This chapter concludes this horrific quest I've put you trough reading. If you don't care for what happens, don't read this chapter. Next one is what happens after Hawke basically remembers all of this and leaves the place she woke up in. Back to Kirkwall please!
Quick alarm: If you want to review, do it as a guest, because I merged some chapters together to lessen the numbers and it doesn't allow you to review chapters until 37 (if you reviewed beforehand the last three chapters I think) because it has the numbers of the same that you had reviewed before!
I walk, I walk alone
Into the promised land
There's a better place for me
But it's far, far away
Everlasting life for me
In a perfect world
But I gotta die first
Please God send me on my way
Time has a way of taking time
Loneliness is not only felt by fools
Alone I call to ease the pain
Yearning to be held by you, alone, so alone, I'm lost
Consumed by the pain
In My Darkest Hour
Nothing more could be gained from lingering near the Crows. I'd come. I'd fulfilled my purpose. I couldn't help him.
None of this made any sense, yet I did not wish for sense altogether. All I had known, my whole life since I'd escaped, was that I would do whatever it took to protect myself, as well as my friends. Who were these people, whom I called friends, as shocking and unnerving as it might have been?
Dorian. My sweet, silver-grinned Dorian, always strong and reassuring, yet a saint in all his modesty. He could always bring in me a smile even in my darkest hour. And hours like this, there had been plenty, though I had lost count by the time I had tasted what it truly meant to be free. I was grateful, so very grateful, that the Ferelden woman issued the Rivaini to remain at the inn and watch over him. He would not come to harm. And then there was Zevran. Cocky and musing, mumbling hot spice and cracking up the most scandalizing of jokes and scenarios with his abominable, depraved imagination.
But don't judge so quickly. Please, do not judge just yet. All this sum of strange or overwhelming attitudes you see, they are a battalion of defences and a carefully constructed aura to mask the great depth of our irreducible, individual soul. Without them, I would not be free. I did not wish to come back here; it was Zevran's wish. And in his hour of need, I could not refuse, even if I knew I'd hurt my beloved tenfold with my decision. Of course, he didn't say a word. Maybe just a ghost of a flinch that I'd seen with the back of my eye, across the subtle lines of his ever-warm expression. He understood I could not go back on my word to be at my friend's side and gave me the freedom to choose. And I had chosen, even if it meant the death of me. Only now, I could almost find in me a disturbing sensation that I wanted to weep. Not for my salvation, no.
Even if this scene that I am currently in had tormented by dreams and my nights over and over again for years – imagining what it would be like to be caught again, my happiness ruined, my being obstructed and enchained – I truly didn't see it coming. Not this way. Deliver us from evil, the prayer went. I didn't care at that moment for me, yet with all my being I wept inside for a miracle to save the soul in front of me, which had in all her bravery, came to rescue me, for no possibly fruitful reason other than perhaps, to be just. To do good. To sacrifice herself for the greater good. She is not a fool, she is not insane. I do not wish my freedom if it means killing her. It is a curious feeling, one many will never ever know – when you know you will not die, but you are overwhelm by the desire to. Such are the wolves of the forest, such are men who were trained to resist, to survive. They are broken people, and because they are broken, they know they will not die.
Such are the people who are not necessarily cruel, but had tasted cruelty dime a dozen. You look at a former slave and you will see nothing if not a perfect aura of content – either through a cocksure, joyful and carefree attitude as my friend exudes with such refined grace and talent, or by a cold, indomitable, hard face. That of a wolf, that of a tiger. It keeps all eyes away from prying and makes the blood freeze inside with striking reverberations of fear. It leaves an impression. It makes people understand we are not to be played with and we cannot be fooled. But of course, if you somehow manage to leave an impression on an escaped slave yourself, the repercussions of it will be quite fruitful, if not otherwise painful, depending on the slave. I would say my past decisions and behaviour concluded into a painful train of consequences for my friends, for my Dorian, but the end had enclosed my tale most fruitfully and joyfully. I think… I hope I did not hurt him quite so much, although I will never know for sure (better that I don't know). Because people like us, they can only be toned down, understood and tamed by truly strong people. We are a terrible challenge, a rare one to be accepted.
Yet this is the thing. In the manner of beasts, we set our tune for the world and treat it with the same coldness and prudence we had learned to root deep into end of every nerve and vein as we worked the field or carried enormous weights, when we were beaten because we were too weak to move on, when we were being kicked while we were down and unable to get up (but we would always get up), when we were tortured and healed, only to be whipped and smashed again until every speck of hope and warmth would be stripped from our conscience, our bones and our soul. But we would never show it affects us. We would never dare to leak any bit of emotion, terrible though it might be. We make it our personal burden, our desperation and our doubts remain private. The ones who didn't perished before their hearts stopped beating, before they ever died.
True death was born on the inside.
It feels so cold, so very cold. No grace dares to shine upon you. This is not a life, when you are obstructed of your own will. The only difficulty lies in the fact that if you are born this way, if you are stripped of your liberties from the very beginning, you would not know what freedom means. Your will is not your own and all your being has been constructed from the start to think only of what to on behalf of the Master; you are at his mercy and your role suffices with every "Yes, Master." You are absent of all convictions, impressions and curiosities as to how one may function if they are left to decide for their own. Most slaves do not survive if they become free. It is best if they remain where they are, for they are safer under their master's wings. Truly there is a higher chance to be put for safekeeping. But it is not a life. I would never return to that illusion, deep blasphemous illusion given by these unholy, dreaded excuses of creation.
One would not remember. Not when one was free. It is terrible to keep it together, terrible to remain and appear like a cold, hard beast, bad to the bone, never yielding, when inside you are no less than a lump of melting sugar if one great, brave soul had the courage to dwell deep enough. We are fearful, emotional, we feel and we breathe, and with every breath comes that fear.
Why am I disturbing this story? I will not do it much longer, so be patient. I promise I will end soon. I only wish you to listen a little more. Soon someone else will take over, as I finish dictating my own tale to the very end. My end is nigh, so do not worry.
So why have I chosen to mumble away this monologue of despair? It is because I am faced with my worst fear.
My flesh still crawls as I breathe this name, Avicus.
I will not bore you with the details of my life under the command of his man. It is unnecessary and time has a way of taking time, of which I don't have much, as you may see. I only say this – When I encountered him, I saw these men and knew what they wanted, that this was vice, and despicable, and the price of it was Hell. Curses of vanished elders echoed down on me: too pretty, too soft, too pale, eyes far too full of the Devil.
The sight of his sharply focused and unchanging eyes unnerved me, and I was quiet inside and full on protecting those nearest me, the ones who were helping me, but I was not strong enough just yet to face that one damnable little vial of ugliness that Avicus was. Every one of the boys I lived with in Vol Dorma knew of this. The Master knew good from evil, he knew of deceit. The boys were good boys.
My soul simply paralyzed and it was eating itself up in absolute terror. It was a deafness, it was a sickness. Masters? Sure, I had plenty. But none did manage to leave a print and an open wound as unbearable as he did. I will not bore you with the details, as I said, but every slave has that one master who will simply make his soul die for at least a few seconds before snapping back to life, if they ever get to. Me? I am not so sure I am going to.
It is truly wicked, truly saddening... to find yourself back in the claws of one who had killed you so many times by day and by night. I had worked hard to come to a form of reasonable behaviour, of reasonable motives to exist, of reasonable pleasures of life to enjoy, to allow!
What I do know… I don't even remember. I simply now I woke up from the blood spell he had put on me and I was alone. Again, alone and now helpless more than ever. I was mechanically driven to get out, to snap, to get away. Then something simply changed. Perhaps I am under a spell right now. Perhaps… we never truly change. Not after this much horror. And I never truly knew what it meant, to die.
And it is a madness, to know now that there is nothing worse than for a fallen saint to become a horrid devil. I was animated against my will… or maybe I was a compliant little pet again. I do not know. All I do know is that it was such a painful sight and I could not control my mind. I had no body, I had no soul. There might have been – there was, this little man inside of me, Armand, but he was chained by all my internal organs as if they were made of metal and spikes; they suffocated him and clung to him like impatient executioners. They had no more time to waste on such foolishness.
I was Amadeo again.
The fear began to gnaw on her, worming its way into the pit of her stomach.
"You can't be serious," Hawke snorted in anger, then put a hand over her forehead. "Who am I kidding? Of course you're serious."
"What?" Avicus asked innocently with a grin. "You can't endure this?"
"Like hell I won't," she gritted her teeth in control. "This is the poorest way to play with my weaknesses if I've ever seen one."
"Well," Avicus laughed. "Let us see if you do have them."
She frowned in confusion and he continued, "Maybe what you lack is in fact, mercy. Maybe in reality, you are just as much the wolf that kills for his own safety, searching for his pack to justify it as goodwill." He grinned deviously and shrugged playfully, "Who knows? Maybe without them, you might just be a killer."
"Maybe you're barking mad," Hawke snarled in a controlled tone.
"Simple, irreducible," Avicus continued calmly. "And even so," he snorted and started moving around them, ending up next to Armand and placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, "if you cannot endure this… how can you endure eternity, my child?" he asked calmly, while caressing Armand's shoulder from behind. "Don't you know that's what I mean to give you?" he asked eagerly, tilting his head so it would touch Armand's.
What a spit, what a horrible spit in her sight. She tried to search Armand's eyes for his sanity, to fathom any trace of him being the same. For a moment, it seemed as if he twitched his lips in a faint expression of disgust, the one she sometimes saw Fenris let out vaguely whenever there would be a mention of slavery, or when they had to deal with such beings. It felt inevitable, that she would have to fight him. Her eyes pressed further into his, capturing his impenetrable expression. He was indomitable, out of this world, his face bore the cruelty of past realities he would have never wanted to live again. His sharp green-eyed gaze had a fullness of calm hostility, but they bore no malice, no hunger, no intent for slaughter – at least she wanted to believe it. It sickened her to let him be touched by this monster of incurable pride. It sickened her to see the deaf box of screaming in front of her, that was Armand. It was inconceivable that he would turn so quickly, it was… no. He had no choice, unless he was somehow paralyzed and animated by some blasphemous spell.
"You little imp," Hawke said with calm assertiveness. "You miserable little whelp."
"Ah, you damnable little child," Avicus cried joyfully. "I could have given you so much more. Instead you would weep and kneel in front of any poor defenceless soul as if that would make a difference." He walked around her now. "You know it does not make a difference."
"And your rule does?" Hawke asked calmly.
"You are not helping yourself. You give and give, all while destroying yourself in the process," Avicus said with a smile, gesturing at her sword. "I do things in such a way, that it both benefits me, as well as others. Amadeo knows best, how much I have helped him," he said as he glanced warmly at the elf, then started to approach her. "And even so, you know better than me what it means to make the most of where you are, in a land where fortune favours no mage."
"Excuses," Hawke muttered sharply. As if suddenly making use of all her "potential" would make a difference for the better.
"There are reasons why the Imperium has never ever crumbled, even amidst a whole world that is dead-set on ending people like us," Avicus said calmly. "And people like you, there are few, but benefited the empire greatly." She flinched a bit, hearing those words, so he grinned. "Have I piqued your interest then?"
"Oh, yes, this is most interesting," Hawke nodded mockingly. "Such a perfect time for pointless history lessons."
"You are right," he said. "Few like us remain. We should make history, not dwell upon it."
"You want to make an army then?" Hawke asked calmly. "Gather all the forces you can get, all types of people, classes and nationalities, so there would be no one simple goal. It would not look like a common protest and it will never look like it's about mages. Instead, it would look like preservation of liberty, for everyone. I get it, I get it," she laughed. "I want to part of it."
"A shame, really," Avicus said calmly. "If you really are set on me to be your enemy, I would see it as most reasonable to abuse of my help, until you turn the tables. Strike from the inside. I suppose there are still lessons you have yet to learn."
"You really are without faults, aren't you?" Hawke snarled. "Good. This will make it a lot easier."
"You do not fear me. I respect that," Avicus said calmly. "But do not forget, I do not fear you either, my lady."
"How merciful for you," Hawke mocked him with a smile.
"Teach me to feel another's woe, to hide the fault I see, that mercy I to others show, that mercy show to me," Avicus recited candidly. "Hessarian was a wise man. Too wise for his own good. Few are capable of perceiving the world with such clarity, yet they overlook the high price they will have to pay." He looked at her sharply and continued, "One act of mercy which led to chaos for a whole people. He did not take into account… that justice and mercy do not have an impact on people's minds. They cannot conceive of equality and peace. They just open doors to more cruelty, to find someone else to pester and blame." Then he laughed bitterly, "No wonder the spirits have no interest in our world."
"And you actually believe you are some dignified vagabond good-doer mage in disguise who gets away with using demons because it's people's own fault they hold darkness in their hearts. Punish and bring justice by making use of the sickness the Maker left us with and practically threw on a plate for us," Hawke pressed insistently. "Forsake this creed. You are too smart for it."
"Do you see me possessed by some foul creature?" Avicus chuckled. "Like you said, I am too smart for it."
"I don't give one spitting copper that you're not possessed," Hawke shouted.
"But I do," Avicus laughed. "You are like me. You do not desire. You do not search. You do not fear to be blown away by some cruel discovery and change your entire views because of one simpleton or the other. The world just goes on and on, and it is your place to do, but not for your own gain. Therefore, demons have a bit of trouble figuring out what you need. Therefore, you do not yield."
"Oh, goodie. Someone finally gives me some credit," Hawke said sarcastically. "This must be destiny."
"You jest, but it's the truth," Avicus said, smiling. "Why else would it be so, that you haven't yet perished in these catacombs?" He grinned, playing with her logic. "Think about it."
"I tire of this," Hawke growled and lowered her brow. "You want me to kill your slave?" She drew the sword out of her sheath calmly. "Fine by me."
"Do you think me a fool?" Avicus laughed. "You lie through semantics of truth with such talent. Do you think I don't know what strategy you are trying to pull?"
"Now you're just contradicting yourself," Hawke said with her temper almost losing it. "This is pointless."
She knew it, that he wasn't the one to speak with. She knew she couldn't attack him, but he was not going to attack her either. Not unless she pissed him off entirely. Armand, or whoever he was now, would possibly strike her, though. Where in the Void are you people, she shouted within. Fenris and Zevran had better had some plan to get them out of this mess. If not, so be it. Set Armand free was her first priority, not make them both get out alive.
"Enough, indeed," he sighed. "I trust you will stick with your principles," he said with a smile. "But just to be sure," he said playfully and distanced himself from them. Soon whirls of light refracted from his hands and formed a circular barrier around the two. "So nobody would disturb you."
Fuck.
"Venhedis," cursed Fenris incessantly. "Fasta vass."
"Come with me," Zevran said calmly and started to walk in the next corridor past the room Hawke had went in.
"You think I'm going to trust you and leave Hawke?" Fenris almost shouted desperately.
"If you want to mope around and curse thinking this will save her, by all means, do that," Zevran said confidently, spinning a dagger between his fingers. "But if you want to be truly awesome, we need to take the upper hand."
"You've got three seconds to state your strategy, then I'm going inside," Fenris hissed impatiently.
Zevran reached for one of the many pockets of his belt and got out a set of strangely looking bejewelled keys. "I got this out of Pasquale while he was so busy harassing our lady friend."
"And?"
"And mind you, if we go in, do not doubt we will simply be stricken down by a horde of hidden assassins lurking in the shadows through some hidden doors," Zevran stated quite calmly. "Now, as much as these catacombs make me think that if I suddenly swallowed through the wrong hole, I might not battle it and let myself choke to death, I'm thinking… not today."
"No more riddles, elf," Fenris growled in annoyance as he approached him.
"We go around and strike from behind any hidden back-up this man has packed in about," Zevran said strategically. "And then maybe you could put that trick of yours to good use."
"We don't have time for this," Fenris said angrily. "They will murder each other."
Zevran looked down bitterly with a pause, "Trust her. I trust my own friend, that he will not do anything stupid."
"I'm not counting upon some fantasy that people simply forget their blind instinct all of a sudden," Fenris shouted.
"They are both strong," Zevran said quietly. "Have some faith. They would not want us to go mad now, lose our temper and get reckless. This is our only chance."
Fenris pondered on it for only a second, before his face drew a sharp scowl, disgusted at himself. Frustrated to no end, that he was powerless. He sighed and walked towards Zevran, admitting within that this was their best chance to ensure everyone survived this mess.
The popular school of thought among non-warriors was that two-handed longswords and greatswords were these large, clumsy, unwieldy things that knights hacked away at each other with, and that was not used with any technical finesse. That was pure bullcrap. Unless you were dead-set on going heavily on defence with a one-handed sword and a shield to use as a dignified, standalone weapon, you needed to be as quick as agile as any self-respecting rogue. Greatswords even, were simply longswords just a bit longer, a blade and a grip just a bit longer to make the central weight point just right and easier to hold correctly. It didn't weigh more than some three, four pounds actually. And longswords, well, they weighed two pounds. Even a child could wield it, and that's what Hawke did. Understand, in the lines of Ferelden fighting tradition, longswords had the larger popularity and almost all the merits. Though still wielded two-handedly, it was lighter and much easier to learn, once any aspiring warrior grasped the pure basics.
A greatsword however, was a specialized and effective infantry weapon and although large, it wasn't as hefty as it looked. It was actually more of a longsword, while what people now called longswords were merely just medium swords that could be used with one hand with a shield or buckler. They were not called longswords just because the blade was long, but because the hilt was meant for two-handed wielding. Of course, there were actual, very long and heavier claymores, but they were mostly used in the first ranks of the infantry to cut down opposing pikes and hack out breaches, but more than that, they were rather impractical. Yes, they were used sometimes in battle, because they were enchanted, but still, they weren't the best.
A usual two-handed sword however, it was lethal, and its use was considered as special skill, often meriting extra pay. Once their father became weaker and the first symptoms of his illness started to emerge, he asked a friend in the army to help Hawke and Carver. Ironically enough, his name was Ser Armand. While already perfecting in the arts of two-handed longswords, Ser Armand pressed strongly that they should specialize, and if not that then simply add to their knowledge the arts of wielding claymores and greatswords. Those were the ones they were counted upon heavily in battle, apart from shielded warriors, especially among the first-line troops that were trained to stride the first enemy offences and infantry. It was not long before both siblings took up the so called greatsword that they realized it was the one. The simple secondary crossguard was exactly what they needed to parry effectively without getting their fingers cut off.
Well, bullshitting aside, perhaps the real story was that neither of them would give up if the other chose to learn it. They wouldn't give each other the privilege of letting one gloat over the other. Be that as it may, would it not for their frustrating need for competition, who knows? They would have ended up as poor little maidens crying for a duel, because that's how much they could bear.
Now faced with Armand, Hawke could not be more grateful that she had found one of the two-handed Ferelden swords she had brought with her that night. She was also grateful that she hadn't forgotten to take her lucky red band off her usual sword and wrap around the ring of the pommel of this one just in case she needed a miracle. She did. Dual-wielding with the other one a few hours ago, it was for show. It was impractical. This time, she needed to concentrate and she needed precision. Enough precision to intercept the whole of Armand's attacks without getting her or him killed, as much as she could. He was wielding a two-handed sword himself, clearly of Tevinter origin, clear-cut and narrowing towards the pointy end and bearing the Tevinter dragon symbols on its flat. In another more peaceful situation, she would have tackled it out of him and examined it for hours in immersed fascination. Right now, she was near the point of despair. While still bearing chainmal underneath her colourful coat, Armand had a chest plate, he had chainmal sleeves and spiky shoulder pads, knuckle-plates and sharp gauntlets. Simple luck would have it though, that her grip was longer and continued after the crossguard for the sole purpose of cleaving through armour.
Great. Now what. That was not enough.
Rather cold and impassive he was, as they circled around the barrier without striking at each other just yet. She wondered if he brutally wished he didn't have to do this. Maybe he was buying time, too. Of course, they couldn't encircle one another for ages. It built up frustration and fear inside, which didn't work in their favor once the adrenaline rush kicked in. It would make any successful strike be felt, rather than numbed out by the adrenaline, simply because of the nerve endings being so active from the annoying delay of the inevitable.
But she couldn't find it in her courage to strike. She was moving slowly, holding at the grip with her black leather gloves as her only pillar of balance. What to do? Strike first and end this misery so he'd thank her later or let him strike first and become an even colder beast named something Antivan-sounding that she forgot. Amadeus… Amadeo… Whatever. He had to snap back to reality, if he was still not just pretending. He had to.
And then it began.
She only pretended to go for a strike, getting back the sword just in time as not to bind it with his. Although taunting aside, it was enough to throw the gauntlet. Armand came at her with a 45-degree angle cutting attempt. She stepped to her right quickly and kicked her elbow in his back. Unbalanced, Armand rolled over fast and reassumed his position. She was not going to strike him even if he was exposed. She would wait for a miracle first.
Again, he came at her, attempting a vertical cut. She stopped his sword with her own horizontally, and grabbed the other end of her blade to sidestep and kick the pommel in his neck while his blade and hands were immobilized by the technique. She did so and pushed as hard as she could so it would bring him down. As he fell, she looked at him urgently and tried to say something, but no words were coming to her. Was he even trying?
She backed away and let him get up again. It seemed as though this would go on forever. Words finally came to her mouth, "We don't have to do this. We can-"
"Another word and I'll slit your throat," Armand growled quickly. What? He was battling between going serious on her and being merciful? Between Armand and Amadeo?
She didn't say another word. She simply took the offence. Going for a normal 45 strike, Armand parried with his sword half-horizontally. She instinctively grabbed the pointy end of his blade to try and disarm it completely, but she was surprised to see him brutally grabbing the end of her sword too. In a second, the inertia made her fall against his shoulder. Armand raised her sword and got his out her grip, and with her fallen against his chest, he side-stepped and pushed into her. As she fell down, she was still holding on to him and dragged him down with her, kicking him away in an instant.
Starting to bind blades, they kept their defenses going. Guarding every attack, they were simply not making other lethal attempts. He meant to scare her, that was obvious. She was doing the same thing. Harrowing as it was, she had to keep going. With another 45 cutting attempt, she blocked it with her sword, his edge ending up pushing against her crossguard. She raised the grip up, her blade reaching therefore to his neck. She meant to scare him. She didn't thrust. Armand saw this and grabbed the end and pushed it against her, the pommel ending against her head. They backed away again.
The adrenaline finally kicked in. By every second, they became more offensive, but very controlled. It seemed more like a fencing practice than an actual duel. Perhaps that's what it was. But the longer the time went, the more they were animated by their blind instinct, so the less control they had over their friendly attacks.
As the swords bumped again, she managed to deceive the length to which she wanted to strike and wounded his arm. He instead, pretended to go for a vertical cut and as she prepared to block it, he quickly redirected it horizontally and wounded her knee. As she tried to back away while holding her knee, Armand charged into her. She parried with her cross-guard again, pushing as much as she could, but Armand spun his sword over her cross-guard and they both tried instinctively to cock each other's hands and grab the other's sword. As they wrestled, Armand manage to side-step and spin around her. Behind her, still having his hand on the grip of his sword, he brought the pointy end to his other hand and held the blade at her neck. He brought her to her knees with the blade still at her neck, then got it away and attempted to thrust one-handedly. She rolled over just in time as the sword cleaved into the ground with a metallic roar. Armand growled in annoyance and walked towards her.
It was time to take a little serious offense. Armand was simply excellent. She needed him incapacitated, or at least wounded. If she attempted to use magic, it would be over. Avicus would call it cheating and bring both of them unconscious with some loathsome blood spell. Not that she had mana to attempt a paralysis spell anyway. That was also a problem. With all the healing she had done to Fenris and Zevran, she had only her physical strength to rely on. How long before she would go into withdrawal? She would not think about such things. Armand was coming for her.
The myth of one-hit kill was indeed, just a myth. Even if either of them managed to do some big-ass swing and cleave right through one another, there was still blood flowing and pumping in the arms to counter-attack. The other's blade would not suddenly stop because the other managed to thrust inside. The time it would take the other to get the sword back out, was also irrevocably fatal. They knew those things and that each good technique they did was not going to overpower the other. Even if Armand went for an open line, snap-cutting at Hawke's shoulder, which he did twice, it was just a simple cut and the blade would storm right back to him. It was enough to wound one another. And wounding was also enough for Hawke's adrenaline rush to make her counterattack with better precision.
As he went again, she decided to go for his armour. Half-swording was invented for a reason. They bumped swords again and she grabbed her blade halfway and thrust into his armour. As he tried to counterattack, she moved past it and inverted her sword, holding it with the grip up and the pointy end down. It would not cut through her gloves, because she knew how to hold it correctly. She hit with the hilt behind Armand's neck, and with the long guard pushing at him from behind, she brought him lower and punched him in the face effectively. Then she threw him away and reassumed her defensive position.
It would not be long until one of them wounded the other enough to drop dead.
Vividly, the incandescent blue fumes coming from the lyrium markings turned pulsating black, as Fenris resisted under the magic damage of three mages hiding in a secret passage. He crushed their hearts mercilessly as Zevran incapacitated every enemy with his pretend-gauntlets hiding away perfectly sharp wrist-blades. Every time, they stripped them of their belongings in hopes they would find better weapons. Fenris did take one ghost-blade for himself, then roamed the passages again with Zevran keenly watching for any surprise attack. It was tiring, they were both weakened, but counted upon Hawke's recent healing and trusted in their adrenaline.
As they came inside a room that was not there before, the silver-haired relentless Pasquale waited with two other assassins. Behind him, a passage full of cells could be seen. Just when they got in, Zevran pretend-bumped near Fenris and gave him the keys he stole from that man. It was clear what he wanted him to do.
"Still blessed by luck, I see," Pasquale said while shaking his head with hateful joy in his tone. Arms crossed, he raised his eyebrows in an unimpressed expression and hissed unemotionally, "This is the last time you fuck with me."
Zevran lowered his head in a brutally hungered look, brows joined together for the kill. He drew his blade and dagger out and said, "Then I better make it amazing."
As Pasquale and Zevran started dueling each other, Fenris thought to try out his newest addition in his weapon repertoire. With a clicking sound, the mechanism on his wrist turned and shot a blade in an assassin's shoulder. As they went for him, he turned his markings on and became difficult to hit. Evading their attacks, he grabbed one and pushed him into the other, cleaving through both of them with his sword into the wall. Then he was gone.
He rushed through the passage of empty cells and unlocked the metallic door in front of him. Behind it, there lay the real underground prison of the Crows. Cells full of bare-chested male humans and elves and some ragged-clothed females. They all rose from the ground and gave him sharp, untrusting looks as he took down the two guards.
He searched for another key as they scrutinized him in silence and went for the first door that enclosed all the other cells. As he pushed the key in, he finally said, "I am here to set you free, but my companions are in trouble. There are gondolas waiting for you above through the sewers. I just need your help first."
"Are you mad?" a bare-chested brown-haired elf said while clutching at the bars. "We're not marching into our deaths against a horde of the same people who managed to put us in here."
"Are you Crows?" Fenris asked unemotionally as he came near their cells. "All of you?"
"As far as we know," a muscular black-haired human said through the bars. "But we have no offense."
"You do know," Fenris said quickly as he opened one of the cages and gave the man a longsword. "There's plenty more where that came from. We managed to off most of the assassins the guild master brought with him."
"Still," another elf said from a cell. "You don't know half of this prison's trappings. You are a fool if you think this is going to work."
"Perhaps I should let you rot in that cage then," Fenris said angrily. "You want to be free? Come with me. If not, by all means, mumble with the rats for eternity for all I care."
"Yeah, shut your mouth Flavius. You want to die in here, fine by me, but we're going," said the black-haired hunky man. "Ricardo, Francesca, go back with Pip and strip those two numskulls of weapons. I'll go with our friend here."
As Fenris went deeper in the prison to free the others, the man shouted after him, "Wait up. Who sent you after us?"
"You have friends, apparently," Fenris said from a distance. "Know a Zevran, by any chance?"
"Well I'll be damned," the man said with a gasp and crossing his hands and shouting behind him to the others, "You hear this? Zev's alive."
"Santo cazzo, then how is that crazy impnot in here with us? Wait… Then that means Pasquale is here," the brown-haired elf shouted back. He gestured a punch as he bumped his fists, "I have a bone to pick with that bastard."
Fenris shouted after them, "They're in the room behind you. There is also a mage in the grand hall behind the engraved doors where my companions are in trouble." He looked around the freed people and the ones still in the cells and issued like a true general, "I need two people with me to overthrow the guards. Everyone else go into the opposite way and wait at the main door until you're at least twenty. I don't need assassins shrouded in shadows and other nonsense. I need you all to form an army."
Her skin burned against the magical barrier, as Armand threw her into it. Nevermind the coat, the magic went through it like flaming spears and she fell to the ground.
"Armand, snap out of this," Hawke shouted desperately as she kept rolling away and deflecting his attacks.
"Shut up," Armand hissed aggressively as he kicked her in the stomach and grabbed her throat, raising her up.
She kicked him in the knee and tried to get out. As she ran away and grabbed her sword back, Armand went after her. The wound on her leg was struck twice after that and she was losing ground. She could hear Avicus laughing hideously at the sight of their struggle.
"Do you want to die here?" Hawke screamed at him as she parried swords with him and held her defense. "Really, truly?"
Armand simply growled and attempted a spin counterattack against her parrying cross-guard to cleave into her. What was his frustration now? That he wanted to kill her so badly to be free? That he was afraid to die? That… Fuck this.
"Think of Dorian seeing you now," Hawke said quietly to him, as she blocked his attempt. She knew it was a petty way to unsettle him, but it needed to be done. If not to buy some more time, then to make him snap out of his crazed state and calm his aggression. Whatever happened after didn't matter. If he truly was going to outmaneuver her, then the battle was won and she died happily knowing he was free.
Then she saw the painful spark in his bestial eyes. The spark that changed everything, and only for a second she could see a twitch, an expression of utter sorrow, killed away instantly as Armand pressed his eyelids down shut and growled. He cocked her hands and immobilized them, pushing into her and falling down on top of her. He escaped her attempt to kick him and got up, putting a foot over her torso. She caught his sword right as he tried to cleave into her and tried to lock it in place with the whole of her force. "He's waiting for you to come home," she shouted, blood spilling out of her gloves as the edges of the sword cut the skin of her palms. "He's waiting for Armand to come home."
She felt the counterforce of his sword weaken, as his face grew dimmer and unsettled, sharp eyes once looked so utterly damned, now looked punished with guilt, anguish and shock. There he stood, crucified between the two beings inside him, paralyzed in his darkest hour as he stopped pushing against the incredibly resistant force of this woman who he knew was going to let him kill her soon enough if he continued. Persecuted in his thoughts, as the stranger enveloping his mind crumbled, he swallowed heavily. Just when he was about to bring his sword out of her unyielding bloody hands, he heard a large bang on the door. Then another more powerful one, and another, until the door finally collapsed to the ground and dozens over dozens of people rushed inside and ran towards Avicus and the group of mages and assassins under his command.
Oh, this was not the time to get overwhelmed. Armand back away in surprise and Hawke took the opportunity to rise from the ground and grab her sword again. The barrier disappeared. The mage needed all his mana to defend himself.
Perfect. Elves and humans kept rushing in, some bare-chested, some light-armoured, some holdings daggers, some swords and some even casting spells with their bare hands. They were battling the enemy forces with every bit of strength they had, amidst the marching roars, the smoke bombs, the battle cries and … the summoned demons.
Hawke and the bewildered-looking Armand shared a quick look which meant this real duel or charade was over and they would both take advantage of this surprise battle to go in against the blasphemous creature which put them through this havoc.
Men were falling down from above, stricken by the arrows of some allies who got their hands on ranged weapons. Running through the horde, she lost Armand in the crowd and battled the shades that were coming after some bare-chested prisoners. More and more shades came roaring from the ground. This was no time for abstinent mage excuses. She punched the ground and let out massive forcewaves that struck the groups down and away from the allies. One by one, she threw fireballs into them with such quick shots, it surprised her deep into every nerve ending.
Men were going to die now. Bad men, men that wronged and tortured, men that persecuted for poor justifications. But one man in particular she needed to see gasping for air and coughing blood, see the look on his face as he drew his lost breath in deep revolt and denial… his eyes widened and protesting, cursing at her with all his putrid soul. Not tomorrow, not after years in some surprise encounter, not even soon in a few moments, no. He was going to die now.
She saw Zevran in a distance battling some people, but where was…?
"Beware!" she heard Fenris from behind, coming to her left and intercept a bright massive storm coming at them. He growled in pain and black fumes came out of his markings again, deflecting the spell and weakening his health. Oh no you won't…
She grabbed him by the coat and pulled him away, shouting at him to get back. When he didn't listen, she ran past him and looked in rushing anger after the mage. Killing some few shades, Avicus showed up behind one of it and she charged into him with full precision. He blocked her sword with his staff and threw her away with a forcewave. Damn the undreaded, unholy, unearthed fucking undergods. She wasn't going to fall back now. She rose from the ground and went after him again, resisting the blood spell he was casting towards her. How much time before he guessed with every bit of heath she lost her strikes became quicker and more lethal?
She hit his staff and disarmed him, throwing it away with disgust and kicked him in the stomach. Another twirl of red and black came at her and she fell on the ground trying to resist it. As instinct would now have it, violet spirit charges came out of her hands and went with full force into him. She felt every bit of life and magic force in her leave her body as she channeled it further and tried to get up from the ground. But something went wrong. Something went terribly wrong. She didn't feel her body anymore. She was on the ground again, feeling only a demonic force crushing her heart. She couldn't hear anything, not her screams, nor the battle cries of the others. She only saw a dwarven figure coming out from a wall above their heads and shooting a fire bolt in the mage's robes. She could swear, even though she couldn't hear, that she heard the figure scream "Hasta la vista, Manskirts McUggo!".
Time slowed and her vision came shaking, darkening. Before it became pitch-black and swallowed by the catastrophe of that Avicus drawing a dreadful smile in victory of her death and ignoring the robes that caught him in place, a sword cleaved through him with relentless force from his back. The shock paralyzed him as the sword came out and a gauntlet grabbed his shoulder.
"Blasphemer," she heard him cry with a transformed, preternatural voice. He was turning into something else.
The gauntlet turned him around and she saw Armand with the most determined and driven look in history decapitate his master with a massive blow before he turned into an abomination. So massive, so quick, so harsh the cut was – so full of vengeance – that his head flew across the room and got swallowed by the battle horde.
She felt two hands from behind grabbing her under the shoulders and raising her up. She stumbled on the floor while standing and the room was spinning with her. She saw black and grey vertical-lined pants and bare feet. She saw Armand looking petrified.
"Through that door!" she heard Zevran shouting from somewhere.
The image changed instantly, my vision was crumbling. I saw dark passages, spiral stairs and eventually I saw the sky. I couldn't feel my feet, I couldn't hear much, but we were running across the roofs, all of us. I heard something about gondolas, but not much else.
As we ran above the fullness of a violet sky, looking out at the wild grass beneath the roofs, flowing in the summer wind, for the first time in a long time, I felt a terrible longing for the sun. I didn't dare say anything to my companions about it however. After all, how many blessings can a being want? We were free, we were alive.
The air was cool and full of the scent of spring flowers. I could hear the nightingale singing. And far off the whisperings and murmurings of the great crowded city of Antiva. I turned my eyes towards the city. I saw her seven hills covered over with soft flickering lights. I saw the clouds above, tinged with gold, as they bore down on these scattered and beautiful beacons, as if the darkness of the sky were full with child.
I was still not myself, however. Everything spun around and hit me in the head. I blacked out so many times. I heard Fenris screaming angrily at me to stop. I remember I healed someone. Maker's breath, the images changed so quickly. One second we were on a roof, another one we were on the ground, running and running. Another time I saw dark shadows chasing after us. Another, I saw gondolas full of people marching in the distance across the green canals. I remember almost falling into the water. I remember someone dragging me back by the coat.
I heard Zevran saying Pasquale was not dead and he needed to flee the city as soon as he could. I heard Varric shouting in distress that we should stop and hide somewhere so I can come to my senses. I saw Armand full of grief and not saying anything.
I also felt hands clutching at me and redirecting my trajectory as we were running. It seemed my soul was a pendulum that swung between the hearty pleasure of conquest and running faster than my companions and the swooning surrender to stronger limbs, and stronger wills, and stronger hands that tossed me desperately about and telling me I was not alright. That I was weak and fainting, that I had lost all reserves. I heard Fenris cursing in his mother tongue again, over and over again.
Above, the silent clouds thickened, curled and sailed across the darkling sky. The rain came, its soft roar lost in the cries of people running, in the crackle of fire and the torrent of some drums nearby. I heard it and I let myself run through the damp air and received it, the silvery rain floating down to me like the blessing of the dark Antivan heavens, the baptismal waters of the damned.
I understood these images, even as they froze my soul. My head swam and the heat of the city at dawn and it made me sick in my stomach.
Then I saw a figure. A red-headed elven figure fully armoured in Warden regalia, a large griffon emblazoned upon the chest plate, going around a corner. I sought to run after it, my soul full of hope and drive to reach her. I heard my companions scream after me, but I couldn't help it. I jumped on the high fences of the garden I saw the Warden in and ran and ran and ran.
Life was no longer a theatrical stage where the Warden's ghost came again and again to seat herself at the grim table next to other figures I wanted to live up to. She was there and I had to catch her if it killed me.
My soul hurt, that I would not manage to reach her.
And then I woke up in some brothel…
Ending note that I didn't want to put at the beginning of the chapter as not to destroy the drama of Armand's monologue:
I want to clarify that I'm a bit of a sword-nut. Yes, swordfighting is kind of a hobby; I'm not an expert or a collector - I simply don't have the money or time for such things- but I do take delight in this domain and consequently, I'm struggling with the difficulty of adapting DA fighting system with the realistic one. Don't get me wrong, I love the combat and it's a GAME so it can't possibly function with the same laws of reality, BUT, since it's my own story, there – I ruined DA swords for you. What can I say?
You can either choose sword-and-shield (which is actually a bit more accurate and adapted to reality ability-wise, except for the fact that they use the term 'longsword' and even the image of a two-handed weapon to be used as a one-handed one) or two-handed, but the two-handed abilities are … fantastical. I mean it in the whole sense of the word. The animation is simply unrealistic – all those swings, all the movements you see are very reckless, just harsh swings and spins that if you do attempt to make in reality you would just be overly exposing yourself and be dead in two seconds. Striking multiple enemies, also fantastical. Also, the greatswords are much too big and not at all possible to wield like that. But of course, it's just a game! And who doesn't like it when you go all Mighty Blow on someone after level 20 and bashing and dismembering them with incoming 2000 damage impact :D I do!
To close this… Yeah, we're kinda done with Antiva. Getting them the hell out of there next chapter and then going back to funny business in Kirkwall. I'm very eager to get there… especially since I noticed I have about ten chapters of this trip and … yeah. Let's get back to Kirkwall. I miss Kirkwall.