Wishing you all a wonderful weekend, my lovelies! A huge thank you for your continued support: it truly means the world. I am grateful for each and every one of you. And, as always, many hugs to my beta, AnnaLucia.
Note: this chapter contains references to abuse in the first section
Marian stared at the body before her, mind racing. Anders? Anders was dead, he had to be: he was barely alive when she'd left him on the Wounded Coast. Logic dictated that it was impossible, and yet there he was. She held her fingers under Anders's nose, praying he wasn't breathing, staring in disbelief.
"Damn," she whispered, "he's gonna kill me, when he wakes. He'll kill me, and then how many others?"
Marian raked her hand through her hair, stomach clenching. Killing him would've been the most logical solution, albeit the most ruthless...yet spilling blood on holy ground was a grave sin. She could leave him and go into hiding: he hadn't seen her, after all; but then her thoughts turned to those mysterious kegs, and what Anders could've possibly been doing…
No, it was too dangerous to leave him be. Despite her common sense begging her to reconsider, she looped his arm around her shoulders and dragged Anders out the door, grateful the congregation's singing covered the sounds of their movements. Marian adjusted her grip on his wrist, a nearly instinctual worry gnawing at her. Was it old habit, she wondered? Was she actually worried for his well-being, or was it for herself?
It was dark by the time she'd reached the Alienage. Even if Marian was a strong warrior, accustomed to heavy armor and weapons, she struggled under Anders's weight. She leaned him against the wall and caught her breath, drained and exhausted. Eventually she knocked on Merrill's door; much to her surprise, silence answered her.
"'Lowtown Clinic hours: Monday, Wednesday, Friday; eight bells to dusk. Please ring bell next door for medical assistance.' What? A 'clinic?'"
The building next to Merrill's house had always been empty, and yet there was a candle in the leaded glass window: Marian blinked to see actual glass here in Lowtown, instead of waxed parchment. A cheerful wooden sign hung by the door carved daisies framing the decorative letters. 'Sabrae Medical Clinic, please ring for service.' Marian rang the brass bell; a mabari's bark announced her arrival.
"Leave it, Faron; come in, don't mind him," a familiar voice called from behind the door.
Marian gathered her strength and dragged Anders in, doing her best to skirt the nosy mabari sniffing them. She stood in a cheery whitewashed room, with chairs lining the walls and a desk with writing instruments and files. She'd never seen such a place before, even in all the traveling she'd done.
"I was just about to close for the day, you're very lucky," Merrill called from the other room, "won't be a moment—Creators!"
Marian stared at the elf before her, speechless. Merrill wore a deep green wool kirtle over her warm underdress, hair wrapped around a matching ribbon in an elegant arrangement. She looked lovelier and healthier than Marian had ever seen her.
"Hawke," Merrill said, clutching the wooden spoon she held. Even her tone stiffened. "Why are you here?"
"I found him," Marian replied. "I-In the Chantry, hauling kegs up a ladder from the Undercity. Merrill, I'm... I'm feckin' scared."
Merrill scoffed. "Are you worried for him, I wonder, or are you scared that he hasn't woken yet? That's why you're here, yes? You want me to save him."
Marian shifted on her feet. "He was talkin' to himself, Merrill: I heard him answering his own questions. Please, I...I know I'm not a good friend, but this could involve the safety of the whole city."
Merrill's expression went solemn. "Take him through to my room; I must gather my things."
Marian nodded and followed orders, taking Anders through the main room of Merrill's home to her bedroom. The eluvian stood in the corner, a strange glow emanating from under the tarp covering it. What sort of magic was Merrill using now on it, she wondered? In all the years she'd known Merrill, it remained a dark piece of glass.
"Take off his cloak, I need to examine him," Merrill said, bearing a tray full of bottles and jars.
Marian followed directions, grimacing. The faded, stained fabric of his cloak ripped in her hands, so brittle it was from dry rot. Anders was pale and gaunt, skeletal. Her eyes drifted to the now filthy blond hair resting on her shoulder. How often she used to love running her fingers through his hair while abed; it had been like spun gold, burnished and gleaming in the firelight of their room. To see it so dull and matted, stained with grime and reeking of the sewers...
"It's not good," Merrill said, "his skull is broken, but I'm concerned about this." She waved her hand; familiar blue light crackled under Anders's skin. "His spirit is weakened; no matter how hard I search, I can only find Justice."
Marian blinked at her in disbelief. "Y-Ye mean he's... gone?"
Merrill bit her lip. "All I sense is Justice.… and you know what fate will befall him if the Templars find him now. He'd probably appreciate you doing the honors, instead of leaving it to them."
The air squeezed out of Marian's lungs. It had been one thing to leave him on the Wounded Coast, but to willingly hold the knife herself and end him? She stared at the man on the floor , throat tightening. She questioned if she had the courage to kill Anders, but to send him to the Templars felt a thousand times worse...
"Is there no other way?" Marian heard herself say. Her eyes widened in surprise.
"I've read stories," Merrill replied, oblivious to her reaction, "of a nobleman's son in Ferelden. The queen sent a mage into the Fade to battle the demon who'd taken hold of him."
Marian had heard that tale, and had thought it merely twaddle. She scoffed in an attempt to discredit her. "Fairytale, that is. Even if ye could travel into the Fade, ye'd need lyrium and grimoires a-and special spells—"
Merrill pulled back the tarp covering the mirror and Marian gasped. Color and light rippled inside the frame like the face of a pond, spangling on the plaster.
"Ye did it," she breathed, "Maker, I can't believe it; how did ye—"
"His only chance is through there," Merrill interrupted. "We don't have much time to save him."
Marian's stomach lurched at those words; her breath hitched. Visions of glowing blue eyes at the opposite end of supernaturally strong arms wouldn't leave her alone. Strangled cries for help rang unheeded in her ears. Marian's trembling hand instinctively went to her throat.
"No," she whispered, backing away. "N-No, we can't—" Her mind went to Fenris, to his tenderness and care. Maker, how she wished he would take her away from the nightmare before her; she practically ached for his gentle touch.
"We must do something before he wakes," Merrill countered, "he could harm someone. I..." she bit her lip, trailing off. "I fear merely killing him would unleash Justice into the world; I tremble to think of that roaming around Kirkwall. He'll be sure to find a new host."
"T-Then we kill it before it finds another; we've slain plenty of demons without trouble," Hawke replied.
"They simply lose their physical manifestations, Hawke: the only true way to destroy a demon forever is in the Fade. And even at that, we must be very careful." Merrill looped Anders's arm around her shoulder. "There's no time for debate, we must go. I'll help you carry him." Merrill hauled him to his feet, looking to Marian to assist.
"The first thing you'll see are the Crossroads, Hawke," she was saying, "it puts the Chantry gardens to shame. And no matter what time of year, it's always in bloom. The ancient elves must have enchanted it." Merrill led them through the mirror to an abandoned, dilapidated courtyard. Dead trees clawed at the dull, flat sky.
"Is this it?" Marian asked. "What a rubble heap."
"What? Look at the cherry blossoms, aren't they lovely?"
"There ain't any cherry trees; they're all dead."
Merrill stopped and blinked at her. "Don't you see the rainbows?"
"No rainbows here," Marian scoffed. Merrill cocked her head in thought.
"Then only elves can see it? I didn't know. Fascinating. Alright, come, follow me."
They wound their way through a crumbling ruin and up a hill to another mirror amidst a long-dead garden. Marian squinted; even the shadows had eyes in this place.
"Before we go in," Merrill began, "remember that this is the realm of dreams, Hawke. Anything you see in here isn't real; don't let Justice distract you from our purpose. He'll be very strong here, and very, very angry."
Marian nodded, her grip on Anders's wrist going white-knuckled. She followed Merrill through the second mirror, the glass rippling around her like a cool pond to reveal what had to be a realm of nightmares. Everything felt wrong in this place. Islands floated past a sun that never existed, yet clearly did, if the green light dappling her skin was anything to go by. Hundreds, if not thousands of unseen eyes watched them enter the courtyard, whispering among themselves. Marian's stomach flipped.
"Lay him down," Merrill instructed, "I can already feel Justice stirring."
Marian laid him next to an ash-stained stone, hand going to her sword. Merrill drew a scalpel from her belt, chanting under her breath.
"Be ready," she whispered, crimson energy pooling in her hands, "he's reviving."
In a flash of red and lightning blue, Anders's body jerked uncontrollably: a burning mass of blue flame erupted from his chest. Its talons were as long as daggers, and looked just as deadly. Rage and loathing emanated from it, rolling off in malevolent waves; she could taste the putrid stench in the air. Marian gulped; this was unlike any spirit or demon she had ever encountered…
"Let it fully manifest," Merrill shouted over its cries. "I sense others gathering to it. Be careful."
Marian's blade crackled with silver energy as Merrill enchanted it with elemental magic. She swung hard at the now solidified demon, dodging the swiping talons. She had seen those cold, contemptible eyes many times before, staring at her from her beloved's face. How she relished the chance to permanently extinguish them…
"Behind!" A stream of ice shot over Marian's shoulder as Merrill cast a spell. The demon lobbed a ball of blue flames at them in retribution.
"What is that thing?" Marian shouted, fighting off a shade attempting to flank her. "A rage demon?"
"I think it's a Vengeance demon," Merrill replied, freezing another and then shattering it with lightning.
Vengeance, Marian discovered, had a very long and detailed memory of every instance of her wronging Anders; it chanted them in her head, like an unending litany. "You refused to help us right the injustices of the Circle," it hissed, "you hindered Anders's plans, supported the Templars at every turn—"
Marian shook her head to chase the voices away, her swing missing the demon's throat by inches. "Shut up," she muttered, shivering inside. "I'm not listening."
"You used Anders to make your ex-lover jealous. You left us to die, left us to die, left us to die—" it screamed.
With those words exploding in Marian's head, she struck with all her might, lodging her sword deep into Vengeance's chest. Much to her horror, it pulled itself along her blade towards her, laughing. She let go of the burning longsword singeing her palms, backing away. Vengeance seized her throat with unnatural speed, lifting her until her toes barely scraped the ground. Marian writhed in pain, gasping; visions of Anders threatening to throw her over the banister flooded her mind's eye. The black stones and emerald sky behind Vengeance blended into a vision of her upstairs landing. Marian pummeled Vengeance's claws, panic roiling inside her.
"You will pay for what you've done!" it shrieked. "You will beg forgiveness, and be denied." When its face morphed into Anders's, she nearly retched.
Merrill's words echoed back to her through the chaos. 'Anything you see in here isn't real; don't let Justice distract you from our purpose.' Marian clung to them, holding fast as she centered herself, ignoring her fear.
"Ye're not dying here," she whispered. "Marian Alessa Hawke, yer mother didn't raise a coward. Fight. Fight to the end."
Her hand went to the dagger in her belt, eyes locked with Vengeance's. It was imperative to keep its attention, to maintain the element of surprise. If she wanted any chance of surviving this, she needed to maintain control…
Marian's blade flashed in green sunlight, sinking into the demon's throat. She stabbed again and again, until the beast let go in its agony and Marian found a foothold again. A lightning bolt sped across the courtyard and sent Vengeance sprawling to the stones below; Merrill had vanquished the other shades while Marian dealt with Vengeance. She coughed and wheezed, gulping air; her head clenched in time with her heartbeat. Merrill leaned against her staff, panting.
"Creators," she said, "I've never seen anything like that—"
A horned shadow thickened behind Merrill, springing from that ash-stained spot on the stone. Marian gasped. She knew that silhouette all too well: a desire demon. She readied her sword and lunged.
"Watch out!" Marian shouted. She flung herself between Merrill and the now fully-formed demon, slashing its belly as she passed. Marian dodged under the swiping talon and flanked, her longsword buried itself in the beast's back as Merrill hurled several lightning bolts. The demon crumbled to the stone, ashes born away on the breeze. Merrill stared at her in amazement.
"What?" Marian asked.
"Y-You saved me from Arzu," Merrill replied. "Thank you. I never thought I'd be rid of her torments; she was too strong for me to handle on my own."
"'Arzu?' Is that the demon?" Marian scoffed. "I've dealt with hundreds of demons over the years, but this… damn." Merrill didn't respond, too busy kneeling beside the ashes and casting a spell.
"What's that?" Marian asked.
"I'm severing all ties between us," Merrill said, eyes closed. "Cleansing the blood bond so nothing carries over to Anders."
"The what? Y-Ye worked with that thing?" Scarlet threads of energy glistened in the eerie green light; Merrill severed them with a violet flame.
"Now, let's attend to Anders," she said, turning to him.
Merrill's initial diagnosis back in Kirkwall was correct: Anders and Justice—or, rather, Vengeance—had been deeply enmeshed; Vengeance's demise had greatly damaged Anders's spirit. Using spells Marian had never heard of, let alone could fathom how to cast, Merrill reclaimed the missing pieces of Anders's soul, cleansed them, and restored them, destroying whatever remnants of Vengeance remained. She was dumbfounded as she watched, albeit slightly terrified: Marian had grossly underestimated Merrill's abilities. Under all the sweetness and smiles was a highly skilled healer and mage who could accomplish the impossible at the flick of her wrist. Marian shifted on her feet, ashamed to think of how she'd disregarded Merrill over the years…
"I've done all I can," Merrill announced, after spooning a strong remedy down his throat, "we'd best leave, before any more spirits arrive." With that, they gently got Anders to his feet and departed, not stopping until safely back in Merrill's room in Kirkwall. Marian fell against the wall, Anders melting onto her shoulder, still unconscious.
They settled Anders on a cot in the clinic, ensuring all doors and windows were locked and bolted. She was grateful when Merrill slid a chair under the door handle, barricading themselves in her quarters.
"It's up to him now," Merrill said, "let him sleep, Hawke; we could all use some rest. This was an extremely difficult task. I'll heat some water to wash; you'll stay the night, yes? It's too late to walk home."
Marian nearly contradicted her, but stopped herself. "Thank ye, that's kind of ye, I-I..."
"Shhh," Merrill replied, "you're safe, lethallan, rest now; we'll talk more tomorrow."
It was unexpected to experience such kindness: her world had shrunk to mercenary contracts, Norah the barmaid, and the two friends she hadn't scared off... none of which were as warm and empathetic as Merrill. Although Marian scoffed, a smile appeared. She hadn't felt this cared for since Anders had courted her—
A basin of hot, herbed water and clean clothes was a great comfort. As she washed, Marian wondered how to deal with Anders, now that Justice was gone. His arrival dredged up feelings she'd thought long dead. She worried for him, hated him: yet there was an undeniable fondness, hidden underneath it all. That realization frightened her more than all the shades and demons put together.
Sebastian noticed a shift in the court, the day after they bought the Teyrn his mabari. Courtiers bunched in whispering knots in the corridors, silencing as soon as he and Fenris passed. Their eyes held judgement.
"I ken we dinnae have proper attire," Sebastian said to Fenris, "but are they not a bit overmuch?"
"If you thought this was bad, you should see the magisters at the Imperial court: had we shown our faces there dressed like this, it would be considered political suicide," Fenris replied. His smile faded when they arrived at the Great Hall for breakfast, hand resting on his pommel.
The Great Hall was the court's gathering place for daily meals, unless one held a private dinner or function. As they were the Teyrn's honored guests, Fenris and Sebastian's seats were at the far end of the hall, on the raised platform among the royal family. Their journey across the room proved very enlightening.
"Did ye hear? There was a fire in Atteby: the Teyrn's Head Inn," one person whispered as they passed. "Innkeep and two patrons died."
Sebastian's eyes widened. They'd stayed at the Teyrn's Head Inn back at Atteby; he shivered at the memory of it. Two Templars had fallen in that battle in the common room; could… could this have been their escort's doing?
He turned to his friend. "Fen—"
"Not here." Fenris kept his head high, maddeningly calm as he passed through the swirling crowd.
"They claim Ser Vael and Ser El-Khoury's carriage was delayed in Atteby," a heavily painted woman said, watching them pass with suspicion.
"A good many carriages and carts were delayed there, what with all the guards investigating. That means nothing," her companion whispered, bobbing a curtsey before turning to her friend to gossip. Sebastian pretended not to notice.
"Fen—" he whispered, jostling his friend's elbow.
"Not. Here," Fenris said through the corner of his mouth. His restraint was admirable; only his fingers rolling the hem of his borrowed over-jacket betrayed his uneasiness.
Sebastian's impatience was so great, the meal felt interminable. By the time they arrived back at their quarters, he was ready to burst. "That was them," he said, as soon as they were alone. "Fenris, that was our escort—"
"We don't know that for certain," he replied. "As soon as they arrive, we can confirm—"
"'As soon as they arrive?' By then, half the court will suspect us."Sebastian threw his hands in the air. "Maker, we're accomplices to murder, Fenris."
"Shh! Think of the servants." His eyes flicked down to the space under the door, checking the shadows. "The walls have ears here—"
"Sergeant Brennan of Kirkwall approaches," the porter announced from the antechamber.
Fenris's words trailed off mid-sentence as a woman led several guardsmen in, porters bearing trunks in tow. Sebastian smiled. Sergeant Brennan was an old friend of theirs in the Kirkwall Guard; she'd worked with Hawke and Aveline for years, assisting them on various mercenary contracts. It was a welcome surprise that she'd requested a transfer, to accompany Sebastian and Fenris to Ostwick; her watchful eye and keen sword had been a blessing on their journey.
"Ah, Brennan. I trust the rest of your journey was uneventful? No more 'troubles?'" Fenris asked the sergeant. The woman gave a knowing look.
"Once we made the repairs, we traveled smoothly," was the careful reply. Fenris raised his eyebrow but said nothing, directing the porters with the trunks. As they departed, his expression shifted.
"Word of your 'repairs' has preceded you," he said, voice low, "the court was abuzz this morning about the fire in Atteby. Tell us what happened."
The Kirkwall Guard, Sebastian discovered that morning, was as adept in covering up crimes as they were in exposing them. Sergeant Brennan related her tale of how the innkeeper was silenced by the end of a Kirkwaller longsword, and how the guards left no evidence of the fallen foes. Sebastian shuddered at Brennan's clinical descriptions, how easy she made it sound. What other 'accidents' around Kirkwall were, in fact, the Guard's handiwork, he wondered.
Fenris and Brennan arranged for tasters and an 'assistant' to perform the security tests Fenris could not, for fear of endangering himself. As foolish as 'pillow sniffer' sounded, Sebastian knew it was an actual concern—it was all too easy to split a seam and sprinkle poisonous powder in the pillow stuffing. Hence why Fenris had insisted they sleep without pillows, until they had proper safeguards. Brennan and her men departed, replacing the guards and porters at the door. The entire air of the room relaxed once the extra security arrived and had inspected their quarters.
"We had best unpack," Fenris said, rummaging through his trunk. "I don't trust any of the servants to handle our things."
Sebastian sighed. "I dinnae have time for this, Fen, I must find Cecily—"
"Lady Seymour approaches," the guard at the door called. Sebastian jumped to his feet, already crossing the room to his beloved with a joyous cry. He swept her into an embrace the moment she crossed the threshold.
"Oh, me love, me heart's finally whole, seeing ye now," he whispered, clasping her tightly to his chest. "I near drove meself to distraction wishing the carriage had wings, just so I could see ye sooner." He squeezed her tightly—so tightly, in fact, she let out a tiny squeak.
"I am glad to see ye, Seb, but I do need to breathe," she said with a laugh.
He gently broke away. "Are ye well, Ceci? Ye're paler than last I saw ye. Ought I call for a physician?"
"I'm fine," she said, dabbing her eyes. "I-I didn't receive news about yer poisoning for near a month, thanks to the winter storms. Da and I thought the worst, Seb, I—I thought I'd lost ye, and then with Drummond's letter..."
There was more to her words that was left unsaid; his heart ached once he deciphered her meaning. The Teyrn had no doubt punished her for her supposed crime, until proper evidence came to light.
"Sweet Andraste, how ye suffered on me account, lass," he murmured, stroking her hair. "Forgive me for making ye endure such hardship."
She leaned against his shoulder. "Is it true, what they're saying? That ye were the last to see Flora Harimann alive? A-And ye two had a row?"
His smile faded; seemed word travelled quickly in Ostwick. "I had wanted to tell ye of that meself; a letter would've been too dangerous," he began.
"But it's true? Ye're not denying it."
He couldn't lie to her, she was far too precious to him. "Aye, it's true. I went to visit her as soon as I could after the poisoning; she berated me for not spending Satinalia with her, despite me almost dying. Half out of her mind with jealousy and drink, poor thing."
Her eyes widened. "She knew about us?"
"Maker, no; there was no talking to her. She was a spiteful, bitter woman, Ceci: she lashed out at everyone. Dinnae trouble yerself over that now."
Cecily's expression shifted under her smile. It was subtle at first—he nearly didn't catch it as she greeted Fenris. She hid her hesitation in flattery and pleasantries, praising Fenris's military prowess. By the time she bid Sebastian goodbye, her affection had chilled considerably.
"She's very gracious," Fenris said while unpacking. "A bit eager to please, but kind. You chose well, she'll make a good Princess."
"Something's wrong, I ken it," Sebastian replied, staring at the door, "her letters sounded so—"
"Sebastian, think of what she went through, being framed for murder; of course she would be hesitant."
"True. I was just so overjoyed to see her, it eclipsed the severity of her plight."
"I'm telling you, Seb: she's lived her entire life in the royal court. Here, there are no wasted words or actions; everything, down to the very silence itself, is a dual-sided sword, you know that… She is no exception. We must stay vigilant with these courtiers; I doubt she's insincere with her affections, but until we know better...let's stay cautious."
"Aye, ye've the right of it—sweet Andraste!" He turned to find Fenris with a bad case of turban-hair, sporting his gaudy, old red brocade housecoat. "Why in the Maker's name did ye bring that?!"
Fenris shrugged. "What? It's an old friend, like you."
Sebastian shook his head, laughing. He heaved a sigh and began unpacking.
Was Fenris right: had Cecily carefully drafted those letters to achieve a result? Was she truly sincere in her affection, or had he merely imagined it? Did...she even love him? Sebastian's face went hot at the thought of all the secrets and desires he had shared, and cursed himself for being too trusting of a beautiful girl with a golden tongue.
Cecily hid her trembling hands in her velvet skirt, hurrying down the hall to a secluded bench. Maker, after months of waiting and dozens of letters, she had finally seen her beloved, and it was— Words were insufficient to encompass all the emotions inside her. She was overjoyed to see him, heart soaring above the clouds that he was alive and well. She'd etched every sensation of their embrace in her heart, and yet...
A pall shadow hung over her joy. Death, it seemed, followed Sebastian everywhere. The poisoning, Flora Harimann, Flora's mother... even Sebastian's family was gone, it all came down to one thing: the throne. Her whole life, she'd been taught to bind herself to that cursed thing, and now bind herself to Sebastian for it...
Cecily shivered. She knew this was a marriage of political alliance, first and foremost. Would she share Flora's fate? Would an 'accident' befall her, once her betrothal was announced? Stories of Sebastian's wild youth came to her, whispering of whiskeyed breath and cheap Orlesian perfume. Sebastian might have claimed he loved her, but flattery and honeyed words came easily to him. Had Cecily given her heart away too quickly? Was there something Flora knew about Sebastian that she didn't? These thoughts twirled around her mind like leaves on the autumn wind, leaving her chilled in their wake.
Cecily hid her head in her hands. "Maker, Alain," she whispered, "ye were right all along: I've gone and sold meself for naught but a glorified chair."
Translations
Lethallan: my friend