When Isabela pulled slightly away from him, sliding her hands to his and stepping backwards, tugging lightly, he had been tempted.
Just for a moment.
Then he had pulled away with a sad smile. A kiss was one thing, but while he knew Fenris still drew breath, he wouldn't betray his memories of what they'd had like this – by coupling with Isabela.
As the pirate watched him shake his head with a sad smile and turn back to the railing, she couldn't resist giving a small huff of frustration. The apostate was a very different man from the one she'd bedded one gloriously debauched night over ten years ago in the Pearl in Ferelden. That man had been as much a hedonist as she was, and just as refreshingly free of morals as she liked to think herself.
The man who leaned on the rail before her, head bowed and shoulders slightly slumped as an old burden settled back onto him, was a very different creature; almost a complete stranger to that man. During their months aboard the Mage's Pride, she'd thought she'd seen glimpses of that other Anders coming back again. Now, in the space of less than a day, it was almost as though he'd never existed. Anders' eyes held a haunted, fearful look once more.
At first, when she'd found him in Highever, his sleep had been punctuated nightly by horrific dreams, nightmares from which he'd awaken screaming. They'd steadily faded during their months on the Mage's Pride until it seemed they'd left them behind; it had shaken her to see him gripped in the throes of a nightmare once more.
Now as she stared at his bowed back, she felt anger starting to coil deep in her guts, disappointment like the sour taste of ashes in her mouth. She lifted her gaze to the Starkhaven ship as it bore steadily onwards down on them. Every sail on the large galleon was unfurled, every square foot of canvas spread to the wind, and Isabela knew that the Mage's Pride could never outrun it – not even if she hadn't lost her foremast in the gale. The smaller schooner was still fast, and she had no doubt she could out-race anything in Kirkwall's harbour – but a Starkhaven galleon under full sail? Not a chance.
She would never have admitted that to Anders however. He already looked as though he was halfway towards giving up in defeat; she'd be damned if she'd give him further cause for despair. As she watched, he bowed his head, his knuckles whitening on the wooden rail. She frowned and glanced up at the horizon, wondering what it was he seemed to have spotted that caused him to curl even further in upon himself. And then she understood.
Another sail had appeared, also bearing down upon them from the north-west, even as the Starkhaven approached from west-south-west. The two ships' paths would converge on the Mage's Pride within a couple of hours, maybe a little less. The newcomer looked certain to avoid the Orlesian ship, whereas the Starkhaven vessel was making directly towards it.
Isabela pulled out her spyglass and set it to her eye. The new ship sprang into clear focus. It was a square-rigged three-masted brig, flying the Kirkwall colours. She narrowed her eyes as she spotted a pair of flags fluttering above the prow. One she recognised as Varric's trading insignia; the other...
"Hawke," she breathed, lowering the spyglass. "She's flying the flag of the Champion of Kirkwall."
"So Varric finally told him," said Anders dully. "I guess it's a race now to see which one reaches us first."
"Anders..."
He pushed himself away from the rail, hefting his staff in his hand as he stared down at it. He set it before him and pressed his forehead against the smooth, cool, polished ebony wood as if communing in silence with it. Isabela watched uneasily as a faint flickering glow illuminated the lyrium roses upon the shaft briefly, as though the staff were responding to its master's distress.
"They'll be upon the Orlesian ship in, what, an hour?" he asked Isabela; she nodded before finding her voice.
"About then, yes," she agreed. "The Kirkwall ship is bearing straight towards us though. Will the blast hit them too?"
He shrugged. "I honestly don't know," he replied. "Perhaps. It's hard for me to judge; there's more black powder aboard the Orlesian ship than I used for the Chantry explosion, but I don't know how much bigger the explosion will be as a result. And the final magic that detonated that was more Justice than I; I don't know how much of an effect on the final result that had."
"How close do you think they'll need to be?" she asked as she tucked the spyglass back into her belt.
"Again, I'm not sure. Maybe close enough to see there's no-one on board."
"Perhaps a couple of cables away?" pushed Isabela. He turned and faced her, and she could see the weary, haunted look in his eyes. She felt an unfamiliar surge of guilt for pushing him, but she needed to know. He shrugged.
"Perhaps," he agreed.
She pushed herself up against him; he tried to pull away from her but his back struck the wooden railing, bringing him up short as the woman pressed herself against him. She grasped his face in her warm brown hands, forcing him to look down at her.
"Listen to me, Anders," she said in a low but firm voice. "I'm not giving up on you. So don't you dare give up on yourself before you've even had a chance to fight. Do you hear me?"
"Izzy..." he tried to protest, but she shook her head angrily, her gold hoop earrings jangling discordantly as she glared at him. "I'm not finished yet!" she snapped. "There is not a man on this ship who hasn't had cause to be grateful to you these past months. Our takings are easier than ever; you've helped us bring in far more gold than ever before. You've healed them when they've needed it; you've saved their lives at times. Do you honestly think a single man of this crew will stand idly by and watch the templars or Hawke take you?"
She stepped back, glaring at him. "Because if you do, then you do them and yourself a great disservice. Now, are you going to fight – or are you going to give up before we've even started?"
He straightened himself up. "I'll fight," he growled low.
Her lips twisted in a feral grin. "Now there's the Anders we all know and love!" she said in a satisfied tone.
As she turned away, she thought she saw a brief flash of blue fire deep in his eyes; when she glanced back, however, his gaze was the same warm brown it had always been. He was watching her with a faintly quizzical look. The lyrium markings upon the staff still glowed with a faint blue-white fire, though he seemed unaware of it.
She frowned slightly but turned away.
Hawke stared through the telescope, his gaze obsessively fixed upon the small, fleet schooner as she raced on ahead under full sail. Even at this distance, he could plainly see she'd lost her foremast somewhere - possibly that severe squall they'd only barely weathered themselves; even so, the Mage's Pride was still swift, and though the Kirkwall Tern was ploughing on under full sail, it would still take some time to overtake her. They were close enough now that Hawke could just about make out the small figures upon her deck – in particular, the blond man who leaned upon the rear rail of the quarterdeck, a black staff in his hands, his head bowed.
He turned to glance at the Starkhaven galleon that surged onwards, powered on by acres of pristine white canvas. The Pride of Starkhaven was a beautiful ship, there was no denying it; her lines smooth and trim, all tackle on deck neatly stowed, her paintwork in the Starkhaven colours bright and gleaming – right down to the matching ballistae on her decks. The ports on her lower decks were also open, the tips of loaded javelins glinting in each dark opening. Hawke had counted them twice over; fifteen loaded ballistae, armed and ready to wreak carnage on any ship that ventured into range.
He could see templars upon the deck, too, but his attention was drawn to the figure in shining white armour who stood upon the forecastle of the Pride of Starkhaven much as Hawke, himself was doing, staring ahead through a spyglass. Hawke knew even at this distance that it was Sebastian, Prince Vael, who stood there like a pristine white statue, his attention focussed upon the drifting Orlesian vessel that lay between them and the Mage's Pride. Sebastian had spared the Kirkwall Tern only one glance, that Hawke had seen, before returning his attention to his prey. Hawke had ordered their colours run up, asking Captain Morrow to signal an invitation to the Prince to repair upon board, but there had been no answering signal from the Starkhaven vessel.
Hawke sighed, and turned and walked back towards the main deck. He leaned upon the fo'c'sle rail and glanced down to the miserable figure hunched over the weather deck rail.
Fenris had completely failed to gain his sea legs the entire time they'd been at sea since setting off from Kirkwall. He could barely keep even water down, and as Hawke watched, he retched again, clutching the wooden rail as he doubled over. A passing sailor patted the elf's shoulder sympathetically; the elf was feeling so wretched he barely flinched at the unwanted touch. As Hawke began to make his way down the stairs to the main deck, Fenris turned with his back to the rail and slumped down into a sitting position upon the deck.
He tilted his head back wearily and stared up at the warrior as Hawke paused and hunkered down beside him.
"How are you feeling?" Hawke asked quietly.
"I have ... felt better," said the elf dourly. "Are we any closer?"
Hawke nodded. "The Captain reckons we should catch up to them in about two hours or so - less, if the wind holds – and assuming nothing blows up between now and then."
"And Sebastian?"
Hawke sighed. "He's still standing at the front of his ship, ignoring us. He didn't respond to our flags beyond maybe a single glance."
"Are we even certain the mage is still with Isabela?" asked Fenris dourly, his face waxy and with a faintly greenish hue beneath the tan.
Hawke nodded and held out the telescope. "Come and see for yourself," he suggested. Fenris raised an eyebrow as Hawke rose to his feet and held out his hand. Then with a look of determination, he grasped Hawke's wrist and allowed the warrior to grasp his in return and haul him up to his feet.
Once up upon the fo'c'sle deck, Hawke handed Fenris the telescope and the elf leaned upon the front rail over the prow, setting it to his eye and focussing it upon the figure who had drawn Hawke's attention.
The mage was leaning against the railing of the quarterdeck at the rear of the Mage's Pride, clad in a white silk shirt of what looked like Rivaini design. The billowed sleeves were pulled tight at his wrists by leather vambraces; he wore a black leather tunic with high collar trimmed in gold, belted tight around his waist. His long blond hair was tied back with a black silk scarf. It was hard to tell with the apostate's head bowed like that, staring down into the Mage's Pride's wake, but Fenris thought he saw a hint of a beard. The man's skin was tanned dark by the sun, and the golden locks longer and paler than he remembered. If not for the faint tug of his lyrium brands, he might not have recognised Anders.
He felt his heart begin to beat faster at sight of the mage, his breath catching in his throat. "Mi amatus..." he breathed faintly.
"Fenris?" asked Hawke, hesitantly. Fenris reluctantly lowered the telescope, tearing his eyes away from the sight of the apostate to see the human warrior regarding him with a strange, inscrutable look in his eyes. "Do you think...?" Hawke began, his voice faltering and tailing off. Fenris stared back towards the Mage's Pride, then at Hawke again.
"Sebastian will kill him," said the elf quietly. "Are you still content merely to look upon Anders, as you told Varric, or will you aid him?"
"I'm not about to stand by and watch Sebastian destroy the only man I've ever loved," said Hawke quietly. "I'm just afraid..." he turned away, face shadowed by guilt.
Fenris regarded him, his face neutral, then glanced over at the Pride of Starkhaven. "She is overtaking us," he remarked. "She will reach the Orlesian vessel first."
Hawke shook his head. "The Orlesian ship is unimportant," he dismissed with a wave of a hand. "A decoy at best."
"Or maybe not," replied Fenris. "I feel... something familiar."
"Magic?" asked Hawke, frowning.
"I think so. Though... I've felt this only once before... it's like a gathering storm. I feel..." He broke off and frowned at the Orlesian vessel drifting there. Then his eyes widened as he felt the lyrium suddenly singing, in answer to the call of a sudden surge of power deep within the drifting hull. "Hawke... order the captain to steer away from that boat!"
"What-" began Hawke; Fenris rounded upon him with a glare. "Now, if you value your life! It's a trap!" snarled the elf.
With a nod, Hawke turned and vaulted over the fo'c'sle railing and sprinted along the deck, yelling for the captain as Fenris turned back to the rail, lifting the telescope to his eye once more. He could feel the magic singing to the lyrium in his skin like hot knives in his flesh; through the spyglass he could see Anders straightening, the brilliant flare of gathering energies blazing fiercely from the top of the staff and gathering about his hands. He could feel an answering flare of power coming from within the Orlesian ship even as the Pride of Starkhaven bore down upon it; it could only have been maybe a quarter of a mile away from the drifting vessel.
And then the sea exploded.
Anders watched the Starkhaven ship slowly closing the distance between her and the drifting boat. When he estimated there was no more than perhaps a quarter of a mile between them, he bowed his head for a moment, gathering the nerve for what he knew he had to do.
He dared not think how many men must be aboard that ship. Hundreds maybe. Templars, almost certainly – but also innocent crewmen. He closed his eyes briefly; he did not want to be the cause of any more needless deaths. But if he didn't do this, far more than his own life would be at stake.
Shaking his head, he began to draw upon the magic, and he felt an answering surge from within the staff as he channelled the power. Raising his hands, lifting the staff in his right hand, he began the sequence of gestures that would focus and direct the energies, murmuring the words of the incantation quietly as he brought his hands closer together, feeling the power build. He lifted his hands above his head, the energy crackling audibly as it danced around him, coalescing into a nimbus of brilliant blue-white fire.
The crew of the Mage's Pride paused and turned to stare, watching awestruck as high in the sky, dark storm clouds gathered, beginning to swirl ominously above the drifting Orlesian ship. Anders' voice rose in the suddenly still air, ringing out loud and clear over the water as he chanted arcane words. Isabela pushed forward past the transfixed sailors and took the stairs to the quarterdeck two at a time, just in time to reach the upper deck as Anders cried out the final word and then slammed the staff down in a blaze of sparks, the leaf-shaped blade at its foot sinking deep into the wooden deck in an explosion of coruscating light.
Simultaneously, a beam of light sprang up from the centre of the Orlesian vessel. The ship itself seemed to be drawn up the column of light, slowly turning until the prow faced the oncoming Starkhaven ship.
And then it exploded.
A shock-wave of hot air pulsed out from the brilliant explosion; the sails of the Mage's Pride seemed to crack in the wind as the ship lurched then began to surge forward under the blow. Isabela stared in silent horror as a vast wave of scalding water rose into the air behind the airborne shock-wave and raced towards them faster than they could ever hope to outrun it.
Yet even as she instinctively cowered back against the quarterdeck rail, Anders stood firm, lifting his staff up above his head horizontally, his voice calling out powerfully once more; and even as the first steaming droplets struck the deck around him with a hiss, he threw up his other hand to grasp the staff and a surge of power burst forth from his slender form, enveloping the ship in a shimmering haze of light as he shielded them from the superheated wave, which broke harmlessly over the magical barrier. Inside, it grew hot and humid, but not one drop of the scalding water touched the ship. Anders staggered as the wave impacted his shield, but remained upon his feet.
Isabela threw herself forward but halted as she came to stand beside him, not quite daring to touch him as she stared up into his face. Anders' eyes were clenched tightly shut, perspiration trickling down his face as he held the shield by willpower alone, protecting them from the aftermath of the explosion.
Isabela stared at where the Orlesian ship had been, but there was nothing left; not even floating sticks of matchwood.
The two ships pursuing them hadn't fared much better, from what she could see. The Starkhaven ship had born the brunt of the blow; her fine white sails had been ripped to shreds, and both her fore and main masts had shattered; remains of the masts and yardarms were tangled up in a mess of stays and rigging. Most of the ballistae on the upper deck had either been swept away entirely or else piled up like so much discarded driftwood against the quarterdeck. Even without her spyglass, Isabela could see fires burning here and there aboard the once-fine vessel. It was a wonder the galleon was still afloat.
Isabela shifted her gaze over to the Kirkwall brig, who seemed to have fared a little better. She had been approaching the Mage's Pride directly, and so had been on an oblique course when the explosion went off. She appeared to have been caught broadside in the act of turning away; she had been blown hard to her port side and was listing over on that side, but as Isabela watched she righted herself; sailors were busy putting out fires in the rigging and sails on her starboard side, and she was missing most of her starboard rail on the main deck, but otherwise appeared to have escaped relatively unscathed. Even now, she was coming about to head in direct pursuit of the Mage's Pride.
As Isabela stared back at Anders, he swayed, lowering his arms, though he clung tightly to the staff as though his life depended upon it. The shield flickered than faded as Anders released his hold upon the magic. He fell heavily to his knees, eyes half-lidded, then slumped sideways onto the deck, the staff cradled to his chest.
The lyrium roses on the haft of the staff flickered, then slowly went dark.
