2. and the land is dark
He remembers at Ostagar when he turned to the sky and saw the beacon lit and no one on the horizon. He had felt hope rising up within him. His heart had swelled. This was it. They were going to turn the tide of the battle: they would win. For that brief moment, time seemed to have stopped.
Only… that hope fled. His stomach had dropped out, through his feet, and it had been his will alone that had kept him on his feet. That or the shock. Even now, Carver isn't sure which it was.
That feeling of time slowing to a stop, to nothing moving, the shock setting in… he never wanted to experience it again.
Watching Bethany fly through the air, her body hitting the ground with a horrible wet sounding thud, time slows. It feels like it lasts minutes.
There is a rushing in his ears. A roaring over which nothing penetrates.
His mother screaming comes to him, as though carried over a long distance.
"Bethany!"
Everything jerks back into motion. As though the strings holding everything still have snapped. The ground under his feet feels unsteady.
Carver does not think. He can't. Not over the roaring rush of blood in his ears. The grief that screams through his veins.
He charges the ogre, bringing his blade up. Ducking under the swing of its massive arms, turns his blade to slash through its leg. It lets out a deafening cry, but Carver barely registers it.
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Aveline take a swipe from its clawed hand with her shield. Her feet dig into the parched dirt, leaving deep gouges, but she holds her ground. Aveline twists her entire body, forcing the ogre's arm to twist with her. The ogre lets out another cry, but it's distracted now.
He wrenches his blade from its leg, brings it down again. And again. Blood flies past his face, splattering the ground around him, soaking into his clothes. But Carver is beyond caring now. Damn the Blight. Damn the ogre, damn his sister for being too brave.
It should have been him, a voice whispers in his ear. It is dark and insidious, weaving through the shock and the blossoming pain within him. That voice comes to him from the emptiness that is opening up inside of him, where Bethany fits. It sounds like his own voice – cold and distant, but whispering to him nonetheless.
Carver comes back to himself, still feeling strangely detached from the fight. This cannot be real; it cannot be happening. He stumbles back, just in time to spot Gareth.
His brother's taken a running leap, the blade of his stave pointed forward and down. His aim is perfect, and he plunges the blade straight into the heart of the ogre. It sinks in, deep, all the way to the root of the blade and the momentum of Gareth's leap carries him – and the ogre – forward until both hit the ground.
The ogre lets out an ear-splitting howl, clawing the air uselessly. Gareth dodges its massive hands, his face twisted into an expression that renders him near recognizable. His eyes are blazing white behind and around the amber, starkly bright in contrast to the deep purple-black circles about his eyes. His mouth is twisted into a snarl, his voice a ragged howl.
It is not his brother that kills the ogre, Carver thinks, because he doesn't recognize him.
With a twist of his stave, Gareth makes a noise that Carver hardly recognizes as being human. It sounds like a growl, a howl, all bundled up with grief. For a moment, Carver believes that he's going to need to pull Gareth off, that his brother will simply collapse to the ground from grief and exhaustion.
He needn't have bothered.
No, of course Gareth doesn't need help. He stumbles from atop the ogre's chest, pulls the stave from the ogre's chest – and the sound it makes is horrible, a wet sucking noise that will haunt Carver for the rest of his days. He pays no mind to Aveline nor the ogre that he's just slain; not even when Aveline hacks off the ogre's head.
It's a small reassurance that he is not the only one who remembers the Wardens' advice.
But that offers little comfort at the sight of his brother. Or to his sister who now lies… dead. Bethany is dead.
Carver lurches forward, grabbing his brother's shoulders. He sees the bright light glowing behind his brother's eyes, the magic coalescing about his fingers in that same brilliant white. He knows exactly what it means, though he's seen it only once before.
"No," Carver says. "It's too late. You can't save her."
You should have, that voice hisses. You should have saved her; I know you could have. It should have been you.
But Carver says nothing. He bites back the words and swallows the bile. That tiny, rational part of him knows that Gareth could have done nothing; Bethany would have acted no matter what. But it's easily drowned out by the violence of his grief, of his rage, that is coursing through him.
Gareth slumps against him and Carver stumbles under the sudden weight of his brother. Though Carver's younger, he's bigger than his elder brother. But Carver's carried his brother's weight before and it is nothing he can't manage. All he needs to do is steady his brother, just enough for Gareth to pull himself together again.
Maker, but he never wants to see him come apart again.
When Gareth pulls away, Carver feels cold. He can't see his brother's eyes, shadowed as they are by his hair and the fading light of the setting sun. But he's certain that if he could see, that Gareth's eyes would be wet and shining with tears. Of course Gareth won't cry, however, because that would be weakness and damn his brother for always having to be strong.
Carver feels remarkably detached from his body as he and Gareth slowly walk towards Bethany. Their mother. His fingers are numb, the feeling spreading upwards, and Carver's heart beats slow and sluggish against his chest. There's something hot and hard and sharp lodged in his throat, keeping him from speaking.
Even if he had the words, he wouldn't be able to say them. What's he supposed to say, anyway? They can't stay. They can't take Bethany with them.
Kneeling beside Bethany, Carver looks at his sister. It strikes him how young she is – how young all of them are. Blood has welled up past her lips, streaking down from the corners of it in streaks of bright red. Her eyes stare up, unfocused, dull, and blank, at the sky above them. She won't look at him and smile again, reprimand him for his recklessness, or tease him over his hopeless crushes.
She's gone.
Their mother clings desperately to Bethany's shoulders, so tightly that her knuckles are bone-white. She keeps shaking Bethany, as though she's only asleep and will wake up at any moment.
"Bethany!" she sobs. "Wake up! The battle's over! We're f-fine… it's going to be alright… Bethany, please…"
Neither Gareth nor Carver speaks. Instead, it's Aveline who lays a gentle hand on Leandra's shoulder, squeezes it as she kneels beside her, and says in the softest voice, "I'm sorry, mistress. Your daughter is gone."
"No!" Leandra snaps, shrugging roughly away from Aveline's hand. She turns on her spitting her words out, "These things will not take Bethany!"
Beside him, Gareth moves jerkily, as though someone is pulling strings to make him do so. His hand trembles as he closes Bethany's eyes, gently, and then wipes away the worst of the blood from her mouth. It doesn't quite work; there are streaks of wine red now dyed onto the skin.
With her eyes closed, Bethany almost looks as though she could be sleeping. But there's no blush of life to her cheeks, just a bloodless pallor that's tinged her skin grey. Her chest doesn't rise and fall and Carver knows that if any of them were to press their hand to her chest, there would be no thump of life there.
Bethany is dead.
"She risked her life for us," Gareth says, quietly. It doesn't sound like him. It sounds distant and strained, as though he's forcing the words out from a throat that's gone stiff. "We can't leave her like this."
"Shut up!" Leandra snaps. "This is your fault! I don't want a hero! I want my daughter! How could you let her charge at that monster like that?!"
Stroking Bethany's hair, Leandra sobs, her shoulders shaking, and she hunches over Bethany, cooing softly into her hair, "Oh, my poor little girl… my sweetheart…"
It isn't fair. Carver knows this. It's been his lot since he was born – the only non-mage in a family of them. Life isn't fair. Ever.
He finds his own voice, swallows back the lump which feels like shattered glass as it goes down, "And if we stand here weeping, the darkspawn will take the rest of us too."
Better him than Gareth, whose head has tipped forward. His entire face is cloaked in shadow and he looks away from Bethany, from their mother. The line of his jaw is tense, pained. He won't look at any of them.
This is his fault. But it isn't. Carver still feels like it is. Or, at least, a part of him does.
Quietly, Gareth shoulders the burden of it. He leans forward, hand cupping the side of Bethany's face, and presses his lips to her forehead. It's all he can do – all any of them can do – and murmurs something softly to her that Carver can't make out. Then, he straightens his shoulders, his back, and pulls away to stand once more. His face is frozen in a blank expression, eyes hooded and glassy. There's a flush of pink high in his cheeks, but the glow hasn't receded.
Carver feels warmth flush through his body, as though he's seated himself in front of a fire and Bethany's dropped a blanket about his shoulders to ward off the chill of a Lothering evening. All of the little aches and pains fade, leaving him feeling flush with energy; as though he's just woken up from a deeply restful sleep. He feels as though he could run the entire distance to Gwaren without need of rest.
"We can't leave her for the darkspawn," Gareth says. The words seem to stick to his tongue, a little, and he's prying them off. He clenches his stave tightly, the blade digging into the dusty earth near his feet; his hands tremble and his knuckles have turned white.
He says nothing else. Nothing about how much their mother has hurt him. He bears it and Carver can see it in the tense line of his shoulders. It's simply one more burden that Gareth will bear, with absolutely no complaints like the damn martyr that he is.
"Allow me to commend your daughter's soul to the Maker, mistress," Wesley says, nearly making Carver leap. He'd forgotten that the man was even there. Having stumble-walked his way over, Wesley sways unsteadily on his feet, but he focuses his clouded eyes on Bethany and Leandra.
With Aveline at her side, Leandra leans down, hugging Bethany's shoulders one last time and whispering into her hair, "I love you, my dear. And I will never forget you, Bethany."
Aveline keeps her arms around Leandra's shoulders, helping her stand. Their mother looks so vulnerable, sagging against Aveline as the two women get to their feet. Leandra stumbles over hers, as they step away from Bethany, who she never looks away from.
Aveline's own face is clouded with grief. Though Bethany is not family to her, they've traveled together the past few days and come to rely on each other. Bonds formed through grief and mutual survival. And Bethany has always been so sweet and friendly, despite her magic – she could easily charm anyone, befriend them with her openness and genuinely caring nature.
The last left at his sister's side, Carver doesn't know what to say. Anything he could say feels hollow.
He ruffles her hair, the same way that he's always done. But there's no frown, no disgruntled swatting away of his hand, and Bethany smoothing out her hair. She simply… lays there and Carver doesn't know what he was hoping to achieve. All it does is set alight that gaping emptiness that's yawning wide and deep inside of him.
What would she do, if she were sitting here and it was him lying dead on the ground? Carver can't help but ask himself that, to bounce the questions around in his head. Bethany was always the better of the two of them, the one who could smooth out their mother's rough edges and her sometimes quick temper. He's been nothing but good at goading it, at picking at Gareth needlessly until his brother's smile turns brittle sharp.
He looks at Bethany, traces her features, and tries his best to carve them into his memory. He can't forget her. He never will.
Like Gareth, he leans down and presses a last lingering kiss to his sister's forehead. Her skin feels cool against his lips. Squeezing his eyes closed, Carver chokes back his own sobs, pushing the pain and the anger down until it's nothing but a simmering knot deep within his chest. He can work all of it out later, once they survive this.
Just as he pulls back, it hits him. A little bit like a bolt of his sister's flames. Or the pebbles she liked to flick at his head when she thought he was being particularly mulish or sulky.
"I'll make sure he smiles again one day," Carver murmurs softly. "I'll make sure that we all do one day. We won't forget you, Bethany. I promise. You'll always be with us and we will survive. I'll see to it."
He takes both of Bethany's hands, cold and going stiff now as death sinks in, and crosses them carefully over her chest. There's little more that they can do for her, but keep the darkspawn from taking her body for their own purposes. It won't be the same as the service that their father had when he passed, but she will go to the Maker's side – and if anyone does, it would be Bethany, Carver thinks – with her family watching over her.
When he stands, Carver digs his fingers into his thighs harder than he needs to. The pain is grounding to him, gives him something to focus on; it reminds him that for all that his body is going numb, that he's still alive. He will keep going, because he has to, because it's all he's ever known.
He steps back to stand with his mother and brother, hesitates before laying a hand on his mother's shoulder.
Wesley's voice is deep and carries despite the hissing of the wind, as he speaks, "Ashes we were and ashes we become, Maker give this young woman a place at your side. Let us take comfort in the peace she has found in eternity."
For a second, Carver doesn't believe that Gareth has it in him to do what needs to be done. He had never been party to the instruction that Gareth and Bethany received from their father, but he's aware that Bethany always had a natural affinity for fire – for the elements. Though Gareth could easily conjure that strange fire of his – green and flecked with blue – he always seemed to struggle with what magic came easily to Bethany.
Destruction has never come easily to Gareth, Carver knows that from all the years that he sealed up Carver's scratches and bruises. The Hawke family had remained scar-free, largely thanks to Gareth's skill.
But now, there's no need of healing. There is nothing within Bethany that Gareth can fix. Not even a spirit healer as powerful as his brother can turn back death.
His worries prove to be unfounded. The inferno that Gareth conjures is bright red, a flickering maelstrom of flame. It consumes Bethany, leaving the air heavy with the acrid smell of burning flesh. It isn't the pyre that any of them would have chose, but it's better than leaving her for the darkspawn.
Perhaps Gareth's magic helps it along, but Bethany's body is rapidly consumed by the flames. A long plume of deep black smoke stretches up into the sky, before it's blown away by the wind.
Leandra sobs, quietly, into Aveline's shoulder. Carver squeezes his mother's shoulder, trying to offer her what comfort he can. It's not much, but it's all that any of them can do.
Wesley sways on his feet, hand going to his long healed wound. There's something there, Carver knows, but he isn't certain what it is – though he has his suspicions. He remembers the men in the infirmary at Ostagar, being tended to by mages and healers alike. The Wardens had come through, given advice where they could, and more than once had shaken their head at one poor sod or another. Though he'd only been there to run an errand, Carver realized what the Wardens were doing: those soldiers would not make it.
The taint was an ever present threat, something that lurked in the back corners of every mind. Their enemy were darkspawn. It was to be expected that some of their number would contract the taint. For those, there was no cure but a quick and merciful death.
If that's what's happened to Wesley… Carver's heart thuds painfully in his chest. Then Bethany will not be going to the Maker's side alone.
There's precious little else that they can do. They only watch Bethany burn long enough to ensure that there will be nothing left of her for the darkspawn. It's only a few precious minutes, but it stretches out into what feels like forever. Gareth stands straight, shoulders back, stave in hand, and stares as the flames lick up and around his little sister.
The stillness is shattered when Gareth draws a ragged breath. It sounds louder than it is, rasping against Carver's ears.
"We need to keep moving," Gareth says. He turns to face them now, mouth in a thin line and eyes glittering. The glow, however, has faded somewhat, "Our lives are more valuable to… to her than our prayers."
Swallowing down the rest of his grief, Carver nods, "Let's go."
Aveline squeezes their mother's shoulders, steadying her as she sways on her feet. Leandra sobs still, though quieter than before, and her breath comes in little hiccups, but she remains on her feet. She manages to give Aveline a thin, watery smile that doesn't come close to reaching her eyes.
It will be a very long time, Carver knows, before anyone in their family smiles again. He's not certain that they ever will. Looking at his mother, now, Carver worries that she may just fall to the ground and refuse to move; let the darkspawn take her just as they took Bethany.
Gareth's already three steps ahead, stave at the ready and back straight. It's strange to see him framed by the fading light of the sun; it washes all the colour out of him, leaving him little more than a dark, featureless silhouette. It reminds Carver of all those faceless, nameless heroes in the stories that Bethany used to tell – brought home from Sister Leliana.
Of course, Gareth isn't the only thing that crests the horizon, clad in a silhouette of dying sunlight.
Darkspawn. More of them.
"Flames!" Aveline swears, drawing her blade and shield. "We're too late!"
Carver readies his greatsword, taking up a position to Aveline's right. Gareth is at Aveline's other side and twirls his stave, readying himself for combat. Without Bethany, Gareth have to take the rear point; he'll be the last line of defence between Leandra, Wesley, and the darkspawn.
Everything after that is a blur.
All Carver knows is battle. The next move. Block, slash, counter. Take a long enough swing to cleave through more than one. Clear the path. He fights with Aveline at his side. The two of them part, come together, and part again, fighting their way through the horde as it spills around them.
His strength is buoyed by Gareth, who closes their wounds as fast as they open and who pours what strength he can into them. He is only visible as a flash of white when he uses magic, stave a blur of motion as he slays what darkspawn manage to get past Aveline and Carver's blades.
Even with Gareth shoring them up, Carver can feel the burn of exertion settling deep within his bones. Gradually, weariness builds up within him and he can feel himself tiring. He can only imagine how Gareth feels.
But there is no end to the horde. The darkspawn keep coming. Where one falls, two more surge forward to take their place.
If they had made any headway, they've lost it now. Simply lifting his sword makes Carver's arms ache from the exertion. His feet slip underneath him, the dusty ground having turned into a quagmire of bloodied mud. The air stinks of death, of rot, of that terrible smell that Carver knows is unique to the darkspawn.
He's forced back as is Aveline. Though Carver can see the twitching of muscles in Aveline's arms, she doesn't falter. Neither will he.
If they're to die here, Carver thinks, they will go down fighting with blades in their hands.
The darkspawn shriek at them, a horrible grating noise. Their mouths are horrible mockeries of human mouths, nothing but rotted yellow teeth without lips. Beyond that, their mouths are black and their eyes are a horribly blank expanse of white. There's very little to tell them apart from their fellows, each one looks almost exactly the same as the one beside it.
But… the darkspawn don't charge them.
Instead, they seem to hesitate – if it were possible for them to do so. Their blank eyes don't stare at Carver and the others that they have cornered. No, their blank eyes look up, towards the top of the small cliff that they've been pinned against.
Carver can't look up. He refuses to look away from the darkspawn in front of them – the more immediate threat in his mind.
That changes quickly.
Leandra gasps, "Th-that's–!"
"A dragon?!" Gareth swears, "Shit!"
The roar shakes Carver's bones, makes his teeth chatter in his jaw. The ground underneath his feet trembles and he tears his eyes away from the darkspawn in time to catch sight of the dragon above them unfurl its wings with another mighty cry.
It has to be a high dragon. Nothing else could be that huge, that terrifying.
It swoops down, around the darkspawn, raining fire from above. The darkspawn howl, practically running into each other as they attempt to escape, but there's nowhere for them to go except to plunge straight into the flames that the dragon breathes down upon them.
The dragon snatches up one darkspawn, tearing into it with its teeth. Blood rains down in a torrent of black, before the unfortunate corpse hits the ground shortly thereafter.
When the high dragon lands, the ground shakes violently under their feet – nearly sending Carver sprawling. With a sweep of its tail, it takes out the stragglers, roaring at yet more darkspawn and sending them scurrying. With one of its giant, clawed forearms, it grabs one of the fleeing darkspawn, crushing it in its grasp as it lets out a triumphant cry.
What happens next, Carver will never forget. Or speak of.
The high dragon glows, lines of bright gold shooting up along the entire length of its body. Then, in a small twister of magic and wind, it twirls until the dragon's form shrinks down and takes a human form. For a moment, Carver can see the glowing form of a woman in the heart of the swirling air. It calms, slowly, leaving behind an older woman, clad in deep-red armour and a horned headdress with a shock of white air and glittering gold eyes.
She drags her prey behind her, before dropping it unceremoniously to the ground. The corners of her mouth tug up into a smile which sends chills down Carver's spine.
"Well, well," she says. "What have we here?"
Her eyes trail over all of them, taking each of them in. Carver swallows the fear that has leapt into his throat; whatever this woman is, he doubts that any of them are a match to her. Even together, he's certain that she could wipe them all out with a mere swipe of her hand.
"It used to be we never got visitors to the Wilds," she continues, hip cocked to the side. "Now it seems they arrive in hordes!"
Carver nearly jumps out of his skin when Gareth lays a steadying hand on his shoulder. Even though he knows his brother stands no chance against this woman, his presence lends Carver new strength.
"It looks like we owe you our thanks," Gareth says. He keeps the blade of his stave pointed down and away from the dragon woman as he speaks. "I don't know what we would have done if you hadn't arrived."
"I do!" The woman laughs, "You would have perished. You still may."
She turns away from them, her mouth still quirked up in an amused smirk, "If you wish to flee the darkspawn, you should know you are going in the wrong direction."
"So you're just going to leave us here?" Carver blurts out the question and immediately regrets it. He doesn't look at Gareth, even though he knows his brother is giving him a warning look.
"And why not?" she retorts. She pauses, her voice strangely lilting as she talks, "I spotted a most curious sight: a mighty ogre, vanquished! Who could perform such a feat? But now my curiosity is sated and you are safe… for the moment. Is that not enough?"
Their deaths have only been postponed, it seems. Though the dragon woman might have seemed their salvation for a brief moment, it's clear that she doesn't care.
Gareth sighs and runs a trembling hand through his hair, but when he addresses the dragon woman, he lets none of his exhaustion show, "We won't be able to get through the darkspawn on their own."
"They are everywhere… or soon will be." She tilts her head to the side, her unnaturally gold gaze flickering over Gareth as she speaks, "And where is it you plan to run to, hm?"
"We're going to Kirkwall – in the Free Marches," Carver says. It isn't just that the woman is a dragon – or the dragon is a woman – that sets Carver ill at ease. Something else about her makes Carver nervous, has him fearful of lying to her. It's almost like a compulsion: tell her the truth and tell her as quickly as possible. Maybe then she'll leave them alone. Or help them.
Honestly, he would rather face the darkspawn than accept help from the woman standing before them.
"Kirkwall?" Her eyebrows go up, towards her hairline, "My, but that is quite the voyage you plan. So far… simply to flee the darkspawn."
"Our home's gone," Gareth replies, the slightest tremor in his voice. "We have nowhere else to go."
According to their mother, at least, they still have family there. Family that neither Carver nor Gareth have ever met and have rarely heard of. Carver only remembers that his grandparents passed shortly after he was born. And as for their uncle? Well, their mother rarely spoke of her own brother.
"I see."
The woman turns away from them, an arm crossed across her chest while the other cups her chin between index finger and thumb. She hums thoughtfully to herself for a few moments, leaving them to stew in that strange mixture of hope and desolation.
Carver hates it. The entire feeling is sickening. And it's only made worse by the stench of burning darkspawn.
His attention is jerked away from the woman by the sound of stone scuffing against armour. Turning his head, he catches sight of Wesley's legs giving out beneath him. He would have fallen straight to the ground had Aveline not caught him.
She carefully lowers her husband to the ground, cradling his head against her shoulder, and whispering something to him. Carver can't hear the words, but he can guess at their meaning. He hopes she's not promising him that he'll live through this, because Carver knows now that there's little that they can do for Wesley. If not even Gareth could heal him, then he is beyond hope.
There's little that they can do for him now. Except give him a quick death, much like the Wardens gave those who contracted the taint at Ostagar.
Carver looks back to the dragon woman, waits for her to make a decision.
"Hurtled into the chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you," the woman muses quietly, almost to herself. But if that were the case, wouldn't she say nothing? "Is it fate or chance? I can never decide."
Whatever decision she's going to make, Carver hopes she makes it quickly. He shifts on his feet, muscles complaining at the slightest shift. He's beyond exhausted, which likely means that Gareth's far worse. He casts a sidelong look at his brother, whose face is pale with a flush of darkening pink high in his cheeks. There's a very slight tremble in the line of his jaw. Aside from those signs, there's nothing else to signal that his brother could very well collapse at any moment.
The woman whirls to face them, a truly wicked smile on her face, "It appears fortune smiles on us both today. I may be able to help you yet."
Gareth's face creases into a deep frown, "Just like that? There must be a catch."
She throws her head back, laughing, "There is always a catch! Life is a catch! I suggest you catch it while you can!"
"Should we even trust her? We don't even know what she is," Carver says to Gareth. He's certain that he's only voicing what they're all thinking.
Aveline is the one who answers, venom in her voice that Carver hasn't heard from her in their days of travel together, "I know what she is: The Witch of the Wilds."
The woman's smile softens a little at its sharp edges, "Some call me that. Also Flemeth. Asha'bellanar. An 'old hag who talks too much'. Does it matter? I offer you this: I will get your group past the horde in exchange for a delivery to a place not far out of your way. Would you do this for a 'Witch of the Wilds'?"
Tilting his head back to the rest of them, Gareth asks, "Should we trust her?"
"Wesley is ill," Aveline says, gently brushing hair away from his face. "We'll never escape the darkspawn."
Sounding as though he's trying to cough up a lung, it takes Wesley a long moment to speak and when he does, his voice is hoarse and weak, "If it comes to it, leave me behind."
"No!" Aveline's hand tightens into a fist, before she loosens it. She cups her husband's face, tilts it into the shelter of her neck, "I said I would drag you out if I had to and I meant it!"
Carver shrugs when Gareth looks at him.
"We don't have a choice," Gareth says, staring at the Witch of the Wilds before them. Name your price."
She steps towards Gareth, holding out her hand. In the palm of her hand, glints a pendant. Something deep and red swirls around inside of it. It looks like a vial of some kind, which is encircled by a dragon and attached to a thick, leather cord. Gareth takes the pendant from her and the woman closes his hand around it.
"There is a clan of Dalish elves that will be near the city of Kirkwall in the near future," she says. "Deliver this amulet to their Keeper, Marethari. Do this, and any debt between us is paid in full."
Gareth nods, pulling his hand away from her, "We have a deal."
Flemeth smiles and nods at him, "Excellent. Before I take you anywhere, however, there is another matter…"
Her gaze lands on Wesley, with his waxy skin and blackened veins standing out in harsh contrast to the warm, flushed skin of his wife.
Aveline reacts accordingly.
"No," Aveline snaps. "Leave him alone."
There's a wistfully sad note in Flemeth's voice as she speaks to Aveline, something that Carver didn't think that a Witch of the Wilds would have in her.
"What has been done to your man is within his blood already."
"You lie!" She clings tightly to her husband, shielding him with her body as best as she can.
Wesley lays a hand over hers, breathing laboured. It sounds wet, as though it's sticking in his lungs, "She's… she's right, Aveline. I can feel… the corruption inside me."
Gareth looks lost, desolate, in that moment. There are many things he can do outside of a normal healer's range, but here, he is helpless. It's like their father's death all over again. There's pain – old pain – etched into his face when he looks at Flemeth, and there's a soft desperation in her voice as he pleads, "There must be something we can do."
Flemeth shakes her head, wearily, "The only cure I know of is to become a Grey Warden."
Aveline's shoulders slump as she hears that and she sags against the ground and her husband, "And they all died at Ostagar…"
"Not all," Flemeth corrects her, softly. "But the last of them are now beyond your reach."
There are times where Carver hates being right. This is one of them.
He turns away from Aveline and Wesley, just as Gareth steps past him to kneel beside the two of them. Whatever happens next, is for the two of them. And, he supposes, for his brother. Yet another reminder of someone who he could not save.
"Aveline, listen to me," Wesley says.
The man's strong, Carver knows that much. The majority of the men he saw who contracted the taint lost themselves to it quickly and started rambling about a song that only they could hear. To have held onto himself for so long… it deserves respect.
"You can't ask me this!" Aveline sobs. "I won't! I… I can't..."
Gareth's voice is soft as he speaks and Carver can envision him resting a hand on Aveline's shoulder to give her support and comfort, "He's your husband, Aveline. I can't decide his fate. Let him make the decision."
There's the rasp of a knife being drawn from a sheath. Silence for several long seconds.
"Be strong, my love," Wesley says.
His words are followed by a pained grunt. The sound of a blade slicing through flesh. Then nothing.
Leandra startles Carver, laying her hands on his shoulders and clinging to them tightly. He lays a hand on top of one of hers and squeezes it. They have done what they could. Bethany will not go to the Maker's side alone, for certainly Wesley will join her there.
He hopes that they do, at least, because he can't fathom Bethany being alone. She'll find their father there too. They're free. He repeats those words, over and over, to try and drown out the emptiness inside of him.
Carver doesn't turn to look when Flemeth twists her hand, sparks flying off the armour of her gauntlet. The sound of flames roaring behind him, the flash of heat, is more than enough to tell him what she's done.
Neither Wesley nor Bethany have received a proper pyre, but they have both gone to the Maker with their loved ones near and watching over them. Even if he hardly knew Wesley, he was a good man and no one deserved the fate he was dealt.
Life isn't fair.
They only linger for a few minutes. Brief, but enough for each of them to lose themselves in their own thoughts.
"Without an end, there can be no peace," Flemeth says, at long last. She turns from them, her body beginning to glow, "It gets no easier. Your struggles have only just begun."
With a roar and a rush of magic, Flemeth resumes her dragon form. She crouches low to the ground, legs folded in such a manner that they can easily climb onto her back.
Carver really hopes that he isn't going to be sick.
Flight by dragon is… something else.
It's incredibly freeing, marvelous, and Carver has to remember not to look down or else his head starts spinning.
He's actually surprised at how comfortable it is. There aren't any handholds for any of them to hold onto, so they have to clench down with their thighs to avoid being thrown off. Carver sits at the join between Flemeth's neck and her shoulders, followed by Gareth, then their mother, with Aveline in the back.
Against the back of his neck, he can feel the feverish flush of Gareth's forehead. Gareth had waited until they were in the air to lean forward, resting his head there. His breathing is laboured, hard, and his sleep is restless and shallow.
During the short flight, Carver tries to remember what little they have left in their packs. When they arrive in Gwaren, they'll need to purchase a little more food. He's not sure how long the journey by sea will be to Kirkwall, but what they have will likely not last them two weeks.
There's also the matter of what their journey will cost. They won't be the only ones looking to flee Ferelden and the Blight for the safety of the Free Marches. It will likely cost them. And without the safety and familiarity of Lothering, they can't risk their usual methods of currying favour and funds. It's too dangerous for Gareth to heal anyone without arousing templar suspicion.
Carver, however, has a few pieces that he's whittled into little decorations and carvings in his pack. Those they can sell, along with anything else that's non-essential. If need be, Carver and Gareth can likely offer themselves as labour to any ship that's sailing and short of manpower. Aveline too, come to think of it; that should be more than enough to pay for Leandra's crossing as well.
It won't be easy, that much Carver knows. But what choice do they have?
Flemeth leaves them a safe distance from Gwaren. She takes off, back into the Wilds, without a second glance at them. Gareth has her amulet around his neck, the pendant tucked safely out of sight down his tunic.
As Carver feared, the city is crowded with refugees who, much like them, are trying to flee to wherever they might find safety.
"How are we going to find a ship to take us to Kirkwall?" Leandra murmurs. "We've hardly any money…"
Each of them had emptied their pockets and packs before they'd entered the city. It's very little and Carver doubts that it will be enough to get them across the Waking Sea.
"Carver will see what we can sell for a good price. You should take Waffles with you," Gareth says, massaging his temples. His cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, and his voice sounds tired, but he's still on his feet. "Mother, you should go with him. Aveline and I will find a ship that's going to Kirkwall and see if we can negotiate a fair price. We'll meet there, at the end of the docks, in an hour."
The two groups split up, Aveline and Gareth heading for the stretch of docks while Leandra and Carver make their way towards Gwaren's marketplace, with Waffles trotting along beside them..
Quickly, Carver learns that the marketplace has fallen to chaos. People are selling whatever they can and many are gouging out higher prices than what anything would normally sell for. Foodstuffs, he realizes, are out of the question; the merchants he encounters are selling the basics for more than an arm and a leg.
"It's criminal what they're doing," Leandra says, dusting herself off. They had to hold hands, navigating the cramped and crowded marketplace, to avoid being separated. "We're all trying to escape the darkspawn. Who tries to make a profit at such a time?"
Carver snorts, "Someone who thinks they'll be alive to enjoy it."
It's not much, what they've made, but Carver was relieved to find that Bethany had the sense to pack a few things of value. Leandra hadn't objected to him selling what remained of the good china – as she had put it years earlier – or the candlesticks that had somehow ended up cushioned in the bottom of one pack. They kept the small, miniature portrait of his father – a wedding gift to Leandra from him.
Weighing his wallet, Carver sighs, "Well, it's more than I could have hoped for. C'mon, we'll go see if Gareth and Aveline have had any luck in finding us a ship."
"It shouldn't be too much trouble. Only Ostwick is closer than Kirkwall. There are only so many options of where to go."
Aveline's the only one waiting for them at their designated meeting place. With her arms crossed and glaring out at the passing people, she looks formidable. Even with the redness that rims her eyes. She spots them easily and waves them over.
"We're in luck," she says. "We found a ship that's willing to take us – along with a dozen others – to Kirkwall. We managed to negotiate the price down, but it's still ridiculous."
"They're going to make a small fortune out of extortion," Carver remarks. "Not every day you can profit off a Blight."
Aveline scowls, but says nothing.
To Carver, the ship that's supposed to take them to Kirkwall looks more like a dingy than an actual boat. Maybe his expectations were too big, considering he'd been picturing one of those large ones that used to feature in the stories he was told growing up of dashing Rivaini raiders.
Still, if it will take them across the Waking Sea and to Kirkwall, then that's all that matters. Even if it looks like it'll capsize if the waves grow to be too big.
The four of them clamour aboard, with Carver paying the ship's captain – a man with more wrinkles than Elder Miriam and who stinks of ale and unwashed socks – the price for their passage. It almost completely empties their coin purse. It's even lighter than it might have been, as they have to pay for the addition of Waffles as well.
Before he goes to join his family below deck, Carver turns to look back at Gwaren and the forest that stretches out beyond it. He stares at Ferelden, remembers his home far beyond this city, and closes his eyes for a moment and breathes in deeply. He can almost smell the manure, the smell of wet dog, and of wheat just before the harvest.
Carver opens his eyes, looks long and hard at what he can see, then turns his back and follows Gareth down into the boat.
Ferelden will always be home to him.
Carver discovers very quickly that none of them are cut out for the exciting life of a sailor.
Having pushed himself so hard to keep them going, Gareth's fever peaks and he spends the majority of their journey either delirious and half-conscious with his head in Aveline or their mother's lap, or throwing up whatever's in his stomach into the nearest bucket.
Yes, of all things, his brother is prone to seasickness.
And Carver, being the loving and caring brother that he is, is the one who has to haul the buckets of vomit up onto the deck to toss over the side of the ship. Leandra and Aveline, on the other hand, take turns coaxing Gareth into drinking water, which he's lucky to keep down. Carver alternates between watching over his family and spending his time on the top deck, watching the sea and Ferelden coast pass them by.
It's actually a relief when, according to one of the sailors, two days out from Kirkwall, Gareth finally falls into a deep sleep.
Though still weak from his protracted bout with seasickness and his overexertion of his magical abilities, Gareth joins Carver on the deck when they finally make their arrival into Kirkwall. They sail through the tall, black cliffs, past hulking bronze statues mounted into the cliff-sides of weeping slaves. The statues line the walls, their sightless faces covered by their hands.
The two of them stand in silence as the ship slowly makes its way through the narrow pass.
Their first glimpse of Kirkwall isn't of the city proper. Instead, what they're greeted by is a large, hulking structure that dominates the harbour, located on its own little island. Made from the same dark stone as the cliffs, the fortress is an imposing sight – clearly meant to strike fear into the hearts of all those who see it.
"Cheery place," Carver remarks.
Gareth says nothing, only stares at the tower that rises out of the island. Waffles nudges his hand, then curls up protectively around Gareth's feet – as though he can ward away the illness that's plagued Gareth since stepping foot on the boat and from whatever's to come.
"Welcome to the Gallows," the captain says. He and the crew shepard all of them from the ship – none too gently in a few cases. "Enjoy Kirkwall's 'famed' hospitality."
They're left on the docks, hungry and cold, but alive. Though Gareth still looks far too pale to be completely healthy, he's no longer swaying on his feet and his eyes have lost that glassy look of theirs. They leave behind the stink and crush of the docks where countless ships are unloading fellow Fereldan refugees, and make towards where the gates of the city should be.
"I hope Gamlen received my letter…" Leandra murmurs.
Aveline points towards a large group of people a little ways ahead of them, her mouth turned down into a frown, "They're not letting anyone into the city."
"What?!" Leandra rolls onto the balls of her feet, trying to see over the crowd, "That can't be!"
"Look at them all," Aveline says, shrugging her shoulders.
"Are we really surprised?" Carver asks, crossing his arms. He'd cleaned and wrapped his great sword on the boat, crafting a makeshift sling to carry it with; the strap of which digs uncomfortably into his chest. "Everyone's fleeing the Blight, just as we are."
Aveline snorts, "And they would throw us all back to the wolves. Unbelievable."
They don't have the coin to be able to afford a return journey to the north – not to Highever nor Denerim. They're trapped here.
"So long as we're all safe, that's more important," Gareth says. Though there's a smile on his face to reassure them, it doesn't reach his eyes.
"We need to find Gamlen," Leandra says firmly. "Our family has always been highly regarded in Kirkwall. He can do something, I'm sure of it."
Carver sighs. Here they are, relying on an uncle that they've never met with only their mother's word to go on that he can be trusted, "Let's hope he received your letter."
Craning her head so that she can see over the crowd, Aveline points, "The guards seem to be reporting to that man. Perhaps we should speak to him?"
"It's a good place to start," Gareth replies.
Making their way through the angry crowd, it's easy to see that everyone here is on edge. People keep shouting questions and demands at the guards, who either ignore them or give mocking replies. Everyone is uneasy, whispering between each other about what this means – that they'll be thrown back to Ferelden and the Blight that they've come here to escape from.
It's not a promising welcome, that's for sure.
The guard that Aveline had pointed out is easy enough to spot. He's standing in front of a loose line of them, each of them wearing the exact same set of armour. While the other guards are faceless – a given, as each of them is wearing a helmet – the one who Aveline purports to be in charge isn't wearing one. Rather, his weak, weaselly face stares out at the crowd, with one corner of his mouth pulled up into a nasty grin.
Aveline is the first of them to make it of the front, clearing enough space for the rest of them with the sheer force of her presence alone. Honestly, Carver's amazed that the guards don't quail before her, as he's certain that she could kill a man with the force of her glare alone.
"Get back in the crowd you lot!" he snaps, gesturing at them to shoo. "Trying to bully your way into Kirkwall won't get you in any faster."
Aveline shifts, laying a hand almost casually on the hilt of her blade, "But you do intend to let us in?"
He rolls back onto his heels, a hand on his own weapon as though daring Aveline to draw her sword and give him an excuse to lord his power over them. Carver hates the man already. Then, the man laughs.
"We have enough poor of our own in the Free Marches. We don't need you refugees piling up here like a middens heap."
The two guards next to him aren't paying attention, shifting from one foot to another. Their armour is smooth, unblemished, and highly polished. There's also a crispness to the leather of their sheaths that Carver's only seen once before, on the blades newly crafted for the officers in the king's army to commemorate their new positions. Clearly, the guards stationed here aren't used to seeing any action; Carver's certain that if push came to shove, they could easily force their way past them.
There's no point to it, though. They need to get into the city and forcing their way in through a violent, bloody fight is the last way to go about it. They can't risk drawing attention to themselves, not with his brother the apostate among them.
"Why aren't we being allowed in?" Gareth asks. He'd shouldered his stave, keeping it carefully tucked behind him, though the blade was visible between his legs and the bright red of the stone at its tip peeks over his shoulder.
Carver prays hard and swiftly to the Maker that no one questions his brother's strange polearm.
"If it were up to me, I'd bar the gates and have you find somewhere else to beg," the guard snorts. Then he shrugs lazily, "But it's not. Some of you might have actual business in the city. So Knight-Commander Meredith wants us all to sort you out. Most of you'll be getting straight back on your ships, though."
Carver blinks, "Knight-Commander?"
"That's a templar title," Gareth continues, exchanging a meaningful look with Carver. "Why would a city guardsman answer to the templars?"
That clearly rankles the guard. He snaps straight out of his slouch, scowling so hard that it could curdle milk, "We don't answer to her! … but she is the power in Kirkwall. Dunno what would happen if the viscount went against something she wanted. But he's sure never taken that chance."
Gently, Gareth says, "There must be someone in charge I can speak with."
With a roll of his eyes and a sigh, the guard replies, "Yes, yes, always the same story with your lot. You want in, you talk to Captain Ewald. I'm just here to keep you refuse from climbing the walls. Now get moving."
Carver feels a pang of guilt as their allowed past the line of guards. But once passed them, he realizes that there's little point. They're still not in the city proper and even here, there are refugees everywhere. In the long, winding path of stairs and enclosed halls that lead away from the docks, people huddle into corners and engage in hushed conversation.
It's a dismal and desolate place, not helped by the carvings on the walls of weeping slaves. They're on each and every wall, with spiked portcullises gating off entire section. It doesn't feel anything like a port; not even the hectic chaos and cramped quarters of Gwaren felt like this. Rather, the entire place feels hopeless and that sinks into Carver.
He remembers that their father said that some places absorb emotions and energy from the people who lived there. Sort of like magic, but not really. It was something that anyone could feel, not just a mage. The Gallows of Kirkwall feel like a prison.
"What do you think this place is?" Carver asks. "Besides a holding pen for us."
"A prison, most likely," Aveline replies.
"No," Gareth interrupts, jerking his head towards the structure that towers over all of them. "It's Kirkwall's Circle of Magi."
"Should we be this close?" Leandra asks, in a low voice. She places a hand on Gareth's arm, looking at her eldest with worry clear in her eyes. "The templars–"
Gareth places his hand over hers, squeezing it, and smiles, "So long as I don't use any magic, I'll be fine. Don't worry, mother. We'll be sure to keep a low profile."
Leandra doesn't look convinced, but she drops her hand. She keeps clasping and unclasping them in front of her stomach, but she says nothing. But she keeps a wary eye on each guard and refugee that they pass, as though there might be a templar hiding behind any of them.
"How can you tell that's the Circle?" Aveline asks.
Carver would like to point out that their hushed tones make them look more suspicious than they already are. Though, it seems moot because everyone is looking at everyone else with the same shifty eyes. There's going to be no keeping a low profile, no matter what Gareth says to pacify their mother.
"I can sense it," Gareth replies. He continues, frowning, "The magical currents – makes it rather obvious."
They emerge from the maze of passageways into a large, sprawling courtyard at the foot of the Circle's tower. Up close, it's far larger than Carver first thought, though it's no less intimidating. Here as well are statues of slaves, each one an example of agony forever immortalized in shining bronze. They line the edges of the courtyard on the columns, and there are two collections of them that flank the staircase which leads up towards the tower.
It's a depressing and dreary sight. Carver can't imagine being a mage here, constantly being reminded that they're trapped in a prison for the rest of their life. He can't imagine Gareth living here, trapped in this tower; it sounds like the start of one of Bethany's clichéd love stories. The ones that she was always so fond of.
His heart skips a beat, drops into his stomach, at the thought of Bethany.
In time, Carver knows, it will get easier. He remembers how the grief when his father died had been all-encompassing. With time, it had faded, though sometimes it would hit him hard and unexpectedly.
But Bethany is different. She is – was – his little sister. She was the baby of the family. Always the best of them.
He could have saved her. He could have. He would have gladly given his life for hers.
It's not fair.
Carver's shaken out of his mournful thoughts by a shout.
"Let us through, you flaming blighter! We're not staying in this pit!"
There a small group of about six heavily armed men at the base of the stairs. Carver recognizes the sigil on the shields that two of them have as being that of South Reach. Likely, they're either deserters or survivors of Ostagar. Carver thinks that they're probably the former.
"Then get back on your ship and leave. Kirkwall has no more room for refugees," comes a man's bored voice. The deserters are directing all their vitriol at a red-haired man who looks as though he's dealing with a large stack of reports than a potential riot.
"The ship's already gone! We paid good coin to get here!" Another of the deserters jabs a finger at the red-haired man.
Carver assumes that the man is the Captain Ewald that they're looking for. His armour does look slightly different than the others…
"You and half of Ferelden," Ewald says, swatting the finger and its attached hand away from him casually. "Look, there's nothing that I can do. The city is full."
Gareth being Gareth, he chooses this moment to enter the conversation, "One of the guards said you were letting in those who have business in the city."
That definitely catches the attention of the deserters. Their leader, Carver assumes, swirls on Ewald full force, "That's right! We've seen you let lots of people through!"
"Citizens and merchants who make it worth our while," Ewald continues, in that same bored, uninterested tone that he's held for the entire conversation thus far. He gives Gareth a once-over, "I'll assume that you don't have any more coin than these gentlemen? We've been letting you Fereldans in for months; you're too late. There's no more room."
"But we've got family here!" Carver interjects. What's the use of family connections if you don't get to use them? Besides, he's tired, cranky from having to look after his ill brother, and just wants to keep ground under him that doesn't move.
"I've heard claims like that a thousand times already. Trust me, we'll find ships to take you all back to Ferelden… eventually. But till then, you stay here."
"Our uncle is Gamlen Amell," Gareth says quickly. "He knows we're coming. Surely, someone could find him."
The name makes Ewald pause and he looks at Gareth more seriously, "Gamlen? I know Gamlen."
"He's a nobleman here in the city," Carver presses. "Our family has an estate."
"A nobleman?" Ewald's eyebrows go up, "The only Gamlen I know is a weasel who couldn't rub two coppers together. He comes back, I'll bring him to you. But I don't have time to–"
"What?! You're gonna let them through?!"
Ewald sighs, "I didn't say anything about–"
"We've been here for four days! They just got here!"
The leader turns to yell at his men, "That's it! We're carving our way out of here! Men!"
Things quickly devolve into a brawl.
Gareth automatically tucks Leandra behind him. His stave comes free from its bindings with a quick twirl, before he uses it to deflect a blow, then smack the offending deserter in the head with the non-lethal end.
For his part, Carver keeps track of Gareth just enough to know where he is. He extends that same awareness to Aveline, the three of them falling into an easy rhythm of attack, defend, and counter perfected by long days of fighting darkspawn together.
The fight is abysmally short, aided by the fact that the guardsmen are dragged into it as well. Ewald himself strikes down two, while Gareth impales the leader to the ground with his stave, ending it.
"Unbelievable," Ewald says, rolling his eyes. He flicks blood off his sword, before he sheaths it again at his waist.
One of the guards runs over to him from the far end of the courtyard, "Captain! Are you alright?!"
"I am, no thanks to you. Where is everyone? Go find them! I want this kept under control!" Ewald turns to Gareth, looking a little more amused than he did before, "You have my thanks. Look," he sighs, "I can't get you into the city, it's not my decision. But I'll find your uncle and bring him here."
"Thank you," Gareth says, smiling.
"It's been three days," Aveline says, pacing back and forth. Carver's amazed that she hasn't worn a track into the stone. "This waiting has to end."
Leandra, as she has been for the past two days, attempts to be mollifying, "I'm sure it won't be much longer. Gamlen must still be looking for us."
His mother can't see it, but Carver rolls his eyes. She's said the same thing, practically verbatim, repeatedly for the past two days. It's become nothing more than a stock response, giving none of them any actual answers. And the guards have been no help, either. Apparently their uncle is a very difficult man to find.
"And if he's not?" Aveline retorts.
Gareth pushes away from the wall he's been leaning against, "Wait, I think someone's coming."
The man that approaches is barely taller than their mother, grey-haired and distinctly over the hill. He looks like he hasn't seen a razor in days and like someone might have just pulled him out of a ditch somewhere after he had one too many pints at the local bar. He reminds Carver very much of the regulars at Dane's, always been turned out late into the night and making their stumbling way home.
Unlike Leandra, his eyes are a deep brown and, when he sees her, his face lights up into a bright smile that reveals the potential for a handsome man, "Leandra! Damn, girl! The years haven't been kind to you!"
"Gamlen!" Leandra smiles, bright and wide. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth crinkle, and she throws herself into the man's arms, holding him in a tight hug.
It's a very awkward embrace. Or looks like one, at least.
Gamlen's the one who pulls away first, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he shifts on his feet, "Let me say upfront: I wasn't expecting this. The Blight, your husband… dead. I'd, uh, figured you'd pretty much be Fereldan for life."
Leandra's face falls, her eyes tearing up, "Oh, Gamlen… we came too late. My darling Bethany… didn't make it. Andraste guide her."
"Oh Maker save me," Gamlen drags his hands down his face. "Leandra, don't drop this on me here. I don't know if I can help you get in."
"I'm more concerned about mother," Gareth says, stepping forward. "Can you get her in at least?"
"No," Leandra turns to Gareth, mouth set in a stern line. "We stay together."
With that, the matter's settled. There'll be no swaying their mother from her decision now and Carver agrees with her. They've already lost Bethany and without Gareth or Carver, there'd be no breadwinner for the family.
"I was hoping to grease some palms," Gamlen says, rubbing the back of his head, before his shoulders slump. "But the knight-commander's been cracking down. We're gonna need more grease."
"But… what about the estate?" Leandra blinks, "Surely father left something when he died…"
"Right, uh, about the estate… it's, um, gone. To settle a debt. I've been meaning to write you." Gamlen sighs, not meeting any of their eyes – much less their mother's.
Leandra's shoulder sag and she crumples in on herself, wrapping her arms around herself as though that will hold her together. "Then there's no hope."
"N-not quite," Gamlen says quickly. "I know some people who might help. If… you're not too delicate about the company you keep."
"We don't have any choice, do we," Gareth sighs. "I need to get my family into Kirkwall."
"I talked to my contacts and I found some people who might be willing to pay your way into the city. The catch is," Gamlen pauses, glances away, "you and your brother will have to work off the debt… for a year."
"A year?!" Leandra stares, mouth wide.
"It's the best I could do," Gamlen says, defensively. He holds his hands up, as though to ward off his own sister. "Trust me when I say a bunch of refugees won't get a better option anywhere else."
Gareth stares, mouth agape, "So you're selling us into indentured servitude? That's your idea?"
"Think of it as having a job waiting for you in your new home," Gamlen shrugs.
"I guess it's only a year, right?" Carver interjects. It's only a year and, in exchange, they'll have work and somewhere to live that's not being threatened by darkspawn. And, if they're lucky, it will keep the templars from sniffing them out.
"I managed to convince my contacts to come to the Gallows to meet you personally," Gamlen explains. "Meeran heads up the mercenary company, the Red Iron. They're looking for recruits. Athenril… I guess you might call her a smuggler. Either one of them can help you. All you need to do is find them in the courtyard and convince them that you're worth the trouble."
Gareth frowns, thoughtfully, then he tilts his head to Carver, "What do you think?"
"What can I say? Better here than nowhere," Carver replies, with a little half-shrug. It doesn't matter what they do; it'll come down to whatever Gareth decides and he'll just go along with that. No complaints, just as he always has.
After a long pause, Gareth asks, "How dangerous is this smuggler's work?"
"Well, it won't be pretty working for her," Gamlen says, sounding relieved. "She's a pretty small fish compared to some of the other thieves' guilds around here. But she's tough, she's fair, and she never deals in slaves or flesh."
Gareth nods, "We'll find her and see what she has to say."
"Oh, Gamlen. I don't know about this…" Leandra begins to say.
Gamlen looks at her with a careless shrug of his shoulders, "It's a lot of coin, Leandra. Don't go expecting our name to carry the kind of weight it used to."
"And what of me? I will not allow others to incur debts on my behalf," Aveline interjects.
Gamlen's mouth turns up in a lecherous grin, looking Aveline up and down, "Can't see that it makes a difference: you look like a lady who can pull her own weight."
"You'll come with us," Leandra says, firmly. She reaches up and squeezes both of Aveline's shoulders, smiling.
"I… have no real option. Thank you," Aveline bows her head, mouth curling up into a soft, shy smile.
They leave Leandra and Gamlen in one corner of the courtyard, to catch up, while the three of them venture out to find where this Athenril might be. Carver trails along, slightly behind Gareth and Aveline, listening absently to their conversation as they cross the courtyard towards a shady little enclave right off of it. If smugglers are going to be anywhere here, it's probably going to be there. Or, at least, Carver guesses that's the reasoning.
"Are you sure about this?" Aveline asks, quietly. "Smugglers?"
Gareth shrugs, "It's work and I'm an apostate; I don't have many options if I want to keep the templars from noticing me. If Gamlen's right about her not dallying in flesh or slaves, than it would mostly be moving goods. That I can handle. And less suspicion that way, too."
"I suppose."
In the small enclave, there's a quartet of people. Three of them are elves and the last one is human. One of the elves, a woman, turns to face them as they approach. Carver's not seen anything like her armour before, but she's quite pretty – with red hair, fair skin, and pretty green eyes like the leaves in summer.
She cocks her head to the side once their close enough, looking each of them over with a careful eye.
Gareth clears his throat, "Are you Athenril?"
"You must be Gamlen's nephew. Interesting." Her smile is razor sharp and she crosses her arms, "I don't know what he told you about us, but he certainly told us a great deal about you."
Carver blinks, heat rising in his cheeks, "Er… how much, exactly?"
"Enough to pique our interest," Athenril replies, tone unusually sultry to Carver's ears. "Provided you can justify your uncle confidence, of course."
"I'd like to know more about what we'd be doing for you," Gareth says, drawing her attention back to him. He seems largely unaffected by Athenril, hand on one hip while the other casually holds his stave to his side.
"I can be honest. We don't compete with the thieves' guilds, but we do keep our fingers in a lot of pots. That said, we're not killers or slavers. Anything short of that, however, is fair game."
"Do what you want," Aveline mutters, "but this sounds fishy to me."
"Begging and taking your pick never went hand-in-hand," Carver retorts.
Aveline sighs, "Alright."
Gareth, however, continues his discussion with Athenril about the terms of their… employment. He remarks, "I hear that getting us into the city isn't cheap."
"If you're as good as your uncle claims, we're hoping you'll be worth it." Athenril grins, leaning in close to conspiratorially whisper, "After all, it's not every day we're offered an apostate's services."
Gareth blinks, surprised, "I didn't Gamlen had told you you that much."
Athenril laughs, the sound low and husky. "The templars in Kirkwall like to think that they have all the mages properly leashed, but when has that ever been true? We can keep them from taking notice while you're with us. Wouldn't be the first time."
None of them say anything for a few moments, then Gareth breaks the silence by saying, "And how do we convince you to let us sign on?"
Athenril's grin blossoms into a smile, still all sharp edges, "There's a merchant here in the Gallows by the name of Cavril. Friend of the templars, so they let him set up a little shop here. We supplied him in return for a piece of the take, but now he won't pay up. We can't go near him without him screaming for the guard… but you can. Get our money from him and you're in."
Gareth inclines his head, then the three of them leave Athenril and re-enter the main area of the courtyard. The shop in question is easy enough to find, as it's the only one in the courtyard. It's occupied by a balding man, who is in deep conversation with a refugee woman, and two heavily armed guards who stand about, looking rather distracted.
Well, this could get interesting. Carver really hopes, however, that they're not going to start a fight. It's the last thing they need.
"I've already told you. I can't give you anymore for them," the balding man, likely Cavril, tells the refugee woman. He has, in Carver's opinion, that smarmy sort of self-assured air that some of the merchants who came through Lothering had. The ones who tried to sell some fairly sketchy items of suspect origin.
Or, as their father had put it, snake-oil salesmen.
The woman's shoulders sag and she jabs a finger at Cavril weakly, "But that was everything we had! It's all we brought with us!"
"And I feel for you, serah, I truly do," Cavril says, clasping her hand between his. His smile is oil-slick, "But it's the best I can do."
She yanks her hand back, as though burned, "If they just let us into the city, I could get three times your price!"
Cavril sighs, gestures with his head to one of his armed guards, "Myron?"
The guard, Myron, steps forward, arms crossed imposingly across his chest, "Your business is done."
The woman looks like she's about to argue, but she gives in with a sigh and wanders away, dejected, and likely more than a little bit poorer than she was before.
Cavril turns to Gareth, bright smile on his face as he clasps his hands together excitedly. He probably smells an easy deal, "Now then! What can I do for you, serah?"
"I believe that you owe your business partners something?" Gareth says, head tilted to the side.
"Oh, I see." Cavril drops his hands and his smile, looking as though someone had just wafted something awful under his nose. Probably druffalo dung.
"Should I go tell the guards?" Myron asks, hand resting casually on the hilt of his sword. His partner does the same.
Waving them off, Cavril says, "Not just yet. I want to hear this. So, Athenril sent you to collect, did she? Too cowardly to do it herself?"
Rather than respond to that, Gareth cocks his head to Aveline, "Care to step in here?"
"Only because this toad deserves it," Aveline replies, rolling her shoulders. She withdrew a dagger from her belt, bringing it up in a quick, smooth move to with a hair's breadth Cavril's neck. "You have a choice: pay, or I beat it out of you and your men."
"Hey!"
"Stay back!" Cavril snaps. He's shaking, though, trying very hard not to move, to avoid accidentally slitting his own throat on Aveline's dagger. "Just… take what's in that chest. Take it all."
Aveline lowers her blade, stepping aside to allow Cavril to hurry past her with his guards in tow.
Carver hears the man mutter as he does, "Let the guards find someone else to buy dog-land junk!"
The chest in question is small, sitting innocently on a wooden table. Gareth eases it open, revealing a small, leather pouch and an assortment of papers. The papers are of no consequence, so Gareth leaves those, but the pouch clinks with coins as he pulls it out.
"Thank you, Aveline," Gareth says.
"It was nothing."
Gareth smiles, "Now that we've gotten what we came for, we should report back to Athenril. Best to get this over with quickly."
Unsurprisingly, Athenril is exactly where they left her. When she hears them approach, she looks over, a ghost of a grin on her face – as though she can't believe that they've returned so quickly.
"Well?"
Gareth tosses her the pouch, which makes a clinking noise as it connects with Athenril's palm, "Here you are. As requested."
Athenril weighs the pouch, then tugs it open, glancing inside. When she looks up, she smiles and this time, it lacks that sharp edge to it. "Will you look at that… Tell your uncle we'll make the arrangements. Welcome aboard."
The deal is sealed with a clasp of forearms.
All that's left is to tell Gamlen and their mother that their way into the city is being paid for. It'll cost the both of them a year of their lives, but Carver thinks that's a small voice to pay. True, they'll have to start over, but at least they have work ahead of them.
It will keep them distracted, give them something to do. They won't have to sit and stew about Bethany and all of the could-have-beens. This is a good thing. That's what he keeps telling himself.
Leandra doesn't look convinced when they return with the news.
"Athenril's agreed to help us," Gareth says.
"Good, good," Gamlen says. "I'll speak to her and see when the bribes can be made. Wait here."
"I'm not sure about this…" Leandra murmurs.
"I guess we did it," Carver says to Gareth. "We're here to stay. For a while, at least."
"The Blight might still spread, but for now… we have a new home," Gareth agrees.
"If only Bethany were here with us…"
"And Wesley," Aveline adds, quietly.
Carver thinks he might be the only one who notices the twitch of his brother's shoulders going up, straightening. But, when he turns back, he's smiling. Though it crinkles his eyes the way it always does, something about it feels… off. Carver can't be sure why.
"Let's just see what happens. We have a long year ahead of us."
