This story is part of the 52 stories in 52 weeks challenge created by ourwritingtherapy on tumblr. Week 4 : A story about three siblings.
I wanted to write something about my rogue Hawke for a while now so… Here we go. This takes place after Act 1.
Leda Hawke & Her Siblings
Leda Hawke haunts the corridors of the Hanged Man so often that she knows its every nook and cranny. The tavern, at least, feels familiar. Far more familiar than the house in Hightown in any case.
She can get used to it, she knows: being rich, being a part of the nobility… Half of what she does is done to make money, to never suffer poverty again. It made her ruthless, sure, but it has also kept a roof over her family's head for a long time.
She doesn't knock on Varric's door, she rudely barges in instead, like she always does. Or, rather, like she used to do before that expedition in the Deep Roads. Before…
Varric is sitting at the big table in the main part of his room, scribbling away on a stained piece of parchment. That, too, is comforting. He looks up when she sinks on the chair next to him but when she simply pours herself a glass of wine from the pitcher on the table and remains silent, he goes back to his writing without a word.
That's what she likes about the dwarf, the reason why she doesn't hesitate to call him her best friend when she is so reluctant to forge friendships, to let people in – although, she seems to have been breaking that rule of late given the number of companions she has been gathering lately – he knows to respect her silence. He can be rowdy like the best of them, can command a room with the cheer power of his storytelling, can out drink anyone in Kirkwall… But he knows how to be silent too.
If she had wanted a distraction, he knows she would have stayed in the main room of the tavern: she would have challenged Isabella to a drinking contest, dragged a reluctant smirk out of Fenris, tried to corrupt Aveline by buying her that ale the captain likes, humored Merril by listening to her discoveries of what living in Kirkwall entails, promised Anders they would have every occasion of kicking Templars' asses eventually, promised Bethany that…
The pain is still fresh and her fingers clench the tumbler in her hand.
Where is Bethany now? Is it truly lucky to have come across the Wardens or has she sentenced her sister to a fate worse than death?
Bethany, sweet Bethany, is no fighter. She has the soul of a healer, a gentle soul…
Everything Leda has ever done has been to protect her sister. Even when Carver disapproved, even when Carver enrolled into the King's army… Her blades have always been raised in Bethany's defense. Every scheme, every deal, each penny she's ever made…
She's never seen eye to eye with Carver. Even when they were children… Carver was head strong and, in typical boyish fashion, resented his big sister defending him. In truth, Leda thought he resented her being better than him in a fight. Carver might have had the strength and the skills to wave around a big sword but she is deadly with her double blades, faster too – and more elegant.
That's something Isabella understands perfectly and Fenris always lifts his eyebrows at, not quite disapproving but more amused at her insistence that rogues make better fighters than warriors…
She has felt Carver's loss, of course, but… So much had been happening at the time… And she isn't the tearing up type. She doesn't cry, she doesn't mourn, she doesn't…
Carver's death hurt a lot but she feels Bethany's disappearance like a severed limb.
It's such an ingrained reflex to check out for templars when she enters a building or steps out into the sun, such a habit to turn to her left and exchange a look with Bethany to seek her opinion about a tricky situation…
The weight of her mother's gaze is too heavy to bear nowadays.
Leda is a little too aware her mother would have preferred having either of her other children safe with her rather than her. She's never been the favorite. She's always been the outcast. She's the one who does what's necessary and they fear her and loathe her for it, her quickness to draw her blade, the nonchalance with which she would slit a throat… She's the one who keeps them all safe and that isn't a pretty reality in this world.
She understands, really.
She understands how Carver and his shiny uniform made her mother proud.
She understands how Bethany's kindness and devotion warned her mother's heart.
She understands she's not what her mother would have wanted out of her first born.
Her tumbler is empty so she places it down and pulls out her favorite dagger. The blade glints in the flickering lights of the candles, the steel clean for now. The night is young yet, though. She might decide to take a stroll toward the docks were trouble is sure to arise one way or another…
Varric places his quill down, contemplates the few sheets of parchment in front of him and sighs, wiping his ink-stained fingers on a nearby piece of cloth. "Dare I ask whose death you're plotting, Killer?"
She would have murdered anyone else over that nickname. She would have laughed and then proved them true just because…
Well, she is, isn't she? Mercenary to hire. She tries never to kill someone who doesn't deserve it. She has a thing for innocents, or so Bethany claims, she likes to protect them, to shield them, to help them escape whatever is plaguing them… But she does kill often and, if she must say so herself, well. She has a gift for death, she cannot help it. She sees, she judges, she passes along the sentence and her hand never sways.
"Not sure yet." she shrugs. "Do you think we can find smugglers in Darktown? Aveline's been complaining about that new gang since we came back."
"One thing we can always find in Darktown for sure: a good fight." he snorts.
His tone is light but his gaze is attentive and she knows he sees everything she doesn't want to acknowledge – starting with the dark bags under her eyes. He won't push, she knows that too. And she's grateful for it because…
"Do you have troubles sleeping?" she asks and it's barely a murmur. They haven't discussed what happened in the Deep Roads, not really. "My dreams…"
She leaves it at that.
"Dwarves don't dream." he reminds her, rubbing his eyes. "But sleep doesn't come easy for me either. Are you worried about Sunshine?"
It's a delicate subject because it's his brother's fault if Bethany… It would be easy to switch the blame, very easy… But she knows better than blame one sibling for the sin of another. She's the living proof you can be totally different from your brother. Or your sister.
"I've failed them." she confesses. Only to Varric would she say this, she thinks. "Bethany. Carver. My mother…"
"Hawke." he sighs. "Is there any point at all in telling you it wasn't your fault? Because it wasn't. You can only do so much, you know."
Before she can answer that – dismiss it or finally accept it, she's not sure – Isabella pops her head in the doorway. "There you are! We've been looking all around for you. I've been teaching Merril Wicked Grace, she wants to try a real game now."
Varric laughs but shakes his head. "I won't let you steal the kid's money, Rivaini."
Isabella rolls her eyes and winks at Hawke. "You're in, right?"
"Varric's in too." Leda confirms, standing up. "And how would you like a trip to Darktown afterwards? We can take Merril with us. It will be a party."
Isabella's grin is dangerous. "I love that kind of party."
"Most people try to stay out of troubles, you know." Varric observes.
Leda laughs first but Isabella soon follows, bumping her hip against hers as they walk down the Hanged Man's corridor leading to the main part of the tavern, leaving Varric to follow after them.
"What a boring life those people must have." Isabella mocks.
And Leda whole-heartedly agrees.