Act VII:i

Waking up from a blackout was always an adventure. For Hawke it had the intrigue of a mystery waiting to be solved, clues gathered that might explain missing hours. As her mind gradually emerged from dreamless sleep she began cataloging the reports coming in from all over her body. There was a progression to her senses filing complaints on these occasions. First was feeling, then taste and smell, eventually hearing and only after several minutes of calmly absorbing her world through those four would sight decide to kick in.

The soreness in her back and arms might have simply been from a typical night of grappling with Isabela. Except when she clenched her fists there was the stinging pain and stickiness of skinned knuckles. Bar brawl then. She smiled for a second but the expression hurt. Exploring the inside of her mouth dredged up the taste of sour alcohol and a lot of copper. Someone had gotten in at least one good blow.

That settled the What of things, now time for the Where. The surface that she was sprawled on was unforgivingly hard and stank of old sweat, piss and vomit. That was roughly half of Lowtown. All of bloody Darktown. She was wet, which might mean she'd passed out in the alley and fallen prey to Kirkwall's eternally soggy coastal weather. Or it could mean she'd been knocked out in the Hanged Man and Corff had simply decided to slosh the floors clean regardless of the fallen patrons.

Or . . .

"You have three seconds, Hawke, then I'm opening the cell and letting your hound come in and slobber you back to life." The voice was authority grown weary with patience.

Of course. Bollocks.

"I didn't leave him with you to sick on helpless drunks and innocents." Hawke groaned, rolling to one side and soaking up more of the puddle she'd been laying in. Freezing cold, too. Didn't matter the time of year, Aveline always had access to some secret supply of pure ice melt.

"I wouldn't. I was going to sick him on you." The Guard Captain didn't sound quite as annoyed as usual. There was more affectionate tolerance in her tone. Maybe Donnic had managed to put a smile on her face between last night's brawl and morning rounds at the tanty?

Aware that the auditory observation meant her ears were beginning to cooperate once more, Hawke turned her attention to the other sounds beginning to drift towards her. Heavy, wet breathing nearby was her beloved Mbari; now an honorary member of the guard. Across the room were expletives that had to be two or more whores continuing a catfight over territory. Off to her left was heavy snoring. To her right, and fairly close, was a low voice humming a song that was very nearly familiar.

Aveline opened the cell and reached down to pull her friend upright. The room spun as the Champion struggled to her feet. Whoever landed that blow to her jaw had definitely done a number. She warily opened one eye, wincing in pain at the early morning light leaking through barred windows.

"Varric is already waiting for us at the docks. Apparently, the witch has an idea for getting us to Val Royeaux more quickly. Get a move on, both of you." The guard captain ordered, shaking Hawke by the shoulders to focus her eyes.

"It's too bloody early to ride anything other than ocean," the familiar humming tune turned into a groan of protest, "I wouldn't even mount a whore at this ass end hour."

The Champion turned back to the cell to spy Isabela lying on a bunk not far from where she'd been collapsed on the floor. The sailor's voice was thick with broken sleep and sated violence, still musical enough to suggest the amount of liquor coursing happily in her veins.

"Good to know there's a time of day when you aren't a complete slattern. Get up anyway." Aveline didn't even hesitate to grab another bucket of ice melt and toss it on the pirate. Hawke managed to step aside and avoid any of the freezing wetness as it splattered into the cell.

"Andraste's frozen tits poke your damn eyes out, you prig! Want to sod me with an icicle next?!" Isabela shouted and scrambled angrily off the bench, acres of exposed skin immediately flush with goosebumps. If anyone's nipples were going to poke out an eye, it wasn't Andraste's.

"Excellent, sounds like you're well awake," the guardswoman tossed her bucket aside with a smile, "Now would one of you get that elf roused? Two buckets of water and the snoring still hasn't stopped."

Hawke looked over to the adjacent cell and was momentarily confused. It looked empty. Then she tracked the loud, nasal breathing to the shadows under a bunk. She could just make out a head of dirty blonde hair – an unfortunate combination of color and recent hygiene.

"Maker's balls," Isabela rolled her eyes and went into the opened cell to poke at the unconscious elf, "Come on, Cuddles. Can't show the world your ass if you aren't up and about."

"What happened last night anyway?" Hawke tested her balance and motor control by strolling the room, trying to look casually curious. The movement of the floor had reduced to an occasional, gentle sway.

"That will take several days and statements from nearly a dozen people to figure out," Aveline folded her arms, nailing the rogue with her most restrained glare of judgment, "It seems three fights broke out in quick succession. One of the Wicked Grace players realized he was being conned, two drunks tried to stop Morrigan on her way upstairs to a room and some righteously suicidal idiot objected to Isabela's tongue down your throat."

The explanation jarred loose a few broken pieces of memory from Hawke's inebriated, brain damaged state. Three fights; that sounded right. There had been so much noise all at once . . .

Varric had gone to take Merrill home. The Champion was dimly aware of shouting behind her and tables and chairs being violently pushed aside but none of it mattered because the Rivaini captain had slid across her lap and filled her mouth with the taste of oceans and whiskey. Warmth wrapped around her, coiled strength daring her to try to move beyond the grip of fingers threaded through her hair and Hawke had no inclination to resist. She felt a taste like the bite of magic behind her teeth and the only part of her mind that wasn't either drunk or intoxicated on Isabela's touch tried to warn her that there was currently only one mage in the room. An apostate, to be exact. That voice of reason was erased when she felt a hand guiding her own to leave its purchase on fabric and grip flesh instead.

Then the pleasure was suddenly ripped away and some massively muscle bound man who had to be compensating for a tiny dick was shouting at her, quoting the Chant. The Champion would've simply laughed at him, far more entertained than offended by his stupidity, except he'd broken the kiss by grabbing the back of Isabela's tunic. Hawke felt her eyes narrow to pinpricks of focused vision, blocking out everything except the red faced fury that had dared laid a hand on her pirate. He was knocked off his feet the moment she was on hers, a fist sending him skidding across the floor. The first throw of a punch was a battle cry that invited all comers and violence rapidly spun in every direction across the tavern, followed by a burst and chill of magic that did nothing to slow the widespread chaos.

"Maker, how many got killed?" Hawke ran a hand over her face, realizing that last night had been a bigger bollixed knuckle-duster than she thought.

"Four dead. No one is sure who killed each. Thirty-four injured, not including the dozen more that hurt themselves trying to run away." Aveline ticked off the casualty report.

"That's not bad. Must've ended before it could spill into the streets like usual." The Champion sighed in relief. A typical scrap in the Hanged Man could end up spreading clear to the docks and sink a ship if no one came to break it up.

"Lady de Vici and Morrigan were well-behaved enough to withdraw once the first bottles started flying. Two of the casualties are those two drunks but the surgeon can't tell if they died from blows, poison or magic," the Guard Captain's smirk hinted that she thought it was a combination of all three, "But getting the rest of you out proved a bit more trying."

Hawke couldn't remember Aveline in the fight at all. Did she vanish to the sidelines when the violence broke out? That wouldn't be like her. Besides, she had Donnic; between the two of them they could subdue half the bar. She cast her mind about in the gaps of her memory, trying to remember how the brawl ended. The last thing she could recall was Isabela laughing as she spun away from a dagger, Zevran surprising the soldier who'd managed to get hold of Elani's throat and then herself, feeling a hand on her arm tugging her around. She'd turned and met only a sudden blow, world filling with copper and darkness but not before there was the tiniest glimpse of red.

"You knocked me out?" Hawke demanded, laughing as she brushed a hand up her jaw. No wonder it was still hurting this morning!

"To stop a fire: remove the fuel. I learned years ago that the fights end quickly once you and Isabela aren't there to make things worse." Aveline justified herself with a small shrug. That was why the woman was being so patient this morning. She was apologizing!

"Felling a Champion in one blow! Nice work. Next time let's see what happens when I'm sober." Hawke grinned, punching her fellow Fereldan in the shoulder.

"When you're sober I only want to hit you. It isn't actually necessary." Aveline smiled back, comprehending that her silent apology had been accepted and forgiven.

"Where's my shit?!" the sudden shout from Elani announced that Isabela had finally managed to wake the elf.

"Easy, sweets. Get yourself wound any tighter and you'll choke yourself with it." The pirate pointed to the satchel strap that was tangled around the thief and clenched in both hands. The blonde struggled to unravel herself, sitting upright and then groaning at the dizzy sensation.

"I take it she also got a taste of your pacification?" Hawke's sympathy for the elf couldn't quite overwhelm her amusement as she mocked Aveline's methods.

"I decided it would be best to remove her as well after she accidentally knocked out Zevran." the Guard Captain confirmed, completely unapologetic.

"It wasn't an accident!" Elani cursed beneath her breath, faced buried in both hands as she waited for the world to right itself, "Bloody twat, I told him we should've pulled out after the first 50 silvers."

"Zevran does love taking extra risks. He once introduced me to this delicious game of – OW!" Isabela rubbed the already dark bruise on her arm that Aveline deliberately struck once more.

"And this, Hawke, is the company you're going to escort into the Chantry's Grand Cathedral?" The Guard Captain shook her head as she looked over all three of her released prisoners.

"No, Aveline. This is the company that's been invited," The Champion's lips smirked with relish on the word, "Blessings be on the Maker's Divine!"

"I always knew Leliana would revolutionize the cloisters. Either from the top or bottom it hardly matters; she's a stunningly talented sister." The pirate's voice was warmed with memories, a note of nostalgic pleasure filling Hawke's mind with ideas.

"You really are going to have to tell me more about Sister Nightingale sometime, 'Bela. I have a feeling you've been holding out on me." The Champion's brow twisted with the same suspicion as her smirk.

"Only with stories, sweets, I promise." Isabela grinned, a flash of fang matching the wicked spark in her eyes.

"We're leaving. Now. Before I decide to knock both of you out again." Aveline growled, pushing the two women apart and forcing them towards the door.

The Hero of Ferelden had faced dragons and archdemons without flinching. The damned Reverend Mother glaring at her as she moved to leave the throne room could bloody well choke on the fat end of Hessarian's blade. She wanted to check on Kieran. Morrigan had left the boy in her care and while the witch wouldn't mind her son being left with guards and servants, she'd turn the entire Cathedral to ash if he was made to sit through Chantry ritual. Solona tried to see him every day and this felt like a good time. She needed a break from the Chant. Not the ceremony or song itself but from trying to sit so still when her thoughts were bouncing off the insides of her skull like blind nugs in a cave.

The discussions and research with Leliana and Bethany had gone into the early hours of the morning. She'd fallen asleep on top of the Circle records she'd been meant to study and woke at dawn with pain in her neck and paper dust in her nostrils. Leliana was still awake even then, waiting at the balcony for the first of her messenger birds to return. Her cousin had already made tea (and the day's potions) and they all three drank in silence, pondering the next step for the Divine's plans.

In order for the Unification to work it had to be everything at once. Leliana had decided on a divide-and-conquer strategy, a sweeping move that would embroil the Chantry in so many different arguments that no single voice of united objection could rise. Disbanding the Circles and Templars, opening the hierarchy to other races, decriminalizing apostasy and welcoming mages; Andreasteans across Southern Thedas all supported or protested every one of these reforms. There was no middle ground. There would be no majority.

Theoretically, Leliana could use the Andraste's Children argument to convince the faithful to unite into one family under the Maker. Realistically, after the horrors of the war, the people – the mages themselves – needed to see a symbol of peace between Chantry and magic. The Rite of Reversal promised to be that gesture. Unfortunately, the only other mage known to have reversed Tranquility was dead and Wynne's son (Maker keep her soul) was no closer to reproducing Pharamond's success.

Which left Solace. Which was why the Hero was worried.

The mage had a lyrium brand but clearly wasn't Tranquil. She claimed the Rite never worked but then she couldn't use magic and yet she wasn't severed from the Fade! How was all of that even possible? The conflicting facts chased each other around the Warden's thoughts. It didn't help that the blonde's behavior was just as confusing. The Hero had watched Solace bow her head reverently as the ceremonies began, mouth subtly moving in time with the opening devotions. Yet, only minutes before that she'd observed the mage flirting with two lay-brothers and a serving girl. That she could make all three blush simultaneously rather undermined the idea of a spiritually devout woman. As did the breathtakingly creative profanity the servants reported she'd flung at them on trying to drag her from bed this morning.

She's young. Everyone's confusing at that age. Solona threw her own mind back to her life a decade before. The blonde couldn't be much older than the Warden had been when she underwent Harrowing. The history of her entire life could be divided by that day and the events that followed. Up until then her only concerns were mastering spells, gaining more liberties in the tower and indulging in a bit of amusement with some of the prettier apprentices. She knew nothing of the Blight or the chaos that was sweeping over Ferelden until it erupted on all sides and sucked her in. After that, all of life revolved around a quest to defeat the Darkspawn and save the world - conveniently also allowing her to pursue a personal mission to flirt with every woman she met. What was it? Two in Redcliffe, the cute elf in the Dalish camp . . . Nothing but hormones and invincibility back then. She sighed, grateful that Leliana had come into her life and patiently subdued those selfish impulses. Perhaps it truly was the Maker's will. The bard became her anchor in the madness.

The Hero was lured from her nostalgic musings by a flash of movement to her left. She spun, ready to find yet another witless fanatic but spying only Alistair. Just witless then. The teasing insult in her mind was far more affectionate than the hundreds that had come from Morrigan's lips in their time together. Solona hadn't even noticed him leave the throne room before her. The King was leaning on the balcony balustrade, gazing to the gardens below and lost in his own thoughts so completely that he didn't hear her approach.

She followed the direction of his eyes to a bench near the rows of crystal grace and dragonthorn. At first all she could see were the backs of servants and a few guards but then one shifted and she felt a jolt of realization. Maker's mercy. Kieran was contentedly reading one of his massive volumes of lore, expression studious but fascinated. He found some obscure detail extra delightful and his smile turned into a short laugh. The sound made Alistair flinch.

"Have you ever met him?" The Hero gently announced her presence, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Briefly. I mean, we were introduced. Sort of," Alistair stumbled over the explanation, backtracking to find the actual answer, "I visited Skyhold on official business and Morrigan was there. It was a surprise to see her. Seeing him was downright shocking. No tentacles or fiery breath or anything."

"Yes, but did you actually speak to him?" Solona could only imagine her friend's horror at being confronted not just by the woman he'd so intensely disliked but also the offspring of their forced intimacy. Did the resentment he felt for the witch bleed into his feelings for the child? If that were the case, why would he be here watching the boy?

"No, I didn't. I had only wanted to check with Morrigan. To be sure, you know," The King was straining to sound casual about the subject, "He doesn't know who I am. He never said a word. Just stared at me like he was turning me inside out."

"He does that a lot. I think he knows it unnerves people, definitely something he got from his mother." The Hero smirked, familiar with the exact gaze Alistair described.

"Clearly." His sarcastic smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"He's the best of her, Alistair. He has her wit, intellect, curiosity and innocence. He also has much of you but you'd know that if you'd had the balls to talk to him." Solona shook her head and marched away from her friend.

She might have felt sorry for him being exposed to the sudden shock and scrutiny of meeting at Skyhold. She could even pity him for the sadness in his eyes as he looked down at his son now. But he was on the balcony looking down, rather than below at the boy's side. Kieran didn't need to know who his father was; the only fact Alistair and Morrigan had ever agreed upon with absolute harmony. That did not mean the King couldn't have spoken to him when he had the chance. Kieran was quiet when they met? That was normal for a child. But Solona couldn't excuse Alistair for not being a man.

The Hero managed to push down her fuming irritation as she walked into the garden. The sight of the witch's son peacefully reading did much to still her own mind. The servants bowed, retiring to more private distances. A quick nod from the guards confirmed there'd been no danger anywhere near the child. Kieran sensed the change of movement around himself and looked up, smiling to greet one of the few people who'd been allowed to be part of his life.

"Good book? Wait – I know, they're all good." Solona corrected herself as she joined him on the bench. The boy devoured literature with the same thirst for knowledge that defined his mother.

"Not all," Kieran corrected her correction, "Some are lies. Some are foolish. Some try to take knowledge out of the world instead of bringing it in."

"Ah, you inspected the Chantry library today, didn't you?" the Warden laughed, recognizing the glint of mischief in his tone that was just begging to get into an argument. Another trait he'd inherited from Morrigan. He never actually argued with his elders but he could be trusted to contradict them when they were blatantly wrong. That he did so politely and without any trace of pride made it easier for adults to accept. The boy excelled his mother's social graces in every possible way. Solona hesitated to give credit for that to Alistair's blood; he'd probably just read a few books on etiquette.

"This is 'A Study of the Southern Draconids,'" Kieran showed her the cover of the tome, "Did you know that varghests prefer to take prey back to the nest live? Do you think it tastes better?"

"I did not know that. Fortunately, I've never had one dragging me by my leg home for supper. And I can't imagine anything tastes good after being in a huge lizard's mouth for miles." Solona smiled and settled in. Once Kieran got going on his favorite subject there was nothing to do but listen and enjoy the show. She'd picked up more than a few tips for future dragon battles just by letting him list his encyclopedic knowledge. Besides, his whole face lit with enthusiasm as he spoke; it would be a crime to stop him.

The dark haired child born with the soul of an Old God was not simply a 'normal boy' as his mother claimed. He was far more enjoyable than any other child the Hero had ever had to be around. He often asked her about magic and particular spells, or questioned details from Morrigan's stories of the Blight. During many of their conversations Solona forgot she was even speaking to a ten year old. That fact was brought painfully back to her attention once when she began telling the boy of her adventures trying to chase down Morrigan. The Hero probably could've gotten away with her story if she'd left out the Desire Demons. Mention of the scantily clad malicious spirits and their various temptations got her knocked out. To this day she still wasn't sure if Morrigan had used a spell or just hit her with a staff. Either way, she woke with a bump on her head.

"You're not thinking about dragons." The animated lecture suddenly halted. A rush of guilt hit Solona, realizing her mind had wandered. She focused back on the boy and found his eyes patiently observant, face free of any accusation.

"I'm sorry, Kieran, I let myself get distracted. I was thinking about your mother." Solona immediately apologized. She knew better than to try to lie, not after the first dozen times he called her out on it.

"Will she be back soon?" His question struck the difficult balance between being excited by the prospect but not so hopeful as to be disappointed. Witch and son had been separated a number of times in his short life but he always knew she'd come back, just as she always knew he was safe.

"I think so. Have you been lonely without her?" The Warden slid one hand through the side of his hair, ruffling it into the messy shape that reminded her of black feathers. He smiled at the familiar gesture, recognizing the silent offer of comfort it implied.

"I miss her but I'm glad she left me with friends." Kieran clarified his answer by leaning against the mage's side. The Hero instinctively wrapped an arm around his shoulders, letting him settle in to resume reading his book. She was glad of his distraction since she wasn't entirely sure she could swallow the emotion that had swelled up in her throat. Warmth and trust radiated off the boy as easily as intelligence but it always surprised Solona when it encompassed her.

Alistair is an ass. The conviction had her shaking her head and hugging the boy closer. He was one of her dearest friends but Maker, what a twit sometimes! Kieran was probably better off without him. He'd have only gotten in Morrigan's way and messed up the wonderful work she'd already done raising her son. She had softened into a true mother. How Morrigan knew to be gentle, protective and nurturing after growing up under Flemeth was an utter mystery. Perhaps the shape of a family didn't have to be determined by what you came from but by what you wanted it to be? I'll have to hope so. The Warden thought of her own 'family' of friends. None of them had come from anything you could want.

This chapter blended concepts from a few of Inquisition's possible scenes. If Alistair remained a Grey Warden he would've run into Morrigan and Kieran at Skyhold. Just because he's king here seemed no reason to spare him the same confrontation. Or the castigation for his less than inspiring paternal performance.
Please review with your comments and opinions so I can keep an eye on how badly I'm confusing the audience.