Notes: Thank you for reading! The song is "Planet Hell" by Nightwish.

Be aware that Chapters 53-54 were posted at the same time and include events that lead up to this chapter's events. Don't overlook them or this chapter may not make sense.

Warning: Violence throughout the chapter, some of it hard M, and another very dark moment for a main character.

Chapter 55: Blood-Red Carpets Before Me

The Viscountess's Keep, 30 Harvestmere Dragon 9:36, Satinalia Eve.

The family quarters of the Keep were in a state of controlled chaos, Caitlyn thought. All of her friends and her close family were here—which by itself meant an increased level of chaos—but the free flow of food and drink, as well as the general giddiness and joy that this day brought, meant that the place was barely on the right side of "controlled" at all.

Mal had all the exuberance of a child who was excited and had had too much dessert. He ran in circles around the table, stopping occasionally to hide behind a chair or slip under the table, or to whip the black cloak that he had dug out of a closet around himself, declaring that he was the legendary Black Fox—but magic Black Fox. He usually got an additional sweet from the nearest person when he did, and Caitlyn had not yet had the heart to put a stop to that—though she knew she soon would have to. The mabari barked joyously beside Mal, following in his footsteps except when the boy insisted that he was "giving him away" with his barks.

Although the evening meal was officially finished, some guests continued to gnaw on joints of meat from a large roast boar. The feasters had shredded the boar, leaving behind little but picked bones and inedible strips of fat. Gamlen Amell reclined sloppily in his chair, picking his teeth with a metal pick, an oversize tumbler of wine in one hand. For the holidays, Caitlyn had decided not to be a scold about it, even to him. Leandra sat next to him, sipping wine, eating primly with knife and fork. Beside her was Charade, who Caitlyn was quite sure was the primary culprit in giving Mal more and more candy, based on the furtive, sly grin she gave the boy when he stopped near her. Does she have a purse somewhere with sweets in it? Caitlyn wondered. Next to them was Varric, who had propped his feet on the empty chair beside him. He chatted casually with the Amells about business and trade, a foaming flagon of ale in one hand, which dripped onto the floor with his sweeping gestures.

The couples of the group were more private and subdued. Carver and Merrill were speaking quietly, heads bent, oblivious to the others. Aveline and Donnic were still in full guard armor, their swords and shields at the ready just in case something came up in town that demanded their personal attention, but they were also looking quiet and privately contented, clearly enjoying the night off duty. Fenris had a large bottle of Tevinter red to himself, and he was drinking directly from it, but he too looked thoughtful. Next to him, Isabela savagely hacked apart the bones on her plate with one of her lethal daggers.

Caitlyn gazed at the silver goblet in front of her own empty plate. It had held grape juice. Sighing, she sipped the dregs. I miss wine, she thought—but her right hand found its way to her large bump immediately, and that banished the thought from her mind. She stole a glance next to her and remembered that Anders, her sweet, considerate Anders, was also drinking grape juice in solidarity so that she would not be the only one.

Next to her, he yelped. She glanced quickly at him, but there was no reason for concern. A yellow-orange tabby tail, arched back, and fuzzy ears popped up from the edge of the table as Ser Pounce-a-Lot, who had managed to sneak into the room, settled in his master's lap. Anders grimaced in mild exasperation, but Caitlyn knew he was whipped by this cat, and sure enough, in the next moment, he began to pet Pounce with dutiful strokes.

"You jump on me with your claws out," Anders murmured to the cat, "and I still reward you. Why do I reward you, hmm?"

"To stay in practice for rewarding me when I jump on you with claws out?" Caitlyn said, feeling playful.

He shot her a grin. "He has to rub and 'pet' me too, you know. That is what makes it all right for him to claw me with his sharp little claws," he said, turning to the purring cat as he finished the second sentence, his voice gooey and childlike at the end.

"I don't mind that stipulation."

Anders' grin broadened. "I'll remember that."

Beneath the tunnels of Darktown.

A crowd of angry faces glared in the red, flickering light cast by the torches that every tenth person or so carried. Shadows danced on the stone walls of the cavern as the two leaders stood before the group. Their tall, rectangular helmets concealed their faces, but everyone knew who one of them was, and many of them knew who the second, his lieutenant, was. They wore Templar uniforms in crimson and gold, but their armor was black rather than silver.

"Tonight the heretics, the blasphemers, and the apostates who have stolen this city began their feasting before their day of gluttony and licentiousness. Not a sacred day for the Maker and His Prophet, but a celebration of the moon, like the knife-eared heathens and barbarian tribes," seethed Mettin beneath his helmet. "A pagan event and an excuse to sin."

The crowd roared, eyes wide and wild, torches raised.

"Little do they know that they will not have that chance this year!" The roars grew louder, and Mettin continued. "This year, the Maker has called us—all of you—to lead the charge of His soldiers against the vile infection that spreads in this city."

The second Templar remained silent as he stood next to Mettin, watching the crowd yell, rage, and froth at Mettin's words.

"We will tear off every bit of infected tissue, cleansing and purging this city with clean steel, the Maker's own steel!"

"Aye!" screamed a woman, near tears with emotion. She raised her curved sword high, immediately followed by several people near her. The torchlight flickered in reflection on the blades.

"And then, when we reach the origin, the filthy, festering heart that pumps this befouled blood throughout the body of Kirkwall, we will cut it out!"

A raging, bloodthirsty cry filled the cave as everyone raised either a torch or a blade—or both—high in the air.

Mettin was yelling too, caught up in the moment. "You know what to do! You know who the mage sympathizers are. For a month you have kept your patience and watched them, confirming their wickedness, their acceptance or even agreement with the apostate and the abomination! They get one chance to repent and join us, or otherwise go straight to the Void! The Maker Himself curses them and you are the instruments of His will!"

"Curse them!"

"And when we have purged all the heretics and apostates, the Knight-Commander and the true Grand Cleric will restore order and decency. They will reward you! And fear not, those who fall will be martyrs for Andraste and will have a far greater reward! For Kirkwall and the Maker!"

"For Kirkwall and for the Maker!"

The group began to disperse, emotions and blood running high and heated. Mettin turned proudly to the other Templar, who had remained silent. "They will have magic wards at the Keep," he said. "We alone can take them down. Best that we wait."

"There is a secret entrance to the basement of the apostate's old home," his companion finally spoke up. "Thrask knew of it, but he never told me where."

"We will find it. The Maker is on our side."

As the riled mob left the cave, it broke up into smaller units that quickly scattered. Some units were leaderless, but most had one person who directed them. Without Mettin's presence, some of the leaders were willing to take their murdering rampage even further than the former Templar had urged.

"Dog Lords and Orlesians have taken over the city," snarled one man bearing a torch and a sword. "The apostate has an alliance with Ferelden, and she was one of them. We must assume that all dogs support her—and most of the scum in Darktown are dogs—"

Someone in this group let out a cackling, mocking howl that he supposed must have sounded like a wild dog. The others laughed.

"They have even installed an Orlesian in the house of the Maker! Never, ever forget why the oxmen attacked the city—the Orlesian false priest schemed with the apostate. And the Rivaini whore who provoked it all was rewarded, and now flaunts her indecency in these streets and in the Keep! No more!"

Even though the amount of gang violence had been decreasing of late, the residents and frequenters of Darktown were long accustomed to armed gangs storming through, and those who were not involved in organized crime themselves knew to get out of the way, since gangs not involved in slaving would generally kill only their intended targets. They had begun the scramble upon seeing a knot of armed men and women coming their way, dashing for nooks and crannies, trying to quickly put out a celebratory campfire—

"Ey! You got the wrong folks! I haven't done nothing to you!" protested a man, a bottle of whiskey still in his hand.

The Darktowner's accent was so heavy that it left no doubt. "Fereldan mongrel!" the mob leader snarled. He hefted his blade.

The man tried to run, but it was too late. The mob leader cleaved through his torso with a squishy, gruesome thunk. With a look of disbelief on his face, the dying man tumbled to the ground, broken glass clinking and amber liquor mixing with red blood.

A woman's scream filled the air as another member of the mob cut her throat. She gurgled and collapsed, clutching her throat, red streaming through her fingers.

"Why are you doing this?" cried the last survivor of the group, an older woman, apparently the mother of one of the couple. She had given up.

"This is our city, and we are taking it back." The leader swung his blade.

Another, much larger group stormed through Lowtown: the most fanatical of the mage-haters, who regarded the clinic bomber as a martyr and who had no special animus for the foreign-born. The group had grown as various cells that had initially formed upon the conclusion to Mettin's speech coalesced together again out of a shared purpose. By the time they reached the main residential neighborhoods of Lowtown, there were close to one hundred of them, all armed, terrorizing the townsfolk as they burned and murdered.

A skinny woman with a pinched face and a sharp dagger on her belt consulted a marked map. An evil smirk formed on her face as she pointed at a particular door. "A mage sympathizer!" she proclaimed. A large thug stormed to the door and kicked.

Scuffling sounded from within the house. The thug kicked again, shattering the door on its hinges. A dozen of the group entered the house in a fury, weapons brandished. Most of the mob merely stood guard or even spread out to harass other Lowtown residents. There were so many in the mob that they did not have to focus on one target at a time.

"Get out!" screamed a man, clutching what was obviously a kitchen knife.

The thug and the mean-faced woman laughed at the weapon. "Join us and we will spare you!" she taunted, jerking her razor-sharp dagger out of her belt sheath. "Redeem yourself for your sin by fighting beside us tonight, and we will spare your life!"

The man gave a desperate glance backward, but only for a moment. "I won't!" he roared, charging the group in a desperate, futile last stand.

He lasted only seconds. The dozen or so of the religious fanatic mob withdrew from his house, leaving his corpse in a pool of blood, his right arm attached by only a strip of skin, the Satinalia decorations still hanging in a macabre, twisted mockery of the innocent joy that the household would have experienced the next day.

No one saw the young girl who had scampered in terror under a bed after the first kick on the door, the person her father glanced back at for a fraction of a second. She had known to fear heavy kicks on the door, and although her father had raised a toast to the ascension of the mage Viscountess when Lady Hawke had been crowned, that had not assuaged her fear. Tonight, her fear saved her life. Even as her young heart broke when she saw him die, she kept her silence. She waited several more minutes after the murderous thugs left her house, slipping out the back when she heard dozens of screams and shouts in her neighborhood, accompanied by the clash of steel.

She ran and ran, not daring to defend herself, because she knew that if she did, she would instantly be marked for death. Killers were everywhere. The largest group seemed to be in her neighborhood—she closed her eyes as if that could remove the memory of the blood in the street that she had seen when she fled her house—but she saw another group on the way to Hightown. Their faces, torches, and blades were terrible. What was happening? They are killing everyone who supports mages, she realized desperately. They are killing all of us, and then they are going to go after the Viscountess and all her friends.

She rounded a corner into the aristocratic district—and immediately ran straight into an armored blond man. As she fell backward, horror overcame her as she realized that the armor was Templar armor. She scrambled to her feet.

"Ser!" she exclaimed as the Templar turned around, shocked. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to! Please don't hurt me!"

Ser Cullen drew back. "I'm not going to hurt you!" he exclaimed. "Why would you think that? What are you running from, little girl?"

She hesitated, unsure if she should trust him. He did not seem to know what was going on, which meant that he was not part of the murderous mob, but he was still a Templar. Ever since Alison Dupres-Trevelyan had shown magic, her father, her poor father, had warned her to be especially careful around Templars.

And yet, she could tell this Templar what was going on without revealing her secret. Shuddering, tears filling her eyes as she finally allowed herself to accept what had just happened, she emptied herself.

The Keep.

"I have not had too much! Watch this!" At that, Isabela flung a dart at the plank with a scribbled target on it that was serving as a makeshift dartboard. "Beat that, Varric!"

Varric scoffed, and with a single, almost silent movement, broken only by the sound of Bianca's mechanism, he shot a bolt into the sloppily drawn bull's eye. He gazed pointedly at Isabela. Her thrown dart was on the third ring.

The pirate scowled. "I could hit dead center too if I had that thing."

"Excuses, excuses."

Caitlyn glanced uneasily at Anders. This was getting out of hand. Mal lay sleepily against his father, the dog and cat also dozing away. Leandra too had retired to the parlor, and Carver and Merrill had stepped away to a balcony. Even Gamlen had gone to bed—or rather, collapsed on a sofa in the parlor. But other guests were at the point of being obnoxious. Anders looked back at her, nodding silently. They seemed to be in agreement.

A loud, aggressive knock on the dining room door stopped everyone.

"Guard-Captain! Your Grace! It's Thrask—and this is urgent!"

Caitlyn rose to her feet at once. From a corner, looking strangely relieved at what seemed to be the call of duty, Aveline and Donnic also stood at attention. At the table, Isabela and Varric settled down, seriousness overtaking their features again. Anders glanced regretfully at the door as Caitlyn bade Thrask enter; it seemed that he would soon be extricated from the warm heap of cat, dog, and his son piled against him.

He closed the door. "I am sorry to intrude upon your privacy like this, Your Grace," he said. "There is a child I brought to the outer Keep. I know it is an imposition, but she very abruptly has no one, and if you..."

"We can shelter her there," Caitlyn said at once, not giving it a moment's hesitation. "But what's happened? Why did you bring her here?"

The Templar steeled himself. "There is an insurrection taking place in the city this very moment."

"What?" she breathed, green eyes wide.

"A violent, murderous mob," he said grimly. "They have apparently killed dozens in Darktown and Lowtown already, including her father. They are targeting 'mage sympathizers,' supporters of Your Grace, and the foreign-born, it seems. And they mean to regroup and attack the Keep. Ser Cullen was the first person she saw in Hightown after she escaped the carnage. He brought her to me. He and Ser Agatha have gone to the Chantry to warn the people there."

"Mettin's mob," Caitlyn said, her mind instantly putting it together. Her voice was strikingly cold as she rose to her feet. "How many?"

Thrask gazed down, sorrow and anger in his face. "We estimate at least a hundred, all armed. They pose a serious threat to the Keep and the Chantry, Your Grace, let alone the murders that they are committing even as we speak."

Caitlyn suppressed a furious swear. "What is being done to fight them?"

"We learned of it only ten minutes ago, Your Grace, when young Serah Dupres-Trevelyan—the girl—reached Hightown."

"The Guard is always ready," Aveline interjected. "We await your word."

Caitlyn made her decision immediately. "Get everyone you can in Lowtown and Darktown—except some of the archers," she said to Aveline. "Stop the killings first and foremost. If they want me, let's get them in front of the Keep, not killing innocent people who can't defend themselves."

"Your Grace," Aveline objected, falling into formality in front of Thrask, "that could be dangerous."

"Herd them here, in one place," Caitlyn said in hard tones, making it clear that this was an order. "We can deal with them. Leave some archers here, manning the balconies and ramparts. Oh—and the vigilantes. They will have a choice as to whether they want to defend the Keep or defend the people. I won't pressure them either way."

"Yes, Your Grace," Aveline said, submitting. Without waiting another moment, she and Donnic departed to ready the guards.

Caitlyn turned back to Thrask. "The Templars that you trust," she began.

"I will get as many of them as I can to go to the Chantry," he said. "I... wish I could feel comfortable sending them out to defend innocents in the city, but... if Meredith is involved..."

"Get as many innocents to the Chantry as you can, as well. If they run out of room there, take them to the outer Keep."

Thrask nodded, understanding. "As you bid, Your Grace."

Leandra had reentered the room, accompanied by Carver and Merrill. "This is terrible!" she exclaimed, looking sick. "Ser Thrask, if you could—if you have but a minute—our maid, our helpless maid Orana—she is in the mansion—and I know it does not really matter, but my poor Malcolm and Bethany's ashes... by the hearth..."

"I will see your maid safely here," Thrask said, "and the ashes too."

"Thank you so much," she gasped in relief.

As the Templar departed, Caitlyn realized that her friends and relatives were staring fixedly at her. The weight of their collective gaze pressed upon her, and she realized what they likely meant to do.

Carver spoke first. "It won't stand," he seethed. "They won't get away with it."

"No, they won't," Merrill agreed, her fey voice as hard as Caitlyn had ever heard it.

"You need to let us do this, Hawke," Varric added, seemingly aware of what she was feeling.

Caitlyn could barely stand to hear it. She understood—oh, she understood—but still, it hurt. The old familiar terror of loss rose up like a wave in her. Who will it be tonight? she thought darkly. My brave, stubborn friends...

She swallowed and tried to appear strong. "I wish you would stay where it is safe, but I... understand," she choked, her strength faltering at the end. "Stay together. Protect each other and don't lose sight of the goal. There are a hundred murdering traitors out there. You can't defeat them all yourselves. When the Guard reinforcements come, follow the plan." She hesitated. "And anyone who does want to stay, I swear, nobody will judge you for it."

Varric, Isabela, Merrill, Carver, and Charade instantly formed a knot. Fenris wavered, but only for a second; in the next, he took his place beside his friends too. "Five years ago it would have felt strange that I am fighting to defend mage sympathizers," he said to Caitlyn, "but now, I'm just fighting to defend those who support my friends." Caitlyn managed a weak smile for him.

Anders hesitated for a moment. Mal was awake again, staring silently at his parents and their friends, deeply aware of what was happening and too overwhelmed to know what to say. Anders met his son's eyes, sighed heavily, and picked up his staff.

"Oh no you don't," Varric said. "Don't even think about it. You stay here with your pregnant wife and young child."

Caitlyn interjected, though it broke her heart to do so. "No," she croaked. "Let him do what he is compelled to do, Varric. Time is running short and all of you who intend to fight need to go!"

Anders glanced from Caitlyn to Mal. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly, moving close to her and gazing unhappily into her eyes. "But if I don't go, and anything happened to any of them, I will always wonder if I could have helped... could have saved them..."

She hugged him tightly. "I understand," she whispered. She heard Mal suppress a cry and a sniffle, then felt his small arms wrap around his father's waist close to her. "Please be safe and come back to us."

Anders hugged them both, kissed their cheeks, and gently caressed the large bump around Caitlyn's abdomen. "I will."

Anders kissed and caressed the small spot below her waist, then rose to his feet.

"Please be safe. Please. I know this must be done, but I'm so scared. Please come back to me."

"I will. I'll come back to both of you. I promise."

The unwanted intrusion of the nine-year-old memory nearly paralyzed Caitlyn with terror as Anders drew away. It won't happen that way again, she told herself, holding Mal tightly and watching with a somewhat glassy gaze as her friends, her brother, her cousin, and her beloved walked away to fight.

Anders struggled between his inclination to lead the group and the awareness that he was not the one who was physically strongest. Finally he decided to fall in with the others as Fenris and Carver, who used greatswords, led the charge. "Aveline and the guards will probably stay in Lowtown, for the most part," he said quietly. "I know my way around Darktown, though—and the old clinic can be a safe location and a reasonably defensible point. There are a lot of stairs nearby. We would have the higher ground."

Varric considered, nodding in agreement. "Darktown it is, then."

They descended into the dark structure from the nearest entrance point, which so happened to be the Amell basement. Orana and Thrask passed them on the way out, and Anders noted that the maid was carrying the urn and the leather purse, leaving the Templar free to carry his sword. He was glad. He hoped that nothing happened to the house, but he understood Leandra's insistence on having these items above all if it did. They passed through the basement into Darktown. This area was strikingly empty.

"No one has used it regularly," Anders said as he took in the old clinic. "And where are the thugs? Where is everyone, for that matter?"

"Not waiting around to be killed, it would seem," Fenris said drolly.

A piercing shriek broke the silence, answering the question for them. They exchanged quick glances. Fenris, Isabela, and Carver took off in the direction of the scream, running down a flight of wooden stairs, as the others stopped halfway down, gazes darting around the site for any sign of movement. Anders sucked in his breath hard as he saw a blood-spattered clearing, three pale bodies lying nearby.

Shouts and the clangs of metal against metal sounded from a nearby nook. The three melee fighters had clearly found their target. Varric edged forward, giving himself a better angle. Everyone on the stairs waited for the moment—

Seven angry-faced men in leathers suddenly appeared from around a corner, followed at once by the three friends. Carver was lagging behind, engaged in tight combat with a snarling, especially well-armored man with a sword, but Fenris and Isabela were giving chase. Varric tensed and shot a bolt from his trusty weapon. It struck home. The man reeled, suddenly clutching at his chest as Carver lopped off his head.

"Dread Wolf take you!" screamed Merrill, casting a foggy cloud at four others, stopping them in their tracks, making them flounder in confusion as Fenris and Isabela turned to the suddenly easy targets. Varric shot more bolts in quick succession at the two who were still coming at the archers and mages, startling them, as Anders and Charade pitched in with lightning bolts and arrows of their own.

It was tiring and bloody, but at last, all seven combatants were down, and the defenders had only a few bleeding scratches. Anders took a deep breath and cast a group healing spell to repair this damage. "This isn't all," he said grimly, though that was obvious. He made to head to the nook where the thugs had come from, but Carver shook his head.

"It's too late," Carver said grimly. "There's no one alive there anymore. Let's move on."

Anders blanched as they passed by the nook anyway, and he could not help but steal a glimpse—and wished he had not. The thugs had slain an entire family and their mabari. One of the thugs had even left behind a spiteful message on the dog's fur: Dogs die like dogs. They had been targeted because they were Fereldan, or the thugs had assumed so due to the mabari. Like the tree in Lothering years ago with the heads of children, strung up by the darkspawn, he would never be able to unsee this. He felt the spirit of Justice stirring in outrage within him.

Not now, he told Justice. Not yet. Just help me for now.

The spirit seemed to agree—for now.

Caitlyn was trying hard not to let herself be overcome with fear. It would not help anyone. Leandra was standing aside compassionately, waiting to see if her daughter would need her, but not forcibly involving herself. Thrask had delivered the ashes and Orana to the Keep before joining the fray, and she seemed to take comfort in that. Mal was grimly silent, hugging Baldwin and petting Pounce, his eyes closed as if in prayer. Perhaps it was prayer. Caitlyn felt a pang for the fact that it would not give her peace to pray. The Maker had not even intervened to save Andraste, so why would He intervene tonight? She turned aside, staring out the window, before turning then to Orana.

"Orana," she said quietly, "the girl Thrask brought to the outer Keep. Bring her here, please. She lost her father tonight. She does not need to be alone in a place with guards and vigilantes preparing for battle."

The elf woman nodded at once in understanding and left for the outer Keep. Caitlyn sat beside Mal as he looked up at her, fear and sadness in his young face. She held him silently until the maid returned with the young girl.

"Your Grace," the child whispered as she curtsied to Caitlyn. Her face was wet with tears, and she did not look much older than Mal. Trying to put her at ease, Caitlyn patted the seat on her other side, urging the child to sit down.

"I am sorry about what happened to your poor father tonight," she began. The girl suppressed a hiccup. "Do you want to talk about him? Or yourself? If you don't, that is not an order," she added at once. "I just thought that you might want to be away from all the soldiers outside."

"Thank you, Your Grace," the girl said quietly. She took a deep breath and tried to stop her choking sobs, wiping her eyes as she did. "I'm Alison Dupres-Trevelyan and I'm nine."

"Trevelyan?" Leandra spoke up, her voice gentle. "I don't suppose... I know of a family named Trevelyan, and I was wondering if... Do you have any other relatives? The city must defeat the evil men who killed your poor father, and you will want to mourn him, but is there anyone who would miss you tonight? Who needs to know where you are and that you are safe?"

The child closed her eyes momentarily. "It was always just me and my dad. My mum was a Trevelyan. She died when I was born. Her family... my dad"—she suppressed another sob at the mention of him—"once said he wrote to them about me after that, but they didn't want to hear from him or me ever again."

"Why not?" Caitlyn said as Leandra's eyes widened. This sounded awfully like the previous generation of Amells...

"They sent my mum to the Chantry to become a sister. She left when she met my dad, and her family didn't like that, he told me. I've got an Uncle Max in..." She hesitated, deciding on something in a second, then taking a deep breath for courage. "In Ostwick, at the Circle. I'm... like him."

"You are a mage too?" Caitlyn said.

The girl nodded. "I thought Your Grace would understand."

"The Trevelyans of Ostwick are a noble family," Leandra said quietly, "and very, very devout. They always pledge one of their children to the Chantry. I did hear a few years ago that the daughter had eloped with an Orlesian commoner before taking her vows, but no one knew what had happened after."

"It's sort of like you," Caitlyn said, hugging the girl with her free arm. Beside her, Mal stared at Alison, interested in meeting another person his age who was a mage, but aware that she had just lost her father and was very sad. She turned to the girl. "Listen. After we have defeated the murderers, I will make sure that you have someone who can take care of you. Your father must have had friends in town. We'll find them. And we'll find a mage who can teach you, since Ostwick does not do what we do here in Kirkwall and wouldn't allow you to live in that Circle with your Uncle Max."

"Thank you so much, Your Grace."

Caitlyn gazed out the window. A good deed, she thought, but one that should not have been necessary. She should still have her father, who protected her with his life. How many others will die tonight? What other children will lose their parents? She could not look at Mal while having that thought—she just could not. Her gaze hardened as her thoughts turned to fear and anger. All of this because of violent, murderous fanatics. They will face justice for this.

"You aren't coming in here!" roared Anders at the approaching mob. They had scoured this part of Darktown and herded everyone still alive into the old clinic, which they had warded and were now defending from the top of the nearest staircase. The mob stood on the lower level, glowering angrily, a few of them daring to venture up the stairs to fight Fenris, Carver, or Isabela. Every now and then an archer's arrow whizzed past Charade, Varric, or the mages, but nothing was striking. They had the high ground, and they could pick off those who tried to climb the stairs.

But the mob had superiority of numbers. Even though the majority were in Lowtown, fighting the guards, the small, disparate units scattered throughout Darktown had coalesced again, and they numbered easily five dozen together. Anders was furious. Where did Mettin get such a crowd? he thought as he gazed out at them. These cannot all be Kirkwallers, surely. And where is the bastard himself? In Lowtown, killing children?

It dawned on him that this part of the mob did not seem to have a leader and that was probably why they were not advancing. At some point, they would figure out that they could storm the stairs en masse, and it would be too much to overcome. Should we retreat to the mansion and run for Hightown? The house will be overrun if we do... I can lock the exit, but that won't stop them...

Thoughts of Caitlyn and Mal filled his head. What did a house matter? If he stayed here, he would die here, along with all the others—and the house would be overrun anyway.

"What are you fools doing?"

The jarring, vaguely echoing voice somehow sounded above the din. Anders craned his neck as a man in red, gold, and black Templar armor emerged from a cranny in Darktown. His helmet covered his face and distorted his voice, but Anders was pretty sure that this was not Mettin. He drew his blade and raised it high. "Don't you know who that is? Let's greet the apostate with her husband's corpse! After them!"

Spoiling for a fight, Justice almost burst out in that moment, but Anders managed to keep him in check. He would fight this Templar once all these people were safe. "Through the cellar!" he exclaimed, yanking the trapdoor open and dismantling the magical barrier in the clinic. Since there was now a Templar who could tear down the barrier, the innocents inside would be slaughtered if the defenders abandoned them. The others covered him, shooting and fighting the approaching mob as Anders urged the civilians through the trapdoor into the Amell basement. Following them up at the end, the archers and Merrill entered the room, then Isabela, leaving Carver and Fenris still fighting off the group at the top of the stairs.

I won't let any of them die, even Fenris, if I can help it. With a desperate look backward, he allowed the spirit to take over. Justice blazed from his eyes and rippled from his skin. Blue veilfire blazed from behind him as he cast a powerful wave of magic at the mob, stunning them, knocking them backward, and giving him, Carver, and Fenris enough time to escape.

Anders lingered in the cellar for a moment, casting another barrier. The Templar would surely take it down quickly, but he was behind the mob and would have to get to the head of the group to do it, since the space was rather small. This would buy them a little more time. He grimaced as he dashed through the Amell house. He had spent three wonderful years here, and now, he wondered if he would ever see anything inside it again. At least everyone he loved was at the Keep, or soon would arrive there.

They ran up the street of Hightown, sheltering the civilians, until they reached the Keep. The vigilantes were no longer outside at the steps, Anders noted. The guards instantly let the group in as Varric called out that the people were rescued from the insurrectionists. The great doors were closed quickly with a heavy metallic clang. Without waiting another second, Anders headed to the inner Keep to find his family.

"Your Grace. They have returned."

With a parting glance to her mother, son, the maid, and the young guest, Caitlyn rose to her feet and went to the door. She flung it open and instantly exhaled in relief when she saw Anders.

"We're here," he said, taking her in his arms. "We're all here. All of us."

She caressed the feathers on his back. "Oh, thank the Maker," she breathed. "The Darktown mob is gone, then?"

He grimaced. "Well, uh, actually..."

"Hawke!"

Caitlyn glanced up sharply. Aveline was rushing for her, and unlike Anders, she was covered in blood. She looked very worried—and Caitlyn realized that she had said her surname rather than her title in front of the servant, which she usually did not do. Something was still very wrong.

Aveline caught her breath. "We chased them away from the homes they were attacking, but there is still a massive death toll, we fear. And then a Templar appeared, calling them to order, saying it was 'time.' I think it was Mettin. He unfurled a banner... and Hawke, I think he has the weapon that took down Anders' barrier the day that Selby was killed. Three of the Arcane Guard tried to attack him, but he just..."

"What kind of weapon is it?" she said quickly.

"I couldn't see. Too far away, and the torchlight... but I saw that red light again. Hawke, they're coming. We had to retreat. They're here, Hawke."

Anders interjected. "Then there are two Templars, because there was one in Darktown who rallied the mob too. We were cornered, Caitlyn. I had to get the survivors and our friends and family out through your mother's basement. I'm so sorry. They followed—"

"It is a house," she said stoically. "Everyone I love is here." She took a deep breath. "This is what we planned, I suppose: Get them here."

"You need to see their numbers, Hawke," warned Aveline as they walked down the corridor. "I don't think Thrask's estimate was right. There are over two hundred people, probably more. Where that lunatic managed to muster such a force..."

She cursed. "Maker's breath!"

They passed into the outer Keep, where the group of terrified civilians gathered in a huddle. Shouts sounded through the heavy gates, indicating that, indeed, the mob was gathered outside. Caitlyn caught a glimpse of Cullen Rutherford, Ser Thrask, Ser Agatha, and Ser Keran, who were clustered near a visibly frightened Petrice and a group of people in Chantry regalia, including several mages who had been serving there as Healers. She did not have the time or inclination to talk with them, and a deep anger burned within her at the realization the only Templars in the entire Keep were these four and the few others in their cluster. Meredith Stannard was nowhere in sight.

"Archers!" she called out. Several vigilantes and guards who had bows snapped to attention. "Archers and battlemages! Get to the rooftops and prepare to defend the Keep!"

She clutched her staff as she, Anders, and Aveline ascended a staircase that led to the rooftop. Armored archers stood dutifully atop the ramparts, awaiting orders, while the others she had summoned—and the mages—followed up the steps to take their places. Caitlyn heard a roar, and—making sure she did not get too close—she gazed out into the streets of Hightown.

There were easily two hundred people gathered. A sea of flickering orange torches illuminated the clearing before the Keep. The lights reflected off the many raised blades in the crowd, showing the blood of Kirkwall in gruesome detail even from this height. At the head of the group stood two Templars in black armor, not the usual armor, and just behind them, someone held a strange banner high. It depicted the Sword of Mercy that was the symbol of the order, but there was no silver, blue, or white. The sword was pitch black against a blood-red field.

"The apostate who stole this Keep is no true Viscountess! We demand that you surrender the entire apostate family!"

Aveline stiffened at the demand, directed not at the rooftops specifically, but at anyone in the Keep who could hear. It had come from one of the Templars.

"Surrender them, and we will spare the others' lives—if they go back where they belong!"

At this, people in the mob began to chant. "Send them back to Dog Land! Send them back! Send them back!"

Anders breathed heavily, clearly trying to keep Justice from bursting out in front of all the archers. Caitlyn was frozen in fury and disbelief.

"Your Grace?" Aveline said.

"Kill the apostates!"

It was unclear whether one of the Templars said this, but once it was out, the mob instantly took it up, turning it into a chant that replaced the previous one. "Kill the apostates! Kill the apostates! Kill the apostates!" They began to stamp their feet. It grew to a menacing, pounding roar, heated and bloodthirsty, drowning out everything else except the rush of blood in Caitlyn's own ears as the world seemed to close in around her...

She blinked, clearing her thoughts. "Kill them all, every last one of them. If they throw down their weapons, shoot them anyway."

Aveline and Anders stared at her. "Your Grace?" Aveline said, stunned.

Caitlyn breathed heavily and turned to face them. Her eyes were wide and angry as she gestured toward the mob. "You heard me, and you hear them!" Tiny flames darted from her fists into the air. "What else can we do? If we let any of them escape, they will be a threat again! We saw with the clinic bombing that it only takes one to cause carnage! There are too many to put in jail indefinitely, and if we don't kill them now, we'll have to hang them as the murderers and traitors they are anyway!"

Anders was shocked, but in a moment, he accepted her reasoning and nodded in understanding and stark resignation.

"This is a battle against murdering, armed insurrectionists," Caitlyn said. "We put them down." She clenched her teeth.

Aveline still looked upset; she had fought in combat all her adult life and had even performed executions, but she had never had to direct anything like this before. However, when Caitlyn laid it out as she had, she could see her friend's reasoning. She turned to the archers and battlemages. "You heard your Viscountess's order!" she cried. "Attack!"

The sound of bowstrings snapping and crossbow mechanisms clicking filled the air. Arrows rained down upon the insurrectionists in a whoosh. The battlemages readied their staves and began to send volleys of magic at the mob. The aggressive, bloodthirsty chant quickly changed to screams of terror. Caitlyn stood silently for a moment, the rush of fury and dark resolution briefly giving way to guilt at what she had just had to order done. Turning aside, she headed back to the stairs that led to the interior of the Keep, Anders following quietly behind her.

"Are you all right?" he asked her, catching up with her as he also caught his breath.

She nodded as she pushed the door to the outer Keep open. "That was necessary—but that does not mean that it was easy. And..." She took a breath. "I need to..." She trailed off, unsure what she was trying to say. Her thoughts were a bit of a jumble. I had no choice—no viable choice—but something about that still bothers me, and it is not exactly that it means two hundred more deaths. What is it?

"Darling?"

She paused at the entrance to the Keep, giving him time to hold her hand privately where no one could see it. "It was necessary and it was just," he said quietly. "Justice is not often joyful. It is much more likely to be grim."

"You're right," she realized.

He released her and readied his staff. "One of those Templars is Mettin. I have to fight him myself."

Her eyes popped wide. "What?"

Before he could reply, the shouts outside became louder, and they heard a voice from the rooftop they had just left: Aveline's. "They're trying to flee!"

Caitlyn resolved on what she would have to do even before Aveline burst onto the stone stairs. "Your Grace—" the Guard-Captain began.

"I know," Caitlyn said, cutting her off. She slammed the tip of her staff on the stone, creating a magical wave that got everyone's attention, and descended the steps quickly as she called out. "Guards! Vigilante fighters for Kirkwall!"

The assembled fighters who used blades rather than bows looked up at her.

"I have given the order to your comrades in arms on the rooftop, and now I give it to you! The enemy is trying to flee, but we won't let them escape this time! Meet them blade to blade! If they run, chase them down! They are traitors with the blood of your countrymen on their hands, every single one of them! Show them no mercy! Now—open the gates!"

The guards began to pull the heavy gates open as the fighters gathered. Caitlyn and Anders reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped aside to let by some of the battlemages and a few archers from the rooftop, to continue the chase. He turned to her again.

"I have to fight him," he said gravely. "What I saw in Darktown—Justice will not let it go. And the clinic bombing... Selby's assassination... this attack on our family..."

"You have done your part," she exclaimed. I'm the one who has done nothing myself.

He shook his head. "He and I... disagree. I'm sorry, love. I have to."

"But..."

"I will come back," he said resolutely. "I did before, and I will this time." He gave her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. "It was more dangerous before. Now I have an army with me." A dry smile filled his face as he ruffled her hair.

She stood aside, gaping in dismay and despair as he headed out with the rest of the group of fighters—which included, she observed, Carver and her friends. They were all putting themselves in danger again. For me, she thought. For the people of Kirkwall, yes, but also for me. And I've done nothing.

Her hand found its way to her bump. I shouldn't endanger her. I am pregnant and I have another young child as well.

Anders is my children's father, and he left to fight.

I am the Viscountess of Kirkwall.

We're under attack because of me, what I believe and what I am, but I have done nothing—except give an order to others to slay two hundred people. I should feel the true weight of what that means. I should carry it out myself.

If something happens that causes me to lose her, I will never forgive myself.

I am a mage. I can shield myself. The only serious danger is if one of those Templars targets me and no one is there to help.

I should feel the weight of what I commanded. I ordered bloody, grim justice; I should carry it out with my own hands and magic.

She gazed through the open doors. The defenders were chasing and fighting the insurrectionists on the streets of Hightown. Battlemages' spells illuminated the grim scene with unnaturally colored flashes. Fallen torches burned out on the ground, often igniting the fallen bodies. Blood pooled everywhere, which was clear to her eyes even though it was night.

Caitlyn glanced around, her gaze alighting upon a set of black studded leathers made for a man and a heavy double-layered black leather cloak near the guard barracks. She strode to the bench where they rested and gathered them up, pulling them on over her clothing, not caring in the least who saw. The leathers were loose, but fit around her pregnant belly. She lifted the hood of the cloak over her head. Covered in black now, she picked up her staff.

"Your Grace!"

Caitlyn whirled around and faced Aveline. "I'm not going to sit here while other people kill and die for me," she said. Without another word, ignoring the gasps of the gathered townsfolk and the few armed people who remained behind to protect the Keep, she strode boldly through the gates. She raised her staff and cast a luminous, mint-green glyph shield for herself as soon as she was outside the Keep, then stormed ahead, seeking her friends—and Anders.

The walk was just as grim as she had expected. She at first tried to avoid pools of blood, but as she continued to where the now greatly thinned mob had formerly stood, it became impossible. She hardened her heart against the sound of splashing from her boots and the stench in the air.

Soldiers and vigilantes were fighting insurrectionists dutifully, and the light of a mage's spell occasionally lit up the scene, but she did not involve herself in a fight just yet. No distractions. Keep to the goal, she told herself.

A vigilante fighter disarmed an insurrectionist, who then fell to his knees, pleading for mercy. With a sneer, the vigilante cut the man's head off. Blood poured from the stump of his neck as the corpse tumbled to the ground, adding yet more to the veritable lake of red in front of the Keep.

Caitlyn walked on, her black leather cloak swaying heavily around her.

In the distance, close to the exit from Hightown, a sky-blue magic light flashed—and rather than disappearing, as spells often did, it remained. Her heart skipped a beat. Was it Anders? She hurried, making sure not to run so fast that she lost her footing and slipped in the blood. As she reached mostly dry pavement, her boots became sticky.

As she jogged toward the light, she rounded a corner—and found herself facing a group of about three dozen armed people, running away down a dirty alley that led to Lowtown. She instantly guessed the truth—they were with the mob—and in a sudden rush of rage, hurled a fireball at the opposite end, igniting a bin of trash that nearly blocked the exit. The people halted, horrified.

Caitlyn's eyes narrowed as they turned around. She breathed heavily.

A man near the head of the group threw down his weapon with a clatter of steel on stone. "Please!" he burst out. Behind him, several others exchanged quick glances and did the same. The sound of nervous breathing seemed to be the only thing in the world at that moment, for Caitlyn and for the crowd.

She lowered her black hood, revealing her vivid red hair. Several of them gasped. "Your Grace!" pleaded another. "We weren't part of that mob at first! They came to our houses and told us that we could join them tonight or die—"

In an instant, several memories flashed through Caitlyn's mind: Alison Dupres-Trevelyan, sobbing for her father; Mal, praying with the dog and cat cuddled next to him; the crowd of miserable Darktowners in the Keep; Aveline, covered in blood; Mistress Selby's body, covered in cloth.

Her voice was corrosive with rage. "And you joined them," she finished savagely. "They targeted you because they thought you were kind to mages, or supported me, or were Fereldan—and you joined them! You murdered others tonight who were better people than yourselves, and you marched with that mob to the very steps of the Keep to attack me!"

"We were going to die!" cried another. "Please, Your Grace, please—"

"Please have mercy! Send us to jail, we know we deserve it, but please—"

Caitlyn breathed heavily, too angry to speak. These people betrayed their city, murdered their countrymen, yet they dare to ask for mercy? Where was the mercy for that girl's father? she thought. Where was the mercy for the people in the Keep? For the hundreds of others who lost their lives tonight, or the survivors left to mourn? They beg for mercy because they are afraid to die. Where was the mercy for Mal, Anders, and me through all the losses and the fears of death we've suffered as a mage family?

I felt that I had to carry out my own order, she recalled. That is why I left the Keep.

She took a deep breath and exhaled, then clenched her staff. Her free hand became heated. When she spoke, her teeth were clenched, and her voice was as dark as the sky above them.

"I have only one thing for you and it is the opposite of mercy."

Two people in the group gasped as they realized what she meant to do, and they turned to run, to brave the burning trash, but they were too slow. Caitlyn did not throw a fireball. Summoning much more magic than that, in a matter of two seconds, she created a swirling firestorm in the alley that sucked the people trying to escape back into the searing, skin-stripping vortex. Sweat dripped from her face as she drew back, feeling a rush of hot wind too.

Screams of agony tore through the air as they flailed, their clothes turning to ash, their skin blistering and peeling away, their hair catching flame.

She turned aside. Though the screams quickly stopped, the inferno roared away, incinerating everything but metal, stone, and glass.

When the fire ran out of combustible things to fuel itself, it weakened quickly, leaving an eerie silence. Caitlyn heard her own heart pounding again and dared to turn around. The alley was a smoking, ash-covered morgue, with three dozen charred, dark brown and black skeletons where there had been people just a minute ago. Caitlyn's eyes adjusted to the darkness... until she realized that the blue light she had seen before still glowed ahead.

Pushing aside the sudden doubt and vague shame that she felt, she focused on her other task: help her loved ones. That blue light surely meant—

A flash of red light countered the blue, momentarily darkening the location, but the blue flared back immediately. A familiar voice—not Anders', but one very familiar nonetheless—roared back, "You cannot dim the light of Justice!"

The blue light was coming from the end of the street, less than a block away. She realized that Anders and whomever he was fighting had just seen what happened. Had they also heard it? She hoped they hadn't, though she could not admit to herself the reason for that. Another memory passed through her mind: the recent memory of standing in the practice room in the Keep, training dummies before her, as she threw fireballs at them. My foes, begging me for mercy as I burn them to death.

She forced herself not to think of it. Anders—well, right now, Justice—was in combat with a rogue Templar in black armor, and he might need help. Another Templar lay on the ground. As she reached him, he gazed at her for a fraction of a second, looking utterly horrified—that I am here, or because of what I just did? she wondered.

The Templar raged in terror at the sight of Caitlyn now joining Anders. The one on the ground stirred, surprising her; she had been sure he was dead.

"Run!" the prone Templar rasped. "Save yourself!" He choked up blood and passed out.

The one still standing hesitated for a tenth of a second, then raised his left hand. Glass-like pellets glowing with red light erupted from his armored glove, tearing through Anders' coat, sending the Healer reeling as the light of Justice faded.

Panic overwhelmed Caitlyn. With Anders down, she was next. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have endangered the baby. In terror, she hurled a volley of ice at the Templar, striking him and momentarily stunning him. The Templar snarled at Caitlyn as he shook himself free, but he did not retaliate even though he could have while she was focused on casting the paltry healing spell that she knew at Anders. Instead, he ran for his life, leaving them behind.

Anders coughed as Caitlyn cast the spell at him. He gazed at her with weary eyes. "You shouldn't have risked yourself," he whispered.

"I'm sorry," she replied, her voice barely audible. "I had to. I'm all right. She is all right."

He forced a weak smile on his face before fading out again. She cried out and felt for a pulse, relief flowing through her at the comforting thump of his heart. She closed her eyes and clutched his hands, wishing that none of this had happened.

"Caitlyn!"

She opened her eyes and whipped her head around. Carver was running, followed by Merrill and Fenris.

"Is he—"

"He's alive," she said, getting to her feet. "He needs healing. And that Templar is a captive. He was one of the leaders. Get him out of that armor. They can do that strange red attack when they are wearing it."

Carver nodded as Fenris spat at the Templar. As Fenris and Merrill got to work on the Templar, he hefted Anders' supine form onto his back. "Don't tell him I did this when he wakes up," he joked.

"Varric, Isabela, and Charade—"

"Are back in the Keep," he assured her.

Merrill pried the Templar's helmet off, revealing a familiar and very unwelcome face. "What a surprise," she snapped as they gazed down at Mettin.

"He has some questions to answer," Caitlyn said, "and for what he has done tonight..." She gazed ahead, not even needing to finish the sentence.

As they walked back to the Keep, she gazed around. The skirmishes were over. The only sounds now were those of cries—the cries of pain of those who had been wounded, or the agony of those who had lost someone.

Caitlyn covered her head with the black leather hood again. What have I done? she thought as she walked back to the Keep. Is this war at last? And back in that alley... If someone had threatened Mal, what would I have done? I wouldn't have joined a mob of mage-killers to save myself. But to save him? To save the baby?

She pushed these thoughts out of her head. The lights of the Keep were drawing near. As Carver carried Anders inside, and Fenris and Merrill hauled Mettin and his armor in, she walked up the steps, the last to enter.

Carver lifted Anders off his back and set him down as Leandra and Mal rushed down the steps. They cried out in alarm. "He needs healing!" Caitlyn exclaimed at once to calm their fears. "He's all right!" Mal buried himself in his mother's arms, whimpering. She held him as if their lives depended on it.

Carver, Fenris, and the others remained in the outer Keep, tending to the wounded and the newly homeless. Caitlyn wavered for a moment before deciding that this was under control and that her place was with Anders and Mal. She turned to Aveline, who seemed to be in charge, and gave her a silent nod, before heading toward the inner Keep.

"Your Grace," a guard said, hurrying after her. She halted and faced her. "With all due respect," the woman continued, "your boots... you may not want to walk into your family quarters..."

She looked back and winced. A trail of bloody footprints followed behind her through the outer Keep. It was not the only blood there, but it was the freshest and the reddest. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to block it out. "Of course," she said, opening them. "Thank you for telling me."

The guard nodded compassionately and bent down to take off her boots. Even as she stepped out of them, she knew there was no wiping clean her memories or soul of what had happened.

Notes: My OC Alison's "Uncle Max" Trevelyan is exactly who you think he is.

The events of the past two chapters and this one are based on the St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre in 1572 in France, a horrific conflict between Catholics and Protestant Huguenots in which thousands of (mostly) Protestants were murdered by mobs following the unsolved assassination of a prominent Protestant leader who'd had the king's ear and retaliatory threats by outraged Protestant radicals. A key difference is that the ruler of Kirkwall put down the mob ruthlessly, rather than giving aid and comfort to (or being complicit with) it as the French crown did.

It has been my intent to depict Caitlyn as a reluctant red Hawke, whose natural inclination is confrontational, self-righteous, and hot-tempered; a leader with clear autocratic, even tyrannical, tendencies; but who does not really like this part of herself and wants to succeed without having to do such things. But when she decides that that's not possible, she embraces her dark/red side, like Anders embraces Vengeance when he decides that there are no other options. Although he's a lot more Chaotic in alignment than she is, and that difference has been the main source of disagreement between them, they still struggle with the same darkness and understand each other extremely well.