Kiara didn't want to go home.
Home was an argument waiting to happen, waiting to be continued. Home was her bow still on the floor. Home was a pile of ashes that had once been an arrow.
Cullen and Aveline were attending to their duties, making certain the crowds dispersed peacefully—though no one seemed inclined to make trouble, now—but she could sense their eyes on her. She'd been trapped within the walls of her home for weeks, first waiting for a death, and then waiting for… something. Waiting.
Her head ached and she was thirsty and she didn't want to go home. So she turned to Sebastian and said, "I'm going to The Hanged Man."
Before he could answer, she heard Isabela say, too loudly, "Sounds like the best idea I've heard all day!"
Sebastian's brow furrowed. His face was still mottled from his tears, though he no longer wept. Lifting his chin, he regarded the approach of the others with calmness Kiara wished she could emulate.
Amelle still wasn't looking at her. One hand rested on Killer's head. The mabari, at least, met Kiara's gaze. She didn't think she was imagining the reproach in the hound's dark eyes, but at least he wasn't baring his teeth or growling.
"You're not the only one who's had that idea, Hawke. Corff's throwing a bit of a wake," Varric added, one arm slung around Isabela's waist. The pirate was leaning on him heavily, her eyes also red-rimmed, but Kiara had never known the pirate to drink to that kind of excess. Isabela usually just passed out before visibly appearing drunk in any way. Kiara had the strangest feeling the drunken act was just that—a cover. An excuse. A deflection. "Raise a glass for the lost. Remember we're still alive."
"I'll walk you back, Sebastian," Kiara said softly. She was startled when his eyes sought hers and he shook his head.
"I would rather join you," he replied, his voice still rough with emotion, and his Starkhaven accent all the heavier for it. "Unless… I understand if I am not welc—"
"Fenris says you're planning on leaving us," Amelle interrupted. Kiara's stomach twisted, and she couldn't have said if it was Amelle's words or her tone or just that her sister sounded… sounded as though she'd never said words like if you really wanted to keep me safe, you'd stop being my bloody sister.
She was standing close enough to feel Sebastian tense. "Fenris has been kind enough to offer a place to stay, and I've trespassed on your hospitality long enough."
"No," Kiara said. "It's too far. You're still injured. Amelle needs to—"
"Amelle can walk to Fenris' almost as easily as Amelle can walk down the hall," Amelle retorted. "He'll be close enough to check on. And Fenris knows where to find me if there's a problem."
Kiara swallowed hard. Still, Amelle would not look at her. Her sister's gaze was, instead, fixed on Sebastian as she spoke, and her fingers dug deeper into Killer's fur. The mabari whined.
"I don't think—" Kiara began, only to have Amelle say, "He's not our bloody prisoner, Kiara. Let him go, if that's what he wants."
If you really wanted to keep me safe, you'd stop being my bloody sister.
Sebastian cleared his throat. "It wasn't—"
"No," Kiara said, "Amelle's right. It's your decision. It's fine. Let's go."
Varric glanced between Kiara and Amelle, frowning. Then he did what he did best and effortlessly changed the subject. "Good to see you up and about, Choir Boy. Heard it was touch and go there for a bit."
Isabela's mask of drunkenness slipped for a moment as her astute eyes darted to Sebastian. Kiara could see the wheels turning behind them. "Also heard you've maybe rethought some of those things you said," Isabela said.
"I have," he replied evenly. "I am not ignorant of the apologies I owe each and every one of you."
"I didn't think you would do those things," Merrill said. "You were upset."
"We were all bloody upset, Daisy. But an apology's an apology. And I'm not keen on holding a grudge. Not after a day like today."
"I'm not drunk enough for all this emotional shit," Isabela muttered. "Give me a pint, a deck of cards, and some of Sebastian's coin and we'll see how forgiving I feel."
For once, Kiara agreed with Isabela completely. "The rest of you coming?"
Amelle's eyes flashed to hers for such a brief moment Kiara almost thought she'd imagined it, and in that instant she saw the thousand questions swimming behind her sister's gaze, all mingled with pain and frustration and anger.
It's you who wants to be free of me.
Perhaps Amelle's words were double-edged. Perhaps it was not only Sebastian Amelle feared a prisoner in the Hawke estate. Let him go. Let me go. Let them all go. They are none of them yours to hold, Kiara Hawke.
She hardly noticed the flurry of assent—even Aveline called out a promise to stop by with Donnic.
Amelle didn't say anything at all, but she followed when Kiara turned to leave. She stayed near the back, though, listening to Merrill talk, and she did not look up again.
#
Amelle just wanted to go home.
She just wanted to go home, where it was quiet and private, and she wouldn't be forced to wear this bloody aching mask any longer. She wanted to go home, to her room, where she could curl up let the worst of this day slough off of her. Everything inside her felt brittle and stretched and cold — and so empty. She wanted a cup of tea and the chair by her fire, and she wanted to let out the painful, wracking sobs that had been building in her chest since that morning.
But, as strongly as she wanted to go home, Amelle knew to go now would only call more attention to the tension between her and Kiara. Amelle could feel it, and she knew Sebastian could see it. Varric's shrewd eyes watched them both a little more closely. The day'd been emotional enough to explain any number of odd behaviors, but Amelle didn't think for a moment her sister's friends would believe their behavior was simply a result of… of an emotional sort of runoff.
Her sister's friends. Yes, they'd always been that, hadn't they? It had been Kiara who'd found them all, who'd secured their friendship in any number of ways. It was Kiara they looked to. Amelle had never noticed that before — of course, it had always been Kiara she'd looked to as well.
But now, as they made the trek from Hightown to The Hanged Man, Amelle noticed it so much more clearly. She'd drifted to the back of the group, Cupcake still by her side — and that still seemed odd, since the dog was Kiara's, had always been Kiara's — and watched. Varric led the way, evidently hampered not at all by Isabela leaning so heavily on him. Still, most of his conversation was directed over his shoulder at Kiara, who was flanked on either side by Sebastian and Fenris. Aveline and Donnic were coming by later, but if she'd been along with them, she would have been farther ahead as well.
Indeed, on any other day, Amelle would have been by Kiara's side, right about where Sebastian stood now.
Merrill chattered happily during the walk; that was less odd, as Kiara had never made any secret of her opinion of Merrill. She tolerated the Dalish elf, probably out of some lingering affection for Marethari, but Kiara very clearly did not like Merrill. For her part, Amelle had been just as frustrated, just as angry over the odyssey with the mirror as her sister had been. She'd been just as disappointed in Merrill's comporting with "spirits" and her protestations that blood magic was simply another type of magic. But Amelle had always had a harder time actively disliking the mage.
There were times when Amelle wondered if perhaps she gave Merrill a bit more leeway because anyone Anders disliked so strongly couldn't have been that bad.
And look what became of him, she thought darkly. An answering whisper slithered through her mind, jeering, No, look what's become of you, Lesser Sister.
"Shut up," she muttered under her breath, startling slightly because she hadn't meant to say the words out loud, but Merrill hadn't seemed to notice. Cupcake whined, giving her an odd, slantwise look, but that was all. And there it was, another reason to go home — it was a bad sign indeed if she was muttering aloud to voices in her head. Usually she was better at pushing them back, keeping the walls up in her mind to hold any unwelcome presence at bay. But Amelle was exhausted and hurt and frustrated. Above all, she was damned sick and tired of how bloody astute the whispers were becoming. So she pushed back against them, harder and harder still, keeping her eyes averted, lest anyone notice… notice what? That she was on the cusp of unraveling like a cheap sock?
She just needed to make it through the next few hours. Then everything would be… well, not fine, but at least somewhat within her control. She could go home, and in the sanctuary of her own room, clear and quiet her mind.
Varric pushed open the door to The Hanged Man, releasing a wave of noise and what sounded a great deal like merriment within. It was the sound of the living trying to celebrate life instead of mourning loss, and for a moment Amelle's own spirit lifted. Perhaps a mug of ale and a hand of cards would help.
They all filed up to Varric's suite, with the dwarf plunking himself down at the head of the long table that took up more than half the room. Kiara sat to his right, and the rest of her sister's companions settled in around her.
Amelle's flicker of optimism guttered out as she settled in the chair at the opposite end of the table, her back to the door. For all she tried to tell herself they were all simply filling in from one end to the other, it was difficult to ignore the way she felt… strangely on the outer edge of things.
"C'mon, Daisy," Varric said, to Merrill, patting a stool between him and Isabela, "I saved you a seat. I hear Rivaini's been teaching you Wicked Grace."
"Well… a little," admitted Merrill, taking her seat. Varric laughed.
"If she taught you her rules, better stick by me, kid," he said, which set off a comfortably familiar retort by Isabela insisting she didn't cheat, of course, to which Varric replied serenely, "Didn't teach Daisy to cheat, you mean." At which point Isabela sputtered, and the rest of the table grinned or chuckled or exchanged knowing smirks.
Suddenly a pint and a round of cards didn't seem quite so appealing anymore.
#
It wasn't so much that Sebastian wanted to be at The Hanged Man, because he didn't.
Even when everything was fine, he rarely enjoyed the tavern. The drink was bad, the food was worse, and the general atmosphere was one that screamed of brawls just waiting to happen. It was impossible to think in The Hanged Man, and he found himself constantly grinding his teeth, waiting for the other shoe to drop. And things most certainly were not fine. Nothing about this day was close to fine.
Unlike the card game he'd overheard while still abed at the Hawke estate, no one laughed here. Conversation was muted. Varric tried, but even his strain was evident. Sebastian felt abraded, raw, flayed by the events of the day—and not only the memorial; the argument he'd witnessed between the sisters was still fresh in his mind—and all the shouting and song and laughter and tavernness from belowstairs did nothing to soothe the ache left by the names and the emptiness and the unalterable, irrefutable knowledge that whatever home had been for Sebastian, nothing of it remained.
He didn't want to be sitting around a table in a Lowtown tavern, drinking watered wine, staring at a hand of cards he was certain couldn't win, no matter how well he played. He wanted to be home. And home didn't exist anymore.
Beside him, Hawke was desperately trying to rally her spirits—mostly for their benefit, Sebastian thought—but he could see the brittleness of her smile, and hear the forced lightness when she spoke. He didn't think anyone was fooled. Not even Merrill. And the more Hawke forced herself to be bright, the darker Amelle seemed. The mage curled into herself, rebuffing all attempts to draw her into conversation. Sebastian didn't need templar skills to know Amelle hovered near some unseen breaking point, but he didn't have the slightest idea how to soothe her.
If Hawke was forcing herself to smile, her sister was clearly forcing herself not to cry.
At his other side, Sebastian thought he saw Fenris' eyes turned toward Amelle at least as often as his own were, and the elf looked nearly as troubled as Sebastian felt. Troubled and confused, which told him Amelle had likely disclosed little, if anything, of the argument to him. For a moment, Sebastian almost wanted to pull the elf aside, to reveal what he knew.
But then again, perhaps it was not his place.
He'd never been entirely sure what his place was.
Less so, now.
He disliked seeing the Hawke sisters so at odds with each other, though. He knew that much.
"So," Varric said, with amiable—and enviable—easiness. "You in or you out, Little Hawke?"
Amelle flung her cards down on the table as though they'd burned her… or as though she'd burned them. Sebastian didn't think he was imagining the brief curl of smoke. "Out," she snapped, and Varric cringed as comprehension dawned.
"Shit. Sorry, Ame—"
Pushing herself upright, she curled her hands briefly into fists and said, "It's fine. Never mind. I'll get another round," before stalking out.
Every single glass on the table—even Isabela's—was still full.
A beat of silence followed, broken only by the sounds from the tavern itself. Then, slowly, Sebastian got to his feet. "I'll… help her."
Hawke's expression looked both relieved and somehow sheepish, but she stayed in her seat.
It took a great deal of effort to maneuver through the crowd, but he managed. Once or twice he was jostled too suddenly and he had to pause to blink through sudden pain.
Amelle stood near the bar, a little apart, arms wrapped around herself. Evidently the other patrons sensed her ire, for a little pocket of space had formed around her. When her gaze flicked up and met his, there was no mistaking the irritation there. "Did she—?"
"Amelle," he said softly. "No."
Bowing her head, she scuffed her toes against the grimy floorboards. "I'm sorry. I just… how can she pretend?"
"I don't think she's pretending—"
"Sebastian, please."
"—I think she's trying. Everything is so… broken. And they look to her. You know they do. She knows they do. She feels it's her responsibility to—"
"Oh, Maker," Amelle said with a pained grimace. "The volumes I could write about Kiara Hawke and her overinflated sense of responsibility."
"Amelle," he repeated, but when the younger Hawke met his eyes, he didn't know what to say. Cheer up, Amelle, you're not the first person Hawke's drawn her weapon on didn't quite have the right he knew all too well how deep the cuts from an altercation between siblings could run. His relationship with his own brothers had been proof enough of that. It was obvious both sisters were hurting, and dealing with it — or not — in their own very different ways. He sighed. "She's trying," he said again.
"We're all trying, Sebastian. It's not…" She swallowed hard, still quite clearly trying to keep her tears in check. "You heard her. Heard every word, I don't doubt. I'm just… a nuisance. She's the one who protected me when we were young. She's the one who convinced Cullen not to take me to the Circle. She did all those things. And I never knew it before, but I'm just… just some sodding obligation of hers. I only wanted to help, to do something and be a part of her… her team. I wanted to be someone she could count on like she counts on all of you. I… I wanted to be more than just her little sister, but for all those efforts, all she ever thought was that I was flaunting my powers and adding to her burden of bloody responsibility."
"You can't believe Hawke meant such a thing, Amelle." Indeed, Sebastian had difficulty believing it himself. But while he knew a great deal about siblings, he knew very little indeed about the unique trials undergone by any sibling trying to protect her apostate sister.
Part of him could not help but take Hawke's part — Amelle was an apostate. Why shouldn't she feel some measure of gratitude to Hawke for the very protection that chafed her so? Did she not understand the risks Hawke took to make sure she remained free? And yet, Sebastian knew as well as anyone that Amelle had healed her sister's wounds, had saved her sister's life more than once.
"Can't I?" replied Amelle hollowly. A tray appeared on the bar, laden with the round of drinks she'd gone to retrieve in the first place. She hefted it into her arms. "It's not as if Kiara was lying about anything she said. No, every word was absolute truth. And that's the worst of it. I will only ever be Kiara Hawke's little sister, the one she selflessly defends and rescues at every turn, no matter the peril to herself. I really ought to have known better than to want anything else."
She sounded so bleak, so hopeless. So unlike the young woman he saw overseeing them all in the clinic — that Amelle Hawke seemed so very far away.
And then he realized.
I will only ever be Kiara Hawke's little sister.
Sebastian knew well the chill of living in an elder sibling's shadow. And Hawke, without trying, without — Sebastian firmly believed — wanting to, was keeping her there.
When Sebastian looked up, Amelle had the tray settled firmly in her arms. "We should go back upstairs," she said, sending him a small, wan smile. "I shall be very cross if you reinjure yourself in a tavern without even a brawl involved." But the jest fell flat and she looked down at the drinks she carried. "Maker," she sighed, and for just a moment, in the scant space between syllables, Sebastian heard every ounce of frustration, sorrow and, yes, resentment she was trying too hard to hold at bay. "I just want this day to be over."
He knew precisely how she felt.
#
If Hawke seemed at all surprised or distressed at her sister's abrupt departure, Fenris didn't see it reflected in her countenance. Indeed, his friend seemed intent on acting as if everything was fine. And perhaps she was doing it for all their benefit, but Fenris found the artifice somewhat distasteful. He knew Hawke, and he definitely knew her well enough to know she felt it was her responsibility to bolster the spirits of those around her, but Fenris wondered if perhaps such a day was not better spent in quiet contemplation instead of… this. Normally he would never have turned down drink and a game of cards, but the atmosphere was too forced — and it was not only the Hawke sisters contributing to that, but everyone, in a thousand infinitesimal ways. Fenris was certain even he was contributing to it, whether he meant to or not.
Then Amelle and Sebastian retreated downstairs for more drink — and Fenris could not help but wonder anew at what was troubling Amelle — and the strangest thing happened: the air cleared, and the atmosphere relaxed. Even Hawke's smile seemed less… thin. Brittle.
Varric lifted himself partway out of his chair and leaned over, looking down the table and along the hallway where Amelle had gone. Then, dropping back into his seat with a sigh, he shook his head. "How come no one told me she hated me calling her that?"
Isabela downed the last of her drink in a single swallow and grimaced before saying, "We all figured you'd pick up on it sooner or later."
"Andraste's buttcheeks, how was I even supposed to know?"
"Everyone knew, Fuzzy," Isabela said pointedly.
"You knew she hated me calling her that, Rivaini?"
"Of course I knew."
"As did I," Fenris said.
"Me too," added Merrill, frowning at the color of the liquid in her glass before draining it.
During all this, Hawke appeared strangely intrigued with the contents of her glass and said nothing.
The pirate squinted at him over the top of her glass. "Are you listening, Fuzzy? Everyone knew. Either you're drunker than I think, or I'm not nearly drunk enough."
"That would depend on your definition of drunk enough," came Aveline's voice as she and Donnic walked in. "It'd also depend on if those words existed in your vocabulary, which I doubt."
Varric waved at the newcomers. "Pull up a chair, kids. We're discussing the end of an era."
Husband and wife sat, Aveline arching a ginger eyebrow at Varric as she did. "Care to elaborate?"
As if she couldn't quite believe it herself, Merrill told them, "Varric didn't know how much Amelle despised being called—"
"Little Hawke?" Aveline supplied with a grimace. "Maker, and here I thought all these years you were calling her that specifically to annoy her."
Varric let out a groan and held his head in his hands. "No. Okay, just so we're clear. Anyone at this table who didn't know Amelle hated — no, despised — my nickname for her, raise your hand."
No one moved.
"She's not just a little version of me," Hawke said softly, pushing her mostly-full glass away, very carefully meeting no one's eyes. "I don't imagine you'd have enjoyed being known as Little Bartrand."
Varric shuddered. "Noted, but… you're you, Hawke. There are worse people—Bartrand, for example—one might be compared to."
"Not for Amelle," Hawke retorted, each word sharp and cold and brutal.
If the room hadn't been full, Fenris would have asked the problem, because it was very, very evident there was one.
Varric grimaced, leaning forward on his elbows. "Come on, Hawke, that's hardly—"
Hawke slapped her cards down on the table—face-up, and a surprisingly good hand—and pushed them away. "Give her a new nickname, or don't, but for Andraste's bloody sake don't make it about Hawke." She rose so quickly her chair nearly fell backward. "I've got a murderous headache, and that racket from downstairs isn't helping. I need some sodding air."
Without waiting for a response, she headed for the door. Fenris half-rose to follow, but she only shook her head and gestured for him to sit. He hesitated a moment longer before sinking back into his seat. He'd seen Hawke in many moods, but never one quite so foul as this, and he couldn't believe it was all to do with the destruction the abomination had wrought. Not given how troubled Amelle seemed as well.
Silence descended once Hawke had gone. Finally Varric cleared his throat and said, "I, uh, I guess birds are out altogether?"
With forced cheer, Isabela added, "And body parts. She's not the type."
Aveline glanced between them and added, "Especially not hair color. Smacks too much of—"
Everyone stopped, frozen.
Wincing, the guard-captain said, "Smacks too much of that time you tried to nickname me Red. And we remember how well that went over."
"Right," Varric said. "Red. What about, uh… huh. She does like fire?" He peered intently around the table. "She does like fire, doesn't she? That's not going to blow up in my face?"
Isabela snickered. "Nice word choice, Fuzzy."
Even Fenris felt his lips twitch briefly into a tiny smile. "She favors fire, yes."
Varric's expression brightened. "So. That's something. Firestarter!"
Fenris shook his head. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Aveline shudder her disapproval.
"Firecracker? Firebomb?"
"Oh, Varric," Merrill murmured with obvious disappointment. "Neither of those are her."
"Fire…work?"
"Firefly," said Fenris. All eyes turned to him, and he felt his shoulders stiffen under their scrutiny. "If it must be related to fire at all."
Varric looked unconvinced. "You think a bug's better than a bird? Or a body part?"
Fenris did not dignify this with any reply save a very even gaze. After a moment, the dwarf sighed. "It's on you, Broody."
"It is not," Fenris replied firmly. "It is you who has trouble using names. It was merely a suggestion. Take it or do not."
Varric looked poised to argue the point when Amelle returned. Alone. Fenris rose and took the heavy tray from her arms. Her eyes flickered to his, briefly grateful. She was still tense—still tense and troubled and obviously upset—but the intensity of it all seemed to have ebbed somewhat. There were no more rogue curls of smoke.
"Where's Choir Boy?"
"Trailing after my sister," Amelle said, passing out drinks with single-minded dedication. "Where else?"
Secretly, Fenris found himself glad of it. Even when she disagreed with him, Hawke always had an ear for Sebastian. He hoped the priest might succeed where he had failed; at least she'd not immediately shooed Sebastian away.
When the drinks were distributed, Amelle paused a moment, hesitating. Fenris thought she, too, was going to disappear, so he nudged Hawke's seat with his foot. "I do not think she intends to return, Amelle," he said gravely. "Sit."
A spasm of some emotion he couldn't quite put a name to crossed her face in the instant before she flung herself into the chair that had been her sister's. The game had grown so disrupted Varric had them start over, and while he was dealing a new hand, he regarded Amelle carefully. "So, uh… Firefly? You in?"
Amelle's eyebrows lifted and the closest thing Fenris had seen to a smile all day played about the corners of her lips. "Sure, Varric."
"And you'd… you'd tell me this time, wouldn't you? If you, uh—"
"I'd tell you."
"It'll do, then?"
Fenris felt eyes on him again, but he studiously ignored them, shifting the cards in his hand as if moving them might make them better.
"I… like it, actually. Firefly. We used to catch them, back in Lothering. I thought they were magical, back before I…" Amelle's voice drifted into silence. Fenris heard her swallow hard. "I like it."
"Good," Varric said. Fenris ignored his look, too. "You going to raise, Broody, or are you just going to stare at your cards hoping they get better by force of glare alone?"
Fenris turned the force of his glare on Varric, instead.
"I'd still like to know why I never rated a nickname," Aveline grumbled.
"I still call you Red in my head," Varric said. "Not my fault you vetoed it."
It was still the strangest, tensest game of cards Fenris had ever played, and it seemed odd to see everyone around a table with no Hawke binding them together. But beside him, Amelle calmed just a little. Later. Later he'd ask the trouble, and help if he could.
