Merrill woke up from her slumber with a jerk. A quick glance at the massive wall clock told her she had let herself go for just an hour. Her next look belonged to Hawke who was resting in Merrill's arms and only his rhythmically moving chest told her he survived yet another of his insane plots. When she tried to wiggle her fingers, Merrill realized her flattened arm was tingling, begging to be stretched, but she wouldn't have moved even if it meant to lose the arm. He was so close, yet Samael remained out of her reach, she thought to herself as she studied the pallid skin on his otherwise tanned face and deep dark circles beneath his eyes, speaking eloquently of the ordeal Hawke had deliberately put himself through. Why he insisted on punishing himself again and again? Did he not care for himself at all?
Merrill was a fatalist. She believed all free folks bore their fate from the very day they had been born, so why Samael kept questioning it out of spite? Why did he have to carry out the craziest things that had ever crossed his mind only to come up with something even more insane two days later?
Alone with her thoughts and not willing to disturb the slumberer, Merrill rested her head against her tingling arm again, glancing one more time at the man whose life she had saved once more. This time, he returned that inquisitive gaze and Merrill smiled in relief when those eyes were just as she remembered them; radiant amber and piercing their way straight into her soul.
"Let me guess - something went awfully wrong," the whisper was amplified by his burning eyes. He would have been able to count the tiny freckles on her nose if only he'd be able to stop looking into her eyes.
"Shhh," Merrill crooned him silent as her finger was smoothing out the deep wrinkle of vexation between his brows. "Bodahn has sent for me just in time and I took care of everything. Apparently Sandal destroyed the original antidote, so I had to scald a new one which I enhanced a little bit with the knowledge of my own people – may the Creators forgive me," she kept rambling and Hawke's light smile broadened. "I was… scared," Merrill's deep emerald eyes darkened as her mind went back to what she had witnessed at Hawke estate that night. "So afraid that I was too late, that you would not survive the first period of poison, that—" she abruptly stopped herself, violently shaking her head.
"— that the antidote wouldn't work at all, which we will know in a few days," he quietly vocalized the greatest fear. "If I drop dead three days from now, the whole Thedas will know how crappy healer you are, I'll make sure of that," Samael found the strength to tease her even now. Her apparent disapproval with such crude joke was forgotten once he reached for her hand and hid it in his both palms as his eyes slowly closed.
"I felt as if I was dying," he slowly voiced the darkest thoughts as they formed within his mind, "and I sought that death with a desire I had never known before," he looked up at her worried face; ashamed for his weakness. "But then you called out to me. Even through all that pain and nightmare, I heard your voice so clearly as if you were right in my head," he shook his head and blinked the terrors of that night away. "I realized there was something I wanted even more than this black silence of death." He felt silent then, but the eyes burning on her flushed skin, the rough hands exploring her tensed body, that pang of want which always smoldered within his heart; all that let Merrill know whom Hawke spoke of.
What could Merrill say or do after that confession? However indirect and obscured, they were the most beautiful words to her ears; the only words she would have given up everything for once. But would she break her promise given to her people for them? For him? A constant battle had been raging within the Keeper's head ever since she realized Samael was still hers, as much as she was still his. The waves of deepest despair were regularly replaced by the bursts of helpless anger as was Merrill battling both her feelings for the human lord and the persistent voice of reason commanding her to live up to her word and wilt in the lonesome life of a Keeper who puts the welfare of her people above all else.
They both took a breath as if to say something; anything from that myriad of questions they had for each other, but sudden commotion downstairs by the front door was an un-welcomed intrusion.
"I'll take care of it," Merrill gently pushed him down on the bed again when Samael attempted to climb out of it and investigate. Her hands lingered on the warm skin beneath them much longer than it was necessary since if Hawke could have been tamed by anyone, anytime, it was indeed her touch and her touch only.
"—but I must insist on your immediate departure, Captain. My master would not be disturbed in the middle of night! Surely you can come back in the morning."
"I am warning you one last time, Sir Dwarf, do not force my hand!"
"You should demonstrate a little respect, Captain! It's the future Viscount you are talking about and—"
"I'm well aware about where I am and who he is, Serah Feddic, and you have ten seconds before I have my men remove you and your son out of my way!"
"This is brazen-faced scandal! I would not stand for this! Do you expect me to—"
"Silence!" Merrill's command hit them as if it was a whip and the heated quarrel seemed to be over at once.
"And of course it's the Keeper, what a surprise!" Cullen almost groaned his accusation as though Hawke and his Dalish mistress had nothing better to do than to constantly test his patience.
"Aneth'ara, Cullen," Merrill gracefully turned her palms toward the Templar in gesture of peace but it enraged him even more instead as he had glimpsed the narrow cuts on her wrists as she was enhancing the antidote with her blood magic. "I trust you have a very good reason for this late visit…?" she cautiously asked and her brows quizzically quirked.
"Spare me your two-faced pleasantries, Keeper." Cullen was clearly pushed to his limits as he strode forward and Merrill seemed genuinely confused by his unusual impetuosity. "I would see Hawke right now or, Maker help me, I'll have you dragged to the Gallows and your clan along with you by the time this night is up!"
Facing the infuriated Templar whom she had considered a reluctant ally until now, Merrill faltered. A conciliatory smile broke through her mask of insecurity, but the Templar who no longer recognized good from wrong mistook it for open mockery. With a frustrated cry, he cast the butler blocking his way aside and rushed up the stairs. The long Templar sword glinted as it caught the light from a single lit up fireplace and Cullen was no longer master of his own mind.
"Not a step forward, Cullen!" a domineering voice thundered throughout the vast chamber and just for a second Cullen thought the Maker Himself had descended from heavens and spoke up. He was to realize very soon how he was mistaken, but it was enough for him to lower the sword for now and put himself together again as Hawke measuredly passed by the spooked elf and came half-way down the stairs until he and Cullen stood face to face.
"Hawke," the Templar cleared his throat once he was done gaping at the Champion who was both enigmatic and menacing in his silence. "Well, hum, you're here," was all Cullen could have come up with at that moment.
"I fail to see why I should not be here," Samael retorted with much more pungency than he had intended to use, "for it still is my estate after all, is it not, Cullen?" he remarked, but his repose was just an act. What was Cullen doing there? So soon after, well, after the whole poisoning affair. He looked indeed as though he knew everything about it and Samael was quite sure he looked positively guilty of whatever Cullen blamed him for.
"Don't goad me, Hawke…!" Cullen closed the gap between them, so his breastplate brushed against the silk dressing gown Hawke was wearing with Amell crest embroidered across the back. "I know, Hawke! You must know that I know that—" Cullen started frantically spluttering accusations until he realized he was making no sense whatsoever. He took a deep breath and also a cautious step backward from the Champion whose face was once more impenetrable; his fiery eyes like windows with closed shutters. "Meredith—" Cullen started explaining again, but his voice cracked right at the beginning. "Meredith got sick shortly after you took your leave, Champion. Pretty convenient, right? Good timing, I daresay, right? Right?! As we stand here, I want you to hereby swear on your father's life you have nothing to do with this sudden unfortunate development." By the time Cullen was done with his ardent speech, he was uncontrollably trembling in something he had not felt ever before; helplessness of an inevitable failure. His failure to protect the one he was sworn to protect with his own life and death.
"Don't you dare speak my father's name with your self-righteous pretty mouth, Cullen!" Samael all but growled the Templar silent. "Not here, not now, definitely not while you know why he was taken from me the day I realized I've yet got any family left in this world."
Cullen shuddered when he was pinned down by the pair of widened amber eyes ablaze with ire which could be put out with Meredith's blood only. His fingers unknowingly clutching the sword as though it was the only thing that made sense at the moment, his lips slightly parted, not even blinking, Cullen hung on Samael's lips, to hear for himself what he already knew deep inside of him. It came to Hawke's mind like an epiphany. Cullen wanted him; begged him in fact, to lie. The poor young Templar could not admit to himself his Mistress was merely a history in Kirkwall and it was just matter of time until she was assassinated or at least imprisoned.
"Did you or did you not hurt her, Hawke!?" Cullen cried out an ultimate allegation.
"I most certainly did not," Hawke replied with serenity. Not a blink; not a single muscle moved within his body.
"Are you lying?" the Templar didn't seem mollified in the least by the answer.
"Yes, I am," Samael replied with the same nonchalant pose and tone.
"Damn you, Hawke!" Cullen threw the sword to the Champion's feet in frustration and gripped on his own head, raging around. "Are you serious?" he barked at the Champion once he halted in front of him yet again.
"Maybe," a disinterested shrug as if they were talking about whether Hawke fucked the milkman's daughter finished the mad Templar off indeed. "I would ask you to leave now, Captain," Hawke strictly gestured toward the front door, praying no one would pick up on how profoundly he disapproved with the game he had been playing with the pitiable Templar.
Setting his jaw into a crooked sneer, so odd on Cullen's otherwise handsome and solemn face, the Templar bent down for his sword and thrust it back into a scabbard without a single glance at the motionless landlord.
"If anything happens to her—" Cullen hissed a hollow threat at the taciturn Champion. How could he leave just like that after what he had just heard? "If anything bad happens to her, Hawke, I'll… I'll…" Cullen threw his arms helplessly sideways as he failed to figure out the worst possible revenge.
"You can't possibly imagine the enormous immensity of the fuck I don't give here!" Samael rigorously pronounced each word until he ended up shouting right into Cullen's face, only to finish his final statement just as softly and quietly as he had started it. No; he really had no other answer for the Templar as far as Meredith was in question here.
Having no real response to Hawke's spiteful outburst, Cullen slowly turned around and walked away as if he was in a daze, followed by his men who were clearly transfixed by that drama just as he was.
oOo
When Hawke woke up again, it was late afternoon. The poison had left no traces whatsoever on his body; moreover he felt exceptionally calm. Calm and well as he pleased. Maybe his days were finally numbered. Samael stretched and scratched his back on a bed pillar. Maybe the antidote failed; Samael yawned and glanced around the neat bedroom. Why were the curtains closed? And who cleaned up that unimaginable mess which his room had turned into just a few hours back?
Sauntering around the bedroom, touching this or that in a rather playful mood, Hawke reached the cabinet and merely out of power of iron habit he pulled out his usual liquid breakfast; one of Nevarran's finest brews. Usually Samael wouldn't care at all what he was drinking - from a lavish crystal flask of very old Antivan whiskey to some inferior bottle of swill made of rotten apples – as long as it served its purpose and soothed his mind warped by dreadful dreams he had been having lately. Fiddling with the massive cork, Samael started wondering what's happening behind the thick curtains which cast the bedroom into gloom isolation from the rest of the world.
The stubborn cork put up a fight, Hawke had to admit, but he did not bring himself to take a sip anyway once he drew the heavy curtains apart, grinning into autumn sun as it fully hit him with its weakening beams.
Samael felt good.
How disturbing.
Samael had no interest to investigate why it was so, though the answer was plain and simple. Merrill. A night spent with her set his mind at ease and Hawke completely blocked the fact there would be no Merrill for him two days from now. Just as her whisper into his ear would command him to turn around, Samael glanced behind his back and there it was; a single black crow feather which undoubtedly came from Merrill's robe and which was set on a bedside table on purpose. Toying with it in his hand, memories took over.
An awkward silence prevailed in Hawke estate after Cullen's departure, until Bodahn exceedingly loudly and rather hysterically wished good night and pushed the half-asleep Sandal into their humble quarters by the kitchen.
"That was rather... interesting development," Samael dared point out when Merrill remained still; clearly waiting for any sign of what was expected from her now.
"I've never seen Cullen on such an edge as he was tonight," she replied merely to her scattered thoughts. "Hawke?" she asked in a small voice and made a hesitant step toward him.
"Hm?" he mirrored her and made a step towards her as well.
"Did it work?" she continued in their little game of circling around one another. "Did whatever you've done tonight work?"
"Yeah. I believe so," he breathed out and his face darkened, yet he made that single step forward to finally have her within his reach.
"So Meredith..." she looked up at him with an unfinished question.
"She's as good as dead," he spouted through the clenched teeth and his face twisted into vengeful grimace. "She just doesn't know it yet," he let his mind bathe in shimmering thoughts of vengeance for a while, not aware Merrill was studying his face as he did so.
"Good," she uttered a sound and Samael realized she sounded much less excited than he would have expected. This was not her fight after all and watching Hawke becoming entirely consumed by his desire for payback was heartbreaking for her. Waking up from his trance he looked down into her eyes, finally acknowledging her nearness, her ability to emerge whenever he needed her and disappear just as quickly. Lingering at the last thought, he realized in front of him indeed stood someone he was not willing to let ever go.
Merrill appeared to go through her own internal fight when she watched Hawke's confused face as strong emotions were mauling him around. As though reaching some ultimate unanimity, he swept her off feet, carrying her upstairs with confidence of his own. Judging by her tight embrace and frantic kisses she started pressing along his jawline, she was not opposing the idea either.
They fucked, they drank, they talked, then they fucked again. Everything had been said that night, yet one topic remained a taboo. Neither of them spared a thought nor word on their soon separation, though they both knew it had been hanging above their heads like a sword of destiny.
Now Hawke stood in the sunshine of a new day, clutching the black feather in his palms and his smile slowly vanished.
oOo
"You know, I'm not gonna pop off any time soon, Bodahn, so stop staring at me, god damn it!" Hawke gave his butler an annoyed glare when both Feddics tiptoed around him as they served something what could have been a very late lunch or a very early dinner.
"I wouldn't know since you appear to entertain yourself with risking your life on daily basis, my lord," Bodahn retorted with a sour face and slapped a ladle of steaming mush on Hawke's plate with such a vigor it splashed all around; Samael's flashy home apparel embroidered with golden sewing silk included. His eyes sparking in blatant rage, Hawke slowly examined his ruined clothing and just as slowly looked up at the petrified dwarf who started counting his last seconds being alive judging by the expression that settled on Samael's face.
"All right, let me begin my three-part apology by saying that you are a great warrior, more than tolerable employer and you've got," Bodahn seemed lacking the right words since Samael started snarling, "and you've got pretty hair," the dwarf rounded up his explanation with first thing that had occurred to him.
Wordless staring at each other for a while was replaced by boisterous laugh when Hawke threw the cutlery away and collapsed on the table; guffawing. Bodahn hesitantly joined his Master when he was completely sure Hawke wouldn't flay him for his impudence.
"Oh, come on, my grumpy thrall," Samael heartily brayed in laughter, licking the mush off his fingers. It was just as tasteful as it would have been eaten from his silver dish. "I don't think I've ever heard something that nipping from you," he rubbed the eyelids since his eyes had started watering in joy.
"I humbly beg your pardon, Messere," Bodahn dropped his eyes and penitently folded his short arms behind the back, though his smile was broad and warm.
"No need, Bodahn," Samael waved the apology away. "Why don't you sit down with me and tell me how are your preparations for upcoming travels going?" he nodded toward the empty chair across the table and watched as Bodahn almost fearfully obeyed, still disconcerted by Hawke's prankster mood.
It was a very unusual afternoon indeed. Unusual, because it was so profoundly ordinary.
oOo
"Maker, I really shouldn't have come here," Samael moaned when ominous door to Meredith's office appeared in front of him. Striding straight into a lion's jaw – that was the major feeling he had when he returned to a place where he had murdered a person last night, though that person had yet to realize this little inconvenient fact. Why had Meredith summoned him anyway? So soon after… Did Cullen tell on him? Did he share his suspicions? Were there somewhere in that office pair of irons with his name on it, impatiently waiting for him? Was the hangman's noose tightening around his neck? Well, he was about to find out.
"Meredith…" Samael granted the Knight-Commander sitting behind her massive table a hurried obeisance, finding extremely difficult to look straight into her face afterwards.
"Ah, Champion, please do be seated," she waved him to skip the pleasantries, barely looking at him as she was raking through a pile of vellums.
That second of hesitation after such simple, if indirect command, left Meredith wondering about Hawke's restlessness.
Sit. Sit, you idiot.
Following his inner voice which was unfathomably alike to Malcolm's voice, Samael forced himself to sit down into his usual nonchalant pose.
"I imagine you are aware why I have sent for you today," she heaped the parchments into a neat pile and steepled her long pale fingers above them.
Reply. Come on, say something witty.
"I, er, you've had not enough last night?" Hawke leaned forward and cocked his head. If Samael's nervous entrée had aroused any suspicion in Meredith, it was smothered right here, after this teasing line.
"You oaf," she scolded him in pretended shock and confident smile settled on her face. Then her sneer slowly faded as her gaze dropped down to her pile of vellums again. "I expect your attendance and full support at tomorrow's execution of Ser Alrik," she stated and only a well-trained eye could have caught that boundless pain in her voice caused by an alleged traitor. "I mean Otto Alrik, since he has been stripped of his Knighthood and all his possessions an hour ago after evaluation of the evidence of his revolting betrayal."
"An execution—" Samael faltered.
"Yes, execution, Champion, keep up for Maker's sake," she glared at him, noticing his trembling hands which he had clasped together all too late. "There is no other response to a Templar who trades with lyrium, steals from the Order's vault, terrorizes the mages and abuses the Tranquil."
"Are you alleging he has done all that?" Hawke successfully mimicked a shocked face of his own. Of course he knew about all this. After all, he was the one who concocted the scheme and forged the evidence for majority of those heinous crimes Alrik had allegedly committed. The worst part? It wasn't that hard since a solid half of it was true.
"The execution is scheduled for midday. The Chantry priests claim a full eclipse will come to pass right then. I consider it fitting," she spat out as though just thinking about Alrik was a living insult for her.
"The Guards-Captain's wedding is to take place tomorrow afternoon," Hawke cautiously reminded her.
"And? You can attend when the execution is done," Meredith scoffed and folded her arms on chest. Her dismissive pose told Samael what was her attitude toward Aveline and her new husband-to-be.
"Actually, I hoped you would consider partaking in the reception which I'm hosting at my estate afterwards for the newly married."
"Bah," she blew a raspberry; a gesture full of disdain Hawke had never seen her performing before. "Keep your hoi polloi party for yourself, Hawke," she straightened up in all her arrogance.
"Hoi polloi?" Samael gave her a surprised look; genuine this time. "All the nobles are attending as well as several Knights from Orlais who were apparently friends of Aveline Vallen's father. The Grand Cleric herself will attend."
"All right, whatever," Meredith shrugged, but Samael was able to tell she was just teasing him and she was quite eager to come and parade her little Viscount puppet throughout the night before the coronation itself.
"I shall expect you then," Hawke bowed his head with this backhanded remark; thinking this audience was over as he abruptly stood up, all too impatient to get out of there.
"Not so quickly, Champion," Meredith mirrored him and strolled over to him.
Breathe. Calm down. Breathe. That's it.
Hawke kept telling himself when Meredith decided to stand behind him, clasping his shoulder with one hand while the other one started twirling with his long hair strand.
"You are Alrik's last wish," she whispered into his ear and she indeed sounded positively suspicious now.
"I'm… what?" Hawke all but gave a gasp.
"You've heard me, Champion," she dryly stated and her grasp on the hair strand tightened. "Now I wonder why of all possible outcomes of this last wish charade he would choose you, Champion. You, who was nothing but in constant quarrel with him. You, who was conveniently right here when Alrik was put under anathema and arrest."
Careful, my son. Careful with what you're going to say here.
Samael jerked but it was not because of Meredith. It was as though his father was right there with them in that wretched Gallows office. The silence was tangible. The evil standing right behind him, enveloping him, feeding on his insecurity, was concrete.
"I hated him," Samael burst out. "I hated him for what he did at the Bone Pit lakes to me. To my father. To my mabari." Hawke whirled around and didn't think straight anymore as he pushed Meredith backwards until she hit the wall with her back. "I won't conceal I wanted him dead as a doornail," he continued elaborating as his eyes ensnared Meredith's into a trap.
"I…" Meredith could all but breath out. No one had ever dared treat her like this. No one had ever dared talk to her like this. What a passion, hatred and power was reflected in Hawke's pose, voice and gestures! It was sublime in Meredith's eyes. And this mighty creature was bound to her will! Not to that ridiculous Dalish woman. Not to that simpleton of an elven slave! To her and to her only! At least that was what Meredith believed in in her pride.
"Yes! Yes, you!" Hawke's eyes widened as he started nodding with a mad man's vigor. "You forbade me from harming him, remember?" he violently shook her, sticking an accusatory finger right between her eyes. "Don't you think I would have sunk a blade into his heart the moment I first saw him after I licked my wounds from the lakes? Don't you?" he shook her once again when no response whatsoever came from the stunned Knight-Commander.
A fierce kiss silenced the hysteric outburst Hawke just had performed and it terrified him indeed how good of an actor he had become over last few months.
"Do you want me to go to Alrik right away?" he asked her when she was done with him; as meek as a lamb, though his blood was boiling in repugnance.
"Yes. Go," she dismissed him, looking pleased with herself and her obedient slave.
"Your wish is my command," Samael bowed and bolted out of the office.
No, he rubbed his temples, feeling the splitting headache pulsing within his head. This nightmare was obviously not over; not by a long shot.
oOo
Hawke almost forgot how somber the Gallows labyrinths were, but the tall windowless walls with moisture dribbling down them as though the stone itself was weeping for the souls trapped within them, reminded him perfectly.
Whirling dust and filth devouring the sounds of his steps as well as his Templar escort was soiling his obligate black cloak and high boots up to his knee level, tickling in his throat, choking the words and human hearts.
"Why are the cells empty in this wing?" Samael glanced at a tall taciturn Templar over his shoulder.
"The Knight-Commander Meredith ordered to keep the prisoner in isolation, Champion," the Templar replied and to no avail Hawke tried to guess how the Templars felt about Ser Alrik's fall for they wore their usual polished helmets.
"This way, Champion," a Templar woman almost reprimanded them since they dared delay a few steps behind the ones who were leading them through the labyrinth with languishing torches in their hands.
"My, my, my…" a reedy nasal voice accompanied each word with an ironic clap, "the Champion and Viscount himself. Needing to be chaperoned by the Templar squadron all the time, are we? How does that work out for you, hm?"
"Silence, traitor!" the woman fiercely silenced the jeerer as she banged the torch against the bars.
"Uhm, I bet you would rather keep me silent, wouldn't you, oh yes indeed," Alrik impassively rubbed the fresh burn on his hand and sneered right into Hawke's face.
"Leave us," Samael uttered a quiet command without looking anywhere but Alrik's pale face. "Clear off! All of you!" he yelled them away when they reluctantly moved toward the door.
"Oh, how they obey you," Alrik comfortably leaned against the wall, "like puppies their bitch. But who commands the bitch, I wonder?" he tittered at his own words. "Oh, right, even a greater bitch! The queen of bitches herself!" now he cackled a long hysteric laughter and Hawke only gulped in sight of a man who was utterly broken and who was about to lose tomorrow the only thing he had left; his miserable life. But feeling his left hand cramping; his left hand crippled by this human waste, Samael more than knew he was going to enjoy watching the show right to the end.
"Having no love for your former Mistress, are we…?" Hawke decided to play Alrik's game as he started sauntering forth and back along the bars. Why had Alrik summoned him here in the first place remained to be seen, since Samael could already tell the fallen Templar wanted his black clad figure out of there as soon as possible for he anticipated Hawke had come here to feast his eyes on the beaten enemy and check if his irons were tightly clapped and his pride properly dragged in mud.
"Why are you here? I was merely joking when I attempted to see my real executioner before they murder me tomorrow," Alrik barked at him a first straight question, deliberately avoiding a discussion concerning Meredith. "All right, let me guess then," he shrugged when the Champion remained still, "you came to mock me? Or perhaps to make sure I'm properly starved, dressed in rags, regretting that I've ever dared cross the path of such an infamous bastard such as yourself?"
"I—" Samael attempted to explain himself.
"No, no, I know!" Alrik clapped in frantic joy. "You decided to snuff me right away! Why wait for a boring public ignominy followed by even more boring execution, right?"
Hawke all but stared in disbelief at a man who did not hesitate to throw around jokes even now. It must've been a mask, right? Just a defense mechanism Alrik was using to not to go completely insane of what he was facing and why. It was just a matter of carefully chosen words to tear that mask down and bare that sickening amorphous shadow of what was left of Alrik's destroyed spirit. It was time to show the ex-Templar, that Samael knew all too well how to comb the nits such was Alrik out of his hair.
"I won't deny I've dreamt many nights about thrusting my blades into all your major organs in alphabetical order," Hawke abruptly closed in on the bars, sliding his fingers up and down in rapture, "but now I think I'll go with that boring public ignominy and execution, Alrik. Am I disappointing you with my tragic lack of creativity?" The former Templar shrank back the moment he had glimpsed Samael's face warped into a mask of an implacable avenger in the flickering light of torches. "I hate to be so obvious, you see, but Meredith's decisions must be obeyed completely and unquestioningly. You of all people should know that. So – death by hanging it is then," Hawke purred through the bars and bounced off of them in disgust.
"Stop it," Alrik merely whispered away the horrors that were awaiting him.
"How many times have your victims pleaded with you to stop, hm, Alrik?" Hawke punched the bars, trying to make out Alrik's silhouette since the coward hid himself in the darkest corner. "Come here and look me in the eye, when I'm talking to you!" he all but shouted out in frustration when Alrik seemed to be done speaking with him. Only an incoherent quiet babbling was an answer to Hawke's screams though. "I bet you're grateful for the bars between us right now, aren't you," Hawke tilted his head backward and let out a guttural mirthless laughter. "Aren't you!?"
"What are you doing?" Alrik's panicked voice inquired when Hawke suddenly fell silent.
"For me, there are neither locks nor bolts," the husky voice slowly recited and the massive lock clattered, "for whatever I desire is mine," Hawke's tall figure shrouded in shadows emerged right in front of the appalled prisoner.
"Maker will let you burn in hell for this, Hawke! He knows you framed me! All will know you framed me!" Alrik started reeling backwards from the slowly approaching assassin. "He knows about everything you've ever done and He will judge you eventually! He knows human hearts, their weakness, their wretchedness, their—"
"The Maker…!" Hawke dryly guffawed. "The Maker will never tell you about humans as much as pain, Alrik! And I see you are in great amount of pain right now," he finally had the whimpering prisoner pinned in a corner. "Good. I'm leaving then," Samael licked his finger and made a mark across Alrik's sweaty forehead.
"This is not over, Hawke!" Alrik seemed to find his voice once Samael put the lock back on its place. "I'll tell everyone tomorrow! Just wait and see and enjoy! I wouldn't be surprised if they erect your own gibbet right next to mine!"
"Oh, how you're mistaken, Alrik," Samael jiggled the lock to make sure it was properly securing the bars. "It's over. It was over the moment you laid your hands on me and my father at the banks of Bone Pit lakes. It was over the moment you put a sword through my mabari and thus deprived me of a faithful companion and a friend."
"But… But—" Alrik faltered; overwhelmed by the weight of guilt that crushed him as well as by the nearness of his inevitable death. This was the way of all cowards. They were all nothing but miserable and pitiable piles of shit in the end, but usually there was no one who would actually pity them; only themselves.
"I could pretend this is vengeance for all those lives you've ever taken from innocent people. For all those Tranquil who are wandering around the Gallows. For your secret executions, abuse and rape you've been covering up for your men who are just as damaged as are you, Alrik. But I shall pretend no more, Alrik. The truth is," Samael threw his arms sideways and chuckled, "I don't give a single fuck about them. This is a sheer revenge not from the Champion, not from the Viscount, not even from Hawke. It is from a weak man you've beat down, mocked and crippled. The same weak man is going to watch you die tomorrow!"
With those words Samael lazily slipped off his left glove and raised the bare hand in front of his eyes. Even in the flickering warm light of torch the skin on his mutilated hand was waxen; color of lustrous grey, and interlaced with thick prominent veins.
"I lost my hand, Alrik." Samael thrust the glove back on what was left of his hand on his way out. "You lost your life," he opened the heavy door and bowed his head as if in deep contemplation. "You judge who of the two of us got the better end of the deal."
"Hawke! Come back! Haaawke!" Out of his mind, Alrik started rattling the bars which was quite an orchestra along with his rattling teeth and bones.
"Look for me tomorrow in the raving crowds, Alrik," Samael spared one last look at the raging prisoner. "I'll be the one laughing," he whispered and banged the door shut behind his back.
Long remained Alrik motionless, musing about his life, replaying again and again the vivid images of his near execution Hawke had masterfully planted in his head. They were the last sane thoughts he had ever conceived.