A/N: Alright, so I wrote this chapter just a bit differently, because I wasn't quite sure how to approach it. Please do let me know what you think, your reviews are what keep me writing! I should have the next chapter up fairly soon, but I'm working on finishing off the next bit of "Firebird" first. Enjoy :)

Chapter 10

Alistair didn't do anything but stare for a moment, mouth hanging slightly open. Eventually he found his voice.

"Seamus Dumar, as in, Viscount Junior, is dead?"

Hawke just nodded grimly.

"Well," he replied, "that certainly has the potential to… complicate… things."

Varric laughed darkly. "You do have quite the way with words, your kingliness, don't you?" He turned then to address Hawke, "So do you want to tell him the story, or should I?"

Again, Hawke remained silent, just waved her hand at the dwarf to continue. Varric launched into his tale, albeit with a good deal less embellishment than was normal. The entire time that he spoke, Alistair noticed that Hawke's lips drew into a tighter and tighter line, her tension evident. As he finished, Hawke stood.

"I don't know what we can do now. I think that some sort of confrontation between the Arishok and Viscount is inevitable at this point," she started. "Maybe, the only thing we can do is just –"

"Hawke!" Aveline called, interrupting the conversation as she and Anders came running through the front door, "We have a problem."

"Really? Another one?" Varric jested, "And I thought we'd met our quota of drama for the week."

The guard captain shot a glance in his direction that would have made most men run and hide; Varric just fell silent, still smiling.

"What's the problem now, Aveline," Hawke asked wearily.

"I'm going to be perfectly blunt, since there's no other way I can think to explain the situation," Aveline said, all business. "The Qunari have seized the keep. The nobles there are being held hostage. The Guard and I weren't able to stop them."

"Ah, yes. That would qualify as a problem, I think," Varric put in. For once, his jesting drew no laughter.

"I don't want this to turn into a slaughter, Hawke, and I think you're the only one who might be able to talk some sense into them."

"Let's go," the dark haired woman replied, standing and securing her bow and daggers. "Alistair, we will be back soon."

… One hour later…

Hawke

There is something extremely wrong here – I have never been to the Viscount's keep before and seen it so eerily quiet. There is usually no shortage of nobles whining about the long wait to see the Seneschal or Viscount, always a steady stream of shouting and laughter coming from the barracks, even hastily mumbled greetings coming from the servants running back and forth. This utter lack of noise is unnerving.

We head up the seemingly endless staircases to confront the Arishok, Anders hanging protectively close to my back. I understand his worry, and it is the same as mine: there is no getting around the fact that I should not be walking into almost certain danger when I am carrying the King of Ferelden's child. Maker, maybe I should have told him before we ran off. Maybe it's better this way, though, especially if the worst were to happen.

I push open the huge double doors leading to the chamber that will certainly reveal the nobles that Aveline told us about – there is simply no other room large enough left that we haven't checked yet. My boots squelch underfoot. There is a small pool of blood that I have stepped into. Exactly whose blood becomes immediately obvious: a blood-spattered, gold circlet sits, carelessly discarded in the gore.

The Arishok and I exchange few words. Both of us, I think, know that there is no easy way to walk away from the situation at hand. What does surprise me, though, is the fact that he believes my assurances that I can get the relic back, but still insists that he and his kind will conquer Kirkwall. The only way he and his kind will leave is if we can defeat his entire army. That, or I defeat him in single combat.

At this declaration, several things happen at once. Anders immediately grabs my arm, insisting that we find another way; Fenris gives a humorless laugh, assuring me that he knows I am more than a match for the Arishok; Varric, who I am sure has his suspicions of what is going on, looks at me, speechless for perhaps the first time in his life.

What else can I do? I cannot allow my friends to fight this many Qunari at once, especially in such tight quarters and with so many innocents packed around the edges of the room. I shudder to think of the carnage that would be inevitable if a full-scale battle were to take place among the nobles of Kirkwall – I doubt that any of them have dealt with anything more bloody than the occasional scrape or cut in their lives.

No, there is only one way to end this, and that is to accept his offer. He rises, and instructs his warriors to leave immediately should he fall. I tell my friends to do their best without me should I be the one to lose. My death seems closer now than it ever has before… as the Qunari leader stalks towards me, I can tell that I am at a distinct disadvantage: I am an archer, and while that is useful when I have places to run to, I am boxed in here. Finally, he stands a mere ten strides in front of me.

"Die well, Hawke."

And so it begins.

He barely gives me a second to grasp the fact that this dance of death has begun before he charges straight at me, not even bothering to draw the swords at his back. Luckily, years of training cause my instincts to kick in, and I am able to jump out of the way. As the Arishok skids to a stop, placing his hands on the wall he nearly bowled into with his incredible momentum, I am able to fire off just one arrow. He notices, though, and my missile only grazes his broad shoulder. Hopefully that slight blood loss will slow him down, if only a little bit. Hopeful thinking, I know.

Unfortunately, he doesn't even seem to notice the crimson stain that is slowly spreading on his tunic. He simply walks towards me, this time drawing both of his massive blades. I draw my own, far smaller daggers – the weapons I am far less comfortable with – and take a deep breath.

He swings at me over and over, my only advantage my smaller size and much faster reflexes. I am unable to land any blows either, though, for fear of getting too close to those flashing blades of steel. I begin to worry that this battle will perhaps only be decided by who is able to outlast the other, and I fear that I already know the answer to that.

The fight continues for what feels to my slowly flagging muscles like hours, though it is only minutes. I am able to score a number of small hits, but nothing critical. I begin to feel like I am only a small, stinging pest to this great hulk of a warrior: he seems to shrug off the bite of my blade the same way that I would the sting of a bee. I know that my only hope of besting him will be to somehow gain enough distance from him to fire off another few shots with my bow, but how I will do this I know not.

Knowing that the only way that I will be victorious is to somehow take the Arishok off his guard long enough for me to dart away, I do something very foolish. I spin deftly to his back, and kick at his legs as hard as I can, hoping to take him down. I partially succeed. In my exhaustion, my muscles fail to respond with their usual speed. His first blade misses by inches. His second does not. I know that I must look surprised when I look down and see the thin blade buried deep into my side, but what confuses me the most is that I feel almost no pain.

He is smiling now, knowing that he is assured of his victory now. He pulls his blade out, and now I do feel the pain. I hear someone cry out, and I think it might be me. This is no time for me to be weak, though; I am accustomed to working through pain, and I must do so now. I back up slowly, trying to see through the air that has grown uncommonly thick before my eyes. My adversary also backs away, knowing that he will win, savoring the moments while I am weak before he comes in for the final blow.

It will never come. I pull out my bow and an arrow faster than I think I ever have in my life. I draw the string back, the lightly oiled smell sharp in my nostrils as it grazes the side of my nose and lips. I breathe out softly, and let the arrow fly, a grey and brown blur that carves a path to its mark; this time, it does not miss. He falls to his knees, my arrow jutting from his neck; he breathes out slowly, a small trickle of red carving a thin path out of the corner of his mouth.

I find myself on my knees as well, looking at the Qunari in front of me, who cocks his head to the side curiously.

"Ataash varin kata. Panahedan, Hawke."

His words echo strangely in my ears. I am suddenly, inexplicably, looking at the polished vaulted ceiling. The patterns are mesmerizing… How have I not noticed that before? Someone is shouting from far away, perhaps a great many people.

I think that I will shut my eyes, just for a moment…