No (hard) feelings part one
Varric came scuttling into the Amell estate, crossed the hall at high speed and came more or less to a slipping halt on the shiny polished floor of the parlour, all the while radiating nothing but seasonal happiness because it was that Time of Year. 'Hawke!' he called out, making an involuntarily emergency stop against the writing-desk. 'Don't tell me you're still lying in bed! If so, I'm going to drag your lazy bones out of your bedroom and I don't care who's with you!' Most certainly no-one he assumed with a quick side-thought at the complicated relation she nowadays maintained with the elf, but even that couldn't dampen his spirit this morning. The Satinalia fever had got a firm hold on him and he was planning the Party of all Parties at the Hanged Man. And for that he needed Hawke.
Bodahn materialized from the kitchen and coughed politely. 'If you are looking for Messere Hawke, she isn't in,' he declared.
Varric's smile faltered somewhat under the disappointment but picked up its brightness immediately after. 'But you know where I can find her, don't you?'
A little hesitantly the steward reciprocated the other dwarf's brilliant smile, simply because it was too contagious not to. He coughed again. 'I'm afraid not, Messere. She mentioned something about visiting someone but didn't tell who this particular person was.'
'Well, it certainly wasn't me,' Varric frowned. 'But it could be Isabela, in which case I might just have missed her in the Hanged Man,' he suggested optimistically.
'Why would Messere Hawke have an appointment with that wen– with the pirate queen?' Bodahn smoothly corrected his almost slip of the tongue. 'She hangs out with her nearly every day. It seems to me there's no appointment necessary.'
'It could be about the Satinalia preparations,' Varric said with solid confidence, disregarding the other dwarf's remark with a flutter of his hand. 'In fact, that's the reason why I came over to see her. And speaking of which,' he waved his arm around, 'I notice a suspicious lack of green bows and holly and silvery festoons and garlands and what not. Why haven't you started to decorate the house yet? It's only two days before the festivities!' He took in the blank stare that came his way. 'You've heard about Satinalia, haven't you? You know, more or less the same feast we celebrated last year and quite a number of years before around this time? Normally there's a lot of organisation involved, including much nervous hustle and bustle, jumping queues in shops with matching agitated shouting and rows, running frantically about to purchase those forgotten but oh so important last items ... and last but not least the decorating of the house.' He gazed expectantly at the steward who on his turn insisted in keeping gazing impassively back.
'Yes, well, uhm,' Bodahn managed in the end, looking a bit embarrassed, 'Messere Hawke didn't tell us to.'
Varric raised his brow in perplexity. 'Really? And that held you back? Show some initiative man! Hawke's got a lot on her mind of late, I hope I'm not the only one to realise that. Don't expect her to spell it all out for you! I thought organizing things behind your boss's back was pretty much what stewarding was all about.'
'Cinnamon buns!' suddenly sounded from the kitchen, followed by the braking of what could be a plate, and a high pitched squeal only Orana could produce.
'Ah, I see you've at least started some preparations,' Varric said unperturbed. 'Good food is essential at Satinalia.'
'Pardon me, Messere,' Bodahn murmured before he hastily took his leave, thankfully grabbing the antics of his son with both hands as an excuse to get out of Varric's way. He liked the Storyteller, no mistake there, but sometimes he could be very – forthright.
He worried about the mistress of the house, although she seemed to be all right. But he didn't really buy it. She gave the impression she had recovered from the harsh blows she had received, but ever so often he caught her staring into nothing with a highly disturbing empty look. She behaved like the jovial, merry and warm-hearted woman she had always been, but the point was she seemed to act like it, as if she was playing a part. The part of who she used to be. She did it with flair, Bodahn had to admit, she almost could have fooled him. Almost. Because there were abnormalities. Flaws, if you will, in her performance. And one of those was that she appeared to have all forgotten about Satinalia. The old Messere Hawke would never have forgotten about Satinalia. Sometimes it looked like she was replaced by an entirely different person. And thus Bodahn had been uncertain what to do. Yes, he could have started the preparations on his own account, as the Storyteller so boldly had put forward. But, frankly, he'd been scared for her reaction. The steward shook his head. He could hardly put it into words and so he wasn't willing to share his anxiety with a too sharp Varric. No way would he put his employer on the spot. He cared too much for her to do that.
In the meantime Varric decided he could as well first venture to the docks to meet his not all too legitimate supplier of the liquor he needed. He had placed a large order and hoped the man had been able to fulfil his request. Especially his very particular request of some very exceptional vintage of Orlesian cognac. The Merchant's Guild would have his hide if they ever found out he had the stuff smuggled into Kirkwall for a fraction of the price they charged, but the chance they did find out was small. And then again, the tight situation he hadn't been able to talk his way out of still had to be invented. He grinned inwardly; there wasn't anything that an overwhelming smile, a good practiced and million times rehearsed innocent look and a talk so smooth even barbed wire would slide down on like the softest silk could remedy.
In the midst of the silent snigger he noticed a lonely figure sitting on the steps leading to the jetty where the ferryboats to and from the Gallows moored. Hawke. Pensively he cocked his head. Didn't Bodahn say she had some appointment? If so, what was she doing here? This wasn't exactly a place to meet someone, well, unless the meeting was about something fishy. And although the whole harbour reeked of fish in various states of decomposing, he couldn't imagine Hawke was involved in fish, literally or figuratively, or in any other colourful variants of the expression. And he knew she had her own liquor supplier who held shop in Hightown. He knew, because there's where she bought the bottles of the Aggrigio Parvali Fenris was so fond of. He had always considered it one of the masochistic, if not kinky streaks of the elf: imbibing the wine of his oppressor with visible pleasure whilst stating straight-faced, or better with a face that had had a close, very nasty, encounter with every fish in the harbour, that all the Tevinter wine was made from the blood and tears of slaves. He wondered if he had dowsed Hawke with the rich red liquid that particular night they – abruptly he cut off his flow of thoughts. It might make wonderful fodder for his stories, now was not the time to explore or even mull over such fantasies. The hunched figure occupying the cold steps near the waterfront, looking like a lost lonesome fragile bird, didn't encourage such contemplations. It only awoke worries. This was not only strange, it was bothersome. Two heartbeats later he plopped down next to her.
'Care to explain what you're doing here?'
The lost lonely bird nearly jumped in startled surprise. 'Varric! What the hell?!'
'I'm supposed to have an appointment with one of my very treasured suppliers over here. According to your steward you have an appointment as well... But, in this place..?' He let the rest of the sentence drop in the murky waters lapping at the steps.
Hawke pursed her lips, balled a fist, unclenched it almost at the same time and then made an impotent gesture across the water. 'It's Bethany's birthday,' she said in a very small voice and Varric's heart tightened painfully. As a matter of fact it plummeted into his stomach. He wanted to hit himself. He should have remembered. He should have known. Stupid stupid stupid. Stupid Satinalia and all that came with it. It seemed to swallow up all of his attention and concentration. The fact he was organizing the party particularly for her benefit was no excuse. He was organizing it to let her, at least for one night, forget about her gruesome mother's death and Fenris's taking off. And now he had forgotten all about her sister. Yes, stupid.
He opened his mouth to say something comforting but she didn't let him and, frankly, he was grateful for it. He was quite sure nothing he could come up with would soothe her pain. 'I come here because I'm not allowed to visit her,' she went on. 'Not even on her birthday. But for some daft reason I have the idea I can reach her from this place.' She chuckled mirthlessly. 'It may sound ridiculous but I hope she sees me from somewhere, from somewhere over there. I imagine she stands at one of those creepy dark windows and looks at me, seeing me looking at her. So she knows she's still in my mind.' She turned to him and he was struck by the haunted look she gave him. 'Do you think she sees me?'
He swallowed hard. This was not the cheery Hawke he knew. The cheery Hawke from before the awful and heartbreaking occurrences. The cheery Hawke who, after a long and difficult time, had reappeared, risen from the ashes of deep grief. Right now it looked like she had fallen back into that dark pit, although she didn't weep and her eyes were almost eerily expressionless. Eventually he volunteered, 'Can't you just demand entrance?'
Hawke shrugged. 'Tempting, but Meredith won't let me,' she said flatly.
'You could make an appeal on Cullen. He is a decent sort of guy.'
She shrugged again. 'I don't even know if Bethany knows Mother is gone,' she said, avoiding his suggestion. She smiled bleakly. 'I wrote her a letter, of course, but I doubt it ever reached her.'
Varric got the nasty suspicion she actually hoped the letter had never reached her sister because she still felt guilty about what had happened. But then Hawke chased away his disquiet by giving him a brittle smile and to his immense relief he could discern the life coming back in her eyes again. 'It must sound dreadfully pathetic, but I call this sitting here and staring at the bloody Gallows on Bethany's birthday an appointment,' she went on with a generous splash of self-mockery. 'But somehow it gives me a feeling of connection. You must think I'm an idiot.'
'Not at all,' Varric emphasized savagely. 'If I could coax some reaction from my brother by just staring at him, I would try it for days in a row, believe me.' He laid a hand upon her arm and said apologetically, 'It's not the same, of course, but you know what I mean.'
Hawke chortled softly. 'I do.'
Varric took a deep sigh. 'Listen, Hawke, perhaps this is not the right time to break it to you, but are you aware Satinalia is about to knock on your door?' She stared incomprehensively at him. 'I mean, your household seems not to have knowledge of that rather important fact.'
Her eyes flew open in an instant and she butted her forehead with a flat palm. 'Oh bugger!' she cried out distressfully. 'Scatterbrained fool I am! Poor Sandal!'
'Sandal..?' Varric informed, not quite understanding.
'Yes, Sandal. It's the only day of the year he is permitted to swing on the chandelier. To attach the silver Satinalia bell,' she explained when she saw the question mark on Varric's face. 'And he's always so looking forward to it! You should see the radiant smile on his face! Ear to ear doesn't do it credit.'
Varric grinned at the image unfolding in his head but then he remembered why he wanted to see her in the first place. 'Eh, before you rush home to remedy your grave negligence, I'd like to ask you something.'
Hawke waved generously. 'Go ahead, do your worst.'
'I do hope you still remember we are having one hell of a celebration in the Hanged Man tonight, before we try to keep it nice and decent tomorrow at your place..? Or have you forgotten about that as well?'
Hawke's face contorted. 'I'm sorry, Varric,' she groaned, 'I'm afraid I have. Gods, my head's like a sieve of late.'
'That's alright,' Varric said soothingly, patting her hand. 'At least I had the chance to remind you. Which gets me to the next issue: could you bring a collection of Ferelden winter songs or drinking songs? Or rather any kind of Ferelden songs would do.'
She squinted at the dwarf, apparently again in a state of total bewilderment. 'Why? Do you want me to sing? Are you sure? Have you ever heard me sing? No. And there's a very good reason for it. When I start to sing even the rats flee with their little claws over their ears. My dog sings better than I do, and we call that whining. At least he doesn't whine off key.'
'Now you just made me curious,' Varric grinned. 'But rest assured, the songs are not specifically meant for you. It's a gesture towards all the Ferelden refugees who come to celebrate with us.'
Hawke raised a brow. 'And you think we need a book for a Ferelden sing-along? We know the words by heart!'
'Yes. You do but the rest of us don't. And it wouldn't be a proper sing-along with only half of the makeshift choir actually singing, would it now.'
'No it wouldn't,' Hawke admitted half laughing. 'I'll see what I can do.'
'Good! Then I'll return to my errant. Till tonight, Hawke.'
The moment Varric was out of sight, Hawke's body slumped and, feeling extremely tired, she rested her face in her hands. She wanted to look forward to tonight's party, she really did, but couldn't bring up the energy. She wasn't angry or desperate or depressed, she wasn't even sad. Not anymore. Instead she was numb, completely numb, deprived of all emotions and she had done it to herself. When the pain had become too much to bear, she had switch off, as it were, all of her feelings and had become her own antidepressant. At first it had been a relief, to finally be able to fall asleep without shedding tears, to be able to sleep without nightmares, to be able to sleep. And to wake up without that agonizing knot in her stomach. To walk around without that incessant throbbing pain inside.
But gradually she found out that the downside of erasing her feelings was that she couldn't feel anything at all anymore. No pain, that was true, but no happiness either. Not even the simple happiness of inhaling the smell of Orana's unsurpassed apple-pie or the pleasure of sharing a drink with her friends at the Hanged Man. And speaking of her friends, she was fairly sure they hadn't noticed anything about her lack of emotions. They had been far too glad she had seemingly crawled out of that black abyss of sorrow and had started acting like her old self again. She had made certain she regularly cracked a smile, even laughed aloud at one of Varric's witty jokes or insane stories and quipped herself often enough to keep any suspicion at bay. She had been such a person all her life. It had been her very personality, after all, so it wasn't hard to keep up the appearance. She doubted if she fooled Fenris with her behaviour, though. Every now and then she caught a pensive look aimed at her, but she didn't care. Or at least pretended not to. He had lost the right to meddle with her affairs and he seemed to realise it too. His interfering, if you could call it that, never went beyond the occasional concerned look. The only problem was how to hide her fatigue, because suppressing feelings turned out to cost a lot of energy.
She wished she could restore her discarded emotions but didn't know how; simply kicking herself didn't do the trick. Even staying in her mother's room and going through her former belongings wouldn't bring a single tear to her eyes. Even buying Fenris's favourite wine or catching a waft of his scent didn't bring the butterflies back. She could as well be filled with straw or cotton wool as if she were some kind of soulless ragdoll; she certainly felt like one.
Hawke let out a sigh that was close to a grunt and slowly got up. She had a house to decorate and some serious apologies to make.
'What the fuck is taking her so long?' growled Isabela. She was growing impatient and an impatient Isabela was an annoyed one, could even become a dangerous one with the right amount of alcohol in her system. And she had started quite a while ago with the punch, that consisted mostly out of rum that was fervently searching for the few drops of pineapple juice, that somewhere had to drift around in the alcohol.
'Oh, grant her some time, Rivaini, I reckon she's had a few very busy hours.' Varric had donned a pointy green hat that was topped with a red pompon and sprinkled with silvery sequins; the headgear had sagged down on one ear and made him look like an overgrown very jolly pixie.
'Fenris hasn't arrived yet either,' Merrill said, or better, slightly slurred. She had only had two or three sips from the punch but already her cheeks were as red as Varric's shameless blushing pompon. The wreath of ivy, intertwined with winterberries and little fir-cones she wore, constantly threatened to attack her brow and her hair was a complete mess because of the numerous times she had tried to push the contraption back on her head.
'And let's hope he'll keep it that way,' grumbled Anders, nursing a mug of small beer, which was about the strongest drink Justice allowed him to imbibe without bursting into some tiresome lecture. Your grumpy spirit doesn't know his more happy namesakes, Varric had remarked and the healer had glared very pointy daggers at the dwarf.
'Hey, it's Satinalia!' Isabela waved one end of the almost luminescent green feather boa that she had wrapped around her neck for the occasion, teasingly in his face. 'That means you're supposed to be nice to everyone and that includes Fenris.'
'I don't have to be nice to him as long as he isn't present,' Anders said stubbornly.
'I doubt if he even will show up,' Varric commented. 'He didn't seem much in the mood when I invited him.'
'Good,' Anders said with grim satisfaction.
'Perhaps we could check on him later,' suggested Sebastian, who completed the assembly of the Merry Companions, since Aveline and Donnic both were on duty this night. Ooh, bedroom-duty I gather! Isabela had cooed excitedly, which had unsurprisingly resulted in a "shut up whore" from the Guard Captain. The Chantry brother looked almost as flushed as Merrill; it had been a long time since he had been drinking strong liquor and his resilience had significantly lessened over the past ten odd years.
'And why would we do that?' Anders sniped.
'Because I have a feeling he doesn't fare too well,' Sebastian bit back. The mage always brought up the worst in him. Sometimes he thought the Maker had sent Anders on his path to test his tolerance and fortitude.
'Oh really?' giggled Isabela, shifting her attention and the feather boa to the former prince. 'What a sharp observation! You outwit us all! And what, Messere Bright Brains, do you think might be the reason?!'
Sebastian's answer got lost in the din of the improvised band that after a short break enthusiastically once more went about their business. Especially the Fereldan bagpipe was hard to beat.
Hawke already had her hand on the handle of the door leading into the Hanged Man, when she backed away. The sounds coming from the pub were cheerful and would be inviting to anyone with the smallest urge for wanting to have a pleasant time. So probably anyone but me, she mused sourly. She took a deep breath. You cannot let your friends down, she told herself sternly but at the same time she was positive she couldn't face another night of playing the carefree happy woman. Not this night. All she wanted was to clamber into her bed and hide under the blankets. She felt so exhausted. After some hefty deliberation she decided she needed fresh air before she could confront the challenge that awaited her inside. Real fresh air. There was time enough to return here, the night was still young.
