Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy)
The guide, with his bronto companion in tow, took each step as if he had taken it a thousand times before. The pack beast, Kessler Hawke thought, had rightly earned its ranks with the Inquisition as it followed obediently with an equal sure-footed familiarity, bearing a massive load of supplies on its back and dragging a heavily laden skid through the snow. The uneven terrain had been both brutal and unrelenting—uphill through frozen scree and drifting snow, against a bitter and merciless wind. Hawke raised a hand to shield himself from the whorl of ice pellets that flew down the mountain pass, and picked up his speed, trudging through the dry, hard-packed snow to catch up with the guide.
"Who is this Inquisitor, anyway?" he shouted over the howling wind. Word at basecamp was that she had been bestowed an honour that far outranked that of humble Champion or Hero. They were calling her The Herald of Andraste. The bloody chosen one. Kess knew the deal with inflated honorifics—he had his own to contend with. But Herald of Andraste was a pretty lofty title to live up to, even by his standards. In fact, he thought of it more as a curse than an honour. He knew the stories about her would be puffed and exaggerated in the most unexpected ways. The smallest, most ordinary sounding detail could easily turn out to be a fabrication that supported an even bigger aggrandizement. Beneath all the pomp and awe, he guessed, was the same kind of screwed-up person as he.
"What do you wish to know, Ser?" The guide pulled the bronto's harness strap taut. It snorted in response, a deep hollow sounding trumpet.
Kess wondered how involved Varric had been in the creation of these stories, which made him thankful that he was meeting her himself. He decided to start with the basics.
"She can't possibly be Dalish." He should have asked a question instead of expressing his doubts. He found that folk had become quite protective of her, so he expected a defensive volley instead of an answer.
"Aye. From Clan Lavellan," the guide replied, apparently used to the incredulity of strangers.
The Champion of Kirkwall knew very little about the social conventions of Dalish clans, so if this was supposed to offer further depth and meaning, he missed it.
"So is she Andraste's chosen one? Maker sent?"
"Depends on who you speak with, ser. Some say that the Maker sent a Dalish elf to help us strengthen our faith. Others think this is a sign that the Maker has lost all hope with humanity. And then there are some who say that the world is beyond saving from this terrible evil."
Corypheus.
The guide continued, siding up along the pack-beast and patting it along its rough leathery neck. It huffed in response. He pointed to a jut of rock in the distance. "The pass to Skyhold is just beyond that ridge." Then he turned to Hawke, clearing his throat. "If you don't mind me saying, I don't recommend you using that title in her presence."
"Why is that?"
"She says there ain't no Maker… or Andraste if you can believe that! But Leliana prefers we not spread that rumour. But seeing that you asked…."
"No Maker? How refreshing. Any other details worth noting?"
The guide shrugged his shoulders. "Apart from that mark on her hand, and that she survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes… not to mention sealing the breach… and saving most of Haven, she's just your ordinary Dalish elf. Pointy ears and all. I hear that she can wield an axe like no one's business…"
More and more, the stories were starting to sound like Varric's. A run-of-the-mill elf who had an uncanny ability of being at the wrong place at the wrong time—and surviving. Kessler could certainly relate to that. Being Dalish was enough controversy for the Chantry. He supposed they were lucky she were not also a mage.
What had Varric gotten himself into this time? His feet were numb and his nose was running from the assaulting wind. There had been more than one occasion on this blasted mountain that he wondered what the hell he was doing and why he agreed to come in the first place. Even as his foot sunk in snow to his knees while following the steadfast guide, he was plagued with uncertainty, unsure how involved in this mess he wanted to be. If worse came to worse, he'd drag Varric down this very pass and run far away from the mess of mages, darkspawn, magisters and the Chantry. He was done with all the fuss and bother of politics and religion and had learned the hard way that people were resistant to change, no matter how badly it was needed. The last thing he wanted was another cause to support, another controversy to intercede, another side to take.
By sundown, they had scaled the rocky slope and crossed the ancient drawbridge into Skyhold. The rambling stone fortress set amongst the backdrop of the Frostbacks was as impressive as it was imposing—a jut of hewn stone amongst the grandeur of the snow-peaked mountains. A month ago, he would have never in a thousand ages imagined himself to be standing there.
…One Month Ago…
He headed toward the docks in search of a proper tavern. After his meeting with Stroud, he was in dire need of a stiff drink. Anything near the centre of Antiva City would be too clean and polite for his liking, not to mention crawling with high paid mercenaries and assassins. Kessler needed the dirtiest, seediest, poorest excuse for a tavern that he could find. What he found, could barely be described as a building, let alone a tavern. It was a ramshackle kiosk, complete with palm-frond roof that had weathered plenty of storms. There was just enough room for a barstool at the counter. A bartender, leaning back in a chair, snored as Kessler dropped his coin on the greasy bar that was once a part of a ship called Son of a Gurn. Behind him, the dingy green water of Rialto Bay, where all the ships emptied their bilge, lapped against the slimy moorings. This was perfect.
Kess leaned both elbows on the bar, succumbing to a sudden and unexpected wave of homesickness. It wasn't a longing for Hightown. For once, he allowed himself to indulge in the fond memories from the Hanged Man. It was not often that he found himself in the mood for that.
"What'll be stranger?" The barkeep asked, in a gravelly voice that suited the overall atmosphere.
In keeping with his nostalgia, he asked, "You have any Alvarado's Bathtub Boot Screech?"
He asked mostly in jest, for old time's sake, expecting a strange look and a bottle of something else. The liquor, if it could even be called that, was celebrated both for its potency and horrifying taste. He and Varric had wanted to see if the stories were true. Varric went so far as to call it research. On a whim, just after the Qunari uprising, they had traded homemade bombs for a prized bottle from a group of Darktown Carta thugs. The experiment started at the Hanged Man, and in the morning, he woke with the mother of all hangovers, remembering a rowdy round of diamond back, a significant chunk of missing time and the blurred memory of a sprint through Hightown in nothing but his socks.
The barkeep stopped polishing the dirty glasses with his grey cloth, flashing Hawke a strange sort of look. He reached under the bar and set a bottle in front of him. "You be needing a glass for this?"
A blob of wax held a piece of parchment to the green bottle. Kess peeled it off carefully. "What's this?"
"You tell me. Typical dark stranger dropped this off not long ago. I knew better than to mess with him and the one who pays his contract, so I obliged him, promising to sell it to the first Marcher who asked."
Kess set the letter down and pulled the mouldy cork with his teeth. He poured a glass of the worst drink in all the Free Marches and took a sip, admiring the tangerine and fiery-red sunset over Rialto Bay and ignoring the liquor's bitter sting.
He downed the first drink in one swallow and opened the letter, immediately recognizing Varric's small and meticulous handwriting. He stared at the words, hoping the meaning would sink in. The letter was succinct and to the point, quite unlike anything Varric had ever written before. Kess took a deep breath and knew from that moment onward, everything had changed. There was no doubt in that.
Corypheus lives. Seen him myself. Come to Skyhold.
He crumpled the letter and set fire to it, leaving it on the dock to burn. After his second drink, he set out to in search of the first ship that could get him to Ferelden.
…Skyhold…
The drawbridge groaned and screeched as it was lowered, creating a racket that would make sneaking in an impossibility. When Kessler crossed the threshold, he was greeted by a lone figure. Even by torchlight, he looked the same—time and circumstances had no effect upon him. Kess dropped his pack at the dwarf's feet, crossed his arms and cocked his head, just like old times at the Hanged Man.
"I got your letter," Kess said.
"You know how many dirty taverns Red's people visited? And how many bottles of that crap I needed?"
"You've been busy, I see."
"Actually, we can thank Red and her crew."
Kessler refused to reveal the emotion that bubbled just below the surface, although it was hard to contain the wide grin that was threatening to escape. Varric played it equally cool as well.
"Hawke." He said this matter-of-factly. "You're hard to find." There was a familiar twinkle in his eye.
Kess shrugged in response. "I've been busy."
He took a step forward to get a better look at the Keep's grandeur. All the rumours were true. It was a sight to behold and despite the crumbling walls and centuries of neglect, it was obvious that the place had strong bones. Before Kess could go any farther, Varric held up a halting hand, and nervously looked around.
"If you don't mind, I'd rather not announce your arrival."
It amused Kess greatly to know that he was part of the dwarf's shenanigans. "Who is here?" He had heard the stories at base camp, he just needed to confirm them.
"Old friends… Former Templar Commander Cullen…"
"Former?"
"It's not like there is any order amongst the Orders…"
"I sense an 'and'…"
Varric looked visibly uncomfortable. "Seeker Pentaghast." He looked over his shoulder suspiciously and beckoned over an elf who happened to be wandering through the courtyard. "Hey! Can you fetch Leliana for me? I know you'll need to wake her. Just say that I sent you… and that the bottle was opened."
"Right away, ser." The elf ran toward a flight of stone steps that led to what Kess imagined was the main hall.
Varric ushered him inside a tavern, sitting him down in the darkest corner.
"I'll be right back. Don't speak with anyone."
He skulked behind the bar, retrieving Kess an ale then scurried back to the courtyard without another word. The tavern was deserted, with the exception of two lone figures in the far corner. This wouldn't be the first time he was forced to drink alone, so he hunched over his tankard and settled in, watching what little activity there was to see in the moonlit courtyard. As he drank, he fell into a dark pool of thoughts that, up until now, he had spent most of his time trying to forget.
It seemed so long ago when Varric had reported the rumours of the Carta deep in the Vimmarks. Whose idea was it to drag Carver and Anders along too? Probably his own. He had forgotten some of the details, but others would be permanently etched in his mind. Those memories still threatened to consume him to this day. He could still see that crumpled thing on the stone floor, a heap of unnatural flesh and bone, as vividly as the day he killed it. It did not bleed—that he would never forget. It steamed and seeped some unholy putrid ooze that released a noxious stench of foul flesh and burnt lyrium. With his boot, he rolled it onto its back, flipping it over with a clack of exposed bone. Its eyes were curtained with white, a black ooze seeping from the sockets. The corner of its mouth was still crooked in a sneer. In any normal situation, he would have reached down and felt the jugular for any sign of a pulse. He hesitated, then felt a hand on his shoulder.
"Hawke. Come away. You're wounded. Let Blondie help. It's dead," said Varric in a quiet voice.
Only then did he feel his own blood trickling from an open wound over his eye.
"Carver," he said, holding out his hand. His brother looked up and connected with him in a way he had not since Lothering. "Hand me your sword, brother."
Carver complied, without hesitation. Kessler took the blade and slammed its tip into Corypheus's chest, splintering ribs, right into where its darkened heart once beat.
A bottle was set firmly on the table, startling Kess from the memory. A young soldier settled into the chair across him and held out a hand.
"Evening, stranger. New to Skyhold?"
Kess returned the handshake, took a drink and looked out the window, hoping to see Varric. The dwarf never mentioned what he should do in the event someone spoke with him. He rubbed the bottom of his lip with the side of his hand. "Arrived about an hour ago."
"Name's Krem. I'm with the Bull's Chargers… mercenary group extraordinaire. Let me welcome you to Skyhold. Welcome to the bloody end of the world."
Kessler held out a hand. "Best not give you my name until I've been given the go-ahead."
Krem took a drink. "I hear that a lot in my line of work. But this isn't the sort of place where you can just disappear, though. I know some people if that needs to happen…" He grinned and then stuck a bottle into the corner of his mouth and took another sip.
"Actually… I've finally been found." Kess was probably revealing way too much, but his arrival would not remain a secret for long. "Varric is off alerting all interested parties… and most likely also quelling a rebellion. Since my story will have to wait… why don't you tell me about yourself and what brings Krem of Bull's Chargers all the way up this bloody mountain?"
The mercenary pointed with a thumb. "That one over there is the Iron Bull. He's the one who pays me." He took another drink and turned to the Qunari dozing in a chair. "Hey Chief! Grab an ale and come tell our guest about the Chargers!"
A half an hour and at least half a cask later, Varric returned, scratching the top of his head in that familiar way which told Kess that everything had gone wrong.
"Well, shit," Varric muttered, scanning the table.
"So tell me, Dwarf," The Iron Bull boomed, "your friend here is as tight-lipped as Grim. We've been trying to lubricate the truth out of him… so he's claimed to be the inspiration for Chapters 2 and 5 in Hard in Hightown."
"You've read my novel!" Varric grinned, then winked at Kess.
"My guess is that he's got some history with the boss." Even though he and the Iron Bull had just met, he could tell in the way that he had said 'history' that he really meant something else. Kess was fine in leaving him to accept that assumption, and had he time to dip into that cask a couple more times, he probably would have made some obscure references to Sword and Shields as well. Surely no one had read that here.
Varric crossed his arms over his chest and tipped back his head as spoke. "Come on, old friend. Ruffles has found you a bed in some obscure corner near the stables. Hope you don't mind the smell of horse shit in the morning."
Kess pushed back his chair, leaning onto the table with both hands. For a moment, his head swam with the unexpected strength of the whiskey. The Qunari sat back and chuckled, to which Kess responded with a crooked grin. "To be continued." He straightened without wavering and winked. Krem and Bull bid farewell with a simple salute.
At the tavern's doorway, Varric scanned the empty courtyard. Kess had never seen him quite this cagey before, a sobering thought as they headed for a shadowy set of stairs near the stables.
Varric sprinted up, and stopped. He was now a full head higher than Kess.
"Drinking with a Ben-Hassrath… really, Hawke?"
Kess hesitated over the next step, stifling a laugh. "Hard in Hightown is definitely going to be a best seller in Par Vollen."
:::~O~:::
At dawn, a crow perched on the window ledge and cawed unrelentingly. Kess opened an eye, ready to brace against an intense burst of morning sunshine, but instead was greeted with overcast skies and a noisy bird. Both, he supposed, were capable of inducing equal amounts of pain, especially after having consumed half a cask with a Qunari the night before. He performed his morning-after-too-much-alcohol ritual, which involved excessive yawning and scratching the stubble on his cheeks, to find a blonde boy in a wide brimmed hat perched in place of the bird. Kess bolted upright, backing against the wall, his feet pushing the blankets from the bed as he scrambled for purchase.
"The smell of lilies. Sharp and sickly sweet," The boy said, staring intensely at Kess.
Slowly, Kess reached for his staff, propped up beside the bed where he had placed it the previous night.
"Torn apart and stitched together. She falls into his arms. Safety. Sudden solace. He kisses the top of her head but she's falling freely into the Fade. She's gone… but returns. She is whole. She is happy."
The boy looked up from under his hat with watery blue eyes, sad almost. Then, there was just the hint of a smile.
"I can make you forget, if that will help. I am here to help."
Kess was at a loss for words. And in a blink of his eye, the window was empty, with the exception of grey skies and snow-peaked mountains. He dressed with haste and left his room, no longer caring about the pact he had made with Varric to not wander the Keep on his own. At the bottom of the stairs, his heart had finally stopped slamming in his chest and he was finally able to shake off the shivers. There was no better time that the present, he rationalized, revisit the tavern, half-wondering if the Qunari had slipped something into his drink. Either that or there was red lyrium around, which upon closer thought, seemed unlikely given Varric's general aversion to the stuff. As he passed the stables, he caught a whiff of something that was far more inviting than the smell of manure that hung near the stables. It also distracted him from the ridiculous notion of having been awoken by a ghost. Breakfast called to him.
Tentatively he opened the kitchen door and slipped inside.
"Finally! What took you so long?"
Kess looked behind him but found himself alone.
"Don't just stand there. Grab that tray and take it to the Herald." With a clatter of crockery, she shoved the tray into Kess's hands. "And wipe that stunned look off your face…" She flicked her hands. "Go on now… before it gets cold…"
"Um… I think you've got the wrong guy. I just arrived last night… and I haven't the foggiest notion where she might breakfast…" He shrugged apologetically, although he found the idea of the Champion of Kirkwall serving breakfast in bed to the Herald of Andraste to be rather amusing. Once Varric's panic settled, Kess was sure that he'd appreciate it too.
She relieved him of the tray with a frustrated sigh, setting it roughly on the table. The cook was stout, with a thick nest of wiry red hair, typical of Dwarven women her age.
She pulled out a chair. "Beg your pardon, ser. Help has been hard to come by since Haven."
Before he took a seat, he grabbed an apron, shaking it out so that he could tie it around his waist. "I may be new, but I know myself around a well-stocked kitchen. I am at your service." He bowed deeply.
She snapped his leg with a tea towel. "I'll have none of that! I'll have no amateurs faffing about my kitchens or larder. Now give that back and sit! Eat!"
Obediently, he took his seat and with a flirtatious wink, he accepted a generous helping of eggs, a rasher of bacon and fresh-sliced bread.
"Long way up that mountain…" she said with a nod. "You here to join the Inquisition?"
He paused mid-bite. Up until now, he was only willing to admit that he was doing Varric a favor.
"Course you are," the cook answered for him, scooping more eggs from her frying pan onto his plate. "Who else would come all this way if it were not for the Herald of Andraste!" Her kindly expression turned grave. "I might be a surfacer, but I've heard all the talk. Don't you let her fool you for a second… who else would send her from the Fade unharmed? I never paid much heed to the Chantry before, but seeing the Herald with my own eyes has made a believer out of me."
Kess nodded, thankful that it would be considered rude to speak with a mouthful of scrambled egg. Besides, he didn't have the heart to be honest with her. Before he could make up anything, she turned on a heel. With a frustrated grunt, stuck her hands on her waist and stood up on tiptoe, straining to see out the window. A young boy blew into the kitchen, red faced and out of breath. Without a word, he collected the tray, under the cook's disapproving eye. She grumbled again with dissatisfaction and placed a steel cover over the plate.
"There… ought to keep it warm a bit while you stumble up all those stairs. The eggs oughta to be a fine mess by the time you get up there… and try not to wake the whole keep! Well, except that friend of hers. He sleeps like the dead."
With an apologetic nod, he left, slamming the door in his wake.
In similar fashion to the previous evening at the tavern, Kess hunched over his plate and enjoyed the rest of his meal in silence. The clang of pots and pans was mildly soothing, reminding him a little of Bodahn preparing meals in the Hightown kitchens. Soon, he lost himself in happy thoughts, playing cards with Varric and Aveline, back before Corypheus, Meredith and Anders.
A feminine voice cleared her throat, startling Kess from his daydream. A blonde elf stood at the end of the table, staring at him suspiciously.
"Oy. You! You're new here, yeah?"
She plopped down on a chair, unceremoniously dropping a plate heaping with food in front of her. Kess continued chewing, not inclined to say a word. With both elbows on the table, she leaned forward, as if studying him.
"Got the scowly face of a prissy pants you… but your hands—they're all banged up, yeah? Getting all fisty and punchy not too big for your britches…" She tore off a piece of crusty bread and chewed it loudly, then giggled maniacally, peeking under the table. "Britches… yeah…"
The cook waddled over to the table and let out an exasperated sigh, giving the elf a snap with her tea towel. The elf winked at Kess, grinning at him in what he could only describe as the best cat who swallowed canary look.
"Sera!" scolded the cook. "That was Master Dorian's plate!" She set her hands on her hips and frowned. "Picky, that one is. Has to have his eggs just so." She then wagged a finger. "Have you ever tried to poach an egg in a kitchen in this state?" Her hands flew up in exasperation, which was followed with an even louder clattering of pots and pans. "And I am sending him after you if he decides to lecture me again on the state of his eggs!"
The elven girl winked at Kess, as she chewed a mouthful of the breakfast in question. "You can tell that one to stuff it, eh? I've just as much right to eat the proper prissy eggs, as runny as they are, yeah?"
Kess grinned and shrugged, as if to show that he followed her logic. In response, she furrowed her brow, inspecting him with a cold, hard stare. "Can you talk? I mean, maybe someone hacked out your tongue once…" She puckered her mouth dramatically, as if she were working out the best turn of phrase which would suddenly entice him to engage in conversation. Before she could come up with retort, a burly and gruff man trudged into the kitchen. She looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes. "That one is about as chatty as you… This should be good. Hey! Broody beard!"
The man cast a sideways glance at Sera, placed his elbows on the table and quietly sipped a cup of tea, otherwise ignoring the elf. If Varric had not been quite so on edge, he would have tried to come up with a smartass reply to her, and thought it had been too long since he engaged in a friendly battle of wits. Despite his silence, she continued to chatter almost incoherently. Both he and the gentleman shot each other glances that confirmed that their silence was the sort of ribbing that worked best. The only thing that he was able to learn about the man who had joined them was that his name involved some connotation of the word black. She spoke so fast that he wondered how she did not collapse on the table in utter exhaustion. Just as Sera threatened to butter the man's beard, Varric reappeared.
"Well, shit," he grumbled. "Morning, Blackwall." The man named Blackwall tipped his head politely and held up his tea in greeting.
"You gonna give up his name or shall I make one up, eh?" Sera chirped, pointing a thumb at Kess.
Varric ignored her. "Let's go. She's ready to meet with you."
"Ah… important heraldy business. Have fun, then. Don't suppose you're actually going to get all chatty with her, then?"
Kess waved a friendly goodbye and followed Varric into the courtyard.
"I've been looking all over the place for you." Varric gritted his teeth and shook his head. "Please tell me you didn't say anything to Sera…"
Kess grinned. "I never got a word in edgewise."
As Varric walked toward a rambling staircase that led to the ramparts, he conceded agreement with a shrug.
"That was Blackwall. We picked him up near Redcliffe. A Warden…"
"I should have known. So it's true… they are all that grim."
A woman leaned on the keep's balcony railing. She appeared to be watching both men climb the stairs toward the ramparts.
"That is Madame De Fer." Varric offered her a wave as he spoke.
She looked away, in what felt like a snub, when Kess made eye contact. "I'm not sure I even want to know her story," he muttered.
"She could make any one of the uppidy-ups in Hightown feel as if they belonged in Darktown with nothing more than a bat of her eyelashes," Varric muttered.
On the parapet walk, Kess could see an elven woman standing on the corner tower, leaning on the stone curtain wall and studying the activity in the courtyard below. Varric picked up his pace to greet her, but Hawke fell back. For a moment, he considered running all the way back down the mountain and finding a hidey-hole to spend the rest of his days in relative obscurity, to let legend and myth take over the telling of the Champion of Kirkwall. Finally, he mustered the courage to accept his past and confront the future.
With willful determination, he marched down the few steps to where she stood. Her fiery red hair caught in the gusts of cold wind that whistled past the ramparts.
She had that wide-eyed look that he had once recognized within himself, which held one part dread, one part resolve and one part blind stupidity. And besides the steely expression of someone who had been witness to an unspeakable horror, she looked young. Almost too young to be a revolution's figurehead. There was something about her that he could not quite put his finger on; maybe it was that sense of youthful optimism that reminded him of Bethany, or a naivety that hinted of Merrill.
"Inquisitor," Varric said, when Hawke stepped down. "Meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall."
She crossed her arms over her chest, studying Kess with suspicion.
"Though, I don't use that title much anymore," he said.
The corner of the Inquisitor's mouth quirked in a grin. "I also have little use for titles. Yours is not nearly as bad as mine."
Bioware owns all. This is a One-shot for Clafount. (What can I say? The muse keeps a schedule of her own.) A huge thank-you to Mille Libri for being my beta and offering such insightful comments. The Title may or may not be borrowed from a Brian Eno album.