. Fenris stepped over the hill to examine the battle below, marveling at the swiftness at which death took the mage's foes. Hawke was incredibly skilled with his staff, wielding it like a spear as it skewered the enemy before singeing their bellies. His fire burned over the crowd of mages, their shrieks cut short as the ice spikes slid securely through their hearts. The battle seemed as if it was already won.
"Wow," Anders breathed, and Fenris turned to look at the blonde mage. His brown eyes were focused on Hawke, his lips parted slightly as the awe was evident across his face. For once, the warrior and mage agreed on something.
And then, their awe turned to horror as they saw the mass of bulk emerge from the sunset, the Tal-Vashoth's spear aimed toward the only person Fenris respected. Anders and Fenris both screamed. Hawke had heard it a second too late. His gore-covered face turned to stare at them quizzically when the spear connected with his leg, and the sickening crack echoed through the mountains.
Once the hawk is crippled, you need only watch as the mighty bird falls from the sky. But if it is on the ground, pierce its belly, for it cannot fly away.
It did not hurt like he expected. It was more of a dull, aching pain and if Fenris and Ander's shouts had not come to him, he would not have noticed it. But when Hawke heard the crack and found it difficult to stand, he knew his luck had run out. Hawke noticed the massive silhouette of a Qunari in front of the blazing sun and the magic left his staff before he knew what he was doing. The Tal-Vashoth jerked once the crackling aqua light touched him, before collapsing and shaking the earth beneath him. Two more Qunari appeared from the hill and again the spears flew toward him. Hawke veered to the left, the first spear's blade scraping against his arm, before fusing with the ground with a dull thunk.
The second one hit home, burying itself deep in Hawke's stomach. Maker, he felt that one. The force jarred his insides and pulled a silent gasp from him as the pain finally surfaced. He did not have the air to scream as the sharp burning sensation spread through his body, like lava pulsing through his veins. He suddenly forgot where exactly the spear struck him as the pain surged over his limbs and he felt himself stumble, one armored knee falling onto the ground heavily. The vibration thundered against his body before reaching his head, pounding at it ceaselessly, like a dwarf striking him with an axe. His vision grew blurry and the shouts grew distant, the ring of swords and the hiss of magic only whispers in his ears.
Hawke was aware of the howling of wind, but he saw no quiver in the leaves. A dull, low ring persisted in his hearing and Hawke felt his mind swim, his limbs numb and unresponsive.
He would be fine. Anders would patch him up before scolding him, and he'd limp to the Hanged Man, roaring to Varric to fetch another ale and tell about his adventure. Dark red began to border his vision and he inwardly smiled.
The bird might screech, cry, and beat its broken wings. But eventually the hawk dies, like all other things.
"Hawke!"
Anders's knees scraped against the bloody dirt as he slid toward Hawke, while Merrill and Fenris sped past him, their weapons gleaming and their eyes burning. The clashes of battle hummed in his ears, and he forced himself to ignore it. Hawke, who lay on his back, had his eyes squeezed shut as his fingers clawed weakly at the offending objects fastened into his body. The blood poured out of the wounds, the scarlet liquid seeping into the mage's robes. Already the bile was rising in Anders's throat once the rank smell struck him, and his mind clouded. Immediately he tore himself out of it. You are a healer, Anders! Act like one!
Anders's eyes swept over Hawke, noting the smaller gashes and cuts spread across his body. His main focus was on the two spears submerged deep in the mage's flesh, desperate to remove them as swiftly as possible. He stared at Hawke intently, swiping the blood from Hawke's stubble and forcing his silver eyes to open and stare at Anders. The tattoos bordering his eyes where wrinkled in pain, growing into a vibrant red against his paling face.
"Hawke," Anders began steadily, "look at me. Keep your eyes open, and focus. Tell me where the pain is."
"Anders?" the Champion slurred. His eyes slowly focused on the mage's face, disorientated and filled with delusional confusion. It took even longer for the mage to process the question, his eyes finally flickering with understanding. "You see the long, pointed shafts prodding from my stomach and leg? It tickles."
Anders smiled faintly, relieved Hawke still held onto his humor. Hastily, he gripped the wooden spear in Hawke's torso and whispered warningly, "This will hurt." He locked his fingers onto the wood and pulled.
The noise coming from Hawke's belly and mouth were both harrowing. The bubbling of blood when the shaft was pulled from his leg pulled at Ander's stomach and tested its strength as the bile moved closer toward his mouth. The sharp, unexpecting gasp of agony that left Hawke's lips chilled Anders's spine. The man's breath fell shallow and weak, and Anders saw the blood spill from his lips. The healer cursed and casted the healing spell immediately. He silently waited for the skin to slowly seal as his magic shimmered over Hawke. And waited. And waited.
Anders stared at the wound disbelievingly. He poured more magic into the spell, in hopes for it to have any effect. But the gaping hole slowly leaching the life from Hawke would not close, and Anders felt his blood curdle.
"Healer?" Fenris's voice suddenly growled in his ears and Anders looked beside him to see the elf, caked in blood and gore, crouching beside Hawke, his emerald eyes questioning. Anders realized that the racket of battle had died down, and he glanced around to see the carcasses of Tal-Vashoth scattered lifelessly over the dirt.
Anders felt his mouth go dry. He groped with the spear he had taken out of Hawke and studied it with shaking hands. Its body was coated in blood, shimmering abnormally in the fading light. His fingers felt numb as he casted a spell into it. As he expected, the spell was absorbed, the spear glowing brighter. His mind grew numb and his tongue was thick as he spoke.
"T-the spear. It's enchanted." Fenris face was blank, and Anders's throat felt as if it was swollen when he was forced to say it: "I—I can't—Hawke—he…"
Fenris eyes flickered with fear. "Spit it out, Anders!" he snarled.
"I can't heal him," Anders croaked. He was about to bury his head into hands in defeat, but Hawke suddenly began to choke—short, weak coughs that caused his body to shiver. Hawke's chest heaved with each struggled breath and Anders cradled his head, allowing the blood to spill from his lips to clear the man's throat. "Stay with me, Hawke. We'll get you back to Kirkwall. Just keep breathing."
Hawke's silver eyes wandered around, unable to focus on anything surrounding him. Anders pressed his palm onto Hawke's chest, feeling the Champion's heart flutter weakly against his chest. Anders's head felt light and his stomach plummeted to the earth. This can't be happening. Not Hawke. Not him…The Champion's eyes lingered on the Tevinter Chantry Amulet dangling out of Ander's robes before sliding shut.
Fenris's lips pressed into a thin line and he growled. "You heard the healer, Hawke. Open your blighted eyes before I peel them open myself—" The warrior froze as a single, slow breath slid from Hawke's lips before his chest ceased moving. The face under Anders's fingers grew cold, and the heartbeat beneath his palm halted. Anders felt the body sink lower into his hands. Fenris swallowed. "Hawke?" His eyes blazed in horror when there was no response. He looked to Anders desperately.
The healer was already weeping, his fingers gripping onto Hawke's body garments as his tears mixed with Hawke's blood.
And that is how you kill a hawk.
The weather was dark and wet on the day of Hawke's funeral-unfittingly so, Aveline remarked grimly. The dock was filled with the people of Kirkwall—ruffians, drunkards, elves, humans, noblemen, the poor, mages, templars, and even First Enchanter Orsino and Knight-Commander Meredith stood to honor the Champion's life. Sobs filled the air along with the boom of thunder and the lamented speech Grand Cleric Elthina was giving as she stood over the still body.
They had laid Hawke on a stone table in front of the Statue of the Champion, his fingers interlaced over his chest, his mage staff placed beneath his hands. His characteristic stubble was as cleanly trimmed as he used to keep it, and his brown hair was slicked back. Aveline noted how vibrant his scarlet tattoos bordering the edges of his eyes were compared to his pale skin. He was dressed in his Champion mage armor, now cleaned and patched as if no battle had taken place. His body had been washed of the filth of battle, but no one had been able seal the wounds in which caused his death. Aveline hadn't expected them to, if Anders could not.
Aveline was almost against the cleansing of blood from Hawke's body; the citizens of Kirkwall needed to know what brutality Hawke had faced for their sake, how he had suffered for them. Her throat tightened when she recalled the cries of agony Hawke failed to stifle after his battle with the Arishok, his nose and head steadily bleeding. Her fear back then could not possibly compare to the sorrow she wallowed in currently.
The companions of Hawke remained as silent as the dead leader himself, their heads bowed as the rain pelted their scalps, their eyes dull and lifeless—it seemed as if they had all chosen to die along with their leader. Aveline was tempted to join them, to share in their grief, but her place was with her husband and guards. As they themselves wept openly for the loss of the champion, Aveline remained impassive, her eyes staring coldly at Hawke's body as the monster inside her raged, shrieking and sobbing and wishing to wreck everything in her sight. Aveline imagined the Champion glaring at her as he did when she had lost Wesley, muttering, "Stop acting so blighted strong and cry already. By the Maker, your face looks like it's going to crack."
The Grand Cleric had finished her speech, eyes filled with sorrow before slowly departing, most of the citizens leaving with her so they could all deal with their grief privately. As expected, Hawke's party remained, gazes fixated on the silent man lying on the stone. The clamor of armor greeted Aveline, and Donnic stared at his wife expectedly. "The guards are leaving, love."
Aveline swallowed thickly, water spilling down her cheeks. "Let's wait until this blighted rain stops."
Donnic looked at the sky in puzzlement, the clouds dark but no longer leaking. "The rain has stopped, Aveline."
More liquid dripped down the captain's cheek and she whispered, "No it hasn't."
The grass was soft under the dwarf's boot as he stood on top of the hill, the sun warm against his back as he stared at the stone in front of him. His eyes stung and his hands were curled into fists. His chest was stiff and painful, and his throat ached. When he opened his mouth, his voice was raw and wavered slightly.
"Hey Chuckles…It's, uh…it's been a while since we've talked. You must be feeling pretty sodding lonely, here on this blighted, Maker forsaken hill. No humans and such.
"I couldn't say that everyone is fine and dandy. It's been rough on the kids without you telling them what to do. Daisy is alright, but it's hard to get her out of her house, and she won't go near Hightown; she won't go anywhere that reminds her of you. Broody's been more sour, but he's gotten friendlier with Anders and other mages over the months. I guess you really did have an effect on him. Anders still hasn't forgiven himself, but that hasn't stopped his clinic from being as successful as always. Aveline's…being Aveline, barking at guards and kicking their arses. And Isabella ran off with her ship, looking sulkier than I've ever seen her. Your mansion is amazing, Hawke. Y-you really shouldn't have given it to me. I can't believe you even considered writing a will…"
Varric fingered the massive, rectangular object in his hand as he stepped closer to the grave. "I—uh—I finished your book, Hawke. It's a masterpiece. You really should read it. You sound more heroic and a lot more serious in the book, but otherwise the plot is accurate." The dwarf's breath was shaky as he set the book in front of the grave.
"Meredith stayed her hand in regards to the mages in respect for you, and the mages are far more compliable now." Varric laughed hollowly. "Even in your death, you're saving Kirkwall. You have quite the influence, Chuckles.
"D-do you know what day it is? Today was the day I met you and Carver, sulking in Lowtown. That was seven years ago…best day of my life… We all miss you, Hawke. You were the best sodding leader…we could hope for." There was a long pause of silence as Varric's eyes stared at the grass growing at the base of Hawke's grave, willing the tears away. It felt as if a cat was raking against his throat, and Varric bit his thumb. Releasing a quivering sigh, the dwarf straightened.
He froze once his nose almost touched the pointed beak of a great bird whose brown feathers were slicked back, glittering in the sunshine. Varric almost swore the hawk's silver eyes blinked at him, its beak quirked in an amused smirk. It released a great cry as it leaped from the air, wings spreading wide as it took the sky, soaring toward Kirkwall.