5. in the eye of the storm
His mouth's still dry, heart hammering against the lump in his throat, after the lifeless slaver hits the ground. He only absently notes that there's no hole in the man's chest.
That doesn't stop the heat from rising in his cheeks.
Gareth prays to the Maker that his cheeks are not flushing. It's the last thing he needs.
"I… apologize," the elf says, looking to the ground. He glances back up after a moment, "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I hadn't known that they'd be so numerous."
His voice, when he finds it, sounds only slightly uneven and he coughs to clear his throat before continuing, "Then these men were after you, I take it?"
"Correct," the elf nods. "My name is Fenris. These men," he indicates the deceased captain with a casual gesture, "were Imperial bounty hunters seeking to recover a magister's lost property – namely myself."
Fenris watches him, his large green eyes glowing in the dim light of the alienage, "They were trying to lure me into the open. Crude as their methods were, I couldn't face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely."
Gareth's truly doing his best not to thank Anso and the Maker for this. Really, he is.
"Seems like a lot of effort for a single slave," Gareth remarks. There were at least twenty men and women lying in wait outside of the hovel and only Fenris knows how many were waiting elsewhere. He's not wrong about the crudeness of the trap, but it's an effective one.
"It is."
His eyes are drawn again to the markings, pale white against the warm brown of his skin. They aren't glowing at present, but he remembers how they did when Fenris tore out that man's heart.
"I take it that it has something to do with those markings."
"Yes," Fenris turns his arms, revealing more of the swirling lines of white that twine down the insides of his arms. "I imagine I must look strange to you. But I didn't receive these markings by choice. Even so, they've served me well. Without them, I would still be a slave. And even with them, I wouldn't have stood a chance against so many."
He smiles, "If they were trying to recapture you, then I'm happy I got involved."
Fenris ducks his head, almost shyly, "I have met few in my travels who have sought anything more than personal gain."
His heart's leapt back up into his throat again. He has to fight back a goofy smile. The one he makes when his heart starts fluttering.
Behind him, he can hear Carver mumbling something and the sound of flesh smacking against flesh.
"You didn't need to lie to get my help," Gareth says, watching as Fenris kneels down next to the body of the bounty hunter captain he killed.
"That remains to be seen," Fenris replies absently. He tears open one of the pouches at the man's waist, removing a folded sheaf of papers. He flicks through them absently, too fast for Gareth to get a good look at what they say. Then he shoves them into a pouch at his own waist, and stands again, "It's as I thought. My former master accompanied them to the city. I know that you still have questions, but I must confront him before he flees. I will need your help."
"And you have it," Gareth says.
There's a ghost of a smile on Fenris' lips, and he solemnly says, "I will find a way to repay you. I swear it."
"Now what?" Merrill chirps, making Gareth jump. He'd forgotten she was there.
"I will go ahead to the mansion in Hightown where he's staying," Fenris says. "Meet me there as soon as you can. We must enter before morning."
Once Fenris is out of sight, Gareth's shoulders sag and he lets out a great whoosh of air. He pinches the bridge of his nose between two fingers, "Not one word, Carver. Not. One."
There's that smacking noise again. Carver mutters curses under his breath.
Merrill blinks, confused, "Did I miss something dirty?"
"Not at all, Daisy. Just some hopeless mooning."
Gareth sighs. Tonight is just not his night.
Hightown at night is, to be frank, likely the most dangerous area of Kirkwall. They don't make it far before they're ambushed by a wave of guardsmen pretenders. It's tedious and annoying, eating up precious time and stamina. If he had access to lyrium, it would likely be easier; as it is, though, he's feeling a little light-headed.
Gareth says nothing of that. The other don't need to know. He's used to this; he can deal with it.
They make their way slowly through Hightown, past the Keep and the Chantry. Along the way, they're ambushed once more by guardsmen pretenders.
"Think there's money in getting rid of city bandits?"
"There's always someone who will pay," Varric replies. "We just gotta find out where their base is."
"That'll have to wait," Gareth replies, wiping sweat from his brow. "We need to hurry if we're to meet Fenris before dawn."
Carver scowls, "Right. Wouldn't want to keep him waiting."
"What crawled into his boots and died?" Merrill whispers to Gareth.
He flushes, "It's… nothing."
"Oh, you have that look on your face. Like a halla just charged out of the brush at you."
"Merrill, can we… talk about this later?"
"Oh, right. Yes, sorry."
Gareth's quite certain that they might not have found the estate at all – Fenris had failed to mention where specifically it was – if it wasn't for Fenris waiting for them in the street outside. Once they're within speaking distance, Fenris looks away from the mansion.
"No one has left the mansion, but I've heard nothing within," Fenris says. "Danarius may already know we're here. I wouldn't put it past him."
"Aside from him being a magister, anything else we should know?" Gareth asks.
"Nothing of importance. He may be a wealthy mage in the Imperium, but here he is a man who sweats like any other when death comes for him."
"So, nothing to worry about then," Varric mutters.
"He's likely prepared magical defenses," Gareth says. "Merrill and I can deal with those, if we come across them."
"They will not keep me from him," Fenris says.
"Don't worry, Fenris," Merrill says. "We're very good at this sort of thing. I think. We are, aren't we?"
"We'll do fine," Gareth assures her. He looks to Fenris, "Lead the way."
They enter Danarius' mansion through the servants' quarters; it's a narrow door set into the wall at the rear of the property, in a dark alley. It's all very cliché, Gareth thinks, but effective; the guards on patrol in Hightown don't notice them slipping inside.
It's a little suspicious that the door isn't locked, but he files that away for later.
He was right that there were magical defenses.
The first room they enter, he can sense it. The smell of ash is heavy in the air. Carver and Fenris take two steps into the room, and four shades explode out of the floor in a whoosh of dark black smoke. They easily dispatch the shades, Merrill's magic proving to be invaluable in that case.
There are more shades the further they press in.
Gareth's worked up a fine sheen of sweat from the fights and keeping everyone in fighting shape, the smoke and ash from the shades sticking to skin of his face. He tries to wipe it away, but only succeeds in smearing it about; he's definitely going to need to bathe before he heads home for the night.
He's well aware from the fascinated look that Merrill keeps giving him that his eyes have taken on that glow again. But he shakes his head, they can discuss the finer points of his magical talents and abilities later, when they're not fighting for their lives.
"He sends his pets to fight us," Fenris spits. "They will not stop us!"
Carver's giving Gareth a thoroughly unimpressed look. It's the same look that Carver's been giving him since they entered the manor and Fenris opened up by shouting at his former master – wherever he may be.
Gareth has been ignoring them.
So much for the element of surprise, he thinks. But it's obvious that Danarius expected company. The number of shades trapped within the manor would be more than enough to overwhelm even an experienced warrior. A group, not so much.
The farther into the manor they venture, Gareth can see more of how the enchantments work together. He can see the summoning glyphs painted onto the floor in what he can only assume is blood. The blood, though, is old and browned and the sheer intricacy of the triggers is astounding. It would take him and Merrill hours to carefully dismantle them; he can see now why templars are so useful and dangerous when fighting magic.
Danarius has been thorough. Attempting to leave the first floor for the second in the large foyer with its grand staircase results in the summoning of five shades and yet another of those strange, magic using creatures.
"An arcane horror," Merrill shouts, from across the room. She twists away from one of its spells, turning the motion seamlessly into one to launch one of her stone fists at it. "I'll explain later!"
Gareth distracts it with a flash of veilfire, letting Fenris charge in to take its head off with one clean sweep of his great sword.
After the battle, there is nothing to be found.
It's simply an abandoned mansion. Seemingly for some time, if the holes in the roof are anything to go by.
They regroup back in the grand foyer. Fenris looks exhausted, blood streaking down from a cut on his cheek.
Gareth resists the urge to reach out and smooth it over with his thumb. Instead, he lets a wash of healing magic flow through him, sealing the wound until all that's left is the smudge of blood on Fenris' cheek.
He sees the small flinch, but says nothing.
Fenris sighs, shoulders sagging, "Gone. I had hoped… but no, it doesn't matter any longer. If there's anything you wish to take, take it. I… need some air."
And then he's gone, striding out of the foyer and back into the cool night air.
Gareth watches him go, his heart dropping into his stomach.
"That went well," Carver says. He's covered head to toe in ash, smudged and dark from his sweat.
"Not much of value," Varric tosses a heavy pouch between his hands. "Did find this, though. Here."
He tosses it to Gareth. It clinks when it makes contact with his hand. Opening it, Gareth sees the warm yellow of gold and quickly closes it. He'll have to count it in the safety of their apartment, but he's quite sure that they've just made a sizeable dent in the money that they'll need for the expedition. Anso didn't lie; they've been rewarded quite handsomely.
Merrill wipes sooty sweat from her forehead, grinning with post-battle adrenalin, "Shall we join Fenris outside? I think I could use the air too."
"Can't keep him waiting, can we?" Carver mutters, quietly. His voice is tinged with venom and he scowls at his brother, who avoids meeting his eyes.
Fenris is waiting for them outside, leaning against one of the columns of the estate. He's left his great sword leaning against it as well, not slung over his shoulder as it had been earlier. It's still rather impressive that he's able to wield it with such ease; it's not what Gareth would have expected, given his rather lithe build.
"It never ends," Fenris says. He must have heard them exit and approach him. "I escaped a land of dark magic only to have it hunt me at every turn. It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. And now… I find myself in the company of yet another mage."
Fenris strides over to him and Gareth is reminded that there is very little height difference between them. His heart leaps up into his throat; he's going to either make a complete fool out of himself or end up very dead and he's not too sure which is worse.
"I should have realized sooner what you really are," Fenris says, casting a critical, narrowed eye on Gareth's stave. "Tell me, then. What manner of mage are you? What is it you seek?"
He's absolutely certain that he's gone red in the face. His face feels hot and his tongue swollen; it keeps sticking to the roof of his mouth. The result is that his words tumble out before he can think better of them, "I don't know. What do you think I seek?"
Fenris snorts, crosses his arms, "You are skilled – I know that much. But not in a manner I'm familiar with."
Carver shoulders past him, placing himself halfway between Fenris and Gareth. With his arms crossed across his chest and using his extra height on Fenris, he glares at him, "If you have a problem with my brother, you have a problem with me."
With a long sigh, Fenris pauses then continues, "I… imagine I appear ungrateful. If so, I apologize, for nothing could be further from the truth." Running a hand through his white hair, Fenris continues, meeting Gareth's eyes almost tentatively, "I did not find Danarius, but I still owe you a debt. Should you… find yourself in need of assistance I would gladly render it."
Gareth smiles easily, tension bleeding out of him that he hadn't realized was there. He has to gently elbow his way past his brother so that there's no longer a wall of muscle and overprotective little brother between them.
"I'm planning an expedition in the coming months that I could likely use help with – if you're willing that is."
"Fair enough," Fenris agrees. "I will help you in whatever way I can. Is there anything else?"
"He wasn't thrilled with you a moment ago, and you're just gonna let him help? Just like that?" Carver groans, shaking his head. There's a red mark on his forehead, in the shape of a palm. "Typical."
Fenris scowls at his feet, "He is not Danarius." He addresses the next part to Gareth, "Whether you are anything like him remains to be seen."
"Surely he must want something more than just a runaway slave," Gareth says, frowning.
"He doesn't want me at all, just the markings on my skin." Fenris holds out his arms, turning them so that the swirling lines are prominently visible. "They are lyrium, burned into my flesh to provide the power that Danarius required of his pet," Fenris spits the word out as though it's something rotten, "And now he wishes his precious investment returned, even if he must rip it from my corpse."
"Seems like a waste of a perfectly handsome elf."
The blood drains out of his face. He had not meant to say that out loud.
Gareth's about a heartbeat away from clamping his hand over his mouth and diving behind Carver again, his face a study in mortification.
He's about to apologize when Fenris does the last thing that Gareth expected.
He laughs.
Actually, it's more of a soft, deep chuckle, but still a laugh. He catches himself, though, and clears his throat, glancing away but the corners of his lips are quirked up slightly. So much so that Gareth wonders if he's just imagining it.
"Should you have need of me, I will remain here. If Danarius wishes his mansion returned, he can try to claim it."
Gareth relaxes, relief washing through him. Then he remembers.
"You up for an excursion to the Wounded Coast tomorrow?"
Fenris blinks. Then says solemnly, "I will prepare for it. Where will we meet?"
"City gates, tenth bell."
He nods, "I will see you there then, Hawke."
When they part company with Fenris, Gareth feels light and there's a bounce in his step that wasn't there before. He's well aware that he's grinning like an idiot, because he hears Carver's face make contact with his palm again.
The last thing that Gareth expects to find at the gates of Kirkwall is Aveline.
"Aveline? What are you doing here? I thought you were busy today."
"I was," Aveline replies. "The meetings with the viscount ended early and I now set the patrol schedule along with allocating who goes where and deals with what. So, here I am."
"We won't be back till day after tomorrow, at the earliest," Gareth warns. "You sure it's alright for you to be away for so long?"
"I simply informed the viscount that some… valuable intelligence had come to light regarding some Tal-Vashoth raiders on the Wounded Coast. As you can imagine, his excellency and the seneschal were more than pleased at my proposed initiative."
"You… told the viscount?"
"Well, I told him a version of what we're doing. I left out a bit that he didn't need to know."
Gareth shrugs, "You're always welcome to come along, Aveline."
"Good, then shall we be off?"
He can't see Fenris yet, so Gareth shakes his head, "Actually, we're waiting on someone."
"Who?" Aveline frowns, a deep furrow forming between her eyebrows. "Everyone's already here."
He spots the shock of white hair first – easily, it stands out amid the sea of people. His heart flutters against his ribs briefly, then makes a leap into his throat. Gareth smiles when he sees Fenris approaching, looking a little sheepish and uncomfortable, but there nonetheless.
"I apologize for my lateness," Fenris says. "I… got lost on my way."
"You're here now, that's what matters."
Aveline stands straighter, giving Fenris a once-over, "And you are?"
"Aveline, this is Fenris. Fenris, this is Aveline," Gareth says, stepping forward to defuse what could quickly become a dangerous situation. "He's a new friend of mine. And he's agreed to help with the Tal-Vashoth. You don't mind, do you?"
"I have no issue with it," Aveline says, at long last.
"Good, then we should be off if we want to reach the coast by this afternoon."
Gareth's grateful when they finally stop to make camp for the night. He volunteers to collect firewood, needing to get away from the tension of their motley little group for a while. The quiet will do his mind a world of good.
He'd known when they left that things were going to be awkward, maybe even a little hostile. Especially once Aveline found out just how he'd met Fenris. The moment that had come out, they'd all been subjected to Aveline's glares and then, later, Aveline had pulled him aside to give him a lecture about how she thought he was better than that.
"I couldn't just let him go alone. He needed the help – needed us. What was I to do? Say no?"
Aveline sighed, "One of these days, Gareth, that bleeding heart of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble. That you might not be able to get out of."
"I'll be fine. I can look after myself."
And it's true. He knows what he's doing. But if he can help, then he's going to. Gareth himself will be alright. No one needs to worry about him; he can manage.
Camp that night is… awkward.
As the most experienced of their three warriors, Aveline spends much of it quizzing Fenris on his experience. While she seems impressed, it becomes clear to Gareth that Carver must have mentioned something to her about his little crush on their little group's newest member. She takes it upon herself to make absolutely certain to place herself between them when it comes time to bed down for the night.
He scowls at her, "I am a grown man, Aveline."
"I'm simply looking out for my friend," Aveline replies. She won't meet his eyes.
"I don't think you have anything to worry about," Gareth mutters, settling in. He uses his pack as a pillow, "I'm quite certain that he doesn't like mages. So it's not going to go anywhere. You can stop acting like a disapproving Mother hen."
She snorts, "If that's what you think, then you're not as perceptive as I thought."
For the most part, their journey along the Wounded Coast is uneventful. For which Gareth will be eternally grateful. Even Aveline seems to have warmed up to Fenris… somewhat.
They encounter a group of Tal-Vashoth bandits along the coast and it's the first time that Gareth gets to try out some of the new spells that Merrill's been teaching him.
"You're very good at this," Merrill remarks, twirling her spear to flick the blood from its blade. "It took me months to even master the basics of spirit magic, but it seems to come to your naturally."
"I was never any good at anything but healing," Gareth replies. "My father… he thought it had to do with how my magic awakened. I was much younger than him."
It's just the two of them, at the rear of the group, with their three warriors ahead discussing tactics. And Varric is busily collecting his bolts from where they're strewn across the battlefield. It leaves the two of them plenty of time and space to talk magic.
"How old were you? If you don't mind my asking."
Gareth frowns, "I would've been… about five years? We were living in Highever at the time and my parents were hopeful that none of us had magic. But a man stumbled into our home after having been attacked by bandits. We had to flee when… when I healed him. It nearly killed me."
"I lit a hunter's hair on fire," Merrill says, tone conversational. "But that's very young. I was… oh, about ten I think when my magic awakened. And you healed someone?"
He nods. "We didn't stick around long after, but my Mother says I pulled him back from the brink of death."
"That's impressive." Merrill taps her finger against her bottom lip. "I've never heard of spirit healers appearing so young, though. All of the lore we have states that it takes many years of training to become one. Yet you, essentially, presented as one. What were you thinking at the time? You would have had to have bonded with your spirit right at that moment to save him as you did."
"You're going to write this all down later, aren't you?"
"Of course! It's a Keeper's job to remember, you know." Merrill beams, chest puffing out. "Oh, even though I'm not going to be one anymore, it's still important. Even if I've left my clan, they would appreciate new knowledge on spirit healers. But I'm babbling again. Tell me what it was like."
Gareth pauses, scraping the blade of his stave against the ground in abstract patterns as he thinks. After several long moments, he speaks, "It's… difficult to explain. And I'm not even sure I can put it into words. All I can remember is thinking 'I can help'. Then there was a rush of warm, bright power flowing through me and into him. I could feel his life in that instant, and I knew he would live. The last thing I remember… there was a voice. And it said that it would be alright. That I could rest. After that, nothing. I passed out."
"Hmm… it's likely a Spirit of Compassion, then," Merrill says, still tapping her chin. "They're not particularly common. And given how early your magic manifested and the way that it did… it had likely been watching over you for some time. Then, when you felt you could help, it bonded to you. You're very lucky."
"So you've said."
"Healing magic is very hard and very difficult to learn, more so to master. Keepers know herbal lore, what herbs and potions to brew will help with bringing down a fever and aide in healing. But more than that is very rare. The Wandering Keeper who brought me to Marethari, she was a spirit healer. I think one of only two known of."
"Wandering Keeper?"
"We can only have so many mages in one clan," Merrill says. "But magic is very precious to us. There was already a First and Second in the clan I was born in, so I was brought to Clan Sabrae by Keeper Nerys. Wandering Keepers typically travel from one clan to another, bringing news, lore, items, and occasionally young mages. They're what connect each clan together. Keeper Nerys wanted to keep me, but she already had a First of her own. Bryn was very kind to me; they would make a good Wandering Keeper, one day."
"That's fascinating, Merrill."
"I wasn't rambling again, was I?"
"No," Gareth says, smiling. "It was very informative. Thank you."
"Well, you're very welcome."
Merrill's grinning, one of those big wide ones that split her face and make her look far younger than she actually is. When they set off again, there's a bounce in her step and she's practically skipping along the well worn path as they make their way down the coast.
And if Gareth avoids looking at the sea because it makes his stomach roil in remembrance, well, he's the only one to know.
The sun's high in the sky when they finally see any signs of the Tal-Vashoth raiders.
"You endanger yourself, human!" Someone bellows from above them. "Do not say you were unwarned!"
Carver rolls his shoulders, "Finally."
"Wait," Gareth says, holding up a hand as he steps forward. "You're not with the raiders, are you?"
A little ways above them, standing on a ridge of the mountainous coastline, is a qunari. He regards them warily, with his dark eyes, before he speaks in that same deep, booming voice.
"I have turned my back on my kin for a second time," he acknowledges, with a bow of his head. "I did not like my… role, so I left the Qun. I do not wish to be a murdering thief, so I left these Tal-Vashoth to warn their victims."
Gareth nods, then shouts back, "I am more than capable of meeting any threat."
There's a hint of a smirk on the qunari's face as he regards them, but it vanishes quickly. "So I see. I had expected to warn a caravan, not well-equipped trackers. Ahead, you will find the den of my kind. If you are as skilled as you look, it would please me if you killed him."
He exchanges a look with his brother. Carver shrugs. They hadn't expected this.
The qunari straightens, strides down from his perch towards them. In person, he's even taller – broad in the shoulders and he towers over all of them easily. He regards each of them seriously, eyes dark and stern, then nods after a moment.
"You are no victim," he states. "So now, I will leave."
"Very well," Gareth says, stepping aside. He watches the qunari stride away from them, purpose in his steps, until he vanishes around a curve in the path. He looks back and Carver is giving him a stern look. "What?"
"You let him go, just like that?"
"He wasn't about to help us," Gareth replies. "He's washed his hands of these raiders. Better to let him go to start again than force him to do something he doesn't want to."
Carver shrugs and sighs, "You know best… brother."
He ignores the barbed tone.
Three hours of hard fighting later, they emerge from the Tal-Vashoth raiders cavern back into the quickly dimming light of day.
Fenris has found his place in their group and, though Carver's still giving him a bit of a cold shoulder, he's won Aveline over. For the most part. Likely because of his accomplishments as a warrior – he fits in well with their group, filling in for Gareth on the front lines and allowing him and Merrill to focus on support and damage respectively.
But Fenris keeps regarding him with… almost wary confusion. As though he's not too sure what to make of him. He keeps his distance, but Gareth knows he's not imagining his eyes on him. They feel heavy, weighted, but there's no judgment in them. It's much more than he could have ever asked for. Maybe Aveline's right; maybe he does still have a chance.
His heart swells at the thought.
They return to Kirkwall mid-morning the next day.
"I'll present my report to the Viscount," Aveline says. "I take it you'll be at the Hanged Man later today?"
Gareth nods, "I need to stop at the Chantry first."
"I'm heading straight there. You coming Daisy? Junior?"
Carver shrugs, "Drinks would be nice."
"Hmm, maybe?" Merrill says. "I do need to run some errands first."
"You should not go to the Chantry alone," Fenris says. He regards Gareth with slightly narrowed eyes. "I will go with you."
His heart flip-flops in his chest and his throat swells up. He cares.
Gareth is quick to silence that voice. He's getting ahead of himself; they've only known each other a handful of days. Letting his crush get the better of him is the absolute worst thing he could do.
"Alright, and I'll come with the both of you as far as the Keep."
Their group splits up, each of them going their separate ways. The last look at Carver that Gareth gets before he's out of sight, is of his little brother's dreamy look as he listens intently to Merrill tell a story – or relate something she found of interest about their latest outing.
His brother may tease him about his obvious crush, but Gareth knows he's just as bad.
Aveline leaves them at the Keep. There's nothing but silence between him and Fenris as they make their way towards the Chantry. It's not uncomfortable or awkward, but… oddly companionable. Gareth likes it; it reminds him a little of times with Bethany, the easy, quiet companionship he enjoyed with her. Or the few times when he and Carver would just sit together, saying nothing and simply being together.
He wishes that their relationship wasn't so strained, but he doesn't know how to fix it.
Gareth remembers Sebastian from his confrontation with Elthina in the Chantry courtyard. He's a difficult man to forget with his red hair and the polished white of his armour. Upon entering the Chantry, Sebastian is not far from the entrance, finishing up a conversation with another initiate.
He waits for him to finish his conversation before he approaches, clearing his throat.
"Sebastian?" Once he's sure he has Sebastian's attention, he inclines his head a little, then continues. "Your family can rest now. Their killers are dead."
Sebastian blinks, eyes going wide. "Who are–? Oh! My post to the Chanters' Board? Her Grace let that stay…? I had thought no one – but you say that you've killed them?"
Gareth nods.
He smiles, slow and wide and it crinkles his bright blue eyes. Sebastian bows to Gareth. "You have my eternal gratitude, serah! It's comforting to think that my parents might now rest easily in their graves."
"I hope their deaths bring you peace," Gareth says. He wants to reach out, to offer comfort of some kind, but that seems strange to do with a complete stranger. "Or at least grant you some closure. I know how… difficult it can be to lose family violently."
"It's painful, yes," Sebastian agrees. He rests a hand lightly on Gareth's forearm, squeezes it for a moment, then drops his hand. His smile is soft and sad. "But knowing that their killers have been brought to justice brings me some amount of peace."
Taking a deep breath, Sebastian straightens his shoulders. "Thank you – more than I can say. I did not expect anyone else to take up this cause but myself." He removes a small leather coin purse from one of the pouches about his waist and presses it into Gareth's hand; he has to close Gareth's fingers around it himself. "Consider this an advance. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must meet with the viscount."
He leaves Gareth standing there, coin purse in hand, feeling a little like he just took advantage of someone's grief.
"Did you not expect to be paid?" Fenris asks, breaking the silence at long last.
"I was going to turn it down, yes. It wouldn't be fair to take advantage of someone's grief."
"He was grateful," Fenris replies. "And I'm assuming that his post promised a reward. Typically, requests to the Chanters' Board result in some kind of compensation for those who answer them."
The two of them wander out of the Chantry, meandering along towards where Fenris' new manor is. Their pace is sedate, and they wind their way through the crowds.
"Usually, yes. Not always in the form of coin, but sometimes," Gareth says. "But it feels wrong to take advantage of someone who only wants justice for their family."
Fenris grunts, and says nothing more on the matter.
It's something, because Gareth's quite certain that they would have gone in circles. While he's grateful to have more coin to put towards his goal of becoming a partner in the expedition, he absolutely won't do so by taking advantage of others. He'll find some way to make it up to Sebastian, to repay him for his generosity.
And the coin will go towards creating a better life for his Mother and Carver. That's the entire point of joining the expedition. Their Mother deserves better than sharing a narrow, rickety bunk with their uncle, looking after a dingy little apartment that barely fits the four of them. After everything that Leandra gave up for them, it's about time that they gave back to her.
Gareth keeps that in mind. He has to keep reminding himself of the goal and the, well, prize that's waiting for them at the end. Maybe Carver doesn't care, but they can't go on the way that they have been.
It'll be nice, Gareth thinks, to set down roots again.
Gareth finds a ratty, folded piece of paper that's signed Javaris Tintop some days later. It's full of grand promises for the powder and how much of a cut that Gareth's going to get for doing the dwarf's dirty work.
It's something, at least.
They received some recognition from the city for their having taken out that den of Tal-Vashoth raiders, but very little in the way of a monetary reward. Aveline had delivered the news, which came with a neat little plaque – that has mysteriously gone missing – that was issued for 'deeds done in serve to the city of Kirkwall and its citizens'.
Carver's picked up some more work down on the docks and in Lowtown, leaving Gareth alone for the day. And last he heard, Varric was helping Merrill with something in the Alienage – shopping, he thinks, but he isn't too sure. Aveline is, as she frequently is these days, tied up with her new duties as the incoming guard-captain.
That's how Gareth ends up showing up on Fenris' doorstep.
"Hawke," Fenris greets him. "What can I help you with?"
"I'm going down to the qunari compound," Gareth explains. "And I'd rather not go alone. Would you come with me?"
"Of course."
Navigating their way down to the compound, which is just on the edge of Lowtown and is next to the docks, there are butterflies fluttering in Gareth's stomach. It's not a place that he's been to before, he's only ventured close to it on occasion. He's never visited it himself.
He stops, facing the guard at the gate, Fenris a little ways behind him.
"Let me pass. I have business with the dwarf, Javaris, and your Arishok."
The guard – a qunari – regards him with a stern, blank look, then nods. "The short one, yes. Enter if you must, basra."
The first to spot the two of them is Javaris. He grins, rubbing his hands together, when he sees them approaching.
"Ah! My right hand arrives!" He turns to the assembled qunari, gesturing at them dismissively. "Summon your Arishok – the bargain is done!"
Two of the qunari break away, going towards a large building that's been set aside to shelter them.
Javaris, still grinning, says out of the corner of his mouth, "About time you showed, I've been waiting for hours."
When the Arishok appears, Gareth has definite second thoughts about this venture.
Even for a qunari, the Arishok is huge. He stands well over a head over his men, sporting an impressive set of horns that only serve to make him appear taller. Although he's unarmed, his body ripples with power and muscle. The Arishok could very easily crush each of them. Gareth has the distinct image, suddenly, of the Arishok snapping his back over his knee.
He takes his seat before them on the massive, benchlike throne. It's very much like he's here to hear court.
"Arishokost. Maraas shokra. Anaan esaam Qun," Fenris intones.
The Arishok blinks, head tilting back. "The Qun from an elf? The madness of this… place."
His voice is very deep, sounding like the rumble of a rockslide. It conjures up images of an unstoppable force.
"Friend of yours?" Gareth asks, softly.
Fenris gives him a meaningful look, "Friend of no one."
"Yes, well, that said," Javaris interrupts. "I am here to report that your hated Tal-Vashoth were felled one and all. Right?" He glances at Gareth, but gives him no time to respond. "Yes, they were! So, I'm ready to open negotiations. For the explosive powder. As we agreed."
The Arishok doesn't even hesitate. "No."
Javaris stares, blinks, then looks imploringly to Gareth. "He's not getting it. Make your chatty elf say something."
"Any insight that would help?" Gareth asks, tilting his head towards Fenris.
"Qunari do not abandon a debt." Fenris half-shrugs, then turns his attention to the Arishok. "I humbly request clarification from the Arishok."
"I have a growing lack of disgust for you," the Arishok says, regarding Gareth with his eyes like two coals. His head twitches a little in Javaris' direction. "The dwarf imagined a deal for the gaatlok. He invented a task to prove his worth when he has none."
Fenris nods." Then we have wrongly inserted ourselves in your affairs. Would you have us kill this dwarf?"
"Wait." Javaris' mouth drops open. "What now?"
The Arishok shakes his head, "If you faced Tal-Vashoth, he is not worthy of dying to you, as he was not worthy of dying to them. But you." He points at Gareth, head tilting foward. "You keep good company. Let him live. And leave."
He takes a leaf out of Carver's book, for once.
"He had big plans for your recipe," Gareth says. "He promised me payment in exchange."
"Dwarf," the Arishok's head twist to Javaris, glaring at him. "Did your imaginary bargain make promises on my behalf?"
Javaris quails before the Arishok, fumbling his hands together, and staring at his feet. "I… expected your wisdom to be more... profitable."
The Arishok stands, "Then you will pay. On my behalf."
Javaris puffs up, feathers ruffled. He slams a pouch of coin into Gareth's hand, "Sod it all! Take your coin! Take whatever!" As he leaves the compound, Gareth catches the tail end of his angry mutterings. "Horn-head oxmen and mongrel dog lords… suck your own powder and blow your head off!"
The Arishok turns his attention back to Gareth, "You will leave as well, human. There's no more coin for you here."
Gareth nods, turns on his heel, and leaves. He's glad to put the compound at his back.
The gate to the compound slams closed behind them and Gareth's shoulder relax. He heaves a sigh of relief, tension bleeding out of him. That was far more stressful than he'd thought it would be.
Fenris clears his throat. He looks away from Gareth, staring instead at his feet. "It… occurs to me that we don't know each other well. Danarius left behind an expansive wine cellar. Would you… care for a drink?"
His heart leaps into his throat and he smiles. "I'd love to."
That… that wasn't eager and desperate at all, was it? Gareth's starting to realize that he really is a lost cause. There's really nothing to be done about it now. He likes Fenris. He barely knows Fenris, but he likes him.
And he has no idea what to do about it.
The silence that had once been so companionable is… awkward, to say the least, as they retrace their steps back up into Hightown. Fenris leads him through the winding back streets and alleys towards the rear entrance to the manor that he's begun to call home.
Very little about the place has changed, Gareth notices. There's still gaping holes in the ceiling, crumbling plaster, and that distinct smell that all abandoned and derelict buildings seem to have. He follows Fenris up through what had been the servants' quarters to the master wing of the manor.
The room is just as rundown as the rest of the manor, but it has a little more of a lived in feel.
Fenris has pushed a bed into a corner, its headboard cracked down the middle. Aside from that, there's two benches arranged in front of the large fireplace, and a table and chairs shoved up against another wall. The table is lined with numerous wine bottles, some of which are empty and have tipped over; permeating the entire room with the smell of spirits.
He takes a seat on one of the benches while Fenris lights the fire, then goes over to the table to sort through an array of bottles. He comes back with two, holding one out to Gareth, his gauntlets discarded to the table.
"Agreggio Pavali," Fenris says in explanation. "There are six bottles in the cellar."
Sniffing at the mouth of the bottle, he can make out faint notes of something sweet and floral. When he swallows it down, it's smooth and pleasantly burns the back of his throat. It tastes nothing like the ale that the Hanged Man serves – nor the bottles his parents would save and scrimp for their anniversary; the Agreggio is definitely worth its weight in gold, he thinks.
He likes it. Much more than he should, he thinks. Or, and Gareth peeks shyly at Fenris, maybe it's just the company.
Fenris stares at the bottle in his hand for a long moment. "Danarius used to have me pour it for his guests. My appearance intimidated them, he said. Which he enjoyed."
"I can't imagine why they would be put off," Gareth says, alcohol making him feel bold. Right after he says it, he wishes he could curl into a ball and die. He's being ridiculous.
"You say what's on your mind, I'll give you that," Fenris says. He takes a long drink from the bottle, then wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. He stares at the bottle for a long while, then in one fluid motion, hurls it at the wall.
The bottle shatters on impact, splattering its contents on the wall. It will leave quite the stain.
"It's good that I can still take pleasure in the small things."
Gareth shifts on the bench, leaning towards Fenris a little. "You've had a difficult life."
"I'd... rather not speak more of it."
"Are you certain?" Gareth asks, looking up at him. "I'm willing to listen."
"To my whining?" Fenris says, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smile. "How charitable of you."
A thousand different flirtatious comebacks pop into his head, but Gareth uses none of them. He genuinely wants to know Fenris better. Whatever he wants to share, Gareth will listen – no matter what. Hopefully, they're off to a good start.
To fill the silence, Gareth takes another drink. The Agreggio settles into his stomach, which blossoms upwards with warmth. His throat tingles.
"For so long, I've wanted to leave my past behind me, but it won't stay there." Fenris sits on the bench that's perpendicular to Gareth's, forearms resting on his knees. He glances at Gareth, then away again. "Tell me: have you ever wanted to return to Ferelden?"
It's a much more loaded question than Fenris probably intended.
He remembers his father, ravaged by the Blight.
Bethany staring up at him with glassy eyes. Blood from her mouth and her body crushed.
"I…" He swallows, squeezes his eyes closed. But the images don't go away. "I don't have a home to return to."
He flexes his fingers. Recalls how warm Bethany had been for a few moments, how fast the chill had settled in. There had been no spark in her eyes when he had last looked. She had lain in his arms, dead, and he could do nothing for her.
What's the point of having magic if I can't use it to save others?
He squeezes his eyes closed, ignores the hitch in his breath, and hopes Fenris doesn't notice that he's falling apart inside. He sucks in a deep breath, takes another drink. The Agreggio tingles as it goes down.
"The Blight is over," Fenris continues, staring into the fire. "You could rebuild what you lost. Do you truly not want to?"
He drinks to steel himself, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "We have family and a home here. My Mother – she was originally from Kirkwall. This is where our heritage begins."
His father's family is a mystery. Beyond them, he had no one.
Fenris nods. "Having a place where you can put down roots… I understand." He sounds rather wistful as he continues, "Still to have that option… must be gratifying."
"Do you intend to stay in Kirkwall?" Gareth asks. He's nearly finished the bottle, he realizes absently.
"I haven't decided," Fenris says with a shrug. "For now, it's as good as any other place. I… would return to Seheron if I could. But… there is no life for me there."
"You're from there?"
"So I've been told," Fenris replies. "I… have no memories from before I received the markings. What little I do know was… told to me after by others. However much is true or not, I don't know."
There's little to say in response to that. Instead, Gareth drains what's left of the Agreggio. He feels a little bit light-headed, but not close to drunk; it'll take a few more bottles before he's there.
Eventually, the silence becomes too much for him. It rings in his ears. And he wants to wipe that image of Bethany's bloodied face from his mind, so he asks, "You've been on the run a long time, then?"
Fenris leans back on his bench, eyes lit and sparkling from the fire. "Three years, now. Danarius has a way of finding me – perhaps it's the markings? Whatever the means, it never takes him long to follow. This is the first time I've given him pause." Fenris shrugs. "I suppose there are advantages in numbers."
"You've not sought help before? Surely there would be others who would have helped you."
"There were hirelings when I could steal the coin, but never anyone of any substance – until you." Fenris leans back, grasps another two bottles and hands one to Gareth. "I couldn't ask anyone else to put their life in danger for mine. Besides which, the hunters were never as numerous as they were this time. Previously, it was nothing I couldn't handle on my own."
"You must have seen much of Thedas," Gareth says, unable to keep the wanderlust out of his voice. He drinks deeply – this wine is more rich, like velvet on his tongue. "I have to admit, I've seen very little."
"Not as much as you're imagining," Fenris replies. "When you're on the run, you don't have much time to admire the sights. But I've seen much of Nevarra and the Free Marches – a little of northern Orlais. But I've never been as far south as Ferelden."
"Kirkwall is the farthest north I've been. Before the… Blight, I hadn't traveled much. My family lived briefly in Highever, to the north, but we moved when I was very young and settled in Lothering. I've known little else besides that."
Fenris drinks, then comments, "Kirkwall must have been very different."
"It was, at first. Lothering was little more than a collection of buildings – we barely counted as a village. But Kirkwall is huge, there's always people everywhere. There's no… stillness or privacy. Sometimes, I miss the wide open plains and hills that made up the countryside. But I can't go back."
Fenris is quiet for a long moment, then he asks softly, "Why can't you? If it's too personal an answer, you do not need to–"
"My sister died as we fled Lothering," Gareth replies. The words catch in his throat, stick to his tongue. He stares at the fire, eyes burning, and has to blink back tears. "The darkspawn killed her – an ogre. There was… nothing I could do."
"I… am sorry," Fenris says. He hesitates, then slowly reaches over and squeezes Gareth's shoulder. He drops his hand quickly. "I'm afraid I don't know what to say to that."
Gareth shakes his head, breathing hitching with the force of his suppressed sobs, "You don't have to say anything. It's alright. She was beautiful and so young – sometimes, I think it would have been better if I had been the one in her place."
"You cannot blame yourself for something you could not control," Fenris says, slowly. It's obvious he's unused to comforting others. "The darkspawn killed your sister – not you. If it… helps, I have heard that she will be at peace at the Maker's side."
Gareth nods. He's clung to that tightly, the hope that wherever Bethany is, she's in a better place.
"If anyone is going to the Maker's side, it would be Bethany," Gareth says, softly. He can't seem to stop shaking and drinks to try and stop it.
He misses Bethany. Her laugh, her smile, the bright sparkle in her eyes. He misses her innate sweetness and her kindness. She was the balm to Carver's rough edges, smoothing everything together. More than anything, she had been his rock.
And in the moment that she needed him most, he could do nothing.
He couldn't save her.
What use is my magic if I couldn't save you?
Gareth closes his eyes, tips his head back, and downs almost an entire bottle of wine. It burns on the way down. He doesn't care. His last words to Bethany echo loudly in his mind.
"I will protect Mother and Carver. I will keep them safe."
Somehow, they both end up sprawled on the floor. Gareth stopped counting the bottles after the fourth one.
He blames the liquor for the loss of his filter.
"If you're looking to find a home, you could stay."
He stares at Fenris' profile, cast into relief by the flickering light of the fire. If he moves his hand a little more, their hands would be touching. He wonders what it would be like to hold Fenris' hand.
"I could see myself staying," Fenris says, turning his head. He looks at Gareth, green eyes alight and catlike in the firelight. "For the right reasons."
His throat tightens. Now, the tension between them is so thick it could be cut with a knife.
"I should thank you again for helping me with the hunters." Fenris breaks the moment first, glancing away. But he looks back to Gareth, his mouth quirking up into a smirk and it sends shivers down Gareth's spine. "Had I known Anso would find me a man so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner."
He sucks in a breath through a throat gone dry. "Maybe I should be thanking Anso."
Fenris' smirk softens into a smile, warm and soft around its edges. "Maybe you should."
The light coming in through the holes in the ceiling has dimmed considerably, leaving the fire as their only source of light. Fenris glances away for a moment, but he's still smiling and it's making Gareth's stomach do flip-flops. It feels like he's swallowed a glass full of butterflies.
"Perhaps," Fenris says, interrupting his thoughts. "I'll practice my flattery for your next visit? With any luck, I'll become better at it."
Gareth smiles. "I'd like that."
Gareth doesn't, in fact, make it back to Gamlen's place in Lowtown.
Luckily for him, he runs into Merrill who is out for a late evening walk, and she's kind enough to bring him back to her apartment to sleep it off.
She helps him to a small chair, then goes to get some water, speaking fast all the while.
"This city is amazing! Do you know I saw someone get mugged? Right outside! It was fascinating! Everything happens here all at once! How does anyone keep it all straight?"
Gareth blinks, his drunken mind trying to process all of that at once. He gets stuck on the part where she witnessed a mugging.
"Wait… someone gets mugged in front of you and you think that's exciting?"
Merrill nods, grinning. "It must be an alienage greeting. Hasn't happened to me yet, though. They must not like me very much." She hands him a battered metal cup full of water. "It's so busy here. So many things just get… lost."
He looks up at her and has to squint his eyes to focus, "Are you feeling lost in Kirkwall, Merrill?"
"Oh! I… just a little. But that's alright. I'll adjust." She pats his shoulder. "Really, I'm fine, Hawke. But I'm glad you're here. I needed someone to talk to."
She takes the seat across from him at her rickety table, crossing her arms on its surface and staring out the tiny, dirty window.
Gareth reaches out, places one hand on top of hers. "Do you miss your clan?"
"I miss Hahren Paivel's stories," Merrill says with a sigh. "The creaking of the aravels in the breeze. Kirkwall is so busy and confusing. And the elves here are very different from the members of my clan. But… in time, I'll get used to Kirkwall."
"In time, you get used to its rhythms. It becomes part of your life and you… adjust." Gareth blinks, squeezes her hand and tries his best to smile at her reassuringly. "You have all of us, Merrill. We're here for you – whenever and whatever you need."
She smiles at him. "Thank you, Hawke. I appreciate it. Truly, I do."
"And the templars haven't bothered you?"
Merrill shakes her head. "I don't think that they even notice me. To them, I'm nothing more than another elf in the alienage. So long as I don't work magic in public, I'll be fine. It's you I'm more worried about. How have you been holding up?"
"Oh. Fine. Just fine. I… I'll admit that it bothers me that I can't help the other refugees, but it's for the safety of my family. The last thing I want to do is put them in danger."
Patting the top of his hand, Merrill gives it a squeeze herself. "Don't do anything to put yourself in danger, Hawke. You're too important to us all to risk the templars. Besides, they'd likely not look on you fondly."
"No, they'd not. My father talked about it with me. Bethany asked him, once, when we were young what was so wrong with the Circle. He said that… well, likely they would make me Tranquil. I would never even get the chance to take the Harrowing."
"I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "You don't need to apologize, Merrill. I know the risks of what will happen if the templars discover me. But I'm more worried about my Mother. If something happens–"
She tightens her grip on his hand and leans forward towards him. "Nothing will happen to you, Hawke. I promise."
Surprisingly, Carver comes to Merrill's apartment early the next morning. Gareth slept on the floor, with a blanket and spare pillow that Merrill had draped over him sometime the night before. He's terrible sore and his head is throbbing.
"Mother was worried when you didn't come home last night."
Gareth shields his eyes from the bright light of the sun as he rolls over onto his back. He groans. "I went drinking with Fenris. We got… a little carried away."
He can hear Carver's eyeroll in his voice, "Of course you were. Are you going to be getting up any time soon?"
"I have water!" Merrill chirps. "And something for breakfast."
"I think if I eat anything, I'm just going to bring it back up." Gareth pushes himself up into a sitting position, massaging his temples. A little flush of magic through his system helps with the headache and eases the nausea, but that's about as far as Gareth is willing to go with it. "Water, though, would be great, thank you, Merrill."
There's a large, beaten carafe on the table, along with a mismatched assortment of glasses. Merrill sets out a large platter with an assortment of cheese, bread, and sliced dried meat on it. The sight of it makes Gareth's stomach rumble, but he knows better than to give him.
"Looks good, Merrill," Carver says, smiling at her.
Ah yes, he'd forgotten about Carver's not-so-little crush on Merrill. Not even the discovery that she uses blood magic has dimmed that flame that Carver's been carrying for her. It's actually rather adorable and though Gareth might tease his brother for it, he knows that Carver could definitely do worse. At least Merrill is sweet and honest, all good things. And their Mother likes her.
Yes, he thinks of his own situation, Carver could do worse.
Breakfast is a mostly quiet affair. Merrill and Carver fill the silence with a pleasant, soft buzz of mostly mundane chatter. Gareth guesses that his presence puts a bit of a damper on Carver's flirtations.
"Should we go check in with Varric?" Gareth asks. "See if he knows of any work that pays well?"
Carver shrugs, "Sure, why not. He still owes me a drink."
"I thought – oh, nevermind."
Merrill cleans everything up with some help from Gareth. Once everything's packed up and neatly put away, they leave Merrill's apartment, only pausing so that she can lock the door before they continue on.
He tenses up when he spots the templar in the centre of the alienage, near the tree.
Exchanging a glance with Merrill, they edge closer carefully. The risk is worth learning what's going on; it's entirely possible that someone's about to turn one of them in.
The templar is speaking with an elven woman who, to Gareth's surprise, has markings on her face like Merrill's Dalish clan.
"I am sorry for your loss, mistress," he says. "But I can offer your son mercy only if he turns himself in."
Her voice quavers, and it's obvious that she's on the verge of tears, "I'm trying to find him, but–"
"The templars cannot tolerate apostates."
"This will be Mother if we're not careful," Carver mutters.
Whatever is said next, Gareth can't hear, but the elven woman breaks down into sobs, cradling her face in her hands. The templar walks off, leaving her there to weep.
He strides forward, gently lays a hand on the woman's shoulder, "I'm sorry to intrude, but it sounds like your son is in trouble. Is there anything I can do?"
She whirls around to look at him, eyes wide, lips trembling like her voice. "You… you heard all of that and still you would help? An apostate? Oh, thank you!"
"I couldn't turn away from someone in need."
Smiling, she introduces herself, "I am Arianni. My boy, Feynriel… he's all I have, all my family. When I learned he had magic… I could not bear sending him to the Circle. But his connection to the Fade… it plagues him with nightmares. I would rather lose him to the Circle than to himself."
"What do you need me to do? Find him?"
Arianni nods, "Please find him. Bring him somewhere safe."
"Do you have any idea where I might find him?" Gareth asks. He needs somewhere to start; Kirkwall is, after all, a large city.
"I don't know where he's gone," Arianni replies. "But there are two places where you might start your search. Ser Thrask has been looking for him. If you speak to him in the Gallows, he'll be able to tell you what ground he's already covered. And Feynriel's father, Vincento, recently returned from Antiva. He's a merchant in the Lowtown bazaar. Feynriel might have sought him out."
He smiles at her, reassuringly, "I will find him. I won't leave you in fear a moment longer than necessary."
"Thank you. Oh, thank you. It's been a lonely time, hiding. It's almost a relief to finally confront this openly. When you… find him and have brought him to safety, please let me know. Even if he hates me for doing this, I just want him to be safe and alive."
"I'll find him, Arianni. You have my word."
Gareth watches her disappear into the crowd, while Merrill and Carver catch up with him. He hadn't realized that he'd taken off on them so suddenly.
Carver sighs, "As always, you're getting us into trouble, aren't you? You can't just march into the Gallows and speak with a templar, Gareth. That's suicide!"
"So long as I don't do anything to draw attention to myself, I'll be fine," Gareth replies. "Besides, I made a promise that I'd find her son."
"And that boy sounds like he's a breath away from becoming an abomination." Carver sighs again, running a hand through his hair. "Fine. If we're going to find him, we're going to have to find him and fast."
"He ought to have his own life, out from the shackles of the Circle," Merrill comments. "Everybody should."
"And where would we send him?" Carver says. "I don't know too many apostates in Kirkwall who would be willing to take on an apprentice. And we can't just turn him out into the countryside – that's just asking for letting an abomination loose."
"Carver's right, Merrill, unfortunately," Gareth says, resting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing. "We can't take on apprentice now and I've never trained anyone. The Circle is his best bet for learning to master his talents."
Her shoulders sag, "I know you're right… but it isn't fair."
"I know."
"We need to find him first," Carver reminds them. "Otherwise this conversation is pointless. C'mon, let's go get Varric and then we can head for the Gallows if that's where you're insisting on going."
Varric's just as surprised to find out what they'll be doing today.
"So, now we're tracking down runaway mages?"
"Something like that."
"Alright, count me in."
"We'll speak with Feynriel's father, Vincento, first," Gareth says. "To see if he has any information on where his son is. I doubt it, but there's a chance that they might have spoken."
"He abandoned him. I doubt that he'd go to him," Merrill says.
"He's on our way. We'll check with him, then head for the Gallows."
"He'll be on the far side of the bazaar," Varric says. "What? I have sources."
Finding Vincento with Varric's help is easy enough. He has a small stall between two others, selling various Antivan goods.
He beams at Gareth as he approaches, "Greetings, serah! You look like a man who'd be interested in the finest Antivan steel to grace his hand. I bring only the finest northern merchandise to the Free Marches."
"Actually," Gareth says. "I'm more interested in your son."
"Son?" Vincento blinks, exaggeratedly taken aback. "I have never had that privilege, serah. My poor wife, she is back in Antiva and cannot see me often with my travels. But! Let us not ruin the day with such weighty thoughts! Perhaps I can show you my silks…?"
Gareth scowls, "You abandoned your son at birth. If you have any regrets about that at all, then help me save him now."
"There's no man in Kirkwall who is friend to an elfblood mageling," Vincento spits. "A smile won't buy my trust."
He turns his back on Gareth, and stalks behind his stall, pointedly ignoring the lot of them.
"Well," Varric says. "That went well."
"There's still that templar – Thrask – that Arianni mentioned," Gareth says. "He'll likely be more helpful."
Luckily for Gareth, Thrask isn't in the templar quarters. He's lingering at the base of the stairs that lead up into the large courtyard at the foot of Kirkwall's Circle tower – an old Tevinter prison – and the atmosphere is depressing and oppressive.
Thrask stands out with his bright, bright red hair and beard. He dismisses the messenger he's speaking with when Gareth's group approaches him.
"Can I help you with something, serah?" Thrask asks.
Gareth doesn't shift uncomfortably under templar scrutiny. He's used to it. He remembers from Lothering, trying to make himself be as normal as possible; him and Bethany staying in the background to keep from being noticed.
Instead, he meets Thrask's eyes dead on, and says, "You're the templar that's searching for Feynriel, correct?"
Thrask's eyebrows go up, "I did not realize that his name was so widely known, but I am."
"And I didn't know we would announce it to a templar," Carver mutters, crossing his arms.
"You spoke with his mother, I assume? Or perhaps you know Arianni from when she was with the Dalish?" Thrask addresses the latter part of his question to Merrill.
"We don't all know each other," Merrill replies, crossing her arms across her chest and nudging the ground with her toes. "There are a lot of clans, you know."
Thrask nods and sighs, "I'm surprised sometimes at the sympathies that mages evoke. I always expect people to be more wary of their powers than touched by their struggles. But… if we do not find Feynriel soon, it will not matter. Either he will be taken by the demons or by… less mystical means."
Thrask straightens, looking a tad uncomfortable. "And I have said more than enough on the topic. This is a templar matter and we will be handling it."
"Perhaps I could assist you, then?" Gareth offers. "Surely it's in Feynriel's best interests to have as many people searching for him as possible."
"That… is true." Thrask falls silent for a long stretch of moments, then says, "Very well. There is a templar – former templar – by the name of Samson. He left the Order due to… philosophical differences. He has been known to help mages flee Kirkwall on occasion. If Feynriel sought him out for help, Samson would not tell me. He stays out of sight during the day, but I've seen him at night – near the entrance to Darktown."
"Thank you," Gareth says. "I'll speak with him tonight."
"Hopefully, serah, your luck with him is better than mine."
It's with a sigh of relief that they leave the Gallows peacefully. Tension that Gareth hadn't been aware of bleeds out of him as they take a small ferry from the small island back into Kirkwall proper. When he steps off the ferry and onto the docks, he feels at ease once again, able to blend back into the crowds of people.
Carver's still scowling, "That was reckless. What would you have done if we were caught?"
"I have you to vouch for me, don't I?" Gareth asks, tilting his head back. "You wouldn't let them take me."
"It was unnecessary. We could have found the information some other way. Mother will worry."
"And if it was me who was missing and in danger? Would you leave Mother to worry over me?"
"No! But… you take too many risks, Gareth! Risks that we can't afford! This is Kirkwall – not Lothering where we knew everyone. It's not the same!"
"People are staring," Merrill comments lightly. She smiles at them, beatific and sweet, and they're quick to move along, averting their eyes from her. "Come now, if you two are going to fight, do it where we won't have to intervene. I'm a terrible referee, you know."
Carver makes a strangled noise deep in his throat. Then he storms off.
Gareth watches him go, a familiar weight settling onto his shoulders. "It's alright, Merrill. Carver is… just worried about me. And Mother."
"It's a younger brother's job," Varric says, shrugging. "Always worrying over and keeping the older sibling out of trouble. Guess it's more difficult with you, Hawke. Bartrand might be a stubborn ass, but we don't have to worry about the templars. So much, anyway."
"It will be fine, you'll see," Merrill reassures him, squeezing his shoulder. "He just needs a little time to cool off and then he'll be back. Why don't we stop by Fenris' place and see if he'll join us for drinks at the Hanged Man?"
"Remind me to put Broody on my tab. Maker knows, he needs it."
Fenris does indeed join them for drinks and a spot of lunch at the Hanged Man.
"What do you plan to do when you find this mage?" Fenris asks.
"He'll need instruction – something which neither Merrill nor I are able to give him," Gareth replies. "Unfortunately, his only option is to go to the Circle. He'll have the company of other mages there, along with learning how to master and control his talents. It's… not ideal, but it's the best we can do in these circumstances."
Fenris grunts, "Good."
Gareth lays a hand on Merrill's arm, shaking his head at her. Now isn't the time for them to launch into another argument or marginally heated debate about whether mages belong in Circles or not.
"If he were an elf," Merrill says quietly. "I would recommend sending him to the Dalish, but since he's human blooded…"
"And no Dalish mage ever became an abomination," Fenris mutters.
"That's not my point. He'd be an outcast amongst our kind," Merrill replies, rather primly. "Even if Keeper Marethari was willing to taking him on as a Second, the clan would likely never accept him fully despite his elven blood."
"Why is that?" Gareth asks, curious. He sets his mug back on the table, turning his attention to Merrill. And away from Fenris who is already eyeing his – he pushes it towards him, surprised at how much alcohol that Fenris can put away and remain functional.
"Oh well." Merrill flushes, picks at her fingers for a long moment before she replies. She won't look at him as she does. "It's a safety reason, mainly. Usually, half-blooded children become wandering Keepers or hunters. They blend in a little easier, but there's not one in the area to take on Feynriel so… I don't like it, but you're right – the best place to send him is the Circle."
"I don't like it that much either," Gareth replies, quietly. "But it's too risky for us to take on an apprentice – even between us. He'll get what he needs from the Circle: attention and education."
"Yes," Merrill murmurs. "It's for the best."
Sneaking out into Lowtown that night is tricky. Carver still hasn't returned, leaving them short a warrior but Gareth can fill in for him for now. They're not expecting too much trouble.
Samson is easy enough to find. He's an incredibly haggard looking man who is begging near the entrance to Darktown. The smell of him is nearly overpowering when they get close enough. His mouth is twisted into an incredibly bitter expression.
His tone is no better, "So, heard that my old friend Thrask was telling you folks to seek me out. Don't look like you'll be needing my help, though."
"Actually, I was hoping that you could help me," Gareth replies. "I'm looking for a young boy named Feynriel. Thrask said he might have come to you for help."
"I'll tell you now, not much I can do for you." Samson shrugs. "Met him. Blighter was dead broke, though, not a silver on him. Y'know how it is, I help one mageling for free, and I'll never get paid again."
"How generous of you," Gareth says. "Do you have any idea of where he might have gone?"
Samson nods, "Pointed him toward a ship's captain I know. Man by the name of Reiner. He'll occasionally take on runaways. Took another apostate last week – girl I sent him." He frowns, glances at his feet and scuffs them against the dusty ground. "Might have gone wrong, though… I heard rumours that he'd taken the both of them captive instead."
Gareth's heart drops into his stomach, "Please tell me it's not too late to save them."
Glancing around, Samson leans in close, whispering hoarsely. His breath stinks like the wrong end of a druffalo. "Rumour has it that Reiner's got the pair of them locked in a quays warehouse dockside. You want to find the boy, you'd best go looking now. Otherwise, he'll be ransomed to the templars. Or worse. But you didn't hear it from me."
Varric flips the man a couple silvers. "Go get yourself something to eat. And maybe a bath."
"Mighty generous of you," Samson says, grinning. It looks more like a leer, the way that it pulls at his face. But he vanishes quickly into the depths of the city. Likely, Gareth thinks, not to buy food.
Something about Samson set his senses tingling. His magic reaching out, towards something. Lyrium, Gareth thinks, because he's felt that way around templars before. He pushes it down, ignores it, and turns away. They'll need to reach the docks to find Feynriel.
"Come on, we'll need to hurry if we're to get this over with before dawn."
There is no shortcut through Kirkwall. The city is built like a disorienting maze, and it takes well over an hour for the four of them to reach the Docks. Locating the warehouse takes a little longer, requiring Varric to pick the lock on the harbour master's desk to find out just which one that Reiner has rented. Gareth and Fenris keep watch, but the docks are practically deserted at this hour. But it always pays to be careful.
Once they have their location, they launch themselves back into action.
The warehouse, once they enter, is rather abandoned. It does, however, stink of fish, which Fenris does not at all appreciate.
"Urgh, let's get this over with quickly," Fenris comments, nose wrinkling. "And be done with this place."
"It's not so bad, Fenris," Merrill comments. She's bouncing on the balls of her feet. "You get used to it after a while. And it doesn't smell as terrible as the ship we took from Ferelden did."
"I didn't ask."
"Oh. Right."
They're creeping their way along the second level, when they hear voices.
"Get a hold of her!"
"Please! Help me! Someone! Anyone!" It's followed by the high-pitched scream of a young girl.
Gareth doesn't even bother with the handle. He kicks the door down.
The guards have a young girl on the ground, her robe grimy but she's clearly a mage. One of the men wields a long dagger. There's a third man, a ways behind them, overseeing the entire affair with a disinterested expression on his face.
The other says, "Get the hands! I heard they can't do no spells without hands!"
Until now, Gareth has never seen an abomination before.
He knows now.
The girl's skin begins to bubble, as though her very blood is boiling. Her body twitches, joints cracking. Skin explodes outwards, splattering the men and the room with blood.
What's left behind is a grotesque parody of a human body. The flesh is a mottled grey and red, stained with blood. With long, clawed fingers and a gaping, disjointed mouth and melted face. It howls, voice echoing, as it shouts.
"You know nothing of magic!"
It tears the throat out of one of the men, while the other flees. Directly into Gareth's party.
Fenris acts first, arm lighting up blue, and tears the heart clear out of his chest.
The last man, whom Gareth assumes is Reiner, has drawn his blade and is trying uselessly to fend off the abomination before him. With a twist of its hand, he goes up in a plume of fire and smoke.
The abomination turns its attention on them. It howls, an earsplitting noise that makes all the hair on the back of Gareth's neck stand on end.
Dimly, he knows, as he unholsters his stave and prepares to fight, that this fate could be his.
It will not be his. Never.
The abomination leaves behind a smoldering corpse. In death, it looks even less human than it did when it was still moving. All four of them give it a wide berth as Varric searches what remains of Reiner's body. He locates a key, which opens a chest, which gives them their next clue as to Feynriel's whereabouts.
Gareth, distracted, spots the letter folded into the remnants of the girl's robes. Turning the folded paper over, he can make out a name, despite the singed and stained edges. Thrask.
Oh. He tucks the letter into his coat. He'll return it to the templar at a later time, once they've located Feynriel and have seen him to safety.
"Looks like Reiner's been dabbling in slavery," Varric comments. "He sold the boy to someone in the Undercity, by the name of Danzig."
Gareth pushes himself back to his feet, dusting his hands off, "Well, then I think that we should be paying this Danzig a little visit." He looks to Fenris, "You ready to pay some slavers their due?"
Fenris grins, his markings pulse blue for a moment. "Always."
