Chapter 10: "Definition: 'Love' is making a shot to the knees of a target 120 kilometers away using an Aratech sniper rifle with a tri-light scope... Love is knowing your target, putting them in your targeting reticule, and together, achieving a singular purpose against statistically long odds." (KotoR)
The rooms were spacious, with high ceilings, and tall, narrow windows. It was not Leandra's ancestral home, but it felt close. She walked around slowly, her fingers gently touching the exquisitely carved furniture, the delicate porcelain, and the hothouse flowers that gave the apartment a welcoming air with their riotous colours. She stopped briefly before the mirror, startled yet again by the visage staring back at her: a slightly baffled, albeit elegant noblewoman in mourning.
"I have three more flats lined up, Mother."
Sabine's reflection joined hers, and Leandra's breath caught. It was as if the same person stood before her at two very different stages of life. Have I ever been that beautiful? Though her hair had gone grey, and her daughter's features were marred by scars, the resemblance was undeniable: the same brilliant green eyes, full mouth, and delicate nose. Her mother's looks, and her father's indomitable nature. Sabine was a survivor, if nothing else. Still, Leandra worried.
Carver's passing had struck them both with untold grief, and they were still reeling from the tragedy. They coped very differently, however. Leandra mourned openly, and though memories of her son pained her, she did not shirk from them. She spoke of Carver often, and fondly. Sabine, on the other hand, never let her sorrow surface. Her features turned to stone whenever her brother was mentioned, and she changed the subject quickly. Instead, she had thrown herself with abandon into the effort of restoring the Amell legacy.
So it was that Leandra found herself installed at a reputable Hightown inn shortly after her daughter's return. Then seamstresses started filing in with bolts of cloth to take her measurements and note her preference in fabric and style. A month later, she started receiving invitations to soirees from the minor houses in Kirkwall. Sabine's Deep Roads venture had apparently created quite the stir among the nobles, and they expressed a keen interest in the "beautiful treasure huntress". Leandra found that destitution had taken nothing away from her social graces, and she resumed playing the Great Game as if she had never been absent from it. She was glad to serve as ambassador to her eldest – and now only – child.
Presently she wrapped an arm around Sabine's waist, hugging her close.
"I am happy with this one. No need to look further."
"Are you sure?"
"I am."
Autumn was nearly at an end, the trees skeletal in their appearance, the city bleak in the gray light. There was a chill in the air that promised many long, cold nights. Fenris pulled his wool cloak tightly around him and leaned against one of the colonnades that adorned the entrance to Hawke's new home. He watched the seemingly endless line of crates and boxes flowing into the premises, silently disapproving the amount of material things upper-class living necessitated. Judging by the baleful expression Hawke wore as she supervised the deliveries however, the Elf surmised that she was not much pleased either. Silk dresses, brilliant jewelry, and porcelain figurines always brought a sour look on her face. Nevertheless, the Lady Leandra managed to cajole her into taking dancing lessons with an Orlesian instructor. Apparently, Hawke's Antivan master did little to improve her social skills. Then again, her mother was not aware that those dancing lessons involved daggers.
Presently, Hawke picked one box out of the line, and ordered it opened. Fenris arched his brows with curiosity when the contents turned out to be tightly packed books. Hawke rummaged through them for a few moments, muttering to herself, then finally straightened with a satisfied look on her face.
"I think this one should do for a beginner," she cried, making her way towards the Elf. She held out the pocket sized book, and gave Fenris a lopsided grin. He took the offering and thumbed through it. Despite its minuscule size, it was illuminated, and his eyes lingered on the intricate images.
"The… B-bah-book of Sh-shah-shart-ahn," he read painstakingly. "The Book of Shartan." Fenris looked up quizzically.
"Shartan helped Andraste free the Elven slaves from Tevinter's grasp," Hawke explained. "I hope you do not mind me giving away the ending."
"You show me more kindness than I ever thought possible," the Elf shook his head in wonder. He doubted that Hawke realized just how much truth his words contained.
Fenris had never expected any kindness from a mage; nor compassion; nor friendship; certainly no concern for his wishes. Illiteracy was common among Tevinter slaves, though in his case it had been used as another means of control. Nevertheless, Fenris had always been fascinated by books. What stories did the images that often adorned them tell? What knowledge lay hidden within the cryptic lines of letters? Whenever possible, he stole into Danarius' library, and risked opening the tomes. Oh how Hadriana had delighted in dealing out punishment for such transgressions. And Hawke? She had offered to teach him to read and write as soon as she learned of his deficiency.
"More kindness than you thought possible," she repeated flatly. "Because I am a mage?" She laughed pleasantly. "Fenris, mages are people. Capable of every ill and good that people are normally capable of." He immediately started protesting, but was cut short when Hawke placed a gentle hand on his chest. "Magic is an enabling tool. It is certainly dangerous, and as such places great responsibility on those capable of wielding it. The answer is not to eradicate magic, however. Or impose draconian rules onto those who can use it. But to educate and inspire."
"Do not be naïve, Hawke," Fenris warned. "For every mage such as yourself, there are a dozen too weak to resist corruption."
"I agree. Which is why we need the Templars. But they should not be segregated from mages. My father told me that friendships between Templars and Mages were discouraged, while distrust between the two groups was fostered." She sighed in frustration. "This is a philosophical discussion that generally leads nowhere. It is about as productive as arguing politics. All I can tell you, is that I completely disapprove of the methods used in Tevinter. Fenris, I look upon you as a friend. I trust you," her hands now went to his shoulders, her eyes searching his. "With my life."
"How about we up the ante?" Varric asked, and threw a silver coin onto the table.
Isabela clicked her tongue, studied her cards thoughtfully, and raised the bet by another silver. Anders felt that Wicked Grace was the only thing capable of conjuring a serious expression on the woman's face.
"Are you in, Blondie?"
"Yes, yes, I'm in." Anders contributed his share to the pile of coins, and waited for Aveline to decide on her move. Fenris came next, his expression cryptic as he flung the silver onto the table. Merril had withdrawn from the game a while ago, still confounded by its rules. Instead, she had taken position next to Varric, and had become very good at giving away his hand. Amusingly enough, the Dwarf did not seem to mind that he was losing thanks to her.
"Any idea where Hawke might be?" Anders asked. The question had been dancing on his lips for the better part of an hour. He struggled to make it sound casual. "I thought she was to join us tonight."
"She wanted to have a friendly chat with Prince Vael first," Varric replied while dealing out another hand.
"If she has kept her wits about, he is probably felicitating her as we speak," Isabela chimed in.
"You are going to use that word at every opportunity, aren't you?" Varric chuckled.
"Is she saying what I think she's saying?" Anders threw a bewildered look at the Dwarf.
"Oh, I am saying more than you think I am saying," Isabela purred, and rearranged her cards with languid motions.
"Prince Holy Crotch?!" The Healer pursued indignantly.
"Nothing holy to be found once you pop that buckle of his, I am sure," the pirate captain smiled wickedly. "Though, I suppose, one might kneel and… pray."
"That is not a picture I wanted in my head," Anders muttered, rubbing his temples.
"What's wrong with the picture?" Merril asked innocently. "Is it because Hawke would be praying to a man and not your Maker? Would that upset him? Your Maker, I mean?"
"Kitten, if the Maker found that sort of prayer upsetting, the majority of Thedas would be swallowed by the Void," Isabela laughed. "And people would probably say it was worth it."
"Would you stop it already, you filthy slattern, and play your hand?" Aveline growled with a deepening scowl.
"To clarify, Anders," Varric went on conversationally, "Hawke wanted to allay the Prince's misgivings on her use of magic during the confrontation with a desire demon at the Harimann estate."
"Maker's breath," Anders cried. "Another demon? She has a talent for digging them up, doesn't she? And why did she not ask for my help? I see the stiffness in Fenris' shoulder. Something bad happened again, did it not?"
"Come off it, Anders," Isabela chided without taking her eyes off her cards. "Fenris merely stretched a muscle in an attempt to do his magical fisting thing."
"At least she let you accompany her to the Deep Roads," Aveline remarked, throwing in another coin. "She should have included me, and left Carver safely in Kirkwall." The Guard Captain shook her head wearily. "What a waste."
"She did not want to jeopardize your new position," Varric offered placatingly.
"A pox on my new position," the new Guard Captain snarled.
"She did not ask me along either," Merril piped up.
"Daisy, you were not made for endless, dark tunnels crammed with monsters."
"I suppose Hawke believed I'd get lost," the Elf surmised dreamily, prompting a groan from Anders. Merril's character combined with the ability to wield magic was the stuff of nightmares.
As the game went on, Anders' thoughts continued their endless cycling around Hawke and the Deep Roads. Since they had returned four months prior, the two of them had exchanged perhaps ten words in all, most of them greetings. His share of the riches they had brought back with them Anders received through Varric, as he did any news of Hawke. Why was she avoiding him? Was she ashamed of having allowed Anders to see her at her most vulnerable? His glum puzzlement only deepened with the arrival of a messenger.
Varric accepted the note, then sighed. "Hawke's not coming. Some sort of trouble at the Bone Pit involving pickaxes."
Ditching her friends for some rusty pickaxes. Anders rummaged through his supplies angrily, not really knowing what he was looking for. Or ditching me? No matter how he put the pieces together, they always pointed to the same conclusion: Hawke was avoiding him. There had been plenty of games of Wicked Grace since they returned to Kirkwall, but she had only participated in one that he had been present for. And then left halfway through. And the games that she had attended without him? Something always happened to make Varric and Isabela roar with laughter for a week afterwards. Even dour Fenris cracked a smile. There were too many inside jokes to count, and Anders felt more and more like an intruder.
The fact that he obsessed over the matter further stoked his ire, as he presently had more important things to attend to. His attention should have been fully focused on the mages' plight in Kirkwall. Instead, his thoughts constantly wandered to a certain red-headed hypocrite and betrayer to her own kind. How had she managed to get under his skin? After all, she had never made any advances on him, and had never in her behaviour been anything more than courteous. And compassionate. And empathic. And… utterly infuriating. He walked to the door, hoping that some fresh air might clear his head, only to nearly jump right out of his skin.
"Andraste's tits, Hawke! I nearly shat my pants," he cried breathlessly. His remark was greeted with an even look.
"I did knock."
Anders chuckled in spite of himself, and shook his head sighing. "This is most familiar. I suppose you brought some of my earnings. No food, though."
"Proceeds from the sale of some of the items we have recovered from the Deep Roads," Hawke raised a fat coin purse for emphasis. "One third of your share, the remainder invested by Varric, as per request." She slowly walked towards his desk – he actually had a desk! – and placed the purse carefully on it.
"I have gotten used to Varric doing this for me. Why are you really here, Sabine?" Anders crossed his arms, now fully composed.
Hawke looked around the clinic, taking in the changes that coin had brought. It no longer looked ramshackle. The walls had been whitewashed; the beds looked more comfortable and were covered with crisp, clean linen; canvas screens provided some privacy to patients requiring an overnight stay; the cupboards bore neat labels. Overall, the place looked well stocked and clean.
"Impressive," she murmured. "It really feels like a place of healing."
"You are not answering my question," Anders said through gritted teeth.
Hawke favoured him with a small smile. He only now noticed her drawn features and the puffiness of her eyes.
"He's alive," came the soft reply. "Carver survived. He is a Grey Warden now."
Silence stretched between them. Anders was uncertain of how to react – should he express relief? Joy? Hawke's sorrowful look paralyzed him.
"I may never see my brother again, but it is a comfort to know that he is alive."
Anders pulled up a chair and sat down facing her. "Are you alright?"
"As well as I ever will be, I think," she replied, reaching for his hand, and interlocking her fingers with his. "Thank you," she whispered.
"A Warden's life is nothing to be thankful for."
"It is life, however," Sabine countered. "And, judging by Carver's message, it suits him well enough."
"You know, this is the most you have spoken to me in four months."
"Yes, I have been terrible," Hawke admitted with a meek laugh. "Forgive me for treating you so poorly." She sat quietly for a few heartbeats, clearly struggling to find her words. "I simply could not bear the pain your presence caused me. Every time I saw you, I found myself in the Deep Roads again, and all the helplessness and despair I felt at losing my brother would come flooding back. I –"
"You do not have to explain yourself further. I understand." Anders looked at their intertwined hands for some moments, before gently disentangling himself. He then did something which he later bitterly regretted. He brushed his thumb over her lips, and kissed her.