A/N: Hey, folks! Have a longer-than-usual chapter as a post-holiday gift. ;) Sorry about last week – the holiday weekend was killer on both myself and my beta, and it turns out that my dog will, in fact, need surgery. When life rains, it pours, man.
I'm releasing this one a day early (on the New Year back in the States! We're 14 hours ahead here!) as a New Year's present. =) I had an awesome new year at the temple, and I hope you will too!
Here's where things start to get complicated. And a little sexy.
I had a load of fun writing the festival. Hope you enjoy it, and welcome to 2012!
Day 30
"What in Thedas is this?"
Hawke stared up at the tall poles that held giant swathes of jewel-toned fabric. That morning, the entire compound had been bustling with work, erecting the high, thin, mast-like stakes and airing out the long expanses of color before hoisting them up to flutter in the breeze. The cloth hung like banners from pole to pole, the sunlight beaming through them and painting the ground in vivid, rich hues.
The place was abuzz with the various sten and karashok issuing orders to their men, demonstrating how well-oiled they were as teams, even outside of battle. Swords and spears were laid aside for the day as tacking ropes and stakes took their place. The smell of foods, spices and teas that Hawke had never seen the like of before heavily saturated the air, and it was as though the culture isolated within the high stone walls had suddenly and brilliantly come alive.
The canals that crisscrossed the compound were decorated as well, qunari and converts throwing fistfuls of fuchsia and red and saffron powder at the canal walls. The dyes bled down to the still water below, weaving and blending into each other on the surface in a mesmerizing and patternless whirl. Rust-red and bright gold curlicue shavings of shorn wood littered the ground everywhere Hawke walked, crunching beneath her feet or springing away in protest.
Everything was so vibrant.
Still more decorations were being hung,including the garlands of dried flowers that graced the front of nearly every tent, and there wasn't a single being, kossith or otherwise, standing still. If you were qunari, you were busy.
Of course, being the only non-qunari in the compound, Hawke was completely out of the loop as to what in the Maker's name all of this beautiful and exhilarating preparation was for.
The thing that piqued her interest most of all were the strips of paper hanging from everyone's wrists. Some qunari had a few, others dozens, but all were identical rectangles of parchment attached to simple string bracelets. And they were everywhere.
When she finally saw a familiar face, Hawke ran over excitedly. The half-horned Sten stood with the Arishok atop a set of high stone steps, surveying the proceedings, powdered pigment smeared across their armor and skin.
"Shanedan," she called, inclining her head politely before her mouth practically exploded with the force of her pent-up curiosity. "This is – I mean – why are, what's going on – what is all of this?"
The Arishok turned his attention down toward her, and she fought the urge to wipe a smear of metallic gold dye from his jaw. "Today is Kaava Setash," he explained. "It is the Qunari day of gratitude."
"It's incredible," she breathed, staring out at the criss-crossing fields of color. "I've never seen everyone this happy."
He rumbled an approval, motioning to one of the infantry soldiers below to bring something over. "It is a celebration of that which one appreciates. It gives much cause for joy to those who observe it well."
"And I get 'joy' from all the colors and foods and wines," Hawke said slowly, waving out at the rest of the compound before pointing to her wrist. "But what are the papers for?"
The Sten held up an arm, and she marveled to see a collection of string bracelets halfway to his elbow. "These," he stated, the hanging strips fluttering prettily like leaves on a tree.
"Yes. Those."
"They are setaara, tokens by which the qunari express their gratitude toward one another," he told her, allowing her to reach out and read the flash of writing on one of the lower ones. "On it is written what it is you are grateful to that person for, and it is given to them to wear."
Some of the phrases were a bit complex, but most were one or two words and legible. Hawke distinctly made out quite a few 'leadership' slips, as well as 'passing of knowledge' and 'skill.'
"That's amazing," she said. "Even in this ludicrous place, you find things to be grateful for."
"Mostly in one another," he replied. "What else is there here?"
She laughed. "No, I completely understand. If I were to do the same, it would be for my comrades. And maybe the woman in the Hightown market who makes the little red cakes."
The Sten nodded his agreement, and Hawke was about to ask the two qunari for more details about the festival when she saw an Ashaad hold out a thin stick toward the Arishok. On it were about a hundred lanyards with blank setaara, and the warlord hooked his index finger under a dozen or so and lifted them gracefully off of their holder. As he dismissed the soldier, he turned to Hawke and extended his hand expectantly. When she only stared at him blankly, he grunted slightly and moved his palm to her eye level, prompting her to take them.
"You will participate," he commanded. "And you will use all of these."
The Champion reached out to take them, her human hands tiny by comparison. "You mean I get to take part in it, too?" A broad, warm smile beamed out from her face, and she was about to thank him profusely for allowing her such a culturally private thing when a thought occurred to her. All of the setaara were written in qunari. Meaning –
"Wait," she asked as her face fell. "This isn't a test of my writing, is it?"
The Arishok declined to answer, and the Sten smirked.
Hawke sighed.
"Damnit!"
It didn't take long for Hawke to get into the spirit of the festival.
After the noontime meal, everyone around her seemed to somehow understand that their work was done, and they instead walked about pleasantly, exchanging setaara and talking in the closest thing to warm tones that she had ever heard from the guttural and sharp language. She heard the sound of drums intermittently somewhere in the compound, and the ambient warmth of the sun was enough to shrug her overdress off of her shoulders, letting it fall about her belted waist.
She had a fistful of string bracelets, and by the Maker, she was going to use them.
The first one had been awkward. Hawke had wandered for an hour, agonizing over who to give them to and what to write, and after that hour, they were still as blank as the moment she'd received them. It wasn't until she'd stumbled across the half-horned Sten speaking with some of the elven viddathari that she was hit with any particular inspiration. She slipped a token from her wrist and scribbled on it, then proceeded to hover casually around the area, hemming and hawing and pretending to look interested in various decorations as she waited for an opportune moment that never came.
Fortunately, her glances and nervous flitting were obvious enough to the Sten, who pushed through the small crowd of chattering, waist-height converts and stood in front of her, holding out his arm expectantly.
Hawke laughed and slid the string over his hand, smiling at the way his expression shifted from focus to appreciation as he deciphered the word for 'criticism' amateurishly scrawled on the parchment. She was surprised, however, as he returned the favor, unhooking a loop from his belt and flipping through the bracelets it held until he found the one he was looking for, reaching for her wrist.
As seemed to be the trend that day, the human was glassy-eyed and almost touched by the gesture until she figured out what the impeccable handwriting translated to.
'Noise that makes you appreciate silence.'
What.
There was some flailing and irritated retorts, but the Sten simply smirked smugly down at the fussing human until she mumbled a 'thank you' and stormed off.
And though she was grousing about it at first, Hawke soon discovered that upon seeing the Sten involved in an exchange with her, the rest of the compound's occupants realized that she, too, was taking part. Suddenly, she was approached by dozens of qunari, kossith and elven alike, all with setaara to add to her collection.
Beaming, Hawke looked through each and every one of them. Most were written as some variant of 'understanding' or 'perspective,' though things like 'the common tongue' and 'respect' and even 'pleasant surprise' popped up more than once. It occurred to her as she wandered around the festivities that she might have had a far more profound effect than she'd realized. And, as the heady glow settled in her face and chest, she acknowledged that the long-stranded colony of qunari might have had just as much of an effect on her.
She would embrace it, she decided firmly as the pace in her feet picked up. And she would connect with these people even more, starting with paper bracelets and confetti.
The slips disappeared from her hands lightning-fast with her new enthusiasm, and she went so far as to pick up more blank ones to continue past her Arishok-mandated quota, this time for her own reasons.
Her writing was borderline atrocious, but legible. The language, too, was pieced together and broken, though usually on the correct path. The quartermaster in particular had understood the phrase 'hand language' enough to look entertained by it as she slipped it onto his arm.
Hawke had only just excused herself from a small but chatty group of converted elves who had each brought her setaara for saving the alienage or their family members when she saw the Arishok in the street ahead. He stood not twenty paces away in the middle of wide stretches of heliotrope and crimson cast shadows that bathed him in color, and he was watching her with mild interest.
She closed the distance between them with a smug, self-satisfied grin, a wave of her hand sliding the bracelets she'd amassed further down her forearm. When she got close enough to have a good look at him, she stifled a laugh. His elbows to wrists were nearly covered, and a leather strap was hung around his neck, weighed down with hundreds more of the tokens. She'd known that he was well-loved, but the demonstration made a hugely entertaining visual.
"That," she said, "is a lot of bracelets."
He murmured an assent, noting the few blank ones left attached to her belt. "You have done more than tasked with."
"I wasn't doing it just because you told me to."
"I surmised as much." He reached for her wrist, stretching her arm out to inspect the setaara she'd received.
"Hey," she protested, "those are personal!"
"They are displayed so that they may be seen," he replied calmly, making no motion to release her. "I will read them as I wish to."
There was a flicker of a smirk as he came across the word for 'entertaining' in the cluster of fluttering paper. "It seems that you have had an impact," he mused. "It is... interesting."
"I was actually surprised," she said, taking advantage of his proximity to read some of the strips on the arm holding hers captive. "Arishok, you're covered in the things." One phrase in particular repeated over and over, and she narrowed her eyes in concentration as she tried to sound out the syllables.
"What is qunoran vehl?" She looked up. "Did I get that right?"
"It is an honorific," the qunari explained slowly, "bestowed upon those who serve as an example to others."
"High praise," Hawke said appreciatively as he lowered her hand, satisfied with his findings. Before he released her entirely, however, he added his own setaara over her wrist, his fingers leaving streaks of red and purple powder in their wake.
She looked at her hand, then back up at him. "For me?" she asked, puzzled. "What for?"
He frowned at her questions. "They bear writing for a purpose."
"O-oh, right." She caught the spinning parchment gingerly between two fingers, turning it to read the familiar handwriting.
Effort.
She stared at it for far longer than she had to, catching her lower lip between her teeth gently. He knew that nothing here had been easy for her. She worked to befriend the men, learn the language, and understand their beliefs, all the while with a body still toiling internally to repair traumatic damage.
It had not gone unnoticed.
"Thank you," she managed. "Really."
The Arishok gave a short nod, and as he moved to leave, Hawke reached out to stop him.
"Wait," she said, unhooking the bracelet she'd kept separate from the others. "I have one for you."
He turned back to her as she grasped his massive hand, showing him what she'd written before sliding the loop of string over his fingers.
Rescue, it read.
Both of their hands were smeared in pigment from various points of contact with the dye powders, but Hawke didn't care. She held his hand between the both of hers as she spoke, a gesture that was eyed warily, but not rejected.
"I've wanted to say this for a while now," she started. "And it doesn't just mean letting your healer patch me up. I think you might have saved me from a lot more than that." After a pause and a thumb absentmindedly running circles on his leathery palm, she continued. "In the last month, I've learned more about myself from learning about your people. Being here – with them, with you – has taught me so much, and I suddenly want to give as much back as I can. And it's the first time in so long that I can remember having or wanting a purpose, not just surviving from one day to the next. It's so bizarre, and still..." She looked up at him, expression painfully earnest. "I'm the most stable I've been in years, I think. I feel like I've finally stopped running." A frown crinkled her nose. "Not that I really knew that I was running while that was what I was doing, but..."
She smiled as the breeze pulled the banners overhead, shifting the color surrounding them and leaving the Arishok awash in rippling reds and golds. He appeared more striking at that moment than ever before, staring at the intersection of their hands, and Hawke knew enough to step away before she did something she couldn't take back.
"So, that." She relinquished her hold, wringing her hands. "All of it wouldn't fit on the paper, you see."
A waving arm in the distance caught her attention, and she excused herself, grateful for the escape.
The Arishok let her go, saying nothing.
"There you are!"
Fenlin sat beside Hawke on a set of stone steps, handing her a hot cup of some kind of heavily spiced cider everyone was drinking. She smiled wearily up at him, wrapping her fingers around the ceramic surface and sighing. "The elven converts are... energetic," she said, considering her words carefully. "I only just managed to squeeze out of their clutches."
The healer laughed, nodding sympathetically. "They calm down eventually. Besides, you're still something of a novelty around here. And quite popular, it seems." He gestured to her arms, and Hawke laughed.
"You too," she said. "You might have to start a belt of them or something."
He pointed to the most recent few. "To be fair, there hasn't been a single one of these men that I haven't treated," he said. "Most of these say 'I am not dead.'"
Hawke couldn't help but burst out laughing, and Fenlin's musical chuckle was a welcome sound.
"That reminds me!" she exclaimed, pulling a setaara and draping it over his delicate wrist. "For you, good ser."
"Oh?" He read the phrase aloud. "'Unsolicited advice.' You're so sweet."
She snickered into her cup. "And you know all the good gossip."
"Your hand," he prompted, and Hawke held out one arm for him to add to.
"Aw, you shouldn't have." She tucked the steaming cup between her thighs as she turned the tag to read it. "'Entertainment.' Oh, not you too!"
Fenlin blinked his enormous eyes innocently. "I mean it in the best possible way."
"Of course. Healers only want what's best."
"Precisely." He chuckled again, staring out at the proceedings. "Speaking of which, seems like you won't be stopping by today, so I'm obligated to at least question you about your health."
Hawke sipped at the cider, enjoying the tingle it left on her tongue. "Seems fair."
"How are you feeling?" He swept a quick appraisal of her seated form. "Anything new or concerning?"
"Not particularly," she replied, sitting upright and taking quick stock of her back before resting her elbows on her knees again. "Haven't had any aches in a while."
"Mm. You haven't stopped by for any kassanda-hisran lately, so I assumed that you're sleeping better now."
"Well," she said, "the Arishok is a big help with that. Stays warm longer, too."
There was a stunned silence, and Hawke cursed her big mouth.
Balls.
"You sleep in his bed?" Felin was incredulous. "With him?" He stared for a while, looking thoroughly taken aback and his pointed ears flat against his skull, before finding the comprehension for speech again. "Why didn't you ever mention this?"
She scratched the back of her neck. "There's no sex involved."
"Of course there isn't; he's qunari. But that doesn't– "
"It just kind of... happened."
The elf wasn't done with his disbelief, apparently. "He lets you sleep with him," he said, "and you still think that you're just here as an experiment?"
At those words, Hawke groaned and folded over, arms wrapped around her legs and head on her knees. "Don't tell me these things," she pleaded, somewhat muffled. "You'll make what I already feel even worse."
And there it was. "Oh, Hawke," he said quietly, "you... towards the Arishok? Since when?"
"I don't know," she replied miserably, unmoving. "I don't understand any of this."
He patted her gently on the back, exhaling a long, deep breath slowly. After a few moments, the corners of his mouth perked up in a slight smile.
"Well," he said, pointed chin in one hand, "that explains the setaara exchange just then."
She turned her head sideways toward him, looking dismal. "You saw that?"
He nodded. "I did." With a soft chuckle, he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "I don't think I've ever seen the big guy so confused."
Frowning, Hawke sat up and drank deeply. "How so?"
"You didn't see?" When she shook her head, he enlightened her, and there was a knowing spark behind Fenlin's eyes as he spoke.
"He watched you go, then stared at that hand for near a full five minutes after you left." He took a long sip, pondering the ripples on the surface before continuing.
"Be careful," he warned. "The both of you."
When night fell, enormous bonfires were lit in the openness of the central arena. The wooden curls littering the compound were tossed in as kindling, and the resulting smell of sandalwood and cinnamon bark perfumed the chilly air.
Drums had been brought out, and the pounding rhythms vibrated through the ground and up into Hawke's feet as she descended the dais steps and hopped down onto the dirt floor of the arena. It was just as lively as it had been during the day, and she enjoyed the atmosphere of merriment and music as she made her way to one of the fires.
She watched as the qunari gathered the bracelets they'd received over the course of the day, slid them off, and shook them into one of the colored powders that sat in bowls a short ways from the fire. They were tossed into the flames, and as the papers burned to nothing, a burst of color erupted toward the clear night sky.
Gaatlok, she realized as bright pillars of sparks and flame shot upwards. Mix the right amount in with the dyes, and the result was a beautiful flash that marked the acceptance of all the gratitude expressed that day. Excitedly, she made her way fireside and shed her tokens, coating them in a fistful of the nearest color. A bright purple sprang forth as she cast them into the heart of the bonfire, marveling at the the sparks and impossible hue as it charged upward and disappeared.
There was something cathartic about it, she decided as the aroma from the evening's feast mingled with the smoky residue of the gaatlok. She felt lighter, almost burdenless, for the cleansing of a clear night after a fantastically lively day.
The next bonfire over, a massive red tower of light rocketed skyward amid cheers, and from a pile of bracelets that big, Hawke knew it had to have been the Arishok's. She sat perched on the edge of one of the short walls, feet hanging above the ground with room to spare. A familiar gargantuan form blocked her firelight, and she snickered as he stopped to meet her gaze.
"Show-off," she declared.
The Arishok snorted as he sat beside her, relieved of his paper burden. "You have already incinerated yours."
"Yes, only just." She stretched her arms. "Mine was purple. And not nearly as ostentatious as yours."
"It was not done for the spectacle."
"I know."
They sat quietly watching the festivities, Hawke thinking all the while.
"Hey," she asked, leaning back on her palms. "Can I come back for this next year?"
His chest rumbled. "We hope to have vacated this vashedan excuse for a city by then." He rested his elbows on his knees, snow-white hair spilling over one shoulder. "If, however, we have not... you may."
"Thank you. I appreciate it." Hawke smiled, a lazy breeze carrying some of the fire's warmth, allowing the smell of charred cinnamon to roll across her skin.
"You know, I've been thinking." She shifted her weight to one arm to motioning with the other briefly. "About the reason why I'm so at peace here, and so quickly. By all accounts, I should be the most uncomfortable person in Kirkwall: I'm isolated from my comrades, my family, and everything familiar and placed in the middle of a culture that neither speaks my language nor follows the laws of the land. Hellish, right? But..." She gathered her thoughts a bit, flexing her shoulders and staring up at the stars. "I didn't fight it. I mean, I'm stubborn, but it didn't even occur to me to try to escape, or hole up in a corner somewhere, or battle my way out. So I started learning, and following, and blending into the rhythm of life here, and it was like all of a sudden, everything fell into place, you know? And it made me think of that verse."
She sat upright, gesturing as she spoke. "This is what the Qun means by 'there is no struggle,' right? 'Effort' and 'conflict' are different. That's not what it's talking about. Struggle is what we create for ourselves when we refuse to accept what's in front of us. If we deny reality, what simply is and is not, we cause so much unnecessary strife and lose sight of everything else, drowning in this fruitless attempt to change what can't be changed. If we accept, though, things move forward. We can focus on the other things, devoting time and energy to things that we can do rather than wasting it on things we can't. If I had resisted," she continued energetically, "just because this wasn't where I wanted to be, I wouldn't have gotten to see or do so many of the things that I have. And I wouldn't give them up for all of Thedas now, you know? So I just accepted where I am and what I can do with the power I have... and..."
She trailed off. The Arishok had lifted his head, listening to her ramble with great interest. She didn't know if it was the firelight or simply his natural intensity, but the way his expression changed quickly when she fell silent was telling of something.
"Or," she said quietly, "I could be completely wrong."
He studied her for a few uncomfortably long moments before standing.
"Come," he commanded, and she hopped down from her perch to comply.
They wound through the now-abandoned throughways of the upper area, the earlier coloration of the day replaced by blues and violets as moonlight re-tinted the world.
She followed the qunari leader into the compound's small meditation temple, used for teaching the viddathari and cleansing the mind. It wasn't much, simple and orderly, and the Arishok strode over to the bookshelf along one wall. Hawke wondered how he could see in the darkness, and moved closer to the tent wall, where the moon shone enough to cast everything in a pale glow.
He had withdrawn a small, multilayered box, and held it in such a way that she couldn't see the contents. After but a moment of fishing around purposefully, he placed a single, tiny object in his palm and replaced the container.
"What are we doing here?" she asked, flexing her hands nervously. "No one else is around."
Though she couldn't see his face well, there was a pleased tone in his voice as he spoke. "You have come to understand a core pillar of the Qun," he informed her, turning and holding up what he came for. "You will be recognized accordingly."
A single brass hoop glinted in the low light.
Hawke's heart pounded against its cage, and she backed up, only to feel her shoulders hit the back of the shelf behind her.
"But I – "
"Stay silent," he issued, twisting the earring open and advancing on her. "The pain is momentary and insignificant in comparison to the achievement it represents."
She didn't know why she complied, but she felt her body tremble as he turned her head and lowered her chin. She wasn't qunari. She hadn't even known that she'd understood anything correctly. But the Arishok had made it clear that refusal was not an option, and she would be marked whether she wished it or not.
"Cease your shaking."
"I don't think I can."
He grunted a brief noise of disapproval, and to Hawke's horror, pressed his body flush against hers, pinning her flat to the wood of the shelf behind them.
She could neither move nor breathe, and her heart now hammered as though it was trying to rip itself out. His skin was warm against hers, and as every sense awakened to a new level of heightened sensitivity, she could feel his scars pressing into her chest and stomach, even through her thin clothes.
A shot of searing heat in her groin made her shiver as his rough fingers traced the curve of her ear, testing the flesh beneath. Her blood caught fire, calling to him. His every movement, no matter how small or light, sent waves through her body, and it took every ounce of strength she had not to fall apart.
When she felt the pressure of one claw at the tender part of her earlobe, she caught her bottom lip between her teeth.
And he drove through her flesh like butter.
She didn't scream, though her lungs were begging her to. She didn't know if it was from the pain or pleasure or the fact that each led to the other, but the few seconds it took for him to set the ring in the new piercing were sheer torment. Each twist and vibration sent her nerves singing, and as he bent the ring shut, the half-step he took back was enough to regain the use of her lungs.
As she gasped and fell back against the shelf supporting her, the Arishok made no move to give Hawke any more space. It only took a moment for his brow to furrow in confusion, and he placed his palms on either side of her head as he leaned in. His warm breath fell dangerously close to her throat, and she tried not to reach for him as he pressed his head to her neck and inhaled deeply, the rush of air chilling her exposed skin.
Something that resembled a growl as much as it did a kind of aggressive purr reverberated in the qunari's chest, and the knowledge that his race had far superior sense of smell was no comfort to Hawke. She would have been mortified at her obvious arousal, if it hadn't been for one bronze hand snaking down to grip her throat, forcing her chin up and away and presenting her injured, vulnerable ear.
His horns brushed her cheek as he moved, his silver hair pooling in the valley between her breasts as he shifted closer.
When his tongue found the trail of blood running down from the fresh wound, Hawke's knees buckled, and as the rest of his mouth followed, she sobbed out a stifled moan.
His head snapped up, suddenly alert. He released his hold on her, and as her body protested, Hawke realized just how close to orgasm she had been.
When he had told her to "come," she doubted that this was what he meant.
The Arishok straightened and stepped back, pointedly turning his gaze away and setting his jaw. His breathing was labored, she saw, but returned to its normal rhythm with quick, practiced control.
"Rejoin the others when you are capable," he told her stiffly before closing the distance to the tent flap in a few quick strides.
"You are viddathari," he informed her as he paused at the entrance, "whether you choose to acknowledge it or not."
As soon as he was gone, Hawke slumped to the floor in a heap that vaguely resembled a human attempting to sit upright. The back of her head hit the wood behind her dully, the drum rhythms that vibrated through the ground and into her body matching both the throbbing of her swollen ear and the pulsing between her legs.
She took deep breaths, attempting to get whatever had just happened out of her bloodstream. And though she knew that with a few minutes' time she could clear the aftereffect from her body, her brain was another story.
There was no denying it now. She wanted the Arishok. A qunari, a warlord, a maker-damn tea connoisseur... And she didn't want him nicely, if that last exchange was any indication. She had been restrained, smothered and bleeding, and she had still been a hair's trigger away from climax.
She wondered what the qunari word for 'pervert' was.
"Sorry, Fenlin," she murmured aloud as she stared up at the ceiling. "Too late."
Ah, balls.
