A/N the first: This chapter is from Ander's viewpoint. From here on, any time the narration is in first person, it will be from Ebony my Hawkette's viewpoint, while third person means it is someone else (Anders, Varric, Fenris, what have you). Thank you to the three people who have subscribed, please R&R, let me know what you like and what I need to improve on (and if I really screw anything up).
For the pain and the sorrow caused by my mistakes
Won't repent to a mortal whom is all to blame
Now I know I won't make it
There will be a time we'll get back our freedom
They can't break what's inside
Pale, listless, unaware of the world around them, the boy lays on the rough table before him, head lolling from side to side, forehead and upper lip dotted with sweat born of fever. Hair already grey from tribulation, his young mother kneels to one side, clutching desperately at the wooden cot, waiting to see what happens, while the boy's father bends over the head of the bed, looking down at his son with intense lines of pain etched in his face as if carved with a chisel. It would be a scene typical of any clinic in any other part of any other poor section of Thedas except for one thing: neither parent whispers prayers to Andraste or the Maker, only waits and watches with baited breath and tired acceptance. But then again, to bring their child to him, to an apostate mage hiding from both templars and the Grey Wardens in the depths of this Maker-forsaken hole, that is only the action of people who know that true hope does not lay in an all too absent god.
Blue energy glows from his hands as he spreads his senses to reach inside the child, trying to feel the source of the infection, to chase down and destroy every life-ending organism floating through his body, no matter how invisible it is to anyone else. Nothing seems to help, and he closes his eyes, willing more energy through his hands and into the boy's body; it's almost too much, and for a moment he is certain he has killed them both, then the boy jerks up on the table, bright eyed, fever gone, into the waiting arms of his mother. Spent, the healer collapses, turning away from the family to give them some privacy to their celebration of life, nodding his thanks to the father for a strong hand to help him straighten, then waving away an offer of payment and profuse thanks. Drained, that is all he feels, and he reaches up to rub the tension from his forehead -
Threat. A presence in the clinic triggers a thought in his mind both his and not his at the same time, and he feels the rage take hold for a split second before he pushes it back down. Innocents nearby. Calm. Reaching for his staff he twirls around, all exhaustion forgotten, assuming a battle stance as he stares down the new arrivals. Strange company, this: a dwarf, armed with a crossbow and dressed like some sort of rogue from a fantasy tale; a copper-haired City Guard with wary eyes set in a hard face; and a large man with bulging muscles and a massive sword strapped to his back in a way that says he knows the way of the warrior. Yet it is none of these three who has triggered his defenses, none of them he sees as a true threat. Instead it is a small, skinny wisp of a girl, black haired falling in curls past her shoulders, amethyst eyes glittering jewel-like in her pale face. Hekate… no, not Hekate… so much like her; who? Like him, she is only armed with a staff, only dressed in simple clothing covered with a rusted chain shirt that would do little or nothing to protect against either arrows or bladed weapons; as a man he sees her as pretty, but delicate, like a hot-house flower not meant to survive in the real world. Nothing but an enticement to the usual ruffian on the street.
But, as a mage, all he can see is the energy, the mana, the magic she carries as she moves through the room, the impossible brilliance that none of true power can hide: to him, she glows as brightly as the sun.
"I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation. Why do you threaten it?" He holds his staff before him, tilted slightly before him in a way that shows the will to both attack and defend, his eyes never leaving the girl's face. No, not Hekate at all; but so close it makes his chest ache for his old friend. "Who are you?"
Slowly, as if to show him she means no threat, she submissively raises her empty hands. "My name is Ebony Hawke; I'm just here to talk." Her voice carries the sweet cadence of Ferelden, pure and clear with just a hint of nobility, and a wave of homesickness hits him again, but he doesn't allow his guard to relax. It would be like Rolan to have planned past his death enough to find another mage so much like Hekate to drag him into another trap. "Did the Wardens send you to bring me back? I'm not going. Those bastards made me get rid of my cat. Poor Ser Pounce-a-lot. He hated the Deep Roads." Snorts of mirth burst from both the tower of muscles and the guardswoman, and he is gratified to see a small smile blossom on the girl - Ebony's - face when the dwarf mutters "I have to remember to write that one down."
"You had a cat named Ser Pounce-a-lot? In the Deep Roads?"
"He was a gift. A noble beast. Almost got ripped in half by a genlock once. He swatted the bugger on the nose. Drew blood too. The blighted Wardens said he 'made me too soft.' I had to give him to a friend in Amaranthine."
"So you came to Kirkwall just to escape the Wardens?" Be rid of her. Too many questions. Curiosity is normal, though, isn't it? Perhaps there's no need to be paranoid with her. No. Do not relax around this one. She is… dangerous.
Dangerous? "You say that like it's a small thing. Yes, I'm here because there's no Warden outpost, no darkspawn, and a whole host of refugees to blend in with." There is a twitch from her field of mana, like a sympathetic harmony; so she knows what it means to hide in the crowd does she? Not surprising; what apostate doesn't know how to hide. "And some reasons of my own."
"I'm part of an expedition into the Deep Roads. Any information you have can save people's lives." Tricky little wench, to spot his weakness that quickly. Or… maybe… No, no one is naturally that innocently selfless. Everyone has their point when they sell out, do things they would never consider doing at any other time, the point when they will use anyone and everyone around them to get what they want. Just like me. What haven't I done to get justice? Or vengeance?
"I will die a happy man if I never think about the blighted Deep Roads again. You can't imagine what I've come through to get here." Bitterness and venom, the flavors drip from his words and flood his mouth. "I'm not interested…" Flicker: fear, pain, hopelessness, despair, death. But none of it about herself, all directed towards others: the man with the black hair, scowling down at a dinner that he knows will not fill his belly, a mother tossing and turning on a hard plank bed stained with grime and infested with insects no matter how much she scrubs, a large Mabari hound scratching at the bite marks from mice that come out to nibble at him while he sleeps. Nothing about her, no worries about her own stomach, or her own exhaustion, or her own wounds. It's all about others. Maker, she really is that selfless. Where is the justice in this? "Although… a favor for a favor. Does that sounds like a fair deal? You help me, I'll help you?"
"Help my expedition reach the Deep Roads, and I'll do whatever you need."
He barely suppresses a smile at her quick, honest answer, even as his insides twinges slightly. The problem with innocent people is that they rarely understand other people are not so innocent. "You don't ask for my terms? What if I were asking for the knight-commander's head on a spike?"
"Is that what you ask?" Fearful glance to the black-haired man - her brother, it must be, even though they share so little either in stature or presence - a glance mostly concealed, though easily caught by eyes trained by years of living trapped among those who watched his every step, the entire time secretly plotting his own escape, his own personal revolution.
"You decide." Another sidelong glace towards her brother, another glare from him back to her. Interesting, that, the brother more concerned about templars than the sister, and not out of any love that he could see, only pure, selfish calculation. Damn to the Void all templars, that even brothers fear what their sisters are. "I have a Warden map of the depths in this area. But there's a price. I came to Kirkwall to help a friend. A mage. A prisoner in the wretched Gallows. The templars learned of my plans to free him. Help me bring him safely past them, and you shall have your maps."
"You want to make your friend an apostate?" Something flickers in the aura of mana that surrounds her, some emotion he cannot understand, intense and primal, and for a breath he thinks this is the moment she reveals herself to be the spy for Rolan and the Wardens come to bring him down he originally thought her. But then the emotion is gone, contained, and he can see nothing in her eyes that suggests what it might be, only his own reflection and the light of clinic hearth's flames dancing in the bottomless jeweled pool that is her gaze.
"That's such a weighted term. Yes, Andraste said magic is to serve man, not rule him. But I've yet to meet a mage who wants to rule anything. It goes against no will of the Maker for mages to live as free as other men."
Finally, she averts her eyes from his, looking away, into the distance, into the past. When she speaks, her voice is soft, barely more than a whisper, but the sad force within it cannot be smoothed by lowered tones alone. "Forcing mages into servitude is not the way to prevent the rise of another Imperium."
"That's not usually the response I get. Perhaps we will work together better than I expected."
"Tell me about your friend."
"His name is Karl Thekla. He was sent here from Ferelden when Kirkwall's Circle needed new talent. His last letter said the knight-commander was turning the Circle into a prison. Mages are locked in their cells, refused appearances at court, made Tranquil for the slightest crimes. I told him I would come."
"Are these accusations true?" Lines mar her forehead as she starts slightly in horror; for him, it is a nightmare, for her, who has so obviously lived without such touches on her life, it must be no different than watching her own beating heart ripped from her chest.
"Ask any mage in Kirkwall. Over a dozen were made Tranquil just this year. The more people you ask, the worse the rumors become."
Determination glows in the depths of her dark eyes, and she nods in assent, holding out her hand in pledge. "I would help any mage in such circumstances, map or no. How do you plan to break him out of the Gallows?"
"I'm hoping it won't come to that. I sent Karl a message to meet me in the Chantry tonight. Maker willing, he'll be there, alone. But if there are templars with him, I swear, I'll free him from them. Whatever the cost. I welcome your aid. We'll make sure that no matter who is with him, we all walk away free."
"The Chantry? Are you mad? You don't think that three mages are going to be a little conspicuous there?" Her brother can be silent no longer, his frustration a storm in the relative stillness of the clinic.
"Carver, please, for Mother's sake…"
"No, Sister! This is mad! How do we even know he has these maps? We don't know him, this could be just another trap that leads right to the templars and the Gallows. Is that what you want? All of us in there because of some lying mage we don't know anything about?"
"My name is Anders, I was recruited in the Grey Wardens by the Hero of Ferelden after I escaped from the Circle Tower. I left them and came here. That's all true. What else do you want to know… Carver, is it?" Anders keeps his tone mild, despite his intense desire to take his staff and…
"You say you knew the Hero of Ferelden, alright." Carvers eyes narrow, his lips twisted as he thinks of a question that he is certain the mage cannot answer. "Tell me about her."
"Her name is Hekate Amell, last I saw her she was rushing off to protect some other ungrateful person around Amaranthine from something or other. One of the best friends I ever had."
Carver snorts with triumph. "See, I told you he was lying. He doesn't even know what she looks like."
The man is starting to turn away, when Ander's voice stops him in his tracks, his words rising and falling almost in the cadence of a song. "She looks almost exactly like your sister, only with a slight difference to the eyes; something in them… you know what I mean." Half a smirk twists on his face as he sees Carver squirm; yes, he knows exactly what he means
"Satisfied, Brother?" One black eyebrow quirks, but no smile touches her lips before she nods slightly towards the other mage. "We'll see you at the Chantry tonight, then."
He hears the dwarf as the group leaves, teasing Carver about his temper tantrum then switching to tease Ebony about looking like Hekate Amell. Long curls the same shade as her name float down her back as she tosses her head slightly, turning toward the rogue with a glimmer in her unusual eyes. "Well, I would. Our mother's maiden name is Amell, we're cousins."
Maker help him, but he is looking forward to tonight for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with Karl, and everything to do with that pair of shadowed amethyst eyes.
Open up your eyes
Save yourself from fading away now, don't let it go
Open up your eyes
See what you've become, don't sacrifice
It's truly the heart of everything
A/N the second: Standard "I own nothing, not even my own heart, it's gone (a wizard did it)" disclaimer. Lyrics from "The Heart of Everything" by Within Temptation. Sorry this chapter took so long, I actually had most of it written a few days ago, but then I got visited by the worst kidney infection I've ever had on my darn birthday of all days (stupid brain disease meds that make suppressed immune systems even worse).