Anders' Clinic, Darktown
Something hard bashed against the door, hard enough that it sent Varric — who had been shoving another heavy box of supplies against it — stumbling to the ground. The wood bent inward, groaning and splintering. Cheers and shouts roared outside, followed by men's deep chanting. A second later, the same heavy something crashed to the door and it splintered again.
"A battering ram," Varric muttered, standing up and brushing dirt off his coat. "Where did they get a blighted battering ram?"
Cullen stood from where he'd been resting, sword held across his lap, near the back of the clinic. "The residents of Darktown are nothing if not inventive."
"Glad you like 'em, Curly," Varric said, taking a step away from the door, "but our little barricade won't keep out a battering ram. We're trying to stop a mob, not a full-blown siege."
"I know," Cullen said. His voice was grim. "We can hide no longer. That mob will be through that door in less than half an hour."
Merrill was pacing back and forth next to Marian's cot. She hadn't slipped into any more convulsions since Anders had induced a deep magical sleep, but she had gone deathly pale and her eyes were rolling violently beneath her lids. She burned with fever and it was clear they could no longer treat her with healing potions without risking a toxic overdose.
She winced at another hefty crack from the door. "What do we do?"
"It's obvious," Carver said. He, too, was hefting his drawn sword. His shield was already in his other hand. He puffed out his armored chest with a scowl and said, "We fight. It's about time we taught these bastards not to mess with us."
"Are you insane?" Anders snapped. He jerked up from a hunched-over position like a drunkard ordering his umpteenth ale. "We can't fight a battle in here! Not with Marian helpless like this."
"So we move her," Carver shot back. "To one of the back rooms, or—"
"Or," Cullen interjected, "we take her to the Circle."
Anders groaned and rolled his eyes at the suggestion. But Cullen pressed forward regardless. He planted the tip of his sword in the dirt to accentuate his point as he said, "She will be well protected there, by a full retinue of mages and Templars both. She will have full access to Kirkwall's most talented healers. And there won't be a mob on the verge of knocking the door down and killing her in her sleep."
"No," Anders scoffed. "They'll be inside with her, holding swords to her throat while claiming to keep her safe!"
"Blondie, we've been over this already…"
The healer sighed explosively and slumped over again. He rubbed at his eyes with a muttered curse. When he looked up at the Knight-Captain again, there was a cold, hard look in his brown gaze.
"If we do this," he growled, "do I have your word she will not be held against her will? That she'll be free to leave when she feels it necessary?"
Cullen hesitated. "That is not my decision to make, but—"
"Your word," Anders pressed through clenched teeth, "that she will not be made a prisoner. That she will be free to return to her estate as soon as she is healthy enough to do so?"
"For once," Varric said, "I'm with Blondie. We're not doing this so you can lock Marian up in the tower."
All eyes were suddenly on the Knight-Captain. He looked between them, eyes darting over every frowning face. Time seemed to stretch on for an eternity, as if all existence was hanging on his response. Even the crowd outside seemed to quiet down in anticipation.
The tall, handsome knight seemed to shrink under the scrutiny. His hands tightened around the pommel of his sword with a grating scrape of metal on metal and his chiseled features pulled down in a grimace. He looked almost like a mournful hound, scolded by its master for attempting to steal a scrap of food from the table.
"Fine." His words shattered the thick air that had suddenly invaded the clinic. "I give you my word that no one will attempt to halt the Champion's departure from the Circle. She will be a guest, not a captive."
Varric nodded and Merrill let out a relieved sigh. Carver grunted in appreciation and turned to face the splintering doors once more. Only Anders held the Templar Knight's gaze.
"Swear it," he said. "I want to hear you say it."
Cullen stared right back, his jaw clenching. Then he released his grip on his sword and thumped his fist against his breastplate. His head was lowered in deference, his eyes fixed on his boots. Merrill had seen other knights take similar stances when in the presence of the Kirkwall nobility – or when swearing very important oaths.
"I swear," the Knight-Captain said, "that I will do everything in my power to ensure Marian Hawke is free to leave the mage's tower once this insanity has passed. And I swear to oppose anyone — mage, Templar, or otherwise — who tries to take that freedom from her. Upon my honor and the beneath gaze of Andraste herself, I swear."
Anders looked surprised by the sincerity of the oath. He blinked a few times, as if he didn't understand the words that had been said. But then his expression hardened and he nodded.
"All right," he said. He hesitated, as if unsure where to go from there. As if he had never really expected Cullen to agree at all. "Then, uh… then let's get Marian out of here."
"The sooner the better," Varric muttered.
The spirit healer stood from his seat at Marian's side — a seat he had not vacated for at least four hours — and moved toward the back of the clinic. Piled up in the corner were several heavy pillars almost twice as tall as Merrill and at least three times as wide. They were support struts, left behind by some incompetent or lazy contractor when the clinic had first been built.
Normally they would have been invaluable in shoring up their makeshift barricade at the door, but Anders had insisted that they would not be able to move the struts, even with everyone helping. The construction team had employed the services of Qunari laborers, after all, and none present could match their strength. Merrill doubted one of the horn-headed warriors would have offered to help them, even before the uprising.
But now Anders waved his hands through the air and the giant pillars seemed to shimmer and undulate not unlike heat waves rising from the stone streets of Hightown on a blazing summer day. Then they just… melted away. Like a burning piece of parchment, a hole appeared in one, then another. The gaps grew until they consumed the pillars entirely, taking a good deal of the wall with them. What was left in their place was a hefty door made of the same old stone as the clinic walls. There was a tiny, barred window near the top and if Merrill stood on her toes she could just barely make out the sight of a tunnel stretching off into darkness on the other side.
Anders sighed and gestured to the door. "This is one of the reasons I chose this location for the clinic. This escape tunnel was once used by Tevinter emancipation fighters, smuggling slaves out of the city. It leads to the docks near the Lowtown markets."
Varric moved forward and poked the door with a frown, as if not entirely convinced of its existence. When his prodding finger met only unyielding stone, he stepped back and hooked his thumbs in his belt.
"Why is this the first I've heard of this?" he huffed in mock-disappointment. "I thought I knew all your dirty secrets, Blondie."
"I had to disguise it with an illusionary charm," Anders explained. "It's meant only for emergencies."
"And this doesn't count as an emergency?" Carver demanded. Behind them, the battering ram smashed the door again with another clatter of splintering wood. The young Templar ignored the noise and instead gestured to Marian's limp form. "Why didn't you tell us about this sooner? We could have left this place hours ago!"
"Because we couldn't risk moving her," Anders explained, returning to the woman's side. He took her pulse, then returned to work with his healing magic, no doubt ensuring she was in good enough health to be transferred from the clinic. "And there was every chance the mob would disband and return home after a few hours. But now it seems we have no choice."
"So…" Merrill wrung her hands, glancing between Hawke and their newfound escape route, "what are we going to do? What's the plan? We have a plan, right?"
"I'm going to stabilize Marian to the best of my ability," the healer said. The magic clutched in his palms began to warp and flash blue with undulating tendrils of light. "Hopefully the shock of moving her won't kill her outright."
"And if it doesn't?"
"Then you, me, and Carver will get her to the Circle. We'll need to move fast and get her into the mage's care as quickly as we can. It shouldn't be too difficult, provided we don't run into any Qunari still lurking around after the uprising."
"Or Templars," Carver pointed out. "Or rioters, Carta thugs, assassins, or apostates."
Anders ignored him.
"What about us?" Varric asked, pointing between himself and Cullen.
"You two need to stay here," the lanky mage explained, "and cut down as many of these rioters as you can. We need to ensure they don't follow us into the tunnel."
Cullen frowned and folded his arms. "That's a suicide mission!"
"Not quite," Varric said, rubbing at his chin. "Aveline is still on her way with reinforcements. Supposedly. We just need to hold our ground here and hope she swoops in to save us."
Cullen glared at him now. "We two are supposed to fight off a mob? Alone? How is that not a suicide mission?"
"Aww, Curly." Varric shot the man a crooked grin. "You afraid of a little challenge? C'mon, Hawke and I have fought against worse odds."
He glanced to Anders and his smile faded a little in favor of a darker look of determination. "We'll cover your back," he said. "Just get Hawke to the Circle alive. And no funny business once you're there, yeah?"
Merrill knew he was referring to Justice and couldn't fully broach the subject with Cullen present, but it seemed that Anders got the message just fine. The healer's lips pursed in irritation, but he nodded.
"I'll play nice with the knights," he said. "Provided they keep their word."
"Good," Varric said. Then he took Cullen's arm and led him off to a secluded corner. As the two departed, she heard Varric growl, "Now, Curly, did I ever tell you about the time Hawke and I fought off an entire gang of Wounded Coast thugs on our own? The tale might have some application here."
"An entire gang? I find that hard to believe."
"No shit!" Varric insisted. "So there we were, ass-backwards lost on the coast…"
Merrill left the two to their planning and returned to her earlier seat. Across from her, Anders was hurriedly packing his surgical equipment into a satchel with harsh, jerky movements. She watched him for a few moments. She drew in a short breath and…
"Thank you."
He glanced up at her, then quickly away again. "For what?"
"For all of this. I know it isn't an easy choice. A-and I know you hate the Circle. But thank you for focusing on Marian first."
"I'm not happy about it," he grunted.
"But that's what makes it special," Merrill said. "You could have refused. You could have—"
"I could have," he interjected. "But… you reminded me that this isn't just about what I want. She comes first. And the others are right; Hawke's only hope to survive her wounds is with the healers in the Circle Tower."
He paused in his preparations, his shoulders hunching as a weary sigh wound its way from his throat. "I should actually be the one thanking you. I was… distracted before. Too focused on my own hatred. After everything that's happened tonight, that's the last thing we need. You helped me see that we need to stick together. So… thank you."
She stared at the opened hand he offered her, then reached out and shook it with her much tinier elven one.
"Then let's do this. Together."
He nodded. "Together."
It didn't take long after that for them to prepare. Hawke was moved to a stretcher and carried between Anders and Merrill. Her skinny arms strained under the weight and her brows knotted with exertion, but she managed to lift the stretcher only barely. She wished she could use some magic to levitate the pallet, but that would undoubtedly draw unwanted attention, especially this deep in Darktown and given the present circumstances. Carver offered to take her place, but she stubbornly refused. Marian was her responsibility too, and she was tired of lingering at the woman's side and simply hoping she'd get better. If there was something she could do, she'd do it. Besides, they would no doubt need Carver's sword to defend them from the rampaging gangs roaming through Darktown — not to mention any Qunari that may still be lurking about.
So they were forced to lug Marian from the clinic with nothing but brute force. Varric held the door for them, throwing them each an encouraging smile and patting Merrill's shoulder as she passed. She halted next to him for a moment, tears suddenly stinging her eyes with unexpected intensity.
"You'll…" her voice trembled, then broke. "You'll be right behind us, yes?"
Varric smiled. "Of course, Daisy. Tomorrow is Wicked Grace night at the Hanged Man. You really think I'd miss that?"
He giggled despite herself. "I guess not. Just be safe, Varric. And don't die."
He hefted Bianca over one shoulder with a roguish grin. "I'm not one to bow out before the end of the story, Daisy. You know me."
Merrill bit her lip, then gestured for Carver to take the weight of the stretcher. The young Templar hopped in to relieve her and she used the temporary reprieve to throw her arms around Varric's broad shoulders.
"Goodbye, Varric," she said, hugging him tightly. Her voice shook with tears. "Dareth shiral. And good luck."
"Same to you, Merrill," he said. A little of his ever-present charm seemed to ebb and his voice shook the tiniest bit. "We'll all meet up at the Circle Tower come dawn. You'll see."
"Drinks are on me if you're right," she said as she pulled away. "That's what you're supposed to say, right? Drinks are on me?"
He laughed and ruffled her hair. "It is. And I'll hold you to that promise."
He stepped away and tucked Bianca against his shoulder. Behind him, Merrill could see a hatchet poking through the door with every recurring strike now. And the battering ram was now shaking the walls with its earth-shattering pounding. The doors were twisting in their frames and beginning to give way, blackening in several patches from grenade explosions and fire. They didn't have long.
Varric followed her gaze and muttered a curse under his breath. He jerked his head to the hidden exit tunnel and growled, "You'd better get a move on, Daisy. Go and don't look back."
She took her place at the head of Marian's stretcher once more. Then she followed her dwarven friend's advice; she set off into the exit tunnel and she didn't look back. Anders did, though. After they had descended some twenty feet into the tunnel, the healer called them to a halt and turned back. He took one last look at the bright rectangle of light that led out into his beloved clinic.
Then he gestured with a hand and caved in the ceiling, sealing off the hidden tunnel and throwing them into darkness.
A month had passed since the fight in the stables and everything that happened after and things were most definitely looking brighter for Marian Hawke. She was still shackled to the must and stink of the stables, not to mention the muttering and glowering of Horsemaster Lewis. But now Brooke met her at the windmill every day and they spent the better part of the evening together there, talking and laughing and swapping tales of their respective days. Sometimes Brooke brought food for an impromptu picnic. Other times they went without food and made love under the shadow of the towering windmill by the stream.
Three months of perfect happiness, springing unexpectedly out of one of the worst times in Marian's life. And now that she and Brooke had made their relationship more or less public, her other problems seemed to have melted into the wind as well. Jesley and his thugs gave her a wide berth now, still wary after the thrashing they had received in the stables, and her mother had ceased her endless attempts to set her up with one of the wealthy boys of the South Reach. She certainly wasn't happy to learn her eldest daughter preferred the company of other women, but Malcolm Hawke had miraculously managed to impress upon his wife that Marian's life was her own. Mother had backed down after that, putting on a half-sincere smile whenever the topic was raised and even treating Brooke with cool, measured politeness when in her company. Marian was grateful to her mother for trying at the very least.
One afternoon, Marian convinced Horsemaster Lewis with pleading words and a pouch full of silvers to allow her access to a pair of horses for the weekend. Together, she and Brooke took a short trip into the forest, to the foot of the Southron Hills a few hours from South Reach. The plan was to spend a few romantic days in the forest, camping and fishing and hunting together. But Brooke was far more excited at the prospect of potentially laying eyes on the Dalish clans that supposedly called the area home. The forest elves, she explained, didn't usually drift far enough north to reach Starkhaven territory.
"I met some Dalish once, you know," Marian said as they crossed over a small stream. Their horses' hooves splashed in the ankle-deep water and the mounts tossed their heads in irritation. "Years ago now."
Brooke was staring around at the sights of the forest with wonder. A small pond shimmered in the afternoon sun some distance to their left, marked by an equally small waterfall that fed both it and the stream. A pair of herons were striding through the shallows of the pond with long, graceful strides and a tiny cadre of deer were drinking on the other side. A single speckle-furred lookout watched the two women intently and wrinkled its velvety nose as they passed.
"Is this another famous Hawke tale from your youth?" Brooke asked, watching one of the herons ruffle its feathers and let out a long warbling, croaking call.
"I guess so," Marian replied. "It was when we were leaving the forest for the towns again, just after the twins were born. We were intercepted on the road by a Dalish patrol."
"What did you do? Did you have to fight?"
Hawke shook her head, feeling her hair tickle her cheeks as she did. She had decided to let it hang free and loose, spilling down over her shoulders the way Brooke liked it.
"No," she said. "Though it definitely looked like one of them wanted to. Had a bow trained on us and everything."
Brooke's eyes sparkled with excitement. "What did they do?"
"They wanted us to leave their forest, of course! But Papa managed to talk them down and let us pass in return for trade. That satisfied the one."
"What about the other?"
Marian paused. She hadn't talked about her encounter with the elven mage in a long time. "She… was a different sort."
Brooke cocked her head. "How so?"
"She wanted to talk to us. To me and the twins in particular."
"That doesn't sound too good. Don't the Dalish eat children?"
Marian snorted. "I'm pretty sure that's just tall talk. But to hear Mother tell the tale, that's exactly what this woman wanted. She claims the elf woman was smacking her lips and looking over us like a witch out of some fairy tale."
"You don't sound so convinced."
"I'm not. I didn't sense anything sinister about the woman. She seemed… gentle. Kind. She gave us food for the road."
"Probably trying to fatten you up for the feast." Brooke's eyes twinkled with humor and Marian laughed with her.
"Who knows? But she was never unkind to me. In fact…"
She trailed off, remembering Saidavel's words when she had seen Marian's scars.
You were clawed by the talons of Fen'harel himelf, da'len, she had said. Yet you escaped? The Creators certainly watch over you.
"She was the first one," she said quietly. "The first one outside my family who saw what… what that wolf did to my face. And she didn't think it was ugly. She actually said it was a blessing."
"Is that so?" Brooke reached between the two horses and clasped Marian's hand tightly. "I like these Dalish more and more."
They fell silent as they came upon their destination: a small clearing some distance into the forest, just beyond the little stream. Papa had discovered it while working on a project for the mill and had suggested it would be a fine spot for a camp. Marian had taken the idea to heart and suggested they stay there for the night.
It was a fine spot indeed; the clearing was nestled between the mighty trees, sheltered from the elements under a thick canopy of interwoven branches that spilled scintillating rays of light down onto the forest floor below. The ground was carpeted in a soft layer of grass and fallen leaves and the quiet murmur of the stream could still be heard behind them. Birds chirped and cooed overhead, adding their tiny voices to the symphony of nature that surrounded them. Brooke stared around them with wide eyes and a hushed gasp of, "It's beautiful!"
Marian dismounted, wrapping the reins of her borrowed horse around the sturdy branch of a nearby tree. Her scarred lips twitched upward in a smile as she gazed upon their shelter for the rest of the trip. "Enjoy it while you can," she said. "The loggers will be in this area by this time next year. We may be the last ones to visit here."
Brooke's arms suddenly wrapped around her from behind, holding her close as the Free Marcher pressed a soft kiss to the side of her neck.
"Killjoy," she murmured, her lips painting a smile against Marian's skin.
"One of us has to be the realist," the raven-haired woman countered with a smirk. "Life can't all be sunshine and bunnies."
"It can be for a few days at least," Brooke said, giving her lover a squeeze. "Now come on. Let's get the camp set up."
As they set about pitching their shelter and gathering wood for the fire, Brooke returned to the subject of Marian's encounter with the Dalish. Marian was a little surprised, thinking the conversation long since over.
"So this elven woman," she said as they lugged their kit to the center of the clearing. "What else did she say?"
Marian pursed her lips. "Lots of things. She was a strange one."
"How so?"
"She… prophesized. She said I would go on to be a great hero. That people would remember my name and that the scars were the first steps on the path to… what did she say? A great and terrible destiny?"
Brooke waggled her eyebrows at her. "Sounds ominous."
Marian scoffed. "I'll say. I'd have preferred if she said I would get in the good graces of the king and be given a monthly stipend of a hundred sovereigns."
"Pshh. You aim too low. So long as we're dreaming, why not go for the role of queen?"
Hawke pulled a face, the motion tugging and puckering her scar. "No thanks. I don't know about you but I'm a simple girl. I don't want a great destiny. And I really don't want a terrible one."
Brooke got to work setting up the tent they would share. "You don't believe her?"
"I don't know. Would you?"
The other girl paused and sat back on her haunches. "I'm not sure. You think she knew something we don't?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well…" Brooke laid out the tent and began hammering down the stakes that would anchor it into the soft forest floor. "Do you think maybe she could see into the future? That she was…"
"A mage?"
The Starkhaven girl nodded and Marian felt a sudden drop in her stomach. She didn't like talking about magic with Brooke. She didn't even like talking about other people with abilities like they were now. It drifted too close to the truth she continued to hide from her lover, and that knowledge ate away at her every moment she spent dwelling on it.
She doesn't know, that soft, weaseling voice hissed at her during such moments. But she'll find out sooner or later. Secrets like this always come to light.
She quelled such fears now the same way she always did: she told herself to shut up and focus on more important things, like getting the shelter set up before a Dalish patrol stumbled upon their campsite and riddled them both with arrows.
That's… not much better, the voice pointed out. She again told herself to shut up.
She instead distracted herself by gathering stones to ring their campfire. "Who knows? Maybe she was just strange. Dalish are all crazy if you believe the talk in town. You yourself said she probably just wanted to eat us and be done with it."
"You know, Andraste denied her destiny too. Look where that got her."
There was a note of teasing humor in Brooke's voice, at which Marian threw the redhead a narrow-eyed glare. "So now you're comparing me with Andraste? I may be your girlfriend, sera, but I'm not that special."
Brooke chuckled and returned to her work. "Fair enough."
They worked in silence for a few long minutes before Marian raised the courage to speak again. She bit her lip and glanced at Brooke's back, debating whether to pursue the topic or let it rest. Probably smarter to let it rest. But then Marian had rarely opted for the smart road.
"What… what do you think?"
"Hmm? About what?"
"What the elf said? About my destiny?"
Brooke paused in her work, her hammer hovering over the stake she was driving into the ground. She pivoted and rested back with her legs crossed, staring at her lover with a cocked head and a thoughtful frown.
"Why do you ask?"
Marian turned back to her task, hiding a blush. "Papa said he believed what the elf told me. Just wondering if you're crazy too."
"Well I've put up with you this long, haven't I? I must be crazy."
Hawke sighed and took a seat on the ground too. "I'm serious."
"Why?" Brooke frowned and cocked her head. "Why would the words of one crazy elf almost a decade ago have you so worried?"
"It's just…" Marian huffed, trying to find the perfect combination of truth and lies to get her point across without revealing her own complicity in the tale. "I never had what you'd call a normal life. And I can't help but wonder if she was telling the truth."
"If she was," Brooke pointed out, "there's nothing you can really do about it. Destiny is a bit of a bitch that way."
Hawke rolled her eyes. "I have to grant you that one. But—"
"Here's what I think," Brooke suddenly interrupted. She scooted closer, until their knees were touching. "I think you're very special, Marian. I wouldn't feel the way I do about you otherwise. You're an incredible young woman."
Marian blushed and looked down at her lap. She wasn't looking for compliments or ego boosts.
"But," the older girl continued, "I don't think that means you're destined to be some great hero, elven prophecy or no. To be a hero, you should kind of want to do heroic things. Right?"
"You… have a point."
"There you go," Brooke said. "And you don't want to be a hero, right?"
"Of course not! If all the old tales are true, being a hero… well it's a pretty terrible life."
"Good," the girl said. "Then it's settled. The elf was wrong and you're just a normal girl like the rest of us."
Marian raised an eyebrow. "Normal?"
"Well…" Brooke said with a sly smile, "not to me of course. You're my hero at the very least."
"Ugh, Brooke you should be ashamed of that!"
The smile grew wider. "I know, I'm sorry. How about a kiss to repent for my great sin?"
Marian returned the smile. "That sounds perfect."
Brooke leaned closer and Marian closed her eyes with a smile, eager to feel the brush of lips against her own. She could just feel the first tickle of the Starkhaven girl's breath, could feel the first trace of warmth from another body when—
"Caution would suggest that you keep your focus on more productive matters."
Both girls cried out, leaped apart, and scrambled to their feet. Brooke grabbed her stake hammer while Marian hefted a rock the size of her fist, ready to throw at a moment's notice. Both swiveled toward the sound of the voice, ready for a fight.
A man was striding toward them, out from the shelter of the trees. He was clad in polished black armor that shimmered in the rays of the sun that broke through the canopy, glittering and sparkling on the various iron studs set about his person. A dark cowl and cloak billowed around him in the gentle forest breeze and shrouded his face from the full light of the sun. He came to a halt some distance from them, but didn't lower the sword resting casually over one shoulder.
"These forests," the man said softly, his voice thick with a heavy Antivan accent, "can be a very dangerous place."
"Who are you?" Brooke demanded, brandishing her hammer. Marian was just behind her, glaring at the hooded man with furious silver eyes. "What do you want?"
The man paused, as if considering his answer, then raised the yellowed sliver of bone clutched in his hand as if it explained everything.
"Hunting," he said. "The Brecilian is rich with game. Boar is my particular favorite. The tusks fetch a fine price in the Denerim markets."
Marian didn't believe a word that came out of his mouth. Something sinister in his aura pricked at her senses and made her magic flare up in a defensive tide. His voice was too soft, his stance too calm. He had been watching them for some time already, she knew, and now he wanted to do them harm.
She squeezed Brooke's arm and hissed, "Don't believe him. He's lying."
"Lying?" The man seemed to hear her, even from across the clearing. "My dear girl, what would I gain from lying to you?"
She glared out over Brooke's shoulder and said, "Who hunts boar with a sword? Everyone knows you use a spear for that."
The man's hooded face half-turned toward the bloodied weapon over his shoulder, as if he had only just now remembered it. "The beast I sought was wily," he said, "and very powerful. He shattered my spear when I first struck. I was forced to use my sword instead."
"The game in these forests aren't yours," Brooke called with a frown. "They belong to Arl Bryland of South Reach."
"I am well aware of the lands upon which I tread. I have the Arl's permission to hunt beneath these trees. I have the necessary paperwork if you'd like to see."
He took a step forward and Marian squeezed Brooke's arm tighter.
"Don't let him come closer. Something's wrong."
Brooke evidently agreed. She brandished her hammer – a comically small weapon compared to the man's bloodstained sword – and said, "Stay where you are, messere. Don't come any closer."
"And why not?"
Her excuse sounded frail even to Marian's ears. "This… is a private camping ground. Our camping ground. You aren't welcome."
"Ah…" The man pointedly took another step closer. "But did you not just claim these were Bryland's woods? You have no greater claim to them than I. And I very much doubt you have the Arl's permission to trespass here."
The two girls glanced between themselves, knowing they had been outplayed. They hadn't gotten permission from the Arl to camp in the forest, knowing that he almost never left his estate and cared little for the goings-on in the town around him. If this man turned them in, they would be in very great trouble.
Brooke pursed her lips and looked back at the man with a scowl. "What do you want?"
He spread his hands placatingly. "A place to stay for the night, safe from the Dalish and the other denizens of this forest. I would be happy to share the spoils of my hunt, and you would be free to take plenty of prime cuts of meat to your families as payment for your hospitality."
He took another step closer.
Hawke's mana flared up again and she fought down the urge to summon twin fireballs in each hand to ward this black-armored man off. Something was indeed very wrong about him. He most certainly wanted something more, something worse, but she couldn't tell just what.
Again, she pleaded with Brooke. "Send him away. Please."
The other girl shook her head. "He's right; we don't have permission to be here. If he reports us, we'll both spend a night in the stockades." She glanced at Marian, then away with an abashed blush. "What can we do?"
"What can you do?" Again, the hooded man seemed to hear them even from the other side of the clearing. His voice was just as soft and calm as always, but now carried a note of smug triumph. He took yet another step closer.
Brooke sneered at him, but reluctantly tossed her hammer down next to their half-pitched tent. She folded her arms in defiance, though they both knew they could do nothing to send this black-armored man away now.
"Who are you?"
"As I said, I am a hunter." The man reached up and pulled back his hood, letting it fall back over his shoulders to reveal a pale, flawless face framed by long locks of hair as midnight-black as Marian's own. His face was all hard lines and sharp edges, as if the Maker Himself had carved the man from a block of marble. His hair fell in long curtains down each side of his chiseled face, coming to a halt just past his chest. He almost looked like Papa's descriptions of vampires; pale, near-ethereal beings that possessed great magical powers and a hunger for blood and death.
But it was his eyes that chilled the most. They were a cold green and shone with an almost unnatural light, darting between the two women with a cold, apathetic detachment that sent a fresh wave of shivers through her already-trembling body.
The eyes of a viper, Hawke thought with a sinking feeling in the pit of her gut. The eyes of a predator.
The man bowed at the waist with a charming formality that belied his sinister air. He turned those cold viper's eyes to the ground for a moment, then looked back up at them with a small smile on his thin, pale lips.
"My name is Lok," he said. "And it is a very great pleasure to make your acquaintance."
Night fell and the three unlikely campmates were gathered around the crackling embers of the fire. Brooke and Marian shared a thick wool blanket to keep out the cold, while Lok simply drew his long black cloak up around himself, shrouding himself in a cover as black as the night around him. They didn't talk for a long time; they instead passed the hours by contemplating the clearing around them with razor-sharp focus or silently observing that clouds had covered the moon, cutting off the last ambient light available to them.
Marian hadn't let go of Brooke's hand since the black knight had appeared, but Lok didn't seem remotely interested in the two. He shared the slain boar with them as promised, skinning and gutting the carcass by the campfire for a time and roasting large hunks of meat over the crackling flames. What was left he divided with a long, serrated knife of some shiny metal that was as black as the rest of his armor. It parted the tough meat like butter, and Hawke shuddered to think what other uses it could serve in the man's dexterous hands.
When someone finally spoke, it was unexpectedly Marian's voice that broke the silence.
"Your armor," she said, looking the man up and down from her place huddled across the fire from him. "It isn't like any hunters' armor I've seen before."
"Boar are dangerous beasts," Lok replied. His tone was almost casual as he scooped up a long string of greenish-black intestines and hucked them into the grass, away from their camp. "Especially the boars of this forest. I've seen their tusks sink through three inches of plate steel."
"And the sword?"
"A… precautionary measure. Against beasts more dangerous than boar."
"Elves?"
"Men."
Brooke pulled her half of the blanket tighter around herself. "So… you're a killer?"
"When the situation calls for it."
"A bounty hunter, then?"
"On occasion."
The Starkhaven girl huffed in irritation at their guest's repetitively vague answers. She glanced at Marian, rolled her eyes, and drew her finger in circles near her temple, miming that the man was crazy. Lok, thankfully, seemed too engrossed in butchering his kill to pay attention. He ripped that wicked-looking serrated blade down, carving off a fat hunk of meat, and slapped it on a rock near the fire for later gathering.
"If you're going to be staying here," Marian ventured, "we should know more about you. After all, why should we trust a strange man wandering out in the woods, armed and armored for battle?"
A strange kind of humor seemed to twinkle in Lok's dead-looking green eyes. A smirk pulled at his thin lips before he turned back to the boar and his features were lost in tha shadow. For a moment, Marian thought he had ignored her, but he eventually spoke.
"I was born in Antiva," he said, "far north of here, on the shores of the endless blue sea. For a time I tried my hand at sailing upon it, but soon found it, ah… not to my liking. After some troublemaking, I fell in with a band of mercenarios and made my way south, to the so-called Doglands of Ferelden."
A mercenary? Marian thought. I'm liking this less and less. And that Doglands crack was just mean.
He continued, "I settled down — more or less — outside Denerim. Found a woman, had a child. Things were simple."
"I'm sensing an abrupt change coming," Brooke said. She took one of the spitted hunks of boar meat, sniffed it, then returned it to the fire to cook for a few minutes more. Now that their mysterious guest was finally revealing more about himself, she seemed to be relaxing quite considerably. "You wouldn't be here if you had a nice happily-ever-after life."
Marian herself couldn't be further from relaxed. Her silvery eyes were fixed on Lok and she was unwilling to look away for even a moment, as if the slightest oversight would give him an opportunity to turn that serrated black blade on her and her lover. But Lok wasn't looking at them; he seemed fixated on the boar, at least for the moment, and that was a small blessing for which she was very grateful.
"An abrupt change did come," he said, tearing another hunk of meat free and tossing it onto the heated rocks by the fire. "Quite… abrupt."
"What happened?"
"Apostates. Blood mages." Lok spat into the grass next to him. "They came into the house one night, fleeing the Templars set after them. They pleaded for help, begged my family to hide them."
Marian, knowing full well how foolish it was to ask, still felt compelled to inquire, "Did you?"
"Of course not. The Templars would have put us to the torch along with the blood mages had they found out." Lok glanced at her for a moment and Marian instantly regretted her question. He held her fearful gaze for a few long moments, until Marian was almost convinced he knew exactly who and what she truly was.
"Templars," he said, "always hunt down their quarry, sooner or later."
The two women fell silent as they digested his words, each in her own way. Marian felt a cold chill fill her at Lok's unknowing threat. This man didn't look like a Templar himself — his armor was too dark and he bore no seal of the Chantry's authority upon his person — but he was certainly every bit as dangerous as the armored knights she so feared.
"When I refused them," Lok continued, "the apostates grew… cross. They used their powers to summon demons and other abominations to hold my family captive. As a bargaining chip to buy their freedom."
He paused in his butchery for a moment, resting his hands on his knees as a faraway look came into his eyes. He stared off into the darkness, unmoving. In the dim light of the campfire, he looked almost like a specter himself.
"But as is so often the case," he murmured, "they trifled with powers beyond their ability to control."
Brooke cocked her head. "What do you mean?"
"One of the apostates lost control. Summoned a trio of rage demons." Lok's pale green eyes roamed through the darkness, as if he could see the horrid spectacle playing out in front of him. "They killed him almost instantly. Then the monsters turned their attention to my family."
The serrated knife suddenly plunged back into the boar with unexpected vigor and a spray of blood spattered his arms. "They killed without mercy. Burned my wife and child alive before my eyes, laughing over my loved ones' screams."
Brooke's hand drifted up to her mouth. "That's horrible. Were they caught? The apostates, I mean."
Lok shook his head and his long black locks swayed in the gentle night breeze. "The two who survived the demon attack fled into the night. When the Templars arrived, they found only demons, corpses… and me."
"I'm… so sorry. It must have been horrible."
Lok sniffed and said nothing more. For a time, all that could be heard was the sharp scrape of his blade against the boar's flesh. Marian continued to watch him go about his bloody work, her stomach grumbling loudly as the thick, mouth-watering scent of roasting meat wafted over her. Brooke obviously felt a similar hunger, as she snatched up a piece of meat from the fire, now fully cooked, and dug in with gusto.
"So now you know my tale," the pale man grunted as he worked, "it is only fair that you return the courtesy. What drives you two to venture so far into the Arl's woods uninvited?"
"We…" Brooke offered some of her meal to Marian, who grudgingly took it. "We were going camping."
"Oh?" The black-armored man didn't look up. "You must be brave indeed to willingly camp in Dalish territory."
Marian couldn't help but respond, even with a mouth full of roasted boar. "There aren't any Dalish here."
"No?" Lok smirked at them and gestured to the clearing with his knife. "This glade was not long ago home to an aravel caravan. They moved on one, maybe two weeks ago. Their scouts still patrol the area."
He turned back to the carcass. "In fact," he said, a sneer in his voice, "I spotted at least three of their scouts watching us already."
Brooke instantly stiffened and looked around, clutching tighter to Hawke's hand. Hawke also tensed, but for slightly different reason. If the Dalish were here, why hadn't they attacked? What if they were friendly, like Saidavel had been so long ago? Perhaps they would drive their sinister guest away, back into the shadows of the trees from which he had first come.
But Lok snickered at them again. "It's futile to try and see them. If the Dalish wish to remain hidden, the most attentive seeker in Thedas would be unable to find them. You must simply rest assured they are out there and they are watching."
Marian felt Brooke shudder next to her. She made sure to draw the blanket tighter around them. Then she frowned and said, "If you were really hunting boar, why did you decide to stop to talk to us? Why not take our kill and move on?"
The serrated knife froze. Lok himself froze, like a fox caught in the chicken coop mid-theft. Those cold green eyes darted to her and seemed to stare right through her for a few impossibly long moments. Marian felt as if her entire body had been plunged into ice water.
Then the black armored man sighed and rested back on his haunches, leaving the wicked-looking blade still embedded in the carcass. He stared at the two young women with a narrow-eyed glare, then sniffed and said, "You caught me. I wasn't just here to hunt boar."
I knew it! she thought. "If you're not here for the boar, what are you really doing here?"
"I'm hunting far more dangerous prey. I have been for some time." Lok reached up to his collar and pulled a medallion into the light. The flickering illumination of the flames lighted across its surface, making the symbol etched upon it all but glow in the night. It was an eye, displayed proudly amid waving tendrils of flame.
Marian almost screamed at the sight. She managed to hold back her horror, thank Andraste, but was sure she paled a few shades regardless.
"You know," the black-armored man asked, "what this symbol is? What it means?"
"You're…" her voice faltered a little. "You're a Seeker. A mage-hunter."
Against her better judgment, she looked up and met those dead green eyes. Her heart seemed to have been gripped by an uncomfortably tight vise, and the roasted meat now felt thick and heavy in her gut. She fought back the sudden wash of terror-nausea and did her best to put on a casual face.
"Those Templars who found you," she said, "didn't just kill the demons and move on."
"No."
"They took you in? Trained you to be one of them?"
"Yes." That strange, cold humor flashed in Lok's gaze again. His voice was a raspy purr.
Brooke spoke up now, apparently oblivious to the tension that had fallen over their group. She tore at the hunk of meat with her teeth and said, "If you're hunting mages, you've chosen the wrong town to start. South Reach doesn't exactly have a reputation for hiding apostates."
Lok smiled from across the fire — a cold, ugly smile that pressed his thin lips into a tight white line — and Marian's heart fluttered. She cursed herself for being so flighty and thought, Papa taught you better than this. You've outwitted more sinister characters than this man.
But she knew that wasn't true. She could flit under the radar of the average Templar by keeping her magic under control and acting like an average young woman. But Seekers… they were different. They were only sent after the most elusive, most dangerous targets. Targets like…
Papa!
Her heart somersaulted again even as a cold stone of certainty sank into the pit of her stomach. It was the only explanation. Malcolm Hawke had long ago escaped the confines of the Mage's Circle and had been on the run ever since, eluding every attempt to recapture him and often killing those who tried. Of course the Chantry would send someone uniquely qualified to oppose such a powerful threat.
He's after my father, she thought, thinking slowly and carefully to ensure the mental words carried the appropriate weight. And he won't stop there. He'll kill me, the twins, and probably Mother and Brooke for good measure.
Lok had turned back to the boar. He successfully managed to sever the head and set the hefty piece of meat aside, no doubt to save as a trophy for later. As he worked, he spoke again in a calm, almost casual tone. But his words had the exact opposite effect on Marian.
"That scar on your face," he said with that same smug purr as before. "It is strange for a girl your age to bear such battle wounds. Who dealt you such a disfiguring blow?"
Marian's voice knotted somewhere between her collar and her lips, sticking fast in her throat and refusing to budge. Thankfully, Brooke — still oblivious to the danger they were now in — answered for her.
"A wolf attacked her when she was little," the redhead said through a mouthful of food. She gulped loudly and continued, "Marian's family moved around a lot when she was younger, and the roads are dangerous."
"They are indeed," the Seeker agreed. He was still smiling that ugly smile. "They are indeed."
Marian fidgeted in her seat, then gently removed herself from the shelter of the blanket and stood from her seat by the fire.
"I'm going to sleep," she said, doing a superb job of masking her nauseating anxiety behind a facade of weariness. "All this talk of wolves and Templars and apostates has stolen my appetite."
Brooke squeezed her hand as she left, wished her sweet dreams, and said she would join her soon. But as Marian settled into her bedroll for what was sure to be an uncomfortable night, she heard Lok's murmured voice from the fire once more and shuddered at the deceptively gentle sound.
Brooke and the Seeker spoke for maybe an hour more, their quiet voices little more than distant murmuring. Marian felt her heart sinking further with every muted word passed between them. Did Lok know what Hawke really was? Was he telling Brooke now? What about now?
Sleep didn't truly come until Brooke finally entered their shared tent and slipped into the bedroll next to Hawke. She wrapped her arms around Marian's waist and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of her neck before snuggling close and relaxing as the gentle arms of slumber spirited her away to the Fade for the night.
So he didn't tell her, she thought with some small measure of relief. She rested her hands over Brooke's smaller, softer ones, unmarred by the scars and callouses of hard labor, and let out a sigh. Still, she didn't follow the other woman to sleep for a long time. She remained awake, listening to the muffled scrape of Lok's serrated black knife as it plunged again and again into the side of the slaughtered boar. The sound seemed to sink into her, down to her very bones.
When she did eventually drift off to sleep, she dreamed of a wolf, hulking and bristling with black fur as dark as midnight. A wolf with green viper's eyes.
Author's Note: I apologize for the long delay in updates for this story. Graduation from college and the subsequent hunt for employment demanded my attention, but I've devoted myself to finding time to write regardless. Hopefully it'll take and updates will follow more regularly.
Thanks for your patience!
