Chapter 7: Words of Faith
"What was wrong with him?" Zevran asked as he strode down the street at Isabela's side. The sidewalk was crowded in the late afternoon and the air had the scent of saltwater and fish, almost close enough to the harbour to hear the waves as they beat against the shore.
Isabela pulled a face. "I'd rather be sailing with Gully of all people," she pointed out. "Harvay is a coward."
"Which would matter if we were going to war," Zevran said. "But since we are running away, isn't a coward exactly what we need?"
Isabela laughed and linked arms with him, dragging him close to her side. "Maybe I just like having you along for a stroll."
"Through one dingy tavern after another?" Zevran chuckled. "I can't say I'd complain."
She patted his arm with her other hand. "Don't worry, we'll get this sorted. Pirate captains are like fruit. Sometimes you need to dig through several crates until you find one that's not rotten."
"I defer to your expertise," Zevran said.
In truth, Isabela did enjoy their tour. It was the cheap ale — or beer, or rum — that they drunk over negotiations in each tavern and letting the alcohol put a sway in her swagger that spoke of storms on the open sea. Looking for a captain willing to pick them up in a bay north of Val Royeaux — when they would, more likely than not, have Templars in hot pursuit on their heels. They needed someone who enough steel in his balls to make the run past the blockades and take them into Ferelden waters, ideally to Gwaren, but Amaranthine would be good enough. Sadly, a 'decent pirate' was something of an oxymoron and one who would not decide to sell them to the highest bidder at the first opportunity would be even harder to come by.
Isabela had enough acquaintances, but few enough of those she would trust her life to, let alone her friends' lives.
"So," she began teasingly. "Married life suits you."
Zevran laughed again. "Does that surprise you, my dear Isabela?"
"I'm not arguing your taste, Kameron is good for a tumble, or two, or a few more, but I don't know if I'd be coming back for more after eight years."
Zevran pretended to think on it, but the satisfied grin stayed firmly on his face. She could see it from the corners of her eyes.
"You haven't been in Kirkwall nearly that long, have you?"
"Shush," Isabela huffed, though in good humour. "Of course I have, but that wasn't about sex. Well, not only."
He nodded, "And there you go, making my point for me."
He swung them both around and stopped in front of an open doorway. The door had been torn out a long time ago, leaving a few splintered boards hanging off rusty hinges. Zevran put his head back and scanned the front of the building, squinting a little in the sun. "Mermaid's Bust," he read from a withered sign. "I think I can still make out a nipple."
"That's not a nipple," Isabela joined him in scanning the sign.
"On a mermaid?" Zevran asked curiously after a moment's contemplation. "Unlikely, if you ask me."
Isabela shrugged. "Sailors don't always think things through," she said and tucked on his arm. "Come on, Cross-Eye Aed used to hang out here. Not sure if he's in town, but if we can get him, we should."
Zevran had been a pleasure to watch all afternoon. Relaxed, flirty and charming, but matching every gaudy joke stroke for stroke as she threw it at him. He had no sense of propriety and she had yet to find something that would scandalise him. And then, as she steered him through the doorway of the Mermaid's Bust he just shed his skin, as if the border of sunlight and shadow tore it away and he became the assassin so convincingly he even seemed taller by her side.
It had been their game from the start. Isabela did the talking and Zevran lurked around, being silently menacing. It gave them the appearance of strength when they had very little to bargain with. Kameron had deep pockets and Hawke could draw from Ophélie as he pleased, but even pirates had a sense of self-preservation that kicked in at some point. Smuggling apostates had been a good source o income for many, but the times had changed and apostates had became too hot to touch for most of them.
Isabela stopped right inside to let her eyes adjust to the gloom. Smoke hung thick below the low ceiling, acidic-sweet scents of various tobaccos mixing into an ungodly stench as counterpoint to cheap, spilled ale with a note of fresh vomit. It was too early for a party, the people hanging around the place drinking were into it for serious business; drowning sorrows or debating deals as the situation demanded. A girl was busy dispersing mugs from an oversized tray and she had to suffer only the occasional grope, but no true interruption of her work.
"We are in luck," Isabela sat, spotting Cross-Eye Aed in a corner, playing cards with a dwarf.
Despite what the name might suggest, it was difficult to be sure if Aed was indeed cross-eyed or not. A pitch-black eyepatch covered his left eye and a flap of leather hung down over his cheek and over his ear to tuck away past his collar.
He spotted her quicker than she would have liked, but there was no faulting Aed's instincts. He glanced up from the cards to watch her with amused curiosity.
"Isabela?" he greeted her with honest surprise. "Haven't you been land-bound over in Kirkwall?"
It was a bad sign, tossing such a question directly at her before she had even sat down, before trading jokes and insults and a mug of ale. He must have known she was in Val Royeaux; in itself that wasn't surprising, but it still bothered her. Who knew what else he had puzzled together?
"Unfortunately," Isabela groaned and picked up a nearby chair to sit down on. Aed gave his cards a last look, shrugged and put them away. He exchanged a long look with the dwarf, who then put his own cards down, quietly gathered his winnings and left the table.
"As it so happens, you are just the man I was looking for," Isabela said.
Aed gave her a toothy grin, "You are still not my type."
"Didn't think that was likely to change," Isabela agreed. "I should have said you are just the captain I was looking for."
"You've been half a dozen other places like this before coming here," Aed said. "If you must flatter, at least make it believable."
She managed to hide her surprise, if just barely. It was a good thing she had Zevran behind her, otherwise she would have been compelled to look over her shoulder, scan the room again for any danger and giving her away. Or more away, as the case may be.
She dropped her voice a little. "You've been watching me?"
"Not really, but a few old friends came by earlier, said you are on the lookout for an idiot captain. Maybe I am flattered that it took you so long. Everyone else has turned you down, haven't they?"
"We need a ship," Isabela said. "Ideally to Gwaren, but we'll take Amaranthine or Jader."
"Passengers, I take it?"
"There are six of us."
Aed stroked his stubbly chin. "Templars, or at least their lackeys, are searching every ship before it leaves harbour. You wouldn't be here if that didn't bother you. Six people are hard to hide, even on the Fury."
"There are a few bays where you can anchor between here and Val Chevin. Sneaking out of the city on foot will be easier, then we make a run for it and you pick us up."
"Have you tried to anchor in one of those recently?" Aed frowned. "Sandy and low reefs, rogue winds. I ain't parking there for any length of time."
"It'd be only a day," Isabela insisted. "And I have anchored there. It's doable."
"Says the captain without a ship."
"Hey, I'm not pointing out all your shortcomings, am I? Maybe I'm sensitive about that."
She played up her indignant huff a little to cover her excitement. Aed seemed interested, if not exactly enthusiastic. He was a good captain, trustworthy enough for a pirate in that he was much more likely to keep his word than break it.
Her outburst didn't seem to impress him much. He took a deep gulp from his mug, then set it back down with a clunk. "What's in it for me?"
"Good money," Isabela said immediately. It was their only asset, after all, no reason to be shy about it.
Zevran, who had been slowly pacing the entire tavern and making everyone nervous, suddenly appeared behind her and added, "And the favour of the Teryn of Gwaren and through him, the favour of the King of Ferelden. And I hear Amaranthine is paying their privateers quite handsomely."
Isabela caught the gleam in Aed's eyes before he looked away, staring down on the table thoughtfully. She left him his moment, trying not be too envious of being in his place. This, being offered some dangerous stunt, a race with your ship, illicit cargo, slipping by under the authorities' nose. Maybe a little swashbuckling fight or two…
Of course that's when things began to go sour again.
"You're Captain Isabela?" a voice asked from behind. It had an ugly leer in it that could mean nothing good.
Several things registered simultaneously. One, it had become ever so slightly darker in the last moment, presumably because someone — or several someones — were standing behind her. Two, Zevran took one fluid step away from her and the table, hand closing loosely around the hilt of his dagger. Three, Aed looked utterly furious at something behind her shoulder.
She knew that tone of voice: leery, condescending, cock-sure. No one ever spoke like that if they weren't out for at least a brawl, or maybe even a knifing. Being addressed by name made it worse.
She caught Zevran's gaze and held it just long enough to make sure he was willing to let her lead. This was her territory, after all.
Slowly, she slipped free of her chair without moving it even in the slightest, letting her body move like water, fluid and silent. Not that it made a difference. More than a dozen sailors, men and women and a few elves of either gender, took up space in the tavern's taproom. By their appearance and bearing, Isabela supposed they all belonged to one band or gang and most of them had already drawn their weapons.
Isabela let her gaze settle on the speaker in a mixture of disdain and confusion. "Not really," she said. "Heard of her, ain't her."
"Just one rack like that around!" someone yelled from the side to hoots and catcalls.
"You should get out more," Isabela suggested.
Unlike her, Aed made no attempt to be silent or unobtrusive as he pushed his chair away from the table to get up. He was lanky and no longer young, but he was also a head taller than Isabela and the sinews on his arms looked like wound steel.
"It's very impolite to intrude on a man's business talks," he said.
The first speaker leered at Aed, "You're not a proper man, so that's okay then."
Isabela had known that she couldn't stop a fight from breaking out. The sheer number arrayed against them meant their leader would never back out and risk losing face in front of his men.
"There is a good sum of money on your head," the group's leader said. "You and an elf with tattoos, must be you. Better get out of my way, Aed, before I find someone willing to pay for you, too."
The Mermaid's Bust was filled with cut-throats, of one kind or another, and few of them enjoyed having their drink interrupted anymore than Isabela would have, in their place. Everywhere chairs were pushed back and sailors rose to their feet and drew their knives. Only the Maker would know on whose side they would come down on, though, and most of them wouldn't care either way for the most part. It was Aed's haunt, chances were he did have some friends around, for whatever that was worth.
Aed gave a sharp snarl at being insulted the second time, almost like a sign that it was time to strike, but in truth the moment had come on its own. Strike now, it said in a lover's voice, there are no more words to try. This will be settled in blood.
Well, then.
The fight splintered into separate set pieces, an order in what must be utter chaos to the uninitiated. Nothing but a tangled flurry of fists on flesh on steel, of groaning men and groaning furniture. Ale spilled in great puddles, sticky treacherous patches on the floor and wet skin. Shabby clothes tore under grips and tugs, sending people stumbling for balance into another ball of fighters, pulling them loose of each other and snapping them back to new targets indiscriminately.
The gang leader had tried to lunge for Isabela the moment the fight broke out, but he was clumsy and slow, the direction of his gaze revealing his strikes long in advance. Dodging his fists was hardly a challenge, Isabela simply wasn't there when he came at her, sidestepping out of his reach. Only then did he draw his weapon, a short-sword of unusual make, Isabela used the chance to gauge it and its threat value.
She kicked the feet away from under her attacker, rammed her elbow down on his back as he buckled. It was so easy, it was almost a disappointment.
Two of his friends launched themselves at her, but Isabela had enough time and space to draw the daggers from their sheathes on her back. She twitched further to the side and let the one closest to her run directly into the edge of the blade. His own momentum helped the dagger cut through his leather jerkin and slit the cloth and skin underneath. Painful, Isabela judged, but too shallow to be quickly fatal. She danced around him, hammered her other dagger into the other attacker's face, stabbing it through his cheek and feeling the resistance of bone. The harsh scraping sound it made was audible even above the din of the fighting.
Alliances were becoming increasingly muddied. Isabela hadn't had a good look at all of the would-be bounty-hunter's friends and the chaos had tossed them around already. Everyone was fighting everyone, from what she could tell. She blocked the strike of a blade to her throat, and twisted the lock until she felt the other's grip become awkward, the wrist twisting until it was overstrained.
She struck with the other hand, left a long gash on the inside of her opponent's arm. She left him there, jumped on the table where Aed had been playing cards before for a quick vantage point.
Aed was the centre of a knot of attackers, standing out among them by his height alone and how budging seemed to be beneath him. Isabela had had a little scuffle with him, years ago, finding herself on the other side of him in a brawl. Hitting him had felt no different to hitting a statue. No reason to worry about their way out of Val Royeaux, then. As she watched, she saw others make their way to the group, friends and new foes both, but Aed had already spotted them too.
On the other side of the tavern, Zevran was a blur of blades and movement and death, almost invisible, hitting his targets before they even knew he was there at all. She wouldn't be surprised if he came out of all this without having been touched at all.
Finding the situation firmly under control — for a given value of 'control' — Isabela laughed, jumped from the table and onto a woman armed with a meat cleaver.
Despite himself, Anders found himself strangely fascinated by the preparations for the ritual. They were set up in the basement, a side-room to the main wine-cellar where a few additional barrels were stored. Their racks occupied only a quarter of the room, leaving the rest empty.
Merrill had meticulously swiped the floor until there was no hint of dust remaining on the rough stones. She hadn't seemed pleased with the result. The large, stones left deep gaps between them, making it difficult to draw the elaborate glyphs with the necessary accuracy. He had expected her to need blood even for those, but simple chalk seemed to work just as well.
Anders tilted his head, changing the perspective on the figures, but they didn't become any more familiar. Maybe they were elven, not learned from a demon at all.
Two bowls were set up in the centre of the ward, a smaller one inside a larger. Merrill had poured several bottles of lyrium potions into the outer bowl, until it was filled almost to the brim. The lyrium's faint glow added something eerie to the firelight from the torches around the walls. He could hear it singing, just on the edge of his perception, a lure to be sure, but one that left him strangely at peace.
Kameron sat on a crate by the wall, a heavy tome on his knees. Occasionally he would give directions and Merrill would nod and apply some new line to the glyphs. The tome was clearly old, battered nearly out of shape and its pages were so thin Anders expected them to tear every time Kameron turned a page.
A thoughtful frown had settled on Kameron's face and it deepened the further they progressed, no doubt realising the same thing as Anders, namely that Merrill understood a lot more about this than he did. Which, in turn, was an interesting observation all its own. There had never been any doubting Kameron Amell's power, an open secret even in the Tower and before his Harrowing. If nothing else, Irving's interest in him would have revealed as much. But Kameron had left the Tower barely out of his studies, there were refinements of skill he never had a chance to develop. Everything else he knew would be mostly self-study and the bits and pieces he picked up from the mages he journeyed with. But by its very nature it was mostly combat magic. How to deal damage quickly and reliably, how to cast on the run or with a sword in hand. Nothing as elaborate as this at all.
"Why do we need the blood magic at all?" Anders asked. "Marethari sent us into the Fade without it."
Merrill looked up and met his gaze across the lyrium glow. "It was a different ritual and it was meant to do something completely different. It was a separate part of the Fade and it was also part of Feynriel's mind." She paused and glanced at Kameron. "This is a lot more complicated."
"And made no easier by dragging a non-mage along," Kameron added with a pointed look to where Hawke leaned with his back to the door.
Hawke only wagged his hand dismissively, but said nothing. The argument was settled, even Kameron seemed to understand it and let it go without pushing.
Kameron looked back at his book and flipped a page, studied it for a moment and then looked up just as Merrill straightened up. Something unspoken passed between them and Merrill said, "I'll need your blood for the rest."
There was nothing Anders could do to stop a flinch. Instant, instinctive revulsion formed a lump in his throat and for a moment all he could think of was that he needed to get away from this. He couldn't let them do it!
But he had agreed, he had accepted it as a challenge and backing out now would be a loss on all counts. Hawke wouldn't force him, no matter what he said, but it would drive Hawke away, which was far worse. So he held still as Merrill picked up a small glass bowl and a ceremonial knife — both from Kameron's chest — and came over to him.
"It'll not be a lot," she explained. "Just enough to paint the glyphs. But we'll need a little more for the bowl later."
Anders gave her a frown, but didn't resist as she made a small cut on his arm and let the drops fall into the glass. It looked too thick, this blood of his, too dark and it smelled all wrong. The taint, freed from his veins. Would that affect the magic? Make it stronger in the same way it gave Wardens a physical edge — right until it killed them?
Merrill used separate glasses for each of them and painted three glyphs on the ground just outside the chalk figures. In the end, she emptied the rest of the blood into the small bowl in the middle.
"Why doesn't the blood clot?" Anders asked.
"Enchantment on the bowls," Kameron replied, looking up. "Blood is most powerful when it's still connected to its living host. As would be the case for a sacrifice spread out on a Tevinter altar and as is the case for a blood mage drawing from his own blood."
The bait was so deliberate, Anders barely struggled with his instinctive revulsion. He only looked back blankly at his former commander and wondered, somewhat idly, if Kameron would shy away from using sacrifices. When Anders made no other response, Kameron returned his attention to his book.
During the short exchange, Merrill had begun tying twine to edge of the middle bowl, letting one end of it fall into the blood and than drawing the string taut as she pinned it to the blood glyphs. She adjusted the twine to make sure it passed through the lyrium on it's way down, then stepped back to regard her work.
As the blood soaked into the twine, it slowly climbed through the lyrium and down to the glyphs, Anders began to feel the power they were calling for the first time. Not just the low, hymn of the lyrium itself and not the syrupy corruption of the blood magic, but something new that combined the two. Even as he watched, power began to seep into the stone of the floor through the glyphs and reverberate there.
Kameron closed the tome with a loud thud and got up from the crate.
"We should wait until the others return," he said. "We'll all be under, someone needs to stand watch."
Merrill picked up the small knife she had used to cut them earlier. "But we can start right-away," she said. "I know what you want me to do, but I can't construct it on my own. They are your memories."
Anders frowned, but chewed on his lower lip rather than ask. He had his own suspicions of what Kameron planned to do, of what memories he meant to use in this version of the Fade. It would still be futile, but Anders was also a mage and he understood that Kameron and Merrill had committed to an exceptional undertaking, worthy of respect at least, despite its vileness.
The magic had fixed the chalk glyphs, so they didn't smudge when Merrill stepped into their circle and stood before the bowl. Kameron came to join her, facing her across the bowls and the lyrium glow. It tinted the blade in a frosty blue as she wielded it, cutting into both her palms and than Kameron's to let the blood flow in stark, over-expressed contrast. A few drops slid down their arms and soaked their sleeves, before they joined hands, fingers laced with each other, and the blood dripped slowly into the bowl.
Tension wrapped both mages, pulled so tight it made their bodies shake and shiver. Merrill shifted a little, pulled her grip harder around Kameron's fingers until her knuckles turned white even in the cold light of the lyrium and the flickering of flames.
"Everyone is created free," Hawke whispered in his ear from the side and Anders would have jumped with the shock and closeness of him, but Hawke held him firmly in place, caught between him and the wall. "And remains free," Hawke continued inexorably. "Though they be born in chains."
The first words of Anders' manifesto, echoed back at him like a seduction. Hawke's teeth cut along the side of his jaw in the mockery of a kiss. Instinct made Anders twitch to the side, into the resistance of the wall. It was just enough room for him to turn and meet Hawke's gaze.
"What…?" Anders began and it came out in a dry croak.
"Word of four letters," Hawke chuckled. Not only didn't he let go, he crowded Anders further back, around the corner and behind a free-standing rack of wine barrels, where they would be — just narrowly — out of sight from the rest of the room.
There was a sense of black disgust throbbing away at the back of Anders' head. Justice had never liked Hawke at all, had hated that other power over him that Hawke represented. Hawke had been the way out, the distraction that could shatter all other plans and that was why Hawke had to be made an accomplice, broken down into his very components until he would serve the greater good whether he wanted to or not.
All of Justice's dominance notwithstanding, Anders felt himself melt into Hawke's arms the moment the deeper shadows embraced them. Just the sense of him, the taste and texture… Anders had forgotten how distant they had been, how far apart Hawke had been holding him. Pain and hurt and love, all intermingled until they could no longer be separated like an allegory of Anders' state of mind.
He wrapped his arms around Hawke's waist, fingers cramping into the fine fabric of his shirt, falling into the kiss like a starving man, ready to devour whatever he could sink his teeth into. He wanted Hawke, as much as on the first day they had met, through all the darkness of their separate and combined fates. But he couldn't hold on to it, or him, and the lust bled away into bleak hopelessness.
Panting, Anders slipped away from Hawke, let himself fall into the wall and be crushed as Hawke followed the movement, pinning him with the full weight of his body. Anders pressed his head into the nape of Hawke's neck. He desperately wanted to cry, but the tears never came.
Hawke held him anyway, as if the tears were falling freely.
"I believed you, you know," Hawke said. He sounded calmer than before, but he hadn't taken back the seduction. "About mages and freedom. My father would have agreed. If he hadn't had a family, I always thought he would have gone out in a blaze of glory. Love held him back. It saved him, if you want to be so dramatic."
Anders shivered, he couldn't help himself. With some effort, he lifted his head away from Hawke, let it fall back to wall and meet Hawke's gaze in the twilight.
"I'm sorry," Anders said. He had said it so often, he was no longer sure if the words had any meaning left at all or if he had worn them out, inadequate as they had been from the start.
Hawke laughed with the humour all turned inward. "I'm sorry, too," he said. "I couldn't save you with love and I couldn't save with friendship, like my mother did for my father. You are right, I never asked what you wanted. And I wouldn't have listened to the answer, either."
Anders was acutely aware of how close Hawke still was, the heat of his skin burning through his clothes and the sheer physicality of his presence.
Hawke said, "Ask me."
So many things, these two words could mean and yet, Anders could think of only one thing to say.
"Do we still have a future together?"
Hawke cupped his face with one hand and brushed his thumb over his lips. "Yes," he whispered.
A man stumbled through the unhinged door and out into the street. He caught on his own momentum and flailed his arms to regain his balance. Rays of sunset glinted through the green glass of the broken bottle he held. He charged back inside with an outraged yell.
The small crowd had been gathering outside the Mermaid's Bust since the brawl started. A few onlookers had since begun to join in the fun, but for most it seemed more of a vaguely entertaining diversion on the way to — or from — their own business. They were dispersing sluggishly ahead of a patrol of city guards, making their way for the disturbance with the mien of people who had had to break up several brawls just like this already and would be breaking up several more before their shift ended. They weren't in any particular hurry to get there.
The brawl was already on the decline when Fenris pushed through the people and stepped over wooden debris left by broken furniture and splinters from the door. Stopping in the door to survey the room, he paid little attention to the majority of participants in the brawl and their state of consciousness.
Off to the side, Zevran had just extended an arm to help a tall man back to his feet. The assassin gave a quick glance over his shoulder when Fenris' appearance briefly darkened the room. He arched a brow when he saw the other elf. He hauled the other up and the tall man regained his feet from the shards of a table. He gave Zevran a hard slap on the back in thanks, squared his shoulders and straightened an odd eyepatch contraption back into place.
On the other end of the room, Isabela sat cross-legged on a table tipping back a bottle and taking several deep gulps. Putting the bottle down revealed a rapidly swelling eye and several bruises and cuts on her bare arms and legs, though according to the pleased expression on her face, no serious damage had been done.
She lifted the bottle in greeting.
"Is that really you or have I hurt my head?" she asked.
Fenris settled one shoulder on the doorway so he could keep an eye on the guards down the road.
"We should not remain here," Fenris observed.
Isabela looked away from him to Zevran and the other man. She jumped from the table, still waving around with the bottle as if it somehow gave her authority. She pointed it at the tall man at Zevran's side.
"That's Captain Aed, still handy in a fight I see," she said. "Except for that last blunder. What were you thinking?"
Aed shrugged and grinned. "Got distracted. I like the company you keep."
Isabela laughed knowingly. She sauntered towards Fenris, all swaying hips and bloodied lips, grinning like a cat. "Well, Fenris," she cooed. "That's a coincidence, isn't it? One of those that never happen."
It took Fenris a moment to answer, "I… was looking for you."
Isabela's grin spread, linking arms with him, she stuck her head outside and stared down the road, then pulled back inside. "We should be going," she declared.
"As I was saying," Fenris said.
Aed waved them off. "You go your way, I go mine. Meet me on the Fury tomorrow and we'll get things settled."
Isabela didn't let go of Fenris as they left the Mermaid's Bust, leaning in closer as they went and pulling in Zevran on her other side once the streets were broad enough for it.
"I'm glad to see you've changed your mind," Zevran said.
"I knew he would," Isabela remarked.
"I didn't," Fenris finished and eyed her from the side.
"I would have come looking for you, if you hadn't found us first," Isabela said. "We are almost like family, the only one I've ever had."
Fenris was silent for a long minute. "Hawke said much the same thing."
"He isn't always wrong, you know."
Fenris let that observation hang in the air without further comment.
It was Zevran who put the finger in the wound. Fenris knew Zevran was not an ally or a friend, Zevran was a partisan and he had picked his side long ago. "Have you, perhaps, worked out your problems with magic in such a short time? Or do you plan to debate principle before and after every spell?"
Fenris growled, but before he could answer, Isabela cut in. "Don't make him regret his choice already. Did you even hear what I said? I called you my family, that's a very profound revelation. I'm going all mushy inside!"
Fenris made a noncommittal grunt, staring on the ground under his feet as he walked. "I'm going to talk to Hawke," he said. "I was angry when I left, not thinking clearly." He lifted his head. "And I couldn't take being locked up with these mages any longer. But that's changing now and I owe Hawke. I shouldn't have walked out like that."
He looked to the side and caught Zevran's gaze past Isabela. "That doesn't mean I agree."
"My friend, you should make up your mind," Zevran said earnestly.
"I have," Fenris insisted, though he wasn't entirely sure he believed that. He had been wrong before, he knew as much, abandoning a friend like that, even if his reasons would have been sufficient justification. He was less certain for how long he could stay with them, or whether it even would make sense for him to do so. He had taken a roundabout way just to get back to where he started without finding any answers in between. But for now, this was the place where he belonged.
Cassandra had been forced to draft Templars into her service. She had not enough Seekers she could spare for a raid on baroness Ophélie's house. It was too large and had too many servants and guards of its own, not to mention the deadly fugitives suspected within.
Keeping the Templars in check all day had been a task all its own, stemming their fervour to charge in the moment she put her plan to the Knight-Commander. Thankfully, he had seen the wisdom of her plan, giving her both the manpower and the authority to do with it as she pleased. She suspected it was partly due to the Knight-Commander's unwillingness to pick a fight with her, even a verbal one.
As the sun set and Ophélie's doorman closed the gate for the night, Cassandra finally gave the order to get ready. She would not order the attack before the darkness was much thicker than now. The servants would be asleep by than, Hawke and Ophélie otherwise occupied and perhaps even Hawke's companions had let their guard down.
This was not going to be an easy fight. Leliana's involvement alone would have been prove of it, made worse by Hawke's own reputation and the misfits of his company. And then, there was the Warden to consider, too, an unknown factor if ever there had been one.
No, this was not going to be an easy fight at all.
References
"everyone is created free, and is free, though he be born in chains." — adapted from Words of Faith, Friedrich Schiller
"word of four letters." — after a quib made in Game of Kings, Dorothy Dunnett
Author's Note: I'm inordinately proud of Cross-Eyed Aed's name and I ended up fangirling on him a lot more than I expectedand I had to cut large swathes of his scenes.