And When I'm the Champion, Will You Still Be Here?
Chapter Nine; And Life Continues
-x-X-x-
"If growing up a noble taught me anything, it's that they are the worst sort of liars. They spend their childhood being taught that such things are normal – that they're expected of them. A beggar may place a knife at your front, but most nobles will always have one at your back, whether you notice it or not."
Oh, how Mother's words run rampant in her head as of late. She swallows nervously. She's always had one of her brothers around in Kirkwall to help her deal with anyone and anything. Now she's on her own, all her mistakes are left only to her to resolve. If something goes wrong, she only has her own two hands to dig her way out of the mess.
The Slow Death reminds Bethany of the Pearl, from the few times she had visited there to pick up Carver after one too many drinks and a suggestion gone wrong to one of the working girls.
She sits by herself at one of the tables, scanning the crowd and yet paying no attention to anyone in particular. Where the Pearl is wide, expansive and full of space, the Slow Death is a much more . . . intimate place. The walls are painted a thick, rich red. Booths line the far wall, in which curtains are hanging, ready to be drawn down, should the need arise. The middle of the room is filled with chairs, tables and benches, all placed so that they're offering a perfect view of the stage.
A single light falls on the stage from a torch box above. Thick red curtains shield the back, yet manage to illuminate even further the stage's only decoration - a single, thick, metal pole.
The glass of wine she has is slowly beginning to drain. She fidgets nervously in her chair. The dark blue of her dress makes her feel like she's wearing liquid sapphires in the dim lights of the brothel. She has a woman named Grace to thank for it. She found her yesterday, cowering in the corners of an alleyway as Templars ran down the streets, screaming for blood. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Grace was the woman they were hunting.
So Bethany had set fire to a woman's dress three streets over. The Templars had gone running and Grace had thanked Bethany relentlessly, even going so far as to donate to her all the coin she had on her person. Bethany knew that given the different languages and designs, all her coin was taken from another's pocket, but she wasn't about to ignore the promise of free money.
Grace had been captured this morning, Bethany had heard. The woman tried breaking into the Circle to rescue her lover. Bethany shrugs to herself and has another sip of her wine. If Anders were here now, he would fill her ears with grief about how she should have done more. Her brothers would just be happy that she was alive - though Carver would most likely berate her for using magic so close to Templars.
But she's not her brothers. Bethany is her own person, she tells herself. If she's able to use magic to take herself away from everyone, she can make decisions for herself.
"My lady."
She looks up at the voice. Sebastian stands before her table, his face flush and everything about him so incredibly awkward. It's all Bethany can do to maintain an impassive face. Nice to know that someone else feels as awkward here as she does. He still wears his bright white armour - the candles reflect on it in a way that Bethany can't help but find a little distracting.
"Prince Vael," Bethany says. "Please, take a seat. I don't really wish to drink on my own."
"My Lady," Sebastian says once more. "A woman as . . . refined as yourself should not be here."
She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes. "There are many places I have been that are worse than this, my Prince. Perhaps you have heard of Kirkwall? I happened to have lived there, not too long ago. Amidst the beggars, the whores and the thieves was where I hung my head. Some of the truest people I know I found in such a place." She gestures to the room. "Here, everyone is brought down to a basic need. There are no pretences, no judgement. People come here to pay for sex. Everyone knows it. Workers or clients - each are as bad as each other, one could argue. If I was refined, perhaps this would be an ideal place for me to be - for who would be able to spread gossip about me being here without revealing that they frequent such a location too?"
His forehead breaks with a frown. "You make a good point, my Lady," he says as he takes a seat. "Now that we are here, perhaps I might know your name?"
"Bethany," she says, her heart racing just a bit. Her brother is usually the one to have conversations like this. Garrett is the one with the golden tongue and the disarmingly charming smiles. She swallows. Her mouth is annoyingly dry. "And you're Sebastian Vael," she says, attempting to remain calm. "I would ask if you came alone . . . but given where we currently are, that question seems to have another meaning."
He flushes just a bit more. "I," he stutters. "I did not bring my men with me. You asked that I arrive here alone and so that is what I did." He glances around, his frown deepening as people do their best to avoid looking at them both. "Has my lady extended the same courtesy to me?"
How to play this, Bethany wonders. Reveal too much and the Templars will come hunting for her again. She needs allies in this city - where better to start with one of the royalty? Ghostly blue elves with a hatred for mages and a Circle escapee aren't exactly the best choices for allies.
"I am alone," she says. "Though that does not mean I am defenceless."
"I had expected as much," he says, folding his hands together on the table. "After all, you claim to have killed the demons that invaded my home. Demons whose bodies that I had to dispose of, I might add."
Bethany shrugs a little. "I merely helped where I could. If I had destroyed the bodies, would you have believed me?"
"Perhaps not," he concedes. He runs a hand through his thinning hair and sighs. "My lady. Bethany. We find ourselves at an impasse here. We both have information we wish to share, yet neither of us trusts the other. I am a brother of the Chantry, though that may be hard to believe. Believe me when I promise you that I will not seek you out to do you harm tonight or any other for any information you share."
"So I must trust you that I can trust you?"
"If you wish to put it so bluntly, then yes. It would seem that is the best way."
She sighs. "Very well," she says. She can feel his rage at the people who have killed his family. His desire to see them avenged. His hunger for retribution. The feelings swim in her head and make her feel just the slightest bit drunk.
Sebastian seems to notice. "Would you like a drink, my lady? Or would you rather have water?"
Bethany nearly snorts. Even she knows that no one drinks water in a place such as this. "A drink would be welcome," she says quickly. "Wine would be nice, though I can drink ale or cider as easily." She nods as Sebastian signals a waitress over and places their drinks. Only when she leaves does Bethany lean forwards and say what's on her mind. "You ask me to place a lot of trust in a person that may still hold me to blame for the deaths of his family."
"Aye," Sebastian says gravely. "Though look around. Everyone in here places a significant sense of trust in one another. The acts they seek to indulge in - stripping themselves of all clothes and becoming intimately familiar with one another . . . this place lives on the fact that no one's trust shall be explicitly compromised within its walls."
Bethany fights the urge to blush. The thought of the acts he's describing, coupled with his voice . . . she shudders the thoughts away and banishes them before they can take up residence in her mind.
"I suppose you're right," she concedes. "Very well. I will trust you and tell you nothing but the truth whilst we're here. In return, I expect the same from you."
"I can agree to those terms."
Bethany nods as a waitress passes a glass of wine to her. Her gaze lingers for a long moment, on Sebastian and Bethany both. She blushes under the scrutiny but otherwise ignores it. Meanwhile Sebastian looks somewhat uncomfortable.
"So, my Prince," Bethany says as she sips at her wine, "what questions do you have for me?"
"The people . . . the demons they became. How many of them were blood mages? Were they all innocently slaughtered, or were they victims of their own greed?"
She shrugs. "I cannot say. The two arcane horrors were likely behind everything. When a mage dies . . . their body can still be inhabited and twisted by demons." One of the reasons why Fereldans burn their dead, she thinks to herself. "If one possesses the body of a mage, they can still access the Veil and use the mage's talents. I would assume that in life, they were the culprits behind everything."
"What brings you to Starkhaven then, my lady? Whilst I appreciate the fact that you came here and saved me the . . . horror of having to fight my own relatives like that, I cannot help but think you must have ulterior motives."
She shrugs. She hadn't had much a plan when she left Kirkwall and even now she finds that she's still grasping at straws for ideas of what to do. "I wanted to escape," she says. "Kirkwall is a horrible place. Everyone without coin is treated as less than nothing. Though I made friends there, I was always looking over my shoulder, waiting for someone to attack me." Waiting for the Templars to come and drag me away.
"Unfortunately, I know what you mean," Sebastian says. "I too have been to Kirkwall, though I have always been blessed enough that I can lay my head in the Chantry. I have seen the state of people there - the way the rich ignore the poor and the horrors of Darktown. I cannot blame one as fair as you for wanting to leave there."
"Well . . ." Bethany says uncomfortably. Somehow the conversation's become all about her. She clears her throat and tries her best to steer it in a new direction. "Do you know who was behind it? The demons, I mean."
"Perhaps," he says lowly. "If what you said is true, then the two mages turn out to be related to Lady Harimann - one of my family's oldest allies. I cannot fathom why they would turn on us like that." He sighs. "They are from Kirkwall. If it is them behind this, then I will need to travel there to see if it is true - if they are truly behind all of this."
"And if they are?"
"Then they will be brought to the Maker's justice."
"Then I suppose that your need for me is done," Bethany says. She feels her hands clench into fists beneath the table. In a moment, he'll reveal his true colours, her mind says. He'll order her attack, believing her to be a part of the massacre of her family.
Instead he bows his head, takes her hand and kisses it gently. "I suppose we are. Though, if it would not be too much to ask, my lady, I would request that you travel to Kirkwall with me."
She can't stop the blush as it comes. "Kirkwall? Why?"
He smiles at her, all bright white teeth. "Why? Because you helped to avenge my family. Obviously you are strong and capable enough to handle yourself. I know that you may have sought to escape Kirkwall, but could I possibly convince you to journey back there? You have already done so much for me, I know. The Vaels are already in your debt. I cannot offer you anything more than what you already deserve - the full support of my family. However, perhaps my gratitude would be enough?"
The way her heart flutters at his smile almost makes her want to breathe yes before her mind can say otherwise. Instead she swallows and places a shaky smile on her face. "I do not doubt that helping you is the right thing to do," she says diplomatically. "But given that I've just left Kirkwall, I am sure you can understand why I would be hesitant to journey back there." Why I can't face either of my brothers.
"Very well," he says, withdrawing from the table. "My men and I leave at dawn in three days' time. You already know where my castle is. I shall look for you as we leave. If you are there, you are welcome to travel with me. If not, then I shall mourn the loss of a beautiful face and interesting conversation on the journey to Kirkwall."
Thankfully he withdraws before she can make a fool out of herself. She smiles as he leaves her, extending her grip on the Veil and searching for any hostilities. She doesn't sense anything other than what she'd expect to find in a brothel anyway and nothing seems to be directed at her. Even so, she remains in her seat, slowly sipping at her glass of wine.
The spike of rage she senses is enough to make her nearly drop her glass in shock. She recovers and manages to maintain an expressionless face as the elf sits down across her without preamble.
"You risk much, meeting someone in a place such as this," he says.
Rage washes off him in waves. It's almost enough to make Bethany choke. She takes a breath and fights past the sickly swell in her lump she feels beginning to set in.
"Maybe," she says, "though he deserves to know the truth of how his family died. With knowledge, there may be some peace. Otherwise he'd be forever wondering and searching for answers he might not have found."
Fenris regards her with a look that shows how little he believes her. "If you say so," he says. "Though I think you will forgive me for not trusting one of your kind. For all I know you may be attempting to convert him to your will and snare him in your own traps."
"Maker!" Bethany hisses through clenched teeth. "What did I do to deserve your ire now? I didn't speak to you, nor have I done so since I helped you in the mansion. The conversations I have with people that aren't you don't concern you - though if it makes you feel any better, no, I didn't attempt to control him. He's his own man, much like anyone else. I simply thought that he might want some closure. This isn't Tevinter - not everyone here seeks to gain power where they can get it. Maybe you should think on that before you walk around judging people!"
The words are hot and acidic - they burn her even as they leave her mouth. Once voiced, she winces at the echo of them in the silence that passes.
"I have yet to see anything that says otherwise," Fenris hisses. "Though for what it is worth, you seem stronger than other mages I have encountered. Perhaps you are above them, or perhaps you will only fall harder. We may not be in Tevinter, but any mage is dangerous." He watches her for a long time, his eyes burning with emerald fire. "Are you travelling with him then? Journeying to Kirkwall?"
A cold feeling of panic washes through her. "What if I am?" she growls. How much did he hear? How much did everyone hear? She's thankful that the M word hasn't been mentioned - though her conversation with Fenris has already dropped heavy hints. "I don't see how it's any of your business."
"Do you trust him?"
"Again; I don't see how it's any of your concern."
Fenris curses. "When you helped me fight those demons, you saved my life. Like it or not, I am in your debt and owe you."
"You don't owe me anything, Fenris. Though if you did, I would say it would be a little gratitude and less offensive comments."
"Bah!" Fenris spits. "You say I owe you nothing, yet how can I continue to breathe knowing that every breath I take is because someone like you saved me? Until we are equal I must live with the knowledge that my continued existence is all because of a mage."
As Bethany had feared, the club goes quiet at that exact moment. A stripper on stage stops and looks at them as everyone else follows his gaze. Finally the stripper laughs. "Darling, I'm a mage!" he declares as he pulls off what little clothing he has. Free to the world as he is, Bethany can't stop the way her eyes widen. "Nothing this big can be described as anything but magical!" he declares before turning around and grinding against the pole suggestively.
Everyone loses interest in Bethany and Fenris as the stripper continues his act to the sounds of catcalls and whistles. Bethany's drawn into the act for a moment before spinning back in her seat and settling Fenris with a scowl.
"You make your hatred for what I am perfectly obvious," Bethany hisses. "Whatever I decide to do is none of your business, no matter how much you argue otherwise. Leave me, Fenris. Live your life as you wish to and allow me to live mine as I wish to. Good luck with your continued escape from your Tevinter blood mage - you should probably start running now, lest he has minions here in this club, waiting to report you."
Fenris growls something Bethany cannot understand as he gets up to leave. She sighs and reclines against her chair, enjoying the relative peace as it washes through her. The sounds of catcalls are dying down now - she assumes that the stripper is finished with his act.
A flash of desire gets her attention before the person's presence does. She opens her eyes to find the stripper stood in front of her, covered in sweat and oil, naked to the world. He's an elf; she doesn't know how she didn't notice it before, with his short brown hair exposing his pointed ears to the world.
Though what gets her attention certainly isn't anything on that side of his body.
"I saw you looking darling," the elf says. He takes her glass and doesn't even introduce himself before he sits on her lap. "I thought you might want a private show. Sweet thing like you? I bet you know all sorts of things that would make a man moan."
He takes her hand and places it against his chest. She feels heat flood through her and the slightest bit of warmth pooling elsewhere. He spreads his legs across her, grinding his hips against her and pressing himself into her chest. "I can show you a thing or two about being a mage," he says, winking as sparks dance between his fingers. "There's a few tricks I reserve only for special customers."
She goes to speak, finds her mouth dry. He smiles at her and guides her hand lower, across his hairless stomach, lets her drift her fingers over the muscles there and then guides her to where he's waiting, pressed up against her.
He moans as he closes her hand around himself. "The name's Serendipity," he breathes against her ear. "Do you think there's a stroke of serendipity in your near future?"
He bites her ear. She can't stop the moan that comes out of her mouth. Her heart is racing beneath her breast. Her arms are beginning to shake. So much being offered - more than she ever would have thought. She's never . . . but does that matter? If she waits longer, what if her first breaks her heart? She'll never be a maiden married off to a virtuous noble.
He grinds against her, still in her hand. His moan echoes against her neck. When did it get so hot in here? she wonders, just before he presses his lips against hers and she finds that the time for thoughts is over.
-x-X-x-
Two weeks.
Two weeks since his little sister vanished off the face of Thedas and Hawke still has no idea where she is, what she happens to be doing and if she's even still alive anymore.
He feels hollow. He feels like something has crawled up inside him, ripped out his heart and not bothered to replace the insides with anything. All that remains is a gaping black hole.
Shepard whines and paws at his leg. Hawke grunts and tosses him what little food he has on his plate. He doesn't feel much like eating anyhow. He rarely does these days. It's only when one of the others sits him down and waits until he's cleaned his plate that he actually bothers eating. They take it in turns now. One day it's Anders. Then it's Merrill. Then Aveline. Then Varric. Isabela fills his life with sex and dirty jokes when she's in the mood to be around him.
That mood is getting less and less frequent these days too. She spends her time and her coin in the Blooming Rose and Hawke can't quite blame her.
His anger has faded away. His grief has faded. He feels worse now than he ever did when Mother had died. Bethany was – is – his baby sister. He's the one that's meant to protect her.
Instead he trusted that task to Carver.
Carver.
Even now Hawke's fist curls around his tankard. The metal rebels against his grip. He shouldn't hate his brother. He should grieve with him, forgive him and understand that Carver's selfishness and need to prove himself made him blind to Bethany and whatever happened to her. She wasn't kidnapped. She wasn't murdered. She left of her own free will.
Yet, he can't stop hating his little brother. Each time he sees his face, he wants to knock it in once more. They fight now, worse than ever. Carver somehow thinks that Hawke's all to blame. If you weren't so busy fucking that whore of yours, we wouldn't have ended up in this mess!
Oh, the great Hawke would never have let anything like this happen! Woe to Thedas that we're not all like him!
Think yourself Andraste reborn, do you, Brother? You couldn't even save Mother when you needed to!
The tankard crumples in his grip. Ale spills out over the side. Shepard whines again, stands up and places his head into Hawke's lap. Hawke wants to smile and scratch him behind the ears. Instead he simply sits there and stares into the too-intelligent eyes that look back at him.
What is he supposed to do? He invests all his time helping the people of Kirkwall, gathering money for an expedition that grows increasingly unlikely as time passes. The Blight has ended. The darkspawn are crawling back to the Deep Roads and yet, the expedition is still apparently going ahead.
Hawke's lips curl in distaste. Maybe he should send Carver down to the Deep Roads. Naturally he'll probably screw things up there too, but with any luck he'll catch Blight and have to be put out of his misery.
The thought shocks Hawke into some measure of clear headedness. He doesn't want his little brother dead. He's all he has left these days – save a mabari, a guard who acts like a mother hen and a dwarf that's his best friend one day and using him as the latest muse the next.
He sighs and is just about to stand up and leave when someone sits down opposite him. He didn't even notice them come in. He wonders if he is in fact, a little drunker than he thought when he looks up and sees Merrill's large eyes staring at him. No wonder, he thinks. Clumsy, daft and hazard to all things as she is, Merrill manages to walk as quietly as a shadow most days. He would think that she had trained in thieving, was she not so innocent. Instead he supposes it's a lifetime of hunting game in the forests, where every step may have led them into being attacked by a bear – or worse.
Darkspawn were near her old camp. She mentioned that once, didn't she? It was something she had said to try and console him. She'd ventured into old ruins with two of her closest – her only – friends. One had died. The other had been tainted and unable to be treated, had become a ghoul.
He shakes his head. Such thoughts aren't going to help his mental state.
Merrill's still looking up at him, wide eyes and all. "Merrill," he says as politely as he can. "I'm surprised you managed to find your way here."
"Oh," she says, blushing slightly. "I did set out a while ago, but then I found myself dreadfully lost. I tried carving signs into the walls like we do when we're hunting in caves, but then the owner of one house came out and chased me off with a broom. I ran so far and so quickly that I'm afraid I got a little lost again and if it wasn't for Isabela, I probably still would be."
Hawke frowns at the mention of Isabela. He looks to the bar and sees her there. He feels himself stir at the sight of her, ass just so slightly displaced, her breasts nearly bursting out of her top and her long, muscular legs hidden beneath boots that somehow make them look all the longer.
Of course, she also happens to be flirting rather excessively with some woman at the bar. She seems to be Coterie – all muscle, thick, boiled leather armour and a large sword strapped to her hip. Yet her face is attractive, in a hard sort of way.
Hawke gets the image of Isabela and her rolling around in the sack and finds that he can't quite concentrate again.
"I thought that you and Isabela were . . . seeing each other," Merrill whispers, following his gaze.
Hawke shrugs and drinks a little more ale. Shepard looks at him disapprovingly. "Isabela and I are friends," he says. "We both like sex. We have it occasionally. It's not much different than paying for it."
"Well, I suppose it is," Merrill says, blushing all the way to the tips of her ears. It's rather endearing. Hawke wants to hug her, but a little part of his mind warns him off. Carver already hates him. If he even saw him talking to Merrill, he'd likely blow a fuse and start a fight in the middle of the bar.
"I mean, you're both friends, aren't you?" Merrill continues. "So I mean, it's not going to be like paying for it, where I imagine that you just part ways afterwards and pretend it never happened. Don't you just lie there and . . . talk? About anything? Or everything? Surely it can't all just be . . . intimate, right?"
Hawke considers it. "No, it pretty much is just sex." They do talk about things before and after, sure. But mostly it's just about what to do next, or the sea or simple, meaningless things that both of them know are ways to get around having to talk about anything serious. "We work better that way. Isabela doesn't want feelings brought into anything and I don't want to have anything serious until my family are safe."
Even Carver he thinks.
"Oh," Merrill whispers. She seems upset. Varric's been mentioning about how she seems to think Isabela and him are the perfect couple and are going to sail away into the sunset and have dozens of children that can charm you out of coin as quickly as they can steal it. He tries not to laugh at the thought. With all the magic in his bloodline, having children isn't exactly something Hawke's considered. More than that, he can't quite ever imagine Isabela being pregnant. If she ever was, he wouldn't put it past her to be swollen like a balloon and still dancing her deadly duel of death, as she likes to call it.
"So, did you come here for anything else Merrill?" Shepard's starting to fall asleep in his lap. It's going to be hell to wake him when Hawke needs to piss. "Surely it wasn't just to sit here and talk about Isabela and I?"
"Well, no . . ." Merrill admits. "I had a thought. You probably won't agree with it and I know that Anders and Aveline would frown at me and yell at me constantly, but I want to help and this happens to be the only way that I know how!"
Hawke feels that he is entirely too drunk to deal with Merrill's nervous ramblings. He waves for another round of drinks to be brought to his table. Everyone in the Hanged Man knows him by name now. It's the sort of thing that Mother would have been appalled about, yet something that would have made Father laugh until Mother glared him into silence.
"Merrill," Hawke says gently. "Take a breath. Tell me what you thought."
"Okay," she says nervously. A barmaid brings over two mugs of ale. Hawke shrugs when he doesn't recognise her, thanks her and tells her to put it on his tab. He'll get around to paying it off one day. Likely when the Deep Roads fall through and they have to move on from Kirkwall. Merrill sips at her ale gingerly. She's used to ciders and wines, she's mentioned. Anything sweet, though it seems she can handle her ale better than he would have thought.
"So you and Carver, you're brothers, right?" Merrill beings, rambling almost instantly. "So you share blood. That means that you and Bethany will do too. And I know that Varric hasn't had any luck trying to find her and neither has Isabela or Anders or Aveline. You haven't either, which is why you haven't rushed off to try and save her."
Hawke grunts. "The point, Merrill?"
"Oh, right! Sorry! What I was thinking was that since you and Carver and Bethany all share blood and I . . ." She leans across the table and lowers her voice, "can do blood magic, maybe I could use that to find her?"
It's a brilliantly stupid idea. Hawke doesn't know whether to kiss her or slap her for having it. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and prays to the Maker that something will give him the strength to deal with the reaction he knows he's going to get.
"Thank you, Merrill," he says. "But I can't let you do that. It's a wonderful idea, but Bethany would hate you and I both if I let you do that."
"But . . ." Merrill whispers, heartbreak written across her face. "I thought this would help you! And I've researched it and everything and I know the best way I can do this without hurting anyone! Other than me of course, but that's the price I have to pay for this sort of thing."
"Merrill," Hawke says, reaching across the table to touch her hand. The shock of it stuns her into silence. "Listen to me. I appreciate what you're offering. In any other situation, I would accept. But I still think Bethany's alive. If she is and we found her by doing that, she might run away again. She fears that sort of magic, Merrill. She'd love you for doing that to help me, but she'd hate me for forcing you to do it."
"But you're not forcing me to do anything," Merrill says.
"I know. But Bethany wouldn't see it that way." He frowns at her. "Carver said as much, didn't he?"
She looks up, her eyes widening. "I-I . . . yes. He told me that Bethany would never forgive him if he let me find her like that. I just don't understand! How can you want to find her so much and yet reject the best option of finding her you have?"
"Because, Merrill," he says gently, "it's not what she would want. Think about it; if you could have Tamlen back, would you want to find him by using something that you knew would make him hate you forever, or search for a way to find him and keep him by your side?"
"I suppose you're right," Merrill says. "But I had those thoughts when Tamlen disappeared! I had them ever since then up until we moved to Kirkwall. I thought about it again and again until one day, this seemed like the only way I could ever hope of finding him again. I know he's dead, Hawke. The Warden sent a letter to one of the Dalish clans in Ferelden. He said they'd fought a Dalish ghoul who could still remember something of his past life. He sent the locket they'd found on his body with the letter.
"It was Tamlen's," she whispers. "We all went through vallaslin together. Tamlen, Mahariel and I. It was one of the only times something like that had happened in our clan. We had lockets made – a drop of each of our blood, diluted with ink. Not enough to ever be used for blood magic, yet enough to say that we were linked forever.
"It was Tamlen's locket the Warden sent back," she says. "On each we carved the vallaslin we received. That way we could tell our lockets apart. We were linked, but still individual." She reaches under her collar and withdraws three simple silver lockets, each on a silver chain. They're no bigger than Hawke's thumb, but are undeniably beautiful. "I'm the only one left now," she admits. "Even though our lockets all bonded us together, it still wasn't enough in the end. All I have left of them are these flimsy pieces of silver with a drop of blood." She looks up at him, her eyes wet and red. "Don't follow my mistake, Hawke. You may think it better for Bethany to be dead than alive and hating you, but I would give everything to bring Tamlen and Mahariel back, even if they hated me for the rest of my life."
She gets up and leaves. His mind reels enough that he doesn't even think of how she's going to find her way home until Shepard wakes and growls at him. He walks her home in silence, neither of them saying anything, yet both of them thinking similar thoughts.
-x-X-x-
The Viscount's boy is on the move again. Interesting, Isabela thinks to herself as she watches him from the shadows. He spends almost all his time with Carver and Charade lately, conspiring together for ways in which they can go out and find Bethany. Every time though, Carver shuts them down. He doesn't want to risk everything for the big reward. He seems to have smartened up a little in that regard. No more heroics - not unless they involve only him in the line of fire.
"You don't trust him, do you?"
The voice is whispered in something like a purr. Isabela's heart leaps into her throat, but she makes no obvious indication of her shock. She nods slowly, reaching into the front of her boot for the dagger she keeps strapped inside.
"Can't say I blame you. Nobles are always pompous arses."
Charade squats down beside her in the shadows. Perched in an overhang on one of the dockside warehouses that required a bit of creative climbing to get to, Isabela thought that she wouldn't be encountering anyone anytime soon. That the woman has managed to find her so easily makes her more than a little bit curious - and a little bit turned on.
"But they do make such delightfully stupid targets," Isabela points out, one hand holding onto a wooden support beam, the other subtly wrapped around the pommel of her dagger. "As fun as the game can be, sometimes it's equally as entertaining to simply see the stupidity of Thedas' so called elite."
"I suppose you're right," Charade says. Her voice is husky, reminiscent of Hawke's . . . but with so much more danger behind it. Not a bad kind either - the exciting kind. Isabela raises an eyebrow at her and says nothing. "I wouldn't bother sticking me with that knife, were I you. If I really wanted to tangle with you, I'd have done so by now."
"Oh?" Isabela can't resist bait like that. "What makes you think that you'd stand a chance in a tangle with me?"
Charade smirks, a delightfully predatory thing Isabela's only seen on the likes of Zevran. "Perhaps I know a few things that a pirate doesn't. There's only so many tricks you can pick up at sea."
Isabela manages to keep her laugh quiet. Saemus is on his way through the docks with his latest pitiful attempt at a disguise. Poor boy should learn that dockworkers don't walk hunched up like that. They strut, loud and proud about the muscles they've earned, even if they've gone days without food, sleep or another's touch. She sighs mentally. She can't help but want to teach him a few things about the world - even Merrill has managed to pick up how to blend in faster than she would have thought, and it's not like the elf is playing with a full deck of cards.
"Well, I do like a good duel," Isabela says coyly. "Perhaps you'll have to show me these tricks of yours sometime. I can't have someone saying they know more about duelling than me."
There's mischief in Charade's eyes. "How about here and now?" she whispers, leaning close. "Perched above the streets, the sun beating down on our skin and with the risk of anyone looking up seeing what we're doing." She presses their chests together, runs a hand over Isabela's arm. Her touch is slow, measured, but Isabela can feel the subtle tremble when it's there.
She smiles. "Sweet Thing, I know what you're doing." Her smile turns into a smirk. "Protecting your friend is cute, but you're not distracting me from this - no matter how distracting you might be." She leans in close, brushes her lips against Charade's ear as she lets her hand drift across and down the other woman's exposed stomach. "Maybe I'll teach you a few things another time."
She snatches the dagger from Charade's belt and punches her in the stomach. Charade drops, breathless and Isabela winks at her prone form. "Never mess with the best, Sweet Thing," she says and blows her a kiss.
Charade grumbles something that has to be one of the many curses Isabela's heard before. Like water off a duck's back. When your own mother sells you off and your husband wants you to entertain his friends, there's not a word in the world that can cut you as deep as that. Isabela has scars, but they've grown metal plate over them as tough as any soldier's armour.
Isabela leaps from the roof she stands on and lands with a grunt on another warehouse. She recognises the way Saemus is headed - to Darktown. She shudders. Nothing good ever happens there. Hawke's in another of his blame-everyone-that-couldn't-save-my-sister moods. Aggressive sex can be fun, as can dirty talk and heated words. But the way he's going . . . she's not getting involved in that. Sooner or later he'll snap. From what she's seen from before all of this shit, he's a nice guy - she could even see them becoming friends. But if he's going to keep up this act, then he's not getting any relief from her.
Varric says he'll snap out of it. Kitten worries herself daily, Prude seems to think that Isabela's only in it for coins and sparkly things, whilst Carver confided in her that Hawke's like this everytime Bethany's seemed to have been in danger. It will pass, he told her, but the look in his eyes said that he didn't quite believe his own words.
She would ask Anders . . . but the two of them don't talk much. Usually it's simply a case of her going there, dropping her breeches and having him cure whatever itch she may have picked up. Even then, with his hands above her nethers, he still insists on bleating on about the mages. Yes, they're oppressed, yes, slavery is a horrible thing, but quite frankly, unless she finds herself in a situation where she has to make a choice, Isabela just doesn't give a nug's uncle.
Saemus is walking faster, now he's away from the qunari compound. Interesting. Isabela can't quite blame him - being near to that place gives her the shudders in all the wrong ways. He looks around as if he's expecting someone to follow him. Silly boy never looks towards the rooftops. She should really teach him a thing or two - this hunt is embarrassingly easy!
She leaps down onto what smells to be an abattoir and continues her hunt. Saemus gets closer and closer to the mines and the entrance to Darktown. She follows his route and knows that she's got a decision coming - does she give up the chase, or does she take the plunge?
Well, it's not like she hasn't been into the sea before, Isabela figures. Besides, at least this way she won't have to pull her sopping wet ass out of the sea into an unknown town again. She grins, draws a deep breath and takes a running leap off the side of the warehouse.
The splash her dive makes sounds like a doozy. She imagines people racing towards the docks to see what lunatic's decided to try and kill themselves today, or just to see if someone's been thrown overboard. She treads water several feet down in the murky haze, letting the burn in her eyes go down a little. If she surfaces too soon, Saemus will doubtless see her.
She counts to fifty before deciding to surface. The crowds have mostly thinned, though there's still enough people there for her show. A few are offering her hands out of the water - those that she knows will try to grope her ass for payment. She swims to the other side of the docks instead, pulls herself out of the water with her own two hands and grunts as she flicks her soaking wet hair back.
At least she's not wearing white today. That wouldn't be conspicuous at all. The red of her blouse begins to turn a brown colour as the water seeps into it. Her daggers are all still where she left them, but she's lost the knife she stole from Charade.
Oh well, no loss.
She catches sight of a torch being lit in the entrance to Darktown. She rolls her eyes and instantly assumes Saemus. If he's going to skulk around, he shouldn't be drawing attention to himself! Let the lighting they provide down there be enough! Sure it's next to nothing, but at least you don't stand out.
"Bloody nobles," she sighs to herself, yet follows him regardless. If he gets killed down here, it would be nothing more than him being too stupid to live. But then Carver would be all upset and that would make Hawke upset and somehow, Isabela would end up having to listen to it all as they all drowned their sorrows outside her room.
She really needs to move out of the Hanged Man. Wonderful bar, shitty living space. Though she's had worse.
Her prey is easy enough to catch. All she needs to do is follow the moving light and sure enough, he's there. She crouches down in the darkness, stepping lightly as she follows him. He never once glances back to see if he's being stalker. Amateur. Poor boy should learn - shadows or no, there are always knives at your back.
Isabela glances over her own shoulder to make sure no one's following her. She's already been surprised once tonight.
Saemus moves through a set of tunnels Isabela doesn't recognise. She wonders if she should be offended that he knows the underground better than her. Then again, it's not like she spends any time down here by choice. The smell of elfroot gets a little bit stronger. It's almost enough to make her teeth go numb and her head go funny. Isabela bites down on the inside of her cheek, feels blood and continues until pain comes. Oh sure, elfroot's a brilliant pain reliever, but she's not exactly looking to get high right now.
Their path narrows into a small corridor. Isabela feels the world around her get that little bit smaller and holds a breath. She imagines the sea, the brilliant open expanse and the limitless sights of the world. She's not trapped in an underground darkness, not at all.
She sees a ball of light hovering at the end of the tunnel. She hisses, finds a small cutaway in the wall and presses herself against it as tightly as she can. Not as tightly as she'd light. Damn breasts! Men don't seem to realise that big breasts aren't simply gifts from the Maker himself. She hasn't even been able to pose as a boy since she was fourteen!
"Saemus," a voice says. Isabela stiffens. She recognises the voice! It's happy, but she can hear the stressed, dark undertones the voice carries. "You weren't followed, were you?"
"No," Saemus says quickly. Isabela can practically hear the beaming smile on his face. "I'm alone."
"Good," says the voice. Blast! Why can she recognise it but not tell who it is? Balls! "Come on, let's get you out of here. We need to shut this tunnel again before it's discovered."
What. Isabela nearly screams. No, no, no they can't shut this tunnel! She'll be stuck in it with nothing but absolute darkness and she'll have to claw her way back out and who even knows what sort of blood-curdling horrors actually live in the darkness of Darktown when there's no light to cow them!
She's just about to rush them, screaming and begging them for anything else when Saemus says, "No, don't. I may need to leave quickly. Besides, the smell of elfroot is rather . . . nauseating. We should let it disperse from here, otherwise someone may come investigating."
"You're right," says the other voice. "Good thinking."
Isabela breathes a sigh of relief. Her heart doesn't seem to be marching like an army anymore. She gives the voices a few seconds and continues after them. Their voices are further ahead and completely in whispers. Try as she might, she can't quite hear them. She picks up her pace a little, treads in a puddle and winces as the splash seems to echo around her.
They say nothing, but she follows more cautiously anyway. Nearly there, she tells herself. Nearly at whatever underground qunari-loving sex club Saemus is involved in.
And suddenly, she's not in the tunnel anymore.
"Well, this is interesting," she says. Suddenly she remembers who the other voice belongs to. It can't be anyone else, given that she's inside his healing clinic.
-x-X-x-
Carver rolls off the whore with a grunt. He finds a bottle of wine on the floor and smirks as he presses it to his lips and drains what little it left inside.
"Come on," he grunts to the woman, "what do you say?"
She doesn't hide the grimace she makes quickly enough. "I'm afraid you haven't paid me enough for that, serah," she says.
"Really?" Carver grunts. "Because I know for sure that the men here do that for far less than the women charge."
"Well perhaps if you know that for sure, maybe you should go back to fucking them instead!"
"That's not what I – blast!" Carver groans as she stands up and leaves the room. He misses the sight of her naked ass, her breasts as they bounce up and down above him, sweat beading against them. He wants to run his hands across her stomach once more and listen to the way she moans as he presses himself inside her.
Instead he's left in the room alone, naked, sticky and ready to go once more. He sighs as he finds the wash basin and sets about cleaning himself up. Not like Madame Lusine is going to give him a refund, though he wonders if she'll give him a discount next time, considering this one ran off on him before their time was up.
He frowns as he slides his trousers on. What was her name? He can't even remember. Does it matter? He supposes not.
Downstairs the hall is lively with whores and drunkards. He's fairly certain he sees Isabela wandering upstairs with two male whores and a female one too. He blinks, shakes his head and tries not to think about it. It's not like his brother and her are exclusive - though with everything that's happened lately, Hawke hasn't exactly been putting himself about.
Not like Carver has.
He clenches his teeth as he tries not to think about it. Hawke doesn't say anything to him anymore. Just looks at him with some sort of darkness in his face that Carver can't quite understand. Before he would have been making jokes, telling people he was surprised Carver knew where to put it, that he thought Saemus had already laid claim to it. Now it's nothing but silence if he's lucky. If not, Hawke gets up and leaves the moment Carver gets in, taking Shepard with him and not returning until morning, smelling of either drink or sex and occasionally covered in blood.
Carver takes a deep breath. Anyone else, he would think the latter two were related. Not with his brother though - not his holier-than-thou brother. The one who can't do any wrong, despite the fact that he's the one that let Mother die and is the reason that they're gearing up to go back underground to find treasure in the place that the bastards who took Mother live.
The air outside is cold against his bare arms. He inhales as deeply as he can and sobers up just a little.
"I wonder; is it a coincidence or something more psychological that you and your brother have such different tastes in women?"
Carver stops himself from groaning aloud as the shadowy figure walks into view. "Go home Varric. I don't want to deal with this right now."
"Ah, but sir you see, that's where you're wrong! Everyone needs a loveable dwarf to talk to now and again."
"Well I don't."
"And thus; how Junior shows his love. It's alright, I know you hurt people because that's how you flatter them. And really Junior, I feel the same way too."
Carver sighs and stops walking. "What do you want, dwarf?" he demands.
"Well, human," Varric says, his smile not once leaving his face, "it's been brought to my attention that people have seen your best friend the Viscount's son sneaking out of the qunari compound late at night. Now, I don't know his reasons, nor do I want to know them, but I thought it would be within all of our best interests for you to warn him to be a bit smarter."
"I don't see how this concerns you."
"Think, Junior!" Varric says. "People know he allies himself with you and your brother. They know that your brother is friends with many people in different places - Anders, Isabela, Merrill, Aveline . . . me. People already hate the qunari. It's only a matter of time before they start attacking those they think are consorting with them or about to join them. When they're angry enough to go after the Viscount's son, they'll be bloodthirsty enough to go after his friends too."
"I suppose you have a point," Carver admits. "I'll talk with him on the morrow."
"Carver," Varric says rather forcefully. "Perhaps you don't really understand the weight of everything happening here. Come on, follow me."
Carver crosses his arms. "And why should I bother doing that?"
"Junior," Varric says, laughing. "If I wanted to hurt you, I'd have done so by now. Maker knows if I did, your brother would certainly make my remaining days as painful as possible. Relax, you're among friends."
I doubt that, Carver wants to say. But he keeps his mouth shut, following Varric in stony silence as the dwarf talks constantly about everything from the price of merchant's wares to questions as to whether or not Flemeth in dragon form had a spotty backside.
When he sees that they're approaching the Viscount's Keep, Carver almost misses a step. He frowns and manages to pretend that nothing's happened. Varric becomes quiet as they approach the doors to the keep. The guards there are the Viscount's own personal ones, yet a nod from Varric and they move aside like any of the Lowtown thugs.
Even this late at night, the Keep is still filled with nobles filling the halls with their dreary complaints. Carver hears one or two mentions of him, whispers of 'So that's young Dumar's knight in shining armour' and 'How could someone like that even think of befriending the Viscount's son?'
Carver's just about to shout something when Varric shakes his head at him. Carver clenches his hands into fists. In any other circumstances he would ignore the dwarf. But playing nobles against each other is one of Varric's daily tasks. Unlike his brother, who always seems to be helping people in order to exploit them, Varric seems to actually do it out of the kindness of his heart.
Though Carver still has his suspicions as to whether or not those are his true motives.
They walk into the guards' barracks just as someone is being dragged out of the captain's office.
"Fereldan bitch!" he's screaming. "I'll gut you and your dog-lord lover for this! Mark my words!"
"So," Hawke drawls, "I don't suppose that he'll be able to pay us anything now."
Aveline just sighs. "It's a shame that Ewald disappeared so mysteriously. Though now everything's out in the open, I can't help but think Jeven was behind that too. A shame we have no proof for that." She sighs again. "Ewald was a good man."
Seneschal Bran is there with them. Carver glares at him from a distance. "Be that is it was, Aveline, it seems that the guard is in need of a new captain. I think given the loyalty you have shown, it would seem only right that you take the place."
Carver scowls in her direction. Here she is getting another promotion after she made certain that his application to the guard didn't even get considered. Bitch. He wants to walk down there and throttle her.
He catches his brother's eye for a moment. Shepard is by his side, tail wagging happily. Something crosses Hawke's face and suddenly it's like a mask. Carver could be looking at stone, for all he knows. He looks away first, hating himself for even that little weakness.
"Oh," Bran says as he passes Carver. "It's you. I trust that you're not leading Saemus into more political shitstorms?"
It's Varric who answers for him. "Be thankful for that, my good man. It seems like without any of us around, you'd be without a job."
Bran just scowls at him and walks off, muttering things under his breath.
"Carver!" Aveline calls. She nods at him. "We need to talk."
Hawke doesn't say anything, but he brazenly walks into Jeven's old office.
"Hawke!" Aveline calls after him. "You can't go in there!"
"And why not? It's your office now, Aveline. I think we should get a plaque. Do you think we should get a plaque? It makes things more official, doesn't it? Guard-Captain Aveline 'Fereldan Bitch' Vallen. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"
Aveline is impossibly red as she storms in after him. Varric just chuckles and gestures towards the door. "Come on Junior. Better not keep them waiting – she just might kill Hawke if we give her enough time."
Carver doubts anything like that would actually ever happen, but he follows Varric regardless. Inside the office Aveline is already busy filing papers whilst Hawke is leant back in her chair, his feet on the desk and a file in his hands.
Shepard barks happily and buries his face in Carver's hands. Carver can't help but laugh as he scratches the mabari behind the ears. Some part of his mind tells him that his brother can't truly hate him – if he did, Shepard would be sat there growling at him. But the angry, silent, accusing glares are still enough to hurt, though he would never actually admit it.
The door shuts behind them. Carver spins around, about to draw a knife, when he sees that it's just Isabela. He frowns at her. "I thought I saw you back there?"
She smiles at him. "Ah, perhaps I was. Maybe they're warming my bed for me, getting ready for my return. I do find that one good tussle deserves another, don't you?"
Carver swallows. As tempting as Isabela might be, she's still been with his brother. Nothing can ever get rid of that fact. Though they may not be on speaking terms, he knows he could still never do that - if not because he doesn't want to hurt his brother's feelings, simply because he could never stand to hear he's in Hawke's shadow even there.
"Let's not start talking about that," Aveline growls, shooting a venomous look at Isabela. She nods at Carver. "We've got a few problems. Saemus and the qunari."
Carver shrugs. "Saemus' business is his own."
"Whilst usually I'd agree with you, it's making people nervous. The more nervous they get, the more likely they are to panic and do something stupid." She paces the office, her hands folded behind her back. "Saemus' own guards are already suspicious. Soon even the coin they earn will not be enough to keep their lips tight - like someone else, I'm sure."
"Ah, and so it begins," Isabela sighs. "Perhaps you're just jealous that no one's offered coin or otherwise to make your lips loose in the longest time."
Aveline turns the colour of her hair. "So help me whore-"
"That's right," Isabela says, laughing. "You do need help. I do know a marvellous few men that might be able to help you in that regard."
"Can we stop this now, please?" Hawke say. Carver notices for the first time how tired his brother looks. The laughter lines from his eyes seem to be fading. Somehow he seems smaller than normal; it's almost like Shepard is able to dwarf him, even laying down on the floor as the mabari is. "It's late and I've still had no word about Bethany. Until we've found her, can we at least pretend we can get along long enough to do a job?"
Carver doesn't miss the "Spoilsport," Isabela mutters as she saunters towards him.
"Carver." He's surprised to hear his brother's voice directed at him. "I know Saemus is your friend more than any of ours. I understand if there's something that you're trying to protect him for. But if he's in over his head, he'll need our help."
For a moment, he's almost tempted to tell them. Then he grits his jaw and shakes his head. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Come on now," Varric sighs. "Where's the story in that?" None of them believe him. Carver can see that written across their faces, plain as day.
"I still want to know why he's taking the back alleys to go and see Anders," Isabela says as if she doesn't understand the weight of her words. "Anywhere else would be just foolish. But Darktown?"
The lack of reaction in everyone else's faces shows Carver that Isabela's already mentioned it to them. He doesn't know why she would have - she's always mentioning that she has no ties to Hawke. There's something else there, something more personal for her to gain.
"I'm sure his reasons for seeing a healer are perfectly within reason," Hawke says. "It's not like none of us have ever had to go see him."
"Some for reasons more personal than others," Aveline snipes.
"Oh, again with the jokes!" Isabela laughs. "When was the last time a man tried to heal your wounds, hm? I bet you're just aching for a good sword to pierce you."
"And Bianca is starting to feel awkward," Varric says. "Now I'm sure if Junior says he doesn't know anything, then he doesn't know anything. The whispers of Saemus going to the qunari compound and someone else following him out of there must be nothing. I'm sure that the Viscount or someone will hear of it, realise it's an assassin and then do what needs to be done."
Carver sighs. He hates the fact that he's fallen so easily into this trap. He looks around; trying to make certain that the room they're in is secure. It has to be, he tells himself, because otherwise they wouldn't be in here talking so freely. He doesn't know about Aveline, but he's certain Isabela and Varric are smart enough to not discuss such things openly.
"Saemus wants to convert," Carver confesses like it's a dirty secret. It's not much of one between them, but he supposes to anyone else it would be. "He wants to become qunari - he likes their ideals, their ways of life."
"His decision," Hawke says with a shrug. "We can't all be devout Andrastians and dedicated to lives of purity free of sin."
"It's not just that though," Carver says. "Saemus . . . he's fallen for one of them. Ashaad, I think his name is. They're . . . I don't know what they are. Saemus has told me about it. He has feelings for him and they've been together, but qunari aren't supposed to fall for anyone that they're not told to. They're told who to marry and who to have children with. That Ashaad is doing something outside of that is enough to make his conviction to the Qun waiver, but it's also the fact that it's with Saemus - not just another man, but a human."
"Well . . ." Isabela says thoughtfully, "those qunari are rather large. I imagine they've got something worth showing off."
"Must you always lower the tone?" Aveline growls.
"Well no one else is going to around you."
"Ladies," Varric says, shaking his head. "Well, I can see how this will cause problems. The Viscount's boy hooking up with a horned demon. People are going to love him. It's a wonder you've kept it secret for this long."
Carver shrugs. "Most people have assumed he's with me and looked the other way." The amount of stares he's received from the nobles in the Keep have been enough to let him know what they really think of such a thing though, even if they do condone it. Were it actually true, Carver isn't sure if he would be able to stop himself from attacking all of them.
"It's worse than that though," Hawke whispers. "It puts the Viscount in a horrible position. His enemies will use the fact that his son is seeing a qunari against him. People hate the qunari - they fear them. If they realise their leader's son is seeing one, it will make them lose confidence in him and try to overthrow him - violently if need be. Even if they don't and the qunari thing is resolved . . . they'll still see that Seamus can't produce an heir, even if that's not the case. They'll use that as another reason - the Viscount must have an heir, which will mean more violence."
"Well aren't you all doom and gloom lately?" Isabela mutters, glancing up from her nails.
"He's right though," Aveline says. "People are already losing faith in the Viscount. If this got out, it would be enough to make them overthrow him - with violence if necessary, just like Hawke said."
"Well shit," Varric says. "Lordling sure can pick them."
"I'm more curious as to where they're doing the deed," Isabela says, her eyes sparkling. "Can't be easy to sneak around someone as important as that. Must be even harder to sneak around a qunari."
Carver's sigh is more like a growl. "They have somewhere – I'd rather not mention where."
He doesn't want to say, if only because they've all been there. It's one of the abandoned houses they cleaned out recently. A band of thugs disguising themselves as guards to rob people - Aveline was not happy. As it stands the property is still waiting for a new tenant, which means that Carver, Charade and Saemus have occupied it for a short time, making use of it as they see fit.
Aveline frowns. "Perhaps. But even so, Carver, we need to make sure that he's not in any danger."
"He's not," Carver says quickly. "Charade and I know where it is. Saemus comes to us before they're supposed to meet up. This has been going on for longer than any of you know about. Can you not just trust me with this one thing?"
Aveline goes to open her mouth to say something. Hawke cuts across her. "Leave it, Aveline," he says. "If they've managed to keep something like this a secret, they're not doing too badly."
"Tell that to Saemus," Isabela snorts. "Poor boy doesn't know the first thing about blending in."
"We'll help him with that too," Carver growls. "He kept everything about Bethany secret – we owe him this much, at least."
He knows the look in both Varric's and his brother's eyes. They're not going to let it lie. They're going to find out as much as they possibly can. He needs to tell Saemus to be more careful.
Thankfully Isabela provides him with a reason to leave.
"Well, as fun as this is," she says, faking a yawn as she stretches, "I have some fun waiting for me. You can wear yourselves out with talk – I always prefer action."
She leaves, sauntering her way out of the door. Carver stands as she leaves. "I'm going home," he tells them. "I'll see Saemus tomorrow. I'll make sure to let him know everything."
He doesn't wait for them to answer him. He leaves the room, his shoulders high, intent on helping Saemus as much as he can. He needs to help him, because if he can help his friend then surely he's not as much of a failure as he feels.
He's already failed Bethany; he can't let that become his legacy.
