Note: This takes place shortly after the Battle of Kirkwall and just might narrowly wedge itself between DA2 and Asunder. It still wont match entirely smoothly, partly because Asunder makes assumptions regarding canon that don't work with my version anyway. It shouldn't be too painful, however. I'm careful that way.
This is not the same Hawke as in 'Age of Raptors'! (but read it anyhow, it's short!)
EH BIEN, DANSEZ MAINTENANT
by moondusted
Chapter 1: From Morn to Night, my Friend
Anders woke with a start, propelled himself upward from his bedding only to be held by straps snapping tight around his wrists and biting into his skin. He yelped, felt a surge of anger crawl up his throat and blue flare behind his eyelids. Still disoriented, he fell back and hit his head on the rough edge of the bed-frame. His vision jumped and skittered. He heard himself groan at the sudden pain. Dimly, he remembered that he had to keep control. It meant nothing to his confused mind, that phrase, but somehow he knew it was important and he clung to it with all the scraps of his self he still had.
Breathed.
On some faint level he knew it was his sense of injustice reacting to the darkspawn invading his dreams, but knowing that never helped, because he couldn't find that knowledge when he slept, couldn't reason or rationalise or control.
"You tied me down again," he remarked thinly, took slow, deep breaths and listened to his racing heart. "Not that there is anything wrong with being tied to a bed, but…" he added in a tired, failed attempt to joke.
He turned his head to find Fenris glowering at him across the murky twilight of the small room.
"You'd want me to let you loose, then?" Fenris asked, voice gravelly in annoyance. "It's an alienage out there. How long do you think it would take until you found something unjust?"
Anders made no answer. Fenris was right, of course, damn him, but that didn't mean the righteousness of his attitude didn't grate. "What time is it? Where is everyone?" he asked instead.
"Early morning," Fenris replied. "Merrill is buying food, Hawke has taken Wuffles to the park and Isabela hasn't been home yet."
Now that his sluggish mind was catching up with the reality around him, the ever-present din of the alienage pressed in through the cracks in the shutters along with dusty streaks of thin sunlight. The noise and the stink. You stop minding the smell after a while, their landlord had said when he had brought them to the tiny apartment. Two rooms with little furniture apart from the narrow, too short bed he was tied to and the rough table and bench where Fenris currently resided. No wonder Isabela preferred to spent her days and nights in some shady tavern by the docks. Merrill and Fenris lacked that choice. Val Royeaux was a different city than Kirkwall and none of them quite understood the rules here. Two elves, ignorant of social norms would find trouble far too quickly.
Isabela had not said anything, but she was leaving them soon. She had loaned her ship away, but she still heard the call, still felt the pull of the sea. She was known, of course, for her association with Hawke and it had made it easy at first to throw her new fortune to the wolves for them. But Isabela, at the heart of her, was loyal only to herself. Hawke had held her for a time and he mattered to her — they all did — but changing the nature of who she was, lay beyond her. As well it should. No friendship should ever ask for such a sacrifice. Nor should love.
Besides, their tenuous connection to the rest of the world was at the docks. Isabela and Zevran had contacts there, enabling Varric to send messages. No one knew how he had managed to wriggle himself back into the good graces of Kirkwall, but doubtlessly Varric had his ways. He was more useful there, too, spreading his stories in their favour, one voice telling the truth — or Hawke's truth, at least — of what had happened in the Battle of Kirkwall. Whether it would tip the balance, or whether it would mean anything at all remained to be seen.
Zevran had left them before reaching Val Royeaux after sending them to the alienage to hide. Zevran had done more than even that, giving a promise of help in a name that probably carried more power than any noble of Orlais, even in Val Royeaux, at least when listening to the assassin.
Anders remembered… but it was hazy, disfigured. Amaranthine was far away, so distant. He was no longer that man, he barely recognised him in his own memories anymore.
"I'm sorry," Anders said and was more surprised to hear himself say that than Fenris, who only snorted.
"Sorry means nothing," he sneered. "Sorry won't change a thing."
The ceiling hung low above them, Anders saw, staring up at it from wide eyes. Cracks ran through the cheap wood, dried out and dusty. If he looked hard enough, Anders though he could see the tiny fissures as they grew and grew, until they could no longer support the weight of the stories above them.
"Why don't you kill me?" Anders asked.
Fenris growled again, like the wolf he had been named after. He could have taken back his real name, Anders thought, it was telling he had chosen not to.
"If it only were my choice," Fenris pointed out.
"Why don't you kill me now?" Anders clarified. It was stupid, tempting Fenris like this. It took a long time for the elf to answer, long enough for Anders to begin to wonder if perhaps he had pushed too hard and Fenris would snap this time. Slaughtered on an elven bed in a slum would not bring justice to those he had killed in the Chantry in Kirkwall, but it would bring closure, at long last. An end. Hawke had been supposed to be the one. Hawke was always the one. But Hawke had refused.
"Because you still have a purpose," Fenris finally said. "You don't get the easy way out." Another pause. "I cannot say I share the reasoning, but it might hold merit. I will not betray my friends the way you have done."
Anders was too tired to argue and he didn't quite trust he would find himself on the right side of the argument. He could not justify himself, not even before himself and he knew Fenris well enough. He would never understand.
"There was no betrayal," Anders said quietly.
"You don't believe that," Fenris said, never missing a beat.
Anders took another breath. The landlord had lied: You never got used to the stink. "Untie me," he said.
"No."
"I need to piss."
Another silence stretched between them, both less hostile than before and less comfortable. It was strange how used they had become to their animosity, it sometimes had the same texture as friendship.
Leather hissed quietly as Fenris got up, cursing quietly in Arcanum.
Morning mist still hung thinly above Le Jardin des Etangs, covering the elaborate flowerbeds and muting the colours of the blossoms. Few nobles were about this early and those who were had not been to bed yet and their appearance spoke volumes about the debaucheries of the night before.
Leliana sauntered along a path, feeling the gravel shift soundlessly under her soft boots. The tranquility of the gardens grated on her nerves. She should not be here, listening to gossiping nobles while the world was fast descending into flames. The Divine had not deigned to tell her the reasons why Leliana had to stay in Val Royeaux when her talents would be so much more useful elsewhere. Perhaps Justinia feared that chaos would find them soon enough and she needed her most trustworthy servants close by, or her most deadly weapon.
Listening the gossip revealed much about the state of the world, of course, even if one had to read between the lines to do so. On the surface, there was a lot about plum-coloured tights and velvet caps with white feathers, it was scandal and poison rings and intrigue. It would be a lie to say that Leliana did not enjoy these things. She had learned to accept this part of her since Marjolaine's death and, occasionally, to revel in it. She was good at what she did, why hide from it? And she found a balance by serving the Divine, it kept her honest, reminded her that even dark talents could be made to serve the light.
Something large and black crossed her path, too fast and far too unexpected to make sense of it for a long moment. Leliana stopped on her tracks, heard the gravel crunch like a miniature avalanche.
The mabari bounced back around, crossed her path again and bounded across a manicured lawn, dragging her attention with it. Mabari were not unseen of in Orlais. There were enough nobles who had picked up the habit during the occupation of Ferelden and brought dogs back with them. It was still considered somewhat barbaric, but a noble was nothing without his peculiarities and a rare breed of dogs served the purpose well enough.
Come to think of it, she had heard about a Fereldan who had recently come to the city. He served as a young noblewoman's bodyguard and had drawn some attention for his surprisingly cultured manners. Most of the attention had been taken by the noblewoman, however. Young and recently widowed, her husband's family had seized her estate and most of her fortune and she had come to Val Royeaux petitioning the throne for the return of what was hers. The consensus among the courtiers was that she had no interest in some backwater barony, but instead very much hoped to find a foothold in the capital itself.
Leliana left the path and strode after the mabari.
Landscaping had decreed that there was low hill there, given a spine of slender cypresses and descending on the other side to a small pond full of powder-blue water lilies. The dog was drinking from the water while, a little away, a man sat on a stone bench, watching it.
Despite herself, Leliana froze in the gentle sunlight.
Hawke sprawled on the bench, long legs stretched out in front of him and his head settled back on the stone. He tilted his head towards the sky and closed his eyes, relaxed and peaceful. He had let his hair grow and wore it brushed back from his face in oiled curls as fashion demanded, although it didn't suit him much.
When she had first met him, it had been unsettling just how closely he resembled the Warden. Not on first look, they were different men, who had led wildly different lives, but there was something about their presence, about the power of it, as if they were echoes of each other. Singular, if not unique in the world.
She approached him swiftly, silently. The park was nearly empty and neither of them were well-known celebrities, but Val Royeaux was not a place of secrets. Someone would know about this meeting and draw conclusions. All Leliana had to do would be make sure they were the wrong ones. No one must know that Hawke of Kirkwall was here. No one knew what exactly had happened and all the accounts Leliana had read and heard were too varied to find the underlying truth.
"You have some nerve," Leliana observed as she sat down by his side, casually and easily, as if she was speaking about the most trivial thing in the world.
"You make some noise," Hawke replied without moving a muscle or opening his eyes.
"I didn't want to startle you," she said with a smile.
"That's what I'd say, too."
Leliana shook her head, a gesture meant for herself rather than him. A part of her found it difficult to grasp that he would come to Val Royeaux of all the places he could have fled to. How insane must he be? Or how brilliant?
"What are you doing here?" she asked directly, instinct and experience both telling her she would not be able to trick him into revealing anything he wished to hide.
"Walking the dog," he said. "Not wearing plum-coloured tights."
Leliana chuckled. "Which is a pity, no? I heard great things about your legs."
"My… legs?" He cracked one eye open, than the other, glancing at her from the side. He straightened and pulled his legs up, as if making sure they were still as expected. He gave her another sceptical look.
In a way it was ridiculous, this conversation they were having out here in the open, gentle morning sun while the very foundations of the world were coming apart under their feet. This illusion of peace would not last and the worst, she knew, was only just beginning and it all came down to this man in front of her. Hawke had been at the heart of it, the centre of the hurricane threatening to tear them all apart.
She felt the mood tip, saw something cold and earnest come into his eyes.
"Where is Anders?" she asked with the barest of hesitation in her voice at the name.
"Wouldn't you like to know," Hawke smirked. "Safe, he is safe. Anyone threatening him will have to go through me and that's not a pleasant experience. I can be quite nasty."
"He's here," Leliana concluded. "You brought him here."
"Why, yes," Hawke shrugged nonchalantly and cold dread slowly crawled up Leliana's spine. Hawke was difficult to predict and that made him difficult to handle. It wasn't like he didn't understand the ramifications of his presence in the Divine's own city, it was simply that he didn't seem to care at all.
"Don't fret," Hawke said slowly. "It wasn't my idea. We were heading to Antiva. Best place to lay low, best place to hide the bodies of anyone coming after us, but then, things don't always work out. I was told to come here instead."
"Told?" Leliana echoed. "By who?"
He eyed her sharply. "An old friend," he said vaguely. "Don't take this the wrong way, but how do I know I can trust you?"
"Because I haven't called the guards yet?" Leliana offered, but the humour was sliding away. It occurred to her just how dangerous this man could be when he slipped to his feet in one perfectly smooth motion. She had never seen him fight, only heard the stories, all these wild tales of his deadliness, but she had seen too many devastating warriors in her life to discount him. If Hawke wasn't as good as they said, he would no longer be alive.
"No, calling the guards only means you'll never find out what this is about," he pointed out. "Whereas letting me run loose… who knows what will be revealed?"
She frowned. "This is Val Royeaux and you think you can play the game?" She made a slight gesture with her hand. "With your little baroness? Do you think she can protect you?"
"I can protect myself, thank you very much." He shook his head as if he grew tired of the topic. "I'm waiting for someone and the salvation he promised. You can have and hang and burn me when this is done. And only then."
He looked away from her, scanning the park for his mabari. He gave a high whistle and the dog shot towards them. He whined when he stopped, head moving emphatically. Hawke gave a sigh. "All right, stick around, I'll pick you up on the way back. But no marking of any nobles' leg!"
The dog gave a happy bark and ran off again.
Hawke pulled himself straight, then struck a perfect court bow. "It's been a pleasure to speak with you, Sister Nightingale. It goes without saying that I really don't like being followed. Don't try it."
She met his gaze steadily, refused to acknowledge the unspoken threat. Two could play at this and she was not without skills of her own. She settled back on the bench, as casual as he had been earlier. "We shall see," she offered.
The flare of a smile, although brief, suggested that she had not offended.
"I think…," Isabela fell silent, running unexpectedly out of words. She squinted up at the sky and the seagulls circling above the harbour. "I think I like drinking because it makes the ground sway. It's like being on a ship. And it gets you drunk. Drinking, I mean, not the ship. Or maybe that, too. Depends on the ship and the cargo. I once had a hold full of rum to deliver. You'd imagine that was a fun journey, wouldn't you? But really, I think I'd rather have had a hold full of whores… after all, they just slap you when they aren't in the mood, casks just sit there, ready and willing."
She considered for a moment. "Problem is. You know what the problem is?" She made a slow gesture with her nearly empty mug. "I hold my liquor too well. Takes forever to get drunk."
Entirely unappreciative of her narrative, Gully was snoring into her shoulder, a little drool running from the corner of his mouth and soaking through his scraggy beard. Retired sailors were the saddest sight. There was no light in their eyes and no spring in their step, they were forever driven to linger around the docks, buying drinks to the seafaring crowds frequenting dockside taverns. She had offered him a pity fuck, but he'd said he wouldn't be up for it, probably in more sense than one, the poor sod.
She had parked herself outside the Yattaran to watch the sun rise over the inner harbour. Her mug was getting a little empty, but she felt heavy and lazy, unwilling to move.
A large caravel had just docked just across from her. The wood was dark, still gleaming despite having been exposed to saltwater for so long. A sea monster's head had been carved around the bow, baring its teeth into the waves. But gruesome as the visage was, the body folding back over the sides of the ship had a distinctively female shape.
First off the ship was a gargle of merchants, glad to be free and already bustling about the place, hiring carriers for their cargo and fretting over the insensitive way the sailors were handling their precious merchandise. The caravel wasn't a fast ship, Isabela could tell, but she'd be steady in any wind and difficult to take. There was enough space for a substantial crew, even with so many passengers.
Isabela emptied her mug with a deep gulp, bitter grisly bits came with the last swallow, either dirt or residue, but if she was drinking this swill for the quality she had been doing something wrong for the past few… well, weeks. Not constantly, of course. She took turns with the others, making sure Anders stayed put and out of trouble. Once, no doubt, Anders would have been fun to spend a night with. Now, he only tossed restlessly on the bed. More often than not, they had to tie him down so he didn't hurt anyone — himself or others — without realising it. And it was worse on those nights when, for some reason, he seemed to find real sleep. Those nights, she was stuck with herself, her own thoughts in her head, counting her scars and painting bleak pictures of the future. It made her feel like a retired sailor.
"Would you look at that?" she asked her sleeping companion. "Looks like we'll even get a mugging for free! I love those!"
The man had been the last to disembark. She had seen him stand up on the railing and watch the scuffle in the harbour not unlike she had. He wore a long coat, worn, but notably expensive even at a distance. He'd had a cowl pulled low over his face against the hard wind coming in from the sea. Only when the others were finished had he turned away and had a nearby sailor help him carry a trunk down the gangplank. His luggage, no doubt.
Now he stood on the quay beside the trunk, surveying the scene once again. A tall man, and quite confident, even though it was obvious that he was momentarily at a loss of where to go.
Isabela had spotted the group of men earlier, when the ship had docked, lingering around the periphery of the quay like piranha until someone foolish enough dipped a toe into the water. And they weren't even stupid about it, either. The man was armed, though the coat did a good job of hiding the sword from sight. A sharp and experienced eye would be able to tell by the way he stood. A sword at your hip changed your balance and your stance, how you carried yourself. As Isabela watched, she saw the man make an odd, aborted gesture with one hand, than drop his arms again. He had been about to place his hand on the hilt, no doubt, and remembered he didn't want to advertise the sword's presence.
"Now why is that?" Isabela wondered aloud. She twitched her shoulder, but Gully only grunted and nestled lower only for a small, pleased smile to appear on his sleep-slack face when he found the softer pillow of her breast.
One of the thugs split from the group and walked directly to the traveller, had the good sense to keep a respectful distance and even strike a light bow. Everything about him said, 'look at me, I'm a harmless local offering free help to lost strangers'. His friends drew closer around their prospective prey.
The traveller nodded in greeting. Casually, he reached up to grip the edge of his cowl and pull it back.
Isabela made a low, purring sound in her throat. "Gully," she said, her elbow jerking up sharply. "Gully! Wake up! That's Zevran's Warden. You don't want to miss this."
She put her elbow in Gully's rips with deft force. The old pirate yelped and shot upright, only to catch his head in his hand, groaning. "Whaswrong?" he slurred.
"I told you about Varric, didn't I?" Isabela asked.
"The storyteller?" Gully said, blinking in the morning light.
"Among other things," Isabela conceded. "But yes, the storyteller. He would kill for this story." She gestured with her — sadly still — empty mug. "See that guy over there?"
"'s goin't get mugged," Gully observed. It was nice to see he still had some instinct left in his sodden, land-bound brain.
"Here goes," Isabela began, changed her tone into the best Varric-the-Storyteller imitation. "On a clear morning, a stranger arrived by ship. He had hidden his face in the shadow of a hood so that people would not recognise who he was. What reason did he have for this secrecy, you ask? Ah, but that will come later. For now, he is standing on the creaking wood of the pier like a point of perfect stillness in the hustle and bustle of the great port of Val Royeaux. His arrival, however, had not gone unnoticed by the local lowlife, who foolishly thought that one lone man and a stranger to the city would be an easy victim. They could not be further from the truth, but they would learn that soon enough. As one of them spoke to the stranger, his friends came closer and closer until the stranger found himself surrounded and cut off from any escape. Far from daunted, the stranger tilts his head and faster than the eye can follow he throws his arm back and the wind caught and billowed his dark cloak to reveal sight of the sword by his hip. A beautiful weapon it was, pale as bone and in truth, that was what it was: a sword from the bones of a High Dragon. Even in the gentle morning, it radiated cold and…"
"Issa normal sword," Gully interrupted, pointing with his chin, adding, "One o' them curved ones from… whassit? Antiva?"
"Don't interrupt, my version is better," Isabela chided. "So where was I? Ah, yes. The stranger drew the legendary blade Vigilance and before his would-be muggers had time to realise what happened he had felled two of them. Such a sight he was! This was not fighting, this was dancing and it didn't seem to require any effort. Within moments, a dozen thugs lay by his feet…"
"I coun' five," Gully said. "An' 'e's tossed one inna water."
"I was getting to that part. Anyway… so…uh, damn. Shouldn't do this drunk," Isabela said, fumbling for words and trying to remember where she was going with her narrative. "During the fight, his hood had fallen back from his face and revealed his identity for all the world to see. And what a face! Pale as porcelain and cast with the beauty of the finest Tevinter statue…"
"Issa shame witha nose, then," Gully said. "Kinda ruins 't all, no?"
Isabela leaned away from Gully and gave him a long look. "Where is your sense of romance? Are you sure you were ever a sailor?"
"Issa dumb tale," Gully shrugged. "Lik'd it better tha way he did it. Swordhilt to chin, guy 's down. Kick back, guy inna water. Stab sword back and twist, guy 's gutted. Hold sword like dagger, by the lower arm like, slit guy's throat. Fifth guy pisses hisself and runs off. Don' need no fancy legend-swords for tha', just good ol' fashioned skill."
Isabela frowned at him, than looked back to the dock, considering. "Doesn't matter. I'm going to like the ending best, anyway."
"How's tha'?"
"Because," Isabela announced and got to her feet a lot jerkier than normal. She blamed Gully who had kept her pinned in this cramped position for too long. The world had a pleasant, blurry spin to it for a moment, but settled back to normal when she took a few deep gulps of salty air. "The Queen of the Eastern Seas is going to give the Hero of Ferelden a welcome-molesting."
Leliana decided that this must be the dullest day ever in Hawke's entire life. It didn't help that she knew he was leading her on, probably having a good laugh at her expense, too. She followed him to the market, where he admired trinkets and damned carpet-patterns for hours. At noon, she observed him buy some greasy food at a stall and sit leisurely by a fountain to eat it. He had all the time in the world to watch the street performers at every corner he passed.
After that, he headed for baroness Ophélie's townhouse only to sit in the sun with her for half the afternoon, flirting. Leliana was almost grateful when they went inside and she had something to agitate her mind with, wondering how she should keep all the entrances covered all by herself. It turned out, she needn't have worried, because shortly before sunset, Hawke and Ophélie emerged from the front door so lavishly and colourfully dressed, there was no doubt they were going to a ball somewhere in the city.
Leliana debated whether it would be worth following them there. Stalking Hawke on a party was likely more entertaining than anything he had done so far, but he wouldn't believe he had shaken her so easily. More likely than not, he would give her the runaround for a lot longer before he slipped up.
In the end, Leliana concluded it wouldn't matter. She knew how to pick up his trail again easily enough and sooner or later, he would go back to wherever his friends were hiding. Which only raised an entirely different sort of question. Things were coming to a boil everywhere in Thedas, here in Orlais not least of all, and Anders role in the wider scheme of things was certainly debatable. Anders had changed the politics of Kirkwall and perhaps all of the Free Marches, but if he had a role in history or if he would be merely a footnote remained to be seen. If she found Anders, was it worth the effort to bring him in? Was it worth antagonising someone like Hawke for it? Without, and that was the point Hawke had been making, knowing anything of why he was here in the first place?
It should bother her that Hawke had been able to read and predict her so easily. He had taken one look at her and known exactly how to pique her interest, gambling on the fact that she would not sell him out before her curiosity was sated.
Abandoning her vantage point, she wondered if maybe she would have fared better following the mabari. The hound had not rejoined Hawke during the day and would most likely have returned to his other home by now. That point was moot now, of course, but certainly something to consider for next time.
She had no interest in returning to her rooms at the Grand Cathedral, preferring to mull her suspicions over in private before she was forced to share. She kept a number of rooms and apartments ready throughout the city. They served as bolt-holes in situations where such things were required, or simply when she was too tired to go all the way home. In her line of work, it paid to be ready for everything.
These rooms were located above a bakery in a quiet part of the city, but not so far from Ophélie's townhouse. It was the perfect base. Maybe she should hire a few people to keep an eye on that house, just in case.
"Mistress?"
The baker's apprentice came hurrying after her from the storefront.
"What is it?"
She stepped on the first steps of the stair, turned back to watch him approach.
"There is a message for you," he said with wide eyes, apparently almost as surprised as she was. Only a select few at the Grand Cathedral would know how to find her and would never abuse such knowledge. The apprentice handed a sealed letter.
She took it and turned it in her hand. She looked back at the apprentice, who watched her attentively.
"Thank you," she said pointedly and he took the hint. He smiled and nodded, ran off back to work.
With the door locked behind her and a candle lit in the oncoming gloom, Leliana tore open the wax and unfolded the letter. It was short message, written in a familiar hand.
L'auberge de la Cornaline. Please come see me at your earliest.
Something else was here, beating at the back of her head; something that Hawke had said: An old friend. Not his old friend, but hers and she knew that hand, although she had not received letters in some time.
She hesitated for a long minute, torn between anxiety and the joy of the thrill making her spine tingle. It was wrong to like these things, she knew, she had made her peace for the most part, but she still felt a little guilty sometimes. All the world was shaking and there she was, enjoying the ride.
Justinia had once told her how the world would be on the brink of collapse regardless and as long as Leliana understood what was truly important, what harm would her pleasure do? There was enough suffering in the world, after all, there was no need to make it worse for yourself.
So the bitter taste sometimes lingered, but it wasn't allowed to paralyse her or hold her back from what needed to be done. She remembered to hold the letter up to the candle flame. The heat stung her fingertips and she let the burning paper fall into the bowl by its side. She was already gone by the time the fire had taken the rest of the paper.
L'auberge de la Coraline was close to the harbour, just far enough away to justify its higher prices. It served the richer merchants who could afford to stay away from the noise and stink of the docks, but still wanted to be close to their business. Night had fallen by the time Leliana had made her way through the bustle of the city. The taproom was full and her sharp ears picked out a dozen different languages and accents. A minstrel was singing sad love-songs on a small stage at the back of the room.
The porter seemed to have been expecting her and directed her to the second floor without any prompting.
The hallway lay in silence, the noise from the taproom unable to penetrate that far. Her knock seemed too loud as if it had meaning and perhaps it did. Too much power was concentrated on Val Royeaux these days, the wrong kind of power. Hawke was bad enough and dangerous enough with his fingers in the game and pulling some minor noble's strings. But Hawke on his own was one thing, Hawke with his companions was another.
But Kameron Amell had an agenda all his own. If he had come here…
The door opened. Kameron let it swing wide on its own as he turned away and back into the room. "Come in," he said easily.
The room was spacious, choking on dark velvet, shimmering tassels and heavy curtains.
The pirate Leliana recognised from Kirkwall sat cross-legged and scantily dressed on the bed, cradling a mug of something hot and sweet-smelling in both her hands. She raised the mug in greeting, then relaxed back against the pillows, digging her bare feet underneath the plush blankets.
Even in shirtsleeves, Kameron Amell had something regal about him. He poised himself against the edge of the desk by the window.
Leliana hadn't seen him in five years, but time seemed to have been unable to change him. There was still the pale skin that bruised so easily — marks of fingers and teeth along his neck and the exposed skin of his chest. He had cut his hair from the long waves she remembered, giving him a severe, older look. The beauty of his face was still marred by the deformation of his nose. He had never told the story in detail, only mentioned how his nose had been broken when he was a teenager and not properly set or healed. It had always seemed a challenge, this malformed nose, to come and try to break the rest of him.
A spike of joy at seeing him was almost immediately replaced by other concerns. "I take it you are not on holiday?" she said.
"No," he agreed. "Although, I am here to see family."
"You are the one who asked Hawke to come to Val Royeaux!"
"Indeed."
Leliana found herself frowning. "You know he brought the apostate with him."
"That's actually the point," Kameron said. He shook himself free from the desk and sauntered toward her. "I may have made a mistake in letting you know I'm here at all, but I figured you would hear it anyway."
"What do you mean?" Leliana asked. She noticed the pirate had disposed of her mug and slipped to her feet, sitting at the edge of the bed. Her body had tensed, though, pulled ready to spring. It occurred to Leliana that she might not be among friends.
Kameron Amell was a man with too many hatreds. Hatred of the Circle and the mages who would let themselves cowed so easily; hatred of the Templars who dared cage him. He had let the Ferelden Circle go down in flames and sacrificed all of Amaranthine to the darkspawn when it became clear it would be unable to stand on its own. The man lauded as 'hero' had no patience for others' weaknesses and no interest in being anyone's saviour.
"Times are changing," Kameron said airily, waving his hand. Turning, he caught the pirate's gaze past Leliana's shoulder and shook his head ever so slightly.
"Your loss," the woman announced. Fabric whispered as the pirate resettled herself on the bed.
Kameron continued as if the little exchange had never happened. "We all know this is coming to a boil and sooner rather than later."
He turned to face her directly, held her pinned with his piercing eyes. "I need to know if I can trust you."
"Of course you can trust me," Leliana said. In a way, it was surprising how easily the words left her mouth and how heartfelt they were. They had rarely seen eye-to-eye in the months of travelling, but they had also saved each others' lives countless times. It required more then mere trust, more even than faith. It didn't matter what she thought of Kameron and his opinions when his achievements were beyond doubt. He had forged his band of random strangers into a cohesive unit capable of ending a Blight before it began. Whatever else had changed since then — or not changed at all — she was still a part of that.
Kameron seemed unimpressed by her assurance. "You say it like you mean it."
"I do mean it," Leliana insisted, almost insulted that he could doubt her at all.
He tilted his head to one side, regarded her like a raptor past the jagged length of his nose. "If you have to chose between the Divine and me, do you really know on whose side you'll stand?"
Time stopped. It felt like something shattering, a certainty in the world falling away without warning. He had no love for the Chantry, either, nor ever tried to hide it. He had openly laughed when she had told him about her vision. But even he couldn't quite discount how things had fallen into place in the end, though she doubted he could be made to accept a guiding hand behind events, not as long as that hand wasn't his.
Leliana took a deep breath. "You never make it easy," she said with a long-suffering sigh. She was stalling, she knew, but she didn't care. She sat down at the foot of the bed, gave the pirate a long look, trying to figure her out at least.
Kameron and Isabela knew each other, if only distantly. Zevran connected them as an old friend of Isabela's and — surprisingly for both of them — Kameron's lover of eight years. Isabela was close to Hawke and she would have come to Val Royeaux with him. There were enough connections here to weave a very tangled web, even in Val Royeaux.
"I would," Kameron said honestly. "If I could think of a way. Val Royeaux was not my first choice, but I needed to keep my cousin and his friends away from Templar scrutiny. Zev was supposed to take them to Gwaren, where they would have been safe. But Ferelden's stance on magic makes it an obvious choice. The Templars locked down those roads. In a few weeks, perhaps, we can wriggle through."
"Why Val Royeaux?" she asked.
Kameron smirked a little. "No one ever looks this close to home."
"But it means dealing with me," Leliana finished. She stared at the carpet between her feet. Her mind felt curiously empty. If Kameron made her chose between Justinia and him…
She looked back up at him. "Do you think I'll have to make that choice?"
"I have no idea," he replied. He regarded her for a long moment, than seemed to reach a conclusion. He shrugged, took two long steps to the bed and sat down by her side.
"It might come to blows, if the Templars or the Seekers get wind of it," he said and his voice had taken a softer tone. "They don't need to, of course. I'm not here to wage war on the Chantry or the Tower or Orlais. None of that concerns me at the moment. I'm here to save what is left of my family and support a fellow Warden. That is all."
"Well," Leliana said. Her throat was closed and her voice came out oddly thin. "Then there will be no trouble."
"You don't need to be involved," Kameron added. "I just didn't want to go behind your back."
"But I am involved," Leliana pointed out. "What do I tell the Divine when she asks me?"
For the first time, Kameron allowed her to see something of the insecurity he must feel. He was rarely out of his depth and when he was, he liked to pretend otherwise, but they had known each other for a long time. He looked away from here. "Tell her the truth. That Hawke is here with Anders and that I have come to take them all off your back. Surely that is a solution for everyone?"
"What happened in Kirkwall…" Leliana began.
"I don't know what happened in Kirkwall," Kameron interrupted. "I'm sure you don't know, either. I haven't heard two accounts that can agree on more than basics. It'll become clear once I speak with Hawke or Zev gets back. He was there, you know, in Kirkwall."
"He is not in Val Royeaux?"
The corners of Kameron's mouth tightened. "The Crows are still hounding him. I was on my way to Antiva to assist, but this took priority."
"You are worried," Leliana observed.
"Not unduly," Kameron said. Abruptly, he got up and returned to the desk, poised himself once more, as if he needed the distance and the thicker shadows there, which obscured his features. "Well?" he asked then in a low voice. "Where do we stand, Leliana?"
The pirate at her back hadn't made a move since settling herself and Leliana had no way of knowing what she was doing. For all she know, the woman had drawn a dagger and was prepared to slit her throat, even without Kameron's consent. Leliana half-turned in her seat so she could keep her at least in sight from the corners of her eyes.
"If what you say is true," Leliana began, picking her words carefully. "Than there is no danger from any of you. It would serve the greater good to just let you be?"
"That's what I'm saying."
Leliana chewed on her lower lip. "I…," she hesitated. It was a question of trust and she realised that she didn't trust him like this. The situation was so widely different from anything she had been through with him. She had had suspicions about him before, hadn't she? After he had come back with Andraste's Ashes and was so adamant she needn't concern herself with its further fate. She would trust him with her life, but she was trusting him with the lives of many people, most of whom meant nothing to him.
"I will keep an eye on you," she finished. "These things happening now, no one can control them. If something goes wrong, I'll need to know. And if it becomes necessary I will tell the Divine." She stopped herself again, searching for words. "If it becomes necessary, I will talk to the Templars."
She looked at him. "Are we good?"
He let her hang in the silence, left with all her doubt swirling about her, with the unknown factor of the pirate at her back and the way it was so damn hard to face him of all people and think what it would be like to have him as an enemy.
"Good enough," he finally said, releasing her.
"Thank you for not interfering," Kameron said once Leliana had left.
Isabela snorted. "Friendship is a fickle bitch, I've been there."
Kameron had not moved from the desk, still stuck in some darker mood — or maybe that was just because he was still sitting in the shadows.
"Tell me about Hawke," Kameron said. Isabela frowned. She had just been about to drape herself across the bed and incite him to rejoin her. He had taken a bath and washed away all the glorious smell of seawater and wind, claiming he didn't smell of 'freedom' as she said and more like 'not washing for two weeks'. Isabela didn't think the two things were mutually exclusive.
Maker, she wanted back on a ship before she was all shrivelled up and boring like Gully.
"Hawke?" she echoed. "Great stamina and very nimble fingers."
"He's my cousin."
"Distant cousin, somewhat removed," she chuckled. "There are plenty of places where you'd be married with a gaggle of children. Well, sort of, anyway, you get the idea. But the cousin part? No one cares for that."
"I meant what sort of man he is," Kameron said and lifted his hand before she had time to draw breath. "Without length and circumference, if you please. If I feel inadequate I'll have to drag him to the White Spire myself."
Isabela laughed, "I think you don't… all right, all right, stop with the glaring."
"Zev had only time to write a short message," Kameron said. "I'd rather know a little more about this relative before I throw my lot in with him."
Isabela gave a pillow a little kick to make it slither forward on the sheets, she lay forward on her belly, wrapping both arms around the pillow and resting her chin on top of it. "A little late for that, isn't it?"
"We all work with what we have."
"Hmm," Isabela made noncommittally. "Tell you what, you get back here and I'll gossip about Hawke to your heart's content. And then we go another round, just to make absolutely sure Zevran didn't ruin you for women."
References:
"Eh bien, dansez maintenant" ("Very well, now dance.") — The Grasshopper and the Ant by Jean de la Fontaine
"From morn to night, my friend" — Up-Hill by Christina Rossetti
"Wuffles" — Discworld, Terry Pratchett
"Yattaran" — Captain Harlock's first mate