"Where the hell is he?! He was supposed to be here like two hours ago! I need to go back to Kirkwall." Malcolm kept pacing back and forth in front of his taciturn companion, wringing his hands every time he had the burning Kirkwall in sight across the Wounded Coast bay.
"You need to relax, old man." Fawn proclaimed. He seemed to be the perfect opposite of Samael's restless father – nonchalantly leaning on a tree that may have been green once, arms folded on chest and gazing somewhere distant over the dark waters between him and the alluring horizon.
"What I need is to see my son right here, right now, to actually make sure he's survived – that's what I need, damn it! Can you imagine what would await him should he fall into hands of, well, pretty much anyone in Kirkwall right now?!" Malcolm's voice was mutating into another octave as he vigorously mimicked the carnage that would no doubt follow and that would mean only one thing for his son – a short drop and a sudden stop. Kicking the twisted roots of a tree that hung right above the sheer cliff in frustration, Malcolm howled his anger and helplessness regarding the dead end situation. Alas, the roots were as dried and as firm as the tree itself and Malcolm at least found something to blame for the current situation as he stumbled around for a while, cursing the roots while jumping on his one foot to relieve the physical pain. Stoically watching the old man foolishly jumping at the edge of a cliff, Fawn was somehow politely curious whether Hawke's interesting father would meet his untimely demise this rather inglorious way. That would be quite a shame, as Mahariel had put too much effort to get the old man to Kirkwall alive.
"Bewildering," Fawn whispered merely as a reply to his own thoughts, "truly bewildering how swiftly this went from pompous coronation to such ignominious escape from Kirkwall, being chased by the Templars, Guards, Coterie, Merchants' Guild, nobles, Chantry zealots and also apostates who crawled from Maker knows where after that explosion."
"You're not helping, damn you!" Malcolm interrupted that unconcerned enumeration of his son's enemies, clenching his head in splitting headache.
"If you'd only stop making such ungodly noise, you would have spotted your beloved son five minutes ago." Fawn made sure his voice sounded exquisitely arrogant as he appointed the direction in a kingly manner with his white hand. Shutting his trap at once, Malcolm shielded his eyes, looking in the suggested direction, while a sigh of relief escaped his lips and even a faint smile settled there for a while. Soon enough, the black dot in distance transformed into a silhouette, and the silhouette grew into a full-grown man trudging through the sand as if unaware his steps were being closely watched.
"Maker…!"Malcolm exchanged a concerned glance with the Hero of Fereldan and the old mage realized he was no longer the only one who was worried here. Samael was drenched to his very marrow, the long black hair stuck to his skull and hang down in thick tangled strands, and his ceremonial apparel was torn across his chest. Observing his son's wretched state without any comment, his gaze briefly lingered on the crown that was still indeed in Samael's hand, then on his bare feet. Since he'd been clearly swimming at some point of his escape, Malcolm decided no words could do this impossible situation justice. His son looked like a king of all fallen idols and the crown was just that proverbial last piece of Samael's former self. There they stood at the Wounded Coast below the darkening skies – the fallen Champion of Kirkwall who flew so close to the sun, so it smote him along with anyone he associated with.
"I had to… alter… my escape route," was all that Hawke had to say before he gratefully collapsed into his father's arms; not as much as from exhaustion as from a desire to hide from the rest of the world. With one eyebrow raised in unspoken question, Fawn inquired on Samael's health when Malcolm started hastily groping his son's limbs one by one to detect any injury, but apart from a few superficial cuts on his skin he found none.
"Were you seen?" Malcolm asked the crucial question once he was sure Samael was physically more or less all right. He gently took Samael's head between his palms and waited for an answer in suspense.
"I'm afraid our lovely Kirkwall was forced to witness my pitiful death in the explosion on my ship as I cowardly attempted to flee Kirkwall after my treachery was publicly exposed and I practically executed the Knight-Commander in front of all Kirkwall's nobility." Profound silence followed as Samael's dreadful words started sinking in. No one spoke until the silence became unbearable and Fawn decided to step in.
"Everything is prepared according to your plan, Hawke," he considered it wise to throw in something positive as he nodded toward the narrow turn-off from the main path, so insignificant and overgrown by low bushes that it could have been easily missed. "Maraas is guarding the crates, Occela is provisionally stabled in the caves and we're ready to set signal as soon as the ship appears on the horizon." While speaking, Fawn sauntered toward the Champion, thoroughly searching his face as if looking for something that was supposed to be there, but simply wasn't. "Poor child," he whispered as his hand briefly brushed against tanned skin of Hawke's cheek. Those words coming from anyone else – that anyone would lose an arm before even finishing it. But from Fawn; from this peculiar elf who was like Hawke in so many ways, yet they both couldn't be more different from the other one at the same time, those words were balm to Samael's soul crushed and torn by the ultimate defeat he had sustained today in Kirkwall. Drawing a hesitant smile from the Champion, Fawn's gentle smile twisted into his famous crooked sneer as he snatched the crown from Hawke's hand, putting it askew on his own head, and he slipped his one arm around Hawke's waist, strolling down the path, murmuring, "Let's get you out of those soaked clothes, hm? Maybe a sip of something decadent, what do you say…?"
Malcolm did not hear more as he just rolled his eyes about how nicely the elf just wrapped up the catastrophe that hung upon their heads and put a big scarlet bow of dismissal on it. The longer they lingered there, the greater the threat was that someone would walk up on them, raising alarm and then all hell would break loose. Suddenly alone, Malcolm stood there on what seemed like a navel of the world with Kirkwall right at his eye level that burnt and smoldered like a voiceless accusation of his son and all his ill deeds. Oddly enough, Malcolm found himself oblivious to the suffering of those in the city, while he was utterly focused on the suffering of his only living child and how to ease his pain if he was not able to straightforward make it go away. Neighing and clattering softened by the sand interrupted his thoughts though; he whirled around to see his son riding Occela who impatiently danced beneath his Master as he clearly considered any procrastination as pointless and his temporary incarceration in a cave as undeserved. Obviously with Fawn's help Samael got rid of his ruined ceremonial apparel and changed into a set of pliable leather armor that was lined with fur and on top of it all Hawke shrouded himself into a light traveler's grey cloak that had its hems embroidered with bright red silk.
Understanding his son's intentions all too late, Malcolm felt obligated to stop him from this foolishness, because he didn't have to be a clairvoyant to guess Samael's thoughts. "If you think I'm going to let you scurry along the coast right until the ship comes; if it's even coming, then you're sorely mistaken, my son," Malcolm grumbled and thoughtlessly patted Occela's nape etched with thick veins that burnt hot.
"It's not that," Samael quietly replied and glanced back at Fawn who was approaching them with an apologetic expression that even he was not able to dissuade Samael to drop this rash journey to Sundermount. "It's Merrill." Samael did not look into his father's face when he said that name.
"Naturally," Malcolm coldly retorted and his old fierce-tempered self would have loved to slap his son and drag him off the horse and chain him in the caves to keep him safe until the ship arrived. "Just one question – do you seriously believe a few dying words of a deranged woman?"
"I believe… This!" Samael leaned down from his high seat and stuck his finger right into Malcolm's face with defiance. Malcolm's eyes narrowed as he examined the black smooth ring on his son's finger; now burning red-hot, that the flesh beneath it was red-rimmed. "I must go, father. I don't expect you to understand. Watch the horizon. Send the signal once you spot the ship. I'll be back within an hour." Both Hawkes exchanged long gaze then, waiting for the other one to say more, but silence pressed down upon them instead.
"Go then. Ride hard. I'll load the crates aboard the ship should you not return in time. Hell, I'll stall the ship, if necessary." Malcolm briefly chuckled, but his face stayed serious.
"Just don't set it ablaze, all right?" Samael gave his father a weak smile before he dug his heels into Occela's flanks. The stallion reared up and bolted up the path. Abandoned at this critical moment, Fawn and Malcolm unintentionally drew closer to each other, watching Samael and his beast as they were becoming smaller and smaller until they disappeared and only whirling sand slowly settling down was the witness of Hawke's foolish decision to investigate just how much truth was in Meredith's last words.
"You or me?" Fawn stoically asked the old mage without taking his eyes off the place where he'd seen the rider last time.
"I'm afraid you already know the answer, my friend," Malcolm replied with dolorous expression on his face.
"Damn it," Fawn stated with the same nonchalant tone, still staring at the path's curve. Feathers rustled; the sound so melancholic and eloquent, and Malcolm realized he was alone as he watched the falcon ascending high above the rugged cliffs with mighty waves of its wings.
"Malcolm Hawke," a deep voice once again invaded Malcolm's thoughts and the old mage turned around to face the Kossith. "The ship is coming," Maraas gestured over his broad shoulder, then immediately returned to his post by the crates containing treasure.
"It's about time," Malcolm's face brightened since he indeed spotted a smudge right on the horizon that wasn't there last time he checked. Raising the staff he had been leaning on, Malcolm sent a flock of flames high above the coast and it even lingered there for a while before it dissipated. Fulfilling his simple task, Malcolm slowly turned around and his expression darkened again when he faced the ancient mountain that loomed over the existence of his son in distance.
oOo
What Samael encountered on the path leading to Sundermount was unspeakable. Even years afterward, he would not speak openly of what he'd seen. Mutilated bodies of the elves he once knew with bolts viciously stuck in their backs as they tried to flee from their captors. The fearless elven hunters hacked into bloodied piles of rags and flesh. Charred corpses, twisted into agonizing sculptures that would fall apart should someone touch them. Dead eyes widened in horror told horrid tales of what they'd witnessed right before the life was stolen away from them. Occela had to slow down as Hawke decided to take this shortcut through the forest, thinking it would conveniently hide him beneath the trees and within twilight shadows. Oh, how he regretted to even setting foot down this path of destruction! But what choice did he have left? Could he leave? Just like it? Despite the fact he knew what had been probably happening at Sundermount? Maybe even could have foreseen it? Prevented it? No. At this point there was no turning back. The fear that next corpse down the path would be Merrill's was overwhelming, the stench of the gory mess all around was sickening and even the ever still dauntless Occela was prancing about, whinnying and resisting to go any further. Only the will of his Master kept him on that path that led them to the end.
If Hawke believed he was prepared for anything that awaited him further ahead, then he was sorely mistaken. Arriving at the glade, he saw it all. Burning arravels, thick grey smoke dancing in the wind, scattered corpses of both the Dalish and Templars, two Templars holding Veryan down as the third branded his forehead with the Tranquil insignia while chanting the words no mage should ever hear in this world, depriving him of his abilities, his dreams and feelings. Hawke's hands holding the reins lifelessly dropped down as he faced the atrocities unfolding in front of him and then he found the one he was looking for. The altar the Dalish Keeper used to work her magic just as Marethari did before her was encircled by the cackling Templars and something was thrashing about right on top of it.
Paralyzed by the distant scene and blind to more imminent threat nearby, Hawke reacted all too late. The spear thrown at them from his left side missed him by a few inches, but the second one pierced Occela's shoulder. The stallion let out a long wail, reared and threw the rider off the saddle, then collapsed on his side, hopelessly attempting to catch a hold of the spear viciously jabbed in his flesh. Disoriented after the unexpected fall, Hawke scrambled up to his feet, brandishing around his katana in uncoordinated moves as he was looking for his assailants. There they were, coming at him with merciless grimaces on their faces since Alrik's men preferred not to wear their helmets. When they attacked, Samael didn't think about his tactics, didn't focus on his footing or technique. All he saw was that slender body writhing on the altar and each of her screams was rewarded by yet another salvo of cruel laughter from her captors. She didn't call her elves for help; not once did she call upon the Creators to strike down her tormentors, she called him. She called Hawke over and over again; each time more beseechingly than the last.
The Templars hit the dirt headless, and Hawke realized his legs started running, sprinting like never before, toward the altar while his eyes hypnotized that hunk of runed stone as if the fate of the world depended on it. The Templars were onto him like hornets as they took him down halfway to the object of his existence. Wallowing in the dirt, fighting for his life with bare hands, Hawke was soon overpowered by them and they held him down on his knees with his arms twisted behind his back, forcing him to watch as the circle around the altar opened and there she was, lying with her robes torn in shreds, her arms and legs bound by ropes her captors held in their unclean hands while Alrik's first-at-command was hastily unbuckling his armor. It dawned to Hawke unbelievably slowly what was about to happen as he stared in disbelief at Merrill's face covered with dirt and scratches.
"Look here, boys," the leader guffawed at the lovers who desperately looked at one another, "looks like we caught two mice on one piece of stinking cheese," he finished his misplaced joke with rapturous laughter. "Now, princess, tell your lover what you told me when we gripped you by that little ass of yours in Kirkwall," he leered at Merrill's breast peeking out of her torn robes and then glanced at Hawke who didn't even try anymore to get rid of his captors. He was mortified. From all possible scenes, all possible outcomes, this was completely beyond his worst nightmare. "TELL HIM!" the Templar shrieked and forced her to look at Hawke though she struggled not to. "Tell him or we slice his throat like a chicken," he hissed into her ear and to emphasize the threat, one of his minions pressed a blade against Hawke's throat.
"I told them… Please don't hurt me… Because I'm with a child…" Merrill whispered as if her heart was breaking and only then a single bitter tear rolled down her cheek when she clenched her eyes in defeat. That's when she felt the Templar violently penetrating her while the other Templars let out boisterous shouts of approval and amusement.
It was as if someone turned off sound for Samael. All shouts and laughter and Merrill's cries – muted. All motion and action – smudged. He watched Merrill's limp body as it lye there helplessly only a few feet away from him, yet she was as far away from him as ever. He watched the brute as he rattled in ecstasy, and he watched himself from above as he was observing his worst nightmares coming true while doing nothing to stop them. Something soft brushed against Hawke's cheek as the falcon flew past his head and attacked the rapist; his claws jabbed into the skull, his beak mercilessly pecking at the eyes of the screaming Templar until the others tore the bird away from their leader and hurled him against the cold ground where it remained sitting and quietly peeping. When Merrill's tormentors turned around, Hawke was no longer kneeling and his captors were giving their death rattles. Hawke felt the hot drops of their blood covering his face and he felt a single droplet dribbling down in between his sneering lips. He slowly licked it and the sneer ever broadened as the sneer of his enemies faded. Motionless, sizing up all six well-built Templars in front of him with his eyes narrowed and face obscured by disheveled hair, Hawke stood there like a pagan god of vengeance and only his heaving chest and dark guttural growling coming from his deepest inner self told the Templars that they were about to taste the wrath of the Champion of Kirkwall who was seething like he'd never been before in his entire life. All he saw in front of him was dead meat that didn't know about it yet. Groping for their swords and exchanging uncertain glances, the Templars didn't seem so sure in their number suddenly. Two of them nodded at each other, threw their blades to the ground and started quite ingloriously running, though they didn't get far as Hawke's throwing blades found their napes no matter how they dodged or how far they managed to get.
The four remaining rascals dressed for the Templars gulped and their limbs were shortly scattered all around and their sobs and wails filled the air heavy with smoke from the fire that slowly consumed the arravels. The Templar leader, blinded by blood streaming down his face, who had been crawling in the dirt and cursing was pinned down to the ground with Hawke's katana that went straight through the parts that committed a capital offence on Merrill's honor. The moment Merrill was free from her captors, she rolled on her side on the altar and she remained there huddled up into herself with her eyes firmly closed. Hawke twisted the katana within the wound that was bound to bleed for many minutes before it would become lethal, then his eyes feral with revenge looked up and he let go of the katana handle. At first, Merrill withdrew in panic from him as he attempted to touch her, but his arms then roughly grasped her anyway and forced her to look at him.
To Hawke's surprise, Merrill looked… normal. There were no emotions on her pale face as she calmly returned her lover's gaze. Only then her eyes filled with tears and her face slowly distorted with unspeakable pain and humiliation of what she'd gone through. "Where were you?" She put all her pain, all her hope that he would come in time but he didn't, into those three simple words. The hope he had failed. Even though she fought him at first, Hawke held her within his arms, glad that he did know about her tears, but she didn't know about his. Yet there was no time to linger there at that place of horrors where nothing but death and destruction awaited them. Only now Hawke's eyes met with Fawn's who shifted back to his form at some point, nursing the fresh wound on his head inflicted when the Templars struck him down. Fawn's expression was eloquent as he heavily got up and nodded towards the path leading back to the coast. They needed to leave and they needed to leave right away.
"Will he be able to carry her?" Samael quietly asked when he reached the Hero of Fereldan who tended to Occela's wound the best way he could without magic as he was too exhausted to do so. Fawn glanced at him, realizing Merrill was curled within Hawke's arms with her head buried in his shoulder and her agonizing sobs were expressive on their own regarding of how she was.
"No," Fawn slowly shook his head and gazed back upon the magnificent beast that was trembling as it was fighting to stand. "He'll be lucky if he makes it back to the ship."
"Then we walk," Hawke desperately retorted and thoughtlessly weighed Merrill's body in his arms. He felt her warm blood coating his arm and hand. Great. She was bleeding after what that brute did to her. And there was nothing he could do about it now. It would seem his best option was to get her to his father as soon as possible.
Without another word, their rather odd motley company set off the same road Hawke had come here. Fawn led the stallion who tripped several times over his own feet, but the elf somehow managed to keep him standing so far. Hawke felt his arms burning beneath the weight of Merrill's still body, but it was her nearness that forced him to keep going and don't look back. She was awake and Samael knew it because she had her head rested against his shoulder, looking inertly at his face from side, listening to his labored breathing as he kept marching forward. Her silence and stillness was terrifying. Once or twice a minute Hawke glanced at her, but neither of them uttered a word. The path now cut through the shallow dale and the forest was thinning out. Once Samael smelled the salt of the sea within his lungs, he breathed it in like a thirsty man would drink fresh water. Only now he focused on the arcane warrior who had been plodding by his side in silence and the elf looked indeed as if he should drop down unconscious any second since his head wound re-opened and the crimson streams of blood grazed their way down the pale skin and silver hair. Occela was doing no better than the elf as he was heavily limping with his head stooping down, taking no interest of where he was going and when would the agony stop.
"Finally! Praise the Maker! I thought I'd—" Malcolm came dashing toward them, but fell silent once he realized what horrid shape those four were in. "I don't want to know." Malcolm woke up from his consternation and wisely decided not to pry. He wanted to help, but couldn't decide right away who was in need of a healer the most.
"No time for that anyway," Samael dismissed the idea of narration of what'd happened. "The ship…?" he asked about the only relevant thing here.
"Loaded and waiting at the harbor for us," Malcolm replied immediately and hastily led them to the ferry and several small boats that were supposed to take them to the ship. The old mage proved his worth as he managed to get them across the harbor and aboard the ship in no time and the only incident occurred when he attempted to pull Merrill apart from his son since the blood all over her thighs and his hands was disturbing, but didn't succeed since Merrill squealed in panic and clasped her fingers around Samael's neck strong enough for the nails to draw blood. After that, Malcolm ceased his attempts to help and went standing on the prow of the ferry, facing the ship, giving the lovers some space to recuperate.
"Merrill," Hawke quietly addressed her, at this point very much concerned by her cuddly state of mind and hysteric reactions whenever someone tried to separate them. "Merrill, you need to let go of me now. We need to climb aboard the ship. I'll wait for you on decks, all right? Can you do that for me?" he patiently explained to her when nothing but sheer confusion mirrored within her widened eyes. With a mute nod, she slowly loosened her grasp on him, though she didn't look as if she knew what was going on around her. Nodding at his father, Samael dexterously climbed up the rope ladder, immediately turning around and extending his arm down toward the Dalish girl. Merrill watched the dangling hand, then the ladder, but only when Malcolm gently pushed her toward it and put her foot onto the first step did she wake up and started slowly climbing up the ladder, moaning in pain every step of the way. Grasping her by her thin arms, Samael didn't wait for her to get aboard on her own as he pulled her up instead; wrapping her into his own cloak. "Take her," he unwillingly left her to Malcolm to care for her wounds since the Carta representatives were lined up all around him and one of them was clearly nervously expecting his attention.
"Greetings, Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall and friend to all Carta folks," he started his ceremonial speech once he was assured of Hawke's favor.
"Please, hold that speech, friend," Samael slowly beckoned at the dwarf, helping Fawn conquer the ladder this time. "I imagine we must look, well, at least strange to your eyes." Hawke glanced about, realizing he and his party was more or less covered in blood.
"Oh, please, my dear Champion, do you really think we are unfamiliar to such unfortunate things? As our beloved queen of Carta scoundrels says – shit simply happens, right? Beside, I'm not here to judge you, my lord," the dwarf dryly laughed and sympathetically stepped forward. "My name is Leske. I'm Jarvia's second-in-command and we are instructed to treat you like a king of Orzammar."
"I hear you often assassinate your dwarven kings," Samael responded with brief chuckle, but his eyes remained inquisitive, if not straightforward suspicious.
"Haha, that would be true, my lord. What a keen observation from a topsider! Haha! With this approach I think you'd fit in among us just fine." Leske laughed again his dry laughter and lifted his ridiculous dwarven hat as if he hailed to Hawke's silver tongue. "But we are to treat you according to how much vital you were to our lyrium trade, and that is kingly sentence indeed. Please, make yourself at home. Several most comfortable cabins were prepared for you and those who travel with you. And I suspect that you might find the fact we are smuggling a few apostates who can work healing magic quite convenient," he grinned a broad smile, showing his rotten teeth, and Hawke had yet to decide whether he liked this Leske or not. "Please," Leske the Basilisk then gestured toward the narrow door leading into the bowels of the ship. "Let us retire inside and we can confer about the situation and I will require a list of all your demands and wishes as for the time being."
"Fair enough," Hawke bowed his thanks and he glanced one last time at the Wounded Coast in distance that was dissipating in the evening mists until it disappeared entirely. Finally, he left the Free Marches behind him and Fereldan awaited him as impatiently as a mother greets her prodigal son.
oOo
"There you are."
And with that single, quiet, yet also a bit wry sentence Hawke was discovered in his place of exile in the lower decks.
"I had no idea I was missed." Samael took another generous gulp from his bottle that was half-empty already, but even this one didn't seem to help to quiet down the demons that plagued him, forcing him to relive over and over again the whole day.
"How's Occela?" Fawn rather changed subject as he strolled toward the stallion that had his torso bandaged with white linen, though the wound on his shoulder had been mended by an apostate Leske sent earlier.
"He'll live," Hawke uttered yet another short reply, but this time he couldn't hide the relief in his voice as his eyes kept intently watching over the beast he had come to love and the beast was peacefully munching on hay as if nothing else was of import. And maybe there really wasn't, Hawke thought to himself. They were all alive after all. Despite how disastrously the coronation and everything that came afterwards had spun out of control, they survived.
"And how are you?" Fawn casually asked another question, setting his inquiring eyes at the subject of his interest.
"Me? How am I doing?" Hawke had to laugh since he found that question ultimately inappropriate since the blame for today's disaster lay mainly on his shoulders. "I'm ashamed, I'm sad, I'm angry and too much of a coward to face anyone right now. That's how I'm doing." He cut his bitter outburst off with yet another gulp of Chasind sack mead and grimaced as the brutishly strong honey liquor oozed down his throat.
"So, wallowing in fear and self-pity then," Fawn stated with a mocking snort. The bottle thudded upon the wooden deck strewn with straw where it toppled over and the golden liquor started leaking out.
At the same time, Fawn was indelicately pressed against the planks that were hastily built to stable Occela, and Hawke's eyes burning with ire were but an inch away from his two calm black eyes. "Don't…" Samael fumbled for the correct words for a while, still crushing Fawn's clothing within his fists. "Don't patronize me!" he sizzled down into elf's face and then hissed again, though in pain this time. His left crippled hand spasmed and he clenched it within his other hand as he was reminded again and again of his disability.
Watching Hawke as he turned away from him, ashamed for both his outburst and weakness, Fawn slowly stepped forward, straightening his apparel. "I'm going to forgive you what's just happened, Hawke," he stated and his words had the gravity of a mountain. "But don't you dare relieve your frustration on me again, I warn you. Find me whenever you're ready to apologize and talk for I need to speak with you rather urgently." Never before had Hawke witnessed Fawn in such noble and graceful manner like now, and his shame even deepened. The elf was truly an Elvhenan prince from long gone era of Arlathan Empire.
"Fawn…!" he softly called out at him, but it was too late. The door leading to residential part of the ship already quietly closed behind the elf. "I'm sorry," Hawke whispered and slowly sank down along Occela's slender leg. "I'm so sorry. For everything," he sobbed and the demons crawled out again and seized his mind. Hawke may have never realized it, but the worst enemy of his walking the earth was himself.
oOo
"Did you wish to talk to me?" Hawke managed to take Maraas by surprise with his quiet question maybe for the first time he had known him. On upper decks they stood under starry heaven and a shower of salty sea water sprayed their faces now and then as the Carta ship relentlessly sailed away from the rocky coasts of Free Marches toward the green shores with white cliffs of Highever.
"Yes, Hawke, I did indeed." Maraas bowed his head and glanced upon the stars once more before he set his dark eyes on Champion's face. He searched that face, haunted by every single thing that had gone wrong that day and each and every one of them left there an indelible trace. "I've been meaning to ask whether you were satisfied with our performance today," he grumbled the most unexpected question that left Samael dumbfounded. He expected outburst, blind rage and an attempt to toss him overboard; really anything but this calm, almost solemn question about how Maraas' men did while Hawke decided to waste them all aboard of the Crab's crap ship to make his death more believable.
"Really?" Samael burst out hysterically guffawing, still half-expecting he would end up at the bottom of the sea with a 20-pound iron ball chained to his feet. "That's what you're going to ask of me, knowing that all your men are dead because of me? That I've fed them to fish as a perfect nuance to my brilliant ruse? Are you serious?"
"Yes, Hawke. I'm serious." Maraas watched then in silence the ever still chuckling human in front of him and only a slight crinkle between his brows was giving out his confusion about Hawke's unfathomable behavior.
"Yes, you truly are…" Hawke remarked in surprise once his insane laughter died away and Maraas was still watching him in silence.
"I do not understand what you're now doing, Hawke, but know this. You gave us work when we were starving. You gave us hope when ours died. You gave us purpose when we had none. You are now Basvaarad, worthy of following. Do not play down the meaning of my brethren's death for that would belittle their sacrifice as well as the one that gave them the order to board that ship." So unlike to him, Maraas put his hands on both Hawke's shoulders and looked him straight in the eye while he spoke. "Do not regret your decision, Basvaarad. It was a good death," he rounded up his speech with this cruel statement and walked away on Hawke to signal the discourse was over. Samael stood there, musing over and over again about the words from the proud Kossith. It occurred to him and not for the first time that his views and Maraas' views would never ever be the same, but he didn't regret at all sparing his life since he'd proven himself an invaluable ally and accomplice in many affairs that would render others appalled.
"Care to tell me where you've been hauled up for last four hours?" Malcolm did his best to sound casual, but the wrath within his voice was tangible and now even waxing as he had to wait for the Kossith to clear off.
"Care to tell me why should I confide in you with every step I take?" Samael retorted and faced the dark waters beneath him rather than his father. "You, of all people, dare—" he didn't finish as he bitterly chuckled, then waved his hand as if it didn't matter.
"If this is about the history I've told you earlier today, then I would very much appreciate if you directly talk about it instead of this ridiculous evasion. If you're not feeling like talking about it right now, then may I suggest that the two of us stow our crap until the moment you're ready?!"
But Malcolm's words were like a stick into the beehive instead of their original purpose to calm the situation down.
"You, my dear father," Samael stalked to him and stuck a finger between his eyes, "are not entitled to suggest anything right now! Are we clear? Are we clear, damn it?!" he insisted on the answer, more or less shouting into the old man' face when no reply came at first.
"Yes, we're clear," Malcolm gave out a placid response, watching his son shivering all over his body, his eyes blazing in feverish ire and his hands clawing into fists. Since there was no point in arguing with somebody who was hell-bent on quarreling over anything imaginable, Malcolm decided to stand down.
"Good." Seemingly mollified, Samael turned his back to his father, leaning on the handrail with all his weight and watching his hands. If he had hoped Malcolm would leave him alone after their fruitful discussion, he was once again mistaken.
"Seriously? You're not going to even ask about her?" Malcolm threw in a pungent comment once it was clear the conversation was over from Samael's side. "Apparently not," he quietly answered his own question when it was clear he would wait for his son's reply until dawn. "What about your child, I wonder? Are you going to ask about your child at least? Whether it's survived whatever happened at the Sundermount?" he mercilessly poked into his son for whom every his word was like a dagger plunging into his gut. They were getting to the very bottom of the reason why Hawke preferred cowering in Ocella's stabling instead of being with the one who had suffered unimaginable horrors on his behalf. Because how could she ever forgive him? Where he would even begin his penance? How could he gaze into her eyes ever again knowing her clan he wished dead myriad of times was now finally gone? "Hmpf, that's what I thought," Malcolm snorted in contempt when only silence was his son's reply as he gnawed his fingers into the handrail without a single word regarding what'd been said. "Coward," Malcolm muttered, already on his way away from his son. "After all, I hear it runs in your family, lad," he kept grouching, then he spat out and angrily drew apart the nets hanging in his way. Maybe it was that last comment said in fury, those few words said in self-criticism so unlike to his father, that finally managed to open Samael's mouth.
"Father…!" he cried out, turning around in panic.
Malcolm halted, but left his back turned to his son, as if he was hesitant whether to keep walking or not, even though he secretly smiled to himself that his son might have the courage Malcolm never had after all. Slowly sauntering back, watching closely Samael's upset face, Malcolm decided not to torment him any longer and replied.
"Merrill is fine. Maker, I'm not sure whether all her pointy-eared Creators stood by her today, but she's fine. I managed to stop the bleeding and although she's lost quite a lot of blood, her vitals are stable. There's much more strength in that tiny elven body of hers than what meets the eye." He hesitated before continuing. "As for the child – it's fine as well as far as I can tell. It's still only a minute fetus right now, but I could already sense its essence and will to live."
Throughout his father's speech, Samael withheld his breath and only now he started reveling in shallow breaths again, feeling as if his heart was about to leave his body. "And is she—" he quietly asked, replacing the words with vehement gestures. Luckily for him, Malcolm was near to a clairvoyant indeed when it came to his son.
"Yes," he quietly confirmed, "she's been asking about you the whole time, you ass. I suggest you gather whatever courage you've got left after today and kick yourself into her cabin right now." Obviously, Malcolm saw right through him and perfectly understood his current frame of mind that was bordering between insanity and disbelief that anything, anything at all, would ever feel right after today.
"And Fawn?" Samael felt obligated to ask about the Hero of Fereldan after he got beaten up at the Sundermount – once again because of Hawke and his recklessness.
"I believe the mages Leske spoke of were put to use and patched him up while I tended to Merrill. Since the elf's orchestrating an opulent dinner later today where you're cordially invited to – I suppose he's not dying any time soon." Malcolm meekly grinned and Samael hesitantly returned that grin.
"All right. See you at dinner then," Samael nodded and took a few deep breaths as if bracing himself for the inevitable. Then the father and the son parted as they both had business to take care of.
oOo
After Malcolm's departure, Merrill refused to see anyone. The only one she would like to have near her now was nowhere to be found and thus the bleakest and the most macabre thoughts started whirling through her head as she was curled up on a narrow lounge, facing the crackling fireplace. Her hands were thoughtlessly roaming around her belly and Merrill was trying to convince herself that she actually felt the baby moving within her, feeling the warmth of fire, the strength of her love she had already developed for it though she knew about the child only for a few hours. A triple knock on her door, however subtle it was, made her jerking in fright and watching the door as if a fresh Templar platoon was supposed to walk through it and finish what had been started at the Dalish camp.
"Merrill…" a soothing voice reached her ears through the closed door. "May I come in?" the same voice was now getting uncertain of whether his owner would be welcome in lady's cabin or not. After a moment of silence, just precisely when Hawke was turning away, clearly intending to leave in shame, the door creaked in hinges and there she was – standing right in front of him in soberly tailored white gown that could have been worn to either bed or a ball. "May I come in?" Hawke rather repeated his question when she was nothing but looking at him in silence. Wordlessly, Merrill stepped aside, so the visitor could walk through the narrow corridor leading into the lavish cabin; the biggest one on the ship.
Glancing about the cabin; the tapestries hanging on the walls, furs covering the floors, a few stone steps leading up on a platform where a comfortable iron bed was installed, a stone fireplace well-stocked with logs and finally distant corner separated from the rest of the cabin by a diaphanous divider, so its purpose was kind of ruined, Hawke seemed satisfied with the level of comfort that was at his disposal given his long-term dealings with the Orzammar Carta.
"I was told you're feeling better…?" Samael opened the conversation with this neutral half-question once he settled down on a sofa in front of the fireplace and Merrill nestled down on her lounge again, fidgeting and suddenly she avoided Hawke's gaze that swiftly canvased her whole body and stopped at her face and rosy cheeks flushed from the warmth coming from fire.
"Much better," she faltered and moved on a bit, nervously biting her lower lip afterward. Unlike her, Hawke motionlessly sat on the edge of his sofa, his body leaning forward, his legs apart and he was supporting himself on the elbows that were pressed against knees. "Where have you been?" she suddenly asked a coy question as if it burnt her for hours. "When you were gone, I thought—" she shrugged and looked elsewhere.
"You thought what?" he gently spurred her on continuing. He needed to hear it out loud from her mouth after all. So why put off the inevitable, right? Right. Here he sat, paralyzed by what would be the perfect ending of the worst day of his life. He had no illusions – he deserved the blame Merrill was about to lie down to his feet, he deserved the scorn and eternal hate for his arrogance and stupidity to pretend to be someone he was not. He deserved to lose her and lose his child for he had been systematically destroying everything he touched and many times even on purpose.
Merrill suddenly stood up from her seat as if she was choking in it, pacing a little bit before she halted in front of Hawke who seemed clearly puzzled by her restlessness.
"Hawke, you must hear what I have to say," she quietly started talking and made a hesitant step toward him. "Please listen and then you can decide what should happen next. I won't object to any verdict you might pass upon my head," she proclaimed with her voice trembling in emotions. Needless to say that at this point Hawke ceased to understand anything what'd been said so far. Wasn't it him who was supposed to be judged here and embrace any sentence she would see fit for his crimes? Not the other way around?
"Merrill, I…" he shook his head in confusion and no other word came out of his mouth, though he tried.
"Hawke, please," she silence him with a single glance, "just listen. Xenon asked me to come to the Emporium this morning in a very urgent matter and I went, ordering my clan to finish packing and ready the arravels to move by midday. It was Xenon who told me what's… growing… inside me." If Samael expected any thrill or tears from her, then he saw none. It was as if this part of Merrill died along with her whole clan under that cursed mountain. Her cold-blooded narration was even more terrifying since she was apparently determined to say her whole story and leave no nuance out. "I left the Emporium in shock. Both scared and blithe by what I had heard. I intended to interrupt the coronation, to find you, to tell you…" Her voice cracked now for good but the tears that briefly shone within her eyes were pushed back again. "But the Templars snatched me off the marketplace before I could do that. They didn't beat me, yet," she continued bitterly, "but they called me names, shoved me, and humiliated me in every possible way. Told me I was nothing. Played with me the whole road back to the camp. Let me finish!" Her voice elevated in agitation when Samael clearly couldn't remain silent anymore. "And they were right. I was nothing but an elven whore to them, carrying an elf-blooded human infant no less. Then we arrived at the camp, where my people were awaiting their Keeper; not a woman that brought the wrath of all Creators down upon them. Everything was packed by then, everything was prepared for departure. The Templars took the Dalish hunters by surprise and the rest of the elves scattered in all four directions, but they couldn't run away from them. Not really. It was slaughter." Merrill clenched her eyelids in anguish and only her frantic breathing was hearable for a while. "Hawke, I must ask," she quietly continued as she calmed down enough to speak again. "Knowing what you know now, seeing what you've seen at the Sundermount - do you abhor me?" she asked a colorless question; her face pale, yet resolved to hear the truth. "Do I disgust you?" she continued and with her every new word Hawke's eyes grew bigger and bigger in shock. "You've seen what that Templar did to me," she continued in defiance and cast her eyes down as the shame of what the Templar had done to her poked its ugly head out of Merrill's seeming repose.
Somewhere between those pale features, Dalish tattoos and green eyes that shone with moisture, Hawke saw something he had seen once before in Arianni. It was the same pride of the Dalish who were always ready to bend their knee all too quickly, but not that woman. And definitely not Merrill. It was pride that was ready to be wounded by a shemlen in its unselfishness; the very same pride that would sustain Merrill's resolve to raise her child by herself should Hawke denounce both her and their child at this very moment which would be only logical as Hawke saw with his own eyes as the filthy Templar defiled what was supposed to be his and his only. It was as if Merrill counted on Hawke's pride and arrogance that would not allow him to be bound to a woman who was abused and raped. And so she stood there, unbroken even now and majestic in her pain, waiting to be spurned as she had been many times before in her life. Yet she was willing to subjugate to a trial where she was pilloried by a man who swore to protect her with his life and failed no less.
There was no adequate response to such nobility, such pureness and goodness within this woman that overshadowed each and every one of the ghastly moments of Hawke's day. He threw himself to his knees in front of her, not daring to touch her, and she stood upon him beautiful and serene in her glowing white gown that seemed to have light on its own as she placed her hands upon his head bent in submission. Only now Samael finally realized that it was him all along who was being put on the trial and judging from the hands gently uplifting his face upward – he was forgiven.