Heart and Home ch. 7

Carver led the way into the Gallows courtyard, exhausted but alert.  Fenris was right behind him, followed by Riese and Isabela.  Merrill and Varric brought up the rear, Bianca loaded and ready.  Despite being surrounded by her companions, Hawke felt vulnerable.  She still couldn't cast and Fenris had what lyrium they found on the dead.  If they ran into more templars or worse, the Knight Commander, she would have to move fast to be any help.
  
She opened her mouth to mention it but the elf already seemed to know what she was thinking.  He threw her a look and shook his head.  Riese frowned but said nothing.  Lyrium was potent, addictive . . . dangerous.  He was probably right, but it still rankled to have the warrior deny her.  Isabela grinned, nudging the mage.  "And I always thought you kept him on a short leash," the pirate laughed.  Fenris smirked before turning away and Hawke could only fume.

It was eerily quiet and empty, the portcullis on each side of the courtyard stood open and unguarded.  "It looks clear," Carver whispered.  "Why are you whispering?" Merrill asked, stepping up to walk beside him.  Her brother smiled, cheeks flushing.  "No idea," he said in a too loud voice.  Varric gave the pair an amused look and shook his head as Hawke lifted a hand to cover a smile.  Her brother had always had an eye for Merrill, but then in those days it seemed like he had an eye for anything with breasts.  It was nice to see he had not changed so much, even if it was Merrill.  Even if they were in the middle of so much bloodshed - maybe it was nice especially because of that.

In their moment of distraction, something glinted in the shadows along the wall.  Pain hit an instant later as a crossbow bolt grazed Riese' cheek.  Isabella shoved her roughly to the ground, disappearing in a thick haze as she tossed a smoke bomb.  Fenris and Carver sprinted forward, shouting to Varric, "Watch her!"  The dwarf leveled Bianca at the shadows, lips thinned and angry.  "I've got it," he said.
  
Riese stayed low, crouching near Varric.  For several minutes, nothing happened.  The square was silent, except for her breathing and the pounding of her heart.  A blood curdling scream broke the quiet, followed by the pounding of armored boots as her two warriors ran toward it.  "I hope that wasn't Isabela," Riese whispered, knowing it was.
  
Varric nodded, "She could be anywhere. No reason to assume . . ."  The mage nodded.  Merrill took a step forward.  "That sounded like her though, didn't it?  Shouldn't we see if she's alright?  We can't just wait here!"  "If you want to go after them, you can," Riese told her.  The Dalish smiled gratefully, "I'll be back, Hawke."  Varric watched her go with a worried expression, "And then there were two," he muttered.
  
Hawke threw him an encouraging look, "Hey!  I'm pretty good with my staff and sometimes you can hit what you aim at.  We're a dangerous duo, right?"  The dwarf rolled his eyes, "I can hear the templars shaking, Hawke."  She grinned at him, turning back to keep watch for their friends.  "If they aren't back soon, we should go after them," she said softly.  Varric didn't reply, just tightened his grip on Bianca.   Riese was about to repeat it when she heard footsteps.
  
Someone was running toward them, still behind the stone wall separating this part of the Gallows from the central courtyard.  She raised her staff, gripping it tightly.  Damn the elf for running off with all the lyrium, she thought, feeling helpless.  A man shot past the wall, moving right at them.  Varric let a bolt fly, but it shattered against a barrier of magic.  "Wait," she gasped, realizing the figure was unarmored as well.  Tethras reloaded, but didn't fire as the figure skidded to a stop in front of them.  

"Riese . . ."  The man looked up.  Under the unfamiliar dark hair, Anders face gazed at her, pleading.  "I was going to leave.  I was!  I just . . . I couldn't.  I couldn't let you stay and clean up this mess I made.  I have to make it right.  Please . . . let me help!  It's all my fault," he begged, words tumbling out rapidly.  Varric made an annoyed sound, "I almost killed you Blondie.  Again."
  
Hawke felt anger and relief in equal measure at seeing him.  He was a fool, a traitor, a bastard, but he was her friend.  "What are you thinking?  If Meredith . . . no, if anyone finds you here, you are good as dead!"  Anders looked down, shoulders slumping.  "Hawke, I don't care if I -"  She cut him off, "What, so you can be a martyr for the cause?  That is what you want, right?  Remembered forever, Anders, revolutionary mage!  And you just have to hope no one numbers the dead."
  
"That's not it," he sighed.  "I came back . . . I came for you.  My life is forfeit.  I know that.  What I did . . . it was wrong.  My reasons were good, I still believe that, but all those people . . ."  Tears spilled from his eyes and he turned away, embarrassed by his weakness.  She felt her anger ebb in the face of such raw emotion.  Had he learned to regret?  Did he really understand the cost Kirkwall paid for his ambition?
  
Varric coughed behind her, and when she glanced at him, he shook his head.  It seemed Tethras knew her too well, knew that she would soften for a friend's tears.  "Anders . . . you need to go.  I don't want your help.  I don't want you.  There is nothing for you here."  He looked back at her, stricken.  It was almost more than she could bear, but she did not glance away.
  
"You can't mean that," he said finally.  His trembling hands curling into  fists, "Your hands aren't clean either, Hawke.  How many died for you?  To put you in Hightown, to grasp the Viscount's ear, to stay free while every other mage in this city wore chains . . ."  His words struck a chord of uneasy guilt in her.  She was better than that, wasn't she?  "At least I didn't betray my friends," she spat back.
  
Anders opened his mouth, realization lighting his face.  "You . . . that is why . . . you . . ."  Riese' face grew hot with shame, "No!  It's . . . of course it hurt that you tricked me into helping you, but . . . it's what you did!  You-you killed people for no reason!  You sparked a Maker-be-damned war!"
  
Anders' lips quirked in an ironic half-smile, belying the grief in his eyes.  "We are more alike than you care to admit, Hawke.  Willing to do whatever it takes, and regret later.  But . . . I never meant . . . I wanted to protect you, Riese.  You . . . you mean so much . . . but . . . I suppose it is too late for that."  "Just go," Hawke gasped, throat tight with grief and anger and a thousand other emotions she didn't care to name.  Anders turned to walk away without another word.
  
She ran a hand across her eyes, dashing away the tears she would not admit she had.  Anders was barely a few steps into his departure when Varric shouted, "Hawke, look out!"  The mage turned just in time to see a lightly armored templar leap from the shadows, daggers bared.  The dwarf swung Bianca around, but even with a perfect shot he could not stop the assassin's momentum.
  
Riese reached for her magic and found the well of her mana still dry.  Blood called out to her, a promise of power, but she ignored it.  If this was her day to die, there were worse places . . . worse times.  Fenris would be so angry with her, she thought.  He hated broken promises.  As the first blade pierced her abdomen, she was grabbed from behind.  Anders wrapped her tightly in his arms, turning; the second blade slid easily into his back.  Bianca sang then, three shots in rapid succession, the fourth beat, the sound of lifeless flesh slumping to the ground.
  
Anders lifted his hand, slick with her blood.  "You're hurt," he said softly, sinking to the ground.  Riese fell with him, swarms of black dots obscuring her sight.  "So are you . . ."  His amber gaze found her, full of sad certainty.  "Yes," he whispered, "the Maker does answer prayer . . ."  She felt warmth flood her, as he poured his magic into her, healing her wounds.  Anders had always been the better healer.  He sagged limply, arms falling to his sides.
  
Beneath them, his blood pooled, thick and red and hot.  "Anders, no . . . stop!" she protested.  A shudder passed through him as veins of magic curled across his pallid flesh, "Peace," Justice gasped with his lips and then the spirit was gone.  "No, no, no, "Riese cried, pushing the hair back from his face.

Anders smiled weakly, "It's . . . it's alright.  I - I deserve . . . much worse.  At least . . . in the end . . . got to . . . hold . . ."  The mage fell silent, eyes never straying from her face.  One breath, two  - and then he lay still.  "Anders?  Anders!  No!  You can't just . . . you can't," Riese cried, shaking him.  She tried to ignore the blood singing in her veins, the knowledge that she could heal him with just one little sacrifice.  A heavy hand fell on her shoulder.  "We should go," Varric said softly.
  
"One last thing," Riese sighed, heart heavy.   She slipped the chantry amulet from Anders' neck, remembering the day she brought it to him.  He was so surprised . . . asked her if she was trying to get him killed.  She laughed, embarrassed, another gift gone wrong.  Despite his protests, she'd never seen him without the thing on.  It didn't seem right to leave it . . . not that it was any better to leave him.

Tethras watched her.  "Blondie's in a better place, Hawke.  He's free . . ."  She didn't need to see him wipe at his eyes to know he shed a tear for their friend.  "He's dead, Riese.  Get up.  There could be more of them," the dwarf told her.  His voice was full of compassion, but it brooked no disobedience.  She stood.  Together they moved in the direction the others had gone, Varric in the lead for once.  He went carefully, stepping from shadow to shadow and Riese tried to follow.  Tethras paused once they were concealed, listening.  Hawke could only hear her heartbeat and the sound of the her breath.

Fenris and Carver chased after Isabela, her scream sent them hurrying forward.  She wasn't hard to find.  Just atop the wall-walk, a lightly armored templar had her pinned, a dagger buried in each shoulder.  She kicked out at him, but the man hardly seemed to notice, face a mask of rage.  The elf bolted up the stairs, sword out.  The templar spun, catching Fenris' blade in the chest, but his armor turned the mortal blow, sending the man reeling back rather than to his death.  Isabela wasted no time pulling the daggers free.  Blood flowed down her arms and chest, but she ignored it, sneering at the templar.
  
"You shouldn't have toyed with me," she hissed, appearing behind him in a blink.  The templar died with his own blade jutting from his neck.  Fenris grinned at her, "I should have known you had it handled."  The pirate nodded, "I always do.  The distraction is appreciated though.  I owe you one, elf."  Fenris didn't have a chance to reply as Carver shouted, "Watch it!"
  
An arrow clattered against the stone nearby, sending chips of rock flying.  Isabela ducked, vanishing again as the warrior turned to face their new foe.  A group of five templars stood at the base of the steps, looking up at Carver.  Hawke's brother grimaced.  "You don't need to do this," he called out to the men.  "We do," the one in front answered.  "We obey our orders, sirrah.  Or have you forgotten that part of our oaths?  I do not take my honor or my faith so lightly."  Carver looked down, "It isn't about faith or honor.  It's about right and wrong . . . just look at yourselves for a moment.  You are covered in blood!  Did the mages you slaughtered even fight back?"
  
There were a few uneasy mutters, but the man in front remained resolute.  "Some of them showed their true colors, but most trusted the Order and sacrificed what they must.  I take no pleasure in it, sirrah.  Andraste did not promise the faithful our duty would be easy.  Step aside, young Hawke.  You may yet be salvaged, but your friends must meet their end."
  
Carver gripped the hilt of his sword.  "I will not step aside.  There are loyalties greater than any oath, and faith that goes beyond simple understanding."  The templar nodded and raised his blade.  "Destroy the heretic and the followers of the Champion."  With that, he rushed Carver.
  
Fenris stood back, unable to do more than watch.  The stairs were not wide enough for them both to fight abreast.  Thankfully, Isabela was not as constrained.  She popped into view, one of her small knives in hand.  With a flick of her wrist, the blade buried itself in the back of a templar leg.  The man fell back with a shout, grabbing at it.  The elf debated leaping down and coming at them from behind, but it was a long drop, dangerous even for someone with his skill.
  
The sensation of being useless gnawed at him.  If Carver died, Riese would never forgive him for it.  Gritting his teeth, Fenris leapt to the ground, rolling with impact.  His move didn't go unnoticed and before he could gain his feet, two of the templars were on top of him.  It was all he could do to avoid their blows, trying to get back far enough to stand properly, much less fight.  Carver saw his predicament, but with two enemies of his own there was little he could do.  Short on options, the elf ignited the lyrium in his skin, tattoos glowing.

Fenris plunged one hand through a templar gut, ripping out the man's innards.  Shrieking in pain, the man crumpled to the ground.  The other templar took a step back, reconsidering his attack.  Instead of rushing the elf, he drew on the lyrium in his blood, skin taking on a silvered hue.  "Maker forgive me," the templar cried, and then attacked.  Fenris reached for his enemy as the man's blade drove toward him.
  
The sword struck true, piercing the elf.  He took little notice of the wound, expecting to fell the templar as easily as he had the last one.  Instead, his hand met a solid wall of resistance.  Fenris cried out in surprise as the light coursing through his markings flickered and died.  The templar smiled, blade arcing around for another blow.  The elf barely managed to get out of its way, rolling back.  He tried to access the power that was by now second nature, but there was nothing.  A void where before he had strength.  The shock of it nearly cost him his life as the templar advanced, plunging his sword toward Fenris' mid-section.
            
The elf scrambled back, realizing there was no more room for retreat.  Fenris looked for an opening; he didn't need much, just enough room to pull his blade, but the knight was wary.  He kept his sword  up, testing the elf's defense.  Fenris caught the blows on his forearms, aching from the force behind them.  Thankfully, the spirit hide gauntlets held, though it felt like his bones might snap.

One heartbeat, two . . . there wasn't time, and Fenris knew it.  That he could kill the templar was not in doubt; that he could do so without dying, he thought, that was the problem, but to hang back was certain death.  The elf took a deep breath and leapt forward shouting curses, the sharp tips of his gauntleted hand extended.  He found only air as the knight was jerked back by a tendril of darkness.
  
Merrill stood a little ways away, surrounded by writhing vines, several of which now held the struggling templar.  He started to scream, but it was cut short as they twined around his neck.  The man's skin turned grey and paper thin, life sapped away by the blood mage.  The templar stopped moving a few seconds later, brittle bones collapsing under the weight of his armor, ashy flesh empty of life and strength.  Fenris didn't want to know if he was truly dead or simply to weak to fight anymore.

Carver fought on with the templar on the stair, focused.  They were well matched, age and skill poised against youth and strength.  There was still one templar to face, standing behind his comrade to guard his back.  Fenris would like to have let him go, but it could not be.  Right or wrong, he chose to stand by Hawke in this mad endeavor.  Many would die and it did not matter if they were honorable or good, innocent or guilty.  In war there was only victory or defeat and those were decided by ideals far removed from lofty heights.
  
He pulled his sword and gestured to the templar.  Reluctantly, the man moved to face him.  One on one, Fenris thought.  He shrugged, giving the templar a cocky smile, "Shall we end this quickly?"  "Shut up elf," the man growled, circling him.  Fenris did not move, just watched him, as he tried to find advantage in his positioning.
  
The fool moved too close to Merrill, and before he could attack, she loosed her magic on the templar.  Vining darkness shot out, reaching for him, but it met with resistance, shriveling and dissipating before hitting flesh.  The man turned his attention to her, "I see you are impatient.  Very well."  He drove forward, heedless of her magic, his blade shearing through her side.  Any other mage would drop from such an injury, but the pain only strengthened Merrill.
  
Her blood darkened, crawling across her skin and up his blade.  He looked down, surprised as it flowed up his armor, mixing with the blood of dead mages.  Fenris watched as it oozed across the knight's skin, first finding cracks in his armor to touch flesh, and then finding ways inside him.  The templar tore off his helm, dropping everything to claw at his face as the blood seeped into his mouth, flooded his nose, and crept behind his eyes.  He began to shake, skin mottling as his own fluids revolted against him.  The templar fell to the ground, loosing his bowels as he was torn apart from the inside.  Fenris turned away, sickened.  These allies of mine, he thought, shame and disgust filling him.

He chanced a look at Merrill, noting only that her wound had closed some, but she was still pale, and her breath labored.  Power came at a high price, he thought, careful not to look at the bodies.  There were things he saw as terrible while in service to Danarius; he remembered them well.  This was just another horror to add to the menagerie, but he did not wish to dwell on it.
  
Carver's battle continued unabated, but his opponent's age was beginning to show.  His shield arm trembled beneath Carver's blows, the tip of his sword wavering.  It wouldn't be long now.  Isabela moved to flank the knight, but Fenris stopped her with a look.  Hawke's brother would not appreciate her interference.  She shrugged and began cleaning her nails with the tip of her dagger.  The blood coating her shoulders and chest made the gesture a bit ridiculous.  The pirate saw his grin and smiled back, "What?  At least I'll have clean hands.  I would kill for a hot bath . . ."  If she had more to say, it was lost in the crash of armor and stone as the templar stumbled forward, falling to the ground.  Carver's blade was buried in his side, all he need do was pull up to cut through lungs and end the man's life.  The templar knew it, and knew he had no strength left to fight on.  He lay there waiting.  Carver stepped back, pulling his sword free, breath heavy.

"Do it," the templar growled.  Carver shook his head, sweat droplets flying.  "No . . . I won't."  The templar struggled to sit up, panting, blood flowing thickly from the deep wound.  "Fool!  Do it!  You've won . . . give me . . . a clean death . . ."  Carver shook his head again, wiping the blood from his blade and sheathing it.  "You are a good man, and a good templar.  I won't kill you if I don't have to."  
The templar coughed wetly, "If you leave me . . . I will follow . . . kill you and . . . the Champion . . ."  "You won't," Carver said with confidence.  "Meredith won't be here to corrupt what the templars stand for," he told the man.  "You . . . are a . . . heretic," the man spat.

"I may be, I don't know . . . I am a murderer and a traitor, at least.  I will not hide behind orders and oaths though.  It . . . it lays too heavy on me.  And you as well - I know."  "You would use . . . confessions made in . . . confidence . . . against me . . ."  the templar gasped.  "It is not against you.  It is for you.  We were friends once," Hawke's brother said, tone almost gentle.

Fenris was surprised.  The Carver he knew was defensive, arrogant, harsh . . . the man that stood before him wore ten years more experience, with all its attendant sorrow and regret.  He was developing a new respect for this man.  Carver walked away from the knight, eyes on Merrill.  "Are you ok?" he asked softly.  She nodded, showing him her mostly closed wound.  "I am so sorry," he told her, as if somehow it was his fault.  He stepped past the bodies of his former brethren to put a hand on her shoulder.  "I am fine.  It's just a little cut now.  Elves are tougher than you think," she told him, trying to sound like her usual, perky self.  "I don't doubt it, but if you will allow me . . . " Carver lifted her up like a child, "I'm just going to carry you until we can have Riese take a look at it."

Merrill made a surprised sound, arms waving a bit before she settled against him.  Isabela laughed, wincing at her wounds.  Fenris raised an eyebrow, "You will have a hard time fighting like that."  Hawke's brother shrugged, "I can always set her down if I need to."  The Dalish frowned, "You were almost sweet, Carver Hawke.  But now you make me sound like a sack of grain.  Maybe I should walk." Carver shrugged, "If you think you can get down, be my guest."  At that, Isabela laughed even harder, "I think he's got you there, Daisy.  Just let him pretend to manliness for a bit."  He blushed, a retort on his lips, but Merrill's head falling against his shoulder silenced him. 
  
As they walked away, the wounded templar called out, "Carver . . . you should hurry."  He and Fenris turned to look at the man.  "One stayed back.  A Hunter."  Fenris didn't wait to hear more.  He set off at a run toward where they left Riese and Varric.  "Wait," Isabela shouted, running after him.  Carver, already slowed by heavy armor and now his elfish burden, followed more slowly.
  
If she is hurt, he thought, I will kill them all.  The thought that she could be dead did not enter his mind.  The pirate left the main path to travel less openly, but Fenris didn't care if he was seen.  The elf tore through the main passage, praying he was in time.  As the steps came into view, all he could see was  a body on the step, dark haired and robed, blood pooling around it.

"Riese . . ."  Fenris fell to his knees, wavering between horror and disbelief.  He knew he should move closer, see what could be done, but the angle of her body told him what he already knew.  No one alive looked like that.   He bowed his head in guilt; it was his fault.  He left her alone in an enemy stronghold, left her defenseless . . . but she was the Champion.  Hawke seemed immortal to him, invincible. 

He had been there when she fought the Arishok, watched her battle an ancient dragon; no matter how badly hurt, she always came out victorious.  Always stood at the end and reached for him.  There was no way a mere templar could be her end, Fenris thought, a tear rolling unnoticed from his eye.  A soft hand brushed his cheek and he shook it off.  

"Leave me alone," he growled.  "I didn't think you would be this upset about losing Anders."  That voice . . . her voice . . . Fenris looked up, hope piercing his sorrow.  Hawke smiled down at him gently.  The elf said nothing, sweeping her into his arms as he stood.  Her warm body held tight against him, real and here and his; Riese was alright.

"You really thought that was me?" Hawke asked.  Fenris nodded, throat too tight to speak.  She stepped back and looked at him, lips in that half smile he'd learned to love.  "I try to keep my promises," she whispered.  Fenris looked down with an awkward cough, remembering their friends were watching.  "Ah . . . you . . . you said it's Anders?" he asked, voice more hoarse than he would like.  He looked over, noted that the body was missing Hawke's light plate, even if the color of the robes was the same.  Embarrassed, he ran a hand through his hair and stared at the corpse.

Riese nodded.  "He came back to help."  The elf felt an irrational surge of anger at the dead mage for making him believe Hawke was dead.  "Let me guess, he said he was sorry and you welcomed him back with open arms?"  "Fenris . . . " Hawke's voice was low, thick with emotion.  "What?  You did, didn't you?"  He knew it was foolish to have this argument, but he couldn't help it.  He loved her so much . . . and she let someone like Anders . . . Riese walked away from him, eyes fixed on a distant point, hands balled into delicate fists.

Isabela shrugged, "Who cares, Fenris?  He's dead and we aren't.  We need to move, not sit on our thumbs until the next patrol sweeps through."  He gave a reluctant nod, "Fine."  Varric looked back and forth between them and shook his head, taking lead.  Carver followed a little ways behind, giving the elf a look of disbelief.  Riese picked up her staff and went after them, not even glancing at Fenris as she walked past.
  
Self-righteous anger made it easy for him to pretend disinterest.  He followed behind, deciding for no particular reason to walk beside Isabela.  If Hawke noticed or cared, she did not show it.  The pirate on the other hand, raised an eyebrow.  "You're an idiot," she said quietly, sounding amused.  "How so?" Fenris asked in a dry tone, doing his best to keep a rein on his emotions.  "You didn't even ask how it happened or if she was alright.  You might hate him, but he was a friend to her.  And now he's resting in a pool of his own blood.  You're lucky she just walked away, elf."  He looked down, rage cooling.

Damn the woman, but she was right.  He knew he was being an ass about this but it was hard to let go.  A decade of mutual hatred was difficult to forget, especially now, when Anders finally proved him right.  The ash still raining down on Kirkwall was all the proof anyone needed that the man deserved his fate.  Riese should be relieved . . . but he knew the woman he loved would never rejoice in someone's death.  That Riese would forgive the mage anything just made it worse.  He gave a heartfelt sigh.
  
"Get your ass up there and apologize," Isabela told him.  "You don't want to go into a fight with this between you."  Reluctantly, Fenris nodded.  He could never agree with Riese on this, but she deserved better from him.  If he could not feel sorrow for Anders, he could at least comfort her as she grieved. "Can't believe I . . . owe me one after . . . damned lanky . . ." he heard Isabela mutter as he strode forward, catching up with Hawke.

They walked together quietly; she did her best to avoid noticing him and he wasn't sure what to say.  Finally, he reached for her hand, hoping to get her attention.  Hawke pulled away, not acknowledging the contact.  "Riese?" She looked at him, expression blank, "What?"

"I shouldn't have -" The mage interrupted, "No, but as usual you don't think about it.  Look, I don't want to argue with you about this.  You hated him?  Fine.  He is dead now.  Can we leave it at that?  Or must you rake me over the coals again and again because he proved you right?"  Fenris opened his mouth and then shut it again, not sure what to say.  Part of him was still angry; angry with Anders, with Riese, with mages . . . He swallowed it back, reaching for her hand again.  This time she let him take it.  "I am sorry," he said softly, "I can't say more than that, my love."  Fenris tried to keep this apology as private as he could, wishing it could just be the two of them for a few hours, far from this place.  His words were not nearly enough and for a moment he thought she would refuse to accept it, that she would argue.
  
Instead Hawke took a deep breath, blinking back tears.  Dumbfounded, he pulled her to him and held her as she cried.  It humbled him to hear it.  Everyone relied on her to be strong, to lead.  He realized in that instant, Hawke needed someone to rely on.  Whether he understood or agreed did not matter.  She just needed him to be there, to love her, to offer her the comfort of his arms.  They would have time to argue, time to debate and disagree, but when the wound was raw, she needed just this.  The rest didn't matter.  It is a heavy burden, he thought, but one I will gladly bear.