Hawke and Anders moved down the streets of Jader with pressing urgency as dusk fell over the city.
"What about now? Can you sense anything?" Hawke asked, searching his face.
"Nothing."
"Not even a whiff?"
"That's not exactly how the Taint works, you know. It's not like a scent or anything of the sort…Although it is definitely as distinct." He shuddered.
"If there are Grey Warden headquarters somewhere in this city, we will find it, right? How can you not sense an entire building filled with Grey Wardens?" she cried.
Without a further word, she gripped him by the shoulders and steered him forward, as if he were a human-sized dowsing rod.
"Maker, Hawke…We have been at this for over an hour…"
"What about this old building? Looks promising, no?" She stared at the façade of a dilapidated estate.
"How many times do I have to tell you? Why wouldn't Grey Wardens appreciate functionality and practicality over a certain…How did you put it?... 'Gloomy atmosphere,'" he protested. "Although, I am quite sure Fenris might fancy it…"
"Let's try down this way," she suggested, yanking him towards another street.
"Hawke, we've veered far from the inn and neither one of us knows this city." He raised his eyes to the darkening sky. "Besides, I am famished. You promised me dinner."
"Of course I did. And dinner's at the end of this street here." She pat his shoulder reassuringly.
"No, it isn't," he grumbled. "You are just saying that to make me go on a wild goose chase down yet another street."
"I promise. Just one more street. Then we stop for dinner. We'll revisit our strategy."
Anders grimaced, but nodded faintly.
"Very well." He sighed audibly.
Hawke grinned very slightly before a thought assailed her and she pat down her vest.
"Say, Anders...Did you remember to bring any coin?" She bit her lower lip.
He let out an exasperated, strangled groan before storming ahead.
They found themselves at a small tavern overlooking the shore below. There was a rawness to the air in Jader that Kirkwall, despite also being on the sea, did not possess. Her clothes constantly felt clammy and her bones were chilled.
"It's because of the cold wind from the mountains," Anders concluded. "Also, Kirkwall is further north, closer to more temperate weather.
They were being regarded suspiciously at the tavern; the barmaid barely made eye contact with them and when she replied to their inquiries about the dinner fare, offered them monosyllabic replies. Other patrons, nursing their tankards of ale or spooning their way through crocks of what smelled like fish stew, eyed them warily. They heard Common spoken with Orlesian accents, just as often as Fereldan ones.
Try as she might, Hawke was failing at concealing her trembling hands from Ander's scrutiny. At the sight of her almost buckling from exhaustion, he sucked in a deep, troubled breath.
"Maker, what have you gotten us into? Why did I ever let you talk me into this nonsense? Jader is a large city and we haven't even begun grazing its surface. This is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. Why don't we go back to the inn? Let's wait for Varric and hear what he has to say."
A hollow ache troubled her when Anders mentioned his name.
"Varric has enough problems. I don't need to add to them!" she retorted impatiently.
The barmaid brought them two crocks of creamy chowder before wandering away. One glance at the lumpy clams poking from the surface was enough to trigger nausea. She seized her cup of water and downed a few sips.
"Right. Because our disappearing without an explanation doesn't add at all to his list of worries." Anders dug into his meal with gusto.
"Maybe you can sit and wait for news. I can't. Not when it concerns my sister."
A few burly men at a table further down from them kept staring at them.
"Yes, of course. Why sit and wait for news when we can BE the news? Don't look now, but I suspect we are about to meet some of the neighborhood brutes."
"And that should make us feel right at home!" Hawke gave Anders' arm a light punch.
He placed the thin water crackers they'd been given with their soup before her.
"At least coat your stomach with something: this is quite harmless."
They ate in silence: Anders finished his soup while Hawke gnawed on the edge of a cracker. He met the persistent gaze of the men before returning his attention to her. "So how do you propose we find the Wardens from here onwards?"
"Simple."
"I'm listening." Anders spooned the last of his chowder into his mouth before reaching for Hawke's untouched meal.
"We'll just ask." She shrugged.
Anders blinked, perplexed.
"Perhaps I did not hear that correctly."
At that, Hawke dragged her chair out noisily and stood up. She surveyed the room as the patrons and staff momentarily fell into an tense silence.
Hawke realized that some moments were like crossroads…or like the end of a cliff overhanging a long drop. It was as if time stood still, awaiting her next move…and she needed to take courage…a deep breath, and move forward.
"Excuse me," she began, in a loud voice. "Can someone here direct me to the Grey Wardens?"
Anders' spoon dropped with a loud clink as he gaped at her.
Varric wondered if they had reemerged in a different world once they left the Deep Roads—that they had somehow taken a wrong turn, crossed a cursed portal and entered a parallel universe. That whole affair just grew stranger and more confusing.
No one had seen or heard any news of Bartrand since they'd trekked to the Frostbacks.
One of his associates had grown pale upon finding Varric standing very much alive at his doorstep. Varric had taken this at first as an admission of guilt: perhaps the man was complicit with his brother. But the explanation given subsequently was one echoed by other familiar contacts brought in throughout the evening: their party had been presumed dead. The blighters and porters Bartrand had left behind after following them down into the doomed thaig had waited for a day before conducting an inconclusive search. Varric had scrutinized the expression of their main local investor. The man appeared not only amazed, but delighted by his return. He had feared that his gamble had been converted into a heavy loss. Varric recognized greed perfectly well, but other than that, he caught no whiff of deceit in the man's eagerness. Even the porters' foreman, summoned at a late hour to convince Varric of the accounts given of their disappearance and abandonment, revealed earnest frustration.
For all he knew, Bartrand could very well have met his demise after his betrayal. Relieved his brother had not poisoned their contacts—at least, not in Jader— he began to rally a recovery party to return to the Deep Roads. That would not be an easy feat: the blighters they'd hired had been spreading terrifying stories of the horrors they'd encountered beneath the surface.
Although it was late in the evening, Jader still bustled with activity. Lanterns lit the way down main streets and patrons still stumbled out periodically from the many taverns lining the street along the seawall. Varric moved swiftly past the modest crowds, watchful of activity around him, just in case he truly was in danger and all his fine skills of discernment and logic had, in fact, eluded him in that alternate reality he suspected he had wandered into. To his relief, he reached the steep climb up to their inn without incident. He was looking forward to some rest, even as he was itching to get up early the next morning to follow up on a few loose ends: a last perusal of all the passenger manifests of ships to Kirkwall, instructions dashed to various associates back home warning them about Bartrand, and—a delicate and likely a costly inquiry: locating the Grey Warden called "Stroud." He'd gone to great pains to assure his contact that he would not be engaging in any conflict with the Warden. He knew that folk in the region were protective of the Wardens. Not only had the Wardens successfully thwarted the Blight, they had revitalized their legendary image as heroes just as they sought to recover from the heavy losses they'd suffered at Ostagar. He doubted anyone who had endured the Blight would readily point him, an outsider, from Kirkwall no less, in the direction of the Wardens' headquarters in the city.
He had almost reached the bend in the road, the last stretch before the steps to the inn's entryway, when he heard voices further ahead, whispering conspiratorially. Immediately he stepped back into the shadows and reached for Bianca.
Should have known better. Why ambush a mark on a busy street full of witnesses when a quick house call will do?
He observed two figures puzzle at the entrance's doorway before what appeared to be the world's most incompetent attempt at picking a lock. He smirked, arming the crossbow and preparing for whenever they began their descent towards him. One of the figures flailed its arms in a panic…or was it frustration? He couldn't tell from that distance. Eventually, both figures tried to examine the lock at the same time and bumped their heads noisily. He chuckled to himself, shaking his head lightly.
My reputation is suffering. Someone obviously thought sending two boneheads to ambush me would do the trick!
It was only when he heard a volley of foul language uttered by a voice he would have recognized in any universe or plane of existence that he lowered his crossbow in surprise and hastened his step towards the entrance.
"Hawke?" he called out.
Both figures stiffened as he approached them.
"What the blazes are you two doing out here at this hour?"
"I was following orders: I…Stayed with her. Like you asked." Anders shrugged.
He pushed past them, his head finally giving in to a latent throbbing.
"I hope you have a key," Anders continued. A tiny lantern over the entrance cast a faint glow over them. Hawke's eyes glistened as if feverish.
Varric pulled out the iron key from his pocket.
"Even if I didn't, I could still get us in, you know."
He peered down to see a twig inelegantly jammed into the keyhole. He pinched it out and examined it bemusedly before tossing it on the ground. "Have I taught you people nothing?"
The door opened to a peaceful courtyard. With a quick glance towards the street to assure himself that he hadn't been followed, he ushered them both in and locked the door swiftly behind them.
They marched silently past the foyer and up the flight of stairs, mindful not to disturb the other guests. It was only when they arrived before Varric's room, and he opened the door, with a stern glare at both of his companions, that they tamely filed in.
"I can't believe you two were running around Jader like this, not knowing what our situation was. You do realize you could have walked right into a number of ambushes," he scolded them. "For all you knew, Bartrand could have put out a contract on our lives."
"And did he?" Anders wondered, stepping closer to hearth.
Hawke stood mutely by the door.
"No," Varric replied, distracted by the pale figure she cut, growing restless at his own powerlessness.
"Where is he?" Anders continued.
"No one knows," was his curt reply. It hurt him to see her in that state, although he noted she seemed sprightlier than earlier.
"We were looking for Stroud." Hawke stared ahead, into the fire. "And we found him."
His eyes widened.
"What? How?"
Anders rolled his head to the side with a light crick.
"Hawke can fill you in on the details of our adventure-or should I say 'misadventure'? I'm going to my big, warm, and comfortable bed."
Varric watched him make his way out.
They stood before each other wordlessly. Varric searched her gaunt face, devoid of the mischief and warmth he had always encountered before. They seemed to have reached a small impasse before Hawke finally blinked.
"Can I stay here tonight?" she asked in an unsure, tentative tone.
"Of course." He exhaled with relief.
They lay over the coverlet on the large bed, facing each other.
"We found Stroud, but we couldn't talk to him," she revealed.
"How did you find him? The Wardens don't exactly announce their whereabouts."
"I took Anders through the city, hoping he would sense a Warden somewhere. They do have headquarters—and at least safe houses—in most cities."
He grinned at her.
"That's actually not a bad plan."
She grinned back at him.
"Except that Jader is larger than we realized…"
He scratched his stubble.
"You mean you didn't unearth any clues?"
"No. We had to try something else."
"What did you do?"
"I asked. We were at a local tavern, because Anders is always hungry, and I simply asked the patrons if they could direct me to the Grey Wardens."
He eyed her with a bewildered expression.
"And that worked? They just told you?"
"Look at me." She indicated her beat up armor, a bruised forehead, and disheveled hair. "I'm a dirty Fereldan who sounds like a milkmaid from the Bannorn. I'm the most unsuspicious person in our party right now," she huffed. "They told me there was an abandoned Chantry cloister that the Wardens had taken over since the Blight. It is on the other side of town."
Of course she would just go up and ask. She was disarming like that. No patience for elaborate ruses and schemes. She preferred a direct approach, whether it was facing down a band of adversaries or asking straight out what she wanted to know. Shit strategy…but sometimes it worked. He broke out in laughter.
And for the first time in all those days he caught her smile—it was faint and her eyes were still infinitely sad, but he saw her lips part and for a moment, they were accomplices again.
"Look, it doesn't serve the Wardens well to be all hush-hush if they are trying to increase their numbers," she reasoned.
"And then you tried to break back into the inn with a twig?"
She grimaced.
"That was just frustration. Anders forgot the key."
He pretended to grow very serious.
"Oh, I see. It was Anders' fault for forgetting the key."
"Yes, because we were on a mission. He should have known that he had to attend to the details. I am a more 'big-picture' kind of visionary." She contemplated him as seriously.
He chuckled at that.
"You ran out with just the clothes on your back and your daggers, am I right?"
"All I am saying is that he was woefully unprepared," she agreed. Her expression softened. "You're a much better sidekick."
"Sidekick!" he feigned indignation, but his heart was racing. That ribbing was familiar territory between them. "So, once you reached the Wardens' headquarters…what happened?"
She sighed and rolled onto her back.
"The sentinels outside the cloister were pricks. They confirmed to us that Stroud was there, but then refused to let us talk to him. They also wouldn't answer if Bethany was there."
"I'm surprised you managed to find out that Stroud was there at all."
"That might have been because I started yelling his name outside the gates."
He chuckled again.
"I am amazed you are here and not in some jail cell for disorderly conduct."
Her gaze remained trained on the ceiling.
"I'm going back again tomorrow. I'll sit there all day if I must. Stroud can't stay locked away forever. Someone should tell me what happened to Bethany."
Varric nodded.
"I guess we're getting up early, then."
Hawke turned her head to look at him.
"Oh, I'm going with you," he explained, before she could protest.
To his surprise, her hand wandered to his cheek and she caressed his face with the back of her fingers. He pressed her hand to his cheek, her touch a balm for the ache in his heart.
"I am starting to feel hope again," she revealed, softly. "I don't know if I should...if that's a good thing."
She fell asleep before he did—her usual, restless sleep, complete with low groans and furrowed brow. He did not know what to think, if he dared to hope, too. He had to be ready for the aftermath of whatever revelation was made the following day. Whatever it was: he would be there, by her side.