Chapter 50: To Arms (Part II)
"To show resentment at a reproach is to acknowledge that one may have deserved it."
― Tacitus
Hawke calculated she must have slept for the entire day, she was so exhausted. On the morning of the second day, though, she forced herself out of bed.
Time to go. Can't linger here too long. Got to keep moving.
She reported to the War Room, where Varric awaited her and she finalized her formal report to the Inquisition.
"How long are you staying for?" Varric asked her afterwards, as they headed out into the courtyard.
"Oh, I want to be on my way as soon as possible," she said, trying to convince herself of her urgency. "But…the healer told me I shouldn't bear weight on this ankle for a few days," she explained, showing him the thick bandage. She felt a little smaller and vulnerable as she looked down at her legs without her hefty leather boots. "Told me to stay put for four...five days—at the most."
The dwarf cheered.
"Good! It'll be like old times!"
Hawke cocked an eyebrow at him.
"Well...If you squint," he grinned.
Hawke listened in mild horror as the bard at the Herald's Rest sang a lugubrious melody:
"No promise surviving the Breach in the sky…" Maryden sang gloomily.
Hawke fumbled through her pockets, fishing out a few gold coins. She hobbled over to the bard during an break and pleaded.
"Can you sing something else? Something more cheerful? Not about breaches, rifts, templars, or demons?"
Maryden sniffed, slightly peeved.
"This is the music of our time, of our truth, and reality."
"Cheerful, please." Hawke asked.
"I'm sorry, but you are asking me to compromise my artistry and I can't—"
Hawke thrust the coins in her hand. At the sight of the gold, Maryden's eyes widened.
"Cheerful," Hawke repeated, pointedly.
"Cheerful," Maryden nodded, swiftly pocketing the gold.
Maryden watched her hobble back to her seat and began plucking the strings on her lute.
"Sera was never an agreeable girl…" she smiled, singing her one, lone, hit song.
Better, Hawke decided.
She turned in disbelief to Varric, who had just brought over two robust tankards filled with ale.
"Maferath's balls—not even at the Hanged Man did we have to suffer such indignities!"
He smirked, slipping onto the bench in front of her.
"See? Everyone maligns the place, but it was actually quite decent. Besides, the cook there really knew how to prepare good, spicy sausage."
"Speaking of sausage connoisseurs," Hawke interrupted, taking a small sip of her drink. "How's Isabela?"
They both snickered.
They sat chatting for a while, the tankards of ale going down smoothly, as the tavern gradually filled up with more customers.
"Did you read through all the letters I held on to for you in your absence?" he asked.
"Some. Only the interesting ones. That means none of the business stuff. I'm still absent for those."
"And how is Bethany faring these days?" he asked casually.
Hawke tilted her head and offered him a cynical grin.
"Come on, Messere Tethras—you've already read through all those letters."
Varric shrugged.
"I know, I know…It's my job. But I want to hear your take on them, because sometimes you pick up on stuff I don't—"
"—And vice versa," she smiled broadly.
"So I'll go first: Isabela. Still no pants. Compensating for the lack of a dick with a gigantic hat—"
Hawke chuckled. "Yes, I concur."
"No news from Anders still…"
Hawke grimaced, taking a sip of her drink.
"He knows how to contact us if he ever wants to. Not holding my breath. Not sure I've forgiven him."
"Still angry at him?"
"He should have trusted us more. There had to be a better way."
"And according to Daisy, she and her clan are taking good care of Bethany."
"And according to Bethany, she is bored out of her mind." Hawke cracked a grin.
"Are there really any excavations or was it all a ruse?" Varric wondered.
"Let me put it this way: I had Aveline take her off to Merrill's clan and pay them a handsome sum to take Bethany off somewhere peaceful and remote under the pretext that they'd be seeking artifacts of their people and needing protection against Darkspawn."
"Do you think Bethany is buying it? They're on an idyllic beach on the northern Antivan coast!"
"I can see it already…Bethany scowling and stomping up and down the shore, ranting, on the prowl for Darkspawn, disturbing and frightening innocent beach goers."
"Sounds foolproof," Varric smirked.
"Hey, laugh all you want: Bethany is safe and that's all that matters. And Merrill has my full permission to hogtie her if she starts with any Calling nonsense." She paused. "Although I think the worse has passed."
"I'm just glad there are Wardens left to tell the tale."
"Yes," she agreed. "I'll drink to that." She raised her tankard.
"And Hawkes, as well," he added kindly. She said nothing.
Whether she redeemed herself or not, I am pinning Stroud's death on Clarel, she thought darkly. This should never have gotten so out of hand like it did.
"What did you think of Bodhan's letter?" Varric proceeded.
"That poor man. I will make it up to him someday," she sighed.
"He's more of a secretary these days—"
"A good, honest man, putting up with all the inquiries and other nonsense at Kirkwall for me."
"He gets to live in Hightown, though!" Varric noted.
"At a very high price."
"I imagine you are stopping by Kirkwall en route to Weisshaupt?"
Hawke wasn't sure how to explain that returning to her estate in Kirkwall felt too foreign. Not only did she think of the place more and more as a mausoleum, she wasn't sure that the terms 'go back' and 'home' could ever be applied to her fate. Her latest escapade almost proved it.
"Let's see what else: Aveline's still miffed at me…" Varric informed her, leaning back.
"I saw! She was miffed for a good half dozen pages in your latest serial, too!"
"You read that?" He grinned, pleased. "I thought I captured her rage quite well in that passage—"
"You do like to live dangerously…"
"You jest, but I have it on good authority that my books are a hit with the King and Queen of Ferelden," Varric said proudly.
Hawke smirked.
"Good authority…?"
Varric rolled his eyes.
"Fine…just gossip. But I'll take it."
They fell into a comfortable silence, listening to the bard strum and observing the lively crowd.
"You never answered my question. What are your plans now?" he pressed on.
Hawke inhaled sharply.
"Weisshaupt," she declared, hiding behind her tankard.
"Route?"
"Land. I'll try to avoid Tevinter. It'll be a long, dull trip. But I have to go. I need the Grey Wardens to know…"
Her mouth went dry and her eyes quickly welled.
Keep it together, Hawke. Not here.
Varric considerately averted his eyes.
"You should stop in Kirkwall before you set out."
She quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Now that you've settled matters with the Inquisition, I doubt anyone other than the usual suspects will harass you."
She pushed the tankard aside and leaned over the table.
"What's brewing, Varric? Not your most subtle maneuver. We've talked about everyone except for one person here."
Varric blinked at her, feigning surprised at her calling him out.
"Who? Fenris? Why would I bring him up if you haven't? He's your business, not mine. Last I heard he was busy tracking down slavers somewhere in the Marches. Anything else is none of my concern."
Hawke sat back and contemplated him with an unconvinced stare before she began applauding him slowly.
"That was a beautiful performance. Splendid." She raised her finger at him. "Know where you lost me?"
Varric chuckled, shaking his head.
"Bit on it not being any of my concern?"
"Exactly!" She crossed her arms approvingly. "You make everything your business. And I know a setup when I see one. What's up?"
He sighed.
"It was a little heavy-handed, I'll agree."
Hawke did not budge; she awaited his explanation.
"Listen, Fenris has been…more…communicative…since you dropped out of sight during the worst of this Grey Warden-Corypheus mission." His expression softened. "He is worried. That's all."
The wave of guilt surfaced once again. She had left Fenris behind without a proper explanation. She knew he would have followed her to the ends of the earth. She knew that if he'd gone with them into the Fade and Evelyn had ordered her to stay, Fenris would not have let her sacrifice herself.
And that, she would not have been able to live with.
Heck. She gripped her drink once more. I can barely stand living with this now. It seems like everything I touch, everything I get involved with, ends up blowing up phenomenally. Interestingly enough, though, the only casualties are those I love or respect.
"Where did you go?" Varric called out to her.
"Sorry. I have a lot on my mind."
"All the more reason for you to stop by Kirkwall. It's spring…weather's nice…everything is in bloom…Take a break. Enjoy your estate for a bit. Let Bodhan and Orana take care of you. They would be happy to, you know. You owe it to them!" he teased.
"You're good," she admitted. "Play the guilt angle. That usually snags me."
"...And maybe while you are there, you could write Fenris a proper letter? Let him know you are all right?"
She cast him a sheepish look.
"I can't," she replied too quickly.
Varric rubbed his arm.
"Anything the matter between the two of you?"
She said nothing. How could she explain what a mess she had made of everything? That she'd left him one morning, promising to send word as to when he'd be able to join her, but instead disappeared without a further word, letting Varric handle any inquiries, as if Fenris were just another fist banging on her door.
It's for his own safety. She'd almost buckled a few times, during quieter, more desolate stretches of her mission, when the answers to the questions she'd set up to find became elusive and rarefied.
What am I doing? she'd ask, loneliness striking her hardest in the middle of the night when she'd awaken and crave the comfort of Fenris' warm skin, the intensity of that clear gaze, the shelter of his embrace, his arms holding her tight when bad memories fueled her dreams. Even on the road, even as they led that errant, itinerant lifestyle, perpetually on the move, they had found a semblance of peace. Of happiness.
"Need ink and paper?" he goaded her.
She was behaving in a cowardly manner, she knew. And she had thought of writing to him many times, but always seemed to find an appropriate excuse: she did not wish to betray her location, the area she was in was not secure, she always needed to meet or travel or complete a task before writing him.
"This is unlike you," Varric scolded her. "This is Fenris we're talking about."
"You don't understand," she asserted.
"You are right: I'm completely floored you are avoiding the man you presumably love."
"It's not that simple," she protested.
"Why are you behaving this way? He is a wreck worrying about you…and you are shunning him? Either something very bad happened before you two parted ways—a possibility I am less inclined to believe—or something else is going on with you."
"Like what?" she challenged.
"Like one of your stiff upper lips—not a good look on you, by the way."
She said nothing, a heaviness weighing in her chest.
"Here," he reached inside his coat and pulled out a small bundle. "Don't believe me? See for yourself."
Hawke stared at the neat print on the envelope, the handwriting unmistakable: she had seen it a thousand times before; heck, she had taught Fenris how to draw those letters in the first place. Her expression softened. She knew how much he hated writing. It was always a struggle for him. He was terribly self-conscious of his mistakes.
"Read them, then write to him," Varric ordered. "Whatever you decide, you must write and let him know. It is the decent thing to do."
Maryden had slipped back into some dismal melody and for once Hawke thought it was most appropriate.
