KIRKWALL: 9:34 DRAGON
By this point, Fenris really ought to have known better than to attempt predicting Hawke.
The walk to her Hightown estate was a short one, and yet his mind raced with the many ways she was going to react to his appearance now, after what had transpired between him and Hadriana in the caves. Hawke was undeserving of such treatment, and Fenris hadn't made it very far before his conscience had pressed him into acknowledging it. So he'd swallowed his pride and went to apologize, expecting a million responses ranging from outright anger to cool dismissal. He hadn't expected her to call him her friend and invite him to stay for a drink.
It wasn't a night for victory, true, but neither had Hawke been willing to let him return to the mansion alone.
"You'll only wallow, Fenris, and we can't have that. Come into the library — Amelle's off badgering Anders for some elfroot," she told him, making a face, "but she's coming right back. Why don't we open a bottle of wine? A little victory toast?"
"Victory," he echoed flatly, arching an eyebrow at her.
She only tilted her head and smiled at him. "We're all healthy and whole. I'd say that's worth celebrating, wouldn't you?" When he didn't reply, she sighed and shook her head at him. "I am trying to give us an excuse to open a bottle of the good stuff and you aren't helping."
Arguing was fruitless and he knew it. At his sigh, Hawke shot him a grin, sharp and fierce.
"Your choice," she said, going to the sideboard and retrieving three wineglasses. "Go on down and pick something good."
Go on down and pick something good, her tone still implying some victory to celebrate.
He disagreed, but went to the wine cellar, and though his thoughts were occupied, he would choose something Hawke would approve of. Victory. Hardly. If it was victory, it was an empty one. Dissatisfying.
True, they'd walked away from the battle with minor injuries, and Hadriana was no more, but her demise only left Fenris feeling frustrated. He hadn't wanted to kill the woman. Not truly. He'd given his word, and the fact that he'd broken it rankled now — there was no honor in it. It would have been far better to make no such promise and kill her without giving any spark of false hope that she might live.
And yet, when he tried to pick at why he'd done it, Fenris came up with very little that was satisfactory to him:
Because she would report to Danarius.
Because she would have returned to make him regret his mercy.
Because she deserved it.
That last thought had the ring of truth to it, but still left him… bothered. Troubled. And he could not quite pinpoint why. For all that she'd done to him, for all the indignities, the cruelties large and small, for every moment of pain and unrest she'd caused him, did she not deserve what he'd meted out? Had that not been justice?
Fenris did not know, and that troubled him more than anything else.
The wine cellar was dim, but for the open trapdoor at the end, the secret passage to Darktown and to Anders' clinic. The glow filtered upward, but did little to pierce the gloom. Fenris pulled various bottles free from their dusty niches, peering at the labels before sliding them back into place. After a short search he found a Highever port and an Antivan red wine, both of which he felt certain Hawke would deem acceptable, and was deciding between the two when his ear caught the sounds of voices raised in anger, coming closer to the ladder.
"Andraste's ass, Anders," Amelle cried, "you are thick!"
"Why do you never listen to reason?"
He paused, glancing over at the trap door and frowning. Arguing again, then. It was hardly a surprise. Not one among them did not know the two mages did not get along.
"Because 'reason' from you sounds too blighted much like 'horse shit' to me," Amelle spat. Fenris could not help his faint smile; Amelle Hawke was typically reserved around him, though he was not ignorant of her tendency toward tart retorts, particularly where Anders was concerned. Her tone now, though, was far from merely pert. She was well and truly angry, and for a fleeting moment, Fenris wondered what Anders could have done; the vitriol in her voice now went leagues beyond tart retorts.
From below, Anders snorted. "I cannot understand how you can willfully ignore such an obvious similarity, Amelle."
"Because," she answered, speaking with exaggerated slowness, "it's horse shit."
I doubt you will make much of a dent with that line of reasoning, he thought, unwillingly curious about what the mages were discussing. Amelle sounded for all the world like she was trying to get away from Anders, and Anders sounded as if he were not willing to let the conversation rest. Unsurprising.
"Just because you can't see the analogy—" Anders began, but Amelle never gave him a chance to finish.
"I— you are impossible." And then she stopped and enunciated carefully, letting the silence between each accent the words themselves. "Mages. Aren't. Slaves!"
Fenris went cold, suddenly, the port nearly slipping through his fingers and crashing to the floor. He caught the bottle at the last and steadied it, sliding it back to its spot on the shelf. This was their argument? This? He looked at the Antivan wine in his hands and told himself to return upstairs — do not listen to this; these words are not for your ears — but he could not help moving closer to the opening in the floor, holding his breath and listening more intently.
Amelle had accompanied them to the Wounded Coast, had been by her sister's side when the slavers ambushed them. She had stood next to her sister when Hawke yelled the words "Fenris is a free man!" and she had fought against those who would say differently. She likewise accompanied them to the caverns where Hadriana hid, and in truth she did seem horrified by what Danarius' student had wrought, but he had not stayed long enough to know more.
Anders heaved an impatient sigh. "The Chant itself says magic is meant to—"
"Serve man and never rule over him," Amelle finished sharply. "Using magic to force anyone into submission is every bit as reprehensible as doing it with physical force! What the Tevinters—"
This time it was Anders who would not let Amelle finish, in his mind's eye he could almost see the mage's eyes flashing with anger, color mottling his cheeks, his high forehead, and Fenris found himself battling a renewed surge of irritation. Let her finish, he thought, scowling. But alas, Anders did not. "Mages are ruled by the Chantry in the same way!" he interrupted, his frustration making his voice thinner somehow, and more ragged.
"Maker's balls," Amelle spat, and Fenris could not help but smile a little to hear the younger sister using Hawke's preferred invective, "I've said it once and I'll say it again: you're thick."
"Then tell me how we aren't," Anders pressed. "Neither of us can go about safely at night or any other—"
"Then I suppose you might want to curb back your visits to the Blooming Rose," she riposted snidely. "You know. If you're visiting so much they offering to hire you."
"Make jokes all you like, Amelle—"
"Well, it's only that I find this conversation so very funny, you see," she said, sounding not at all amused even as she said it. There was a rustle of material and heavy footsteps — no, two sets of footsteps. Anders didn't reply right away and Fenris couldn't see anything to tell for himself, but Amelle exhaled a great sigh and the sound came from farther away, as though she had walked away from the ladder.
"You can say all this because you've never been to the Circle yourself. You're lucky and you don't see it."
"Oh, for the Maker's sake," came the weary reply, "do not start with this again. Don't presume, Anders, because I've never been to the Circle, that I am ignorant of what it Really Means To Be a Mage. You know nothing about me and you know nothing of my experiences. I know what being an apostate is like. I know what running is like, Anders. I know what hiding is like. I know what it's like, never daring to trust."
As do I, Fenris thought, still listening, quietly shocked to find Amelle's words mirroring so very many of his own thoughts. He too knew of what Amelle spoke, of running, of hiding, of never daring to dream of staying in one place for long, of always looking over his shoulder.
"I know what it's like to have no choice but to keep secrets," she went on, "whether you want to or not, to hide what you think is the best of yourself—"
"Then how can you abide Fenris?" Anders asked, and at the sound of his own name, Fenris started, his grip on the wine bottle tightening. He did not want to hear what either mage thought of him, and yet he found himself rooted to the spot. "All that hate, all that rancor? He despises us, Amelle — despite the fact we've never done anything to him, he hates us both, simply because of what we are."
Fenris scowled at Anders' shadow, his free hand flexing into a fist. You give me very little reason not to hate you, mage.
"And you hate the templars," Amelle countered, "all of them — simply because of what they are."
"That is entirely different—"
"No, it isn't."
Something a great deal like indignation rose in Fenris' breast — the comparison between Anders' unflattering opinions on templars and his own dislike of mages was not to be borne. This, then? This is how they spoke of him when he was nowhere near to hear it? He would have expected it of Anders, but that Amelle would make such a comparison… it rankled.
"How can you say that?"
The ladder shook suddenly as a woman's arm swung out, the hand slapping the wood soundly as Amelle snapped, "Do you even understand what slavery is, Anders? You speak so loftily about the struggles of mages, but you discount and ignore and brush off the suffering of every other being — unless you can use that suffering to further your own cause. You're quick to draw similarities, but do you—have you even ever tried to understand? Have you ever tried to empathize? Or are you so certain no one's suffering can match yours?"
"So you simply ignore the fact that if not for Hawke, he likely would have crushed your heart by now?"
Such a question gave Fenris pause. He did not like or trust mages, but neither did he deal death indiscriminately. Would he have ended Amelle Hawke had her sister not been there to prevent it? He truly wasn't sure; she certainly hadn't actively done anything to antagonize him. Indeed, she stayed out of his way as much as possible. While they were not friends, given her treatment of him he could see no reason for wanting her dead, Hawke notwithstanding.
"He has his reasons for having neither love nor trust for mages," Amelle said, and the words came as a surprise to him. "I am not going to tell him he has no right to his anger. A mage killed my mother. I hated my own power for a while. I hated myself for what had been done to her."
"Quentin was insane."
Fenris glared down the passageway. An insane blood mage.
"An insane mage," replied Amelle hotly, echoing Fenris' thoughts. "His magic allowed him to turn her into—" Amelle's voice broke and she gritted out, voice trembling and suddenly thick with tears, "Drop it. If you know what's good for yourself, drop it."
There was a beat of silence and Fenris realized he was holding his breath. His heart pounded beneath his breast, but he remained rooted to the spot. Indeed, he could not turn away now even if he'd wanted to. He closed his eyes and listened harder for any scrap of sound, but all he made out was the sound of labored breathing. Amelle attempting to collect herself, no doubt.
It sounded as if Anders was the one to sigh this time, and there came with it the sound of movement — more footsteps, but only one set. Whatever Amelle Hawke was doing, she wasn't moving.
"We all do it," she said tiredly, and Fenris wondered if the last bit of fire had been drained out of her with the mention of her mother. "When someone hurts us, we remember it, and even if we don't want to, even if we don't mean to, we still hold it against the type of person that hurt us. You hate the templars, Anders."
"And I have good reason to, Amelle. So do you."
Another sigh. She sounded tired, and the tears that had lodged in her throat at the mention of Leandra Hawke did not sound as if they'd dissipated yet. "I don't hate them. I— I don't expect you to understand. And maybe it's because you can't. Mages hurt Fenris. You — you didn't see. I… I don't even know how to make you see. Their lives are not their own. They're… property to be bought, sold, and traded at will, like… like a thing." As Amelle spoke, every ounce of weariness and heartbreak resonated through her voice, and Fenris realized Amelle was more than just disgusted at the events in the cavern. They'd affected her deeply. "You weren't there today. I-I saw an old man — Orana's grandfather, for Andraste's sake — drained of blood, just to feed a madwoman's magic. Her need for power. He was nothing to her. He'd been her servant, he'd cooked her meals, and in the end none of it meant anything. His life had no worth to her beyond how he could serve her, and in the end she decided his blood would serve her best. So she killed him. And why should she care? She could go back to Tevinter and buy another just like him.
"The magisters don't look at slaves as people — they're tools. Supplies. Ingredients. And they are ruled by magic. These— Maker, I can barely stand to call them people — they've used magic to victimize, to crush, to threaten, to use—"
"It's still not that different! The Chantry can have us made Tranquil — as if we weren't worth anything. As if—"
"You know what? There are mages who deserve it. I would have been happy to see that bastard Quentin made Tranquil. Or Gascard DuPuis. And don't look at me like that — I'd have done it myself if I could."
The ladder gave a great shudder then, creaking as it took on weight. Fenris straightened and tucked the bottle beneath his arm before taking quick, light strides back to the stairway. From behind him, Amelle's voice drew nearer and he continued on up the stairs, not sure why he was taking such care to remain in shadow, only knowing he did not want Amelle to know she'd been overheard. That he'd overheard.
"Mages are dangerous," she said with a soft grunt as she climbed. "I don't fool myself into believing my powers aren't dangerous, and we both know perfectly well what you are and how dangerous that makes you." He was halfway up the stairs as he heard her heft herself up with a thud and another grunt of effort. Her voice was clearer now, closer. His hand rested upon the doorknob and he eased it open without so much as a creak of protest from the hinges.
"That doesn't mean I agree with the way things are, but calling mages slaves dismisses and trivializes all the real slaves have undergone and continue to undergo," she called down through the open door. Fenris wondered if Anders was still standing below to listen. There was a swish of fabric as she stood, then a sharp thump, followed by a creak and a bang as she kicked the trapdoor closed, punctuating her statement and ending the conversation.
When next Amelle spoke, she spoke softly, the thick silence of the wine cellar almost swallowing her words entirely.
"I am not a slave."
Another too-long day was finally drawing to a close.
Four more days since Ianna had brought her babe in for healing, since he'd walked into the clinic to find Amelle unconscious on the clinic floor, Merrill doing her best to wake her and failing. Four days since he'd scooped her up, feeling immeasurable relief that her body was warm, that she still drew breath, and carried her slung over one shoulder up the ladder and into the library. In that time, more parents brought more sick children into the clinic for Amelle to heal. And heal them she did, though under Fenris' watchful eye. He was not so careless as to leave her alone again — for all that she protested, promised, and swore she would not expend her mana so drastically, Fenris knew too well — for he'd seen it firsthand — Amelle's single-mindedness when it came to healing. He also knew that had he not been standing so nearby, she'd have done it again and again and again if it meant healing someone who required it. Amelle still healed the sick — including the mysterious fevers — but it was Fenris who reminded her to use a restorative afterward. He was not particularly… happy with the increase in Amelle's use of lyrium potion, but it was a compromise they'd reached, however temporary. Temporary, because the process was beginning to take its toll on her. We have to find a bloody cure for this illness sooner or later, Fenris, she'd told him that afternoon after forcing down another potion. Sooner would be better; I'm not sure how many more of these I can fix.
But for the moment, at least, the hour was late, the estate was quiet and Amelle was attempting to resist fatigue's powerful pull. Even in the firelight, she was pale, her eyes heavy with exhaustion as she was clutched more and more frequently by yawns, though she stubbornly remained awake. That stubbornness was half the reason Fenris had made a habit of staying until Amelle retired for the evening before returning to the mansion; he wasn't entirely convinced she wouldn't try to craft yet another batch of potions in his absence.
"Fenris, I have a question for you," said Amelle, stretched out on the rug in front of the library's hearth; Killer stretched languidly and placed its massive head in her lap, settling back into a doze.
"Yes?" he answered, leaning back into the leather armchair, stretching his legs in front of him and crossing them at the ankles. The heat coming from the hearth baked into his skin, down to the bones, leaving him relaxed despite the tension of the past days.
But Amelle did not speak again for some moments. She chose instead to focus on the sleeping mabari, her fingers tracing and rubbing its ears until the dog snuffled happily in its sleep. Then, when the silence was on the verge of becoming too oppressive, she looked up at him. Backlit by the fire as she was, her features were thrown into shadow. "If you hate the Imperium so much," she began slowly, "and everything to do with it…" Amelle looked down at the dog, then back up at him, speaking slowly, as if unsure of the words. "Why do you still speak in their tongue?"
For all that it was a valid question, asked without scorn or worse, hidden motives, the answer still took some time to consider. He looked at her a moment, but there was no scorn in her expression; it was not the first time she'd surprised him with a simple, straightforward question.
"There are few languages that feel so satisfying when speaking in…" he trailed off, considering how best to phrase it, then cleared his throat. "When speaking with vehemence."
The smile she gave him was a wry, dimpled one. "You mean swearing. There are few languages so satisfying to swear in."
His laugh took even him by surprise. "I suppose that is a more… accurate way of putting it."
Amelle leaned back slightly, bracing her hands behind her, letting her head loll back as she looked at the ceiling. "Funny, isn't it?"
"I'm… not sure I know what you mean."
"Well," she began, slanting a look his way before looking back at the ceiling, "Orlesian is very pretty to swear in. It seems like the sort of language you could call a person anything at all, and if you did it with a convincing enough smile, no one would think anything about it. They might even think you were complimenting them."
"Do you speak any Orlesian?" he asked, watching as her eyes tracked the shadows on the ceiling.
"Not a word. But it is pretty sounding."
"Fair enough," he chuckled.
"Antivan, though — that's a more robust-sounding tongue." She toed out of her slippers, flexing her toes by the warmth of the fire. "You could have fun swearing in Antivan, I think. It seems like the sort of language best spoken with a lot of volume and gestures. Passionate." She paused. "But Tevinter…"
"Yes?"
"Tevinter sounds…" she paused, and a queer expression came over her face. She blushed suddenly.
"Yes?" Fenris prompted again, suddenly wanting very much to know what she wasn't saying.
"Well, on the one hand," she began, and as quickly as it came the expression was gone. She cleared her throat and busied herself with… nothing at all, from what Fenris could see, plucking invisible strands from the carpet. "On one hand, it sounds terribly angry when you swear. Which, I suppose, makes sense. You don't swear when you're pleased, right?"
"Maybe I do," replied Fenris, and he wondered a bit at his own arch tone.
Amelle stopped and looked at him, and then laughed.
"Might I ask what's so amusing?" he asked, tamping down on the surge of defensiveness in his breast.
"You — Fenris," she said, her grin wide, "of anyone, I can entirely believe you'd be able to manage sounding angry despite being pleased about something."
He did not comment to that, but instead tilted his head as he looked down at her. "Dare I ask what brought this on?"
She gestured vaguely at the divan. "When you were trying to wake me the other day — I… well, you were swearing. And I… I had wondered for a moment in the midst of it all if I was dreaming or brain-damaged, because there was this voice speaking to me, and I didn't understand a word of what it was saying." She paused and looked suddenly sheepish. "Well, I take that back. I understood a word."
"Which one?" Fenris asked cautiously. He'd said… a great many things while trying to wake Amelle. Things far more telling, no matter what the tone or language they'd been spoken in. He was intensely relieved she recognized only a single word.
When she repeated the word back to him, though, Fenris found himself smiling.
"Of them all, that is the one you recognized?"
Amelle shrugged. "That's when I knew it was you. And I knew you were angry."
He didn't know how to tell her it had not been anger pulling those words from his lips. It had been fear. He supposed, on him, the two emotions possibly bore a resemblance to each other, and so he did not correct her.
"I imagine you were quite put out to discover I was taking a nap on the floor," she said, still grinning.
Fenris cleared his throat; though deflection was the more appealing of the two options before him, he chose to reply honestly: "On the contrary, I believed for a moment my errand that morning had not been… entirely successful."
"Your… oh." Amelle caught up with what he was saying, and she winced, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. "Oh. Oh, Fenris. I… hadn't thought of that. I'm… Maker, I'm sorry."
"I determined quickly that my initial impression was… incorrect." He only lifted his shoulders in a shrug, finding there was very little he could say. "You need better restoratives in your supply, Amelle."
"Tell me about it," she groused. "Some recipes are near impossible to come by. I've been trying to pick apart some of the trickier ones, but not having much luck."
"Is there a reason you cannot develop your own?"
"No one to test it on," she explained slim shoulders rolling in a shrug as she twisted to lean upon one hip, facing him more fully. "Unless you're volunteering to knock me out for the sole purpose of recovering me?"
"I think your sister would hardly thank me for giving you brain damage."
The dimple returned. "And I think she'd argue you couldn't make it any worse." Drawing her legs up, she pushed to her feet and stretched, rolling her shoulders and arching her back, then reaching her hands high above her head and leaning back until something let out a soft pop. "Which raises an excellent point," she said, walking from one end of the library to the other and back again.
"…A point," he echoed, narrowing his eyes.
She seemed to anticipate his meaning and shook her head, waving a hand at him. "Not about brain damage, no. About this bloody fever. Something better than a restorative — a cure. Something. I honestly don't know how long I can keep this up. Four days and no sign of things slowing down? I mean, thank the Maker I haven't passed out again, but something's going on, and I'm not sure I'm actually helping. It's not spreading as fast as some illnesses, but…"
Despite the late hour, she paced and continued to pace, tapping her fingers together in agitation. It was true she'd not pushed herself to the same limits she had several days before, but she had pushed herself to the point of a nosebleed more than once; it was not something he wanted to see continue. The mana Amelle was expending on patients was… not sustainable.
"And it's easier," she went on, still pacing, "not to overtax myself when you're sitting there glowering at me." Her smile was lopsided and self-deprecating, but fleeting, and soon she was back to pacing, fingers working and fidgeting with each other. It was as if she thought by simply moving, she might solve the problem quicker. "I've been rationing my mana, using it only when absolutely necessary and supplementing with lyrium when I must, but…"
"It is not a pace you can maintain."
Grimacing, Amelle nodded.
"What do we know?" she asked, folding her arms and glaring up at the statue above the fire as though it held the answers she was seeking. A few seconds of stillness, however, was more than enough, and soon she shook her head in evident disgust and began moving again.
"Not much so far," replied Fenris, watching her. "The fever seems only to be striking the very young. Have you noticed otherwise?"
Amelle shook her head. "No. No fevers in any of the adults or older children. There have been a lot of complaints, but most of them very common, run of the mill sorts of things — broken nose, dislocated finger, concussion," she recounted, ticking each ailment off on her fingers. "Nothing at all like what we encountered with those children."
"And you are certain there is no magic at work."
Amelle ceased her pacing to run a hand through her hair, tousling the short strands and sending a few standing straight up. "I don't know," she replied. "It's… it's possible, I suppose — it'd explain how resistant to me the fevers are. But…" She faced Fenris, arms hanging by her sides, worrying the fabric of her dress. "If it's magic, then it's magic I've never seen and don't know how to counteract. So… Fenris, I hope to the Maker it's not magic, because I don't know how to fix it if it is."
Frustration was only too evident in her voice, and after these days he'd spent with her, Fenris could well understand her dwindling patience. Amelle was a healer — beyond merely her occupation, it was her identity as well. That something like a fever could cause her such difficulty was difficult to believe, particularly after Fenris himself had witnessed Amelle's work on a near-death Sebastian in that alleyway.
"You are exhausted. Perhaps—"
She whirled around to face him, the suddenness of the gesture cutting off his words. "I don't think there's—" She stopped and rubbed at her face, pressing the tips of her fingers against her eyes. "I don't want to say it's absolutely not magic, because I don't know, and can't be sure. I'm nearly certain, but…"
"Amelle."
Fenris' voice cut through her increasing agitation and she looked at him, pulling her hands slowly away from her eyes. "…Yes?"
"This is accomplishing nothing," he told her quietly. "You must stop and think."
Amelle stared at him for so many moments that Fenris wondered briefly if he'd inadvertently offended her. But then, slowly and gradually, Amelle went still. "You're right." She shook her head and breathed a soft laugh. "Maker, Fenris. My… my father used to have to tell me the same thing. 'Breathe, rabbit,' he used to say. 'You can't focus if you're turning blue.'" She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, letting it out slowly. "Right then. Breathing now." She came close and sat in the armchair angled next to Fenris', resting her elbows upon her knees and rubbing slowly at her temples. "Think. Focus. Think."
"You are exhausted," he told her, voice low. "Perhaps it would be wiser if you rested."
She pulled her head from her hands and looked at him, eyes wide and lips parted as she shook her head. "I can't," she said. "Not yet. What if another child dies during the night? What if I go downstairs in the morning and there's a line of people from my door all the way to the Gallows?"
"Worrying will not prevent either of those things from happening."
She sighed hard, head dropping into her hands again. "I know," she answered, voice muffled. After a few seconds spent in this fashion, Amelle peered up at him through her fingers. "You know," she mumbled against her hands, "you don't have to—"
"Have we not been through this already?"
She leaned back, sinking into the chair, dropping her hands into her lap. "Yes, but it's late. And you've got to be tired. Maker knows I am, but… I need some sort of direction here. I feel like I'm running around in circles."
"Your stores are not endless; you must allow yourself to recover." He paused. "Without the aid of lyrium potion."
Amelle opened her mouth to argue — indeed, it was a moment when he saw the resemblance between the sisters most clearly. But something made her stop, as though suddenly distracted by a memory. "A mage's power is not endless," she murmured into the fire. "And one should not treat it as if it were." Giving herself a little shake, Amelle said softly, "I'd almost let myself forget." Then she scrubbed her hands across her face, dragging her fingers into her hair. "Maker, what I'd give for Kiara to be here. I'd love a little perspective."
With those words, a thunderbolt hit, and the change in Amelle was marked. She sat up straighter, and though there were fatigued shadows beneath her eyes, those eyes looked brighter, more alert.
"That's it. We need perspective," she said, twisting around in her chair and facing Fenris. "Namely? A different perspective."
He couldn't argue; indeed, another opinion, another frame of reference, another perspective sounded promising. "What did you have in mind?"
Amelle pushed herself out of the chair and began pacing again, but instead of fatigue making her limbs heavy, an idea made her step light and quick. "Okay, so I'm nearly certain it's not magic, but it's not natural either. So if I — a mage — can't sense it, then maybe—"
Comprehension made Fenris lean forward, bracing his palms on his knees. "Then perhaps the templars could," he finished for her.
"Templar, singular. Not plural," she said, shaking her head. "I don't need that kind of trouble. But Cullen… He's the acting Knight-Commander, remember. And evidently one of a cadre of babysitters my sister retained. It seems to me he ought to be put to work doing something that isn't cleaning up Meredith's mess."
"It is… an interesting idea, and may yield different results than you've been experiencing. Do you truly think he'll be able to help?"
"I'm not sure. But I know I do think we don't deserve to be only ones stymied by this." She sat down with a flourish at Kiara's desk and pulled a sheet of parchment free from one of the drawers and a quill from another. After a moment or two of contemplation, she began to write:
To: Templar Knight-Commander (acting, etc.) Cullen, Templar Hall, Kirkwall
Ser,
Forgive this method of communication; I hope I can be excused for not delivering it in person. I don't imagine you'd thank me much if I did, come to think of it.
There is a matter of no small import upon which I require your unique perspective and expertise.
I can be found, as you have already discovered (and to my lingering embarrassment and chagrin), at my family's home in Hightown. I would thank you to come at your earliest convenience.
~A. Hawke
(Not to be confused with The Hawke.)
Fenris stood quietly at her shoulder, watching as the quill scratched rapidly across the parchment as she wrote. Though his reading skills were improving, it was near impossible for him to decipher the flowing, swooping handwriting. When she was finished, Amelle read the letter aloud.
"What do you think?"
"Interesting postscript."
Amelle shot him a grin as she wafted the letter to dry the ink. "You have to admit, it's probably going to be the least boring piece of correspondence to cross his desk tomorrow. And I do strive never to be boring."
Snorting softly, Fenris crossed his arms. "I think it's safe to say you have succeeded in your endeavor many times over."
"You're only saying that because I passed out on your watch," replied Amelle with a smirk of her own as she folded the letter and sought out the sealing wax.
"And I thought you said you did not require a keeper."
With a quick flick of her fingers, the wax went soft and dripped garish red splotches against the paper. "I don't," she said, pressing the Amell seal into the soft wax. "But you weren't there as my keeper, were you?"
"At the time I was there as a fr—" He faltered as Amelle's head shot up and she stared at him, her eyes slowly widening. His uneasiness was palpable. "As… one… invested," he went on, awkwardly, "in your best interests."
In barely an instant, Amelle's shocked look transformed as sent him a broad, blinding smile. "You can say it, you know," she teased. "I won't tell anyone."
"I have no idea what you mean," came his stiff reply, inclining his head and meeting her gaze defiantly.
"My friend, Fenris. You can say it: you were there as my friend."
#
Cullen was busy. Truthfully, he'd been busy long before Meredith's demise vaulted him into an unwanted promotion, but nothing like this. In many ways he was doing the work not only of Knight-Commander, but of Knight-Captain as well. They'd lost so many, and time was such a commodity, he hadn't yet thought to appoint someone else to see to things like rosters or logistics or making certain recruits were still getting training, even with everything else going on. So he had half a dozen piles of paper on his desk, and no idea how to delegate.
Just looking at them gave him a headache.
He knew it fell to him to see things returned to the closest approximation of normalcy he could manage. Many of his templars still spent a great deal of their time in the city, helping clean and restore and rebuild, but with no mages to guard, he supposed it was as good a use of their time as anything. More troubling was the low-grade restlessness still plaguing the city, and though a tense peace had fallen after the memorial, he was still receiving far too many reports of fighting in the streets and tempers flaring into physical arguments. More worrisome still were the number of reports naming city guardsmen as instigators in these altercations. He didn't want to level accusations blindly, especially not with tensions running so high, but he made a note to speak with Aveline when next he was in Hightown.
Sighing, he leaned on one elbow and put his chin in his hand. Apart from the first visit, he'd not had time to call on Amelle Hawke again. He supposed it mattered little—Hawke had been nothing if not thorough when choosing her watchdogs—and the mage had seemed well-protected. And much as he might like to stop by in time to partake of the morning buns he so thoroughly enjoyed the last time, the prospect of fine baking was hardly impetus enough to send him across to Kirkwall proper, not when he had so bloody much work to do at the Gallows. If she could maintain the same levels of discretion she'd managed since the chantry was lost, she would not require his presence. He was all but certain.
Still, the idea of not checking on her made him itch, a little. Hawke had trusted him. He didn't want to let her down.
But he was so bloody busy.
A knock at the door startled him from his reverie, and he raised his head to see Ser Hugh standing at the door, a folded parchment in his hand. "This just arrived for you, Knight-Commander. The, uh, bearer said it was important?"
Cullen leaned back, folding his arms over his chest. "Who was the bearer?"
"The white-haired elf who sometimes accompanies Serah Hawke, Knight-Commander."
He felt his spine stiffen, and he saw Hugh notice it. "Is he still here?"
"No, ser. I asked if he wished to bring it to you himself, but he said he had business in the city and could not be detained. He did insist I bring the letter to you at once, however."
Cullen rose and extended a hand, and Hugh placed the letter in his outstretched palm. "Hugh," he said, before the young templar could depart, "do you have a moment?"
Hugh's eyes widened and he gave a jerky salute. "Of course, Knight-Commander."
"You are in the city often? How much truth is there to these reports of arguments in the streets?"
Hugh looked momentarily uncomfortable. "A great deal, I'm afraid. I have had to step in to break up several such arguments."
"Were the guard involved in any of them?"
For a moment, it looked as though Hugh did not wish to reply. At length, he replied, "All of them, ser."
Cullen leaned back in the chair, frowning and tapping the edge of the letter against the palm of his other hand. "I thought Guard-Captain Aveline rooted out the riffraff when she took over." The frown deepened. "I remember Mere—" he caught himself. "I recall my… predecessor was pleased when Captain Jeven was removed." And she had been, though her opinion of Aveline Vallen taking up the position of Captain of the Guard was not high. Another of that Hawke girl's upstarts, he'd heard her mutter. But Aveline had proven herself more than competent for the job. He didn't know her particularly well — being a member of Hawke's inner circle didn't help matters — but he did feel a faint swell of what he supposed had been Fereldan pride when one of King Maric's soldiers had been promoted so.
That any of Aveline's men would behave in such a manner was unusual indeed.
Hugh's eyes scanned the floor a moment before he looked up again. "Well, ser, it hasn't always been like this. The city guard and the templars don't… always get on well, but I can't remember ever having to break up altercations before. The captain doesn't let just anyone join the ranks."
That was something the templars and the city guard had in common, at least. For all the good it did now.
"I suppose I can juggle the duty rosters to place more of our own men in some… strategically advantageous spots," Cullen muttered, leaning forward and shuffling through one of the countless stacks of papers to find the duty roster in question. "Though it will be a juggling act. We've few enough men as it is."
Hugh shifted his weight and the armor with him, clanking softly. "May I add something, Knight-Commander?"
"Of course, Hugh," he replied not looking up.
"Some of the men thought… thought maybe the guard are — well, tensions are running awfully high, ser."
Having found the roster, Cullen looked up at the knight, narrowing his eyes. "Surely you aren't trying to excuse such behavior, Hugh."
The younger man went crimson as he shook his head. "No, Knight-Commander, ser. Only that… if there's any reason for it, that might be it. After what happened… after everything…"
It was true Kirkwall hadn't been… peaceful as of late. After the memorial, Cullen had hoped the city and its people might at least start working toward some sort of attempt to heal and rebuild, not spiral further down into anarchy. "Have you any report of our own men behaving in such a manner?"
Hugh shook his head. "No, ser. Other than those new recruits fighting in the courtyard—"
"Any new problems from them?"
"Not that I've seen or heard, ser." The younger knight gave a fleeting, lopsided grin. "I think you put the fear of the Maker into them. Not a lick of trouble from either since."
Would that all of Kirkwall's problems could be so easily remedied. Cullen scribbled a few notes on the duty roster — it was becoming cluttered with his various and sundry notes to himself, all of them varying levels of cryptic. "I suppose I've no choice but to speak with Guard-Captain Aveline about the matter. Reprimanding my own men is one thing; I'll not stick my nose where it's likely to get cut off." He knew perfectly well Meredith had pushed her advantage after Viscount Dumar's death, and he knew perfectly well how resented she'd become for it. But for the time being, at least, the templars and the city guard had no need to be working at cross-purposes. A tactful conversation with the captain was in order.
Which meant a journey to Hightown.
He was halfway to the door before Hugh coughed lightly and nodded toward the letter. Cullen had abandoned it when he'd gone for the duty roster. Scrubbing a hand through his hair, he retraced his steps, and took a closer look at it. Blinking, he thought he recognized the Amell seal. Strange. Before he could slide his thumbnail under the wax, however, Hugh said, "Knight-Commander, there is… another matter I would speak with you about."
The young templar's voice sounded strained and earnest and terribly concerned, and Cullen raised his eyebrows in silent query. Hugh didn't quite fidget, but he looked uncomfortable as he said, "We have… as you said, I am in the city often. I—"
"Too often?" Cullen asked. "Would you like to be here, then? I'll see what I can—"
But Hugh was already shaking his head firmly. "You misunderstand me, Knight-Commander. I am glad of the occupation, and I believe we are doing actual good within Kirkwall. It is only… I was organizing the water supplies—"
Yet another cause for concern, Cullen feared. The spring beneath the chantry had collapsed and too much of the groundwater was undrinkable. It fell to the templars—Maker, what doesn't fall to us?—to supply water from the spring beneath the Gallows. As far as he understood, many of the Hightown wells were still usable, but the water was scarce. Continuing to rely on the Gallows spring was… a logistical nightmare. They would have to see about finding someone—anyone—who knew the workings of wells and springs well enough to either repair what was broken or scout out a new water source. In the meantime, perhaps he might recruit some of the townsfolk to aid in collection and distribution—
"Knight-Commander?"
Cullen blinked, his fingers momentarily tightening around the parchment still clutched in his hand. "Forgive me, Ser Hugh. I was distracted. The water situation is… vexing."
"Yes, ser," the templar replied, without disappointment or ire. "I agree."
Cullen sighed. "But you are aware I know of it. What is it that's troubling you?"
"I'm not certain troubling is the right word, Knight-Commander. It's only… have you heard rumors the clinic in Darktown's open again?"
This garnered his full attention. Duty rosters and water and letters with the Amell seal—even Aveline's guards running mad—all were forgotten. "The mage?"
Hugh shook his head again. "Not the same one, ser." The young templar's blue eyes narrowed. "Rumor says it's a young woman. I imagine it's the Hawke girl."
Oh, Amelle Hawke. Open the clinic again, yes. Very discreet. Sweet Andraste.
"That stands to reason," Cullen remarked, and was gratified when Hugh blinked and shifted unsteadily, his armor clanking. "She is a healer, and if any place needs healing just now, it's Kirkwall. These rumors of illness in the city are distressing, to say the least. She is attempting to ease the burden."
Ser Hugh raised his chin, his jaw jutting in resolute defiance. "Twice you've let her leave when we ought to have brought her within the safety of our walls, ser."
He bit back his groan, but only barely. Of all the conversations I wish I didn't have to have… "Thrice, if you must know," Cullen explained. "I had… forgotten you were there on the Wounded Coast. No matter. The Champion—"
"But we're templars, ser. We have a responsibility. Mages must be protected, guarded, and able as she is, the Champion does not have the same resources we do."
Nor is she in the city, even if she did.
"You have seen her fight, Ser Hugh. You have seen the aftermath of her fighting. How many would you see sacrificed, to bring one mage within these walls? Especially now, when there is no Circle to join?"
A concerned furrow creased the younger man's brow. "But she's—"
"She is watched, Ser Hugh. Perhaps not as constantly as she would be in a Gallows cell, but she is watched. It is…" Cullen shook his head, and resisted the urge to pinch his brow. He could feel a headache building beneath the ever-present layer of exhaustion. "A compromise had to be made. You see the result of it. Meredith was aware of it. I am aware of it. Amelle Hawke is not to be apprehended."
"But, ser—"
"Tell me, Hugh — is this the most pressing matter facing Kirkwall this morning? An apostate mage, who — as I mentioned — is watched, currently working to heal the sick and injured after a disaster the likes of which I have never seen?"
"A disaster caused by a mage, Knight-Commander. Leniency against mages cannot be—"
Cullen fought off the urge to bury his face in his hands; not only was this not a conversation he didn't wish to have, it was a conversation he already knew too well. Not so long ago he would have been making this very argument himself, and he wasn't sure how he could have lost the thread of it so completely.
"Hugh." Something about the expression he wore or the look in his eye made the younger man stop suddenly, his mouth snapping shut and his skin flushing scarlet all the way to the tips of his ears. "The memorial is over, but things are far from back to normal. Kirkwall is without potable water. There is still rubble in the streets. We are still recovering remains. And now we have violence breaking out and the very men and women charged with keeping Kirkwall safe are implicated. Can you honestly tell me that there is nothing more important right this very moment than apprehending someone who is helping?"
Hugh's mouth worked silently and soon his gaze found the floor again. Cullen could see the younger man's jaw tightening and releasing, and he did not know whether Hugh was fighting back the urge to say something scathing, or whether he was fighting to find something to say at all.
"No, ser," he mumbled, still scarlet. After a beat of silence, he forced his gaze to meet Cullen's, albeit waveringly. "No, ser," he said again, his voice stronger this time. "You… you are right. Your orders are — the people of Kirkwall — their safety — should be our first priority."
Crossing his arms over his breastplate, Cullen exhaled slowly. He tried not to feel relief that Hugh was finally — seemed finally willing to drop the matter; he knew the younger man would doubtless raise the question again. When that time would come, however, Cullen didn't know. With luck, Hawke would be back by then and…
And then what?
That was a question better answered… later. Later, when his desk was not covered entirely with documents. Later, when the rubble was cleared. Just… later. There would be time for all this… later.
"Very good, Ser Hugh. You are dismissed."
Hugh nodded once, saluted, and closed the door softly behind him. Once more, Cullen looked down at the piece of correspondence, the red wax seal cracked and flaking, but not yet broken; it was definitely the Amell seal. He turned it over and examined the writing on the front — it was not Hawke's hand, but one with more flourishes and loops that was largely unfamiliar to him, though he was starting to formulate a guess. In fact, he could almost see Amelle Hawke's dimpled smile in his mind's eye and hear her teasing voice in his ears. See, Knight-Commander? I can too be discreet. Silly.
Silly.
He had no time to think those thoughts, either.
Later.
Giving himself a little shake, Cullen snapped the wax seal, heedless of the flakes scattering to the floor.
He read through the brief missive several times. The tone was… odd, to say the least. On the fourth read-through, he pegged the strangeness as forced levity. Couched between her jests, the line there is a matter of no small import upon which I require your unique perspective and expertise jumped out at him. Mages did not request the expertise of templars. They might require it, but they never requested. He wondered if it mightn't have to do with Anders, and his stomach twisted with some strange blend of rage and disgust and hate. That was justice he'd be more than glad to help Amelle mete out. Though he rather suspected a reappearance of the mage would not have allowed for amusement. Strange indeed.
And yet he couldn't help the peculiar sensation of gratitude that wormed through him. Amelle's letter gave him a valid excuse to look in on her, after all. The prospect shouldn't have pleased him quite so much.
Silly, indeed.
Folding the letter, he tucked it into the sash at his waist and stalked to the weapon stand to retrieve his sword and shield. Hightown it was, then. He could stop by the Hawke estate and then see if the captain of the guard had any insight regarding the trouble in the city. And he would have to look at the duty rosters later—it simply couldn't be put off any longer.
Maker, he rather hoped he was offered sticky buns once again. He had the sinking feeling today was going to be a very, very, very long day.
