It was only days after receiving the last letter from Hawke, still unable to craft a response that didn't sound like an embarrassingly jealous man regarding her time with Nathaniel Howe, when Alistair was interrupted in the midst of discussing potential changes to the Denerim tax code with Anora. They'd been at this particular topic for hours and surprisingly little of it had been argumentative on either side, but it was still a relief to see a messenger provide at least a little break from what was promising to be a rather long day of hashing out details.
Unfortunately, the news caused everything to come to a complete halt.
That first report was incredibly garbled, only vaguely alluding to a disaster, something awful, but never truly explaining what had happened. As the messenger dutifully repeated back what he was told to pass along, both Alistair and Anora stood, dumbstruck and confused. On a second repetition it didn't make any more sense. Something had happened in Kirkwall.
They went their separate ways, both of them sure that their independent networks for information would need to be leaned on to get the full story. But it took a week for any true picture of what had happened to emerge. A major portion of the gallows had been destroyed, killing many mages and Templars alike. Worse, the Chantry had suffered a similar fate. The death toll was unclear – numbered anywhere from as few as 100 to as many as 500 in those initial reports. The Grand Cleric was dead along with nearly all the sisters of the Chantry, the orphans housed there, and ancillary vassals and brothers. The destruction of the interior of the Gallows – leaving the courtyard and the Templar quarters largely intact and focused primarily on the Mage's quarters - had killed several hundred more at least. A large number of phylacteries had been destroyed in what was being described as an explosion and the records kept for all the mages being housed there were proving difficult to uncover.
A battle ensued after the initial destruction. In a hurried meeting with Knight Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving, Alistair was able to verify that both First Enchanter Orsino and Knight Commander Meredith had died – though reports on the exact nature of their deaths were something neither was willing to share. Alistair was only told that they were still trying to learn what really happened - That what they'd heard so far was… difficult to believe. So much so that Greagoir had alluded to the possibility that the Templars making the reports had been somehow addled through magic or abuse of lyrium.
And in addition to the destruction, the cost of lives, the mayhem – Alistair learned that Marian Hawke had been named Viscount of Kirkwall in the vacuum of power left behind. Her appointment was made by Knight Lieutenant Cullen – now Knight Commander – and upheld by a quickly made vote in the days after the destruction. While news of Marian made him feel relieved, he also felt oddly disappointed. Some part of him had hoped that she'd simply left and would not be dragged further into the mire of Kirkwall's intrigues. He also wasn't sure that naming The Champion Viscount was truly wise. She was a savvy woman, capable of diplomacy and sure footed enough to drag the whole city-state with her through this mess – but he knew just how strained she'd been for the past year and how much her heart was not in the process of fixing Kirkwall's messes.
It had taken two weeks to get even that much of a picture of what had happened and in that short time things had already begun to shift and change within the Circle in Ferelden and, if the dire warnings from the Grand Cleric of Ferelden were to be believed, throughout the circles of Thedas. Unrest among the mages had been seen as far as Nevarra, where a fire similar to the one that had destroyed the Starkhaven circle had broken out, scattering mages, destroying phylacteries, and earning the Right of Annulment to bring to heel the remaining mages.
Varric's runners, usually able to pass along messages and news at blistering speeds, had proven useless in getting more information from Hawke or her companions directly. It wasn't surprising to Alistair, but it was a disappointment and he'd already sent her several letters, hoping that they'd eventually make their way to her. The most he'd learned was that the city was in a state of barely controlled chaos and that martial law had to be enacted in order to protect the citizenry from themselves. The fighting, killing, and theft that broke out immediately after the battle and explosion had been worse than the explosion itself in many ways. Templars and city guard alike had been put to the task of patrolling the streets, enforcing a strict curfew, and escorting workers – most of them refugees from the Undercity – into Hightown in order to clear rubble and the dead.
After the third strained conversation with the Grand Cleric in a week (always in her office in the Chantry, of course. She couldn't deign to come see him herself) Alistair found himself in the very unhappy position of preparing a trip to Lake Calenhad to visit the circle tower. It was funny, really, that he'd been asked in a very round about sort of way to go and make sure that everything at the tower was still functioning as it should. It was an odd task to be given to someone the Grand Cleric still harbored a grudge against in the first place for having gotten away from her. But then perhaps she was wise enough to know that going herself or sending an official in her stead would be a poor decision. No – better that it be Alistair, someone who had already helped keep the tower together once before and then, when Solona died, attempted to make it a free home to the mages, exempting it from the control of the Chantry.
The idea had been there again ever since the events in Kirkwall began. He couldn't help but feel that this was exactly the sort of thing that could have been prevented with reform to the way the circles were handled. Perhaps now was the time when it would work and he'd finally feel as if he paid back Solona in some small way for all her sacrifice and friendship.
Probably not wise to think on it too much – that was the decision he made as he waited in the main hall for Wynne. She'd been there at the palace as a mage advisor and court healer since the end of the blight. While she wasn't necessarily as spry as she once was, she was also still just as much herself as ever – and that included her haughty dislike of being rushed. She was a constant source of being humbled and for that, as much as it annoyed him in the moment, he could only be grateful. It was all too easy to let the power of his position go to his head. Wynne reminded him, early and often and many times with just a look, that in her eyes he was still the young man who had to be harangued into changing his socks or darning a shirt.
When Wynne finally arrived she looked just as unhurried and calm as she always did and they wordlessly fell into step together, surrounded by the King's guard, down through the courtyard to a waiting carriage – a form of travel that Alistair made chosen in deference to Wynne, though if asked he'd utterly lie and tell her he preferred it, just to keep her from making that face she makes when she thinks someone is coddling her.
Once they were well away from Denerim, and after several false starts that trailed off into pointed long sighs, Wynne finally spoke up. It was like someone cracked open a damn. She went over the likely state of the circle, the state of the mages, and the general state of the Templars as she knew it. She then discussed in detail the different factions within the circle and their general goals – something he was aware of, of course, but hadn't had quite gotten the details of the scope of previously. He sat and listened to whatever she wanted to say. Her feelings about the circle had always been nuanced and strained. She and Solona had gotten into a few heated debates about it all, finding that once they were away from the circle the solidarity of purpose the mages had dissolved and their very personal experiences while kept captive there had strongly influenced their opinions on the correctness of the Chantry's path.
But Wynne had always been one for caution, for fearing the unknown when it came to what might happen if the long traditions of the Chantry and the circle were changed. To hear her now admit to him that change might be inevitable and that it was only a matter of trying to ensure that it be done with a minimum of upheaval was startling. She wasn't saying they needed to disband, but it was the closest he'd ever heard her get to the idea that, perhaps, the old way wasn't necessarily the only way.
The trip from Denerim to the tower took nearly a week and while Alistair had told himself he'd stick it out in the carriage, by the second day he found himself coming up with reasons to ride along with the guards. While the news from Kirkwall had been thin at best, he disliked being away from Denerim where there was at least the possibility it could reach him. While travelling, his correspondence would be piling up in his office. Worry pushed him to move and his fidgeting across from Wynne only drove her to sigh at him and shoot him annoyed looks.
When they finally reached the tower itself, it was with a sense of relief instead of the dread he'd been expecting. It took multiple trips to ferry his entire contingent across the lake – making him wonder yet again why they didn't just fix the bridge. Surely it couldn't be that much of a deterrent to would be escapees from the tower and he couldn't imagine what it was like trying to lay in supplies, food, or even receive mail regularly. Greagoir was blessedly busy when he first arrived, leaving just Irving and the usual ante-chamber guards to great him. While Alistair wasn't really intimidated by Greagoir, he also found the man difficult to simply talk to. Irving, on the other hand, was almost affable, even after the attack on the tower he'd been smiling, quietly amused at just about anything Solona had to say to him, as if she were a favored granddaughter and not someone who was, in fact, one of his more difficult charges at the tower during her time there.
After ensconcing themselves in Irving's office, he was able to get a basic assessment of how the tower fared. They'd had a small uprising that had been put down quickly, the mages responsible held in cells near the bottom of the tower. It had seemed to Irving to be a rather spontaneous outbreak following in the wake of a single Templar being a little too rigid in his duties and causing a young apprentice to fall into a bookcase in the library when he startled her, reprimanding her for lingering later than her curfew. Several of her fellows took exception and attempted to retaliate.
The incident had resulted in some mild, easily healed burns for the Templar, and the mages being detained for a few days until their tempers cooled. It was a blessedly mild eruption of tempers – one that wasn't unheard of in the best of times – and Irving felt that, though tensions ran high among them all – it was likely an isolated incident that had no direct connection to the events in Kirkwall.
Greagoir joined them eventually and, after confirming Irving's assertions, asked just why it was the king was there checking up on them.
Alistair paused. He hadn't wanted to bring it up at all, but after seeing things here again with his own eyes and knowing was happening around Thedas, he felt it couldn't be avoided. And so, keeping the waver out of his voice and struggling to portray a level of confidence he didn't truly feel, Alistair laid out his plan.
Break from the Chantry. Keep on those Templars who will stay, let those who insist on remaining loyal to the Chantry leave – back to Orlais, to other circles, anywhere else. Do not allow them to stay and foment rebellion. The mages will also be given a choice – stay and stay protected from the inherent dangers of being a mage and from everyone else in the world. Or leave, become an apostate, and take your chances. The Ferelden circle would be autonomous – no more Chantry control, no more hunting mages. If they chose to come there or their families sent them there, they could be taught how to control and channel their magic. Their families could write, could visit. Perhaps initially, those born into nobility would still lose their titles – that might be a bridge too far just at the moment – but otherwise, their families, their names, would remain intact.
Wynne, of course, knew what he'd been about to propose. Irving, too, clearly was unsurprised and seemed almost amused at the little speech he'd just given. Greagoir had a face like a storm cloud, angry, foreboding. The silence hung there between them. He knew Greagoir would be the difficult part in this, but he was vital. Without his support this would go nowhere except into a report back to the Grand Cleric declaring what a heretical lunatic the king was.
When Greagoir finally spoke, it was with all the authority and disapproval he could muster thundering through his voice – but his actual words… he simply wanted to know how. What about the lyrium? What about the Dwarves and their agreement with the Chantry? Would they have to ween the Templars off of their addiction? And what did they really know about lyrium withdrawal? What would they do about the Chantry's reaction and the reaction of the Templars themselves? What would they do about funding that they need to keep everyone fed, clothed, and the storehouses stocked with the magical goods the mages needed for their studies? Would their rules around how Templars interact with the mages change? How would they change?
It was a great wave of questions that made it clear to Alistair that this was not the first time Greagoir had thought of this. It was perhaps not the first time he'd had this discussion. But it was the first time any one of them except Alistair looked as if they were taking the prospect seriously.
It was another three days spent at the tower. They discussed strategies, discerning the largest points of contention and worry, as well as formulating plans for how to make it all work. Greagoir scoffed initially, but then began asking questions which made Alistair sure he'd thought of it himself. What about their lyrium supply – that comes from the Chantry and an iron clad agreement with the dwarves. What about the Chantry's reaction. What about Templars who would surely rebel?
Alistair spent another three days in the tower, discussing strategies, discerning the largest points of contention and worry, and formulating a plan for how to make it all work. Wynne, for the moment, would stay at the tower to help stabilize things. She made those senior enchanters who had survived the attack on the tower years before feel more comfortable and she was extremely adept at calming and focusing the attentions of the younger enchanters. But Alistair hoped he wasn't too obvious in also wanting her there to keep her out of Denerim. He wasn't sure what, if any, backlash there would be mages as a whole and he didn't want her there in the palace where there was far too much access to her and the few healers she had on staff with her.
Another three days of travel – they left the carriage at the tower, claiming it was a courtesy but it was really just too damned slow for Alistair's taste – they regained Denerim. The few horses they'd brought with them were lathered and exhausted, but Alistair was far too eager to be back in his office to take his time or change mounts as he should have. He had a brief note from Varric on his desk among all the other missives. And "Brief" was a bit of an understatement.
….
A –
Stand By. Things are messy.
V
…
He'd just about gotten used to the idea that that was all he was going to get, working through the rest of his correspondence and sending out messages for the next day, when a runner appeared. They were liveried – Kirkwall's colors – and the young man spoke, he was clearly Ferelden. Alistair was sure his heart was climbing into his throat.
"Your Majesty, I have two messages from the Viscountess of Kirkwall, her Grace Marian Hawke." The man bowed and presented the messages in his outstretched hands, displaying a sort of formality he hadn't seen since the first messages came from Orlais at the beginning of his rule. Marian was clearly being very careful in how she presented herself and Kirkwall at this crucial moment.
Alistair took the messages – two of them – and dismissed the messenger with a simple thank you, assuming the man would know where to go and frankly, too eager to hear from Marian herself to care too awfully much.
The first message bore the seal of the office of the Viscount.
…
To His Royal Majesty, King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden
It is with a heavy heart, but also hopefulness that I write to you in the first official correspondence from my new position of Viscountess of Kirkwall. As you are no doubt aware, a terrible calamity has befallen the city-state of Kirkwall and it was the decision of a vote of all property owners within the city that I, Marian Hawke, be appointed to lead us out of this disaster and toward a brighter and more stable future. The events that led up to the destruction of so much property and the loss of so many lives are being thoroughly investigated while we, as a city, begin the long process of rebuilding.
While the events in Kirkwall have been devastating, they are not insurmountable. I truly believe that Kirkwall will emerge from this dark time far stronger than it has ever been and with a true alliance among the rest of the Free Marches specifically as well as the greater span of Thedas as a whole.
It is my sincerest hope that, as Kirkwall has been a friend to Ferelden in the past that we may continue to enjoy a strong and fruitful relationship. Despite our current state, I truly believe that Kirkwall has much to offer the other nations of Thedas – even those outside of the Free Marches – and I extend our greatest appreciation for the kindness and generosity you've shown us in years past.
The aid you provided to Kirkwall and her great number of Ferelden refugees did not pass without note, though I do believe my predecessor may have been faint in his praise for your actions. Many of the refugees still with us today have chosen to stay here and are no longer simply bereft of options to leave. Those who wished to return to their homeland have, by and large, done so already thanks to the ships you sent to secure their passage home. I believe that Kirkwall is now stronger thanks in large part to the work and character of the Ferelden people who have now made this city their home.
Should there be any assistance that Kirkwall may provide you in return, please do not hesitate to ask – no matter how large or small the issue may be. This office desires nothing more than to forge a strong and lasting relationship with Ferelden. As a mark of our gratitude and a nod toward continuing this strong relationship, please find within this correspondence a contract which I've taken the liberty of drawing up. I believe you will find the terms very attractive. Should you have any concerns or should you like to negotiate the terms set out within, please send word and either my seneschal or I personally will address those needs.
Sincerely, in Friendship –
Lady Marian Hawke, Viscountess of Kirkwall
….
The nearly overbearing formality of it all was a little startling at first, but it was exactly the sort of thing he'd expect from her – acknowledgement that things were bad, a statement that they were being worked out, and then swiftly on to new business, making it clear that she – and by extention the city-state – had not been felled by their troubles.
The contract she alluded to was… somewhat staggering. She offered the fruit of the lands around Kirkwall – both crops and sheep – to Ferelden exclusively for the term of five years. Outside of the grain and meat stores needed to keep Kirkwall itself going, all other lands would ship their products directly to Ferelden, hitting land at ports of the King's choosing for the best distribution of the grain and livestock. The workers of those fields would largely be made up of Ferelden refugees – the bulk of whom were farmers. In exchange, Ferelden's circle would agree to take in any surviving mages from Kirkwall as well as any Templars who were no longer fit to work in the Gallows there. Because there were so few mages left, they suddenly found themselves with far more Templars than they knew what to do with. Any reclaimable magical items, alchemical ingredients, and lyrium stores on-hand would be transferred with the mages and the Templars.
She was dissolving what remained of the Kirkwall circle. It was a… bold move. A frighteningly bold move, given the city-state's history with the Chantry, mages, and the long held reputation the City of Chains boasted for how it controlled mages. It also raised the question – did she have the Chantry's support for such a move?
The second letter bore Hawke's personal seal – it felt like forever since Alistair had seen it, her hand drawn sketch of the Amell shield scraped through the wax.
….
Alistair –
I first of all apologize for my lack of correspondence. Varric let me know that you've written several times, but he's intercepted everything that's come across my desk that isn't strictly related to the running of the city and Seneschal Bran has intercepted the rest of it. Frankly, I'm thankful for it. I don't think I could have been coherent a week ago and I'm not all that sure that I'll do better today. But I know that, were the situation reversed, I'd be halfway to Ferelden right now just to yell at you for not writing.
I have no idea how much you know of what happened here. From what Varric told me, there's nearly a moratorium on information going on right now and it seems the entirety of Thedas is screaming at me for answers. The Divine in Orlais is apparently dispatching a force of Templars to take back to the city. Back from what I'm not really sure, since we've secured it quite well, I assure you. If you are amendable to the contract I sent you (and frankly, you'd have to deaf dumb and blind to not see that it's a fantastic deal and you should take it – the lands around Kirkwall will feed Ferelden for years in addition to replenishing your stores and giving you a surplus to sell back to whoever you please), then there won't even be a circle mage left in the city for them to take charge of. That's a headache for another day – I have to deal with all of this in small manageable portions or I'll … I don't know… I won't get through it.
I won't bemoan the place I'm in – I think that would be unfair given your own experiences taking over a country 4 times the size of Kirkwall immediately after a blight. But perhaps you, of all people, might have a good sense of what this is like without my having to tell you. I'm not doing well. I won't lie. Fenris has been… well, he's been Fenris. And for that I cannot say enough in thanks. He's been the only motivator for continuing forward these past weeks and I will never be able to repay him for it.
So – let me go back to the beginning. For the most part, I will only tell this story to those I absolutely have to – but you… you I want to tell. I need you to know, to understand my position, even as most of those around me will not or cannot.
You know that I took the Sela Petrae and Drakestone from Anders. I gave it to Orsino for safekeeping or disposal, leaving it and the books Anders seemed to be using for instructions to him to know best how to handle. He accepted them, thanked me for giving them over to him and possibly forestalling whatever terrible thing might have happened with them. I'm sure now that Orsino knew that Anders had joined with a spirit or that he was at least unstable or dangerous. At the time that I handed it over I thought I'd still been protecting him, keeping him under wraps – as little as he appreciated it. The last time I spoke with him before everything happened he seemed to think I'd been… leading him on somehow – flirting, projecting some sense that I… I wanted him but was simply playing hard to get. It couldn't have been further from the truth – I never showed a moment of interest in Anders. But perhaps he's always seen only what he wanted to see. That would help explain how he could join with Justice in the first place, I suppose. The number of women and men who would have swooned for him and he was hanging his hopes on me. It's ridiculous to even think about.
But I've digressed from my point – I haven't really thought on any of this much. I'm trying to simply get through everything and that doesn't leave me much time or, frankly, much desire for introspection.
I handed over the items to Orsino, and he asked me to investigate the Templars and the mages who were going missing from the Gallows at night. You know how that ended – a plot against Meredith and the bastards took Fenris. I later told Cullen everything I knew about the plot, about who was involved, how I'd found out about it, anything I could think of. Cullen and I quickly became allies – something I never thought would happen, but he's been stalwart, invaluable, unshakeable. I don't know that anything I've attempted would have even worked without him always there to assist. I spent the next several weeks doing anything I could to help him. Mages were escaping, apostates were turning to blood magic and spawning demons and shades in the streets – it was chaos and Cullen's hands were heavily tied because Meredith kept him assigned solely to the Gallows. He confided in me that she wasn't just paranoid, not anymore, but that she was exhibiting some of the symptoms he'd associate with an overdose of lyrium. Extreme paranoia, dementia, sometimes humming to herself as if listening to music only she could hear.
And then I was called to lowtown by an urgent note from Orsino. As I arrived, a harried Templar – a raw recruit who looked scared half to death - rushed toward me and begged me to intervene in some argument Meredith and Orsino were having. Why they were in Lowtown to begin with was a mystery to me. I suppose it's not so strange for the First Enchanter of the circle to be allowed some level of autonomy, but under Meredith I would have expected that sort of freedom to be restricted.
They were arguing – she wanted to search the tower for illegal or dangerous materials, and he argued against it, claiming that it was a hunt for things that were not there. At this point, I was in total agreement with him. Those mages within the circle were obedient to a fault – especially after they saw what happened to those who'd been in league with the Templars working against Meredith. I tried to calm them both, but neither of them were having it.
Out of nowhere Anders showed up in the middle of the fight – I hadn't seen him for weeks – declaring that a decision had to be made, that there had to be a clear line drawn. And Orsino, looking murderous and dark in a way I've never seen him before, agreed with him. Meredith started ranting about how the circle had clearly fallen and that she was going to search it immediately for its blood mage influence and… Maker, Alistair, there was an enormous explosion. The Chantry just blew apart as well as a portion of the Gallows across the water. Both happened nearly at the same time and chunks of masonry began falling down all across the city, bits of rubble smashing into nothing directly around us. The explosion was truly enormous. I've never seen anything that destructive. Sebastian, who'd come with me along with Varric, Aveline, and Fenris, went to his knees, wailing after Elthina.
I assumed it had to be Anders – he'd found a way to get more ingredients, to build another bomb somehow. I turned toward him, shaking him and asking him what he'd done. But he was just as shocked as we were. I knew it had been his plan before I took his reagents from him, but the blue in his eyes that signaled Justice's influence flickered and died while I watched him. He grabbed my arms and just shook his head at me. It hadn't been him. Some of the Templars around us were just as confused and weren't sure who they should be moving toward, half moving to grab Orsino and the few enchanters he had with him, a few inching toward Anders.
Meredith didn't even seem to notice that the confusion was happening. She called for the Rite of Annulment, stating that every mage in the city had to be killed. Orsino insisted back at her that the Rite would never be carried out because he wouldn't allow it. All of us – the enchanters from the circle, Varric, Sebastian, Fenris, Meredith – we were blown back suddenly by something that Orsino cast just before he took off running, heading toward a boat that would take him across the water to the Gallows. Meredith brushed herself off and took the opportunity to gloat about how right she'd been before signaling to her Templars to attack.
They immediately killed all the mages in attendance, those mages who'd been there to support Orsino but had been left behind. Thankfully no one touched Anders. Just at that moment I'm not sure how I'd have responded to that. Meredith told me that she would leave him in my hands to decide what to do with. I suppose it could be considered a mercy, but I feel I'd come to understand her – it was a test. She wanted to see if I'd cut him down.
But she left, heading toward the Gallows herself, pursuing Orsino toward whatever it was he intended to do – as if he hadn't already done enough.
Anders, for his part, claimed full responsibility for all the planning, said that it was him and not Justice that did it and almost dispassionately told me to end his life. He said to just have it done with since everyone would assume that he'd been the one anyone. I asked him if he was still pleased with the outcome even if it hadn't been done by him. There was a flash of Justice's blue light in his eyes for just a second and he said, quietly enough that only I could hear him that this wasn't justice. That it was wrong, he could see that now.
Sebastian, half mad with fresh grief railed at me, claiming that since Anders had been planning this very thing he was surely just as damned as the one who had carried it out. I told him he was being ridiculous and that he should calm down. In reaction, he shot toward me, stopping only when we were practically nose to nose. He told me that perhaps I was to blame, since I'd given the ingredients to the murderer along with the blueprints. He - Maker I hate to even repeat it since I know how he must have felt at the time… but he told me that I'd always been overly sympathetic toward mages due to their "curse" being so present in my family. That made me a poor prospect for any sane solution, he said. He told me that I was just as cursed as the rest of my family – and that I should take their fate to heart because it was what was reaped by apostates who denied the will of the maker.
I've no idea if he's right, Alistair. Maybe he is. Maybe it was just the anger of grief speaking. But that cut in a way I don't think I can ever explain.
In the end, all of them stood there, with me, but leaving it all in my hands.
I told Anders to leave since I knew he wouldn't do the right thing and help me with what needed to be done. I let him know that if he chose not to leave, I'd kill him when I next laid eyes on him. That he needed to go, never return, and never ever find me again. He had slumped down on a crate while I talked As I turned to leave he grabbed my hand and held it for a moment, pulling me around to look at him. I've never seen anyone quite that anguished before but… as much as it might have touched me before I just felt nothing. No more protection, no more care – I've nothing left for Anders.
We headed back up through the city, deciding that we might try to gather some additional forces on our way – sell swords, Templars, city guard – anyone who might lend assistance. Unfortunately most of what we found was demons, abominations, shades. Mages backed into corners by Templars and letting loose whole hosts of Fade spirits in their fright. It was a nightmare. A Pride demon higher than that ridiculous statue of the "Champion" at the docks attacked us along with waves of shades. They seemed never ending. But we eventually made our way through to the bay, dragging Templars along with us wherever we could find them.
And we finally got to the Gallows and ranked up with the Templars, systematically moving through the courtyard, the Templar hall, and then finally to the inner apartments of the mages themselves. A few mages came to us just as we got there. They were scared and begging – they just wanted to live, they weren't part of the plot with Orsino, and they had no desire to fight the Templars. I asked the Templars to let them go, to put them somewhere safe so that not all the lives had to be lost. But… we're pretty certain they agreed to our face and simply slaughtered them once we were at a distance.
I frankly don't remember much of the fight through the Gallows. I was told later that I was more reckless than usual, especially without a healer with us. I cannot even begin to put into words what it was like to slaughter my way through an entire circle of mages knowing that many of them were completely innocent and simply fought back because they wanted to live. It was horrifying, Alistair.
When we finally got to Orsino he… he was crazy with grief and anger. He was ranting and he said at one point that "maybe Quentin had been right" – Quentin, the necromancer who killed my mother. Orsino had known him, communicated with him – had likely known what he was doing all along. And he'd still had the gall to ask my help, act as if we were on the same side. He did something I've never seen before – taking bodies of fallen mages from around him – mages HE killed – and forming them around himself into some sort of… suit of flesh. I've seen abominations – I've never seen anything like that, Alistair. When I think of what magic is capable of it makes me shudder to think of it unfettered.
The fight was lengthy. I'd rather not recount the details. When the main body fell there was this… thing… inside. We think it was what was left or Orsino himself. It certainly wasn't a human anymore, skittering around like a spider with a man's distorted face. We wore it down. Sebastian and Varric with arrows and bolts, Fenris and I with blades, Templars scattered around, smacking it down with their shields when it got close. I finished it off with my bootheel.
We fought our way through what little was left of the Gallows, back out to the main courtyard. Meredith and her remaining Templars were there. She ordered them to take me and kill me – she said that they'd claim I was struck down by a mage. Cullen intervened, stating that he thought they would just arrest me. Alistair – they were going to ARREST me. After everything I'd just done, they were sure I'd somehow been involved, that it was my fault. Cullen looked shamefaced, but he truly meant to clap me in irons and was only outraged that Meredith was calling for my death. It just felt like yet another betrayal. I understand now his thinking on the matter – arresting me would allow them time to investigate, to clear my name – but at the time it was simply too much.
Meredith didn't even give Cullen the chance, she turned on him, saying that he and everyone else – all her Templars – had been influenced by blood magic. She began swinging her sword around at all of them. Cullen attempted to stop her, to strip her of her rank, but she heard none of it. And that's when Varric recognized the idol.
When we were left in the Deep Roads, when Bethanny died, Bartrand locked us in after we found an idol. It was made of a pulsating red lyrium. It eventually drove him mad. We tried to find it, but he'd sold it and he was too addled by the thing to make any sense when we tried to find out who he'd sold it to. The buyer had evidently been Meredith. She'd had it incorporated into her sword and had been carrying the thing around for Maker knows how long. Instead of just making her insane – which it surely did – it also seemed to imbue her with some sort of… power. Her eyes glowed red. She was incredibly strong, knocking me clear across the courtyard several times before she literally seemed to fly, launching herself to a platform above us.
The very statues in the courtyard came to life, Alistair. Bronze statues of Andraste, the tortured statues of slaves, all of them lurching forward and attacking us. All of the Templars still around fell into the fight with us, all loyalty to the madwoman lost in the face of what was clearly an ancient and terrible magic. And it just went on and on. When we felled one statue, another would rise. When we crushed another, it reformed into a different shape, spinning its multiple arms, all armed with swords and impossibly fast. I was blind with exhaustion finally, sure that I'd die at the sword of this lunatic Templar woman. But then… she seemed to want more – more power, more magic – from the sword and it just shattered, sending pieces flying into her eyes and her face. It seemed as if the thing was made of fire itself and it seemed to burn her from the inside out. She fell to her knees and when the awful choking stench of the smoke cleared, she was an ashen husk, little more than a statue herself at the end of it.
The Templars, they fell to their knees around me, as if I was some savior. I was bleeding from a million cuts, wounds, bruises and we'd just destroyed every mage we could find. Not a single healer to be found and 30 Templars choosing that moment to launch into some congratulatory ceremony in thanks.
After that, it's all a little bit of a blur. I was named Viscount for want of anyone else who could lead them through this. We brought the denizens of Darktown up into the light – they're being fed and housed in the keep in between shifts while they work to dig out the Chantry. We've recovered most of the bodies, we think, but anything close to the center of the blast area was destroyed. The statue of Andraste that dominated the Chantry was blown into minute pieces that glitter in the rubble. The Grand Cleric's body has not been recovered. We've held a service for her, assuming that what happened to her must have been as absolute as any pyre would have been.
We've lost just over 600 souls counting the mages and Templars lost to fighting, those throughout the city crushed by rubble, and all of the sisters of the Chantry and their orphan charges. I've set a curfew and a strict guard rotation because all of the less savory elements of Kirkwall decided that the chaos of destruction was the ideal time to take advantage of those who could not protect themselves. I do not count the Coterie, the Carta, and the simple dumb thieves and murderers among those we've lost. They barely count as people in the first place – most of them have been dumped into the harbor. Let them rot in the sea for their disgusting behavior.
We're still in the process of clearing rubble. I've been living in the Keep along with the guards because my estate was damaged by falling debris from the explosion and, frankly, it's simply easier to be on hand in the keep for whoever needs me whenever they need me. Seneschal Brann has insisted that this is unseemly, but he's also been sleeping there as well so he has no room to speak. There is far too much work to be done to stand on the ridiculous ceremonies of the past. If the nobility decides they made a mistake electing someone so very uncouth, then so be it. I'll frankly relish the day they find a successor.
I spent my life skulking in the shadows and now I'm the most recognizable person in this entire city-state. It's success of a sort and Varric insists I should be enjoying it – should have enjoyed every bit of fame and recognition that's come my way for years. But I don't. I long for anonymity. I want to walk through a crowd and catch no one's eye. I want to leave no mark, leave nothing in my wake. I feel like then, maybe then I could rest without being watched. I know it's not normal to wish to be erased and I don't mean that with the finality I'm sure it seems I mean – I just can't take much more of this praise and attention for acts that I'm not sure I should have committed.
But as with everything else, I've had no choice. Every decision made was done under duress, a need to act and quickly and with sureness. I've heard mutterings that I had been planning this rise through the ranks for years and I feel humbled that anyone would think me so cunning.
My long planned escape to Ferelden has been delayed yet again. Perhaps I can manage sometime next year to make an official visit? That's if the Divine doesn't attempt to take us over, of course.
I miss having someone to talk to – and of course it happens when I most desperately need it. Please send back your response to the contract as soon as possible – the sooner those mages and Templars are set on a path that takes them out of this city the better.
Yours –
-Hawke
…..
Alistair felt drained, stunned. He'd share this information only with Irving, Wynne, and Greagoir – they needed to know about the incoming mages since Alistair would of course sign that contract. But they were likely the only ones capable of understanding just how… insane it was for a First Enchanter to destroy his own circle, use his own enchanters has fodder for blood magic, and engage in such heinous acts of destruction across an entire city.
He wanted to let some part of him feel a warmed by the fact that she'd simply signed it "yours". No quip, no additional rejoinder. Just…"yours". But it was the least appropriate time for such thoughts and certainly a stretch of the imagination to assume that she was making some declaration of affection. She was simply exhausted and worn thin by the duty now heaped on her shoulders. What she needed right now was his friendship and his support. Even while he could no longer fool himself into believing that this was just a simple friendship on his part – he was sure enough of what he wanted and increasingly his plans and desires circled around Marian – he also wouldn't do her the disservice of letting selfish emotion overtake him just now.
He knew he wanted her – in his life, in his arms, in his bed – but what she needed was a way through this mess. Maybe, once that was over, once she was clear of it, he could make his declarations with a clear conscience.
Alistair stowed the personal letter away with the others, kept in a heavily secured drawer in his desk, while he roused his guard for the short trip to Anora's estate in Denerim. He needed to go over the logistical points of this agreement with her and determine how best to handle this with the Chantry. He would not be taking this through Eamon, who would only argue against it. Anora, at least, would see the sense in this and simply work through the issues.
…
Note: Sorry for the delay on this! I've been busy lately and also didn't have a backlog working for this as I completely restructured the story. This chapter is a little longer than usual as an olive branch. At least I didn't get any angry reviews demanding updates this time!
For those of you who'd been expecting this to swiftly go from no-explosion to happily ever after – uhm… sorry? Heh – we'll get there eventually!