Our Ghosts Are The Same

Dragon Age 2

Chapter 5: Ladies-In-Waiting

A/N: Did it seriously take me five chapters to get Cousland to Kirkwall?

Hawke turned the fine material over in her hands before she realized what was bothering her about the dress.

"The neckline is...low," she remarked stiffly, holding up the dress against her torso. Isabela didn't see the issue.

"But, sweet thing, that's the best part." She took the dress from Hawke's death grip and showed it to Merrill and Orana. Aveline had long since left them after she had delivered the too fine, too expensive, and too revealing package. A wise move, Hawke thought bitterly. Too long had the four of them been 'ohhing' and 'ahhing' over Duke Prosper's extravagant gift. Whoever Duke Prosper was, he was a rich one. He had sent the dress to Hawke's estate through the guard, but for what reason she did not know. Yet.

If this was simply because he had a unmarried son...

Oh, Maker. It could be worse, she realized. Duke Prosper could be the unmarried one.

Hawke stopped her imagination right there; it was heading nowhere good fast. She jumped back into the conversation instead. "It's the wrong color," she pointed out flatly. "It's blue. Red's my color, everyone knows that."

"It's such a pretty blue, though," Isabela cooed and laid it out on Hawke's bed for all to see. She nudged Orana gently. "Don't you think so?"

The dress was honestly not just a pretty blue. It was bloody gorgeous. The blue was so deep it was nearly purple and it was vibrant in a way Hawke had never seen before. Not even on other nobles. It had to be bewitched. Such pure, eye catching color wasn't possible with simple dye.

Merrill seemed afraid to touch it. Her slender fingers reached out, just inches away from the cloth and there they would stay, not moving. As if she would ruin the fabric with a single prod.

Stepping silently behind her, Hawke whispered, "Boo."

As Hawke had expected, Merrill jumped and flew back into her. As the two stumbled backwards, Merrill asked repeatedly, "Boo? What does that mean?"

"Ghosts say it, kitten," Isabela explained, wiggling her fingers eerily.

Merrill was unconvinced. "I have never heard a spirit say "boo". Ever."

Hawke shrugged. "You're the expert, Merrill." Hawke watched as Orana carefully folded the dress up and placed it delicately back into its box. "I wasn't even planning on wearing a dress. I'm a Champion, not a lady-in-waiting."

"If you don't wear the gift, Mistress, you'll risk offending His Grace," Orana explained quietly. If Leandra was still there she would have known that. She could have instructed Hawke and got her through this banquet. But she was gone. Orana quickly stepped into her place.

Aedan glanced at the templar's eyes through his helmets eye slits. It was hard to tell if this templar was serious with his face covered like that. It was too damn hot outside to be wearing a metal helmet like that without reason. And since mages didn't even wear armour, there really wasn't a reason for it.

This particular templar had stepped into his way the second he and his subordinates had walked onto Kirkwall's dock. Aedan set his jaw. He had been expecting something like this. He had brought a currently very sunburnt mage with him.

Aedan raised a hand in greeting, very aware that he and the rest of his group were still dressed like raiders. "Hold, templar. We're Wardens and this mage is one of us. You have no authority here."

"Is that so?" The templar's voice was muffled, though still quite snobbish. If Aedan had to guess this templar was probably the youngest son of some lesser noble and thought himself above them. If he only knew... There was no chance that he'd recognize Aedan as the Hero of Ferelden, though. He hadn't bothered with shaving the entire trip and now resembled some barbaric hillsman.

Aedan made to move on, but the templar refused to budge. "There isn't a Warden post in Kirkwall. How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Maker, this again. "I am the Warden-Commander of Amarathine. And you're in my way."

"Perhaps I should take you to Meredith to be safe."

Who was this Meredith? The new Viscountess? But why would she be working through templars? She had to be a Knight-Captain or Knight-Commander then. Aedan thought this over and glanced back at Warden Sienna who was vigorously scratching her sunburn. She looked like she had been roasted on a spit.

Warden Cartier stepped in for support. "You have no right," he told the templar. "Chantry law says-"

"I know what it says." The templar still did not move. Aedan inwardly brightened; a little confrontation was just the way he liked to start his day. He straightened out to his full height and walked into the templar, forcing him to unwillingly back up a few feet.

"The Arch-demon was in my way, once," was all he said. It wasn't a threat; it was a simple fact. But if the templar interpreted it as a threat, well, that couldn't be helped.

His statement didn't go over well. "You're not going to kill me."

"No, I wouldn't. I'll conscript you." That threat went over much, much better. Most people were more than willing to try him in battle, but would they face a darkspawn so willingly? Maker, no. The idea of being conscripted into the Wardens was worse than death to some.

While the templar was stomping back to his commander, Sienna remarked casually, "What's with the templars in this town? They're all over the damn place. Like cockroaches."

Aedan had to agree with her. In Ferelden the templars kept to their Circle on Lake Calenhad and away from the bulk of the populace. In Kirkwall, evidently, they had free reign. "Agreed," he told the mage. "Let's not do anything to draw their attention, then."

Warden Cartier nodded. "What I want to know is how did the Champion hide from them for so long?"

"Well, they made her Champion for a reason." Aedan searched the docks. There was supposed to be someone there to meet them, but everyone on the docks looked busy with their own lives.

Except for a girl dressed in ridiculously ornate armor. She had been watching their ship the minute they had arrived. She was waiting for someone, he guessed. And from her angry stance he also guessed that she was very tired of waiting for them.

Aedan approached her quickly and asked her, dreading the reply, "My lady, you wouldn't happen to be waiting for the Warden-Commander, would you?"

She barely gave him a glance. "Yes," she replied grimly, keeping her grip tight on the mace at her side. "I'm his new squire."

"Ah."

Hawke tugged hopelessly at Duke Prosper's dress, trying to protect what little modesty she had left. "The neckline, though. What if I get into a fight? One tug and bam, there go the girls."

Varric chuckled at that. He was dressed up as well, wearing a new dark red coat that she was madly jealous of. "As amusing of a story as that has the potential to be, there is zero chance of you getting into a brawl, Hawke. And there's zero chance of you flashing the nobles."

"Then what's the point in even going?" she demanded in mock seriousness.

Isabela cackled devilishly while Merrill giggled behind her hands. Most of Hawke's group was there at her mansion, practicing their dinner etiquette at the behest of Seneschal Bran. And surprisingly they were all present, save for Fenris, of course, but no one was really surprised at that. He had plenty of experience at these sorts of things, stuffy banquets with important people. But, unlike Sebastian, Fenris's banquet experiences hadn't been...pleasant. Hawke hadn't expected him to attend, though it would have helped her focus. Instead of remembering which fork was to be used with which dish, she was wondering where he was. Brooding in his basement, most likely.

"Hawke, that's...wrong. Again." Sebastian gently took her spoon from her hand and laid it back on the table. The Seneschal, once he learned how little Hawke knew about proper banquet etiquette, had locked himself in Leandra's old room and refused to come out until Hawke stopped chewing with her mouth open. Aveline and Sebastian had mostly taken over from there. And after Varric proceeded to whisper tidbits of dwarven etiquette in Hawke's ear and completely erase all Aveline had managed to teach her, the Guardswoman had thrown her hands up and left. Now only Sebastian remained, desperately trying to educate Hawke and avoid staring at Isabela who was lying across the table, muttering about hats. Hawke glared at the brother's perfect and zealous blue eyes. Sebastian just smiled gently back at her and nodded towards the spoons again. He was being so damned patient with her and it was driving her mad.

"I. Was. A. Bloody. Peasant!" She slammed her palm on the table and sent a few utensils flying. "We only had one spoon each!" She stood up, and stormed out of the room. Seconds later she returned, seething. "Just realized I have nowhere to go since you're all in my damn house."

Merrill gestured for her to sit down again. "I think I've figured it out, Hawke. It's this one." The tiny elf raised a spoon high in triumph.

Varric shook his head. "Wrong, Daisy."

"Oh." Merrill's fine brows furrowed. "Shit."

Hawke moved Isabela's legs away from her chair. "It's mostly Orleasians coming to this, right? I don't think they'd be surprised if I just speared everything with my knife. I am Ferelden, after all. They'd be expecting it."

Isabela suddenly sat up and laughed. "Hawke, if you ever want the Seneschal to leave you'll have to stop talking like that." She hopped off the table. "It's the middle fork. Maker, you're memory is bad. No wonder you're shit at cards." The rogue sauntered over to Hawke's mother's room to get Bran out.

"I'm not nearly as bad as Anders!" Hawke glanced over at Anders who was asleep in his chair. Justice kept him up nights, having no care for his human needs. It made Hawke angry, but as Anders had pointed out before, it wasn't her place to question it. He stayed unconscious, even after Hawke threw a few bread rolls at him. The Seneschal caught her in the act as he was walking out and tried to retreat inside again.

"No." Isabela shoved him back towards the table. "Hawke is the closest thing to a Viscounte that you've got. Now, attend to her."

Seneschal Bran gathered what was left of his dignity and slowly stepped over to her, his back straight and proud. "Champion?"

Hawke looked him straight in the eye and asked, "What do I do if I have to take a piss?"

He hadn't argued when the girl had claimed to be his new squire. Aedan simply followed her to her father's small estate on the outskirts of Kirkwall. Her family was part of the minor nobility and was in the business of mining. And that was all Aedan knew about them. He might have asked a little more about their background but he soon learned that he wasn't staying with them. Just his brother's guards were. Aedan and his two Wardens (and evidently his new squire) were going to be someone else's honored guests.

Aedan sighed and asked Petyr Mortaine (that was his squire's father's name) who the Comte de Launcet was. Aedan didn't get a useful answer, other than the fact the Comte and Comtessa were very, very Orleasian. And they were thrilled (or at least the Comtessa was) to have the Hero of Ferelden under their own roof. His next question was more serious. "Ser Mortaine, why is your daughter squiring for me and not any other knight? I've never had a true squire and I'm afraid I don't want to change that." For a noble's daughter there should have been plenty of knights available to take her on as their squire. If not in Kirkwall, then in Ferelden or Orlais.

Petyr grew very still. "Edith's father is Antivan."

"So?"

"I'm not Antivan."

Ah. The girl was a bastard child, then. She would be considered an insult to most "true" knights. But she did have one thing going for her. She had a step-father that didn't hold her mother's wayward sleeping habits against her. Even with this knowledge, Aedan still didn't want her squiring for him. He was going to argue against it further, but Edith herself decided to join in the conversation. She was short for her age, but still stocky. And she was strong if the mace at her hip was any indicator. "Milord," she said quietly. Her speech was unrefined. "If I don't find a knight that will take me on, it's either marriage or the templars for me." Her too wide mouth thinned miserably. "I don't want to join the Chantry and my mother would rather I work in the mines than put her through what it would take to get me married. But if you were my sponsor, milord, they'd have to knight a bastard. I heard you got one crowned back in Ferelden."

Oh, shit. What was the Maker thinking when He "gifted" him with a soft spot for misfits? Aedan reluctantly stomped over to the girl. "Squire Edith, I fight darkspawn."

"I know this, milord."

"I'm no chivalrous knight. I'm a Grey Warden."

"Noted, milord."

"I'm going to treat you as if you were one of my recruits. If you fail to meet my expectations, I'll feed you to a hurlock."

Warden Sienna was perturbed. "What?"

Aedan ignored her and nodded. "Fine, Squire." He slid his pack from his shoulders and thrust it at her. "You will lead us to the Comte and Comtessa. But before we leave..." He pointed first to himself and then to his two wardens. "We all need baths and I need a shave. Arrange that." While she stumbled off with the added weight of his pack, Aedan addressed the rest of his men who would be staying at Mortaine's home. "You lot will be staying here and helping guard Mortaine's mines until I have other orders for you." Mine guarding wasn't how the men and women of Highever had wanted to spend their time, but Aedan didn't hear any arguments from them.

When his new squire returned (Maker, he really, really didn't want one. It was practically the male equivalent of having a lady-in-waiting.) Edith announced that his bath would be ready as soon as the servants finished heating up the water.

"That's acceptable, Squire Edith," he told her, biting his tongue. He hated playing the part of the never pleased noble, but he reminded himself that Alistair had sent him here as a noble and not as a warden. He stopped the girl before she vanished again to retrieve a shaving kit for him. "In your personal opinion, how would you describe the Comte and Comtessa?"

"Orleasian."

He looked down, then up, and at last he simply grimaced. "That's what I heard."

"Are you sure about this, Mistress?" Orana asked her for the second time. The elf lifted up a few strands of Hawke's hair and let it fall over her shoulder. "Your hair has grown so lovely and thick-"

"Chop it off. Now." Hawke pulled out one of her boot knives from its hiding place. "If you don't, I will," she reminded Orana gently. Orana quickly resumed her work, brushing out her hair and getting any tangles out before she cut it.

As locks of her hair began to fall around her and onto her back, Hawke tried to make conversation. Orana just clicked her tongue in concentration when she felt she had to respond. The Seneschal and her companions had left long ago. Bran might have been crying when he left, Hawke wasn't sure. She didn't blame him if he was. Her manners at the dinner table were atrocious. While her family was in Lothering her mother had attempted to teach them to eat properly, but to Hawke it didn't matter how nicely one ate when their dinner was half a slice of bread. How Carver had managed to get so damn big was a mystery to her still today.

"How much?"

"For your hair? It's dark. The ladies prefer blonde for their wigs."

"But it's clean! And thick! And there's nearly two feet of it."

A deafening and maddening pause. "I suppose I could make a wig out of that. Sit down and I'll cut it. If you're sure about this...?"

"My brother needs new boots."

Hawke blinked. She had nearly fallen asleep and Orana had let her. "Is it done?"

Orana brushed a few stray hairs off of her apron. "Yes, Mistress. It's done."

Eamon had informed him in his final instructions that he had arranged for Aedan and his men to stay in the city. And Aedan understood why more than half his men were staying with Petyr Mortaine. They were needed at the mines and probably were making some money for the crown as they did their duty. That made sense. But why would Eamon send him to stay with Orleasians? He thought at first it was because Isolde knew the Comtessa, but later he learned otherwise.

The Comtessa had daughters. Awful, snobby, and unmarried daughters that gossiped and wore odd shades of make-up and were cruel to the servants. Their mother was lovely, though. Kind and gentle, though still very Orleasian. The Comte mostly stayed out of everyone's way, rubbing his temples and searching for something to cure his headaches.

While his wardens, Cartier and Sienna, were excused immediately after dinner so that they could rest from the journey, Aedan was stuck answering mundane questions about the Blight and Ferelden. He tried to be nice and to keep the gory details out of his answers, but a few snide remarks from Dulce de Launcet quickly soured his attitude.

"I stabbed the Arch-demon until I reached its brain. Then I moved the blade around a bit so everything got mixed together and-"

The Comtessa and her daughters shrieked and together they left for their rooms, in fear that they would soon swoon. Aedan couldn't care less. They had left the Comte and himself alone in the study, for which the Comte leaned over to the Warden and whispered, "Thank you."

Aedan was a terrible house guest. He was sneaking out. Getting past the Comte's guards was easy. It was his damn squire that was giving him all the trouble. She was useful, yes, especially as a guide. But she wouldn't let him breathe. All throughout dinner with the de Launcets she had stuck to him like a leech. Edith wouldn't let him out of her sight and while to another it might have been endearing, to him it was downright annoying. He was perfectly capable of managing on his own; he had done it for years.

Kirkwall's nights were cool, cool enough so that Aedan was able to wear one of his cloaks around outside. He didn't want to be recognized during his midnight walk, not by Edith or by anyone. Kirkwall's nightlife was still lively, even though half the city was still under reconstruction. Since he still didn't know the city's layout yet, Aedan headed for the only place he had seen. The docks. When he neared the place he could smell frying fish and hear the tempting "pop" of fresh grease. True to character, Aedan headed for the food first. The Comtessa had somehow gotten the idea that he preferred vegetables over meat (evidently that was an actual thing—he had no idea) and had served him no meat. He wouldn't have been surprised if Eamon had been behind the rumor.

Instinctively he followed the smell of frying fish and ordered a plate from the women behind the delectable smell. He finished off the fish quickly, cleaning his fingers clean of grease with his handkerchief. He would have licked them clean but that might have been undignified.

As he was enjoying his second helping, he heard a rough, irritated voice bark, "Someone's cooking fish." It was followed by a gagging sound and then a few laughs. One of the laughs, a loud confident chuckle caught his attention.

"Isabela?"

Hawke could hardly keep herself still. She was mostly healed, her face no longer resembled minced meat, and her hair was back to its normal length. She moved from one foot to the other as Anders studied her, feeling her ribs and her stitches. After she announced very loudly that she felt fine, he gave in.

"You're back."

Hawke gave a little jump and wildly danced around him. "What did you say, Anders?"

Anders simply shook his head, his eyes bright with amusement. "The Champion's back. I give you my okay to get back out there."

"Yes!" Hawke ran over to her estate's doorway where Varric, Isabela, and Fenris were waiting for her. She quickly grabbed Varric by the shoulders. "Get you pen out, Varric, because I'm back on top!" She grabbed her father's old, worn down staff and headed for the outside. "Let's go kill a dragon! Yeah!"

"Slow down, Hawke," Varric advised her. "We're going to start with some raider captains on the docks. Then maybe a dragon."

"Don't go promising her that," Fenris snorted.

Isabela agreed. "A midnight jaunt to the Bone Pit does not sound like fun. And I need some fun." She turned to Hawke with a smirk. "Help me pick out some fun?"

"Oh, that's what I'm here for. To be your unneeded wingman." Hawke laughed, stretching out her limbs and lead the way to the docks.

This was the best she had felt in ages. She wasn't a helpless doll anymore; she was the Maker damned Champion of Kirkwall. And everyone knew it now.

The minute they hit the docks Fenris started complaining about the smell, which got him a few weak laughs. They laughed louder when he actually gagged on the stench.

Hawke walked ahead of them, grinning like an idiot before she stiffened out of reflex. Damn if that wasn't the tallest bloke she'd ever seen, and her father and Carver had been tall men. She had nearly mistaken him for a Qunari, hence her reaction. She nudged Isabela. "Check out the giant. Maker, was his father a Qunari?"

Varric and Fenris followed her gaze. "He's probably here to help with reconstruction," Varric shrugged. "They need some poor bastard to lift the heavy stuff."

"Or they need someone to help "attend to" all the new widows," Isabela purred and headed his way.

"I really doubt that's why he's here," Hawke scoffed, but to her surprise the man was walking towards them. Oh, no. Even though she had promised to aid Isabel in her quest for "fun" (sex, she was really talking about sex), Hawke had been bedridden for far too long to miss out on some real action now. "Sorry, Isabela. Some other time." She grabbed the pirate by the wrist and steered out of the man's path. She elbowed him out of her way. "Sorry, farm boy. Some other time, eh?"

"Oh, you are such a buzz kill," Isabela grouched, looking back over her shoulder. "He looked sort of familiar..."

"Then you've been there, boned that. Let's move!" She was not missing out on her first piece of action since the Arishok. Isabela could wait on one piece of ass. Even if it was a really well-formed ass that belonged to a really well-formed, tall person. Damn, she need to hurt something.

"Farm boy?" Aedan repeated, still looking quite shocked. That certainly wasn't the reaction he had wanted. "Farm boy?"

"You struck out?" A dock worker came over and patted Aedan's shoulder apologetically. "Don't worry. She was out of your league."

Aedan's mouth quirked up. He asked the man good-naturedly, "Oh, was she?"

"Of course she was." He stated that as if it should have been obvious. "That was the Champion."

Oh.