Our Ghosts Are The Same

Dragon Age 2

Chapter 4: Discomfort

A/N: I wish I could think of clever chapter titles.

Aedan was miserable—beyond miserable. The ride to Amaranthine had been easy enough. Warden Cartier had lived up to the Orleasian stereotype. He had a way with horses that no Ferelden could match. And Aedan had to admit (though he did so begrudgingly) that riding beat walking. Even if it caused him to walk bowlegged for a good ten minutes after dismounting.

No, his misery was not a result of saddle sores. It was the damn ship.

Once Sienna had caught up to them in Amaranthine, with the Champion's boon, Aedan had bribed the ship's captain to set sail ahead of schedule. It had taken a good deal of sovereigns and Aedan had hinted that he could sense darkspawn about. It was complete bull, but who was going to argue with the Hero of Ferelden? The captain had believed him and, not wanting to take any chances, they had set off.

Aedan soon discovered that sailing was not his thing. The ship was dirty, smelly, and above all else—wet. He hadn't been dry since they left Amaranthine and, embarrassingly, he was starting to chaff in certain places.

Isabela is a lying cheat, he thought bitterly. When he had first met the pirate at the Pearl she had made sailing seem like the best thing in the world. She had even ranked it above sex.

He liked sex better.

Finally deciding that sulking in the hold was not going to improve his mood, Aedan headed up to the main deck. He threw open the hatch with a grunt and instantly regretted the decision.

"What the bloody fuck?" He lost control of his tongue as he covered his eyes from the brilliant light shining upon his face. He could already feel his cheeks beginning to burn. "Is that the sun? Again?"

Cartier had been spending the majority of the trip outside with the sailors. But he had the advantage of Rivaini blood—he was used to such exposure from his father and son trips to the island of Rivaine. He was in no danger of burning.

The Orleasian stopped looking up at the Crow's Nest to say sarcastically, "Yes, that's the sun. It comes up everyday in case nobody told you."

Aedan squinted about angrily. "Not in Ferelden, it doesn't." He wished for his country's ever present dark clouds or its tall trees...anything to block out that infernal star. Cartier's yelling startled him, breaking him out of his sun-induced daze.

"Put your clothes back on! Dammit, this is the last time I'm warning you!"

What now? Aedan walked over to Cartier and asked reluctantly, "Who are you screaming at?" Curse it all, he was already sweating through his shirt. He had long abandoned his hot, heavy armour for a light sleeveless shirt and a simple pair of trousers. Maker, he didn't think he had ever been so hot. And he had nearly been roasted alive by dragons before.

Cartier started to answer. "That mage. She's running around in her skivvies." He pointed up the the Crow's Nest and Aedan followed his line of sight curiously. Sure enough, Sienna was up there, sunbathing from the look of it.

Aedan shrugged, indifferent. "That's her choice."

"I understand that, but you Fereldens—no offense—live where the sun only comes out twelve times a year. She'll burn to a crisp if she doesn't cover up."

Aedan crinkled his nose and chose not to ask why he thought calling them Fereldens was offensive. The skin around the bridge of his nose and on his cheekbones was beginning to itch. "Cartier, this Kirkwall...it's not known for its warm weather, is it?"

"I'm afraid it is, Commander."

"Ah. Damn."

There aren't enough curse words in the common tongue, Hawke decided without remorse. She knew she looked ridiculous, hanging helplessly from the iron bar she had attached to her doorway. She had been attempting to do a pull-up, hoping Anders's healing job had brought her back to normal. Considering the most she'd been able to since she grabbed onto the bar was kick her feet, she was going to assume that she still had a way to go. Anders was at least polite enough not to laugh. He helped her back down. "Hawke, are you sure you could do a pull-up before your duel with the Arishok?"

"I don't know, Anders. It wasn't like I had a reason to be doing pull-ups left and right. Don't be silly." Hawke moaned after she had made it to the ground. The drop down had jarred her ribs.

"Well," Anders said, inspecting her for the third time that evening. "You'll be ready for your banquet next week. That's good news."

Hawke's eyes rolled to the ceiling. "Yes. Great. I'll get to spend an evening with nobles. Won't Carver be jealous?"

Anders gave her a disappointed look. "Hey! I've met some nobles that weren't complete asses, I'll have you know." Suddenly Anders reached out and touched her cheek, his fingertips resting on her still lightly bruised face. "Do you want me to take care of this?"

Hawke ducked under his outstretched hand. "Time will take care of it, Anders." She moved as quickly past him as her ribs would allow. "Luckily for me my face isn't my best asset."

She was begging the question. Anders called after her, "Then what is?"

"My ass, obviously." She didn't hear any argument from Anders.

Varric's nightly card game at the Hanged Man had been unexpectedly canceled. What was even more unexpected was that Varric had sent out a messenger to Fenris's mansion to inform him of such. It mattered little to Fenris. Hawke hadn't shown up the past five nights and while it was still an enjoyable evening, there was no one there to play referee.

It was looking like tonight would be another night spent alone inside and he spent too many nights already in that fashion. Fenris reached for the wine bottle on his bare dining table and it occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time he ate. Groceries were needed, badly. He didn't feel like going out, though he knew his stomach was eventually going to win that argument. He was hungry—not starving, he knew starving, but he needed to take care of it nonetheless.

It was still light outside so the streets of Hightown were filled with lesser nobles hurrying to get home. They saw him and the hushed whispers started. He had learned long ago to ignore them, but when the name Hawke escaped their lips he startled and started to eavesdrop.

Two noble women were huddled together, their lazy bodyguard trailing behind them. One, a brunette who spoke too loudly, said to her companion, "Yes, I heard the explosion. Right in the middle of the night. I thought it was just the Champion doing some mage thing, but then I heard from the Comtessa-"

"Oh! How is the Comtessa doing?"

Fenris growled. Eavesdropping was only useful when people had something of interest to say. And if they stayed on topic.

The brunette didn't look pleased to be interrupted. She snapped, "She's fine," and continued. "Anyway, she told me that an assassin nearly blew up the Champion. Can you imagine? She's Champion for how long and people are already trying to kill her! My family hasn't had an assassination attempt in years! Aren't we still a threat?"

If Fenris thought anymore about the fact that this woman was jealous that Hawke was a assassin's target and she was not, he'd do something to land him in one of Aveline's jail cells. Instead he stalked silently and quickly to Hawke's estate, his head pounding from too much wine and his heart pounding from too much worry.

His pause before Hawke's doorway was only slight; memories of a night long past still pricked at him and he had to push those thoughts away. Fenris gave the door a good shove, making it inside without changing his mind. Bodahn was there, straightening up when he saw Hawke had a visitor.

"Serah Hawke is-"

He saw her. Standing at the top of her partially destroyed staircase and laughing at something Anders had said. Or that she had said. She did laugh at her own jokes.

Bodahn quickly found somewhere else to be, dragging Sandal along with him. Fenris waited, silently staring up at her until she noticed.

Not telling Fenris about the assassination attempt had seemed a good idea before. It wasn't like she could go over to his mansion, step over the still present dead bodies and say, hey, someone tried to kill me the other day. You know, a professional assassin. Just thought you ought to know. It'd be...an odd way to go about things. But now he was angry that he hadn't known. She could let him be angry, act the regretful child as she usually did and take her scolding. Or...

Hawke stormed down her stairs, stopping right in the middle. She pointed viciously at her broken railing. "Look at this! Some asshole broke into my house a few nights ago and brought a Maker damned bomb with him." Her line of thinking was, if she acted madder than he was, he'd get confused and back off. It was most likely idiotic, but it was all she had. "And that was before he tried to kill me!"

Fenris wasn't thrown off by her "clever" tactics. "How many?" His voice was low, but its timber carried throughout the empty house.

She blinked and fought the urge to say that there had been fifty of them which would explain why she was so thoroughly beaten. The truth came out regardless, just from Anders. "There was one. He's dead. Rebel protected Hawke quite valiantly."

Hawke was shocked; that easily was the nicest thing Anders had ever said about her dog. "He's a good boy," she agreed and as if summoned Rebel came bounding to her side. She patted his head and found it was quite sticky. Her smile waned. He had been at the jam again.

"Hmph." Fenris eyed them both, scowling before he turned on one of his bare heels and stalked out. Hawke went after him, nearly slipping on a bit of debris and having to catch herself without the railing there to provide support.

"Hold on," she pleaded, breathless. "It was just one guy. An Orleasian, I think." Fenris didn't halt so she kept on stumbling after him and talking. "He called my dog a "courser". That's an Orleasian thing, right?"

"You didn't tell me." His tone was slightly accusatory, but at least he was turned around now. Facing her.

Hawke bit her lip, testing the bruised part for sensitivity. "I didn't tell a lot of people. Anders, because I needed healing. Aveline, because she's the Captain of the guard. And you try keeping anything remotely interesting from Varric and Isabela. Those two know when I buy a new pair of socks, for Andraste's sake!" She spread out her hands and shrugged. "I wasn't keeping it from you. It was done with. There was no need." Then she waited. She knew why he came. He was worried. But he wouldn't say so. She knew that, too.

"You should post guards outside your estate, Hawke."

Change came slowly in Kirkwall. Sometimes it didn't come at all.

"Yes. I should."

While Aedan was uncomfortable, Moira was having a blast. Yes, Aedan had brought her along as well. The Captain, a Free Marcher, had asked Aedan if it was a good idea to bring her on board. He had explained to the Captain that Fereldens didn't go anywhere without their mabari. Not to war, the privy, or even the grave. Moira was there to stay, but if the Captain thought he could separate them from one another he was more than welcome to try. Maker, his people skills were damned rusty.

In total Aedan's party consisted of six of Highever's guards, straight from Cousland castle. These men and women were the best Fergus had had to offer...or the most available, but that was not how Aedan was going to introduce them at the Champion's banquet. He also had two Wardens with him, mostly for show. Warden Cartier and Sienna seemed the most mild mannered of Vigil's Keep's company, Aedan included. That was a positive thing. And Aedan didn't know them that well so he didn't feel obligated to chat with them. Instead Aedan kept to the hold and kept a log in his journal. He had two journals, actually. One was his day-to-day one, that honestly he neglected terribly. The other was much more well used. It was his Commander's log: each Warden-Commander was made to keep one. It was meant to record meetings with darkspawn and information about the Deep Roads. Aedan used it for that and to record any new skills or fighting techniques he picked up. He also included drawings. As a child he had been taught cartography, for war purposes, and he was still skilled and steady with ink.

He had a third journal with him, one that was much older and belonged to another commander that had long since passed on. He was only a quarter of a way through it, but it supposedly held an account of the discovery of an awakened darkspawn. Having dealt with them himself, Aedan was a bit curious.

After a few minutes of trying to read the tiny, cramped writing in the dark, he gave up and headed up top to rejoin his companions. His men were attempting to teach the sailors the lyrics to The Burden of the Warden, a bawdy song the Wardens usually sang whenever the mead was being passed out a little too freely.

Aedan refrained from singing along. He had a voice suited for command. It was too loud, too rough for song, but it carried over the sounds of battle and that was what was important.

The song stopped abruptly, leaving most of the men in laughter and one in a rage. Aedan smirked when he saw the angry man vigorously scrubbing his shirt clean of bird droppings.

He didn't need to be a sailor to know what that meant.

Birdshit meant birds.

Birds meant land was near.

He hoped Kirkwall was ready for them.