Dragon Age: The Sacred Chalice

Chapter 2

Author's note: Thanks for the first reviews! Hope this one keeps you interested!

Hawke's feet, still rousing from sleep, tripped him as he mounted the stairs to the ship's deck. Cursing, he pushed himself back to his feet and threw open the hatch. It smacked loudly against the deck.

"Maker shits!" Varric cried as Hawke poked his head into view. "Hawke! Huh, you were never one for stealth, were you?"

"Varric," Hawke acknowledged tiredly. He reached the deck and closed the hatch. Varric returned to the position at which he had been resting before Hawke startled him, with his rear placed against the navigation wheel. His hands were occupied with a warped lute which, when played, gave an almost eerie tone.

"Little early for that, isn't it?" Hawke asked, taking a seat on the railing. "It's only dawn."

"I only woke up four, maybe five hours ago. It's practically midday for me." He spoke while plucking a soothing but intricate tune on the lute. "There are three ways to get a woman into your bed, Hawke."

"I hardly need lessons about women."

"First, the most obvious: muscles. Pure nature, my friend. Women given to their… animal side are most likely to pick out the alpha male in a crowd. His arms and chest tell her he is of supreme breeding stock, the weapons at his belt tell her he isn't afraid of the ankle-biters. She enjoys the thought of becoming his prey."

"Maker, help us," Hawke groaned. "I'm too tired for this."

"Second, a silver tongue. Don't underestimate the power of words over a woman's heart. A woman likes to feel good about herself, Hawke, and when a fine looking man like myself approaches her and puts his wordsmithing to work, she likes knowing that of all the women in the room, you've picked her. It's a developed talent. You have to sweeten her up, but no woman likes a sycophant. You have to indicate your interest, but you have to hold on to any propositions so she knows she's playing your game, not the other way around. If you're good at cards, you're good at women- general rule of thumb."

"Well you definitely have that one down," Hawke said wearily. "You talk more than anyone I've ever known."

"Ah, but Hawke, the third is the best of all. The lute, my friend, the lute. The notes spoken by a lute are sweeter to a woman's heart than any compliment you could ever pay her. She will watch you from across the room for half the night, watch your fingers work. You gain instant access to her heart without having to even try for it. You can be the ugliest sod in all of Thedas, you can get your food from the rats in the streets, you can have the blackest heart in the known world, and none of it will matter if you know how to play this thing right here. Those three skills have granted me every woman I have ever set my sights on. Except one woman in Denerim, racist against dwarves… huh, bitch."

"How lucky you are to have all three of them, then."

"Secrets of the trade, Hawke. I'll need them when we set out on our next adventure. We're headed North now. Rivain? Antiva? Tevinter's maybe? I hear Antiva has the most beautiful women in Thedas."

"There's no next adventure Varric." Varric abruptly stopped his tinkering with the lute. He set it aside and leaned with his elbows against the wheel, staring at Hawke, who had conveniently shifted his gaze elsewhere.

"You're going to have to run that one by me again, Hawke," Varric said forcefully, calling him on the statement. Hawke, to his credit, locked eyes with the dwarf. His eyes, however, scared Varric. They were not the determined, unyielding, almost predatory eyes which Varric usually saw. Instead, they seemed weak, powerless. Women spoke often of men's eyes: kind, or intelligent, or cocky, for example, but he had never placed much stock in such claims. It was clear in Hawke's eyes, however, that something had changed within him.

"My role in things is done," Hawke said after they stared at one another in the growing morning light for awhile.

"How very convenient," Varric sneered. "You know as well as I do, Hawke, that this whole mess bears your mark on it."

"I know. That's why I'm going to let everybody sort out their own problems for once." He looked back to the water.

"Hawke." He did not turn, so Varric continued regardless. "I stood behind you for two reasons. First, because you made me something more than I was before. You gave me a cause. And second-" He snorted. Why couldn't they just tell jokes to one another to express their camaraderie, as they had done throughout all the years before? "Second, you're the best friend I've ever had." Hawke looked back to him momentarily. He was clearly touched, but shame soon overcame him and he looked away.

"Varric, it's over. Let it go." Varric bit his lower lip and shifted his feet.

"Then you're not the leader I thought I was following."

"Then get on the lifeboat and go follow someone else." It might have been something they would have said to one another in jest if it were under different circumstances; humor came easily to them. But the words cut Varric to the bone. He shook his head in pain and resignation.

"Take the wheel," he said quietly. He picked the lute up off the deck and flung it overboard before disappearing through the trapdoor, off to his quarters.

XxX

The waters were always unpredictable, but the unique positioning of the Vimmark Mountains meant that the westward winds bottlenecked as they passed through the great ravines of the Free Marches. The mouths of these canyons were known to be frightfully temperamental, so when the powerful lash of a wave threw itself against the hull, waking Hawke and Merrill from their sleep, he knew the scene outside was likely deteriorating quickly.

"Oh, Maker," Merrill whimpered anxiously. "I think I'm going to be sick." Hawke grasped blindly for the oil lamp that would have normally resided on the desk, but the lamp- and the desk for that matter- had gone elsewhere. He summoned a bit of fire magic, illuminating the room. The few contents they kept in the room were scattered. Merrill had pulled the ratty blanket over her head, trembling fitfully in a fetal position. A second crash connected with the hull, sending Hawke off his feet and throwing him roughly against the floor.

Barely audible, labored steps sounded in the hall outside their quarters, and in seconds, Isabella was throwing open the door and staring at Hawke with wild eyes.

"On deck, now!" she shouted over the escalating roar of the storm outside. Her hair was drenched, and her clothing had been torn by vicious wind. The bandana that had fastened her hair was nowhere to be seen. "You too Merrill!" Merrill retreated further into the fetal position, and her voice, tense and desperate, was spouting an endless stream of Dalish prayers.

"Leave her!" Hawke said. "We haven't got time." He kept the ball of fire overhead so they could see. The trapdoor above was still open, gushing torrents of seawater and rain.

"Varric!" Isabela said, turning down the hall to his quarters.

"Up here, Rivaini!" Varric shouted, peeking his head through the trapdoor. They bounded up the steps, and Hawke struggled against the wind to close the trapdoor. He bolted it shut, with the momentary realization that if the ship went down, Merrill was absolutely trapped. The ship was small though, and keeping the door open was a sure way to strain the boat and fill it up with water. They would not survive it. He stood up, putting it out of his mind so he could focus on the urgent task at hand. Isabela put a hand on each of their heads, bringing their ears close to her mouth.

"We have to cut the sails loose! Varric, take the wheel! You're the strongest of us! You need to keep it as straight as you can or we'll roll! If you get overpowered, give it some room or the rudder will break!" Varric staggered off through the wind and waves to the helm of the boat.

"You know how to do this Hawke?" Isabela queried.

"I'll figure it out!"

"It'll have to do! Come on!" Bending low against the tempest, they reached the shrouds of the foremast, and taking hold as tight of hold of the rope as possible, they began to climb. The ropes flexed and swayed dangerously in the wind, and there was the unspoken knowledge that if either of them lost their grip, there was nothing the other could do to help, lest they be lost themselves. Hawke's eyes stung so badly that they were forced shut, and each rung of the shroud that he ascended was done so in blindness. Progress was slow, and over the roar of the storm, the wood of the masts groaned sickeningly. It was entirely possible that, with the sails up and full of storm wind, the masts could snap at any moment.

When his hands felt the slickness of wood once more, he forced his eyes open, finding himself in the foremast nest. Isabela had already beaten him, and was struggling to undo the knot which had kept the sails fastened.

"Don't hang on to it when it comes loose!" she screamed desperately. "It'll tear you off!" She pulled a knife from her belt and chopped viciously at the knot. Unanchored, a gust of wind blew her back. She screamed in agony when her wrist caught in the shroud, keeping her from falling to her death below, but also breaking her wrist with a vicious crack. Hawke, lodging his shoulder against the feeble railing of the nest, grabbed her arm and pulled with every ounce of his strength, even as she screamed and thrashed wildly at the pain. He successfully dragged her back into the nest, and went to the ropes only when she had locked her legs around the mast.

"I can't- I can't make it down Hawke!" she yelled as loudly as she could. He had to lean closer to hear her repeat herself. Thinking quickly, he summoned a bit of magic and severed the rope a length away from where it was tied, then quickly undid the rest of the knot. The sail, though it held to the top of the mast and flitted wildly, had been cut at the base and been rendered harmless. He tore off the slippery nightshirt he had worn and let the wind take it. Taking Isabela's hands hastily, he brought them around his bare neck and tied them as tight as he could possibly manage, to the point where Isabela howled painfully.

"You idiot!" She yelled into his ear as he struggled to lower himself over the edge of the nest and down on to the rope. "What are you doing? You're going to get yourself killed! You have to leave me!" He ignored her, grasping the rope with both hands and lowering himself down steadily. Already, Isabela's weight was tiresome and threatened to cut off his airway, but he continued his descent. By the time he had lowered them to a safe distance above the deck, he was struggling at the edge of unconsciousness. He missed the next rung of rope ladder and they fell unceremoniously to the deck. His body had only just missed hers, but his shoulder hit her arm, causing another crunch and a chorus of cursing screams. He unbound her hands and she climbed to her knees, clutching a useless arm to her side.

"What can I do?" she said, using the other hand to bring Hawke's ear close to her mouth again.

"Go help Varric if you can!" She nodded. She was one hell of a tough woman, Hawke noted in his thoughts. He turned his attention to the main mast and deliberated. He fired a few projectile spells at where the ropes were attached to the mast, but it was useless. The boat was much too unstable for there to be any accuracy in his attack. He began the unsteady climb up the shrouds once more, and was forced to climb several feet up the mast itself to get close enough to destroy the scaffolding that kept the sail anchored. The mast swayed in a creaking arc as he descended, and his survival instinct was as terrified of being swept away as it was of the ship going down.

When he found his feet back on the deck, a slight sensation of relief passed through him, as he knew that they had managed to give themselves the best chance of survival. Shaking off his fatigue, he approached the helm, where Varric and Isabela wrestled with the wheel. Isabela stood on the other side of the wheel, and could only read Varric's movements and try to assist him. Undoubtedly, Varric had to be on the verge of collapse by now, and Isabela's one-armed assistance was likely more of a consolation than a contribution.

"Get back!" Hawke roared at Isabela as he approached. She jumped back and Hawke hurriedly took her place. Putting his own waning strength into the wheel, he was shocked by the intensity of the wheel's ungodly force. That the spokes of the wheel had not disintegrated under the strain seemed like a miracle.

"I- can't…- hold it- Hawke," Varric groaned. Even in the dim light, Hawke could see that his face was a deep red, and every vein in the dwarf's body stood up grotesquely out of his skin. It would be the last image Hawke saw of his friend. An enormous wave crashed over the helm of the ship, sweeping all of them off of their feet and hurling them towards the opposite side. Hawke and Isabela collided with the railing, but the crest of the wave had peaked where Varric stood. A desperate gloved hand clutched at the railing in passing, but Varric had disappeared overboard.

"No!" Hawke bellowed in horror. Getting to his feet, he leaned over the railing and grabbed the robe attached to the anchor, severing the side attached to the heavy lead weight.

"Hawke!" Isabela cried. "The anchor!"

"Sod it!" he yelled back as he tied the rope around his wrist with blinding speed. He put a foot on the railing.

"You have to leave him!" Isabela screamed, grabbing him by the arm. He threw her off himself to the deck and leapt overboard in a dive. He crashed into the water and began kicking. His vision was extremely painful, and there was very little he could see at all. But the flash of white skin somewhere in the murk spurred him to a frenzy of kicking, and the white skin became clearer. Varric was drifting in the powerful undercurrents of the water, and his arms floated uselessly beside him.

You have to swim, Hawke thought, as if willing the message to his friend in the water. But Varric did not respond. He was utterly exhausted, and was likely drowning right before Hawke's eyes. Hawke kicked harder, rapidly burning the oxygen in his body. But a strong current swept from below and pushed Hawke towards the surface. Varric seemed miles away.

XxX

Isabela watched the robe streaming into the water with an open mouth of shock. Now that he had already jumped, she hoped to the Maker that two heads made it to the surface, though she had no clue how she was supposed to lift them both out a storming ocean. She cast a glance at the wheel behind her, which was spinning wildly in whichever direction the water pushed it. She cast another cautious look to the rope and noticed that Hawke's head had come up to the surface- alone.

"Time's up," she said under her breath. "Sorry Hawke." She slung the rope over her shoulder, clutching it with one hand to her chest, and the other arm pressed over it. She groaned against the pain, but began pushing off the railing with her feet, dragging the weight of a man through stiff water. She pushed painstakingly forward, gaining little more than a foot of distance each time. It was no had no strength in her. Her feet were sliding slowly over the surface. She had imagined her own death being very similar to something like this: young, on the ocean, fighting bitterly until the end and loving every minute of it. But it was a terrible waste for Hawke, and for Varric. A terrible waste.

Only a split second before her muscles gave out entirely, the rope moved forward. She lost her grip and gasped in astonishment as she fell to the deck. Her eyes looked up, and she saw Merrill holding the rope. She looked utterly ridiculous with the rope. Her tiny, limber frame was not even suited to a proper ship. But somehow, somehow she was moving forward. Isabela could barely muster the strength to get to her knees, and the rope was moving by without her help. By the time she had gotten shakily to her feet, Merrill had dragged Hawke all the way up to the side of the boat. She stumbled to the edge, knowing that if she fell again, she would not be able to get up. She slapped a hand on the man's arms and began to give out the very last molecule of her strength.

Hawke was alive, and though half-drowned and delirious, he put his other arm up on the railing and began to heave himself up. Between the three of them, they managed to get Hawke halfway in the boat. Merrill let go of the rope and raced forward, pulling the both of them on to the deck. They panted pathetically on the deck while Merrill got to her feet and began dragging them towards the trapdoor, where the bolt had been destroyed, seemingly through magic. First, she dragged Isabela, and tossed her carelessly down the small set of steps down to below deck. She did the same with Hawke, though she at least tried to roll him so he did not land on Isabela, who was virtually dying of exhaustion.

When they were both inside, she stepped in, struggling to pull the trapdoor closed behind her. The other two were long unconscious now, and she clung to the handle on the trapdoor, which took all of her effort to keep closed and keep the entire lower deck from flooding.

Underneath the incessant howl of the storm, Merrill prayed to whichever god would hear her.