The search starts in earnest and one dwarf in particular is not happy. His name isn't Varric.
Enjoy!
A Wild-Goose Carol part two
Hawke leant her forehead against the slab of thick wood. She wanted to kick herself. She had pummelled the door till her fists were bruised and shouted her voice to shreds but, of course, no one had heard her. The cellar lay behind the pantry that, on its turn, was situated behind the kitchen. In short, quite a long way from the actual house. And besides that, the door was too thick and too robust to let sounds through. How could she have been so stupid as to let the bloody thing slip? She only had wanted to fetch the last bottles of wine for the celebration of First Day. Or better, a few bottles of port to go with the dessert. Bodahn had already taken care of the wine.
She had been in a hurry and had not taken the time to put the wedge into place to prevent the door from falling shut. It was a precaution they had started to take up after Sandal accidentally had locked himself in. She bloody well knew the stupid door had the tendency to close on its own account. And even so she now, in all her haste, had made a prison of her own cellar. Because trying to escape through the other entrance, the entrance leading to the Undercity, was of even less use than trying to bust this one open; Anders had sealed that door with a solid ward. Even if she had been a mage, she wouldn't have been able to break that particular seal. It was some kind of his own very personal signature, as far as she understood. No way would she be able to find her way out through there. She picked up the dented lantern and descended the stairs once more.
She had not only been in a hurry but had been distracted as well. With a deep sigh she sank down on the floor and blew out the candle. She had found a box of matches, conveniently lying on a shelf next to the stairs, but not the stack of fresh candles she was convinced should be lying around somewhere. As long as she hadn't located those, she had to be cautious not to burn up the one she had too quickly. She folded her arms around her pulled up legs and buried her face into her knees.
Distracted. That was one way to put it.
She had been worried sick about the way Fenris had taken the fight against his former master and, moreover, the death of that sleazy bastard. And, perhaps even more important, how he had handled the betrayal of his sister. She snorted derisively, bravely keeping the tears at bay.
He had recognised the red-haired bitch the very moment he spotted her in the Hanged Man. The same sister that belonged to the memories he had left her for, three years ago. The same wicked twat that had been willing to turn him in, who had brought that creepy monster with her to drag her elf back to Minrathous. She shivered. She knew by now that vile witch was a part of his unexpected turning up and just as unexpected fleeting recollections; she had seen his eyes open wide with sudden remembrance. With exaltation even. Exaltation that had, not a moment later, drowned in despair and unbelief. She still didn't comprehend what had made her stay his hand when he had wanted to kill her. Yes, the image of her own brother being crushed by that ogre still haunted her. As did, even more so, the memory of being forced to kill her beloved sister in those cursed Deep Roads. Even now both occurrences disturbed her dreams on a regular basis. She had wanted to spare him that feeling of guilt. After Varania's last words, though, she had had to dip into all her reserves of self-control to refrain from pouncing upon the ungrateful woman herself.
"You got the better end of the bargain."
Those words still infuriated her. The serpent really didn't understand anything about her brother's sacrifice, about his struggles and the excruciating pain he had endured and, even worse, evidently didn't want to understand. She just wallowed in self-pity and had only wished to wound her brother some more before she fled the scene. To give him a final devastating blow, after her devilish scheme had gone wrong. By now she wished she had finished her off herself.
She made a face. Excellent First Day sentiments. On the other hand, understanding and forgiveness could only go that far.
She could comprehend the words Fenris had thrown at her when she had come to him that same night, although they had hurt her deeply. She tried very hard to appreciate that the things he had said weren't aimed at her but at his own grief. At the feelings Danarius had stirred up and the poisonous words Varania had spoken. Nevertheless, it had hurt her. She took a shivering breath and reached for the matches. She had to find a way out of here before the darkness would consume her.
Fergon Bhelarson had never encountered an elf in the flesh before. That was to say, he saw enough of their kind scurrying around here in the Undercity, where the Carta had their headquarters. But those were pathetic harmless creatures, that he as much avoided as the rats that infested the place. They didn't bear any resemblance whatsoever to the elf who, without any hesitation or explanation at all, pushed a sharp gauntleted hand through his chest and was now close to murdering him. He stared wide-eyed at the white-haired apparition and tried not to overstrain his lungs. He felt the sharp talons closing around his heart and knew he was just a beat away from death. It didn't help the same apparition was surrounded by an eerie blue light.
'In case you wonder why we come barging in uninvited, we're just looking for some information,' a well-known and not at all welcome voice floated through the air. 'And we want to make certain you will comply. Please, Fenris, I think you've made our point. You'd better let him go before he chokes.'
The next moment Bhelarson felt a gush of oxygen enter his tortured lungs and he fell on his knees. 'Varric,' he managed with great difficulty, 'what, by the Stone –'
'Let's forgo the pleasantries, shall we,' Varric cut the wheezing dwarf short. 'We just want to know what happened to the Champion.'
The Caput of the Carta stared up and looked at the stern face through bleary eyes. 'What?'
The tall lanky elf might have removed his armoured hand, but now stood glaring at him with crossed arms and a look upon his face that promised much worse if he didn't cooperate. And next to him he noticed the notorious Storyteller but, to his dread, not only him. Varric was the practically legendary dwarf who had made the journey from Orzammar to Topside without as much as a flinch, and had taken his silent but most significant place beside his bloating brother. His very dead brother, Bhelarson remembered all too well. And, even more important, he was the same notorious dwarf who had travelled through the Deep Roads, and had not only survived that enterprise but had come back as a rich man; the one Topsider that was a Paragon all but in title.
But he also became aware of a crowd of Guild members who could make his life a living hell. They all glowered at him as if he hadn't provided them with the goods that had made them wealthy dwarves. And besides all that, a woman rose above the crowd of his so-called brethren; a woman who was clad as a human whore but stared at him with the eyes of an assassin. He shivered once more.
He realised at this very moment that he might be a great name in this sinful city, but that that reputation was worth nothing without the silent approval of the Merchant Guild, who acted like a Top-side Assembly and, in fact, pulled all the strings regarding dwarven affairs. Including the more shady ones. And since the Guild was nothing without the same silent approval of the Storyteller, he knew his life was forfeit, though he couldn't fathom why. He blinked and then clasped his hands. 'Please, Varric,' he tried desperately, 'we have done nothing to harm the Champion. Why should we? There's nothing profitable in harming her!'
The Storyteller gazed contemplatively at him. 'Really? And what about the goings on in the Vimmark Mountains? You lot very hard tried to kill the Champion back there and in return she made minced meat of the gone crazy bastards. All members of your illustrious organisation, mind you. This could be payback. We both know how vindictive our kind can be.'
Fergon Bhelarson scrambled up and fervently fluttered his hands. 'We had nothing to do with that! I swear! Those were a bunch of harebrained idiots that foolishly got involved with some unsavoury plot of Grey Wardens! You cannot really think we had a hand in it! What kind of earnings would that have brought us?!' He felt the penetrating eyes of the other dwarf almost drill holes in his head.
Finally Varric seemed to come to a decision and nodded. 'I'm willing to believe that – for the time being,' he added in a dark tone. 'But that doesn't mean you can go on with your unholy enterprises unscathed. Unless...' He let the promise of a way out, evidently disguised as a threat, hover in the air.
'Unless what?' wavered Fergon Bhelarson.
Varric smiled unpleasantly. 'Unless you and your men accompany us to the headquarters of the Coterie. To give us some leverage. Advantage of numbers and all that shit.' The smile broadened to a wide mean grin. 'We'll frighten the living daylight out of their sorry arses. And I have no doubt that you, on your turn, want to kick the muck out of their innards.'
'We have had some kind of truce or understanding for many a year,' Fergon Bhelarson started his protest and then met the combined deadly gaze of the Paragon-all-but-in-title, the frightening elf, the tall terrifying human woman and the host of the Guild. All of them carrying scary large and very sharp weapons. He gave in. 'Let's go and frighten the living daylight – let's go and do something,' he mumbled, defeated.
Fenris grimaced. He hadn't liked it at all to be used as the living weapon he had been created for. Once again it stirred up horrifying memories. On the other hand, he would have done anything to save Hawke.
He had agreed with Varric to use the Carta as a force against the Coterie. To start with the Guild, which had almost been a war on itself. Luckily Varric had turned out to be an authority on the association, and it became clear he had had much more dealings with the Guild over the past years than he had ever been willing to tell. For what reasons was anyone's guess. The dwarf had looked sheepishly, even almost ruefully, at him and Isabela, and Fenris nearly had had to laugh at the mere sight. He knew about the reluctant feelings, to put it mildly, Varric harboured for the Guild.
But now push came to shove, it turned out he indeed was some kind of legend, if not a Paragon, as Isabela had insisted. A real authority. Someone the other dwarves were not only willing to listen to, but were willing to follow as well. It hadn't taken him much effort to drag the members along with them. To be honest, he just had had to shout loud. For some reason or another, dwarves seemed likely to follow the bugger that had the strongest voice. And, yelling along the way, came up with the most overwhelming motive. And that motive, how surprising, happened to be profit. Varric had pointed out that by putting the Carta under pressure, the Guild would benefit greatly.
They all knew it was nonsense, but as long as they were caught in the enchantment Varric had accomplished to snare them in, it would work.
And, frankly, Fenris didn't care one bit how the dwarf did it, what means they had to use. What means he himself had to use. If in the end he found Marian Hawke alive and whole, and could pull her into his arms and apologise to her for his stupid harsh words and all his equally stupid acts, he would be grateful.
And thus he had threatened the Caput of the Carta. And was now on his way to do the same to the Head of the Coterie. Everything for her.
Hawke remembered so very clear the lovely First Day celebrations they had had in Lothering, back in the day when they still were together as a family. The wonderful celebrations they had held with all the neighbours. At this very moment, sitting with her back against the cold unyielding wall she finally had found, she could feel the warm comforting fires and smell the roasted chestnuts and the fresh bread, and taste the simple but o so magnificent meals they had shared together. In her mind she could see the breathtaking star-sprinkled heavens they had looked at after the meals.
With a lump in her throat she recalled how she had felt like a fitting piece of the puzzle that was the community, the same community that had bid her and her family a warm welcome, despite they all knew her father was an apostate. Lothering had been a warm bath after a long travel that most of the time seemed more like a flight through an unforgiving chilly world. They had been thankful they had been allowed to settle down in this specific place. The inhabitants were graceful enough to accept a family of an apostate, moreover because the apostate was a mage who healed their wounds and treated their sicknesses. Who even healed the injuries of the Templars that were stationed in the small Chantry. And so those same Templars had turned a blind eye. In Lothering they finally had felt safe.
She remembered the grand tree in front of the Chantry. How everyone had decorated it, anticipating the most important night of the year, and had gathered around it at midnight to sing the hymn that welcomed the first day of the new year. For days she, and the ones of her age, had enthusiastically dragged dry logs and branches to the centre of the village to build the towering construction of wood that would burn throughout the night, until the light of First Day would come. They all had waited with excited anticipation for the village-elder to throw the flaming torch into the gathered wood and start the bonfire that would last until dawn. They had danced around it under the bright sky; the everlasting dance of the Lord of the Darkness and the Lady of the Light. An old tale that the Chantry of Lothering didn't like but was willing to tolerate. A pagan tale that was very much loved.
At one of those remarkable nights she had lost her virginity. To a young Templar no less. She still didn't regret it for one moment. They had been in love. Some kind of puppy love, she now recognized, but at the time it had been exciting and overwhelming. He had been as nervous and wound up as she had been. But, nevertheless and more important, at the same time he had been sweet and willing to go with her rhythm. He had never pushed her. They had created a magical moment together and had turned the night into one to remember. She carried very pleasant memories of that specific occasion.
Hawke clutched her legs with force and sobbed silently. Oh, how she longed to live those days once more. How she longed to be with both her parents, to be with her insufferable but at the same time loveable brother and childish but sweet sister. To be with all the villagers, to be with that young Templar, or, to be honest, preferably Fenris taking his place. To create a magical moment with him. She desperately longed for that simple, but oh so cherished life.
She didn't know how much longer she could endure this darkness.
While I wrote this tale, I had to think of those nightmare stories about people trapped in elevators or underground car parks during Christmas. This is something like that, only Kirkwall style.
Thank you for reading!