Endgame - Chapter One
Title: Endgame
Rating: PG, some cursing. May go higher later. (I'm bad at ratings.)
Pairings/Backstories: Cousland/Alistair (as King), f!Hawke/Fenris, Morrigan's Deal ending for DA:O, killed the Architect in DA:A & Mage ending in DA2.
Notes: Thank you for your kind comments regarding the prologue. Still in the market for a patient beta reader, getting more into the plot with this chapter hopefully, please leave me any comments or critiques to improve.
***
The term rude awakening hadn’t quite been strong enough to describe what had happened, if one had asked Marian her opinion.
In discovering that both Fenris and Hawke were determinedly unconscious, Varric had attempted to poke, prod and yell at both of them without so much as getting a mumble out of either. Isabela however had an inspired solution involving a bucket of seawater, applied liberally and repeated as necessary. Unsurprisingly, it was a particularly angry and slightly damp Hawke that greeted the Witch on the deck of the ship five minutes later with a downright homicidal Fenris close behind.
“I could pretend to be surprised,” Hawke drawled, trying to gather her sarcasm around her like armor as she viewed the erstwhile guest, “But I’m afraid I’m fresh out today. Don’t tell me you have another witch-filled amulet you need me to take some place. I still don’t know where we’re even going and you’d hate for it to be lost in transit.”
Her companions arranged themselves around her, even Anders. Someone must have let him out, Hawke thought to herself. Fenris stood behind her, that taunt expectant posture that told her from experience that he was considering just how effective his lyrium talents may be in this particular scenario. Hawke’s guess was ‘not very’ but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
Flemeth laughed with genuine humor, which just steeled Hawke’s opinion that the woman was just this side of barking mad. “Oh, the wit of youth. As it happens, I’m not in need of a delivery.” Her startling citrine gaze rested on Anders. “And it would seem, neither are you. Unknowingly, you averted disaster, as did the Wardens of Ferelden. It never ceases to amaze me how well people play their parts with the scripts hidden from them.”
Hawke shifted from one foot to another, as did several members of her entourage. Creepy old witches speaking in riddles were decidedly unnerving after a day of bloodshed and explosions. “What does Anders have to do with this?”
Flemeth laughed, nearly throwing her head back as she did so. “Oh, how should I know? You don’t see everything no matter how high up you go. Tell me Hawke, why did you let him live?”
If she was honest with herself, it was a peculiar selfishness. She knew he wanted death, and she refused to give him that out. It wouldn’t be fair to let him off that easy, she had rationalized to herself, but also she knew somehow instinctively that it wasn’t Anders. Punishing Justice somehow by killing his host didn’t make sense. And deep down, Anders was her friend and she wanted to still somehow save him, even if she didn’t know how yet.
Not that she was going to tell Flemeth that.
“He would have bled all over my shirt,” she answered, crossing her arms over her chest. Even without turning around, she’d have bet a sovereign that Aveline rolled her eyes. Flemeth merely shrugged her shoulders and turned to face the sea.
“The blood of the Templars and Mages will dry on the cobbles; his certainly would have just as well. Either way, the die has been cast. The Divine will act, but you know that. What form it will take, who could say? None will notice. This is why you must.” She turned around; fixing Hawke in a gaze that Marian found she couldn’t break even when she tried. “You will go north to face it, and you will not be alone. The winds will scatter and reunite in time, but never stop pressing to find them. If you and the other don’t stop this, no one will.”
Everyone stood and watched as the dragon took form again and flew away, but no one seemed capable of speech. The sailors seemed to come to first, shaking their heads and returning to work as if only distracted by an unknown sound. Hawke realized with a start that they already had somehow forgotten the witch had even been there. Turning to Isabela, she was afraid to see the same expression, but instead her seven companions all stared back with the same mix of confusion, fear and anger. Nodding her head to the side, they trooped below decks.
***
“I think he likes me!”
Elissa smiled warmly, which anyone who knew her was an expression she reserved solely for her husband. As a rule, she wasn’t always a smiling type. “He does, I’m sure of it.” The babe cradled in his father’s arms was actually sound asleep and unaware of either parent, but she wouldn’t spoil the moment by telling Alistair that. There had been no question of what to name him. Duncan Bryce. He would have quite a bit to live up to, but both his parents were certain he’d manage.
In typical form, Elissa was already out of bed and waddling about. She couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about and was determined to be back in the sparring ring in a week or so, provided this damned swelling went down.
“Well, I hope so. It’d be bloody awkward if he doesn’t… oh!” Alistair looked abashed. “Right, child. Can’t swear around it. Maker, there’s so much I can do wrong here…”
Elissa walked to his side, her arms sliding around his waist in a familiar gesture of support. “Alistair, I know you will be a wonderful father. Once you believe you will.” She rose to the tips of her still swollen feet, kissed him gently, and then started to retreat towards the bed. Maybe a little rest wouldn’t be so bad…
There was a small scratch at the door, and in a moment the well-trained servant entered the room. They weren’t big on ceremony, as a rule, but Teagan refused to let all deference get cast to the wayside. He was convinced Alistair and Elissa would set themselves up for a revolution if they weren’t careful. Alistair nodded to the man to continue, and then went back to making funny faces at his sleeping child.
“Pardon, your Highness, but there is a gentleman to see you. I would have sent him away, if not for the ring.” The man did not betray anything strange in tone, but both Elissa and Alistair started as if someone had poked them with a needle.
“By all means,” Elissa said softly, regaining her composure first, “see our guest in.”
The rings were Alistair’s idea. They had given one to each of their closest non-Warden friends who had fought the Blight with them; only Wynne, Zevran, Leliana and Sten possessed them. Elissa had tried to offer Shale one, but the golem had merely replied that ‘it would have better luck fitting that puny ring on one of her modification crystals than on her finger, and then how would it expect me to get it off again?” Elissa hadn’t bothered; realistically Shale was the least likely of their companions to need any help she could offer.
For that’s what the ring meant. It was a simple cipher on a basic gold ring; their initials intertwined to make the Great Seal, although a rather paired down version. Alistair and Elissa had told each of them that if they ever needed assistance without question, to send the ring. Likewise if showed the ring they were to be admitted to an audience no matter the time or circumstances. Elissa had teased Alistair about being paranoid, but it was a gesture so typically thoughtful she couldn’t help but love him for it. They both had hoped their friends would never need it, however, since it was implied that it was to be presented in only the direst of circumstances. Alistair gently laid the boy in his cradle and sat in the chair next to Elissa’s bed, wordlessly reaching for her hand as the door opened.
In the next moment, both berated themselves for worrying at all, as a blond tattooed elf stuck his head around the doorway with an absurdly grin on his face.
“Ah, how I had forgotten the joys of Ferelden. You would not believe the joy of the people, my friends. Why, I counted no less than three of your fine citizens being sick all over themselves in the town square on my way through the gates. Clearly, congratulations of the most magnificent kind are in order.”
With a laugh that broke the strained tension between them, Alistair stood and welcomed the Antivan with one of those peculiar man chest bumping exercises that were far too quick to be called hugs but tended to defy other descriptions. Zevran handled it with his usual aplomb and offered a small box to Elissa. “You will forgive me for using your gift, but I was concerned about getting to see you before the morning, and I’m afraid my travels back to Antiva cannot be delayed. Please accept this as a small token of apology.”
The box contained a small golden rattle of exceptional quality. Elissa looked up at the elf with a raised eyebrow. “I take it one of our goldsmiths will be coming to the courts to complain of the increasing theft in the marketplace?” Still, she smiled and accepted the kiss to her cheek Zevran snuck in under Alistair’s semi-scowl.
“No, that will be left to the fine courts of Kirkwall, should there be any left,” the peculiar shift of Zevran’s features which always signaled that the elf was finally about to be serious made Alistair pay attention as well.
“What’s that about Kirkwall? I only recently returned…” the King frowned, tapping his finger to his chin thoughtfully. “It does seem rather a mess, but did something else happen? I know the Knight-Commander was running a touch wild in the city, but Kirkwall always has had an oddly high instance of maleficar…”
Elissa had to stare at her husband and shake her head slightly. Alistair really had taken his role as king rather seriously, going out of his way to study up on the neighboring kingdoms and various bits of statecraft. He was a brilliant man, yet so utterly unaware of it.
Then again, she may have been a little biased.
“My friend, that is exactly what I refer to. I had a bit of a run in with their Champion, the woman who fought the Arishok.” He laughed, and both Elissa and Alistair looked at each other with a resigned ‘we are about to hear a story about him having sex with someone yet again’ expression. Zevran immediately affected a much wounded expression of his own.
“Why, that is not what I was implying at all, and you both should be ashamed of your filthy, awful, dirty, gutter… what was I talking about? Oh yes. The Champion Hawke. She is a woman of fine character, and seems to be holding the city together in spite of itself, but it will not last long.” Zevran walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of wine. “The tensions are too high. It would only take a slight event to send it all to anarchy and from what I heard wind of…”
Elissa crossed her arms over her chest. “Zevran, if you insist on being a tease, I’ll tell that woman at the Pearl you were back in town and exactly which ship you are heading out on.”
The Crow gasped in unfeigned horror, shaking his head. “You would, I have no doubt,” he said, “Unlike the doubts I have about her actually being a woman. Not that it would usually matter of course, but that’s not the point. The point is that Kirkwall seems to have a bizarre secret I seem to have stumbled upon.” Pulling a worn tome from his jerkin, he handed it to Alistair. “I found it being sold by a fence on the city’s black market, and it claims to be a record of an exploration into the old slave and magister tunnels below the city. It is authored by a group calling themselves The Band of Three.”
***
Hawke sat heavily on the bed, Fenris perching next to her with the rest of her entourage circled around her in Isabela’s cabin. Not bothering to hide her exhaustion from her friends, Hawke buried her face in gloved hands for a moment, just trying to regain some sense of perspective. Turned out there was virtually none, so instead she just took a deep breath and looked up again.
“What the hell does she mean go north?” That was an apostate’s way of saying she never had gone to Chantry school and had no idea what really was north of say, about Starkhaven. Varric was the first to shrug and answer.
“Literally could be anywhere. You may not have noticed but the Free Marches and Ferelden are sort of on the ass-end of Thedas. She could be talking about Orlais, Nevarra, the Imperium…” Varric had to snort to himself. “Which means we get a choice between the Divine, Pentaghasts or Magisters. So really, lots of people who want to kill us to choose from.”
Hawke frowned. “Pentaghasts? I don’t remember making any of THEM mad…” Aveline shook her head and cleared her throat, as always intervening to try and keep everyone else on topic for once.
“We don’t know what she’s even talking about. I didn’t care much for her the first time we met, but she wasn’t nearly so vague then. How can she expect us to stop something we don’t have a clue about? Either way, we need to make a decision on where to go. We can't sail forever.”
Merrill stood up so suddenly everyone else gaped. “Asha'bellanar wouldn’t give us a warning we couldn’t follow. Maybe we don’t know yet but it had to be important. She is not one who wastes time. Even if we don’t know now, we must take heed all the same to be ready.” The elf was so urgent and sincere that, as often was the case, no one knew what to say to disagree.
It was a stalemate. They were not a group of people who waited well, and for the moment nothing could even be decided. They were bone weary, and a heavy silence pervaded the air like a mimasa. The party sat in that same silence for a moment before Hawke stood to pace the hallway outside Isabela’s cabin. Like most ships, it was cramped and cargo lined the way, and it had to be acknowledged that Marian was barely paying attention.
Which is why the shaft of the arrow buried itself in her shoulder with almost no warning. Hawke looked up, unsurprisingly, at the exiled Prince of Starkhaven.
Her last thought as she slid into unconsciousness amid the shouts from the cabin was to wonder why he didn’t aim higher and get her out of this mess.
Rating: PG, some cursing. May go higher later. (I'm bad at ratings.)
Pairings/Backstories: Cousland/Alistair (as King), f!Hawke/Fenris, Morrigan's Deal ending for DA:O, killed the Architect in DA:A & Mage ending in DA2.
Notes: Thank you for your kind comments regarding the prologue. Still in the market for a patient beta reader, getting more into the plot with this chapter hopefully, please leave me any comments or critiques to improve.
***
The term rude awakening hadn’t quite been strong enough to describe what had happened, if one had asked Marian her opinion.
In discovering that both Fenris and Hawke were determinedly unconscious, Varric had attempted to poke, prod and yell at both of them without so much as getting a mumble out of either. Isabela however had an inspired solution involving a bucket of seawater, applied liberally and repeated as necessary. Unsurprisingly, it was a particularly angry and slightly damp Hawke that greeted the Witch on the deck of the ship five minutes later with a downright homicidal Fenris close behind.
“I could pretend to be surprised,” Hawke drawled, trying to gather her sarcasm around her like armor as she viewed the erstwhile guest, “But I’m afraid I’m fresh out today. Don’t tell me you have another witch-filled amulet you need me to take some place. I still don’t know where we’re even going and you’d hate for it to be lost in transit.”
Her companions arranged themselves around her, even Anders. Someone must have let him out, Hawke thought to herself. Fenris stood behind her, that taunt expectant posture that told her from experience that he was considering just how effective his lyrium talents may be in this particular scenario. Hawke’s guess was ‘not very’ but she wasn’t about to tell him that.
Flemeth laughed with genuine humor, which just steeled Hawke’s opinion that the woman was just this side of barking mad. “Oh, the wit of youth. As it happens, I’m not in need of a delivery.” Her startling citrine gaze rested on Anders. “And it would seem, neither are you. Unknowingly, you averted disaster, as did the Wardens of Ferelden. It never ceases to amaze me how well people play their parts with the scripts hidden from them.”
Hawke shifted from one foot to another, as did several members of her entourage. Creepy old witches speaking in riddles were decidedly unnerving after a day of bloodshed and explosions. “What does Anders have to do with this?”
Flemeth laughed, nearly throwing her head back as she did so. “Oh, how should I know? You don’t see everything no matter how high up you go. Tell me Hawke, why did you let him live?”
If she was honest with herself, it was a peculiar selfishness. She knew he wanted death, and she refused to give him that out. It wouldn’t be fair to let him off that easy, she had rationalized to herself, but also she knew somehow instinctively that it wasn’t Anders. Punishing Justice somehow by killing his host didn’t make sense. And deep down, Anders was her friend and she wanted to still somehow save him, even if she didn’t know how yet.
Not that she was going to tell Flemeth that.
“He would have bled all over my shirt,” she answered, crossing her arms over her chest. Even without turning around, she’d have bet a sovereign that Aveline rolled her eyes. Flemeth merely shrugged her shoulders and turned to face the sea.
“The blood of the Templars and Mages will dry on the cobbles; his certainly would have just as well. Either way, the die has been cast. The Divine will act, but you know that. What form it will take, who could say? None will notice. This is why you must.” She turned around; fixing Hawke in a gaze that Marian found she couldn’t break even when she tried. “You will go north to face it, and you will not be alone. The winds will scatter and reunite in time, but never stop pressing to find them. If you and the other don’t stop this, no one will.”
Everyone stood and watched as the dragon took form again and flew away, but no one seemed capable of speech. The sailors seemed to come to first, shaking their heads and returning to work as if only distracted by an unknown sound. Hawke realized with a start that they already had somehow forgotten the witch had even been there. Turning to Isabela, she was afraid to see the same expression, but instead her seven companions all stared back with the same mix of confusion, fear and anger. Nodding her head to the side, they trooped below decks.
***
“I think he likes me!”
Elissa smiled warmly, which anyone who knew her was an expression she reserved solely for her husband. As a rule, she wasn’t always a smiling type. “He does, I’m sure of it.” The babe cradled in his father’s arms was actually sound asleep and unaware of either parent, but she wouldn’t spoil the moment by telling Alistair that. There had been no question of what to name him. Duncan Bryce. He would have quite a bit to live up to, but both his parents were certain he’d manage.
In typical form, Elissa was already out of bed and waddling about. She couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about and was determined to be back in the sparring ring in a week or so, provided this damned swelling went down.
“Well, I hope so. It’d be bloody awkward if he doesn’t… oh!” Alistair looked abashed. “Right, child. Can’t swear around it. Maker, there’s so much I can do wrong here…”
Elissa walked to his side, her arms sliding around his waist in a familiar gesture of support. “Alistair, I know you will be a wonderful father. Once you believe you will.” She rose to the tips of her still swollen feet, kissed him gently, and then started to retreat towards the bed. Maybe a little rest wouldn’t be so bad…
There was a small scratch at the door, and in a moment the well-trained servant entered the room. They weren’t big on ceremony, as a rule, but Teagan refused to let all deference get cast to the wayside. He was convinced Alistair and Elissa would set themselves up for a revolution if they weren’t careful. Alistair nodded to the man to continue, and then went back to making funny faces at his sleeping child.
“Pardon, your Highness, but there is a gentleman to see you. I would have sent him away, if not for the ring.” The man did not betray anything strange in tone, but both Elissa and Alistair started as if someone had poked them with a needle.
“By all means,” Elissa said softly, regaining her composure first, “see our guest in.”
The rings were Alistair’s idea. They had given one to each of their closest non-Warden friends who had fought the Blight with them; only Wynne, Zevran, Leliana and Sten possessed them. Elissa had tried to offer Shale one, but the golem had merely replied that ‘it would have better luck fitting that puny ring on one of her modification crystals than on her finger, and then how would it expect me to get it off again?” Elissa hadn’t bothered; realistically Shale was the least likely of their companions to need any help she could offer.
For that’s what the ring meant. It was a simple cipher on a basic gold ring; their initials intertwined to make the Great Seal, although a rather paired down version. Alistair and Elissa had told each of them that if they ever needed assistance without question, to send the ring. Likewise if showed the ring they were to be admitted to an audience no matter the time or circumstances. Elissa had teased Alistair about being paranoid, but it was a gesture so typically thoughtful she couldn’t help but love him for it. They both had hoped their friends would never need it, however, since it was implied that it was to be presented in only the direst of circumstances. Alistair gently laid the boy in his cradle and sat in the chair next to Elissa’s bed, wordlessly reaching for her hand as the door opened.
In the next moment, both berated themselves for worrying at all, as a blond tattooed elf stuck his head around the doorway with an absurdly grin on his face.
“Ah, how I had forgotten the joys of Ferelden. You would not believe the joy of the people, my friends. Why, I counted no less than three of your fine citizens being sick all over themselves in the town square on my way through the gates. Clearly, congratulations of the most magnificent kind are in order.”
With a laugh that broke the strained tension between them, Alistair stood and welcomed the Antivan with one of those peculiar man chest bumping exercises that were far too quick to be called hugs but tended to defy other descriptions. Zevran handled it with his usual aplomb and offered a small box to Elissa. “You will forgive me for using your gift, but I was concerned about getting to see you before the morning, and I’m afraid my travels back to Antiva cannot be delayed. Please accept this as a small token of apology.”
The box contained a small golden rattle of exceptional quality. Elissa looked up at the elf with a raised eyebrow. “I take it one of our goldsmiths will be coming to the courts to complain of the increasing theft in the marketplace?” Still, she smiled and accepted the kiss to her cheek Zevran snuck in under Alistair’s semi-scowl.
“No, that will be left to the fine courts of Kirkwall, should there be any left,” the peculiar shift of Zevran’s features which always signaled that the elf was finally about to be serious made Alistair pay attention as well.
“What’s that about Kirkwall? I only recently returned…” the King frowned, tapping his finger to his chin thoughtfully. “It does seem rather a mess, but did something else happen? I know the Knight-Commander was running a touch wild in the city, but Kirkwall always has had an oddly high instance of maleficar…”
Elissa had to stare at her husband and shake her head slightly. Alistair really had taken his role as king rather seriously, going out of his way to study up on the neighboring kingdoms and various bits of statecraft. He was a brilliant man, yet so utterly unaware of it.
Then again, she may have been a little biased.
“My friend, that is exactly what I refer to. I had a bit of a run in with their Champion, the woman who fought the Arishok.” He laughed, and both Elissa and Alistair looked at each other with a resigned ‘we are about to hear a story about him having sex with someone yet again’ expression. Zevran immediately affected a much wounded expression of his own.
“Why, that is not what I was implying at all, and you both should be ashamed of your filthy, awful, dirty, gutter… what was I talking about? Oh yes. The Champion Hawke. She is a woman of fine character, and seems to be holding the city together in spite of itself, but it will not last long.” Zevran walked to the sideboard and poured a glass of wine. “The tensions are too high. It would only take a slight event to send it all to anarchy and from what I heard wind of…”
Elissa crossed her arms over her chest. “Zevran, if you insist on being a tease, I’ll tell that woman at the Pearl you were back in town and exactly which ship you are heading out on.”
The Crow gasped in unfeigned horror, shaking his head. “You would, I have no doubt,” he said, “Unlike the doubts I have about her actually being a woman. Not that it would usually matter of course, but that’s not the point. The point is that Kirkwall seems to have a bizarre secret I seem to have stumbled upon.” Pulling a worn tome from his jerkin, he handed it to Alistair. “I found it being sold by a fence on the city’s black market, and it claims to be a record of an exploration into the old slave and magister tunnels below the city. It is authored by a group calling themselves The Band of Three.”
***
Hawke sat heavily on the bed, Fenris perching next to her with the rest of her entourage circled around her in Isabela’s cabin. Not bothering to hide her exhaustion from her friends, Hawke buried her face in gloved hands for a moment, just trying to regain some sense of perspective. Turned out there was virtually none, so instead she just took a deep breath and looked up again.
“What the hell does she mean go north?” That was an apostate’s way of saying she never had gone to Chantry school and had no idea what really was north of say, about Starkhaven. Varric was the first to shrug and answer.
“Literally could be anywhere. You may not have noticed but the Free Marches and Ferelden are sort of on the ass-end of Thedas. She could be talking about Orlais, Nevarra, the Imperium…” Varric had to snort to himself. “Which means we get a choice between the Divine, Pentaghasts or Magisters. So really, lots of people who want to kill us to choose from.”
Hawke frowned. “Pentaghasts? I don’t remember making any of THEM mad…” Aveline shook her head and cleared her throat, as always intervening to try and keep everyone else on topic for once.
“We don’t know what she’s even talking about. I didn’t care much for her the first time we met, but she wasn’t nearly so vague then. How can she expect us to stop something we don’t have a clue about? Either way, we need to make a decision on where to go. We can't sail forever.”
Merrill stood up so suddenly everyone else gaped. “Asha'bellanar wouldn’t give us a warning we couldn’t follow. Maybe we don’t know yet but it had to be important. She is not one who wastes time. Even if we don’t know now, we must take heed all the same to be ready.” The elf was so urgent and sincere that, as often was the case, no one knew what to say to disagree.
It was a stalemate. They were not a group of people who waited well, and for the moment nothing could even be decided. They were bone weary, and a heavy silence pervaded the air like a mimasa. The party sat in that same silence for a moment before Hawke stood to pace the hallway outside Isabela’s cabin. Like most ships, it was cramped and cargo lined the way, and it had to be acknowledged that Marian was barely paying attention.
Which is why the shaft of the arrow buried itself in her shoulder with almost no warning. Hawke looked up, unsurprisingly, at the exiled Prince of Starkhaven.
Her last thought as she slid into unconsciousness amid the shouts from the cabin was to wonder why he didn’t aim higher and get her out of this mess.