Nemesis
Chapter 5- Deaths in the Family
"I am a fugitive, I'll give you that, but I am a dangerous dragon of a fugitive who you are asking to ignore her staunch, burny righteousness."
Marian Hawke
The Veiled Blue left Hawke in a tragic state of seasickness. Sensitive inner ears ran in her family, all three remaining members of the Hawke lineage had endured the boat ride from Gwaren to Kirkwall while violently ill. She tried everything from ginger to sugared lemon drops and some strange tablet a healer in Cosazure had recommended she keep tucked beneath her tongue, even an odd tight band that pricked her wrist- how that was even supposed to help she'd likely never know, perhaps the perpetual annoyance was meant to distract her. The only thing that kept the constant nausea at bay was laying low in her bunk like a bear in hibernation waiting for the warmth of spring.
It had been three weeks into the voyage on a cool, damp night that she dared to allow herself to think of Fenris and she realized abruptly that she had not menstruated since their meeting almost two months ago. The revelation was unsurprising overall- the stress of her new lifestyle had shed more than a few pounds from her frame and it had been months since she'd gone through a proper menses. It had never given her reason to pause but then again, she'd been more or less abstinent for longer than she cared to admit, save for the heavy petting she'd engaged in with Fenris those last days in Kirkwall and more recently a few bungled attempts with another woman when the stress was too much and she couldn't sleep.
For those painfully awkward occasions she'd bedded down with Margot, desperately needing comfort and rejecting the idea of another man's touch while she mourned- even before she knew Fenris yet lived. Margot had found her way into the Wildervale camp from the Circle in the Anderfels. She was kind, strong, a rock that Hawke could lean on for support- and had on several occasions when she felt overwhelmed. The woman, only slightly older in years, had expressed her interest in Marian but she'd always been turned down for a multitude of reasons, the primary deterrents being Hawke's grief for the lover she thought she'd killed and her innate preference for having sex with men.
She'd never slept with a woman before- never even been tempted to- but when Margot suggestively offered to help her forget the plight of mages on a particularly difficult night, she found herself letting the older woman lead her into her tent and entirely unfamiliar territory. Hawke had never considered herself to be gay and Margot seemed to know that. When Marian had tried to reciprocate, to be at least a considerate lover, Margot had tugged her back up into a gentle embrace and beckoned the Champion to sleep, lazily stroking the mage's breasts as she dozed off into the Fade. She always walked away the following morning deciding she'd probably not lie with another woman again but grateful that Margot had given her release and a solid night's sleep… and that gratitude and escape from her recurrent insomnia had been the things that kept driving her back on the few occasions when she was too overwhelmed to cope.
Pushing those highly uncomfortable memories from her mind, Hawke laid in her room aboard The Veiled Blue, reclined on her back against the cool wood floor while she fought her roiling stomach. She contemplated her flat belly, wondering with a sense of dread if her encounter with the elf could have left her pregnant, simultaneously ecstatic and horrified at the very notion. She couldn't risk casting magic on the ship; unnatural flares of colored light had a disturbing tendency to reveal a mage's presence, so she began the task of diagnosing herself without summoning her abilities.
Did she feel pregnant? No. But she suddenly felt a sort of sympathy for the women she'd examined who asked, "What do you mean? How is pregnant supposed to feel?" Those responses were typically from women without child but she had the occasional one who lacked the ability to sense her womb. Were her breasts tender? No more so than usual. Headaches, backaches and nausea? She had those in spades. Her knowledge of the arcane arts allowed her to diagnose a half dozen apostates' pregnancies in the last year but she'd never had cause to check herself- she'd always gone to Anders for that.
The thought of Anders brought about another heavy wave of nausea and she barely made it to the steel pot the ship's cook had given her, adding once more to the wretched stench of sick that permeated her cramped quarters. Armed with the knowledge that the lingering illness could be completely unrelated to her current maritime activities, she stumbled through the ship to the onboard healer, an apprenticed physician heading to Antiva, pausing only to unceremoniously spit out her stomach's bile in the hallway before she stumbled into his quarters.
He asked the routine questions that she'd already asked herself and stated bluntly that it was unlikely that she'd conceived based on her answers, which she'd already suspected. Then he made a series of frighteningly intimate observations regarding her body, illustrated by her nearly non-existent cycle- her life of running and anxiety had wrecked utter havoc on her system. She was fortunate, the man had said, that she did not display the signs of pregnancy, as it was nearly impossible that she would be able to carry a baby in her condition, even if her current situation allowed it- and he used those words in a deliberate attempt to covertly convey his knowledge as to exactly who she was.
"So what would you have me do?" She'd snapped at the well-intentioned man as she dispelled the pretenses that he knew not who she was, "Feast while the camps starve? Rest while my people run? Put my own well being above that of my obligations?"
"Unless you're planning on serving your cause as a martyr, I'd suggest you start taking care of yourself," he retorted quietly. Then he grasped her shoulders and spun her nearly naked body to face a mirror, forcing her to reflect upon her gaunt figure in earnest, pointing out her concave belly and the indentations from her ribs before he clinically ran his fingers over the ridged column of her spine and noted its prominence to her as well. She groaned at his logic, knowing him to be right and loathing the words she'd heard from both Margot and Carver before.
As a final consolation, he offered her two potions- one that would expel anything in her womb and another that would prevent conception from taking. He insisted, however, that she take the first before she took the second to insure that her womb was fully prepared for the contraceptive to take its proper effect, given her practically negligent lack of a menstrual cycle for the last year.
If she was serious about maintaining a potential pregnancy, he'd told her damningly, she needed to disembark the ship at the soonest opportunity and eat like a horse until she put some weight on and even then, it may be for naught. Unfortunately, without more time, he declared sympathetically, it would be impossible to know if she were pregnant for sure and the potion's abortive effects would only get worse the longer she postponed taking it.
He offered no answers so she told him that she needed time and shamefully stumbled back to her quarters, plugging rags beneath the cracks of the door to conceal her activities and dared to cast magic onboard. Summoning the Fade's spirits, the white light from her hands encompassed her belly and dove inwards. She finally found the courage to beckon the dead souls to seek out a separate life within her. At their answer, she asked again and begged again and pleaded yet again, lacking her beloved objectivity and almost recklessly pulling the Fade's ghosts in to inspect her womb until she finally sensed demons lingering at the periphery waiting to take advantage… and felt tears leak from her eyes when they told her once more that nothing was there.
There was no life. If one had been created, it did not take to her womb and they could not tell her if for even a brief moment she had been pregnant. Her only memento of her time with Fenris was an enduring, vibrant and painful memory. But at least she finally knew.
That night, she curled into herself on her bed and sobbed, the prospect of pregnancy and subsequent loss forcing her to relive losing him yet again. The certainty of her decision to run ebbed but she could only guess what would happen should she try to return. Had he even given thought to this simple biological consequence? She pictured him, his face scowling grimly at the mere thought of conceiving a child with a mage. Then paranoia reared its ugly head as well. Had the Chantry ordered him to impregnate her in order to slow her down? They had to have known that Fenris and she had been intimate at one point; perhaps this was just another underhanded way to get at her.
But it left her with the dismal realization that she could not under any circumstances birth or care for a child at this point in her life.
With that thought, she returned to the physician's room and took the first potion, which laid her up for three days. She howled in pain, bled and vomited over the patient's cot while he clinically tended to her, feeding her broth and crackers all while insisting that it would be over soon; in a moment of weakness, she'd cried pitifully to him that it already was. On the third day, he informed her softly that she clearly had not been pregnant, which she'd already known, and administered the second potion, which warmed her as it fortified her reproductive system and strengthened her from the biological trial she'd endured.
As she left, he'd pressed the recipe for the potion's reversal into her quivering hand. She noted it absently but mostly ignored him, despising him irrationally for having hurt her so thoroughly despite having chosen the torture willingly. That and she already knew the potion that would void the contraception; no respectable healer wouldn't have known it.
Strangely enough, whatever healing effect the potion had taken over her reproductive organs also banished from her the wretched seasickness. Slight nausea still loomed over her but she regained the ability to walk over the decks of the ship and partake of sustenance once more. It was a blessedly unexpected and highly bittersweet side effect of the physician's tincture. It also gave her the queer need to question if the exaggerated nausea had been at least partly psychosomatic.
The remainder of the trip's first leg was relatively uneventful. She bathed, ate, read and wandered the hull until they finally touched ground in Wycome. New allies waited for her here but she worried, this was the smallest spackling of mages she'd seen band together, only six of them. Only a handful of letters had been exchanged between them and they were expecting her in a few months; she was about to quite literally show up unannounced on their doorstep. Hopefully, they'd still be able to find her a guide. The mere thought of traipsing around Tevinter as a lone wanderer sent shudders over her.
She gathered a few things, a fair bit of coin, her staff and a bit of food and made her way to the upper deck when the ship finally reached port. As she prepared to disembark, the captain pulled her aside. "Isabela tells me you have people you need to meet here," he said quietly as if he feared overhearing, "and that you'll be bringing on another."
"That is true," she replied dauntlessly. "I hope she paid for their passage. If not, I'll gladly see you reimbursed for their fare."
"You and your friend are paid, as you well know," he scowled at her. "I just want you to know that we are scheduled to leave port in three days. Isabela waited weeks for you. I feel you should know that I will not. I have ports to service, merchants to meet, and those contracts will not allow me to wait for you to finish running your errands."
"I have a long standing relationship with Isabela," she answered easily. "I would not assume such niceties from a stranger, regardless of how roguishly gallant your type seems to be." She batted her eyes at him almost subconsciously, hoping to endear a little latitude from him.
"Be back on time or your ship has sailed, Amell," he warned with a flirtatious smirk, implying the honor-amongst-thieves mentality that had carried her through so many ports before at Isabela's behest.
"I shan't disappoint, Captain," she reassured the surly man. "I only hope that you're willing to share some fine Antivan brandy with me upon my imminent return."
"For my own sake," he hummed thoughtfully as he contemplated her figure, "I certainly hope so. These voyages are long and I could use a… first mate," he finished suggestively.
"Well, I'd hate to be your second. I have a thing about coming first," she answered with a flirtatious wink and a whole heap load of innuendo, hoping she'd charmed the captain enough to invest himself somewhat in her well-being. Once she was back on the ship, she could reject him all she wanted. This port was vitally important, she could huddle into the boat for shore leave anywhere else but this marked her last potential refuge on the trip and she absolutely had to make it back onboard.
"I'll bet you do," he replied with an amusedly arched eyebrow. With a wide grin, she proceeded to walk the plank and saunter into the port, being sure to add an extra swish to her hips when she felt the captain's eyes hover over the derriere.
She departed but still worried. At this point, they'd only set up rudimentary contacts this far east into the Free Marches. After all, it had only been a year since the uprising in Kirkwall… only faith had taken her this far and only insanity would take her farther. She rented a horse to take her to the outskirts of Wycome, arriving at her destination well before nightfall. A teensy house on the red-rocked hill beckoned her like a smoke-signal and she made her way to it, praying to the Maker that this venture would go smoothly.
When she finally reached it, she dismounted her horse and made her way to the hovel's front door. Knocking on it soundly, she listened to the various sounds flutter and silent within and nodded to herself. This was definitely her safe house. The windows were all covered, letting not a beam of light within and betraying a meager crowd of allies within its caving walls.
The door opened a crack and a wary blue eye regarded her quickly accompanied only by the words, "Who are you?"
"I am the defender," she answered her codename quietly through the crack, Carver's synonym for her title. Still afraid of who may hear on the desolate hillside and praying this new sect would recognize her, she dared to utter, "The Champion of Kirkwall."
The voice inside took on a panicked pitch and answered, "I know no one by that name."
"But you do," she insisted before she dared, "and I am Marian Hawke- early but here regardless."
The door swung open and her neck wrenched violently as she was dragged inside. Two filthy mage youths, likely not yet twenty huddled in the room alongside her erstwhile captor as he dragged her away from the dimmed windows and demanded, "Why are you early?" In this dim light, it was hard to tell much about the man, other than his blue eyes, light hair and rather striking silhouette.
"A meeting with a potential ally ended badly," she answered the blonde man. "But I haven't been followed, I swear it" she insisted hurriedly, realizing this mage's obvious paranoia would be agitated by the possibility of a hunter coming behind her.
"Then make yourself at home, I suppose," he answered grimly and gestured to the shadows of the run-down house. As her eyes adjusted to the dark, she surveyed her surroundings. "It isn't your own pursuit I fear, there have been an unusual number of Templars nosing about in the area. We cannot draw undo attention to ourselves."
"I know Carver told you I'd be coming. I just need a guide for Tevinter and then I'll be gone," she replied easily as she removed herself from the mage's steady grip.
He called another man and beckoned him to go find someone named Horrus before the page departed with a quickly uttered prayer. Then they made formal introductions, the mage introducing himself as Dax before presenting her to all his companions- Vera, Jacob, Lydia and Greyson… and a little girl named Delia, likely only five or six years in age, who ran up to Dax with her arms spread wide as he ducked down to scoop her up into his arms whilst he pressed a fond kiss onto her cheek. She was too young to be a mage and the clear affection between the two told her that this must be Dax's daughter.
"My bunny is broken," she sighed into Dax's neck, presenting a shabby stuffed bunny to him in her limp arm. "His eye fell off."
Hawke smiled as she saw the ragtag stuffed animal, one buttoned eye missing from his sweet face as Dax replied, "We'll find you another, love."
"No!" she insisted quickly as she pulled her face away from him. "You cannot replace Ser Hoppers! I have his eye, you can fix it!"
"I'm a nightmare with a needle, love," he replied as he took Ser Hoppers into his hand and observed his hackneyed stare dramatically. "He'd end up with eyes in the back of his head and bunnies cannot find carrots in the sky!" he finished with a playful snort that he sounded into Delia's short neck, snuffling and snarling playfully while the little girl giggled uncontrollably against him. The other mages looked away, looking uncomfortable at the overt love being displayed before them… but they'd likely been locked away in this shack for ages, and affection remembered only as something they'd had and lost.
"Perhaps I can be of assistance," Hawke offered, taking the bunny from his hands as she grinned at Delia's delighted innocence. The sewing would be simple; she'd darned her own robes enough to know how to adhere a simple button. "Well, this seems to be quite the dire case!" she cried with over-enthusiasm and an exaggerated motion of her hands. "Fortunately for us all, he is not a fish," she quipped before giving Dax a quick wink. "Do you know what they call a fish with no eyes?"
"No…" Delia answered with a slight furrow of her brow and side-eyed her with that same wary look Hawke had earned from Dax.
She leaned in close to her little ear and sounded, "Fsh," in a quick hiss. Delia burst into a new fit of laughter, such a strange addition to this dreary place. Content that she managed to get a decent reaction out of the girl, she held up Hoppers and said, "All joking aside, as a healer, I promise that I will have Ser Hoppers back to you good as new."
"Promise?" Delia asked guilelessly. "Ser Hoppers will live?"
"I promise," the mage reassured her. "Ser Hoppers will be up in the bunny fields again faster than you can say 'carrot.'"
"Carrot!" Delia cried excitedly.
"Well, perhaps not quite that fast," she conceded with another wink, although the child seemed utterly overjoyed at having caught an adult in a fib. She reached her hands out to Marian and clutched her neck as she pulled her tiny frame against the mage in a fiercely childish hug as Hawke took her into her arms. Dax looked on with a contented smile, seemingly glad that his daughter had found happiness for a moment in this miserable shack.
Delia pulled away and clapped her hands together joyously as she handed Hawke a silver button, mismatched to the wooden one already donning Ser Hoppers' worn cloth face. Ser Hoppers' was already a secondhand toy, it seemed, but one that thrilled the child in a way that reminded her of Bethany. So she vowed to set the bunny's eye's right as soon as the clamor died down in the evening and she had the chance to get a proper needle, provided Dax even had one.
These were displaced Circle mages, after all, lacking the capability to do nearly anything for themselves. It was yet another tragedy of her brethren, unable to even sew a simple button for their helplessness. They needed to be integrated into the larger camps at least to learn techniques for simple survival. But that was a task for tomorrow, when she'd send them packing to join the nearest western camp.
She set Delia back to the ground to tear about the house once more before Dax approached and whispered a quick, "Thank you… For everything," into her ear. She shot him a quick wink and a quirk of her lips as her answer. Sewing a button onto a doll was nearly the least she could do at the moment while she waited for her guide to arrive.
The telltale prickle of the Fade being blocked brought her head up violently. The other mages' did the same as the door was unceremoniously kicked down. Three Templars stormed into the building, quickly knocking out Vera and Dax with the pommels of their swords. She whipped out her dagger and drove it into the throat of her nearest assailant, noticing with dull dread the other two flanking her as they reinforced the Silence and her magic failed.
Somewhere in the house, she heard Delia scream, and then a blinding pain echoed through her head and everything went black.
She woke in a dank, dark place. The only light she could divine came from the candles lit almost romantically in the corners. Silence still held, draining her before she could even conjure the ability to move. She forced her will beyond its limits and felt a corresponding ache on the opposite spectrum with an eerie glow of light- the simplest spark brought inescapable, debilitating blue freezing; the mere thought of telekinesis responded with a corresponding fuchsia pull, leaving her to feel like her body was crushing in upon itself. Her healing abilities, which she tried last to ease her pounding head, ended with the deep sensation of stabbing corresponding over her body and looking down, she saw blood seeping from cuts that had not been there before as all the light seemed to be sucked from the room.
It was a rune collar, charmed to counteract anything she could cast- the ultimate Templar weapon. Shit.
She was naked but a quick assessment told her that she'd not been sexually violated… yet, her mind added dully. A dazed turn of her head revealed Lydia and Jacob chained in various positions around her, naked as well. The sound of a low male groan told her that Dax was somewhere behind her, so Vera and Greyson had to be there as well. She unconsciously pulled her hands forward to conceal her body and realized that she, too, had been chained to a pillar with her arms locked captured behind her back. Her fingers reached back and felt a small piece of metal, touching the ornate indentations and a small protrusion with a tiny hole molded within… it was the button Delia had given her, fallen from her pocket when they undressed her. But where was Delia?
Heavy footsteps sounded behind her, creaking the floorboards as boots descended. The sounds came from behind her, so she was unable to identify the exact sound. The creaking ended as the jingle of metal on metal resounded through the room. She gripped the button in her hand, running her fingers over it defiantly as the sound came nearer.
"Where's my daughter?" Dax's voice shouted. "I asked you a question, you son of a bitch! Where is my daughter?" Quick footsteps preceded the song of metal striking flesh, the melody rang through the room and all was quiet again. Hawke couldn't see anything, her sick imagination filling in the blanks for her while Dax's choking provided the rest.
After hearing much more pacing, her captor finally revealed himself to her- an ordinary man holding a heavy pack, which he dropped on a large table before he ducked to check the integrity of the chains he wrapped around it. He turned toward her, holding a dull red poker in his hand as he approached, the metal on the end was shaped into almost decorative scrollwork and she realized in horror that it was a brand.
"Your kind should be easier to find," he said so softly she almost had to lean in to hear before he tangled his fingers into her hair and forced her face against the hot brand. Nothing in the world could have contained her screaming when she felt the iron touch her face, unsure if the pain or the sheer terror set her voice to cracking. Dimly, she heard her companions shouting but that sound was undercut by a low grunt, a deep, booming voice ringing through her head bidding her to give in. I can help you, it growled. Just let me in. Bile rose in her throat as she braced herself for another cry, trying to ignore both the demon trying to invade her mind and the heat scorching into her flesh.
The man shoved her head away and his subsequent gaze offered not retribution or apology, but only a blank look of having completed some menial task as she fell back, her skin smoldering around mark of her implied inherent sin, a bastardization of the vallaslin Merrill had waxed so elegantly over. Current circumstances rendered it much less poetic.
He left and returned, the floorboards creaking and the iron a dull red again. Pitifully, she moaned, "No, not them. Whatever you want, I'll give you… but leave them alone."
You're the only one who can save them, the demon hissed once more.
"What I want, you'll give me, Hawke," he answered calmly. Her heart thudded even harder against her ribcage at his use of her name, wondering with a sense of dread if her presence was what brought this monster before her. "It isn't a question. It is a fact."
And he set the brand upon the other's faces as well, retreating only to reheat the metal, their screaming ripped a hole straight through her as she pleaded with him to stop hurting them. When the vicious branding was completed, the dull thud of a physical blow sounded and their attacker hauled Dax's limp body to the table, chaining him down. Hawke realized that all her companions were positioned to face the table… and the sick realization fell over her that whatever was next meant to happen, they were all supposed to watch it.
"My name is Gerard Maison," the man offered his name to Dax as he opened his pack to reveal an arsenal of blades, varying in size, width and length. Selecting a needle thin dagger, he said, "You and I will know each other very well," he added before he drove the blade beneath Dax's fingernail, the clang of metal and the patter of blood dripping to the ground playing in a wicked symphony accompanied only by the screams of his victim.
Before her very eyes, he set upon Dax in earnest, displaying his inner workings for his unwilling spectators, from the wretched corkscrew lodged deeply into the tender structure of his thigh to the knife he used to swipe across the mage's eyes. Dax howled; cursed and grunted; screamed and begged for death and for his Delia. For an infinite expanse of time, she watched in abject horror as Dax was forced to bear tortures that no living thing should ever have to suffer… castration, amputation, as well as pure, unadulterated mutilation at the hands of the stone-faced golem before them.
Let me help you before it's too late.
The demon called clearly into her mind and she forced herself to ignore the wretchedly appealing offer. But as she listened to Dax's suffering, the demons' roared louder until the ceaseless screeching was only slightly overpowered by the terrifying echoes of Dax's screams. Behind her, she heard a telltale grunt and the sounds of snapping and ripping. Maison immediately took up his sword and darted behind her, the next sound being a sick squelch and the sound of Vera crying Greyson's name. He'd made a deal in his fear and the Templar struck him down.
I can set you free. The demon's insistence told her only that she must fight harder against her jailor as she watched Dax writhe even more under the treatment. She could not give in; someone had to be coming. The captain from her ship had to come looking for her… had to come before they all died in the place.
But Gerard did not allow Dax to die- he forced healing droughts down the mage's throat when his choking sounded final and stitched the wounds to ensure he couldn't bleed out. How long he hovered at the edge of temptation, she would never really know. The sun did not rise or set here but the Templar stopped once to see the dim candles replaced. But he struggled and he writhed against the demons' calls until he could finally endure the agony of living through this torture no more…
And as his form began to shift, this beast named Maison immediately struck him down, letting loose an evil grin. It was the first facial expression she'd seen him make since this had begun and his snarling and beaming face sent a poisoned arrow through her heart. He flipped the mangled corpse from his table and hauled Jacob's screaming body onto it, cutting almost negligently into the man's face as he began to bind the young mage down.
Maker, no. Not that. Anything but that. Fierce horror and panic washed over her as she realized what the Templar's goal was. He wasn't trying to murder them, the prolonged torture served a darker purpose… He wanted them to succumb, to surrender themselves to demons and blood magic, to prove himself right. Discontented with simply destroying their bodies, it was Gerard's intent to annihilate the structure of their very souls as well.
Once Jacob was secured to the table, Maison turned back to her, directing his voice to Hawke. "You are not like them, they look to you in their fear. You are quite the effective leader." She could hardly hear him over the chaos of the Fade coursing over her mind, her anxiety bringing demons in droves vying to occupy her. The cool ridges of the button in her hand grounded her against the Fade's invasion; she just had to keep holding on. Someone was coming.
"Does it matter?" she retorted angrily, still wholly shaken by the Templar's display with Dax as Jacob struggled furiously against his restraints, groaning and crying with wild eyes staring at the Templar that meant to take everything from him.
"If it didn't matter, it wouldn't mean anything," he answered as he reinforced the chains and took up a knife once again. "Mages succumb to fear. This means everything."
"A Templar torturing mages until they break?" she shouted incredulously, praying conversation would postpone Jacob's trial until help came. "This means nothing- only that you're a sadist glutting yourself on blood."
"You can end this, you know," he finished eerily before he stepped nearer with a band of cloth between his hands. "Give in and I'll let them go."
"You attack us, murder us and torture us and you expect me to trust you?" she screeched furiously as she pulled her hands inwards again, struggling once more to free herself so she could claw out his vile eyes.
"How long do you think you can last?" he questioned her and took her chin in his bloody hands, forcing her to look at him, to really look at him. His face was devoid of expression as he attempted to reason with her, "Do you really think it isn't going to happen anyway?"
Her lip quivered violently as demons howled her ears, before she let her voice grind out a solemn, "No," as much for Gerard as for the monsters battling for her mind.
He nodded in his approval and tied a gag around her mouth. Then he left, his steps echoing away only to pause at her companions, likely tying gags about their lips as well. Jacob's mouth was left free and he began a nearly maniacal recitation of the Chant. Hawke listened to footsteps heralding the Templar's departure before she valiantly struggled against the cuffs, letting the metal cut deep bloody wounds into her wrists, fearing that she'd rip her own hands off before she could escape and then abruptly changed tactics, hoping perhaps that she could. Losing one hand would free the other after all. Bracing herself, she focused on trying to use the dull edge of the cuff to sever the appendage. The gag barely muffled the whimpers she made until she finally collapsed back against the pillar, the rounded bevel refusing to cut through the bone.
Choking herself against the rune collar, her will was summoned only to have it brutally stripped away once again as she continued to attempt her magic, effectively torturing herself with the same rugged efficiency the Templar would use. Time held no meaning here and she fought against her bindings until a restless sleep overtook her for only moments at a time. Demons screamed into her mind as she equally resisted the siren's call, clutching at Hoppers' eye as she swore she wouldn't let Gerard win. She persevered, struggled against the beasts that tried to invade her mind… for them, she told herself as she contemplated her captive brethren. The mages in this waking nightmare could only follow by her example so she would not cave… could not cave to temptation.
Or it would all be over.
Because after all, wasn't that the whole point of the rebellion? To prove that they could survive, that they could resist temptation when things got hard?
Hours passed before heavy boots clunked back down the stair, prompting a frenzied Jacob to simply begin screaming the word 'no' over and over again. Before his torture could even begin, Jacob's frame began that terrible unholy twist as well. Having seen firsthand the misery he'd been sentenced to, he succumbed. His body had hardly begun to destroy itself when Gerard struck him down with that same terrible indifference, leaving a cold, mangled corpse behind as both a threat and a promise for his next victim. He released the chains and pushed Jacob's corpse upon Dax, letting their bodies rest against one another in a final moment of brotherhood.
He had only just finished hauling Vera's struggling body onto the table when he strode over to Hawke, crouching to remove her gag. "Have you reconsidered my offer?"
In lieu of words, she used her free mouth to spit in Gerard's face, feeling that was a more than adequate answer. He sighed and pulled out a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at her saliva while his face betrayed absolutely nothing. Suddenly her head cracked to the side, and her burned cheek slapped against the pillar behind her. Only the sharp ache on the other side indicated that he'd backhanded her. Water poured from her eyes as she bit back a wounded yowl, begging the demons in her mind to quiet. Loathing her quivering voice, she asked, "Why are you doing this?"
"Because this is a test," he replied easily, bringing the bloody knife up to casually clean beneath his fingernails and ignoring Vera's muffled cries. The flat of the blade softly swiped across her face, placing a small bit of gore on her cheek. Then he touched the point to the bruise taking shape on her cheek, pushing only enough so she'd feel how sharp it was. She remained still, worried that any movement on her part would result in the edge breaking through her skin.
"So tell us how to pass it," she begged him, trying to avoid moving her face as she asked. But the answer was obvious, and she'd known it before he even opened his lips again.
He leveled his gaze at her, brown eyes piercing through her as he regarded her sorry state. "By not succumbing," he responded, drawing the blade away from her face and standing before her once again.
More hated tears leaked down her face as she coughed, "And what's our prize?"
"You meet the Maker with your soul intact." His subsequent sigh sounded almost on the edge of boredom. "But your kind does not pass. You cannot. But I still hope… I will always hope for you."
The bitter laughter that bubbled from her lips wracked her frame until only the pillar was supporting her. It was violent, uncontrollable hysteria that left her wheezing for air before she was finally able to ask, "Hope drives you to this?"
"Hope is all we have," he replied as he gently pushed the gag back over her mouth to muffle her laughter. Then he turned and set upon Vera.
She was an exceptionally tall woman, her feet dangled from the table and twitched something terrible as Gerard began. The beast began his routine, removing portions of the mage's flesh and cauterizing the wounds so the game should not end. He systematically destroyed every last vestige of humanity that Vera possessed, cutting her open and apart with a surgeon's precision even as he cured her, wounding only to heal and begin again. His fingers tangling inside her soft body, she cried for release. Vera endured- continued until her mind fell into crushing anoesis before she finally turned. Her bones twisted and broke in a terrible choking call before Maison struck her down before the demon's terrible reign could truly begin.
Then it was Lydia's turn.
He deafened her with a thin nail to start, stating simply to Hawke that mages heard only demons- so why allow them anything else? He shot a meaningful look back at Hawke before he ran the knife over her in earnest.
Lydia screamed, begged and pleaded for release that Gerard would not give her as he continued her torture. Her belly was splayed open, her innermost workings exposed to the open air even as she was force-fed potions that would prolong her suffering. Hawke could see organs and muscles twitching in abject pain as the mage continued to defy Gerard's intent during her own conscious vivisection… Lydia struggled hopelessly to preserve her soul through what must have been the most insurmountable agony.
As Lydia screamed and wailed until her voice broke, demons forced themselves against Hawke's mind, attempting to take control of her body as fiercely as Gerard attempted to rape her psyche. She wrenched her fingers over the button in her hand and forced her mind to withstand the onslaught. That motion stilled her brain, calmed her soul from the blitz… and she resisted once more.
Then without a word he left, inexplicably leaving Hawke and Lydia alone together, perhaps to impart further upon Hawke the suffering she'd soon partake in or to reinforce the hopelessness. Before those bootsteps sounded up the stairs, he pulled Hawke's gag away. It hardly mattered, as Lydia couldn't hear her anyways. Regardless, they were blessedly alone for a while. Gerard had left for some Maker-damned reason and Hawke was left with a deafened Lydia, who sobbed and groaned as she futilely tried to survive… but who would want to live through this?
"We'll get out of here, I promise. Just hold on," Hawke sobbed even as she strained against her shackles to reach and take Lydia's twitching hand within her own, prompting another spurt of blood to run over her fingertips. The deafness left the mage unaware of Hawke's assurances. Even knowing she couldn't hear, Hawke repeated the phrase like a mantra, praying to the Maker above all else that Lydia could know salvation. Lydia's perseverance was nothing short of astonishing. She held on to that benign spirit lingering in her broken body for longer than even Hawke would have forgiven.
Sighing softly, the bloody mage's head rolled gently to the side, red-rimmed eyes gazed tiredly at her. "I'm going to get you out of here, Hawke," she murmured and offered Marian a sad smile, exposing her broken white teeth.
"No!" she choked, forgetting that Lydia could not hear her in her horror. "You cannot do this…"
"I'm so sorry you'll be alone," she continued undeterred with a peaceful laugh. "Promise me you'll stop this son of a bitch- if anyone can kill him, it's you." Lydia added with a choke as she began that wretched telltale twitch. "Pray for me."
She was deaf to Hawke's cries for her to hold on for just a bit longer, that help had to be coming, that she couldn't rend the fabric of her soul just to save one measly life. Her body warped, bones snapping and healing as her skin ripped and stretched. Her head twisted unnaturally upon her shoulders, her chin almost pointed toward the ceiling as the abomination rose from her corpse and her huge, mangled hands ripped the chains holding her down like mere paper.
Lydia, or what had been Lydia for it was not she anymore, rose from the table and stumbled toward the helpless Hawke. Unable to cast, unable to even raise her own hands in simple defense, Hawke stared her inevitable death in its destroyed, snarling face and raised her proud chin, grateful at least that it would deny Gerard the opportunity to destroy her own soul as well. But instead of lunging for her throat, it wrapped its hands around her neck and pried the runic necklace away, snarling as the hated collar burned against the abomination's intensely unrestrained magic. Then violent claws wrenched apart the chains from the cuffs restraining her hands.
Marian backed away and the abomination reached out to grab her foot, hauling the terrified mage closer and pounded once hard on her stomach with a painfully misshapen fist. Using the trickle of energy that had returned to her, she used her will to force the abomination away in an uninhibited burst that shook the very foundations of the building. Its eyes flashed at her, blood red and then back to Lydia's deep brown for only a single moment.
"Avenge me… please," it rasped painfully and plunged a sharply-taloned hand into its chest. The terrible screech let loose from its disfigured mouth curdled Hawke's very blood. It struggled, letting its body gyrate and twitch in some horrific dance before it pulled its hand out and dropped a pulsating sack at her feet and collapsed to the floor, still and unmercifully dead.
Hawke gingerly picked up Lydia's heart with her right hand as she ran her left hand frantically over the metal button, feeling tears prick her eyes when she noticed the organ was still deep red and viciously pumped black blood from it once… twice… three times… before it stopped and went cold in her hand. Tears fell freely from her eyes as she let loose a painful sob. Lydia had used her final moments of sanity to rip out her own heart before the corruption could take it, too. That had to mean something for the fate of her soul… it just had to. The dark blood stung her fingers fiercely but she had nothing to wipe them on. She was still left nude in this dank pit with nothing left to save her. Naked, without any protections or even mere clothing…
Clothing… she needed clothing, she realized as her brain sputtered back into higher functioning. Darting up the stairs from the basement, she saw the remnants of robes and staves burning in the fireplace, expensive enchantments reduced to so much smoldering glass. She rushed to where she knew the bedrooms to be before she stumbled onto the sight of Delia, the little girl staring blankly skyward, her tiny neck wrenched at an impossible angle, her still blood rendering her skin into an unholy white, and her face frozen forever in a terrible scream.
Dull aching brought about the realization that she still clutched the button from Delia's stuffed bunny painfully within her fingers, choking the blood from the digits as she forced her hand to relax… but she couldn't let it go. Not while Ser Hoppers stared at her with his wooden button eye, accusing her of the fate of the broken souls below her feet. Not when she knew without doubt that his little metal eye had somehow preserved her sanity in a place where there was none to be found.
Heart pounding harder than she could ever remember, not from the flight from Lothering nor from facing the Arishok or even Meredith, she threw open doors until she found a bedroom and searched the dilapidated wardrobe for anything that could possibly fit her. Her best bet was a massive fencer's shirt and a pair of almost too large breeches, which she cinched with a belt, knotting the leather roughly when it became clear the buckle wouldn't close tightly enough. They would offer her absolutely no protection should Gerard return.
She found a pair of boots as well and laced them as tightly as she could to compensate for the overlarge size. Her hands couldn't stop shaking and every sound she heard brought a corresponding pang of terror that Gerard had returned for her. Afraid to leave the bedroom and return to the greater house, to the sight of Delia's dainty corpse, Hawke threw open the shuttered windows, wincing at the bright light that threatened to blind her. She climbed onto the pane and dropped to the ground in a full sprint, letting the vast fields surrounding that wretched red hill offer her some small amount of cover when she realized even her horse was gone.
She finally made it back to the city at dusk. She lingered at the edge of Wycome until night's full effect overtook the city's streets, hoping the darkness would disguise the physical remnants she carried of her time with Gerard, would hide the blood sticking over her hands and the heavy cuffs on her bloody wrists. The burns upon her face and slashes from her struggles would only mark her as a fugitive. The Guard likely would not help her, as she'd be unable to explain neither who she was nor why she and her companions had been marked as targets. She even couldn't heal them, not with that singular point in her mind in such uncontrollable disarray. A single spell from her in this state could spin wildly out of control, as evidenced by her attempt to keep Lydia at bay. Hawke had always maintained enough calm to keep her magic solidly under her command with only a few noteworthy exceptions. With the demons screeching so loudly in her jumbled, wounded mind, a simple healing spell could just as easily flay the skin from her body as mend the cuts closed.
Hawke ran straight for the docks, cursing that she didn't know how long she had remained captive and praying that The Veiled Bluehad not yet departed. But her trusty good luck, it seemed, had left her sometime between Cosazure and Wycome.
The ship had sailed, the captain remained true to his word. Had he even waited?
Maker, what the Blight was she supposed to do now? Stranded without money or even proper clothing, she was trapped in painful proximity to Gerard and her mana and mind had yet to recover. Even her arrival to Kirkwall had not been marked with such abject privation- they'd at least had hope and scraps of food. No amount of mental spinning allowed her imagination to even contemplate finding that here.
She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to focus. Steeling herself, she dropped her hair over her face and let the long sleeves of her shirt hide the cuffs before she approached a wealthier looking couple. Heavily, she bumped into the man, apologizing for her clumsiness as she deftly unhooked his money purse. He cursed at her and spun away with his companion, berating her fiercely as he departed, effectively dispelling any remorse she may have had for the action when he called her a filthy dog lord.
The man hadn't been carrying much, likely why he hadn't noticed her lifting it. It wasn't enough for new clothing but it was enough to get her off the streets for a few nights while she tried to think. She searched the streets for an inn and narrowly avoided two Templars exiting a shop. Helmets concealed their identities from her as they casually talked with one another.
Without sparing a thought, she sprinted into a side-street before they could spot her and hid behind a barrel until she heard them pass, blessedly unaware of the cowering mage less than thirty paces from them. She dared a quick look as they walked, the alley's dark concealing her light eyes from detection. They looked well-kempt, like Maison had been. So the Circle was likely still keeping them… and Maison as well.
Oh, fuck, that was bad. That was bad news at the peak of Bad News Mountain on the scenic island of Now We're Utterly Fucked. If Maison had been doing the Circle's bidding and wasn't a lone, demented, lunatic sadist, then she needed to get out of Wycome now. But how?
There were no options left, she had to get off the open street. She rose and met the shrewd stare of a single man, raven-haired with glittering black eyes. His meaningful gaze left no doubt in her mind that he'd seen her run and knew exactly what she was. Spinning on her heel, she raced away from him and continued searching frantically for an inn, losing the man before she finally found one and entered. The innkeeper looked at her warily as he exchanged her coin for a room, noting her haggard appearance and throwing in a bath for free. She was grateful even though the proprietor had only been trying to save his sheets. She hadn't bathed in she couldn't even begin to guess how long and imagined her stench had to be off-putting. Hurrying to her room, she barricaded herself inside before she sunk into the corner and watched the door.
Maker, don't let them come, she kept whispering to herself as terror threatened to consume her once more. Please don't let them come. But as she heard the tumblers in the lock turn, she summoned flames into her hands, her anxiety causing them to flare menacingly before they extinguished, not from Silence but from her own jangled nerves.
I can help you, they called to her again. Just let me in.
It would be easy to give in, so easy to let the demon into her body. But she remembered Lydia's final words, her plea for avengement- remembered her terrible sacrifice, remembered Fenris and Delia and Anders, and rejected the demon's haunting offer yet again even as it growled loudly in her mind. It was so hard, so horribly difficult to fight when surrender would be so much easier. But she hadn't made it this far to spit in the faces of all the people who'd aided her, who'd sacrificed for her, who'd laid down their very lives for her. Her hand slipped back into her pocket and she touched her finger to Hoppers' eye, and the demons quieted again.
The door creaked open and revealed the man from the alley. He entered and closed the door softly behind him before he swaggered over to sit on the small desk next to her, pouring a glass of water from the pitcher and silently offering it to her.
"You look like you've had quite the shitty day, mage," he sneered confidently as she took the glass and downed its contents in a series of heavy gulps. She hadn't realized how terribly thirsty she was until the water touched her tongue. The thirst caused her to choke on the final mouthful, sputtering the last drops onto her stolen shirt before the man nodded and continued. "You may call me Rajun. I could have a proposition for you."
The way he'd called her mage told her that this man was no sympathizer. His garments spun another story of his likely criminality and she wanted nothing to do with it. "You may want to wait for my bath, irresistible as I may be," she said dismissively, forcing her voice into evenness even as she cowered pitifully in the corner.
"We both know I saw you ducking those Templars. You're clearly a mage so answer me this, what manner of mage are you?" Rajun asked. She acknowledged the man painfully, realizing the truth in his words. But a proposition meant he wouldn't sell her out to the Templars- not yet, in any case. So she took a risk. After all, there was nothing left to be lost.
"Spirit Healer, elementals, force magic…" she answered as she inched toward the near proximity of the window in case she'd judged the man wrong. "Why?"
He noted her shifting and responded in kind, placing himself between the mage and the window in case she made a break for it. "Good. I need a healer on my ship," he answered easily and lazily took a seat on the pane. "Someone who can make sure my cargo makes it to Tevinter."
"Cargo?" she asked dumbly before the shock of realization fell over her. The clothes, Tevinter, that unforgivable smirk. "Slaver!" she spat as she forced her legs to push her up against the wall. While her height was hardly daunting in comparison to the man before her, the sensation of her feet solidly beneath her once again brought her a sense of security regardless of the wobble in her weakened muscles, something she'd lacked ever since she'd awakened in that wretched basement. Her spite pulled her effectively from the terror that had consumed her for days.
Rajun practically flew from his perch and slapped his hand over her mouth. "Keep it down!" he hissed angrily. She jerked away, the sudden movement bouncing her head heavily off the wall. Dazed, she contemplated dispatching him before he could call out before he quietly said, "You need to get the fuck out of Wycome and don't have any way to do it. The Templars have the right to check any ship they want, but mine ain't in the port. I'm your only way out."
"I don't work with slavers," she growled dangerously and brought her hands up to shove Rajun away, summoning her will to exaggerate the blow, not caring if a flare from the Fade could rip his body sloppily apart.
He backed away easily before her hands could connect and made no effort to reengage her, stating rather simply, "If there weren't a demand, sweetheart, I wouldn't be supplying."
"I don't engage in the buying and selling of people," she snarled back viciously.
"Suit yourself. Have fun with the Templars," he shrugged and turned to leave, taking his hated lifeline to the threshold of her room as he raised his hand to open the door and leave her to whatever future that fickle bitch Fate had in store.
"Wait…" she whispered and his hand dropped from the doorknob. Self-hatred flooded her for even considering this despicable offer but to call her situation desperate would have been an insulting understatement. After escaping Gerard, after resisting demons for so long, it pained her to make a deal with a different sort of monster. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the circle of metal, caressing the tiny button to draw some sort of inhuman strength from it as she murmured, "I don't use blood magic."
He turned back to her, smiling easily… like he was just a normal man and not a purveyor of unwilling flesh. "Nobody's asking you to. I just need my cargo to make it to Tevinter intact."
"I won't be harassed," she said with a furrow of her brow, feeling the button grow warm in her fingers as she absently stroked it again. "I want my own room."
"Done," he replied and extended his hand to seal their deal. His hand hung in empty midair for a moment as she gazed into Hoppers' single eye. She was not a victim, it told her. They had seen too much together for that to be true. A quick mental inventory revealed a list of things she'd need in Tevinter so she pushed her luck to see if she could turn the tides and met his cold eyes with her bright piercing blue.
"And you'll pay me," she added and clutched the metal harder.
"You're trying your luck, woman," he sneered at her once again, that easy smile moving back into malice as quickly as it had taken to satisfaction.
"Those slaves are worthless if they don't make it to Tevinter," she reminded him perceptively, drawing her body back to its full height as she regarded him. She pushed her hair away from her face, the burn stinging when her sticky hair clung to the wound. It was a deliberate move, meant to display to the slaver that, above all, she was a creature that understood survival. Rajun arched an eyebrow, seeming to rapidly reassess the unafraid woman he was suddenly bargaining with. "What have they got?" she pressed. "Plague? The wasting? Scurvy?"
He dropped his head and grumbled an irritated, "I don't know. Our healer ate it to guards in Highever and the cargo has been sick ever since." Cargo. That's all these people were to him. What a sick bastard. However, his defeated gesture told her something darker so she took the advantage, nodding knowingly and feeling her mind begin to tick back into gear as she began negotiating in earnest. "But it's spreading, isn't it?" she asked.
He eyed her warily and replied with a terse, "Yes."
"So pay me," she answered, noting with a sort of sick glee at the way Rajun's nostrils flared, before she added, "Or you can have fun with a ship full of your dead slaves and crew. I'm sure you'll find loads of apostate Spirit Healers willing to work with slavers before it takes you, too."
His black eyes narrowed into dangerous slits and he replied, "My men get cuts of the sales. Three percent. I'll give you two. You'd stand to make quite a bit of coin."
Her stomach turned at the idea of such direct profiting off the slaves' lives… but her mind was blessedly active again and spinning stories she dare not reveal. This man needed her and she could use that need to serve not only her own purposes but also the possibility of a greater good. "No cuts," she responded quickly. "I just want a flat fee."
He shook his head warily. "It doesn't work that way, darling. Profits depend on the auctions. But I'll advance you fifteen sovereigns, you can refuse the remainder of your cut when we get to port if gold offends you so greatly." His sarcasm was a welcome boon, reminding her of the woman she'd been before she traversed into this Blighted city.
"Forty," she countered, finally feeling somewhat like herself again… well, if she had ever been a woman who had bargained with slavers, that is.
"My men don't clear forty on an average haul," he griped angrily and began pacing like a caged tiger. "I cannot advance that."
"I should be paid more," she argued her point with a blessed flare of fire from her fingertips. Using magic with Templars in such close proximity was a stupid move, she knew- but her life could be forfeit if she failed to secure this treacherous bargain. Her loathing of his chosen profession, however, finally brought enough calm over her mind to allow her to control her abilities once more. "I am a specialist after all," she added with a snide wink.
"As well as a fugitive on the run," he added shrewdly but he eyed the flames in silent contemplation.
"I'm a fugitive, I'll give you that," she smirked, ignoring how the motion irritated her face as she bid the flames to flare briefly, "but I am a dangerous dragon of a fugitive who you are asking to ignore her staunch, burny righteousness."
When he saw that she did not intend to budge, he amended his offer. "Five percent. I'll advance twenty gold and get you some decent armor as well. It will come out of your cut- if you don't clear your cut, you'll stay onboard until you do. But you heal them first. Final offer."
She considered his rather gracious offer and nodded, asking, "What if they are beyond saving? I'm a healer, not a miracle worker."
"Then you'll get nothing," he said simply. She stared expectantly at him and he glared back at her, both of them understanding the mutual dissatisfaction. Finally, he conceded, "Other than a ride to a port near Llomerynn. It's in Rivain and there isn't a Circle there, the Templar presence won't be as pronounced. You'll at least stand a chance for escape."
"And the armor. With rune slots."
He grimaced and said, "Done. We should leave now." When she made for the door he grasped her arm gently. "There are Templars in the tavern. We should leave through the window."
She cocked her head at him and mused, "You knew there were Templars here and yet you bargained. Why?"
"Perhaps I'm a sucker for a pretty face," he replied as he brought his hand up to her cheek, brushing her hair from the burn. She jerked away and he dropped the gesture; but his eyes glittered dangerously, leaving her with little need for speculation at his physical attraction to her. "Mages generally don't do what they don't want to. Consider getting you onboard as nothing more than a tactical move."
"And well played," she gave him darkly.
"For now," he added with a lascivious wink, leaving her with little doubt that he'd readily blackmail her into staying at the first opportunity. Shit, he could probably turn on her and sell her in Minrathous if she proved to be trouble.
She ignored his facial tick and opened the window to climb out. She and Rajun crept through the city streets until they reached the outskirts. Every footstep toward the slaver port brought her only more hatred toward her guide. Once outside the city, they took a short break, Hawke's malnourishment of the last week prompting the slaver to bid her to rest for a moment and regain her strength before they pressed onward. She relaxed against a heavy tree trunk with Rajun taking the opposite side. Silently contemplating the beautiful stars, she let her thoughts amble once more back to the elf she'd gained and lost, then gained and lost, before she finally gained and lost him yet again, wondering if he, too, was somewhere looking up at the same night sky and letting his thoughts flitter to her.
Fenris… the thought of him brought another pang in her heart as she pondered what might have been if she'd allowed herself to simply fall asleep with him, at what may have been if she'd chosen not to run and instead dared to slumber in his arms. She wondered what he was doing; if he even gave any thought to the baby they could have conceived together. Making a solemn promise to herself, she vowed to find a way to send word to Starkhaven, to let him know that his lineage had not been continued from their night together, that any magic in his future offspring wouldn't be a result of her own genealogy's interference. As she sat quietly with Rajun, she could practically feel the heat of Fenris' raging disapproval from wherever he may be now as she began down this the road of this appalling and shameful compromise.
But the cogs in her mind were already turning furiously as her tortured mind began to finally start its recovery. She ran her thumb over the button in her pocket and began plotting in earnest about what she could do next. After all, they were only halfway to Minrathous now and if there was anything she'd learned during her oceanic trek to Tevinter, it's that tides and luck can shift when you least expect it.
A/N- Special thanks to my beta innocenceINSTINCT as well as AmericanCorvus for lending her to me.
Sorry about the torture, I tried to keep it relatively ungraphic-ish. I generally dislike writing it and tried to keep it as tame as possible and still get the horror across. I solemnly promise that it was not just an excuse to write pages upon pages of people getting disemboweled.
And holy crap, I got a lot of reviews from the last chapter. Wow! Now I'm even more nervous about this chapter. Thanks again to all of you for reading and reviewing! As always, feel free to review, drop me a PM or hit me up on twitter (omnomnomanon).