Chapter 5: L'apparition des Esprits

The windows were open. Cool air and city sounds filled the room, distant and oddly idyllic even to Leliana's worldly ears, who knew better than to believe the fairy tale of it. There was nothing picturesque or peaceful. Life in the city was hard, as hard as anywhere else in the world and people so rarely had hearts of gold, because it took so much effort to hold on to them against the tides of fade that beat them on every shore.

Kameron was fast asleep in her bed. He had stripped off the blood-stained, stolen clothes and left them in an untidy pile on the ground for Leliana to dispose of later. He had washed quickly and then simply dropped into bed. His sleep seemed deep and restful after the exhaustion of the flight and perhaps unjustifiably so.

Leliana herself had tried to find sleep, too, but although she felt bone-weary, no sleep had come. She had curled up in an armchair by the fire, listening to the sound of the city waking up, watching as the twilight gloom was slowly replaced by pale white morning light. Her mind had been empty, where she had expected her thoughts to chase each other. It hadn't the calm emptiness of meditation or prayer, she would have welcomed that. No, this was the end of all her experience. There was nothing there for her to think anymore, because nothing offered any help in the decision she had to make. Trying to avoid it would only make matters much worse than they already were.

In the silence of her own head, she finally got up from her chair and wrote a message, words falling onto the paper out of habit, because she was a minstrel before she was a bard and her fingers knew how to draw the words almost on their own.

She left the message on the pillow by Kameron's head and slipped away soundlessly.

The morning sun drew murky lines of brightness across Ophélie's bedroom. Streaks which should have been golden but were watered down by the weather into a pale imitation of their rightful brilliance. It seemed mundane and the events of the previous night appeared as a stage-play to her, too shrill and theatrical to fit into this world. Then again, her life had been turning for the strange ever since she had found a bleeding elf in the greenhouse in her garden. Even though he had been near death, he had been willing to joke and flirt with her while her servants patched him up as well they could.

In hindsight, she could not say what had prompted her to shelter him, beyond childish fantasies of romance and she had been too old and world-weary even then to still believe in them. Her elf, she had known, was not going to be a dashing hero to save her from a loveless marriage and magic her away into a life of adventure. These were stories for playwrights.

Yet, in his way, he had done exactly that.

She stretched her arms over her head and with the same movement reached for the bell by her bedside to summon a maid. She told the curtseying girl to prepare breakfast and settled back into her pillows, chasing the detached peace of mind left by just waking up.

The elf, she learned, was an assassin and not just any assassin, but one of the Antivan Crows. She failed to pry more from him, although he seemed to have enjoyed teasing her, throwing her a tidbit of information or a clue to chase. She had known all along he was toying with her to keep himself safe while he healed and she was a willing accomplice to that. Never in a million years would she have alerted the authorities to his presence on her estate, she would never have him struck in chains by her guards and dragged off.

He had recovered faster than she had liked, though she could not begrudge it to him. He left as soon as he was able and Ophélie considered the adventure over.

Until the Crow had come back one night, a ragtag group of strangers in tow, none of whom likely to inspire any confidence. Her Crow had been distracted, something tense about him, haunted, but also dangerous. Not quite the charming elf he had been upon their first meeting, but someone who served as a perfect reminder of what an assassin did, to make him who he was.

She had her suspicions about them all, but willingly held her tongue for the fun of playing along.

The low creak of the door pulled her from her thoughts. A habitual scowl already crawled on her face at the realisation that her maid had failed to knock, but as she sat up in bed to scold her, she found it suddenly quite difficult to remember what she felt at all.

Employing all his honed senses and the perfect balance of his limbs, Hawke manoeuvred a large silver tray through the door with barely more than a low whisper of dishes and cutlery shifting with his movement. He made a little flourish as he turned and while Ophélie already saw milk and juice splash from their carafes, no disaster did happen. Hawke gave the door a slight kick with the heel of one boot to make it fall closed. He lowered the tray a little so he could at her over the piles of food assembled there.

He grinned, "As you can see, I suffered of a terrible conscience last night."

"This is an apology?" she asked skeptically. Although she hadn't made up her mind about all this yet, she sat up fully and flattened some of her blankets to allow Hawke to put the tray down on the bed.

"Or it could be an attempt to fatten you up, because my dark secret isn't what you think it is," he shrugged. He gave a quick look, assessing her mood, before folding one leg under him and sit down on the foot of the bed, leaning his weight on one extended arm. The soft mattress and billowing feather bed swallowed his hand to the wrist.

She kept looking at him rather than the food between them. A thin line of fragrant steam rose from a teapot. "What do you think I think is your dark secret?" she asked.

He put his head back and laughed, but kept watching her. She wasn't entirely sure the laughter reached his eyes. She wanted to regain some of her anger from last night, the feeling that had welled up in her throat after he had left her so abruptly, the feeling of being marginalised in his eyes, because she was nothing but a business partner to him. It was difficult, though, in the morning light and the dazzle of Hawke's laughter.

"I couldn't begin to guess," he finally said. "Something raunchy enough to want to keep me, it seems."

There was nothing to be gained by staring at him, Ophélie realised. He would only mesmerise her more. She wanted something from him, more than he was willing to give. Falling for him would only make things more difficult for her. She needed to keep her head in the game.

She frowned down on the tray. Bread and jam and fresh fruit, milk and juice and steaming tea. Surprising how he seemed to have managed to assembled everything she liked. She hadn't thought he paid that much attention to her. Sapphire-coloured flowers were tied together by a thin strip of silk, resting on the lace of a folded napkin.

"You assume the offer is still valid," she said lightly, picked up a fluffy bun and tore off a piece.

"I assume it is," Hawke said in the same tone. The bed shifted under his weight as he moved and Ophélie glanced up to see as he leaned his back on the bedpost. "Why would you withdraw it?"

Casually, she dipped the bun into the milk. "After an armed elf walked into my bedroom in the middle of the night and you threw me out of it," she recounted. "Out in the hallway with the servants! I don't even want to know the kind of rumours this has sparked."

"Fenris cannot possibly have been the first elf in a noble lady's bedroom."

"No doubt," Ophélie agreed. "But usually she is there with him."

Hawke laughed again. He watched quietly for a little while longer while she deftly took the bun apart. When he spoke again, his tone had become a little more serious. He said, "My life is complicated. I always thought that was part of my appeal."

"That was unacceptable."

"It happened," he clarified. "There is my apology. You've already dug in too deep to reject it now."

It was hard to argue with her mouth full, but she managed to send him a somewhat baleful look anyway. He was right, however, she had never given up her little girl dreams of adventure and she still wanted him in her life.

She felt his gaze on her.

Quietly, he said, "I've been thinking about what you said."

She had swallowed and picked up the tea; warmth was seeping through the cup and stinging her skin as she went perfectly still.

Hawke continued, "Maybe there is a future for me here."

"Here?" she heard herself say as if from a great distance. "Or with me?"

A quick smile crossed his face. The morning's cool light was unkind of the lines on his face, making him look older underneath the layer of cheerfulness he had affected.

"So your offer is still valid?"

Carefully, she put the cup back on the tray, relaxing her heated fingers. She sat back to regard him and couldn't quite keep the eagerness from her voice, realising she might really have him after all, she had found a hook to hold. "Who are you really, Seigneur Ballagh?"

He didn't seem to acknowledge the question in more than a slight shake of his head and another short flash of a toothy smile. "I have things I need to finish. I'm not free." He made a short gesture with one hand. "And you'll end up more involved than any of us wanted. My friends need a place to stay."

"Your friends?" she echoed slowly.

"Gervaise has put them in a room on the ground floor and that's where they should stay for a few days."

"Only a few days?"

"I don't know," Hawke said, suppressing a sigh and a frown. "In fact, I have absolutely no idea how long it will take. It's not negotiable, either. I won't abandon them, not for you or your wealth or a place in your bed. It's very simple, in the end."

The aftertaste of tea and jam was slowly turning to ashes in her mouth as the assuaged anger flared up again. "You don't make demands like that," she snapped.

Hawke seemed unimpressed, nothing tensed in his posture and the blithe-over-grave juxtaposition of his face remained. "I make no demands. We aren't arguing over a contract, I hope. I don't sell quite that cheaply. My friends are safe here for as long as it takes. And when it's done, I'll look for a future. Maybe one with you."

"You expect I'll…" she trailed off into silence, too exasperated to even find a proper response. Angrily she gave the tray a shove, dishes and cutlery chittered thinly, veiled by the blankets. The tray didn't get far, nothing toppled or spilled.

Ophélie crossed her arms over her chest and stared at Hawke. "I don't sell quite that cheaply."

Her anger crested up and shattered on his amusement. He was watching her from clever eyes, still and serene in the morning light. And she knew much was at stake for him, even if she was utterly in the dark about what it truly was. If she turned him away now, his situation would be dire and yet, there was no show of fear she could identify.

Unexpectedly, Hawke moved. He shook himself free of his relaxed pose, pulled his hand from the depth of the bedding only to put it between them, leaning forward. The tray dipped sideways again, but all thought of it was long forgotten with Hawke bringing their faces close together. He dropped his voice so low she could feel the vibration of it.

He said, "No."

Despite herself, she found herself leaning in herself, mesmerised by how close his lips were. It would be so easy to close the distance, seal the deal at whatever terms they had arrived at. Almost almost she chanted in her mind and her skin tingled with his closeness. She opened her mouth, but instead of the kiss she wanted, she said, "Who are you?"

He drew back for no more than a fraction and froze there, but his face revealed nothing. "Everything will change if I say that," he cooed, keeping his tone perfectly balanced between threat and promise.

"So?"

Deliberately, he broke the mood. Pulling back from her, unravelling the spell he had woven with a dismissive shake of his head and a sardonically arched eyebrow. "And I would have to kill you, of course," he said breezily.

Some of the tea had spilled from the cup, soaking the napkin and the half-eaten bun had slithered from the tray, leaving a trail of crumbs behind.

Hawke sauntered to the windows and pushed the curtains aside, allowing him to open the windows wide. It created an odd invasion of reality, sound and cool air curling inside reluctantly.

She had her suspicions, she didn't need the confirmation now. "But when you come to stay with me," she said. "I want to know."

He turned away from the window and the light framed him, hiding his face, but the laughter was back in his voice. "Yes," he conceded. "I can do that."

He shook into motion and crossed the room for the door.

Ophélie frowned as she saw that. "Wait, where are you going?"

"I'm trying not to overstay my welcome," he said. "Seeing as I tend to be disruptive to the peace of your bedroom."

Ophélie put the bun back, then picked up the tray. She climbed from the bed and took a few steps toward him, putting the tray down on a table by the door. "I don't think I mind some disruption." She gave him a sharp look. "Unless you are too drunk again."

If the slight barb connected at all, he didn't show it.

"This early in the day?" he asked. "Only if I haven't been to bed, yet." He pretended to think. "Which I haven't, now that you mention it."

But the smirk was firmly on his face now, if the good humour was fake it was played too well for her to see through. It wasn't just his life that was complicated, it was the man as well. And it was part of his appeal.

"My bed is right there," she pointed out. "You are quite welcome to it."

For a long moment, he did nothing. Long enough, in fact, until she had herself convinced he was going to turn away again — turn her down again — and it had stung the first time. After the discussion they just had had, she wasn't certain she would allow it a second time.

Hawke shrugged. "Good enough for me," he decided.

Anders stood in the hallway without movement, ignoring the servants' baleful stares and the watchful gaze of Wuffles. Isabela and Merrill were still soundly asleep, but he had had no desire to sleep nor had he been feeling more tired than usual. The conversation with Hawke was haunting him, the truths of it and the tremendous injustices they had inflicted on each other down the years and they still hadn't stopped.

There was something hopeless and selfish about what Hawke was doing, of course. Forcing some blood magic ritual on him to save him from… something. In clear moments, Anders still recognised that both he and Justice had been fundamentally altered the moment they became one and Hawke sought to right what he perceived as something wrong. Except, Anders no longer saw it that way. He was who he was and it was difficult to imagine how he could be someone else.

And in all that, Hawke didn't even realise that he had never known Anders before, he had never met him. He had always loved this changed version of him. What he would feel for the old Anders, if Kameron's ritual succeeded at all, was entirely out in the open.

Anders crossed his arms over his chest and leaned his shoulder into the wall as hard as he could, his entire weight resting there as if he meant to leave a dent, so Hawke would see it when he left. Perhaps it would make him feel guilt, or regret. Perhaps Ophélie would see it and withdraw her talons from Hawke's flesh, recognising the greater claim.

Wuffles padded toward him and put his nose to Anders leg in a firm push.

"No," Anders said. "I'm not going anywhere."

Wuffles whined, but sat back from him, still watching him attentively. It was still somewhat puzzling to Anders how much and how well the mabari understood what was going on. His behaviour suggested he knew well enough that Anders needed to be watched somehow, but not treated as an enemy.

"You can hear what they are saying, can't you?" Anders asked the mabari. Wuffles pricked his ears forward and wagged his short tail. "I don't know if I envy you."

Anders clenched his teeth. There had been voices before, but too quiet to make out words, not even enough to gauge how well the discussion was going. If Ophélie decided to throw them out, all they had left was Kameron's vague promise of refuge in Gwaren and Anders would rather not take him up on it. Kameron could not be trusted. Moreover, Anders couldn't trust himself around Kameron, not for any length of time. Besides, who knew how long it would be convenient for Kameron to protect them.

He heard a woman's laugh, faint through the solid door. Wuffles whined again as if in an attempt to mask the sound. Anders made a sharp gesture with one hand and the mabari stopped. "I'm staying right here," Anders said again. He was glad that the mabari couldn't call him out on the utter stupidity of it. He didn't have to explain to him that this was part of his penance.

The Templars had done their best to hide the truth of events. To a casual observer, very little would seem out of place; from their patrols around the White Spire and their training exercises. Some news had gone out, of course, trouble in the alienage — itself nothing of particular interest to most people in Val Royeaux — and an apostate putting up slightly more of a fight than usual. The public mustn't be alarmed, the times were bad enough after all and the last thing anyone needed was more unrest.

To Leliana's perceptive eyes and her intimate knowledge of what had truly happened, it was quite obvious. The Templars were nervous, if not downright frightened. The slaughter in Kameron's wake had shaken their confidence on a level they hadn't experienced in a long while. Most apostates tended to surrender rather than fight, especially here, where the very elite of the Templars were poised against them. Even if they resisted, they usually didn't last long and failed to do much lasting damage to the Templars. Since the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry, few apostates were given the benefit of doubt and killed as maleficarum before they had the chance do much harm.

Kameron had been lucky that the Templar who had taken him in had been willing to listen at all and no doubt that Templar was regretting it now. Though, the Wardens had weight in Orlais, it was an old and powerful order, held in high esteem even among the Chevaliers. And Kameron had a tendency to get his way, even if it didn't always work out as he had intended. For a man who put so little faith in providence, it seemed to rule in his favour every time.

No one challenged Leliana as she made her way. Some doubtlessly recognised her, but no one approached her. Out of respect, perhaps, or because they sensed the darkness of her mood and gave her what space she needed.

The odd, unquiet emptiness in her head still haunted her. Fragments of thoughts and feelings running in circles in her mind, trying to find coherence and a sense of direction. Yet, she was moving, walking with enough outward confidence that no guards blocked her path all the way to the Divine's study.

There were still no words in her mind when she stepped into the airy room and for a moment the stillness nearly beat her to her knees.

Justinia was setting behind her desk, writing, but she put the quill away when she saw Leliana. The Divine's face was earnest, but Leliana didn't presume to read her expression and judge her. It was not her place. It was incredible, how Justinia's mere, collected presence helped soothed Leliana's nerves.

She crossed the room and quietly took a seat opposite Justinia. She stared off into nothingness between them, waiting for the words to come. And then, under Justinia's stern, but kind gaze, something suddenly became clear to Leliana. It hadn't bothered her for many years, a ghost laid to rest a very long time ago, setting her free. But the truth had never been there before for her to grasp. The difference between her and Marjolaine, it was not their skills or the capacity for ruthlessness. Leliana knew she all of that and wielded all those weapons without remorse if it was demanded of her.

She looked up at Justinia and said, "I need to confess."

But Leliana would never be a traitor.

References

Il est du véritable amour comme de l'apparition des esprits: tout le monde en parle, mais peu de gens en ont vu. (True love is like the appearance of ghosts: everyone talks about it but few have seen it.)

— François de La Rochefoucauld