Swan's Swamp was a sleepy little village three days ride north from Kirkwall and it seemed a perfectly serene and dull place to live except the fact nobody had ever actually seen a swan there. The dwellers were usually old residents and they looked wryly at any passers-by or, Gods forbid, a tired traveller who dared ask for a shelter and a bowl of hot soup. The village seemed to live on its own for every being within its stockade appeared to have its precise purpose and any deviation from the duties was mercilessly punished. The people were used to gathering in a small Chantry chapel five times a week where the puckered-face Revered Mother gave sermons and looked after her flock which was seemingly pious and unshakable in their faith in the Maker's will.
But once a curious traveller peeked under that smooth peel of this village ruled by secrecy, some dark stains appeared within this serried community. These nosy intruders tended to disappear without a trace and nobody would have ever thought of trying to find them in that sleepy little village snuggled down in that deceitfully beautiful land of steep green hills, singing rivulets and vast glades with luxuriant vegetation colored into autumn shades.
It had been some time since the dwellers learned not to pry about the occasional caravan which jolted down the dusty road under cover of night. They learned not to acknowledge the Templars jumping out of that carriage. They turned their heads as the Templars dragged a person blinded with a black cloth over his head into the small chapel. They pretended not to hear the scream of a victim coming from the tiny barred windows of the chapel right above the ground, because it was so much easier to trust their Revered Mother that this was the Maker's will and they were to help Him to break the heretics who had no doubt done something awful to deserve such a fate. No one would have guessed who those people really were. No one cared. No one knew they were guilty of but being brave or foolish enough to question the Knight-Commander Meredith and thus brought her wrath down upon them. This was the place where were all of them gathered and interrogated over and over again, until they believed themselves they were guilty of capital crime and worthy of nothing but hangman's noose.
This system Meredith established had been working for years, but something stirred the still waters of Swans Swamp. Something happened; something dark and ominous. Something no one would be ever able to explain what was it that drove all the villagers away from their homes in a single day and none of them were ever seen again.
oOo
The caravan came at the most unusual time; morning had dawned clear and cold with a crispness of the end of fall, but as soon as the caravan pulled over, the whole village was on its feet at once, knowing, that something had definitely gone terribly wrong.
The carriage door swung open and two corpses in Templar plate armor fell out, the clamour of their armor dying away in sinister silence spreading around the carriage like a sickness. The rest of the Templars started swarming around, cautiously approaching the carriage, glancing at each other in doubt of what was going on in there. One of the bolder young Templars dared set foot on the first step, and a gaunt arm hauled him in while the thick spray of hot blood splashed his brethren's helmets and breastplates. Frenzied, the Templars barged into the carriage with their swords drawn and the lyrium burning within their veins.
The clash was short and brutal, ended by an inhuman wail as Malcolm Hawke was hit with the waves of Templars' fury. Again and again they fed on his magic, on his despair, until they left but a small part of him alive. Satisfied with this outcome, they avenged their dead brethren by at least well-aimed kicks and spits, and only then they lugged Malcolm into the chapel by his ankle.
"That'll teach you, scum...!" a tall Templar cackled and threw the limp mage through the cell door. Dissatisfied with the fact Malcolm just hit the wall and collapsed down onto the hard cold stone floor strewn with straw and rat droppings, he strode over to him, grasping his head into his gloved hands. "Consider this a beginning, old man. You've cost me three men. I won't forget it no matter what Meredith plans for you," he grumbled and snorted when the unconscious Malcolm hadn't moved nor did he at least whimper. "Delicate mageling flower," the Templar hurled Malcolm's head against the floor in disgust and locked the cell.
There was an ale barrel to crack and roasted piglet to eat and, honestly, playing with the mage would be much more fun if he was fully conscious. That way he could scream and beg. Oh yes; scream and beg.
oOo
"Bodahn?" Hawke shook the old butler. "Bodahn, have you been even listening to me?" he asked and his eyebrows knitted.
"Well… Yes… Of course, my lord," the old dwarf blurted out, looking everywhere but Hawke's inquisitive eyes.
"What's wrong?" Samael lowered his voice, placing his both hands onto his old friend's shoulders. "You've been behaving rather oddly lately, Bodahn," he threw in an observation, "and I really need to know if I can still count on you right now."
"Of course you can, my lord!" Bodahn's eyes widened as though he was surprised that his loyalty was suddenly being questioned after all those years he had been faithfully serving Hawke.
"Good," a single word slipped past Samael's lips. "Good, I believe you," his mouth curled into a coy smile as he let go of the dwarf. "Everything's prepared, Bodahn. Expect me precisely at midnight and have that herbal concoction I've made warm and ready. There's a little something else I need you to know," Hawke's voice quivered as he raked his fingers through the long black hair just like he did countless times during that one last hour. "When I come back tonight, I'll be… Sick," his voice cracked.
"Sick," Bodahn echoed that single crucial word. "Exactly how much sick?" he demanded an explanation most cautiously.
"Very sick, Bodahn." Hawke tried to lighten the atmosphere with a brief nervous laughter. "Very… Very… Sick," he approached the dwarf again, looking straight into his confused eyes. "But I have to believe I'll be able to take in the antidote nonetheless."
"And if not?" Bodahn's plaintive voice countered in panic.
"Have a little faith, dwarf," Samael sneered and shrouded himself in a cloak Meredith had presented him with. He'd need any leverages tonight no doubt to sway her off balance and make her dancing just as he needed her to. "I'll see you soon. Be ready."
With those words Hawke walked out of the door without the slightest glance back. He had every reason to worry though. It had been days since Mahariel emerged from the shadows only to disappear again with a promise of help. There was no such hour Hawke wouldn't be thinking about where Fawn was; if he managed to track down his father and if yes – then where the hell were they?!
Scatterbrained, Bodahn skittered around the estate for a while after his Master's departure, polishing the door knobs which were spotless already, and only then he realized he hadn't heard nor seen his son for a while. Bodahn started checking the usual places the young dwarven boy used to hide at; nothing.
"Ah, here you are, my boy. Sneak out on me like this, what were you thinking, San—" Bodahn stopped abruptly in the middle of his good-natured scolding as he entered the laboratory in the basement.
"Um," Sandal evaluated the situation as he stood above the overturned pot which was supposed to contain the antidote. But not anymore apparently. The stinking, sparse light green liquid spilled all over the floor and only one single word popped up in Bodahn's terrified mind at that first moment of shock. One word he had never used before, moreover in front of his young son. One word seemingly perfect for this dire situation.
"Shit."
oOo
Alrik had been experiencing a very pleasant day right up to the point when he entered Meredith's office at a late hour to provide her with his daily report and found there that Fereldan brat all sprawled out on the sofa with his one leg shamelessly swinging over the wooden arm-rest elaborately carved into hands clasped in prayer.
"Good evening, Ser Alrik," Hawke didn't even bother to look up from the thick leather-bound book about the history of the Templars of Kirkwall.
"You…!" Alrik all but hissed an accusatory greeting while his eyes roved around the dusky office.
"She's not here," Samael snapped the old book shut and reached for a glass of thick sweet wine, grimacing just as a spoiled and capricious noble would.
"I… Can… See that," Alrik bared his teeth at the smirking Champion of Kirkwall as he took one step closer to the sofa with his every venomous word.
"Ugh, you really drink this swill around here?" Samael pouted and set the glass back on a little round table with a spoilt grimace on his face. "Perhaps a piece of cheese would make it better. Pass me a slice, will you?" Hawke knew he was teasing the adder with a bare foot, but it was essential to provoke Alrik and lure him out of that shell of humility and fealty he was hiding under whenever Meredith was nearby.
"Oh, I'll slice you all right, you dregs," Alrik spat out as he loomed over Hawke still comfortably lounging on soft pillows. "Just like I sliced you father dearest," he added slowly; clearly gaining advantage over Hawke whose hand knuckles crunched as he clenched both hands into fists, but not a muscle moved on his blank face. "Just like I sliced that mongrel of yours," the Templar continued with his slimy nasal voice. "It whined like a bitch as I sliced its throat…" he giggled with a dove-like innocent laughter and it was indeed not in Samael's powers to remain serene after that cruel remark.
"Ah, ladies and gentlemen, and the true face of Fereldan savage mercenary appears right here beneath that gilding," Alrik sneered as he observed Hawke's heaving chest, shaking hands and ferocious eyes. "Come now, Champion, not much for hearing the truth, are we? You'd rather pretend you were not the one responsible for their d—" Alrik's victorious speech were silenced once Hawke launched forward and crashed with that murderer and torturer in silent combat, but, just as he predicted, their collision was much more painful for him than for the fully-armored Templar. It was no coincidence Hawke wore a very elegant and titillating cobalt blue attire made of silk as soft as a courtesan's feather fan, just like it was no coincidence Hawke came here completely unarmed which he thought necessary and also against his better judgment.
Every second Alrik kept his life seemed unbearable for Hawke and the Templar was everywhere to remind him. It was indeed like a glove thrown again and again into Samael's face. Like a living offense and a proof, that there was a man walking the earth who had awfully wronged him and instead of simply killing him, he had to perform this ridiculous dance in order to finally take his vengeance on the man who attempted to ruin his life and so far he had been disturbingly successful. To take out Alrik and preserve Meredith's fragile favour at the same time seemed an impossible task, yet Hawke was bound to try. If not because of his hurt pride, then because of Charon. Because of his hand which would never ever be fully functional. Because of his father being taken from him, while Hawke was left behind at the lake bank; hurting, humbled and sentenced to live on.
Hawke knew, of course, that Meredith was the real source of all evil here. He indeed planned on dealing with her soon enough, but first he had to weaken her position, spread subversion against her in the worst possible sense and only then strike her down with one precisely calculated blow for he knew there would be but one single chance to do so. As his father had aptly remarked – there would be only one person standing when this was over and thus it was crucial to proceed by the carefully outlined plan which included Meredith catching the two of them in the middle of a fierce argument or even skirmish in her precious office and Hawke would be indisputably the victim of Alrik's madness here.
Taunting that clanging lizard, Samael tried as hard as he could not to lose himself in the escalating scuffle for it would be his doom and his plan would have been wrecked at its very beginning. Kicking, insulting, scratching, punching and cursing, Hawke had been slowly, but surely pushing the Templar to the edge of his sanity which was successfully reached when Alrik grasped the younger man towards him, crushing him in a bear-like embrace and spluttering insults while Samael knew no better than to start pounding on Alrik's shiny bold head with his both open palms. The coveted outcome was apparently achieved since Alrik ripped his fancy sword out of the scabbard and an almost imperceptible victorious sneer curled Hawke's lips. If he needed anything to make the scene solid and convincing, it would be definitely blood.
A long fading nick on his face, his fetching doublet in shreds and stained with blood, his slashed arms brought up to protect himself from the cackling Templar, Samael couldn't have wished for a better moment for Meredith to make an appearance.
"Maker…!" Meredith seemed to suffer of massive loss of words at first. "Stop this at once!" she burst out shouting, almost tearing Alrik's high-coloured head off as she ripped him away from her kind-of-unwilling lover and protégé. "I would not tolerate this boorish behavior here; right here in my office!"
"Knight-Commander, please hear me out and—" the fuming Alrik accusatory pointed his sword at the panting young man. The droplets of bright crimson blood on its tip didn't help him though.
"He's insane! He attacked me!" Samael groaned a response, smudging the blood across his cheek and mewling as he glanced at his bloodied palm afterwards.
"Meredith…!" Alrik pleaded with his Mistress to listen to him, though his deranged mind was aware the Knight-Commander had already made a picture of what'd been going on. Fully dressed-up and armed Templar let himself to be provoked by Champion's no doubt boyish comments, attacking the younger, unarmed man in order to spill his blood. There was no other explanation as Meredith thoroughly inspected Samael's sorry state and Alrik's blood-stained blade he was still holding in his hand with a dumb expression on his face. "Meredith, please, listen to me and do not let him fool y—"
"I would not hear another word from you, Ser Alrik," Meredith had silenced her underling before she seated the Champion into her own armchair, her eyes glowing in blatant wrath. It seemed Hawke was losing conscience due to his wounds however they were just superficial which apparently hadn't stop him from whinging and seeking comfort in Meredith's arms. But Samael's devious plan had barely started and the second part, his favourite, was just about to be set in motion with a slow triple-knock on the office door.
"Not now!" Meredith yelled away whoever stood at the opposite side of the doors, but the triple-knock repeated itself with unconcerned stubbornness. "What…?" The Knight-Commander almost ripped the heavy door off its hinges as she opened them to see for herself who dared disturb her in such manner.
"Howdy, ma'am," a gangly squint-eyed man Meredith had seen frequently at the Gallows courtyard boldly walked past her, tipping his shapeless cloth cap sideways and to the eternal surprise of all present the man strode right in front of the aghast Templar.
"You Ser Alrik?" the scrag nodded at him, chewing on tobacco and rolling it in his mouth with disgusting moist sounds. "You one hard-to-find fella, eh? Gotta shipment of raw lyrium for ya. Sign here," he thrust long narrow vellum into Alrik's left hand while he snatched a quill from Meredith's desk. "If you don't mind, fine lady," he grinned at Meredith who was too awestricken to do anything.
Strangely enough, Alrik was the first one to react. He started laughing. Quiet, almost frolicksome giggles turned into fierce waves of dreadful laughter which vibrated throughout his whole being as he kept wiggling his finger at the begetter of his inevitable doom.
"You… That's good… You're good… I… Of course…" Alrik kept braying and the blood-stained sword fell off his hand.
"That's enough, Alrik," Meredith straightened up as though each other salvo of hysteric laughter was a slap to her face.
"You can win the battle, Hawke, but you've already lost the war, Hawke." Alrik kept tittering as the guards grasped him by his epaulettes. "Do you hear me, Hawke?!" he shrieked as he was being whisked away. "You can't win this fight! You won't win this fight! Keep your hands off me, you pheasants! I am your Captain, for fuck's sake! Hawke! Haaaaaawke! This isn't over!" his wails were dying away and abruptly stopped as the escort pummeled the fallen Templar to silence him. Alrik was wrong; it was over for him indeed.
Suddenly alone, Meredith kicked the door closed, but not before she spat down onto the framed Templar's sword. "What… How… Argh!" she clenched her head in despair as she started whirling around her crammed office. "What have you said to him!? Speak!" It took her a while before she decided to vent her ire on the silent Champion and judging by her narrowed eyes and an insane blaze within them, she was about to accuse him of plotting this whole drama in order to get rid of the hated man. "Talk!" she roughly shook him and Samael did the only thing that might have saved him from the warped Knight-Commander who was desperately searching for a reason why she had lost her loyal friend and most treasured Captain of her Order.
Hawke moaned before his eye lids fluttered and closed, while his hands, clenching the gaping wound across his chest, gave up and lazily dropped down; the fingers slowly unfolding in mute acceptance of the omni-embracing blackout.
oOo
If Samael thought Mahariel left Kirkwall that night when he left the Hawke estate, he was mistaken. Fawn roamed around the quiet city for a while, first snowflakes of that year sliding down along his shroud which he kept tightly wrapped around the body.
Why would I do such a thing?
Fawn let out his anger as he kicked small piece of marble chipped off of a corner of some lesser noble's mansion.
What seven hells whispered me to even get involved?
Fawn hurled such a glare at the Guardsmen shivering on their patrol, that they did not even peep a word about the forbidden trespassing from Hightown to Lowtown and vice versa during the night.
Is this really what friendship means? To deliberately put yourself in trouble on your so-called-friend's behalf?
Fawn's eyes soared up into the skies as he stood at the end of a pier where his legs had carried him. For a moment, he was able to glimpse a few shy stars on west as they struggled their way through the early winter blizzard and it occurred to him, that soon there would be no stars for the Hero of Fereldan. If this was what he was meant to do before he slipped into endless darkness of the Deep Roads and wait until the taint within his veins would finally take over, so be it.
Resolved, Mahariel glanced at the stars one last time, not paying attention that their glow was already smothered by the thick curtain of silver clouds. He would remember them so they could shine at least in his mind once all other lights would fade around him. But where to start? How to find that Malcolm Hawke? What was the Keeper always saying to him before he was dragged away by the Wardens? She said: "If you need to find a nut in the sea—"
"—befriend the fish," Fawn's thin lips pronounced the words he thought he had forgotten long time ago. When Mahariel looked up, he stood right in front of the only place where he could find his answers to all his questions.
The Hanged Man.
oOo
If the Hanged Man had been ever sleeping, it would be around 4 or 5 in the morning. Last glasses of wine had been emptied, cigar stumps had been cooling down in ash trays chiseled into crude dragon heads, piles of mucky dishes were left in the basins to be taken care of once Corff's girls woke up and the moans of courtesans and lovers had died away.
Only one room was still lit up with two short, almost melted candles, and Fawn realized only now they had never put them out.
"It's almost breaking dawn, my lady…" a soft whisper caressed the pale smooth skin on her back. She shivered. A finger running down her spine and warm lips pressing a long kiss against her cold flesh drew a moan from her.
Without any haste, Fawn started dressing himself up, carefully searching the room for all his outerwear he had shrugged off what seemed like eons ago to him. When he was done, he sauntered toward the wooden rack with neatly arranged full Templar armor on it; the Templar great-sword was sheathed and hung on a door knob. It was the time for him to leave. Indeed he now possessed all needed information to track down one rather insignificant person marked as the enemy of Meredith's regime, though that insignificance could have been questioned by the fact an execution warrant was on its way at that precise moment to announce Malcolm and his captors, that the mage had been found guilty and thus his life would be taken from him an hour before dawn of the winter solstice day - the very same day Samael was supposed to take up the Viscount's crown. Mahariel had five days then which was more than he actually needed.
"Farewell, my Muse." Fawn's cloak whirled through the freezing morning air, making soft noise just like hummingbirds would do, as he glanced one last time at the woman lying in bed who did not respond to his departure.
How could she with a dagger stuck in her heart?
oOo
A lone rider was spurring a stolen stallion north from Kirkwall. It was not just Meredith's courier carrying Malcolm's death warrant what made the Hero of Fereldan rode restlessly for hours; no rest, no food nor water. Just the need to ride even harder, even faster as though there was somebody behind his back hounding him no matter where he turned. Maybe there was such a ghost of past.
It was at dusk of the second day of that insane pursuit when Fawn finally heard what he needed at one inn which was so insignificant and small, that it had even no name. The carriage with the courier, his esquire and a Lay Brother of the Chantry had passed not an hour ago after they dined an opulent supper of the finest meals the nameless inn could have offered. They were in no haste; the bold muscular inn proprietor remarked, and in a good mood.
"One would say they were on a very pleasant trip," the bartender seemed much more prone to share his thoughts once Mahariel flipped a silver coin into his callous hand. "Of course, if there was such a thing possible in the Free Marches," the bold one cackled a bitter laughter as he hurled a sidelong glance at the taciturn elf. "And what business an elf might have here, in the middle of a nowhere?" he asked and his eyes flashed in greed once Fawn's dusty travelling shroud parted itself and the bartender was able to glimpse an armor even the Elvhenan princes of the old Arlathan Empire would wear.
"I would pour me a glass of wine and let me leave in peace, my friend, if I were you." The elf's voice was barely audible; the merest whisper of a threat in those melodic words, but the bartender must have heard something much more within them since he studied the elf's face for a while with widened eyes – that beautiful solemn face, thin lips twisted into a snarl, the Dalish tattooes curving into an elaborate net throughout the pale skin on his face, and finally those black bottomless eyes with a grim cast within them.
Without a word, the bartender heaved his arms in the air in a surrendering gesture before he obediently filled the glass with the nearest wine bottle he could have snatched. "Any chance that elf we've seen here last week is with you? I ask only because he scared the piss out of me and I'm pretty sure we don't wa—"
"What elf?" Fawn almost spluttered out the generous sip of his wine. There was but one person that possessed this effect on the Hero of Fereldan.
"Well, er, I'm not sure if…. But, you know…" The bartender started squirming and clearly he now regretted dearly he hadn't kept his chatty mouth shut.
"Blonde long hair, my height, black tattoos curling across his cheek, dressed in fine leather…?" Fawn was not looking at the poor bartender as he interrupted him with this short accurate description.
"So, you do know him," the bartender sneered and he would have added another no doubt smart remark, if only the elf was still there. The opened front door was yawning at him in his solitude.
"Bloody elves," the bartender spat as he strode to close the door, "and what's up with those ridiculous tattoos of theirs, I wonder…" his swearing died away as he went about his business.
oOo
"Your eyes are finally open."
Those words hadn't quite reached Samael's veiled mind and sleepy senses. But the merciless reality he woke up into was importunate. In a blink of an eye, he remembered where he was. What must have been done. And why.
"Meredith," a single word slipped past his chapped lips as he lumpishly supported himself on the elbows. An imperceptible move of his hand and Samael could be reassured that the flacon with the poison was still hidden where he had stashed it. The Circle mages must have had tended to him while he was out, he figured. His skin was intact, however his attire was beyond salvation. Good, he thought, since he'd prefer to stay faithful to his comfortable clinging black leather armor sets.
"I can't believe this. I refuse to believe this," Meredith whispered more to herself as she collapsed on the sofa right next to Hawke with her head in palms. "My most trusted man. The Captain of my sixteen Templar platoons. A fiend. Traitor. I—" her voice cracked and the Champion felt almost sorry for her. Until the face of his father twisted in torment came forward in his mind. "What… How… How can I trust somebody, anybody?" Frenzied, she jumped up on her feet only to sit back down a second later.
"You can trust me," Hawke slid down off the sofa to kneel by her feet. Everything was at stake here and he knew it. Did she? The poison burned down Samael's throat as he had drunk it a minute ago. There was no coming back from this point. He was poisoned and it was now up to him to make sure the venom would reach the person it was meant for in the first place.
"You?" she briefly uncovered her eyes and gave him a contemptuous grimace. "You'd thrust a dagger in my heart the moment I was foolish enough to turn my back to you," she spat out at him, but there was something in her voice; some strange undertones Hawke had never heard from her before. As though she begged him to ardently oppose that statement, prove her she was wrong.
You bet I would… The cynic inside of Hawke's head stretched and yawned.
"I would not do such a thing," was Samael's actual words as he suppressed that inner voice in his head. "Do you know me so little, Meredith? Do you hate me such that you need to insult me at every turn?" he looked up at her with such a passion and insistence in his voice, that she could not bear the fire within his eyes, burning its way into her heart writhing in doubt. She shrugged his hands off her as she literally fled out of his reach, facing the huge mirror on two bronze talons now.
"Look at me," he appeared right behind her in the mirror, "look at us," he demanded when she resisted. "Surely you must know I could have left these shores a long time ago. Or do you think that Dalish whore matters to me one whit? Or the estate of my ancestors? Oh, I could have slipped through your fingers if I wanted to countless times," his warm husky voice was breaking through her impenetrable façade. "But here I am, still at your side, whether you know it or not. Whether you want it or not. And why is that, I wonder?" he roughly spun her around to face him, shamelessly abusing the fact his attire was in shreds and his young taut body was an invitation Meredith could not turn down. "Have I ever expressed discontent about being watched by your men all the time, day and night? Have I ever defied you in any matter? Yet there are you – cold, unattainable, silent. And here I am – obedient, at your command, despairing. If you only look at me. If you only talk to me. There's nothing I crave more. Nothing."
It was easy to pretend it was Merrill he was kissing after that drama he had just performed. It was easy to pretend they were Merrill's fingernails jabbed into his feverish skin. It was far easier to believe they were Merrill's moans echoing in his ears. At this moment, Samael's body was but a mere tool to fulfill the task he had come here for. And fulfill it he did indeed.