The Ties That Bind, Part 1
Beta-Read by my fabulous beta: Iavasgil
"I may not be much of a saint, Sinead," My uncle's eyes, bitter and caustic, meet mine with a startling frankness." But your mother's no flaming Andraste either."
"Oh, really?" Too weary to argue after the long day - and longer evening - and annoyed at the attempted logic of his reasoning, I drop beside the hearth with a quiet groan. Jinks whuffles a little at the pressure as I lean against his solid bulk, but the long sigh ends in a quiet, snuffly snore. As I let the warmth of the fire ease the chill from my bones, it is hard not to worry over Aveline; even as I'm relieved the tongue lashing from her commander did not extend to me.
My fingers close over the little pouch dangling from my belt, reassured by the weight there, and knowing at least one little pickpocket will think twice before attempting thisHawke again. Trying to relax, I slip free of all the little encumbrances; the leather vest and greaves, pulling boots off one by one, and sliding my belt off through the loops of my pants. They create a haphazard jumble on the floor, leaving me in sweat-stained tunic and trousers.
Bethany and mother are long asleep. Only Gamlen is awake, milling about restlessly; the air between us uneasy after weeks at odds, but neither of us at ease enough for sleep. Eventually, he settles into a chair at the other corner of the fire, dipping a ladle into the cast iron pot that dangles above the flickering flames before spooning the dark liquid into a mug. Unexpectedly, he thrusts the mug into my unprepared hands, sending a little surge of warm liquid dripping over the rim. Without thinking, I lap it from my fingers; and while the wine's quality is revealed in its sour tang, the spices and warmth are a surprisingly pleasing counterpoint.
"If this is a peace offering I may have to war with you more... often?" Sitting up a little, I cup the mug in chilled hands, feeling the tension of the day slowly easing. It isn't home. I sometimes wonder if anywhere will feel like home again. But at least it's a retreat from most of the world.
"Hmph." Gamlen sprawls back in his chair with a mug of his own and, while his expression isn't entirely welcoming, the toxicity seems to have faded to a mere shade of dislike. We eye each other warily from our respective sides of the hearth. I wonder at the assessing look he tries to hide; catching a glimmer of an expression that reminds me, strangely enough, of Carver. The brief flare of similarity lacks the usual twinge of pain the memory of my brother normally brings, but I push that awareness quickly away, almost guilty at the ease of it.
"Something's eating you, Gamlen. Best spit it out before you get indigestion."
"They've raised the rents." There is an edge to his tone, as if he's expecting a challenge, but I've fought too much today to want to engage in a war of words.
"So it's money, is it. What else? Tab at the local bar? Bad gambling debts?" It's impossible not to laugh, though I can tell the sardonic timbre of it does me no favors. "Maker's breath, uncle..."
"It's no small feat keeping a roof over your lots' heads." The grousing does nothing to allay my suspicions. "That sister of yours..." his voice stalls abruptly as I stiffen, and whatever displeasure he was about to voice is swallowed as he thinks better of it. "I'm just saying, there's a man or two I owe a bit of coin to, and you wouldn't like them digging around here, now would you?"
Maker, and you'd think the man would have some sense of decency.
"Fine. But if the money goes astray, don't expect me to replace it." Gamlen can't seem to walk five feet from the hovel without shedding coins left and right. Once Bethany had even hexed a few coins before laying them on the table. While no one could ever accuse the old man of having an excess of willpower, he certainly found a way past that compulsion to leave the silvers alone. Just goes to show you that everyone's willing to exert themselves for something. Even Gamlen.
Stripping the pouch free of the belt splayed across the floor, I shuffle the coins around with the tip of a finger as I calculate Bethy's and my portions. I'm not about to stiff Anders his due. Counting out a few coins, I stick a handful towards my uncle with only a mild twinge of irritation. "If I hear one more word suggesting Bethy's anything other than safe, Uncle, don't think I won't take action of my own."
"Oh stop badgering." Having achieved his purpose, however, my uncle quickly disappears into his closet of a room, leaving me to stare at the fire and ponder. Somehow, a pair of amber eyes drift into my mind's eye, leaving me to chastise myself even as a strange quibbling centers on my gut. A mage for a mage. The two are best suited one to the other. My thoughts are firm as I focus on this. Though I love my father and mother, I don't know that I'd ever want to burden a family with such a life.
Even rationalizing such a decision, however, doesn't seem to dismiss the remembered sensation of the hand brushing the hair from my brow. Healers fuss over things all the time. It didn't mean anything.However, there is plenty of mulled wine left in the pot; plenty to dull the sharpness of bitter thoughts. And, after a while, those mental ruminations are jumbled into a pleasant haze as the drink takes hold.
"Bethy, have you seen a leather pouch about..." I measure a distance between two fingers. "Yea big? Had three small buttons fastened with little loops..."
"Why? Is it important?" She's preening into a bit of glass, brushing fingers through haphazard tendrils of black hair.
"While I'm sure Anders will be suitably oblivious to your primping - as most men tend to be," she turns an indignant look my way, but I continue, nonplussed. "I rather doubt he'll think very kindly of us if the promised payment 'disappears'."
My gear is tumbled by the cold hearth beside the empty mug from the night before. I'd nursed a few mugs, finishing off the brewed wine, tottering to bed only after dashing the coals into chilling ashes. I'd carried the pouch with me, hadn't I? Head throbbing with a faint hangover, I can't quite remember.
Not waiting for Bethy's answer, I retrace my path, digging through my gear, eyeing every step of the short path to our room, digging through blankets, even lifting up my mattress. No coins. No pouch. Nothing but dust and lint and an ancient crust of bread that might double for a skiv in the wrong environment. Unwilling to voice my suspicions, I pause in the doorway, palms upon the frame as I look over the room, eyes tracing every visible surface until they pause on Gamlen's door. There's no other explanation.
"Gamlen still sleeping?"
"Mother and Jinks went to the market, and he was going to accompany them I think. If you hadn't been snoring so loudly..." Affronted, my lips part in denial until I see the teasing grin hovering in her reflection. With a roll of eyes, I turn towards my pile of gear, still crusted with muck, sweat and blood from the day before. Behind me, Bethany giggles, my earlier teasing forgotten now that she's evened the score.
Decisively, I pluck my weapons and belt free, kicking the offensive gear into the corner. Wrapping the belt about my waist, I tug mother's green tunic neatly into place, determined to stay out of trouble, for once. Perhaps it is the armor that invites it?
Fetching a large napsack, I fill it with the looted gear from yesterday's fight, hoping some of it will fetch a fair price.
"Bethy, if I'm not back by the time Anders stops by, tell him I'll have the money tonight, at the Hanged Man." Before she can respond, I've slung the bag over one shoulder and push my way out the door.
Stepping briskly out onto the city streets, I trot down the steps from Gamlen's little home and into the overpowering scents of fish and seaweed. The sun slants through the ragged skyline of hovels and city walls, each shaft lighting the air with incandescence as I and the other passerbys stir up dust with our steps.
The glare against the buildings, against dust motes, and shining from the occasional helmet of a meandering guard gives my eyes fits. Next time, unable to stifle the sulky thought, must remember to only drink when not responsible for anyone else. I snort to myself. When pigs fly, maybe.
The market itself is bustling, and I try to slow my steps to a more acceptable pace, not wanting to attract the wrong kind of attention. I pause by the weaponry booth, eliciting a broad grin from the merchant as he rubs his broad hands together, voice gruff but friendly.
"Something to tempt you today, Hawke?" With a regretful smile, I shake my head, fingering a hilt or two as I pause just long enough to dump yesterday's take onto the board.
"Actually, I thought it might be the other way around, Coll." Across the way, I spy Elegant's airy wave and sigh, knowing that it is unlikely I'll slip through the market without my various acquaintances pumping me for new gossip.
When I do finally catch up to mother, she's wandering the hightown market; a few packages beneath her arms, Jinks a half step behind her, watchful. The difference between low and high here are distinct, the display of wealth more apparent, the eyes less watchful of their pouches of coins than the common slums are of their pennies. Sliding my fingers to ruffle the Mabari's ears I slip alongside to drop a quick kiss to mother's cheek.
"Morning, mother." There is a gleam in her eyes as she fingers the hem of my tunic, then pats my cheek approvingly. Having practically lived in my armor since Lothering, it's a rare day that sees me as anything besides a walking armory. I can see the back-handed compliment forming in her eyes, the rote observation that 'See? There is a pretty woman in there, after all'. To spare us both, I continue quickly, "You seen Gamlen this morning?" Her face splits into a broad smile, immediately diverted.
"I can hardly believe, it, Sinead! I think he may have realized the error of his ways... treating me to these!" Hoisting her armful for my perusal, her smile falters ever so briefly at my blank expression. Stringing together a series of expressions that resemble nonchalance, I feel like I'm baring teeth more than displaying pleasure. Maker, and that's expensive... Knowing if I say anything critical, I will say too much, I manage a forced laugh.
"Wonderful! Just... no lilies this time, please? No one takes a flowery warrior seriously these days." The brittle chuckle fools her, and though mother's money sense leaves much to be desired, I can't quite find it in myself to crush the pleasure on her face. She'll learn soon enough. Oh just wait until I get my hands on you, Gamlen... Aloud, I continue, "Where's the man of the hour? I can't wait to hear all about this new leaf he's turned..."
"I assume whatever job granted him the means for this bounty... Though he may have been stopping at the Hanged Man first...". A
If father had ever caught me three city streets within range of a local brothel, I'm sure he'd have tanned my hide into the Korcari Wilds. Not that I really understood the concept until I joined the Fereldan regulars - and those forget-able episodes had only reinforced my father's instruction. As a young girl, I'd contemplated the whole 'arrangement' between men and women after mother's brief explanation of the simple facts of life. 'You... what...? Where? Why?'
While the concept itself has grown somewhat more palatable...
"Nothing is so desperate for you to ever contemplate selling yourself in that way, Red."
I'd been so embarrassed the subject had to be addressed at all - and by father, of all people! There had been an intensity to his words that had left Bethany, Carver and I to squirm. "You ever take advantage of someone, and think paying them makes it right, you're no child of mine. You ever call your sister that kind of name again and I'll..."
Being all of thirteen, though a worldly thirteen, it was my first introduction to the dangers of using naughty words in foreign tongues. While I've insulted many people since, I've always taken care to know exactly what it is I'm calling them.
To think that Gamlen, a purveyor of such establishments, had the gall to look down his nose at my father was enough to provoke a surge of righteous anger.
The cloying scents emanating from the Blooming Rose do not entirely hide the unpleasant odors lingering along the street. As I pass an alleyway, a discolored streak upon the stone is a recent sign of a staple drunken pass-time. Dogs.Steeling myself, I cover the last remaining steps and push through the front door, finding a dim but lush entryway that quickly empties me into the main chamber.
Vibrant fabrics soften the interior, and the flickering lights cast the room in a pleasant glow of candlelight that must be a kindness to both the paid companions and their clients. Alcoves form in the corners, and a few tables are populated with men and women of the trade.
A woman greets me, shrewd eyes sliding up and down every inch of my frame. I can tell she is counting each and every hint of my low station, from the splitting seam on my abused boots to the patch on my knee, even to the rough weave of my belt. I can tell the exact moment that total exceeds some inner minimum.
"We're not a charity, Fereldan. But... for fifty silver you might get someone to... touch... you for a while..." The haughty contempt is unexpected. I am, after all, an honest woman. Relatively speaking.
"Don't bother." My interruption results in her narrowing eyes, her round lips compressing briefly and etching lines about her mouth. "I'm looking for someone, just point me the right direction and I'll not darken your doors again." The quirk of her eyebrow is a non-committal invitation, so I continue, my eyes flickering along the edges of the room for my prey. "Gamlen Amell?"
"No... can't say that I..." Knowing my Uncle's sparkling personality, I push at the opening her hesitation leaves, arcing fingertips towards my palm and buffing the jagged nails against my jacket with all the friendly nonchalance I can muster.
"Shall we play a little game? I bet that before you could convince those lovely fellows protecting that door to set me outside, I could make the rounds and chat up all these lovely people..." my hand flicks to encompass the various dim corners of the room. What personages might be partially concealed in those shadows would not long maintain anonymity once my gaze pierced those dim alcoves. "but he's a hawkish figure, about..." I gesture a little taller than myself. "yea tall, thinning gray hair, long, but usually pulled back... and a personality that sours good wine?"
The abrupt glint of humor at that last, and I know my cajoling is a success. The anonymity of her better-paying customers apparently trumps the down-trodden former Amell Scion.
My uncle perches on a stool, right where she said he'd be, waiting with one hand tapping on the bar, and the other draining the contents of his mug into his gullet. As I watch his adam's apple bob with each gulp, a little sense of mischievousness colors my intent.
Thinking to have a little fun, I slip around behind him, dropping my voice into a smoother, sultry tone as I lean in close to whisper in his ear.
"Ser Amell...?"
As I tap him on the shoulder, his free hand stretches out towards my posterior only to find the dangling sheath of my knife playing interference. His bleary-eyed gaze narrows at me in startled confusion. I've never seen a man snatch his fingers away faster, and I grin at him with wicked amusement as he splutters. Serves you right. That better have scarred you for life...
"I won't tell Leandra I saw you, if... if... you don't..." His words bring me abruptly back to the purpose of this visit, and my mood darkens.
"Stuff it, you dirty old man, or I'll do it for you." My hiss gathers a little attention. The customers immediately next to us suddenly evaporate into dimmer corners, leaving a little space around us. "I have words for you. Outside. Now."
His alcohol-reddened eyes meet mine, a dozen indignant words rising to his lips before falling, unspoken. I see each excuse rising to the fore with a flicker in his eyes, then dismissed with every resentful glance to my face. Finally, his shoulders slump, the insolent curl to his lip resentful even as he capitulates, sliding free of his stool.
If that's his gambling face, no wonder he racks up so many debts.
As I wait for him to precede me, something at the other end of the bar catches my eye, and I turn slightly in time to see a familiar, feathered frame stooping slightly to listen to the Brothel's mistress. Anders straightens as she grasps his arm authoritatively. However, despite being dragged towards a nearby doorway, his eyes drift about the room to, of course, land on me. And the day just gets more delightful.
We share a mutually startled glance before he disappears behind the door, and I take the opportunity to grab the back of Gamlen's collar and haul.With a glare, he shrugs free from my grip.
"Knew I'd seen that suitor of Bethany's somewhere before. He hangs around here... didn't you..." his mutter is unexpectedly started and just as unexpectedly cut off, as my darkened glare stills his babbling tongue.
While the healer is still a man, I hadn't expected someone of his... he just hadn't seemed the type... My mind wrestles with the observation, trying to make sense of the little of the honorable man I'd seen, and the figure passing into the depths of the brothel.
It's a place for desperate people, Sinead. Thoughts rampaging wildly, I can think of only one other purpose a man of his looks might be doing in a whorehouse. My gut sinks, my assumptions dissolving into a mess of pity and disappointment.
The man has nothing. He's... he must be... desperate to... be working there. There's certainly no way he could be paying if he 'hangs around' as Gamlen says...
Once outside the Rose, however, the sweep of chill afternoon air sends a semblance of order to my scattered wits. Rounding on Gamlen, I send a finger darting towards his chest. First things first.
"So your plan was, what? Exactly? Are you so wine-addled you thought I wouldn't notice? Or that I'd believe the half-assed story you told mother?" The belligerence on his face only deepens as he crosses his arms; I note - with some satisfaction - a few beads of sweat along his brow. "The money. Now." Despite his scowl, he yanks a thin pouch from his belt and flings it at me. The fabric crumples in my fingers as I catch it, but there are, at least, a few coins still scraping each other within. Their hard edges form an unsatisfying cluster in my fist.
"... invaded by women ... paying for a roof I don't …." He stills, as I level another look his direction; angry as I realize that not only is the bulk of the money gone, but there is not even enough to pay Anders his portion. Having seen what the healer was desperate enough to drive himself towards, the thought that I would fall short of a promised payment leaves me positively nauseous.
Gamlen is edging back towards the Blooming Rose, and it occurs to me that perhaps not all the funds are unrecoverable.
"This money was meant to pay someone else. Now. Go in, get reimbursed the bloody sovereign you put down for your ... pleasure ..." the very thought sends a shudder down my spine. "And if you make me come in after you ... I promise you, you'll find sleeping under no roofpreferable to sleeping under the same roof as 'us women'."
"Looks like someone needs a drink!" The voice sounds familiar, and yet … at the same time, not.
Looking up the from the flames licking the smoke-stained stones of the Hanged Man's common room hearth, it takes a moment for the glittering after-images of the flames to fade, "Hmm?"
The thick, angular features of a dwarf waver into view; eyes sharply blue beneath a jovial tilt of bushy eyebrows. "Pint for your thoughts, Hawke?" Varric's tones are of the cultivated wheedler, though it wouldn't have taken much convincing to drag me away from my mind's tangle. "Find what you were looking for?" As he gestures for Norah, I slip into the seat across from him with a coquettish grin.
"The tip was golden. Tracked down my man with hours to spare, though not much of a story to it." I sigh, stretching languidly until my neck crackles with the release of tight joints. "You seem to have an understanding of Kirkwall... Don't suppose that long ear of yours has heard any interesting tidbits involving recent ambushes along the coast?"
This exchange lasted through the first round of ale - paid for, generously, by Varric - and through the second - purchased by my own dwindling coin. For the first time since arriving in Kirkwall, however, I wasn't worrying about the Templars, about Bethany...
I've missed this. The thought floats hazily to the top of my mind from where its been lingering at the edges of our conversation. I realize that I haven't simply shot the breeze with anyone like this since before Ostagar... the brief recollection must have darkened my expression suddenly, as Varric shakes a finger at me, widening those bright and shrewd eyes of his oh so innocently.
"No shit, Hawke, there I was...!" He slaps the table with a heavy palm that punctuates his bark of a laugh.
"You'd have me believe that this friend of yours really..." Shaking free of those persistent tendrils of memory, I focus on the present - the frothy headed ale in my mug and the intense expression of a true story-teller in the seat across from mine. The Dwarf's exuberance is hard to resist, and I find amusement plucking at my own lips.
By the third round, however, his sly wit is whippin mine into rare form, and I find myself launching into amusing vignettes from my early days in the Fereldan army. Well, he seems amused, at least...
"...So there stands Abe, in nothing but his birth-day best and a carefully positioned bucket, when the Commander - a woman mind you - rounds the corner of the tent..." I take a swallow of my ale, grinning amiably into the nutty brew before continuing.
"So the Commander takes in the scene with a single look, and states - with a straight face I will always envy - 'Private, I believe it's appropriate to salute when...' ..."
"You want something Blondie?" Varric's sudden interruption breaks the momentum of my punch-line, and I sigh ruefully. Aware of a presence behind me, I swivel on the chair to see who my companion has greeted. There is something inscrutable about Anders expression, those unmistakable pauldrons virtually bristling upon his shoulders, and I wonder how long he has been listening.
"Oh, Anders!" Flustered, I stand abruptly, briefly light-headed as the alcohol laden parts of me seem unwilling to relinquish my seat. "If you'll excuse me a moment, Varric..." Putting actions to my words, I step along through the crowd, looking for a quiet space to pay him without marking him to thieves. The hanged man is crowded, tight clusters of people knotted in groups. Weaving among them, I do not find a respite from the clamor, instead hearing the clash of a dozen varying conversations.
"That storm a few days ago..."
"Norah! Where's my...!"
"...Horned savages..."
"...But darling, it was only a littlekiss... you're the only..." This last from a young man, as he pushes past me to pursue the retreating blue skirts of a... lady-friend? Wife? Shaking my head in bemusement, I pause, realizing that the press is only worsening.
"Qunari bastards" seems to be a theme echoing from more than one quarter. Must find out what all the fuss is about ... but later.
Casting my eyes over my shoulder, Anders halts silently in my wake, the flow of the taproom's patrons shoving us uncomfortably into each other's space. Normally it might not bother me, but I don't care to examine my reaction too closely at the moment.
"Outside?" My voice lifts to carry over the noise and he nods in acquiescence.
We step outside, and the commotion of the tavern fades to a dull roar as the heavy door falls closed behind us. It is that curious moment in time, the dim mysteriousness of twilight where the sun has just set and the moon not yet arisen. Moving several paces beyond the Hanged Man's entrance, I lean back against the wall as I fumble at the pouch upon my belt. The buttons seem clumsy in my fingers, but once freed, I hand the entirety to him.
"Thanks, Hawke." Avoiding my gaze for a moment, he briefly eyes the coins, then frowns a little; his eyebrows needle as a finger stirs the faintly jingling metals. Knowing a sovereign might be hard to make use of for someone in his position, I've filled it with the lesser equivalents. "This is... more than I expected." There is a level, leaden quality to his tone that makes it hard for me to gauge his reaction.
"Well, I …," my tongue fumbles, unexpectedly, for the consonants. "A little extra - for the clinic. To help, you know." While we already stand a little apart, there suddenly seems a vast gulf between us. I'm reminded that those brief moments of friendship enjoyed by his fire are greatly surpassed by the other unknown moments of our lives.
"Not that I don't appreciate it, but throwing all your money away on..." He falls silent, but it's hard to read an expression when I'm trying my damnedest to avoid eye contact. Instead, I find myself staring past his face, at a tiny scar marking the center of an earlobe. Old earring?
"Well, lets just say I'm fond of my head, my gut, and keeping me in working condition is appreciated." Hesitating briefly in my address towards Anders distant ear, I press on, crossing my arms neatly across my chest, uncertain if the touch of humor will be well-received. "There's likely more jobs where that came from, if you're interested."
"Not unlikely." There is a pregnant pause after this tight-lipped response, and I feel a sense of mortification for him, knowing that we must both be reflecting on our brief glimpse of one another earlier this afternoon. And, as always, I should have stopped while I was ahead; but the words come tumbling out anyhow.
"If so, hopefully you can spend more time where you're needed and not..." something in his stance changes, his shoulders stiffening even as I catch an unexpected expression of cold revulsion shifting across his face. Startled by it, I'm surprised into meeting his eyes, and as I begin to read the affront written there, I feel my moral high ground sinking into a quagmire of uncertainty.
A/N: Due to school, work and various other commitments - posts will be sporadic, but they will still come! Reviews help motivate me, and feedback helps me improve. ;) *Hint, hint* *Nudge, nudge* I have to give a huge thanks to Iavasgil for her pertinent pointers and suggestions that dispel by writer's block. :) Merry Christmas all!