Chapter Text
To travel to the West, skirting the northern edges of Lake Calenhad, was to be faced with the mist-veiled image of the Circle Tower. Will shrugged the cloak around his shoulders that Alana had fashioned him from the pelts of a wolf. He hadn’t asked her when she’d had time, but accepted it eagerly, thankful for the added shield against the cold. The Frostback Mountains were not far, and soon the snow would blanket thick beneath their boots, but for the time being, the grass was green and plush and Will rested upon it, sipping from the canteen that the templar had handed him. He watched the tower that had been his home and prison, as if waiting for it to transform before his eyes, perhaps spring legs and run for him, to try and recapture the mage it had lost.
An icy chill spread between his shoulder blades and he shivered, eyes wide upon the ominous tower rising up from the center of the lake. When he had discovered their path to Orzammar would lead them past the Circle, his instincts had tensed every muscle, and a sweat had broken upon his brow, while a thousand what-ifs ran rampant in his head. What if his companions had decided he couldn’t be trusted and they were going to send him back across the lake in the little rowboat? What if Hannibal had never rejected his oaths as a templar, but had only been biding his time until he could believably coax Will’s return to the tower? Now, he sat in the grass, safely across the lake, and knew his fears had been unwarranted. Hannibal, who must have detected the panic in Will’s eyes at the sight of the distant tower on the horizon, had ‘borrowed Will for a moment,’ and they’d walked together along the tree line, collecting fire wood while the others set up camp for the night. Will’s hands had shaken as he reached for a dry bit of twig, and Hannibal had caught his wrist. Will’s lips parted in surprise as the templar brought his captured hand to rest against his armor-plated chest. Hannibal still wore his gauntlets and the metal was cold against the heat of Will’s hand.
“Calm your worries, my friend,” Hannibal had said. “The Circle of Magi is not our destination today.” Will had nodded dumbly, too distracted by the templar’s intimate touch and soothing voice to argue his hesitance, and Hannibal had smiled, releasing Will’s hand, but maintaining their close distance. “But Will, the treaty calls for the aid of the Circle, and we would be amiss to let our fears prevent us from seeking their help.”
Will had licked his lips, suddenly dry from the chilly wind coming off the lake. “I know,” he had admitted, letting his gaze roam to the sparkling surface of the water. “I know we’ll have to return to this place and ask the First Enchanter for help.” The mere mention of the idea had his hands shaking. “Just not today, please.” Somehow, Will had masked this eventuality from himself until that moment. Of course their quest would return them to the tower. Of course he would be forced to re-enter the walls from which he had barely escaped alive, and make demands of the mage who, for basically his entire life, had been the ultimate authority. He gulped, but he had nodded, too, for it was an inevitable thing he would have to accept as necessity. Just not today. Please.
“I will be with you every step, Will,” Hannibal had assured him as he bent down to scoop a bundle of branches into his arms. “You need not fear.”
The remainder of their firewood expedition had been mostly silent, but Will had returned feeling impossibly better, and once they’d stacked their timber, he’d waved his hand over the pit, setting it alight. And now he sat on the grass, warmed by the flames, and looked out upon the lake at the lurking tower, and he felt the templar at his side, and he drank from his canteen with no worries. Of course, the Circle of Magi was not the only presence to be fearful of in these perilous days, for their party in particular, and it was not long at all before Will’s rare peace of mind was shattered.
He stood after their shared supper and excused himself politely, declaring he needed to relieve himself. After a number of awkward moments when Hannibal had tried to follow Will on like occasions, he’d had to solicit help from Alana and Katz to chill the templar’s desire to watch out for him in these ‘most vulnerable times’. Following an argument about nervous bladders and a little thing called pride, Will had finally won the vote that yes, he could manage going to the bathroom by himself, and no, he would not stray far. So, as mutually promised, Hannibal remained seated when Will excused himself, and Will kept close to the camp, only walking into the shallow shadow of the closest trees, where he could still clearly hear each word from each of his companions. Katz was teasing Alana about wearing a midriff-baring top in the mountains when the hands grabbed him from behind and pressed the knife against his throat. Will froze with his fingers on the waist of his trousers, and his staff leaned uselessly against his pack, back by the fire. The breath was hot against his nape as his assailant walked him further into the forest.
“My orders are to kill you all, but the price for your head is the highest,” rasped the stranger in Will’s ear, “so I think I'll begin with you.”
The blade pressed into Will’s skin, and he felt his flesh parting beneath its path. He swallowed roughly and tried to gather his mana, but the blade was pulling, cutting, and the flow of blood down his neck brought such an unanticipated terror to Will’s chest that his mana was an untamable force within his body that he couldn’t quite capture. He sucked in a desperate breath, readying to scream for help, but the man against his back anticipated the move and smothered Will with a gloved hand, blocking the passage of air through both mouth and nostrils. “I don’t think so,” came the words, blowing moist against the back of Will’s neck while the front bled beneath the blade. “No one’s going to stop me. Don’t you know who I am?”
“Steve, is that you?”
Will heard Dimmond’s question from somewhere behind him, and then he felt a shove and fell forward onto the ground. His head spun and he clutched his hands over his throat. Heat poured over his fingers, and he rolled to his back, stunned. Above him, he saw two wrestling figures, but his vision was fuzzy, his breath gargled, and he was fading out…out…pinpricks of white….
Strong arms hooked beneath his knees and under his shoulders, and he was hoisted into Hannibal’s arms. Suddenly, Alana was there, pressing her cool palm over his throat. Will caught her eyes for a moment –concentrated, bright blue- before she closed them and began whispering softly. He shivered in the templar’s arms while her healing spell tingled over his gashed skin. Nearby, he was aware of the rustling of violence. A grunt, heavy breathing, and finally, a disturbing crack of bone, followed by a telling thud.
“Never liked him much anyway,” he heard Dimmond say. “Fancied himself an assassin with the heart of a poet, but you should have read his work. Atrocious stuff. His verse describing the finer smells of Antivan leather alone was enough reason to kill him, dastardly man.”
The sound of Katz’s bemused snicker reached Will’s ears as Alana lifted her hand from his neck. It came away bloody, and her brows were furrowed with worry, but when he brought his fingers up to the knife’s cut, it was gone, his broken skin magically sealed back together. He watched as she exchanged a curious look with Hannibal, and then his arms curled around Will even tighter and Hannibal began carrying him back to the camp, the procession of his comrades following behind.
When they neared the fire, Hannibal didn’t lay Will on the bedroll as expected, but lowered himself down onto his own blankets, keeping Will fastened in his arms. With the tingle of Alana’s magic still bringing shivers over his skin, Will couldn’t muster a refusal and decided to curl into the heat of the man holding him instead. His head was nestled in the crook of Hannibal’s arm and he cast his eyes upward to the man himself. Amber and severe, the templar’s eyes met his with an intensity that brought him a different sort of shiver. A surge of memory brought a hot blush to Will’s cheeks as he recalled his most recent foray into the Fade. The templar’s name had tumbled from his lips, the demon demanding from Will’s soul a confession he’d not yet realized he’d been hording. But he was aware of it now, aware of every point of their bodies in contact. The metal-sheathed fingers carefully supporting his head. The warmth of the lap he curved against. His shoulders shook from a hundred sensations, and Hannibal pulled him even closer. Will knew this behavior was odd, that ordinarily he would push away from the templar and claim he was fine, not to worry. But he was so tired and Hannibal felt too good. He decided it must be the aftereffects of Alana’s healing spell that had him glued in place. That must be why he was content to stay in Hannibal’s arms.
He cleared his throat, his fingers still tracing over the spot that was, only moments before, cut open. “He said,” Will tried, voice light and wavering, “that he was here to kill all of us.”
“Don’t worry, Will,” said Katz, her face appearing over Hannibal’s shoulder. “He was alone. And now he’s dead.”
“Who was he?”
Dimmond, who was stretching his legs out by the fire, dabbing at a spot of blood from his chin with a handkerchief, answered with a tinge of amusement. “Another Crow come to kill us all. I imagine they only sent a single man this time to do his wet work in the shadows, since their initial attempt at superior numbers failed so terribly.” He shook his head. “I suppose they didn’t expect for a Crow to be in your company and detect the signs of approach a mile away.”
“How did you know he was waiting in the trees for Will?” Katz asked.
“Oh,” said Dimmond with a casual wave of his hand, “he’s been tracking us all day.”
“You knew all day and didn’t tell us?” she asked, anger seeping into her voice.
“Well, I didn’t want to spook him off, did I?” replied Dimmond. “Don’t all of you give me that look. Our Will was never in danger.”
“His throat was halfway slit,” was Alana’s icy reply. Will turned his head to look at her. His blood was still on her hands.
The arms holding him tensed, and Will looked back up at Hannibal. He watched closely as the subtle shifts played out across his face. When the roulette of expressions landed in the vicinity of murderous, Will decided, with a regretful sigh, that it was time to pry himself free of Hannibal’s arms, for he could hold no authority within the group whilst cradled like a child. Hannibal didn’t constrain his attempt, opting to assist until Will was out of his lap and sitting with his knees pulled up to his chest, though he kept a gentle lean against Hannibal’s shoulder. He was still weak from the healing, after all. “While I think I would have preferred a slightly quicker response with less, erm, throat cutting, Dimmond saved me,” Will said, taking a turn shooting the others a firm glance, Hannibal included. “If not for his intervention...” He nodded his head at the assassin. “Thank you.”
There was a thick tension in the air for a few moments, as they all cast hesitant glances at one another. He saw Hannibal’s fingers flexing momentarily over his sword, before meeting his eye. Will shook his head and Hannibal’s fingers crossed over his lap instead. But he didn’t look pleased. Will wasn’t especially pleased either; he was the one who had just had his throat slit, after all. But Dimmond had helped, hadn’t he? Maybe his methods were a bit contrary, but he had helped. And they were so shorthanded. Wasn’t five better than four in a fight of such importance? He wondered what the demon would say.
“Oh, it was nothing,” breezed Dimmond, as though nothing of import had just passed. He flourished a sheet of paper from his pocket. “And now we have this in our possession. I'd hoped he would have something like this on him. It's why I wanted to catch him unawares, so he'd not have time to toss it. The throat cutting bit of the plan was an accident, by the by,” Dimmond added with an apologetic shrug to Will. "Last time I saw Steve, he was a strangling sort of fellow."
Katz grabbed the paper and held it up to the light of the fire. “This is a handwritten letter.”
“A letter? From who?” asked Alana, leaning in to read over it beside Katz. Her eyes got rather larger than usual. “Oh.”
“What?” Will asked. “Who is it from? What does it say?”
Alana and Katz exchanged frowns, and then Katz said, “It’s from you, Will, and it’s a declaration that the Grey Wardens are responsible for the coming Blight.”
“What?!” He thrust out his hand and Katz handed over the letter. He held it up to his eyes, reading swiftly, and spotted his signature scrawled at the bottom. “This is a forgery!”
“Duh,” said Katz. “Looks like the Crows were setting you up.”
“The Crows only do what they are paid to do,” interjected Dimmond knowingly. “If that letter was to be a plant, you better believe Teyrn Mason was behind it.”
“It says a bunch of rubbish about how I can’t live with what I’ve done to Ferelden, and that Mason is the only hope for the fight against the Blight,” Will fumed, crumbling the letter in his hand. He tossed it in the fire.
“I suspect this Mason is truly a madman,” said Hannibal. “And it appears he suffers from cowardice, as well, sending assassins at every turn to do his dirty work. The rumor of the Grey Warden’s treason will only continue to grow,” he said. “And evidence suggests Mason is planning to take on the Blight with his Denerim army.”
Katz groaned miserably and Will, too tired to contain it, made a sound of similar resonance. “What do we do?”
He felt Hannibal’s hand wind around his waist and come to rest discreetly at his back. “We make sure we are prepared when the battle is upon us. We keep diligently to our plan.”
“Orzammar is only half a day’s journey from here,” offered Alana. “And then we’ll have the promise of the dwarven army behind our cause.”
Will nodded weakly, letting himself relax into the hand on his back. He was tired and his body felt worn, skin still tingling strangely from the healing magic. Hannibal’s voice was a whisper against his forehead as Will leaned with increasing weight against the templar in his overwhelming exhaustion. “It’s okay, Will. You can close your eyes.”
He sighed and his eyes fluttered shut at Hannibal’s permission. He felt his lips tug into a small smile at the rush of warmth enveloping him.
He did not see the expression on Hannibal’s face as he watched the assassin from across the fire.
--
Will slept soundly that night, only vaguely aware of entering the Fade and the demon cradling his head in its lap, its fingers tracing gently over the unbroken skin of his neck. And by midday on the following day, proving Alana’s prediction pleasantly accurate, Will found himself well rested and standing in the snow, wrapped snugly in his furry cloak and waiting for the dwarven doorman to let them through the bloody door.
“You don’t understand,” Katz said, her hands flying animatedly about her as she peered down to the bearded, heavily armed dwarf that came up to her waist. “We are Grey Wardens. Well, I mean, two of us are Grey Wardens,” she amended, “and we need to get in to see your king. It’s official Warden business, pertaining to our treaty.” The dwarf just stared at her. “You have to let us in.”
“I told you already,” the dwarf grumbled grumpily. “No outsiders are getting in right now. The kingdom is in the middle of a civil war.”
“And I told you already,” continued Katz hotly, “that our treaty demands an audience with your king.”
The dwarf eyed her suspiciously and stroked his long ginger beard with thick fingers. “Excuse me,” he said, and then he turned around, went through the door, and slammed it shut in Katz’s face.
She turned to face the others, flustered. “Can I kill him?”
“I’d advise against that,” said Dimmond. Then he rubbed his hands together and leered at Katz in delight. “Better if I do it.”
“No one is killing anyone,” said Will, stepping between his comically villainous companions. “I mean,” he backtracked, his own grin spreading his lips as he met Katz’s eye, “not unless we have to.”
“Ahem.” They all turned toward the doorway through which the dwarf had reappeared. Without making eye contact with any of his guests, he pushed the stone door open wider and mumbled something.
Katz cupped her hand around her ear and leaned down. “Sorry, didn’t catch that.”
“YOU CAN COME WITH ME, WARDENS,” the dwarf yelled, and then he calmly turned away and began down a dark hallway.
“Ugh. Dwarves,” Dimmond said with an eye roll. As the others made for the doorway, - a small arch cut out of the side of the mountain - Dimmond paused. Will stopped to watch as the assassin tipped back his head and took a deep breath. “Better take a good long look at the sky while you can, my fellow,” he said in a tone far more serious than Will would have expected from the elf. “No telling when you’ll see it again.”
Will dutifully glanced up. The sky was clear and blue and forever. He breathed in the fresh mountain air, slow and deep.
“I said ‘take a look’, not ‘make love to it,’” Dimmond laughed, patting Will’s back and breaking his reverie.
Will blushed, blinked up at the blue sky once more, and then followed Dimmond through the door, into the underworld kingdom of the dwarves.
Their guide was gruff and obviously displeased by their presence, but he tolerated it, and Katz promised Will she wouldn’t kill him (unless he really deserved it). For the longest time, they merely walked, the dwarf leading them down a long stone passageway lined with torches. It briefly reminded Will of the grand hall in the Fade, but only slightly. It was cooler of temperature, with rough stone in place of smooth marble, and no black-eyed demon to whisper sweetly against his skin. Periodically, he paid Hannibal a glance and felt the heat paint his cheeks. One perk of being underground was the constant glowing cast of firelight, which did a fine job of hiding Will’s blush, but when Hannibal returned his gaze and Will stumbled distractedly, he found the firelight much too illuminating. And this time, he couldn’t blame his clumsiness on long robe hems. Hannibal reached out – of course, he did – and lightly grasped Will’s elbow. He reminded Will kindly to watch his step, and Will sputtered something nonsensical in response before reclaiming his limb. He made a point of looking straight ahead after that, even though he remained ultra aware of Hannibal’s eyes every time they cut in his direction.
After Will had tripped on his own blasted feet three times, Hannibal had grazed the small of his back once, Katz had snortled something insulting to Dimmond about his hair, and Alana had sighed in disgust on fifteen different occasions, the dwarf finally came to a halt outside a second stone door. He turned to give them each an antipathetic glower, and then pulled at a lever on the side of the nearest wall. The stone door began to slide, loud and creaky against the floor, until it had rolled completely to the side. The dwarf ushered them to follow, and he walked them into a massive hall. They had arrived.
The Kingdom of Orzammar was vast, spreading far beneath the Frostback Mountains. Only a few dwarven kingdoms remained in such a state of richness, most being destroyed during the first Blight a long, long time ago, when the darkspawn had spilled from the Deep Roads and ravished the homes of the dwarven race. But Orzammar was a thaig that still stood strong, and the entrance to its Deep Roads weas heavily patrolled, and their army was strong. Their help would be priceless against the coming Blight. That is, if they could be convinced to help. According to the grumpy guide, the path to convincing the king for assistance would be tricky, especially since, at the moment, Orzammar was “between kings.”
“Between kings?” Will asked over his mug of dwarven mead. The guide had led them straight through the Hall of Heroes and into Commons, where he'd zeroed in on the nearest bar, Tapster’s Tavern. Each had a hearty cup of drink in their hands. It all would have been very lovely if not for the disastrous spiel coming from Grumpy’s mouth. “What do you mean you’re ‘between kings’?” Will asked again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand where a sputter of mead had landed in his outraged exuberance.
The dwarf took a sloppy gulp from his mug and slammed it down to the table so hard that it sloshed over the rim and splashed Dimmond in the eye. The elf lifted a pinky finger to wipe away the deplorable speck from his otherwise spotless visage. “I meant what I said,” the dwarf began, his annoyance evident in the increasingly violent strokage of his beard. “The old king just died a fortnight ago, and now the whole kingdom is in a damned tizzy over who’s to fill his boots.”
Hannibal, who had nearly shown visible upset at the fact that Tapster’s Tavern did not actually have a wine list, dabbed the corner of his mead-suffering mouth before speaking. “My apologies; my dwarven custom is rusty, but is it not traditional for the king’s offspring to take up the mantle of ruler after a death? Was King Froideveaux a childless king?”
Grumpy sighed and bowed his head, and the tip of his beard soaked in the mead of his mug. “No,” he mumbled, depressed. “There’s Franklyn.”
Katz lifted her mug and clinked it enthusiastically against Dimmond’s, successfully splashing him with more mead. “There you go. Franklyn sounds like an excellent choice. Why isn’t he king yet?”
The dwarf’s eyes darted one way and then another, and then he leaned across the table, his beard now halfway submerged in his mead. “Franklyn’s reign has been contested by a cousin of the Froideveaux bloodline. Ordinarily, that sort of hi-jinks would be nothing more than a joke, but, the trouble is…a lot of the families are teetering, and others downright like the idea. Franklyn, you see, is not thought on to be the most…hmm, how do I put it to you?...Franklyn is, while an overall good-intentioned dwarf, not especially…he lacks a certain…” The dwarf’s sentence trailed off, his head sinking lower and lower until it rested on the edge of his mug, and then he lifted it up abruptly, tilting back his head and gulping down the entirety of the mug’s contents. His audience watched him closely, eagerly leaning in, waiting for him to continue. The dwarf slammed down his mug and fisted his beard, ringing it out on the table. “Franklyn is neurotic.”
Will sipped from his mug and carefully placed it on the table. “Neurotic?”
The dwarf nodded solemnly. “Neurotic,” he agreed.
“So neurotic,” continued Will, “that he’s incapable of being king?”
“Do you think there’d be civil upheaval throughout the kingdom if that weren’t the case? That’s the issue at hand. Keep up!”
Will felt his frustration rising. His fists balled tightly beneath the table until Hannibal lightly settled his hand across his wrist. Will balked at the intimate graze and grabbed his mug with his free hand, while the templar kept his fingers closed over his wrist beneath the table. Mirroring the dwarf, Will downed the rest of his mead in seconds. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hannibal, squeezing his wrist gently, spoke first.
“Who is this cousin of the bloodline?” he asked.
The dwarf shifted in his chair, leaning forward on his elbows. “Gideon. A real slick son of a bitch, but smart. Really clever. As much Franklyn’s opposite as it’s possible to be. After the king died, he caused a scene in the middle of the Diamond Quarter, calling for a change. He said Franklyn would be a disaster, that he doesn’t have what it takes to lead a kingdom, and that the lot of us would be better off with someone like him in charge. A lot of us thought it was all bluster and that no one would listen, but about half of the families took an interest and have decided to back his campaign.”
“Is that not considered treasonous?” Hannibal inquired. Will’s head was bowed, looking at the large hand still wrapped around his wrist. He had un-balled his fists, but the templar wasn’t letting him go. Will’s breathing had become quite rapid, and the shame of his reaction brought on an even more shameful blush. And then Hannibal began rubbing his thumb slowly across Will’s skin, back and forth. Will gasped quietly at the sensation. Hannibal wasn’t holding him roughly or demanding the touch; his fingers were only lightly draped across his wrist. Will knew he could pull away easily, whenever he wanted. So why hadn’t he moved his hand yet?
“Usually it would be considered treason, but Gideon’s got the whole blighted kingdom turvy topsy. And he’s got his own guard keeping Prince Franklyn’s royal guard at bay for the time being. Not to mention he's hiding out somewhere in Dust Town where no one can find him.” The dwarf shook his head. “All the old rules have been tossed into the kiln, I fear. And so, as you can see, we’ve no king to help you, nor any hope of having a king to help you in the near future. If Orzammar even has chance of a future for much longer that is, what with this blasted twaddle running amuck with everyone’s good sense.”
Will, still allowing Hannibal’s thumb to stroke his skin beneath the table, glanced at his companions. They looked, to say the least, afflicted with abjection. He, on the other hand, was torn between feeling a queer calmness at the slow, comforting caress of Hannibal, and pissed off, because there was no way they’d traveled this far to be turned down. Letting his anger fuel his boldness and the calming effect of the templar’s touch keep his voice steadily professional, Will squared his shoulders and spoke. “I’m sorry to hear that times below the surface are as unsavory as times above,” he said. “But things are only going to get worse for both of us if this can’t be settled. I must insist on an audience with the would-be king.”
Grumpy shook his head. “Not possible.”
“Do you see this treaty?” asked Will, and the only thing keeping him from slamming his fist on the table was Hannibal’s soothing touch. “Katz, show him the treaty.”
Katz pulled it from her belt and unfurled it so close to the dwarf’s face his eyes crossed.
“Orzammar has a duty. You are lawfully bound to assist us in our time of need, and unfortunately for us all, the end is nigh. There’s a Blight coming, and the Grey Wardens are holding your people to their promise of aid. I don’t care if you don’t have an official king. I’ll take an audience with the unofficial king, and we can go from there.”
The dwarf sighed. “There’s no way you’ll be able to settle this matter. You’re an outsider. Grey Warden or not, it won’t matter. It’ll take a sign from the Ancestors themselves to…” The dwarf paused suddenly, his eyes sparking with a curious clarity. “Wait a second. Wait just a second.”
Will sat back a bit in his chair and waited. Hannibal’s hand on his wrist felt almost natural now, and he didn’t even consider shaking it loose. He stole a glance at the others. Dimmond winked at him. Katz, who was rolling up the scroll, rolled her eyes in annoyance at the slow-thinking dwarf. Alana was, to Will’s amusement, pouring more mead into her mug and looking fairly entertained.
Finally, after about a minute of what looked to be an intense internal debate, the dwarf stroked his beard and continued. “Your arrival might be just the intervention Orzammar needs.”
“That’s a switch,” muttered Katz beneath her breath.
“We’ve something called The Proving here in Orzammar. It’s a way for the dwarven families to settle debates and the like between each other. If you enter the Proving and win, it is considered a sign of favor amongst the Ancestors. With the approval of the Ancestors, your opinion would take on a whole new meaning, especially since you’re an outsider with a neutral position, but with the innate authority of a Grey Warden,” the dwarf said, looking pleased.
Will scowled. “I’m sorry, what’s a Proving?”
The irritated disposition of the dwarf returned. “It is a matter of great honor.”
“Okay, sure, but what is it? Will it grant us an audience with Franklyn?”
“Not only will it grant you an audience with the prince,” said the dwarf, “but it will give you the authority of the Ancestors in the eyes of our people. If you enter the Proving as a champion of Prince Franklyn and win, it will be a clear sign from the Ancestors that he is the rightful heir to the throne. It would put an end to this insanity. Or at least be a step in the right direction.”
Will, still confused, but willing to grasp onto any speck of hope, found himself unconsciously twisting his wrist in Hannibal’s hand until their fingers were clasped together. “I’ll do it.”
Hannibal’s fingers tightened, making Will realize with a shock that he had grabbed hold of his hand. Will broke the contact immediately and crossed his arms across his chest. “Will,” Hannibal said, looking a strange mixture of worried and…something else utterly unreadable, “might I suggest you avoid hastiness?”
“Suggest away, but I’m doing it,” said Will. “I have to. If it’s the only way to get this settled and have the dwarven army on our side, I have to do it, don’t I?”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” offered Grumpy. “You’re allowed a partner in the arena.”
Will felt everyone’s eyes on him, but he only looked at Hannibal. He raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
Hannibal didn’t hesitate. “Of course,” he said.
Will smiled, finally turning back to the dwarf. “Hannibal and I will enter your Proofing.”
“Proving,” Alana corrected softly, followed by the demurest of hiccups.
“Hannibal and I will enter your Proving,” Will said.
For the first time, the dwarf laughed, a hearty chuckle that made his whole beard tremble. “Good. Follow me.”
--
“The Proving takes place in the Proving Grounds, a battle arena in the center of the Commons,” explained Grumpy as he led them down the stone-paved road. They were in the heart of the dwarven city, the hub of their civilization, and dwarves moved about them freely, going about their daily business. There were market booth venders selling food and clothes and jewelry. It was all, at first glance, nothing out of the ordinary, except that they were in an underground city full of dwarves, of course. But as they walked on, Will began to notice that most of the dwarves he saw on the street were clustered in pockets. A few were even holding signs, scrawled with what he could only appropriately term as rude political blather. With special care of his senses, he could detect fragility in the air, and the unmistakable waft of panic, anger, and fear. He was well-acquainted with those feelings, was feeling a few of them himself at the moment. And once he took notice, the divide between the noble families of Orzammar became more and more obvious. The groups of dwarves held hate in their eyes for one another, and the animosity of the atmosphere was almost chokingly unbearable by the time they arrived at what Grumpy called, with a proud stroke of his beard, the Proving Grounds.
They had to pass over a long, platform bridge to reach the building itself, and then walk down a set of stone steps once inside, until they were in a large octagonal room filled with weapon racks and armor stands. A dwarf spotted them from across the room and rushed forward. Grumpy – Will really needed to ask for his actual name – took the other dwarf’s arm and led him away to the corner where they began speaking quietly. Will was on the cusp of turning to the others and asking one of them nonchalantly if they had any idea what he’d gotten himself into, since he was more than a little hazy in that regard, when Grumpy and the other dwarf headed back in their direction and came to a purposeful stop before Will.
“Prince Franklyn has been contacted and is thrilled to have you acting as his champion, Grey Warden,” said the Proving Grounds dwarf. “The Proving will begin as soon as you and your partner step into the arena.”
“Right. Okay,” said Will.
“And don’t forget a weapon!” the dwarf said. “You’ll need it. I’ll be waiting to announce you by the arena door when you’re ready.” The dwarf ran off toward a double set of doors on the opposite side of the room.
Will watched, a feeling of foreboding knotting his stomach. He looked at the others, appropriately dumbfounded, and then at Hannibal, who was awaiting his glance with a thin smile.
“Not a big deal, Will,” Katz chirped unconcernedly, slapping her hand on Will’s back. “You just gotta go in there, probably kill something, and earn the approval of some Ancestors. Cakewalk.”
“Kitty-Katz is right. You’ll be in and out in mere minutes,” added Dimmond with a careless flip of his hair and winning smile. “Totally not a life threatening situation you’ve landed yourself in.”
“If you call me Kitty-Katz again I will end you,” said Katz, “but seriously, Will, it’ll be fine.”
Alana hiccupped and Will threw her a worried glance. She looked paler than usual. How much mead had she drunk? She stepped toward him and put one hand on Will’s shoulder and one on Hannibal’s. “Don’t die.”
Will gave them each a weak smile and then felt Hannibal’s hand close around his elbow and lead him toward the arena doors. About halfway through what could only be called a weapons room, he stopped, spinning Will around to face him. “Allow me this final offer of withdrawal, Will,” he whispered, eyes blazing. “You need not do this. There are other means of influence that do not so directly involve risking your life.”
“I know,” Will said, feeling guilty. Hannibal had asked him not to make such rash decisions, and he’d turned right around and agreed to a Proving, something he had little to no information on and which probably didn’t involve cuddling mabari puppies and eating pie. “But Hannibal, we’re running out of time. And without the help of the dwarves…I could risk dying here or definitely die later when our army isn’t enough to stop the Blight.”
Hannibal sighed, and then, to Will’s astonishment, brought his hand up to gently cup Will’s face. He blushed wildly, knowing the others must still be watching. But he didn’t move away. He held his breath as Hannibal’s thumb stroked gently over the flesh of his ear. “You are determined to save the world, aren’t you?” Will blinked and bit at his lower lip, not knowing what else to do with his face, not with Hannibal examining him so closely. Sensing his discomfort, the templar removed his hand a moment later and stepped away, hand closing over the pommel of his greatsword. “After you.”
Will nodded, swallowing a lump in his throat. He gripped his staff tight and walked with Hannibal the rest of the distance to the double doors, where the dwarf was awaiting them.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
Hannibal quirked a pale eyebrow at Will, and Will took a deep breath. “Ready.”
“May the Ancestors be with you,” answered the dwarf, and he opened the doors.
Will stepped through first and his feet hit dirt. Hannibal walked through after him, and then the doors slammed shut. The clicking of the lock was audible and hugely disconcerting. They had stepped into a true arena, a massive ring with a stadium stretched high above it. The benches were filled with dwarves, and in the highest seat, in the center, was, Will deduced, Prince Franklyn. He was so high up, Will had to squint to make out any features at all, but he looked a jolly-faced dwarf, a tad rotund, with a big black beard and big eyes. Will was still straining for a better look when the megaphone crackled and a voice boomed, bouncing with incredible volume throughout the arena.
“ENTERING THE ARENA AS PRINCE FRANKLYN’S CHAMPION IS WILL, A GREY WARDEN. ACTING AS HIS RIGHT HAND IS HIS CLOSE FRIEND HANNIBAL.”
Will glanced at Hannibal, who shrugged and flashed him a smile, an amused twinkle in his eyes. Will gulped and held his staff out in front of him. Then he heard a slam and turned around. Double doors on the opposite end of the arena had opened and closed and walking toward the center of the ring were two dwarves carrying formidable, double sided axes.
Okay. That was doable. He and Hannibal could handle two dwarves, no problem. He nodded to Hannibal and they walked, side by side, to the center of the arena, stopping a few yards away from their dwarven opponents.
“THE WINNER IS THE TEAM LEFT BREATHING.”
Will whipped his head to the templar beside him. “This is to the death?”
Hannibal’s head tilted, strands of silverish hair sweeping over his forehead. “Don’t worry, Will. It will be their deaths, not ours.”
“ON THE COUNT OF THREE.”
Will moved closer to Hannibal’s side, and Hannibal unsheathed his sword, angling it toward the dwarves, who were spinning the handles of their axes in their hands so quickly they blurred.
“ONE…”
Will’s eyelids fluttered as he concentrated. His mana gathered hot and volatile in his core.
“TWO…”
His palms were warm, and his fingers clasped tight against his staff. He heard a rumble from Hannibal and stole a glance. The templar’s lips were parted in a snarl. Will’s heart stuttered in his chest.
“THREE!”
A loud horn blared throughout the arena, and the crowd erupted in hollers. Will swirled his staff over his head and slammed it in front of him, a line of fire sweeping to the feet of the dwarf directly ahead. But the dwarf dropped and rolled in front of the flames, popping back up to his feet and throwing his double-sided axe straight for Will’s abdomen. Will blocked it deftly with an angling of his cherry wood staff and quickly thanked the First Enchanter for its sturdiness, for the axe was deflected and it dropped to the dirt at Will’s feet. The dwarf bellowed and charged, leaping into the air and kicking Will square in the chest.
Will fell onto his back and the crowd’s answering roar was deafening. He barely had time to register the landed kick when the dwarf, who had scooped up his axe in Will’s daze, was standing over him with his teeth bared menacingly. Will, unaccustomed to fighting on his back, crawled backward beneath him but the dwarf was already lifting its axe.
And then- Maker! – Hannibal kicked the dwarf and he sailed through the air a few feet before landing with a hard thud on the ground. In the next moment, Hannibal reached for Will’s hand and hauled him to his feet. Will was reminded of their fight in the Lothering tavern, and it brought an untimely smile to his face. He thought he caught a flash of the templar’s returning grin, but he was already turning back around, spinning gracefully into the second dwarf at his back, his greatsword a shining arc of mastery. Allowed the second’s respite from Hannibal’s intervention, Will watched him fight the dwarf. Though half the height of Hannibal, the dwarf was well-muscled and solid, and he heaved his axe like it’d been born a part of his body. But he was still no match for the templar. Hannibal was fluid steel and power, and Will had to tear his eyes away from his arms as they swung toward the dwarf with ferocity.
The kicked dwarf was up and angry, and he maintained his double-sided axe, spinning it in front of his bearded face with a grimace as he stalked back toward Will. Staff in hand, Will faced him, his dark eyebrows scrunching in concentration. The dwarf had murder in his eyes. This was a fight to the death, after all. And though it was not the same as killing darkspawn, and he knew not whether this dwarf was ‘evil’ or not, Will did know that if he didn’t kill him, the dwarf would do his damndest to kill Will. And Hannibal. At that thought, Will felt a buildup of heat under his skin. The dwarf bellowed its battle cry and Will let the mana surge through him, channeling it into his staff, until a raging fireball rocketed forth, hitting the dwarf in the chest. Will staggered to his knees from the intense release of magic, and the dwarf dropped its axe, swatting desperately at his beard, which had gone up in flames. Will panted and watched as the dwarf, unable to stop the spread of fire, slowly smoked beneath his helmet. And then, that smell hit Will’s nostrils. That smell that was becoming so familiar. Burning skin and hair. A life on fire. The dwarf screamed and screamed, beating helplessly at the flames melting his face, and from his place on the ground, kneeling, Will delivered a second, merciful blast to the dwarf. This one ended it, and the dwarf stopped screaming in pain, and collapsed to the ground. Will felt strong hands lifting him from his waist until he was standing upright, Hannibal at his side. His eyes cut downward and spied the thick coating of blood on the templar’s sword. Beyond, in two lumps on the ground, was the second dwarf, heaved in half.
They looked at one another, Will breathing hard.
“Are you hurt?” Hannibal asked.
Will shook his head and wondered if his own eyes were shining like Hannibal’s were shining. His whole body was rife with adrenaline, and all he could smell was melted flesh and blood and sweat. And he felt good.
The horn was blown once more and the voice returned with a crackling boom.
“WILL AND HANNIBAL WIN ROUND ONE.”
Will’s eyes widened, still looking at Hannibal. “Round one?”
Hannibal’s expression was fierce as his eyes focused on something over Will’s shoulder. “It appears our next combatants are arriving,” he said.
Will turned around to see what Hannibal was seeing, and there, stepping through the double doors across the arena, was a group of six dwarves. He turned back to Hannibal, mouth parted in surprise. “Six of them?”
But Hannibal didn’t look worried. “Will,” he said, stepping close and leaning in so his voice could be heard over the crowd. “When the round begins, would you please cast a firewall at their backs to keep them from retreating?” Hannibal’s voice was deep and Will could feel the warmth of his lips as they nearly brushed against his ear.
Will nodded and Hannibal smiled warmly. A rare, open mouthed smile that had Will’s knees near to knocking.
“ROUND TWO WILL BEGIN ON THE COUNT OF THREE.”
“Thank you, Will,” Hannibal said. “Now stay behind me.” He set his hand on Will’s shoulder.
“ONE…”
“Do not worry, Will,” Hannibal told him, turning back toward the six dwarves, who were lining up at the center of the arena, each with swords as broad as Hannibal’s. “I will cut off their hands before I let them touch you.”
“TWO…”
Will kept his eyes on Hannibal as he walked ahead, sword raised and legs parting in an easy stance. The dwarves readied their own swords. Will mustered his willpower, gathering the mana that roiled violently in his core.
“THREE!”
The horn sounded and Will shut his eyes, summoning the firespell. He felt his fingertips smoldering as the heat flooded from his staff, and then he allowed his eyes to open. A great wall of fire burned high behind the six dwarves, threatening their backs and making them inch forward, toward the waiting templar. Will wanted to run to Hannibal’s side, to fight beside him but after he’d taken the first step, he paused. Hannibal had asked that he stay behind him. Will bit his lip, squeezing the staff in his hand, and he watched.
This group of warrior dwarves was more heavily armed than the previous, and their swords were almost as tall as they were, with savage, serrated edges that stirred the uneasiness in Will’s stomach as he watched them creeping steadily toward Hannibal. But Hannibal, Will reminded himself, had taken down an ogre. Six dwarves were nothing compared to an ogre. Still, his heart was beating hard as he waited obediently for the first strike.
It came when the first dwarf charged. Hannibal swept his greatsword, dropping to one knee, and his blade sliced straight and true, clear through the dwarf's neck. The onlookers gasped and the dwarf’s head rolled. Hannibal hopped gracefully back to both feet and repositioned his sword, evening the blade in front of his chest.
The dwarves tried to step back and met Will’s high wall of fire that he was focusing on maintaining. His forehead was damp with the effort, but it was worth it when the dwarves couldn't fall back. The bearded warriors looked at one another, turned back to Hannibal, and then let out a joint battle cry as they rushed him all at once. But only four of the five were rushing at the templar. But one had broken away from the main charge, circled around behind Will and was barreling right for him. Will spun around at the sound of the stomping boots at his back, and he stumbled back in surprise.
His staff in hand, he tried to split his focus, so he could maintain the firewall and sent a separate blast of flame toward the dwarf closing in on his position, but it was straining and Will was beginning to feel dizzy. The dwarf was coming, closer and closer, his sword held straight out as if he meant to run Will straight through the gut.
“Get down,” said the demon’s voice inside Will’s head and, without pause, he ducked into a low crouch.
In the next breath, a sword sailed over where Will’s head had just been, and it plunged into the dwarf, sinking between his eyes. Will, shocked, spun around, still in his crouch, and saw Hannibal, a bloodied pile of dwarves surrounding him in a circle. He met Will’s eyes and leapt over the corpses, running toward him. The horn blared, and Will let his spellwork drop, and the firewall disappeared just as Hannibal was kneeling down beside him.
“WILL AND HANNIBAL WIN ROUND TWO!”
“Will,” Hannibal rasped, cradling Will’s head in his hands. “Are you injured?”
“No, no, I’m okay.” Will answered quickly. “Are you?”
Hannibal gazed at him a moment longer, as if making sure Will wouldn’t collapse if he let him go, and seemingly satisfied by something he saw, he released Will and walked to the dwarf lying dead a few feet away. Will watched as he placed his boot over the dwarf’s forehead and heaved his greatsword free from where it had embedded between his eyes. Blood spurted when the blade was removed, and Hannibal kicked the body over, facedown. The blood soaked into the dirt around the dwarf’s head.
“ROUND THREE WILL BEGIN ON THE COUNT OF THREE!”
Will took Hannibal’s offered hand and they stood together at the center of the arena. The double doors were opening.
“ONE…”
Will, who hadn’t let go of Hannibal’s hand, squeezed it hard. “That’s twelve dwarves!”
“Hmm…” responded Hannibal.
“Hmmm?!” Will repeated desperately.
“TWO…”
The dozen dwarves, armed with a multitude of differing weapons, were approaching the center of the arena. Will gripped his staff in one hand and Hannibal’s hand in the other.
“Will, I’d like for you to stay right where you are,” Hannibal said in his ear. “Do you understand?”
Will nodded and Hannibal squeezed his hand once before letting it go. He brandished his gore-tarnished sword and stood directly in front of Will.
“THREE!”
The horn announced the beginning of the round, and the twelve dwarves moved in what must have been a planned formation, spreading out into a circle around the mage and his templar.
“Hannibal?” Will asked, his feet firmly planted, but his hands trembling around his staff as the dwarves began to move slowly but surely, closer and closer to where he stood in the middle.
Hannibal circled him slowly, his sword angled out. “Show them what you are capable of, Will,” Hannibal said, eyes never wavering from the approaching dwarves.
Will blew a sweaty curl from his eyes and refastened his grip on his staff. With Hannibal protecting him, he could let his eyes close for a moment, and he bid his mana to build in his core, hot and swirling with energy. His eyes shot open and he slammed down his staff. A line of fire erupted from the ground at his feet to the feet of one of the dwarves, licking high and singing his boots. The rest of the dwarves began to run for Will, but Hannibal was right there, always right where he needed to be, blocking and hacking. Will felt a splash of hot blood on his cheek as he gathered a storm of fire; it swirled ferociously over their heads. One by one, the falling flames sent the dwarves into burning hysterics. The air was full of smoking skin and wails of pain. And every time a dwarf came near enough to Will, Hannibal moved between them with his greatsword, stabbing and slicing, until they were the only ones left alive in all of the arena.
Will held out until the horn blared, and then Hannibal was there, his arm around Will’s waist, taking all of his weight as the last of his energy was drained.
“WILL AND HANNIBAL HAVE WON THE PROVING AS PRINCE FRANKLYN’S CHAMPIONS! VICTORY TO PRINCE FRANKLYN!”
“It’s over?” Will mumbled weakly, pressing his face into Hannibal’s shoulder.
Hannibal sheathed his sword so he could better support Will, lifting his arm to rest across his shoulder. “It’s over. Come.”
With Hannibal’s help, Will stepped over the bodies, and walked back through the double doors open and waiting for them. He was glad to be back in the weapons room, if only to dull the raging roar of the arena crowd. As soon as they were inside, Alana swatted Hannibal aside and took Will’s face in her hands.
“Are you hurt?” she asked with pinched brows.
“I’m not hurt, just a bit drained,” he answered.
Alana nodded curtly and then moved on to Hannibal, surprising everyone when she grabbed his face just as bossily. “Are you hurt?” she asked.
Hannibal blinked at her. “I promise you, none of this blood is ours,” he said after a pause.
Will frowned and looked down at himself for the first time. His shirt was covered in red splatters, and Hannibal’s templar armor was even worse off. Suddenly, his stomach wrenched in disgust. They had just killed twenty dwarves.
He was bent over, hands on his knees, when the Proving Grounds dwarf ran up to them. “What a show! Prince Franklyn is very pleased and wishes to see you in his private quarters at once!” Will straightened himself, a grimace plastered to his bloody face. “Erm,” the dwarf continued, “perhaps after you’ve cleaned up a bit.”
Hannibal bowed his head, always so polite, so thoughtful, so capable of slaying numerous opponents with minimal effort. “You may tell Prince Franklyn we shall arrive soon.”
The dwarf nodded and excused himself. Hannibal returned his hand to Will’s waist and looked to Dimmond. “I wonder if you might be kind enough to head into the market we passed along the way here and purchase Will some fresh clothes?” Hannibal reached behind his belt and came up with a handful of coins, which he pressed into the elf’s open palm. “Something sturdy, but soft against the skin. In a small, I believe. The pants the same.” Will blushed at the specific instructions but did not contradict the templar’s request. “Katz, go with him, please, to make certain his selections are appropriate. Nothing vulgarly tight.”
Katz smirked, but nodded her head, and Will watched as she nudged Dimmond in the ribs and the pair hurried off to complete their task.
“Will, you should sit and have some water. You need to regain your strength,” Hannibal said at his ear, and when Alana pulled up a chair, and he lowered his tired body to sit in it, he remembered.
The demon…it had spoken to him in the midst of the fight. It had warned him to get down. Or had Will only imagined he’d heard its voice? His head aching, Will accepted the canteen that Alana handed him and sipped from it wearily. He shut his eyes and tried to feel the demon’s presence surrounding him, but all he could feel was Hannibal, his hand resting on Will’s shoulder, and his calm, soothing voice insisting that he really should finish off the water, for it was of the utmost importance he remain hydrated.