Surprise

a [parody] [satire] gentle homage to the works of LoquaciousQuark

on the [belated] occasion of her birthday

by Jade Sabre

with special thanks to Jilly and Nista for lore and lookings-over

"We're throwing Fenris a birthday party."

Hawke's proclamation was met with about the reactions she expected: Merrill and Isabela both clapped their hands, while Varric and Anders looked a bit more skeptical.

"That's why you called us here?" Anders said. "I thought you'd devised a plan for mage freedom that he wouldn't like."

"She'd hardly have invited me if that were the case," Sebastian said. "Though I did think a clandestine meeting in Varric's chambers would be for a…more serious matter."

"Surprise birthday parties are quite serious, thank you," Hawke said, affronted.

"Of course they are," Aveline said, though Anders looked as though he would beg to differ. "But why now?"

"Well, it must be Fenris's birthday, mustn't it?" Merrill said.

"Ah," Hawke said, "you see, we were wandering around the Hightown market last week, and…"

They were on their way to inform Hubert of the situation at the Bone Pit, arguing about the best way to break the news that all the workers were dead because no one had bothered to survey the mine for dragon eggs.

"It's not the sort of business expense you expect, no, but someone should have noticed them," Hawke was saying, but she lost her train of thought upon reaching the market. "Oh, a new novelty booth! I wonder if they'll have more pockets for my pack."

"I don't think that's how packs work," Fenris told her, but she ignored him—he wasn't in charge of the pack, after all—and went to stand next to a little girl poking at something in a cage.

"Mummy!" cried the little girl. "Mummy, look at the nug! I want the nug!"

Her mother, well-dressed if not noble, busy haggling with the clothing merchant at the next booth, said, "Maybe for your birthday."

"What a terrible birthday present," Hawke muttered, expecting Fenris to chuckle, but none came.

The dwarf running the booth—well, he didn't quite bend down, as the girl was as tall as he, but he leaned forward and said, with a toothy smile, "You know they talk, right?"

"They do not," the little girl said, finally succeeding in giving the nug a little head scratch through the bars.

"Sure they do," he said, his smile fixed on his face.

Suddenly, out of seemingly nowhere, a high-pitched, squeaky voice said, "I can too! And I love you!"

"MUMMY," the little girl shrieked. "Mummy, I want a talking nug!"

"There's no such thing!" her mother said, draping fabric over her arm.

"Shame on you!" the nug squeaked.

The girl balled her hands into fists and stomped the ground. "Mummy I want a talking nug! I want a talking nug! I want a talking nug and I WANT IT NOW!"

"…and her mother had to leave the fabric and drag her back along the cobblestones," Hawke said, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. "Classic."

"Yes," Varric said, "the old talking nug trick. Hilarious. What does that have to do with Fenris's birthday?"

"Hm? Oh," Hawke said. "He asked me what an appropriate birthday present would be, and I found out he's never had a birthday party, that he can remember at least. So we're going to throw him one."

She gave them a stern look, to impress upon them the importance of the situation, but then she remembered the child screaming for a nug again and felt her expression start to crack. To cover it, she said, "So, I thought we'd do this in two teams, one to set everything up, the other to keep Fenris away from the house until everything's ready."

"Does he spend that much time there?" Anders said, with a look that suggested he didn't actually want to know the answer.

"No," Hawke said, "well, sometimes, but he's not there all the time, and he occasionally drops by unexpectedly, and we can't have that. So we'll take him on patrol and then I'll invite him over for a late-night snack—"

"I'm sure you don't need us for that, sweet thing," Isabela said, but Hawke ignored her.

"Now. Varric, you're a master entertainer; would you mind being the party coordinator?"

"Is this party going to be big enough to require coordination?"
"Great," Hawke said, as Varric sighed and settled back into his chair. "Merrill, I thought you might be good for decorations?"

She clapped her hands again. "Oh, but what should the theme be? Butterflies? Lyrium? Swords? Is he allergic to anything? I only ask because whenever I show him flowers he wrinkles his nose—"

"I'm sure whatever you come up with will be lovely," Hawke said, pleased that at least someone was excited about her plan. "And Aveline and Donnic, if you wouldn't mind making the food—"

"Is this a dinner party?" Donnic asked. "Because our last dinner party—"

"It wasn't your fault, dear," Aveline soothed, placing a hand over her husband's.

"Oh, what happened?" Isabela asked.

"Donnic overestimated how much brandy a plum pudding flambé needs," Aveline said.

"I set half the guests' hair on fire," he said. "Sergeant Pucet's eyebrows still haven't grown back."

"See? You'll be the perfect cooks," Hawke said.

"Were you listening? I just said—"

"That you have plenty of practice being domestic," Hawke said happily. Donnic looked less than pleased, and even Aveline was wincing. "Besides, you've had me over for dinner, and it was delicious."

"But Hawke," she said, "everyone knows that Anders is the best baker—"

"I am not," Anders said, his eyes just the faintest shade of blue, "making a birthday cake for that elf."

"Fine," Hawke said, as miffed as Aveline looked annoyed. Anders's eyes settled into their normal hazel, at least until she continued, "You can come with us as part of the distraction."

Anders huffed and hunched his shoulders, but some part of him must have acknowledged the justice of the solution, because he didn't say anything. Hawke gifted him with a patient smile that seemed to perk him up, then turned her attention to the only member of her party with actually blue eyes. "Sebastian?"

The exiled prince stroked his chin, baby blues gazing at the ceiling. At last he said, "I could provide musical entertainment?"

Isabela laughed. "Don't tell me you're going to chant at us all evening," she said. "Surely in your wild days you learned more than that."

"I know other songs," he said, unperturbed.

"Drinking songs?" Isabela leaned forward. "Dirty drinking songs?"

"Yes, Isabela," he said, sighing with the barest hint of a smile, "I know dirty drinking songs."

"Oh well then." She settled back in her seat. "Hawke, Sebastian's going to sing for us."

"Excellent!" Hawke hadn't thought about music, nor was she sure she'd ever heard Sebastian sing, but he was a member of the Chantry and it had the word "chant" in its name and Elthina probably wouldn't like him as much if he couldn't sing, right? Right. She beamed at him (which seemed to ruffle Anders's feathers, ah well). "And Isabela, you'll come with us?"

"Of course," said the pirate. "We all know how good I am at distractions. Though, again, I'm not sure you need all of us—"

"Then it's settled!" Hawke was pleased, visions of fairy lights and Fenris's surprised expression dancing in her head. "So, tomorrow?"

"Donnic's on patrol tomorrow night," Aveline said, her expression as placid as her husband's during a game of Wicked Grace. "What about next week?"

"Can't," Varric said. "It's the premier of my new book. Have to sign autographs. A fortnight?"

"Can't," Anders said, "I've got—" he looked sideways at Sebastian "—mage. Things."

"And Summerday's coming up," Sebastian said, returning the sideways look, "and the Grand Cleric's given me many tasks to complete—perhaps after the feast?"

He at least had the grace to look apologetic. "Fine," Hawke said, no longer pleased, "next month, then? Is the third available for everyone?"

Everyone nodded, more or less guiltily, except for Isabela, who crossed her arms and said, "You never know which way the breeze will be blowing," which was as good as Hawke knew she was going to get. She also knew that no matter which way the breeze had been blowing, Isabela had come back with the qunari book; and in any case she was promising a party, and Isabela could never resist a good party.

"Then it's settled!" she declared. "You all have a month to come up with the best birthday party ever, gifts included."

"All right, all right," Isabela said. "Now, can we please go downstairs and get to the drinking? The drinking is my favorite part."

Hawke sighed and nodded, barely stepping aside in time for the stampede to the door. When the dust cleared, she found herself alone with Varric, who still sat at in his chair, parchment and a quill suddenly at his fingertips. She raised an eyebrow at him as he dipped the quill in the ink and looked up at her.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'll make it sound better than it did."

"You're his friends too," she said. "He's never had a birthday party that he can remember."

"Neither have most of us," Varric pointed out. "Dwarves don't even celebrate birthdays. I'm just going along because it's important to you."

Hawke paused, thinking of Isabela sold to marriage as a girl, of Anders wistfully mentioning his mother, of childhoods ended before the children were grown. Aveline probably considered herself too mature for such things, and who knew if Chantry brothers were allowed that sort of individual celebration. Did the Dalish celebrate birthdays?

"I just want to do something nice," Hawke said.

"I know," Varric said.

"It's not just because we're—"

"I know!"

"Once we see how this one goes, I'll do one for everyone else!"

"Don't get ahead of yourself." Varric shook his head, but the amused grin on his face strengthened her resolve.

"Thank you, Varric," she said, brightening. "If you'll excuse me, I have to go ask Merrill about Dalish coming-of-age rituals."

His grin fixed itself a bit too rigidly, but Hawke was already leaving, visions of fairy lights finally back on track.

Fenris spent the evening in his mansion, too cheap to light more than a single candle to chase away the darkness (let alone a fire to chase the chill), a bottle of wine his only comfort.

Keeping a secret for an entire month was hard, almost as hard as fighting the Arishok had been, except when she'd been fighting the Arishok she'd at least known she had Fenris's support, whereas now the most important person in her life was utterly ignorant of her struggles. More than once she was certain she'd given everything away, accidentally mentioning Merrill's bouquet practices or Sebastian's singing, but Fenris seemed to remain oblivious.

"Hawke, he's never had a birthday party before," Aveline pointed out as Hawke paced in her office, wailing that she'd been too obvious in asking Fenris what his favorite flavor of cake was.

Hawke paused mid-step. "So?"

"So, even if you'd asked, 'Fenris, what kind of birthday cake would you like?' he probably still wouldn't guess what you were up to," she said patiently.

Hawke considered this.

"Right," Aveline said, "now, I've a Darktown patrol for you. The Knight-Commander wants to know how mages are sneaking out of the city."

"That patrol won't last very long," Hawke said. "I'll just ask Anders, and then we'll tell Meredith the opposite."

Aveline sighed, as she so often did when they talked. "Then since it's a pointless patrol, you can make it last as long as necessary."

"Right! Right. What time do you think you'll be ready?"

"Not before eight," Aveline said. "Dinner shouldn't take too long, but Donnic wants to be sure the cake has time to bake. I told him we could make it earlier in the day, but he wants it to be…"

"What?" Hawke asked, not missing the slight wince of exasperation blossoming on Aveline's face.

"'Warm and gooey,'" she said, the wince a full-fledged scowl. "Honestly, his cakes are fine. It's not like Fenris has ever had one of Anders's cakes."

"I'm not sure I've ever had one of Anders's cakes, come to think of it," Hawke said. "How does Donnic know what they're like?" Aveline suddenly became very interested in the shelf of books behind her. Hawke narrowed her eyes. "Did you have a party without me?"

"No!" Aveline said, her armor clanging as she crossed her arms. "Look, do you remember the cake at our wedding?"

Hawke thought for a moment. She remembered Aveline's dress, the look on Donnic's face as he saw his wife-to-be coming down the aisle, Isabela and Anders lurking in the back of the chapel, Fenris sitting on the groom's side while she sat on the bride's, oceans of autumn light between them. She remembered Sebastian witnessing, dressed in Chantry robes, Merrill sending twinkling mage lights over the couple despite the templar or two in attendance; she remembered the smile on Aveline's face, the dancing, the laughter as she and her new husband ran out the doors to everyone's cheers—

"Hawke?" Aveline said. "Are you all right?"

Hawke blinked furiously and sniffed. "It was just such a lovely wedding," she sighed.

Aveline smiled, genuine and sweet. "It was, wasn't it?" She leaned against the shelves as Hawke leaned against the desk, both smiling at memories unseen.

After another minute or two, Hawke said, "You asked me something."

"Hm? Oh, yes. Do you remember the cake?"

Hawke though very carefully about the food, and the dancing, and the wine, and Varric's drunken toast in the form of the Lay of the Guard Captain—"No," she said, frowning a little.

"Exactly. It was a little cake and only half the guests got even a crumb," Aveline said. "It was a good cake—I'd thought so, and even Donnic approved. But then after we came back from our honeymoon, Anders showed up on our doorstep with this—" She stopped, gesturing broadly.

"Cake?" Hawke supplied.

"It was more than a cake," she said. "It was a work of art. Little sugar marigolds and buttercream icing with just a hint of cinnamon; moist, fluffy white cake with a thin raspberry filling…"

Hawke blinked as Aveline returned to wistful reverie. "Anders made it for you?"

Aveline shrugged. "Didn't say much, just that he thought we deserved better than we'd had, and to please accept this belated gift. And then he left."

"Well, that was kind of him," Hawke said. "I can't help but notice you didn't share."

"It was a gift for us," Aveline said defensively. "Don't you have a patrol to do?"

"Fine, fine," Hawke said. "Merrill's already working on decorations, and I've told Orana and Bodahn to expect you. We'll be back at eight, and you'd better be ready."

"We will be. Hawke," Aveline said, as Hawke turned for the door, "be careful."

Hawke knew better, but it didn't stop her from looking back and saying, "How dangerous can it be?"

She turned back and smacked her head on the doorframe. It stung, but a quick blast of healing magic eased the worst of the pain. "I'm all right!" she announced, reorienting herself to go through the door, ignoring Aveline's face, carefully hidden as it was behind a despairing hand. "See you tonight!"

"Hawke," Fenris said for the fourth or fifth time, "are you sure you're well enough to be on patrol?"

"I just bumped my head, Fenris," she answered, for the fourth or fifth time. "It's just a little bruise."

"I could fix that for you—"

"No, that's quite all right," she said, cutting Anders's offer short. "It's just a slight bruise—not even a black eye!—and I am fine," she said, emphasizing her point with a pointed glare in Fenris's direction.

He glared right back. "Your capacity for minor injuries—"

"Amazes us all, yes, but we can't all be graceful, now can we?" Isabela purred, slinking in circles around the both of them. "You're so cute when you're protective."

"Isabela," Hawke protested, while Fenris shriveled up with embarrassment and Anders turned green, which was a nice change from blue, aside from the possibility of vomit. (Well. He'd vomited after particularly difficult Justice takeovers, but everyone politely looked the other way when it happened. No one had known him when he'd first become possessed; it wasn't quite fair to say "I told you so" when it was far too late to make a difference.)

"Are you not supposed to be scouting our path for us?" Fenris asked, though the edge in his voice was a bit, well, shrivel-y.

"I have been," Isabela said. "I came back to tell you that all the torches down that alley are unlit."

Hawke squinted in the direction Isabela waved her arm. Her pack was heavy on her back, and she really didn't want to have to walk so far if it would only end in familiar territory. "Is that the alley that leads to your clinic, Anders?"

"No," he said. "It's the one that leads to those stairs, where you fought the old guard captain."

"Are you sure it's not the alley that leads to the smuggling tunnels?"

"No, that's the alley that leads to the sewers. This one leads to the stairs."

"Wait," she said. "Where are we right now?"

Anders sighed. "We've just come from the elevator up to Lowtown."

Hawke studied the crest on the dilapidated wall across from her, trying to retrace their steps in her mind, shifting her pack again. "Maybe you ought to listen to Anders," Isabela said. "He does live here."

"I lived…in Lowtown," Hawke said.

"We're in Darktown."

"Close enough!" she said. "This is the part of Darktown that just dead-ends into the sewer?"

"If we turn that way, yes," Anders said. "We're at the opposite end from my clinic, in the darkest, most deserted part of Darktown, and someone's extinguished the torches leading to the stairs."

"Which lead to that little inexplicable area from which we can't escape without going back up the stairs," Hawke said slowly, feeling out the area.

"Yes."

"So it's a trap."

"Yes," Fenris said.

"It's always a trap, when we end up back here," she said.

"Generally speaking," Anders said.

She sighed. "Well, at least we'll have a story for Aveline," she said. "What're the chances of us seeing them before they see us?"

"Given everyone's propensity for dropping down from the ceiling?" Isabela said dryly.

"Do we have time for this?" Anders asked, glancing at Fenris, who scowled.

Hawke scowled too. Trust Anders to try to ruin the surprise at the last minute. "Of course we do," she said, though really she wasn't sure; usually it was the guard patrol's responsibility to call the hours of the watch, but they were the guard, and it wasn't like they could see the sun to guesstimate. Oh well. Orana was an expert at keeping dinner warm long after the mistress was expected home, and Donnic's cake would probably be fine. "So. Strategy?"

"Since when do we bother with those?" Isabela asked. "Fenris can charge across the battlefield, you and Anders can rain fire and ice, and I'll skulk around and surprise them. No sweat." She paused. "Well, a little sweat wouldn't hurt."

"Don't want to get all stinky," Anders said, glancing at Hawke, who scowled at him again. Where was the justice in ruining surprise parties?

Fenris was looking between them with a furrowed brow. Oh no. "No frowns," she said. "We'll be in and out and home for dinner with time to spare."

At first, she'd thought that for once she'd been telling the truth. Isabela had disappeared, Fenris had taken point, and she and Anders had followed behind, down the narrow corridor, turning the corner to take the stairs. It had indeed been dark, and Anders had stayed above to keep the high ground. As she and Fenris had approached the bottom of the stairs she'd had the bright idea to undo the darkness with just a little stream of fire from her staff. She hadn't spoken her intent, merely lifted her staff and nudged Fenris out of the way, leaned around the corner, cast the spell—

And just as soon as the fire started it stopped and before Hawke could react she felt the too-familiar sweep of a templar cleanse slicing through her magic, the numbness of having her constant sixth sense suddenly taken. She heard a choked gasp from behind, as though the wind had been knocked from Anders; Fenris was already gone to the far corner, the faint glint of light off his slashing sword the only clue to his whereabouts. She knew she had a minute, maybe two, until her magic returned, and shifted her grip on her staff in order to use the serrated blade Fenris had insisted she have, what with all the templar tension. She looked behind, trying to see Anders, but she was too far down the stairs, and when she turned around two heavily-armored adversaries were hitting the ground running. How they dropped in all that armor—she had two options, up the stairs or into her attackers, and so she tightened her grip and ran right back at them, aiming her staff like a javelin while letting out a yell.

The distraction worked, at least enough to keep them from realizing her aim; she ducked under the second's swing of a sword and her blade sank deep into the first's weak joint by his groin, blood spurting onto her robes—oh shit, she thought, and then she remembered she'd saved her party clothes for the actual party, but she didn't have a plan for changing into them before the party started, and also her blade was too deep, taking her with it as the first fighter sank to his knees, howling with pain. She released her grip on her staff and spent half a second trying to deflect the second fighter with her mind—but the mana still wasn't there, and so she slid to the side as he came at her again, barely missing his follow-up attempt to bash her with his shield. His unmarked shield—were templars working with mercenaries?

"This was supposed to be a simple patrol," she muttered, sliding around again—at least now he had his back to the stairs, and she at least could run around the open area if need be, but this meant her back was unprotected, and a quick glimpse told her Fenris was still at the other end. If anyone else dropped on her—she tried to get back to her staff, but the fighter used the narrow space to his advantage, broadening his stance, daring her to come forward. She had no weapon—aside from what Fenris called her unusually thick skull, but that would have no chance against the thick metal of a shield—

The idea barely struck her before she was unslinging her heavy pack from her back and whirling it around with all her might, smashing it into the man's helmet. The resulting crash hurt her ears, let alone the man inside the thing, and as he staggered she released her pack and ran for her staff, tugging it out of the dead man's groin, and hoping desperately for some thread of magic, but still none came. She heard the continued sound of steel-on-steel from Fenris's side of the room, but she'd be of no use if she ran into the fray. So she took to the stairs, hoping to check on Anders and have a good view of the battle, wondering what in the hell Isabela was waiting for—and ran straight into the arms of six more fighters, all armored, all armed, and one of them with a sword to a slumped Anders's neck.

"So sorry," she babbled, nearly tripping over her feet as she tried to backpedal—and if Fenris saw her trying to run backwards down the stairs he'd have her head—but the fighter with the shiniest armor swung his sword in an arc and she felt another wave of templar suppression steal her breath. She twirled her staff and tried a feint, but it clattered off a shield and another fighter grabbed her arms, pulling them behind her back. She yelled and kicked back, throwing her head back and cracking against his helmet—it had looked much easier when Isabela did it—but a fourth fighter punched her in the stomach, and even as the third dropped her she dropped to her knees, wheezing, willing herself to get up, trying to shake the stars from her eyes.

"Hawke?" She half-turned her head and saw Fenris at the foot of the stairs, holding her pack in one hand and his sword in the other as he started his climb. "What are you carrying that's—"

He reached the halfway point and stopped, his eyes narrowing as he took in the half-circle of warriors, Anders unconscious, Hawke on her knees. She tried to think of a way to make it look better than it was. "Only—six," she said, her gut still aching. "Should be—easy, right?"

"Easy," came a voice from within the shiniest suit of armor, appropriately cold and sneering. In a shifting of metal he stood behind Hawke, his sword burning against her neck. "Come now, elf, show us how it's done."

She watched Fenris calculate, searching for a way to defeat as many as possible before one of them slit Hawke's throat—though they hadn't killed Anders, so perhaps they wanted them alive. She was keenly aware of the pain in her neck—no, that wasn't the chill of the steel; it actually burned, and if Fenris took too much longer—and where the hell was Isabela?

"And if I surrender?" Fenris said, which was exactly not what she was expecting. She tried to communicate this with her expression—tried to reach for her mana, but both attempts were apparently futile.

"You'd be willing to?" asked the voice above her head. No templar she recognized, and of course he wasn't wearing any official arms to give any clue to his position. A rogue templar, then?

"Yes," Fenris said, "if you let her go."

Hawke nearly groaned aloud. Now he was going to go all noble and sacrificial? "Fenris—" she said, but he refused to look at her as he slowly took the next few stairs.

"Not possible, I'm afraid," the templar said, and again Hawke felt the wave of suppression, leaving her knees shaking. He had to be incredibly powerful to manage it so often, or have access to an incredible amount of lyrium, and surely Meredith wouldn't want to bring down the Champion of Kirkwall like this. "But I'll take the three of you, if you don't mind."

"Where?" Hawke asked. "Because this little rendez-vous hasn't convinced me that we—" The pressure from the sword stopped her speech.

"Your sword," the templar said, "or the lady loses her pretty tongue."

Hawke stuck her tongue out reflexively, trying to ignore the taste of burning as Fenris took the last few steps, laid his sword at the templar's feet. He had a plan. She knew he had a plan, that his bowed head, his submission, was all an act. She didn't know what the plan was, but she knew he had one, and that it was probably a good one—much better than hers, hopefully. She tried for a hopeless expression, just in case.

"Very good," the templar said. "Now—"

Fenris swung Hawke's pack into the templar's shoulder, jarring the sword so it bit into Hawke's neck—and she would lecture him for that later—but he did drop it, and Fenris was already moving, phasing his arm through the nearest fighter's chest. The dying man's scream of agony pierced through Hawke's head as she dropped to her knees, this time to grab her staff from his dead hands while pressing her other hand against the blood seeping from her neck. Not bleeding fast enough to be of immediate concern, she'd give him credit for that, though the sudden splash of hot blood on her face made less sense, as did the sight of an arm thudding to the ground without an accompanying body. She blinked the blood away, her hand closing around her staff, and realized she knew that arm, lying lifelessly in the dirt, knew every line of lyrium etched into it.

She looked up and saw Fenris swaying, unbalanced by the lack of—oh Maker, that was a lot of blood, and she stretched out her staff, willing as she had always willed—she was damnably strong-willed, could do anything she'd put her mind to, and yet the healing magic would not come. His tanned face was already paling, his eyes wide even as he tried to swing a punch with his off hand, but—

"Idiot," the templar hissed to the fighter with the bloodied sword, picking up his own as he stepped over Hawke and Fenris's arm. She instinctively grabbed it, unwieldy though it was, the forearm and hand and fingers flopping every which way. "He was supposed to be intact."

"It wasn't his head," was the other's timid reply as the templar called holy fire to his sword and smashed it into the bleeding stump. Fenris's lyrium lit white and he screamed and Hawke saw a red apart from the blood, clambered to her feet and charged with the blade of her staff. She made far too much noise, and the templar swung his sword and smacked her temple with the flat of his burning blade and she saw—nothing.