Nemesis
Chapter 12- Church and State
"The Senate is full of spoiled, posh children fighting about which settlement the Qunari will strike next when they are not busying themselves with murdering each other in their beds."
Aurelius
It was late the next morning before Hawke arose to sunlight blazing in through the open stained-glass windows and the sounds of chirping filtering through the breeze; the windows must have served as a perch for birds- good. That would come in handy. It must have been nearing noon- midnight excursions always invited a bit of a lie in and she was all too happy to indulge herself after a long day. After everything that had happened last night…
That was when she realized that she'd awakened alone. The boy was nowhere to be seen.
Great, apparently the elf took after Fenris. Fantastic.
Then uncertainty hit her, melting her bemusement away in a rush of adrenaline. Darting up, she searched the empty dormitory for the elf and her clothes and found them both missing. Suddenly disquieted, she began to fear what could have happened. A flurry of curses tumbled from her lips, spewing forth her venomous anger. Where had they taken the boy? She'd never had to be responsible for an innocent life before and the task settled a heavy weight over her heart. What recklessness had brought her back to the Black Chantry, back to the source of this blasted infection?
"Serah, good afternoon!" chirped a painfully cheery voice, laced thickly with the Tevinter accent. She spun and saw an older woman, perhaps a decade beyond her, with light blonde curls and a wide, white grin. Briefly, Hawke wondered if the curls were natural.
She set her jaw and shook that capricious thought loose, reminding herself that sometimes beautiful flowers can be the most poisonous. "Who are you?" Hawke demanded quickly, sickly feeling that it was incredibly foolish to have returned here. She should have incapacitated Tobias and ran with the boy when she had the chance.
The woman took a few, cautious steps forward over the beautiful marble floor. "Damas, if you would calm yourself…"
"Where is Varania's son?" She growled before she stalked toward the woman with no little mayhem on her mind, "And where are my damned clothes?!"
"Your clothes were filthy, serah, blood and sweat all over them," the woman pleaded softly as she took several steps back with her palms raised in weak surrender. "We took them to be cleaned. The Imperial Divine ensured you'd have clothing in the meantime." She gestured to a neat pile of pastel clothing resting benignly beneath a white flower at the foot of the bed she'd just fled. "We're fairly monochromatic here but we found something bright in our storerooms. If the colors are not to your liking, I can send to the market for others. The Divine has stated that he wants you to feel comfortable. And your sweet Owen is in the courtyard."
"Owen?" she asked stupidly.
The sister cocked her head curiously. "He's the boy you brought here last night- the elf, damas. He was quite taken with the cosmos blossoms." She smiled benignly and gestured to flower resting on her intended clothing and added, "He picked that one specially for you. I think he's been eager for you to wake- speaks to no one other than Lothri."
With an infinite resignation, she reached down and plucked up the single flower resting over her intended garments and examined it. It was a simple, beautiful thing, white with bright red peppering the edges that reminded her suddenly of an innocence poisoned with blood- a fitting tribute to the circumstances that had brought this child into her care. While it likely wasn't a deliberate symbol, it remained a meaningful one nevertheless.
She took a few deep breaths and felt her pulse begin to slow back into its normal pace. This Owen was safe with Lothri. The boy faced no impending peril and she could regard her foes as once more as equals. "I want to see him," she whispered.
"Of course," the sister responded kindly. "Once you've dressed I'll take you directly to him. He likely shouldn't see you traipsing about in a nightgown."
Hawke nodded her assent before turning her back to strip off the light sleepwear she'd been provided with. Donning the robes, she found them unacceptably peach and frilly. The robes themselves were a simple reinforced gossamer peppered with accents of blue and purple. There were slits going up the skirt that would permit movement and still preserve a bit of her modesty, which was fortunate since whoever fashioned this garment decided the low-cut bosom and the gapes in the fabric that exposed her arms and shoulders would compromise it adequately enough. This was not a garment for a warrior or a mage, it was a garment better suited for an elaborate interpretive dancer.
Her completely discontent, affronted gaze captured the attention of her handler, who murmured that she would head to the market to look for something more suitable before leading her to the courtyard and making her quick escape, leaving the once revered Champion of Kirkwall trussed up as little more than a beautiful, stuffed hen. Everything shifted like an unwieldy ocean of fabric beneath her as she stumbled out of the dormitory and into the courtyard.
But when the late afternoon sunshine- apparently it was much later than she'd thought- hit her face and the warm, dry air blasted over her as the sun gifted its fierce kiss, she began to see the practicality of wearing something so utterly revealing in the North. Her slaver's garb of oppressive buckles and overly heavy leather left her feeling unbearably hot but she'd forced herself to power through it. As much as she hated to admit it, the act of stripping that hated armor off her body the night prior brought her a level of relief completely unrelated to the cool breeze chilling the sweat on her body. The feelings that accompanied Rajun's present had hung over her, all guilt and hot, heavy leather and she'd been eager to rid herself of it.
This on the other hand was the closest she'd ever felt to strutting about naked in public and she had to admit that it felt incredible in the face of Tevinter's wretched heat. Its winter heat, she noted ruefully, this is Tevinter's version of winter. Summer must have felt like jumping directly into a furnace.
She entered the courtyard and was momentarily dumbstruck by the scenery. A world away in Ferelden snow would have already smothered the earth from the sun and the fields would drowse, silent and frozen, until spring; here the Black Chantry's garden was simply breathtaking. Flowers that had no right to spring forth in winter happily blossomed around her. Then she saw Lothri crouched before Owen, who sat uninspired by the magnificent setting and staring dolefully at the green grass. Lothri caught sight of her, bowing his head sadly for a moment.
Good, someone had informed him about Varania already. Thank the Maker that responsibility wouldn't fall on her as well.
With a solid pat on the young elf's head, Lothri crossed over. "He heared everything," he whispered. "He know."
Bowing her head, she dared to ask, "Is he your son?"
It was a logical conclusion; even though Lothri did not mention the boy in his desperate plea for her assistance, he displayed a steadfast and unshakable devotion to Varania that was more than simple friendship. While she wholly understood that Owen might in fact be better off with his father, she couldn't discount the idea that Owen was a motherless elf in Tevinter living under the imminent threat of enslavement nor Varania's plea that she take him to Fenris.
Lothri, however, alleviated a few of her concerns when he shook his head quickly. "No, I never knowed Owen's father. Danarius kill him. I keep Varania." He reached out and grasped her hands, pleading for her understanding with the simple words, "Varania was a good woman."
A heavy sigh escaped her as her thoughts flittered once more to the dead woman shackled to her kitchen table, a widow raising a baby on her own, bartering her flesh to pay the slavers' blackmail while she and her son lived in what most would consider sub-poverty beneath the city of Minrathous itself. Hawke buried her face in her hands for a moment. Why the Blight hadn't she just asked for help?
She met Lothri's eyes before lowering her gaze once more. It didn't matter that she'd eventually gone to help, what mattered was that she just like so many others, had turned away from the distressed mother- passers-by, Tevinters, clients at the brothel. Varania existed only when something was needed of her and dissipated into the ether the moment those needs had been satisfied. Hawke's burning question unexpectedly answered itself with one of its own kind. Why hadn't she asked for help? Maker, why would she?
She shook her head as she tried to pick out a single blade of grass on the immaculate turf, whispering dumbly, "I tried to save her," when she couldn't find one.
"I know," Lothri admitted gently, taking her bare shoulder and giving it a reassuring squeeze. "Varania was afraid."
"I wanted to help her." She cursed the quavering in her voice, futilely trying to force back those watery notes as she insisted, "I would have helped her if she'd only asked me."
"You take Owen from Tevinter." His voice cracked and he dissolved into tears, falling forward into her and burying his face into her neck. "Please take him."
Her eyes were starting to water, damn it all, as she fervently insisted, "I can take you too, Lothri. We can go together."
He pushed himself away from her, struggling for his composure as he absently wiped his nose. "Sorry. This day is… very hard." He sighed and nodded to himself several times as though reassuring himself that somehow, one day this nightmare would fade. Meeting her gaze again, he answered, "I have sons. He need me. Promise you take Owen."
"I will," she assured him with a gentle squeeze of his lithe hands.
"I stay here with him until you go. He know me a little."
"What will you do?" she asked quietly.
"I protect my sons. Like Varania. Like you protect Owen." He offered his arm in a gentlemanly fashion. She took it as he led her to the stone bench that Owen sat upon, feet dangling well above the ground and kicking into the air absently.
She hadn't gotten a good look at him the night before, so much had been going on and it had been so dark, but now she finally had the opportunity to really look at Owen. He had the same startling green eyes, red rimmed and bloodshot from crying, as Fenris and Varania shared but his fair coloring must have come exclusively from his own parents. His hair was a shock of dark brown against his pale skin and so thick it nearly obscured the length of his ears; the urge to reach out and touch it was hard to resist. With the exception of his dark hair, Owen was undeniably the spitting image of his dead mother.
Crouching before him in a mimicry of the very position she'd assumed when she abducted him, she waited several minutes for him to acknowledge her before realizing she'd have to make the first move. Dozens of questions leaped to her tongue as she wondered where on earth she should even begin. Names, she decided. It would probably be best if they at least introduced themselves.
"So… you're Owen?" she asked with a gentle point, feeling already like this conversation had hit some base level she'd never considered before. He looked up at her with impossibly huge green eyes before he nodded slowly. Gesturing to herself, she smiled, "I'm Marian, Marian Hawke. You may call me Marian if you would like."
"Marian," he hesitantly parroted back. Although his youthful tongue saw the R pronounced a bit softly, she still felt this was good progress.
She nodded her approval and continued, "I'm going to be taking care of you for a while."
Owen looked at her strangely as the words failed to register as anything coherent or meaningful. Hawke swallowed her frustration. Her experience with children was minimal to start- the occasional colicky baby, flus and measles and the like- she was used to seeing children that shared a common tongue with her when they were at their most ill. She had no idea exactly what a perfectly healthy human boy should act like and elven children were even rarer in the Darktown clinic, their parents usually preferring to seek treatment within the Alienage. This was shaping up to be quite the undertaking. If Lothri could be convinced to accompany them, she'd at least have a translator of sorts but he had his own obligations in Minrathous and she didn't see him as the type that would abandon them.
Lothri murmured something to the boy and he nodded, replying softly. "He hungry," the elf translated, groaning for a second as he struggled to shift the words from Arcanum into Common. "Will you… come with to go get food?"
She smiled at the clumsy sentence and replied to the boy, "Of course I'll have some food with you. I haven't yet had breakfast myself." At Owen's curious stare, she simplified the sentence. "Yes. We will eat together," she amended with a nod and the appropriate accompanying hand gestures.
A sister approached then, thankfully not the one she'd been so rude to earlier, and introduced herself as Ereis before she led the three to a small kitchen where she began haphazardly banging a few pots together. Hawke dismissed the woman summarily and invited her to sit as well, deciding that if she were going to be the boy's guardian now was as good a time as any to start. "Is there anything you dislike eating, Owen?" she asked as she took a quick assessment of the larder.
Lothri's translation and the boy's subsequent response earned a small shriek from Ereis. "He no like... ahhh, what is word?"
"Rat," Ereis answered with a shudder. "He does not like eating rat."
"Rat?" Marian answered with no little revulsion, unable to suppress the disgusted "Ewwww," that followed.
She'd eaten rat only a few times during those first hungry, sweaty days in Kirkwall, mostly as an act of solidarity for her family and Aveline before Gamlen found them- personally she found starvation to be quite preferable and found the meat foul and chewy in all the places it wasn't cold and greasy. Carver had quipped that it tasted a bit like chicken and she verbally agreed even though her stomach threatened to eject it with every movement she made. There was no telling if he'd been uncharacteristically affecting an artificial cheerfulness to bolster Mother's morale or if he'd found the vermin to be genuinely tasty… she'd regretfully never asked for his actual thoughts on the subject but none of them ever ate the meat again, which figured that was indicator enough.
"Rat. Ewwwww," the boy repeated in a serious emphasis. It was more inflection than she'd heard him produce thus far. At least they had something they could agree upon- slavers were bad, Minrathous was terrible, and eating rat was disgusting.
"No rat," she told the boy with a great shake of her head. Nothing could suppress the twinge of victory when the boy mimicked her in serious agreement. "I can work with that."
She quickly familiarized herself with the kitchen as Lothri and Owen chatted quietly while Ereis, having a higher mastery of Common, translated any questions Owen might have for her. He asked a few innocuous questions, where she was from, if she liked oranges, what was her favorite color, but deliberately avoided anything serious while she busied herself with chopping a few vegetables before throwing them unceremoniously into a pan. Throughout it all, she was very aware of Owen's careful gaze tracking her movement even while he spoke with Lothri.
She met his stare a few times and he'd dart his eyes elsewhere as though he was unsure how he felt about being noticed by her. As soon as she looked away, however, she felt his eyes boring into her again. It was curious the way he struggled to avoid eye contact with her or Ereis but distrust of humans, she figured, was something that he'd learned. It made sense, given his exposure to them must have been limited to slavers and his mother's clients. Apparently, Owen was also uncertain about this path he was set to go down. It was a new thing they had in common, she decided as she checked the doneness of the chicken and found it to be satisfactory.
No one had ever accused her of being a master chef; in fact she actually managed to cultivate a rather notorious reputation with her friends in Kirkwall for being extremely inept at it after her first disastrous attempt at cooking over a campfire. In her defense the meat had looked done but that, sadly, was the only similarity it held to edible food. She was so tickled at the unexpected boon of being asked to never cook again that she just never bothered to inform them that she wasn't a complete catastrophe in a proper kitchen.
This, fortunately, was a proper kitchen and a well-stocked one to boot so it took a blessedly short amount of time to craft a late lunch for the group of them. Owen ate with such voracity that Hawke was certain he hadn't tasted even a bite of it. Lothri's attempts to slow him fell on suddenly deaf ears. Maker, it was like he'd never had a decent meal before. For all that she'd seen of Varania's pantry that very well could have been the case. Elves were usually quite lithe to start but she was starting to suspect the boy was a little thinner than he should have been.
As it stood, given the rate Owen had inhaled his food, Hawke weighed the odds of the boy vomiting in the next ten minutes but before the healer in her could get too concerned Ereis interrupted the post-meal quiet. "The Divine would like to meet with you today whenever you have the chance. He understands these circumstances might have you a bit preoccupied."
"Go," Lothri assured her before she could think to argue. "We be fine. I watch."
Armed with that small assurance, she allowed Ereis to lead her from the kitchen, through the opulent chapel, and then finally to the huge guarded door that would lead her into the Spire. The sister's task completed, she gestured the mage ahead and one of the Templars opened the heavy door to permit her entrance, flanking her as she made her way within. Taking a deep breath, she began ascending the steep, winding staircase that would lead her into Aurelius' office. The presence of her escort discouraged the notion of exploring the various doorways that peppered the path… but Maker it was tempting.
Once they reached the office at the top of the Spire, the Templar gestured her inside and stood sentry on the other side of the door. Apparently, she still wasn't entirely trusted- no small shock there. It would have been madness if the Imperial Divine had somehow decided that she was completely trustworthy given everything he knew about her. Aurelius sat at his desk, a pair of spectacles perched carefully upon his small nose and an elegant quill scribbling furiously over numerous pieces of parchment.
For several moments, he gave no acknowledgement of her presence other than a quick, "Take a seat, I'll be with you shortly."
As she seated herself she noticed that the office was cooler than reason dictated it should have been. It was slightly disconcerting considering how blasted hot she knew it was outside, Tevinter's winter warmth easily dwarfing Kirkwall's midsummer heat which had left her all but melted. There must have been some magic at play to create this sort of comfortable environment. Before she could dwell much more on it, the Imperial Divine gave a sort hum and placed his quill into an inkwell.
"Would you like some tea?" he asked finally, removing his spectacles with a tired rubbing of his eyes. He was already rising to busy himself with a small kettle before she could reply.
She did not know where to begin. The Charta Maleficai, Owen, her father- they were all things she wanted to address- but she when she thought back on last night, she found there was one question she felt a more urgent need to address. "Tobias is no priest," she declared quietly to the Imperial Divine.
"You are correct," he admitted. "Tobias is one of our scholars."
"Hmmm, I didn't think the proper techniques for breaking someone's neck was something you people had a need to study," she mused suspiciously, wondering not for the first time what sort of lot she had fallen with.
"He had that particular skill set when he came to us," he chuckled as he measured out the leaves and set them into two delicate teacups. "I know already what happened with the slaver last night. As I'm sure you noticed it can be extremely helpful when he is threatened."
"James was not threatening Tobias," she replied. While she was by no means upset by his death, she was still more than a little disturbed by the scholar's cold-blooded execution, especially its effect on Owen; the boy had experienced enough death.
"No, this James was threatening you and the small child clutched in your arms. I gave Tobias orders to protect you, which is exactly what he did." Aurelius brought the kettle and held it before her. "Would you mind? Seems rude to send Chora all the way down to the kitchens."
"You didn't see it," Hawke asserted before tapping her finger once against the copper. The small blast of heat she pushed into it set it to an immediate low whistling. "There was nothing behind him. It wasn't even brutal." She struggled with her words for a moment, strange considering how articulate she usually was. "He was just… empty."
"Empty, perhaps- there is a raging debate on that very subject spreading through the various philosophers' guilds," Aurelius replied before turning to pour the steaming water into the empty cups and set the kettle on a decorative trivet. "I've never seen him kill before but am unsurprised you found his reaction to be rather dispassionate," he continued over his shoulder. "You must know that Tranquils have no ability to feel empathy. It is my understanding they are fairly common outside of Tevinter, surely you've seen them before."
Her jaw dropped as she took in his words. "Do you mean to say he's a Tranquil?"
Tobias seemed to have nothing but a sort of cold, unapologetic logic encompassing him, accompanied by his strangely unnatural cadence to his speech… she'd attributed it to his usage of the foreign tongue but if what the Black Divine was saying was the truth then the cause was much deeper. The singular focus she'd noticed from him, the odd detachment at Varania's murder, and his cold reason when it came to her abduction of Owen- it all made a little more sense now.
"Indeed." Aurelius brought the small tea tray over and set it upon his desk before assuming a seat beside her, forgoing his oppressive desk to shrug off his authority and regard her as a friend.
"Pardon me for saying that he doesn't appear to be very good at it." She shook her head in wonder. Tobias had been a mage- that made a small part of her heart ache for him. Like Anders, she considered the Rite of Tranquility to be nothing short of a death sentence. So that meant the man who had assisted her last night was a walking corpse, albeit an entirely different one than that which had replaced her friend and mentor.
"Tobias displays minor affectations and tone in his voice because he understands that the typical Tranquil flatness makes others uncomfortable," Aurelius explained patiently, seeming to understand this was a great deal to process. "He has deliberately chosen to alter the cadence of his speech- and if I may say has done a remarkable job of it."
"Can they even do that?" she asked in no little amount of confusion.
Aurelius shrugged and took one of the cups, lifting the steeping leaves from the drink and setting them into a small bowl before passing the saucer to her. "I've heard of them feigning laughter and sexual arousal at the behest of their handlers. There was even one in Val Royeaux several decades ago that starred in the opera as a soprano unmatched in either skill or discipline- it was the only way she would have been permitted to continue performing. Tranquils displaying even the slightest amount of autonomy are incredibly rare- there is little doubt of that- but it is not unheard of.
"What I mean to say is that Tobias is undeniably unique but not nearly so odd as you would think. But that is not why I asked you here." He removed the steeper from his own cup and took a gentle sip, focusing on it as he asked, "What I need to know, Marian, is what madness makes you think you want the Charta Maleficai?"
Madness. There was that word again.
This discussion was bound to happen sooner or later; she just hadn't been expecting it so abruptly after the rather startling revelation about Tobias. Then again, the sooner she got her hands on the book, the sooner she could take Owen and be gone from Minrathous and all its strange perversions permanently. "I imagine you have heard about what happened in Kirkwall- what happened to the Chantry there," she began hesitantly.
Aurelius took another sip and settled more deeply in the lush chair next to her and gave her a guileless yet rueful smile. "I daresay all of Thedas has. You yourself stand accused of assisting in it."
"I didn't know. I didn't know what he was planning," she groaned and took to her feet. The urge to pace overwhelmed her as she roughly set her teacup down and commenced to stalking the office like a caged animal. "The apostate who did it, Anders, was possessed by a spirit calling itself Justice," she continued rapidly, afraid that a stilled tongue would falter and stall. "I helped him gather the materials he used to create the bomb. He said he needed them for a ritual that could separate them." She felt a spasm in her throat but choked it back down with a quick sip of her tea, so hot she could barely taste it. "I apprenticed with him; he taught me everything I know about healing. I… I trusted him."
She leaned over the desk and stared into her cup, captivated momentarily by the white cranes and cherry blossoms etched into the porcelain, watching the remnants of tea leaves leave a dark swirl along the bottom. Dimly, the Divine's released sigh reached her ears along with the sad words, "Your trust was misplaced. There is no such ritual, Marian."
"I know that now. But before I fled Kirkwall, I raided his clinic and took everything he'd been studying. One of his books was actually about demon theory- I think he genuinely wanted to be free of Justice and was trying to make sense of everything that was happening to him. He kept circling references to the Charta Maleficai- and made notes that if there was a cure so to speak, he could find it there."
"At this point I think the best solution would be his death. I am truly sorry."
"I came to that conclusion as well." She shut her eyes and bowed her head before finally daring to speak the three words she'd never before had the ability to say aloud. "I killed him."
"I am sorry that task fell on you," Aurelius murmured before continuing, "but I am relieved the rumors…"
She cut him off. "It didn't work. It did not stop him…" She tried to say more but could only manage a strange choking sound as she tried to force the words around the lump in her throat.
Aurelius rose and hastened to his cabinet again, the same he'd produced the Aggregio from, and selected a smallish, clear bottle from its contents. Returning, he uncorked it and tipped its contents into her cup before adding a bit to his own. As if understanding his inherent mistrust, he took the first drink to demonstrate that it wasn't any sort of poison. With his concession, she threw caution to the wind and took a small sip as well, immediately recognizing the tincture as a calming drought, which evidenced its presence with its light licorice flavor clashing against the flavor if the drink and its near-instant balm on her jangled nerves.
Secure in the knowledge that this wasn't anything harmful, she downed the rest of her cocktail in a few deep swallows and waited a few moments for the potion to take its effect. Sure enough she felt her nerves ease within a few minutes. Fortunately he hadn't given her enough to have the less pleasant side effects of dizziness and inertia.
"Perhaps you should start at the beginning," Aurelius prompted after several moments of silence.
Bracing herself, she explained what had been happening- the constant running, the cells they'd lost to Anders, her brother's encounter with Enid, the cities she fled from chased by the Templars seeking to imprison her, the Wanted posters she couldn't even get close enough to deface, the ever climbing bounties on her and Carver's heads- so high that any display of trust had to have at least one accompanying escape route. The Imperial Divine said nothing during her heavy pregnant pauses, understanding that her disjointed, stumbling speech was the first time she'd ever spoken so candidly about the trials she'd endured since Kirkwall's Chantry exploded into blazing brimstone and rubble.
She left out her encounter with Gerard Maison. It was too soon for that. It was… the wound, though no longer bleeding was still too deep, too fresh, to expose.
"My brother and I figured if anything could expel Justice from his corpse and kill it once and for all, the Charta Maleficai would tell us," she finished with a heavy sigh as she collapsed back into her chair, feeling like some huge weight had finally been lifted from her.
Aurelius' face took on an expression of deep pensiveness before he took another sip of his tea and asked, "What do you know about the book exactly?"
"That it's the most complete study of demonology in existence. And that it's kept in the Imperial Chantry," she answered simply.
"It did not strike you as strange that such a text was kept under guard here rather than in the Circle of Mages?"
"We did find that a bit odd," she admitted lamely.
The Black Divine sat back in his chair, looking unusually old for a moment as he silently considered his next words. "That text came into existence as the creation of a cult that scourged the Imperium centuries ago. They held the belief that demons and spirits were the Maker's true children and that it was a mage's responsibility to host them. They did not observe demons, Marian- they worshipped them; and the Charta Maleficai was not a study- it was their scripture.
"The result was a tome written in the blood of sacrificed children so riddled with evil it can corrupt the very soul of anyone foolish enough to even open it. It was decided by the Archon Nomaran that it was too dangerous for mages to have access, which was why the Chantry endorsed him and why it is kept under guard here to this day."
"So I've come here for nothing." Everything she'd suffered, Wycome, the slavers, Tevinter, Varania's betrayal… it had been a pointless, unsuccessful quest for a book that would give them no answers.
"I did not say that," Aurelius interrupted her doleful unspoken monologue. "There is someone here who has read it; someone whose spirit cannot be corrupted and who cannot be possessed. You've just complained about him in fact."
"Tobias?"
"The one and the same," He functions within the Chantry as a scholar of forbidden texts. I cannot grant you access to the Charta, Hawke, but if there is any information within that could assist you, Tobias would know it."
"How could you place a Tranquil in such a position?" she spat, reeling at the implications of all he'd just said. "He cannot advocate for himself. He cannot say no…"
"Quite the contrary actually. After he underwent the Rite nine years ago he arrived here and asked to do it. We verified the Rite had been performed with the Antivan Chantry and conducted a few tests of our own to ensure that the Tranquility took. Once that was assured, we welcomed him into his desired post. If it reeks of evil, Hawke, he's the expert to consult," he finished.
"Why would he choose to study that?"
Aurelius pondered that question for a moment before tapping his chin and replying, "That is his story to tell. But I assure you that when I asked him that very question, his answer more than satisfied me."
She thought back to the man she'd seen last night wrenching James' neck, harboring more than a few dark suspicions that Tobias' story could be as terrible as it was interesting. The man had to be at least in his forties and if the Rite had been performed a scant decade ago that meant he likely had a lengthy history as an apostate before being faced with a Harrowing. If he chose Tranquility over a Harrowing
"When can I speak with him?" she inquired.
"After I've briefed him on what you hope to find. He is not permitted to speak about the contents of the Charta Maleficai without my approval," Aurelius replied before rising from his seat and shuffling back over to his desk to rustle through the papers he'd moments before been signing.
Seeing as the conversation was finished, she rose from her seat as well. "Are we done here?"
"There is one more thing," he interrupted her exit as he selected one of the papers he'd been reading and scrutinized it. "Marian, I've had some of my scribes do a bit of research and it appears there is a way for you to legally take the boy Owen out of Tevinter."
Excitement and hope bubbled inside her. Perhaps she could be out of this blasted country even sooner than she'd anticipated. She took a deep breath to calm herself- it was foolish to get overexcited before she knew the details. "How?" she asked coolly instead, grateful for the blasé air she'd managed to affect.
"There's a little known statute in Imperial law that permits…" he paused, weighing his words heavily as though he understood he was about to gravely offend her. "It's called 'adverse possession.' It means the Senate and the Chantry may seize private property and appropriate it for our own use in times of trouble. It was used heavily by us when we broke off from the Southern Chantry and during the slave Andraste's conquest but hasn't seen much use in recent past."
This confused her as she tried to wrap her mind around how something like that stood to help her. "I apologize but I don't quite understand what you're getting at." Did he mean to seize a few weapons so she could battle her way out of the city or was there some other method he was considering?
Aurelius took a deep breath. "Marian, as a slave Owen is technically property of the Danarius family. With the Archon's approval, I can take possession of him and turn him over to you."
She stifled down her deep hatred of the idea that slavery could reduce anyone to the same status she'd have given a table, that the orphaned elf she was protecting hadn't been abducted but rather stolen, and ground out, "And I can free him?"
He shook his head. "No, the law was written to specifically disallow that. But you'd be, temporarily at least, his designated minder. It is the best we can do."
"And how long is 'temporarily?'" she glowered suspiciously.
"Perhaps only long enough to get him out of the Imperium. If we wage a good enough argument with the Archon, perhaps you could control his ownership indefinitely." He rubbed his eyes again, leaving Hawke to wonder if the man had slept at all since she'd seen him last. "There is another catch, I fear."
"Of course there is," she groused and waited for the other shoe to drop.
"You'll need to join the ranks of the Imperial Chantry in order for me to assign his ownership to you." His blunt response inspired a flurry of fury within her.
"Join… you want me to join the Black Chantry?" She balked and rose from her seat, "Are you mad? You think I don't have enough crimes on my head? Now you want me to commit more treason against the Chantry? You want to give them another reason to see me hanged?"
"Think about it," he calmly reasoned with her from his seat, "You've already been educated in several of the tenants of our religion. You'd have status that would see your travel through Tevinter and back into the Free Marches much easier. You'd also gain a small degree of protection that Imperial mages depend on when traveling as dignitaries outside Tevinter- not that any are foolish enough to try it with the Southern Chantry's current position on mages. This would be a wise move for you to make."
She couldn't fault his logic. Templars historically did not interfere with the goings-on of Imperial mages. Circumstances with the war had doubtless changed that but if it gave any pursuers even a moment's pause, it stood to help her greatly. Additionally, she'd be free to travel south through the Imperium rather than taking a ship halfway across the world and then trekking north through extremely unfriendly territory. "And exactly what rank did you have in mind?"
"I can appoint you as a Templar Cleric, a mage within the Templars. The duties are mostly seeking out blood mages and rooting out corruption within the Templar ranks; you'd be spared the ministry aspects of it that way. The uniform is quite fetching and you'd gain access to a number of tools restricted to the Templar Clerics."
The mention of tools intrigued her- usually she wielded nothing more than her staff and her intellect. Tevinter was bound to have a few items that a mage could find useful. With that in mind she asked, "And what would I have to do?"
"Normally, it involves several years of dedication and study. In your case, however, I am willing to forego such requirements on the condition that you promise not to conduct yourself in a manner that would reflect poorly on us," he explained before tacking on, "Publicly at least."
"Meaning?"
"Keep your head down, avoid identifying your status to the Southern Chantry if possible- we will keep it quiet on this end as well- and if you see blood magic you should attempt to stop it." A gentle shrug punctuated that point quite nicely before he finished, "If you promise to do that, if you promise not to blacken our eyes, I can have you initiated in a matter of days."
"Then I can take Owen."
"Then we meet with the Archon and petition for him." Aurelius turned and leaned nonchalantly against his desk as he considered the papers again. "Hawke, little as you like it this is the best way. If I can take possession of Owen, it would keep the slavers at bay so long as you minded him."
"Could you not simply buy him?" The words alone made her stomach feel slightly queasy. She was more than a little disgusted with even the thought of purchasing a slave- vocalizing that idea left her doubly so- but it was the only option she had that wouldn't involve pledging her allegiance to Tevinter or abducting the boy with a hoard of slavers pursuing them. "Wouldn't that be easier?"
Aurelius shook his head again. "All members of the Chantry are forbidden from owning or purchasing slaves, myself included. If you chose that route, you would have broker that deal on your own. His youth makes him an expensive purchase and given your participation in the elder Danarius' death, it is extremely unlikely that the remaining members of his estate would sell him to you." Aurelius strode to her and placed his arms on her shoulders. "You may not like it but this is the only way I can guarantee his safety."
She didn't like it- didn't like it one bit- but Aurelius was trying to help her and Owen. Little as the method pleased her, however, she knew she could not hope to win the game without debasing herself enough to play it. Otherwise, she could count on more slavers dogging her course and she'd be a criminal in the entirety of Thedas instead of just most of it.
But joining the Black Chantry? She couldn't even begin to consider the massive ramifications of allying herself with Tevinter even in secret. Carver would be furious if he ever found out. She would no longer be an innocent dupe as far as the Chantry was concerned; she'd be marked as an apostate of the worst sort.
Her options, however, were beyond limited; the mysterious aforementioned tools could also stand to benefit her and if the axe cut too near her head she'd have a sanctuary where she could flee. And Owen would be protected if only for now.
"All right," she muttered grudgingly up at Aurelius. "I'm in."
With Aurelius' expediting of the proceedings, it took a mere three days for her to be inducted. The initiation ritual was entirely in Arcanum, and her designated responses were sounded out syllable by painstaking syllable which she mimicked poorly, drawing a choir of chortles from the men she now supposed were now her spiritual brothers. They weren't the first brothers she had difficulty talking to.
She's spent most of her time with the other Clerics showing her the ropes of what she'd tangled herself up in. It was on the fourth night- after yet another painful session with the Cleric Pretus demonstrating to her the devices now in her toolkit- that she finally had the chance to breathe again. Most of them were fairly easy to use but the lyrium rods thwarted nearly every attempt to master them. She'd electrocuted herself no fewer than four times but fortunately only set fire to her robes once. It was progress albeit a very slow and extremely painful one.
She stripped and changed into her nightclothes, wincing as she caught a glance of the burns that expanded from the point of impact and crisscrossed and fanned out like icy leaves, arcing agonizing branches over the length her left arm, up her neck, and fanning out along the left side of her torso. Beautiful as they looked, they were torture to touch and as helpful as lightning was, she found she very much preferred being on the giving rather than the receiving end of it. A quick healing spell saw the aching redness reduced to a pale pink. Hopefully they'd fade by morning if not, she'd have a new distinguishing mark. Oh joy.
She checked to assure Owen was sleeping- she'd barely seen him outside of meals the last few days- before she busied herself with the unenviable task of resuming her correspondence. She hadn't been able to really communicate with anyone since her disastrous meeting with Fenris. Isabela had sworn she'd see her brother updated on her whereabouts but Carver was doubtless miffed that she'd gone ahead with the plan to locate the Charta Maleficai without further consulting him. It wasn't like she was overly involved in the camps at present. After Anders made himself known, her responsibilities had been largely relegated to finding running apostates and finding more Templar allies. Carver had made it abundantly clear that she was not to engage Anders at any cost and while she was loath to take orders, she'd agreed it was the best course until they knew more about what had happened… and that depended on steady stream of letters between the various camps.
The first note, to her brother, seemed easy enough- How are you? How's the war? Minrathous is terrible. I ate a delicious orange! – when her heart sunk as she realized that Carver needed to be warned against Gerard Maison… or at least needed to be made aware that there were men like him creeping through the shadows. There were dozens of unknown aspects to the mystery of the man. Was he working for the Chantry? Perhaps Maison and his band of thugs had acted alone, but the point remained that it was simply another riddle to her and one that she needed to solve immediately.
Regardless, this wasn't something best told in a letter, she reasoned as she scribbled a short post-script warning Carver not to trust any Templars hailing from Wycome. All written correspondence had to be as vague and brusque as possible. Their lines of communication were untraditional and therefore fairly secure but any number of accidents could happen between Minrathous and the Free Marches. The rebellion couldn't risk showing its hand in this game. There was far too much at stake.
The next letter was substantially easier, professional even. Just four words- We need to meet. No name was necessary- she and Zevran had communicated only a scant bit since her expulsion from Kirkwall but their handwriting was familiar enough. The assassin, dubious as he was, had a debt and enough sense of honor to thusly offer his assistance. Isabela's fervent vouching for him made him slightly more trustworthy than any other mercenaries or the Antivan Crows. In her current position, she needed every ally she could get and someone with his talents could certainly help her track down Maison.
She needed to end this, she thought as she shot a glance back to the bed where Owen dozed. Maison would not take him. She would not let what happened to Delia or the others happen to him. The boy's wellbeing was her responsibility even if that meant traversing into the shadier realms of her moral center. She needed every advantage she could get and a professional killer could tilt the scales in her favor or throw the whole setup entirely off-balance. Time was the only way she'd know for certain.
And finally, she found herself facing down a blank parchment; the very paper that would eventually house the words she intended for Fenris. Now more than ever, her retreat left her feeling guilty even though logic dictated it had been the best course of action. But it hadn't been logic that drove her out of his bed and into the snow- it was panic. She suspected that was why she couldn't shake this strange feeling that she'd wronged the man who'd battled then bedded her.
That dank, acid emotion paralyzed her hand and the words refused to come forth; so she screwed up her courage and began writing anyways, hoping the right words would come forth.
Fenris,
Provided you are not blazingly furious at me for running
She scowled, crumbling the paper and tossing it into the wastebasket. That opening was an admission of guilt and that word, running, despite being extremely accurate also displayed weakness. It simply would not do to begin this delicate correspondence from a disadvantage. So far as she knew, Fenris was still an enemy and that night had meant nothing other than a quick lay and a botched capture.
Still, she mused at the memory, it hadn't been exactly quick had it? The thought of that cold night, of his body moving over her, moving in her, sent a pang of arousal through her, which she inefficiently quashed down. Now was hardly the time for it but even as she squirmed slightly in her seat, she found herself regretting that she'd left, foolish as it would have been to stay.
Her sharpest regret, however, was that she had failed to inform the elf about the precarious situation that loomed over his new home in Starkhaven. That, she knew when she'd arranged their meeting, was too sensitive to be disclosed in print. She'd just been so flummoxed by her extremely alive paramour's sudden reappearance that she'd forsaken the one mission she'd gone specifically to do, her one priority mission for the last six months- get allies. Selecting another sheet of paper, she hastily scrawled another missive.
Fenris,
We need to talk. I will arrange a meeting once I've returned.
I hope you are well.
-M
She scrutinized the ink, praying that her disquiet wasn't evidenced somehow in her penmanship. It was efficient, effective- like him- peppered with the politeness her years as Kirkwall's Champion had demanded of her. Satisfied she hadn't gushed her heart out over the paper, she replaced the quill in the inkwell and decided it would have to do. She didn't know what to say to Fenris. It was something she'd have to figure out during the long trip back. Hopefully somewhere between Minrathous and Starkhaven she'd find the right words.
Owen mumbled something in his sleep and began tossing violently. A nightmare, she realized much to her dismay. It wouldn't be his last one- not if he listened to those savages defile and murder his mother. Depositing the final letter into it's holster and scribbling his name across the front, she took the candle and set it on the table next to Owen's bed before taking a seat upon his bed and gently nudging the boy into waking.
He startled awake, jolting up and staring wide-eyed into the darkness before settling his gaze on her. Then the expected tears came as he doubtless realized it hadn't been a nightmare, that his mother was dead, that he was stuck with a complete stranger, that his world as it was had been irreparably shattered and replaced with something entirely alien.
Inexplicably, he reached for her and she embraced him, hefting him up as she situated him upon her lap. She made no attempt to shush his sobbing, knowing his tears were poison that needed to come out. She instead stroked his hair until he cried himself back into a fitful sleep that would bring him no rest. He murmured something soft and foreign as he settled back into the cusp of the Fade. Lacking a greater inclination to move away, she simply waited where she sat, smoothing her hand over the boy's hair until his breathing evened out and his eyes began fluttering as he entered a deeper slumber.
What was she supposed to do with him?
She had no idea how much time had passed but supposed it had been a fair amount, an assumption that was backed up by the candle having lost a significant amount of length. With that thought still reverberating an endless echo inside her head, she eased him back into his bed gently so as not to disturb him and rose to return to the desk.
You'll protect him.
It was an abrupt, gentle thing. She started when she heard it blowing against her mind in a soft, warm breeze. He'd been conspicuously absent since the night she went- and subsequently failed- to rescue Varania. Hope was harbored that whatever Hoppers was had found her lacking and decided to leave her for good. She stumbled and faced the dark, letting the temporary sensory deprivation center her in the junction between her mind and the Fade as she steeled herself, parting the Veil to peer within.
But nothing was there, she realized as the clutched the button hanging around her neck. That insanity theory was looking better by the minute.
Casting that thought off, she navigated her way through the dark and back to the desk to retrieve the three letters and then stole to the window, peering outside onto the ledge. Nothing. So she made her way to the next, cursing silently when she saw nothing there as well. The third window held her prey, a small group of birds huddled together as they slumbered. She cast a quick stunning spell on the group to stop their inevitable flight, opened the window, and gently picked one up, cradling it in her arms as she fumbled for the twine in her pocket.
Fastening the letter to the pigeon's foot, she focused her mind on her brother and sent a quick homing spell before she released the bird to fly off into the night to find Carver. That particular enchantment had come courtesy of Merrill, who had learned it before she was outcast from the Dalish. Such methods made sense coming from the wandering bands of elves; they generally avoided cities and were extremely difficult for typical messengers to track down. Whatever anyone had to say about the Dalish- no one could deny they had cornered the market on quick communication. Courier Pigeons- what would those frolicking elves think of next?
She captured another bird and sent him on his way to find Zevran then finally directed the last to find Fenris. He knew a bit about the Dalish but was unsure if he'd resent the magic she used or even understand it. Little bother, it wasn't like anyone could use this tactic to actually locate people. Otherwise she'd already be tracking Maison's and Anders' movements.
Satisfied that the task had been completed and the letters would be delivered, she completed her nightly toilet and settled into bed. Sleep eluded her, leaving her once more in uneasy disquiet as she once again questioned her actions of the last week. So she reached for her pack and pulled out her extremely well-loved first edition of Hard in Hightown, Varric Tethras' notorious Kirkwall serial. It was utter trash but still an utterly captivating read. The dwarf had a knack for writing likeable characters and the scoundrel Donnen Brennicovick, the Kirkwall guard who just couldn't keep himself on the straight and narrow, was hands down among his best. Opening to the first page, Varric's elegant calligraphy greeted her with the words, "Hawke, don't forget to duck. Varric." Then the story began.
She had not completed reading the first page when a soft voice called, "Marian?" and broke her from her reverie.
A quick glance verified the elf was awake again, staring at her inquisitively with those impossibly wide eyes. "Owen?" she asked back, unsure of anything else she could say to him. If she failed to find a book that could offer some basic translations, she had to find someone in the Imperium to return with her. This trek would be an even greater disaster if she couldn't understand the boy when he attempted to convey his most basic needs.
He started to ask her something in Arcanum then seemed to remember that she did not speak it. He huffed his frustration before crawling out of his bed to stand next to hers and pointing at the book. It confused her for a moment- what on earth could he want with a book? Could he even read? If he knew she couldn't speak Arcanum then it stood to logic that he must understand she didn't read it either.
"Would you like me to read this book to you?" she asked with all the appropriate hand-gestures, hoping to make up for the lack of mutual communication with physical signaling.
Owen's head bobbed and gave her a little thrill of victory so she pushed her luck a little further and prompted, "Yes?" with a great nod of her head.
"Yes," he replied with another nod before pointing to the book again.
The smile that escaped her couldn't be contained. This may not be as hopeless as she'd previously thought. If she could get her hands on some picture books, she might stand a chance at prepping Owen for life in the Free Marches. They were hard to come by certainly- and printed in Common here in Tevinter would be doubly so- but Aurelius might be able to pull some strings and send her off with a few.
She scooted over and let Owen curl up beside her, laying his head on her breast and pointed to the book again. While Varric's writing often wasn't what her mother would have called suitable for children- not by a long shot- Hawke figured that if Owen didn't speak any Common it shouldn't really matter. If she couldn't find any picture books, she'd likely have to find something at least more age appropriate for him before he started picking up some of the more colorful language that peppered the dwarf's prose.
"Cuddly thing, aren't you?" she mused softly as she stroked his hair and returned her attention to the book. "Donnen Brennicovick believed in three things before that fateful summer day," she began the story. "Loyalty, fidelity and honor. If a man had those three things, he knew, then that man would be satisfied, and Donnen had those things, so Donnen was satisfied. But Fate is never a more rotten bitch than when she takes her aim at a good man- and that's exactly what she did that hot morning on the Wounded Coast..."
Definitely not a children's story but the boy thankfully didn't know that. Owen was slumbering once more before she even finished the first chapter, breathing deeply and evenly as peaceful rest finally found him, but she kept reading regardless in hopes that the words could penetrate the Fade and keep his nightmares from hounding him. It was deep into chapter two when she set the book down, closing her eyes to rest them for a minute or so that the sleep took her as well.
Four days and several healed injuries later, Hawke found herself being escorted once more into the Spire by a single Templar. However instead of leading her up, up, up the countless stairs and into Aurelius' office, he led her to a door lurking on the first landing, which had previously been inaccessible to her. Once the door was unlocked, he led her down a winding stone staircase, across a long dark corridor, and finally into a large room, dominated by a single smallish table. Of all that she'd witnessed within this very building, this was by far the most Spartan, empty, and unadorned room she'd seen. Figuring it to be intentional, she took a seat and waited rather impatiently for whatever meeting was certain to happen.
Though she couldn't rightly orient herself, she suspected on the other side of that torch lit hallway must have been an identical staircase that wound up and into the Imperial Circle and the office of the Archon.
Today must be the day she was supposed to meet with the Archon and make her case for taking Owen. She'd had minimal contact with the Imperial Divine, who seemed immensely preoccupied with other matters. Though it still brought no little amount of irritation that she could not meet with him whenever she wanted, she figured she could forgive him for neglecting her. Arranging a meeting with the head of the Senate doubtless took a bit of time. Still, she had the distinct impression the man was avoiding her and she disliked being brushed aside- always had.
Considering the lack of windows or any other manner of natural light, she figured she must be underground. Normally, being led into a dark room would have her distinctly on edge but she'd become unexpectedly comfortable within these very walls. This place had actually ended up feeling very safe to her. If anyone had meant to harm her, there had been an undeniably ample opportunity to do so. While her stay here had been peppered with multiple injuries, most at her own hands as she struggled with the new tools she'd been given, she'd found a haven from the isolation that had dogged her over the last year. Loath as she was to admit it, she was going to miss this place.
Curious, she mused. A room this hidden indicated that the heads of the Chantry and the Senate did not like to be seen fraternizing with one another or at least in this case, did not want to be seen fraternizing with her. This was a meeting to be made in secret which meant the exposure of said secret could have consequences. She filed that small realization away in her mind, labeled it 'Potential Blackmail Points,' and relaxed back into her chair as the door opened.
Aurelius entered and took a seat beside her. He didn't say anything as a Sister brought in several trays of meats and cheeses along with a bottle of Aggregio Pavali and hastily ducked back out with a short bow aimed at the Black Divine. While the food did look appetizing, her worry left her rather unhungry. Aurelius, not afflicted by the same nerves, popped a slice of cheese into his mouth. Hawke wondered if it tasted of sorrow.
When he returned and took his seat once more, Aurelius remained in silence for several long minutes, seeming content to just enjoy the hush in her company. She finally broke the stillness in the air to ask, "So, will you tell me about my father?"
The Divine chuckled to himself and told her, "Your father was the youngest of thirteen boys and the only born of his mother, Leila- his father's fourth wife. She was a powerful priest here in the Chantry," Aurelius' expression warmed as he regarded his own folded hands. "Marcus didn't much care for his father. He hated politics and being the youngest it was unlikely he was going to inherit much so he joined the Chantry in honor of his mother. We met as initiates at age of ten."
"So why did he leave Tevinter?" Marian asked.
"We remained close for the next few years but he…" he trailed off for a moment before seeming to carefully select his words, "Marian, your father was a good man who made a series of extremely bad decisions. The last one saw him marked for death but in the end I don't think the Maker himself could have kept him here. He shouldered his guilt for the rest of his life but he blamed the Imperium as well- this place fosters some of the most despicable behaviors I've ever seen in people. I trusted him, knew him better than most, and I helped him escape before the guards found him."
Her heart dropped a little as the realization set in. "You're not going to tell me, are you?"
"Remember your father as the man he was, Marian, not for the mistakes he made."
"Why did you come West Hill?" she asked, suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to understand how that meeting had come to pass, how he had met her and subsequently helped her so greatly.
"Marcus' crimes took a heavy toll on his mother. She never recovered. She died in an asylum. I felt your father had a right to decide how she was buried. He was angry that we'd come but was grateful to have the ability to bury her with dignity that the end of her life denied her.
"Please believe me, if I'd even suspected for a moment that your family knew nothing of Marcus' past I would have exercised far more caution in approaching him. He lived in perpetual fear of the Templars or that his brothers would come after him and would in turn attack his family. Marcus… Malcolm, I mean, merely wanted his family to be safe."
"Brothers," she repeated slowly as that word filtered through her brain. "I have uncles here?"
"All but three are dead." He raised his hand and began counting the others off. "One is a rather notorious slaver- the legal sort- finds elves in debt, purchases that debt, then harasses their families until they sell themselves into subjugation just to keep their kin safe. The other two, twins, run pretty much the entire black market- if it's illegal in Tevinter, they're elbow deep in it."
She didn't like them already. "I imagine these aren't the sort of kin I'd want to associate with."
"You imagine correctly," he agreed. "They are just three of the reasons I've put so much effort into keeping your presence here quiet."
"Quiet?" she asked finding that to be quite interesting. Apparently they really did not want to be seen fraternizing with her.
"The few people who know we're keeping you are under strict instructions to dissuade anyone of the sheer idea that you may be Marian Hawke or you could be connected in any way to Marcus Harrow." He took the bottle of wine and poured a glass for each of them before setting it aside to let it breathe before he continued. "The only person within the Senate who has been informed of your presence here is the Archon himself. With the Southern Chantry in such disarray, there's already been talk in the Senate of a possible march into Nevarra and the Free Marches. If it became known that you were housed here, we are both concerned it could inspire them to try."
"If it failed to inspire the Chantry to come in swords swinging to drag me to Val Royeaux by the hair, that is," she quipped bitterly.
Aurelius nodded in sage agreement before taking a long drink of his wine. "With the crimes you've been accused of and your considerable notoriety, the Senate wouldn't dream of giving you up- not when it would be such a slap to the South to grant you amnesty. In either case, unfortunately, it all ends with the civil war coming north. Phocus and I have agreed that cannot happen."
It was still strange to watch a supposed holy man drink but she took up her glass anyway. "I was under the impression it was the Senate's job to decide these things," she contemplated aloud before taking a sip of her own.
Loud, warm laughter chortled out of Aurelius then and he chuckled, "The Senate is full of spoiled, posh children fighting about which settlement the Qunari will strike next when they are not busying themselves with murdering each other in their beds. Decisions of this magnitude aren't immediately put before them. If it's a sensitive issue, the Archon handles it directly and you, Marian Hawke, are an extremely sensitive issue."
She wondered, "Why are you telling me this?"
"This is a bargaining chip you have against Phocus, Marian," he informed her. "Use it wisely."
Before she could respond, the door creaked again and another man entered, prompting the Imperial Divine to his feet. Just by looking at him, she knew he must be the Archon Phocus. She kept herself seated as she observed him, refusing to participate in the minor act of deference Aurelius gave.
He was handsome; she couldn't deny that. Facial hair was neatly groomed, black hair immaculately coifed. Three rings adorned his hands that she understood were worth a small fortune, not from actually knowing anything about them but that it was blatantly apparent he wouldn't wear anything inexpensive. His robes were a deep blue-black and painstakingly embroidered, that much was evident through the low light of this secret meeting place. Even from her seat, his height was apparent and she estimated he had to be several inches taller than average. Dark energy rolled off him in low waves like a gloomy tide inching into the sand with every step he took. It kept her bottom planted firmly in her chair.
Blood magic was common practice throughout the Senate, Fenris had said. Now she understood that he was not even slightly exaggerating. There were signs she'd learned to recognize that indicated if someone was a practitioner of blood magic- concealed arms, the strange copper aroma that lingered around them, and a strange buzzing in her mind that left her generally ill at ease. There was no doubt in her mind this man had done more than his share of deals with demons. He was defiled with it, infected by it, and glorified for it.
Phocus looked thoughtfully at her, noting her refusal to stand. She met his gaze coolly and remained seated, sending a clear message to the man before her- you are not worthy of my respect.
Two Templars accompanied the Archon and took posts standing behind Phocus as he and Aurelius seated themselves. The lack of such backup behind her and the Divine had her hand twitching for the staff she'd left in her quarters. Before she could comment, the Archon dismissed his escort with a terse, "Leave us."
"Ser," one inquired, "Do you think that wise?"
"You dare question me?" the Archon snapped in return. It pleased her when the Templar muttered an apology and then retreated into the hallway. Evil as this man clearly was, it was still amusing to see a mage other than herself bossing about a Templar.
She also noted that little exchange had been in Common, which would not have been the Archon's nor the Templar's native tongue. It was a show for her benefit. This man wanted to establish his authority, wished to begin this exchange with a power grab. Dark and terrible as she knew this man was he'd already made a fatal flaw.
He was threatened by her.
Good. She could use that.
The Archon produced a separate bottle of wine and poured a heavy glass for himself, distrusting the open bottle on the table. Paranoia. Excellent. This man displayed another flaw to her. He was confident that he was not as all-powerful as he wanted to appear. That stood to make this exchange a bit easier. The odds were already skewed in her favor. She just needed to relax and play her part.
After taking a long drink, he met her gaze and took a seat across from her. "They say Aggregio is made from the blood of slaves," he remarked to her. "What say you?"
"Were that the case then I'd be more than loath to drink it, good ser," she shot back with a smirk. "I'd be afraid it was poisoned."
He chuckled to spite the flash of irritation in his eyes. Accompanying that slip in his mask, it was a strangely terrible sound. "You run with a piece of escaped property called Fenris. My station obligates that I ask you to return him to the Danarius estate."
"Good luck with that," she smiled back, sugary and sweet as a poisoned apple. "Although if Danarius was as powerful as I've heard, I imagine you should be thanking me for helping to dispose of him. Bit of luck for you, wasn't it?"
"Very little I do depends on luck, Marian Hawke," he replied with a flirtatious wink. "I understand you'd like to rob the Danarius clan of another slave."
She shrugged and placed her elbow upon the table before propping her chin against her open hand. She needed to convey that she was unconcerned, relaxed in the presence of this man. "I figure they can afford to lose another," she returned with a playful shrug.
"And why should I permit the Chantry to seize possession of private property belonging to one of the most prominent houses in the Senate?"
"Because it makes me happy?" she suggested.
He countered snidely, "I am unconcerned with your happiness. What is it you plan to give me in return?" His eyes raked over her figure, silently suggesting her body might be a bargaining piece.
"Phocus…" Aurelius attempted to interrupt.
"Absolutely nothing," she answered abruptly, cutting Aurelius off before he could speak further, this was her fight not his. "But perhaps the Senate will be more concerned with my happiness. I'm under the impression that they'd rather love the opportunity to provoke the Chantry."
The disguise of friendliness fell away in a heartbeat, leaving Phocus sneering and ugly. "If you think bringing that band of brats into the discussion is an option, permit me to remind you that it's a chore convincing them not to invade the Free Marches on a good day," he snarled hatefully. "The fragmentation of your Chantry has them all the more eager to take back the land that is rightfully ours… and we've enough might to win it with your lands in such disarray."
"And you might win it," she conceded before allowing the smirk to overtake her again. This Phocus had shown his hand and it was a weak one. "But kindly allow me to remind you that if you could hold the South, Phocus, you'd still have it. And we both know the moment you turn your eyes away from your northern shores, you'll have an army of Qunari storming it. That 'band of brats' as you so generously put it might be a little too cocky to understand the consequences of such short sight. Although once you've been converted, I don't think any of you will really care."
His eyes narrowed, revealing the drooling beast he was as he snarled, "And if I summoned my escort to capture you and deliver you directly to the Lower Chantry? The Senate need not know that you were even here."
Aurelius interrupted before she had the chance to reply. "She is my cleric, Phocus. If you are considering such a move, be assured that there will be undesirable consequences."
Phocus stormed to his feet and began pacing around the room. She made no attempt to track his movements instead taking a dainty drink of her wine, understanding that she was for the moment safe. It held the added bonus of infuriating the Archon even further.
"The Qunari gaining a toehold on the mainland has dire consequences for everyone, Hawke," he loomed over her shoulder and growled into her ear. "Are you seriously trying to convince me that you'd risk the fate and free will of the entirety of Thedas for the sake of a single boy? A slave, no less? You forget the great service Tevinter is providing to Thedas for keeping those Qun-spewing, horn-having zealots at bay."
She silently agreed that Tevinter was fighting that battle almost entirely on their own. Though she knew slaves were guaranteed to be a part of that. That thought sparked her memory of Tallis, strangely enough. As much as she'd mentally groused at the situation that particular elf had placed her in, she couldn't deny that the elf at least seemed happier for her freedom from enslavement- even if it meant subjugating herself to a different sort of control. But still- Chateau Haine had been a wild ride, an insane adventure Tallis took upon herself and did so against the teachings of the Qun.
If the Qunari invaded Tevinter, she thought recklessly, perhaps Owen and the countless children like him could end up more like Tallis and less like the mangled corpse of his mother. A taste of freedom could foster a palate for it and people, she knew, would fight oppression once they'd sampled something sweeter. She'd seen enough Tal-Vashoth to know that dissention lingered in the ranks of the indoctrinated.
She knew it wasn't worth it. Logically, Owen did not merit the risk of bringing a new player into the precarious gamble she was already engaged in.
But she'd promised Owen that she would protect him, willingly shouldered that responsibility from Varania, who had denigrated herself day after day to accomplish the same task. Marian Hawke kept her promises and the Archon could go suck an egg for all she cared.
So she quashed every doubt in her mind, shuttering away all the logic that dictated that Owen wasn't worth it… if she'd had the chance to think about this longer, she knew she'd come back to that conclusion. It simply wasn't worth risking another war in addition to the Chantry's- and neither war held any high odds at victory.
"It's hardly my own nose I'd be cutting off, I'm already marked for death," she retorted with a squaring of her shoulders and lift of her chin as she turned her head to face him. "The Chantry wants my neck in a noose and my feet swinging in the breeze." Her tone dropped into a dramatic, hush as she turned her head and whispered into his ear, "Maybe I want them to know what a life of servitude is like. Perhaps I might even gain a little peace knowing I've torched the earth."
Phocus reeled away from her and stared at her in complete disbelief. "You're bluffing," he accused.
"Perhaps." She shrugged and gave him a warm smile before letting it fall into darkness. "But I am not the one with something to lose here, Phocus."
"Except your life," he retorted.
"Everyone dies," she pondered aloud as she took another sip of wine. "I hardly consider myself exempt from that little fact."
He slammed both hands upon the table, knocking over one of the wine glasses and shattering it on the floor. He glared bloody murder at her and demanded, "What about your war?"
She drummed her nails playfully over the tabletop and promised, "It could be our war, Phocus."
A century of seconds passed in which she saw Phocus' face screw itself into a wretched mask of barely bridled rage. In those passing pregnant moments, she wondered briefly if she was going to have to battle the Archon within his own city. Historically, the Archons were powerful magisters capable of bloody deaths her comparatively limited knowledge could only imagine. That wasn't even factoring in the bodyguards, slaves, and blood mage magisters standing only a door's width away.
Then his face shifted and he threw his head back to release a light barking laughter, which prompted Aurelius to respond nervously in kind, accompanying Phocus' tittered tenor with his own deep baritone. "Aurelius told me you had a spark in you. I see now that he was not mistaken in his assessment. I will grant you possession of the boy."
But his jovial, friendly affectation gave no balm to the wound. Phocus was an eager participant in the rampant problem that infected this land, a virus that couldn't be cured. Phocus was not a friend. He was a problem- the problem that had plagued Fenris and Orana and Varania and Lothri and Owen. He condoned the purchase and use of people that stripped them of the very same self-determination the Qun would have.
Quite suddenly, Hawke was struck with another bizarre notion that refused to shake free.
"I'm happy to hear that," she smiled at the Archon, "because the price of my anonymity just went up."
Author's notes- As always, thanks to my fantastic betas, AmericanCorvus and BuriedBeneath for their awesome screening of my grammatical errors.
I'll probably get around to responding to all the reviews and PMs sometime this afternoon. Many thanks to everyone who continues to read and review. You're all my bread and butter. XD