Author's Note: I'll just quietly put this here.
Thank you to Paula, still sticking with me after all this time, and to everyone who's hung on during my long hiatus. But the deed is done. The last few chapters just need to be edited, and then I'll lay them out for you. ^_^
Summary: BOOM.
Warnings: Nothing more than good old fashioned violence and death. A little bit all over the place. Also, I haven't read any of the Dragon Age books, nor played Inquisition, so this fic is based entirely on DA 1, 1.5, and 2. If anything in here is way off from canon, that's why.
Recommended Playlist:
Meat Loaf - The Monster is Loose
Two Steps From Hell – Area 51, The Last Stand
DDR Soundtrack (don't judge me!) - Dream a Dream
Dead Rising 2 OST – Kill the Sound
Fifth Element OST – Diva Dance
Walk Softly and Carry a Big Axe
Chapter Fifty-two
Watching Hawke leap across the field of battle and drop like a bird of prey jarred Fenris into the past, and the three years of fighting by his side. He could not count the number of sorties they had fought in, the number of times he had swung his great sword, then lifted his head to see Hawke streak by, aiming for some unsuspecting apostate, demon, or slaver.
The Destroyer jumped back, drawing his own weapons, and for the first time Fenris saw an expression other than smug satisfaction on his stolen features. He glared at Hawke and his mouth opened to reveal the deadness inside. He wore Hawke's skin like an ill-fitting set of armour, bulging and depressing rhythmically, inky fluid escaping from his nostrils and the corners of his eyes. He spoke, his lips moving, but Fenris only heard the last few words after dragging Anders through the Eluvian.
"—my hospitality," he grated, his voice echoing and reverberating. The sound of it ran claws up and down Fenris' spine. "I'm hurt."
Hawke straightened into an easy, ready stance. The energy he'd borrowed from Justice and Anders limned his figure in blue light. One dagger, Truth, shone like a star, and the other, Faith, crackled with enchantments. "I cut the vacation short," he quipped. "Decided I had some things to do back home." He pointed with Truth. "Namely, putting an end to you."
The Destroyer laughed and spread his arms, presenting his breast. "You can't kill me," he shouted at the ceiling. "I am immortal. I am as eternal as your precious Maker. Do you hear me, Brother? I'm coming for you!"
The Eluvian warped and Andraste paced through. "We heard," she said calmly.
The Destroyer sneered. "The songbird. How sweet." His dead eyes dropped to Anders where he toppled half-insensible against the base of the Eluvian, and Fenris crouched next to him. "I imagine I have you to thank for releasing my guest from the world I created for him. I can be a creator, too, you see. And an imaginative, kind creator at that." A grin twisted his face. "As for you two, my dear ones, you will always have a special place in whatever world I turn this piece of shit into."
Fenris drew his Qunari great sword and took a defensive position in front of Anders.
"Flames," Anders coughed wetly. "Take you."
"Well spoken." Hawke flashed a smirk over his shoulder, eyes darting over Fenris, then he crouched and sprang.
The Destroyer immediately stealthed. Hawke landed and whirled, meeting the Destroyer's back stab with ready blades. The screeching of metal on metal, enchantment on enchantment, echoed from the high ceiling and distant walls. The two rogues fought with short, blindingly fast strikes, too quick for Fenris to follow. He stood back, watching for an opening, before deciding he was as likely to cleave Hawke in half as he was the Destroyer.
"Fenris!"
The shout and the incongruous recognition—Zevran?—brought Fenris' head up in time for him to meet two incoming revenants. They reached for him, exuding their frigid magic. He activated his lyrium and dashed at them, carving a wicked path through air, tattered robe, and skeletal body alike, shattering the first creature. The second, howling, came in from the side, slowing as an arrow struck it in the back. Fenris took advantage of its distraction to slash upward, removing one of its arms. A second arrow burst through its skull, sending bone shards and its crown flying.
Fenris' heart skipped in elation to see Zevran, apparently recovered enough to scramble into immensely high rafters and shoot. Zevran gave a jaunty, barely visible wave, then switched his attention elsewhere. Fenris did likewise, dropping his gaze to examine his new surroundings. The Eluvian had been moved to an enormous domed chamber. Colourful, powerful runes covered the ceiling, floor, walls, and support pillars, making his skin crawl as he recognized the Vol Dorma University's Great Hall, the heart of the accursed city. Demons oozed out of the shadows and the scents of battle thickened the air, cloying in Fenris' nose.
Malice and Aleksandr strode toward him across the room. Three more revenants swooped behind them.
"About time you showed up," Isabela muttered, unstealthing behind him. She bled from a wound on her cheek and smelled of burnt hair. "Is that...?" She nodded at the struggling Hawkes.
"Yes. What is happening?"
"The Viscount's army's breaking down the gates, we're likely going to die, and I'm going to stab that bitch and take out her other eye."
"Right."
Malice neared enough to speak over the distance, "I don't know what the Viscount sees in you. But he wants you back, you pathetic little mutt. Come nicely or I'll have to put a muzzle on you." She grinned toothily. "Fighting is pointless. We've already won. All the people of Vol Dorma are screaming."
Fenris grimaced. He couldn't care less.
Andraste said, "Not for long, child of the stone." She clasped her hands together, drew in a deep breath, and began to sing.
Light, life, and vigour sank into Fenris' limbs from the beautiful melody, refreshing him, lightening his sword. Isabela visibly perked up. Malice and Aleksandr flinched. Taking advantage, Fenris charged.
/.\./.\
It was a hurlock, a crude hurlock of all creatures, that brought Donnic down. The guardsman took a hit on his shield from an alpha. He braced himself, but his boot heel slid on something—a piece of flesh, some mud, a flaming stick—and he stumbled and the stupid hurlock took its opportunity, striking the side of his head. The hurlock's axe screamed against Donnic's helmet with enough force to knock it off and daze him. He slumped to his knees, the weight of his shield dragging him forward, his sword slicing into the bloody earth as he tried to prop himself up.
The hurlock, laughing and bestial, reared back to strike again.
"No! You will not have him, too!" Aveline's mace struck the hurlock's arm at the elbow, crushing the joint. The darkspawn staggered, turned, and died with its jagged teeth smashed in. "Donnic," she cried. "On your feet." She lifted her shield to block another attack from the alpha. There were already two more darkspawn, a genlock and hurlock, crowding in to replace the one she'd dispatched.
"Yes, ser," Donnic uttered. He shook his head and tried to push himself up, stumbled over the edge of his own shield, and fell back to one knee. His dark hair was drenched in sweat. The purple bruise already swelling at his temple was the only colour in his ghastly pale face, visible even in the lurid light of dusk, bonfires, and flaming siege towers. His eyes didn't open evenly when he looked up.
The darkspawn sensed his weakness like hounds on a scent, pressing in from from the twilight on all sides. Aveline shoved three away and sidled further from Donnic, trying to draw the others.
"Here," she taunted, knocking her mace against her shield to get their attention. "Come at me, you filthy cowards. You vermin."
It worked. Nearly. Four of the five swarmed her. She took their hits like the cliffs of Rivain taking the fury of a storm off the sea: implacable, immovable.
One of the five, the alpha, was not so easily distracted. It saw Donnic was vulnerable and it went for the kill.
"No!" Aveline sobbed. She abandoned her stability. She ran, strong legs churning in the mud, to his side and got in the way of the alpha's jagged sword. It squealed off the green aurum of her shield. The alpha roared its rage at denial of the kill.
Success was fleeting. The other four leapt upon the fallen man and his desperate defender. Aveline could have fought them, could have saved herself, but not without sacrificing the man she loved. Again.
Rusted, stained weapons rose above them. Aveline stared hard at her impending doom, refusing to look away, refusing to regret standing by Donnic in death as she had in life.
Another shield swung overhead, casting aside two of the spawn. A swift long sword followed and removed at least one foul claw. Aveline, astonished, looked back.
Blond King Alistair of Ferelden, with a grunt, pushed away the spawn closing in on Donnic's other side. His armour gleamed golden even in the thick smoke and red light, and under a layer of blood splatter.
Aveline's astonishment quickly gave way to a returning rush of duty and hope. She surged up, knocked back the alpha, and brought her mace down on its head.
The last two spawn tried to come in at her flank, but they, too, were overcome by a shield bearing the crimson tower of Redcliffe. The man wielding it also hefted a mace. Grimacing through a tidy beard, he pressed the attack on the snarling genlocks.
Step-by-step, Aveline, Alistair, and the other man dropped their shoulders and turned back the tide of spawn. Her heart thrilled at the feeling of standing with them, of being part of a wall. They groaned in unison, arms unwavering, shields strong.
Finally, the spawn flowed away, off to find easier prey in the chaos of battle.
"Here," said the Redcliffe shieldman, offering a potion to Aveline and an injury kit to Donnic.
"My thanks," she panted.
"We've got them on the run," Alistair cheered. "Teagan, call a charge. Before they regroup. We'll break through to the city wall and stand there."
"Never thought we'd be defending Tevinters," Teagan said as he unhooked a horn from his belt.
"We're not. We're defending Thedas." Alistair stretched his neck and nodded at the pennants flown by Ferelden, Kirkwall, and Starkhaven. "We all are. It just happens to be on Tevinter soil."
Aveline wearily pulled Donnic back onto his feet. The potion and injury kit had only done so much; he stared at his helmet in confusion, rolling it over in his hands. She didn't know how much fight he had left to give after week's hard march and a battle that had raged from midday to dusk. She didn't know about herself. They had no choice but to go on, though.
Teagan lifted his horn. Before he could blow, another sound washed, tumbling like a brook, over the battlefield. A song, beautiful and enlivening, it caught in their ears and sank into their blood. Donnic's gaze sharpened, Aveline's breath strengthened, and the Fereldan King and his cousin held their battered shields higher.
When the song faded, the growling of the enemy rose up to take its place. Teagan blew a long, powerful note. It cut through the din. A roar from human voices and distant horns and drums responded.
Fereldans, waves of them, led by baying dogs and reinforced by Dalish archers, streamed toward their king.
"We're not alone," Alistair said. His bright gaze lifted to the city wall. "Take heart, Viscount." He flashed a grin at Aveline. "And try not to leave your men behind. Hasn't Kirkwall suffered enough?" With that parting admonishment, he strode toward his own army.
"Acting Viscount," Aveline muttered after him.
"Sorry, ser," Donnic said. "I'm a better guardsman than standard bearer." He kicked aside a Darkspawn leg and reclaimed the muddy standard for Kirkwall's Viscount.
A cry went up some distance away and Kirkwall's army oriented toward their leader.
"Aveline!" The high-pitched call drew Aveline around to see Merrill sprinting toward her, Varric and a troop of Kirkwall soldiers trotting after. "We thought we'd lost you," Merrill panted.
"A battlefield like this is no place for short people," Varric added. "I'll be writing stories about the war between Darkspawn knees and the forces of good footwear."
"Was that King Alistair? Are the Fereldans doing well?" Merrill hopped on her toes to peer after the Fereldan standards.
"Better than us. They have more experience at making war." Aveline glanced over her Kirkwall troops, dismayed by what she saw; most were guardsmen and sailors, some retired. Alienage elves and a smattering of mages supported them with dubious skill and waning enthusiasm. They represented the entire Kirkwall "army": volunteers and prospectors that could be mustered on short notice from the shambles Hawke had left behind.
"We charge for the wall," she decided, nodding at the Fereldans. Their only chance was to follow the larger, glittering army. Her forces wouldn't last long on their own.
"I was hoping you'd say that," Varric said. His gaze lifted to the haze of magic hovering over the city. "There's a bard in there I'd very much like to meet."
/.\./.\
All the demons who'd broken their contracts with the Tevinter magisters came readily to Aleksandr's call. Fenris spirit pulsed another rage demon, sundered a sloth while the rage was dazed, and saluted Zevran, who peppered the rage with enough ice arrows to make it dissipate. In the moment between waves, he sought out Hawke and Anders to ensure they were still alive, and then charged Aleksandr.
Aleksandr wrapped himself in a protective shield and Fenris' double-bladed great sword bounced off. Within, the mage's eyes rolled back and he screamed enchantments and blandishments at his master's army, pulling them into the world.
One of Malice's explosions knocked Fenris away. He rolled to his feet and got his sword up in time to mostly avoid a diving revenant, though he suffered a numbing crackle of electricity up the side of his body. The revenant screeched and pulled back—they had begun fighting defensively after their fourth comrade dissolved under Isabela's dagger. The three remaining creatures had a nasty habit of disappearing and reappearing at the most inopportune moments.
Fenris whirled to attack Aleksandr again and cursed when more demons tore out of the floor. They came in droves. Fenris could feel them on the other side of the Veil, clustered around the spot like flies around an open sore. Their buzzing, just under hearing, irritated his ears.
The thought drew his attention to the Eluvian and he choked to see one of the elusive revenants hovering over Anders, who hadn't the strength to fight it off. Andraste stood by him, her voice rising in half song, half admonishment for him to fight. She had warned them of her inability to interfere directly—even so, he could have cut her in two at that moment as she stood by and did nothing.
Growling, Fenris fled from the demons and sprinted back to the Eluvian. He dodged the Hawkes, his attention fixated on Anders' whitening face as the revenant stooped over him and sucked his life out. He never should have left the vulnerable mage alone. Hawke needed Anders' power and Fenris needed—
He leapt and swung, slamming the revenant sideways and shattering its arm and most of its ribs. It shrieked at him and swooped away. Fenris cursed and jumped to catch it. He missed.
A familiar—so familiar that he didn't believe he'd heard it—trio of clunk-clunk-clunk sounded and three bolts pinned the revenant to one of the rafters. A spirit bolt quickly followed and turned the revenant into dust.
Fenris tried to spy the source of the attack, but enough demons and shades roiled between himself and the door that he hadn't a chance—he could only glimpse the ruby gleaming atop Aleksandr's staff and the scraggly twigs topping another, closer to the main door.
"Somebody order a shot in the face?!"
Fenris' heart lifted more than Andraste's songs could possibly raise it. Varric's voice and Merrill's magic, so much as he might despise the latter, renewed the life in his veins. He did not fight alone.
A rain of bolts fell from the ceiling, striking the shades and demons with unerring accuracy. Fenris sundered the pride demon next to him and finally laid his hungry eyes on Varric.
/.\./.\
Varric re-set Bianca's wire and whirled, his coat swirling, in time to shoot a triplet at Malice as she snuck up on him.
"The Tethras boy," Malice laughed as she righted from her roll to avoid his attack. "Oh, I can't wait to tell Uncle Boertag."
"Uncle Boertag's a pervert," Varric retorted.
"Not anymore. I keep him in a jar. The important bits, anyway."
"Well, I can't say anyone'll miss him." Varric dodged back to evade a lazily lobbed bomb. "What are you doing here, cousin? The Carta wasn't good enough anymore?"
"You know what they say, once you strike a vein follow it to the heart. Viscount Hawke has offered... substantial benefits for my services."
"Your services." Rare perturbation crossed Varric's square features. "Oh, M—"
"Don't judge me." Malice's cynical veneer cracked. "It was so easy for the Tethras brothers to make their way up here, to become the darlings of the Merchant Guild."
"Darlings? Hardly—"
"Shut up! While you were out here, we were trapped in Dust Town."
"We were locked out! We would've sent for you—"
"Lies!" Malice jabbed a finger toward him. "I see your lies. You forgot about us, your own flesh, only because my father laid with the wrong woman and your mother could not bear it."
"That's another world. You don't have to carry it with you anymore."
"I will always carry it with me." Her lyrium eye reddened. "Just as Orzammar will always have a piece of me!"
"She's as mad as Bartram," Varric muttered to Merrill. "Maybe it runs in the family."
A silent figure moved in the corner of his eye. He twitched, ready to bring Bianca around to bear on it, and relaxed when he recognized his favourite, statuesque pirate.
"After everything you've done," Isabela said cheerily, "how can you say that?"
He met her smirk with a wan smile. "Fair enough, Rivaini. I know it runs in the family." He looked her over, finding her much the same as in the old days, though wearing suspiciously Antivan colours. "What are you doing here? Haven't seen you since you took off with the Qunari's special book."
"Oh. You know. This and that." Magic crackled behind her. Isabela dodged to one side and Merrill threw up a shield to absorb most of the blast before it could hit Varric. "We'll catch up later," Isabela said breathlessly as she popped back to her feet. Daggers in hand, she peered over the oncoming demons toward a thin, red-robed mage. "I was going to dance with your lady friend, but the mage just asked me for the next song. I'll leave her to you. Just remember..." She winked. "Loser buys the first round."
"I hope you brought your purse," Varric called as Isabela faded into the shadows, moments before a bomb rolled into the space she had occupied. Malice obviously did not appreciate being ignored.
"Watch out, Daisy." Varric snagged Merrill's arm, pushing her back to keep himself between her and where he thought Malice was lurking. He hadn't seen her disappear, but the shadows were easily dark enough to hide a dwarven rogue. While Merrill steadied herself and strengthened her spells, Varric fired a volley into the nearest nooks and crannies, hoping to pin her down.
An explosion behind them made him stagger and Merrill cry out in pain. Varric whirled and fired again, placing bolts at random and hitting nothing but stone and an errant shade. He tossed a potion to Merrill with a brief glance over her to make sure she wasn't too badly hit, and fired again.
Malice was out there, somewhere, hidden and dangerous.
"It doesn't have to be this way," he called. The same blood flowed in their veins, the same skill at the rogue arts. Hers, though, had been honed by Dust Town, the Carta, the Coterie, and then service at the Viscount's side. His had dulled over the past years of leisurely travel. She was playing with him, he could feel it.
His only option was to draw her out.
"Come with me, cousin. We'll go far away from here."
"Cousin," spat the darkness. "Why would I allege myself with you and your stinking family?"
He shot in the direction of her voice.
Chuckling, Malice reappeared, easily side-stepping his bolts. She hadn't needed to break from the shadows, but he sensed her amusement and condescension. As though she wanted to give him a chance, wanted to see him try and fail.
"Madness is the only trait that runs true in our shared blood." Malice's eyes bugged and when she grinned her gums were pale with the pressure of her gritted teeth. "The Tethras are a cowardly lot. I heard what happened to Bartram. I'm happy to rid the world of his towheaded, smooth-skinned brother."
"That hurts, cousin."
"Not yet, it doesn't!" She came at him spitting, her daggers weaving and oily with poison.
Varric wanted to feel triumph at luring her in, but he just felt sick, like one of her blades had already struck home. He quick-stepped backward, sacrificing the tail of his coat to one of her daggers and wincing at the sound of it tearing. He swung Bianca around to deflect her other blade, satisfied by the ring of metal on metal. Bianca was built tougher than him. Tougher than anyone.
He pushed Malice back, hopped to avoid a low stab, and brought Bianca up again. This time there was a crack and Bianca jerked out of his hands from the tremendous force of her severed wire snapping back against him. He grunted and swore, tried to snatch Bianca up with his numbed hands to block another attack, and suffered a deep slice to his forearm from Malice's knife when he was too late. The poison took immediate effect, slowing his movements and weakening his legs.
"Your story's coming to an end, Varric Tethras," Malice hissed. Her red eye burned as she stared at him. "One by one, all the heirs of Orzammar will fall."
He forced a laugh as he edged backward, hoping to hide the effects of her poison. Movement and light behind her caught his eye, and the faint strains of Dalish chanting tweaked his ear. Finally. Merrill's blood needed to flow faster, he thought. But all his efforts to fatten her up and feed her wine vinegar had failed thus far.
"We'll fall, all right," he said to keep Malice's attention. "But not by your hand."
Malice cackled and lunged at him.
Only to fall to the floor as something caught her boot. She tumbled with acrobatic grace and tore away from the thing that had grabbed her. The moment she came to rest, the flagstones beneath her cracked as thin pale green tendrils erupted from the earth. They writhed up in a tangle, their sharp heads seeking her out, latching onto her clothing and weaving through the fabric.
Varric took the opportunity to down a bottle of something to chase the effects of Malice's poison out of his blood. It worked well enough that he could clearly watch what Merrill had wrought.
Malice cursed, ripped away a handful of tendrils, and cursed again as more appeared and buried into her legs. Blood stained her clothing and dribbled down the serpentine lengths of her attackers. She slashed with her daggers, but every bundle she hacked through was replaced by thicker, more violent strands.
She pulled a knobbly round object from her vest.
Varric swiftly stepped in and used Bianca like a club to smack the bomb out of Malice's hand. It smashed against a nearby wall and exploded. When Varric could see and hear again, Malice was squirming and her curses were high pitched with panic.
"You ever seen Dalish Keeper magic before?" Varric asked her. He unstrung Bianca's broken wire and hooked on a new one as he waited for an answer.
Malice hissed something. Her lyrium eye rolled back in her head, seeking out and finding Merrill where she stood rooted to the ground, arms lifted as she controlled the blood-thirsty flora holding Malice in place.
"An elven whore can't kill me," Malice growled, her attention seething back to Varric. Her struggles calmed, worrying Varric more than her vicious attacks. With eerie dexterity, Malice crooked an arm, twisted her wrist, and dug into the front of her jacket.
Varric hurriedly finished restringing Bianca, thanking years of dealing with the Merchants Guild for teaching him how to at least pretend to be calm in the face of adversity. "She doesn't have to." He lifted Bianca and, with a silent prayer to the Paragons, shot Malice's bound figure. He didn't stop firing until Merrill laid a gentle hand on his arm. With misty vision, he watched Malice's twitching corpse slump over and her lyrium eye roll across the floor.
"I'm sorry, Varric," Merrill murmured.
He crooked a sad smile. "Thanks, Daisy. But at least we don't have to invite her to the wedding."
She flashed her little, private grin that was so much like a polished jewel to him, something beautiful and perfect. He'd spent years buffing away the nervousness that used to obscure that grin and he loved it with an intensity that pained him. He shifted toward her, a hand lifting to touch her face, and then stopped when he heard a dull clink-clink-clink from Malice's body. When he saw bomb after bomb fall from her body, hit the ground, and start rolling away, his caress became a grab. He buried his hand in Merrill's scarf and sprinted with her toward the door.
She ran with him for a few steps. Then a scream cut through the rise and fall of the bard's voice. A man's scream, deep and penetrating.
"Hawke," Merrill gasped, whirling.
As much as Varric wanted to keep moving, he, too, recognized the sound of one of his greatest friends in pain. He turned to go back.
The first of Malice's bombs went off, almost in their faces. It released a green gas that burned Varric's eyes. He flung up an arm and stumbled backward. The next exploded violently, knocking him into Merrill and taking them both down. The stone floor rocked beneath him as he tried to scramble up to his feet. He felt Merrill's weight on his shoulder as she braced herself. He tried to speak, inhaled a lungful of dust, and started coughing.
Something cracked nearby. He felt it through the floor and the air and in his bones, and knew that the Great Hall was coming down. Generations of his ancestors screamed at him from the depths of racial memory. "Get out, get out!"
But his friends were still there. And Merrill, a lean blur through Varric's watering eyes, stood and stepped away from him into the thickening dust and chaos of the hall.
/.\./.\
Isabela found the Viscount's pet mage within a swarm of shades and pride demons, supporting them with flashes of fire and skin-prickling spirit bolts as they pressed in on Fenris. Aleksandr, she remembered. He was caught in a frenzy, casting magic with amazing speed, his face screwed into a grimace. The jewel atop his staff flashed red with each casting, drenching him in lurid colour, turning him into a monster himself. He was possessed, she realized, not by a demon, but by destruction, anger, perhaps fear.
An arrow whirred down at Aleksandr's head. A shade leapt in to block it and Aleksandr riposted with a spat of cold. A string of curses from the rafters indicated that he'd hit his target. He smiled grimly and readied another spell for the arrogant elf who thought he could hide from his magic.
Isabela chose that moment to fade out of the shadows and stab him in the back.
A pride demon shoved Aleksandr aside with one massive hand and struck at Isabela with the other. Isabela managed to pierce Aleksandr's right sleeve and draw a hoarse cry from him, but at the price of suffering long gashes from the demon's claws on her own arm. She wanted to flinch, but forced herself on, steeling her taut nerves and attacking the demon. Aleksandr cast a cloud of foul, poisonous mist that blinded her. She attacked where she remembered the demon, hit its stomach-turning, knotted flesh, and dodged back, knowing it would counter her. It did not disappoint. She felt the breeze of a giant claw passing by just in front of her, and then grunted when the next strike solidly impacted her shoulder. Something cracked and pain raced across her chest and down her arm, making her drop her dagger.
Her eyes cleared enough for her to see the demon loom over her. She rolled back, clumsy with her useless arm, and narrowly missed a downward swipe that would have shorn her head off.
The pride demon stomped toward her, and then stopped. Its face, or what passed for a face, wore a quizzical expression as it stood only paces away. Isabela braced herself, ready for its attack, but it never came. Its slitted blue eyes closed and it fell face-first onto the floor in front of her. Only then did Isabela see the two dozen arrows feathering its back.
Aleksandr approached from behind the demon's corpse. His staff glowed and the shield around him flashed with every arrow it shattered and sent flying. He formed a cold little smile and said, "You're not a bad-looking woman."
"Neither are you." Isabela rose to her feet with as much grace as one can muster with a busted arm. She smirked. "You ever want to be a sailor? I've got a nice ship—you'd be very happy under me."
Aleksandr hadn't been ugly, but he'd changed since Isabela met him on her ship in Nevarra. His skin had turned waxen and delicate, as though it might melt if he got too close to a fire, and his hair hung lank and thin. He'd aged years in the past months, rendering him old and bent. He hunched, only straightening to cast his magic, and the action visibly pained him, chasing spasms across his wasted face. Only his tidy goatee was the same, though dyed black, and the haughty arrogance in his pale, watery stare.
He glowered at her, the lines of his face deepening with annoyance. Isabela doubted that anyone spoke to him that way anymore. If anyone spoke to him at all. From the looks of him, he spent all of his days mingling with demons and taking orders from the Viscount.
"My master is the captain of a world," he sneered. "What is one pirate to that?"
"Well, a lot more fun, for one." Isabela's grin wasn't as strong as she'd like, not with half of her body throbbing from the pain in her arm, but she gave it her best shot. "Come with me. I may not be black heart evil like the Viscount, but I'm not exactly Chantry material, either. We can have a good time. The world is a different place from the back of your own ship."
She couldn't be sure, but Aleksandr may have wavered. He didn't respond immediately and his gaze flicked to the two fighting Hawkes as though maybe, just maybe, he was considering her proposal. She honestly couldn't think of what she'ssd do with him, but powerful, damaged men seemed to be a hobby for her. She could add him to her collection.
The Viscount's demons milled between them and Isabela felt a shift in their attention. No longer directed at her, their burning eyes and dripping gobs turned to Aleksandr. They could feel the changing winds of Aleksandr's loyalty. They whispered below Isabela's hearing—promises and threats, the usual garbage that flowed from a demon's mouth. Aleksandr's shoulders sagged.
"You can be free," Isabela said loudly. "I can help you."
"There is only one way to be free." Aleksandr's chin lifted. His staff glowed with renewed resolve. "And it is not on a ship, nor anywhere in this world. The master chose me for his own and I belong to him."
"I was afraid you'd say that." Isabela's sigh cut off with the incoming roar of a fireball. She rolled out of the way, suffering only mild singing at the ends of her hair.
She pressed Aleksandr back, diving and sliding in and out of the shadows to come at him from all sides. He cast his spells, but she sensed that his movements were becoming lethargic, his reactions slow. The Viscount's demons gnashed at Isabela's heels, but they were distracted by Fenris, who created a bloodbath of his own near the Eluvian, and Zevran, whose well-placed ice, fire, poison, and explosive arrows could cause chain reactions that took down several demons at once.
Aleksandr worked himself toward the side of the room, away from the Hawkes. There, standing out of his master's view, he slumped and bowed his head. The posture was unexpected, but Isabela didn't stop to ask questions. She slipped in behind him, embraced him with one arm and slid her dagger through his robes and flesh, beneath his ribs beside his spine. He stiffened and his head fell back, but he did not cry out.
"We could've had something," Isabela murmured as she shoved her blade deeper, higher. Her right arm was weak from her injuries, barely able to hold him, but Aleksandr didn't try to move away. She felt him tremble in her grip. As hot blood soaked through his robes, his trembles faded and he seemed to relax.
"Perhaps in death I will escape him," he sighed. His weight sagged back against her and Isabela marvelled at how light he felt. He was barely human anymore. Just human enough to die. "Thank you." His head turned. Blood darkened his lips. The normal pallor of his skin had lost what little colour it had.
Isabela responded to their intimate position and held him closer, letting him lean against her. He blinked his unfocused eyes once, twice, and then they did not open again, and his weight slid from Isabela's grasp.
Staring at the corpse, Isabela felt sick, as one might after killing a beast who'd had no choice in which master to serve.
She drew a steadying breath—there was no time to wallow in remorse for an enemy—and used that brief moment of peace to find Zevran in the rafters. "My thanks," she called, but he wasn't listening. His one-eyed gaze was locked on the two fighting Hawkes and his bow was drawn.
Isabela didn't have much opportunity to wonder what he was doing. She heard the tell-tale triplet of Bianca nearby followed by a woman's guttural laugh and groan. A moment later, something exploded. Then several somethings. The shock wave knocked her back. Her injured arm hit the ground and she danced with consciousness for a moment. When she came to, she was already up on one knee, her body knowing that she had to flee while her mind was still doing the old one-two with the darkness. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the blonde bard's voice. It pierced through the dust and rumble of strained masonry, rich with agony and hope and urgency.
It drove Isabela to her feet and through the thickening dust toward the hall doors
/.\./.\
Zevran's shoulder ached. This wasn't new, but it was getting bad enough to make his arm shake and throw off his already handicapped aim. He missed more than he hit and had begun to choose targets well away from his companions, for fear of hitting one of them.
Varric and Merrill's arrival allowed him a minute's respite to down a potion and a protective balm and take a deep breath. The two provided a good enough distraction that Zevran could continue carefully seeking out and choosing the most vulnerable spots on his targets—and even hit some of them. He tried to protect and help Isabela, taking down the demons around her while she fought Aleksandr.
When Isabela started to push Aleksandr back, Zevran's attention strayed from her to the battle between the two Hawkes. With gnawing hunger, he wanted to fire on them, or, better yet, go down and take them apart with his blades. The chance of hitting the new blue-limned Hawke was high, but worth the risk. If only Zevran could hurt the infernal Hawke; he had rarely felt so useless as he did when facing him.
He found Fenris near the Eluvian, never straying far from the heap of robes, feathers, and golden hair at the mirror's base. May you have better luck than I, my friend. Fenris stood ready, alternating between watching the Hawkes and leaping back to defend Anders. What are you doing? What is your plan? To summon another Hawke to fight for you? I do not know that it will work. I do not know that we can simply defeat this enemy as we have defeated the others. Something more was needed.
The blonde bard who had come through the mirror with them continued to sing, but it did barely more than push away utter helplessness. As the battle dragged on, her face became drawn and tired, and her glow faded. She seemed sad, and watched the Hawkes intently as though waiting for something.
What are you waiting for, dear lady? The Hawkes had struck each other more times than Zevran could count, but the wounds disappeared quickly. She couldn't expect her champion to win that way.
Something had to happen.
The woman's gaze flicked up and snared Zevran's.
The urge to shoot became so suddenly overwhelming that Zevran's arms were up and the fletch of an arrow tickled his knuckles before his mind quite knew what he was doing.
It will not help, he told his aching shoulder and the stinging fingertips that hooked his string. Nothing I do will hurt that thing. Maker knows I've tried. Even if I could shoot straight, I would be lucky not to hit the one man who can hold his own against the Viscount.
Her glare bore into him across the great distance. Her voice rose and sank into his ears. His veins thrummed with power. He itched to act and act now.
His eyelid flexed under his eye patch in reflex as he sighted, sparking a rush of anger for his lost eye. The Hawkes fought closely, barely space for their blades between them, with occasional bursts of movement as one or the other stealthed and attempted a back stab. The sight reminded him of his Warden. His anger peaked into rage and he loosed his arrow.
It glanced off Viscount Hawke's head, tearing out a strip of black hair, and continued on to strike the blue-limned Eluvian Hawke's cheek.
He flinched.
The Viscount stepped into him and drove his golden dagger up and under Hawke's breastplate.
"NO!" Fenris screamed.
The woman's voice rose to a deafening pitch.
Something exploded behind Zevran. Followed by several other somethings. His rafter bucked with disturbing vigour. He twisted in time to get a face full of dust, smoke, and bits of rubble. The impact nearly knocked him off his perch. He fell to his belly to grasp the squared log, hiding his face. His ears rang, but through it he heard the ominous clamour of cracking masonry.
A moment later, one end of his rafter dropped and he fell amidst the plummeting Great Hall ceiling.
/.\./.\
It wasn't a pretty tree, but they rarely were. Merrill had learned the Keeper spell with the intention of using it in battle, not to decorate. It rose up at her hoarse shout, lifting crooked limbs and sharp thorns toward the rapidly crumbling ceiling. The spell sought out an enemy to entrap, its vines lashing about in a frenzy.
Varric pounded out of the dust, an arm over his head. "What are you doing?!" he hollered.
A chunk of ceiling, colourful with runes and ancient paint, shattered next to them, spitting shards of stone. Merrill savoured the nicks and cuts, using the pain to focus on growing her tree. Ten feet, fifteen, twenty—it had to grow faster, broader.
"Daisy!" Varric grabbed her around the waist. "Let's go!"
She ignored him. Rooted to the floor with Keeper's magic, she couldn't have moved if she wanted to.
"Stones," Varric cursed. He dragged her to her knees and held his arm and coat over her straining figure.
Thirty feet, thirty-five... The cracks Malice had blown into the walls gaped open and the rafters began to split like sticks of tinder. Sixty feet up, Zevran's perch broke and he tumbled into the open air.
Merrill's tree caught him at forty feet and he shrieked as the thorns ripped into him. It constricted automatically. Merrill hurriedly dismissed the spell, making the tree whither, and shoved Varric toward the slowly falling elf.
"Quick thinking, Kitten," Isabela panted, emerging from the dusty gloom. She held her bandana over her mouth and nose and bled from gashes on her other arm.
Merrill didn't have a chance to answer; a nearby rafter dropped in front of them and split in two with terrific force, knocking them back. That seemed to trigger the collapse of the entire ceiling. Merrill scrambled toward the entrance, or where she thought it was, dimly aware of Isabela beside her. She wanted to turn and seek out Varric, but a slab struck her shoulder and she stumbled and Isabela was dragging her on.
They fell out of the Great Hall and sprawled in the University's main courtyard. Merrill's arm hung uselessly and she knew that, at any moment, agony would strike.
"Varric," she whimpered, watching clouds of debris and dust billow through the door. Varric, Varric, Varric... She tried to get her shaking legs to work. Please. Mythal save you. Please. Hands gripped her. She shook them off. Please.
A shadow appeared in the cloud and resolved into Varric's broad, strong figure, Bianca jutting over his shoulder and a bundle in his arms, wrapped in his long coat. Dust cloaked him, interrupted only by smears of blood.
"Varric," she cried happily. "Emma lath."
The dust split with his grin. "Daisy, if I knew you were going to ask me to hold up the ceiling, I would've brought a helmet." He groaned and sank to his knees, laying his burden on the courtyard paving stones. Merrill reached with her good arm to cup Varric's square, stubbled jaw and feel his lips move against her palm. He caught her hand, kissed it.
"Ugh," muttered the man wrapped in Varric's coat. He rolled with a groan to hide his bruised, one-eyed face. "I wake up to the most disturbing things."
Varric snorted. "At least you woke up, Crow."
"What happened?" interrupted a new voice. Merrill and Varric looked up at an aged and battered Grey Warden. Isabela stood next to him, clasping her side. The Grey Warden nodded at the Great Hall, which continued to crack and crumble and spew dust. Half of the domed roof had fallen in, leaving a toothy maw open to the sky. "The Viscount's armies are scattering," the Grey Warden said hoarsely. "His magic is failing. Is he dead?"
Merrill looked to Varric. Varric looked to Isabela. Isabela shrugged and winced. "We killed his generals and revenants. Fenris and Anders and, and someone else appeared to fight him. But..." She trailed off and looked to Zevran.
Zevran's grey face went very still. His eye closed and he shook his head. "I shot him. I shot them both. And the Viscount struck a mortal blow."
Silence mantled the group, even as lights and celebratory shouts rose over the city. Fereldans, Freemarchers, Nevarrans, and Tevinters were brothers that day. At least, for as long as they could be until the Viscount rose again.
"Stones," Varric swore.
"Balls," Isabela agreed.
"Creators help us," Merrill breathed.
"Braska." Zevran rolled and hid his face in Varric's coat. "Wake me when it's over."
