3. a new day is dawning
One year later…
Despite having been in Kirkwall for a little over a year, Gareth still can't shrug the wariness that dogs his every step. It was different in Lothering, where everyone knew everyone and they were a well-respected family that was part of an established community. The worry that someone would betray them to the templars – all of whom Gareth had been acquainted with, if distantly – was negligible at best.
Here, it's different. Templars are a common sight, even in the Lowtown refugee quarters. And each morning brings news of another templar raid to ferret out apostates and maleficarum that might be hiding among those who fled the Blight.
Thus far, he's been lucky to escape notice. But that doesn't ease the fear that, any day, the templars could come for him next. He's been constantly glancing over his shoulder, taking care to only use his magic when absolutely necessary and, when he does, to make sure that it's subtle. Their neighbours can't be trusted; everyone is jumpy and anyone could possibly turn him in.
He hates living like this. The fear, the constant looking over his shoulder, and inability to help those around him. In Kirkwall's Lowtown, it's every man, woman, and child for themselves. The last healer they had – an old woman with extensive knowledge of herblore – was arrested under suspicion of being an apostate. No one has seen her since.
Making matters worse, Gareth's been certain that Athenril might, after they parted on such sour terms, turn him into the templars purely out of spite. She wouldn't, despite the way that they parted, because Athenril is many things, but she does have standards.
Morning dawns, bright and grey, as always. Gareth wakes from his light sleep, blinking and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes as he slowly sits up. The thin blanket falls around his waist, bearing his skin to the cool air, causing goosebumps to rise in its wake.
With a muffled yawn, Gareth carefully crawls out of the tiny, cramped bunk that he shares with Carver. His brother slumbers on, rolling into the empty warm spot that Gareth's left. He smiles at the sight, before shrugging into his tunic and getting dressed for the day.
From the bunk above his and Carver's, he can hear Gamlen snoring – sounding very much like a druffalo as he does. It's a small miracle that their mother's able to sleep through that, being in such close quarters to their uncle as she is.
Stretching once he's out of the bunk, Gareth goes about his usual morning routine. He checks to see whether he'll need to hurry out for a quick errand to buy anything for breakfast, but it looks like the bread is still good; the rats haven't gotten to it yet. He splashes his face with cold water from the basin in the corner and checks his reflection in the tiny, chipped looking glass above it.
His father's face looks back at him.
It's not quite right. His face is leaner than his father's, with more prominent cheekbones that his mother says are hereditary to the Amells. And it's hard to miss the deep red birthmark that streaks across his nose and cheek. But he does share his father's eyes – a molten, warm amber – that's difficult to miss. His mother has always complimented him for how much he takes after their father.
All he has in common with Carver is their hair, the same deep, shade of black that all three of them had. Carver has their mother's bright blue eyes and her pale, lightly freckled skin. Bethany had taken after Gareth and their father.
He cuts the thought off there. He will not think of Bethany.
Despite the year that's passed since her death, the memory of her is still raw. Maybe one day he'll be able to talk about her without a lump forming in his throat, but not today. She didn't deserve what happened to her. He could have done something. Their mother was right: It was his fault.
To distract himself from the melancholy turn his thoughts have taken, Gareth begins prepping breakfast. He and Carver have a long day ahead of them. With an expedition to the Deep Roads happening, it's their chance to make it big. All they need to do is find the dwarf organizing it and convince him to hire them on. For that, they'll need all the energy they can get.
They need to leave Lowtown. This is their first, best, and perhaps only chance of managing that. Their mother is only now starting to come out of her grief of Bethany's death and the loss of their home in Lothering. Not to mention, all that she had left of their father.
Speaking of their mother, Leandra is the next to wake and it's she who wakes Carver, before she comes to help Gareth with breakfast. The three of them leave Gamlen to snore on, knowing better than to wake him.
Carver yawns, jaw cracking, "You're sure about this?"
"I am. We haven't had any other good leads, making this our best chance," Gareth replies, dusting the crumbs from his hands. "Besides, we've heard about it for weeks now; it has to be legit."
"That Deep Roads expedition? I don't know…" Leandra says softly. Her eyes stare off, unfocused, at the wall. "It would be dangerous. Must you?"
"The templars'll come sniffing him out eventually," Carver says, jerking his head in Gareth's direction. "Then we'll be thrown straight into the Gallows along with him. That's if we're not thrown in jail or executed for harbouring an apostate."
"Carver! You know your brother's not–"
Gareth sighs, cutting into the argument he knows is about to begin, "Carver's right, mother. We need something – influence or money – to protect us. Without it, we're just another couple of refugees."
"I know. It's just…" Leandra sighs. Her smile, when she looks up at the two of them, wavers at its edges, "Look after each other, please? And come home safely."
Gareth smiles, bends down, and kisses his mother's cheek, "Always."
Their mother shoos them out, telling them that she'll take care of the clean-up from breakfast and making sure that Gamlen has something to eat at least that's not ale.
Kirkwall in the early morning hours is covered with mist, that clings to the ground and parts about people's ankles as they pass through it. The sun's barely crested over the horizon, casting all the buildings that tower over them into hazy silhouettes. Lowtown is quiet, but it'll only be another hour or less till people awaken to go about their daily lives, flock to what jobs they have, and for the marketplace to begin buzzing with life.
For now, however, the air is still and the streets ring with silence. The only sounds that Gareth can hear are the soft crunch of his and Carver's footsteps on the worn, gravel strewn roads. Occasionally, another person passes by, but they're a rare sight.
The pair of them take the winding, circuitous route that leads from Kirkwall's Lowtown to Hightown, located farther up the hill that Kirkwall was built on. Leaving behind the familiar, well-trod streets of Lowtown, leads them into the silence of Hightown. In comparison to Lowtown, Hightown is a ghost town; it's far too early for the well-to-do and wealthy citizens of the city to be out and about yet.
"Where are we supposed to find this man?" Carver asks. He rubs his hands together, the air at this time of a day more than a little nippy.
"He's a dwarf by the name of Bartrand Tethras," Gareth replies, leading Carver through the streets of Hightown. "And according to the woman I spoke with, he should be in the Merchants Guild this morning. Hopefully, if we catch him early enough in the day, he'll be more willing to hear us out."
"And hire us."
"That too."
There's little to see or do while they wait for the city to come to life. Honestly, Gareth realizes as his knees stiffen from standing still too long, they likely could have slept in a little more and been fine. Or stopped at the Hanged Man to waste away a few hours and had a breakfast of questionable origin.
However, their patience eventually pays off. Late into the morning, he spots a grumpy looking dwarf that matches the description he was given of Bartrand.
Gareth nudges Carver with his elbow, nearly sending his dozing little brother sprawling, "There he is."
"That's him? He doesn't look like much of an explorer."
"Well, that's what we're for, isn't it?"
"Guess so."
Carver is right about Bartrand, however. The dwarf looks absolutely nothing like the man spearheading an expedition to the Deep Roads. With his fine clothes and neatly trimmed beard, he looks the part of a wealthy, well-to-do merchant dwarf who would be more comfortable behind a desk and stack of papers, than darkspawn-infested tunnels.
Still, he's the one that they need to convince to hire them onto his expedition. Whatever they might found down there will buy their way out of Lowtown and to safety.
Carver falls into step easily with his brother as they cross the large, sweeping courtyard towards where Bartrand is in deep conversation with another dwarf. With a slight tip of his head, Gareth indicates to Carver that they'll wait for Bartrand to finish his business before they talk to him. It's the polite thing to do, after all.
Bartrand's face, when he turns to see them, look as though he's permanently bitten into a lemon.
"What do you want, human? And whatever it is, better not be a waste of my time."
"We heard that you're launching an expedition to the Deep Roads," Gareth begins. "Since you'll need guards, we–"
"No!" Bartrand snaps, turning on his heel and beginning to storm off. "Andraste's tits, human! You know how many people want to sign onto this expedition?!"
Gareth shares an alarmed look with his brother, before the two of them hurry to keep up with Bartrand. They have one chance and it looks like they're going to blow it.
"Look," Carver says. "We know you're going into the Deep Roads. You'll need to hire the best and we're–"
Bartrand halts, whirling around and jabbing one stout finger at them, "No! You're too late! Already done!"
"The money from this trip could fix everything! You need us!" Carver's getting exasperated now, voice rising as he talks, "We've fought darkspawn before!"
Bartrand looks like he's going to laugh right in their faces, "Look, precious. I don't care if you tore the horns off an ogre with your bare hands. The answer is the same: No."
"You make him understand! We're running from your bloody templars!" Carver crosses his arms, a truly impressive scowl on his face.
"I know how you feel," Gareth sighs, makes to lay a comforting hand on Carver's shoulder but his brother shrugs it off roughly. "But we'll earn no favours with your fist in his face."
Carver's scowl deepens, "Then we do nothing, as always."
Turning back to Bartrand, Gareth tries for his best smile, "My brother can be hotheaded, but we do have the skills to benefit your expedition."
"You're looking for a quick way out of the slums, right? You and every other Fereldan in this dump," Bartrand gives them a once-over, mouth twisting into a savage smile. "Find another meal ticket."
And, with that, Bartrand storms off, leaving the two of them standing there looking confused and more than a little dejected. There went their only chance.
"Well," Carver says, at last. "Back to waiting for someone to turn us in then."
"Do you have any other ideas? Because I'm listening, Carver."
Carver cocks his head to the side, then sighs, "Gamlen? I mean, he's got a head for this sort of garbage, doesn't he? Maybe he can talk to Bartrand? He knows some people. It's gotta be worth a try, right? After last week, we need all the influence and coin we can get."
Gareth hums to himself softly. Their uncle's about as useful as a hunk of druffalo dung. He doesn't work and spends most of his days gambling, drinking, or playing cards down at the Hanged Man. Or visiting the Rose. Neither he nor Gareth talk about that, though.
However, Gamlen did successfully get them into Kirkwall. One year of indentured servitude later and they're free. It was a steep price and while it was worth it at the time, Gareth's not too sure what the cost of their uncle's help might be this time. Still, they don't have any other options.
"It's worth asking. He did get us into Kirkwall, after all."
"Right, and we both know how that turned out…"
Leaving the Merchants Guild behind them, the two of them begin to make their way back towards Lowtown. If they're lucky, they'll be able to catch Gamlen before he leaves for wherever it is that he spends his days.
Someone thumps into Gareth's back, pushing past him and nearly elbowing Carver in the face. Gareth's about to pass it off as someone in a hurry when he pats his belt and realizes–
"Hey!"
He's just been robbed.
He can see the pickpocket making a run for the narrow street that'll lead him into Hightown's marketplace. Gareth moves to give chase, knowing that the moment that the thief slips into the crowds there that he'll lose him and not see the contents of his coin purse again.
Two things happen at once.
First, Gareth hears the twang of a bow.
Second, the thief slams into the wall. A bolt pinning his shirt to the stone.
"I knew a guy who could take every coin out of your pockets just by smiling at you." From the small alcove of a doorway, strolls another dwarf. His blond hair is slicked back into a ponytail and he shoulders a massive crossbow, the likes of which Gareth's never seen before. "But you? You don't have the style to work Hightown, let alone the Merchants Guild."
The dwarf holds out his hand and the pickpocket grudgingly surrenders his pilfered goods. With a charming smile, the dwarf pulls the bolt out of the thief's shirt easily right before he socks him one in the jaw.
With a little twirl of the bolt before he replaces it in his quiver, the dwarf gives a little bow to the both of them as he tosses Gareth's coin purse back to him, "Varric Tethras, at your service. No need for introductions, I know who the both of you are. The name 'Hawke' is on many lips these days. Not bad for a Fereldan fresh off the boat."
Gareth's got no idea what to say. He's pretty sure that he might just be gaping like a fish out of water.
Varric continues on, "I apologize for Bartrand. He wouldn't know an opportunity if it hit him square in the jaw."
"But you would?" Gareth asks, a little surprised to hear himself speak.
"I would!" Varric says, grinning. "What my brother doesn't realize is that we need someone like you. He would never admit it either – he's too proud. I, however, am quite practical."
Gareth quirks a brow up, "What makes you so certain we can help? Aside from our reputation."
"As I said, you've made quite a name for yourself over the last year. The Coterie has been squeezing smugglers out left and right, and the only group to survive owes it all to you two," Varric explains. Then, leaning towards them and lowering his voice, "Besides, we don't need another hireling – we need a partner. The truth is, Bartrand's been tearing his beard out trying to fund this on his own, but he can't. Invest in the expedition. Fifty sovereigns, and he can't refuse. Not with me there to vouch for you."
He tries very hard not to wince when he hears the price, "It sounds interesting – but if I had any gold, I wouldn't need this job."
"You need to think big! There's only a brief window after a Blight when the Deep Roads won't be crawling with darkspawn. The treasure you find down there could set you and your family up for life!"
Carver kicks the back of his boot, "Come on, the dwarf makes some sense. No offense." With a sigh, Carver adds, "Look, you started this – and it's a good idea. Certainly better than ending up in the Gallows."
There's a thread of pleading in Varric's voice as he says, "We work together, you and I, and before you know it, you'll have all the capital you need. What do you say?"
He weighs the decision. Not knowing Varric well weighs heavily on him, but Gareth's tired of doubting everyone that he meets. And, if he's honest, he's getting more than a little tired of having no company but his surly little brother.
So, he takes Varric's hand and shakes it. The dwarf has a very firm grip.
"You have yourself a partner," Gareth says.
"Excellent! Kirkwall's full of opportunities – all you need to do is set a little aside and you'll have the funds in no time!"
Gareth's not so convinced about that, not when his uncle has a tendency to go through his mail to check if there's any coins in the envelopes. Or the frequency with which Gareth's expected to settle his uncle's debts, either through working them off as he did for Athenril or giving up whatever little coin he has on him. He rather suspects that any money he does earn for this venture will go straight back into paying for Gamlen's expensive hobbies.
Carver, who has been staring thoughtfully into the distance for the past few minutes, blinks, and then says, "Maybe Aveline's got some bounties out. She did join the city guard, after all."
"It's worth a look," Gareth says. "Besides, we should check on her. See how she's settling in at the Keep."
"Worrywart," Carver mutters.
Gareth ignores that barb. He misses Aveline, despite her tendency to… hover over them. It was something to be expected after everything that they'd been through. And everyone that they had lost.
"You've got a Fereldan friend in the guard?" Varric asks, falling into easy step with Gareth despite the latter's longer legs and stride.
"Aveline, yes," Gareth replies. "We traveled with her – from Lothering."
"There's a story there. You'll have to tell me sometime – maybe over a drink at the Hanged Man?" Varric's eyes have a glint in them, "Don't worry about the cost; I'll make sure to put you on my tab."
Gareth chuckles, "You got yourself a deal."
Conversation as they make their way to the Keep remains light, and Varric manages to cajole a story or two out of Gareth of some of their escapades while working for Athenril. With each one, Carver's scowl grows deeper and deeper and he falls further and further behind the two of them.
"... and then he looked at the goat and said, 'We're not going to talk about this.' And stormed off," Gareth finishes, between laughs. He'd given up trying to fight the laughter early on.
Varric's been roaring with laughter since the story of what Gareth has come to term as the Goathouse Story. He's grinning so hard that his face must hurt, "You know what, Junior, I was wrong about you. You've got the making of a real comedian behind that scowl of yours."
With his pink ears, Carver's tone loses some of its acid, "Shut up."
When they enter the Keep, Varric sobers up, though he keeps that grin of his on his face that Gareth's fairly certain is just his default expression. Instead, he makes a smart remark about how one knows that the Keep is the most important place in Kirkwall because everyone looks like they've just eaten a lemon.
"Bartrand must blend right in, then," Gareth remarks.
Varric snorts, "You'd be right, but he'd rather be dead than come here. You can probably tell, but he's too full of Dwarven Pride to step foot in such a 'surfacer' place."
"You're from Orzammar, Varric?"
"Nah, Kirkwall born and raised," Varric replies breezily. "Bartrand, though, he was born in the city and still remembers it too. It's hard to miss or know something you never knew."
Gareth's not sure what to say to that, so he stays quiet.
The Viscount's Keep is the heart and centre of Kirkwall's administration, a given since it's the seat of the viscount. Although, Gareth's been in Kirkwall long enough to know that the real seat of power is located in the Gallows under the rarely seen Knight-Commander Meredith. If he hadn't believed it when they first arrived, Gareth believes it now; it's impossible to ignore the always present threat of the templars.
Coming to visit Aveline is new. For the first two months that they lived in Kirkwall, it was all five of them crammed into Gamlen's small apartment in Lowtown. When Aveline managed to get a position in the city guard, she'd moved into the barracks in the Keep.
He'd only visited her once before and it been nothing more than an exercise in frustration. Waiting for her to finish her patrol had been the easy part, enduring the whispers from her fellow guardsmen and even outright mockery from some of them had been the hard part. He'd gotten through it by focusing on the techniques his father had taught him for channeling his magic.
Today, however, he's in luck. Aveline's not out for patrol.
Rather, she's inspecting an assortment of papers nailed up to a column in the centre of the barracks common area. The same one that he waited in for hours last time he visited.
"Aveline!"
She doesn't even turn around. Just keeps looking through one stack of papers that's nailed to the wall. When her greeting comes, it's a distracted, "Hello, Hawke."
He doesn't flinch, though his tone is stilted as he says, "Been a while, hasn't it?"
"What?" Aveline finally looks away from the papers she's been so diligently reading, looking to where Gareth is standing a little behind her. She turns to face him, a spot of colour high in her cheeks, "Sorry, it feels like we just talked. I've been keeping an eye on you. Information's one of the few perks of this job. Watch out for Bartrand – he's a son of a bitch."
"Well," Varric mutters under his breath. "She's not wrong on that one. Sorry, mother."
Gareth frowns, "You know I don't like it when you have people watching me."
"Saved me camping on your doorstep," Aveline says with a small smile. "After what we went through to get here, I…" Her breathing hitches and her smile slips. Then she takes a deep breath, and diverts that train of thought, "Well, you're no child, but I take care of my friends. The places that they have me patrolling. I have time."
"You're still having trouble?" Gareth's very much aware of the prejudices within the city's walls; he's been victim to them more times than he can count. It shouldn't surprise him, really, but it's Aveline and so it does. "I thought you'd gotten past all that."
Aveline sighs, "Lately, I don't know. I've been pushed out to some dead patrols. Maybe I stepped on someone's toes?"
"You can be… forceful." And that's putting it mildly, he thinks.
"My charm, right?" Aveline says, with a wry smile. "I should be able to go where I'm needed…"
Carver clears his throat, "You need anything, Aveline? Any bounties up?"
She blinks, thoughtful for a moment, then says, "Actually… now that you mention it, I might have something for you. You up for doing a favour for Kirkwall?"
"You have something worth doing?" Gareth asks, interest perked.
"My patrols might be empty walks in the dark, but there's something big coming up and I could use you." She drops her voice, gestures with her head that they should take a walk, "An ambush. Probably for a caravan, although I can't find any shipments that match up."
"Smugglers, most likely."
"Doesn't matter. Highwaymen waiting for someone to rob? I'm putting a stop to it; my distract or not."
"You've got yourself a partner, Aveline," Gareth says.
Aveline smiles, bright and relieved, almost, "I knew I could count on you."
"All you have to do is ask. You know that," Gareth reminds her gently. "What else have you heard about this ambush?"
"They're hidden up Sundermount. Remote and rough, but we can make good time with a short cut I know of." There's a vivency in her that was absent the last time that Gareth saw her; clearly, she's energized at the thought of action and justice being done. There's a mystery afoot and they're going to solve it.
Aveline gives him, Carver, and Varric a stern look over before they leave the Keep, "You'll be acting on behalf of the guard. I expect all of you to be on your best behaviour."
"You wound me, madame," Varric says, planting a hand over his heart. "I'm always the perfect gentleman. In public, at least."
Aveline looks to Gareth, eyebrows raised, "And this is?"
"Varric, Aveline. Aveline, Varric."
She nods to Varric, "A pleasure."
"Oh no, the pleasure's all mine…"
"Don't push your luck, Varric."
"I wouldn't dream of it."
Before they leave for Sundermount, they'll need supplies for an overnight trip. Aveline easily supplies those, requisitioning them from the barracks. A quick glance at the sun tells Gareth that, so long as they make good time now, they should be able to reach the ambush site that Aveline indicated on the map by late evening.
It'll be a long, hard push, but it's nothing that they're not used to.
As they're leaving Hightown, someone calls out.
"Hawke! That you?"
Gareth smiles at the call of his name, turning automatically to face the source of the greeting, "Worthy! I thought you'd left for Orzammar."
Worthy, a stocky, slightly rotund dwarf, with brown hair and a face heavily creased with wrinkles, grins, "I was, but turns out that Orzammar's not all it's cracked up to be. Now, what about you? You aren't still working for Athenril, are you? Your year's gotta be up by now."
"I'm looking to become an explorer – of a sort – actually," Gareth says.
"Bartrand, right? Heard about that. He's an ass, but his information's usually good," Worthy twirls a loose bit of his beard between his fingers. "Listen, I've still got my contacts. You need any runecrafting done, you let me know."
"I'll keep that in mind. Thanks, Worthy."
"It's nothing. You always were good for business."
The rest of their trip through the city is without incident. It's proving to be another warm, humid day and it doesn't take long for the lot of them to work up a good sweat. The shortcut that Aveline's got them using is little more than a game track, and it's riddled with loose rocks and roots that just wait to cause a rolled or fractured ankle.
As a matter of that, they have to stop halfway up when Varric's ankle rolls out on a loose rock. He tumbles backwards and it's only that Carver was behind him, bringing up the rear, that stops him from taking one long rolling fall down the entirety of the track.
"Shit! Thanks Junior, I owe you one."
Carver steadies Varric with hands under his shoulders, "C'mon. There's a stump up there you can sit on while Gareth takes a look. It shouldn't take long, should it?"
"I won't know till I take a look," Gareth shrugs. "Even if it's serious, it shouldn't take more than a few minutes."
Varric's grimacing with pain, "Pretty sure I didn't break it…"
For his part, Varric doesn't complain that Carver practically carries him to the stump and sits him on it. He also makes not a sound of pain when Gareth carefully removes both his boot and sock, to look at the ankle underneath.
The joint in question is an angry red, already starting to swell just a little, and Gareth prods it gently with his fingers. His fingers are flush with magic, a feeling only he knows, and it's a pleasant, tingly sort of warmth as he examines Varric's ankle.
"It's just a bad twist – maybe a sprain," Gareth says, at last. "That's good news. It means I don't have to force any bones back into place."
"You can do that?" Varric says, trying to not blanch visibly.
Gareth smiles at him, "I'm a healer. Don't worry, I know exactly what I'm doing."
His hands warm, lighting up with that familiar white glow that comes whenever he uses his gift. He's aware that his eyes must have taken on that glow that they do when he heals, because Varric makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like an oath. Gareth feels hands, ghostly ones that only he can see and see them faintly, laying over his, and with a final pulse of white light, it's done.
"There," Gareth says, pulling his hands back. "Good as new. No pain?"
The redness is already receding, the swelling has vanished completely, and Varric stares on in what can only be described as close to wonder as he flexes his foot and ankle.
"Damn, you're a miracle worker," Varric comments, pulling his sock back on.
"It's what I do. Let me know if there's anything else – pain or discomfort – and I'll take another look. I know sometimes that there can be… complications."
There are things he can't heal. Gareth knows this now. It's a lesson that he learned and he learned it the hard way. He couldn't cure Wesley of the taint. He couldn't save Bethany. His ability to work miracles, as they say, only goes so far.
There is no magic in all the world and the Fade that can cure death.
He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose. He can't lose focus now. They have a job to do and Aveline is counting on him.
Later, he tells himself. Later is when he can let himself fall apart, if only for a little while.
The rest of the hike up the steep incline is uneventful, but arduous. It's later in the evening than originally presumed when they find a small clearing on a rocky outcrop to make camp for the night. According to the information that Aveline has, whatever caravan is slated to pass through here will be in the early morning hours. They'll rest for the night here and surprise the ambush party in the morning.
"First watch will be mine," Aveline says, over dinner.
They have a small fire going, courtesy of Carver, which is serves the dual purpose of providing warmth and hopefully keeping any animals at bay.
"I'll take second," Carver volunteers.
"I guess that leaves me with the last one, then," Gareth says.
"And none for the dwarf?"
Aveline shrugs, "We wouldn't want to infringe on your much needed beauty sleep."
"Hey!"
Gareth snorts and even Carver looks like he's trying not to laugh. The atmosphere around the fire is comfortable, friendly, and Gareth can see this becoming a common occurrence in the future. Varric's presence is soothing, talk flows freely with him around, and he has a large repertoire of stories to tell.
On the note of stories and Varric, once dinner's finished and cleared away, he launches into one.
"No shit, there I was…"
It's easy to drift off to the sound of Varric's voice. Easy to forget, for a few moments at least, all the weight that's on his shoulders. His head drops to Carver's shoulder, eyes slowly drooping closed, and all too soon, he's lost to the world of waking.
He jerks away hours later, Bethany's name on his lips.
Her blank, sightless eyes staring at him. That's the memory he brings with him. For only a moment, he's back there, on that ridge outside of Lothering, with his sister's body in his arms and it's all his fault.
But that fades quickly, replaced with the campsite on a ridge on Sundermount.
Gareth's not sure what woke him, but he can hear Varric's soft snores from nearby. Carver's gone from where he remembers him being at his side, but Aveline has taken up his place. She leans back against the tree, head pillowed on her pack, and breathing deeply.
It's a welcome sight, and Gareth releases the breath he was holding in a whoosh of air.
He isn't sure of the hour, but it's clearly late. Maybe edging into the early morning hours. It doesn't matter. He won't be getting anymore sleep tonight.
Settling back against the tree, he holds up a trembling hand. He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and focuses his mind's eye on the fire. Remembers its texture, the way that it's light wavers, brightens, all of the colours mixed into it.
When he opens his eyes, there's a small ball of flickering blue-green fire in his hands.
The actual fire has burned dangerously low, to nothing more than smouldering coals. Cupping his hands around his handful of veilfire, he rolls forward into a crouch and lowers it into the remnants of the fire. With a little nudge and push from his magic, it grows into a roaring silent inferno of green flames. It's a poor replacement for an actual fire – since veilfire holds no heat – but it requires no fuel to burn and the light it gives off is more than enough to see by.
Even with its light, everything looks cold when lit by veilfire. It gives everything a strange, green hue that makes the skin of his hands look pale and sickly.
He forces back more thoughts of Bethany.
But he can't force them all back. Not now. Not in the dark of night with only himself for company.
Carver is a ways off, perched on a boulder at the edge of their little clearing to keep watch. If he wanted, Gareth could go and join him, maybe relieve him of his watch early, but that wouldn't go over well. His younger brother's become more and more prickly as the days have passed. Carver would resent him implying that he's not capable enough to keep a full watch.
Which leaves him there, staring into the flickering green veilfire, with nothing but his thoughts for company.
Drawing his knees to his chest, Gareth wraps his arms around them. The ground under him is cool and hard, but his rear's already gone numb from it. He misses Bethany; he misses her easy company and soothing presence. If Bethany were here, they would have a roaring fire in front of them to keep the chill of the night at bay, not the pale imitation of one that he's conjured.
Magical talent is not measured in destructive power. Gareth knows that. He had always struggled with the more 'traditional' schools of magic that came easily to his father and sister. Bethany had taken after their father, proving herself to be an incredibly capable mage. She spent hours at a time with Malcolm, learning to master her control over the elements.
Recalling their lessons with their father, Gareth knows well that he's an outlier – a rarity. He could barely summon a flame in his hand, while Bethany could conjure a raging inferno. But while Bethany struggled to seal a single scratch, he could easily heal a wolf's bite perfectly. His father had known what Gareth was since his magic had awakened when he was five.
It had presented so early. Gareth remembers how terrified his parents had been, how they'd had to leave their home behind, eventually resettling near Lothering. The single act of healing a man who had stumbled into their home after being set upon by bandits had nearly killed him. After that, his training had begun in full.
Spirit healers, as he learned from his father, aren't common. His father had never known one, only knew the rudimentary basics of the school of magic of creation – the one to which spirit healing belonged – and so could only instruct Gareth on control. He had to be careful, push himself too far to save someone, and he could lose himself in the process.
"Your connection to the Fade goes much deeper than mine," their father said one night. "You must be careful and wary of what you encounter there."
But the Fade has never felt threatening to him. When he wakes there in his dreams, he feels safe. He's quite sure that he can see ghostly arms wrapped around him there, but when he turns, there's no one there. But that feeling of safety, of warmth and love, is always there.
Gareth's not entirely sure what it means, but he feels that same… presence, for lack of a better word, whenever he heals. It's a little like something – or someone – is reaching through him to help.
Sometimes that presence is stronger. The more dire the wound, the stronger it becomes. The first time that he'd used magic, he thought he'd heard a voice. In the years after, he'd become convinced that it was just the overhyped imagination of a child, but these days he isn't so sure.
He misses his father's guidance. The assuredness that was inherent in his presence. Their father always knew what to do, how to handle any situation. It's his shoes that Gareth has to fill, and he doesn't know if he's doing it right at all. Most of the time, he feels as though he's drowning. Magic always seemed less mysterious, less unknown, when his father spoke of it.
Gareth sighs and gives himself a quick, mental shake. He can wonder all he wants about the mysteries of magic. He knows who and what he is: a spirit healer. That's enough. He doesn't need anything else.
He sits there, curled up on himself, till his brother comes to have him relieve him of the watch.
His legs are cramped from the position, but he doesn't fall when he stands. Pricks and pins radiate down his legs, an uncomfortable sensation, but it begins to fade as he makes his way towards the boulder on the edge of their campsite. From there, he has an excellent vantage point both into the narrow pass below and of his companions.
Summoning more veilfire, this time little more than a wisp, he sends it floating absently about his head. It won't do damage, but it can certainly startle someone – or something – if launched towards them at speed.
The night passes without incident. The dawn comes in, grey and colder than in Kirkwall due to their higher elevation on Sundermount. Fog condenses about the ground, moving in little eddies as they each move through them.
"That is some weird shit," Varric comments, jerking his head towards the fire as they eat a quick, cold breakfast.
"It's veilfire."
"Never heard of it."
"It's harmless," Gareth says. He demonstrates by sticking his hand directly into it, which earns him something close to a panicked noise from Varric, and pulls it out. His hand is, of course, completely unharmed. "Veilfire doesn't give off heat or consume fuel. Think of it… like a memory of fire."
"Huh. Like I said, weird shit."
After breakfast, Gareth douses the veilfire with a gesture of his hand. Varric makes another muttered comment, but he ignores it. It's still strange to work magic in front of people who aren't members of his family.
They have to slowly and carefully pick their way down the slope towards the narrow pass below. But before they come close to losing the high ground, Gareth sees no caravan in the distance. In fact, he sees not a single other living soul besides the four of them.
Suspicious.
Varric's the one who spots the trip lines about halfway down the packed dirt road.
"You sure this is all for a caravan?" Varric asks, crouched down to disarm the trap.
"Smugglers, most likely," Aveline says, keeping an eye on the path. "But it's strange… there's been no sign of any caravan at all…"
Carver drops down from a tree, "There's a band of about six men up ahead. Bandits, it looks like."
"There's our ambush party." Aveline taps her fingers against the hilt of her sword, "They haven't spotted us yet?"
Varric stands, rolling his shoulders back, "My guess is that they're waiting on the trap. Spring it, there's an explosion. That way, they know that whoever it is they're after's on their way."
"How far ahead are the bandits?" Gareth asks.
"Just around the curve up ahead – probably no more than about a hundred, maybe a hundred-fifty, paces."
There's a very narrow ledge to the left of them. It'll be dangerous but…
"Varric, think you can manage that ledge there?"
Craning his head back, Varric nods, "Have I mentioned that I don't like heights? Because I don't."
"Aveline will take point, with Carver providing back-up. Varric, your job is to provide cover fire. See if you can take any of them out before they notice us. And I'll bring up the rear – just in case they're hiding any reinforcements."
"Right."
The three of them wait till Varric's in position. Aveline unsheathes her sword and adjusts her shield – Wesley's shield, Gareth reminds himself – and Carver rolls his shoulders, great sword in hand. Gareth checks the blade on his stave. At the signal, they charge.
It's a short, brutal, messy fight.
The path is too narrow to properly maneuver, meaning that they pin the bandits easily. With Carver and Aveline on point and Varric providing a barrage of cover fire from his elevated position, it's over quickly. He sees absolutely no action.
Though, he does have to seal up a scratch on Carver's forehead and check Aveline's shield arm after she took a particularly hard knock. None of it's serious, but Gareth's happy to be of help.
Varric skids down from his vantage point on the ledge, moving to recover what bolts he can from the aftermath, "Well-equipped for bandits, aren't they?"
Aveline shrugs, "Dead is dead and the road is clear. We'll need to return to the barracks to inform Captain Jeven. And for your just reward."
If Gareth thinks about it, the entire situation is rather anti-climatic. He would have thought that there would be more men or some sign of a camp, but there's nothing. Adding onto that, the lack of an actual caravan makes him wary. Perhaps it's just his paranoia getting the best of him.
What matters is that they've cleared the road of bandits and made it safe to travel once more. He doesn't think more of how odd the place is for a caravan to be passing through.
The trip back into Kirkwall is as uneventful as the one out had been. Only this time, no one slips on any loose footings. Mostly because they don't take the same game trail shortcut that they took up; this time, they're able to use the actual winding, dirt path that leads back into the city.
Still, it's mid-afternoon when they arrive back in Kirkwall. They pass through straight into Hightown and make towards the Keep.
He's not sure what the protocol is for citizens aiding the city guard, but he trusts that Aveline knows what she's doing. They re-enter the barracks, which are quite empty for the time of day. Though, on closer listen, he can hear rowdy conversation coming from the mess hall. Lunch time, then.
Aveline stops outside of one of the doors, "Here's Jeven's office. Wait while I explain our initiative."
She knocks on the door, waits, and only enters when a man's voice yells, "Enter!"
The door closes behind her with a click.
Leaning back against the wall, Gareth waits. Carver takes a seat beside Varric on the stairs, leaning back as Varric launches into another story.
At least everyone's getting along.
He's jerked out of his idle thoughts by muffled yelling, coming from Jeven's office.
"I don't know how they do it where you're from, guardswoman, but I decide the patrols, not you and your whims! You might have been put up for lieutenant in your first year, but I'll have no show-offs in my command! Have I made myself clear?!" There's a pause, then, "Report to your post! Before I have you and your Fereldan accomplice jailed!"
Aveline stumbles out of the office, looking flustered and confused. The door slams closed behind her.
Gareth blinks, "That was a lot of yelling for doing him a favour."
Turning to him, Aveline frowns, "We killed a band of highwaymen. What does it matter whose patrol it was?" She sighs, glancing away, "It's not the first time he's made me wonder like this… something is wrong."
"So, why don't we find out who's toes we stepped on?"
Aveline points towards the paper covered column, "We'll need to check the duty roster, then. Find out who's patrol that was."
He and Aveline only manage to make it to the column, before they're approached by another guard, "Aveline!"
The guardswoman who approaches is slightly shorter than Aveline, with close-cropped auburn hair. She's smiling, clearly relieved, as she addresses Aveline, "I owe you for clearing out that ambush. Saved me a mess of trouble!"
"Brennan," Aveline says, surprised. "That was your route?"
The guardswoman, Brennan, nods, "It was. Single patrol. I'd have been dead for sure."
"There wasn't anything unusual about it?" Gareth asks.
"It had been clear for weeks. It didn't get unusual until after we heard about you and Aveline," Brennan shrugs. "The Captain reassigned me after he heard what you did and I passed the satchel on to Donnic for his patrol tonight."
"The satchel?"
"Pay and order assignments. Captain has us run deliveries to the outposts during light duty. It's usually just an updated copy of the roster." A thoughtful look steals across Brennan's face for a moment, and she muses, "The satchel for that night was heavy though..."
Brennan snaps herself out of it, smiling at Aveline, "Anyway, thanks again, Aveline. You're a good one."
Gareth's quite sure that his eyebrows are in his hairline. Just what have they stumbled into now?
"So the satchel gets heavy the same day we discover an ambush," Aveline says. She reaches for the roster.
"Messy way to pass information," Gareth adds. "And Brennan's already sent it along."
"And another guard is walking into the same trap. I can't let that happen." Aveline nods, flipping through the roster, "Donnic… a good man, Donnic... Donnic. I've got his route. A night walk in Lowtown. Let's make sure his quiet patrol stays quiet."
"Will you be coming around for dinner, then?" Gareth asks.
"Not tonight, no. Perhaps another time? I'll meet you outside the Hanged Man, just after sundown."
"I'll see you there."
Leaving Aveline behind, Gareth gestures to Varric and Carver that they're going.
"So, Hawke, what's the plan? I sense that there's intrigue afoot."
"You would say that," Carver mutters.
"We'll be meeting with Aveline tonight, after sundown outside of the Hanged Man," Gareth replies. "Until then, I think Carver and I had better go home and make sure that mother and Gamlen haven't started squabbling again."
"They only argue because mother won't leave the house. She's been – well, mourning for the last year. You know how she's been."
"... I know."
"Well, I think I'll leave the family drama to the two of you," Varric says. "If you need me, I'll be in my room in the Hanged Man. And remember, Hawke, you owe me a story and I owe you a drink."
They part ways in front of the Hanged Man. When Varric opens the door to go in, they hear a shout of his name from the bartender and a rush of talk, music, and laughter. Then, it closes with a heavy thud.
It's not a long walk from the Hanged Man to Gamlen's small apartment, which is located on the third floor of an entire series of them. Though it's small and cramped for four adults, it's at least not on the lowest level which, as Gareth knows from eavesdropping, leaks something terrible and is constantly smelling like a privy.
"… hard to believe they left me nothing!"
Cracking open the door, it turns out that Gareth's right. They've walked in on the tail end of yet another argument between their mother and uncle.
"Well, mother was pretty steamed when you ran off with your Fereldan apostate!" Gamlen snaps.
"I'm still their daughter! Their eldest!"
The argument comes to a screeching halt when Gareth and Carver enter the small apartment. Gamlen takes one look at them before throwing his hands up into the air.
"That's it! I've had enough! I'll be back once you've calmed down!"
And with that, their uncle storms out of the house. Likely heading for the Hanged Man and his favourite stool therein.
Leandra's shoulders sag, "I'm sorry, I didn't–"
"It's alright, mother," Gareth soothes, stroking her shoulder gently.
"I just worry about the two of you," she continues. "With the templars and your work… I can't bear the thought of losing you – either of you. Not after – after Bethany."
"I know," Gareth says, quietly. He pulls his mother close, tucking her against him and ignores the pang of loss and guilt in his chest. "We miss her too."
"I keep thinking back to that day. That I could have done something."
He squeezes her tighter, "There wasn't anything you could've done. The darkspawn are to blame, not you."
Leandra shakes her head, "They would have been happy with any prey. It was my fault that it was Bethany." She stares at the wall, blinking back tears, "Eighteen years of feeding, and loving… and then she's gone."
Silence falls over them. Gareth doesn't know how to break it, so he lets it hang.
He misses Bethany.
He whiles away the rest of the afternoon with a variety of errands. What surprises him is the letter of apology he finds from Athenril, which comes along with the offer of paid work if he's still interested. It's something to think about, especially with the expedition and his potential partnership regarding it to consider.
Carver slips away at some point, to do whatever it is that he does when he's not following Gareth around Kirkwall like a menacing and overbearing bodyguard. It's both a relief and strange to be without Carver, he's gotten so used to his presence. Wherever it is that he disappears to, Carver returns before nightfall.
There's a faraway look on his face when he comes home – an almost dreamy expression. If Gareth didn't know any better, he'd say his brother was in love.
Wisely, he lets the matter lie.
Meeting up with Aveline, she's left behind her guardswoman uniform, instead donning clothes similar to the ones that she wore when they fled Lothering. Though, she's reinforced them with light, flexible leather armour to offer more protection against whatever they might face; Lowtown's hardly safe at night, and few outside of the horrendously drunk are willing to wander through it unarmed.
"I've traced the first part of Donnic's route," Aveline says, as Gareth and Carver approach.
"And?"
"Nothing. Though, if they wanted to catch him unawares and out of sight, they'd do it close to one of the alleys. We'll check those next," Aveline replies.
Varric emerges from the Hanged Man then, straightening his coat. He grins at them, "So, rescue mission?"
"That's the plan. Hopefully, we're not too late."
Their formation, as they slowly move through the various alleys that make up Lowtown, is the standard that they've come to accept. Aveline and Carver up front, Gareth in the middle, and Varric bringing up the rear.
Two streetgangs later, Aveline pauses.
"I heard something. This way."
The alley's little more than a dead-end between two blocks of apartments. However, it isn't deserted.
Gareth has enough time to recognize the familiar plate of Kirkwall's guard, before the thieves – Coterie, most likely – turn on them. He blocks the blade of one, turns with the blow, and brings the blade of us stave up to run his opponent through. With a twirl, he knocks another one upside the head. Stunned, the thief stumbles back, right in time to take a bolt at nearly point-blank range from Bianca.
It's a short, quick fight. Clearly, they weren't expecting that Donnic would receive reinforcements. Five men should have been more than enough to take out a single guardsman.
A quick, surreptitious glance over Donnic reveals the man to be mostly unharmed, much to Gareth's relief. There's a bruise darkening on his temple, but it isn't serious and Gareth can't afford to heal it now without raising some serious questions.
He hates having to hide.
"Who… Ave… Aveline?" Donnic sounds dazed, and he sways on his feet when Aveline helps him up. He stares at her, more than a little slack-jawed and wide-eyed. "You're a beautiful sight."
"Guardsman?"
Donnic blinks, then stutters, "I mean – I was on patrol. They came out of nowhere. I took a few down but there were too many at once." Then, his mouth tugs downwards into a frown, "The captain said that this route was supposed to be quiet."
The satchel, which Donnic lost hold of during the fight, lies sagging near Gareth's feet. He bends down, curiosity gets the better of him, and he opens it. Inside, there's several neat stacks of paper, each tied together with twine and the extra weight comes from a heavy, metal object at the bottom. Gareth pulls all of the items out, weighing them in his hands.
Carver, leaning over his shoulder, says, "The seal of the viscount. Office details, city accounts."
"Useful to a guild of thieves," Gareth remarks. He tucks the papers and the seal back into the satchel, hands it to Aveline.
"A sacrificial delivery with one of our own." Aveline's hand balls into a fist, "Captain Jeven will answer." Holding the bag tightly in hand, Aveline continues, "This goes to the office of the viscount. This will be known."
"Then we should go now."
Aveline sighs, "Unfortunately, there won't be anyone in the Keep at this hour but a skeleton crew of the guard. We'll have to wait until morning, when the seneschal is in and we can demand an audience with him."
"Well," Varric says, dusting his hands on his jacket. "Can I interest the three of you in a game of Wicked Grace down at the Hanged Man? First round's on me."
"I'm in," Carver says.
Aveline hesitates, then smiles, "Alright, that sounds good."
That morning, things happen very, very quickly.
"How dare you! I am guard captain! I won't be treated like this!"
Jeven spits in the faces of the guards that come to clap him in irons. Her jerks against them, trying to fight them off, and it takes three guards to force him to begin the march of disgrace out of his office. He turns his head, shouting back to Aveline, "Fereldan bitch! This was none of your affair! I'll see you hanged! Quartered! This will not stand."
Though Gareth doesn't know Seneschal Bran well – indeed, he was only first introduced to the man this morning – he's quite certain that the man's amused. There's something in the glint in his eyes, as he speaks, "We found a number of debts to… suspect peoples. Such poor character."
Here, he pauses rather dramatically, before turning to Aveline, "But you, Aveline Vallen, have proven your loyalty and ability."
Aveline's spine is straight, she stands to attention, "The guard deserves better than him, messere."
"Indeed," Bran says. "The viscount would have you put your care for the men into direct practice. You will assume the captain's job."
She blinks, likely only discipline keeping her mouth from dropping open like a fish as she whirls to face the seneschal, "What?"
"In due time, of course. There will be training, approvals. Months, at least." Here, Bran does smile, or the closest he comes to it. It's barely a twinge upward of his lips, "But who better to rebuild respect than the woman who exposed this… embarrassment. Resolve any outstanding business, guardswoman. You will be very busy."
Aveline stares after Bran for several long moments, then, as though in a daze herself, she steps back to lean against the desk. She laughs, quietly, the sound catching in her throat and breathless, "Captain of the guard, hm?"
"Congratulations are in order, I think," Gareth says, smiling. There's a warm, bubbly feeling of pride swelling deep inside of his chest. Aveline's made it.
"It's not official yet, but thank you." She runs her hand along the edge of the desk, "It will take some getting used to."
He leans against the desk next to her, staring at the heavy oak door that separates the captain's office from the rest of the barracks, "I can't imagine the captain of the guard will like wandering in my shadow."
It sounds a lot sadder than he meant it to be.
She nudges his shoulder with hers, gently, "It's not like we're on opposite sides. The good you do… it seems rather appropriate. Besides, I'll be making the patrol schedule and, unlike Jeven, I don't plan to lead from behind a desk."
It fills him with more of that warmth. He won't admit to the worrying, not out loud at least, especially not when he's so proud of her. Aveline's found her place and he can't begrudge her that. Still, to know that it won't mean a loss…
He doesn't think he could survive the loss of anyone else.
So, smiling at her, he salutes her, "I look forward to working with you, Guard Captain Aveline."
During the entire walk back from the Keep, he thinks about what this will mean. Aveline has her duties, now, and she had them before, but now they'll be even more arduous than they were before. It will be even more difficult for her to slip away for their little adventures. She'll have less time off. It's not the end, he knows that, but it feels a little like the ending of one chapter – as Varric would likely put it.
Nothing to do about it now. Besides, Aveline deserves it. Kirkwall deserves a proper guard captain and Aveline is the very best. She will do them all proud and prove everyone wrong about those 'nasty Fereldan refugees'.
Thus, there's a little bit of a spring in his step when he returns home.
Of course, that doesn't last long.
Because the moment he walks in, he finds himself in the centre of yet another one of his uncle and mother's arguments.
"My children have been in servitude – servitude – for a year! They should be nobility!"
A bleary eyed Carver, likely still more than a little hungover from the night before, leans against the narrow, rickety bunks that are tucked into a corner. Likely, the argument is what woke him.
"And if wishes were poppy," Gamlen snaps back. "We'd all be dreaming!"
Gareth sighs. If it's not one thing, it's another. He steps forward, "Mother, this is how things are. Gamlen can't do anything more and we can't change what's happened now."
It's enough for Gamlen to round on him, now, scowling, "Your mother was supposed to marry the Comte de Launcet. Instead, she ran off with some Fereldan apostate." He turns back to their mother, "You don't get to stay the favourite after that."
"Where's father's will? If I could at least see–"
Gamlen waves her off, "It's not here, alright? It was read, it went in the vault. No one needed to look at it again."
"Did our grandfather mention mother in his will at all? Surely you–"
"Our father died a long time ago," Gamlen snaps. "You can hardly expect me to remember."
Wandering over, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, Carver mutters, "Oh, of course not. Why would you do something so reasonable?"
Gareth ignores the comment. He says to Gamlen, almost pleadingly, "Please, uncle. We have a right to see it for ourselves."
"Maybe so… but you won't be seeing the bloody thing. It's still in the estate and that's long out of my hands." Gamlen makes to wash his hands of it, and tries to push his way past his nephews, who firmly block his path. He's not getting away that easily. Not yet, at least.
"What daft bastard leaves that behind?"
For once, Carver's right. It's ridiculous that Gamlen would leave the will behind as he has. Ridiculous or… suspicious. More than likely, it's the latter. Gamlen's always been rather shifty about the entire matter of the estate, and Gareth wouldn't put it past him to have hidden something from them about it. It would be just like Gamlen to want everyone to be as miserable as him.
"It was old news!" Gamlen flaps, looking increasingly like a panicking doe. "You think I've been sitting around here for twenty-five years waiting for your mother to slink back to lick her wounds?"
Leandra winces, but presses on – her voice only shaking slightly, "Who bought the estate, Gamlen? Perhaps I could speak to them. Was it the Reinhardts?"
"No one you know. Get used to Lowtown, sister. That's where we're going to stay."
With that, Gamlen elbows past Gareth and Carver, making a hasty break for the door. He makes it out, without even chancing a glance behind him. Leandra watches him go, deflating slightly. She walks over to the small fireplace, settling down in front of it on the worn rug. Waffles joins her, curling protectively around her and making a high, whining noise until she ruffles his ears.
Gareth looks at Carver, raising an eyebrow.
"Well, that was… suspicious."
Carver snorts, "Very astute." He runs a hand through his hair, "Maker, what a mess… I want to make things better for mother, but Gamlen? He makes a little bit of sense. Having to play caretaker to someone else's life? Being stuck in their shadow? That's no way to live."
The bitterness is like a slap in the face.
"Something you need to say, Carver?"
"Look, you wanna get into this now, fine. I don't care. I never lived here – none of this matters to me. It's not home."
"We can't change what happened, Carver. No matter how much we might want to."
"... you could've saved Bethany."
It feels like being punched in the heart. It's a low blow, and they both know it. Carver looks at him, wide-eyed, shocked that he voiced that. He opens his mouth, to apologize, to take the words back, but it's too late.
"I know," Gareth whispers, staring at the floor. He could have saved Bethany. He knows. He knows it's his fault.
"I shouldn't have said that," Carver says. "I didn't…" He sucks in a breath, coughs, trying to find a way to change the subject to something less painful. He finally settles on, "Mother gave me her old key. To the estate. Look, finding grandfather's will doesn't matter to me; I didn't know him."
It's a peace offering; awkward and tentative, but Gareth's more than willing to take it. Anything to keep from lingering on the memory of Bethany.
"She's tried her best to give us what we need," Gareth says, voice wavering slightly. "We owe her the same."
"You're right, but it's not like we can march right up and ask slavers to give her back that life."
He blinks, "What have you heard?"
Though still pale in the face, Carver snorts weakly, "Uncle's a chatty drunk. He was up to his neck and signed everything over. That's who bought the estate. Apparently the most extensive wine cellar in Kirkwall is now a slave highway from the Undercity. That's the family legacy."
"That seems like something that needs changing."
Carver grins, small and hesitant, but there nonetheless. "Alright. If the key works, we'll clear the estate from the Undercity up."
Though Aveline's tied up with paperwork and protocol for her coming promotion to guard captain, Varric's available and apparently none the worse for wear from their get together the night before. As a matter of fact, he's downright perky when Gareth drops into the Hanged Man.
"What's on the agenda today?"
"We're clearing out some slavers from the old family estate," Gareth says.
"I'm assuming that you have a plan for this."
Carver presents the key, which Varric eyes closely.
"Huh, didn't know you were related to the Amells."
"Our mother is one," Gareth supplies. "The key's to the old cellar entrance. We're headed to Darktown. You coming?"
Varric grins, shouldering Bianca. He cracks his knuckles and waves off the bartender to let him know he's leaving, "'Course I am! Let's get going!"
Darktown is the charming nickname bestowed upon the Undercity by the denizens of Kirkwall. It's an area of the city even worse off than Lowtown and when they refer to it as being the 'Undercity', they mean it; it's actually the areas built into the cliff-like hill that Kirkwall is built upon. Much of it has a charming view of the mine that was once the heart of the Imperium's activities in the area.
Largely, it's populated by those looking not to be found, those who can't even afford the lowest rents in Kirkwall, and a certain segment of Kirkwall's criminal class. It's precisely the sort of place that one doesn't want to be caught dead in after dark.
Gareth's frequently Darktown before, usually on errands for Athenril. Much of the smuggling was done in and out of Darktown, while the wares themselves were usually brought up to the higher tiers to be sold. Since splitting with Athenril, he's only been down there once; it's not a place he would've thought to return to, but here he is.
For his family, he would do anything.
None of them are certain what they're looking for, although Varric's seen maps of the area which gives them a rough idea of where to look. It's not much, but it's a start.
Eventually, they find the sigil of the Amell family scratched into the stonework marking a partially collapsed doorway. There's just enough space for them to crawl through, one at a time.
"Well, this looks like the place," Carver says. "If the cellars go this far, maybe we were important."
Varric shrugs, "Dunno much about the politics behind that, sorry."
The first one to scramble through the narrow gap is Carver. He calls back, "I found the cellar door! Key fits!"
Gareth has to boost Varric up enough for the dwarf to be able to climb through the gap. Once Varric's through, he follows, landing in an uneven crouch in the dust on the other side.
It's a very narrow, small room that they've landed themselves in. And it's a good thing that they didn't bring Aveline with them, because it's cramped enough with just the three of them. It's also very dark, the thin light filtering in through the gap barely enough to see by.
Holding up his hand, Gareth conjures a small handful of veilfire. It illuminates the area in flickering, green light, revealing the heavy, carved door that's set into the floor. Carver's crouched down next to, the heavy iron key fitted into the lock.
Looking up at Gareth, Carver grins and turns it. The lock opens with a resounding click. Getting the door itself open is difficult with the three of them squished into the room together, but they manage it – somehow. It involved a lot of very creative positioning. Eventually, they get it open enough for Varric to squeeze through and drop down. After that, it's easy for Carver to drop down, and then Gareth.
The door closes above them with a loud, muffled thud.
For each of them, Gareth conjures a small handful of veilfire to light the way. Varric's wary of it, holding it a good distance away from himself, but aside from a frown, he says nothing.
It's a very long, very quiet walk through the cramped tunnel that leads into the cellars of the old Amell estate.
The cellars themselves, when they reach them, have that musty smell of a place that hasn't been inhabited in some time. However, torches still burn in their sconces and the floors are remarkably clean of dust. The racks upon racks of wine that they pass, however, are caked in dust that's inches thick.
The slavers likely didn't purchase the estate for the wine, but for access to the Undercity. After all, where better to find people that no one would miss? The thought of it has Gareth's blood boiling. He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. It's not the time to lose his temper; not now. It wouldn't do to give the slavers a heads up that they're there.
The first group, they take by surprise.
Varric picks off two of them with Bianca before they even realize that they're there.
With a rapid charge, Carver takes down one, while Gareth takes down the other. The two of them move in easy pace with each other, falling into the old synergy that they trained to perfect when they were young and still learning. Gareth hadn't realized how much he missed those days – when they could laugh easily together, when they were the best of friends.
They've drifted apart and he doesn't know how to bridge the distance between them any longer.
Maybe that's why he's doing this. It's not just for his mother. Maybe he's hoping that if he can reclaim some part of their family's history – their legacy – that he can use it to find his way back to Carver. It's stupid and he knows that it won't work, but he's out of ideas.
The wine cellars are rather like a maze and there's little conversation as they navigate through its winding halls and towering racks. The last thing they want is to alert the slavers that they're here. Instead, they quickly and efficiently eliminate the slavers that they encounter.
Carver breaks the silence eventually, when they pass through a doorway that's flanked by two heavy looking engraved metal crests, "The Amell family crest. Mother described it once. If you put that above your door, you better make sure you have the ties to back it up. Otherwise, you just look old."
He huffs out a quiet laugh at that.
Through the crest marked doorway, it's a long hall that leads into a large, cavernous room. It's the biggest one that they've come to yet, and there's a number of casks stored in the wooden shelves here. The room also lacks the musty smell that permeated the hallways that they've passed through, and there's no inches of dust here.
Clearly, the room's seeing more use than just a secret tunnel to the Undercity.
A door cracks open, drawing Gareth's attention to the stairs that lead up and out of the cellar. The stairs creak as a man descends the stairs. Gareth can't make out his face, which is hidden by the shadow of his hood, but he knows immediately that the man's a mage. He can feel the tell-tale crackle of energy that sets the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.
The man's flanked by three other men, each of whom are heavily armed though lightly armoured.
The man stops halfway down the stairs, staring at them, "Who the – did that bastard Gamlen put you up to this?! Men! Kill them! I knew I should've slit his throat when I had the chance!"
Two well-placed shots from Bianca knock the man's staff out of his hands. He fumbles, holding his hand, while his men charge.
Gareth catches the axe head of one with his staff, long enough for Carver to stun him with a blow to the head from his pommel. Then it's a simple matter of twisting his staff around, bringing the blade up and through the man's chest. He crumples lifelessly to the ground.
He has to leap back, narrowly avoiding a bolt of lighting.
He's too far to land a good blow with his staff. Instead, Gareth focuses, launches a barrage of veilfire at the mage. The veilfire streaks towards him like fiery green knives. Harmless, but the man doesn't know that.
The man winces. Drops his guard. A bolt blossoms from his chest. He clutches at it, trying weakly to pull it out as he stumbles back from the force of it.
He's dead before he hits the ground.
"I think that's the last of them," Gareth says, wiping the blade of his stave on the ground.
"Must've been the ringleader."
Carver points towards the stairs that the man came down, "The vault has to be up there. Let's get what we came for and get out of here."
The vault itself isn't what Gareth expected. It's a simple room, up one flight of stairs from the cellar, that's full of chests. Some of the chests are ornate, others are much more simple. There's an assortment of other wares and possessions in the room, but it's not what he'd consider to be a 'vault' of any kind.
Finding the will takes time. They have to open chests, peer into crates, and try to sort through what seems to be a lifetime's worth of… stuff. Gareth eventually finds the will, buried beneath a thin, yellowing dress that he thinks may have belonged to his mother; it smells like her, of daffodils and lilies.
Carver leans over his shoulder, "So that's it? Grandfather's will? Let's get it back to mother and be done with this."
He nods, "No point in delaying the news."
He makes no mention of the small stack of letters that he found under the will, neatly bound with a length of twine. Gareth takes those with him. He recognizes his father's name and cannot help but wonder why his grandparents would have held onto the letters for the apostate son-in-law they never acknowledged.
The return trip goes much faster than coming in. Without the need to be quiet, they can move much faster and knowing where they're going once they hit Darktown is an even bigger plus. The three of them are outside of the Hanged Man by the time that dusk hits.
"So, I'll see you tomorrow then, Hawke?" Varric asks, hesitating outside the door.
"Definitely."
"I'll keep my ears open. See if I hear of any work worth doing. If I do, I'll pass it along to you."
"Thanks, Varric."
Varric waves him off, entering the Hanged Man. The evening is still warm, though the temperature will drop quickly once night sets in. He and Carver walk the rest of the way to Gamlen's small apartment, with Gareth flicking through the will as he goes.
It's a very enlightening read.
As always, they walk into yet another argument between Leandra and Gamlen. Per usual, it's about money. Fueled by Gamlen's lack of it.
"... blood's blood and all, but you are taking advantage of my hospitality," Gamlen's saying. "I think it's only reasonable that you make a contribution–"
"You sold my children into servitude! Now you're asking me to pay rent?!"
Gamlen coughs, spots Gareth and his eyes go wide. He quickly stares at the floor, shuffling and scuffing his feet, "Well, I… maybe… put something towards food…?"
"We found the will," Gareth says.
Gamlen winces, but says nothing.
"Grandfather left everything to us." Carver comes up behind him, the will in hand. He has it folded open to the relevant passage, "I guess he had some sense left in him after all." He offers it to their mother, "See for yourself."
Leandra takes her father's will from Carver, her eyes catching on the passage that Gareth found when he flipped through it on their way home. She reads, "'To my daughter Leandra, and all children born of her… the estate in Hightown and all associated revenues…'"
"Look at the part where Gamlen is to be left a stipend – to be controlled by you."
Looking up at her brother, Leandra's expression is desolate, "Gamlen, how could you?"
"You're the one that ran away, Leandra!" Gamlen snaps, jabbing an accusative finger at her. "So what happened to 'love is so much more important than money', hm?!"
"It is!"
"You didn't even come to the funeral!"
"The twins were a week old!" Leandra's hands are shaking, clenched tightly around her father's will.
"We all have our burdens! Mine was looking after the life you abandoned!" Gamlen's spitting as he rants, voice raising in volume as he continues, "I took care of father! I stayed! And yet all he could talk about on his deathbed was Leandra!"
Gamlen sighs, the sound rough and angry like a bull snorting, and runs both of his hands through his hair. Anger simmers under his voice, making it rough and uneven when he next speaks, "Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it, but I did. There's nothing that I can do now to get it back."
When Leandra speaks, her voice is soft and soothing, much like when she used to calm them when they suffered from nightmares as children, "It's enough to know that mother and father didn't die angry with me. Now tomorrow, I'll go and begin the process of petitioning for the right to reclaim the estate. Maker willing, you'll have your 'house' back in less than a month."
"You don't have the coin or standing to even get an audience with the viscount!" Gamlen snorts, crossing his arms. "You've got to be someone in this city to live in that house."
Their mother smiles, sharp-edged and the first one that Gareth's seen on her face in a long time, "Then I'd better get started."
Dinner is a… stressed affair. Gamlen keeps glaring bloody murder, alternating between directing it at Leandra and Gareth. Once dinner's cleared away, he takes off – likely to drink away his frustration. With their uncle's departure, Carver flops into the bunk that he shares with Gareth, head pillowed on his arms.
Leandra watches him, a small fond smile on her face, before gesturing to Gareth that he should follow her outside.
The temperature's already begun to drop, chilling the air. Their breath creates little puffs of fog as they breath, and Leandra pulls the shawl she brought out with her closer around her shoulders. She sits down on the edge of the staircase that leads down into Lowtown, patting the spot next to her.
Sitting beside his mother, Gareth looks up towards the sky. He can see a few of the constellations that he recognizes, but the sky above Kirkwall isn't as clear as the one above their home in Lothering was.
The silence stretches on for several moments, comfortable and easy.
"When I told your grandmother that I was going to marry your father, she was furious. She wanted to disown me," Leandra eventually says, quietly. "She said that my children would be mongrels. My father, when he found out, wanted to lock me up, but she told him, 'It's her life. Let her ruin it'."
Leandra sighs, her head and shoulders drooping, "I wrote to her when each of them were born. She never wrote back, of course. But... it's good to know that she didn't die hating me."
Gareth wraps an arm around her shoulders pulling her close and tucking her up against him, "She didn't hate you, mother. She was just afraid of losing you."
His mother nods, her head resting against his shoulder, "She would have been proud of you, you know. You're everything that she wanted in an Amell grandchild: calm, level-headed, always willing to help others. Oh, she might have had a hard time accepting it at first, but she would have loved you. All… all three of you."
Bethany's memory hangs heavy in the air. Gareth says nothing, simply stares up into the sky; his throat feels swollen, as though there's something hot and sharp lodged in it. Their mother makes no comment on his silence, and she doesn't try to continue the conversation.
The two of them sit there, in silence, until the cold drives them back inside.
Sleep doesn't come easily to Gareth. Instead, he spends the night reading the letters he found. All of them are written in the same neat hand, all addressed to his father. Each are from the same man, a man by the name of Tobrius. There's vague mentions of magic, of the Circle, and a reference to the Gallows. Tobrius, then, must have been a mage like his father.
He wonders, in the early hours of the morning when the light filtering in through the high-slitted windows is thin and grey, whether or not this Tobrius is still alive.
It's worth checking, he believes. They know so little of their father's life before he met their mother, before they were born, even. The stories that their father used to tell to them at bedtime seem so far removed from reality now, years after maturity and adulthood have settled in.
Carver sleeps in that morning, leaving Gareth to his own devices. He decides that he'll check in with Athenril, see what she's offering in terms of paid work, and then head to the Gallows to see whether or not this Tobrius is still alive.
He tells his mother where he's going, kisses her goodbye, and checks the blade on his stave before he leaves.
The meeting with Athenril goes about as well as he expected it to. There's a lot of barbed words, but she eventually tells him what she needs. It's something to do, anyway, that night, and this time there should be coin in it.
After that, he makes his way to the Gallows.
Gareth won't lie: he's been avoiding the place since they first arrived in Kirkwall. The Gallows is crawling with templars and is the location of Kirkwall's Circle. It's an incredibly dangerous place to be for an apostate mage – particularly one of his talents. He still remembers what his father said about him, about spirit healers.
"Spirit healers outside of the Circle… if the templars caught you, you would be executed immediately if not made Tranquil. They do not look kindly upon those that exist outside of their control."
His entire life has been spent living in fear of everything that the Gallows represent. And here he is, wandering right into it in search of another mage who may not even be alive any longer. That seems to be his lot as of late: chasing down ghosts.
It's only once he's actually in the Gallows, the letters tucked away safely into his coat, that Gareth realizes what a fool's errand this actually is.
How is he supposed to find this man? He has no idea what this Tobrius even looks like. He could, he supposes, go about asking, but that seems like it would arouse some suspicion. After all, what would a Fereldan refugee want with a member of the Kirkwall Circle?
As he's just convinced himself to take the next ferry back to the city, there's a lit tap on his shoulder. Gareth turns, a question on his lips, but it dies when he sees the look on the man's face.
The man stares at him as though he's just seen a ghost.
"Can I–"
He swallows, hard, "You… are a Hawke, are you not?"
Gareth stares, blinks once, twice, then, "Yes, I am. And you are?"
"My name is Tobrius," the man says, inclining his head in greeting. "I knew your father once, Malcolm."
He swallows. It cannot be this easy, "Actually, I came here to try and find you."
"You did?"
Gareth removes the letters from his jacket, carefully refolded and rebound with their twine. He hands them to Tobrius, "I found these. I…"
He doesn't know what else to say, what to ask. It's the first time that he's found a piece of his father's past. And he's got absolutely no idea where to start.
Tobrius runs his fingers over the edges of the letters, which are soft and worn with age. The parchment has gone yellow and crinkly, making a soft rustling noise as he traces the edges. He looks to Gareth, "Your father was a good man; the best of us. There are few like him left. Even fewer like the templar."
"The… templar?"
Tobrius nods, "He allowed your father to leave Kirkwall. 'Rule is not served by caging the best of us'. A wise man."
"That's not… what I expected from a templar."
When he smiles, it's thin and worn, revealing how aged Tobrius is. He's no longer the young mage that Gareth's father once wrote to, "There was a time when the rules of the Order could be interpreted to suit a situation… unlike today."
He stares almost wistfully into the distance, then nods to himself, "I will bring you the letter that I kept. It seems fitting that they return to his family. Wait here, I shall not be long."
Left to his own devices while he waits for Tobrius to return, Gareth does the only real thing that he can do in the Gallows that won't arouse suspicion: he browses the armourer's wears. There isn't actually anything there that he's interested in, but it's something to do and it keeps him from having to wander past Tranquil, mages, and templars. Low profile, that's important.
It takes Tobrius a little while to return, and Gareth's been examining the same blade for the last twenty minutes.
"Here you are," Tobrius says, holding out a neat stack of letters, all bound together with twine. "Your father could not write to him directly and, well, after his death… I held onto these. I doubt that we will see many of his kind again. Rest at the Maker's side, Ser Maurevar Carver."
Carver?
"Thank you," Gareth says. And he can't think of anything else to say. His tongue feels heavy and swollen in his mouth.
Tobrius merely smiles, "I am glad to see that his son takes after him so well. May the Maker watch over you."
"And you as well."
After, when he's walking in a daze back to their home in Lowtown, Gareth knows that he's an idiot. There was so much he could have asked Tobrius – should have – and didn't. He could go back, he thinks, not now but some other time, and ask. They could talk, and he could learn more of what his father – was like before.
He pauses in the shadow of the apartment building, looking down at the letters in his hand. Ser Maurevar Carver.
Too much to be a coincidence.
When he enters their place, Carver is awake, slumped over in one of the chairs at the rickety table that's near the fire. He doesn't glance up when Gareth enters, simply continues to stare into the flames.
"Daydreaming about life in Hightown?" Gareth asks, lips curled up in a grin.
Carver starts, nearly falling out of his chair. He shoots a glare at Gareth as he rights himself, straightening his posture as he does; his scowl is truly impressive, "Funny, but we're a long way from cowing templars with our titles."
His grin slips. Carver's in another one of his moods again. The sour ones that Gareth has no idea how to deal with.
"Something on your mind?" he ventures.
"Mother's gone up to the Keep, to see about her petition to reclaim the estate," Carver explains. He crosses his arms, leans back in his chair, and continues to scowl into the fireplace. "And when she's done and we've got the estate back, I don't know. I guess we'll just sit around and think about how great our family used to be. Mother didn't care about that life or want it back till we ended up here. And you only care because we're under templar scrutiny!"
He sighs, "Very well, Carver. What's your plan?"
Best to let him get it out of his system. Maybe it'll give him some insight into what's going on inside of his brother's head.
"I'd look forward, make something new," Carver says, as though it's that easy. "Stop paying debts for old men. And if I had to go backward, I'm not looking for ancient names. I'd fix what's important. What went wrong."
"We can't just go back." As much as he wishes that they could, they can't. There's no magic in all of Thedas that could accomplish such a thing; and even if there was, the cost of it would be too high to consider paying.
"We wouldn't need to if you'd done it right!" Carver snaps, standing. His chair skitters backwards across the floor, scraping loudly as it goes. "Lothering was our home, not this place! We could have stood our ground! You could have stopped that ogre from killing Bethany!"
Gareth stumbles back, as though he's been struck. His heart pangs, drops out of his chest.
"I know," he says, quietly. His voice is strangled, catches on the syllables as they leave his mouth. He could have saved Bethany.
Carver wavers, biting his lip. In that moment, he looks like the small child he once was; the one that used to cling to Gareth's legs and look up at him with wide eyes. Who used to ask him nonstop questions and then would bite down on his lip when he realized that he'd crossed a line.
"I… I'm sorry," Carver says. "I didn't…" He clears his throat, coughs, "I feel… it's like mother, taking everything out on us. She was just scared. I didn't… I'm sorry."
The silence hangs, weighted and heavy, for several long, tense moments, before Gareth speaks again.
"You're forgiven. It's alright. I know… how you feel."
Carver clenches his fist, unclenches it. He stares at his hand as he speaks next, "I don't have a place in this life that she's trying to bring back. I'm here if you need me, but I'm going to have to find my own way."
The letters are heavy in his hand. Gareth holds them up, almost like a shield. He sucks in a deep breath, unsure now of how well this will go over with his now volatile brother. He holds them out towards Carver, a peace offering.
"Here, I brought these for you."
"For me? Why?" Carver stares at them, confused. He takes them slowly, as though there's a poisonous spider hiding amongst their pages. He unfolds the first one gingerly, like it will bite him. He scans the first few lines, "Wait, these are by father. Shouldn't you be keeping them? You'd get more out of them as a mage, I imagine."
He's already read them, page to page. Carefully, he reaches out, turning the yellowed parchment over. His finger brushes against the ink, indicating the lines that Carver needs to see.
Dutifully, Carver reads: "'For your service that cannot be admitted, I ask that you accept this trinket and know that I shall respect your name. Thank you, conscience of the Order, Sir Maurevar Carver'."
There's a long pause. Carver blinks.
"Carver?"
Gareth nods, "The templar who allowed father to leave Kirkwall. Your namesake."
"A templar?" Carver's still shocked. "Have we met a templar who isn't a colossal prig?"
The smile is weak, but there. Gareth appreciates the effort Carver's putting in, "He was a good one."
Carver looks back to the letters in his hands, which shake slightly. His breathing is heavier, and for a moment Gareth's worried that he might be falling ill. It passes quickly; Carver's just overwhelmed.
"A man who let him look ahead. A name that would always mean 'skill thoughtfully applied'." Carver looks up, "That's what I was to him. A way to look forward. I... thank you, Gareth."
"You're welcome."
There's little else to be done in the apartment and the atmosphere remains oppresive. Even though they have tried to move past Carver's earlier outburst, the words still linger in the air. It doesn't take too long until Gareth knows that he can't stand it any longer.
He pushes away from the wall he's been leaning against. It's still hours till dusk, when he needs to head to the docks to check for Athenril's goods, but there's always work to be found in Kirkwall.
"Where are you going?" Carver asks.
"I think I'll have a walk up to Hightown," Gareth replies, shouldering his stave. "And check the Chanter's board, see if there's anything worthwhile."
"I'll come with you."
It's an incredibly awkward and silent walk from Lowtown to Hightown. Several times, Gareth catches Carver opening his mouth to say something, before he thinks better of it and closes it again.
Their walk is, for the most, uneventful. It's late afternoon and most of the population is out and about, either hard at work or running errands. Thus, when they enter the courtyard that faces Kirkwall's Chantry, the only ones about are members of the clergy.
Gareth's attention is caught by frantic movement. He blinks, surprised to see Grand Cleric Elthina herself out and about. He's only seen the woman at Chantry services, never out in the city itself.
"Sebastian!" She shouts, hurrying down the stairs. "Stop this madness!"
Her cries are clearly meant for the red-haired man who is hanging a notice to the Chanter's Board. He's tall, lithely built, with a quiver of arrows strapped across his back. And he pointedly ignores the grand cleric as she berates him.
"The Chantry cannot condone revenge, Sebastian!" Elthina halts in front of him, pointing to the notice that he's just finished pinning to the board.
Whatever his response is, Gareth misses it. They're too far away for him to hear. The archer, Sebastian, begins striding towards them, though he pays the both of them little mind.
Elthina rips the parchment from the board, brandishing it, "This is murder!"
In a whirl of motion, Sebastian turns, bow in hand. He notches and looses an arrow faster than Gareth can follow. It doesn't strike the grand cleric, instead pinning the parchment in her hands once more to the board.
Sebastian lowers the bow slowly, "No. What happened to my family was murder."
