"You know, I'm starting to forget why cutting through the Bannorn straight to Highever was a bad idea," remarked Amelle as she dismounted from Falcon's back, her ankles aching with the shock as she landed. If she hadn't been holding onto the worn leather saddle, her ankles might've given way entirely, her knees following suit, and when you got right down to it, a little sit-down didn't seem like a half bad idea. Rolling her shoulders she took a breath, directing tiny bolts of healing to her ankles, knees, back, and more importantly, her backside.
Varric only snorted and took a long drink of water from the canteen swinging gently from Cedric's pack.
"Anyone else?" she asked with a grin, wiggling her fingers.
"Send some of that my way, Hawke," Isabela replied, tethering Tango to a tree. "Maker's balls, give me a ship on open water any day," she groused, pulling a face as she stretched her aching back. The ache—and Isabela's complaints—vanished after a judicious application of mana, and Isabela flashed Amelle a brilliant smile before dropping herself down on a log and stretching out long legs to cross them at the ankle, bracing her arms behind her and tipping her head up into the mid-afternoon sun. The weather so far had been depressingly usual for a Ferelden spring, and while the heat never edged into what any of them would consider uncomfortable, there hadn't been a day yet left uninterrupted by a storm or shower of some sort. Amelle was starting to suspect she'd begun to mildew.
"The question is a reasonable one, dwarf," Fenris said, dismounting as well and landing far more lightly than Amelle had, running one hand down Agrippa's neck. "The travel time would have been cut in half."
"And when you're not from around here," answered Isabela, eyes closed and basking in the sun's warmth, "that sounds downright sane." She paused, opening one eye lazily and arching an eyebrow at him. "Guess what? It's not."
"What Rivaini's trying to say, elf," Varric explained, walking slowly around the clearing and plucking up handfuls of grass and twigs, twisting the latter around the former as he began to build a small fire, "is the Bannorn's no place for anyone just passing through. Too many different families all fighting with each other. Someone wins and gains some land, then someone else loses and that same land gets lost all over again. I'm surprised they can keep it all straight."
"You're assuming they can," drawled Isabela, rolling amber eyes heavenward. "They don't take kindly to visitors and there are already too many stories out there of people going into the Bannorn who don't come out the other side."
This time it was Amelle's turn to scoff. She pulled her own canteen free from Falcon's gear and took a long drink. "You're making it sound like it's the Wilds, you two." At Fenris' puzzled look, Amelle shrugged a shoulder and shook her head. "They're not wrong. Not completely, at any rate. Lots of families out in the Bannorn, and damn near all of them fighting with and amongst each other." With a breath, she flicked her fingers at the pile of kindling; magical heat slowly leeched the green from the grass as it lit, flames further darkening the brown to black as the blades curled over and around the larger pieces of wood, until those too finally caught. "And regardless of my companions' inclination towards exaggeration, and as much as I hate to admit it, it's… not a smart detour. We've traveled through the Bannorn with goods to sell—they welcome traders of all sorts with open arms. But they're less friendly if they catch you on their land without a good reason." The last thing any of them needed was to wander into a squabble between warring families; never could tell when the bullets might start flying.
Still, there were moments when a shorter trip seemed almost worth the attendant danger. It'd been four days since they'd left Lothering, and never seeing signs of life any larger than mining camps so small they barely counted as any more than a place to rest their legs and freshen the horses. One had an inn, but the less said about it (bedbugs at least the size of Amelle's fist, no matter what Varric said about her own propensity for exaggeration) the better. If they stopped now for a rest and to water the horses, they'd reach Kinloch Hold in time for dinner.
What nobody was discussing, and Amelle for one was glad of it, was the other reason for stopping hours outside of town. Kinloch Hold was home to the Ferelden Circle and the jurisdiction of Templar Marshal Greagoir, to say nothing of his sizable flock of deputies. As of right now, all of Amelle's earlier tests and trials meant absolutely nothing. As of right now, this was the only test that mattered.
If pressed, Amelle would have admitted she was nervous about trying the potion when so much rode on the line. She knew, when left to its own devices and not countered with lyrium potion, the tincture appeared to keep her mana undetectable for a solid six hours, usually a little more. Even if it took them three hours to get to the Hold, it'd be another another three before her mana started returning, which left plenty of time for them to get to Kinloch Hold, lodge the horses and find somewhere dry and bedbug-free to sleep for the night.
A good plan, if you overlooked the while completely surrounded by templars part of it.
"And you've never sold you wares in this part of the country?" Fenris asked, sitting upon the ground near the little fire.
"Other than Kinloch Hold, there's not a whole lot out here," Varric explained. "As you've seen. Extensively. There're plenty of other places to stop east of here, though, so that where we stick."
"It's probably something to do with not a whole lot of people wanting to live anywhere too near a Circle. Real life sucks the fun out of living well enough. Living that close to that many miserable people can only suck it out harder and faster, and believe me, no one's more shocked than I that I just used that analogy without meaning anything naughty by it."
Amelle chuckled, brushing at some of the moss on Isabela's log before dropping down next to her. There were better times of year to attempt a journey like this one, but at least the weather was temperate when it wasn't raining, and the wind tasted sweet and clean as it blew through the pines.
"It's only one night, 'Bela."
"Bad sign when you're the one reassuring me, kitten."
Varric snorted. "Hawke, what you should be doing is reminding Rivaini here just how many templars she could take at cards."
Isabela gave a derisive snort. "I bet they don't even play cards. Probably some law against it."
Amelle gave Isabela's arm a little pat. "I'm sure you'll be able to take someone at cards tonight." Isabela brightened at the prospect, but from the corner of her eye she caught Fenris watching her as if he could not possibly comprehend the words coming out of her mouth. "Something to add?"
He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again with a brisk shake of his head. "No. It is nothing."
Amelle was not wholly unconvinced.
#
After an hour's rest, during which they partook of dried meat, brought from the Hawke farm, and filled their canteens from one of Lake Calenhad's tributaries, Hawke tipped her head back and frowned at the sun's placement in the sky. She worried the little blue bottle of magebane potion in her fingers, turning the vial this way and that, rubbing her thumb along the smooth side, her brow furrowed in thought. Before Fenris could begin to imagine the course of her thoughts, however, her frown smoothed away and she exhaled a short, resigned sigh.
"We won't be doing ourselves any favors if we delay any longer," she said suddenly to no one in particular, dousing the fire with a quick flash of frost and ice that left only black-charred kindling steaming and smoldering at turns. And then—quickly, as if she wished to act before she could talk herself out of it—Hawke twisted the cork from the tiny blue bottle and took a swallow of the liquid within. Her features twisted in a grimace, and after she swallowed she spat upon the ground, then sent Fenris a wry look.
"The taste isn't getting any better."
"Did you expect it to?" he asked.
"Thought at least I'd get used to it."
"You'd do well to remind yourself that it's poison you're talking about, sweet thing," Isabela reminded her, swinging herself into the saddle.
Predictably, as the potion did its work, Hawke's color drained from her face, reminding Fenris fleetingly of their first meeting—even then she'd been as pale as parchment beneath her face paint. And that had been before she'd started using magebane at all. He caught himself wondering how a spirit healer's mana was tied to their health in general—but with a jerk he shut away that train of thought; he'd aided Hawke through her trials, and now that she had a working potion, the effects of said potion on her were none of his affair. It did what it was supposed to do—quiet her mana—and that was what mattered.
Hawke tucked away the bottle down the front of her drab traveling shirt and made a move to heave herself into Falcon's saddle. Varric, already astride Cedric, started to dismount, but Fenris shook his head at the dwarf, striding to Hawke's side. The smile she gave him was both grateful and sheepish.
"That obvious, huh?"
"You forget," he said, dropping to one knee and lacing his fingers, palms up. "I witnessed what effects the previous iterations of this potion had on you—among them, physical weakness."
Two bright points of color flamed to life at her cheeks. "Ah. Well. Thanks." She hesitated only briefly before stepping into his hands and letting him boost her up into the saddle, sighing out a breath of what could have been relief or exhaustion once she had her seat.
Fenris turned back to Agrippa in time to see Varric and Isabela exchange a curious, pointed look, the nature of which sent irritation chasing beneath his skin. Setting his jaw, he looked away and opted to behave as if he hadn't seen the silent exchange, pulling himself with a grunt up into Agrippa's saddle.
The ride to Kinloch Hold was uneventful. They kept their pace slow, and though Hawke insisted she felt fine—her grip on her reins and the furrow at her brow put the lie to that assertion—the dwarf waved a hand and said the slower pace was better for the horses and that they'd reach Kinloch Hold in plenty of time for Isabela to fleece some of Greagoir's deputies into a game of cards.
Having chosen to ride his mare behind Falcon, Fenris nudged her forward until he was riding alongside Hawke and her horse. The hat she wore cast her face into shadow, but even that did nothing to conceal how very pale she was.
Green eyes glanced askance and a not entirely amused smile twisted at her lips. "Maker, I must look like death if you're concerned," she said in an undertone. "Considering you've seen me at my very worst."
"Are you…" the question stuck on his tongue, heavy and awkward. "Are you well?" Grimacing, he amended, "All things… considered, are you—"
She laughed, which he hadn't expected. "All right. From here on out if you ask me how I'm feeling, I'll just assume the 'all things considered' is a given." At his nod, she swallowed and adjusted her grip on the reins. "I don't… like the feeling," she said in an undertone. "It's—it feels unnatural. Everything's too quiet, too still. It's different from the times I'd drained my mana magically. I have to keep reminding myself everything's fine." Her lips twitched. "Fine as they can be smack dab in the lion's den, at any rate."
"I doubt Kirkwall will be much better," he pointed out.
"Maker, tell me about it," Hawke replied, rubbing Falcon's neck absently. "I'm trying to look at this as—as practice for Kirkwall. Greagoir, at least, they say's tough but fair. Stannard…" She trailed off, shaking her head. Then, after a moment, her expression hardened with resolve. "With a little bit of care and an extraordinary amount of luck, I won't cross her path."
Fenris found himself hoping—unexpectedly—it was so.
As they'd expected, they reached Kinloch Hold very near the dinner hour. It was a busy town, bigger than Fenris had expected, and nowhere near as bleak as Isabela's opinion on the place had led him to believe. When he chanced a look at Hawke, however, her expression was perfectly blank. He saw nothing of the concerns she'd expressed to him, no indication of fear aside from the way her fingers curled tighter around the reins she held. The hotel they found was better appointed than any of them had expected, and once they'd made sure the horses were seen to, they carried their packs and saddlebags inside.
They found themselves in the cool dimness of the hotel's front room, one that was surprisingly well-appointed and bordering on lavish, with a shining wood floor and a massive oaken desk at least waist-high. The late afternoon light cascaded through the windows, peppered with dust motes, bathing the wood with a golden cast and throwing into relief its intricately carved front and sides. It was far finer than he—than any of them, he was certain, if the look on Varric's face was anything to go by—was expecting.
It was there Hawke's blank mask cracked. Her step faltered, and Fenris—who believed at first this reaction had to do with the magebane running through her veins—placed a steadying hand beneath her elbow. The contact startled her enough that she turned wide, shocked eyes at him. And there, through that crack, fear flashed, bright and sharp as any bolt of lightning.
He frowned at her, but before Fenris could speak, could even form the words what is the matter, a toneless female voice slid through the air.
"Welcome to The Kinloch Grand Hotel. My name is Clara. How may I assist you?"
When he glanced back at the desk—and now the woman standing behind it—he found the speaker to be a woman with flame red hair pulled back into a plait that had then been coiled into a knot at the base of her skull. And there, in the center of her forehead, was the image of a sunburst, branded into her skin.
Of them all, it was Varric who recovered from his surprise first, sauntering forward with a smile as he began arranging rooms for them. Fenris had not had much occasion to deal extensively with any Tranquil; the practice had been outlawed in the Imperium, and by virtue of that he'd always thought it a worthwhile sentence for mages unable or unwilling to control their power.
But now—now, as he watched the exchange between Varric and the desk clerk, even he became… unnerved by the woman's quietude, the blankness of her gaze, the absolute precision with which she worked, looking first through the ledger of rooms—of which four were available—and then assigning each of them to their room, providing keys for each of the assigned rooms. She did not respond to any of Varric's conversation beyond providing direct answers to questions he asked and confirming or denying any observations he made. Hawke, in the meantime, had recaptured her neutral mask; he released his grip on her elbow, though Fenris suspected it was not his imagination her face looked even paler than before. When he chanced a look in Isabela's direction, he found her expression to be every bit as impassive as Hawke's.
The desk clerk's hand hovered over a small bell as Varric distributed the room keys. "Do you require assistance with your bags?"
"No," Hawke blurted, her voice tight despite the smile at her lips. But upon closer examination Fenris found her smile to be every bit as tight as her voice. He was certain he wasn't imagining the taut line of her jaw, either, which gave every indication she was clenching her teeth. "No, thank you," she said more calmly, recovering her aplomb. "I'm sure we'll manage."
The clerk didn't press or insist; she only nodded and pulled her hand back to her side. "Very well. Please do not hesitate to alert any of the staff if there is anything you require to make your stay more enjoyable."
With these words, Fenris exhaled without even realizing he'd been holding his breath at all. The cool metal key was pressed securely against his palm—there would likely be a bath by day's end, and a meal even sooner than that.
"You okay?" Varric asked Hawke as he sidled up next to her. Her only reply was a terse nod as they slowly made their way through the hotel's front room and further on into the building, which opened up to an even larger area. To one side was a surprisingly vast restaurant with pale gold carpeting and dark wood tables covered with pristine white tablecloths; decidedly appetizing smells wafted out, and from somewhere within a piano played a tinkling Orlesian tune. White-jacketed waiters moved from table to table, all of them wearing identical brands upon their foreheads; Fenris snuck a sidelong glance at Hawke, who appeared not to have noticed that staffing detail. And there, on the other side was a—
"Maker's blood," Hawke breathed in delight, staring at the grated doors, her earlier discomfiture if nor forgotten, then at least shelved for the moment. "Is that an elevator?"
"Looks to be," Varric replied, quite obviously approving of this particular amenity. "Couldn't be happier to see it, either. The fewer steps these legs have to climb, the better."
Then the doors pulled upon. A young man of no more than eighteen manned the elevator controls. At the sight of the sunburst brand upon his forehead, Hawke stopped cold.
"I'll take the stairs," she said, taking no pains to conceal the tension in her voice.
The look Varric shot her was shrewd, but it was Isabela who reminded her, "We're on the fourth floor, kitten."
"I'll be fine. Go. I don't— just go. I'll take the stairs."
Isabela's frown deepened. "You weren't feeling well earlier," she said, a pointed note in her voice.
Hawke drew in a deep breath and let it out. "I'll be fine."
"Which floor, sers?" asked the young man, tilting his head in an eerie endeavor of something that might have been curiosity once.
"Go ahead," Hawke pressed. "I'll be—"
Stifling a sigh, Fenris took the saddlebag from where it hung heavily over her arm. "Go on," he told Varric and Isabela, who exchanged a concerned glance. "Go," he said again. "I will use the stairs as well."
She blinked at him. "…I—what are you—"
"If you wish to take the stairs," he said, likewise relieving Hawke of the pack slung upon her shoulder, "no amount of cajoling will change that."
"Elf's not wrong about that," muttered Varric as he and Isabela stepped into the small room. The grated doors creaked as the elevator operator pulled them shut. A louder creak and a groan shuddered up from below, the force of it so strong Fenris was certain the floor trembled.
Some novelties, he decided, watching the small compartment carrying Isabela and Varric drift upward, were better off remaining novelties.
Beside him, Hawke blinked again, her expression edging into affront. "Did you just call me—I think you just called me stubborn."
"You are unwell," he said evenly, choosing—he thought—judiciously to refrain from commenting. Then Fenris turned upon his heel and strode briskly toward the red-carpeted stairway, "And as such, it is foolish to walk such a distance alone."
Hawke trailed behind him. "I am not stubborn."
"As you say."
"I'm not."
He turned then, bracing one hand against the thick, polished banister, and glowered down at Hawke—she was still pale, her movements still too slow, too methodical to be natural—and leaned forward as he gritted out the words, "You are unwell. And considering the circumstances under which you find yourself unwell, I would suggest a moment of consideration before you make such a statement again. You have likewise chosen to walk four flights of stairs to your room. You know your own mind, and that is nothing to be ashamed of, but do not attempt to direct phrases to me like healer's orders and expect me to agree blindly when you imply you aren't stubborn. You are," then, lowering his voice, he added, "and it is the reason you have lived as long as you have." And before he could say anything more that could have been to his detriment, Fenris turned again and pushed on up the stairs, his bag and Hawke's in hand.
Hawke didn't speak, and Fenris didn't look behind him again until they reached the fourth floor. There was no sign of Isabela or Varric, which either meant the elevator had delivered them safely to their floor and they were already ensconced in their rooms, or… not. Given the relative quiet and noteworthy lack of terrified screaming, Fenris deduced it was the former.
He turned his head a fraction. "Which room?"
A pause. "Forty-three."
With a nod, he carried her things to the door bearing that number engraved on a shining brass plate and waited for Hawke to twist the key in the lock. The heavy wooden door swung open silently and he carried Hawke's belongings into the room and deposited them on the foot of her bed. The room itself was as comfortably furnished as the rest of the establishment had led him to believe it would be. The bed looked comfortable enough that Fenris suspected the mattress owed its plumpness to goose-feathers; several equally as plump pillows rested against a shining brass headboard. Shining dark wood furniture sat solidly in the room, the whole of it smelling of polish and lavender, a vase of which sat upon the bedside table.
The door shut with a quiet click. When Fenris looked up, it was to find Hawke standing with her arms crossed protectively over her body, her gaze fixed steadily on the middle distance. Color stained her cheeks.
"Hawke—"
"You're right," she blurted. "I—you're right." She reached up to pull the wide-brimmed hat from her head and tossed it on the bed, raking her fingers through her hair once before wrapping her arms around herself again. "You're right and I'm not going to pretend you're not."
She paused, though it did not sound to Fenris like the sort of pause that invited comment, so he withheld, choosing instead to watch her clench and unclench her jaw, a scowl darkening her features while she wrestled with what to say.
After what seemed like endless minutes of silence, Hawke lifted her gaze and met his eyes. "When I was small," she began, taking a breath and letting it out, but never pulling her arms away from her body, "my father—when I would misbehave, my father would…" She tipped her head back, biting down on her lip. Finally she closed her eyes and addressed the ceiling. "When I would misbehave, he'd say, in this deep, booming voice, he'd—he'd say, Do you know what templars do to mischievous, troublesome children?—and of course I knew the answer—Tranquil—and I always laughed when I said it. It was like… some… monster under my bed I didn't believe in."
With slow, deliberate movements, she unfolded her arms and walked to the window overlooking Kinloch Hold's main street, where men and women walked to and fro, carriages and carts clacked along, each with its own unique hoofbeat rhythm. "I always—it's different when you know something's possible in theory…" She leaned forward, bracing her hands against the windowsill. "It's so different when you see theory put into practice." After several more seconds, she looked up again, her expression flayed raw.
"You were… a child."
"I was, then." She shrugged, straightening and dropping her arms so they hung limply by her sides. "So what's my excuse now?"
"Now you are being faced with a reality you did not realize before," he told her. "Now you have the choice to behave like a child or an adult."
"I suppose it's better for all of us I didn't give in to the urge to run out screaming," she murmured, a faintly self-deprecating smile twisting her lips.
"I would say that's accurate."
Exhaling deeply, Hawke brought her fist to her chest, pressing against her breastbone; it took Fenris a moment to realize her hand rested against the very spot where the bottle of magebane hid for the moment. "It's a funny feeling, realizing your fears were justified." Her brows twitched together. "I don't recommend it."
But Fenris' own fears had long since been justified.
His answering smile was a mirthless one and he turned for the door. "All will be well. You are proficient in your craft and have taken precautions. There is little more you can do but remain vigilant."
Her smile was a tired one, worn and pinched around the edges, not quite meeting her eyes, and Fenris suspected it was only partly due to the potion she'd taken.
"Sometimes, Fenris, it feels like vigilance is all I've got."