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"I hope they didn't sell out already. The twine's been very useful, Varric, but I can't see myself bringing it with me all the time if I just tangle myself in it—or maybe it tangled me? Oh, and I should mention that I had to cut it to untangle myself. You wouldn't happen to have any more, would you?"
Varric smiled as he walked abreast with Hawke. For her part, Hawke felt content to let Isabela and Merrill take the lead. It was oddly refreshing not being the leader of her little troupe of misfitted fighters.
Hawke leaned toward Varric and whispered, "You're just tagging along so you won't have to escort her home or have your extravagant network of resources navigate for her."
The dwarf smirked and shook his head. "Hawke, I am wounded that you think so lowly of me."
"So I was right."
"And you're just tagging along to distract yourself from our delightful Tevinter elf in hiding."
Hawke faltered in step, but quickly squared her shoulders and resumed her pace. She shuddered and balled her hand into a fist. "You know what they say about assuming, Varric."
"Doesn't mean that I'm not right," he smirked.
"Well, don't concern yourself with it. I haven't seen him for days."
"And I wonder why? Surely the dwarf's extravagant network of resources had nothing to do with that."
Hawke frowned, then softened her face into a small grin. "You take pride in meddling, don't you?"
"I take pride in keeping my friends from ripping each other's throats out—literally."
They stopped in the Alienage's courtyard. Merrill was still babbling away with Isabela, providing more than enough cheer for them.
"Oh, it looks like they're about to close," she sighed. "You don't suppose he'd be willing to stay open for just a few more minutes, do you? The Dalish have a saying about people who show kindness to others—"
Hawke placed a hand on Merrill's shoulder before making her way over to the small stand of wares. The elven couple was putting their items away in crates. She recognized the symbol on the crates to be that of the Viscount.
"Excuse me, Messere," she started, "but I don't suppose you'd let us browse your goods?"
Isabela smirked.
The elven man looked up at Hawke through thick white eyebrows. He had laugh lines at the corners of his mouth, and his eyes were pale with wisdom and age. His wife, who seemed just as elderly as he, give or take a few years, nodded in answer.
"Please, forgive my husband," she explained, taking his wrinkled hand in one of her own. "He is unable to speak, serah. We were just going to close, but I think we can manage a few more minutes."
Hawke smiled, finding the elven woman refreshing. Besides Merrill, this woman was the first to not sling the word 'shemlen' at her in insult.
"These are of elven heritage, yes?" Hawke briefly looked over what items still remained on the shelves, mindful of Isabela's and Merrill's excited chatting. From what she could tell, the pirate was curious to see if there were any books of a sensual nature for sale, and Merrill, well. Merrill seemed happy just to recognize something elven that wasn't tainted by Kirkwall.
"They are. These are from our youth," the elven woman explained, giving her husband a warm smile. "We're aware of our age, serah, and we both agreed that it would be a waste to let some of our culture die with us."
"Hence the stand full of elven doodads," Varric mused with a snort. "Funny thing, really. You never see dwarves selling anything from our culture. Well, besides black-marketing lyrium. But what can they sell? Their beards?"
"Or chest hair," Isabela added without diverting her attention from an engrossing novel.
"Rivaini, you should know already that this," he motioned to his chest, "is priceless."
There were bits of elven jewelry that Isabela took interest in, and Merrill explained them to her as best as she could, given that the pirate was too busy fussing over which necklace made her assets seem that much more appealing.
Varric was keeping his eyes on Merrill, making sure that the clumsy elf didn't break anything with her bubbly mood.
"These are about elven history," the elderly elf explained. She piled a few books in front of Hawke, noticing that the woman had an eye for knowledge instead of adornments. The elf looked Hawke over, seeing the interest spark in the young woman's eyes as she flipped through the pages.
"Are they all detailing the Dalish?" Hawke looked over at Merrill. Merrill had managed to pry Isabela away from the jewelry and was explaining an oddly shaped trinket to the pirate wench.
"Most, yes," the elf nodded. Her husband turned to rummage through the books they had already packed away. After a moment, he pulled one out and set it on the stand.
Hawke looked it over. "Shartan? The elf who helped Andraste free the slaves?"
"Yes," the elf replied. "This one took us a while to find. The Imperium made it their duty to destroy these books, as you can only imagine the hope it'd spark in slaves. A pity, really. We've always been city elves, and we cannot imagine the life of others of our kind that had to endure slavery."
Hawke grimaced. "I've been told of how difficult their lives have been." Oh yes, she'd been told one too many times.
The elf wore a sad look. "I'm afraid 'difficult' does not fully cover it, my dear."
Feeling guilty of the change in the elderly elf's mood, and also frustrated that even in the Alienage, a place where Fenris absolutely detested, his infuriating presence still haunted her, Hawke bought the book.
It was a small price, but she had left a few more silvers than what the woman had dictated necessary. Hawke thanked her for her time before dragging her friends away from the stall, but not without making sure Isabela gave back whatever jewelry she had hidden in her cleavage.
"One more thing, if you don't mind," Hawke offered just as she was about to leave. "What are your names? I'm sorry, I feel foolish for not asking in the first place—"
The woman held her hand up and chuckled. "There is no need to apologize, my dear. I am Iomes, and this is my husband, Golben." She blinked in surprise when Hawke shook their hands.
"A pleasure to meet both of you, Iomes, Golben."
Varric smiled and nudged Isabela. "There goes Hawke using that charm again. And you wonder how she has all of Hightown wrapped around her finger. More or less."
Isabela bumped him back and crossed her arms. "And just whose finger is Hawke wrapped around then, hm?"
"The lady of the house, no doubt," Varric mused.
"Mother, is this absolutely necessary at the moment?" Hawke frowned and flinched away from the needle in Orana's hand. The elven girl was doing well in her second week as her servant. Hawke had encouraged her that she would be treated as an equal and receive payment for her work, and had unintentionally left the poor girl stunned. She'd stared at Hawke in shock for several minutes, her mouth fumbling to form words, until Hawke had spared the dear and smiled to mercifully end the conversation.
Leandra, on the other hand, was suspicious of Orana. Just where did she come from? And why did her daughter have to bring home an elven slave? As Leandra had told her daughter, "Isn't one slave enough for you? Now you offer our home to them, too?"
Hawke had taken a deep breath to calm herself before she reasoned out her excuse with her mother. Leandra seemed skeptical still, and had to put full faith in her that she knew what she was doing. But her faith in Orana had yet to be seen.
Leandra huffed and crossed her arms. "Yes, this is necessary at the moment. Since you've been running off for the last month, you haven't had any time to try on your new gowns."
Hawke inwardly groaned, certain of what was to come.
"You are an Amell, Marian," her mother continued, not seeing the subtle crease in her daughter's brow, "and are expected to act like one. With all the brigands and Maker knows what else you kill for fun, it would do you good to have a taste of noble life."
"Oh yes," Hawke snorted, "the 'taste of the noble life'. Does that include sitting on my rump all day with criminals on the loose, waiting for someone else to dirty their hands and save the day? I heard that Orlesians are particularly concerned of any dirt lingering under their fingernails."
"Maker's breath, girl," Leandra scolded. "I should have taught you the proper way to speak." Hawke opened her mouth to retort, but Leandra shushed her and turned her scrutiny over to Orana. "And Orana, hurry up with that seam; you've been at it for far too long already."
Orana's shoulders jerked as she hunched and tried to hide herself in her body. She barely managed to squeak out, "Yes, Mistress."
Hawke made a disgusted sound and put on a reassuring grin for the elf. "No, Orana, you take all the time you need. I'm sure Mother," she shot a glare at Leandra, "will understand."
"And I'm sure my daughter knows better than her mother," Leandra said tersely. "I think it's very unbecoming of you to be this unfair to your mother, Marian. You are free to do whatever you please most of the time, and you cannot even spare just an evening trying on dresses for me to hem? Maker, child, whatever did your father teach you."
"He taught me to stand on my own two feet," Hawke replied. "And that's nigh impossible if I have to wear Orlesian heels, Mother."
"You will learn in time. But now, you still have three more dresses to try. I've been attending social gatherings and meetings and whatnot, trying to find you a suitable husband. Now, I haven't decided yet which one I like the most—"
"Husband?" Hawke squawked, accidentally frightening Orana to fall back on her haunches. "Mother, I told you I'm not interested in a husband! I've work to do, Kirkwall to serve, the Viscount at my back, the Qunari to deal with—"
"Which is why you need someone suitable to stand by you and support you! My dear, you are almost in your thirtieth year. You're past the ripe age for marriage, and I'm afraid that if it weren't for the Amell lineage in your blood, you'd be alone." Leandra looked away and wrung her wrists. "Dear girl, I don't want you to have no one to have in your life. I won't be here forever, and Carver is at the Gallows."
Hawke sighed and stepped down from the small stool. She walked toward Leandra and stopped her from wringing her wrists any further.
Leandra looked at her daughter and placed a hand on her cheek. "My girl, I just don't want you to make the same mistake I did—fall in love with a man without a title, elope with him, never to return to see her parents. I want you to have roots in Kirkwall."
Having a place where you can put down roots. I understand.
Hawke swallowed the bile rising in her throat. Even here, in the sanctity of her own home!
"Mother—"
"It's just, you've grown up so fast. And with everything that's happened over the past four years... I just want to give one of my little girls a chance at happiness." Leandra's face fell as she fought back tears. "I only wish I could have done the same for Bethany."
She relented with a soft sigh and squeezed her mother's hand in hers. "It would... make you happy if I did this? If I made an appearance at these social gatherings and looked for a... suitor?" She almost choked on the word.
"It would, darling. But by no means will you look for a suitor! That is highly unladylike and preposterous of nobility. No, you leave that part to me. I've already arranged a dinner with Seneschal Bran's son. Raydin seems like a good man, Marian, and he is only a year or two older than you. I am sure you will find something in common with him."
Hawke felt something inside of her curl up and shrivel—perhaps it was her dinner at the Hanged Man. Seneschal Bran was a scheming rat of an aristocrat. If it wasn't for the abundance of wealth he'd received from his job as Viscount Dumar's chief adviser, she knew that he'd be looking elsewhere for a career. It was no secret that he despised being second in terms of politics, and she had high suspicions that Dumar sent her to speak to the Seneschal so often just to prevent himself from having another headache.
It was strange how she'd become involved in the Viscount's little game of political chess. Strange, but interesting.
Hawke's shoulders sagged as she asked, "When is the dinner scheduled?"
Leandra's smile was fit to bursting.
The book of Shartan lay untouched on her desk as she stretched out on her covers. She wanted to read the book as soon as she returned home, but those dresses! Maker forbid she not try them all on, and did her mother even know the difference between three and twelve?
Poor Orana. Hawke tried to stand still on that stupid stool, but she was made for combat: always moving.
Hawke rolled her shoulders and shifted on the bed. Her mabari, Quippie, whimpered at the foot of the bed and gave her toes a small lick. She laughed, and the dog, taking it as a good sign, bounded onto the bed without warning.
"Oof! You big monster," she laughed breathlessly, "get off of me!" The mabari snuggled in next to her and poked her cheek with his wet nose. She squeezed his fur and placed a kiss between his eyes. He barked and slobbered her face. "Keep it down, Quips. Mother will hear you."
Her mabari settled in alongside her, his snout resting on her pillow. She cooed to and pet him until his eyes closed.
Tomorrow, she would read the book. Maybe it would give her some insight on that elf, hopefully. But before that, she'd visit Aveline and explain herself for not being there as a friend should have been. Maybe an old-styled Ferelden apology would suffice?
Hawke grinned sleepily, imagining the look Aveline would give her if she arrived at the barracks with three goats and a sheaf of wheat.
Tempting.
