Nemesis
Chapter 10- The Price of Freedom
"Well goody, goody for me- I was beginning to find Minrathous rather dull."
Marian Hawke
She had just turned seven-years-old. Carver and Bethany were four and edging nearer to five with each passing day, clumsily mucking about while Mother attempted the unenviable task of purchasing vegetables from the local market whilst wrangling three children. Marian had never been partial to meat, consuming only enough of it to thrive and not raise the ire of her parents, but Mother knew her eldest well enough to keep a stock of fruits and vegetables on hand. Leandra respected her peculiarities to an extent, after all Father and Bethany didn't much prefer meat either.
She remembered tipping her weight onto the tips of her toes before dropping her weight over onto the backs of them to entertain her siblings, extending her skinny limbs in a semblance of awkward grace for their amusement as she distracted them from the boredom of the weekly shopping excursion. 'Excursion,' she loved that word. It made the boredom of the task feel more like adventure.
In any case, it was a clumsy mimicry of the dancers she'd seen perform before, she knew, but her siblings were entranced with the sheer idea that she could do it. A grateful look from Mother was all the payment she needed for the discomfort as she tilted her free leg back into an inelegant and low arabesque. Bethany clapped with glee at her elder sister's display. Carver vacillated between amusement and something else; and though Marian wasn't sure what, it made her wonder if his digestive system was functioning properly.
The shopkeeper passed the package of fruit to Mother, apples and peaches as well as cherries that she'd bake into a wonderful pie- it was Saturday after all. The man's next words nearly startled her into tipping over from her pose, "You should take her to Denerim, with some training she'd be a shoe-in for the royal dance troupe."
The thought of it left her nearly breathless. A group of dancers from the Royal school had taken a small stage in the Chantry three weeks ago. Father had not attended, electing to stay instead with Bethany and Carver. Marian had clapped her hands, enchanted at the slow gracefulness that was displayed before her. Leandra… Leandra just looked on her daughter's delight with a strange expression of hope and fear.
"Moving costs money and we don't have a lot of it," Leandra replied sadly to the grocer. Money, that was never the problem- the family was by no means wealthy but they'd always managed to survive just fine- it was that Denerim had a rather large Chantry and the Templar presence could see Father stolen away.
The man, Ira if she recalled correctly, pressed on, "That young and with training, she'd make three times what you make for your sewing- which is damn good by the way," he added as almost an afterthought. He pressed a few extra peaches in with a sly wink to the pirouetting girl, neatly too ripe to sell but perfect for a snack. "She's got talent. You're wasting it here, Leandra."
Mother sighed and clutched her bundle of groceries closer before she replied, "We've discussed it… but now isn't the right time."
"I used to work out of Denerim, Serah. The Royal Troupe only accepts them between 11 and fourteen unless there are extenuating circumstances. She's, what, eight?"
"Seven," Mother corrected. "Perhaps later."
Mother gathered their purchases and began the trek from the city with her three somewhat unruly children in tow. An hour's walk saw them returned home to the cottage on the hill but they remained outside. Carver had pulled Bethany against him and grasped her forearms to swing her recklessly in circles, her sister's feet aloft from the ground and Carver laughing like a fool. Marian practiced the movements she'd seen the dancers perform with their strange shoes and calm, painted faces. Leandra grinned as she watched them, so enamored with her children that she bore no thought to what could lie within their home.
Perhaps Carver had dropped Bethany or perhaps she'd merely been thirsty… she wasn't sure what had taken her into the house. But when she entered, she heard the hushed sound of speech. Secrecy was not lost on her. Just last week, Neville Deluna had asked to see her underclothes. After quickly confirming no adults were in sight she'd obliged him and lifted her skirt, more because she knew she shouldn't do it than because she thought she should. She'd always been a bit of a cheeky monkey- it was that sort of impertinence that clearly followed her into adulthood.
She followed the sound of voices into their small kitchen. Two men sat there, silent and somber. Father was nowhere to be seen but had clearly been there- evidenced by the three sets of dishes and teacups resting on the table. Guests, then, but Father hadn't mentioned company. In fact, the eldest Hawke seemed wholly inclined to function in solitude if his family wasn't around. He had no personal friends of his own.
The first man noticed her and said something… but the words were nonsense to her ears. He was very old, much older than Papa. She wondered for a moment if the man was somehow touched, if in his advanced age his mind no longer fired properly. But the other man laughed, seeming to understand the gibberish. He looked back at her, eyes smiling. She knew danger, knew how to recognize the men that could steal Father away. This man was no Templar; he somehow seemed kind… safe.
"There you are," the man exclaimed as he beckoned her closer. His accent was strange, the inflection of his tongue was deeply familiar though she couldn't recognize it then. "You are Marian, correct?"
"I am," she replied warily, shuffling her feet closer as the man smiled at her.
He swung his gaze to his companion. "Look at her, Seneca, she looks just like her Father," the man beamed before focusing once more upon her. "Do you like sweets, little Marian?"
"I do," she hesitantly answered, simultaneously recognizing this as one of the situations her parents warned her to avoid… but there was an unspoken promise of candy. Marian Hawke loved candy and she felt the blanket 'Do not, under any circumstances, ever accept candy from strangers' rule could be exempted… because they were in the safety of their home and, well, there was candy.
The man reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, confectionary orb. "Then here is a sweet for such a lovely sweet," he said as he plunked it down into her hand, bringing his hand up to kindly touch her cheek.
She could smell sugar and cinnamon on her palm, sweet and spicy. She desperately wanted to eat it… but Father had not raised a fool. She tore her gaze from the treat said seriously, "You must promise it isn't poison."
"What?" A mask of utter bafflement fell over the man's face as he questioned her.
She rolled her eyes and told him, "You're a stranger."
The man barked out another laugh and plucked the treat from her hand, dropping it into his mouth. "Of course a Harrow would doubt a gift. Here," he reached into his pocket and pressed another into her empty palm. Instead of immediately releasing it, he clutched her hand tightly within his grip and uttered, "I solemnly promise that I will never hurt you."
She scrutinized the treat in her hand, asking, "You promise?"
"I promise, Marian," the man replied quietly. "You are protected. No one can hurt you."
The grin on her face barely opened enough to pop the candy inside. It was ecstasy, her seven-year-old mind barely able to comprehend the unfamiliar flavors that danced over her tongue- strange spice and a cloying sugary goodness. "Careful," the man warned with a friendly grin over his face. "Don't choke."
Then the deep sound of rage echoed through the room, "Release my daughter!"
"Marcus…" the man stumbled to his feet, backing away from her with his palms raised. "I gave her a candy," he told her father softly. "It was just candy."
But Father kept snarling, growling as he advanced and she recognized instantly that this man was not her father. He was some stranger she'd never met, wearing a strange suit made from the man she knew. "Get away from her!"
The other man, Seneca, rose to his feet to defend his friend and offered, "It was nothing, Harrow. She just came in…" Father silenced him with a quick punch and the old man dropped to the floor, clutching his bleeding jaw, before he could even finish speaking. Marian retreated into the corner, quickly spitting the sweet onto the floor, frantically wishing its evidence from her tongue, and watched as her father stalked quickly over to the man she'd accepted the candy from.
The first man grabbed Father's angry fist before it could strike and shouted, "You are scaring her, Marcus!"
Father swung wild his eyes onto her- she'd never felt so small and alone and desperately wished the man hadn't redirected Father's attention back to her. Clearly, she'd done something wrong. The tears were already streaming down her face and had no plans of stopping anytime soon. This wasn't Father… this wasn't Papa… but she recognized him. Years ago, Mother had seen and fought him but the beast had only slumbered, hidden from view- and here today it had finally returned and revealed its name.
With a few angry huffs, this stranger in Father's skin ducked down before her, clasping her hands in irons made from his hot, sweating ones. His eyes closed and he breathed, once, twice, three times, and then countless more until this Marcus melted away and Malcolm Hawke reemerged, opening his eyes to regard his daughter. "I forgot to tell your mother that we needed eggs," he whispered gently. "Would you go to the market and get eggs with her?"
"I will," but she couldn't control the sobs that escaped her when she spoke and couldn't cease even when the words stopped. Head bowed, she started to cry brokenly, unsure if she could ever stop.
Father brushed his unsteady hands over her hair and pulled her gaze back to his, impenetrable, warm, and sky blue as it had always been. "Everything is all right, Marian," he whispered evenly. "There is no need for tears."
"You're angry," she cried softly and buried her shameful face into her hands.
"I am not angry with you," he replied patiently, touching her face softly to comfort her. "You have done nothing wrong. Get eggs with your mother, I want you to taste one of those revered Kirkwall quiches for breakfast tomorrow."
With those words, he'd turned her gently toward the door and gently nudged her forward. When she reached the door, she took a quick look back. The two strangers had reseated themselves, one with a vicious bruise spreading over his cheek and the other with a sorrowful look in her direction before he focused on his teacup.
Without further thought she ran, feet thudding through the cottage until she reached the front door, flinging it open with reckless disregard for the age of the wooden frame of their home, and then the porch, before she retreated into the open yard. She wasn't sure that she'd ever stop running until Mother swung her into her strong arms, catching her so abruptly in her full-fledged sprint that her feet flew toward the sky for a brief moment and Marian had thought briefly that the dirt itself had hurled her away or the itself sky had sucked her up.
Leandra captured her mid-flight and embraced her tightly. "Sweetheart, what's wrong?" she asked worriedly.
Marian understood in that instant that Mother couldn't encounter Marcus Harrow again, not after the last time. She'd nearly left the last time they'd met. Taking in a deep breath, the seven-year-old steadied her breath and said, "Father says we need eggs."
Leandra answered with a sweet, placating smile, "I already bought eggs, dear."
"Then we need more," Marian replied dully.
Leandra jolted at her child's tone and glared at the home that had inspired her eldest child into such a frantic retreat. "Marian…" she murmured playfully, as if trying to tease out whatever had troubled her daughter so.
"We need more," she asserted again, using her skinny body to block her mother from entering the house. "Father says we need more."
Leanda backed away in shock, giving a long look at the cottage and an even longer look at her daughter, noting the tears on her face and the flush on her cheeks. "Then we'll get more," she answered tersely before her tone softened almost infinitely, "Perhaps we can go look at that doll you've been eyeing as well."
She'd wanted it since six months past Satinalia and had badgered Mother and Father for it ceaselessly. It had been named and as far Marian was concerned it already belonged to her. That her mother seemed prepared to unexpectedly cave into her wishes now confirmed everything she dreaded to know. Something was desperately wrong. Leandra ducked down before her daughter and clasped her small hands within her own, worn and tired from countless hours of sewing. "Just don't flaunt it to the twins. We'll tell them it's because you've done so many chores," she said with an overenthusiastic cheerfulness. "It can be our secret."
This sort of secret was infinitely less fun than lifting her skirts for Neville. "I don't want it," she answered; and it was the truth. In a moment of mature clarity unknown to her at that point in her life, Marian just understood that owning the coveted doll would be a constant reminder of this day… and the manner that brought it so close to her grasp left her simply never wanting to look upon it again. "We just need the eggs."
Leandra's face fell into a scowl as she looked upon their home and she muttered, "Just the eggs then."
Mother took them back to the market and purchased the eggs. Carver and Bethany on some level recognized the tension and remained blissfully silent even when she'd refused to perform for them once more. When they arrived back home, all their worldly possessions had been packed into rucksacks. Father waited alone on the front porch, the ramshackle pieces of their lives crammed away into so many bags. He looked up guiltily, first to herself and then to Mother.
Mother, who was always so gentle and kind, allowed her face to be warped into an expression of absolute fury and Father withered even further into himself.
They spent that night and the next four on a wagon heading elsewhere, neither Mother or Father seemed to know their final destination. They occupied an inn within the first week on the run somewhere around Highever. Hawke had waked in the night to the sound of her parents quarreling in the next room. They never fought. The twins slept peacefully, unknowing of the circumstances of their move beyond the obvious apostates-run-from-Templars variety. But Marian remained awake, not wanting to eavesdrop but having little choice as their rising voices carried through the thin walls of the inn.
"She needs to be in Denerim!" Mother said. "She could have a future there- a life, Malcolm. She's talented and everyone thinks so!"
Father barked, "It's suicide to live there!"
"You'd sacrifice her future for your own?" she snarled the question, compromising everything Father was in a single statement.
He was undeterred and replied in a sharp hiss, "She could be a mage!"
"She could not be one!" Mother retorted. "She could show magic up until she's fifteen and the Academy won't take her after fourteen. Would you deny her a future based on speculation? What sort of father are you?"
"One who wants to protect his children!"
"Your children? Or yourself?"
"I am protecting my children!"
"Then why is it your daughter is left protecting you?" Mother screeched in a voice completely unfamiliar with arguing. It was wry and terrible to hear such a tone coming from a woman so calm and collected. The unnatural cadence of Mother's quiet soprano alone made Marian want to vomit into the nearest corner to purge the disquiet it caused. "You need to decide, Malcolm," she declared in an icy threat. "You need to pick your family or pick your ghosts. There is no in between. Not anymore. I will not have you terrorizing our children! Either come clean or bury it! Bury it somewhere it will not hurt our babies."
"It is buried, Leandra," he stammered.
"Tell that to Marian! She won't even look at you!"
"I… I will. Leandra, it's buried. I told them, it's buried. It's over."
"For your sake, Malcolm," Mother whispered, "It better be."
Her relationship was strained with Father for years after that. She found herself quite often doing the polar opposite of his wishes for no discernable reason at all. They moved into a cottage at the outskirts of Denerim and she was quickly accepted into a preparatory school where she excelled in dancing but floundered a bit in the etiquette training. Her preparation for the Troupe was fraught with difficulty as physical maturation packed extra weight onto her frame. Even at eleven, one of her instructors had commented that her rapidly developing breasts could be problematic for her future, but she continued her training undaunted.
It wasn't until later that year… she'd fought with Father over some trivial thing and she'd lost her temper and inadvertently ignited a haystack. With a look of sick panic, Father gripped her close and smuggled her from the city under his cloak with her flaming fists scorching through his tunic and into his stomach. They fled that night. The scars from the prolonged exposure would remain with him for the rest of his life but he'd never begrudge the burns she'd caused. That was when she finally forgave him for the incident in West Hill. That had been the day she truly understood that some secrets were too dangerous to reveal- not the fun ones like lifting her shirts or letting an older student kiss her in an empty practice room… but the ones that revealed truths that no one would ever accept.
She was a mage and no one would ever accept her freedom.
Overnight, her priorities shifted. She still practiced dancing- alone when no one could see, in her room at night when no one else was awake, tipping onto her toes and remembering the way Devon's hands smoothed over her hips before he pulled her into an empty classroom and kissed her for a solid ten minutes, pulling her hair from the bun she'd fastened it into and telling her how beautiful she was. Those memories preserved her for a little while before they stopped. Her studies under Father's careful tutelage kept her safe and Bethany's development turned her into a second tutor of sorts. Slowly, her winter dreams melted like snow from the summer and she accepted her life as it was. She was a mage and nothing would ever change that.
So she'd moved on, determined to make the most of her condition. If magic must be her curse than she would make it into a blessing. If the world hated her than she'd prove them wrong with every pulse through her neck and each beat of her heart. Because Marian Hawke was not a victim of circumstance- she was a soaring bird of prey, beholden only to herself and the other Hawkes- and no one should ever have need to cage her.
But today, here in the thrice-hated Tevinter Imperium, she finally recognized the man who had given her a simple, traumatizing piece of candy over two decades ago, truly saw the dark cloaked messenger who had sworn her protection, and was finally able to see him as more than a fever dream of a terrified little girl. The Black Divine- standing before her with his arms slightly open, his arms akimbo to open himself to attack… the same man who opened his palm so many years ago to reveal a single cinnamon candy outstretched in his weathered hand- she could even remember the taste.
"Who are you?" she whispered finally, unable to stop her jaw from quivering as she regarded the man before her. A moment of concentration saw her heartbeat slow as her mind slowly returned into blissful calm. "How do you know us?"
Aurelius bowed his head and answered, "Your father, Marcus, and I pledged into the Chantry together in our youths." Grasping the Agreggio again, he busied himself with refilling their goblets.
Hawke was grateful and downed a heavy gulp, uncaring that she'd just knocked back one of the finest wines in Thedas like it was the cheapest swill at the Hanged Man. Something about this situation made her want to drink, it was not necessarily an exclusive event in the last year. "My father was a member of the Black Chantry?"
He nodded and downed his cup in a similar fashion before heavily pouring a refill for them both. "And likely raised you in it as well."
"My father never spoke a word of the Black Chant to us," she remarked in a sort of matter-of-fact protest. "We were raised in the White Chantry."
Aurelius shrugged casually and replied, "If you're a devout Andrastian, how do you justify living outside the Circle's captivity?"
The justification had been laid out for her in her father's deep baritone, so sure and confident that she never even thought to question from whence it came. She swallowed heavily, feeling slightly ill as she answered, "If we live our lives according to the Maker, then men cannot not cage us."
Aurelius straightened himself, lengthening and stretching the vertebrae and muscle until he appeared every bit as imposing as the statues erected over the walls of the Spire. If he'd seemed tall in spite of his stature before, the difference between his actual height and his presence appeared almost infinite now. "And a mage's first duty is not to men but to the Maker," he added kindly. "And that being an apostate is not a mortal crime if you conduct yourself accordingly?"
Everything she'd ever known screamed for her to contradict him but she felt just as powerless to defy him because he spoke the truth. So she finally whispered,"… dammit."
A quirk of a smile graced his lips and he nodded sagely to confirm what she knew. Father had passed on some knowledge Black Chant- he'd just never called it that- and the theology she'd grown up with was likely some hybridized bastardization of the two. The way he'd explained his theology, justified his existence as an unapologetic apostate, had just made sense in a way she'd never thought to question. Faint amusement tickled her mind in the thought that if Sebastian hadn't burst into flames the first time he spoke to her, he likely would now if only in unholy indignation at her continued and now undeniably blasphemous existence.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Aurelius soft tenor, "Is it just you or are Carver and Bethany mages as well?"
Bethany, the sheer thought of her little sister brought the same heavy sigh it usually did. "Bethany was one, she died during our escape from Lothering."
His next few words were Arcanum but were delivered with the steady, methodical cadence she recognized as prayer. With a quick bow of his head he intoned, "My condolences for your suffering."
Even as heartfelt as the sentiment had been, she still wanted to snap that he knew nothing of her suffering but was stilled because Aurelius never claimed to know such things. So she bit her tongue. It was her burden, she knew, and not his- even if he'd just thrown everything she'd ever known and loved into chaos, even if it toppled the world onto its ear, even if he'd just tainted her memories of Father with the unequivocal knowledge that he was practically a stranger to her.
Warriors suffer the burdens of battle.
She didn't care to think about where that voice came from.
"Carver is a Templar," she said instead and regarded the floor. "We've been shaping the rebellion together."
He nodded sagely, moving to seat himself on a small bench near her. "It is good to try and achieve balance. The lack of such is something the Imperium shares in common with the South- we've just swung in the opposite direction, I fear." Sighing heavily, he finished the last of his wine and focused his old eyes over her. "So little Marian, why don't you tell me what brings you to Tevinter."
Before she could answer the question, a Templar burst in. The man spoke rapidly with Aurelius in their native tongue before he nodded once at her and then subsequently retreated. When Fenris had spoken Arcanum around her, she'd found it charming but after hearing these foreign tongues bat it about so carelessly the trill had lost it's allure and she didn't care to ever find it again. The endless frustration of being unable to understand a majority of conversations happening around her had effectively stomped out the thrill and left only the dark mystery of it.
"You have a visitor," the Divine softly explained before gently taking her goblet and settling it on his desk and guiding her to the door that would take her from the Spire and back down into to Imperial Chantry. "He seems to be quite urgent. We should address it."
Before the obvious question of who in Minrathous knew to find her here could emerge from her lips, Aurelius ushered her down the daunting spiral staircase, the elderly man conveying somehow that this was important despite her having no idea what circumstances drew the high priest from his post in the majestic Spire. Tobias accompanied them, the priest so unnaturally quiet she'd forgotten his presence entirely until he fell in line behind them.
Four Templars stood rigidly around a dark-haired elf. Her unspoken question answered itself in the form of an extremely agitated Lothri bouncing from foot to foot as he struggled to retain the proper decorum for a place of worship.
Upon seeing her, however, that changed dramatically. The elf bounded over to her, gesticulating wildly and panting, "Varania! They come for her at the brothel! You help her!"
Aurelius and Tobias peeled away from her to allow her to deal with the overexcited prostitute. "Lothri," she swallowed hard as she acknowledged him, "it's hardly my business what she does now. You saw what she did."
Eyes almost manically wide, he shook his head furiously. "They hurt her, Marian. You are to helping her!"
"She sent them to kill me, Lothri," she snapped, not even attempting to disguise her immense irritation. Her inner reserves of patience were thin already in regards to Varania and they were rapidly depleting with each and every word the elf uttered. There was absolutely no desire in even the deepest reaches of her mind to assist Varania after she'd sold out both her own brother and then Hawke. If the slavers wanted her then that bitch could fend for herself.
Lothri grasped her hands, his were sweating and hot- nerves, she supposed- and he pleaded, "Varania is my friend."
"I'm sorry, Lothri, but my answer is no." She wasn't even the slightest bit sorry but felt the artifice of apology was necessary to placate him.
Silence roared through the Black Chantry and Hawke was content to let it scream. Even if she could find words that could comfort him, she knew she couldn't speak them in a language he'd understand. But guilt began to twinge hard at the edge of her mind; she attempted to crush it down but could not shake the niggling notion that perhaps this was a path she'd be better for not treading upon. Varania was the master of her own fate and she'd invited the slavers to come take their vengeance on Hawke. If their positions were reversed again, she seriously doubted the elf would take up arms for her. So why should she take up arms for her? Even if she was hurt, dying somewhere in this rotten shithole of a city… alone… frightened…
Do not let her mistakes change who you are.
She considered the thought further and felt her conviction wither into the suddenly hollow shell where her moral compass usually resided. Lothri dropped her hands and turned away, shoulders shaking as he tried to collect himself for a moment. Before she could think to say anything at all, the elf spun on his heel and grabbed her by the front of her tunic. Strength she hadn't expected from him had her hauled up on the tips of her toes. Even though the sudden aggression unnerved her, she held up her hand to keep the Templars from unsheathing their weapons against Lothri. He deserved better than that from her- she suspected the gentle elf deserved a lot better than whatever hand life had callously dealt him.
"You owe me, Marian," he growled before releasing her back to the ground and shoving her. The force of the push sent her against the heavy door, which did nothing to cushion the impact.
She bowed her head best as she could under the undeniable accusation he'd made. The elf was right. She did owe him and a single debt unpaid could leave the scales tipped out of her favor- she'd already failed so many tasks she couldn't let this simple one slide if there was even a chance. And for all her treachery, Varania did not deserve the massacre the slavers had in store for her. Hoppers hummed where he lay against her chest, remembering with her that same, choking fear she felt every time she thought about Wycome, remembered that black, sinking feeling when she realized that no help was coming, so vividly recalled that unending nighttime of blood-soaked terror where even the sheer hope of morning's light failed to find her.
Vera, Greyson, Jacob, Dax, Delia- sweet, innocent, dead Delia, her empty gaze vacantly looking skyward because there was nothing left on the earth for her. And Lydia… oh, Lydia… was Hawke's freedom worth the terrible price Lydia had paid?
The world itself existed as two sides of a sovereign- she knew this, had seen firsthand the skyscape of glorious and unending wonder as well as an infinite night that hatefully consumed all that defied its vast, cold emptiness. She'd stumbled through some places where mortals dare not tread, both before the Fade and beyond it. Those horrors drove her to claim the Arishok's throat and to take possession of a powerless slave-girl and liberate her, to claw her way out of poverty and still fight for the countless disenfranchised by battling bandits, slavers, scoundrels, and blood mages alike- because she'd realized long ago sometimes a flickering candle was all the light she needed to stave off the darkness, because Marian Hawke believed more than anything in the power of hope and the hopes of something better…
… and she remembered the despair she'd felt when Gerard Maison brutally stripped it away from her during those terrible bloody days in Wycome.
She shook her head once, twice to clear it from the tremors memory provoked, steeling herself as she pulled the staff from her back and wielded it like that the Champion fate and Meredith had proclaimed her. If Varania was in danger… then Hawke was going to forget the woman's treachery and take up arms for her- if only to spare her the hopeless dread Hawke had endured and survived through… whatever it was that had saved her and destroyed Lydia. It was the delicate balance of battle, debt, forgiveness, and blood… and she couldn't logically tell them apart anymore; just trusted instinct to keep her throat from being slit and prayed her morality could keep up as she kept charging forward- because if she looked back, she could still see the woman she'd been before this bloody war erupted, could see the conviction and strength she steadily reclaimed from the blows that knocked her down.
"Take me to her," she whispered finally.
Aurelius began speaking rapidly in Arcanum to Lothri, who shook his head and argued emphatically back. With the elf's dedication to his faith, this sort of defiance in the face of the Chantry's leader was extremely unnerving. After several back-and-forths between the men, Lothri seemed to back down and the Imperial Divine faced her.
"Lothri will remain here," he explained quickly before swinging his attention to the priest. "Tobias, escort Marian to Varania's home. Avoid the Guard and any open conflict. Please do everything in your power to return them here safely."
"Right," Tobias answered evenly before extending a graceful arm toward the exit, silently inviting her to run alongside as they raced toward Varania's home with little concern for the shadows looming in the streets, though she saw malicious eyes notice her and noticed them in kind.
The priest sprinted with an unusual singularity, nearly disturbing to some degree, and had her wondering if any thought existed in the man's mind beyond putting one foot before the other. She was barely winded when they skittered to a stop before a hovel in the undercity. Candlelight glowed through the windows, only slightly dampened by ratty curtains. There was no echo of movement to be seen or heard.
The cracked door was slightly ajar, a cloying invitation to visit inside. Dread's stone weight settled into her chest as she crept forward and pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges screeching their protest as she stole within with heavy trepidation. There were no sounds of the attack Lothri had warned them of. Perhaps, she hoped futilely, they beat the slavers here. But it was quiet, far too horribly quiet for a home with candles lit, and when she entered the kitchen, Hawke realized why with a sickened twist of her stomach.
There on the ramshackle table lay Varania- bound, naked, and unnaturally still save for the ragged, too-shallow heaving of her chest.
She rushed over, summoning her magic to try and heal her physical wounds as the elf strangled breath into her lungs in wet, rattling half-gasps. The wounds were too deep, too poisoned, she knew after only a few minutes, but she tried anyway, cursing as the closed wounds continued bleeding, spreading an ill purple beneath Varania's skin. Magebane… they'd used the same weapons on her that they'd intended to use on Hawke. The elf had been like this a while, Hawke realized, unable to move while the poison coursed deeper into her system.
Realistically, Varania was already dead- had already died at least an hour ago- her physical body just hadn't yet conceded its defeat. Regardless of that fact, Hawke furiously continued to work, fatigue setting in quickly as she futilely tried to expel the poison from the elf's already debilitated system. As she followed a long wound slicing up the elf's shoulder, the mage dimly noticed no scars adorning Varania's forearms.
Her brow furrowed as she suddenly realized what that meant, realized this afternoon had been the elf's first act of blood magic. She paused in her work. That was entirely unexpected. It also explained why she'd been able to throw off Varania's influence so easily. Hawke worriedly thought back to her previous encounter with the elf in Kirkwall. Varania hadn't raised a hand in her own defense nor a knife to her wrists in the face of her own execution at the lyrium-lined hands of her betrayed brother.
So why had she done it today?
Tobias disrupted her thoughts with a murmured, "It is too late, Hawke."
Any reply was interrupted by Varania, brought back into waking from Hawke's dogged attention. "Hawke," she stuttered as she tried to move her hands down to cover herself, whimpering pathetically when the ties on her wrists prevented her unconscious attempt at modesty. "Hawke, what…"
She leaned close and cupped Varania's face within her hands- focusing the dying woman's attention onto herself rather than to her injuries- and cutting the elf off quickly with a terse and worried, "Save your strength, Varania. These wounds are serious."
Varania's eyes clouded over as she shook her head tiredly between Hawke's palms. "Too late for me. Take… to Leto…" she rasped, blood sputtering from her mouth as she coughed. "Please…"
"Take Fenris what?" Hawke asked calmly, hoping the evenness of her voice could provide the dying woman with even a modicum of comfort. "Do you have something of his?"
"Please… take him… he's…" Varania coughed again, a thick clot of blood and gore landing on Hawke's cheek and sliding down to splatter back onto the elf's chin. "Please… Leto…" and then she uttered another series of syllables, meaningless to the healer, before she went still, her eyes unfocused as they gazed at the cracking ceiling.
Dead- yet another casualty claimed by mere association. Even knowing Varania had betrayed her didn't do much to ease the hurt. Hawke had begged Fenris to spare his sister and now she laid cold and still- her death the direct result of Hawke's infernal interference.
"What was the last thing she said?" Hawke asked quietly as she moved her hand over Varania's chin to close the elf's eyes. Her hands unconsciously smoothed her hair, sticky from blood and sweat, away from her face and Hawke contemplated the elf as she'd examine a strange, bizarre animal- like a sleeping tiger that would certainly lunge for her throat upon waking. Now that tiger lay dead and would never snap her teeth again.
"It was not Arcanum," Tobias answered blankly from behind her. "Perhaps it was Dalish."
She tore her eyes away from Varania before her eyes darted around the kitchen and she saw past the blood and truly examined her surroundings. This house was made of centuries old wood, musty, damp, and rotting. The dishes by the sink were cracked and chipped- even Gamlen at his lowest had nicer things- but the place was clean without a speck of dust or dirt to be found. The various mice and vermin that likely prowled about at night certainly left hungry. The elf clearly took great care of the place but it was strange that she lived in the poverty of the undercity when she'd be welcomed into the slightly better poverty of the alienage.
Still, it made no sense. Varania was a beautiful woman and her appearance at the brothel convinced Hawke that she was one of the more sought after whores. Prostitutes that worked in the safety and luxury of a whorehouse were generally pretty well to do- perhaps not wealthy but at least comfortable. The elf had to make at least somewhat decent coin but there was absolutely no evidence of that here. Curious, she opened the pantry and found it empty save for a jar of honey, a loaf of teeth-shattering bread, three oranges, and a few strips of a mysterious dried meat that Hawke didn't care to speculate much on.
"Hawke, the Guard may arrive soon. We should depart."
She shook her head and looked back at the enigmatic elf, expired on the ragtag kitchen table, eyes closed against the blood-spattered tableau that witnessed her end. "We need to find whatever it was she wanted me to take first."
Without another word, Hawke tore from the kitchen and began furiously searching her home for whatever it was the elf had wanted her to take to Fenris. Her meager jewelry collection, nearly worthless trinkets and baubles, was pocketed; perhaps something in it was a family heirloom. There was simply no way to tell. Varania had begged Hawke to take something to her brother and she had no clue what that item may be- and a very limited time to find it before the Guard arrived to the murder scene.
There was nothing of substantial value downstairs- a meager savings of a few gold coins, a few carefully cleaned dishes that looked to be second or third-hand but ill-cared for so unlikely an heirloom. Hurrying up the creaking staircase, she found at the top a single bedroom. Upon entering Varania's quarters, the first thing she noticed was a small locked trunk resting in the corner. Tobias set upon it immediately and without prompting, seeming to silently understand it likely held the valuables she was searching for. While he worked, she upended drawers onto her bed, frantically scrambling through Varania's possessions. Guards would come. The slavers could return.
She found underclothes, nightshirts, a few tomes on magic; she flipped through the pages, focusing on anything that could be hiding within as a bookmark and finding nothing. Letters, dozens of letters that she immediately pocketed despite being unable to read them, lotions, quills, a few vials of common tinctures, a figurine of a mouse. She was tucking the mouse away when it slipped and hit the floor, breaking at the seam along its side. Within was a ring set with a single green stone, too large to fit Varania's or even Hawke's own hand. Did this belong to Fenris? Could it be his father's?
A frustrated sigh escaped her as she scowled and stole that item as well. There was no way to tell what would be important to Fenris and what would not. Whoever said that one man's trash is another man's treasure clearly never played the intermediary between the two.
Tobias gave a quiet whistle to indicate the chest was unlocked and she began tearing through it, tossing out dresses and books, letters, letters, letters, and a larger quantity of gold coins until she found it, set carefully at the very bottom- a set of armor, a long, fortified cloak and more buckles than she could count- the smell, woodsy with the familiar twang of lyrium and sweat she recognized as belonging to Fenris, which she breathed in deeply until the scent nearly left her heady. It was heavily enchanted, to say the least, likely a suit Danarius had designed for Fenris to attend formal gatherings.
Pulling it out, she examined it anew and marveled at the sheer number of buckles. It put her slavers' garb to shame. Shuffling through, she could not find a tunic meant to be worn beneath. She distantly recalled Isabela teasing Fenris about being oiled and glistening in Danarius' presence and the sick thought that perhaps this armor was meant to be worn without one, with the buckles and leather lying directly over his skin in some bizarre fetishistic display.
Danarius' death had been far too merciful, she thought not for the first time.
And beneath- a collar, with miniscule enchanted runes peppering every inch, waiting to be activated- healing runes meant to cause mental haziness and physical fortification, lightning and entropic runes meant to inspire inexplicable pain and horrors, and multiple blood runes she imagined would have keyed their trigger to a particular person. Given the complexity of the dark magic she sensed emanating from it, she had no doubt to whom that had belonged and the name of the disgusting magister who had forced him to wear it.
This must be it, she realized. Varania's last wish had been that Hawke take Fenris' armor and destroy this hated symbol of ownership. Tobias took the armor from her, packing it carefully away for their imminent departure, commenting only, "This armor is exquisitely crafted. Whoever commissioned it must have paid a fortune."
"Not nearly the price paid by the man who wore it," Hawke added darkly. Tobias offered no response. "We should go. We're done here," she finished, pockets heavy with the elf's meager belongings and feeling every bit a grave robber.
The armor bulged against Tobias' back as she made for the stairs. She was loath to deny a dying woman's final request but how the Void was she supposed to return any of this to him? Maison had destroyed Cain Bannon's ring when he'd burned her things, so she wasn't fully confident that she was entirely suitable to return another's lost items. Perhaps she could find someone to deliver it for her. If she returned by boat, the nearest port to Starkhaven would certainly…
A soft clatter sounded, drawing her attention away from her thoughts. Tobias raised his fists loosely and gestured once toward the closet. Someone was hiding in there. A slaver, she realized, who'd been left to ransack the house and startled into hiding when she arrived.
Creeping forward, she edged toward the closet, quieting her footsteps best she could as another rustle sounded along with a soft, higher pitched sound. A woman- and that infuriated her even further… that a woman could have watched those beasts savage the elf lying dead beneath her feet and stayed behind to scavenge the house.
She ceased hiding her movements and stomped forward, flinging the closet door open and demanding, "Show yourself!"
But when she peered into the darkness, she wished for a single moment against every fiber of her being that screamed otherwise, that she'd not investigated the noise. Because what stared back was a hauntingly familiar green and it meant that her life had once again uncontrollably flung into a new direction. It wasn't the ring or the armor or the collar Varania had begged Hawke to take to Fenris…
It was her son.
Varania's baffling betrayal of her brother made sense now in a heart wrenching way it never had before. The child was probably only three years of age, likely an infant when the elf made the long journey to Kirkwall with the wretch who'd failed in his attempt to recapture his fleeing property. Varania had accepted Danarius' offer and assisted the slavers searching for Hawke in hopes of securing a better future for her child, and she'd had to relinquish that task to a woman she'd freshly betrayed. Maker, had she ever known anything other than tragedy and the sick twist of fate?
The elf cowered in the closet, green eyes peering out at her fearfully as he hid behind scanty robes, lingerie, and several boxes. She heard a sniffle, a whimper, and her heart broke just a little as she realized what she had to do.
She crouched down and extended her hand, beckoning softly, "You need to come with me, sweetheart. We need to get out of here."
He babbled something to her but even through his thick juvenile affectation, she recognized it as Arcanum. She cursed mentally, of course the child wouldn't speak Common- he hadn't even mastered his native tongue yet. Tobias supplied a quick translation, "He wants to stay with his mother." When she made no move to rise from the floor, he added, "Hawke, you have no legal right to keep him, we cannot bring him with us."
"And what will happen to him? His only living relative is an escaped slave living in the Free Marches. Fenris can't exactly come claim him."
Tobias with his infuriating poker face simply asked, "An escaped slave? Please elaborate."
She sighed, feeling wearier with each passing second, and quickly explained, "He was experimented on by a magister- implanted with lyrium. He used the boon he won in a competition for it to free his family."
"She was freed by…" Tobias paused as if considering his words before continuing, tilting his head slightly as he thought. "If he escaped then your friend reneged on a life-debt, Hawke. I do not think you understand exactly what that means."
Keeping her eyes on the boy meant she could not roll her eyes as much as she desperately wanted to. "He was already a slave," she expounded minimally, "he simply used the boon to free his family."
The apathetic voice responded with a bored-sounding, "If he won the boon, then your friend broke the terms of the contract when he ran- only death can legally break the bond. The boon would have been legally nullified. His sister would have been bound back into slavery."
"But Fenris… he said that she was a tailor," she stuttered as the horror of his monotone words settled over her and ripped her gaze away from the cowering child to regard the priest directly. "They'd been writing for months."
"She may have been," Tobias shrugged as if to agree that was a distinct possibility. "This magister may have waited to enforce the repealing."
She didn't have to ask why… not with the child huddled in the closet, crying softly at watching her anxiously. Danarius had waited until Varania had something she could not bear to lose. It had been why she'd resorted to blood magic today and not before. She'd said it herself, hadn't she?
"My brother surrendered his life for my family…" her voice replayed in her mind; and when Fenris decided to take it back, her freedom was the forfeit. Hawke suddenly wished Dararius' death had been much slower and much, much more painful- something with needles and sharp wire… something like Maison, though she knew Maison would have never taken Danarius, the corrupt magister had nothing the mad Templar wanted.
"So she was in the brothel…" she mumbled before she trailed off, unable to finished vocalizing her turbulent thoughts.
"Hiding," Tobias finished succinctly. "I have heard of her, the Brothers would sometimes come to conduct services with her. The prostitute you came to the Chantry with arranged it, told them she was a shut-in. This makes more sense."
"So what will happen to him?" she asked dumbly as she gestured back to the cowering boy, her mouth going unusually dry.
"Until this becomes known, the Guard will turn him over to the alienage orphanage. Then he will likely end up a slave to remunerate his uncle's debt."
She rose to her feet, outraged that a priest could speak about this so dispassionately and spat, "But it isn't his debt to pay!"
"No, but his uncle's boon paid for his mother's release. When your friend broke his bond, the boon would have been retracted," he explained again as though this was the easiest and most obvious concept in the world. "Unless Danarius declared his wishes otherwise, possession of them would have been folded into his estate. She and all her offspring would legally be his property."
Something clicked in her mind when he spoke, leaving her to wonder exactly what it was that triggered it until her train of thought was interrupted by an exceptionally loud sniffle from the elf. She ignored Tobias once more and returned to the floor on her knees to again establish eye-contact with the child, ducking forward to lean on one hand as she extended her arm further toward him. "Your mother is gone. It isn't safe here. You need to come with me," she whispered gently, daring to inch slowly nearer the closet.
Tobias dutifully translated and fat tears began streaming down the child's face as he choked on his anguish. Without a second thought, she pushed forward and entered the elf's unsafe haven and embraced him; he struggled for only a moment before caving into her arms, howling his grief against Hawke's chest as he cried with wretched childish abandon, clutching at her breast as he sobbed uncontrollably. She stroked his dark hair and whispered soft reassurances into his pointed ears that she hoped would register at least in tone to the boy she could not hope to communicate with directly.
Tobias made no attempt to translate, understanding somehow that the words she offered were essentially insignificant- it was only the expression behind them that could hope to mean anything. It was with an inhuman exhaustion that the boy wrapped his arms around Hawke's neck and allowed her to lift him from the dirty floor and prop him against her hip. He cuddled his face into her neck, sniffling loudly into her ear and burying his face into her hair.
"It's going to be okay," she vowed into his ear. "I'll protect you."
Those words Tobias translated; and the boy stifled his crying only a little as he messily wiped his nose onto her tunic. Then he added to her, "If you are determined to do this, we should return to the Chantry immediately. Guards will come and you clearly have no blood-claim on him. Once they learn about this Fenris, you will cede any control over his fate."
She nodded her agreement and they descended the stair into the main house. She pulled the boy's face against her neck as they passed Varania's still body, absently humming half-remembered lullabies from Ferelden, praying that he'd remember his mother as she was and never, ever in the horrible manner she had ended.
She rapidly exited the hovel but was shocked into stillness when a lone man, garbed in the same black and buckles that adorned her frame, quickly rounded the corner and stared hatefully at her. She recognized the man, he'd been on The Bloodied Bandit. Great, as if this wretched night hadn't been long enough already, now she had someone else with a grudge who wanted a piece of her.
"Shit," she glowered and clutched Varania's son closer. Apparently, the slaves' uprising hadn't seen all their captors dead. At least now she knew to whom Varania had betrayed her.
The single slaver brandished a long knife and demanded, "Hand him over, Lydia."
He'd called her Lydia, she realized to no little satisfaction. So Varania had not sold out Hawke's identity, had not betrayed the human to the Chantry. She'd neglected to tell the slavers who she really was. Perhaps she'd even done so in hopes that they'd be inadequately prepared to face her, though the elf couldn't rightly tell her now; and this man, she realized with a cock of her lip, was undoubtedly one of the monsters that had seen to that.
As righteous anger for Varania's fate set in, she once more felt uncertainties, many tied to the child currently cocked onto her hip, melt away. It didn't matter if he wanted a piece of her. She wanted a piece of him, too.
Adjusting the elf's weight against her side, she regarded the slaver- James, if she recalled correctly- and let an impertinent sneer grace her mouth. "Why aren't you dead?" she queried in a mockingly irritated voice as if she were asking him to mind his manners. There was no sense in pretending once more to be weak or helpless. This bastard clearly already knew that wasn't the case.
"The Bloodied Bandit had dozens of places to hide. You didn't clean up that ship as well as you thought," he taunted her before adding, "And I'm not the only one who made it out."
She smirked. "You mean I'm not finished killing you all? Well goody, goody for me- I was beginning to find Minrathous rather dull."
James raised his blade and regarded her steadily. "That elven whore sold you out to get out of paying for her protection and her whore son won't be missed. Hand him over and I may let you try and convince me to tell White that I killed you here."
Protection- the crew of The Bloodied Bandit and possibly countless others had collectively blackmailed Varania into silence and poverty. That thought alone made the corners of her eyes go red with rage. Her son was merely another hunk of flesh to barter, young and innocent and malleable to suggestion. There was absolutely no way that Hawke would even consider giving him up when his fate was so clearly laid out for him. Then the lewd promise of sexual favors, which prompted dozens of colorful insults-mostly hinting at James' inability to satisfy a woman- saw those barbs immediately decimated by the mere mention of White.
Shit. Shit, shit, and double shit.
So many bodies had been hurled into the ocean- how was she to know if a few corpses went missing? Despite her dislike for death in general, Hawke really liked dead bodies, liked the unequivocal knowledge that her foes had been defeated, liked seeing the flies touch their strange dance over corpses and telling her that the bad men would never trouble her again. But that bloody morning it had been nearly impossible to properly identify and tally the bodies; and her exhilaration at overthrowing Rajun clearly made her careless. She knew that son of a bitch White wanted a bite of her ass and now apparently he was in a position to take one- that position being, simply and tragically, 'Undeceased.' Damn it all, White needed to be much, much deader than he currently was or he stood the chance to make himself much, much more annoying… if that was even possible.
"Well, I'd be loath to let you go off lying to White, upstanding gentleman that he is," she offered instead, shifting the elf into her right arm until she'd freed her left to raise in the slaver's direction, summoning the elements of the sky's fury to manifest there. "So how about you pick up that cute little rapier of yours like a big boy and I'll demonstrate some of the less erotic usages of electricity?"
Before she could finish, Tobias materialized from the shadows behind James and coldly stated, "Avoid open conflict, Hawke," before violently wrenching the slaver's skull to the side until the scoundrel collapsed to the ground with a series of loud cracks.
The lightning in her hand dissipated in a flash of blue light, crackling its unused energy into the surrounding air and standing her short hairs on end. The child squealed and buried his head against her shoulder once more, leaving her to feel the slight shiver of his body as he began to shake and sniffle again, likely in similar suffering. Her jaw dropped as she gaped stupidly at Tobias… what kind of priest was this that could so casually extinguish a life? She recalled Sebastian always recited the Chant after he'd dispatched a group of enemies. She'd tutored herself to recognize the movement of his lips in prayer and summarily gave him peace as he struggled against his morals; Tobias on the other hand was entirely silent and still- a seemingly normal condition for him but wholly unsettling now that she truly noticed it.
She found herself seriously contemplating this priest with whom Aurelius had saddled her. Was this hollow, dispassionate man even a priest at all, she mused, or was he a glorified Chantry bodyguard? He'd never stated his occupation to her- she'd merely assumed it- but now that she thought about it, Tobias hadn't uttered much of anything to her. She'd darted into battle at the behest of stranger with another stranger assigned to her by yet a third stranger. Maker, she was getting downright sloppy. There was little wonder as to why White wasn't yet dead.
"We should return to the Chantry quickly. Others may come," he told her forthright in his matter-of-fact manner that burgeoned no place for arguments.
Wherever it came from, she simply couldn't fault his logic and nodded her agreement as they hurried from the undercity and into the upper district. No bandits or criminals interrupted their journey and though she swore she saw them now lingering in the shadows they made no move to attack them. She found herself wondering, again, about the man who escorted her.
Their reentrance into the Chantry was met with quiet. Two Templars permitted their entrance; two more permitted them into the inner-chambers.
It was there that Aurelius met them, asking quietly, "Varania?"
"Dead," replied Tobias woodenly. "Murdered by the slavers to whom she betrayed Hawke."
The Black Divine regarded her and the child in her arms and questioned, "And this?"
"Varania's son. Hawke insisted she keep him. His uncle is an escaped slave and a friend of hers. He and Varania, it appears, were destined for slavery as well."
She ignored the mention of friendship and pulled the boy still sniffling softly between his dreams closer, stating simply, "He is not a slave… and he will not become one."
Aurelius gave her a long, heavy look. It told her a thousand things. It told her that the boy in her arms was indeed a slave. It told her that the Chantry was powerless to preserve him. It told her that he was disgusted, dismayed, and disheartened at the world he lived in. In a single glance, the Black Divine revealed the flaccidity of his hold on the politics of Minrathous.
Then he said, "If you leave him here and it is within my power to help him, Marian, I swear to you that I will help him."
But it was not within his power and his careful qualifiers guaranteed that she knew it. "That is not good enough," she asserted respectfully, acknowledging the candor the man before her had displayed entirely for her benefit.
Aurelius bowed his head, seeming to think heavily as the weight of the moment settled over him for the sake of those around them. Then he replied evenly, "I will see you and the boy out of Tevinter. I will explore more permanent solutions but I promise now that I will see you both gone."
It was a beguiling promise, a blessed escape… but what then? Was there a second act to this play? So she asked, "And will slavers come after him?"
"If he is legally a slave then they will," he replied with a blessed frankness. "Today they will. Tomorrow they will also: as well as next week, month, and year. If he is legal property in Tevinter, you must assume that someone will always come looking- debt is a cheap commodity to purchase and a child seems easy enough to collect," he conceded gently. Before she managed a fraction of the spin required to turn her away, he placed his hand on her shoulder, beseeching, "Give me a week, Marian, to extend my influence. You may be surprised how far I can reach."
"Will a week render you able to protect him?" she snapped as he turned to leave.
"I am only one between the two of us who can even think to try," he answered once more, twinkling his dark eyes over his shoulder like a debutante and not the head of an entire religion, "and I am also in the better position to do so."
A horribly familiar sensation settled into her chest, mistrust and paranoia, compressing her heart and lungs alike in dismal discontent as she questioned, "And what is it that you want in exchange?"
"Pardon?" he asked stupidly, turning back to give her a look of confused inquisitiveness.
"There is always a price that must be paid," she muttered. "So what do you want, Aurelius? Gold? Treasure? Sex? Slaves? What is it you're after?"
"I have gold and this place is full of valuable treasure; and if I wanted sex or slaves, I could take my pick. I want a week, Marian," he answered calmly before taking a few hesitant steps forward, "to see if there is anything I can do to help you."
Her arm was aching from carrying the boy for so long and the weight of the day was crashing down onto her shoulders. "Why are you helping me?"
"Because helping you helps countless others and because helping others is what the Chant tells us to do," he answered simply. With a sage nod of the Divine's head, he quietly bade the Templars to escort her to the women's quarters.
In all her years, there were only a few times where Marian felt that a lack of sleep would actually be the death of her. After she'd killed Anders was one, when the nightmares were so bad she'd lay awake in the dark, terrified at the prospect that sleep could claim her. When Mother died had been another, night terrors again that kept her awake despite the Fade's attempts to embrace her. Tonight, it was just the result of a day gone overlong, a day that had pulled her in quite nearly every direction she thought she could go.
The dormitory was quiet. In the dim light, she could make out several unoccupied beds. Selecting the nearest one, she eased back the sheets and placed Varania's son between them, smiling when he began mumbling Arcanum and gibberish as he settled back into a deep sleep. Her hand almost unconsciously brushed his dark hair away from his face as she contemplated what on earth she was supposed to do with him. She was used to mothering mages, not children. And hadn't she decided before Wycome that the last thing she needed was to be saddled with a child when the war was blazing across Thedas?
And then in Wycome… little Delia. The ordeal with Gerard Maison was far from over, she knew, feeling his mark itch ever so slightly. The psychological effects still haunted her, throwing her into fits of rage when demons would scream into her mind until Hoppers quieted them; and Hoppers, neither demon nor spirit but a single voice speaking directly into her mind from a simple metal button. Perhaps he was a ghost from one of Maison's victims. Perhaps the button was some kind of arcane artifact possessed by a benign spirit. Perhaps she was simply going mad- she had to at least consider the possibility. It was becoming increasingly harder to tell but the final seemed the most likely or at least the most logical.
But one thing was certain- one day, sooner or later, Marian Hawke and Gerard Maison were going to meet again. He'd find her and finish what he started or she'd find him and end it once and for all. She wasn't like Fenris, if the tiger was hunting her, she'd damn well be hunting it, too. She wouldn't wait forever for Maison to find her, wouldn't sit back and form attachments to people that Maison would cut through just to get at her…
Oh.
… those three years apart suddenly made a little more sense.
She looked at the boy again. This wasn't anything like what happened between her and Fenris in Kirkwall. She couldn't walk away just to keep him and subsequently herself safe- but keeping the kid still felt tantamount to strapping a bullseye onto his back. She had to find a way to get him back to Fenris and that in itself presented a whole myriad of other problems. Starkhaven was a half continent away, home of one of the last standing Circles in Thedas, and ruled by a priest that wanted her head on a platter. After the prince swore his vengeance upon her, she and Carver along with Isabela and Varric managed to dig up a heaping load of Sebastian's past- debauchery, indeed, was a bit of an understatement- but was loath to use it unless there was no other choice; there was no guarantee that it would work- Sebastian had actually been rather forthcoming about his past, just not the sheer extent of it- and if it failed she knew it would backfire stupendously.
So the mere idea of heading into Starkhaven was problematic at its very core. That neglected to even factor in Fenris' possible responses to her presence, the news of his sister's death, and his nephew to boot- if he even believed her; but she knew that if a strange child just materialized on his doorstep with a note pinned to his shirt, Fenris would be even more suspicious. She shook her head in frustration as she recalled Aurelius' assurance that the elf would be hunted. She simply couldn't risk handing him off with a note and a pat on the head to some random mercenary.
"He is cute," a feminine voice whispered beside her, shocking Hawke away from her thoughts. "What's his name?"
Marian began to answer before realizing stupidly, "I don't know it." Maker, she didn't even know his name. She didn't even know how to ask it. There was a whole new challenge she'd have to tackle.
"These things often look better in the morning, serah. Sunlight and a few hours' sleep can solve worlds of problems. Get some rest," the sister beckoned quietly as she gestured to the vacant bed beside the boy. "He's sleeping fine. He's safe here."
It was hard to argue with the sister, especially when she'd spoken similar words to her companions during her tenure in Kirkwall. With a final glance to assure the elf was tucked snugly into bed, she quickly turned her back and peeled off the slaver's garb before donning the modest nightgown the Sister silently presented her. Evenings in Minrathous were much cooler than the days but the leather still stuck to her skin by a thin layer of perspiration. Grateful that at least she didn't reek of sweat, she uttered her thanks to the sister and claimed a mattress for herself. The moment her head hit the soft pillow, she felt the day's trials drag her down into the Fade's open embrace where she fell, happily shucking the cumbersome burdens she's assumed in the last twelve hours.
There she lay for nearly a half day, only once waking blearily in the still-dark morning to find the elf crawling into bed with her. The blue moonlight streaming through the windows revealed the tracks of tears over his cheeks and her heart panged at the memory of the terrible night she'd lost her own mother. Deciding immediately that this was a battle she neither cared to fight or win, she'd pulled him closer as she and her ex-lover's newly orphaned nameless nephew drowsed off into the Fade again.
Author's Notes: Hiya! Thanks as always to my fantastic betas, Buried_Beneath and AmericanCorvus, who keep my butt all grammatically correct and stuff as well as give me an excuse to search for and post dozens of adorable animal photos on my twitter as a means of emotional blackmail.
And (shameless plug) if you aren't reading it, go check out Choices and give AmericanCorvus some love.
As always, thanks to everyone who reads and reviews. You guys are awesome and you make me super happy. And again, thanks for your support and continued patience while I get post-surgery me back into the swing of things.
Also, as many of you have noticed, I've had to edit some of the chapters down on ffnet due to their recent crackdown on their policies. Any chapters that have been edited will have a header indicating as much but the full chapters can now be found on my tumblr account, omnomanon dot tumblr dot com (I even put a little category for Nemesis on the side panel so you wouldn't have to search through zillions of Fenris posts.)