Nemesis
Chapter 8- The Foreigner
"I happen to take someone trying to kill me as very personal."
Marian Hawke
"Anders," she whispered through the ambiguous mists of the Fade as the Grey Warden approached her. "What are you doing here?"
The apostate grinned and leaned against a nonexistent pillar, scuffing his boots carelessly against the ephemeral ground as though it were a solid mass. Even here in the Fade, his smile was infectious, reminding her of the man he must have been some time long before she ever met him. "A man can't drop in to say hello to his favorite apostate?" he joked sweetly, absently brushing at the dark feathers on his shoulder as he cocked his head inquisitively.
She tried to force her smile back down but failed, accomplishing a wry and friendly half-smirk instead. "You've said hello. Now what do you want?" she inquired in a playfully patronizing tone.
"Always business with you, isn't it?" he replied, twiddling his thumbs casually as he regarded the apostate's stance. The abomination reached for a friendly tone, even after all that had happened. But there was a mournful sorrow that coexisted with the present merriment; a somber shadow that overtook the waking light… and Anders spoke through it regardless, continuing, "There's always some catastrophe that needs your expertise."
"You know me," she replied with an easy shrug, ignoring the forced levity Anders imposed upon her. "My life is one long, perpetual crisis."
He threw his head back and laughed, wrenching a short chuckle from her. "You work too hard- you know that, Hawke?"
"I know," she giggled back in a strangely unfamiliar lilt, letting him come nearer. It was like the old days, before the Chantry and before Anders had shown her what terror Justice was capable of when he nearly killed that horrified girl. It was as though Anders' death had freed him from the burden of Justice's influence and the release from his physical body had mended his soul back into a whole, free man.
His expression changed from scampish to serious as he closed the space between them with a few long steps. Anders pushed her hair away from her face and touched the light scar over her cheek. Amber eyes misted over as he observed yet another of the relics he'd left her with; first his Tevinter texts on demons, then the war and now a permanent reminder of Templars' cruelty- not all of them, she had to remind herself as the flesh itched, not all Templars were like Maison and Alrik.
"I should have trusted you," he croaked, dropping his head down and looking away from
Maison's marking. "Believe me, please. I never wanted this for you. I never wanted…"
She broke in as the mists from the Fade swirled fiercely around them, "I know, Anders."
He reached down to take her hand within his two icy cold ones. "I'm sorry, Hawke."
"Me, too," she whimpered as tears threatened to take her. "I'm so sorry, Anders. I didn't know…" but the words fettered off when she looked at his hands, seeing the grave dirt clinging beneath his long nails and the decayed, waxy skin revealing the still blood beneath.
She didn't need to look up when the deep voice boomed, "Didn't you?" She knew what was standing before her now- but look she did. And the face of the mage she'd cared for had twisted into an ugly, decayed mockery of the man he'd been.
"Didn't you?" it growled again, as its hands clawed into her arms, ragged nails slicing into her flesh before they reached up to tear into her face as Justice commenced to ripping into her with a furious, hateful rage; and she, helpless to protect herself, couldn't even lift her arms in defense as it screeched and tore her body into little more than bloody shreds.
Hawke jolted from her sleep violently and rolled out of bed, tripping clumsily over her boot and colliding hard against the floor. Stomach roiling uncontrollably, she barely clawed her way to the water basin before her belly began violently emptying itself. The flesh on her body itched with the memory of her time in the Fade. She hadn't had anything substantial to eat since arriving in Minrathous, so she ejected only a thick, foul smelling slime that lingered, oozing and chalky, on her palate. After what felt like forever, her body finally calmed, her stomach seizing and clenching occasionally long after there was nothing left to purge. Her shaking hand propped up her head, wiping the cold sweat away from her forehead and neck as she looked out the inn's window and tried to calm her mind.
Nothing tried to speak to her. The world, her mind, and Hoppers were all blessedly quiet. No demon, then, had tried to corrupt her. This, as always, had been just another machination of her overstressed mind and not an attack from the Fade.
The nightmares were the worst, mostly because even though she knew Anders was dead and she'd never had any contact with her deceased loved ones- mage or no- she was never entirely sure if Anders wasn't somehow trying to reach out to her from somewhere beyond the Veil… she was never sure until the inevitable end when Anders reverted to his current state and she woke, worried and frightened that Justice had found a way to reenter the Fade and locate her. But it couldn't be Justice coming after her; he was still trapped in the waking world. In that at least, Hawke could take some small amount of relief.
Looking out into the capital of the Imperium, the comfort felt vast and empty, like the very grave she'd dug for Anders that just hadn't been deep enough.
The night would soon recede from Minrathous; she took her attention to the decorative lanterns suspended enchantingly in the sky and other floating globes of light that must have been magical in nature, which bathed the city in a soft, almost candle-like glow and hid most of the filth and squalor she'd had to walk through to get to the inn. Minrathous in this light seemed almost majestic, dark and wonderful like a cave full of fireflies.
Like Kirkwall, Minrathous was built up into the steep hills to help ward off invasions. Apparently, the favored way to construct Tevinter's cities was such that would utilize the landscape to fortify them. Also like Kirkwall, Minrathous, too, was a city of chains and stone. Everything had an eerie, ancient quality to it and Hawke mused that the vaunted Dwarven stone sense could have told countless histories from each drop of blood spilled over them. Currently, she was in the Kirkwall equivalent of Lowtown and the abject poverty that kept its citizens subjugated was only accented by the haunting beauty of the greater city above her.
But through her window, bathed in the light of the moon and what seemed like thousands of candles, she could not argue that Minrathous was a sight to behold at night. It was almost enough to make her forget the last eight days.
She groaned, heaving herself up and pouring a glass of water to clear the foulness from her mouth. Minrathous had, thus far, been nothing short of an unmitigated disaster, which was at the very least consistent with the blasted journey as a whole. Apparently, the Common tongue was not at all common here. Even the alphabet was different, rendering her unable to even recognize and piece the foreign symbols together in a meaningful way. She was blind, deaf and dumb to any form of communication. It was a small miracle she'd even managed to take quarters at this tavern, pantomiming and aping her gestures like a blazing idiot until the innkeeper just shook his head and led her up the stairs and into this small closet of a room. She had no idea how much it would cost or if she could even afford it; and that was if the man didn't try to utterly cheat her. He'd taken ten gold from her, reasonable for a week at least but not much beyond, and had made no effort to take any more from her.
That actually gave her a little faith that the innkeeper was trying to help her best he could. The first day when she wandered outside, he hurried behind her and pressed a piece of paper into her hand. She had stared dumbly down at the scribbles of foreign symbols and gave him what had to have been one of the most confused looks she'd ever delivered. He gestured to the paper and then up, directing her attention to the sign above the doorway. She scrutinized the parchment and then the sign above for long moments before finally realizing the symbols at the bottom of the note bore a strong resemblance to the sign hanging above- they must be the name of the inn. He'd written it down in case she got lost, so someone could guide her back.
His fear was legitimate and she found herself wishing she'd taken Merrill up on the twine she'd offered. The city streets were hopelessly intertwined and she was afraid to journey too far from the inn, lest she find herself unable to make her way back. She could see the Imperial Chantry in the distance but could not for the life of her manage to navigate the streets in a way that brought her any closer; indeed, after six hours of wandering through suddenly blocked off streets, random waterways seemingly placed just to thwart her, and roads so narrow a horse would have been unable to traverse them, the Chantry somehow seemed to be even farther away. Kirkwall had presented similar problems until she'd been there roughly a month but without the obvious language barriers that kept her in a state of perpetual confusion. It must have been part of the cities' designs to better protect them from invaders.
And Minrathous in the unforgiving light of day was a city that had well earned the spite of greater Thedas. Human and animal waste littered the streets. Devastating runes had been entrenched within the stone surrounding the shops. Beggars scoured every corner for charity, holding their empty hands up like chalices for wine. The few mages she saw openly practiced their craft for sport, performing tricks for the citizens to garner coin for their nearly empty pockets- the common folk, it seemed, were highly unimpressed by the magic cast before them.
She could see the Chantry and the Circle in the distance but she could have been sitting back in the Free Marches for how accessible they felt. The lights extinguished themselves one by one as the sun began to creep over the horizon. Hawke sighed and brushed her hair away from her face to grab a clean basin and a rag before she commenced to scrubbing the night's sweat from her skin, cleaning herself best she could. She was not about to try and mime out a bath for the innkeeper, fearful of appearing an even greater fool.
With her morning ablutions completed, she strode downstairs as the long, wretched night finally ended. The innkeeper handed her an orange as she passed, smiling and encouraging her through the door with a wave of his hands. Maker, she had no idea what that man must think of her. With the name of his inn tucked safely in her pocket, she sat upon a stone bench in one of the many courtyards and inefficiently peeled the rind from the fruit, ripping tiny shreds away until she could have used it as confetti and thrown herself a genuine pity party.
Thus far, oranges had been Minrathous' big redeeming factor… once she'd figured out how to eat them without squirting the juice everywhere. It had been a task to eat them at first, the thick rind resisted the bite of her teeth. It wasn't until she'd watched a vagrant peel the beast that she learned that the tasty fruit lied beneath. She'd heard of them before, naturally, but they'd been a costly luxury item in Kirkwall; the region was too cold to grow them and importing them was prohibitively costly. Fenris had been so jaded against everything regarding Tevinter, she never attempted to bring them in.
The oranges, she would miss. Everything else around this blighted bedrock could rot in the Void for all she cared.
With another weary sigh, she began trying to make her way toward the Black Chantry again, determined today to reach the summit of Minrathous even if it meant becoming hopelessly lost. Morning had just broken and shopkeeps waved their wares at her while passers-by doggedly ignored one another as they all babbled their strange gibberish. She ducked her head down and ignored them as well. It was wise to avoid talking- in her silence, she at least stood a chance of blending in. Moving quickly through the throngs of people, she attempted to navigate her way uptown.
Three hours of wandering, backtracking, pacing, and cursing later, she nearly spun and ran as she recognized she'd stumbled into the Undercity, built into the wretched cliffs like Kirkwall's Darktown. Before she could even turn, two men materialized from the shadows, one speaking menacingly as he waved a dagger to accent his unknown point- unless the point was that he had a dagger, which in that case, he was being a rather excellent communicator. While she was unsure if their intention was to rob, harm, or kill her, she knew well enough that men in dark alleys brandishing knives generally weren't the helpful sort.
Well, she thought with a wry smile as she focused her energy, when in Minrathous…
The joke of an assault ended before it even began. She placed her hand on the leader's chest and with a quick summoning of her will, sent a shard of ice directly into his heart. He fell cold and dead to the ground, letting out not even an utterance of surprise. Without another word, the other man ran screaming away. To the ungifted, it would have appeared as blood magic, which was generally why she avoided it despite it being a very effective way to quickly end a fight in close quarters. The Templars and guards here should know the difference, so she was a little less hesitant to use such a method.
Well, it was official, she decided as she ascended a long set of stairs into an entirely different part of Minrathous- one that was entirely foreign to her. She was lost. Had that river been on her right or her left? Wait, hadn't she been between it and the Chantry? Why was she on the other side of it? How the Void had she crossed the river to get even further away?
She looked up and began cursing extensively, words and phrases she'd picked up from Meeran that would have set Mother to fainting if she'd heard them coming from the lips of her offspring that also drew the curious stares of passers-by, who must have wondered why this crazy person was waving her fists at the Black Chantry and yelling angry gibberish.
The uncomfortable realization of how utterly insane she must look brought her into a fit of giggles, which likely testified not for her sanity. When the bout of laughter ended, she turned to the small group of onlookers she'd gathered. With a simple shrug and a guileless smile, she began walking along the edge of the inlet, hoping to find a bridge to cross back over as she heard a few people begin to applaud. Whether they thought she was a street performer or just appreciated the impromptu entertainment, she'd likely never know.
When she wandered upon three men, looking thoroughly ashamed, ducking their heads as they exited a building, she nearly fell to her knees in thanks to the Maker. She's seen men and women alike behave that way before… when they departed from The Blooming Rose after a night of debauchery. The words from the masked prostitute in Lydes replayed quickly through her mind. "If you ever find yourself in dire need of assistance," he'd said, "Check the brothels."
She'd easily call her situation fairly dire, so with more shame than Hawke thought she could ever muster, she entered the brothel. Sex and the fragrant smell of smoke clung to the air but this early in the morning the building was remarkably silent. Opulent curtains and wall hangings disguised the centuries-old stone; every surface seemed to be covered in some sort of rich, soft fabric. Even her Ferelden sensibilities were lulled into complacency as she pondered the possibility of decorating her nonexistent home in such lush opulence.
A man approached her, smiling softly and murmuring something she was sure was both lewd and exotic as he brushed his fingers over her arm.
Swallowing her pride, she brushed his hand away softly and answered back, "Please, I need help. I can pay."
The man began speaking again but she cut him off. "Please," she repeated. "I don't speak Arcanum. I just need help." She reached down and unhooked her money purse- well, Rajun's if she were going to be perfectly honest with herself- opening it to pull out a coin and showing it to the man before continuing, "Trouble. Danger. Help. Please, I need help." Hopefully, one of those words would register with the man.
He scrutinized the coin, noticing the foreign currency and perhaps a few of her words, seeming to understand that she wasn't looking for entertainment. With a serious nod, he placed his hand against the small of her back and led her forward and into a small private sitting room where he gestured her to sit on a luxurious sofa. He left her there, retreating to speak to a woman in Arcanum before leaving the area all together. Long minutes later, another woman entered bringing a tray of tea and breads, gesturing for Hawke to partake. She ignored the bread and the rumbling of her stomach, instead feigning a small sip of tea and waited until the servant had left before dumping the remains into a small potted plant.
After all, this was an act of desperation and not an act of marked stupidity. It would hardly do for her to leave herself open to poisoning. At least a half-hour passed with no interruption; she began to wonder if this had been a bad idea when she heard the door click open, the hinges creaked eerily against the silence hovering throughout the room only to be interrupted by a voice she instantly recognized.
"I know you," came the words, spoken quietly softly astonished from beside her.
Hawke turned and looked, promptly dropping her jaw insipidly as she gaped at the woman behind her. "Varania?"
"Indeed," the elf muttered bitterly, gesturing to the clothing or rather the marked lack thereof. "And look how far I've come."
The corset thrust the elf's meager breasts up and forward into something truly spectacular and a loose silk robe hung negligently over her thin shoulders. Her hair fell behind her shoulders in red and vibrant, shimmering waves, making Hawke feel almost dowdy in comparison, exhausted and half-bathed as she was. "What are you doing here?" Hawke finally asked after several minutes of pregnant silence, realizing her gawking would not speak her questions for her.
An eyebrow lifted with the same grace she recognized from her brother and the elf quirked her lip slightly as though amused. "I could ask you the same. At least I speak the language here."
Hawke ducked her head bashfully, "I had problems getting a guide. I really thought more people here would speak Common."
"They do. Uptown. Magisters and merchants and the like- people who intend to travel abroad; and slaves, if it benefits their masters to teach them. Down here," she let out a mirthless laugh, "No one even thinks to leave from down here."
It was a sentiment Hawke had heard from countless occupants of Darktown while apprenticing with Anders- a strange, angered resignation and surrender to the lot Fate had provided. She ignored the obvious questions, opting instead for personal ones. "How are you?" Hawke asked, hoping to redirect the conversation into more pleasant waters… but with Varania now living her life as a whore in a brothel, renting out the only part of her deemed of value, it felt like the conversation was only going to become more awkward.
"How am I?" she parroted back dumbly, as if confused that the human had even thought to ask such a question in this place, as the answer seemed evident. "I am… well. All things considered. But enough with your chitchat, why are you in Minrathous, Champion?"
Hawke's evil tongue seemed determined to conspire against her at every turn and asked unbidden, "Don't you want to ask about Fenris?"
Varania's bright green eyes flashed in dangerous irritation, alerting Hawke that she'd hit a raw nerve with the question. "My brother was called Leto and he died long ago. Your Fenris was a stranger to me before he even took those markings," she spat swiftly before taking a deep breath and continued in a more measured voice. "Now answer my question, what brings the legendary Champion of Kirkwall into a Tevinter brothel?"
It sounded like the beginning of a bad joke but she quashed the urge to make light of the current situation. Varania likely wouldn't appreciate the finer points of her comic styling so Hawke opted instead for the direct route; it had worked wonders for her in the past. "I am seeking some information from the Black Chantry."
Hawke was well aware how stupid it was to ask the traitorous elf for help; but in these foreign surroundings even an enemy's face was still a welcome one, and the familiarity of a known foe was a better alternative than the countless unknown faces beyond.
"Imperial," Varania corrected quickly, drawing her hands over her arms to stave off some imaginary chill. At Hawke's apparent confusion, she clarified, "The Imperial Chantry. Calling it the Black Chantry is a guaranteed way to get yourself thrown out. They're rather testy about that."
Despite Varania's slight hostility, she was already proving to be a fountain of information. She smiled graciously at the elf and nodded. "Well, then I am seeking some advice from the Imperial Chantry."
"You're quite a ways from it," Varania mused with a disapproving cluck of her tongue and a small quirk of her lips.
If there was one thing Hawke hated more than anything, it was being spoken down to- and Varania's condescension irked her more than the elf would likely every know. Regardless, Hawke bowed her head further in deference, gritted her teeth, and whispered softly, "I'm unfamiliar with the city and the language barrier… well, I should hope it's obvious I've had problems there."
The elf sighed again and asked with no little exasperation, "Where are you staying?"
"Here," she replied, pulling the innkeeper's note from her pocket and handing it to Varania. It seemed the elf was intent to help her- or at least had resigned herself to it, which was something at least.
Her eyebrow arched delicately as she read the paper. "Are you sure this is where you're staying?"
"Yes. It's a tavern. Why?" she asked with a cock of her head, wondering if the innkeeper had a reputation as being untrustworthy or a scoundrel.
"This is a tavern, Hawke, but they don't rent rooms."
A heavy flush overtook her, even further destroying her pride in the wake of her ignorance as she answered, "Apparently, if you flap yours arms like a maniac and speak incoherently enough, people just decide to stop arguing with you." Oh Maker, the owner must think her all sorts of idiotic, she thought. "What's the rest of it say?"
"This woman is my cousin," Varania read off with dutiful measure. "If she is lost, please bring her back to this address. I will see you are compensated for your trouble upon her return."
The laughter that bubbled from her was nearly uncontrollable. She'd worried the man would try and cheat her yet everything he'd done had been to keep her safe. Somehow, she'd have to find a way to repay his charity. Varania seemed to understand the humor and giggled girlishly along with her. Wiping the tears from her eyes, Hawke asked, "So can you take me to the Chantry?"
"No," she murmured softly. "I'm not exactly welcome there. They frown on prostitutes screaming curses at the brothers who refuse to pay for services rendered." She adjusted her robes over the shoulders, a strangely chaste movement in her surroundings that Hawke noted again and filed into her mental inventory.
That came as more than a bit of a shock. Sebastian had told Isabela countless times that the path to the Maker began with piety, humility, and most importantly chastity. It seemed there was more to the Black Chantry than just the blanket accepting of mages. "The Chantry brothers have… relations with others," she stuttered, hoping to get some sort of clarification lest she make a fool of herself.
"Why wouldn't they?" the elf answered brusquely. "There is a man here who speaks a little Common- an elf. I wouldn't attempt deep conversation but he goes to the Chantry fairly often. I'll see if he's awake. We all usually have a bit of a lie around on weekdays- not much work to be had. He usually goes to the Chantry in the mornings so he won't lose clients. I'll set you up with him."
Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. "That would be wonderful."
With that, the elf excused herself without another word, returning nearly an hour later with a male elf, taller in stature than both she and Hawke. Though Varric's stories had people thinking Hawke towered like a kossith over everyone around her, which led to more than a little disappointment from people who'd heard of her notoriety, she was a remarkably average height; although from the dwarf's perspective, it was probably an accurate rendition. Varania left them alone with a short nod and disappeared back into the brothel.
Hawke rose to her feet and extended her hand hesitantly, which the elf took within both of his and pressed a kiss onto the inside of her wrist, even with the intimacy of the gesture, it was so chaste she was left unsure if this was a Tevinter custom, a Black Chantry custom, a whore's custom, or if the man was just overly affectionate.
"I am Lothri," he began, "Varania say you need help?"
"My name is Marian," she introduced herself evenly, stuffing down the awkwardness that had plagued her as she took command of the situation. "I need you to take me to the Chantry."
A soft sound escaped him before he shook his head in shock. "No, no, no, no, no! Not in Chantry."
A deep flush fanned over her cheeks as she realized what Lothri thought she was asking. "No! I need you to take me to the Chantry, not in the Chantry," she clarified, praying against all circumstances that the man would understand what she meant.
But the subtleties were lost on the elf, who repeated emphatically, "No! No sex in Chantry!"
"Listen, please just listen! I," she pointed to herself. "Need you," she pointed to the man. "To walk," she mimicked walking using her middle and pointer fingers to stroll along her forearm. "With me," she indicated herself once more. "To the Chantry," she constructed a crude steeple as the man looked on with no little confusion. "No sex," the hand gesture she mimicked for that one was vulgar enough that both she and the whore were blushing red. "Just praying," she finished with her hands clasped before her.
"Ahhh…" the man nodded his comprehension. "No sex, so… a date?"
She slunk her head down and muttered, "Alright. I suppose I can accept that.'" The prostitute visibly unwound as she asked, "When? Now?"
"Not now. You…" the man stumbled over her translations, "Ahhhh… you will to be here in the afternoon?"
"I will be here. How much?" The man gave her another questioning look and she rephrased, "Money? For me to pay you with? How much?"
He tilted his head back and forth as if having a silent discussion with himself before shrugging and offering, "You come with me. One silver."
She supposed that even with sex off the table, she was still getting an incredible deal. So she waited patiently in the private parlor until the man re-presented himself hours later dressed in a fashion she could only call demure; a high collar and a light blue cloak. Once they left the brothel, he gestured her to take his arm, which she did, as he began leading her though the maze of streets. Memorization was a futile exercise; all the stone and doorways looked the same but follow him she did, praying her answers would be found in this hated hovel of a city and that this painful detour hadn't been for naught.
Finally they arrived at the Chantry after only an hour of direct meandering, the building immediately across and overshadowed by the Imperial Circle. Seeing the Circle towering over the city, like a king over his people brought a feeling of near-sickness over her. Mages… anyone… running a country amok and without check… Maker, she hated Tevinter even more. Lothri lead her past the Templars as though it was everyday business. It was appropriate that they ignored her, she supposed, since mages held most of the power here… and these men were unlikely to perpetrate the acts she'd been subjected to in Wycome.
The Templars' armor differed vastly from those of the Free Marches. The ridiculous skirt was done away with, replaced instead with standard greaves much like guard's armor. The chestpiece was emblazoned not with a burning sword but rather a golden eye resting over the emblem of a sword interlocked with a winding staff curling around it- to symbolize the Chantry's unity with mages. That the sword appeared to almost be consumed by the staff, she reasoned, could hardly have been an accident.
As they entered the building, she was struck by the beauty of the architecture. It was even more ornate than Kirkwall's Chantry with dozens of intricate statues and pews that seemed to have been delicately carved from marble, which glittered with some unknown mineral, catching the light as she moved around them. Black did not seem to be the appropriate word for this Chantry. It did appear, for lack of a better word, to be majestic. The brothers and sisters were indeed dressed in simple black cassocks, with gold and red ropes hanging around their waists, tied in some complicated knot work so meticulously Hawke figured it had to be symbolic, but that was the end of the darkness in this building.
Before moving toward the pews, Lothri stopped and gave her the silver coin she'd paid him as he dropped his own down into the gilded silver offering box before silently indicating that she do the same. The money, she realized, had never been intended as payment; Lothri had just wanted to ensure she entered the house of worship with the proper deference. Armed with that knowledge, she reached into her coin purse and removed two gold, handing one to Lothri, who beamed widely as they plunked that substantial offering in as well. She grinned to herself- Rajun could foot that bill.
The light plinks broke through the near silence, drawing the attention of the nearby Brothers, who smiled gratefully at them but spoke not a word. Lothri seated himself in one of the back pews, bowing his head for a moment before he realized Hawke had continued to move forward.
He caught her arm and stared inquisitively up at her, asking, "You are not to pray?"
"I am here to ask questions, I will pray later," she smiled back at him.
"Ah," Lothri said in understanding. "This is how I find answers. You are to find them, too." The broken Common belied a deeply poignant statement.
She continued walking up the aisle toward the imposing statue of the Maker, so tall he would have easily cleared a house, represented as a man with his back turned and staring skyward so his face was impossible to see, bathed in the skylight of the glass windows above him. She dropped to one knee and bowed her head as her father had taught her, a mage's genuflection to the Maker- something she'd never been able to do in Kirkwall lest she recklessly out herself as an apostate and had only been able to do in the dead of night in Lothering, when her father would sneak her and Bethany into the Chantry while the Templars and sisters slept.
Because magic was gifted to serve both the Maker and men- and it was his will that mages serve him before any other.
The action brought her some attention from the nearby brothers, who grinned once more at her. The smile that evoked from her was genuine, peaceful as she hadn't felt in weeks. Perhaps not everything in Tevinter was terrible.
One elderly brother approached her and greeted her in Arcanum. Wincing, she replied, "I beg your pardon but do you speak Common?"
The man smiled easily and took her hands within his. "Indeed I do, foreigner. You are far from your home but you honor the Maker. How can we assist you today, mage?"
Being direct had usually worked for her in the past, so she said, "I'm looking for some information that I heard was held here."
The man nodded serenely and replied, "The Imperial Chantry holds tools for the salvation of men and mages alike. What did you need to know?"
She paused, collecting her words carefully. Being direct after all was not a license to be foolish. "A friend of mine claimed to have a Tevinter text that detailed a rite for separating a demon from its host."
"I'm sorry, foreigner," the man ducked his head sadly and replied. "Your friend was mistaken. The immediate effects of blood magic can be purged but a full possession can only be expelled through the death of the host."
She chuckled softly and replied with a nod, "I know that. I paid dearly to have the text he was allegedly using fully translated. But the book made mention of another text that could assist me- the Charta Maleficai."
"That what?" the priest stared dumbfounded at her, dropping her hands and blinking slowly.
"Maker, I hope I'm pronouncing this right." She slowed her speech and repeated, "The Charta Maleficai. It stated specifically that it was kept here and not in the Circle. May I see it?"
The man's eyes darkened and narrowed as he grabbed her by the shoulder and spun her around, growling in her ear, "Get out."
She struggled back against him as he shoved her toward the door, "Listen, I just need a few answers and then I'll be on my way," she offered quickly, watching dozens of eyes turn on her and the suddenly furious Chantry brother.
"Get out now!" he barked, drawing the attention of the surrounding Templars, who came to his aid in pushing her closer to the building's exit. With a quick bark from the brother, Lothri was also yanked from his pew and similarly manhandled, shoved to cower beside her as the Templars closed in.
"Leave, both of you," the priest commanded from behind the warriors. "And do not return."
She raised her hands up in surrender as the Templars drew their weapons, stating quickly, "I'm sorry. I'm going. But don't punish Lothri, he just brought me here."
"Your friend should have better watched the company he keeps," he spat angrily before turning to her companion and raging at him in Arcanum for nearly a full minute.
Lothri went pale, shaking slightly as he placed his shaking palm over her own still one, bringing it down as he stuttered, "We understand. We go. We go now."
With that, he took Hawke gently by her elbow and led her from the Chantry and the dozens of faces gawking at the scene she'd inadvertently caused.
Once outside, she muttered to herself, "Well, there's another religion I've pissed off." She'd been hoping to infuse a little humor into the situation but Lothri was far from amused.
"Shut up," Lothri growled softly as he dropped her elbow and turned back to the Chantry, looking desolate and lost for a moment. Maker, she knew the Chantry must have meant the world to the prostitute and he'd been kind enough to bring her here. And look how she'd repaid him, getting them both tossed out onto the street like sacrilegious zealots.
"Did they excommunicate you?" she asked cautiously and reaching out to take his hand. At his confused glance, she realized excommunicate was likely a word he'd never had a cause to use before and rephrased. "Can you go back?"
"In one year. I go back in one year," Lothri murmured almost to himself. Then he looked down at Hawke, eyes alight with unshed tears, and wrenched his hand from hers. Water dripped out as his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. "Maerial, the Brother… he say you are evil. You pray to the Void."
"No, Lothri," she pleaded softly, hoping against everything that this elf would reject the brother's accusations and trust her. "I'm not evil, you must believe that."
"No, you are stupid," he spat before tapping her forehead hard with the backs of his fingers. "Stupid, stupid, stupid woman!" he accented with repetitive soft slaps against her skull before he broke off in a flurry of curses, only a few she recognized from her time with Fenris and the tone of the rest were hateful enough to nearly bring her to tears.
"I made a mistake," she said realizing Lothri may not understand the quivering words she spoke. Instead, she rapidly offered different repetitions of her sentiment, "It was an accident. Thoughtless. Stupid. Whatever you want to say. I didn't know it would offend them. I didn't mean it," before finishing pathetically with, "I'm so sorry, Lothri."
Lothri sighed, breathing heavily through his flaring nostrils until his shoulders eased from the tenseness they'd been agitated to. "I know. I… take you to Varania. You not talk to me."
"I understand," she answered back as Lothri stormed away from her, leaving her to trot behind him quickly lest she get lost again. In her scramble to keep up with him, she nearly failed to notice the sensation of being watched. She turned back toward the Chantry, seeing a man in long black robes similar to that of the priests, staring blankly at her with a strange inquisitive curiosity.
Darting back to the quickly departing Lothri, she dared another look at the Chantry… but the man was no longer there.
The walk back to the brothel was conducted in an uncomfortable silence. Lothri dutifully waited when she fell behind, stopping the journey only to grab her money purse and duck into a store. "You wait," he grumbled, returning a few moments later with a map of Minrathous. The diagram was shoved into her hands without a word.
Given Lothri's fury and his earlier words about not speaking to him, she ducked her head in her thanks instead of voicing it. His eyes softened for a moment and he said, "You are stupid- very, very, very stupid- but you are not evil woman. I forgive you… but I am angry." He paused for a moment, struggling against the Common tongue as he tried to select his words from his inexpert vocabulary. "I have nothing. The Chantry make me… what do you say… happy? For the new years? You understand me?"
The grace he'd given her made her feel even more ashamed, if that was even imaginable. Hope- the word he was scrambling for was hope- and she's stolen that from him for the next year, possibly even longer if his broken command of the Common tongue was any indicator. "I know," she whispered. "I am so sorry, Lothri."
"I know. I am angry but I forgive you." He paused, seeming to gather his words silently before he continued, "The Maker say, 'Forgive.' And I forgive. It is mine… thing, how you say, with the room and the men that say you bad…"
"A trial," she answered and reached out to clasp his hands, understanding that forgiveness was one of the only commodities the prostitute possessed outside of his own body. "Thank you."
"You are pretty," he murmured as he trailed a finger down her cheek and over her shoulder, the digit coming to rest over her heart. "But this is pretty," he clarified as he tapped his finger above where the organ pumped. "Be pretty. You not go to the Chantry."
"I won't," she lied, feeling even worse for deceiving the gracious man before her, seeing as she was already working through how she should break in to see it. The skylights were a point of entry but it would be a task to get up there if the immediate fall down into the building somehow failed to flat-out kill her.
The sun had just begun to set when they returned to the brothel. Lothri moved ahead of her, their disagreement seeming to have come to an understanding. She understood his anger, amply deserved it even. He deposited her back into the small sitting room, leaving to collect Varania but returned swiftly after.
"Varania is to go. Not here," he breathed in a strange quickness, shallow puffs that rapidly and infinitesimally moved his chest. Panic, she realized as she steadied herself for yet another impending crisis.
"Where has she gone," she asked evenly, letting Lothri's panic push her into calmness. If Kirkwall had taught her anything, it was that two panicked minds were far worse off than one even one.
"She no," he bumbled for his words as he rapidly lapsed into Arcanum and then back into Common. "Varania is here or is home."
"Could she be at home? Is Varania home," she replied, thinking home would be a perfectly acceptable place for the elf to be rather than on her back somewhere here. For some reason, however, that Lothri was oblivious to Varania's whereabouts was proving to be an extreme source of stress for the elf.
"No! She is to be here," he barked with no little frustration at his inability to communicate properly and her hopelessness to understand. "She is not here, Marian!"
"Could she have gone to the market? To market? To shop? To buy," she added rapidly, trying to offer as many synonyms that Lothri might recognize as she tried to reason precisely what was wrong.
"She is to be here," he repeated again. "She is not. Men look for her. She is where?"
The introduction of men searching for the elf sent a chill down her spine. What on Thedas had Varania gotten herself involved in? "Men," she asked. "What men?"
"Bad men! But they not here."
"I am fine, Lothri," Varania's voice called softly from the door. Hawke turned to see the elf donned in more travel-worthy clothing, a cloak and a soft dress designed to accent her shape. "I don't usually do my own shopping but I needed a few things. I… don't get out much, so Lothri was understandably confused."
Varania and Lothri exchanged more quick phrases, leaving Hawke further befuddled by the foreign tongue before he took two long, hesitant steps away but, even with Varania's seeming dismissal, remained within the small room.
"Lothri is a dear friend," Varania offered, "And he worries about me. I appreciate your concern but as you can see, I am quite fine."
Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. "I'm glad." But something in this story didn't add up. Lothri's clear anxiety at the thought of her having left the brothel amounted to more than friendly concern and the 'bad men' he'd mentioned could be any number of equally horrible things. Varania, after all, had returned to Minrathous with a very powerful and extremely dead magister- there was no telling how many people could have taken offense to that. "Varania," she offered after she gathered her thoughts, "If you're in some sort of danger, you can trust me. I can help."
Varania bowed her head as Lothri began rapidly speaking in Arcanum. She listened for a few moments before lifting her hand to silence him. "The help I need, Hawke, is not the sort I think you want to give," she murmured quietly and regarded the floor quietly, as though utterly fascinated by the knots in the wooden planks.
"I know we aren't exactly friends but… you don't have to live like this, Varania," the words escaped her mouth before she really thought to consider them fully. Minrathous was a city full of dangers and Varania, for all her sins, didn't deserve to live her life in a fear that kept her shackled to a brothel lest Danarius' cronies exact their revenge on her. "When I'm ready to return to the Free Marches, you could come with me."
Every corner of her rational mind screamed at her as the words came from her mouth. She could practically hear Fenris' voice howling angrily among the racket. This was stupid, unbelievably and unforgivably stupid. To even consider placing Varania among her ranks was likely not going to win her any approval from her allies. But Hawke could no more abandon the elf to her hated fate here in Tevinter any more than she could deny her own very nature. Hawke was a protector, a defender. And if someone needed to shelter themselves behind her- regardless of whatever they'd done, she felt an unshakable compulsion to offer any assistance she could.
Varania's eyes went wide with confusion as she stuttered, "But… Leto…"
"Fenris and I aren't exactly on speaking terms right now," she replied with a wry, self-deprecating smile. "I protected you from him once, and I'll do it again if it comes up."
"But you don't even know me," Varania whispered as she dropped her gaze back to the floor. Hawke could see her eyes start to shine and fill with water as she met her stare once more.
"No," Hawke agreed with a shrug, "But you're a mage. We're trying to make the world a better place for everyone… and I could always use another ally. And you know about the Imperium as an elf and a mage, I figure your input could only help us."
"I… I don't know what to say, Hawke."
Hawke moved forward and took the elf's warm hands, squeezing lightly. "Just think about it. I know it would be a big move but it cannot be worse than living here."
"Hawke, I…" and she trailed off. Varania ducked her head down and stared at their joined hands for long minutes. "I…"
Before the elf could finish her thought, the door burst open to reveal nearly a dozen slavers with more waiting in the halls, each and every enemy facing her angrily with weapons drawn. Lothri retreated to the corner with a shocked cry, ducking down and covering his head with his hands. She drew her staff, prepared to protect the elf at her side before she realized the weapons were not aimed at Varania…
They were aimed at her.
Hawke looked up at the betrayer- Varania… again. Maker, how could she have been so stupid? Varania stuttered at Hawke's gawk-eyed expression, "Please, let me explain…"
"Unbelievable…" Hawke murmured as she regarded the slavers and then Varania once more. "You unbelievable bitch."
"It was not personal, Hawke," the elf whispered as one of the slavers moved in wielding rope meant to bind her arms, holding a dagger toward her laced thickly with poison. The mere twang of its odor sent the Fade presence into a lull… magebane. She realized, examining the dozens of weapons that had been drawn, that they were all poisoned. If even a few cut her, her magic would be of little use to her. Fortunately, she'd overcome more insurmountable odds.
"Not personal?" she spat incredulously as she spun, raising her free hand to slap the elf as hard as she could, taking no small delight in the way her red hair whipped through the air as the blow landed and twisted Varania's elegant neck violently. "I happen to take someone trying to kill me as very personal."
She could practically see the other mage's back stiffen as Varania recoiled from her attack, blood dripping from her split lip as she growled, "Don't you dare judge me. You have no idea what my life has been!"
"Well, I couldn't wish your fate on a more appropriate person," Hawke spurted nastily and eyed the slavers who began closing in slowly. She released a telekinetic wave, knocking several of them back as she turned once more toward the woman who'd double-crossed her. "Why?" She snarled, "Why did you do this?"
Varania's face was set hard as stone and just as unlikely to budge. Gone was the woman who'd helped her, the stranger who had sadly acknowledged her brother in Kirkwall so long ago. The elf pulled a knife from her cloak and drew it firmly down over her wrists, whispering hatefully, "My brother surrendered his life for my family…"
Hawke cut her off with an angry cry, "He didn't surrender mine as well!" A pathetic yelp escaped her lips as she felt the blood in her body erupt into frenzy. The beds of her nails went red as they began bleeding and the powerful aroma of copper dripped from her nose as it flooded and leaked over her mouth. She couldn't move; Varania had taken control of her body for the moment. Judging from the sweat breaking out on her forehead, Hawke deduced it was taking a lot of effort on her part to keep the apostate still.
As the remaining slavers moved to surround her, she overpowered Varania's control for a moment, releasing a flare from her hands that encompassed the room and blasted her enemies into screaming, blazing projectiles. The flame had released the blood-mage's control over Hawke, so she turned once more, swinging her staff like a club and connecting with Varania's head with such force her arms shook. She heard Lothri cry out the elf's name as she collapsed to the ground- unconscious or dead, Hawke didn't really care at the moment. More slavers entered the room, large brutes and several mages. She'd fought worse, she reasoned angrily as she brought her hand up to wipe the blood away from her mouth and nose, regarding the thick red fluid for a moment before diverting her attention back to the slavers. Bringing the staff up once more, she gifted her enemies with a dauntless and wicked grin, letting them know she'd not be taken so easily as she beckoned them to even dare and try.
Before the battle could begin anew, however, the heavy sounds of boots clattered over the floor, vibrating it infinitesimally against her feet. She felt the Silence fall over the building and panic nearly overtook her mind as she reached for the dagger concealed at her waist, preparing to fight the incoming men until either they or she no longer stood. The other mages jerked visibly as the effect settled over them as well. Six Templars entered the room with their weapons drawn and faces obscured by helmets.
Their presence had halted the battle, both the slavers and herself staring at them in shock. Thoughts of that damned basement at the hands of those meant to protect her kind provoked a near all-encompassing panic. The mark on her face began to itch and fear threatened to overtake her.
She tried to swallow it down, to choke it back into a calmer fury as she barely restrained the desire to strike back against the Templars in hopes of harming the one man she knew did not stand among them. Even through the diminished connection, fires clutched at the core of her mind, demanding an inferno to enflame and cull her Templar nemeses permanently. The flames tickled the edge of her fingertips, begging her for release that would not come through the ringing Silence, praying for the sweet oxygen that would fan them further; the anger at the restraint rose up like a beaten dog starved for meat, Fade monsters scrambling and ravenous for the honeyed food of her own flesh. Temptation and demons licked their forked tongues over her mind, begging her to succumb.
They are not your enemy. These men mean to help you, a voice whispered harshly into her mind, the inelegant staccato breaking through the poisonous acid. His tone left no room for compromise.
Men maddened by unchecked power? How is that different? She silently mused as she lifted her knife higher.
It is different enough. You know that.
And then he was gone and her mind was quiet. Hoppers had disappeared once more. She instinctively clutched at the button clasped around her neck with her unoccupied hand, futilely hoping that he'd guide her further… but he'd abandoned her again, leaving her a candle in the darkness left to fend for itself against a relentless and unending night… but she knew he was still there somewhere in the shadows. Hoppers still watched her… and he would return.
She didn't have time to examine that thought too closely as she pondered exactly what course of action she should take. The slavers remained still as well, sharing the sentiment in a rare moment of solidarity.
But then she saw him enter behind them and she lowered her dagger- the man who had stared at her from the Chantry less than two hours ago.
The man moved into the room and through the slavers, surrounded by Templars but decidedly alone- he was clearly not one of them- appearing both terrible and foreboding in his strange calmness. His cassock, she noted, was like that of a Chantry brother, but the black was accented with a thick ribbon of scarlet trailing from his neck to his ankles and around his broad chest; a golden crest of a single open eye laying in the center. His head was adorned with a mage's cowl, which partially obscured his face with shadows. The man began speaking Arcanum to the slavers, who faltered in the handling of their weapons and stared at her expectantly.
He approached Hawke, brushing the dagger in her hand aside and ducking his head to whisper flatly into her ear, "Just nod."
Hesitantly, she did so and the slavers sheathed their weapons. They stared angrily at her, the barely contained rage bubbling to the top. It was… refreshingly familiar. One man darted forward, his weapon ill-concealed, only to be artfully slapped down by the man, who flipped him onto his back and twisted his arm until the sickening pop was drowned out only by the sound of pained screaming as the sword thudded from his fingers.
The man turned his back on the felled opponent and spoke once more to the slavers before returning his attention to Hawke. "You need to come with me," he said quietly, brokering no room for argument. "Nod to them if you understand."
She quickly weighed her options, an unknown enemy versus those who had made themselves blatantly apparent. The slavers would likely take her to answer for the crimes she had perpetrated against Rajun or even return her to Kirkwall, the bounty on her head was high enough and Varania had to have known that. In any case, logic stood that alone she held a much better chance against the Black Chantry with their semblance of civility, which they'd demonstrated when they'd tossed her from the building, than with the multitude of men that clearly meant to harm her. She had a choice, a terrible choice, one that could either liberate her or send her to Minrathous' outlying docks to suffer the fate others seemed constantly compelled to force upon her… or it could see her to the executioner's block at the hands of the Chantry here; honestly, both felt just as likely.
So she held her breath and looked within, feeling the Fade crackle randomly against the Silence, feeling Hoppers' presence against her neck once more, and made her decision.
She obeyed the man's command, nodding dumbly at the slavers before the Templars flanked her and her new companion. The man spoke again and the slavers angrily backed away, leaving the building with furious words and curses. She heard Lothri scramble to the fallen Varania, whispering her name while the elf moaned as she revived, but the Templars had already begun ushering her from the brothel. As soon as they stepped from the building, a Templar unceremoniously clamped a heavy gold bangle onto her arm. Instantly, she felt her connection to the Fade falter even further. It left her feeling heady, drunk like wine, but also inhibited her self-control and she felt it begin to slip away the moment it was slapped onto her wrist.
Even with the calm Hoppers had given her, she could not resist the urge to attack the man who'd weakened her, to at least slap him soundly when her escort caught her unbejeweled wrist and said, "It is a dampener, nothing more. A precaution. We mean you no harm. It will be removed once it is determined that you are not a threat."
"I'm the threat?" she laughed incredulously as she pawed at the bracelet to remove it. It wasn't a purposeful movement, it was like dropping a hot potato- her body just instinctively did it. The bracelet began to sting and her hand dropped away, moments later, the sensation was gone. Thoughts of blood magic reeled through her disoriented mind, what sort of witchcraft was this?
The escort spoke, seemingly unknowing of her internal struggle, "You waltzed into the Chantry asking to be shown a very secret and very forbidden tome. So yes, you are a threat until determined otherwise."
She retained enough of her ire through the bangle's intoxication to slur, "And who determines that?"
"You will see," he answered cryptically and beckoned her to move forward.
They wound through the twilit streets once more, drawing the attention of all the passers-by as they gaped at the captured woman and the slightly excessive entourage that escorted her. It must have been a rare occurrence that would see a mage taken into Templar custody in Tevinter, so people openly watched the show with curiosity and, she realized, fear. The Templars made no move to touch her with the exception of one catching her when her unsteady foot tripped over a loose cobblestone, the man righting her gently until she regained her balance.
The brother who had her thrown from the Chantry scowled at her as they entered, approaching the man leading her and quietly- and angrily- whispering to him in Arcanum. Hawke found herself desperately hating the ancient tongue. Each word accenting further that she was clueless as to what she'd involved herself in. Unfortunately, until someone decided to enlighten her she was resigned to dark ignorance. The escort nodded, responded, and then guided her to keep walking, passing the brother and through the greater chapel until they reached a large, ornate door.
The door itself was easily three times her height and covered in carvings that were tediously tended to. Portraits, scenes, and symbols were all etched into the wood, a representation of Andraste burning was laid off to the side as almost an afterthought, overshadowed by literally hundreds of depictions of others. The faces were too distinct to be generic and too repetitive to be insignificant- a man with an overly long nose, an elf with exaggerated ears, a woman with extremely long hair, and a girl with the hated Tranquil eye carved onto her forehead… and the repeated emblem of a man with his back turned.
The Templars remained within the greater chapel as the brother began leading her farther into the building, through a long, dark hallway, up an impossibly long spiral staircase that was peppered with several locked doors, and into a rather large, opulent office. A massive window occupied nearly the entire circular room, she could see the lights of Minrathous and the Chantry itself far beneath her, feeling more than a little acrophobic as she realized how far from the ground she must have climbed. He beckoned her to take a seat, which she did with a little hesitation, while he stood unnaturally still until another man entered the room. She rose to her feet to greet him.
This man stood an inch or so shorter than she but carried himself with such ramrod posture as to seem somehow taller. His face was roundly boyish even in his advanced years and his greyed hair was shorn short, making him look friendly and approachable; but the rest of him was clearly not so, all lithe severity and sharp angles. The cassock he wore was accented with dozens of intricate knots and the eye blazoned over his chest was closed, not open as the other brothers'. They took a moment to study each other, not speaking, and Hawke had the niggling feeling that this man was somehow familiar despite having no memory of ever seeing him before.
His attention fell down toward her encircled wrist. "Tobias," the man directed his attention to her escort, "Take that damned thing off her."
Tobias, she supposed that was his name, strode forward and with a few manipulations of his deft fingers the bangle came free and she felt her mind return to higher functioning before he even resumed his silent post. The Fade righted itself within her mind, leaving the strange spinning and dizziness behind her. The return of her greater intellect had her scrutinizing the stranger before her once more- realizing finally where she was and who he must be. She had thousands of questions to ask. Why was she here? What had this Tobias said to make the slavers back off? Why was the brother so infuriated when she mentioned the Charta Maleficai?
There were far too many questions to ask aloud. So Hawke allowed the silence to speak them for her.
"I am Aurelius, the Imperial Divine Tacitus III," he said softly and with a strangely sad look on his face. "I apologize for any discomfort in bringing you here but the Templars had to ensure you'd arrive safely and I was not sure exactly who you were."
She said nothing, declining to confirm or question whoever he thought she was. Until she knew more, her mouth stood alone as her worst enemy. A careless word could have her declared a criminal, could reveal the locations of several camps of apostates, could offend the quiet man presenting himself as a friend. That had been her largest trial of the last year, learning when to hold her treacherous tongue. She instead examined the newly revealed flesh of her wrist, satisfied that the strange stinging from the dampener hadn't manifested any physical wounds.
"I must say," Aurelius continued, pulling her away from her inspection, as he strode to a large cabinet, opening it to reveal dozens of bottles of wine. "When I received word that someone had come looking for the Charta Maleficai I knew it had to be tied to the mayhem from the docks a few days ago- a known slaving vessel took port with not a single slave or slaver aboard. I must say, it caused a bit of a stir within the city." He paused for a moment, scrutinizing a bottle before nodding to himself and uncorking it, pouring himself a drink then pouring one for her as well. The fragrant aroma of dark fruit permeated her nose as she breathed in its scent.
He waited until she nodded her satisfaction before he continued, "A foreigner commandeering The Bloodied Bandit from Rajun Gerthail…" he shook his head and smiled his amusement, "By the Maker that was a feat in itself to say the least. The Guard has been trying for years to charge him with illegal enslavement and you've done Tevinter a great favor. But then you left the ship before anyone could come to collect you."
"Collect me? I wasn't aware that anyone was actively looking for me," she responded with a light shrug before taking a sip of her drink. It was Agreggio Pavali; she recognized the distinct flavors as they danced over her tongue, there was truly no other wine like it- although it did feel strange drinking it from a glass rather than directly from the bottle. Luxury was one of the many things she'd abandoned during her flight from Kirkwall. She took another sip, tilting her head slightly back as the wine lingered over her palate.
"Several groups of slavers were certainly eager to find you," Aurelius commented and took another long drink from his own goblet. "They were tearing apart the docks trying to learn anything about the foreigner who stole that ship."
"Things tend to go much easier for me if I'm hard to find," she quipped casually and took another sip. "I've learned to assume that the people looking for me generally want me dead."
"That isn't true," he replied and took a long drink of his wine, letting out a pleasant sigh. "After all, we've been looking for you, Marian."
The use of her name caused her to jerk her head out of the comfort she'd been lulled into but the man's eyes were even and earnest- like he'd expected her to react this way when he spoke her given name. She looked at him skeptically, refusing to give up any ground that this man had not rightfully earned, and replied with a respectful caution, "And just why, exactly, do you suppose I am called that?"
Aurelius tilted his head back and barked out a hearty laugh. It was a confusing answer to her question until he spoke once more. "Of course you wouldn't remember meeting me. You were far too young."
She rose to her feet, feeling her heart begin pounding within her chest as she backed toward the door. Where the Blight had she met the Black Divine? Thoughts sputtered around in her head, desperately trying to conjure anything that could tell her where she'd seen this man before. Her mind was reeling… she could retreat, gather her bearings, reason this out, and try again another day. "Stay back," she hissed as the man made as if to move nearer.
Aurelius raised his hands in surrender and took two steps back, giving her the space she needed before she could bolt from the spire. "Wait, please," he beseeched her gently. "Do not leave. I met you- Maker, it was over twenty years ago… in West Hill…"
"… Marian, I was a friend of your father."
Author's Notes- Hi all! Massive thanks to my Beloved Betas (trademark totally stolen) BuriedBeneath and AmericanCorvus for helping me out. Sorry this took so long to get up, had a massive trip out of the country followed by work, work, work, and now I'm scrambling to get everything done before I go in for knee surgery in a few hours. Hopefully all the laying around I'll be doing during recovery will give me some more time to write.
I must say, I'm surprised with the…erm… warm reception Anders got. Or rather, I'm utterly shocked no one flamed the crap out of me. I'll admit, I never thought to consider him a zombie but it *shudders* fits, I suppose.
As always, many thanks to all those who read and review and subscribe. You are all wonderful and amazing. If you're more of a "not in a public forum" sort and you've got a critique or a question, you can always drop me a PM or message me on twitter.