XII: An Arrest, of a Sort
"What do you see?" Hawke whispered beside Aveline as they both huddled behind a particularly large boulder. Aveline held up one finger on her free hand, her sword still in its sheath, then leaned out slowly with her shield up. Before her she could see the wood open up, an empty clearing of grass and shrubs standing against a sheer tan cliff face of the Wounded Coast. She could see a cave mouth open before them, one of the many gashes that gave the Wounded Coast it's name. This one was smaller than most, perhaps big enough for two people to walk in side by side, and was obscured by numerous boulders scattered in front of its entrance.
Aveline's thoughts were interrupted by tell-tale flit of an arrow cutting through the air. She reacted on instinct, dropping her head behind her shield. The clatter of wood on stone sounded on the rock-face beside her now sheltered head. She ducked back behind the boulder before another arrow could embed itself closer to her.
Hawke knelt beside her, expecting. "Well?"
"A great deal of nothing. He's hidden himself well," Aveline responded, wondering how they got into this mess.
After they had finished their misadventures on the mountain, blood magic and all, she had gone with Hawke and Carver to see the Keeper once more. This time Aveline was present to ask the Dalish leader if her Clan had seen any humans moving through the forest. Before she could provide the Keeper with her description of her quarry the woman had stopped her.
'I do not know if it is who you seek,' she had said. 'But my chief hunter has reported to me of humans skirting the wood towards the coast. Speak to Silael if you would know more.'
And so she had, eager to be away as the Keeper cast her magic first on Carver, soothing his battered body. Despite her familiarity with Hawke's magic (the woman only used it sparingly – in fact, Aveline was unsure if she had even seen the woman do anything magical after they had reached Kirkwall together), she found its direct presence unsettling at best. Aveline found herself grateful in a way for Hawke's constant avoidance of her power. Though Aveline could see magic's usefulness both as an idea and from its effects, she still could not fight that discomfort she always felt at its sight.
Wesley would not have approved. He had almost insisted we apprehend Bethany in the middle of the Blight… 'An Apostate is one who's intent is unknown.' Even still he saw reason, soon enough. Maker how I miss that man.
Aveline was no fool, she knew Hawke was a reasonable and responsible woman – but it was difficult at times to reconcile the fact that she was also an apostate. It had been law since time immemorial that magic existed to serve man, and that in order to do so it was necessary to confine magic to the Circles under watchful Templar eyes. With magic came terror and destruction – like blood magic and demonic possession. It only took one mage to inflict massive damage, to destroy dozens to even hundreds of lives. It was necessary for their own protection and the world at large that they remain where Templars like her Wesley could protect them from themselves.
And yet she trusted Hawke. Ever since she had carried Aveline out of the wilderness, ever since Aveline's survival had been directly because of her magic… she could no longer believe that all mages needed such confining. If Hawke had been confined, Aveline would be dead. It was that simple.
Still, her late husband's sensibilities yet held some sway over her. Abject usage of magic still set her on edge, this time especially since the Keeper was not under the law of the Chantry. Maker, her First is a blood mage.
Yet despite being an apostate herself the Keeper rejected her First, apparently because of her blood magic. To many Templars all apostates were essentially maleficarum – by rejecting the Chantry's philosphy that the magic must serve these apostates took the exact opposite stance that they were to be served instead. And to confuse the already torn Aveline more than that - despite her usage of blood magic Merrill insisted she did no harm to any others. And from what Aveline could tell the elven girl truly meant it. Another chip at the very foundations of what the Chantry taught of the world.
Now that girl huddled behind a particularly large tree, stuck as if she too were rooted in place – not a dangerous malificarum but a girl afraid of combat. Martin knelt in his own cover, a particularly full bush a ways away which he peered through carefully as he struggled to extricate something from his pack. Carver was sat up against another boulder across the way, too large to stand and still be covered. Varric was nowhere to be seen, as often seemed the case whenever trouble reared its ugly head.
"Oi," Hawke prodded, nudging Aveline with her elbow. "Isn't this thief of yours supposed to be alone?"
Aveline grunted. "It could be him, though I've never heard anything of him being skilled with a bow. He's just a run of the mill thug, more like throw a sap than an arrow."
"So…" Hawke said, conspiratorially. "He must be right shite with that bow, aye?"
Aveline kept her eyes on the clearing, distracted. "Arrows have come close to me twice now."
"Who is it?" Merrill called to them from her own cover. The girl's voice was strained, tenuous, but clearly not paniced. "Why are they shooting at us?"
"Usual reason," Hawke called back. "Jealousy of our ferelden swagger. Right, you ready Aveline?"
"Ready for what?" She asked at the same time as Merrill questioned what a swagger was, all while still trying to keep her eyes peeled for their assailants.
"This!" Hawke shouted, dodging out of cover. She leapt as proudly as you please to stand several feet away from her rock. "Hey, you! You might want to quit the archery tourney, you're a right sorry shot!"
An arrow shot from above the cave entrance, from a shrub-cluttered shelf of rock. It embedded itself at Hawke's feet. She guffawed without flinching, irrationally amused.
Has she gone completely mad? Aveline thought, leaping out after her friend. She moved as quickly as her burdensome kite shield would allow, kneeling down behind it even as an arrow clanged off its battered surface. The shock of the impact reverberated the metal, shaking her hand down to her elbow.
"Can make it when it doesn't count, can't make it when it does!" Hawke shouted over her head at a painfully loud volume. "You'd do proper at the Rose with hands shaking like that! Perfect for a nice frig!"
"Shut your whore mouth!" A distinctly Kirkwaller voice shouted from the clifftop, obviously enraged. "I'll plow you bloody, bitch!"
That stood Carver right up from his own Carver. "Say that again!"
"Plow yourself!" The man replied instead. "And sod off! This here's my cave, nobody else's! Get ye gone while your legs can still carry you!"
"Last I checked this is Kirkwall land, down and through the Planasene, and I have here a very angry Kirkwall Sergeant who'd like a word with you!" Hawke looked down at the still kneeling Aveline, grinning. "You give him what for, Sergeant," she muttered quietly, encouraging.
Before Aveline could gather her wits long enough to 'give him what for,' the bowman himself stood up to his full height, his bow hanging loosely at his side.
"Sergeant? Who? Which one are you? I thought I was to wait for Arren, not no Sergeant." With that said he grasped his bow in both hands – he leaned forward with it, but didn't bring it to bear. "This ain't even the right – "
A telltale clattered sounded from Aveline's right and slightly behind, out of her field of view. Before her scattered thoughts managed to identify that familiar noise its handiwork sprouted from the standing bowman's shoulder.
To his credit the man didn't scream as Varric's bolt pierced undoubtedly down through his bone, didn't so much as whimper as his body slammed forwards at the awkward angle of his lean, folded as his chest hit stone, then pitched forward to fall the dozen or so paces down in front of the cave entrance. He landed with an audible crunch that made Aveline wince.
"Oh my!" Merrill gasped, and Aveline suddenly wondered if the seemingly naive girl had ever seen a man die before.
"Sorry to interrupt," Varric called from behind them. Aveline turned to see the dwarf with his usual infuriating grin. "But Bianca had her own opinions on his aim. She just flies off the handle sometimes."
Hawke turned full body back to face her slippery dwarven friend. "Nice shot. A bit late, but still, a nice shot."
Martin stood up to join them, his hammers sheathed but his form still tense. He still held his pack in his hands as he shoved the disassembled limbs of a small crossbow back into it. "You act the great marksman, Varric, but it is quite telling that you waited until after he exposed himself fully to finally shoot."
Aveline ignored Varric's bantering reply, Carver's sneer, even Merrill's questioning. Her mind was still on her thief, on what he'd been saying before Varric had interrupted him so. Arren. He was expecting a city guard, ceased his attack when he saw one. I knew the Guard wasn't exactly honorable, but this… She moved up on the collapsed thief who lay in a heap at the cave entrance. The man matched the description she had been given, both by Alienage elves and Darktown denizens – matching burn scar on his jaw, dark hair. He was responsible for stealing much from those downtrodden peoples, most often at the lead of several other muscle bound bastards who beat people down and stole all they carried.
He had invaded homes, sapped passersby. He was even responsible for at least one death, an elf he had kicked just one too many times. And he was awaiting a guard. Obviously not to be arrested.
Someone in the guard was accomplice to his crimes. Someone profited of his evil, had possibly even taken part in his actions.
Aveline's blood boiled. I will find him, and I will bring him to justice. He was to wait for Arren, meaning someone else told him to wait for that sorry excuse for a guardsman. Someone else is responsible.
She fought the undignified desire to kick the man's lying corpse and instead stepped over it, moving forward into the shallow cave. If she was to find out whoever was abetting him within the guard she would need evidence. Evidence she hoped this man kept.
Rummaging around she found a meager set of provisions, a hefty sack of coins (mostly copper and silvers), and a small firepit. In the pit were the burnt remains of some sort of parchment, probably a letter or other. It was too scorched to get much in the way of meaning but a couple lines were legible.
...wait Arren, Thur… Dusk. Exchange…
...right… Don't fu…
She had near concrete proof now. Not only could she testify to the man naming Guardsman Arren as a liaison before his sudden death, but she could also verify that someone instructed him to await a meeting with him.
Guardsman Arren would be getting quite the surprise when she arrived back. The Captain will assuredly jail him and put him to question. With any luck, we will have rooted out this cyst within the guard by the end of the week.
"Aveline!" Carver's voice called after her. "You just about done poking around? My sister wants us to start the trek back to Kirkwall sos to get back 'for dark."
"I'm done," Aveline answered, carefully pocketing the damaged parchment. It wasn't what she'd expected – she hadn't expected for this thief to have connections within the guard… and it certainly wasn't ideal. Having him alive to interrogate would have made catching his cohorts much simpler.
What little remained of the letter, and her word, would have to suffice. Stepping into the sun from the brief shade of the cave warmed her skin, brought a spring to her step.
Hawke turned from where she stood to the side with her brother, observing Martin and Merrill as they lowered the recently deceased corpse into the earth. It was a strange sight to see, she prodding the earth with her staff as Martin lit a hastily gathered bit of kindling ablaze at the head. The very earth seemed to swallow the corpse, then the fire. Magic, Aveline thought and turned away.
Once she would've objected to such a disrespectful treatment of a corpse, even one of an evil man such as this thief. By Chantry tradition everyone, great or small, received a proper pyre to send them to the Maker's bosom. Or not, if the man were evil enough.
Her time at Ostagar had changed her mind on that – like so many things. Burning a body properly as the Maker intended simply took too much time for soldiers (or even mercenaries) who had very little time to spare in safety. Those that killed for a living would die of old age after their first battle were they to properly account for the disposal of all casualties. What Martin was doing was a common occurrence in the wilds, on the roads – anywhere a man died and could not be afforded the luxury of cremation. Burn a fire in benediction, even one as paltry as that was taken to be enough. It was good of him to observe the custom.
"Find anything interesting?" Hawke asked curiously. Aveline looked at her, considered.
"Some," she admitted. It was too early on to talk openly of what she'd found about Arren, though she doubted Hawke would even care anyways. She already expected the guard to be corrupt, did not seem as bothered by it as she should be. That she assumed Aveline's lack of such corruption as a given was just another in the set of kindnesses that she had bestowed upon the Guardswoman thus far into their friendship. "Some stolen coin," she finished banally.
"Did I hear something about coin?" Varric's voice popped up from where he'd been leaning against a boulder some distance from the shabby burial Merrill and Martin were just finishing.
"Yes," Aveline answered with just a hint of annoyance at the dwarf's obvious greed. "I know some of those who had their livelihoods taken by this man. Now I can at least return a part of what was stolen."
"We could bloody use that coin," Carver added noncommittally.
"Sometimes," Hawke said, completely ignoring her brother. "I think you're too good for this world, Aveline. Too good for Kirkwall, certainly."
Aveline shrugged at the praise. "There is nothing special in doing what is right. That is the bare minimum anyone must do."
"Your definition of the minimum is pretty much everybody's maximum," Varric said amiably. "People look out for themselves, whats theirs, those that are close to them – then, maybe, sometimes – 'what's right.' And half of people who care about 'right' have a 'right' that you'd probably think of as a left." He grinned stupidly at that, characteristically proud of his usual banal insights into mankind.
Aveline rolled her eyes at that, but was beaten to respond by Hawke.
"Wouldn't mind giving you a right left right now, Varric," she said with a smile.
"That hurts, it really does," Varric grinned back.
"It would, that's for sure. All of this looming lust between us packs a whallop of a punch."
"For the Maker's sake, shut it," Carver barked, shouldering his bag. "You were the one who wanted to get back so quickly."
Hawke shot a long suffering glance Carver's way. "Indeed. Let's head home."
Even as she shouldered her own pack, her shield slung over-top, Aveline found herself lost deep in thought. Considering deeply the expectations of minimums.