If you were brave enough to wander through the convoluted Undercity tunnels, you'd eventually find an odd, low set iron door with no visible lock on it. Hawke hated that particular place, a secret place, which lay beyond that queer door. Despite that, he realized years ago that he needed a suitable place to conduct his business: someplace hidden, inaccessible, and far away from the inquiring eyes of the city guards and commoners.
There was a completely new world behind that black door. It was decorated with carpets, furniture, elaborate tapestries on the weeping walls, chandeliers with dozens of flickering candles, a huge rectangular table with uncomfortable iron chairs, and one plain black armchair forefront of that table. The whole chamber was now reminding of a beehive. People were scattered around in small groups, whispering about why they were summoned no doubt. Hawke had never called them because of small things, so this better be a big one and worth their time. They were all there — Carta agents, Merchants' Guild members, lesser shopkeepers, mercenaries, and a few nervous men coming on behalf of what was left of the Coterie.
Samael himself was lounging in an armchair in front of the cracking fireplace in a small chamber right next to the main hall; his eyes were closed, his hands lay in his lap calmly and his head was leaned comfortably against the smooth fabric of the armchair. Nobody could tell if Hawke was asleep or not, though he was intently listening to those hushed voices echoing behind the door. He spend the last hour convincing himself to do what he had come here for, to end his agony by starting to wrap up all business he had in Kirkwall. Maybe if he waited just a little bit longer… Maybe if he postponed his departure to Fereldan for a few weeks or even one month… What would happen?
Hawke jumped up abruptly and started pacing around the confined room, angry with himself and his damned weak will. Did he want to leave? No, not really. Did he needto leave? Definitely. And the sooner, the better. There was nothing awaiting him in Kirkwall, nothing at all. He had lost the only thing worthy of his attention and thus he had no reason to linger there. Facing this painful fact, Samael exhaled loudly, checked out his appearance and entered the main hall.
oOo
The voices in the main chamber were fading as Hawke strode towards the empty armchair. Samael glanced around him just once, when he was looking for Hein who had disappeared right after they arrived, but the boy was still nowhere to be seen. Samael was worried for the lad who had been quiet for weeks now, but the boy insisted on the 'everything's all right' version so long, so Hawke decided not to pry and wait for the lad to talk to him on his own.
Hawke inhaled deeply before he turned to the silent crowd, forcing himself not to fidget and definitely not to smile, which was something he hadn't been doing lately anyway. He seated himself gracefully into his armchair and clasped the armrests just to be sure he wouldn't run away. A deathlike silence followed during which the water trickling down the walls was hearable.
Samael knew he had to consider carefully the way he was about to address the crowd for many of the present men were his treasured acquaintances or even something suspiciously close to friends. Hawke was genuinely surprised when he had spotted Varric Tethras among the members of the Merchants' Guild. Their eyes met briefly, but both of them jerked and looked someplace else the moment they realized they'd been looking at each other at the same time.
"Greetings," Hawke began, his voice easily carrying to the very back of the crowd. Samael had to admit he was quite proud of himself and the way he was able to say that one key word so casually, business-like, and slightly bored. Varric would have been proud of his little disciple. Samael cursed himself for thinking about his lost friend, again, and however much he wouldn't have admitted it, Varric's presence was soothing. "Thank you all for coming in such short notice. I think we need to discuss one certain situation." Samael cleared his throat and he almost sneered when he saw those tense faces staring at him in suspense. Varric was rubbing his chin while openly gaping at Hawke, as though he was musing if Samael really had that much resolve in him to actually dothat.
"After thorough consideration, I've decided to sell, among other things, my lyrium trade contracts for Kirkwall." Samael made sure he had said that loudly, clearly and shortly, for he knew well what would follow after a moment of shock. It was quite boring to be right all the time, since it was like the whole chamber exploded a second later. The excited voices shouting over each other, outraged faces, indignant debates of those who had sprang up out of their seats, frantic offers from every corner. It was overwhelming. Hawke slowly sank down into his seat again, his legs crossed, his arms laid gracefully along the armrests, his face slightly cocked and thoughtful. Only one other person remained dispassionate - a dwarf playing with the thick golden chain hanging around his neck.
Once the voices lowered and the faces calmed down, Hawke stood up again and waited in silence for everyone to look at him. It didn't take long, yet Hawke felt beyond uncomfortable standing there like that, alone and watched by everyone.
"I've been forging alliances with every each one of you for years," Hawke gestured around him with both arms, "powerful alliances which were benefiting us all. You do know that. That's the reason why I'll make this opportunity for you as simple as I can." Hawke took a deep breath before he continued. He once again resisted the urge to sneer. It was liberating to get rid of the burden lyrium trade represented. Just one more chain holding him in Kirkwall cut off. Samael saw well they were about to swoop on him, querying if he had some favored candidate, prying about the price, smearing honey around his mouth and Maker knew what else. Hawke realized he had to cool down their excitement and put them in line again. His head lowered and his eyes were shooting fire in every direction he was looking during his speech.
"I don't care about your phoney mouths full of shit, chattering about how we've been just like a fucking big happy family and why you should be the one taking over the lyrium business. Honestly, I do not know nor do I care about who should run it once I'm gone. The best offer equals lyrium contracts. That's all I wanted to say. Thanks for coming." Hawke permitted himself a little sardonic sneer before he bowed at nobody particular, seated himself again comfortably in his armchair and reached for the goblet of red wine, completely oblivious to the mayhem around him. His guards made sure nobody would get too close to him, so he had time to whirl his wine goblet and think about what would happen next.
"I like his style," a hooded person laughed shortly and glanced at Hein who looked unhealthy pale. The two of them were standing on a gallery, partially hidden from the crowd behind the monstrous stone column. "I have to admit I now fully understand your lack of endeavour, Alejandro," the Crow leaned down and searched the lad's blank face thoroughly. "So which is it gonna be, hm? Your family or this exquisite specimen of manhood and debauchery?" For unknown reasons, Zevran was growing more nervous with every minute he had spent at that smelly place. He felt almost sorry for the young boy who would have to live with a thought he let his whole family die for something he could have prevented. The other possibility was to get killed during his attempt to take down Hawke, which was rather unlikely to happen.
"The Guild Master has summoned me back to Antiva, Alejandro. You know what will happen if the contract isn't finished by the time I'm back, right?" Zevran spun the boy around and forced him to look down at Hawke who had been listening to one of his minions for a minute, then he waved his hand in a negligent way, sending the thug away.
"I'll kill him," Hein rasped; his voice almost inhuman, his eyes rabid when he turned back to the Crow. "Then I'll kill you for making me do this," he spluttered out, glaring at the handsome elf who was amused indeed by this hollow threat.
"That would be quite a shame, yes?" Zevran countered with an overweening remark, but the sneer froze on his lips this time. Just for a tiny moment, for a hundredth of a second, he thought he had glimpse something, somebody standing on the opposite side of the gallery. Somebody from the proud Crow's past; the only Crow's business unfinished. Shaking his head, Zevran drove away the heart-rending memory of the one he had loved once. He slowly headed for a way out of the gallery, yet he glanced back at the stiff boy, regaining his usual smooth self once more.
"Just for your information, Alejandro, your dear soon-deceased master might want to know there's a Templar mob swarming through these tunnels at this very moment, searching for this place. I dare guess they'll find it soon enough," Zevran's crafty eyes flew over the scene downstairs, stopping for a moment at the motionless silhouette of the Champion. Something was telling Zevran that this was not the last time he had seen his face.
oOo
Samael excused himself from the main hall after he had pointed out the envelopes with written offers were supposed to be delivered by a third person straight to Hawke estate. Then he slipped into his small room again, heading straight to the massive cabinet. A good drink has many uses indeed, but right now Hawke needed to calm down and absorb the fact he really had done it. The wheels were in motion, the dice had been thrown. His already substantial wealth would grow even more once the lyrium contracts were sold and it would enable him to start a new life in Fereldan. Hell – everywhere he would like! He could hire a small crew and test Charlie's cockleshell. He could visit Rivain, roam through Seheron wilderness, taste Anderfels cuisine, fuck some Orlesian dames - pretty much whatever he'd want. Only shewouldn't be with him. A small, but significant detail.
A soft knock on the door ripped Hawke out of his frenzied musing.
"Enter," he mumbled after a moment, massaging his temples.
"Master," Hein walked a few steps inside and glanced at Hawke who was waiting for an explanation for this intrusion. Samael did notice Hein wasn't able to look into his eyes for long since he downcast his eyes with pure dismay within them. "Master, a Qunari and Messere Tethras are asking for an audience. Shall I let them in?"
"I am no Qunari, basra," an unfamiliar voice growled behind the cracked open door. Samael had to smile against his will since this simple statement reminded him of something.
"Tell Tethras I'm busy," Samael uttered loudly enough and crossed the room to meet the behemoth from Seheron, graciously bidding him enter.
"Master…" Hein wanted to say something else, but Hawke was much more curious about the not-Qunari being right now.
"Later," Samael interrupted the boy without looking at him. Hein's shoulders slumped and the boy left the room promptly.
"My name is Maraas," the giant spoke when Hawke remained silent. "I am not Qunari and I am not Tal-Vashoth either. I gave myself this name because it means nothing in my tongue. I come to you so we would have a purpose in this world once more." Maraas' simple words were hanging in the frowsty air while Hawke's eyebrows were growing higher and higher as he was contemplating this unexpected offer.
"Translated into my tongue, you wish to serve me?" Samael sat down and gestured towards the other armchair. Maraas' deep black eyes followed Hawke's hand, but he decided to ignore the polite gesture. Or he simply didn't understand it.
"Yes," the giant took his time before popping out this single word of agreement.
"What did you mean by that 'we would have a purpose'? There are more of you?" Hawke seemed genuinely intrigued by the thought about a bunch of Kossith warriors at his whim. "How do I know you're not someone's puppet, sent to infiltrate my business, kill me or something?" Hawke leaned back in his seat and folded his arms on chest.
"You don't," Maraas countered with a quick reply this time. He raised his brawny arm, so Hawke could see two bags the giant had been holding the whole time. A big jute bag with dark dried stain at the bottom and black duffel bag Hawke had been using for lyrium consignment for years. Maraas tossed them both casually on the table in front of Hawke and Samael's nostrils were filled immediately with that heinously sweet, unmistakable odour of decomposition. He didn't even have to look inside the jute bag to know what was inside. More like whose remains were inside.
"Yesterday night we've stumbled over two Templars who killed your courier and confiscated the lyrium. I killed them and took the lyrium instead. We've proven our loyalty. Now give us a purpose." Not even a tinniest muscle moved on the Maraas' body when he made this crystal clear statement. Alas, crystal clear just for him; definitely not for Hawke who peered inside of the both bags, making sure their content matched Maraas' narration.
A quiet triple knock resounded on the door before Samael had a chance to react.
"What now?" he shouted in disgruntlement. The door opened, slowly, hesitant, while a motionless, hooded silhouette appeared behind it. Hawke's lips resisted whispering a certain name and just for a moment he wasn't able to move or talk. "Where can I find you?" Hawke turned finally back to Maraas in pretended repose.
"The Vat and Fiddle Inn, Lowtown," Maraas replied quietly, his eyes traveling between Hawke and the newcomer.
"I'm interested. I'll meet you there then. Now get lost, Maraas." Samael didn't bother looking at the giant this time since his eyes were focused on the waiting silhouette on his doorstep.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Keeper?" Hawke entered the long silence when Maraas left and it was just Samael and the newcomer in the room right now. Merrill pulled down a hood of her ink blue shroud, revealing her face to Hawke. Samael noticed her prominent cheekbones, that deepening wrinkle between her eyebrows which wasn't there last time he had seen her and a fading scar winding through her forehead, crossing her eye and disappearing on her cheek. It really was Merrill, yet it wasn't completely her. She looked different and it wasn't just her solemn, serious face which worried Hawke. It was something else, rooted deep in her once pellucid eyes. Samael's acerbic greeting obviously didn't help.
"I know you own the silverite mine in the Sundermount caves, Hawke. You haven't started extraction yet and I came to learn your intentions regarding the mine." Merrill's face and words were completely colorless.
"Ah, business then." Hawke's eyes darkened and he set an empty glass of whiskey on the table in vigour, taking an eagle quill in his hand instead. "Surprisingly, I have had more important things to do lately than thinking about defiling a sacred place of your precious people, Merrill," he shot an annoyed glare at her for even bringing this up. The Keeper said nothing to his outburst. She just strolled in front of the table, her hand disappearing into her shroud and when it showed up again, Merrill was holding the blood-stained handkerchief with Amell crest embroidered on it – the very same piece of fabric Hawke had left behind at Sundermount after his encounter with an assassin. Merrill watched her hand for a while before she dropped the dirty piece of fabric on the table.
Now the incriminating handkerchief lay on the table between the two of them like a silent witness of Hawke's incognito night visits at the Dalish camp. Samael knew he should have gulped his vanity, stayed hidden in shadows like a nameless guardian, but he just couldn't. Now he would have to admit he was there, Merrill would demand an explanation no doubt, maybe she would tell him to stay away from her, maybe she would mock him. And that elf, Veryan or what was his name, no doubt told her he had seen a human male with long black hair and tattooed face in the camp that night. Yeah, whatever,Hawke thought to himself. He would be far away from Merrill and her disturbing influence in a few weeks.
A snow-white shoulder peering from beneath the cloak interrupted Hawke's scattered thoughts. The ink blue cloak rustling on the cold moist stone floor left Hawke dumbfounded. What just had happened? Merrill simply stood in front of him in all her beauty, naked, just like her crazy Creators or whoever, whatever had created her. The quill Samael had been nervously playing with fell out of his hand.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Merrill?" Hawke's eyes narrowed as he tried to figure out what was going on. It was quite a challenge to keep looking into her eyes and nothing else. But Merrill simply stood there, motionless, wordless, her eyes slowly filling with tears. She knew the tears would roll down her cheeks if she blinked, so she tried not to.
"You were at Sundermount," she finally stated the obvious, looking at Hawke and the handkerchief in quick turns. Samael stood up unwillingly instead of an answer. "I thought you don't care anymore, but… I wasn't sure… If… But I need to know…" Merrill rambled with her voice trembling. She lost track of what was she trying to accomplish there and, ashamed, turned away from Hawke, clenching her pulsating head. The thoughts were wildly swirling through Samael's head. It was kind of dead-end situation.
If I got it right, she came here to find out if I still want her, still need her. And, damn it, she couldn't have just asked! She had to pull this nasty trick on me, knowing I wouldn't be able to lie to her. Not like this. Not when she stands there, naked, vulnerable. I should just throw her out for her own sake! Mine too, but that's not the point. She has no right to march in here like this! She has no right to make any inquiries. And she has definitely no right to look so… beautifully broken. So… perfect. Damn it!
Raking his hands through his long hair, Samael walked around the table, hesitant about what should he do. Merrill shivered when she felt a warm hand slowly caressing her back, making its way up to her slender nape. Hawke picked up the shroud lying on the floor and threw it gently over her shoulders, turning her back to him in the process, although she didn't seem to be able to look at him.
"I miss you too." Finally. Finally was Samael able to say out loud for both of them what they'd been feeling ever since their dissension at Sundermount. Merrill looked up in surprise at this unexpected confession, cautiously searching Hawke's grim face. The angles of his face relaxed as he watched her, the lines smoothed out slowly. He became again the young beautiful man he had been once; not burdened by death he had sown around him nor broken over the way the life had been treating him. It was great comfort for Merrill to see him like this; to see that innocence still slumbering under his hard exterior.
It was Merrill who took Samael into her thin arms, offering him her lips while her eyes were begging him to forget just for a minute his silly pride. Enthralled, Hawke leaned down, brushing his lips across Merrill's in a feather-like touch. They made it to an armchair without breaking the kiss. Samael practically fell into it while Merrill straddled him, impatiently devouring his mouth again with an insistent kiss. Merrill's shroud was coiled around her waist now, forgotten, as she teased Hawke with her breasts, then pressed herself against him to kiss him passionately. It occurred to Samael unbelievably slowly that he had a naked marvelous woman on his lap and the whole scene was even more appealing since Hawke was fully dressed while she simply wasn't at all.
Merrill stretched in all her glory, arching her back while Samael leaned forward and his insatiable mouth found a hard little pink nipple, licking and sucking it as she liked. Merrill groaned in pleasure and writhed which was quite a delight on Hawke's lap.
An urgent hammering on the door ruined the atmosphere completely.
Samael snorted and rolled his eyes in torment, trying to focus on anything else but his hand holding the heavy softness of a breast and Merrill's lips nibbling their way to his ear.
"Hawke, we've got a problem." This simple, yet grave statement shouted through the door ruined what was left of the steamy moment.
"Don't…" Hawke breathed out into Merrill's ear when she tried to roll down of his lap. Samael pulled her shroud up again, so it would cover her properly, before he let Hein in.
"The Templars are about to break through the door, Master," Hein's face remained calm, but his eyes told Hawke how scared the boy was. Not taking his eyes off Merrill Samael considered the situation. He was no fool and he knew all too well Meredith wouldn't give up so easily, but he thought this was all she could come up with. Thus he had made sure there would be no documents regarding his business, no incriminating things or people if Meredith decided to raid Hawke's business meetings or his estate.
"Please see our guests in the main hall out of here through the hidden passage I've shown you before, Rabbit. Tell my men to hide at the gallery, be quiet up there wait for a signal." Hawke's voice sounded tranquilly like there was no group of warped Templars, eager to search this place and make hell out of Hawke's life.
"What about me?" Hein peeped and kept staring at Merrill as though he wasn't sure if there really was somebody sitting on Hawke's lap or not.
"Open the door for them, will you?" Samael laughed mirthlessly and neatened Merrill's cloak on her back. The lad disappeared with a nod.
"Templars…" Merrill's eyes were widened when she broke out of Samael's hold. "Should I leave?" she asked in haste, pulling the cloak closer to her body.
"No." Samael sounded absolutely unconcerned.
"But —" Merrill quivered because of the noise behind the closed door since Hein had obviously let the Templars in and they were about to raze this place.
"I'll protect you," Samael whispered to her when he reached her, handing her the Keeper's staff she had put in the corner. Merrill's coy smile told him that her whole trip to Kirkwall Undercity was worth it if only to hear that single sentence from Hawke. Samael opened the door before the Templars could break it down and strolled in the middle of main hall with Merrill by his side.
The Templars halted and glanced at their leader for orders. Hawke's willingness to talk was obvious and they'd expected anything but Hawke who was willing to do anything.
"I trust you have a warrant as an excuse to barge in like this, Cullen?" Hawke slowly drew aside his cloak so he would be able to draw weapons quickly if needed.
"Serah Hawke, Keeper," Cullen mumbled his greeting and watched Hawke with a poorly hidden disquiet. He held his right hand holding the warrant towards Hawke instead of an answer.
"Lovely." Hawke's eyes flew over the parchment carrying the Templar insignia. Merrill's hand slipped under Samael's cloak and Hawke realized it was trembling. "You may proceed, Cullen," Hawke scoffed and granted the nervous Templar a cold gaze. The Templars then thoroughly searched the main chamber, Hawke's small study and they were returning back to Cullen one by one with their empty hands and frustrated faces.
"May I ask you to get your polished asses out of my property now?" Samael uttered nonchalantly, but he was well aware the circle of Templars around them was closing in.
"I'm afraid I have to ask the Dalish Keeper to come with us." Cullen's voice couldn't be more tense for he knew this whole situation was about to turn into bloodshed.
"I don't think so," Samael replied immediately and smiled, tilting his head up. Cullen followed his gaze and thus he was able to see the archers as they were emerging one by one on the gallery above their heads. Perfect firing position; the Templars would be dead before even drawing their swords.
"Hawke!" Cullen raised his hands and scowled at the self-proclaimed king of scoundrels. "There's an unwritten agreement between the Dalish and Kirkwall Templars. They are supposed to stay out of the city and we will leave them be. The Keeper broke the rules, she's coming with us," Cullen really tried his best, but he knew Hawke wouldn't hesitate to nod at his men to shoot them all.
"I suggest running back to your Mistress, Cullen. Be a nice little Templar and pass my regards on to her. Tell her she can kiss my Fereldan ass." Samael was slowly walking towards the Knight-Lieutenant during his cynical speech which drew a guffawing from his men at the gallery.
"You're making a mistake, Serah Hawke," Cullen stepped forward, but there was no grudge in his words – more like a well-meant warning which left Hawke wondering for a moment. "You're playing with fire," Cullen made another step forward, "and you're about to get burned," he leaned forward and whispered the last part right into Hawke's ear. Samael shuddered against his will. There was some odd undertone in Cullen's voice as though he knew something Hawke did not.
"Save your words for a report for Meredith, Templar," Samael retorted and gestured towards the way out.
"The Maker's mills grind slowly, but they grind exceeding fine, Serah Hawke. Open your eyes before it's too late," Cullen bowed gracefully and headed in the suggested direction.
"Amen," Samael snarled with his hand clasping the hilt of his sword. Even the tiny cold hand slipping into his warm palm couldn't smother the growing feeling inside of him that something bad was about to happen. Very, very bad.
oOo
"So…" Hawke halted on the Hightown courtyard right after they had emerged from the fetid Kirkwall sewers.
"So…" Merrill strolled in front of Hawke and looked up at him. There was everything written in her face, everything what had happened and what was she feeling. Frisson from the long lost lover's touch, her loneliness, residual fear from the Templars, hope and doubt about what would happen in the future.
"Merrill," Hawke took her hand rather shyly and traced her scar gently with his other hand, "who did this to you?" he asked with his eyes narrowed in anger.
"Oh… that's nothing," she peeped and took his exploring hand into hers. "Just… a little misunderstanding with my First," she uttered when she saw Hawke wouldn't leave this be.
"Oh, so you now like have your own First?" Samael blinked in surprise and cocked his head in thought. "Well, of course you do. You're a Keeper after all," he whispered more to himself than to her. Neither of them spoke after Hawke's statement while Hein loitered not far from them, kicking the wall thoughtlessly.
"You probably want to —" Hawke blurted out, searching the sky.
"I really should —" Merrill started at the same time and giggled nervously when they both shut up. "I have to return to my people, Samael," she whispered finally and let go of him.
"Right." Hawke made a hesitant step backwards from her, then turned around and started striding away with downcast eyes.
"Hawke!" Merrill's soft shout stopped him and he turned almost involuntarily back to the Siren who was calling him with her sweet voice. They were looking in silence at each other for a minute, their lips slowly curling into coy smiles. There was no need to say anything.
oOo
A rider on common horse with a mabari raced through darkening landscape five hours later. A thunderstorm was threatening and the clouds were dark overhead, but the rider didn't seem to care. He didn't even slowed down when the big warm drops of rain started falling down and the heavy air crackling with electricity was choking him.
One scene was replying relentlessly in Hawke's head as he rode through the twilight, heeling the poor beast beyond its limits. Hein came to talk to him that evening, but before he got to the point, Ser Thrask dashed inside the Hawke estate, barely catching breath. His frantic words started making sense to Samael just after a few strong drinks.
Meredith had initiated an Exalted March against the Champion of Kirkwall.
Samael continued pacing while listening to Thrask, clenching his head in despair several times and kicking things in his way with frustrated wordless shouts. But despairing wouldn't help Hawke. Now it was just a matter of outwitting Meredith long enough to crush her devious plans before they would crush Hawke.
The orders were given, the Templar was thanked, and one of Hawke's horses was saddled since Occela was at the farrier's.
"Don't go by yourself, please take me with you," Hein pleaded with stubbornness of his own.
"Take care of the scrolls, Rabbit. Please, do it for me if not for my friends. People I… like." Samael placed hastily a peck on the lad's forehead before he mounted the horse, whistling at Charon to come along.
Here he was, riding in an insane tempo although he realized the horse would drop dead at any second if he kept this pace up. Hawke hoped, believed in blind faith, that Hein would warn all of his friends in time. Only two persons would remain unaware of Meredith's treacherous net, but Hawke was about to warn them personally. He hadn't seen Malcolm ever since he kicked him out of his estate, but he did know where he was, oh yes. It seemed unbearable not to know where was the person claiming to be his father. When Samael halted the horse by the lakes near Bone Pit he was drenched to his bones and quivering in both cold and adrenaline.
"Ichaboooood!" he cried out from the top of his lungs. Long, desperate shout sounding like a roar of a wounded raptor. "Ichabooood!" Hawke whirled around desperately, searching the vicinity through the thick veil of rain.
Malcolm jerked in his humble shack standing on the lake bank. He would recognize this voice everywhere and anytime. He bolted out of his dwelling, searching for his son in alarm. Samael came. His son really came here, he came for him.
"Ichaboooood!" Samael's upset voice resonated above the turbulent lake surface and Malcolm realized he must have been closing in. "Damn it, Ichabod, where the fuck are you?" Hawke bent down at the waist, catching breath.
"Stop shouting, lad. You'll chase away my dinner," a familiar voice grumbled right after Samael's back. As he was bent down, Hawke looked behind him and he could breathe again suddenly. He got here first. That was all that mattered. His father was alive and safe, at least for now.
"We need to get you out of here, Ichabod," Samael slowly turned around and blinked to get the rain streaming down his face off his eyes.
"Do we…" Sneering, Malcolm folded his arms on chest and took a wide stance. "I take it that this isn't a return of a prodigal son, is it?" Malcolm cackled and watched his son glaring at him.
"I am… not… your… son!" Samael sizzled through his set jaw.
"So what are you doing here then?" Malcolm asked in a pretended innocent amazement.
"I'm here because," Hawke waved his arms in impatience; "because of…" he tried to explain again, unsuccessfully.
"Well, do continue, you'll figure it out eventually, son," Malcolm tilted his head backwards with laughter and raked through his drenched long dark grey hair.
"Stop calling me that!" Just like that Samael stood right in front of his father, his fists clenched, and his voice trembling in blatant wrath.
"Afraid of the truth, are we?" Malcolm mocked the young fuming man.
"Fuck you, Ichabod!" Samael's temper exploded and he took Malcolm down with a perfect right hook.
"Ugh," Malcolm squirmed in the wet sand, groping his sore chin, "so much for the loving Hawke reunion then," he chuckled maliciously. He was silenced with a fierce kick turning him on his back. "Oh, fuck, yes!" he bellowed, guffawing with insanity while clenching his hurting ribs. "Let it out, son! Shout! Kick! Destroy me! Stay furious! Keep hold to that glorious rage! Hang on tight, my son, because it's the final fig leaf!" Malcolm all but yelled at his son who stood above his body, panting and shaking.
"What was the last thing I told you, hm? I can't hear you down here, my boy, you have to say it out loud, you wise guy!" Malcolm sat down with a gasp of pain while eyeing up his son. "What did I say to you, huh? Or did you forget just I like wanted to?"
"You told me to run." Samael shook his head while gaping at his father in disbelief. "You told me to run," he repeated, his voice growing stronger with hysteric undertones. "You explicitly said to a young vulnerable child to abandon his own father and leave him to rot! You fucker! I hate you! I hate your fucking guts!" Samael pulled up the old man, mercilessly shaking his perverted soul out of him.
"That makes the two of us," Malcolm breathed out, but his voice died away in the howling storm.
"You're dead, all right?" Samael roared right into his father's face. "You died in those damned gorges years ago, do you hear me?" Samael's clouded mind was reaching for one last attempt to deny the fact his father was standing right in front of him – alive.
"You can repeat that as many times as you like, but that would not make it so," Malcolm shook his head mildly and reached for his son, but he twitched and escaped from Malcolm's reach. They were standing on the bend of a raging lake facing each other, estimating each other and both breathing heavily when ominous clapping of gloved hands disturbed them.
"My, my… such a lovely family reunion." Hawke's eyes widened at that unctuous quiet voice. "Oh, Maker, what a boor I am. My name is Ser Alrik and these are my men." Templars were emerging from the darkness without a sound; the drops of rain tinkling on their helmets in relentless staccato. Charon was wise enough not to interfere during his master's quarrel with that old stinking man, but now he crept in front of Hawke with his teeth bare.
"Fuck…" Almost inaudible gasp of surprise escaped Malcolm's mouth.
"Shit…" Samael commented the situation. Yes. They were screwed.
"Well, you really are your father's son, aren't you?" The Templar leader made an overconfident step towards the younger Hawke. He reminded Samael of a reptile; cold, smooth and with a smile that chilled his very core. And those eyes; those cold bright blue eyes piercing him through like an icicle dagger. Two men and a war hound against the whole squadron of Templars, which meant approximately forty people.
Samael didn't move nor did he make a sound. Swords and nocked arrows aimed at them were flashing in the lightings crossing the skies. Time seemed to stop. Hawke's right hand then flashed out, ripping his dagger out of its sheathe.
"Fire," Alrik's lazy voice commanded into silence interrupted only by thunder. Samael looked down and saw his left hand clenching the shaft of an arrow protruding from his stomach.
"ARGH!" Malcolm unleashed along with that inhuman scream a great pulse of venomously green light which swept the nearest Templars off their feet. Samael remained oddly passive about what was going on around him. He found himself kneeling in the sand and wondering if he was seeing triple or there really were three arrows stuck in his torso right now. Familiar silver fur was shredding everything which came too close to its master, but it was an uneven battle. Samael's veiled mind noticed vaguely his father falling down and disappearing under the Templars' armor, but with another mighty spell Malcolm was able to push them away from him while he scrambled to his feet and rushed to his son. Samael looked up in surprise when somebody started pulling him up on his numb feet and he wished that somebody would stop doing that.
Countless pairs of armored hands grasped Malcolm Hawke by anything they could reach; tearing him apart from his son who kept kneeling in the mud and sand with his head lowered and drenched hair stuck to his skull. Samael had missed his father's last attempt to free himself, which was baffled when a dozen of Templars nodded at each other and started enchanting the Silence formula. Stricken by the immense power the Templars possessed against mages, just half-conscious and completely drained, Malcolm Hawke glanced at his son for the last time before he was dragged away.
A fierce kick between his shoulder blades sent Samael flying forward and landing on his side while one of the arrows broke and Hawke responded with a long howl of pain so intense it bordered with agony. Somebody laughed nearby. Then he was kicked on his back, so he was staring unseeingly at the starless sky. The last drops of rain caressed his face, mixing with the tears of powerlessness. Distant voices resounded in Hawke's ears while he was aware of every breath he took.
"— just make sure nobody slips out of our trap, yo."
"I worry about Ser Madeleine's men. I don't think they will capture that tattooed elf, at least not alive." A rusty voice laughed dryly.
"What about this one, yo? I thought we were meant to kill him and —"
"Moron! Did you even read the order? Take him down alive, injure him if necessary, but no killing."
"Why no killing, yo? I say cut him down while we can! Meredith needs him for something?"
"That's not for us to judge, dumbass, but —"
"Hey, you two, we're leaving!" A distant voice, a cold voice Samael would have never forgotten, ended that petty row.
"As for you, little Hawke, I bid you happy crawling for help," Ser Alrik whispered into Samael's ear and pressed his gloved index finger into his forehead. "And here's just a little something for you, so you wouldn't forgot this rather pleasant encounter." Alrik stood up, brushed his knees neatly before he pushed Hawke's left hand on a rock with his heavy boot, kicking it left and right as long until it was perfectly balanced on it. Samael had no idea the Templars fell silent one by one at the sight of the cruelty of their leader. They simply turned their backs at Hawke and Alrik and left the lakes just like the Order directed them.
Alrik smiled and stomped on Samael's limp hand with his full weight and strength. Hawke's body arched into an agonizing pose. He could feel the burning sensation of each nerve that was severed in skin and muscle. The bones were shattered, piercing what was left of his hand and protruding through the skin. He could sense the blood from the crushed veins slowly filling his hand and pouring out into the sand. Alrik's smile was growing even broader as he observed the agony he had inflicted upon a living being.
Samael couldn't recognize that awful voice full of unbearable pain which echoed again and again in his ears. The voice shouted, pleaded, bawled, begged, threatened, screamed for mercy and found it. A kind veil of unconsciousness sent Hawke's tormented mind and battered senses into oblivion.