Chapter Seven – Dancing with Death

Varric returned to the house feeling a lot more grateful to be back inside the weathered and broken mansion than he should. He loved Kirkwall despite constantly complaining about it. He had a list of things he'd change about it, but in the end, sitting in his room at the Hanged Man, telling a story … an ale in one hand, a hand of cards in the other … it didn't get much better than that. Although he had to admit that The Pearl came damned close.

Watching the qunari and then the mages and templars tear Kirkwall apart cut far deeper than he ever admitted to anyone. Hawke knew, of course, but she always just saw those things, particularly after she started training with the Arishok.

Walking through the city, seeing how much of it still remained in ruins while most people ignored the destruction, just trying to get back to business as usual, depressed him. The hole in the city left from the chantry's destruction remained untouched as if trying to clean it up and rebuild would somehow taint whomever tried.

By his own admonition, he preferred to keep things light … not spend too much time dwelling on emotion and tragedy. Hawke always called bullshit on that when he tried to convince her. In the end, she might not be as wrong as he claimed, because returning to the fireplace where he'd spent so many pleasant nights proved far less emotionally taxing than watching Kirkwall drown in its misfortunes. Of course, as the Seeker kept pushing, that would change.

The Seeker. She banked the fire, driving some of the chill dampness from the room then puttered around, tidying and tending to her militant flock. Varric could see that the walk through Hightown had shaken her, although he felt sure that some of her discomfort had to do with him shooting all of her preconceived ideas out of the sky.

When she appeared to run out of things to keep herself busy, the Seeker poured two tankards of water, adding mint to both. After passing him one, she sat back down. "Where were we?"

Varric chuckled. As if she didn't remember. Very well, he could play along. "The Arishok decided Hawke might better meditate with her cleavers in her hands, and he was right. She latched onto it as if her sanity depended on it, and she excelled, eventually being paired in the mornings with two qunari. I can only imagine the Arishok glowered on, the proud mentor who, of course, could never actually show pride."

Varric paced around the room a little, ending up standing by the fire, staring into the flames. "Sometimes she could barely walk the next day. I tried to talk to her, tell her that suicide by qunari wouldn't make anything better. It wouldn't bring Leandra or Carver back. Hell, it wouldn't even convince the broody elf to change his mind."

He glanced back at the Seeker. "It didn't do any good. She knew her mind and heart too well. Well, not to mention that trying to get her to let go of anything is harder than wrestling a steak from a mabari. If she felt called to end up beaten to death or sliced open during martial practice … all I could do was make sure that Bodahn and Orana had what they needed to patch her up." He ducked his head to the side a little. "Well, and that an ewer of decent fruit juice sat ready when she fell into a chair at the Hanged Man."

Hawke stumbled back, her arm pressed tight against the gash in her side, doubled over, but trying to keep her other cleaver between her and Sten.

"Hold." The Arishok stepped between them. Sten shouldered his sword immediately. The qunari leader looked down at Hawke and shook his head, his face giving away nothing. For a moment, as she hobbled backwards, giving herself room to respond if necessary, she thought he might have stopped the sparring match simply to dispatch her himself.

"You are dead." The three words carried no emotion, no disappointment or anger. The Arishok simply stated the fact.

Even though the wound itself felt numb, the blood flowing over her hip let Hawke know that she'd taken a serious wound, and she pressed her arm over it, applying as much pressure as she could manage. She nodded between gasps, every movement feeling as though it drove the Sten's sword into her lungs. "Yes."

The errant thought that her guts might actually be trying to squeeze out the long slice, whispered through her mind. Would she know before they splattered on the ground? She stumbled, and nearly went down on one knee, but caught herself. Panic and … worse, embarrassment burned like coals in her rent belly. Damn it all! She couldn't go down. If she died, she'd hit the ground only after she stopped breathing. She looked up, latching a desperate stare on the Arishok's face. Focusing on that stern visage helped shore up her resolve.

One corner of his mouth quirked a little. Was he laughing at her? The coals flared into flame when he asked, "Do you know why you are a corpse stinking up my compound?" He took a step toward her, looming over her; the bear preparing to slaughter the wounded fawn.

She hobbled backward another step, trying to get out of his shadow. She needed breathing room. Why couldn't he just give her a little space? He took up all the air in the city. Andraste save her, she needed air. Why was there no air? The furrows across his brow deepened, reminding her that he'd asked her a question. "I did not press the advantage when I had it," she gasped, her mouth twisting into a scowl despite trying to keep her face impassive. "I treated it as an exercise, rather than driving in for the kill." The long speech left her breathless and shaking, the trembling so bad that she almost landed on her knees once more.

He nodded, any trace of humour—imagined or otherwise—gone. "Always go for the kill. If he is not skilled enough to stop you, he will die, or take a wound that will teach him the lesson you have just learned." He closed the few feet and grabbed her wrist, pulling her arm away from her side. Pushing aside her armour, he drew up her tunic to examine the wound. "It will need to be sewn shut, but you will live." He held onto her arm, drawing her toward him. "Do not expect me to intercede again. It will not happen."

Relief coursed through her, amplifying the trembling. Thank the Maker for the huge hand gripping her arm. For a moment, it was all that kept her on her feet. "Yes, Arishok, I understand."

He released her and nodded up the stairs. "Go up and lie on the table. Someone will seal your wound before you leave." He led the way up the stairs, seating himself in his usual place.

Hawke bowed her head, both humbled and embarrassed by his intervention. He thought her weak and thus had saved her life. Anyone strong … a qunari … would be lying on the stone, her blood oozing into the cracks. Still, he'd saved her life, so he must place some value on it. That deserved respect. "Thank you for this lesson, Arishok. I will not waste what you have taught me."

Trying to ignore the strange stares from the qunari standing around her, she climbed the stairs. Each step felt like a small death as the numbness wore off along with the fire racing through her blood. She pulled aside the curtain and stepped through, blinking as she struggled to adjust to the dim light. One hand fumbled with the buckles on her armour, setting the pieces under the table as she wrestled them free. Wincing a little more with each movement, she felt as though she'd tied her face in a knot before she got her clothing untucked. A soft sigh of relief escaped as she finally shed the outer layers and laid down as instructed.

Feeling that it might be safe to look at the wound once her guts wouldn't just tumble out, she lifted her head and pulled her tunic up. A long, clean slice opened a shallow canyon from her navel around her side. She let her head flop back down, her skull making a hollow thok against the wooden table top. Sten had pulled his swing. Looking at the wound, it was the only explanation for the heartbeat inside her chest and the air that continued to flow into her lungs. In battle, her guts would be hanging over her hip and goring up her greaves.

Shame set her neck and face aflame. Despite their apparent acceptance, they still thought her weak.

A few moments later a qunari stepped through the doorway carrying a jug of water and a large needle threaded with sinew. Hawke gritted her teeth, determined to avoid crying out even though from the look of that needle, the healing would prove far more of an endurance test than the wound. Screaming would just confirm her pathetic frailty. Scalding tears of anger and humiliation burned in the back of her eyes and throat.

The qunari pulled her shirt up just far enough to reveal the wound, splashed water over it, then set to work, cleaning it and sewing it shut with deft, even stitches. She bit down on the rolled up rag he offered her, moaning … her eyes streaming tears as he set a pack of blight wolves loose on her side.

Despite what felt like a couple hours of torment, she managed to remain silent. After a quarter glass, the room around her and the talons ripping her side apart both faded into a fog. Halfway through, light from the doorway seared into her eyes just to be blocked by a shadow. She blinked, trying to focus, but then the bright light vanished, leaving her certain her imagination played pranks on her.

When he finished, she shook, exhausted past caring that her trembling had escaped her control. A surprisingly gentle touch covered the wound with a slimy, green unguent before he offered her a hand to sit up while he wrapped a serviceable bandage around her middle. When finished, he held up a waterskin. "Drink."

Thirsty after biting down on the rag for so long, she did … discovering that the skin didn't contain water, but some sort of bitter tea. When she tried to lower the skin, he pushed it at her, his glower getting his point across without the need for words. Finally, she managed to choke enough of the wretched stuff down to satisfy him, and he took the skin back.

"You may go, basra," he grunted. Although she was pretty willing to chalk it up to loss of blood and shock, she thought she might have heard some grudging respect in that grumble. She let herself believe she had. At least someone in that compound held some respect for her.

"Thank you," she said, a long sigh gurgling in the back of her throat. Thank the Maker. Next time, she just needed someone to club her in the head with the hilt of their sword.

Her physician nodded and left the space.

Hawke stripped off her destroyed shirt, covering herself with her jerkin and breastplate, then used the blouse to clean up her blood. She wouldn't leave the evidence of her failure splashed all over the Arishok's quarters, no matter how badly she hurt. She twisted a little, a curse escaping before she clamped her teeth down on the pain. Maker's breath … or how badly her stitches pulled. Finally, she took one last swipe at the edge of the table, then bundled up her blouse, hung her cleavers on her back, and ducked under the curtain.

"Return tomorrow, Hawke," the Arishok commanded as she walked past, doing her best to stand straight.

She turned, meeting him face on and bowed her head stiffly. As much as she appreciated still being alive, he'd stopped the fight because he found her weak and in need of protection. She clenched her jaw, hating him seeing her that way. Yes, she was not qunari, but neither was she a helpless viddathari waif. Next time she made a mistake that gross, she would throw herself on Sten's blade.

She unclenched her jaw. "As the Arishok commands." Managing to straighten without wincing, she turned, and walked down the stairs, moving slowly but without limping.

In her years in Kirkwall, she could not remember Lowtown being so impossibly huge and filled with endless staircases. By the time she reached the top of the stairs to the Hightown bridge, dizziness and the impossible heat of the sun left her disoriented and nauseated. Trembling so hard that her legs almost dumped her on the ground seven times in as many steps, she flopped down on one of the benches to rest. Maker, she still had so far to go.

Closing her eyes, she pulled in greedy, shallow breaths, savouring the rich smells of spices and cooking meat. The stalls at the base of the bridge always served the best food. Someone cleared their throat. Hawke opened her eyes to see the young woman who worked at the druffalo meat kiosk standing before her holding a large tankard of water, and a skewer of roasted meat on a plate made of folded paper.

She gave the woman a puzzled frown and asked, "What's this?"

"Food and water," she responded, looking at Hawke as if she must have taken a debilitating head wound.

Suppressing a bitter chuckle, Hawke replied, "Yes, that part I understand. It's the part where I didn't ask for it that has me confused." She shaded her eyes against the glare that hammered at the inside of her head. Every single part of her body felt on the verge of death.

"No, but I was told to give it to you none the less." She placed them on the bench next to Hawke and walked away. "Enjoy."

"Thank you," Hawke called after her. She glanced around, searching for any sign of a mysterious benefactor. It didn't pay to just accept unsolicited food or drink. Then she spotted him, and she shook her head as he tried to blend into the crowd. She pointed to the drink, raising her eyebrows in a questioning stare. Of course the Arishok sent someone after her. She was weak and pathetic after all.

Tillun wilted at her notice, but nodded and crossed the small market space to sit next to her. "I wasn't supposed to be seen," he said, letting out a long sigh.

"Don't worry," she said, lifting the ewer of water. The water poured like a blessing over her tongue. Amazingly cold, the bright, mineral bite of it eased back her headache. When she lowered the large vessel to rest on her thigh, she sighed. "It's not you he finds pathetic and in need of protection."

"Eat some of the meat," the elf insisted. "I've watched you … you look about ready to fall over." When she didn't move, he lifted the paper wrapping and passed the skewer of meat to her. "The Arishok said you lost a lot of blood. You need to replenish yourself."

Hawke gave in, the savoury, spicy, browned-meat scent doing as much to convince her as anything. After she took a first bite, her appetite kicked in and she bolted the rest down, the juices running down her fingers. She licked them before wiping them on the paper and then looked up to thank Tillun. He was gone.

By the time she finished drinking the tankard of water, Hawke felt as though she might survive the climb to her home. Once she returned the ewer to the kiosk, she struck out for the bridge and the long climb. The Arishok might believe her weak enough to need a caretaker, but she knew better. She'd survived the horrors of the retreat from Ostagar, she could manage to get herself home.

A soft, grey sigh escaped as she stepped into the shade outside the mansion. Home. At last. Not even the night she carried her mother back from the undercity had home seemed such an impossible destination to reach. As soon as she entered the door, she started stripping off her armour and equipment, letting it fall to the floor as she passed. The only exceptions, her cleavers, she handed to Bodahn as she entered the main room. After giving him a weary smile, she continued to the stairs, a trail of bloody clothes left in her wake.

"M'Lady," Bodahn gasped, his face almost comical in its horror. "Are you all right?"

She gripped the railing as she turned to look back. "I'm fine, Bodahn, thank you. Please ask Orana to bring my evening meal up to my room." A pained smile stumbled across her face, dying before it even got a chance to form. "And no guests tonight, please. My bed is calling." By the time she made it to her door, only her trousers and boots remained.

"Yes, m'lady." He hurried toward the kitchen, grumbling under his breath about oxmen and them being the death of her ... then her being the death of him.

A wan smile coloured her face as she limped into her room, a relieved groan escaping as she sat on the bed. She kicked off her boots and rolled over onto her good side, relaxing into her pillows with a guttural sigh. At some point, Orana brought in her supper―she smelled it on the bed next to her. Warmth bloomed along Hawke's back as the servant tucked hot, wrapped stones in against her and covered her in a thick, soft blanket. As much as she wanted to thank Orana for her care, Hawke's eyes refused to open, and she sank back into a deep sleep.

During the night, Hawke awoke to find her servants sleeping in her room: Orana on the bed next to her and Bodahn in the armchair by the fire. She grunted softly as she rolled over, clutching her arm against her wounded side as she sat up. As soon as she moved, both her people leaped up, still half asleep but insisting on helping her limp to the water closet then back to bed. As she closed her eyes, hot rocks tucked in against her as Orana fussed, and Hawke smiled. She truly was blessed in her friends.

When Hawke awoke the next morning, she felt better than she expected, the pain just a soft pinch in her side. She lifted the blanket and looked down at the bandage. Whatever the green slime was, it did its job well. The smell of bacon told her that Orana had replaced the stew from the night before with eggs and bacon, fruit and toast. Hawke levered herself up into a sitting position, straightening with some trepidation, but still the pain proved bearable. Sending her qunari healer a silent thank you, she dug into her breakfast, shovelling it in like a starving man.

"Mistress?" Orana called from the door. Her pretty, delicate features twisted into an almost amusing expression of alarm.

"This is wonderful, Orana," Hawke said, mumbling around a mouthful of eggs and toast. "Is there any more bacon? And more toast?" Oh, pure bliss. Who would have guessed simple eggs and buttered toast would prove to be the embodiment of heaven?

"Of course, Mistress, I'll get them for you." The shy elf hurried from the room, the clip of her leather soles quick and light on the tile.

After Hawke ate her fill, she endured many helping hands as she got up and walked to the water closet to get cleaned up. She found that even when she moved, the pain didn't cause much more than a quick intake of breath now and again, although she wasn't looking forward to sparring. Throwing back a potion or two to heal wounds had spoiled her. Imagining ripping her stitches open sent a heavy shudder rolling down her spine.

When she returned to her room, Bodahn had laid out her clothing, the long slices through the leather of her jerkin and surcoat repaired. She smiled and ran her fingertips over the neat, careful work. Few people were as lucky and had such good, caring people in their lives. Once she dressed, her armor tugging and pinching a little, she headed for the Qunari compound. Despite arriving a few minutes early, she found the Arishok waiting just inside the gate.

She gave him a slight bow of the head. "Good morning, Arishok."

He looked her up and down, then nodded as if he approved of what he saw. "Serah Hawke." He turned his head as if he caught a scent, made a soft chuffing noise, then looked down at her again. "Do you have somewhere outside the city where you go when you wish to restore yourself?"

Although surprised by the question, Hawke nodded. "I do."

"You will show me this place." He stepped to the gate, nodding to the guard stationed there. A squad of his men stepped forward to accompany them, but he held up a hand, stopping them without saying a word. When the gate shut behind them, he looked to Hawke once more. "You can take us from the city through hidden routes?"

Hawke nodded, relieved that he suggested it. She hadn't looked forward to walking the streets with the most feared man in the city. She led him across the street and down through a grate into the sewers. For the most part, the trip proved uneventful. A few spiders here and there, but she dispatched them without much effort. Even though his massive sword and axe hung on his back, the Arishok let her clear their path, hanging back until she finished off the enemy.

Hawke pulled in a long, glorious breath of the sea air as they emerged from the sewers on the coast, the sharp tang of salt pricking the inside of her nose. Deep, white sand covered the ground, except where the wind swept the rock clear. A few large, gnarled trees and stubborn, prickly sorts of bushes clustered in the lees and around boulders … anywhere they could gain a foothold. Hawke paused to look out toward the small islands and wrecked ships, drawing in a long breath that felt as though it cleansed her all the way down to her toes.

The Arishok said nothing, but she could feel his stare heating her back. Considering the situation, she thought she should feel awkward. Her teacher, a man of mind-boggling intractability who wielded the power of intimidation like a lash … a man of almost absolute silence as her only company. She should feel uncomfortable. Shouldn't she?

She turned to meet his gaze and inclined her head toward a path off to her left. "It's a bit of a climb from here."

He nodded, but said nothing, his expression never wavering from its usual, stony scowl.

Of course not. Onward, then.