A/N: Part 3 of 4. I adjusted the Hybris bonus boss quest for this chapter, since again, having a pride demon lurking near the old Amell cellars had great potential for trouble. Or in this case, arguably crossing the moral event horizon for Natale. But I'll leave that for you the reader to decide :)
Atlas
By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)
9:36 Dragon
It was raining outside-no, pouring. One of the summer storms that sometimes hit Kirkwall and practically drowned the city for days on end. It was only late afternoon or so, but Orana had lit the torches inside the Hawke estate.
"Don't go out there, Mistress," she pleaded, watching Natale Hawke pull on her armor. "It's going to be terrible down in Darktown."
"You know I don't have a choice, dear girl," said Natale sternly. "The templars don't stop for rain or shine, and neither can I."
Orana said nothing, but Natale could feel the maid's worried eyes following her every movement. Part of her wished she'd never gotten Orana involved in her mess in the first place. The rest of her knew she'd had no other choice as Meredith's noose tightened. The Knight-Commander was employing every tool in her arsenal; she could afford to do no less. Orana was the perfect eyes and ears, invisible in plain sight.
"What should I tell Varric if he shows up and you're still not home?" asked Orana. Natale picked up her staff and thought for a moment.
"If I'm not home by that late, something's probably gone wrong," she said calmly. "In that case, tell him to find the others and get their asses down to Darktown," she said. She hesitated, then went over to the writing desk, sketching a loose map of the area around Anders' clinic and marking the concealed entrance. "They'll know what to do."
She pressed the map into Orana's hands, fighting down the guilt at involving an innocent girl in her sedition. But the trap was set, the plan already in motion. She had no back-up plan this time, a risk she had to take. If she could pull this off, she could buy a considerable amount of time for Kirkwall's apostates.
And if she couldn't, she was dead or worse. Not so different from most days when she thought about it.
She left the estate through the back door, trusting the pouring rain to hide her from curious eyes. More than an inch of cold water splashed around her boots; she whispered a spell, temporarily superheating a shell of air around herself to keep her eyes clear of the deluge.
The water running through the streets grew more and more filthy as she descended through the city, collecting dirt and refuse as it went. By the time she reached Darktown, she found herself not so much walking as stepping between dry patches amid a river of overflowing effluent from the sewers.
And as she headed to what very well might be the deaths of dozens of people, including herself, she could only wonder whether Anders had decided to go to his clinic after all today. Maker, she hoped not; the damned place flooded every time it poured like this. But she didn't have time to check. Every second counted now. Natale made her way to the inconspicuous trapdoor entrance from the sewers to the lair deep below Kirkwall and stretched out her senses.
It was still there. She could feel it lurking beneath her feet, all the stronger after she'd broken the first three bonds on its prison. It sensed freedom a hundred meters above, tasted the possibility of possessing her. But there was nothing it could do to her. Not yet.
Hybris.
Just the thought of unleashing a pride demon of such strength made her tremble. If the templars failed, she wasn't sure she could defeat it. Wasn't sure if she could deal with the possibility of unleashing an monstrosity like that on Darktown.
Was it already getting to her? Flemeth's words to Merrill echoed in her mind. No path is more perilous than when your eyes are shut. Was she doing the same thing she'd warned Merrill against for years? Nothing was as insidious as a pride demon, and she knew the same confidence in her abilities that made her strong could be turned against her in the blink of an eye.
But it was too late to turn back now. Blood magic had bound the demon, and blood magic could set it free. She lifted the trapdoor and pulled out her dagger. Foul water poured down into the lair, mingling with drops of her blood as she concentrated.
It was so simple. A little snap, like someone had stepped on a twig, and it was done. She replaced the trapdoor and pressed her bloody hand against her skin-fresh cuts and bruises appeared along her arms and face. A little fire to singe her hair and cloak, some mud splattered on her armor, and she was ready.
She limped toward the lower levels of Darktown, where the templars patrolled once-hidden exits from the city. They'd ferreted out almost every escape route the underground resistance once used, and patrolled too vigilantly for the few others to be used safely. What they needed was a distraction.
And what better distraction than an ancient horror lurking beneath the templars' feet?
The templars heard her splashing through Darktown long before she stumbled down the stairs, clutching at her side in feigned pain. A few of them had their swords and shields ready for an attack, but recoiled in horror at the sight of the blood streaming down her face.
"Champion!" She recognized the voice of Hugh, one of the templar recruits she'd first met years ago. Natale closed her eyes and slowly crumbled to her knees; strong hands caught her, held her upright. She heard shouting, a cacophany of the rushing water, a rumble of distant thunder. One of the templars started trying to remove her armor and treat her wounds, but she feebly slapped his hands away.
"You...need to get out of here," she mumbled. "Came...to warn you."
She blinked blearily up into Hugh's pale face. "Maker's mercy, Champion," he breathed. "What happened?" Natale's eyes went suddenly wild; she sat up in a jolt and clutched at the templar's arm with both gauntleted hands, blood from her face dripping onto his wet armor.
"A pride demon," she hissed unevenly. "Here in Darktown. By the old Amell estate cellars." She used his arm to haul herself upright, struggling weakly against the templars trying to calm her. "Tried to-fight it myself...too powerful."
By now, all of the templars were clustered around her, riveted as she forced the words out through bloody lips. "All the recent bloodshed-must have freed it. You have to evacuate the district! You must leave!"
Thank the Maker for Varric, teaching her to be a better liar. She let herself drop in a half-swoon and felt the templars gently prop her up against the staircase. Marcel, the patrol captain and templar responsible for the increased presence in Darktown, was the first to recover his composure.
"All right," she heard him say in clipped tones. "We've enough lyrium and sixteen men. We can deal with this."
"Captain...this demon nearly killed the Champion herself," said Hugh, his voice shaking slightly.
"Then go back to the Gallows and inform the Knight-Commander if you're too cowardly to do your duty," replied Marcel. He knelt next to Natale, and she opened her eyes slowly, looking back into his grim face. "You should have come to us first, Champion. This is templar's work."
She swallowed her satisfied smile and leaned forward, slumping against his armor and leaving bloody streaks down the chestplate. "No time," she whispered again. "Too dangerous. You have to leave!" As she spoke, she pushed ever so gently at his pride.
Marcel nudged her toward Hugh and got to his feet, setting his chin and drawing his blade. "Stay here, Champion," he said. "Hugh can attend to your wounds before he goes."
She forced herself to wait for fifteen minutes while Hugh fussed over her-plenty of time for the templars to find the trapdoor she'd mentioned. She opened her eyes and smiled up at the young recruit. "I'll be fine now," she said, sitting up without his aid to prove it. "Go tell the templars what happened. If you hurry, you'll save more lives than just theirs."
"I can't just leave you here, Champion," the young templar protested.
"Then stop by the Hanged Man on your way up," she said urgently. "Tell Varric Tethras I'm here; he'll send people to help me." Hugh nodded and took off like a shot. She counted down another five minutes, then sprang to her feet. The board was set now, the pieces moving.
It was a disgusting prospect, but she needed something to wash off the blood, and the best thing available was the rainwater rushing through Darktown. Meticulously, she removed every drop of blood from her armor and skin; blue flame crawled over her body, burning away the last traces. She cursed when she singed her fingers-an amateur mistake.
The templars had left the trapdoor open behind them. Natale frowned; was the monster she'd unleashed strong enough to overcome the templars' training at this early stage? She followed the slippery, muddy steps down below Darktown, the lyrium blue glow of her staff lighting her way.
She'd made it about halfway down the stairs before she heard the screaming. The narrow hallways echoed with the nightmarish howls and pleas for mercy, until she could have sworn that a thousand templars were trapped in there with her. She covered her ears and leaned against the wall, taking deep, steadying breaths. The urge to help and the sudden terror at what she might find within that chamber warred inside her-and she had to resist both.
Even worse than the screaming was how long it took to fade. But slowly, gradually, the sound of rain began to drown it out. Natale pushed herself to her feet, her limbs shaking.
She could feel Hybris lurking at the bottom of the steps, inside the body of one of the templars. The poor man was still barely alive, Hybris using his last desperate desire for life as an anchor. The demon was ancient, far more so than Xebenkeck. She would not last a moment against it in a fair fight.
But pride could be tempted.
Pride could be tricked.
And what better bait than an unending wave of templars to feed its vengeance?
"So why are you sticking your neck out?" asked Athenril. The elf seemed completely at ease in the deluge outside the Hanged Man's warm walls, much to Varric's amusement. "Hawke's paying me an arm and a leg for my help, and that's at a discount for old times' sake."
"She promised to help me take over the Hanged Man."
"Really?"
"I wish," grumbled Varric. The things he did for Hawke these days...he'd have to talk to her after this was all over. He refused to entertain the nagging thoughts of what he'd do if this didn't work out the way she'd planned. Like all of Hawke's recent plans, the backup plan involved his painful death at best.
But she was Hawke. She wouldn't accept "wait around in safety and warmth" as a better use of her day. He couldn't decide if he admired or hated that about her. Probably a little bit of both.
The elf and dwarf made their way to an inconspicuous warehouse in Lowtown, near Gamlen's hovel. Hard to believe that the Champion of Kirkwall started out in such a place...to anyone but Varric. He produced a key from a chain around his neck and unlocked the door, completely unfazed by the terrified faces of a dozen apostate mages staring back at him.
"Time to march," said Athenril briskly. She inspected the long-disused trapdoor by the hearth suspiciously. "You lot honestly got a qunari through this tiny door?" she asked Varric.
"Maker's truth," said Varric with a grin. "With one of those huge collars and everything." He kicked the trapdoor and gestured for the apostates to follow him and Athenril. He wrinkled his nose and hoisted up Bianca higher as a foot of muddy, filthy water washed over his feet. "Hawke owes me new boots." At least the rain hadn't completely flooded these tunnels, though a slight current tugged at him as the water drained downhill out of the city.
They were hardly quiet or subtle-over a dozen people splashing down the partially collapsed tunnels into their sewer escape route to the coast. The gentle ripple of water grew to a hiss and a rush the deeper they went; Darktown would be partially flooded in hours if this storm kept up.
Then a bloodcurdling shriek echoed down to them from the levels above; it rang not only in his ears, but in his very body. The air in his lungs seemed to turn to freeze. Varric froze in his tracks; two of the apostates they were escorting fell to their knees, gasping for air and shaking with terrible, contorted spasms.
Bianca was halfway out of her holster before he remembered Hawke's words.
Do not tarry, do not stop. No matter what you hear, no matter what you see.
"Andraste's flaming ass," he growled under his breath, hauling one of the apostates with difficulty to his feet. The kid was maybe a few years younger than Carver would be, and ashen-white. He clutched at his head, struggling against whatever it was that had stopped them all in their tracks and turned Varric's bones to ice.
Athenril was less gentle, physically herding some of the more frightened-looking mages. For a skinny elf, the woman could push hard. She had her daggers out, her eyes constantly darting behind them like a cornered animal.
"What the hell is going on up there?" she hissed to Varric as they half-pushed, half-guided the now-terrified group of runaway mages through another narrow sewer mouth.
"I don't know," he lied through his teeth. "And we can either keep moving, or find out the hard way."
Athenril pursed her lips. "I don't like this, dwarf." The current picked up now as the water grew deeper; it was now almost waist-high on Varric, slowing their progress significantly.
"Yeah, and I'm having the time of my life here. Just think of all that gold Hawke's paying you."
"No amount of gold's worth this," muttered Athenril under her breath. But she continued to pick up the rear of the stragglers; she pushed, carried, calmed, swore at as needed to keep them moving as another shriek, more distant but just as chilling, reached their ears.
It was grueling work as the water grew deeper, and the chill began to set in. That ringing shriek would not go away; though it grew fainter, each time it came, the entire group of mages either froze with terror or started to panic. Part of Varric wanted to stop, wanted to lie down and let the deepening current carry them to the sea.
The rest of him told that part where to stuff it, and kept trudging on. It was almost pitch black by the time the sewers spewed forth toward the coast, and Varric, Athenril, and twelve bedraggled apostates made their way along the coast. A few tapers lit the road to and from Kirkwall-no guards at the moment.
A few of the apostates collapsed to the sand in relief and exhaustion. "Come on, we haven't time for this," snapped Athenril.
"Give them a moment, for pity's sake. They're not Hawke," said Varric, taking a breather himself.
"Hawke gave us a very specific window of time," said Athenril, tapping her foot impatiently. "And no amount of buddy-buddy with the Captain of the guard will spare this many apostates. Or our skins."
Varric chuckled and started gently pushing some of the mages to their feet. "I can see why you liked Hawke," he said.
"What's going to happen to us now?" asked one of the apostates-the boy who he'd dragged out of the water when that horrible shriek first sounded.
"You're my responsibility now," answered Athenril. "My people and I will get you out of Kirkwall if you'll get a blighted move on." The kid fell silent as though she'd kicked him, and started following in her wake. Varric took up the rear this time, watching the apostates in silence.
They all looked so helpless. So resigned to letting other people decide their fates for them. Not like Anders or Hawke, who took it upon themselves to openly defy Meredith of their own volition. He couldn't help but wonder if he really was doing a favor, helping them run amok when they might not even know how to function out in the world.
That would be for history to decide. And he intended to write it.
First, a bath.
Then on a good day, she'd crawl into bed beside Anders between soft, clean linens. They'd talk and plan a little. There would be magical drills, exercises to help him keep his focus and control. She'd call for a snack from Orana-perhaps some biscuits and hot chocolate, or a fruit plate. She'd fall asleep in his arms, to the sound of his breathing.
But today wasn't a good day. Natale stepped out of the gloriously warm and fragrant bath into the bedroom, to find Anders still awake. He sat on the floor, staring into the dying embers in the fireplace, a dozen scattered sheets of paper all around him. She frowned at the sight of the huge shadows under his eyes and pulled a blanket from the bed, tucking it around his shoulders.
"I thought I told you to get some sleep," she said, pushing the papers aside and sitting beside him.
Anders didn't respond. Just continued to gaze a thousand miles away, little motes of ash and flame reflected in his eyes. "Our cause is nearly lost," he whispered. "What does any of this matter?"
Natale opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. She was exhausted, yes. But she didn't need to take that out on Anders when he was like this, no matter how much she needed an outlet. Instead, she took a deep breath and put her arms around him.
"Orana knocked," he said, his voice still hollow and distant. "Varric's downstairs."
If she was honest with herself, she was in no mood to deal with Anders' melancholy and fatalism at the moment. She nodded and got to her feet, leaving the blanket behind and wrapping a dressing gown over her shoulders.
"I'll have Orana send up something for you," she said at the door. "Get in bed, love. Try to get some rest-you haven't really slept in two days."
"No need, Hawke." Varric's voice came floating up the stairs. "I already thought of that." Orana peeked out from behind him, carrying some of the leftover sweet bread from breakfast and a glass of warm milk.
Natale smiled and made her way down to the dwarf grinning up at her. He'd obviously taken the time for a bath too, after what she'd just put him through. He took the offered seat at her writing desk and leaned in toward her.
"It worked," she said before Varric could even open his mouth.
"How'd you know?"
"You wouldn't be here if it hadn't," she said simply.
Varric scowled. "You know I hate it when you do that."
"I'll stop once you stop narrating my life," she said, a rare spark of mischief in her eyes.
"That'll be the day," said Varric. He straightened up and caught a glimpse of the bottle of fine sipping rum Aveline had sent over a month ago. "May I?" He poured them each a glass and took a long drink before looking at her, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face.
"Hawke, never again. Do you know how many things could have gone wrong with that insane plan of yours? How many templars did it take before they brought that...thing down?"
"Twenty seven," said Natale quietly. "Every templar patrolling Darktown. And half those in Lowtown who responded once the first wave were dead." Her smile turned grim and cold. "Ten more in hospital. Meredith's going to have to do some recruiting."
"Not sure she can. Kirkwall's gotta run out of crazy somewhere." He sighed and shook his head. "You know I don't like this, you putting yourself in her line of fire."
Natale looked down into the golden rum swirling idly in her glass, then set it down with a heavy clink. "Varric, what else can I do?"
Gone was the facade of the immovable, unshakeable Champion of Kirkwall. Varric leaned forward and gave her shoulder a squeeze.
"Well, you could get the hell out."
"So could you," she pointed out. "Isn't that what you've been saying you'll do for years?"
"Don't know if you've noticed, but I say a lot of things that aren't true," said Varric with a grin. He let go of her shoulder and leaned back in his chair. "You should drink that. There's a special place in hell for people who waste good alcohol." His eyes widened when she kicked the rum back in one gulp. He followed her gaze up to her bedroom door when she heard Orana slip out of the room.
He didn't need to ask. He could see it in her worried gaze, the increasing pallor of her already pale face, the premature lines around her eyes that hadn't been there a year ago. Could tell it in the enormous pile of letters piled up on her desk, in the endless sheets of guard patrols and smuggled lyrium quantities, the slowly declining list of safehouses in Kirkwall.
"You can't keep this up, Hawke," he said. "I know you don't want to hear it, but even you won't last forever like this."
"I know," she conceded. "But I have to try for as long as I can. When it comes to open war-"
"When?"
"When," she replied firmly. She gestured to the astronomical amount of information piled up on her desk. "You know it as well as I do."
He still wasn't going to admit it. But both of them knew when she was short a little coin, dropped a contact, or lost a hiding place, House Tethras's leader (whether uncle or cousin or household pet) picked up the slack. He'd seen the exact same things she had. The rising price of lyrium, the increased templar patrols, the rash of unexplained deaths due to abomination or blood magic.
The grandfather clock in the living room struck eleven, and Natale got to her feet. "Take the bottle with you," she said with a tired smile. "I owe you a lot more than that."
"Now, Hawke, don't get all sentimental on me." He looked back up toward her bedroom, where the light still burned. "You need me to get Blondie drunk or something?"
Natale shook her head. "It's ok. I can handle him," she said. Varric sighed and shrugged his shoulders. The rain had largely abated by this hour, but a low chilly drizzle still hung in the air. She closed the door behind him, running through the hours of things she still had to do before she could sleep.
She grabbed a pile of the work sitting on her desk and made her way back upstairs. Anders sat exactly where she'd left him, though he'd at least picked a bit at the bread. No one, not even Anders on his bad days, could resist Orana's baking. She settled herself next to him and helped herself to a mug of tea.
"What's all that?" he asked, gesturing to the stack.
"Just some information for Athenril," she said lightly.
"Natale, you don't need to lie to me."
She looked up at him, startled. His gaze was clear now, focused. He smiled at her and picked up some of the papers. Notes from Darktown, lists of remaining mage sympathizers with the will and the resources to help. His brow furrowed when he saw all the neat slashes through the names of people he knew from the mage underground, but he kept going.
"Let me help," he said.
They fell asleep in front of the fire like that, with the blanket thrown haphazardly over their shoulders and the dying embers casting flickers of light over their faces, a few stacks of paper still resting under Natale's arm.
