Anders worked tirelessly through the night, not stopping for food or water until absolutely necessary. On those rare occasions when he stopped for breath he was pale and bathed in clammy sweat. He had to use a mix of both magic and conventional medicine and it was obvious that the combination was taking a toll on him.
Merrill was always right by Hawke's side, holding her hand tightly. While Anders worked to seal the puncture wound in the mage's chest, Merrill helped by handing him surgical tools and keeping Hawke calm and unconscious with a steady flow of sleeping magic.
The others had dispersed in the aftermath of the battle with the Qunari. Aveline had returned to the Viscount's Keep with a contingent of City Guard and several angry-looking Templars. Fenris had stalked off a while ago with no explanation or even a word of farewell. Surprisingly, Carver had refused to leave his sister's side. He was currently sitting on a crate just inside the door, scowling at his armored boots with his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
Varric had also decided to stay. He was currently occupying a seat near the door – a post he had refused to abandon with his usual unstoppable dwarven tenacity – and was tinkering with Bianca. The crossbow was casually splayed across his lap as he tightened the bowstrings and calibrated the weapon's sights.
He seemed as laid-back and casual as ever. But Merrill's eyes couldn't miss the way he had managed to subtly place himself between the Hawke and the Templars standing guard outside. She knew the positioning was deliberate. If something happened and the knights tried to attack, they'd have to go through him first.
She debated with herself for a long time before she finally found the courage to ask the question on everyone's mind. She bit her lip, hesitating for only a moment before she broke the silence.
"Is she going to be all right?"
Anders shook his head and wiped his brow with a forearm. The motion left behind a dark swathe of Hawke's blood across his face, as his arms were bloodied almost to the elbow. He then set to work once more, crouching low over a simple needle and thread.
"I don't know," he muttered. "Her wounds are severe. If this were anyone else, I would say they were lethal. How Hawke is still alive is beyond my knowledge."
Merrill knew exactly how she was still alive. Marian was strong. Stronger than anyone else in Kirkwall. She'd recover from this and come back stronger than ever before. It was what she did.
"I've managed to stop most of the external bleeding and reset her broken bones with magic," Anders continued. "I think I can even seal this bloody stab wound, but it'll take time. Time we don't have."
"And why isn't she awake? She wasn't awake even before I started with the sleeping magic."
"I think we can safely assume that there's blood pooling in her skull. A side-effect of her concussion." He sighed and wiped his forehead again, further smearing it with blood. "Unfortunately, that's beyond my capacity to heal. She may recover, but…"
"But what?" Merrill said, gulping nervously.
"If she doesn't naturally recover," Anders said, his jaw tightening, "then she may wake up with memory loss, paralysis, or major brain damage. She may never wake up."
"And there's nothing you can do?"
"Nothing."
"If need be," a familiar deep voice said from the door, "I can have the best healers of the Kirkwall Circle in this clinic within the hour."
Anders glared at the newcomer. "Accompanied by an entire retinue of Templar guards? No thank you, Knight-Captain."
Cullen strode through the door, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. His armor was splattered with now-dry blood and his face was gaunt and haggard. He looked like he'd been fighting for years, but he was somehow – miraculously – still on his feet.
"I would say that it is good to see you again, Anders," Cullen said, nodding to the fair-haired mage in greeting. The tense set of his jaw suggested he was far from pleased to see the feathery mage again. "But it would sound like a lie to both our ears."
"What do you want?"
"Knight-Commander Meredith wishes to ensure Hawke's speedy recovery, but there are few Templars in the city that can be trusted with her safekeeping." He frowned and folded his arms over his sword. "I am apparently one of the trustworthy ones."
Anders snorted. "Surprising, considering you were the one screaming kill all mages after that debacle at the Ferelden tower."
"I would… prefer not to be reminded of that time."
"And you expect me to believe that you've seen the error of your ways? That you're a changed man?"
"I expect nothing of you," Cullen said with a deep scowl, "besides your continued focus on Marian Hawke's recovery.
Anders snorted, but returned to his work. He was scowling and turning a deep, angry red, but he didn't press the issue further. Merrill was glad; she wanted all his attention focused on Hawke.
Cullen moved on, ambling through the clinic with feigned nonchalance. Merrill, however, could not miss the fact that his hands never strayed from their seemingly casual resting place on the hilt of his sword. He knew he was an outsider here, and was obviously taking adequate precautions should things turn sour.
Varric obviously noticed it too. From his position by the door, he raised his head and called, "You can calm down, Curly. No one's going to jump you down here. In case you hadn't noticed, we have more important things on our minds."
"I…" Cullen frowned, but did not move his hands from his weapon. "I apologize. Old habits die hard, as they say."
"You do realize that there are two Templars just outside?" Varric reminded him. "Even if we wanted to kill you, your cronies would be in here before we could draw our weapons."
The Knight Captain rubbed at his forehead. "I appreciate your candor, Master Tethras, and I applaud your tactical appraisal of the situation. But for the last time, we are not here to harm you. Knight-Commander Meredith simply wishes Hawke to recover in a safe and timely manner."
"And why, exactly, is that?"
"Besides the fact that Hawke has been declared the Champion of Kirkwall?" Cullen shrugged, his armor creaking. "She saved the entire city in a very daring – and very public – act of heroism."
Varric laughed. "Ah, so there's the real truth. You can't cart her off to the Circle because she's exploded into the public eye now. She's famous, and the good people of Kirkwall won't stand for their new Champion being executed for apostasy."
Cullen glared at him, but said nothing to deny the accusation. This only made Varric laugh harder; a hard, scornful laugh that was very different from the usual warm chuckle Merrill so enjoyed.
"And I bet that's the same reason the rest of us aren't being carted off the executioner's block for either being or harboring apostates? It's too public for the Templars to get their hands dirty?" He shook his head. "Never thought I'd see the day I was relieved by this city's hypocrisy."
"You should be more thankful, dwarf," Cullen scowled at him. "That hypocrisy has ensured that you and your allies are not only free of Chantry retribution, but are safeguarded by the very institution that would have punished you. Not everyone is so fortunate."
"Right. Because I feel very fortunate with two armed and armored thugs hanging just outside, watching our every move."
Merrill wanted to interject and tell them to stop fighting. After all, Marian was still hanging on to life by the tiniest, frailest thread. They had more important things to worry about than petty squabbles and Kirkwall's seemingly ever-present discriminations.
But she couldn't stop them. She didn't want to. She found herself agreeing with Varric, with his scorn and contempt for the handsome, curly-haired knight that had forced his way into their midst.
Merrill was an apostate. So were Anders and Marian and a number of others they had encountered over the course of their adventures. Many of her personal friends outside of Hawke's circle were secretly apostates or soothsayers, and many of those friends had met swift and brutal Chantry justice. Anders' friend, Karl, had been branded with the Mark of Tranquility years ago. He had been magically crippled, his emotions severed forever, simply for being too outspoken about mage rights.
The Templar Order's mandate was to keep the peace between mages and "normal" folk. Recently, they had also begun to keep order on the streets, patrolling where the City Guard could not or would not go. Merrill knew the stabilizing effect their polished armor and razor-edged swords could bring and was thankful. She could only imagine how many times she'd been spared from bandits or thieves simply because of a Templar's presence nearby.
But she also knew that the Templars could also be power-hungry madmen, willing to cut down or Tranquilize anyone who posed a potential threat. Marian Hawke and her apostate friends definitely counted as a very extreme threat.
They were under Templar protection for now, when they were city heroes and too popular to be imprisoned or executed, but what would happen when that fame faded? Would the Templars move in then? Would they kick down her door in the alienage, set Anders' clinic ablaze, and drag Aveline from her office in handcuffs? When their popularity disappeared – as popularity with the masses always inevitably did – would they soon disappear as well?
The fact that Merrill was even entertaining the idea was too worrisome for her taste.
I wish… she bit her lip, willing herself not to stray too close to such dangerous thoughts. But, as always, her mind raced ahead of her self-control, and she found herself thinking, I wish Isabela was still here.
Out of all her companions, Merrill was sure she was the most shocked at the rogue's betrayal and sudden disappearance from their midst; part of her still didn't believe the dark-skinned swashbuckler was truly gone. Part of her still believed that she would come swaggering through Anders' door at any minute now, sword in one hand and a bottle of dwarven whiskey in the other.
But the door didn't open, and Merrill chided herself for such foolish fantasies. Isabela had been faced with a choice: stay and help undo the damage she herself had caused, or disappear with the wind and never look back. She had obviously chosen the latter. She had chosen to run, chosen to save her own skin over saving Kirkwall, over helping Hawke, over…
Over me, she thought, tears welling up in her eyes. I thought we were friends, 'Bela and I. Good friends even. But I guess…
No, she suddenly thought, interjecting her own mind. I can't think about that. Not now. There will be plenty of time to throw blame around later, but right now I have more important matters facing me.
She quickly forced her intruding thoughts away, taking a deep and quivering breath before squeezing Hawke's cold hand tighter. Hawke was still here, still whole, and – for the moment – still alive. The human mage needed her more than Isabela apparently did.
So she didn't interrupt Varric and Cullen as they bickered over the fate of the city's savior. She didn't think any more about Isabela or her cowardly flight from the city. She just turned back to Hawke and continued her flow of sleeping magic, making sure the raven-haired woman neither felt nor heard her world crumbling around her.
Marian sprinted through the trees, breath coming in sharp, pained gasps. Her ragged boots splashed through a puddle, soaking her in cold, fetid-smelling water. Her heart was thudding a rapid staccato rhythm against her ribs, climbing further into her throat with every heavy bootstep she heard behind her.
A sword hissed through the air just above her head. She ducked and yelped in fear, swerving around a tree trunk to throw off her pursuer. She was smaller and faster than her pursuer, not bogged down by heavy plate armor, but his legs were longer and he seemed driven by inhuman speed and stamina. No matter how fast she willed her legs to carry her, the knight was always right behind. He was breathing hard, his boots pounding hard against the cold forest floor at her heels, but he wasn't slowing down.
"Stop!" the man barked. His voice echoed in the confines of his helmet like the vengeful voice of a demon. He sounded as if he was speaking from right over her shoulder. "In the name of the Chantry, I order you to surrender!"
She knew what would happen if she surrendered. Papa had told her what the Templars did to mages who surrendered. How they used arcane powers to root around in a mage's head and rip away everything a person treasured, and how the so-called "Rite of Tranquility" produced not peaceful and serene mages but empty husks of men and women who didn't even have the capacity to know they were broken.
She would die before she let that happen to her.
She cried out as the sword sliced through the air again, so close to her scalp that she could almost feel the polished blade pass through her hair. She hunched her head and doubled her pace, frantically tearing through the forest. Branches whipped past her, batting at her face and shoulders like claws. She was pretty sure one particularly spiny pine branch sliced open her cheek, but the pain only spurred her onward.
Balling her fist, she summoned as much mana as she could manage and forced it over her shoulder, straight at what she could only assume was the man's helmeted head. The forest floor quivered around her and a pinecone shot like an arrow through the air. A half-second later, she heard a soft thud as it bounced harmlessly off metal armor. The man grunted – more in surprise than fear or pain – but didn't pause in his relentless pursuit.
Marian threw herself into a tight turn, racing around the thick trunk of a tree, and tried again. This time three pinecones hit her pursuer with a soft pat pat pat. She gasped in frustration and thought, Come on! What would Papa do? He wouldn't throw measly pinecones at him! He would… he would…
Her tiny face scrunched up in concentration. Her lungs sucked in a long breath and she reached deep inside, deeper than she had ever allowed herself to draw before. Papa had told her never to reach so far, to never wake the slumbering power waiting within her. He claimed it would draw too much attention and expend too much energy. He claimed she wasn't ready yet. But she had no choice.
She could feel it; a bottomless well of mana buried deep within her. It was cool and calming, like the glassy surface of a lake at night. She drew on the feeling, letting it surge up within her. Newfound strength flooded through her body and she found herself slowly – ever-so-slowly – drawing ahead of the Templar at her back.
As soon as she had put enough distance between them, she skidded to a halt. With the icy flood of mana roaring through her system, she turned and raised both her trembling hands. Her eyes fluttered closed and she summoned all her courage in a single gasping breath.
I can do this, she thought, heart still racing in her chest. I know I can. I'm a dragon. I'm a dragon!
She saw the Templar looming over her, a monolith of steel and blood-red silk. She saw his face twisting into a mask of hatred behind the visor of his helmet. She saw the setting sun glinting off his polished armor, now scuffed here and there with sap from Marian's tiny pinecone projectiles. She saw his sword, raised for an inevitable killing stroke.
Marian saw all of this. And she hated everything she saw.
With a scream, she thrust both hands toward him, palms out. There was a flash of light, then a fountain of sparks erupted from both hands and enveloped the Templar. He finally stopped, staggering away with a shout of surprise. Marian didn't give him time to recover; she gritted her teeth, narrowed her eyes to tiny slate-gray slits, and took a step forward.
The sparks roared out, embers lighting little fires in the brittle leaves at her feet. The swift flash of light flickered through the sunset-painted woods and cast twisting shadows across the forest floor. The stuttering pop and rumble of the spray echoed through the woods, frightening birds into flight high above them.
"Leave me alone!" she shouted over the noise. "Just go away!"
She saw the Templar buckle in the face of the magical assault, his polished armor glowing red-hot under the barrage of heat. But then he looked back to her and straightened to his feet again.
Despite the warm current of magic buffeting her face and the hot sparks pouring from her palms, Marian's entire body suddenly went cold. It felt as if she had been plunged deep into icy water.
The Templar struck too fast to dodge this time. His shining sword carved through the spray of sparks and caught her in the shoulder, almost too quick to see. There was a sharp stab of pain in her arm and a splash of blood spattered the leaves at her feet. She was yanked to one side by the blow and her sparks vanished with a pop. Within a moment, all her newfound strength and power blinked out of existence and she was left frightened, defenseless, and very weak.
The Templar took another step toward her.
No, no, no… she thought, her eyes wide and terrified. The world seemed to be moving in slow motion now. She knew she was about to die, knew these were the last moments she would see. And there was nothing she could do about it.
The blade came down again, swinging out to her left. It arced up into the air high over the Templar's head, catching the last glinting rays of the setting sun. Marian opened her mouth to scream, certain that death descended with that blade.
Then, as quickly as it struck the first time, the sword flashed down.
The world exploded. Marian was instantly plunged into darkness as an excruciating spike of agony carved its way across the right side of her face. The world dissolved into a wash of fire. She felt a concussive jolt in the back of her neck, and her heart dropped into her stomach. Nausea overwhelmed her, and she suddenly felt an aching throb in her backside and leaves in her hair; she had fallen to the forest floor.
Then the agony consuming her face blotted out all other sensations. It was simultaneously white-hot and ice-cold, washing through every facet of her existence, a frigid wildfire with snowflakes instead of sparks. It was like her entire body was being ripped apart by angry talons. She could hear herself screaming, could feel blood soaking her right cheek. But when she tried to open her eyes, a fresh wave of torment washed over her.
I don't know what happened, she thought, her mind chaotic and unfocused. She could still hear herself screaming, but her voice echoed to her as if from down a long and darkened tunnel. The world around her remained dark and frightening. Am I dead? I can't tell. What did he do to me?
She heard heavy bootsteps approaching. She heard that glimmering sword hum as its razor-honed edge caught the air. She heard the Templar's heavy breathing and the scrape of his armor as he raised the sword over his head once more. This time, the blow would finish her.
But the sword never came down. She expected it to descend, and was strangely ready for it too. Anything was better than this, the blind wailing agony into which she had fallen. Death would be a mercy, delivered by this hateful knight in his beautiful armor.
But a deep and booming voice, as loud and powerful as the bellow of a bear, interrupted the Templar's advance.
"STAY AWAY FROM HER!"
The Templar froze in place, taken aback by the hatred and vitriol in that commanding voice. Marian managed to inch her eyelids open the tiniest bit, even as white-hot agony raced through the muscles of her face at the slight motion.
Through blurry, gray-tinged vision, she saw the Templar lower his sword and turn to the left. He clutched the weapon close to his chest, preparing to strike at something in that direction. He had barely moved before a bright flash of light consumed him. When it faded, half his sword arm was missing.
The man staggered back, clutching at the smoking stump that – until only seconds ago – had been his arm. He screamed with a tortured, warbling wail that Marian found strangely pathetic. The man had suddenly joined her; they were falling together through a shared world of torture. She did not feel sorry for him.
Then there was another flash and the Templar was forcefully shoved away from her. Part of his glistening, embossed chest plate was now melted away, revealing charred and mutilated flesh beneath.
More bootsteps, near her head this time. Marian could still hear herself shrieking in pain, but in her current state, strangely divorced from the anguish of her situation, she saw a man step into her narrowed field of view.
Papa!
Malcolm Hawke advanced on the Templar with all the power and rage of an encroaching thunderstorm. Blue light poured from his eyes, wafting up into the air like smoke. An unnatural wind buffeted him, wildly tossing his hair and beard about. He seemed larger and stronger than Marian remembered, the muscles along his arms rippling powerfully as he raised a fist. Balled within his palm was a crackling, twisting orb of fire.
And when his lips parted, Malcolm Hawke did not speak. He roared.
"YOU WILL NOT HAVE HER!"
His booming voice echoed through the trees, drowning out even Marian's tortured wails. He drew his hand back, preparing to unleash another devastating bolt of magic. The Templar backed away, stretching out his single remaining hand in a pitiful expression of submission and surrender.
"Wait!" the man cried. "Wait—"
Malcolm Hawke didn't wait. He thrust his arm toward the man and there was yet another flash of light. This time, Marian was able to see what was happening in vivid detail.
Though he prided himself on being a well-rounded and multitalented mage, Malcolm Hawke's true knack lay in the manipulation of fire. He was a pyromancer, the same as his daughter. In the face of her impending demise, Marian Hawke had summoned a weak spray of sparks to defend herself. Faced with the same fate, Malcolm Hawke summoned an inferno.
A crackling, roiling pillar of fire raced from the palm of his hand. It was far too fast for the Templar to even hope to dodge it. It sizzled through the cold autumn air, its aim straight and true. Marian felt a hitch in her stomach, a strange lightheaded shock, as she realized that the Templar was about to die.
When the ensuing flash of light and fire faded, the armored knight no longer had a head. His body remained standing for a few moments, twitching as if in shock. Then, with a clatter of armor plating, the headless and armless corpse tumbled to the ground and did not move again.
The forest fell silent, like all of creation was suddenly holding its breath.
There was a rushing sound, like wind through a cavern entrance. A moment later, all sensation suddenly flooded back. Marian was wracked by an agonizing spike of pain down the right side of her face once more, her skull ripped in half by a wash of white-hot anguish. Her shriek of pain returned, even louder than before.
Her father was instantly kneeling at her side, pulling her hands away from her face. She struggled, writhing on the ground and clutching at her cheeks.
"Marian," he grunted, grabbing at her wrists. "Marian… you need to let me see, Sparrowhawk!"
His voice was gentle, soothing, but even in her agony she could tell he was afraid. She could hear it in his voice. She could feel it in the way his hands were shaking, how pale he was. She knew it wasn't from magical exertion.
"Papa," she whimpered, "Papa, it hurts. It hurts!"
"I know," he replied. "I know, Sparrowhawk. But you need to let me—"
He finally succeeded in pulling her hands, now wet with her own blood, away from her face. As soon as he did, he froze. She heard him murmur, "Maker's breath…"
Seconds later she was being scooped up in his powerful arms. Her cries didn't stop, but he no longer tried to hush her. He just took off into the forest, cradling her close and letting her scream.
"Come on," he whispered to her, his voice tight and afraid. "Come on, my little Sparrowhawk. I'm taking you home."
Marian's wails of pain had faded into agonized little whimpers and exhausted sniffles by the time her father kicked open the door to the cabin. Blood now covered her face, spurting in dark scarlet streams down her cheeks to mix with her tears. Only her left eye, untouched by the Templar's sword, was functioning properly, rolling and squeezing shut in pained shock. The other seemed frozen, staring off into space and not blinking.
Marian's head was spinning as her father used a telekinetic push to shove the supper dishes off the table. He ignored the ensuing crash of broken tableware and laid her down, cradling her head with one hand. She didn't resist and no longer clutched at her face. The tips of her fingers were strangely numb, tingling as if she had been sitting on them for too long.
"P-Papa," she gasped. "Papa?"
He shushed her. "Quiet, Marian. Try not to talk. You've been hurt badly, but I'm going to help you."
Marian's head spun harder, and she felt nausea building in the pit of her stomach once more. She had vomited twice on the way home, bile spewing from her lips and staining the front of both her and her father's jerkins.
She didn't vomit this time. She doubted she had the strength to do anything more than shiver. She was cold, like she had been out playing Snowballs in winter. It only made the agony along her face all the more dreadful.
"P-Papa," she whimpered, forgetting his order to stay quiet. "W-what did he do to me?"
"Nothing, if I have anything to say about it," Malcolm growled. He stuck his head out the door and shouted, "Leandra!"
He turned back to her, a dark set to his bearded jaw. He cracked his knuckles and the bones in his neck, then spread his hands out over her. He closed his eyes and a moment later Marian was bathed in blue-white light.
She instantly felt as if she had been plunged into icewater. Her shocked scream was all but snatched from her lungs by the chill, dying to a breathless groan as frost began crawling through her veins.
"Stay still, little Sparrowhawk," her father grimaced. Marian tried, but could only squirm under the uncomfortable wash of magic. "This'll help."
Mother appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and face pale. She took one look at her daughter lying on the table and her hands flew to her mouth.
"Oh, my darling Marian," she cried, flinging herself forward. Malcolm caught her by the shoulders and pulled her back. The magic died and Marian gasped as the icy flow ebbed away.
"What's happened?" Mother demanded. "Who did this to her?"
"A Templar," her father grunted. "I don't know why he was so far in the forest. He's been dealt with. Leandra, I know it looks bad, but I need you to—"
Mother moaned, her eyes wide in shock. "Maker, what happened to her face?"
Marian's blood ran – if possible – even colder. She tried to reach up to touch her throbbing face, but couldn't summon the strength to raise her arm even an inch from the table. When she spoke, her voice quivered in terror.
"P-Papa," she said again. "What did he do to me? What did he do?"
Malcolm spun back to her and continued his magical healing surge. The pain eased back a little, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
"Marian—"
"What did he do to me?!"
He grimaced, obviously debating with what to tell her. Then he reached down and clasped her tiny, shaking hand with his much larger, rougher one. When he spoke, his voice shook dangerously.
"He caught you over your right eye, Marian. The blade bit deep; it cut down through to the bone and destroyed your right eye."
"M-my…" Marian's breath caught in her throat. "What?"
He squeezed her hand. "I can ease the pain and seal the wound. I may even be able to repair your eye. But you need to lay back and trust me. Can you do that, Sparrowhawk?"
Her lips quivered and her fingers tightened against the rough surface of the tabletop. Then she nodded and closed her one remaining eye. She felt her father's calloused fingers brush the hair from her bloodstained forehead. Then there was another icy jolt of magic and she fell into a numb, dreamless sleep.