Day 10

Hawke couldn't remember the last time she had slept so well. She barely stirred in the slightest whenever the Arishok came to bed, but his armor was always laid out neatly on the stand and he lay in the bed next to her, his rumbling snores in a regular rhythm almost comforting.

It was rather like sleeping next to a dragon, she thought. Frightening, yes, but she had never felt quite so... safe. It seemed strange to think it, but she knew that while he was so close by, nothing in Thedas could threaten her.

Except for the Arishok himself, but he didn't seem to have any intentions of killing her just yet.

It entertained her to realize that, while normal women found solace in their lovers' arms, Hawke found security lying next to a legendary monster. Fitting, she wrote in her journal. Fitting that she would rather sleep next to a bear than a beau.

Fenlin was pleased with her progress, often slathering the now-sealed wound site with something that burned either her skin or her nose, and he often made inquiries as to her acquaintance with the Arishok. Her answer was largely the same every time: "I'll get one more sentence out of him today. Even if it's a reprimand."

The enthusiasm she showed for gaining an understanding of the qunari and their leader was something that interested him greatly, and he told her as much on one occasion.

"Most people are either too afraid of them or too ignorant of our ways to try and learn," he said, handing her a book. "That's why no one knows what to do with you."

She cracked the worn cover open and skimmed the pages of what appeared to be a language-learning text. "They ignore me, mostly."

"But you're trying. It does make them oddly happy."

Hawke raised an eyebrow at the mental image of a happy qunari. It involved kittens and rainbows and frowning.

"In their own way," he clarified, seeing the look on her face. "To be honest, I think that's why the Arishok brought you here. Your injuries make you seem less threatening-"

"Hey!"

"-no offense, your reputation alone is terrifying, but you're one of the few outsiders who've actually made an effort to communicate in some way other than violence."

She sighed, leaning back against the workbench. "Have you seen the way they look at me when I ask them questions? I think they'd prefer violence."

"Then try doing something that they can understand. Be more friendly."

"I'll have you know," she protested, "that I am plenty friendly."

"You ask them questions in a foreign tongue. That's two things that make them uncomfortable." He shooed her out, handing her a bag of tea for the pain. "Look around. You'll figure something out."

Annoyed, she was about to very politely ask what the hell he meant, but he only smiled and shut the flap.

Fantastic, she thought. The one person here who spoke the common tongue who wasn't the Arishok or terrified of her, and he liked to see her suffer.

Odd quality for a healer to have, but there it was.

She spent some time wandering as she read over the book, her restlessness keeping her from sitting and reading for any period longer than half an hour or so. Notes on pronunciation and military terms were scribbled in the margin in what she recognized as Fenlin's penmanship, and from the age of the book, she wondered just how long ago he had converted to the Qun. She had assumed, apparently incorrectly, that he had come to Kirkwall as a Blight refugee.

As she made a mental note to ask him about it later, Hawke slowed to a stop alongside the sparring arena. She enjoyed watching the bouts, even if a part of her ached at the limitations of her current state. Not that she'd be allowed to join in, necessarily – that seemed to have its own set of rules – but it only made her recovery seem maddeningly slow and helpless. She missed fighting. She missed her companions. She missed her blades.

With a start, she realized that her blades had been sitting wrapped up since the rainstorm she'd been injured in. And that was almost two weeks ago.

Cursing under her breath, she took up a brisk pace to the Arishok's tent, where she knew her pack sat against one wall, largely ignored. She would apologize to them, she vowed as she pulled the flap aside and rummaged until she found the tied bundle. Apologize and show them the kind of care a mother had for her children.

She held them to her chest as she slowly approached the Armaad, whom she had gathered to be a kind of qunari quartermaster. Fenlin had said that everyone within the compound had access to the supplies, and all she had to do was ask, but she didn't trust the tone in the elf's voice or the smile on his face. And after a few minutes of watching him interact with his fellows, she understood why.

The Armaad didn't speak a word of the common tongue.

All she had to do was ask, she remembered Fenlin saying.

Sonofabitch.

Adjusting her parcel so that she could flip open the language book, Hawke bit her lip. "To hell with it," she muttered, tucking the book back into a large pocket. She wasn't really one for forethought, anyway. "Let's see just how much tolerance I've earned so far."

She strode up to the Armaad, placed her still-bound blades on the table and waited for him to turn his attention to her. Of course, she also attracted the interest of several surrounding soldiers, who paused in their work to watch the scene before them.

Let them stare, she thought as she made eye contact with the Armaad. She was Mairead Hawke, for Maker's sake. Defender of Kirkwall, slayer of dragons, blood-born nobility, and master linguist extraordinaire.

And she knew about a handful of relevant words.

Let the fun begin.

"[Sword]...[rock]...[thing]," she said, miming the act sharpening with her hands. He stared at her for a moment, and she didn't know whether it was the idea of her trying to speak qunari, her horrible pronunciation, or trying to figure out what in the name of Koslun she could possibly be describing. She pointed to her blades, repeated the strung-together cluster of words, and mimed again.

After a moment of silent contemplation, he walked back into the stores and she heard the clinking of jars and shuffling of cloth. Praying that he didn't come back with a pickled rat's head or something equally ridiculous, Hawke held her breath.

To her delight, he placed a palm-sized whetstone on the table in front of her. She let out a sigh of relief, and as she reached for it, he spoke.

"Isaabak," he said.

She paused, then pointed to the tool. "Isaabak?"

He nodded.

Whetstone, she realized. He was teaching her the word.

A rush of warmth filled her chest, and she beamed up at him as she repeated it over and over until he was satisfied she no longer butchered the elongated vowels. The idea that someone was actively trying to educate her eclipsed any embarrassment she might have felt at her struggle, and when she excitedly turned to the onlookers and said her new word, pointing at the object in question, she was rewarded with a few acknowledging nods.

Practically giddy, she turned back to the quartermaster.

This was going to be fun.


An hour later, Hawke found herself sitting among at least a dozen Karashok, a bottle of polishing oil and whetstone sitting on the bench next to her. She was working at scouring the lyrium veins in her blades with a sandcloth, and she marveled at how maintenance and repair of weapons could be such an important social ritual to the qunari. Some polished the wood on spears, re-wrapped pommels, sharpened steel, cut fletching for arrows, or any other kind of upkeep imaginable. And though it was largely silent, the lone human felt as though she was a part of it somehow.

She'd let her blades be passed around when one soldier had expressed curiosity, and he'd seemed almost taken aback when she offered them up for inspection. The twin daggers might have been her children, but judging from the way the others treated their weapons, she was amid like-minded company.

So there she was, nestled happily in the group of giants, when the Arishok walked by. He wouldn't have noticed but for the sheer physical difference of having a small human amid the comparatively colossal Kossith.

He watched for a moment, observing their interactions. Only when his shadow blocked her light did Hawke think to look up from her work. She shielded her eyes at first, but her face brightened to see him.

"Shanedan, Arishok!"

"Hawke." His eyes lingered on her cleaning tools, and she wondered for a moment if he disapproved of her methods.

"I did not think that the Armaad spoke your tongue."

"He doesn't."

He stared, one of his you-are-required-to-explain stares. She held up the language book in response, showing him her notes. "I described and mimed, and he gave me the right word." She frowned. "Or he's toying with me."

The qunari leader kept his eyes on the book a moment more, then swept over the group of soldiers. "You have been to the healer today."

"Yes."

"Then you may continue."

Laughing, Hawke waved the sandcloth at him. "Polishing parties. Girl could get used to this!"