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They’d come so close to the edge of no return. Had she shown up later in the day, when the streets were all but clear of people and only the Templars and Circle mages would have been witness to it she may never have saved so much.
Had she not had a crowd of people rallying behind her and her companions in outrage at the state of the city and its Circle…she dreaded to think what might have come of it all. Anders had confessed to her, that evening as she sat alone in her study. Head buried in her hands and shoulders heavy with the invisible weight that her new title carried. He’d had a plan after all. To end the stalemate between Meredith and Orsino another way-a worse way, he claimed.
She could hardly imagine a worse way than the later afternoon battle that took place on the steps of the Chantry. Orsino had snapped under the pressure from too many angles and suddenly they were facing an abomination created from dark magic. They’d let out a sigh of relief as he’d fallen, if only for the end of a hard and draining battle. But the blood magic triggered something wild within Meredith.
Her fears of an utterly corrupt Circle had erupted into chaos before her and she’d called for the Rite of Annulment. She refused to back down - turning on even her loyal guard. The toxic lyrium they’d brought from the deep roads sang on her back. One last loose end finally tied. It’d driven her mad and she’d forced a fight. And it ended with her own undoing.
Anders had confessed his deception. Using her standing with the Grand Cleric as a distraction to plant an immense bomb within the heart of the Chantry. He’d intended to force change upon Kirkwall by whatever means necessary, and, if the destruction of the Chantry was what he needed to force all of their hands then he’d been willing to pay the price, with his life if necessary. He’d intended to be there when the explosion rained down, and he’d expected to be cut in two more violently than the explosion he’d planed.
Yet he lived here and now, unsure as to his next move after dismantling his device. She’d told him to wait, that she had not forgotten mages or what the Circle was even before this madness settled over the city. She had a plan, but she needed him to hold Justice back from becoming Vengeance a little while more. She wanted the Circle to be as it should have been from the start. A place of learning and safety, not fear and threats that drove people into the hands of demons out of desperation.
The people of Kirkwall, even the nobles, had called for their Champion to step up. Like she’d had little option but to step into that title she had stepped into the next. Viscountess of Kirkwall.
She’d bid Anders a farewell as he’d retreated down into her cellar. Whether he’d return all the way to Darktown or not did not bother her, she’d offered her house as a place of refuge and if he wanted it tonight she would not begrudge him that.
She knew the Hanged Man would be buzzing and after any other battle of this scale she’d have been there in a heartbeat -but she could not summon the effort to move while her mind raced so wildly.
So close to failure again. Except it was not only her life or that of her family. It had been the fate of her entire city that teetered on the edge of collapse; Kirkwall had become a house of cards one wrong move from chaos and death. And she’d stood above it all trying to place one last card at the top while the two below it slipped out from under it. She thought it would end in failure with the mages rebelling and Anders would have his revolution. Or that the Templars would strike hard and fast in the night leaving a scant handful of living mages in the city, all of them hunted by the full might of Kirkwall’s Templars.
She was not new to failure; she’d failed many times in her life. Learning to shoot a bow had been fraught with failure as had wielding daggers. The latter such a failure she’d all but given up of mastering them. She’d failed her mother as a daughter when she wanted to run in the mud and play with the hunters dogs, she’d tried sitting and learning to stich and knit but she was restless and bored by it. She’d failed like all people growing up at little things-burning the tea or neglecting to collect more wood for the fire.
But nothing in her life had prepared her for the waves of failure that stalked her shadows like darkspawn stalk the deep roads. She’d failed Carver; she should have been far back with mother and her bow, picking off darkspawn from afar while Carver hefted his great sword above him and split them in two. But she hadn’t been, she’d been in front, looking for danger and she’d missed it. She’d brought Bethany into the Deep Roads and she’d died by her hand before the taint had chance to cause more pain. She should have brought the blasted Grey Warden with her.
But she hadn’t, she’d brought the elf and his broadsword…in the end she failed her baby sister as much as she’d failed their brother. She’d been too late to save their mother and was left a sole Hawke alone in the Amell home.
Her family ripped away one at a time each new death a new wound tearing at her barely healed soul. It was her faith that failed her. She’d cursed every deity she knew, raged long into the night crying into air at a Maker so cruel as to steal away her last piece of family.
The memories of each death had snuck up on her as she’d contemplated a decade of failure and she wiped away tears as they fell. No sobs wracked her body and she did not curse the Maker this time. They were familiar pains now, she was still hit with grief and sorrow but her stride would not falter when they crossed her mind, though the tears still fell against a stone cold face.
She left the study and the warmth of the fireplace, a small balcony set in the attic of the manor let her see most of Hightown and far below the sprawl of Lowtown, the Docks and Gallows. There were lights but no fires, faint cheers and the sounds of a city but no screaming, no shrieks of horror. It was all safe for at least one more night.
She’d started down with the lowest levels, she’d smuggled and stolen and covered for those who stole to save themselves. She’d saved Templars and Mages and killed plenty of both. She’d defied Qunari and Knight Commanders, a First Enchanter too. All in the name of the city she looked down upon now.
They’d known her name when she came back from the deep roads laden with wealth, they’d cheered for her later as their saviour, their Champion. And they’d roared a demand, the city that saved her demanded now to be saved.
The viscounts’ crown had been in her hands for some time now; she’d aimlessly twirled it in her fingers as the air of a city energised by hope swirled around her. She could have refused, pushed the duty towards a noble who knew what to do with a city. But they hadn’t called for a noble. A noble could not have answered the call of such a city.
So they called for their Champion. They pleaded for Hawke.
She smiled wearily down at the crown between her fingertips.
They’d demanded Hawke. They’d begged for their Champion.
The crown was too light in her hands to unreal and so upon her head it now rested.
She’d answered their calls, met their pleas, bowed to demands and given in to the begging.
She was indeed Hawke and a Champion too.
...But a viscountess for now, would have to do.