Part III: The Hawke, The Crow, The Warden
The Tragic Flaw of Charming Men
"The tragic flaw of charming men is exactly as it seems,
Too much grease can break down a machine."
-Astronautalis, The Wondersmith and his Sons.
Hawke had heard the stories. Who, Ferelden-born, had not? The powerful mage who had led a resistance against the Blight and defeated the archdemon in less time than it would take for most of her magical brethren to organise their way out of a wet paper bag. She had expected...well...she wasn't really sure what she'd expected...but it had certainly been someone grander, a foot taller, a ravishing beauty with eyes of topaz and hair the colour of flame. The woman who glowered across from her, dirt-smeared and hollow-cheeked, tied up amidst in the damp bracken, was certainly a surprise.
She was lithe and starving thin, perhaps a whole head shorter than Hawke, a woman hardly known for her height. A scar slithered its way down a pale cheek, a dark red freshness to it. Her eyes did not glimmer like topaz but were the dull green of stricken pond plants, silted with rage and framed by the purple bruise of sleeplessness.
Her voice, however, was exactly what Hawke expected. Deep and dark and full of the lustre of command. "Who are you? Who sent you?"
Hawke felt no need to respond. She had the upper-hand here, whatever the little Warden thought. She uncorked the wineskin with her teeth and reclined against the stump of a tree as she guzzled down her afternoon's ration of brandy.
"Did the Herald pay you to take me?" the elven mage continued, unphazed by the lack of response. "You said something about Skyhold?"
Hawke shrugged, smacking her lips together, relaxed, but keeping her eyes trained on the Hero. No doubt the woman could still run if she had to. "Want some ointment for that?" she gestured to the scar with the neck of her skin. "Wouldn't want it getting infected."
The elf sighed, shoulders slumping. "I'd prefer a tug on that..." those green eyes glimmered a little as they followed the liquor. "Smells Antivan..."
"Good nose," Hawke grinned. "But I'm not stupid enough to fall for the old untie-me-and-we-can-be-drinking-buddies trick..."
"Just my luck," the Hero sighed. "So what's the plan...drag me back to Skyhold? I had the Herald's permission to leave, you know." She held her chin up slightly, jaw clenched. "I'm running an errand for him."
"Truthfully?" Hawke cocked an eyebrow, bringing her legs up to her chest to lean even closer. "I tracked you from Skyhold..." she whispered.
"And?" the Hero betrayed nothing this time...She's used to keeping secrets.
"Well...forgive me if I'm mistaken," Hawke purred. "But you took a mighty detour if Amarathine is your destination...one might call it...suspicious."
It was the Hero's turn to slump backwards, as thought to distance herself from Hawke's questions, her face was as smooth as a mirror's surface. "An answer for an answer."
"If I thought you wouldn't lie, I might take you up on that..." Hawke sighed. "But I hear you're fond of secrets..."
She straightened her legs, planting her boots firmly among the grass and before heaving herself to her feet. "So...decision time...I could take you back to Skyhold and earn my pay...or...?"
"Or what?" the Hero asked, a small smile playing about her lips.
"Or you could double what my employer is offering," Hawke put her hands on her hips, cheeks tugging upwards. "And we can be drinking buddies after all..."
Zevran formed his face into one of meekness. Those like the Herald of Andraste were better charmed than cheeked. Such men populated the higher ranks of the Crows, men puffed up with resentment, propped up with power. They were marks that required patience.
"I humbly beseech you, my friend," he said, making sure his voice carried across the assembled crowd. "This man was injured in the line of duty...you would not turn one such as he away?"
"A mage and a turncoat," the Herald grunted, looming over Zevran like some great beaked dragon, close enough that the elf could see the flare of his nostrils, close enough that he could smell the man's steel.
He blithely wondered if the Herald knew he could kill him with a well placed flick of his wrist. "There's been some misunderstanding, I do not doubt it," Zevran said, the image of the cobblestones drinking the brute's blood fuelled his grin
His eyes did not leave the Herald's. The Herald did not blink.
I do so love a challenge.
A feminine throat cleared itself from behind the great bulk of a man. "Inquisitor...I advise you to let this man in...he is..." a silken form shuffled between them. "Who he professes to be."
"My Lady Montilyet," Zevran shuffled backwards to dip into a bow, flattening a hand to his heart in an Antivan gesture of reverence. An easier target at least. "You are as lovely as the stories, my dear."
"You know this man?" The Herald spat, his glare now for his Ambassador.
"I make it a habit to know all the royal staff," Lady Motilyet could not hide the flush in her cheeks. "Especially those who rise from street orphan to right hand of the King."
A shadow flickered on the other side of the Inquisitor. "You're here...good."
The man glowered at his Spymaster. "You knew this...elf was coming?"
"He is here under my command," Leliana muttered. Zevran suppressed his pride and nodded.
"I can be most useful, Herald..." he whispered. "If only you'd let me..."
She could have run. She could of shaken off this drunkard with the ease of a whispered word. Even without her magic she could have escaped, ran off into slowly dimming light. But every time the other woman's eyes lulled with booze or became distracted by slight sounds around the clearing where they'd made camp, Neria found something kept her still.
What that something was she couldn't say...she needed no other hand stirring the complex waters of her life. She'd been a lone wolf long enough to slip away from danger; to evade the aggressive bands of templars that would hang her to the nearest tree, to avoid the demons spilling from the sky and the pack of monsters that roamed the hills to the north of the city. She had spoken true to Leliana. One may go where two may not...and yet...
She snuck a glance at the woman from under her hood and found those unnervingly blue eyes staring right back at her. She tried a small smile and her captor-turned-employee grinned right back.
They drank in silence. Shared a haunch of rabbit. Neria kept questions close to her chest, doubting she'd get any straight answers, grateful that the woman did the same since she'd lined her palm with gold.
"I'll take first watch," the woman grunted. "You should sleep, Hero."
And despite her qualms, despite a niggling distrust in her chest, Neria curled up among her furs, cradled by brandy and exhaustion, and slept.
