"This will kill you eventually, you know," Cullen drew apart the crimson thick curtain of a confessional, not really surprised when he found there the very person he had been looking for. The Champion of Kirkwall himself; a foul-smelling cigar stub between his lips, his thumb stuffed in a throat of an almost empty whiskey bottle, was brazenly lounging on the prie-dieu as though there was nothing wrong about that.

"Life will kill me," Hawke retorted and grimaced at the uptight Knight-Lieutenant. "Eventually," he added and his mouth quirked in a bitter smile, while Cullen just rolled his eyes, glancing around before he rather concealed Hawke's blasphemy behind the merciful curtain again.

"This is ridiculous," the anxious Cullen sighed to himself when he slipped into separate compartment of the confessional, his armor clinking when he awkwardly sat down on a carved wooden stool.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…" Samael managed to startle the already uncomfortable young Templar when he dramatically wedged his fingers into the fancy lattice between them. "A lot," he chortled after a moment and put out the cigar on the confessional wall.

"Oh, I do not doubt that, believe me," the outraged Cullen sizzled a reply, punching the lattice so Hawke would let go of it and behave like an adult. The truth was that Hawke was utterly terrified by this allegedly holy place and Cullen was starting to realize that only now.

"Damn it, Cullen, talk to me!" Samael could take Cullen's wordless stare no longer. "Why?" he asked a question that had been torturing him for hours. "Why would you omit to inform your Mistress about my oh-so-awfully-ill deeds? Why would you fail to strike me down to my knees?! I fled the sewers last night, against direct orders and just by the way I took three apostates and one moron along with me! All that, yet you didn't think Meredith should know about it? What the hell, Cullen?!"

"Watch your tongue, Champion. This is the House of our Maker." Cullen's serene voice seemed to work like a charm on the agitated young man. "Just listen to me for a minute," he leaned closer to the lattice, "that's all I ask."

"Ask and thou shalt receive," a mocking voice replied from behind the lattice. "And your Maker, Templar. Definitely not mine," he couldn't help himself and corrected Cullen with this tart remark which was accompanied by a whiskey splash as Hawke guzzled down his stupefier. A stupefier, which could nothing but silence for a while the memories of tragedies piling themselves in his head, every each one of them shattering his soul in a million screams, though it was the previous night that finished him off completely. Meredith destroyed him when she dared lay if only a finger on him and that was the exact point in time that Samael realized that he had perhaps lived too long.

"Let us skip this game and be honest, shall we?" Cullen proposed a seemingly simple task. "You are not about to become a Viscount." It was not a question; merely a disinterested statement.

"That's rather apt observation," Hawke attempted to laugh, but he couldn't for Cullen apparently saw right through him. "I mean, for a Templar."

"You're not interested in helping the Templar order nor are you honest about your claims to serve Meredith and this city," Cullen continued and Hawke's face betrayed him, confirming the Lieutenant's assumptions.

"And what exactly are you going to do about that, hm, Templar?" It was Hawke this time who leaned closer to the lattice, trying to discern Cullen's face through the gaps. "You obviously haven't shared your findings with the only one who should be truly afraid of me and my… Intentions," he fell silent, heavily seating himself on the uncomfortable kneeling bench again.

"It's not working," Cullen whispered merely to himself than to his unwilling conspirator. "This," he gestured around him as though disgusted by what he had been forced to witness and to do lately, "is wrong. Simply wrong," he mumbled through the lattice, looking for support but none such came. "It's spinning out of control. The harder Meredith squeezes her fist with whole Kirkwall in it, the bigger resistance we face. Hunting down mages, penalizing their families, early morning executions, nothing but despair and fear and mistrust… This is tearing Kirkwall apart. Where would it end? And when?"

"Huh," perplexed by Cullen's unexpected words, this was Hawke's only reaction at first. "And? What do you propose we do about it?"

"Not we, Hawke," Cullen pressed his both palms against the lattice, "you," he ardently whispered and impatiently waited for a response.

"So all the blood solely on my fucking hands again, splendid! Am I right or am I right, Cullen?" Samael all but snarled the only reply he had for the foolish Templar. "Just get Hawke do the dirty job, put Meredith ten feet deep, so you could tumble into her suddenly empty throne," he kept muttering. "Well, you shouldn't have bothered luring me here —"

"And interrupting the spiral of your self-destruction, I know," Cullen dryly finished the sentence. "My deepest apologies for that," he added an unusually scorching remark. "You don't understand, Hawke," he continued when the seething Champion remained stubbornly silent. "I took a vow, I am sworn to hold the crest and serve Meredith no matter what. There is no escape from this duty and I suffer every day knowing I betray that vow again and again just by talking to you. Concealing important information. Holding a protective hand over you and your men. You have no idea about half of things I've done for you and am doing for you every day!"

"So why do you talk to me then?" Samael insisted on hearing it directly from him. "Why don't you fall back in line, little soldier, hm? Feeling sick because of the shit Meredith has turned your precious order into, are we?" he chaffed the torn-apart Templar.

"I… took… a vow…" Cullen almost wrenched the lattice out of its place, clawing at it. "And I don't expect you to understand what it's like to devote your life to something greater than yourself!"

"A Templar with a conscience crisis," Hawke put Cullen's justifications to silence. "Well, that's quite a disappointment. Are you always such a bore, Cullen?" he practically yawned into the Templar's despairing face. Taking a deep breath, Cullen closed the eyes to count all the Divines, reminding himself he was in the Maker's house; anything what could prevent him from killing that insufferable being who believed in nothing and no one simply because he didn't know any better which he seemed utterly content with.

"Oh, do not fall asleep on me right now," Samael didn't feel like giving the poor Templar a break as his vicious voice cut right through him, making him shiver in something much more ominous than cold. "Because I have an impression the best part is just about to come," Hawke kept nagging him.

"Save that act for someone who doesn't know you, Champion," Cullen retorted with an unexpected vigour. "Now you're listening," an unhappy satisfaction settled on his face when he heard next to nothing from the Champion. "I've seen you, Hawke. I've seen that part of you which you don't show to the world, too afraid of what would come of it."

"Seen me to do what, exactly," Samael went all defensive as though he feared what Cullen had to say to this subject. "All I care about nowadays is fucking with young, hopefully hung men, and young, hopefully dumb women," he attempted to hold the wall Cullen was about to tear down and reveal Hawke's greatest weakness.

"Please, Champion, do not force me to say it out loud," the furious Cullen punched the wall and the whole confessional quaked.

"Don't you dare…!" Samael's nostrils flared while his ferocious eyes staring at the Templar through the lattice should warn him to drop this.

"I've seen you with her. Oh yes, the Keeper, Hawke. I've seen how you behave when you're near her, how you keep struggling against yourself to keep away from her. How you desperately hide behind the mask of an indecent man, a bad son, a disastrous friend and a rascal. How you don't believe in anything simply because you don't want to. And for what? What could possibly —"

"Shut the fuck up!" Hawke's voice echoed throughout the Chantry and a few lay Sisters peacefully strolling around glanced at the confessional with their eyebrows raised in both query and indignation. The both men then remained silent for a long time, their chests heaving in anger calming down, their hot heads cooling off, though neither of them came up with a plain thought to simply stand up and leave.

"Are you going to finally clarify it for me or does the cowardice of pragmatism rule today?" Hawke finally dared speak up, but what he dared not was to look Cullen in the eye.

"Hawke," Cullen leaned as close to the lattice as he could, "you must widen your gaze. You must finally acknowledge there's no one else here who has the power to deal with Meredith. Not me, not the apostates, not Elthina and definitely not the nobles. You. Only you. And now I do worry," he rasped as his voice was getting quieter and quieter. "Behind that mask of yours, I sense a frailty and that could easily doom you as much as the rest of us. And I won't tell lies, Hawke. I'm not going to help you. No one shall help you, but every one shall celebrate the day you free us from her."

"But why?" Letting himself off guard, absolutely carried away by Cullen's passionate speech, Hawke clutched his head in beseeching despair. "Why does it have to be me? It's been always me! Why won't you help me? Why won't anyone help me? Why won't somebody else deal with this mess? Why can't I just run away? Why…" Samael's voice cracked when he couldn't go on anymore, vaguely realizing there was no answer to his questions anyway.

"Because you're not that person anymore, Hawke. Oh yes, you've changed whether you know it or not. Whether you want it or not," Cullen's soothing voice shook Samael's very center of his being as his hands slowly let go of his head when he looked in rapture at the Templar. "I believe in you, now, when I've seen the real you, and I shall believe in you even when I stand against you with my sword and shield raised to protect the Knight-Commander. And know this, Champion, that I will be there. I will be there at the end, standing right between you and Meredith just as the Order dictates, and you'll run me through with that famous sword of yours before you turn on Meredith."

"But why?" Hawke's voice trembled when he tried to grasp the magnitude of Cullen's dreadful words. "Why would you protect her even when you know just like me what is she capable of? What she's done to you, to me, to myriads of people?"

"Because I'm a Templar!" Cullen's widened eyes burnt their way into Hawke's soul and he would never forget that appalling gaze until his longest death. "I'm a Templar and that's what I do!"

A deafening silence shrouded the confessional after those words and it remained intact even when the two of them re-emerged from the purgatory they had just been to; cleansed.

"Farewell, Champion," Cullen offered his hand to the taciturn young man. He stood magnificent and proud in his polished armor and Samael could nothing but admire the man whose honor and allegiance weren't just empty words for him.

"Farewell, Templar," Hawke reached his hand towards him, hesitant, insatiated with the outcome of this meeting. Then their paths parted since there was nothing left to say. Not with the words.

oOo

The pompous soirées at Hawke estate were legendary by now and not just because of the long tables laid out with mouthwatering repast, flagons of rich strong wines begging to be opened and savoured or other exotic dainties of various colors, shapes and tastes. None of Hightown's virtuously corrupted families was keen on pointing out these debauched binges were clearly financed out of the lyrium trade Hawke had become the king of as long as they were invited to them.

This particular evening was seemingly no different from the previous ones. Every honorable guest, all dressed-up and prissy, was ceremonially greeted by Hawke's trusted friend and business partner Varric Tethras whose light smirk was the only portent of the inevitable – that the very same respectable citizen of Kirkwall would scuttle around the estate several hours later; probably half-naked, drunk as hell and with some whore on his arm. Hawke did love the whores and they loved him back, though an unbiased witness of these events would have to admit Samael had become more of an observer and manipulator, than a direct participant of these orgies.

Musicians were caressing their instruments, salvos of boisterous laughter rang in uneven intervals out of the wide open windows and conversation was tossed between the nobs, often resulting into exuberant pranks and teasing. There was one particular place though, which everybody carefully avoided and somehow didn't even dare look at it as if the place itself wasn't there indeed. A pavilion wreathed with heavy velvet draperies, the color of the raging sea in twilight, which seemed like a place perfect for conspiracies and trysts since it was cleverly shielded from the eyes and ears of others. Yet everyone knew who it was lounging in there on a huge sofa; his head nestled in a lap of his young lover and protégé, who kept picking delicacies from the tray and feeding them to him.

"See? I told you the Nevarrans know what they're doing when it comes to confectionery. You kept bitching about how these candies sucked all along, yet you ate every single one of them," Hein chided his Master who sneered up at him, ruffling his carefully done hair.

"Well, I had to be sure they all sucked, didn't I?" Samael let out a brief chuckle and some of those worried lines on his face smoothed out and didn't re-appear.

"Why don't you go on a stroll?" the boy suggested and carelessly brushed a thin hair braid out of Hawke's face. "You've been holed up on this damn couch for hours," he yawned and reached for a glass of wine.

"Are you insane?" Hawke snorted. "They would have torn me apart," he muttered and that light smile on his face vanished in a blink of an eye. "Who wouldn't want to bed the future Viscount who happens to be disgustingly rich and powerful to begin with," he droned and hid his face under Hein's warm, protective palm.

"Hum, if you put it that way…" Hein uttered with a dreamy expression on his face from which he had been awakened by a well-aimed soft punch. As they hand-in-hand emerged from their private pavilion, the most peculiar scene had caught their eyes instantly.

The panting dwarf with a long thin smoldering cigar between his teeth, his flashy jerkin unbuttoned or ripped apart, a giggling whore sitting on each of his sturdy shoulders while the brave dwarf kept balancing on his short legs, making funny noises as he struggled to remain standing. When the Champion appeared in the middle of this scene, he unintentionally snatched all the attention which disconcerted the already tipsy dwarf, so the whole construct made of bodies, long hair and giggles, quite ingloriously collapsed down.

"My, my…" Samael shook his head in pretended reprimand, "you're a sneaky little man-whore, Varric, aren't you," he held an arm towards the dwarf squirming on the rug, guffawing his ass off.

"I've learned from the very best, you know," Varric burst out laughing once again as he was pulled up to his teetering legs.

"That you did, my friend," Samael gave him his most courtly bow and his arm gracefully swept the air. "A mirror, I presume," he added and easily dodged Varric's fist carrying the reply for that cheeky comment.

As the landlord with his preening protégé moved forward into a large, bright room, it was just as Samael had predicted – they were immediately surrounded by men and women, pulling Hawke away from Hein, everyone keen on getting closer to the one who somehow managed to rise to power against the odds. Maraas caught his Master's eyes, nodding as though there was need for his immediate attention.

"An intruder, Kithshok," the giant grumbled and his bottomless eyes contently roved over the crowd who carefully avoided him and fell silent just because the Kossith warrior bothered looking their way.

"Let me guess, he's an elf with strange tattoos, he talks the way even the crudest pirate would blush and he has no invitation whatsoever," Hawke sighed and hastily closed the door leading to the vast entrance hall so the guests wouldn't notice the commotion by the front door.

"Shall I let him enter or would you have me kill him for you?" Maraas expected a clear order regarding the interloper, but Samael hesitated. He had a bloody good reason not to invite his ex-lover tonight; the very night after his attempt to end Merrill's life right in front of him out of spite. Just as this tormenting memory flashed through Hawke's mind, he had to lean on the wall with both his arms stretched, inhaling the air with frantic shallow gasps just to restrain himself and dominate over his desire for retaliation. Not to mention even now was his estate guarded by the omnipresent Templars, however they were forbidden to mingle in Hawke's business, but a little murder wouldn't probably go unnoticed anyway.

"Throw him out," an almost inaudible hiss went out through Hawke's set jaw. "I won't mind if you explicitly show him I really don't appreciate his intrusion," he added and rather went back to the main hall for he was not sure what scene would have triggered in front of everyone should he was forced to look at that constant tattooed pain in his ass.

Back among the guests enjoying themselves in any way Hawke indulged them with, Samael felt the pang of distant loneliness and despair consuming his soul and body which was brazenly inconsistent with a wave of laughter and joy which just had washed over him, leaving him even number and ever so taciturn.

"Braska!" an unfamiliar theatrical voice with a strong accent cried out as someone hit Hawke's shoulder, spilling whiskey all over his black doublet with ivory embroidery. "What an unforgivable waste of such a —" a stranger's golden eyes reached Hawke's somber face before they shamelessly leered down his body, "— such a fine chest," the elf finished his backhanded sentence. "Oh my, it sunk right in, didn't it…" he crooned as his fingers danced over the soiled expensive fabric, barely touching it, yet Hawke's response at the stranger's touch was… immense.

"I am Samael Hawke," the young Viscount-to-be heard himself speaking, "and I come from Fereldan." For some queer reason, Samael thought necessary to point out he was not born and bred Kirkwaller. "And who might you be, I wonder?" It was Samael's turn to gauge the handsome elf whose somehow dangerous beauty left him astounded and ill at ease.

"Zevran Aranai at your service, oh mighty Champion of Kirkwall," the elf rose from his deep bow and gracefully reached for two tumblers generously filled with twenty-year-old whiskey. To mirror the Champion's introduction, he continued "Zev for friends and I come —"

"All over my face?" Samael finished the sentence and they both burst out laughing, drawing even more attention to them. "And what might you be doing in this boring slice of hell, I wonder?" Samael kept playing the game, willfully stalling before he accepted the offered drink.

"I am but an insignificant traveler wandering where the wind wafts me, and currently it has wafted me here, where I hear a pompous festivity shall take place soon enough to celebrate the new Viscount on the throne," Zevran peered askance at the young man whose only reaction to those words was a deepening wrinkle between his eyebrows.

"It seems you have better information than I do, elf," the Champion retorted, musing into a whiskey glass. "To blooding and bleeding!" Hawke's melodic voice unexpectedly thundered above the crowds as he impishly raised his glass, emptying it in three greedy gulps.

"You remind me of somebody I used to know," Zevran remarked as he witnessed first Hawke's bilge drinking, then that almost masterfully concealed misery he had been living in which showed through his mask for a brief moment, and eventually the way he had thrown the glass into a fireplace where it shattered to joy of all the present social-climbers and libertines.

"Samael, what are you doing for the Maker's sake! I thought I've heard a —" Hein carved his way through the guests, but his next words got stuck in his throat the moment he had spotted the black clad person standing right next to his Master; impassive, calm, and innocent as ever.

"No reason to worry, my pet," the rollicking Champion grasped the awestricken lad by his neck, pulling him towards him and thus he had missed his quiescent body and widened eyes. Hein lived a nightmare indeed. The day he feared came just like he had been picturing it every night ever since his conversation with the merciless Antivan Crow. Now the Crow flew back, ready to jab its talons into the Champion of Kirkwall who was obviously still very much alive. Now was the time to bear the consequences of the choice Hein had made; to do absolutely nothing, close his eyes and hope the problem would disappear. All he had left now was the absolute certainty that Aranai came here to nothing but fulfill his threats and leave two corpses behind him only to head to Nevarra where he would round off his eerie journey by killing Hein's family.

Looking at Samael Hawke, Hein's unexpected benefactor and even more unexpected lover, a nonchalant smile on his lips as he sauntered around his tremendous estate, people eagerly listening to anything he had to say, watching him in revered silence, it suddenly dawned to the desperate lad what needed to be done. What had been obviously necessary to do weeks ago, yet there still remained some fleeting hope that not everything had been lost the moment Zevran set foot in Kirkwall.

Hein's eyes found the charming Crow who was in the middle of a witty conversation with Madame de Louncet and Hein shuddered when those golden eyes pierced him through as Zevran politely laughed at something he had heard; deep and dark laughter, with no humor at all.

If death were carnate, it would look like Zevran Aranai.

Hein flounced out of the room, frantically pacing around an empty bedroom, wringing his hands until it slowly grew into a hell-bent resolve to put a stop to this morass. Somehow it seemed hard to prepare for a battle which had been lost already.

oOo

"Ouhm, what a night," Varric nursed his head in both palms, moaning.

"I've seen you weren't exactly holding yourself back tonight," Hawke sneered and used a waiting flint and steel to light a taper, approaching the marble fireplace with well-placed logs. The fire caught quickly, shying away early morning biting chilliness of late summer. Aveline went on a stroll around the estate after she kicked out the Templars, saying she wouldn't leave without checking every window was properly closed and secured and Samael hadn't seen Hein for two hours, presuming the lad forgot himself buried in some saucy woman's bosom.

"But you were, Hawke," Varric glanced at the assassin who flinched after this remark; his face blank and jaw set in a lopsided line. "In fact, I don't think I've ever seen you this… sober, if not straight austere, during our lovely carouses. One would wonder what's going on with you, hum?" he uncovered his face, giving Hawke a pensive long look.

"Don't be ridiculous, Varric," Samael retorted and turned away from the prying dwarf. "Nothing's going on with me," he whispered merely to the droning fire in front of him.

"Hawke, I know you miss her," Varric went all in, lowering his voice. "You can talk to me, I hope you know that and —"

"Varric, don't," Samael whirled around with his hands clenched into fists, his eyes blazing with the same unspeakable pain Varric had seen there the day Merrill left him.

"Where's that pet of yours anyway…" Varric grumbled to himself when he figured it would be for the best to simply shut up about Merrill. "You look like you could use some entertainment, you know."

"I am right here, ser dwarf. No need to search for me."

Both Samael and Varric looked over their shoulders and there he was; nonchalantly sauntering down the broad staircase, still wearing his fancy deep red doublet seamed with black lace and silver buttons diagonally adorning his chest.

"There you are," Samael's lips turned up in what might be almost a smile, if only the soft light coming from the fireplace didn't reach Hein's face at that moment. The sagging face, disheveled hair as though Hein had been clawing at it for past hour, deep black circles under his swollen eyes and bloodless chapped lips slightly opened as though in a mute scream. "Are you all right?" Hawke rose from his seat, gracefully setting the taper he had been playing with on a small table, and came to stand before the lad.

"Am I all right?" the boy repeated after him; derisively pronouncing each word and Hawke exchanged a surprised glance with the dwarf. "Are you all right?" he asked with an unexpected fury. "I don't think so since you've spent a half an evening whispering with that creepy elf in a dark corner! What were you thinking, Samael?! Do you know him? The hell you don't! Yet you let him pamper you as though you don't have anybody else for this meritorious job already!"

"Ssss," Varric hissed to himself, genuinely amused by this lovers quarrel. "Foolish, very foolish," he sneered about Hein's daring words and he didn't even finish his murmur and Hawke already had the lad pinned against the wall, their noses almost touching, both heavily breathing and both transfixed by each other. "Lesson numero uno, pretty boy," the dwarf threw in a knowing remark, "do not ever question Hawke."

"Shut up, Varric!" Samael barked at the dwarf who was awfully talkative for someone who was claiming to be poisoned by alcohol and depleted by carnal pleasures. Without any previous sign, the boy pulled Hawke down, claiming his lips and breaking through his impenetrable façade. Samael felt the lad's taut body straining up to him, the soft whimpers escaping his mouth hungrily devouring Hawke's lips again and again.

"I think I'm going to vomit now," Varric rolled his eyes and belched and it was hard to tell if he was sick because of the liquor or because of the lovers.

"What's this about, hm, Rabbit?" Hawke whispered and brushed his palms against the boy's flushed cheeks. "The elf is gone if that's what you're asking about. And no, we have not had sex," he remarked and sounded a bit sulkily since his tonight's bed toy vanished into night shadows without saying goodbye.

"I can see how you're not interested in that pointy-eared, silver-tongued harlot," Hein burst out again.

Watching the boy with his eyes narrowed, Samael started chewing on his lower lip. "This is not about the elf, is it?" he asked finally a simple question.

"No, it's most certainly not," Hein retorted and marched to a massive cabinet. "Let us have one last drink, shall we?" he asked and laughed a hysteric laugh as he grabbed two crystalline tumblers and started tampering with them while his back was turned at Hawke.

"Not in the mood," Samael declined the offer, watching the boy with poorly hidden disquiet.

"Nonsense!" Hein brought the glasses and set one of them in front of Hawke so fiercely that some of the beverage splashed out. "My bad," the boy grimaced and exchanged Samael's drink for his own. Yes, something was definitely very, very wrong with Alejandro and Hawke was trying to figure out at which moment the lad had gone this mad.

Hum, as far as I know, Hein was acting perfectly normal until… Until… The elf with golden eyes has made his impressive appearance. An unexpected stranger strolling around my estate, even an uninvited one. How did he get in here anyway? How did he manage to get through Maraas' men? There was this weird aura around the elf, luring me in, luring everyone in for that matter, whispering promises, singing of fulfilled desires and a night to be remembered forever. Where the elf claimed to come from? Well, he didn't get to that part thanks to my rather inappropriate interruption.

Frantically contemplating Hein's odd behavior, the peculiar elf who appeared, only to disappear without a word, Samael brought to his lips a tumbler with strong herbaceous liquor and he sighed in delight as his nostrils were filled with intoxicating vapours, completely oblivious to Hein's widened eyes watching him in a way a predator would watch his staggering pray which was about to yield and fall.

And that accent the elf possessed. Hum, where have I heard it before? Wait a minute! Was it Sven Sieggbard? Was it, fuck me twice, the Antivan Crow? Oh, Maker —

Hawke's whirling thoughts were silenced once his well-trained nose picked up most intriguing odour among the usual herbs the liquor was made of. The reddish beverage stirred within the glass as Hawke's hand started shaking after this appalling realization.

Hein. The boy he had spared. The boy he had saved. The very same boy whom he had been giving everything he desired. The young man whom had been sharing the bed with for many nights. And this boy was about to poison him as though he was some rabid dog to be put down. Moreover, poison him with such a mediocre and boring substance as the concentrated deathroot brew was!

Their eyes locked in one endless telling gaze as they sat at the opposite sides of one table until the candles burned low, not moving, barely breathing, just being. They both knew now what was it inside of Hawke's drink. The only thing Samael didn't know was why it was there. And Samael did not know indeed, nor did he care why one of his few trusted friends decided to murder him. Why would he? With the Crows involved, Hawke was sure somebody very powerful was hell-bent on trying to take him out of the lyrium trade, prevent him from becoming the Viscount, or destroy him simply because he'd gathered too much power and gold perhaps… Who cared? Samael did not. Nobody did.

Varric's snore woke Hawke up from that mortal stiffness he had sealed himself in. Just as he started ruminating over the most painful death he could grant the lad for his betrayal, he actually looked at Hein's face once again, his eyes widening as he realized one crucial detail he had omitted.

Hein indeed poisoned the glass meant for Hawke.

Hein indeed brought the glass to Hawke, practically forcing him to take it.

Hein also presumed Hawke would notice the poison and retaliate for this obvious attempt to kill him.

Bur why, why, why? Why indeed? What was it that kept corrupting every being around him? Everyone who dared approach him? Everyone Hawke ever cared for? The answer was simple.

It was him. It was Samael Hawke. That was the crux of the matter, had always been. He was the poison. Not that swill whirling in his glass. Not Merrill. Definitely not the lad both beautiful and dreadful in his devoted acceptance of the inevitable. In his sacrifice, so Hawke would live, while he would succumb to whatever deal he had made with the Crows. Samael knew nothing but death and death he had been sowing around him for his entire life. It was just matter of time until Aveline, Varric and even Merrill would fall prey to it as well. By the time Samael realized he was the one who made all of this possible, it was the last sane thought in his head.

He reached for the glass and emptied it.