A/N: I've been in a playing a lot of Dragon Age recently so I thought I'd try my hand at writing a story for it. Hopefully it turns out. It may end up as a slight cross over with Inquisition (or probably pre-Inquisition) since I've been playing a lot of that too. For now I'll just be sticking to Hawke and her merry band of misfits. Let me know what you think!
When she woke, the world was green. At least, that was her first impression of it. The woman couldn't say if it had merely been an impression—like some kind of flickering memory—or if the world really had been green. It was all gone too fast to know for certain. Her eyes had blinked and the world was right again. She waited a few moments to see if the green would return to her again and was gratified to see that everything remained its proper color. Slowly—even tentatively—she let her thoughts branch out to take in more of her situation. There was pain, she thought almost dispassionately. Though the bed she was lying on was far softer than any she had known before, the comfort did not counteract the aching of an apparently badly bruised side. Slipping a hand under the far too elegant covers, she pressed into the pain with a gentle hand and hissed lightly. It seemed that her initial assumption had been correct. Pushing herself lightly to sit up—though she had to lean heavily on the headboard due to a confusing lack of strength—the woman blinked blankly at the room, a hand lifting to her temples but hesitating. Though shifting position had pulled at her side and caused the pain to flare up, it had also made her achingly aware of a headache she could not explain. It was not a normal, throbbing headache. Instead it was the sort of pain that felt as though her head was filled with restless flies. The noise was deafening. In a sudden movement that almost made her sick, the woman dropped her head into her hands and clutched at her scalp.
'Hawke,' a voice whispered soothingly. 'Your name is Hawke.' Although all other sounds—particularly the chirping of the outside birds—made the woman want to scream and cry out in frustration, the silken voice did not. Rather, it seemed a blessed relief. She welcomed it.
"My name is…" she repeated softly aloud before she was hit with a flash of understanding. Yes, Hawke. Emilia Hawke. "I remember," she whispered back to the voice.
'How much do you remember?' the Whisper asked. It was still silken and as welcome as a summer's cool breeze, though there seemed almost a slight catch in the tone. Was she imagining that? Given her current state it seemed probable that she was. The question confused her. She remembered her name. She remembered her family. She remembered Lothering. She remembered… nothing more. Hawke blinked.
'You are in danger.' The Whisper returned before she had a chance to speak. She did not need to speak for it to hear her. That ought to have been alarming, Hawke noted, once again with surprising indifference. 'I will not harm you,' it whispered, once again sensing her thoughts. There was no artifice in the voice, and in her weakened state that was enough for her. Perhaps she was too trusting. Perhaps it was simply a comfort to have something seem familiar in a world that seemed ever more confusing. The bed, the covers, even the room were all foreign to her. Something was wrong and, though she liked to think of herself as strong, Hawke had never been one to face things alone.
Her head slowly began to clear and she looked around the room properly. It was a fine lady's room. Of that there was no mistake. The only trouble: she was no fine lady. She was a refugee. Just another hopeless soul driven off by the blight. She had no business here. And where was her family? That desperate thought caused her to twist her head round quickly without giving a thought for the pain it would cause her. The action shook her headache loose and she found her eyes tearing up as the flies thundered in her brain. The thought of her family had almost left her but any consideration of the pain was put away as her blurry vision noticed the figure at the chair to her left. She begged her eyes to clear so she could see who it was. Was that… Mother? No… too tall. Perhaps Carver? The doubts filled her mind before the tears could leave her eyes. When the tears had drifted out enough that she could see, Hawke was filled with disappointment and confusion. The man in the chair was not even human. Hawke could not say exactly what breed of elf he was given the strange markings covering his skin and his snow white hair, but he was no one she had ever seen before. She would have remembered—if nothing else, she was certain of that.
Studying the strange elf, her brows furrowed. He had fallen asleep in his chair at an odd angle as though it had not been his intention to sleep at all and the frown that covered his face was deep. Somehow Hawke had the impression that he had this same expression a lot, sleep or wake. The armor he wore was obviously that of a warrior, but he was no Templar. Not that they would accept an elf Templar anyway. At the very least it meant she was not in the Circle, though Hawke doubted very much that the accommodations in the Circle were this nice; anywhere but in a Tevinter Circle, that is. Regardless he was intimidating and Hawke was left with the feeling of captivity. She did not like it. Had she been in better shape she would have given thought to escape. As it was, she simply continued her evaluation. There was a book hanging from his dangling hand and his other had fallen into his lap. Curiously—and after glancing quickly to check that he was not about to wake—Hawke leaned slightly over to glance at the title of the book. Her lips quirked as she recognized it. It was an old story she had used to read to the twins to put them to bed. It had been a gift from her father, or so her mother had said. Still, as she sat back Hawke had to bite down on her lip to hold back a laugh. The mere idea of this warrior, with such a fierce and brooding aura even while sleeping, reading a children's fairy tale was enough to make her want to burst in to a cascade of laughter. Sensible of her situation and her side, she controlled herself. But she did allow herself a secret smile. What was the harm? He was sleeping. With a careful—though slightly shaking—hand, Hawke reached out to touch the markings that still intrigued her. Before she wouldn't have dared, but her head had cleared enough to be bold.
'What are you doing?' Hawke had almost forgotten about the Whisper until it joined her again. Her hand jolted back guiltily on instinct though she wasn't sure what she had to be guilty for. The voice had seemed a little sharper than before but, when it spoke again, the softness and caring was back. Hawke relaxed. 'Be mindful. There are enemies everywhere,' it whispered words that she already knew. Those words had been the ones she had lived by for most of her life. Such was the life of a mage. Perhaps this voice seemed so familiar because it was a part of her. Was that why she had never questioned its origin or purpose? Because she had created it?
The Whisper remained silent on this point. Hawke took that as an affirmative answer. She turned to look back at the elf, but the Whisper interrupted her.
'Sleep!' the whisper urged. Hawke hesitated. When she heard the slight jangle of the doorknob, her hesitation ended. There was still no explanation for what she was doing here or why she was being guarded and Hawke could think of no good that could come of it. Perhaps she had been injured and someone took her in? As her body slid stiffly but swiftly back under the covers, Hawke scoffed at that thought. That elf was no nurse. She didn't have to be certain of much to be certain of that.
The door opened just as she settled in and closed her eyes. There was a slight pause as though whoever entered might have noticed her movement, but Hawke was gratified to hear the steps continue. Listening carefully, she noticed them going to the left side of the bed: the side with the elf. There was a light noise that Hawke couldn't quite make out and then the distinctive sound of something dropping to the floor (the book perhaps) and a sword coming unsheathed. It took a near impossible amount of willpower not to open her eyes. As it was, Hawke still couldn't resist the urge to open them a crack. If she was going to die, it would be with her eyes open and facing her death. But the sword was not pointed at her. The elf—now fully awake and just as intimidating as he had seemed before—had it pointed at a dwarf who had just come in. Hawke felt concern on the dwarf's behalf, especially since the dwarf himself did not seem to be the slightest bit daunted. He put his hands up in a mocking gesture of surrender. When the elf put his sword down, Hawke forced herself to close her eyes, hoping she had not been noticed during that exchange. A slight frown tugged at her lips. She was confused.
'Take heed.' The Whisper hardly needed to tell her this, Hawke thought. She had few options other than listening. And her curiosity was not a thing easily sated. Careful not to draw attention to herself, she listened. A strand of hair had drifted across her face as she'd dived back into bed and it lightly tickled at her nose. She tried to breathe a little harder to displace it. She didn't dare move more than that.
"You ought to be more careful with that thing," said the first voice jovially. "You almost scratched Bianca!" The second part sounded more serious, though not by much. There was a long, weary sigh and the sound of someone sitting heavily into a chair. Probably the elf.
"I… I did not know it was you. I apologize," the second voice spoke in a quiet and slightly stilted way as though each word was chosen with slow deliberation. "I… have not been myself of late." There was a pause. Hawke found herself desperately wishing she could open her eyes again, but she had a terrifying suspicion that both of her companions were looking at her. That thought only made her more conscious of the terrible tickling of her nose. She would not move it. She would not move it. She would not.
"Let me see… brooding, sulking and taciturn," the first voice spoke up. "No, you're right, that doesn't sound like you at all." The laugh that came from the first speaker was half-hearted but obviously an attempt to cheer the other up. The other made a noise that was closer to a huff than a laugh, but it was not angry as Hawke expected it to be. The pause was longer this time. Hawke found herself wondering if these two always took such long breaks in their conversations or if there was something else going on out there that she wasn't aware of simply because she was forced to keep her eyes shut.
"I think I know what you need," the first speaker picked up again, cheerful as ever. "A few rounds of drinks and Wicked Grace. Isabela's buying. Well, after she takes all of Anders' silver. So I suppose Anders is really buying." Hawke was having trouble keeping stock of all of these names. And she had noticed with frustration that neither of the speakers had bothered to identify themselves or each other. She wanted to sigh. She didn't need the Whisper in her mind to tell her that it was a bad idea, but it was there anyway.
"No." The refusal was flat and blunt and Hawke felt sure now that the second voice belonged to the elf. Mentally she urged the dwarf to keep trying; to do whatever it took to get the elf to leave, if only long enough for her to get her bearings. Or, at least, long enough for her to scratch her nose. If they were willing to leave her alone, perhaps she was not a prisoner? Though she could not imagine what else she would be. Who in this world would stick his neck out to support an apostate? Hawke was no pessimist, but she knew enough of the world to know that she would not be treated with a lavish room and comfortable bed if her true nature was known. And if they had her… what about Bethany? The memory of her family came back like a bolt of lightning and she felt a sudden and irresponsible urge to direct some questions at the elf and the dwarf.
'Hold,' the Whisper demanded. It was still gentle and soft, but there was steel in the tone that forced Hawke to realize the foolishness of that idea. Much as she wished to, she did not move.
"Aveline is coming…" the dwarf tried again as though hearing her unspoken pleas. Hawke had no idea who Aveline was, but if it was a way to give her some time alone to figure things out, she welcomed that person.
"No." The elf's word was turning colder each time he uttered it.
"Just for an hour," bargained the dwarf. Yes, Hawke thought, listen to him. An hour wasn't a lot of time, but it was enough. She would have to be efficient. If nothing else she knew it would give her a chance to scratch her nose and take a good look out the window and both of those things would have been very helpful. Plotting away, she almost missed the dwarf's next exclamation since it came after yet another pause. "Maker's beard, Fenris, this room is killing you." Even with her eyes closed, Hawke knew that the silence following these words was weighted. She waited silent and still for the telltale swish that would come from the blade being drawn. She heard nothing, save for another long sigh.
"When Aveline arrives," the elf finally responded, "I shall… think on it." Hawke found herself equal parts baffled and frustrated. She was baffled that the elf—Fenris apparently—would give in so easily, but then she could not pretend to even begin to understand him. The frustration came from the understanding that she would not get her chance to look around or to get rid of this wretched hair. Hawke swore to herself that the first chance she got she would shave off her hair. Nothing was worth this torture.
"I will not leave her alone," Fenris said quietly. Had Hawke had the opportunity to move and make noise, she would have gasped. Instead, she was forced to hold it back and wonder at the meaning of those words. Where was she? What was she? And, most importantly, who were these men who seemed to—dare she think it—actually care for her?
The door closed with a soft click, signaling the exit of the dwarf. Hawke was left to ponder everything she heard. She did not get much chance at that, however, as she suddenly felt careful hands tugging lightly at her covers to straighten where she had left them lightly mussed. A hand drifted gently across her face and moved away the hair that had been her torture those last several minutes. Was this… friendship? Had she misjudged everything that had happened? As impossible as it seemed, she did not feel in danger. In fact, Hawke could not remember ever feeling this safe. The hand pulled back slowly and she heard him reach down for the book he'd dropped. With nothing else to do, she listened to him turn the pages—far more slowly than one normally would, she noted. It was a lulling sound and Hawke found herself—despite having evidence that she had rested quite a lot recently—feeling unusually tired. Surrounded by the sounds of his breathing and the occasional page turns, Hawke lost herself to sleep.
'I am a friend,' came the Whisper as Hawke was drifting off. She smiled. Hawke wanted to believe it. No, Hawke did believe it. 'I am your only friend.'
