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"She's always been strong, even when she was just a little girl. She'd always be there to protect her brother and sister, my dear Carver and darling Bethany." Leandra sighed and delicately placed her teacup back in its saucer. "She always chose not to listen, too. Oh, I just wish I could have taught her how to be more ladylike when she was still little. Her father had such an influence on her, though; she took pride in being Daddy's little girl."
Leandra's guest—Thomas, he'd called himself—placed a sympathetic hand over hers. He gave her an encouraging grin. "Leandra, dearest, you cannot blame yourself for the path your daughter has chosen. I've never met her personally, but from what I hear from Hightown's finest, she is a remarkable young woman. You should be proud to call her yours."
Leandra made a weak attempt to smile and gave Thomas' hand a weak squeeze. "She's done much good for Kirkwall, hasn't she? I'd prefer it if she didn't spend so much of her time in the company of Lowtown's... occupants."
Occupants, indeed, as most occupied without paying taxes.
"She has a reputation to uphold," Leandra said firmly, as if to convince Thomas. "She's an Amell, after all. And to only add to it, I believe she's falling for an elf."
"An elf?" Thomas scoffed. "A knife-ear? Your daughter? That is absurd, Leandra, I am sure she has enough sense to know that he is far beneath her to even consider as a husband!"
Hawke clenched her hand into a fist, contemplating whether or not to barge into the dining room just to give this 'Thomas' a piece of her mind. The idea seemed most appealing, especially when Thomas ventured to add another comment.
"Does she not know that elves either live in the Alienage or carry out their lives in slavery?"
She was about to turn the handle on the door and tie Thomas' tongue in a knot, but her mother's chuckle stopped all action.
She was happy. Thomas, her mother's consort as of late, made her happy. Hawke blew out from her mouth and crossed her arms. Her mother had been through so much: first Malcolm's death, then Bethany's from that terrible ogre, and then Carver leaving to join the Templars just to spite his older sister. Leandra deserved a reward for what she'd endured over the past four years, and Hawke was adamant that she'd be given a proper one.
And if Leandra found a companion and enjoyment in Thomas, she'd refrain from lighting his arse on fire.
For the moment.
"You haven't seen him, Thomas," Leandra continued. "He's... well, he has these... markings—lyrium, I think."
Thomas' eyes widened. "Lyrium? In his skin? He isn't... a mage, is he?"
Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head. Just what she needed after another lovely chat with Fenris: more talk of mages and a lyrium-branded elf. Just the thought of him sent a whirlwind of anger and confusion throughout her entire body.
The Holding Caves were cleared out, all the blood mages put down and gone from the world. Hadriana, one of Fenris' tormentors, was dead. The battle had been a brutal one. Hawke was still learning a lightning based spell from Anders and almost electrocuted her fellow mage on accident. The look he'd given her when she almost singed the tips of the feathers lining the shoulders of his coat was almost comical—had the situation been any different, of course.
She was more focused and deadlier with flames. Her ability to conjure fire was well practiced, as it fed off of her anger. And she had plenty of it, mostly at herself.
Perhaps that explained why she and Fenris had acted out on fury after the battle. The thrill of combat was still coursing through their veins when she tried to reason out Hadriana's gruesome death, and she had struck one of the prickly elf's seemingly few nerves. Anders had goaded and encouraged her to support mages and their plight, and she wasn't certain that if Varric hadn't been there—bless that vertically challenged man!-Hadriana wouldn't have been the only one to have had her heart ripped from her chest.
Then he'd run off, spewing Arcanum beneath his breath, probably swearing her to the Circle and back. Or not back.
She'd looked for him in Kirkwall after convincing herself enough that he had every reason to harbor such hatred toward mages, even if admitting that was equivalent to stabbing herself repeatedly. She'd checked his mansion, the Chantry courtyard, the Hanged Man, and Lowtown's docks, though he'd often complained of the foul stench.
She returned to her estate, still covered in sweat, grime, and blood from the Holding Caves, to find him sitting rather comfortably—that damned elf—in her foyer, not caring that he'd stained the cushions of his seat with Maker knew what from his armor.
Oh, and how lovely that conversation went. Fortunately, not too many vicious words passed between them before she kindly escorted him out, her mabari close at his heels. Nearly two weeks had gone by, and neither of them had seen hide nor tail of the other.
And now this. Her mother, gossiping with dear Thomas. Hawke, deciding that staying in her estate just to listen to her mother spread rumors would be a waste of time, turned on her heel to finally be rid of the Hawke Estate's choking atmosphere.
Hawke Estate, she thought bitterly, sure.
"I just wish she was more like Bethany. Oh, she was such a sweet girl, and feminine, too."
Hawke stopped dead in her tracks. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, keeping herself from bursting through the dining room door and giving her mother and Thomas a few choice words. But she knew that if she did that, there'd be a confrontation waiting for her when she returned home, and she was in no mood to listen to her mother's scoldings.
Forcing one foot in front of the other, she marched out of the Hawke Estate, certain that once she was in the Hanged Man, her mood would improve considerably.
And it did.
She sat with Varric, Isabela, and Merrill, picking at a plate of questionable food. She wasn't sure if she was eating bark or meat, it was so terrible.
But it was better than eating supper in the presence of Thomas and her mother while plastering on a fake smile to satisfy Leandra.
"You should have seen her, Hawke. Oh, the look on her face was priceless. She was all red in the cheeks and hair flaming! Even those freckles were on fire. Anyone could have seen that Captain Man Hands wanted to throttle me one, but with Donnic there, the struggle to remain civil in front of him was de-licious!" Isabela laughed and slammed her mug of ale down on the table.
Hawke almost choked and cleared her throat. "Maker, I'd forgotten all about Aveline and Donnic!"
"Well, she didn't forget about you," Isabela said with a cat-like grin on her face. "She must have been cursing the name 'Hawke' all the way back to Kirkwall. Probably scared away whatever raiders Merrill and I might have missed. But I think just a glance at her on a normal day would turn them back, scurrying to their mothers' skirts for shelter." Isabela gestured for Norah to bring over another round.
Hawke groaned and kneaded her temples. "I expect Aveline will want a proper excuse as to why I didn't show."
Isabela leaned back in her seat, aware that other patrons had their eyes on her and seemed to bask in the attention. "I wouldn't be so hasty to pay her a visit, if I were you."
"Why's that?"
"Well, according to Isabela," Merrill said, her cheeks flushed from the ale, "the strange sounds coming behind Aveline's office doors made it quite clear that she was preoccupied. I wonder whatever with; it was quite loud, you know."
Varric hid his laughter in his mug while Hawke fought the urge to slap her forehead.
"What? Did I say something wrong?" Merrill looked between her friends, her face an oblivious sheet of innocence. "Was it something dirty? I never quite understand the dirty things, even if they aren't dirty or things—am I making sense?"
Isabela wrapped an arm around Merrill. "Perfect sense, kitten. Did she make sense, Varric?"
He chuckled and scratched at his nonexistent beard. "Enough sense to write down, if that's what you're getting at, Rivaini."
"You're still serious about publishing a novel about my adventures?"
He snorted and gave Hawke an incredulous look. "You caught me, Hawke. The real reason I picked you and your brother's sorry, nug-bitten bottoms was to bore myself to tears and eventually grow three more feet—"
"Just what exactly will be doing the growing?" Isabela purred.
"Isabela," Hawke sighed. Merrill let out a hesitant giggle, not sure what her friends were discussing. Perhaps the ale made her a bit tipsy. She wouldn't be surprised.
"You see, Hawke, that there is your problem. You aren't thinking big enough," Varric continued.
"And we do like to think big, now don't we?" the pirate mused aloud.
"A novel describing you will be Thedas' next best-seller! You'd be surprised how many people fawn over literature and obsess over textual heroes."
Isabela drained another mug. "Not to mention other things books inspire people to do—what?" She smirked at Hawke's unimpressed expression. "Oh, come now. Haven't you ever read a bodice-ripper when you were younger? Andraste's arse, don't you still read them? I can't imagine you having any fun in that estate of yours—not with your mother pecking away at you."
"Tell you what, Hawke." Isabela leaned over the table, earning several whistles from the Hanged Man's gentlemen. "You get that lanky elf of ours to... glisten... and I'll put words from those delightful books into action. What say you?"
"But Fenris doesn't glisten," Merrill interrupted. She frowned, confused. "Well, not exactly, I mean. He glows and gives you that stare—I call it the Dread Wolf Stare—that says he's going to tear your heart out in exactly three seconds."
"Rivaini, I think you just spoiled dinner," Varric whispered so that only Isabela heard. Both pirate and dwarf saw the sour look pass on Hawke's face from mentioning him. There were few things that openly upset Hawke, and the elf was one of them. They cleared their throats, struggling to find a way to change the topic, when Hawke looked about ready to set the table on fire.
"Oh! Wait, we were talking about books, yes?" Merrill chirped. Varric and Isabela turned their heads toward her, an uncommon amount of interest in their eyes that Merrill was too oblivious to think suspicious. "The Alienage was having a sale in the morning. One of the older elves was cleaning out their house, and had mountains and mountains of books to sell. I never knew that books could rival Sundermount's height, could you? I would have gone over to see what they had, but I was tangled in my twine."
Merrill looked pleadingly at Hawke. "I don't suppose we could go there now, just to see if they have anything left? Maybe they have something about the Dalish or an elvhen trinket or—"
"Oh, kitten, you come up with the smoothest ideas," Isabela said as she stood abruptly, practically tipping over the table.
"See, Hawke, now you can find out for yourself the power of a compelling story," Varric chuckled as he hoisted himself to his feet. "I'll even be the gentleman escort for you ladies this evening."
Merrill's eyes widened. "But won't Bianca be jealous? Sometimes I feel a bit nervous just by talking to you, Varric. Is there a limit to how much female presence you can have before she starts shooting bolts at us? I don't think twine will help me against Bianca."
"Don't worry, Daisy," Varric smiled, "Bianca knows to put the claws away time to time."
Hawke watched as they stood and gathered at the Hanged Man's entrance, and quietly noticed that they'd left her to pay for their meal. She sighed, leaving a few silvers for Norah and Corff to bicker over, and let a babbling, happy Merrill pull her to her feet and lead her to the Alienage.
At least there was one elf that wasn't broody.