Chapter Text
The Chantry didn’t talk about the Chasind much, more effort to seek them in the Wilds than it was worth for all but the most devout of missionaries. They were seen as men with little more sense than the beasts they hunted, too primitive to truly appreciate the need for their own salvation. The judgment of scholars and sisters, of course. Men and women who lived in distant towns and had never journeyed south to watch the sun rise over the silent, untamed spaces. To see the way color slipped back into the world and made everything fresh and new, even in the worst of it, when Hawke had been so sick at heart, and never slept, and always met the dawn.
A new day in Ferelden could be a benediction all its own, and to see it was to sow the seed of doubt, that the Maker had given up on all his creations, had turned His back to them. So the Chantry thought the Chasind simple, and the wildfolk didn’t think on the Chantry at all, and the world kept turning.
Hawke still wakes up early, even here in Kirkwall where there’s no windows and no sunrise and only a handful of hours since she bothered to close her eyes. No light of any kind to be had in the cramped room and since she’s in the top bunk, perhaps a whole six inches between her and the ceiling. The nights have been cold and clammy, Spring coming in fits and starts with all the better weather seemingly chased back out to sea. Kirkwall keeps promising better days but always fails to deliver - rather a running theme for the place.
She had been out until the early hours, with the last job for Athenril - what had become the last job, though Hawke couldn’t say she was all that surprised. It had never been enough for the elven woman just to use her for what she was good at make a profit and be done with it. The smuggler never stopped tugging at the edges of what Hawke would and would not do, always with the same refrain - “This isn’t Ferelden, Hawke” - as if Lothering were a fairy land, and her refusal to lunge for whatever dangled in front of her was proof of how backward she really was. Maybe this was what had been pushing the smuggler from the beginning, mistaking Hawke’s restraint for ignorance, believing that as soon as she learned the way things really were she would happily agree to anything. She damn well knew what would happen when Hawke found out about her ‘replacement,’ his age, his complete lack of skill - there’d been a scowl on the elf’s face before either one of them had said a word.
At least taking down Coterie thugs and Athenril half-promising a knife to her throat had taken her mind off other things - until now. Hawke rolls over again, wishing she were less awake, the nervous gnaw in her stomach reminding her that today is the day, that even finishing up her work with the smugglers was nothing more than an excuse to keep from thinking about the Sundermount and who knows what might be waiting up there besides the clan. She hasn’t seen any Dalish, not since Ferelden, not for years, and even then…
What if she’s there?
Oh, Maker, what if.
Hawke’s shoulder twinges, the ghost of a wound that had never left a mark - there were times she wished Bethany had been a little worse at healing - and she is thinking too much of Ferelden today, too much of the wide, flat fields, the forests, the places she’d known as easy as breathing, every tree and stone familiar.
A year on, and they are all still as good as strangers here. The way Kirkwall watches her never changes, as if she’d paint herself up and run naked and screaming through the streets the moment they aren’t looking, and Hawke can’t say she’s not tempted. If nothing else, at least she’s giving the people in Lowtown a chance to finally look down their noses at someone. All those disdainful stares, and that’s when they think she’s trying to fit in, that it isn’t a matter of every childhood lesson - her father’s lessons - all as familiar as breathing and as comforting as the Chant is to the devout: Stay invisible. Play the fool. Pride cuts its cost from those most loved, dignity is only for those with the coin to command it.
Look what happens to them anyway. Look what happened to King Cailan. Better to be ignored, to be underestimated and overlooked. Let rich men fight for scraps of meat on the bones and call it glory.
Karolis had been waiting for her at the door when she’d returned - the mabari more nervous now than he’d ever been back home, even when she’d explained where she was going and why he couldn’t come along. He sleeps at the side of the bed now, and Hawke can hear his paws scratching at the floors as he twitches, running in his sleep, dreaming for the both of them. Charging through the wilderness, cool air stinging with each breath, making the best of the late-autumn hunt. The unforgiving chill of Ferelden winters, the damp of the thaw, and the short but sweet summer nights that always followed, stretching out in the grass beneath an infinite sky. Kirkwall has too many lights and too many clouds, the stars a sparse and miserly copy of what ought to be there, and there’s always thick fog in the mornings and it always smells, even here in the dark, with only the thinnest bands of light creeping through the rough-hewn door.
Hawke reaches up, hooking her fingers in a small hole in the ceiling, a loose piece of what can generously be called masonry giving way, and behind that the amulet, falling into her open palm. Tucked away to keep Gamlen from selling it, hardly the best hiding spot in the world but their dear uncle’s still half-convinced Bethany can turn him into a toad, and she’s still happy to occasionally mutter nonsense just to see him flinch and keep his distance. Hawke turns the trinket over in her hands, searching again for the power that must be there, whatever’s so important that she’d been asked to carry it across the sea. It isn’t particularly heavy, or ornate, or impressive. Bethany had studied it cautiously, but could sense nothing odd about it. It seems perfectly ordinary, and that worries her most of all.
The temptation to get rid of it is strong, just to toss it into the sea, the obvious possibility that fulfilling this task is the last thing she wants to do, but the Witch of the Wilds did her a favor. As much as Hawke doesn’t want to complete this mystery task, she certainly doesn’t want to explain herself should a dragon come to call.
The mabari stirs on the floor, looking up just before the door opens and her sister appears. Over Bethany’s shoulder, Hawke can see the rest of the house is quiet, which means Gamlen’s accompanied their mother on her errands, or gone off to get a head start on ruining whatever is left of his life. Hawke has tried her best to tolerate him - he had done what he could to help them even though his means were meager at best. If he hadn’t gone and lied to Mother about her own parents’ last wishes, that they had died hating her for marrying Father - well, Hawke’s not going to sic the dog on him, and in her eyes that puts them about even.
Bethany crosses her arms, her expression equal parts affection and dismay. It’s not that Hawke’s found any reason not to fall into bed fully clothed, though her sister seems to still dock extra points for leaving her boots on.
“I didn’t hear you come in.”
Hawke smirks. “I did it right, then.”
Bethany takes the three steps to the nearby wall, Hawke’s coinpurse hanging from the dagger she’s stuck there - a habit that drives Gamlen mad - and her sister shakes it gently, the metallic equivalent of a whimper from inside. Hardly the sound of a job well done. “So… I see things went well.”
“You never liked her anyway.”
“So what was it this time, widows or orphans?”
“A little of column 'A'…” A sigh from Bethany, and Hawke glances over. “Athenril was looking for a way to get rid of me without feeling like she owed me. I never lied to her - she knew better than to set me up with this. So I get to help out some of our fellow citizens, she gets to feel insulted, and everyone is happy. A clean break.”
“I should have been with you. How many were there?”
“I’m fine, Bethy.”
A second sigh, this one more irritated than the first, and Hawke rolls over to the side of the bed, letting her arm dangle down. Scraped knuckles, a slight cut where the armor didn’t quite catch the blow, and she might have avoided both if she hadn’t been mostly worried about keeping the boy out of the way of Coterie steel. No damage worth the effort it takes to heal it, though her sister does so without hesitation.
“At least I’m keeping you up on your spellwork.”
The glow fades from her hand, and Bethany takes hold of her wrist, lightly.
“What if she comes after us?”
“I’ll deal with it.” Hawke says, and slides off the bed onto the floor, Karolis rolling to his feet and trotting off to the front room. She’d made a mistake last night, telling him where they were going today - the mabari is already by the door, waiting as patiently as his impatience will allow. Hawke pulls her dagger from the wall, flipping it back into its sheath. “Athenril knows how to cut her losses. She’s not stupid enough for revenge.”
With any luck, it’s actually true. The smuggler’s smart enough to remember why she took Hawke on in the first place, and a full year’s work has made her more dangerous, not less. Hawke’s learned a couple of nice tricks for fighting in cities, how to make the best use of tight alleys and close quarters. If Athenril keeps her distance, that will be the end of it, and she hopes it is. In a way, Hawke still owes her. If it hadn’t been for the smuggler’s tipoff, she never would have ended up in the Alienage searching for stolen cargo, never would have been ambushed…
Never would have to remember what it was like to be fifteen again, young and giddy and nervous, full of heroic intentions and mad passions. Tangled up in every feeling she’d hoped to leave behind on their way out of Lothering, one more thing for the darkspawn to take. Until now, she thought she’d succeeded.
Hawke can manage a half-decent blank expression for anyone but her sister, remembering the other other thing she’s been trying not to think about - that Fenris will be accompanying them to the Sundermount, out of interest or the need to stretch his legs or perhaps the lack of anything better to do.
Bethany’s gaze sees all, and is entirely without pity. “Tragedy.”
“The Black City take you.” Hawke says, pushing past her into the larger room that never, ever gets less depressing. Her stomach is still in knots, no chance at breakfast, and Hawke strips off her armor with abandon, Bethy pouring a bit of water from the main cistern into the bucket they use to wash, just enough fire in her hands to warm it to tolerable and this, right here, is why people ought to be a little nicer to mages. Occasionally, Hawke will bother to hang the curtain they use, though with no likelihood of their uncle being back anytime soon, it’s easier to simply scrub down in the middle of the room.
“Varric said he had a bargain on some sweet plums, the early season ones. I’d told him they were mother’s favorite.” Bethany’s already very fond of the dwarf, though she still looks over at Hawke as she speaks. “You do think we can trust him, don’t you?”
“If he wanted us over a barrel we would have started there.” Hawke says. She’s given the dwarf a few chances to reveal any hidden intentions, to go after Bethy - having an apostate sister is usually the weak point, though even Athenril knew better than to push it - and so far Varric has been a perfect gentleman. The only lingering worry with him is with what Hawke sees, or more specifically doesn’t see.
It’s hard to remember a time she didn’t watch a conversation as much as listen to it - everyone has tells, more important than words. Even Templars will shed their armor now and then to try and catch the more stubborn of apostates, but they still carrry themselves like they’re wearing it, and it’s easy to pick them out. With all the strangers in and out of their lives over the years, the vast gray network of those trying to avoid notice, Hawke has learned how to pay very close attention. It’s often a matter of subtle degrees, which strangers might bring trouble with them and which have problems they will keep to themselves. The difference between a dangerous blood mage and a terrified apostate with no sense for life outside the Circle isn’t always obvious, but Hawke has been watching long enough to have a feel for when things aren’t quite right.
Varric… he’s friendly, and his offer’s simple, and there’s nothing in him that says danger but that’s mostly because Hawke can’t read him at all. Completely opaque, giving her not a farthing more than he wants to, and at times Hawke is sure he knows she’s trying to puzzle him out, and is amused by it. Dwarves have a tendency to be taciturn, but even with that Varric is on an entirely different level. Will he still be on her side, if they get down underground and Bartrand decides he doesn’t like the deal?
It will all prove itself in the Deep Roads, of course. The best place in the world to screw over a ‘business partner’ without any fear of ever being called on it - but there’s nothing to be done, and going in without her sister is the best Hawke can do. The dwarf has asked, surprisingly, to accompany them to the mountain. If nothing else, it ought to give her a bit more opportunity to see what Varric is willing to share.
“So, did the angry, pointy elf have anything more to say about how you ought to disown me?”
Bethany’s prim tone is more adorable than the disdain she’s trying for, even more so as Hawke feels the touch of magic at her shoulder - a cool tingling, and a slow flush of warmth deep in the muscle, healing some small injury she hadn’t even taken note of.
Compared to Varric’s inscrutable nature, Fenris can surely be read from the other end of the Free Marches, all sharpness and armored claws that did not retract and every tensed gesture screaming ‘do not touch.’ He is always ready to react, and Hawke thinks that has less to do with being a bodyguard than reflexes honed from living entirely on someone else’s whims. He is being hunted and dares not let that high alert slip - not any more than Hawke can see a Templar and not think about the best and fastest way to get Bethy to safety. Or how she’s gone into fights against the Coterie still thinking of how to compensate for Carver should he overstep himself, and her little brother has been dead and gone for over a year.
“Remember when I said that there wasn’t anything more to it than the fact that he surprised me?”
“No.”
“Well, I was thinking it.”
The entire reason, Hawke had convinced herself, that visiting Fenris was so important. No denying he was worth the time, nothing wrong with a little casual appreciation - but anything more, all the really stupid things had simply been part of a perfect storm. The ambush, the thrill of the fight, everything amplified by the feeling she’d had since meeting Varric, being offered the chance she thought she’d have to beg for, that things were finally turning around. Fenris had simply been swept up in all the excitement. Handsome and fascinating and unique... and that was all. The sort of thing anyone - really, absolutely anyone - would feel.
It was what Hawke had told herself, standing at the threshold of the mansion. That she wasn’t rocking nervously in her boots, toe to heel. That she wasn’t taking a deep breath and her heart wasn’t beating just a little too hard. Assuring herself that at at least it couldn’t get worse than this - which only meant she was the most fantastic idiot in the whole of the world and the Fade and wherever it was the souls of nugs went when they died.
——————————-
The door had swung open under her hand, and Hawke stepped inside carefully, making as much noise as she could manage. Doubtless that there were few worse ideas in the world than startling the elf, though she was confident she could keep out of his way at least on the short-term, even if Fenris had already proved himself considerably faster than most with a broadsword, not to mention that whole crushing people’s hearts business.
A gesture meant for show, intended to intimidate. Grotesque and theatrical though in the end it wasn’t any more lethal than what a dagger could do, and spoke far less of Fenris than the former master who’d been so eager to put such a skill on display.
Her father had known a few Templars in his time who’d liked to make sport of fragile mages. Hurting them when no one else was looking, tormenting them by endless, small degrees and pushing, always pushing, if only to watch them break. It wasn’t because they were Templars, he’d made that point clear, these sort of men the exact same monsters no matter their profession, the kind who’d muzzle a mabari just for the chance to kick it. Men in Lothering with wives who couldn’t quite look anyone in the eye, who’d held themselves at odd, broken angles, and had skittish children that never laughed. Cruelty as a game, as a way of life, and bad enough with farmers or Templars, but just imagine that same inclination in a mage with the power to make the rules as he saw fit, and surround himself with easy prey? Fenris had been designed to invoke awe and fear, and Hawke had no doubt this Magister of his had made a merry ruin of whatever was left of his life when he wasn’t on display, out of amusement or boredom or simply because he could.
She knew how it worked, even if it remained far beyond her ability to understand.
The silent ruin of the mansion was still a far sight more impressive than Gamlen’s hovel - and she’d glanced up for a moment through the broken skylight, though even here there were few stars to be seen. The signs of the damage they’d done the first night were still quite evident, and it seemed odd, Fenris seemed too… discriminating, to live amidst such wreckage. Though if he expected slavers at the door at any moment, perhaps there was little point in redecorating.
A few steps more, and Hawke had reached the doorway of the study and then there he was. Fenris, with his back turned to her and the firelight playing across his skin, pale hair catching bits of gold, burnished and terrible and glorious. What Hawke knew of the Imperium could fit a scrap of parchment at best, but they did seem rather fond of intricately planning their own destruction.
Once, long ago, when her sister had just started learning magic, Bethany had accidentally thumped her with a lightning spell. Hawke hadn’t seen it coming, and it didn’t really hurt, more like a soft, heavy weight slamming against her chest and a dizzy, tingling sensation as she’d tried to breathe, wondering how she’d ended up flat on her back. Exactly as it was now, as it had been since that first moment in the Alienage. Fenris left her breathless and senseless and not giving a damn about any of it, and the silence quickly filled with the sound of all her arguments quietly collapsing to nothing, and possibly laughing at her on the way down.
“Fenris.”
It seemed she’d still managed to startle him, although Hawke thought it was worth any price, watching the warm light of the fire war briefly with the silver-blue flare of power as he’d turned, mercurial gaze flickering from anger to recognition to a brief glimpse of that haunted, near-animal wariness, before finally settling on cautious curiosity.
“Hawke.”
He meant it to be only civil at best, but it melted down her spine anyway. Somehow, she found a place to sit where the dim light might hide whatever stupid expression was on her face, though by then Fenris was too busy tossing wine bottles against the walls to pay much attention. Hawke wondered if any of the show was for her sake. Was he making a point, defending his territory? Proving that he didn’t care what she thought of him? If it had been meant to scare her off, he was going to have to work much harder than that.
It took a lot to live with a father and a sister as apostates, but it gave back a thousand times the cost. Teaching her how to live in a world of sudden changes and unexpected partnerships, how and when to trust even those she didn’t much care for, depending on others for help and helping in turn. All kinds of people were thrown together at random, just trying to survive, and freedom didn’t always bring out the best even in those who strived for it above all else. Hawke had grown up excusing paranoia, suspicion and short tempers long before they’d ever hit Kirkwall’s shores. Hell, Anders had nearly taken her head off the moment they’d met, and he was a gentle healer of most of the Fereldens in the city. So Fenris had finally made some bitter comment about the wine, and Hawke had gone for the wry reply but whatever she’d said she had no hope of remembering because it had actually made him laugh.
A real laugh, not much of one, but still enough to catch him by surprise. Exactly as wonderful as she’d thought it would be, though it didn’t last, Fenris’ startled amusement swiftly drawing back into a pensive distance, a more defensible position and Maker, but that hurt to see. The fury knifed through her, raw and hot, for how carefully the elf measured his words. The doubt, the uncertainty was in every inch of him, any move he made bound up by lines only he could see, and it angered him even as he hesitated to cross them. The more pleasant and pointless the topic the less Fenris seemed to have any idea what to do with it.
Hawke wanted to let this Danarius know just how well he had succeeded, that it was quite obvious the time and care and effort that had gone into such breathtaking results - and then she wanted to pound the bastard’s face into the back of his skull until her arm gave out. If she knew nothing but Fenris’ name and his need for aid, it would have been enough. No one should have to face a fight like his alone - the ridiculous thing her heart did every time she saw him was just a bonus.
No real surprise he didn’t want to talk much about his past, his home - there had been men her father had known for years, passing in and out of their lives, and Hawke had never learned more than their names. On the road, what got left behind was either painful or a liability, and it was common courtesy to leave it there. Three years of being hunted spoke highly of his skills, and for all her sister found him intolerable, he was remarkably well-spoken for spending most of those days alone.
Smarter than you. Definitely smarter than you. Yes, but that was hardly a challenge. Managing to put her pants on before her boots was worth celebrating most days.
“Is it safe?” Hawke couldn’t help but ask, watching the edge of a clawed gauntlet trail one of the curving, silvery marks and trying not to think about her own hand in its place. Fenris’ eyes narrowed.
“You mean will I run mad and take your heart for my collection?”
Oh, how that ship has sailed.
“I mean for you. Lyrium is dangerous, isn’t it?”
“It’s been many years. If I was going to burn up, I imagine it would have happened by now.”
How terrible, though, that he might never be certain, to have to live with even his own body as an unknown. Funny and sad, the way things always seemed to be, that Fenris and Anders had so much in common and yet they hated the very sight of each other.
He looked up at her, after a moment. “Have you never considered going back to Ferelden?”
The question was not at all one she expected, and Hawke found herself struggling for an answer. Nothing she had not asked herself, ever since they’d arrived and found their hope for safe haven reduced to a leaky ruin.
Surely, it was the memories of home that had kept her going until now - but Hawke knew well that none of those had been new. Lothering had dimmed for her even before Father died, and it had been a long three years after, everywhere seeming to remind her of some better time. Change had been creeping up on them already, hard decisions to be made even before the Blight. Certainly, Kirkwall wasn’t what they’d hoped it would be, but thinking of going home, even if her mother hadn’t been adamant on staying… Ferelden wasn’t home anymore. If Lothering had been completely restored, there would still be no point in pretending things could be as they were.
“I doubt I’ll ever return.”
“And that’s it? You leave it behind so easily?”
Hawke blinked, surprised at the sudden venom in his voice.
“I wouldn’t say it was easy… and what was important came with me. Would you have done differently?”
“No. In fact that is exactly what I have done.” Fenris sighed, and grimaced. “I… apologize. Your life is your own. It simply… sounds very familiar.”
Like a candle flame in a tempest, blazing one moment only to gutter the next, the elf as quick to anger as he was to let it die. Hawke wondered how much of it was real, that edge in Fenris’ tone and manner, and how much was the simple joy of knowing he could say whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted without fear of reprisal. If Hawke had been forced to bow and scrape to Kirkwall’s nobility for most of her life, she certainly would not have come out of it with a song in her heart. But what exactly had that been about?
Frustration, perhaps. Wishing that wanting to feel differently could make it so, that trying to leave the past behind didn’t really mean pretending not to look back. Fenris didn’t seem like the type to endure such contradictions, though Hawke had made peace with it years ago, that time marched on, each day passing whether anything in it made sense or not.
“I ought to…” Fenris says, searching for the words - and that, his thoughtfulness, his care - she certainly doesn’t mind watching. “About your sister, I did not mean to…”
“Proper manners aren’t worth much if you’re dead. I get it, and so does Bethy.” He was surprised, she could see it, and Hawke grinned. “It’s been our whole life. I know how it is. Trust the wrong person too soon, or give someone the benefit of the doubt and it can get you killed, or worse. You do what you have to do to stay alive. Civility can go hang.”
“And that is how you… survive?”
He sounded so crestfallen that Hawke had to fight back a laugh.
“It doesn’t last forever. Well, unless there’s a Blight, then all bets are off.”
Fenris studied her for a moment, and she tried not to fidget under his gaze, or spend too long looking back. Almost disapproval, almost suspicion, though if he expected her to be any kind of puzzle he would be disappointed. So fierce, so intense even when he was silent - Maker, but he did burn. A bright star, the kind to set a course by.
“You don’t live that way.”
An accusation - that by those rules, she didn’t know him well enough to be here now. Hawke wondered what he would think, if he knew Bethany had said much the same.
“I’m fast enough it doesn’t matter. Spring the trap and I’m already gone.”
And the look in his eyes then. Uniquely Fenris, a mix of interest and caution and a dozen other emotions that flicked by, too fast to name. Funny, if this was the sort of quiet hostility she found charming, Hawke should have been eloping with half of Kirkwall by now. Except for how focused he was on every word, those little glimpses that beneath his silence there stood an endless debate, likely three years running - and the other look, the one she’d seen when he stopped laughing. Lost. Uncertain. If it was facing that or his anger, Hawke would gladly pass him every bottle from the cellar.
“Had I known Anso would find me a woman so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner.”
The shift in his tone caught her completely off guard, but Hawke’s mouth was always happy to be free of her common sense, and knew what to do.
“You sound like you’re about to ask for a loan.”
“Well, this mansion does require some upkeep.”
And then he’d stood, and looked down at her with the closest she’d seen all night to - oh, hell.
“Perhaps I’ll practice my flattery for your next visit. With any luck, I’ll become better at it.”
If Fenris got any better at it, he would have to charge by the word.
Hawke had managed to say her goodbyes, to stumble free of the mansion without making an idiot of herself, but the high walls of the city had loomed around her in a way that was suddenly unbearable, and within moments she’d found a decent way up to a far more suitable perch. Strolling across the rooftops of Hightown, to look down on the nobles for a change. Half-wishing for any sign of Carta or Coterie to break up the peaceful evening, to drag her out of her thoughts, still spinning in useless dizzy circles over half a smile and the vague possibility of... who knew? Maker, what was the point? What was the use of wanting anything so much?
She looked up, surprised to find a gap in the clouds, even a few stars shining in the black, the moon a narrow curve with a pale silver glow that reminded her of exactly what it shouldn’t have - but if the heavens had any answers, much like the Maker himself, they were not at all interested in sharing.
———————————————
“So, nothing’s changed.” Bethany says, “I could have told you that, and saved you the trip.”
“Well, you are the smart one.”
It’s true, though Father taught all three of them the same. Even if Hawke can’t manage the magic there’s theory and history and all of it worth knowing, but she’s never been much for studying, preferring adventure books to anything of real quality, and neither to an open field on a sunny day. Carver had bested her handily in academics, able to focus when her attention would inevitably wander, though like so many other things it had never been the victory he wanted. Always and forever in fierce competition with some imaginary version of her he could never beat.
Hawke finishes her washing up, while Bethany packs the few things they’ll need for the trip to the Sundermount, even oiling a few of the blades she hadn’t bothered to polish up before falling into bed. The way it’s always been, taking care of each other, Hawke stitching up a seam in Bethany’s sleeve while she’d made sure Father’s shoes would keep the weather out, as Carver chopped firewood for their mother. Getting ready to leave is something they can all but do in their sleep. Perhaps the most valuable lesson their father had given them, and surely what had saved them in Lothering, when so many had hesitated, and were lost - knowing how to leave it all behind.
“It’s a shame we cleaned out the estate already.” Hawke says. “Fenris would have enjoyed that.”
Quite unlikely that he trusts her, but she has the feeling she will gain and lose ground in that battle for a long time to come. In the end, whatever he might think, Hawke can only be who she is - plainspoken, hiding nothing, and eventually Fenris will come to realize she’s really not smart enough for hidden motives. Of course, once he does who’s to say he’ll like it? Not the lack of betrayal, of course, but there are many men out there who prefer their women to be mysterious, all coy and demanding like Orleasian coquettes.
Feminine, Hawke. The word is feminine.
And here she is with Lowtown muck still stuck under what passes for her fingernails, until she picks them clean with the tip of the same dagger she can use to skin a wolf or gut a fish. How the boys come running when they get word of those kind of talents, and really, Hawke? Now is the time to play how-to-make-the-pretty-elf-like-me?
If she had been one of those Orlesian girls, she might be able to make it all happen. Know how to take her heart out only at appropriate moments, just another game piece for the board. It is the way the rest of the world works, surely. If she were one of those girls she would know how to proceed, and wouldn’t have to worry, but she’s not that girl. The only thing she knows is the simple and the stupid and far too much. More than anyone wants, nothing less than here I am, here is all of me and it is yours if you will have me.
Hawke had been allowed to see a Chasind ceremony once, what they would have called a wedding in Ferelden, though like everything else in the Wilds it had been a much simpler affair. An exchange of furs and food and weapons rather than vows. So much implicit just by making the choice, that there was little need for any greater ritual. Hardly the truth, as many in Ferelden believed, that they were all coarse and simple barbarians. Only that the Chasind required so little to make their way through the world, be it in possessions or words. Every action, every choice meant more in the wild places than in places like Lothering, not to mention Kirkwall, with its high walls and complex laws and every inch of soil covered over with stone.
Love in the Wilds was solid, it had weight, woven and bound into every moment - the true measure of a partnership. Warmth instead of freezing in the winter, health instead of starving in the lean times. In Kirkwall, love can mean next to nothing, unbound to proof by action and no one even thinks it is wrong.
Or perhaps she’s the one who just doesn’t understand. As skilled as she is with a blade, Hawke hardly has the lightest touch when it comes to other people, to matters of protection and pride and trespassing further than she ought. If she did, Carver might still be alive. He might not have thought he had to prove himself, to get out from a shadow she didn’t realize she’d cast and right into the grip of an ogre.
The easiest thing in the world, to remember the sound of his body hitting the ground once and again, the crunch of bone helping her eyes snap open in the morning, a reminder as unpleasant as it is necessary: make mistakes and watch others pay the price, and Father wouldn’t have let it happen.
Keep above it, pup. His voice is still there when she needs it, calm and encouraging, never letting her spend too long wallowing in doubt or fear. Steady on.
The rule of Vir Bor’Assan, now more than ever, and she must keep her mind on the moment. Kirkwall is dangerous and Hawke is the only thing between her sister and the Templars and they’re worse here than they ever were in Ferelden. If Varric knew enough to seek her out by name then she’s not being half as careful as she ought to be. The thought of the Deep Roads doesn’t scare her a quarter as much as the thought of her mother and her sister sitting unprotected in Lowtown while she’s gone.
“What did he have to say, then? I mean other than accusing you of being untrustworthy, feckless and without any moral fibre.”
“Moral fibre is for people without throwing knives.”
Bethany raises an eyebrow, and Hawke doesn’t bother trying to stare her down.
“Fenris wants our help.”
Bethany frowns. “He wants your help.”
“He wants my help. Well, he ‘wouldn’t turn it away.’”
“With what, exactly?” and then her sister’s eyes widen and any humor vanishes, because she’s the smart one and really, obviously, what else could it be. “No. Absolutely not. You are not fighting a Magister for some elf you barely know.”
Hawke shrugs. “It might not happen at all.”
“You’re lying.”
Of course she’s lying. If Danarius won’t come to the fight Fenris will take it to him and… he won’t even have to ask, then. The bag’s already packed.
“He’s just a mage, Bethy. It doesn’t matter where he’s from. Just flashy lights and little puppet demons and thinking that being ruthless makes him invincible.”
“A blood mage. He’s a Tevinter blood mage who could probably hire half the city to help him fight. Who do you think’s going to be doing the dying then?”
The one who isn’t trying to breathe around the dagger in his throat. All the power in the world means nothing, if she gets there first. Hawke meant what she’d said to Fenris, she's fast enough that it usually doesn’t matter how stupid she is.
“It’s the right thing to do, and you know it.”
Bethany turns away, her voice low and edged.
“Why don’t you just skip to the end, then? Get some lyrium in your skin, and spend the rest of your life carrying that around as well?"
It hurts. Considerably. Not only the reminder of where they’re going and who might be waiting, but that a part of her is already bracing for the end, even before anything’s begun. Hawke certainly didn’t see it coming the last time and so what chance does she have, that things will be different now? Her jaw is clenched tight enough to ache, and she breathes very carefully, forcing herself to relax. A long time since she’d fought with anyone - it was always Carver before, and even then she’d mostly said her piece and let him jump up and down on it for a while before walking away. Nothing ever gets solved with words.
“I never wanted you to be anything but what you are, Bethy. I’d always thought you’d return the favor.”
A moment passes, and slim arms wrap around her shoulders, hugging her tight. Bethany’s hands with their long, tapered fingers that are nothing like her own, and Hawke slips a hand over her sister’s, marking the contrast of tan skin to pale, rough to smooth. The Amell blood shows true in her sister, all that is elegant and fine, and being a mage doesn’t hurt either, no reason to bulk up when there are twelve ways to end a threat before it can cross the distance between them.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I didn’t. I’m just… .”
“I know.” Of course she knows. Bethany sighs, resting her chin against Hawke’s shoulder, and for a moment they lean against each other. A far more common gesture now, since leaving Ferelden. In it is all the strength Hawke needs, since the very first time she had reached out, her father encouraging and her mother proud. Laid a tentative touch on her mother’s stomach and felt the tap of a small kick against her hand. Two new lives, little brothers or sisters that would look to her for help, for protection. Her responsibility. She will not fail again.
“What if - on the mountain. What if it’s her clan?” Bethany says, a soft, hesitant whisper, as if Hawke hasn’t even considered the possibility. “What if she’s there?”
“I don’t know.” Hawke says, because what else is there to say? It would mean she survived the Blight, and even now what price is too steep, to know that for sure? “It will be bad, and we’ll do what we came to do, and it will keep being bad and then we’ll leave.”
Really very bad, and Hawke has no doubt Varric will be all too perceptive no matter what happens, with questions she won’t want to answer - and that’s if the Dalish don’t just start talking with arrows first.
“I can…” her sister says, softly, “I could go by myself, if you want. To the mountain.”
Hawke smiles, touched that Bethany would even offer. “… and miss my chance to see what sort of help a dragon needs? Besides, Varric said Anders might be coming along. It seems he needs to get out of the city for a little while.”
What Hawke really thought was that listening to Fenris and Anders go at each others throats made for good story fodder for the dwarf, especially once they burned through the preliminaries of Who Had Ruined the World For All Time and moved into the grandmaster round of insults and accusations over who had the stupidest hair.
“Oh, that will be… nice.”
“Nice?” Hawke's smile turns wicked at her sister’s slight stumble, and she clasps her hands together, batting her eyes as she speaks in a coy, fluttery tone. “Oh, Anders, how you remind me of our father. So smart. So kind.”
Bethany always looks lovely when she blushes, rose-tinted and glowing even when she’s glaring daggers.
“Shut up.”
“He’s not too old for you, I don’t think. And he knows the Hero of Ferelden. And probably the king. I’m sure one of them would be to your liking. Maybe you could ask Isabela-”
“Shut. Up.” The blush is up to the tips of her ears now. Hawke is fairly certain her sister’s interest is little more than excitement over the first mage she’s had a real chance to talk to outside the family. Which means that instead of worrying, she can tease without mercy.
“Of course, he is sort of… two people. A bit. I mean, you’re the mage, would you count that as a three-”
“Shut up shut up shut up!”