Bird Songs: Farewell
-I-
"Tomorrow will be kinder."
Hawke can taste iron in her mouth, dried blood on her lips. With the velocity of an incoming, armor-clad fist, her whole body jerks back by the force and her hand clenches tighter around her staff in fear of losing her weapon even before the fight started; the crystal illuminates a deathly hue of blue, her heels drag across cobblestone, her fingers curl inward and she pulls the threads of the Fade at her fingertips.
Rattled, the Templar that assaulted her jumped back in his red lyrium haze; ghostly, crimson eyes stare on in a dreamlike state, watching his entire world encased in an ice prison that shoots up from the ground like broken shards of mirror.
Hawke is only granted a second of breath to enter her lungs; fear-mongering, she shields her vision with her wrist when the Templar easily smashes her defenses and her ice cracks like glass, shattering her ice wall before her. The great Templar charges through, blade barred and silver under the unforgiving sun, he swings his sword down in a clean chop. Fearless or stupid, Hawke applies her entire weight in deflecting the blow with the shaft of her staff, holding the weapons high above her head and dangerously close; she struggles and grounds herself, using the muscles in her knees. The weight of the Templar causes her boots to skid back, pushing forward against a power struggle.
A great amount of pain spreads through the upper plain of her chest and down her arms, her muscles strain underneath all the stress and weight; Hawke is a strong woman, but her limitations fell upon farm work and mage technique. She wasn't a brawler like Aveline or Carver or Fenris, even if she can throw in one good fist or two. However, with her remaining strength she flanks her attacker, barring the blade to one side and praying that it would give her a chance to stumble away.
She grunts in annoyance, face-to-helmet, and breathes evenly against his cool metal. "To the void with you," she mumbles in vain, voice tight and sharp, throat clenched and only the Templar can hear her. Eyes locked with her opponent's tinted, tainted red eyes behind his slit; she would berate herself later, reminding herself that this man only fell prey to the horrid, illusive songs of the lyrium that hummed in his veins. Still, with this concept, it still didn't make her any less pissed off.
When she's grounded, the edge of her staff strikes the ground to hold her position; she quickly balances herself out before the next rush of muscle and steel tries to collide against her; the Templar behind the helmet is inhuman, his technique is animalistic and unpredictable. He holds nothing but malice in his palm, a seething hatred towards the Viscountess that dared to raise her voice; he finds satisfaction in the fleeting, healthy color of her face, only to be replaced with exasperation and hinted fear. A hollow-point, satisfied grin takes siege across his face and he goes back to swinging the weight of his sword at the woman.
"Mistress!" Orana shouts from the sidelines; it startles Hawke by the power in the former slave's voice, and for a split second, she feels nothing but pride in a dire time. Sadly, Hawke issues out her warning in a hollowed scream, demanding Orana to strictly run away from the market – or, whatever that was left of the destined establishment in the wake of cleanup.
"Leave, Orana! I said move!" Hawke manages to evade the finishing blow, peeling off away from an abandoned market stall. The sword strikes the wood of the display case, splintering wood in a sickening crack. Orana freezes in fear for a moment; timid, her hands that held the basket of apples shakes. She swallows the horror that howls in her mind, and jolts from her spot.
"I'll find help, my mistress! Please do not go anywhere," Orana made her promise, dropping the apples at her feet and running up a column of stairs to only disappear from sight, dodging a terrified crowd that fled from the calamity.
"Not going anywhere, Orana," Hawke sighed, squared off with the Templar and alone now. "C'mon, big guy, we haven't been on the best of terms – you know, with you almost dislocating my jaw, but let's talk this out." She holds up her staff again and pushed off the Templar's weight. "So, no talking I take it?" With a twist of his massive built, he heaves the heavy blade over Hawke's head, missing by a hair. "I'll file that under maybe."
With another strike by the opposing, Hawke's fingers curled and cold ate at her fingertips, she threw her arm outward; the Fade conquered the promise of frost, devouring flesh underneath the gauntlet that held a steady sword. The ache in the Templar's bones did not deter him from trying to decapitate Hawke, she only made it harder on herself when she figured that with his hand permanently wrapped around the handle of his sword by her crushing ice – it would be harder to knock out. Even while the ice slowly cracked and eroded away at the defenses of his armor, he was still able enough to jab.
From the ground, Hawke shot forth more ice to blockade the Templar from her; perhaps it was the red lyrium that ate away at the Templar's veins, but Hawke couldn't quite grasp the full potential of her magic. Hawke wouldn't bluntly let it known that she was terrified by a lone scuffle – but she was. And for the moment, she cursed the genetic folly that ran in her blood.
"Fuck off," Hawke leered. Exasperated, tired, her boots clicked off cobblestone – only to have her footing replaced by the horrible sound of steel dragging across stone when the great Templar missed, sparks fell in her wake with the clash as his sword chipped across stone and rubble.
The Templar is draining her of her dreams, ridding the burden and glory of The Fade that could be summoned by her touch alone; the outcome of this power-mad, lyrium-induced man was willing to steal everything from her. Including her freewill. Silently, he threatened the brand of Tranquility; they all did.
With distraction, The Templar was able to knock Hawke's body to the ground; she scrambled, fingers clutching her staff. However, in this angle she finds her opening, his weakness, and it was hidden underneath steel. A patch of horrid, grey skin flashes her from the helm and she can see the underline of his jaw in her untimely position.
With confidence, her muscles clench and she waits for the perfect opportunity for him to overpower her and walk over her fallen form. Slowly, his armored boots drag across stone, the steady rhythm of steel against the grindstone. The sun is blotted out by his disconcerting form, and with a rise of his arm like the brutal sun, he quickly brings it down upon her.
A bolt is the first to clash against metal and protrudes from the Templar's shoulder, sticking out of his shoulder, oozing; blood against metal blinded Hawke, and seemed off like rust. The second is an arrow that nails the adjacent shoulder, cutting the air in a high pitch whiz; that bow had a lovely song. The sheer power behind the bolt and the arrow causes the Templar to stumble forward, breathless and heaving – it's the first sound Hawke is able to hear out of the man and hopefully the last; she takes it as her invitation to send her staff upward like a spear. Hawke's grasp on her staff pays off, pressing the blade-end up and ramming it forward.
The impact is what kills the Templar, and Hawke digs the blade deeper from underneath his jawline, through his skull and brain; fragments of skull peels off and blood can be found dripping from underneath his helm and on Hawke's own attire. The force finally knocks the helm off the Templar's head, and she's greeted with the promise of a blissful peace. The body favors to fall to the right, and the Templar's frame slumps over Hawke's hip, crushing the wind out of her in satisfaction and exhaustion.
She breathes out in relief, chuckling aimlessly heavenward, even while the weight of the heavy man crushes her lungs. "Took you long enough."
"Hey, we didn't miss the final blow, and I think in this scenario that's all that matters," Varric would have caught Hawke's ire, if she wasn't so grateful; he fastens his prized weapon on his back, humbled by the extra weight.
"I could kiss you, Varric," Hawke refuses to sit up, she barely comprehends the deadweight at her side till Sebastian leans over her side, crouched over and pushing back the bloody mess of hair that's plastered to her forehead.
"I would hope not," Sebastian comments, lips thin and not all that pleased. He then smiles and shakes his head when he catches his wife's tired grin.
"Hate to break a woman's heart, Hawke," Varric goes on.
"And risk coming between you and Bianca? Perish the thought," Hawke counters.
"Save that for choir practice," Varric presses, and it only makes Sebastian sigh.
Sebastian ignores the banter, pushing the massive weight of the Templar off Hawke's hip; the body tumbled, and fell to his back, arrow and bolt snapped by the movement with Hawke's staff still lodged in his throat. Sebastian offers his hand, but Hawke is quick to wave off his offer.
"Give me a moment, he practically bled me dry," humorless, Hawke chuckles lightly. She can feel the buzz of her magic at her fingertips, but the properties of lyrium and Templar only made her more tired – more vulnerable; she's lightheaded, and all too prideful to fully comment on it. "That one was a little too close for me. Doesn't seem like they want to call it a break."
"That's the fifth one this week, bigger than the last one," Varric mentioned, carelessly walking around the dead frame of the Templar that found himself foolish enough to go up against Hawke at close range. "You make the most interesting friends."
"Think they'll send bigger," inquired Hawke with a grin, slowly sitting herself up despite her husband's light bickering. Sebastian clapped Hawke's shoulder, giving her a testing squeeze, she only shrugged him off with a chirp of a laugh; she can feel the shake in her hands, stifling her moment of fear with replaced joy.
"Marian, no -," Sebastian lightly scolded.
"Mistress!" Orana finally heaves, almost clattering at the end of the cobblestone stairs. "Oh, mistress! You are safe!" Her knees are the first to hit the stone, her sudden weight presses Hawke back into the ground with a troubled huff; still, Hawke keeps her mirthful nature, and reassures Orana with a gentle pat to the shoulder blade that all is well.
Fenris, Isabela, Merril, and Aveline follows Orana, slightly amused to find Hawke scuffled, but unharmed in the middle of the open market. Orana reached them first, but the group found that Varric and Sebastian beat them to the action first.
"Invited to the party, only to find out the fun has already died? For shame on you three," Isabela's boots clicked at the heel, her hollow-point smile practically strained the muscles of her face. "Still, I'm expecting an after party? There is an after party, right? Something with a little less brains on my boots, and a little more cheap drink topped off with sea sludge."
"The very type," Aveline rolled her eyes, tempted to crack a smile of her own. "Too bad you'll be busy flushing out the rest of rouge Templars like the rest of us."
"What?" Isabela mimicked, cupping her hand around the shell of her head, "Oh, my. Aveline, I would be more than delighted help, but do you hear that? That's me trying to bypass this conversation." With a turn, the pirate dashes away, adjacently from the group.
-x-
A wax seal is what separates Hawke from a warning – and an invitation. Silently, she fiddles with the print of an eye, tearing paper from wax and skimming over the properties of the missive that wished to rally her inquiry, and her undying support. Nervously, she sighs, fingers still clutching parchment, reading quietly by the dim light of her hearth. Every so often, her eyes lingered around her surroundings, waiting for an interruption that always seemed to pull her away. To her delight, she only finds Orana knitting away at sheep yarn, and her mabari gnawing away at an ox bone.
The letter dictates what she expects: alliance. A seeker finding Hawke's company rewarding and useful. Still, Hawke is still shaken by the Chantry explosion, and finds no reason to truly go ahead with whatever this letter asked of her – begged from her; she finds anything Templar related uncomfortable, and this seeker's argument does not sway her otherwise. So fresh, so new, this request sounded like a ploy that would sure meet folly.
It still doesn't help that Hawke is still preyed by upon madden Templars, and Varric's constant reminder of being careful with whatever she replies to in her messages; she only lets Varric know about these constant messages coming from an alliance called: The Inquisition, or the forming of.
Varric tells her to lie low, tells her that one day it might actually be time again to move; the dwarf, for the first time, looks quite submissive, pensive. Though, his mournful nature is always disguised with subtle smiles and reassuring jests. He reminds her, constantly, that if the time was to arise he would watch over Carver's progress, and find whatever means to hide her – and along with whatever family she still had.
Crestfallen, Hawke stares up at her mother's engagement portrait and frowns.
"Lady Vael," a playful voice pulls her from self-loathing, and she quickly replaces her disgruntled emotion with something more akin to loving and pleasant; her husband only addressed her in such a manner when they were alone within her family manor; away from every day, screaming politics and refugees. When it came to business, Serrah Hawke was found more suitable, more impressionable than a lay brother's last name. Quickly, Hawke folds the parchment and tucks it into her sleeve, hiding away her concerns.
Orana's head peeks from behind her knitting, and she's quick to stand and abandon her hobby when she finds her Mistress's husband visiting her for the evening; Sebastian is quick to reassure Orana, constantly reminding, that she shouldn't fuss over him. Still, the young elven woman asks if she can fetch anything like pastries or a pitcher of water.
"Sebastian, you're early. Orana, dear, it's okay." Hawke faintly chuckles, amused with Orana's quick movements, "Go back to knitting. Don't worry yourself." Hawke takes her stand, and gestures for Sebastian to follow her into the family library, quickly shoving away the missive that she hid in her sleeve under a book that she's been reading for some time now. Her husband notices her jerky movements, but decides not to reply, and in fact, purposely hides the fact that he's noticed. He keeps his smile, but is still troubled by the fact that Hawke was hiding something from him – something important.
Sebastian even went as far as to asking Varric, but the man always eluded the subject and tried to indulge him in drinking. However, Sebastian, of course, refused the offer; he's been refusing free drinks from Varric for the past seven years, it only seemed traditional at this point.
"How's the cause," Hawke asks, crossing her arms over her chest while she leaned her hip against the edge of her writing desk.
Calculating, rouge eyes travels the length of Hawke's body, watching any fault that she made – prying for any weakness that she would tell through body language. Sebastian found none. "Slow, but it's coming along. The people of Kirkwall, some, have shied away from faith; it's a lot harder to preach now, but I don't blame them," he sighed. "For now, we are handing out whatever supplies that the city offers. Any medical care that's available, too -,"
"– I see. I would love to help," Hawke begins, but Sebastian's harden grin stops her. It's reassuring.
"Humor me and don't put yourself in danger with the people. Some are still – hesitant to magic. For now, let the remaining members of the Chantry apply their own skill."
"However, they still crawl to me for advice," Hawke counters.
"So how the mind of man works, my wife."
"Regardless, I should be out there and not holed away in here. I should be using the skills that Anders -,"
Hawke stops herself, and quickly averts her attention back to Sebastian who barely flinched; a façade he's been holding onto; they haven't spoken of Anders since the night of his passing, the dawn of his betrayal. Sebastian never did ask after Hawke's feelings on Anders after the incident, he'd rather not know what his wife truly thought about the man she considered close to her family, and the blight to his own.
"That's the very reason," he softly replies, and Hawke slowly nods her head. "It's okay."
With a shift, Sebastian slowly approaches Hawke to wrap his arms around her; for a moment he holds her close, never minding the fact that he'll have to tell her, sometime, that he's received word from Starkhaven.
The transaction seemed bad. But, perhaps, rewarding to Kirkwall. And, hopefully, safer for Hawke.