Charlie Bowbitter alias Charlie the Crab Claw had been the owner of Hanged Man for seven years now and nobody in Kirkwall could say they knew much about him. He was raised among the pirates only to become an infamous raider and merchant, known from Anderfels to Fereldan. What exactly got him known in the first place was no doubt killing his own father, taking over his business, and rising to power. When he disappeared seven years ago from his mansion in Antiva, his usual business partners thought he finally knocked on the devil's gate or that a kraken sank his ship along with a legendary treasure, but only Charlie himself knew the truth. From his many children he had made during his wild pirate years in every port, he chose a quiet and daring boy from Rivain and took him to Kirkwall, where he bought an inn. Corff was a grateful and witty lad and the ageing Charlie was expecting his boy would take over the business once Charlie would – by his own words – snuff it.
Samael was sitting in the dark corner of the Hanged Man, staring intently at the bottom of an empty snifter, trying hard not to meditate on murdering the Arishok. That certainly wouldn't help with the appeasement, huh? He gritted the teeth and gulped down yet another drink when that filthy Qunari's face crossed his mind again. He reminisced the moment when he, Fenris, Merrill and Charon, each of them encrusted in dust, sand and blood, stormed into the Qunari compound after their journey home. All right, maybe just Samael actually dashed inside like a mad man, the rest of them crawled behind him, thinking just about a bath, hot meal and cozy beds. Samael remembered the wave of astonishment and annoyance which flooded the Arishok's face for a second that Hawke was still standing and breathing, requesting an explanation why the Arishok had sent him to death.
Arishok had to admit, just to himself of course, that he wanted to give the Viscount a lesson, getting killed his sent puppets, but that petty fuming human standing right in front of him gave him the lesson instead. The survival of that little group was most unexpected, yet he was aware he couldn't let them know about his surprise and, yes, a small admiration as well. He banned Hawke from the compound, giving him a casual and terse reply that he would send for him if needed. It was that cold and arrogant order to leave that burnt Samael's very core, tickling his short temper. As much as it was humiliating, he became, thanks to the Viscount, Qunari's bitch. He was caught right between the Viscount's threats and the Arishok's whims.
Charlie interrupted the assassin's sulking when he brought him a grilled fish, mumbling, "On the house, Lord Hawke." Charon looked up from his bone, in hope the man would bring him another one he could bury somewhere only to try to remember where it was and dig it up again.
Samael had no idea why the old inn proprietor insisted on addressing him in such ridiculous way, but it definitely conjured a faint smile on his lips now. He had grown fond of the old man and even of his son Corff ever since he was supposed to kill Charlie Bowbitter by the order of Red Iron company. The old pirate out paid the what the Red Iron would have so Samael left him alive. He later escaped the nets of the company which led to an attempt to murder Hawke during one dark night in Lowtown.
"Many thanks, friend," Samael whispered, because that was how he felt about the old pirate; a friend. "Listen, is Varric here? I need to… talk to him," Samael finished his question, thinking maybe a little apology for his outburst was in order.
"Messere Tethras is not here and if I'm not mistaken, Lord Hawke, today's a Diamondback night back at your strange elven friend's mansion in Hightown." Charlie wiped the bread crumbs off the table, blinking at his customer.
"Ah. Right. How could I forget…" Samael muttered, leaning back in his armchair. "I told Fenris I would stop by. Or not. I don't know." He rubbed his temples.
"Problems, Lord Hawke?" a quiet question reached Samael's ears.
"Shitstorm, Charlie." Samael sighed, deciding it would be wise to stay more or less sober if he should play Diamondback tonight. The old pirate left him to his musing and it was at that exact moment when Samael acknowledged a strange feeling nagging him at the back of his nape. He knew well that feeling for it was often his only protection during those years he had spent guarding his family, killing everyone who was tagged by his father as a potential or immediate threat. That feeling had saved all of them countless times, keeping them from walking into traps.
The assassins.
A wolf in a Sunday hat is able to recognize another wolf among the sheep and this was the case. Among the whores, pimps, urchins looking for a job and customers stood assassins like small islands of coldness, the motionless beacons inside of the buzzing inn. Samael noticed the smooth stranger in delicate thin leather gloves and hood, several sorry thugs who were there just to distract him no doubt, and then there was a riff-raff of tough guys dressed in leather and steel, armed with chains and clubs. Samael could only assume what rabble awaited him outside of the inn if he happened to cut through these bastards inside. Which was, let's face it, unlikely.
Samael stood up as casually and slowly as he was able to, whistling at Charon and they both strolled to Varric's suite. Once the door was closed behind his back, Samael's mask slipped down and he raked through his hair veil in despair, pacing around the room.
This… It can't end like this. I'm not about to be chopped into twitching pieces, not like this, not here, not now. Maker, I still have something to live for, I had plans. I have plans! How foolish I was when I thought Raen was satisfied with my explanation? Ah, wait. Maybe he was actually happy with my explanation. Maybe it was Haydée who sent them after me, again. Can I blame her? She was attacked at my estate after all; I myself granted them safe arrival and departure, not safe arrival and bloody departure. I must, I must… Is it possible to survive this? In the whole world I love my life and my freedom the most after all. I won't go down just like that, oh no. Poor Charlie. His inn is about to be wrecked and it's my fault, damn it!
Samael's eyes were frantically wandering around the room, ending at the Charon who had brought a bone inside and was happily continuing his chewing on it. So, he had a katana, he had a mabari war hound, twelve throwing knives, three poisoned blades and his hands. Not bad, for a start. He rummaged through the Varric's stuff and took a few combustion grenades and healing potions made by Merrill. When a vivid image of her face popped in his mind, his heart started racing, pumping pure adrenaline into his body.
Bring it on, bitches. I'm Hawke. And I won't go down without a fight.
Samael kicked the door open. What happened next was later known as the Spring Slaughter in Lowtown by Varric Tethras.
oOo
The first thugs were waiting for him right behind the door and Samael didn't give them a chance to wield those clubs with rusty iron thorns; they all ended up with a throwing knife adorning their throats.
The people jumped up at the sound of fight and at the river of blood flowing on the stairs. Samael rushed down the shabby staircase and a ghostly feeling filled him; it was that breathless brief moment right before the storm, when everything fell silent, the whirling dust seemed to slow down and only certain people were moving in the inn, their eyes piercing Hawke, letting him know he was the one they had come here for. Then the hell broke loose. The regulars tried to flee the Hanged Man, bumping into each other by the door leading outside, shrieking and swearing. Several Guardsmen were trying to get in, not knowing what was going on but determined to restore order. Samael had no doubts they would have stayed outside if they knew.
Hawke used this dismay and chaos to run for a cover, tipping the table over, dragging the bloodthirsty mabari with him.
"Not yet, my friend. Be patient," he breathed into the bristling mabari ear and the beast calmed down a little. The smooth hooded stranger in delicate gloves climbed on the table to get a better view and when he spotted Samael crouching in the corner he let out a victory cry, pointing at Hawke with his finger. To his horror, Samael recognized that stranger; he was Sven Sieggbard, his former companion from the Red Iron. He had disappeared in the middle of Samael's service in the company, claiming he would go to Antiva to join the Crows. Nobody had heard about him ever since and they all thought he died somewhere along the way. But here he was, the only assassin who posed a real threat to Hawke right now. The others were just amateurs providing a distraction so the real hit man wouldn't have a hard job.
One young Guardsman approached the Crow assuming Sieggbard, who was still standing on the table, was the one who had started this riot and kicked him down off the table. Samael felt sorry for the young lad since a geyser of blood splashed the ceiling in the place where Sieggbard had tumbled down; the corpse of the Guardsman resounded as it hit the floor.
Hawke immediately realized this was a perfect moment to strike back and he peered from behind his table, but several arrows hammering against the wood made him pull back again. He knew they would drive him out of his hiding place in no time and he repositioned himself behind the pillar, turning a quick somersault. Four bastards were onto him in one second. Samael deflected their furious onslaught, dispatching them one by one. Anxiety began to fill him since he had no idea where Sven was at the moment, not knowing if he had a blade with the name Hawke on it, ready to pierce his heart from behind.
A huge brute wrapped his brawny arms around Hawke, squeezing him, mumbling sappy threats into his ears. Samael managed to loosen the giant's grasp when he hit him with the back of his head for the fourth time into his face though Charon shredding the giant's calf was helpful as well. When the brute staggered backwards, brandishing his shovel-like arms, it was all that Samael needed to whirl around and jab a small blade into his left eye socket with all his power.
An arrow licked Samael's cheek, waving his hair. Hawke ducked behind the scattered chairs, but a thin, thorny chain was thrown, coiling around his throat. The thug chuckled, yanking the chain and Samael dropped down on knees, gasping for air, the thorns piercing his skin. Hawke ripped the katana out of its sheath, lashing out blindly behind him. The chain got loosened and a hand holding it was chopped off in the elbow, still stuck in the chain. Samael freed his neck, but when the thugs realized Hawke was down, chained, they howled and dashed to him like starving rats smelling blood. Samael crawled up, groping his bleeding neck, struggling for breath, when the four nearest bastards fell down with thick black bolts stuck in their skulls. Samael parried the rest of them, but in one careless move the katana was kicked out of his hand. He jumped up, his hands clenching the low ceiling beam, and he kicked his assailant straight into his torso with such a momentum, he heard the ribs cracking. As he jumped down again, something kicked him down as well and he landed on the dirt ground, slashing his palms on the shards, groaning when that somebody kicked him again to turn him on his back. Samael pierced the newest bastard with a scorching glare and to the thug's astonishment he grinned at him, spitting blood. Of course the thug couldn't see the approaching mabari with bare white long teeth, ready to rip his throat out. Hawke closed his eyes when the thug's blood sprinkled his face. He unintentionally licked his lips; the blood was thick and bitter.
Samael rolled over and crept behind the table again on all four, dragging the katana with him. Somebody was there, helping him. But it wasn't Varric's bolts. So what the fuck…? The mabari whined, returning him into the gruesome reality. Samael still had several thugs and Sven to deal with, but damn it, Sven was still waiting for a perfect opportunity, hidden somewhere here. Samael gulped down a healing potion, jumping out of the cover again. Four thugs on the left, three on the right. Hawke sent the mabari with a brief gesture to deal with the right group, throwing a combustion grenade on the left. The explosion was massive and it knocked Samael down, leaving a deafening silence afterwards. Samael coughed, but there was no time for recuperation since two others were making their way through the ruins, trying to reach him. Samael tightened the grasp on his katana and when the thugs saw his motionless figure emerging from the whirling dust, waiting for them, they gulped and glanced at each other, confused.
"Cold feet, gentlemen?" Samael hissed, the katana slashing the air in quick staccato. The first of them fell down with a throat slashed, his eyes widened in shock. His companion, obviously frightened about his fallen companion, dropped the sword, his hands rising in surrender, but he ended up with a blade stuck in his chest. He goggled at Samael then the blade, amazed. His face expression was worth of eternal remembering since he looked like he was about to call for the treaties about not killing the war captives.
"Over here, Lord Hawke!" Samael turned at the familiar voice coming from behind the bar, and his heart skipped a beat when he saw Sven's pale face materializing right behind the old bartender. There was nothing he could do; only helplessly watch as Sven pierced Charlie's torso with two svelte blades, grinning at him viciously.
Charlie howled, his face twisting in pain, and he managed to turn around and punch Sieggbard in his face with his ancient crossbow before he collapsed. Samael started to see through the red veil, knowing he had to kill, kill, kill, kill a hundred times Sven for ending Charlie's life; not just because he was sent to assassinate him. The last three thugs stood between Hawke and Sven who just threw a burning torch on the broken table in the corner.
Samael with the mabari by his side let out a mighty cry, challenging the thugs. They seemed genuinely disturbed that Hawke was still not just standing, but standing practically unharmed, a pure murder in his eyes. Hesitant, they stalked to him, circling around him like stray dogs around one bone. Hawke stayed still with his head slightly lowered, the hair veil obscuring his face. Charon looked up at him, puzzled if he should start his usual rampage, but the master was motionless. One of the thugs couldn't bear this little psychological game, the hand holding the sword shot out, and his head was rolling on the ground, a geyser of bright fresh blood gushing out of the headless body. The second one roared, showing his teeth to Samael, who was again biding his time, remaining silent and calm. The two of them attacked him together. The katana slashed the smoke and just a crimson aerosol was left in the air behind the collapsing next opponent.
The last of them burst out laughing as he threw the sword away which knocked Samael off balance for a second. The thug shouted something undecipherable, the little finger edge of his hand splitting the air as he attacked Samael with his bare arms. When the thug screamed for the second time, he had several torus fractures in his right hand and a dislocated shoulder, crowned with a blade jabbed right in the middle of his forehead.
When Samael glanced at the bar again, Sven wasn't there, but the fire was growing stronger and an acrid smoke was filling the wrecked inn. Samael dragged himself behind the bar and there Charlie was, lying in the pool of dark clotting blood. He collapsed right next to him, gathering him in the arms; the katana thudded on the ground.
Samael observed frantically the two expanding blood stains on the Charlie's doublet and the bartender opened wide his bright eyes, watching the young rogue with a calm smile on his lips. His old face was ploughed with deep wrinkles, but his eyes were still young.
"If ya… won't help… Corff… to rebuild this damned… this damned…" He whispered and tiny blood bubbles appeared in his mouth corner. Samael's throat was constricted, so he just nodded, squeezing the old man's hand.
"I need to… hear it, lad. Say… it." Charlie clenched Samael's hand with an unexpected strength.
"Yes. Yes, I will help to rebuild the Hanged Man, Charlie. Do you hear me?" Samael whispered back, shaking the withering body in his arms to underline his ardent promise.
"Aye, I hear ya. You better… keep this promise… or I will… haunt your sorry ass… if… you… won't pay for a shiny… new… inn… for my... for my…" Samael felt the tears burning in his eyes, realizing the flames were almost licking them. Charon was whining by his side, anxious.
"That bastard… would leave me here… dying slowly… painfully… in the fire." Charlie breathed out, his eyes pleading with Hawke to finish him off. Samael nodded again, gulping down the tears, positioning the last throwing knife he had against the Charlie the Crab Claw's heart.
"Give the Maker my regards, Charlie," Samael managed to smile through the tears.
"Ye may lay to that, Lord Hawke," the bartender rasped, his eyes hypnotizing the blade which was about to end his life. Samael pushed the knife inside with a choked sob, unable to look into those darkening eyes. A last grin froze on the dead man's thick lips and he wasn't clutching his wounds anymore, hurting; he looked… in peace.
Charon was pushed beyond the bearable point of self-preservation – his tail was on fire, literally. He dragged Hawke towards the door by his cloak, whining and snorting. Samael glanced for the last time at Charlie. In the bluish blinding flare of the spilled burning alcohol behind the bar, Charlie's corpse was twitching and shrinking in the last earthbound dance.
oOo
Samael and Charon fell out of the burning Hanged Man, coughing, crawling as far as they could from the heat of the fire. As Hawke collapsed by the distant wall, catching breath, patting the smoldering cloak hem, he spotted a tall silhouette approaching them through the smoke, dust and fire.
Sven Sieggbard, coming to fulfill his contract. How could Samael have forgotten about him? So Sven wouldn't have a tough job after all, Samael thought bitterly to himself. He was tired, burnt, spent. All he had was the exhausted mabari probably unable to fight and his katana.
Samael pulled himself up on his feeble feet, leaning on the wall, the weapon in his hanging hand. Sven reached him, a vile grin twisting his lips, observing Samael's wretched state. Despite the exhaustion Charon growled, bristling, making a few steps towards the Crow, so he was standing between his master and the enemy.
"You are doing well for yourself, aren't you, Hawke? I'm sorry I'm the one ridding the world of you." Sven sighed, looking pleased as ever.
"No, you're not sorry, Sven. And I'm going to cut you down just like the others." Samael droned, realizing his words were more like a hollow threat than the truth, which was confirmed by Sieggbard when he shook his head, chuckling.
"Come on, Hawke. Give up. Look at you. You are clapped-out, you're done." Sven threw his arms sideways, smiling at the panting rogue. He slowly unsheathed his long rapiers, swinging them in the choking air, like he was about to practice, not murder a person.
As the fighters faced off, circling around each other, the thoughts were whirling in the Samael's head in an insane tempo. The bunch of people scoured by them, attracted by the fire, squealed when they noticed the two of them were about to slash each other's throat and disappeared. Sven was obviously convinced that Samael was at the very end of his strength and he launched a vicious attack, determined to make it quick. Samael couldn't do anything but parrying wildly the speeding up attack, knowing that the first slash he was about to receive from the Crow would be probably the last one as well: lethal.
"What a beautiful katana, Hawke. Would you mind if I take it from your cooling corpse?" Sven laughed, taunting the rogue.
Samael disengaged, pulling back slightly, making an unexpected sideswipe, slashing through the Sven's jerkin. The Crow danced backwards; obviously sullen that Samael was still strong enough to fight back. The mabari tried to go after his legs, but Sieggbard kicked him right into his muzzle, stunning him. The mabari whined and collapsed on his side. Sven stomped on him, chuckling when Samael's eyes widened in fear, and leapt forward to deliver an ultimate hit. Samael dodged it with difficulty, ducked to avoid yet another slash and Sven roared in frustration, "Die already!"
"After you, half-wit!" Samael sizzled through his clenched teeth. Maybe he should have thought twice about this insult since the reply was a fierce attack, the weapons striking the sparkles, whirling bodies, silent combat to the death. Sven fainted left then right, pushing the staggering Hawke backwards.
Samael was watching like in the slowing images as Sven whirled around him, slashing his hamstring, and he couldn't believe it was really him who had cried out in pain, collapsing in the dust and ashes. An appeased grin sprawled out on the Crow's face as he was orbiting around the lying target, clapping to himself with his rapiers; Samael's blood was dripping off the one of them.
"My, my… you are one tough nut to crack, aren't you, Hawke. But I guess the best of us won this pathetic fight in the end, right?" Sven gloated.
Samael was just squirming on the ground during that speech, glancing at the mabari who dragged himself up on his teetering paws, swaying. He was also aware of the little fact that Sven completely forgot Samael still had the katana in his hand.
Samael was hypnotized by Charon, his martyred face full of mixed emotions: sworn will to live, endless fatigue, defiance to yield somebody like Sven Sieggbard, hope and fear.
"Save yourself, you fool," Samael whispered to the mabari who collapsed again, his body shaking. His voice dissipated in the frightful scream of the Crow – gathering his very last strength, Samael sliced his legs. The Sven's knee joints were cut in half and the whiteness of the bones flashed almost indecently in the dark air. Sven's howls were resonating in the night as he was grabbing what was left of his legs, staring at Hawke in shock, like he couldn't fathom what just had happened and why he wasn't able to stand up anymore.
Samael just fell backwards on his back, hissing in pain, realizing that growing almost black fluid pool he was lying in was his blood oozing out of the crippling leg wound. He crawled away of the dying enemy, scratching his palms and elbows on debris, choking on the smoke wallowing by the ground. When he couldn't go on he just collapsed helplessly by the wall, feeling his slowing heartbeat. He lingered at the edge of consciousness and he saw the most peculiar things. His father's face flowing right in front of him, telling him everything will be all right, a huge white mabari licking its paw, tall and slender doe, staring at him with big dark brown eyes from around the corner…
"Just… leave me alone… damn it." Samael mumbled; the words meant for those ghosts. "Shit… Fenris… will kill me… for not showing… at that… silly… Diamondback." With this last thought Samael gave up and closed his eyes.
oOo
"Your turn, Kitten," Isabela threw in a comment, smirking about her huge pile of coins.
When the witch hadn't moved they all glanced at her, observing her veiled widened eyes and trembling hands. When the cards fell out of her hand, they all knew something was terribly wrong. Well, all except for Isabela who was still pawing her coins, grinning to herself.
"Samael," Merrill breathed out, jumping up from her chair, knocking it over.
"Seriously, Kitten, you need to relax. We know he's giving you a cold shoulder right now, but-" Isabela's prattle was interrupted when Merrill bolted out of the Fenris' mansion, not bothering to explain anything.
Varric sighed, leaning back in his armchair and folding his cards. "Any of you care to follow that silly girl?" The dwarf snorted when nobody had moved and stood up himself, murmuring something about his old bones and their laziness. Anders joined him after he gulped down his red wine. The column of grey smoke, prominent on the sky even at night, coming somewhere from Lowtown left them speechless for a moment. Varric had glimpsed Merrill disappearing around the corner and they ran to catch up with her. She led them infallibly to Lowtown and Varric's eyes widened in utter horror as he observed the fire where he used to have a home.
Merrill was skittering around the inn which was about to collapse judging by the tortured creaking of the half-burnt columns unable to hold the roof anymore. Anders tried to catch her, but she broke his grasp, shouting the name of her lover, protecting her eyes from the unbelievable heat coming from the fire when she approached the burning ruins, determined to search them right now if necessary.
"I'm here… Merrill," Samael managed to open one eye, as he heard from distance someone was screaming his name. In the next second his torso was wrapped by her familiar arms, but his head fell back helplessly, exposing the dried pearls of blood on his throat caused by the chain. Varric made sure Samael was in good hands and he tried to convince himself this wasn't the worst disaster in his life, observing the peculiar legless corpse lying not far from Hawke.
Merrill and Anders strained their muscles, pulling the limp assassin up after a minute of healing.
"How is he?" Varric came near them, picking up the katana that was encrusted in dried blood and ashes.
"Surprisingly just a wound on his leg. We stopped the bleeding, he lost lots of blood. But I think it's nothing that a long rest and some healing couldn't fix," Anders replied, panting under the weight of the Hawke's body. Samael dreamt a curious dream about being carried through Kirkwall, familiar voices echoing in his ears. Then everything went black and he sank into oblivion.
oOo
Samael woke up early the next morning, staring at the ceiling in silence. He heard well the quiet voices and barking in his mansion, but he was alone to his relieve. His body was healed, just the thigh felt funny and stiff, but what he felt in his soul was pure disquiet and despair.
For how long he was doomed to wake up in the bed, feeling wretched after yet another fight for his life? How he was supposed to live when his life was constantly hanging on balance? He couldn't recall a single week without some fool trying to kill him and this thought alone was driving him crazy. This half-existence became unbearable for him and he climbed out of the bed, his eyes wandering around the room. He dragged his body to closet and put on the first light black leather armor he found, sheathing the Coterie shivs on his back, since the katana wasn't there. The assassin shrouded himself in the thick black cloak with a hood like he wished the cloak would hide him from the world.
All he knew was he didn't want to talk to anybody, possibly ever again. He didn't wish to be pierced by Varric's prodding questions, he didn't wish for Bodahn would fuss around him, Merrill to care about him, or Anders to ask him where it hurt. Because nobody could heal the broken soul. All he wanted was for those demons hissing in his head about his fucked up life to finally shut up. Samael used a secret corridor to leave the estate, heading out of Kirkwall without the even subtlest glance back.