Note: hello new Point of View character!
In this chapter, Alistair and Bron get some help from an old friend and then Bron hears the best news she has ever, ever received.
Also - I just realised that has been removing my sections breaks when I post chapters. So I've gone through the fic and added the breaks back. I apologise for any confusion caused.
The dim fire casts odd shapes along the cave walls, dark phantoms that dance ghoulishly against the cragged walls. Hawke jabs at the burning logs with a stick, less to coax the flames and more to just stave off boredom. She's been in Crestwood for several days already, sitting alone in this cave for far too many hours to count, and she is growing restless.
She's not surprised that Alistair has been delayed in reaching her; it's not easy to travel long distances these days without becoming embroiled in some sort of violent predicament. If you're lucky, you might avoid the fighting between the mages and Templars, but then you've still got the rifts to worry about, spitting demons throughout Thedas, not to mention your standard, run-of-the-mill bandits trying to take advantage of the chaos for their own, personal gain.
But while Hawke can understand Alistair's delay, well, it's still bloody annoying.
Hawke wishes she'd stayed in the tavern in the village. She could be nestled in a deep armchair right now, feet propped up next to a roaring fireplace, a tankard of beer in hand. But then she's an exiled Champion, and Alistair's an exiled Warden, and sitting merrily in an oft-frequented tavern isn't particularly inconspicuous.
Besides – the village had creeped her out when she'd passed through, which is quite an achievement considering she's spent the best part of the last decade living in Kirkwall, a veritable cornucopia of the crazy and the off-putting. But then there is something particularly unsettling about an inexplicable undead uprising, and not even her years in Kirkwall had prepared her for the never ending waves of shuffling corpses. She had been happy to keep her visit as short as possible, grabbing only a few essential supplies before passing through to her current hideaway.
Hawke had figured that the abandoned mines around Crestwood would make the ideal spot for her rendezvous with Alistair. Secluded, remote – the average traveller wouldn't even know they were there had they just been passing through. Hawke only knows they exist thanks to her time living in the Old Crestwood village as a child, long before the Blight. She and Bethany would come to the mines to play with their magic, conjuring butterflies made from fire, forging flowers out of ice, far from the prying eyes of villagers who might bring them to the attention of the Chantry.
She'd been sad to leave the place behind, sad to leave the rolling plains of green, the sparkling waters of the lake. But her father had decided that they'd been in one place too long and no one dared tempt fate when the Templars were concerned.
Hawke had never been a particularly nostalgic person but she'd been disappointed to learn upon her return to Crestwood that her old home was now submerged below the lake's waters, another victim to the Blight. It had been a happy home and it had deserved a better fate.
Without anything better to do, she takes a small leather-bound folio out of her pack and pulls out the letters she's received from Alistair over the months. It's quite a thick pile now and she rifles swiftly through them in search of the one she wants. The first few letters had been about her brother, and she'd been relieved to find that Carver was not the only warden suffering from an alarmingly early onset of the Calling (although, in all honesty, Alistair's letters had both calmed and frightened her – it was one thing to know that her brother was not alone, it was quite another to fear that something truly, terribly wrong was afoot with the whole Order). Then there's the letter where he'd told her that he'd given up on finding the wardens, followed almost immediately with a letter saying essentially, 'whoops! Just kidding – I'm still on the whole warden hunt thing.'
Finally she finds the most recent letters he'd sent (and she really should think about arranging these letters into some sort of chronological order like a sensible person), and these are by far the most intriguing. Alistair and his Inquisition buddy had seemingly broken into the warden stronghold in Amaranthine and stolen a number of informative documents, an impressive feat.
But while Alistair had been excited to tell her about the information they'd uncovered, he'd been unwilling to tell her everything via letter, for fear that their correspondence may be intercepted en route. And so she'd suggested they meet at Crestwood to discuss the information he'd retrieved and, more importantly, what they would do with it.
When she'd sent her reply suggesting they meet, she hadn't really known what would happen next. They were, after all, just two exiles and a wayward Inquisition agent trying to find the wardens and – then what? She'd been so determined to find the wardens and uncover the secrets behind what was afflicting her brother that she hadn't really stopped to think about what would happen next. Once she'd found the wardens, would she force them to help her brother? Would they even be able to help?
But then she'd received a letter from Varric, possibly the most beautiful, magnificent, wonderful letter she had ever received in her entire life, and everything had suddenly become a great deal clearer. She would meet with Alistair, they'd collate their intelligence, and then they'd go meet Varric at Skyhold like he'd requested in his letter and they would present their findings to the Inquisition.
Let the grand and mighty Inquisition figure out what to do next.
As she's reading through Alistair's letter and the accompanying scrawled notes, Hawke hears a sound echoing down the tunnel leading to her hiding spot.
Finally, she thinks, Alistair's arrived.
Or… it could be someone else.
She reaches down to grab her staff where it lies at her feet; lets heat pool into her palms. She doesn't want to summon fire quite yet, poor Alistair doesn't deserve a fireball to the face, but she wants to have it at the ready just in case.
Given Hawke's luck in the past, it's almost certainly some unholy abomination come to maul her to death and feast on her insides, or Templars on the search for errant apostates. She's not quite sure which she'd rather face.
Well – looking on the bright side – Hawke is cold and stiff from sitting too long, and setting something on fire seems like an awful lot of fun right now.
Let them come.
Bron holds the sides of her hood to keep it in place, fighting vainly against the lashing wind and unrelenting rain. Her skin stings from the cold and the damp, and there's so much water puddled at the bottom of her boots that they squelch uncomfortably with every step. But there's no point dwelling on her discomfort; fixating on it won't make it go away. So instead she focuses on Alistair's back just ahead of her and tries not to trip in the mud.
She had wanted to stop the night at the tavern in the nearby village and come find Hawke in the morning. They could have rested from the long journey and had something warm and filling to eat before venturing out into Crestwood. It's not that Bron is particularly concerned with her comfort, she's certainly been in her fair share of uncomfortable situations before, but tiredness and hunger makes people clumsy, and the storm is making it harder to maintain awareness of their situation. Cloaked by darkness and surrounded by a thick curtain of rain, she can barely see more than a few feet in front of her, let alone spot any approaching hostiles.
And given what a sorry state Crestwood seems to be in, with the dead brought to their feet once more (and since when did the rifts have the power to raise the dead?), Bron would rather be careful than dead.
But Alistair had been keen to find Hawke as soon as possible and he'd managed to persuade her to leave the village as soon as they'd arrived to make their way toward the abandoned mines.
"This way," Alistair calls back to her as he winds through the rocky landscape and Bron doesn't understand how he can be so… chipper. He's moving swiftly, eagerly, practically bouncing as he leads the way.
He's in a good mood, despite the unforgiving rain, and his excitement at seeing Hawke is palpable. Bron's never seen him this enthused – not since she returned from Vigil's Keep with a pack full of stolen documents. If he wants to hurry on through the storm to meet Hawke, well then Bron doesn't see the harm in it.
Suddenly Alistair stops, one hand raised while the other moves to hover over the hilt of his sword.
"What is it?" Bron asks when she's caught up with him.
"I can sense… wardens."
"Wardens?" she asks, voice tinged with confusion, "what are they doing out here?"
Nothing about their research had suggested that the wardens had an interest in the goings-on in Crestwood. The rift in the lake and the hoards of the undead may be deeply troubling but hardly something the wardens can counter. It is more a job for, well, the Inquisition. But with the Inquisition's demise, Bron isn't sure who will come to Crestwood's aide.
Alistair doesn't respond to her question, either because he didn't hear her over the roar of the downpour or because he doesn't care to answer, but draws his sword instead. Bron does likewise, pulling her rapier from its sheathe at her hip, and though she can't see or hear anyone approaching, she trusts Alistair's instinct.
"Put your weapons down and no one gets hurt," comes a voice from the darkness, and Bron can feel rather than see Alistair tense beside her.
Figures step forward from the darkness, six of them, heavily armoured in the distinctive blue and silverite uniform of the wardens. Their weapons are drawn, swords and arrows all fixed on where Alistair and Bron are standing.
"If you don't mind, I think I'll keep hold of mine," Alistair retorts.
"What is your business, wardens?" Bron asks, trying to sound as pleasant and non-threatening as possible, "we are but simple travellers on our way to West Hill."
"He's the warden," says one of the wardens, gesturing his weapon toward Alistair.
"Ex-warden," Alistair retorts, and Bron's not sure that his little clarification is really going to help matters.
"We've got orders to bring him with us," says another warden, "you've stolen from the wardens and acting Warden-Commander Howe wants to know why."
"Stolen? Us?" says Bron with poorly feigned innocence, "you must have the wrong people."
"There's no mistake," says the warden, "we sensed your arrival in Amaranthine and then sensed your departure at the same time as it was discovered that a number of important documents were missing from Vigil's Keep. It can't be a coincidence. Now, we've been tracking you for some time – why not just make it easier on everyone and come without a fuss."
The wardens move toward Alistair and Bron falls into a fighting stance, eyes narrowed in warning at the intruders.
"Our fight's not with you, miss," says another one of the wardens, a small archer with painfully young eyes, "just leave your friend to us and no-one'll get hurt."
"You lay one hand on him and I'll gut you where you stand and fashion a whimsical hat from your entrails," Bron spits, leaning forward threateningly.
She knows they're outnumbered. And while she has confidence in their abilities, these are wardens, not some common bandits. She hopes that some pointed bravado on her part might be enough to unnerve them. She knows that they're not going to just leave them alone, a confrontation now seems almost inevitable, but she hopes that she can at least throw them off balance.
Alistair lets out a snort of laughter at Bron's somewhat colourful insult, but while his posture is still relaxed, clearly still hoping for a peaceful resolution to this stand-off and not wanting to be overtly aggressive, Bron can tell that his body is tense, ready to jump to action when required.
"Fuck this," snarls the warden, "we won't be threatened by petty thieves."
He turns to gesture to his men, barking orders, "kill the woman, we take the warden alive."
A warden immediately lunges toward Bron and she ducks, turning on her heels as she bends under the arc of his swing. When she pulls herself upright again, she's behind the warden and she wastes no time in stabbing the tip of her rapier into the man's unarmoured armpit, driving her blade upward through his torso. He falls to his knees without even a scream, and her bloodied rapier comes free from his body with a slick slurp as his body slumps forward into the mud.
She has only a brief moment to catch sight of Alistair, clashing swords with another warden, before she has to duck from another approaching blow, a spiked mace that barely misses her by a few inches. The mace's owner towers above Bron, a hulking monolith of a man who snarls ferociously as he swings his weapon again and again. Bron evades each strike, dancing and wheeling around each wide swipe of the mace, until her ankle twists in the mud and she's sent tumbling to the ground.
Shit.
Sprawled on her back, startled by her sudden introduction to the ground, Bron watches with growing alarm as the towering warden steps forward with a grin on his face, lifting his mace in preparation for one final blow.
With his mace raised, Bron jabs forward with her rapier, pushing the sharp, narrow edge of her blade between the plates of his armoured boot and into the soft, vulnerable flesh of his foot. She doubts it's a particularly serious wound but it's enough to make him yelp and falter in his footing, and it gives Bron enough time to roll to the side and clamber to her feet.
She knows it won't be long until the warden is back on her, mace in hand, but Bron doesn't even have time to think about his next assault when an arrow slings passed her head, so close that she can feel the air vibrate against her cheek.
Looking over her shoulder, she can see the same young archer that spoke earlier. His hands are shaking, either from the cold or from fear, and he's clearly struggling to take effective aim. But sooner or later he's going to land a hit and Bron will be in trouble; her leather armour is designed for flexibility and affords only minimal protection.
With the archer at her back and the warden with his mace now stalking toward her front, Bron has barely a second to decide her next move. Her usual tactic would be to deal with the archer first, then tackle the larger, but slower, threat. But the archer is a novice, his aim poor, and the spiked mace probably poses a far more immediate danger.
Bron raises her rapier and prepares to charge the towering warden but before she has the chance, a ball of flame appears from the darkness, tearing through air and smashing into his side. He screams as he is enveloped in flames and his mace thumps to the ground as he falls, limbs flailing in a poor attempt to smother the burning.
"Apostate!" comes a scream from one of the remaining wardens, and then all attention is drawn to the black-haired woman hurtling down a nearby slope with flames dancing in her hands.
She creates a wall of fire around Alistair, forcing his attackers to step back, then peppers the air with glowing fireballs, the rain crackling and sizzling when it hits the flames. The wardens scatter, some of them falling amidst mighty conflagrations of orange and white while the others scramble over the rocks and mud, calling desperately for a retreat.
When Bron looks over her shoulder to watch them go, she notices that the young archer is still standing there, frozen in place with his bow trembling uselessly in his hands.
"That's your cue to run," Bron informs him with a warning scowl.
"Yes, thank you ma'am," he replies before turning and running, his bow falling from his grip and lying forgotten in the mud as he scuttles away.
With their threat seemingly gone, Bron looks toward Alistair to check that he's unscathed and finds him pulling their unknown saviour into a tight hug.
"Hawke!" he bellows by way of a greeting.
Ah, so not such an unknown saviour after all.
In fact, probably the most infamous person in all of Thedas.
Hawke immediately laughs, a loud, easy sound that somehow radiates warmth despite the incessantly driving rain. "It's good to see you too," she says, and Bron can see her grinning happily over Alistair's shoulder.
When Alistair lets her go, he steps aside and gestures toward Bron with an enthusiasm that makes her involuntarily step back a tiny bit.
"This is Bron," Alistair says with surprising excitement, hands outstretched like he's presenting her to Hawke as some sort of impressive gift.
"It's nice to meet you," Bron says with an awkward little nod, "and… ugh… thank you, for your help."
Hawke starts walking briskly toward her, grinning with the kind of overt friendliness that fills Bron with terror.
Oh Maker, is she going for a hug?
Instead of hugging her, Hawke claps her heartily on the shoulders, grinning broadly. Bron tries not to flinch at the physical contact, has to fight the urge not to brush away her hands from where they now rest amiably on her shoulders. Because this is Hawke, and she wants Hawke to like her (and she'd never been the kind of person that people instantly liked). This is the Champion of Kirkwall, who defeated the Arishok in one-on-one combat, who defeated a marauding high-dragon, and, more importantly, this is Alistair's friend and she doesn't want to upset Alistair by alienating her.
"It's good to meet you too," Hawke says, finally stepping back (praise Andraste) and letting her hands drop to her sides, "Alistair has written about you in his letters. Sneaking into Vigil's Keep? Impressive… if you're as competent as Alistair says you are, I don't know why you don't just find the wardens without him."
"I… um… keep him around to look pretty," Bron responds, and she doesn't think it's a particularly good joke but it's enough to make Hawke and Alistair chuckle dryly and Bron finds that she's oddly pleased by this.
But then she's also oddly pleased to learn that Alistair has written about her in his letters.
He thinks she's competent!
And while some women might deem that somewhat faint praise, for Bron there is no higher compliment.
"Come on, let's get out of the rain," Hawke says, "it's fucking freezing."
Hawke waves at Alistair and Bron to follow, then leads them through the gloom to a tunnel entrance, not too far ahead.
Bron pushes back her hood and shakes the water from her cloak as she steps into the tunnel. She's glad to be out of the rain at last, although the dank cave is barely much of an improvement. Sure she's not actively being rained on anymore but water is pouring in rivulets down the cave walls and the air is heavy with damp. She pulls at the collar of her jacket while suppressing a pained hiss, the leather has been rubbing against her neck and she can feel the skin reddening.
Bron and Alistair follow behind Hawke through the winding rocky tunnel, their pace slow as they carefully tread over the wet, uneven ground. Then suddenly the tunnel opens out into a small cave, a crooked space carved out of the rock by long-dead miners. There's a fire in the centre, and an abandoned pack against one wall, and Bron wonders how long Hawke has been waiting for them in this dank little corner of Ferelden.
"So the wardens clearly weren't too happy about your little intrusion," Hawke says as she peels off her sodden cloak, draping it across some abandoned mining apparatus before sitting down next to the fire.
"Evidently," Alistair responds wryly, removing his own cloak before turning to Bron to take hers, the kind of chivalrous gesture to which Alistair is occasionally prone and which Bron finds supremely odd.
"They could sense Alistair's presence in Amaranthine," Bron says, strangely eager to explain that it's not her fault, that there is nothing at fault with her sleuthing skills. "When their documents went missing, they assumed that he had something to do with it."
"Ah yes," drawls Hawke, "wardens and their magic powers."
"We can also talk to woodland creatures," Alistair quips sarcastically, earning him a small snicker from Hawke.
Bron settles down on the ground next to Hawke, thankfully dry this far into the cave, and leans toward the flames in an attempt to warm up. Alistair seems content to stalk around the edge of the cave, clearly still a little on edge after their encounter with the wardens, even if he's trying to smile and joke and give the appearance of ease.
"So are you going to tell me about what you learnt from Vigil's Keep or are you going to keep all the dark and dirty secrets to yourself?" asks Hawke, eyebrows waggling provocatively.
Alistair chuckles at Hawke's words, finally stopping in his frantic circling, but then his laughter turns into a sigh and he seems oddly uncomfortable, fidgeting with his hands, and Bron doesn't quite understand his reluctance to tell Hawke what they've uncovered.
"What's wrong?" she prompts.
"I know it sounds stupid but it's actually hard talking to non-wardens about warden affairs. I know I'm not really the paragon of warden-y virtue anymore but the wardens value their secrecy and it seems like a… betrayal to talk about these things."
"The wardens just tried to kidnap you and kill your friend," Hawke says matter-of-factly.
"I know," he says, digging at the sand on the floor of the cave with the toe of his boots, "but when I was exiled from Ferelden, I was exiled by Anora, not the wardens. And while I don't really feel like a warden anymore, I don't bear them ill-will either."
"Alistair, we're helping the wardens," Bron coaxes with unusual gentleness, "their secrets will be the end of them."
"Right," he replies with a nod, before finally joining Hawke and Bron on the floor around the fire, long legs bent awkwardly beneath him. "Shortly after receiving your first letter, Hawke – the one about your brother hearing the Calling – I started hearing rumours that the wardens were disappearing from across Thedas. At first I couldn't figure out why but now, thanks to the documents Bron found in Vigil's Keep, it's clear that the two things are connected. It's not just your brother that's hearing the Calling, Hawke, it's all wardens."
"Maker!" Hawke exclaims, "every warden in Thedas is hearing the Calling?!"
Bron tries to hide her confusion but she can feel her brows furrowing. She knows that she should share Hawke's incredulity, should be similarly shocked by Alistair's revelation, but it's hard to muster the astonishment when she doesn't actually understand what the Calling is. Sure she's read about it in the documents she brought back from Vigil's Keep, but none of the documents really explain it. She'd assumed it was just some ritual, had been too proud to ask Alistair for an explanation, and hoped that she would come to understand in time.
It was clear now, though, that she wouldn't be able to get away with her ignorance much longer.
"Um… what exactly is the Calling?" Bron asks reluctantly, "I'd assumed it was some sort of ritual?"
"Well… wardens are tied to the Darkspawn," Alistair explains, "we're connected… and eventually that connection poisons you. You get… bad dreams. And then you start to hear the music. It calls to you. Quiet at first, and then so loud you can't bear it. At that point, you say farewell and go into the Deep Roads to die fighting."
"So… wait… it's some kind of – call to death?" Bron exclaims, a little more shrill than she would like.
"Yeah something like that."
"And you… you're hearing this… this Calling?"
"Unfortunately, yes," he admits with a shrug, "when I'm talking or fighting, I can almost ignore it. But whenever things are quiet, I can hear it. It's like a song you can't get out of your head. It's damned annoying, frankly."
Wait – what?
Alistair's dying?
And that little shit didn't think to tell her!
Bron frowns at his flippancy. Alistair is dying and all he has to say is that it's 'damned annoying'?
Before she can chastise him, Hawke interrupts. "So every Grey Warden in Thedas thinks that they're dying?"
"It certainly seems like that," Alistair says, "and that's why they're so terrified. If all the Wardens die, who will stop the next Blight?"
"So that's why they've gone missing?" Hawke muses, "the wardens have buggered off somewhere to make some last, desperate attack on the Darkspawn?"
"We found orders from Warden-Commander Clarel instructing all wardens to report to her in Orlais. From what Bron and I have been able to piece together from various notes, Clarel is proposing some drastic things – blood magic and such – to prevent further Blights before the wardens die."
"So the wardens think they're going to die – and they think that blood magic is going to solve all their problems. But what caused them to hear the Calling in the first place?"
"Corypheus"
"I was afraid you were going to say that," says Hawke, shaking her head mournfully. "I don't understand though – I killed him!" she suddenly shouts, voice laced with frustration, "he was dead!"
"Not dead enough, I'm afraid," says Alistair, "when you first wrote to me about Corypheus, to tell me that you'd killed him, I was… concerned that the matter was not resolved. You see, Archdemons do not just die from simple injury. Their souls can transfer to other Darkspawn, turning them into an Archdemon. That's why the wardens are so essential in stopping Blights. I feared Corypheus might have the same power but had no means to investigate further. From the information we stole from Vigil's Keep, it's now clear that Corypheus is indeed still alive."
"It appears that Corypheus is bluffing the wardens with some sort of… fake Calling," says Bron, "and the wardens are falling for it."
"Surely they're not… helping Corypheus," says Hawke, obviously disgusted at the thought.
"I don't know much about Clarel," confesses Alistair, "but no warden would ever serve something that looked like a Darkspawn willingly. Bron and I found references to an 'advisor' of some kind, though. Given how fiercely independent the wardens are, and their secrecy, I'm curious as to who could possibly be advising them."
"So where are the wardens now?" Hawke asks.
"It would appear that the wardens are gathering in the Western Approach," says Bron, "according to some maps I found at the Keep, there's an old Tevinter ritual tower there. Alistair and I were going to investigate."
"We hoped, Hawke, that you would come with us," adds Alistair.
"Of course," replies Hawke, and Bron is surprised at how quickly, almost eagerly, she agrees. "We wouldn't even be in this mess if I had killed Corypheus properly the first time. Now I have to… I have to put things right."
"Excellent," Alistair exclaims, face wrinkling as his mouth pulls into a broad gin.
It seems weird to Bron to think that there had been a time when she'd had to beg a reluctant Alistair to come on this mission to find the wardens. Now he seems as determined in his quest as she is.
"But surely we should go to the Inquisition first – show them the information you have uncovered," Hawke says, and Bron feels her heart clench at the mention of the Inquisition, the wound still so fresh.
"The Inquisition is dead; they were destroyed by an avalanche" Bron says, and her tone is a little snappy. Surely Hawke already knows about this?
Hawke's brows twist in confusion, and there's an amused quirk to her lips. "Haven't you heard?" she says, "the Inquisition was not destroyed by an avalanche, the Inquisition caused an avalanche to take out an army of corrupted Templars. The Inquisition is alive and well, taking residence in an old fortress in the Frostbacks."
Wait – what?
The Inquisition is alive? Her friends still live?
Leliana is alive!
Bron's heart is pounding, so fast she can feel it rattle against the inside of her ribcage, and she can't remember the last time she was this excited.
Her hand reaches out involuntarily and gives Alistair's forearm a squeeze.
"The Inquisition lives!" she says, quiet and intense, and Alistair looks at her with a peculiar expression, wide eyes and arched brows. Is he as surprised as she is that the Inquisition is all right, or maybe just surprised at her enthusiasm?
"Can you take us to the Inquisition?" Bron asks, leaning eagerly toward Hawke.
"Yes – Varric has written with clear instruct-"
"Varric is alive!" Bron interrupts, the words tumbling out before she can stop herself.
Hawke laughs at Bron's enthusiasm. "Yes," she says through warm chuckles, "nothing can keep that bastard down."
"Well," Bron says as she pulls herself shakily to her feet. She's been sitting cross-legged on the hard cave floor for so long that her legs have gone numb, and she staggers a little as she stands. "We should go at once," she insists, "we should get to the Inquisition as soon as possible."
"Easy there!" Alistair cries as he scrambles to his feet, grabbing her by the elbow to steady her as she sways. "Shouldn't we rest? Wait for the storm to pass? Wait for daylight? You were pretty adamant earlier that we should be cautious."
"Bron is right," Hawke says, "your warden friends will be back as soon as they're done licking their wounds. We should be gone when they do."
"Besides…" Bron adds, leaning closer to Alistair and pitching her voice low so that Hawke can't overhear her, "I want to go home."
He smiles at her, soft and sympathetic, and while she'd expected him to tease her for her unexpected sentimentality, instead he simply nods. Bron is dimly aware that his hand is still holding her elbow, gentle but unwavering, and she's surprised to find that she quite likes it there. It's… comforting.
"All right," he says, "let's go home."