For anyone wondering, this fic draws from the DA games plus the comics by Bioware's Gaider and Freed for Isabela's character.
Like I said, my crew was having some sport outside Tevinter. Fenris had been feeding us ship manifests and docking schedules for the slavers. More fun than regular merchants and profit enough on the side with the rest of their cargo. Everyone saw the war fought at the breach. It looked like one of those ocean vortexes that swallow ships whole but swirling up into the heavens instead of down to the grave. Death at the end of either one, I suppose.
The whole crew watched. Except for the ones that must've been watching me. As soon as the sky sealed itself with a scar that looked like a knife wound plus four day's infection, my mates were at my side. All smiles and silence and knowing looks, smarmy bastards. But the crew could use some leave time. And we did need to sell off the last of the stolen goods before we made for any proper port.
Asariel is quite handy that way. Right on the coast and the right size to support enough merchants so that they're all looking for an edge on each other but not so big that the Imperium keeps a close eye. Easy to slip in a ship without declaring and offloading the goods without a chit. It's also the closest port for reaching Weisshaupt. Celso had the nerve to remind me. As if I cared. As if I might have forgotten.
Have I mentioned I hate horses? Rhythms are all wrong; all bounce and no roll. I nearly thought of just trekking to the fort on foot but I decided to conserve my strength. I'd need it for better things once I arrived. Did you know Hawke and I once spent two full days in bed? Didn't leave the room even once. By the second morning I don't think I could've walked anyway. Hadn't been hammered like that since . . .well, I think she broke the nail. The fun bit was not even needing to leave. That mansion bedroom was more than enough space for all sorts of fun and of course she had servants we could send for absolutely anything. Although Orana did balk at fetching a few simple things from the Rose.
What? You don't care to hear that part? Tough tits. I spent hours getting my ass sore in the least pleasurable way I've ever known, riding that shite beast. I had to think of something to keep myself amused. All for nothing, in the end. When I got there Weisshaupt was little more than a shell; the gutted hull of a lost battle. There were dead Wardens everywhere and by the look of it half had died killing the other half. I've seen mutinies. This was a bloody riot. Whatever pushed this crew over the edge they weren't happy to just string the captain up or abandon him at sea. This lot bound him to a flagpole and took turns cutting off pieces.
I didn't find the body but I found enough survivors. They'd bandaged up and dug in and there was no chance they could survive another attack but their last act of loyalty had been making sure the commodore – First Warden, I think they said – was cut down and given proper burial. He'd been tortured, poor sodding devil. None of the rank and file knew what the rebels wanted and they were all too busy fighting for their lives or bleeding out to stop and ask questions. When the First fellow bled out without giving up the right secrets they set fire to the fort, took a handful of hostages and ran off.
I tore through every foot of that stronghold. Do you know how many rooms that place has? I've not touched so many dead bodies since pulling in the corpses of my crew on the Wounded Coast. Can you get taint off a dead Warden? If so, it'll be just days before I'm hearing the Old Gods and drooling like Janeka was. Maker's blue balls, I hope the facial hair isn't part of it.
I searched and I asked and there wasn't any sign that Hawke was at Weisshaupt when the revolt happened. One of the lads – he'd lost an eye – thought he recalled Hawke leaving on a mission shortly after the breach closed. Another poor sod, fighting to save his leg by the smell of infection, remembered someone returning after the battle. He was quite delirious but he was sure an ally had visited after the carnage. No matter that he didn't know what day it was or even how long ago the battle happened; he was adamant that someone's hands had checked his injuries and assured him of help just yesterday. The unknown friend left him a satchel of provisions, a fresh bucket of water and then took off after the rebels.
That sounded ass-headed enough to be Hawke. It wasn't hard to find the trail. I left that four-legged rage demon back at the stronghold, figured they could either use it to fetch aid or to make a sound meal. I didn't much care which, it was easier to hunt on foot. The fleeing Wardens left tracks like rampaging brontos and so long as I watched close it wasn't hard to spot Hawke on their heels. The first grove where they camped for the night was at least four days cold. There were several more not far apart; they were moving slowly – probably the fight of the hostages and their own wounds weighing them down. By the time I found their third place of rest I finally saw Hawke's first. She'd been tracking nonstop through the night. That woman's a blighted demon when she's on the warpath. Barely stops to think, let alone eat or sleep. She had to be close to dropping if she took a rest.
It's easy to spot where Hawke has camped once you know what to look for. She never truly relaxes when there's danger. Not even when there are three, six or eight companions with her, all taking their shifts at night watch. She still won't let go. She'd always sit with her back to a tree; let herself lean back just enough to rest but not get comfortable. I can't count the number of times I'd wake up and see her balancing at the edge of sleep, ears always alert and waiting for the first hint of trouble. Kind of fun to mess with. She has this trick for staying awake. One hand stays on her weapon the whole time while the other plays in the dirt at her side. Her fingers pull out the blades of grass, dig up the small rocks; tilling the soil and then packing it down until it's smooth and flawless. It's painstaking and takes forever just to have a blank patch of ground. Then she carves a design. Over and over she cuts the earth in this pattern only she knows. Once you've seen it, you never forget; that was how I knew I'd found her camp site.
She was easily three days behind the rebel Wardens. The coals from her fire hadn't lost all their heat; she wasn't more than a day ahead of me. If I'd just caught a swifter wind to Asariel, or found a faster Maker-damned beast . . .
I tracked Hawke. She tracked the Wardens. They never strayed too close to any roads or cities. Not until they reached Cumberland. That's right, all the way through flaming Nevarra. If they wanted to reach a port it would've been closer to just go into Tevinter but they didn't. Maybe Wardens aren't safe in the Imperium. These ones shouldn't be welcome anywhere. I don't know how Hawke figured out their destination from Cumberland; she probably just asked the harbormaster but I've never gotten on well with authorities. It took me a full night in the tavern with sailors from nearly a dozen different ships before hearing mention of Wardens that sailed to Jader. Cost half my gold from our last spoils too. Rum soaked leeches.
Once I hopped off the puddle dinghy into Jader it was easy to follow Hawke. She left a trail of terrified thieves, thwarted smugglers and swooning spinsters positively cowering in her wake. My favorite was the cute little blonde. I shouted Hawke's name in the marketplace just to see what would happen and this adorable cherry blushes to her britches. Hawke had landed just that morning and happened to be nearby when a young noble was getting overly forward. She never has much cared for handsy types, unless they're getting friendly with her, of course. Typical Hawke, she laid the bastard flat with one punch then pulled the flower from his collar and gave it to the girl. She's been ruined for life.
You can imagine how delighted I was. Not that Hawke was flirting with little virgins, though that does make me quite proud. She was only half a day ahead. I barely even felt my hangover anymore. I was too busy thinking about finally catching up to her. Maker, the oaths I planned to scream. Some of them might even be in anger. Naturally, she'd be upset with me for following her but not too upset to be happy. She'd scold me, I'd punish her, there might be some spanking . . .Hmm? Sorry. Then we'd set off and round up these blighted Wardens, free the hostages and accept several bags of grateful thanks. Just like old times.
I lost the trail at Orzammar.
"What do you mean you lost the trail?!" the impatient question had been on everyone's lips but Cullen got there first.
"I mean, Dimples, that there are some doors even I can't open and this side of the Black City? They include the blighted gates of Orzammar! She went into the Deep Roads!" Isabela shot back, matching his tone in equal measures of frustration.
Her anger barely covered the sullen frown that accompanied such an admission. The woman who'd crossed the Felicisima Armada, stolen from the Qunari and invaded the Crows' own 'House of Graves' never dealt well with admitting defeat. Very few problems in her world couldn't be solved with a strategically placed dagger or tongue. Neither had worked on the dwarves.
"Whoa! Whoa! Hawke in the Deep Roads? Again?!" Varric pressed one hand to the side of his head, holding the impossible thought in place. He felt sweat on his trigger finger just thinking about it.
"I know. 'Not for all the gold in Orlais' she said. Balls." Isabela scowled. She'd been present on the one brief occasion when Hawke and Varric had talked about their adventure underground. It was late at night in the Hanged Man and they were all very, very drunk. Both idiots were prone to exaggeration but in this rare instance the pirate was willing to believe everything they said no matter how extreme. It explained why Hawke thrashed so much in her sleep.
"Why would rebel Wardens go into the Deep Roads? They couldn't all be subjected to the Calling at once." Josephine had a tendency to tap her stylus on the writing board when she was anxious. The tiny sound now would've sent woodpeckers into fits of envy. Wardens, the Deep Roads, the Calling; it was all too familiar and everyone was desperately trying to avoid thoughts of the worst explanation. Almost everyone.
"Corypheus is dead." Eve stated flatly. It was the one thing she was sure about. There were nights when she couldn't sleep and she questioned everything else but there was never even a shred of doubt in her mind on that single fact. It was what kept her sane. It was what eventually let her sleep.
"Could the Nightmare have found its way back from the farther reaches of the Fade?" Cassandra looked to the Inquisitor. So many threats lingered past Corypheus, the tendrils of a broken spider web still clinging to every surface and waiting to be found. That exact thought was a fear that destroyed sleep for anyone who'd been in the Fade after Adamant. Eve's helpless shrug was no consolation.
"Even if that were the case it still doesn't explain Hawke chasing the Wardens in. She's not subject to the Calling. If they want to run down there and commit ritual suicide she should've let them." Cullen frowned.
The commander had known Hawke for years in Kirkwall. Their interactions had been guarded and confrontational at first but eventually they'd developed mutual respect. She was crazier than a pack of Sylvan-dwelling squirrels but he'd learned to trust her. She had to have a reason for this hunt. Something more important than mere revenge.
"'Bela, you didn't tell them about Bethany!" Merrill protested, full of confusion and reproach.
"Shit, Rivaini." Varric groaned, seeing Isabela's guilty wince. True to her nature, she'd tried to keep one card tucked in her sleeve. (Though the scantily clad pirate actually had to keep them in the top of her thigh boot). He instantly knew the piece of information she was holding back. Call it a narrator's knack.
"Hawke's Warden sister? You said she had been sent on a mission at the border of the Anderfels." Eve turned on the dwarf, unconsciously mirroring the same stance Cassandra assumed when dealing with their storyteller. Getting honest facts out of rogues was like trying to chain a wraith. When you couldn't trust their words, however, you could always look for answers on their faces. The worry currently etched on Varric's was three short stories and a sad poem.
"She had," Isabela interceded, rescuing her friend, "Which was lucky. Made it that much easier for the two of them to meet up at Weisshaupt. That's probably half the reason Hawke went. She hates not having eyes on the girl and Captain Man Hands had to go back to Kirkwall."
"They took her, didn't they? As a hostage." Varric shook his head, not even having to see the sailor's nod of confirmation, "Poor Sunshine. Kid can't catch a break."
The severity of the situation continued to escalate as more pieces were added to the puzzle. A Warden uprising at Weisshaupt, rebels with hostages trekking into the Deep Roads, the Champion of Kirkwall on their heels to rescue her sister. No matter how Eve turned the picture in her head the only thing she could see was blood.
"Forgive me but I do not quite understand. Distressing as all of this is, why exactly did you come to us?" Josephine fiddled with one of the gaps in the story.
It was a logical question but one Eve had stopped asking. Everyone with a problem came to the Inquisition. Templars trampling your farm? Get the Inquisition. Mages singeing your roof? Call the Inquisitor. Bad crop of apples this year? Well, the Inquisition must have a solution for that. Maker, they did just about everything except rescue cats. Eve quickly said a prayer to the Maker that the next operation on the map didn't involve saving anyone named 'Tiddlewinky.'
"Dwarves get a bit hard-assed about letting people into the Deep Roads," Isabela explained with a bitter taste in her mouth, "Wardens and Champions sure but not sailors. If Varric can't grease the way then Nightingale can carve it for me."
The pirate looked at each of the two allies in turn, certain one of them could solve her problem. She'd dragged her ass from Orzammar to this Maker-forsaken ice cap with one clear objective: getting through those stone-suckers' steel doors and resuming her chase. By politics or poisons, she didn't care how.
Eve vaguely recalled Varric's prediction after Hawke left. Isabela's going to be pissed. She'll go whether Hawke likes it or not. The pirate had set aside her powers of seduction and now it was easier to see the stubbornness of her stance, the resolve in her face.
Over her time with the Inquisition Eve had learned to read death in others' eyes. She could tell those who had seen death and those who had caused it; those who feared it and those who gloried in its art. Even rarer, she recognized the people who'd already died; empty inside from too many pains and losses. A few - like Leliana or Cassandra - had the shine in their eyes of dead ones reborn, granted second chances in life. In the flashing amber of Isabela's gaze lay something different; death experienced and escaped so many times it no longer mattered. She was a survivor; few people could be more deadly. Without her fun-loving flirtatiousness as a mask, Eve realized a truly dangerous woman stood before them.
"We will need to confer," Leliana spoke for the first time, nodding to her Inquisition companions, "Varric, please take our guests for some refreshment."
Isabela opened her mouth to protest but was cut off by Varric as he grabbed her arm.
"Right, try not to be too long. Rivaini tends to start fights when she's impatient." The dwarf nodded and led both women away, luring the argumentative pirate with promises of whiskey and soldiers.
Quickly reassembling around the war table the council of the Inquisition regarded one another. The operations table in the middle of the room was a silent burden, every marker a reminder of pressing duties and obligations. Where did this crisis fit with the rest of their agenda for sorting out the world? Where did it fall for each of them? Eve rested her fists on the map, studying it and each of her advisors in turn.
Josephine had a familiar line marring her brow, knitting up her forehead in worry and concentration as she began flipping through pages of correspondence and reports. Questions raced through her eyes as they flickered over the pages. Had they ignored some crucial warning of this brewing storm? How were their ties with Orzammar? Did they have enough influence to open the gates?
Cullen's mind wasn't just far away but long ago; lost in a rarely visited time of the past. Kirkwall was so recent yet already a lifetime behind them. He wasn't the same man that he'd been as Knight-Captain under Meredith. What were the odds that Hawke was still anything like the woman he remembered? Come to that, what did he know or remember of Isabela? Somewhere in his memories had to be a basis either to trust or suspect everything she said.
Cassandra's scowl could've been etched into stone. Anger was her instinctive response to all disruptions. Eve hadn't yet figured out if the temper came from a deep-seated, festering rage or maniacal control issues. Probably both. Her Seeker training gave her discipline and self-control. After investigating Templars she'd come to despise manipulation and deceit. For the Chantry she lived a life of faith and virtue. No person in all of Thedas could be more her opposite than Isabela. The antipathy was painfully clear in the lines of her mouth.
Even Leliana had turned inward. She'd kept her reactions guarded all morning, never revealing any emotion. Her polite words and neutral smile would've pleased and fooled the finest nobles in Orlais. Now she was distracted in her own contemplations and the façade slipped; confusion dueled with worry in her expression. Doubt coiled and flashed in her eyes, concerned well beyond thoughts of Wardens and uprisings. Whatever suspicions she held, she kept them her own.
"Thoughts?" Eve finally broke the pensive silence, rousing all of them from their musings. No one immediately responded. Each person was still sorting out the facts, hesitant to be the first with a decision on matters so large and sudden. Cassandra's patience had vanished. If someone had to declare an opinion then she was willing to start.
"Varric would have told the story better."
Reviews, comments, feedback, predictions, criticisms - anything anyone wants to throw - all invited.
