Hawke slammed upright, her head painfully colliding with the ceiling. A grunt escaped her lips while sweat ran down her face, making her sleep shift stick to her damp body. She clutched her calloused hands to her forehead, where she could feel a small, angry lump rising underneath the skin.
"Marian?" Bethany's voice drifted up to Hawke from the bunk below her. "Are you okay?" Hawke gave a noncommittal grunt, swinging her legs over the edge and hopping down.
She felt Bethany's fingers brush against her wrist, but she ignored it. Instead, Hawke strode over to the water basin in the corner of their miniscule bedroom and splashed water on her face several times.
"It was the nightmare again, wasn't it?" The mage's voice was small, but tender and beseeching. "Sister, you can't keep blaming yourself for his death." Hawke splashed her face once more, the cold soothing the hot ache on her head. She closed her eyes, the images that have been haunting her for over a year flashing across her mind again.
"You soulless bastards!" Carver bellowed before swinging his massive broad sword at the behemoth of an ogre.
CRACK. Bones snapped.
CRACK. Blood.
Hawke's memory faded, her mind blocking out the following battle because she flew into a blind rage, daggers flashing, blood spurting.
"Carver! Wake up! The battle's over!" Leandra cradled the mutilated form of her only son. Tears stained her lined face, defeat hunching her body.
"Sister?" Hawke's eyes snapped open. Bethany had lit a candle; she moved to stand near Hawke, stance wary. "Please, Marian, look at me." Hawke turned around. When she saw the look of fear and sadness on her beloved sister's soft features, hot tears stung her own. Bethany stretched a hand out before her, a small but gently reassuring smile touching her lips.
Hawke placed her fingers against her sister's, allowing the young mage to lead her to the edge of the bottom bunk. They both sank down onto the thin, lumpy mattress, Bethany holding the rogue close to her.
"She blames me for it, you know," Hawke husked quietly. "Mother. She blames me. She would never admit it, but I see it behind her eyes when she looks at me."
"Oh, Sister!" came Bethany's strangled cry. "She doesn't blame you! She could never blame you!" Hawke merely clenched her jaw, staring ahead, not listening. "Marian, look at me!" The mage's voice held authority this time. It was not a request; it was a command. Hawke turned her eyes to her young sister, caught off guard by the sudden change in manor.
"Mother does not blame you. When she looks at you, she sees Carver... And Father. It hurts her to see them. She's not angry, Marian. She's just heartbroken. We all are..."
Hawke's shoulders slumped in defeat. She fell against her sister, who held her lovingly. The mage pulled her sister down with her, onto the tiny bunk, keeping her sibling in her arms. Bethany was the only person in all of Thedas that she would let cradle her. Bethany was the only person she showed her true emotions to. She even kept herself guarded with her mother, showing only a surface of warring emotions roiling and battling underneath her heart.
"Go away, Dog!" Gamlen's disgruntled voice rumbled through the hovel, waking Hawke and Bethany. The rogue smiled at her sister before pulling herself free of the threadbare blankets and mage limbs.
"You can't have any of my food, you mongrel!" Mangy's playful, expectant yip responded. "No! You can't have it! Find your own!" Hawke splashed more water on her face before placing some mint leaves from a pouch by the basin in her mouth, and then donned a tunic and soft leather trousers.
"Stop looking at me like that! This is my food!"
"I wouldn't want him eating anything you touched, Uncle," the rogue yawned, entering the main room.
"Very funny," Gamlen sneered. "Call your beast off! He won't listen to a thing that I say!"
"Yes, well, my hound is smarter than you. He's got enough brains to know to not listen to a word that comes out of your mouth." A clever smirk painted Hawke's lips.
"Marian! It's too early to be antagonizing your uncle!" Leandra walked in from the only other adjacent room, still wearing her nightgown, but already brushed her hair out.
"Sorry, Mother." But the grin painting her face showed that she clearly only half meant it. She peered down at the food available for breakfast as Bethany entered, fully clothed in her robes, just tying the scarf she never went without around her neck.
Hawke's nose wrinkled as she saw a few withering apples, dried out cheese and molding bread. She picked out the healthiest fruit, and pulled off the fuzzy spots on the loaf of nut bread, offering it to her mother.
Leandra was about to insist that her eldest take it instead, but Hawke shook her head in refusal and moved purposefully back to the small bedroom. She walked to the corner at the foot of the craggy bunk beds where her armor lay.
It was all supple leather, and minimal amounts of actual metal to maximize movement and draw as little attention in a fight as possible. She slipped the jerkin on over the cotton tunic that she already wore, fastening the buckles and straps with lithe ease, her fingers working in a practiced fashion. Tougher reinforced leather leggings replaced the trousers she donned earlier, followed by sturdy, but quiet, steel-toed boots.
Mounted on the wall was her growing collection of daggers and knives. She took her favorite pair, crafted from silverite with custom grips made for her hands alone. She checked the edges before slipping them into the sheaths that hung at her back. A boot dagger was placed securely inside the lip of her boot, and a small throwing knife concealed in the waist of her trousers at the small of her back. She picked up a little pot of red war paint that she fancied, and wiped a streak across her nose, completing the ensemble.
She looked up at the tiny armory one more time, at the centerpiece of the collection. It was an impressively sized great sword, forged of red steel, bearing signs of use. Small scratches were etched into the handle of the weapon, numbering the victories the blade had seen.
Hawke made sure that it was kept oiled and polished, ensuring that a dull edge never tainted it. Her fingers slowly caressed the handle, from hilt to pommel, feeling her throat constrict. It was the only thing of Carver's that she had, and she looked after it with the utmost care.
She swallowed hard, steeled herself and then re-entered the main room. Bethany looked to her sister, eyeing the armor, knowing the day was going to be a long one.
"Come on, Beth. Let's go to the Hanged Man for some food that is less moldy than this." She motioned to the mabari to follow as well. "Besides, I need to discuss something with Varric."
Bethany had scooped up the staff that their father had left her, a smile touching her lips. "I'm with you, Sister."
They both said a quick goodbye to Leandra, whose worry she never bothered to hide anymore. She watched her only two children stride through the door, war hound at their heels.
The familiar aroma of stale alcohol, piss and body odor that pervaded the tavern was no less pungent in the morning than it was in the afternoon. The Hawke siblings sat down at a table, if you could call it that, and flagged down Norah. They ordered a light breakfast, and Hawke slipped Norah a couple of extra coppers for some stew bones to give to the hound.
"What does Varric want?" Bethany fixed her sister with an intense stare over their food, letting the rogue know that she wasn't to be kept out of the loop.
"He wants to discuss something about the Deep Roads Expedition. He wouldn't say what, so I figured it was either bad news, or something he didn't want to get back to Bartrand."
"I'm starting to wonder if we should be doing this. I mean, we need fifty sovereigns to invest in this venture. Why don't we just keep the gold for ourselves, and get out of Gamlen's house."
Hawke moved her hand to cover one of her sister's, a strained look seething beneath her dark locks of hair. "Beth, it's not enough to just move to another place, probably still in Lowtown. With the money we could make from this expedition, we can get our name and status back. With that comes protection. Protection that you need from the Templars. I couldn't bear to see you taken to the Gallows. Or worse." Tears were shining in the young mage's eyes. "Mother wouldn't be able to stand it either."
"I'm sorry for the burden my magic has placed upon you. You have done so much for us."
"Hush, Beth. I have done what I must to keep my family safe. Maker knows, we have lost so much, and I won't lose any more."
Bethany smiled sheepishly, wiping the tears from her face. "Don't ever think that I am not grateful, Marian. I love you for all that you do."
Hawke put her face in her hands, tensing up. Mangy, having finished destroying his bones, put his head in her lap, whining slightly. The rogue lightly stroked the dog's head. "Everything we have done to get here has been marked by blood. The darkspawn, Carver... Even getting into the city required us to kill for the Red Iron. Even just arriving to Kirkwall, we had to kill fellow Fereldans who only wanted what we did."
"The Maker works in ways we can't quite understand. Yes, we have endured tragedy to survive, but look at yourself, Marian. You still work for the better, for honorable intentions. And you feel guilt, which means your conscience and heart are strong. You're not doing this for joy or simple cold blood. You're still my big sister, finding trouble and bailing us out."
Hawke looked up at the young woman sitting beside her. Her face radiated warmth, love and confidence. She wasn't uttering these words to placate the rogue; she truly believed everything she said.
"Where would I be without you, Beth?" Hawke rose from her seat. "I'm going upstairs to speak to Varric. Stay here for now, and don't let Mangy bite anyone."
The mage consented to Hawke's request, watching the rogue ascend the stairs to the upper landing. Marian strode casually into the dwarf's room, tastefully decorated with dwarven trappings and furniture. The dwarf in question was lounging at the end of a long table, shuffling through documents.
"Hawke! You're here, perfect timing." The dwarf gave her a sly smile, immediately abandoning the scattered pile of parchment. "Bartrand has been busy tearing his beard out trying to finance this whole expedition, but it won't mean anything if we can't get into the Deep Roads. What we need is a good entrance."
"Any entrance would do. Unless there's a dragon sitting in it!" Varric chuckled at Hawke's cheek. He continued to tell her that his sources had located a former Grey Warden staying somewhere in Kirkwall. He would be their best chance at obtaining maps into the Deep Roads.
"We need to find this Warden," Hawke said, agreeing with her accomplice. "However, we have to be careful of the questions we ask, and whom we direct them to. Trouble finds us, Varric. Let's get Aveline to come along for back up. Just in case."
"Whatever you need, Hawke."
The two descended to the main floor, seeing Bethany chatting with Corff at the bar, as Mangy growled at the early drunks eyeing the young and attractive mage.
"Good morning, Sunshine!"
"Varric! What trouble are we going to stir up today?"
"Nothing that Bianca can't handle." He gestured to the massive crossbow holstered at his back.
"We're going to do some inquiries, Beth."
"Will they stay that way?" The mage absentmindedly ran her hand along the staff at her side.
"Well..." Hawke shifted, but grinned widely. "That's why we're going to head to the barracks to get Aveline."
"Well then, let's go make some inquiries," Bethany said, matching her sister's impish tone. Hawke placed her hand on the mage's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. She gestured to the hound to follow, and the group left the Lowtown tavern.
It took them no time whatsoever to locate the redheaded guardswoman. She was settled on a stool, buffing her late husband's shield. Deep creases of concentration marked the woman's face, as she ran an oiled cloth over the Templar insignia embossed across the face of the shield.
"Aveline!" Hawke smiled comically at the armor-clad woman.
"Hawke." She didn't look up, but continued her ministrations.
"So... You're not busy?"
Aveline still didn't look up, but her hand stilled against the metal. "What do you need, Hawke?"
"You, of course! What else do I need?" Varric snorted and Aveline finally turned her head to look up at the crew surrounding her. "I'm hoping you and your sword arm won't be required, but..."
"Knowing you, Hawke, you always need the extra muscle." Aveline cracked a mischievous smile, snatching up her sword belt.
It took a surprisingly short amount of time to locate the whereabouts of the ex-Warden. All it took were the right questions asked around Lowtown. The troupe learned that he was operating a clinic in the old sewers that ran under the city. No one was really overjoyed at the prospect of going into Darktown, but then again, it was hardly expected that any task of theirs would be pleasant, or clean, for that matter.
Once again, Bethany earned her sister's deepest respect upon leaving a shop that was helping Fereldan refugees. An angry, and armed, group of such individuals accosted them outside the shop, but Bethany stepped forward, showing them that we had all fled that Blight, and sought to harm no one.
Her kind, but firm, statement caught the mob off-guard. Hawke didn't realize how well they had managed to blend in until the leader stated that he thought they were Marchers. After a quick salute to the rule of King Alistair, they left Hawke and her companions, looking guilty and feeling foolish.