"So you finally told him, eh, elf?" said Varric, tilting his chair back on the rear two legs.
The dwarf had been in the middle of wading through what seemed to be a sea of paperwork; the large desk was covered in shipping manifests, ledgers, bills and receipts. Varric had been scowling at a set of entries in a leatherbound journal, running one stout finger down a column of figures in a ledger whilst gesticulating with a piece of paper at a subordinate.
"These figures make no sense; either Morden's diddling his fingers in the takings or I'm a son-of-a-nug," he was growling when Hawke pushed roughly into the room, taking three strides to the desk before slamming his hands down, hands splayed out over the papers, and roared, "Where is he?"
Varric's employee had fled at a glance from the dwarf, closing the door behind him; now Varric regarded Hawke and Fenris thoughtfully.
"So what are you planning to do should you find him, Hawke?" asked Varric, ignoring Hawke's question. "Finish off what you started? Make certain he's actually dead this time?"
"Maker, no!" cried Hawke. "I just..." He straightened, his hands clenching into fists uselessly at his sides. "I just want to see him again. Tell him how sorry I am. Try to..."
"How do you make amends for stabbing a lover in the back, Hawke? What makes you think Blondie wants to be found – least of all by you?" Varric narrowed his eyes.
"You know where he is," said Hawke. Varric rose from his seat, spreading his hands as he shrugged.
"Where he is right now? No," he answered. "I may know how to find him – but I won't without a damned good reason, Hawke."
"I want to find him – isn't that reason enough?" demanded Hawke. Varric raised an eyebrow.
"What makes you so sure he'll want to be found, Hawke? You stuck a knife in his back and didn't even stick around to make sure he was dead. That doesn't usually bode well for most relationships in my experience."
Hawke blanched as Varric spoke. "Believe me, I've regretted what I did every single day since. If I could take it all back, live that day over..." He shook his head and dropped his gaze to the floor. "I dream of it every night. Nothing I've done in all my years has haunted so much as that moment. It replays in my mind over and over. I can still see him lying there, so still, all the blood..." He fisted a hand into his hair distractedly. "I've no right to expect his forgiveness. But to see him once more with my own eyes..." He looked up at Varric, a hopeless look in his eyes. "I just want to see him. To see for myself that he still lives. I mean him no harm, Varric, I swear it – but I have to lay my eyes on him just one last time."
Varric regarded him silently.
"Please, Varric. I'm begging you."
The dwarf turned away slowly and stared down at the paperwork on his desk for several minutes. Then finally he nodded.
"Thank you, Varric," sighed Hawke gratefully as the dwarf moved back around his desk and sat back again, steepling his fingers thoughtfully as he regarded the warrior.
"I won't go with you," he said evenly. "Someone has to stay behind and keep an eye on things here, and my sources tell me the Chantry is up to something at the moment. Nothing overt, but I think I ought to stick around and stick a few spanners in the works here and there. But I can tell you where to look, and I can get you a ship."
"A ship?" repeated Hawke. Varric nodded.
"You'll need one to keep up with that pair," he snorted. "He's with Isabela," he clarified, as Hawke continued to look confused. "I'm not sure I can get you anything as fast as the Mage's Pride -"
Fenris choked, his eyes widening. "That – she dared –!"
"Don't choke yourself to death, Broody," chided Varric. "Yes, they called the ship the Mage's Pride. Their idea of a joke I guess. But she's a fast three-mast topsail schooner, and I'm not sure there's anything in Kirkwall's harbour that could match her for speed right now. She plies up and down the coast from Highever to Denerim. She runs the occasional cargo for … associates... of mine."
"So where are they now?" asked Hawke. Varric shrugged.
"Right now, I couldn't say, but they're due to put in at Ostwick in a couple of weeks. On their way down to Denerim. I'd say that would be the best place to start."
Hawke nodded. "At least we know he's still alive and made it through the Deep Roads."
Varric snorted. "Made it through and then some," he replied. "He showed up in Highever with a new staff and his pockets full of trinkets he'd picked up on his way through. That's where Isabela ran into him, in some misbegotten dive that makes the Hanged Man look like the Viscount's Palace by comparison. She promptly whirled him off with her to help her steal a ship and they've been making merry hell together on the high seas ever since."
Hawke barked out a laugh. "Anders and Isabela – I might have guessed, if I'd known he lived." He shook his head. "He did once say he wondered what it would be like to live the life of a pirate. He told me that after he left the Wardens, he tried to plant a rumour that he'd sailed off to exotic lands, even mentioning Isabela's name a few times." He smiled wryly. "I wonder if it's lived up to his expectations?"
"Hawke..." Varric said warningly; Hawke glanced up at him. "Anders... well. He's not the man you remember. He's changed."
"What do you mean?" asked Hawke, puzzled. "He's still Anders. I can't believe he would have changed that much in only a few months."
Varric shook his head. "You'll see," was all he would say.
Varric was as good as his word. The Kirkwall Tern wasn't perhaps as fast as the dwarf claimed the Mage's Pride to be, but she was a trim enough brig, and Varric had ordered her made ready to sail on the morning tide. Hawke stood on the quayside and studied her clean lines admiringly.
Fenris regarded the ship with rather less enthusiasm. "There is no other way?" he scowled.
Hawke shook his head. "Not if we want to be at Ostwick before the Mage's Pride docks," he replied. "It would take too long even on horseback, and I know for a fact you can't ride anyway."
"I would be willing to learn," replied Fenris grudgingly. Hawke glanced at him questioningly.
"You don't like ships?" he asked.
"I... get seasick," replied Fenris dourly.
"Seriously?" said Hawke in surprise. "Most people I know get a bit queasy the first couple of days at sea but you get used to it after a while."
Fenris shook his head. "Following my escape from Danarius after the deaths of the Fog Warriors, I escaped from Seheron in the hold of a merchant's ship that was bound for Antiva. A storm blew up whilst we were at sea. I was... very ill for a long time. When finally we put ashore, I was as weak as a kitten." He shook his head at the memory. "Danarius very nearly caught up to me before I had recovered enough to move on. I escaped only a day or so before he and his slavers. I have not set foot upon a ship since."
"I can see why you wouldn't be keen on the idea of sailing again then," replied Hawke, glancing up at the ship. "But I'm afraid even horses wouldn't be fast enough."
Fenris gritted his teeth and stared up at the ship without enthusiasm. "So be it," he muttered.
Fenris was, indeed, seasick.
Very, very seasick.
Sick enough that he made no murmur of complaint when Hawke gently started to rub his back in small circles as the elf bent over the railing yet again, his empty stomach spasming and heaving uselessly. At any other time he would have shied away from the unwanted touch, but right now he was more preoccupied with the feeling that his stomach was trying its damnedest to turn itself completely inside out. He retched again, stomach twisting painfully; Hawke gently carded his loose white hair back away from his face with his fingers.
Finally Fenris turned and slumped back against the rail with a low groan, sliding down to sit upon the wooden deck, his arms wrapped around his midriff as he leaned forward. Hawke crouched down next to him and proffered a waterskin, which Fenris stared out for a moment then accepted with a look of resignation, knowing even water wouldn't stay down long. Perhaps he would manage to keep it down long enough to stave off dehydration. He felt truly wretched.
"When we find the mage, I may just kill him myself for this," muttered the elf.
"When we find the mage, maybe he can do something to stop you getting seasick," suggested Hawke.
"That...is actually of some comfort to me," replied the elf slowly. He leaned back against the rail, his face pale and sheened with sweat. "What on earth possessed him to run off with Isabela?"
"Knowing Isabela, she probably didn't give him much choice," replied Hawke, settling back upon his haunches as he restoppered the waterskin. "She does have a tendency to blow into your life like a whirlwind and drag you along for the ride."
"You perhaps," replied Fenris dryly. "You have a tendency to tag along with any trouble that blows your way."
Hawke conceded the point, inclining his head in agreement. "How else would I have ended up acquiring a surly, broody elf as a companion and friend?"
"The same way I ended up with a cocky, mouthy warrior as one, I presume," replied Fenris as Hawke rose to his feet, holding out a hand to Fenris. He stared at the hand, then accepted Hawke's help as the warrior tugged him to his feet. He swayed as the ship suddenly lurched, and Hawke brought his other hand up to cup Fenris' elbow, steadying him. Fenris froze, finding himself braced against Hawke's broad chest, rather close for his comfort.
Hawke stared down at the elf, something unreadable in his eyes as he held the elf gently.
"Hawke..." breathed Fenris quietly. Hawke's gaze dropped to the red sash still tied about the elf's left wrist, then gently he released the elf, stepping back a little.
"Have a care, Fenris," said Hawke quietly. "You should watch your step. These seas can be stormy."
Fenris regarded him warily, then nodded before stepping away and turning back to the rail. The queasiness in his stomach had nothing to do with his sudden need to take slow, deep breaths.
