Worth

A note to readers before we begin: this story was conceived as a result of a prompt at the Dragon Age kink meme and has (is – for as I write this the story is not yet done) been subsequently posted there. I'm de-anoning to post the more polished version here. The requester asked to see a damsel in distress Hawke being rescued by Sebastian from a most terrible fate. Though their relationship has been strained by his vows and her unrequited feelings, she has complete and utter faith that he will rescue her. Lo! He comes, and his own feelings for her are exposed: no man shall dare touch his Hawke.

I apologize to my more badass readers if Marcelle Hawke comes across as too weak or gentle for their tastes – my intent was to make her more stoic and less flashy than a certain other Fereldan hero. However…Having recently played DA:II on nightmare mode, I can safely say that Marcelle Hawke, though a kind spirit healer, outlasts just about anyone in a fight.

I should also add that Lady Winde has been doing companion artwork pieces for this story. Chapters that have artwork will be noted as such. You can find links to the pictures in my profile.

Oh! And there are very small spoilers for Trovommi Amor in this story.

Chapter 1

It was snowing when Marcelle Hawke left Amaranthine.

Flakes the color of downy, dove white and fresh lace fell atop her head and along her shoulders, sticking to the heavy blue cloak she wore to stave off the chill. The wind made the snowflakes dance around her ankles as it tried to lift up the heavy skirts of her robe and slap at the tender skin of her legs - but with her thick woolen pants lurking just below her robes, she was impervious to the wind's intentions and effects. It nipped and gnawed at her cheeks, turning the skin pink, raw, and flushed, but such things were easily cured by magic and she paid no heed to the pain.

With her staff in hand, she beckoned her grey-armored brother to come closer. There was pride in his heavy footsteps as he trudged through the snow towards her, but also resentment too. There were grudges between them that would persist until the ending of the world, but he looked to be at peace now, having finally found a calling where he was not overshadowed by his sister. He was a Grey Warden and he would do many things in his life that most people would not hear of, but he was happy. The fact that he did not even squirm when she touched his chin and kissed his cheek told her as much (Carver hated being kissed by his sisters).

"Goodbye, Sister," he murmured, laying a gauntlet on her shoulder. "Be safe."

"I will be the soul of caution," she assured quietly. "I promise."

"Heh, not bloody likely." Carver flashed a wry smile. "I mean it though. Take care of yourself."

"I will." As Carver returned to the Warden Commander's side, Marcelle took the opportunity to incline her head graciously at the woman. She thanked the Commander for the gift of her protection and her secrecy. "I know you are not fond of mages," Marcelle said to the younger woman, "and that it was with great personal risk that you took me in. I will never be able to thank you enough."

"It was the least I could do for Carver," said the Warden Commander with a throaty laugh and a wry smile, "and a fellow Fereldan." The wind captured strands of her long, blonde curls and sent them dancing amidst the snowflakes and it was with a steady hand that she swept the hair out of her face.

Over the months that Marcelle had spent sheltered in Vigil's Keep, she had come to learn a lot about the enigmatic and charismatic Fereldan Commander of the Grey. She was everything that Anders had described, and yet was also nothing like her. He had compared her to Meredith, suggesting that she was not only a ruthless tyrant, but also void-bent on making mages miserable with her dogma and prejudice. "She's like ice," Anders had said, "a terrible witch made of ice. Not only do the Grey Wardens make you give up your cat when you sign up, but apparently, they also make you give up your heart, too."

And while it was odd that Marcelle had not encountered a single Grey Warden who was a mage at the Vigil, the Warden Commander had been nothing but civil towards her… and strangely enough, also very understanding. In what had been a bizarre first meeting, the Warden Commander had been waiting at the dock of Amaranthine City for her ship from Kirkwall to arrive. If Marcelle remembered rightly, it had been pouring down with rain.

"The wind," the Warden Commander had explained as she held her hood over her face, "smelt terrible. I knew trouble was coming from the sea." She had then raised a thin eyebrow as a flash of lightning illuminated the shadows of her face and the dark leather of her embroidered eye patch. "Running from something, Champion?"

She had not spoken with the Warden Commander again for another month, preferring to keep out of the stormy woman's way as she went about running her arling and commanding her Grey Wardens. Cornered by the woman in the Vigil's library on a chilly evening that had promised snow, Marcelle had admitted that she was fleeing, "justice."

"Justice rarely happens, unless it is by our own hand," the Warden Commander had said sagely, placing a careful gauntlet on Marcelle's shoulder. The metal had glowed orange in the firelight, as had the rest of the Warden Commander's armor. "So who seeks justice from you, Champion of Kirkwall?"

"A prince," Marcelle had responded, turning her blue eyes to the flames that danced in the hearth. She remembered shapes rising from the fire and ash swirling about the figures. At first they were faceless, voiceless bodies, but the roaring of the hearth soon gave way to the din of battle and cries of despair.

Sebastian gripped her arm tightly, his blue eyes narrowed in shock – hatred - betrayal as he stared over her shoulder to where Anders sat. "No! You cannot possibly mean to let him go? I will not allow this maleficar to walk free!"

"It was her decision to make," Anders replied morosely, turning the dagger Marcelle had tossed at his feet in his hands. "Not yours."

"Sebastian -" Marcelle opened her mouth to speak, gently laying her palm over the hand that was clenched around her arm in a bruising grip.

"No words from you," he hissed. As if touching her scalded him, he pushed her roughly away. "I trusted you. Elthina trusted you! You were my friend..." His upper lip curled back in disdain. "But now I see where your loyalties truly lie. Maleficarum attract maleficarum."

She winced; not from his words, but from the loud rumbling of falling lumber and stone from somewhere within the wreckage of the Chantry.

"That is unfair and uncalled for." It was Aveline's voice.

"Unfair?" Sebastian asked incredulously. "Unfair? This entire world is unfair. But no longer. I will change that." He pointed a finger, first at Marcelle, then at Anders. "If he lives, I am going to Starkhaven and upon my return I will raise such an army that I will burn Kirkwall to the ground. I will leave no place for these…" he spat out the word at the two mages, "maleficars to hide."

Marcelle twisted her hands in front of her as she watched Sebastian work himself into a rage, trying to form her words into something that he would understand. Something that he would find meaningful. "It is not what - " she tried to say, to console, but Sebastian cut her off with a raised hand.

"No. No more feeble words. I will not treat with a murderer…"his eyes flicked to Anders, "or his accomplice." They returned to her.

There was a flurry of protest from the companions that they had traveled with, shouts of how untrue Sebastian's accusations were, of how this had gone on long enough, of how they had better things to do than squabble over an event that none of them could change. In the midst of the storm of words, Sebastian stared at Marcelle, and she stared back at him. There was a look in his eye that Marcelle had not seen since he'd first posted his bounty on the Chanter's board, and even then, the look had not been so sharp or cutting. It was despair made tangible, and loss so profound that nothing mattered except finding a means to ease and end it.

But no prayer would ease Sebastian. He was a man accustomed to action and was easily blown about on violent winds. Only vengeance, only justice, could soothe his soul, and if Marcelle had not recognized it when she first met him, she recognized it now among the smoke and the wreckage of the Chantry. Nothing would satisfy him except blood and death.

Marcelle held up a hand to silence the squabbling around her. For a moment, she contemplated what she could say; if there was indeed anything she could say. What he wanted she could not give him, for such a judgment was not in her hands to make. She could debate the point for hours and try to explain that there were better punishments than death, but something told her that Sebastian had long since passed the point of reason. She had a massacre to avert and there was no more time to waste. There was nothing she could say that would change his mind, and so she did not try. Pragmatism and an aching heart bade her not to speak. She needed to get to the docks before the last of the ships departed for the Gallows. She had to be aboard one of those ships, even if it meant losing Sebastian forever by missing her last chance to convince him that he was wrong.

If there was a Maker, she prayed, then he would make Sebastian see reason and temper his rage.

But her prayer went unanswered. Sebastian turned from her, giving her and Anders one long, contemptuous look before calling out over his shoulder: "I will return for you, and your precious Anders. And when I do, you will both know what true justice is." He moved away into the deepening shadows of Kirkwall, the falling ash obscuring him from view like a veil of snow.

When Sebastian was out of sight, Marcelle turned to Anders. "Leave," she said in a quiet voice. "I never want to see you again."

But Anders, ever the opportunist, had already gone.

She had been drawn out of her reverie by the gentle shepherding of the Warden Commander. She was ushered to a chair by the fire, urged to sit numbly as the Warden Commander arranged her hands in her lap like a doll and knelt before her.

"I know a thing or two about princes." The Warden Commander had peered up into her face, grey eye sad as her hands rested flat across the tops of Marcelle's thighs, "they are not the forgiving sort, are they?"

"I thought this one might be, but…" Marcelle had shrugged. "There is nothing for it." Her eyes had flickered between the hearth and the Warden Commander's face, unsure which of the two was more dangerous. "Anger does terrible things to our judgment, and I cannot bring myself to…blame him for the way he reacted. Were our situations reversed, I might have acted no differently." And in an aside to herself, she had been just as angry, just as devastated, at the death of her mother. She had known all too well what Sebastian felt to condemn him. "I am just…" she had wanted to say disappointed, but that word did not even begin to describe how she felt about the situation. She'd struggled to find the correct words for a few moments before finally shrugging her shoulders and settling back into the seat. "I cannot undo what has been done." Her hand darted out to the small, curiously shaped pendant around her neck. It was a gift; a secret thing from someone who knew what it was to be. "To want to is wasteful."

"No regrets then?"

"None worth having," she had paused, "save one. But that is my fault, not his."

"You fled from this man you seem to understand so well," the Warden Commander had mused, "truly, his wrath must be great. I thought you came to our shores fleeing the Templars."

"I do not fear them. Earthly pain," she had responded quietly, "does not frighten me. They do what they think is best, and we are all better for it. Mages are dangerous." She had smiled a crooked smile, winsome and lovely in the firelight and filled with tremendous understanding. "Even the strongest of us are at risk, myself included. Whatever punishment they should inflict upon me should they find me I will take without complaint or judgment. Men and mages are not equals in power, and this should not be so."

The Warden Commander had drawn back in surprise. "Rumors spoke of your beauty and your heart of gold, but never your self-loathing. My, my," she had said with some amusement, "but you are an enigma. No wonder you've garnered the wrath of a legion of over-sexed men and women and captured the fascination of a prince."

"Fascinated with my death, you mean."

"Death is too simple for a woman like you." The Warden Commander's grey eye had narrowed and her voice dropped low to a tone of smooth and even wisdom. "If he comes after you - which I am sure he will - it could be a tragic end. On the other hand," her tone had risen into the rolling lilt that Marcelle had come to associate with persons of nobility, "it could be the beginning of something better. Beautiful faces have a way of challenging men and changing their minds."

"Maybe," Marcelle had continued to turn the pendant about in her fingers, the stone warm against her flesh. "Perhaps I shall be lucky."

She had made a low grunt in the back of her throat. "You already are lucky. Older than me and aging better than I am. Truly, you cannot be a real person."

And some days, Marcelle felt the same way. Mage. Hunted. Basalit-an. Champion. Viscountess. She had not sought to rise, but it had happened, and she had broken boundaries as easily as one cracked the shell of an egg. Life had been surreal. And even now, standing as she was in front of the Hero of Ferelden, her brother basking in the chilly morning sunlight alongside his hero and commander, she still did not think she truly existed in reality. The snow created a haze around her vision, obscuring the buildings and the men at arms patrolling the walls of the Vigil; her world nothing more than the gates and the slowly fading path into the City of Amaranthine and beyond. She had lived a life without saying goodbye, and now that life had changed.

Marcelle had never parted from her home or her friends of her own volition before, and it struck her as strange that now was the first moment when she had made a conscious decision to leave. Her friends and her family had all left her. It had never been the other way around. Isabela had gone to sea with Fenris and Merrill ("Can't leave my wolf and kitten behind now, can I?") shortly after the fall of the Gallows. Marcelle had declined the invitation to join them, saying she was needed in Kirkwall to help rebuild. With the guards of Kirkwall permanently decommissioned and replaced by the Templars, Aveline and Donnic had reluctantly left for Val Royeaux ("Donnic's brother lives there, and after all that's happened, family is about all we have left now."). Even Varric had said goodbye, having been forced to take over the family's business in the wake of destruction and fear in the city ("Bianca and I aren't going to be able to keep up with you anymore. Someone's got to keep those merchants in line, Hawke. As much as I hate to say it, Kirkwall needs a Tethras to stabilize its economy. It's what we Tethras do best.")

This was the first time Marcelle had the option of staying somewhere, yet she was not. She had been forced out of Ferelden by the Darkspawn, and had been forced out of Kirkwall by the timely warning of a sympathetic Templar. She was not being forced out of the Vigil by anything but her own will.

"Thank you again, Warden Commander," Marcelle said, extending a fur gloved hand to the younger woman, "I cannot thank you enough for the kindness you have shown me."

"Do not thank me yet," the Warden Commander took her hand and gave it a quick shake, her grip firm and her gauntlet cold. "He will come looking for you, and I am in no position to stay the wrath of a prince with my silence. This is not my fight, and I have other concerns to attend to." She placed her other gauntlet on Marcelle's wrist and stepped closer. Her voice fell to a whisper. "But I will try and give you some time. One woman to another."

"I understand," Marcelle replied, "but you do not have to." Her breath comingled with that of the Warden Commander's, just as she had intertwined their lives.

"'Have,'" the Warden Commander countered, "is a matter of perspective." She released Marcelle's hand.

"She won't say anything, Sister," Carver interjected quickly, "don't worry."

Marcelle could only give him a flattered smile and watched the Warden Commander turn an entertained expression to her brother. "She will do what she think is best, I'm sure." When the Warden Commander inclined her head in thanks, Marcelle sent a loving look to her brother. "Slay a few darkspawn for me, Carver."

"You know it."

She had nothing left to say to either of them. Words had exhausted her months ago during the catastrophic series of events in Kirkwall, but Marcelle had recognized that words had been failing her little by little for years. They could only delay the inevitable, they could not halt it, they could only soothe the dying, but they could not bring back the dead. They were a tool; they were not an end. With the river having run dry all she could do was smile, and when she felt as though it might break, she turned and left. The Vigil's gates were open, and the Warden Commander had given her a horse, and she was free to go wherever it was she wanted.

She thought she might return to Lothering.

To start a life.

The title piece of worth, as well as Sebastian's, "Maker, no!" moment are in my profile. Feel free to stop by there, follow the links to the pictures, and let Lady Winde know you love them. :)