After escaping the Blight, the Hawke family sailed north across the Waking Sea lashed by terrible storms. They had spent two weeks in that dark hold packed in with the fearful and the desperate. And then they saw it: Kirkwall – the city of chains. Long ago it was a part of the Tevinter Imperium with slaves coming from far and wide working the quarries. But then, Kirkwall became a free city, if one could decide to use the word free loosely. Sailing through the black cliffs, Hawke's eyes saw what all the slaves had seen before him: the Gallows. They were as grim, silent, and hard as the bones of the earth itself.
Not at any point of his stay in Kirkwall had Samael ever enjoyed walking within those oppressive walls, even though the slaves and their screams were long gone by now. Even then, they were replaced by the screams of others – the mages. He had not enjoyed it when he was a tattered faceless lowlife from Fereldan, scraping by along with his mother and sister, or when he was an unimportant scoundrel working for Red Irons and making a name for himself, or when he became the crownless king of the lyrium underground, and not even when he was lifted up among the nobles thanks to Meredith and her influence. Apparently, not even becoming the Viscount would change Hawke's impression regarding that wretched place of impenetrable walls, wind howling through the endless corridors and omnipresent feelings that something nasty was stalking the Gallows along with the quiet mages with downcast eyes and the ceaselessly watchful Templars.
"How did it come to this?" Hawke kept whispering to himself when, of all possible places he could have chosen to spend the remaining hours before the coronation, he chose an abandoned wing of the Gallows; the very same one where Alrik had been held in separation, so he would not corrupt others with his depravity and rabble-rousing. "I wonder, is this a sign that I should stay in Kirkwall or leave it? I can never tell," he continued his soliloquy and tightened the cape around his body even though he was not physically cold. Waiting for his prisoner who had yet to wake up from a slight case of innocuous poisoning, Hawke went in his thoughts back to the morning that was no less strenuous and grievous than the previous night had been.
Samael had remained sitting by the front door of his estate in early morning after Merrill had disappeared from his life, tearing him asunder as well as herself with keeping the oath that was sworn in her stead. Consumed by his pain that was selfish just as it was heart-rending to behold, he noticed his father approaching him only right before he sat down by his side in sympathetic silence.
"She gone?" Malcolm asked diplomatically once he realized it was expected of him to actually say something.
"Yes," a laconic answer came from the younger Hawke. "For good," he added and turned away from his father to hide his sorrow.
"Want to talk about it?" Malcolm tried again when his first attempt for conversation failed.
"No," came the terse reply. The Hawkes seemed to reach an impasse and use up entirely the only topic Samael was interested in right now.
"Want me to leave you alone, son?" Malcolm patted his own lank shanks, clearly intending to go about his business then.
"No!" Samael jerked and needlessly reached for his father's arm to stop him, even though Malcolm wasn't going anywhere yet.
"All right. How about we move the discussion elsewhere?" Malcolm nudged his son's shoulder with his own, and only then he noticed and stared in disbelief at Samael's pale hand laced with thick black veins that looked as if his son had stolen it from a dead man. Leaving the mystery of his son's cadaveric hand alone for now, the old mage slowly stood up and held out a hand toward his son. "Let's go to the kitchen. I'll whip you up some breakfast, we eat, we talk," he lured his son who actually conjured a faint smile on his face after that proposal.
"Whip me up something, is it now?" Samael shook his head, hiding the smile as he reached for the offered hand. "Since when exactly do you whip up anything, I wonder?" he kept grouching on their way to the kitchen.
"Tut-tut-tut, you don't remember, do you, lad?" Malcolm heartily laughed when he steered his son toward the chair and theatrically attempted to figure out what exactly an apron was for and where to attach it.
"No, I most certainly do not remember and I think that comes around your waist," Samael instructed the old man with all seriousness he could have mustered which was never much anyway.
"I used to cook dinners for you lot all the time!" Malcolm retorted in pretended wounded vanity and blinked at his son as if he wasn't supposed to take that seriously much. Upon mentioning the rest of Hawke family who were all dead by now, Samael's eyes darkened and Malcolm fell silent as well. Soon enough, a plate with steaming eggs and sizzling bacon appeared in front of the taciturn young man who after a long and deep contemplation reached the realization that he was hungry like he'd never been before in his life. Watching his son wolfing down the breakfast with mild amusement, Malcolm ate as well, but only moderately, since he'd been nothing but eating ever since he returned among the living, as he stoically called his homecoming.
"Samael, there's something I need to tell you, my son," Malcolm cautiously stated when Samael gulped down a jug of beer to wash down the eggs. "There's something you don't know. Something you need to know before we—" suddenly he paused and started musing about how was his son imagining their future anyway? Did he count on Malcolm staying with him? Well, if yes, he would have spurned the idea once he heard what it was Malcolm wanted to share with him.
"Before we what, father?" Something in Malcolm's voice caught Samael's immediate attention and tickled his ability to sense yet another shit storm coming his way. "Father," Samael quietly addressed the old man who seemed at a loss, "what do I need to know so urgently?" he pushed the chair off the table and slowly rose up; tense, suspicious, and beyond the reasonable state of mind.
"Sit down," Malcolm replied with his voice hoarse and his face looking as if he had just aged fifty years. "I'll tell you everything," he quietly confirmed and Samael more like collapsed back into his seat, expecting nothing but bad news.
Thirty minutes later, Samael stormed out of the kitchen, completely out of his mind as he rushed by the confused butler up the stairs, chuckling only a little in comparison with how hysterically he had been laughing into Malcolm's anguished face once his father revealed what he had been doing all those years Samael had considered him dead along with his mother and siblings, and even more importantly why he had left the family in the first place. Having really absolutely nothing to do at the Hawke estate anymore, Samael grabbed the nearest bagged apparel meant for the coronation and threw it over the bed. Tearing off his comfortable home clothing, Hawke kept crushing curses between his teeth with every piece of fabric he tossed around on the floor, kicking it there like a deranged person. A few minutes later, the unchained lunacy was replaced with a numb stiffness. Fawn was the one to find Hawke like this. However difficult it was, the elf actually managed to get Hawke talking and what became like a brief "thank you for saving my hide" visit turned into a 2-hour long war council. When the two conspirators strolled down the stairs with their heads still near each other as they were tuning last details, Malcolm bashfully rose from an armchair in the main hall where he had seated himself in case his son would attempt to avoid him.
"Fawn, one last thing." Samael did hell of a job while ignoring his father as he held up a closed fist toward the elf. "Just in case anything goes wrong today…" he didn't finish the thought since he eloquently fell silent instead and passed a little scroll to the elf.
"What could possibly go wrong?" Fawn sneered and inadvertently used Varric's favorite line, hiding the scroll within his attire worthy of a prince that Hawke provided him with.
"Samael…" Malcolm failed to remain calm and patient as he had promised to himself.
"Kithshok," Maraas made a rather dramatic entrée so unlike to him, approaching his Master and ignoring his father. "The prisoner is being held captive at the appointed place. We've fulfilled your orders." The Kossith warrior bowed his head and placed his set fist across his heart.
"Well-done," Samael's eyes widened in keen interest as he patted the bulking shoulder; clearly absent-minded. "Well-done indeed," he rewarded the warrior with a nod. "You know what needs to be done now," his eyes flashed with something indecipherable and Maraas then left without the slightest assent that he had indeed understood what was expected of him next.
"Samael," Malcolm tried again and his voice strengthened with uncertain panicked undertones, "I only told you because I'm hoping to start anew with you. No more pretenses, no more lies, no more made up stories for children for fuck's sake!" he started explaining with strengthening voice even though Samael didn't even look at him. "Look at me, damn you, when I'm talking to you!" Malcolm finally gave up his meek façade as he burst out shouting before a bout of coughing twisted his body.
"I no longer wonder where you've got your refined talent for choosing the right words at the right times from, Samael," Fawn remarked in amusement when he watched both Hawkes sizing each other up and circling around one another like dogs around a bone neither of them really wanted.
"Shut up, Fawn!" both Hawkes yelled the scoffer silent at the same time and he then graciously seated himself on the sofa since his part in this apparent domestic violence was finished.
"My son—"
"Father—"
Two stubborn Hawkes seemed to have a problem even with who would yell at the other one first, but for now the elder one peevishly waved his hand as if he was ready to whatever his only son had to say. And the only son surprised him indeed.
"Father, look, I don't want to argue." Samael gave it a try to be reasonable at least for once. "I've lost someone today who was very precious to me. You and Fawn just returned last night half-dead, Meredith hasn't shown up at the wedding reception last night which is just as bad as if she declared an Exalted March against the Hawke estate, the coronation itself will be a matter of luck until the very last second due to several individuals that have spent the night sharpening their blades with my name on it, and my staying or leaving this city still stand upon a precipice of uncertainty." He enumerated it all in one breath; genuinely hoping his father would follow his example and decide to abandon their quarrel. "As you can see, I've really no time to deal with the only person I'd expect to actually be on my side right now." Malcolm observed his son for a while in silence after that speech, and of course his silence almost drove the younger man mad.
"You've changed," Malcolm quietly remarked in surprise that could have been easily taken the wrong way.
"We all have, I suspect. We all had to." Samael's craggy face darkened when he watched his father for a while, then threw a heavy black cape over his shoulders which really in any way did not match the classy coronation attire and headed outside. He hesitated with his hands already on door handles, as if deciding whether to do something or not. "Fawn," he quietly addressed the elf without turning back, "please do share our plan with my father. If he wishes to be a part of it, that is," he threw in a jibe and left the estate without any other word.
oOo
Something stirred within the shadows of a cell in an abandoned Gallows wing. For next few moments only water trickling down the walls was hearable again, but a hoarse moan confirmed that the prisoner had awakened indeed.
"What… How… Where am I?" a desperate voice asked the darkness when a black silhouette of a man torpidly rose from a bunk and made a few steps toward the bars. Shaking them, the man let out a panicked moan, then leaned his head against them in resignation as if he was overcoming queasiness.
"More important than how and where is why." A faceless voice entered the silence and the prisoner let go of the bars at once, stumbling backwards in fright.
"Hawke…" he whispered in dismay as if he was even a little relieved that it was only the Champion of Kirkwall present and he would no doubt explained and let him out. "What's this? What does it mean? Why am I here? I remember walking back to the Gallows from the wedding reception and then—" the prisoner rubbed his forehead with both palms as if the memory lingered.
"Then you were shot with a poisoned Qunari dart and taken here. No inconvenient witnesses, no alarms, no nothing. No one knows you're here but me." The Champion obviously decided to fill in the blank spots for the unfortunate prisoner and he made it perfectly clear that Cullen being imprisoned was precisely his plan; not a coincidence as the unfortunate Templar had hoped.
"But why? Why? What have I ever done to you to treat me such?!" The prisoner howled an accusation and launched against the bars, clawing his fingers in between. The poor Cullen really seemed to be desperately searching the most inward depths of his consciousness to find the precise moment when he had unknowingly crossed Hawke's plans which would no doubt lead him here into this waking nightmare.
"Oh, nothing bad, I trust." Samael dryly disproved Cullen's assumption and his silhouette slowly materialized from the shadows, approaching the bars with his arms folded on chest. "On the contrary, in fact," he remarked with a chuckle, looking now straight into his prisoner's eyes that seemed radiant with grievance. "You see, you just happen to stand between me and someone I'm obligated to kill, Cullen." Hawke tried his best to pronounce it casually, as if speaking about an interesting weed he'd seen growing on Sundermount, but his eyes betrayed him nonetheless. For all that Cullen knew, only one person in the world could evoke such a hatred in Hawke's face, and suddenly Cullen was not the only one with grievance written all over his face.
"Meredith…!" Cullen breathed out and rattled the bars again, missing out the obvious remorse Hawke was experiencing regarding this most extreme solution he had resorted to in order to avoid the inevitable clash with Cullen prior to his ultimate battle with Meredith if she refused to decently lie down and die before the coronation.
"Indeed Meredith," Samael confirmed and he would have loved to spit once the name was said out loud. "What did you expect me to do, Cullen? Watch you as you foolishly throw yourself between her and me just as you threatened you would? A brave act no doubt, as well as naïve."
"Do you call one's loyalty and duty foolishness?" Cullen whispered in disbelief since only now he was slowly starting to realize the full extent of what had happened and what else would happen now when Hawke got elegantly rid of him and stashed him into this hole abandoned by the Maker Himself.
"I call it an unfortunate waste of potential, Cullen. I don't think Kirkwall can afford to lose yet another capable man. You see – there are only a few of us left," Hawke's overweening sneer broadened. "You better wake up, my friend, and look at it from other points of view than your own," Hawke hissed in contempt and he would have preferred to reach through the bars and slap the man who had deliberately imprisoned himself within his righteous Templar role and that led him straight into this mess. Hawke was merely an executor of the inevitable or at least he was convinced that he was.
"Oh, and what view is that, I wonder?" Cullen sarcastically retorted and punched the bars.
"Someone has to step up once Meredith lies cold in a tomb," Hawke shrugged in a matter of fact manner, watching the Templar who was now a vivid picture of consternation. "Someone capable must take over the Order and start an actual dialogue with the mages before the two of you tear the city apart and spill the conflict far and wide," the Champion continued and noticed that Cullen was now actually listening to him; even though still horrified by his Mistress' insinuated end he would play no part in.
Frantically thinking about what he had just heard, Cullen merely exploited the obvious loophole when he triumphantly blurted out, "I'll tell everyone of what you've done to me. I'll tell everyone of your devious plans, of your depraved crimes, of Meredith's murder. I'll tell everything to everyone!" Cullen did shout the last words, cackling in release, clearly thinking he had just gained superiority over the Champion.
"Oh really," Samael commented on the hollow threat, leaning comfortably against the wall with his legs crossed. "And who will believe a Templar over the Champion of Kirkwall and the Viscount? Hm?" he teased the Templar, awfully self-confident about his carefully outlined plans.
"I'm not afraid of you!" Cullen replied, but his hesitant step backward told Hawke otherwise.
"Well, good for you," Hawke shrugged again, "though I would think twice if I were you," he pointed out and the silence behind the bars confirmed that Cullen was carefully considering his words; not that he had other choice for that matter. "Let's see," Hawke rubbed his chin in pretended contemplation, "Raen Morrel is playing Wicked Grace each night with his ancestors along with his sister. Petrice is Maker knows where, but she deems her new Qunari masters irresistible I daresay, I burnt the boat with Arishok's body myself after I defeated him in a combat, Alrik lies headless in an unmarked grave outside of Kirkwall's walls and Meredith will soon follow his example. Shall I continue the listing?" he nonchalantly asked a question. "Or perhaps you'd prefer to join the list instead?" he asked with a blatant ire within his voice now. "That's what I thought," he quietly replied to his own question when only ashamed silence came from behind the bars. "I'm afraid I must take my leave now," he bounced off of the wall and closed in on the bars again to realize Cullen was sitting on the bunk with his head in palms.
"Hawke, please don't do this," Cullen pleaded with him once he figured there was no stopping the madness of this single man who got lost along the way that he thought lead him to power and supremacy, though it was getting darker and darker with each step he took. The man who would shortly get Kirkwall served on a silver plate to do with it as he pleased. "You can choose not to do this! You can still do the right thing here."
"Sure I can," Samael slowly replied as if thinking about Cullen's words, "but I won't. Farewell, Cullen," he bid the Templar adieu as if he didn't expect to ever see him again. "Oh, and if you hear an explosion around the high noon, don't worry about it. You'll be safe here," he uttered as if it was completely normal and before Cullen could have fully comprehended the words, Hawke was already gone, leaving the Templar alone with his despair.
oOo
"I still don't understand why you insisted on coming here, Fawn, when you could have comfortably stayed in at my estate and rest." It was the fifth time that Hawke reminded the elf of that fact. He was glad Fawn was alive and well enough to attend to the coronation, but he dreaded the moment something went wrong and an inglorious stampede through Kirkwall would be in order then. "What if something happens? Don't take this the wrong way, but you're not exactly at your best, are you? What happens if—"
"Oh, zip it, will you!" Fawn waved him quiet along with his melodic laughter and kept tending to the ceremonial sash that just didn't seem to be in its perfect place across Hawke's chest.
"Don't you understand?" Hawke pushed the elegant pale fingers away, suspecting anyway that Fawn just wanted to paw him and the sash was just a cheap pretense. "We might get to a point when our best friends will be our legs and a wise retreat will be in order! Now how do we do that when you are not able to run?"
"Well, I can always shift into something, as you shems call it, unnatural." Fawn sneered and finally the wretched sash seemed to be precisely where it was supposed to.
"Oh really!?" Hawke slapped the pale fingers away one more time. "Like what?" he demanded details.
"Something so inconspicuous, that you'd be sick of how inconspicuous it'll be!" Fawn kept making jokes when he'd rather confess to the real reason he insisted on coming here; once again against his better judgment. That reason might be lurking in the shadows in the gallery right above their heads at the very moment, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. At least Fawn would have chosen this place and this time to strike - lots of people, lots of chatter, lots of clapping and false smiles, only a few security precautions. The possibility to pierce the Viscount's throat with an Antivan plumed bolt – high. The possibility to be caught after the heinous crime once the assassin managed to blend into the hysteric crowds – practically non-existent.
"Like a fly?" Samael hesitantly asked, clearly intrigued by the idea of shape shifting.
"Like a fly," the elf thoughtlessly confirmed while checking whether Hawke's katana was loose in its adorned sheathe; just in case.
"Then I don't like that idea whatsoever!" Samael burst out wailing again and collapsed to the nearest armchair, hiding his face in palms. "What if some corpulent noble woman swats you with her ugly fan?! Are you willing to risk such an end of the Hero of Fereldan?"
"Calm down, my brother." Fawn placed both his hands on the shoulders of the sitting man, giving him a reassuring smile while he painfully realized he would need one himself. "What's going on with you today? Why so nervous?" He narrowed his eyes and started slowly realizing only now that there might be much deeper reasons for Champion's restlessness. Wasn't this what he wanted? Wasn't this what he'd been fighting for? He was about to become the Viscount of Kirkwall. Accolades were about to shower him. The throne at the Keep awaited him. The people loved him for what he represented for them. According to Hawke, Meredith was dealt with. What was not to be liked here then?
"I'm not nervous! Do I look nervous? You're nervous!" Hawke swept the hands off him, jumped up to his feet and strode toward the mirror standing in the corner, nervously tugging at his apparel here and there. It was so not like his beloved black leather!
"Well, do you want to remain nervous or would you prefer to be uncomfortable instead?" Fawn asked with sarcasm only he possessed as he glanced toward the closed door to which Hawke replied with a raised eyebrow. "Your father wishes to speak with you," Fawn whispered since it was clear the Champion awaited some explanation.
"Oh," Hawke's frenetic excitement dimmed at once. "All right," he muttered to himself and looked at Fawn again as if he sought guidance from him in this matter.
"I'll leave you two to it then," Fawn cleverly used this moment to disappear and search the most obvious spots around the Chantry nave suitable for little assassinating to be performed, then dismiss the spots, and seek more subtle places where a skilled assassin could lie in wait. What would Fawn do should he really encounter the Crow right now, right here, he did not know. He could only nurture a tiny hope that Zevran would give him enough time to raise alarm, so only one of the heroes would perish within the Chantry's walls today.
"Father…" The eyes of both Hawke's met through the mirror at first, only then Samael slowly turned, realizing all too late that he probably looked like the noble man they had been laughing at once. The old mage reached obviously the same conclusion, but commented on it he did not as he cautiously made sure they were truly alone instead.
"You look…" Malcolm searched for the acceptable word for a while, "nice, I suppose," he seemed to get a neutral one and then they both remained silent for a while, simply exchanging long telling gazes.
"Are you familiar with the plan then?" Samael rather changed the subject and needlessly checked the katana again. "More importantly - are you willing to do as I tell you?" he asked a hard straightforward question and was clearly relieved when Malcolm nodded his tacit agreement.
"You seem troubled," Malcolm remarked, waiting for clarification that did not come. "Samael, about what I told you earlier…" Malcolm attempted to explain again, but his son twitched and withdrew into himself as if he was again that young boy being scolded by his overbearing father on daily basis. Not taking the hint, Malcolm continued. "Please don't take that as if I blamed you for anything. Because I didn't and I still don't," he added in haste once he saw his son was searching in panic a way out of this conversation, but then he suddenly froze. He turned back to the older man, slowly, deeply inhaling as if preparing for a leap which in no way could have helped him overcome the gaping chasm that was between him and his father.
"Father," Samael seriously addressed the one who had given him life, then abandoned him. "Nothing you can say will ever be enough to justify why you left. Nothing. So don't even bother. You've explained enough. Luckily neither the mother nor your other children lived long enough to hear what I had to hear from you today. You…" he faltered and fiercely turned away from the old man, only to whirl around to face him again. "You… Selfish… Arrogant… Childish…Rah!" he ended his outburst with an inhuman scream and set his fists as if ready to strike the man.
"Yes, just say it! Don't spare me!" Malcolm lost his repose at this point as well. "A mage drunk on his power! Irresponsible man who could not tolerate the shackles of his family anymore! An unready father for an unwanted child! A weak man who created you and then left you when he was too scared of what you've become! Shall I continue, my son? Tell me! Say it! TELL ME WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW!?"
Transfixed by the horrid scene, Samael stumbled backwards from the man who chose not to be his father anymore years ago and now he thought he could take that privilege back again, simply because it seemed convenient. "Just… Stop. This is pointless," Samael quietly uttered and then it finally dawned to him. He was not supposed to be there. He was not supposed to be there at the Chantry at all. He was supposed to be sailing to Fereldan right now, just as his devious plan had been outlined long time ago. Every fiber of him writhed within him to start running right now, to grasp that life he wanted. It was within his arm's reach, for Maker's sake! Leave everything behind just as he wanted. Just as he had desired for a very long time. His basic instincts were in complete conflict with what he'd allowed to maneuver himself into. With what he'd become while chasing power he didn't want and fame he didn't need. And it was no longer Samael Hawke who strolled toward the door, put his hand on the handle and announced, "I'm going to be crowned a Viscount now. We shall resolve our issues afterward if you wish. Or you can leave. You're skilled at that. I care not. Now if you'll excuse me," he glanced at his father with solemnity Malcolm hadn't ever seen within his son. Perhaps it was that cold demeanor and the fact he no longer recognized his son that forced Malcolm to stay. Because at this point this whole ceremony was bound to end badly and his son was the only one who did not see that coming.
oOo
The thick atmosphere within the Chantry did not correspond at all to the joyous ceremony that was supposed to take place in a few minutes. The nobles, unusually quiet, were exchanging glances and short comments, the Guards-Captain kept pacing around the nave giving orders to her men and clearly unable to stand on one spot longer than one minute while Sebastian along with Varric watched the commotion around them from their prominent seats with disquiet they didn't even bother to hide. The Hero of Fereldan was last seen strolling on a high-placed gallery above their heads as if the ceremony beneath his feet was also beneath his pride and thus his true purpose up there remained conveniently hidden for now. The Grand Cleric was overseeing the preparations by the altar and from time to time her eyes wandered around the Maker's house as if she indeed expected yet another guest to the ceremony, but wished the guest would have decided to stay at the Gallows nonetheless.
"Where are you, damn it! Where are you…" Fawn's disquiet reached its peak once the audience beneath his feet stirred and then rose from their seats like one man, pressing their right fists against their hearts as the tradition compelled them. "Show yourself," he whispered as he peeked down over the balustrade where Fawn indeed spotted the Champion of Kirkwall slowly treading down the corridor between the colorful sea of nobles who were stretching their necks to steal a glimpse at the man who was about to become their Viscount. A subtle movement within the shadows behind a column in his eye level was enough to make Fawn's heart racing, but then his eyes met with Malcolm's and even though it was always tough to say whether the old mage looked at you or not, they understood each other as they were both consumed with the same worries about the reckless man parading downstairs with nonchalance they didn't recognize.
"Blessed are thee who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just." Elthina clearly considered any delay as needless postponing of the inevitable as she started the ritual of coronation the moment Hawke reached her and kneeled in front of her. "Beloved Kirkwall, we are gathered here today to acknowledge the right of this man to bear the Viscount's crown that shall be bestowed on him upon his oath to serve this city and its best interests, to be a fearful servant of the Chantry and a strong leader to our armies who will protect the city and its citizens with his own life if necessary." As she spoke, her arms were slowly ascending above Hawke's head, holding the jagged onyx crown between her open palms, until the eyes of all were fixed on it in awe. "May he bear this crown in health, may it guide him through the shadows, may it burden him with the weight of his choices, and may it doom him should he stray from the path of the righteous." Elthina then ceremonially placed the crown upon Samael's head and its black coldness blended within his raven hair as if it belonged there forever.
"Hail! Hail! Hail!" The nobles let out three exhilarating shouts of joy according to tradition and they seated themselves again to listen to the new Viscount's speech. Taking a deep breath and awfully aware of the cold chunk of black stone circling his forehead, Samael rose to his full height, bowing to the Grand Cleric, and only then he turned around and presented himself to his new subjects. The crowds burst out cheering, some of the nobles sprang out of their seats again, clapping and chanting to welcome the new Viscount among them. And Hawke stood there; serene, solemn, devoid of any burdening emotions as he believed he had lost them the moment Merrill decided not to be a part of his life anymore. The clapping seemed endless, the crown seemed heavier and heavier, and Hawke even glimpsed a few grim faces within the waving crowds and every slightest move of those few who failed to manifest their love for their new Viscount seemed like an assassination attempt to Hawke's mind stricken with paranoia.
The applause then slowly waned, until there was but one pair of hands slowly, if not straightforward ironically, clapping and clapping and clapping in unnerving staccato, so soon enough everyone started searching for the one who dared disrupt the ceremony. Hawke had felt her sooner than he actually saw her; her deranged eyes, face contorted into a mask that frightened anyone brave enough to look at it, the convulsiveness of her movements, nervous ticks within her face when she laid her eyes at the one she believed was the devious engineer of her downfall. How was Meredith alive still was beyond Hawke's knowledge.
"And so the assiduous apprentice surpassed all expectations, outperformed his Mistress and snatched the crown for himself. Bravo! Bravo! What bravado! All that without the slightest acknowledgment to whom he owes his gratitude to. My, oh my, who would have guessed that while watching you stumbling off the boat from Fereldan years ago." Meredith clearly decided that the Viscount's coronation speech rightfully belonged to her instead as she approached the taciturn man with the crown on his head, glaring at him and clawing at air with her bare hands.
"Meredith, I beseech you, come with me back to the Gallows, and let's have my physicians to look at you, my dear." At this point Elthina clearly considered it necessary to step in and prevent the coronation to end in blood since Meredith groped with her both hands at her back to unsheathe her legendary great-sword.
"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Meredith attitude; mocking, yet at least controlled so far, changed in a second as she screamed at the approaching Grand Cleric and shoved her away from her with all her remaining strength. Elthina lurched, and her body hit the altar in full momentum where she collapsed down and remained lying there without a move. Still oddly impassive to how quickly his coronation took such a nasty turn, Hawke intended to go and check on the old Elthina, but Meredith sword under his chin convinced him not to. "All of you… Don't touch me… Don't move… Blasphemers… Defilers… You all shall burn… You all shall die!" she started shrieking in all four directions and Samael had no other choice but to copy her uncoordinated pace; having the blade at his throat still.
Samael, as if immune to the madness right in front of him, calmly watched Meredith's show and listened to her inhuman screeching with stone expression on his face and for now he left the katana in its sheathe as he was pondering his possibilities here; one worse than the other. He either let this madness continue, or he would challenge this woman to the combat in front of the whole Chantry and that was bound to end in her death since the poison within her was counting her last hours and in no way could Hawke consider this combat as a fair fight of equally skilled warriors. It would be nothing but a foul and brazen murder. Time to think was gone though, when Meredith let out yet another wordless squawk and she thrust her blade into the nearest noble who collapsed down and her eyes rolling backward in her head confirmed she was gone in but a few heartbeats. The people then blared and hysteria broke out.
"No one moves!" Meredith's thundering voice commanded them with such a power that everyone obediently cowered into their seats again; everyone apart from the Champion of Kirkwall who stood where Meredith had left him, only the katana was now freed from its sheathe and it was just as eloquent challenge to end this the hard way as it could get. "So," Meredith venomously remarked when she finally understood in her scrambled mind what was going on. "It finally comes to this. Look at you, standing there all decked out, with that patronizing look and Fereldan stench all over you! You're fooling no one, Fereldan mutt!" she cackled and pointed her sword at him. "You're still that wretched small-time thief and smuggler you always were, you're still nobody and all those who seem to revere you are bound to see you fall!"
"As the Viscount of Kirkwall, I hereby sentence you to death for murder of Lady Elora. The crime was witnessed by the city's most prominent citizens as well as the Maker Himself and I will carry out the deed of punishment myself." Samael remained thoroughly serene as he pronounced the ultimate verdict over Meredith's head. The blood of the noble woman now spilled between the both rivals and it was just as direct charge as the Viscount's words. The breathless audience didn't have a time to squeal in raptures as the rivals tore at each other with ferocity of mountainous seas with a mutual intention – to bathe in blood of the other one. Both of them silent, both skilled with their weapons of choice, yet one of them had venom circling within the veins and that was just as condemning as terrible. The clangor of steel resonated beneath the dome, the sparks were flashing as the steel of Meredith's sword clashed with the svelte katana, but then Meredith's arms just gave up as she realized she possessed the power to wield her sword no longer. Realizing the very same thing at the very same time, having no space to hesitate and let the nobles realize something was amiss, Hawke whirled around his own axis and thrust the blade straight into Meredith's torso with such a momentum that the slender blade penetrated the chest plate and pierced the flesh beneath it right through. Hawke let go of the katana handle as Meredith stumbled backward from her vanquisher, then collapsed to her knees while her widened eyes were fixated on the katana shaft absurdly protruding out of her body, Hawke watched her in something he barely made out as both heart-rending sorrow and intoxicating satisfaction. He made those few steps toward his fallen enemy and slowly genuflected in front of the kneeling Knight-Commander. The silence behind his back was tangible and he was not even sure there were actually any people left in the Chantry apart from him and Meredith. Having really nothing left to say to his sworn enemy, Hawke watched her dying in silence until she started rattling, but after a moment he was more and more sure that she was actually laughing; and laughing at him no less.
"I'll pray for you to rot in hell!" he hissed into her face when the restlessness within him reached the unbearable level.
"I left you a little something to remember me by at Sundermount," she spluttered in return at him and a tiny gulley of blood oozed out of her mouth, coloring her teeth and lips.
"Say again?" Samael faltered and heeled over while the victorious sneer vanished off his face.
"A hint for our dim-witted Viscount then," she wheezed and smudged the blood off her mouth like a seasoned warrior, "it involves a herd of elves and a bunch of Alrik's most depraved men. Do the math, boy." More she did not say as Hawke grasped the katana handle with both his hands, ripped it out of her body and took the head clean off the shoulders of the one who had the gift to plague him until the day the Champion of Kirkwall died. Oh, how he was foolish the very first day he met this gorgon and took into his head that he would outsmart her! Curse on that day! Curse on his vanity! Whatever Meredith's last words meant, somehow Hawke was sure there were many more corpses awaiting him at the end of his journey. And Merrill, Merrill, oh yes, Merrill… Did she leave? Had she managed to leave the Dalish camp before Alrik's death squat arrived? Could Samael pretend as if Meredith hadn't said anything about Sundermount?
Already knowing the answer to that particular question, Hawke marched in haste toward the door. He paid no attention to the crowds on the left or right even though his people demanded the guidance from their Viscount now. The immense two-winged door as if responded to his intentions to leave by swinging open on their own, but there was a silhouette standing within them, enlightened by midday sun and bright blue flames of vengeance. Halting in shock in the middle of the Chantry corridor, Hawke watched as if his worst nightmares were to pass as Anders was approaching him with long steps; his glittering staff aimed at the Champion of Kirkwall, his face confident, his hands steady. There was a certain curious element of triumph within mage's posture, as if he came to nothing but gloat about something that had already happened and it was in no one's power to change that; not even the mighty Champion of Kirkwall.
"And so the serpent entered the garden to slither around and gaze upon the results of his fruitless efforts," Hawke slowly remarked on what'd been happening in his opinion.
"Don't act surprised on me now, Hawke!" The skin on Anders' face cracked as his voice gained the deep undertones of the Fade spirit. "This was bound to happen from the moment we met."
"Hm, excuse me, but what exactly was bound to happen?" Samael asked with an innocent face, enjoying the brief wave of uncertainty that ran across Anders' face. Only now Hawke realized that Fawn, Varric and even his father surrounded him from all possible angles as if shielding him. But shielding him from what exactly – that yet remained to be seen. Sebastian, who had been tending to the still Elthina who seemed even paler than Meredith's head, now rose to his feet and with one nimble move he snatched the bow from the nearest Guardsman, drew the bowstring and aimed the arrow straight at the mage who face-in-face with the unrelenting prince faltered.
"You wouldn't dare to send that arrow at the only one who's refused to stand by anymore and watch this city to treat the mages like criminals!" After a thorough consideration, Anders no doubt concluded the arrow was there as nothing more than a ruse. "Or while those who should lead us bow to our Templar jailors!" His voice strengthened as his eyes found Orsino's chiseled face within the crowds around him.
"How dare you…!" First-Enchanter lashed out at the insolent mage, but the staff aimed into his face convinced him to stand down for now.
"The Circle has failed us, Orsino. You, me, as well as every other child that was and still is unjustly convicted of a single crime: to be born with the gifts of magic!" Ander's ardent speech was growing stronger and stronger until everyone in an unwilling audience listened to him against their will in suspense. Such fervor, such willingness to die for what he believed in was animated within that single mage valiant enough to openly defy the world order, that no one remained untouched by that beautiful foolishness. "The time has come to act. There can be no half-measures!" Anders declared with aplomb and he fell silent when his eyes found Hawke who had been watching him in silence and pained expression on his face. While looking at Anders, it wasn't just the mage Hawke saw. He also saw Fenris whom he had shipped away like an uncomfortable bag of troubles. He saw Isabela whom he humiliated and sent away ashamed for her actions that were in no way worse than Hawke's deeds. He saw Hein who rather poisoned himself than to face the wrath of both Hawke and the Antivan Crows.
And then the explosions began. There was a deep, resounding quiver and a boom from what seemed like far way, yet the Chantry floor heaved below Hawke's feet, as if some gargantuan sea creature were making its way to the surface. Indeed Hawke had disarmed the mixture device with combustible substances in the Chantry's catacombs to prevent them from bringing down an unimaginable apocalypse. And indeed that was not the only explosive device Anders had planted as the other one dwelled deep within the bowels of the Gallows; slumbering, waiting to be set off and wipe that wretched place of misery off the face of Kirkwall.
"Anders," Hawke's lips attempted to speak, but nothing but a horror-stricken rasp came out. "What have you done?" There was no pretended fright within those words; it was utterly genuine, since it was becoming clearer and clearer that Samael fatally miscalculated the magnitude of Anders' underground resistance.
"What have I done, you ask?" Anders cackled into his Viscount's face and swung his staff through the air a few times. "What have I done is that I removed the chance for compromise because there is no compromise!" As he was preaching his truth, the mage approached the Champion; one step at a time, as if playfully taunting him, teasing him, challenging him. "There can be no peace," he hissed into Hawke's face only an inch away from his face and the Champion shuddered. Not at that voice. Not at the both threat and scorn within it. Not at the fact that he was once again surrounded by nothing but destruction, death and corpses. Alas, once again, what could have gone wrong went wrong. Hawke was actually prone to start laughing like he had never been laughing ever before in his life. So, this was how his carefully outlined plan was supposed to end?! Sheesh, why the hell not, right? When had ever something crucial gone the way he intended?
Fawn might have been the only keeping his wits about him in that mayhem, but Hawke's face was a terrible thing to behold for him as it was not far from the very same madness that preceded Meredith's ultimate demise. Not feeling his father's arms around him, nor hearing Fawn's insistent voice in his ear convincing him to flee, Hawke reeled around the altar, giggling at the caricature of himself that he'd become so easily. The commotion by the front door was louder and louder as the nobles elbowed their way out of that horrid place while other men, uninvited to the ceremony, tried to force their way in while making such a clamor that Hawke's hysteric laughter died away immediately when he was able to identify them. His business partners, scum at their professions, surprisingly loyal to their scum king since his lyrium trades were more than profitable, were marching inside one by one, holding weapons en garde, howling over one another and demanding a single thing – his head.
"Where is he?! Where's that pig-eating son of a mabari bitch? Come out, come out, little Hawke, let's hear what you've got to say in your defense…!" they bawled as they bore arms against the one they had once revered as their lyrium god.
"Dougal," Varric caught the sleeve of the nearest rascal he had recognized from the Merchants' Guild meetings. "Care to explain what's this all about?" he asked the fellow dwarf and the urgency in his voice couldn't have been more pressing.
"By all means, Tethras! You see, your friend has sold me the lyrium contracts for a seemingly fair sum of nine thousand gold pieces." Dougal started laughing a terrible laughter and Varric just punched him with an impatient grumble since that didn't answer his question in the least.
"You can start making sense any time now, you stinking nug-fucking piece of shit!" Varric's already strained temper blew up as he reached for Bianca to get his beloved involved in this dispute.
"Don't be an idjit, Varric." Dougal spat out a tobacco-colored spittle and pointed his daggers at Varric as a reaction to Bianca. "You see, the problem is that he has sold the lyrium contracts to all of us for that seemingly fair sum of nine thousand gold pieces!" he burst out insanely guffawing as he launched against Tethras who was able to parry that attack by a hair's breadth. By the time the fight reached the altar by which Kirkwall had the privilege to see their young Viscount for the last time, Hawke was long gone by then along with his father and Hero of Fereldan. Thus Samael had missed Anders clawing his way through the hysteric crowds, tearing Elthina in half with magic right before Sebastian's arrow finally found its mark. He had missed as the hysteria spread from the Chantry epicenter throughout the whole city. He had missed the moment when half of the Gallows lie in ruin after the explosion, leaving nothing but smoldering crater and raging fire that threatened to consume the remaining part of the Circle of Magi as well. He had missed when people from all around Kirkwall started reporting in sightings of men in black capes who were running for their lives and wearing the same apparel the Viscount was crowned in. Indeed the very same apparel Hawke had ordered sewn in several duplicates and had paid several lowlifes to wear them, run around the city and thus cover the escape of the real devil. Naturally, they knew nothing of the plan Samael had concocted and that placed them between the rock and a hard place should they get caught.
Fawn and Malcolm had their precise instructions and it would seem they vanished into thin air right after the coronation, but it was Samael Hawke whose head was wanted anyway. Gasping for air, Varric, Aveline and Sebastian halted in a skid right before the steps leading down into the water. The reports from Aveline's men, however confusing they were, had led them into the docks, and there they stood now, looking desperately around for the one whom had gone too far this time in their opinion, but remained their friend nonetheless – maybe now more than ever.
"Here he comes now!" Excited, Varric exclaimed and enthusiastically set off right behind a dark silhouette of a hooded man who sneaked within the shadows of fish warehouse and bolted away the moment he realized he had been spotted and recognized. "Hawke, wait!" Varric wasted his breath while trying to stop the Champion. "Why doesn't he stop?" he moaned at Aveline and Sebastian who were getting ahead of him, hell-bent on capturing their friend and ask him what the hell he was thinking he was doing.
"Samael, stop, wait, damn it!" Aveline's desperate shouts were easily hearable even within all that chaos that surrounded them, but the Champion didn't seem to be prone to oblige her request. He ran across the narrow pier and with a mighty leap, the black cape flying through the air right behind him, the Champion boarded the Crab's crap ship that was already over two meters away; the very same ship Hawke had inherited from Charlie Bowbitter. The Kossith warriors were swarming aboard as the ship glided through dark waters onward and set course straight between the black chains and out of the Kirkwall bay.
Devastated, three differently tall figures stood motionlessly upon the bank of Kirkwall docks amongst the mayhem that ruled the city now, watching the leaving ship and the one whom they could stop calling a friend now returned their gaze as he was standing on the deck like a statue, holding onto the handrail and watching the shrinking Kirkwall. The cannons thundered; awful, ear-lacerating sounds that had the power to take down war galleys, and the Crab's crap ship exploded right after it passed beneath the black chains. Everyone on shore shielded their eyes from such an explosion and nothing but profound silence then followed.
Long those three differently tall silhouettes stood there on the brink of Kirkwall docks, even when the people slowly vanished into the twilight shadows, even when the ship was long gone from the horizon, even when night took a hold of the city as well as of their hearts for Kirkwall just had lost its Champion and Viscount and they had lost a dear friend.