Chapter 3: A Hallucination in the Streaming Air
Memories of the Deep Roads never held clear in Abigail's memory. Rarely did they convalesce into more than flashes of hunger, fear, and the inescapable, all-consuming darkness.
Sometimes, in the silence of sleep, they became more. The proud boasting around a cheerful campfire, the unfocused smile of a strange little dwarf child, the easing weight of a friendship being rebuilt. Clear nights would hold memories of their success, the glitter of golden mountains or the first breath of clean, damp air as they breached the surface once again. Other nights were less kind.
Those dreams held the low and constant drone of monsters growling in the black. The grating of iron on stone. The unearthly stench of burning lyrium. Half-remembered creatures of flesh and magic lurked at the edge of her dream-vision, which remained forever focused upon the slow, steady closing of a sepulchral door upon a holy place lost to the ages.
On the worst of nights, she relived what happened after.
The terrifying darkness faded into the damp grey of the Marches in winter. Relief became a balm to her rage-burnt throat. They had escaped not only with their lives but with the unimaginable wealth she had barely dared to hope for. With the rough haul safe with Varric she could finally, finally go home with her head held high.
Instead of her mother's arms and her sister's smile, she opened the door upon the scene of her oldest nightmare. The sounds of frantic grief and the desperate crush of fear would echo across the years in Abigail's lowest moments. The sight of her mother crumpled in the dirty corner of Gamlen's house, of the steel hand wrapped too tightly around Bethany's arm, of the flaming sword that had loomed above them since before their births broke Abigail into nothing more than glassy shards of inhuman wrath.
She lunged at the Templars, honed by the months of hunting monsters beneath the earth. Those same months had left her half-starved and battered, and they beat her into the wall with the slightest of efforts. Bethany cried out, begging for them to stop.
The arms that pulled Abigail from the ground were thin and shaking, the shoulder her head fell again soft. Bethany's voice was a tearful whisper in her ear. "Please, Abby," she begged, "Please, stop. It's done." Abigail tried to protest, tried to find the strength to shove Bethany behind her and take up the fight once more. Bethany simply helped her to her feet, tucked a lock of blood-stiff hair behind Abigail's ear with a sad smile.
"I'm so glad you're alive. Please take care of Mum. I'll be alright."
Abigail looked over to the soldiers; saw that one of them was the young captain whom they had helped with off-the-record jobs in their early months in Kirkwall. He met her eyes with a stiff nod, stepped forward to grasp Bethany's arm with a gentler hold than his companions. They left without another word.
One of the helmeted Templars stayed behind, tossing meaningless, menacing words at Abigail. Speaking of the trials Bethany would endure in the Circle. Threatening their mother. Abigail spat at his feet. He brought his metal fist into her face.
On the worst of nights, Abigail woke feeling as though she were drowning in her own blood.
The sensation of drowning followed her powerfully to consciousness, leaving her choking and sputtering and violently confused. The water dripping from her hair was frigid, and it steamed when it dripped on to the hearthstone. When she managed to pull a full breath of air she looked over her shoulder to see Aveline sitting stiffly in a wooden chair, an emptied bucket on the floor by her feet.
"Your mother couldn't wake you," she explained without prompting. "You smell like a brewery and look like a drowned rat; one can hardly blame her for fearing you had passed on in the night."
"Fuck off, Aveline," Abigail spat, lurching unsteadily to her feet. The blessed numbness of drink had long since abandoned her and the world was little more than blurred shapes and colors through the nauseating pain. She stumbled and retched, managing only to heighten the pounding in her head and the churning in her stomach. When Aveline walked over to help her stand, she struggled against the armored hands.
"What part of 'fuck off' was unclear to you, captain?" Abigail sneered as she found herself manhandled into the washroom. Aveline ignored her entirely, dragging her to a stop before the too-clean stone bath filled with now tepid water.
"You are a grown woman and I shan't undress you, but you would be well advised to clean yourself up. The Viscount has asked for you by name and we will be leaving to meet him in two candle marks." Abigail scoffed weakly as Aveline turned to leave. She stared down into the water that was cleaner than what she drank for most of her life and glistening with clean-smelling oils and glared at herself, eyes drawn to the bloodscar from the 'spawn at Ostagar now emphasized by the well-healed crook of her nose.
"Abigail..." Aveline trailed off from the doorway, her voice soft and pained. "You've been doing so well lately. What's happened to make you do this again?"
Abigail wanted to hold on to her anger, her spite against the world and everyone in it, but she was so tired. In so much pain, old pain that ripped open far too often.
"Today is the twins' name day," she answered hoarsely, striking out at her reflection in the water. "Carver would have been...Bethy is twenty today. And they still won't let me see her. She's never...I've never, I..."
She hunched over the edge of the bath, sick with grief and rage. The uncomfortable shifting of steel and cloth betrayed Aveline's continued presence. "I...I understand," she said quietly. "Just, take your time, alright? I'll find something suitable for you to wear."
Abigail nodded at the water, started peeling off her sodden, stained nightshirt. The water was soft and almost warm. It burned at her scars.
Even after more than a year of residence in the Amell's ancestral estate nearly everything about Hightown still set Abigail's teeth on edge. Something about the simpering fools in draped in silk and finery, milling about the Viscount's Keep as though there weren't thousands upon thousands in the city below breaking their backs to earn enough bread to live to see tomorrow. Every good was overpriced, every would-be noble looked upon Abigail and her mother with haughty disdain. The ones with manners held their contempt to their gazes. Others called her 'The Ferelden Cur' when they thought her out of earshot.
The day was slated to be hard enough without this nonsense, she thought bitterly to herself as she and Aveline descended the marble stairs from the Viscount's office. The man himself was easy enough to deal with, though any more talk of 'influence above her station' and she would be forced to introduce him to exactly what kind of influence encouraged her to escape Lowtown.
"How do you want to go about visiting the Arishok?" Aveline inquired, tugging Abigail away from her acerbic contemplation. Abigail shrugged, frowning at the alien pull of soft leather and clean linen over her shoulders. "Haven't the foggiest. Who's to say the oxmen actually remember me? That business with the slimy dwarf and that rotten gas of theirs was what...almost two years ago? Maybe I just had the most memorable name among the hoards of undercity scum." Aveline made a noise of thoughtful sound of agreement, scratching at her chin as they were swallowed by the hot, humid air outside the Keep.
Abigail sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. Before she could make the turn towards her mother's estate an unseen hand wrapped tightly around her wrist, yanking her back into the shadows cast by the grand columns of the square.
Even in the flash of blindness brought from such abrupt movement, the instinct of violence propelled Abigail's body into motion. She managed to free her belt knife and make glancing, copper-scented contact with the assailant's skin before her head cracked against the stone wall and startled her into stillness. By the time her vision had adjusted the attacker's identity was clear.
"Maker's hairy ballsack, Bela!" she hissed, trying unsuccessfully to jerk out from the weight pinning her to the wall. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"Just shut up and listen, Hawke," Isabela hissed with uncharacteristic panic in her eyes. "Merrill has gone and done something really, really stupid. You have to go to the Gallows. Now."
"What in the bloody Void are you talking about?" Hawke demanded, at last succeeding in shoving Isabela away as Aveline circled back upon them. Isabela wiped angrily at the new cut dripping blood down her arm.
"Varric and I have been organizing bribes among the Templars for weeks, trying to get you in to see Bethany so you can stop trying to pickle yourself and finally get back to business. Everything was set up for today until I got word last night from my contact that the last man had an attack of conscience and refused the money. Merrill overheard and kept going on and on about how it had to be today and I...I ignored her." Isabela looked furious with herself and started stalking about the shadows, scraping her knuckles against the wall.
"I ignored her like I always do and when I woke up this morning, the money was gone. I know she's gone to try and seal the deal in person, I just know she has."
"Do you mean to tell me that Merrill, the unregistered Dalish elf and blood mage is alone in the fucking Templar barracks?" For a long, painful second Abigail couldn't so much as breathe.
Then she started running.
"I don't know what to tell you, messere. I know only that my employer was insistent that meeting take place this afternoon. Is there any chance I could speak to–"
"That's Ser to you, knife-ear," an irritated male voice snapped as Abigail lurched over the top step from the docks. She huddled behind the back of a statue and tried desperately to regain her breath as she assessed the scene.
Merrill was standing before an older, harried-looking Templar who was scouring a long sheet of parchment. She was dressed as a servant, simple, sun-bleached clothes that hung awkwardly off her angular frame. There was a burlap bag clutched tightly behind her back. Her staff was nowhere to be found.
"Ah, here it is. Hawke." The Templar frowned deeply before glancing back at Merrill. "Mage Hawke isn't yet a year past her Harrowing. Who did you say your employer was again, girl? And, come to think of it, show us your papers. Won't do to have elves just wandering about willy-nilly." He tucked the parchment back into his belt and took a step towards Merrill, reaching out to grip her arm when she fumbled for a response. The color drained from her face at the first touch of steel upon her skin.
"Alright, Abby," Abigail said to herself, running a hand over her face and straightening her jerkin. "Showtime."
Pulling herself to her full height, Abigail walked calmly into the square. "Would you mind unhanding her, terribly?" she asked in a bored voice as she came upon them. "I've just broken that one in, and I'd much rather save the time of training a new servant." The Templar dropped Merrill's arm immediately, startled by Abigail's intrusion.
"My apologies, Serah..."
"Hawke," Abigail supplied with a disinterested smile, taking a possessive hold of Merrill's elbow and pulling her back several steps back. "You'll have to forgive her; she's rather absentminded. Please rest assured that her registration is well in order. I made an appointment with Knight-Captain Cullen to receive a special exemption to speak to my sister, Bethany Hawke."
"That's...that's rather unusual," the Templar stammered. "Most families of repute would rather forget their consignments to the Circle."
"Your family name is Lory, is it not ser?" Abigail cut in a little too sharply, pulling a banker's receipt from her belt pouch. "Your sister and her daughter run the lovely little import stand near the Docks. It seems such a pity that goods, and women, of such quality be hidden amongst the rubbish down there. Why don't you pass this cheque along when you see her next, so that she might brighten up Hightown with her wares?"
She ripped her signature across the paper in the most indecipherable manner possible and forced it into the Templar's hand. He went slack-jawed at the number.
"Th-this is very generous, Serah Hawke." He pocketed the cheque quickly and glanced around the square for any sign of his brother knights. Abigail stiffened reflexively when he leaned in to whisper near her ear. "I can't get you anything private, but I can allow ten minutes supervised in the square. You alone, though; your girl will have to leave. Will that be satisfactory?"
"Quite," Abigail said quietly. "She's needed back at my estate, regardless. Would you allow me a few moments to discipline her before you retrieve the mage? Spare the rod, and all." The Templar nodded, tapping the side of his nose before turning to enter the hall that housed the Circle of Magi.
Abigail dragged Merrill behind that statue at the foot of the square and embraced her fiercely. "Maker, Merrill. I don't know if I want to strangle you or kiss you."
"I'd much rather the second, if I get a say," she replied with a shaky smile. Her face still held a deathly pallor, and she seemed to wobble on her feet when Abigail released her. "Isabela wouldn't listen to me; you had to see Bethany today. Name days are very important to...Elgar'nan, I don't feel well."
"I'm not surprised," Abigail muttered as she led them out towards the docks. "Templars flash their armor in magebane. It dampens the connection to the Fade and can make powerful mages very..." She trailed off when Merrill jerked away from her and vomited on the marble walkway. "Very ill," she finished softly, running a hand up and down Merrill's back.
"Listen. Bela's down at the far corner with a dinghy; get to her and let her take you back to the house in Hightown. Get some rest and I'll see you again before sunset." Abigail leaned up and kissed Merrill on the forehead. "Ma'arlath, you beautiful fool."
She saw Merrill around the last corner then returned to the square. She paced around nervously until the great doors of the Circle swung open.
Her knees nearly buckled at the sight of long, unruly black hair so like her own.
If there was one thing to be said about nights in Hightown, it was that they were unnaturally quiet. In the darkness of Lowtown there had always been noise, the call a whore plying her trade, or a muffled scream of a bandit exacting his own. Abigail had often been drunk beyond the point memory at this time in past months, and she remained wary of the stillness after that miraculously strange day.
Her mother had retired for the evening, delirious with joy over the news. Isabela and Varric had fallen asleep draped over various pieces furniture in her study after having raided her store of Antivan brandy in celebration of their successful scheme. Merrill continued to sleep off the effects of her ill-planed adventure, her head resting against Abigail's leg. And Bethany was...Bethany was fine.
Maker, she had almost seemed happy, Abigail recalled as she stared into the embers. She was a little too pale, the exhaustion beneath her eyes a little too deep, but she had smiled and laughed through the tears of their reunion. The mages had accepted her with open arms. She spent her days in a library Abigail could not even imagine the scale of. She was helping to teach the children of the Circle how to master their gifts. She was as close to finding peace as Abigail had ever seen her.
With luck and leverage the visits could be made more regularly, and coin was in near endless supply in those days. The burden of guilt and self-loathing had fallen from her shoulders once again, and in its absence she felt almost weightless.
A low murmur of pain and confusion drew her attention downward. Merrill's eyes had opened, bleary and unfocused.
"Hello," she croaked.
Abigail couldn't help but smile. "Hello, yourself. Are we feeling better?" Merrill frowned slightly, shifting her arm to hold her hand above her face. She twisted her wrist around. As she flexed her fingers, lightning arced between. "Oh, yes," she breathed in relief. "Much, much better."
Abigail rarely had the chance to see magic practiced so closely. The touch of it in the air was faintly familiar, but somehow deeply different from the feel of Bethany's practice. It made the hair on her arms stand on end, and without thinking she reached out to touch it.
She yelped when it made contact with her skin, the buzz of it not quite painful but strange beyond description. Merrill extinguished the spell with a giggle, pulling herself to sitting with her side pressed close to Abigail's.
"No one's ever done something quite so wonderful for me as what you did today," she said quietly, letting a hand rest on Merrill's knee. "Or so remarkably, inescapably, undeniably foolish. You must promise not to do something like this again."
Merrill frowned, but covered Abigail's hand with her own nonetheless. "I will not promise that," she started, giving Abigail's hand a warning squeeze when she took a breath to interrupt. "You've done foolish things for other people all the time, to help them even when you've been so unhappy you didn't want to leave your house. Helping Varric find his mad brother, helping those mages who got caught by that bounty hunter. Even helping that fellow in the market find his book! You do all these wonderful things for other people and I just...I want to be the one who does wonderful, foolish things for you."
She turned her head and smiled sheepishly. "Though, this time, Isabela and Varric did all the work. I just came in to muck everything up at the end." Abigail found herself beyond words for a few moments, taking the time to trace the pattern of dark ink that swirled over Merrill's pale face.
"I love you, Hawke," Merrill breathed. "Let me be to you what you are to me." Abigail smiled and kissed Merrill deeply.
"I think we're past the point where you should call me by my family name," she said with a little smirk as they parted. Merrill looked thoughtful as she pressed herself even closer to Abigail's side. "I know, but Abigail doesn't seem to suit you as much. And only your mother and Aveline seem to call you that, and only when you're in trouble for something."
Abigail snorted, unable to contradict the observation. She hesitated for a long moment, certain that the weight of what she was about to say was not palpable to anyone but herself. "What about Abby?" she offered. "Does that suit me?" Merrill's expression was unreadable.
Without warning she twisted around, her lips now close to Abigail's ear, and whispered the name in the lowest, breathiest of voices. The little laugh at Abigail's sudden stiffness was far less innocent than the one she shared with everyone else.
"Yes, ma vhenan," she said softly as she stood, pulling a still stunned Abigail to her feet.
"Abby suits you perfectly."
Abigail slammed into the cobblestones, the air gone from her lungs and the taste of blood thick in her mouth.
"Andraste's tits, Aveline. Was that really necessary?"
"It certainly was, Varric," Aveline replied, working her shoulder joint stiffly under her hand. "If Hawke is going to insist upon traipsing about the town at night like some sort of vigilante, she will go through the same rigor of training that my guardsmen do. I have standards for those who protect my city."
"I think you should give her a break," Anders chimed in, leaning over Abigail with a poorly concealed expression of deep affection. She wheezed her thanks as he helped her back to her feet. "She uses her own time and resources to help those who cannot help themselves. Who could ask for a better protector than that?"
Isabela chortled from her perch on the garden's outer wall. "We should have a little agency. 'Hawke Investigations: We Hope You're Helpless.'" Aveline scoffed and rolled her eyes as she made her way over to an orderly pile of steel armor resting against a flowering tree.
"Why don't you make yourself useful, whore? Get Hawke cleaned up and armored; we'll be sparring with blunts next." Abigail groaned aloud at the mere thought of it, sagging dramatically against the retaining wall. Anders seemed as if he wanted to protest the assignment of the task, but Varric quickly engaged him in some terrible exchange of war stories as Isabela hopped back to the ground and manhandled Abigail back to her feet.
"Come along, you great lug. I've a bone to pick with you, anyways."
"Just one?" Abigail grunted as she dropped onto a hard bench in the back foyer. Isabela disappeared for a moment, returning with a set of old, well-maintained leather armor.
"One of pressing import, at least," she replied, dropping the armor in Abigail's lap and crossing her arms over her chest. "What, exactly, are your intentions with my Kitten?"
"My intentions?" Abigail repeated with a bemused smile. "I find myself having some alarming flashbacks to the many farmers' daughters of my youth." Isabela snorted, sitting down beside Abigail when she bent to lash the armor to her leg.
"I'm serious, Hawke. She's a good girl; lovely, gentle, kind...and living in a world full of people like us." Anxiety soured the back of Abigail's throat.
"She can take care of herself, I know that. But she's a proud one, our Kitten. She wants to help, but she'll take none herself lest you make her." Isabela looked very seriously at Abigail. "I know you love her, Hawke, but there are responsibilities to loving someone like that. There can't ever be a repeat of the last year. Your life won't be the only one that's ruined by the time you're done."
"I know, Bela," Abigail said with a grim smile. "You're good to look out for her, but I know. It's far past time I got my head out of the sand and keep watch over those still left to me. There's still good I can do here. And I believe I still owe you a boat."
"Ship," Isabela corrected with a smirk. "And 'sand' was far from the place where your head was stuck." The sound of the house's rear door creaking open drew their attention. Merrill made her way out, looking tired and puzzled until she saw them. The smile that burst across her face made Abigail feel like she could move mountains.
"Come on, champion," Isabela grinned as she hauled Abigail back to her feet. "Let's go show her how close Big Girl can get to grinding you into a paste."