Leliana

We were too late. The violence that filled the streets had made its way to the viscount's keep. Kathyra and I had barely made it through the doors before those who attempted to bar them were swept out of the way, not with hands, but with blades. The shrieks of the imprisoned, well-bred nobles of Kirkwall sounded shrill in my ears, once more making me despise the days I had spent among the nobility, wanting to be part and parcel with that manner of living.

Much had changed since those days. I had changed. But now I stood, not as one among them, but one willing to protect the fools who let themselves be herded like cattle instead of fighting back. The qunari had done well. Beyond well. They had corralled and imprisoned all the powerful people of Kirkwall. Even Knight Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino were in this room. And, in the center, near the severed head of Kirkwall's viscount, stood Micah Hawke.

I had known my share of tall, imposing warrior women, but few of those I had known struck the same regal, indomitable profile that the eldest Hawke child did now. I read her body, the tension in her shoulders, the flash in her eyes, the sternness of her jaw. Wicked blue eyes flared as she spoke to the Arishok, but I did not listen to the conversation. The words were not important. People died when they focused on the words and ignored everything else around them.

Amid the din of worried whispers, Hawke and the Arishok's exchange, I heard the sound of running feet. I turned towards it, saw nothing but a silhouette racing for an as yet unguarded door. It was a coward who would flee at a time like this, saving no life but their own. Let them run. Glory was for those who remained behind, who faced their demons. Immortality was for those who died in the facing.

I shook my head of the thought, slipping through the crowd, everyone so involved within their own lives and fears that not one took notice of the bloodied ersatz bandage around my throat. The cut had been glancing, but the brush with death very real, and I had no doubt, should we survive the evening, that my lover and physician would be more than happy to tell me so. I glanced back, shaking my head at the sight that greeted me, Kathyra bent over a fainted noblewoman, waving smelling salts under her nose, assuring the red-faced, quivering-jowled gentlemen next to her that all would be well.

How was it not she who saved me back in the alleys? I allowed myself to wonder, while still keeping an eye on the situation. I felt the arms of my protector and they were warm and they were caring and so very, very strong. Even in the midst of battle I felt…I knew I was loved. I glanced back to my physician. Who else would it have been, if not Kathyra? Who else would…would make me feel as I felt then?

For the briefest of moments, I entertained the idea of my rescuer, but dismissed it as quickly as the thought had come. My days as an idyllic dreamer, as a teller of tales that ended in reunion, were done. I served in the world of reality now. A world in which I had been made the Left Hand of the Divine. It did not feel right, to know that I was now one of the most powerful women in Thedas. Perhaps it felt this way because I could do nothing to alter the situation. The qunari did not respect the Chantry law.

If they knew who I was, my title and my place, they would slaughter me.

"Micah, don't be an idiot!" I heard a cry, a Rivaini accent that I knew all too well from my stay in Kirkwall and from the Pearl in Denerim, years ago, when a lusty pirate had cheated at Wicked Grace...then entreated me to warm her bed.

She murmured lascivious things and placed her hand on my thigh without permission. I thought it was harmless fun but was uncertain. Her touch made me uncomfortable but she would not remove her hand…until Salem broke her wrist…then the crazy pirate and my warden both began laughing. Wynne mended the bone and we spent the night drinking and laughing together.

"You gave me no choice, Isabela." Micah Hawke spoke loud enough for us all to hear.

Her voice was anguish and pain personified. However, there lay within her words an undercurrent of iron. I blinked and in that flash of a second, I saw the viscount's keep become the great hall in Fort Drakon. In the Arishok's place stood Loghain and in Micah Hawke's was Salem. Then, the blink was over, the memory done; leaving with it the lingering ache that would never fade. So long as I placed myself before sights such as this, I would be reminded of the heart that I left behind, cut down beneath the earth, a slave to the curse that had saved Ferelden and Thedas.

"No! It's not right! This is my fight! You can't champion me!" Isabela's cries echoed across the floor.

From my position, I saw Micah look to the Rivaini woman and her eyes were eloquent in fear, distress, and an overwhelming, powerful love.

"I can and I will, and all I ask is that you consider the fact that others have honor to defend!" Micah's voice rose. "Think of that the next time your wicked heart and your greedy hands paint a beautiful future for you at the expense of others!"

"If you hate me so, then why do you fight?" Isabela questioned, her voice rising over the nervous titters of the nobles and the ominous silence of the qunari. "Why not give me to them?"

Micah wrested her sword from its sheath, her raven hair falling in front of her face. Her opponent would use that feature to his advantage.

"Because your greedy hands stole my heart, 'Bela." Hawke's words held a razor's edge. "And because I won't let Kirkwall pay for your mistake. One life for thousands; it's bloody worth it."

Forgive me for this but I…I have no choice. It has to be me…Salem's words from the night she learned of the warden's fate whispered through my mind…I have to die.

"Leliana," Kathyra's voice and the woman herself suddenly beside me, "Leliana, we have to step in. We have to intervene. Look at the size of his blades. He'll slaughter her."

"Hawke will be the victor here." I replied, a calm in my words that I did not understand, but trusted implicitly.

"Leliana, there are miracles and then there is reality." Kathyra stressed the last words as the Arishok roared a battle cry and charged at the woman half his size. "The reality of this is that his strength and speed will win the day."

I shook my head, exasperating my lover. I knew she wanted to understand my reasoning, and even though I thought my words would grant it no justice, I spoke them for her sake.

"The reality of this, Kathyra," I murmured, "is that the Arishok fights for his belief and his faith."

"Ever more the reason for his victory." Kathyra hissed. "A man who fights for faith…"

"Is nothing compared to the man who fights for love." I replied, knowing the truth of it. "Faith alone can sustain and drive and support. It is its own miracle, but it is from love that faith springs and thus Hawke's victory is certain, because she fights for love."

"The love of a fickle traitor who is apparently largely the cause of this madness." Kathyra glowered at Isabela.

The pirate woman was restrained by the elf who kept company with Hawke, not the slender, delicate maleficar, but the former Tevinter slave. Isabela tore at his grasp as Hawke's fragile-looking longsword and the Arishok's wicked double blades collided and sparked against each other. From the corner of my eye I saw the daunting figure of Aveline Vallen. Her shoulders were bunched into shrieking knots and, inasmuch as she had made my life a misery in Lothering with her suspicions and leading questions, I wished her no ill.

I prayed in that moment as I had never prayed before. I prayed that Hawke would find victory, that Aveline's affianced would survive his injuries, that the man who had saved my life might be kept safe and whole. I prayed for the madness that gripped Kirkwall to depart with the western wind, for the safety of my friends, Kestrel and Rylie, both of them who lived under Meredith's tyranny; both of whom had nearly died for me.

My prayers were interrupted by a bellowing roar and I looked to see the Arishok charging at Hawke, his blades straight out before him. The woman backpedaled, but the idiot nobles hemming her in gave her no room to dodge. My throat tightened as I believed I would soon see the woman impaled. But Micah Hawke fought for love, and she took a risk much like someone else that I once knew…someone else who had fought for love.

Hawke rushed forward to meet the Arishok's charge and he angled his blades to pierce her through. She stopped her charge, trapping one blade beneath her arm and turning to the side. The Arishok's second blade screeched across Hawke's chestplate. The warrior took advantage of the qunari's charge and, with her one arm still trapping his dominant blade, turned in towards him and struck between his arm and shoulder with a gauntleted fist. Her fist landed where she aimed it, into a bundle of nerves that controlled the arm. The force of her blow caused the Arishok to drop his offhand weapon.

But she will pay for that small victory. I looked to Kathyra, who had also predicted what would happen next.

The Arishok pulled back on the sword beneath Hawke's arm with brutal fury. A spray of crimson blood showered across the floor and splattered the faces of the insipid gaggle of high-born fools. Several of the ladies screeched and swooned, but over even their idiot ululations sounded the ragged cry of the injured Hawke.

"Micah!" Isabela's scream echoed through the room. "Fenris, let me go!"

My hands trembled, because I knew the tone of Isabela's voice. It had colored my own words many times…too many times. I knew what it was to watch my lover bleed in battle, to fear that they would fall at the hands of their enemy, that their eyes would close and open no more.

Not this woman, Maker, please. Not this day.

Warm, gentle fingers closed around my hand and I looked away from the duel into Kathyra's eyes. Understanding shone from the verdant green and my desperate prayer turned to a whisper of thanks. Thanks because I knew that, if we returned home tonight, my silence would not be questioned, my reticence would be forgiven. With the simple touch of her hand, Kathyra told me that she knew my nightmares would return; that I would wake, drenched in sweat, with another's name on my lips. My physician would neither judge nor rise to anger.

All eyes were on Hawke as she struggled to gain her feet. Blood sheeted down her armor and I could see the deep black gash in the metal. Who knew how much damage had been done? All we could see was the Arishok standing over her with his sword raised. Hawke scrabbled across the ground with her hand, searching for the sword she had dropped when she had taken the wound. Her fingers closed around the hilt and as the Arishok swung his blade down, Hawke rose up, screaming past the pain of her wounds, angling her blade into the qunari's heart just as he finished the arc of his swing. Her blade pierced his chest as his lodged deep into the back of her hip and thigh.

Hawke's body stiffened, but she managed to remain upright as the Arishok toppled to the ground. The nobles all began screaming and shouting, some in fear, some in triumph, no longer cowering because another had fought and bled for them. My lip curled upwards in a sneer of disgust. People such as these were wastes of the air we breathed. Many of them did not deserve the lives they had, much less the luxury that eased their way.

Kathyra was already pushing her way through the crowd, struggling to get to Hawke as the throng gathered around their very injured hero. If something was not done, Hawke would be killed by the gratitude of those who would choke her off from the aid she needed. I had seen this too many times before, and I had shed the blood of the ignorant grateful whose idiocy would kill the one who had saved them.

All through the room rang the shouts of Hawke's name, save for the woman's companions, who were screeching for another. I recognized the name they called, and it chilled me to my very bones. I knew this name, and the person attached to it. A person who had made a threat, a threat I would never forgive them for making.

Anders. Why in the Maker's name are they crying out for that wretched apostate?

An icy energy nearby startled me out of my reverie, and I looked to my right, feeling sickened by the sheer power of Knight-Commander Meredith's frigid aura. She spat on the floor and looked to where the crowd gathered around Micah Hawke.

"Well." her words were a frozen blade. "It seems that Kirkwall has a new champion."

With that dark observation, she turned on her heel and marched out of the keep. I began pushing my way through the crowd, needing to get to Kathyra, to make sure that Hawke would be all right. The viscount was dead and I knew, as would any with the barest knowledge of the Game, that now was the opportune time to seize power over the city. Meredith would attempt to take that power and would, like as not, be successful.

With the viscount dead, the people of Kirkwall would have no voice, no defender. Micah Hawke needed to live. I would make certain that happened, even if I had to shed the blood of those who crowded around her.

"Clear a path!" I shouted, making my voice heard above the din.

I shoved and tripped and elbowed people out of the way until a path to the door had been made clear. The elf who had been restraining Isabela now knelt before Hawke, with him a man I recognized as Brother Sebastian Vael. The Arishok's bloody blade had been cast to the side. Hawke's eyes were still open, pained and terrified. Her paling lips moved in four syllables that would break the hardest of hearts.

Isabela, I read her lips. She is crying out for her love, even though she is in too much pain to speak.

"Brother Vael, Fenris," Kathyra spoke, collected as only she could be in this situation, "on my command, lift her." my physician turned and set her eyes on me, shaking her head.

I faded back into the crowd at Kathyra's wish, understanding why she had signaled me thus when Aveline charged through the crowd and reached Hawke. Blood drained from her face as she saw the state her friend was in. Her eyes went to the dwarf and Hawke's closest friend, Varric.

"Where is Anders?" Aveline asked. "Why isn't he here?"

It was not Varric that answered, but Fenris. "The coward ran when Meredith arrived. Said he could not risk being caught, and now Hawke will suffer for his selfishness."

The blood that had drained away returned to Aveline's face with a flush of fury. "I will find that bastard, shove my fist in his mouth, and pull his manhood out by his throat!" the guard-captain threatened. "Is there anyone here who can…"

"I'm a physician." Kathyra spoke. "I will do what I can for her, but you had best send someone to find your mage friend. And pray. Pray to the Maker that she'll live."

"I'll find him myself." Aveline swore, turning and running from the keep, shouting orders at her guardsmen.

Kathyra nodded to Sebastian and Fenris. They lifted Hawke's body from the ground and the woman let out a piteous wail of anguish. I winced, remembering another champion, another hero's screams of pain. A hand landed on my shoulder and I flinched, then recognized the touch as my lover's.

"Leliana," Kathyra met my gaze, "it does not look good. I need someone who can competently assist me, and that is none of Hawke's companions. I know that your presence in this city needs to remain secret, but I need your help to save this life."

I parted my lips to deny her, lest our greater purpose here be lost, but then I remembered a stranger's arms enfolding me, protecting me from the arrows of my enemy, and knew that I owed a life to the world. To the Maker.

I offered all that I had to Kathyra in the form of a weak smile. "Lead the way."