A/N: Don't you just love bitch slapping minor characters for no reason? Wait that sounds harsh. There is a reason, it makes the story more interesting (well that was the intent). More minor character beat downs and alternative universe gooiness. Still rated T because I'm sure no one over the T for Teen mark will be traumatised by naughty words.
Chapter Two: Old and New Faces
9:38 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)
There was a familiar crackling in Hawke's ears, a dangerous sound that forced her eyes open and towards the source. A ball of white lightning was growing no more that a few foot steps away, bright tendrils snapping at the ground and advancing towards her. Gathering the material tangled around her ankles, she scrambled forward to remove herself from the blast radius as the volatile spell grew and to get a better view of her surprise attacker.
Hawke had been on her way to a formal party hosted by Lord Brose to celebrate four years since the 'defeat' or, as some of the more informed would call it 'the less than amicable departure', of the Qunari. The Champion had tried not to think too hard about what the party was commemorating and promised herself she would just try to enjoy the fancy food and the company of the more eccentric (interesting) nobles as she dressed herself that evening; a simple long-sleeved cream gown, made from silk that felt as soft as it was expensive. Unashamedly proud of looking rather nice, Hawke had left for the Brose estate, unaccompanied and unafraid. The large home of Lord, Lady and the three young Broses was only a few minutes walking distance in the dimness of the evening, nothing she hadn't done hundreds of times before. She hadn't, however, counted on a mage leaping out from behind a corner, screaming about 'The Murderous Viscountess of Kirkwall' and unleashing numerous lightning attacks on a startled Hawke…
The detonation of the ball of lightening sent sparks crashing outwards before dispersing. The mage must have been exhausted after the flood of attacks that had been released and Hawke seized her chance. Grabbing a small dagger from it's holster on her calf, she leapt over the crates she had taken cover behind and made a charge for the hooded figure, slicing his forearm just before he could conjure yet more lightening.
He shrieked, falling to his knees and cradling his arm to his chest protectively. Hawke placed the knife at his throat, frowning as she heard soft sobbing from beneath her attacker's hood. Gently, she pushed it back with her free hand revealing a soft, dark face cracked from forehead to chin by an angry looking scar.
Hawke was silent for a few seconds, her fury melting away, "Alain?" his name came out more in a whisper but the boy's head rose to meet her pitying eyes with his own teary set.
"Serah Hawke…" He managed to spit her name though he trembled as he continued to speak, "I should of known it wouldn't be that easy."
"To kill me you mean." Alain only stared back up, still embracing his injured arm. A few more seconds past with Hawke's knife still at the young Mage's throat before she lowered her arm. Alain recoiled, shutting his eyes as he expected a final blow to end his life. Instead, the Champion cut the top of her slightly singed sleeve and pulled it off her arm completely. The makeshift bandage was wrapped tightly around the whimpering boy's arm, his eyes growing larger with every tug until Hawke had stopped the bleeding to the best of her ability. "I know why you attacked…" she eventually continued.
"Because you killed all my friends." Alain replied unflinchingly. And it was true. It was a nasty piece of business that Hawke had hoped she would eventually forget, but the open declaration was a slap to the face that reminded her just how much she had suppressed her guilt. She wasn't going to let the boy know that though. Hawke prodded his injured arm causing him to let out an indignant squeal.
"Yeah, who? The Bloodmages on the Wounded Coast who kidnapped my friend, tried to kill me, murdered a Templar…"
"In… in the Mage's Tower! Y-you know who I meant!"
"And you know what caused that? A mass murder committed by a Mage. It didn't justify anything: not getting back at Templars or annulling the Tower, but in the end it didn't even matter because pretty much everyone went crazy anyway," Alain was back to being teary once again. Part of Hawke wanted to hug him, part of her wanted to shake him. She gently lowered her voice, "I'm going to take you back to the Tower now."
"N-no!" he blurted, choking on a sob. "You don't know what it's like! It was a prison, we weren't allowed to write to our families or, or anyone, or step out of line in the slightest. And Ser K-k-k…"
"Karras. I know what he did, Alain… He's still under inspection. Knight-Commander Cullen is running things fairly now." Fairer was the word the Champion really wanted to use.
"But what if he's allowed back?"
"He won't be." He might be. Alain hung his head, obviously tired and drained of mana. It was an admission of defeat. Sometimes Hawke hated how bloody gullible some people were. She pulled his good arm over her shoulders to support his weight and they set out towards the docks to receive passage to the Gallows. "You know, I don't think anyone will mess with you now anyway… the scar makes you look damn tough."
Alain looked up and smiled a weak, sad smile.
Passage to the Gallows had been time consuming and saying 'no' to the multiply tranquil that had offered her tea had taken nearly as long; Hawke would no doubt be arriving late to the festivities. The boat beneath her creaked rhythmically with the roll of each wave against the sides, accompanied by gentle splashing of the steady draw the paddles. Her head was tightly between her knees, groaning whenever a particularly strong wave rocked the small vessel. She'd kept a composed veneer while accompanying Alain (the last thing she wanted was for an anxious mage to see her weakness), but the return trip was just Hawke and the old sailor rowing who looked more creaky than his boat.
"You look greener than my wife's big toe before it had to be lopped off!" the old man cackled. "Funny story that: it was last summer and she done stepped on something and musta made it angry. Next thing we realise, there's this stench, like rotting egg-" Hawke groaned angrily from between her knees as if to say 'Shut it, old man, before I vomit all over your boat.' He cackled again, obviously finding the Viscountess's suffering amusing. No doubt he'd be telling his big-toeless wife later. "Ah, sorry m'lady, I take it you forgot to wear your sea legs under than fancy dress? Try sitting up straight, look forward, towards the Chantry."
"I'm not very religious." Hawke mumbled, clenching her fists around the loose fabric of her dress. The old sailor cackled a second time.
"Neither's me wife, but she says it always helps to look where she's going to keep herself well."
"Poignant." Hawke remarked, the seasickness turning her words a little more venomous than the old man deserved. He didn't seem to take mind however. He chattered all the way back to the docks; more about his wife, his sons, his disowned daughter and her marriage to an elf (he spat over board at the end of that story). Hawke was too busy concentrating on the floor to listen too intently but tried to make acknowledging sounds when she was asked 'Can you believe that?' or 'It's an outrage, don't you agree?'.
When the small boat knocked against the steps of the docks, wood grinding against stone was the most magnificent sound the Champion had ever heard. She rolled out clumsily until she was sprawled on her back, the bottom of her gown soaking in the water. The sailor cackled for a final time and said something about getting home and asked if she would be alright. A confirmatory groan was all she responded and eventually it was just Hawke looking up at the stars with only the gentle lapping of the waves to keep her company. She waited until her head had stopped spinning and her stomach had stopped churning until she attempted manoeuvring again. Dragging her legs up underneath her, she stood wobbling slightly, before regaining her balance and taking in a lungful of salty air.
It was colder now that she was closer to the ocean, though her sleeveless arm only covered itself in gooseflesh when she past the disused compound that had once housed the Qunari. It was a domineering sight, in part for it's high walls painted black with shadows, but primarily for what it represented. At this very time four years ago she would be suffering appalled looks from one or two of her friends, yet less than a few hours before that they were all looking to her to pull a solution to save an entire city out of her arse.
9:34 Dragon, Kirkwall (The Free Marches)
If Aveline and Isabela were in the same room it meant an argument, so as a tired Champion returned home she wasn't too surprised to find the two women at each other's throats. What she was surprised about was when the tension between the two was redirected and she was bombarded with their problems.
"I'm trying to keep the city from rioting against the Qunari!" The Guard Captain said firmly to the pirate. Isabela's eyes darted away as she considered her next words.
"Well… there's a chance it may be related…" Vague and cautious were Isabela's specialties (amongst other things if you asked around), and try and she might, Hawke couldn't pry the whole truth from the Rivaini.
"Fine, Isabela, we'll do things your way." She sighed heavily, looking to Aveline with apologetic eyes. The pirate's face noticeably relaxed, smiling at Hawke with a look she'd never seen before. It was… touching. They'd not seen eye to eye on a lot of things, most notably Hawke's compulsive need to help everyone which had been the origin of Isabela's 'the Champion pathologically can't say no so once she…' stories (visiting the Hanged Man after one of those had been told was always a delight).
"You really trust her this much?" Aveline asked in disbelief. Hawke caught an immediate 'no' in her throat.
The Brose's estate could be seen streets away from the light that flooded out the windows of every floor. Hawke was grateful that it would mean no more Mages jumping out from the Hightown shadows. On her approach the two door guards stared at her with puzzled expressions but mumbled a greeting and allowed her inside. Warmth filled her bones as she stepped into the bright hallway. Candles adorned the walls, each burning strong and turning the room into an orange paradise. She made her way in the largest room housing the main entertainment, moving past multiply (and oddly silent) nobles, each nodding her way when she made eye contact though with slight confusion clouding their faces. Finding Lord Brose would probably be the proper action to take, though Hawke was still guessing a lot when it came to fancy company. Instead, she spied the Lady of the house first. Close enough.
"Lady Brose!" Hawke called enthusiastically. The new wife of Lord Brose was younger than the last but still older than Hawke by at least ten years. She had coiled her thick black hair into a braid that swirled around in patterns on top of her head, no doubt a the process had been time consuming.
"Viscountess Hawke! A pleasure to see you. You look…" there was a pause as the black haired woman looked her up and down quickly, her smile unchanging but her eyes filling with uncertainty. "Very unique!" She eventually managed. Hawke did her best to smile back. Everyone was acting odd… maybe they were all Antivan? She though. Antivans are odd… "Lady Cole, Sir Olsvin? Allow me to introduce the Viscountess Hawke. Not only our illustrious ruler, but Kirkwall's very own Champion." Sir Olsvin grinned, obviously a bit drunk, his eyes were bloodshot and his nose was a deep red streaked with purple veins, but he shook Hawke's hand vigorously. Lady Cole was young, no older than twenty, with pretty features posed in a cool stare.
"M'lady," the young woman curtsied. Her blue eyes flashed over Hawke in bored sort of way. "Clever of you to dress as both a warrior and a diplomat." It took a few seconds for the Champion to register what that meant. Her own eyes gazed down to where the young woman's blue set had travelled and was confronted by blood stains, rips and singed fabric. Oh.
"Oh, yes, I am very… clever," Hawke cringed. "Excuse me." She said, quickly exiting her present company in search of a mirror and some water.
The Viscountess flung herself into the upstairs washroom, a room almost as big as Gamlen's entire shack though with much nicer decorations: panelled walls painted gold and white, a large elegant divider of twisted wire and painted canvas, and thankfully a bucket of water next to a bowl and a mirror. The plan was to scrub the blood stains out, though on closer inspection that seemed unlikely. Alain had bled more than Hawke had realised and though she hoped he was alright, her current concern was that he'd left a large round mark under her arm around most of her waist, not to mention the missing sleeve or greenish salt water stains. Not to be beaten, Hawke splashed a handful of water onto the largest part of the dried blood anyway and began to scrub. With luck she could get away with rubbing it into a pink colour and pass it off as a pattern.
"Why won't you come out?" she grumbled angrily to her discoloured gown, remembering the rich cream colour it had been but a few hours ago.
"I didn't want to interrupt." Hawke yelped and spun around, instinctively groping for her dagger; she had enough of surprises for one evening. A noble man stepped from behind the divider, his expression between amusement and nervousness. He must have been a little older than thirty though he had a boyish glint in his set of murky blue eyes, a set that was now locked onto a muddy, bloody and irregularly dressed Hawke.
"Do you usually hide in washrooms? Wait for women to come up and bathe?" she snapped defensively.
"Do you usually take baths in other people's houses? Wait to sneak into a fancy party to grab a yearly wash?" he countered. Hawke might have taken offence but looking the state she did in that moment and now clutching a dagger, she was only surprised he hadn't run screaming for help.
"I was invited." Was all she could mumble as she holstered her small weapon.
"And you turned up looking like that? Did you loose a bet or something?" he frowned, folding his arms, the garish orange material of his shirt clinging to his shoulders.
"Coming from a man wearing that? I could ask the same of you." It was his turn to look uncomfortable. He glanced down at his odd lime green and orange ensemble with distaste.
"I didn't have much of a choice. It was the only clothing my hosts had available." It reaffirmed Hawke's inkling that he wasn't from Kirkwall. She was pretty sure his accent was Ferelden.
"I didn't either. You know how it goes when someone starts bleeding on you…" There was an uncertain silence, neither of them knowing what to say next. "Sorry if I ruined your piss."
"Excuse me?" the man asked in disbelief.
"I just mean I'm sorry if I interrupted while you were pissing. I mean, it must have been quite a good one for you to get so arsy after I walked in." The man's brow had furrowed and his mouth was almost hanging open.
"I'm sorry, but are you sure you were invited?"
"I'm not giving you a great impression of Kirkwall nobles, am I?" The Champion snorted, reaching forward to shake the man's hand. "Apologies. I'm Natalie. Of both Amell and Hawke." His eyebrows rose slightly, but he took her hand gently.
"The Champion. That explains the…" he gestured at her in general and Hawke caught another laugh in her throat. "I'm Teryn Aedan Cousland of Highever, it is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Viscountess."