Chapter 28

Author's note.

So, 2016 was mostly shit, hey? But we will persevere. Courage.

Sorry all; I would have had this chapter finished earlier but my partner and I went on holidays over Christmas, staying in a literal cabin on a mountain to get the hell away from the world for a bit, sliding down treacherous mountain paths to explore beautiful waterfalls and then trying not to step on danger noodles (snakes) and nope ropes (other snakes) on the way back up. Also, there was no internet, because internet reception and speeds in the mountainous areas of Australia is slightly more terrible than it is everywhere else in Australia. So, while I could work on the chapter, which made me happy, I couldn't post it, which made me sad. But now, here it is! Ta-da!

Xxx M xxx

Feathers purrs loudly as Orana rubs between his tufted ears, leaning into her touch and happily wriggling his little rump in pleasure. I smile at the sight of them, both sitting comfortably on the hearthrug before the crackling fire and feel suddenly cold, keenly aware of my bare feet on the stone floor of the hallway. The temperature has dropped very quickly over the past few days, signifying the change in seasons. I wonder if it snows in Kirkwall? I hope not, though it may do on the mountain. I hope the clan is well prepared.

A pang of loss and loneliness strikes my heart and I move into the room, feeling a sudden desire for companionship from a fellow elf. "Good morning, Orana!" I say cheerfully as I approach, not wanting to surprise her. She is still a little nervous around us, and still hasn't quite adjusted to the idea that she is no longer a slave, we are not her masters, and she will not be punished for acting like a person, not a possession.

Orana looks around, startled despite my efforts, and rises to her feet hurriedly to give me a curtsey. "Good morning, Mistress," she babbles, taking a step away from Feathers, who looks up at her in disappointment that his grooming session has suddenly ceased.

I sigh, trying not to be obvious about it. "Merrill, remember? I'm not mistress of anything or anyone. We're the same. You can call me Merrill."

Feathers shows his annoyance at having attention diverted from him by squawking irritably in my direction. Orana glances down at him and up again at me, her eyes large and fearful. "I'm sorry, I wasn't… I was just- "

"Petting him? Nothing wrong with that," I smile, trying to reassure her. "He loves it."

"I… yes, Mis… yes, Merrill."

I smile at her again, encouragingly. Progress, at last!

"That's a lovely outfit, ma'am," Orana says, glancing shyly at the lovely clothes I'm wearing, part of the gift of clothing Leandra had tailored for me, finally delivered today.

"Thank you." I smooth the fabric of the dress-tunic-thing self consciously, still not quite certain what to make of it myself, nor what to call it. It's more or less a compromise between a dress and the tunics I am used to, in soft greens and greys, only made of a much more impractical fabric than anything I've ever worn. It feels lovely, though it's not well-suited for going outside. "Attire meant for lounging", Leandra told me when she gave them to me this morning. She made me so many things; elegant dresses and strange outfits such as this as well as more practical tunics, breeches, shirts, leggings and night-time things; more clothing than I've ever owned all at once. And more to come, she assures me. A secretive smile curves my lips as I wonder to myself what Hawke will say when she sees me, once she has finished her sword training session with Aveline in the rooftop garden...

Orana clasps her hands in front of her, looking down at her feet. "Is there anything I should be doing? Anything you wish me to do?"

I frown as her words penetrate my foolish thoughts. "Isn't this your day off? Hawke said…"

"Oh, yes, M… Merrill, it is," Orana replies, her words soft and swift. "Messere Hawke reminded me earlier this morning."

"You can just call her Hawke," I remind her again. This time she meets my eyes, a look of confusion on her face.

"But… but master Bodahn calls her Messere."

"He does indeed," I agree. "But she very much wishes he would not. Hawke doesn't want to be mistress of anyone." A soft warm weight presses against my ankle and I look down to find Feathers staring up at me. He opens his beak to give a voiceless cry when he sees me looking at him. "I think someone demands our attention be restored to him. May I sit with you awhile?"

Orana's eyes open wide. "Of course!" She sits at once on the rug as though commanded. I copy her movements rather less gracefully as Feathers clambers into my lap. "She… she truly doesn't want to be called Mistress, or Messere?"

"Truly," I confirm. "She sort of hates it, actually."

"Oh!" Orana looks fearful. "I didn't mean to cause offense! Is she displeased with me?"

I shake my head, absently stroking Feathers. "No, of course not, Orana. You're doing a fine job." The worry in Orana's eyes does not abate. "Even if she was displeased about something, all she would do is tell you so you could fix it, or know better for the next time, whatever it was. You're not a slave anymore, Orana. You're Hawke's servant now, true, but you needn't stay here if you don't want to. Hawke is happy to offer you work and wages for as long as you need, but you're a free woman. You can go wherever you like, and we'll always be here to help you." I lean forward slightly, wanting to impress my point on her. "There's no gentler, kinder woman than Hawke anywhere. Do you believe that?"

Orana nods slowly, conflicting emotions in her eyes. "Yes," she whispers at last. "I do. You are all so kind, and Messe- I mean, Hawke… is not like any human I have ever met. She is not like Mistress Hadriana, or any magister. Master Bodahn says she is always very good to him and Sandal. Is she… is she as kind to you too?"

I smile happily. "Yes she is, very kind indeed."

"I'm glad," Orana says softly. "She is very kind to me, and she pays me very well. I don't know what to do with such coin. I hope you are paid well too?"

The unexpected question takes me aback. "What?"

Orana hesitates, glancing at me quickly and then away, her ears reddening. "I just… aren't you paid, too? For your services?"

My… oh, bright Mythal. Has she misunderstood my place with Hawke all this time? I try not to show offence, though it is very hard when this is the same assumption I know most people make. I hate it, though. "No, Orana, though I understand why you believe that. No, I am not paid for anything here, especially not – that."

"But I thought-" Orana's eyes widen, and her face pales. "I'm sorry, I didn't know. I thought there were no slaves here."

Mythal save me. I'd rather she thought me a whore than believe my Hawke would keep me as a pleasure slave. I shake my head quickly and try to speak, to correct her but she doesn't hear, speaking over the top of my words.

"I'm sorry, Merrill. Don't worry, I won't talk to you any more; I don't want you to get hurt."

"Hurt?" I ask, bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"I don't want Mistress Hawke to get jealous and punish you for speaking to me!" Orana cries quietly. "The Mistress – Magister Hadriana, she… she would get so possessive of her… her playthings. If they ever talked with anyone without permission or if anyone tried to talk with them, she… she would hurt them, and… make us all watch. To warn us."

I stare at her, speechless with horror as Orana's eyes fill with tears. She makes an attempt to stand, trying to move away from me, her voice now no more than a whisper. "You're so kind. Mistress Hawke has been so kind. I don't want her to get angry. I don't want you to be hurt because of me."

Oh, gods, the poor child! This is all she knows of the world, all she understands of the interactions between humans and elves. I take her wrist gently in my own, pulling her back down beside me.

"No, da'len, it isn't like that. I am not a slave. Nor are Bodahn and Sandal. They were determined to serve Hawke and so she allows them to work for her, and pays them accordingly. But Hawke owns no-one. She never would take a person's freedom away from them." I hold her eyes with my own, seeing her struggle to believe me. "She has spent her whole life fearing that the Templars will take her own freedom from her; she knows the value of it."

Orana blinks, confusion flitting over her face. "The Templars? But they… they can't…"

Ah, the toothless Tevinter Chantry. So often I forget how different it is from the one we suffer under here. "Things are very different in Tevinter, da'len. There, your mages are unfettered by the Chantry, and the Templars are no threat to anyone with magic. Here, the Chantry has great power, and any mage not living in a Circle is an apostate, and hunted without mercy by the Templars. Here, it is the mages who are kept as veritable slaves. If caught, we are made to serve the Chantry, cannot marry, cannot live as we choose, and can never see our families again. If we are not killed for apostasy." I realise the danger we have allowed to go unchecked in not explaining this concept to Orana earlier, and a chill runs down my back at our oversight. I gaze into Orana's eyes, my tone very serious. "Orana, you must never tell anyone that Hawke and I are mages, do you understand? Or reveal any of our mage friends you may meet while you live with us. Else we will be captured by the Templars, killed or dragged off to the Circle, and our friends and families will be punished for harbouring apostates." I take a breath, realising the power I am giving the girl as I make her aware that she could wield this knowledge to destroy us if she wished. "Please. We put our trust in you. Help preserve our secret. Keep us safe, and we will keep you safe. This I swear to you."

"Oh…" Orana gasps, her eyes open wider than I've ever seen them as she wraps her mind around a concept that is opposite to everything she has ever known. At length, she looks me in the eyes. "I won't tell anyone, Merrill, I promise. You and Hawke have been so good to me. I want to stay here with you."

I smile at the lack of any honorifics as Orana speaks, hoping she won't become conscious of it and revert to calling me or Hawke 'mistress' again. I rather hate that sort of thing, too. "Good. We would very much like you to stay, for as long as you wish." I hesitate, realising that there is another matter of great importance I must make clear to her. "There is something else you must understand and accept, if you are to stay with us." Orana nods, listening. "I am not a servant. Hawke and I are…" I bite my tongue before the word 'bonded' escapes, knowing that for all our depth of feeling we are not quite that, not yet. "We are a couple, Orana. We love each other dearly."

"I… that's…" Orana blinks, then suddenly grins widely. "That makes many things make sense. And I… I think it's wonderful." A small laugh escapes her, and I can't help but smile at the sound. "Thank you for taking the time to explain all of that to me, Merrill. It would have taken me quite a while to figure it all out. I might need some time to… adjust, to a number of things, but I'll do my best."

I pat her arm. "You've been through things I can't conceive of, Orana. Take all the time you need, and feel free to talk to any of us about anything. I know this is all a lot to take in."

"Yes." Orana hesitates, and takes a breath, settling herself more comfortably before the fire, her chin resting on her knee. "So… Hawke pays Bodahn and Sandal for their services, and she will pay me?" I nod, and she chews her lip, thinking. "What does Hawke do? Is she a noble? Where does her money come from? Does she give you money too?"

"I have my own money," I answer her, feeling the question to be fair enough. "A fair amount of it, actually. I earned it when Hawke and Varric and I worked together on an expedition to the Deep Roads." Orana nods, needing no further explanation of that, for which I am grateful. That tale is more complicated and draining than I have the heart to discuss right now. "Though she doesn't much care for the fact, Hawke is considered to be a Kirkwall noble because her mother is from an old noble family, but there was no family fortune left when they came here from Fereldan. Most of Hawke's wealth comes from that one Deep Roads job, and we supplement it by taking on special jobs for people in Kirkwall. If any of our friends work with us they get a share of any coin Hawke is paid, but neither I, nor they, work for Hawke."

"That's right, we bloody don't!" Isabela announces cheerfully, wandering in completely unannounced, as usual. "I don't work for anybody but myself, except in very temporary situations at a very high price. Free as a bird, that's me." She plonks herself down rather gracelessly before the fire, ruffling the feathers on my little griffon's head and nudging Orana gently with an elbow, bringing a surprised grin to the girl's rosy lips. "And you're free now too, sweetness," Isabela reminds her with a saucy sort of wink, causing Orana to flush. "Don't worry. We'll all help you get used to it."

"Hello, Isabela!" I smile happily. If she'd come in the front, Bodahn would have announced her, but Isabela hardly ever comes in the front unless she feels like it, which is rare. "How did you get in this time? Not the north-face window again, was it? You broke the tip off of one of Finnegan's claws last time. And anyway, I was sure Hawke had that window latch fixed after you got in that way."

"My apologies to the griffon statue," Isabela answers dryly, though she does mean it really, I know. She knows how much I love Finnegan and Messere Pointy-Face. "Just trying to help you keep your home secure, kitten."

"I know, Isabela, and so does Hawke. She appreciates you showing us ways that people could break in so we can fix them." I pause. "We would rather you didn't do it during bath times, of course."

Isabela grins. "That last time was a complete accident, I swear, kitten. I thought I was climbing through the kitchen window." She grins wider as I shake my head and laugh. "Anyway, there was so much steam I didn't even see anything. Hardly anything. Not everything, anyway."

She turns her attention to Orana, whose blush has deepened considerably during our banter but who meets her eyes with a welcoming smile, after a reassuring nod from me. "Well, never mind. Perhaps I'll get better luck when I check the security of the bedchamber..."

Oh Mythal'enaste! My turn to blush, despite my best efforts. "Don't you dare, you… you pirate, you!" I warn her, eyes narrowed as she laughs at me. Orana looks between us, caught between outrage on my behalf and laughter at Isabela's antics.

"We'll see," is all Isabela says, her tone smug as she distracts us all by pulling a deck of cards out from their keeping place between her breasts. Poor Orana fair turns crimson at the sight, which Isabela doesn't fail to notice. "I'm a terrible person," she confides to the fair young elf as she shuffles the deck in her nimble fingers. "Hawke and Merrill are always at their wits end, trying to deal with me. But I make a very good friend, don't I, kitten?" She winks at me, and I smile warmly at her in return, watching as Orana laughs, put at ease by Isabela's playful charm and disarming manner.

"That you do, Isabela," I tell her, letting the warmth in my voice speak for me as much as my words. "I take it you came here to continue our Wicked Grace 'lessons'?" A wry grin shines on her face, and I sigh, smiling. "Shall I get my coin purse, then?"

"Tell you what," Isabela says, darting a sly glance at Orana. "We include our young friend here, and we'll forgo playing for coin today. Beginner's courtesy and all. How about it, sweet? Want to learn?"

Orana nods, a happy light in her eyes at Isabela's inclusion of her, and I smile happily at Isabela, grateful once again for her thoughtfulness. This sort of thing is just what Orana needs; to see us just as people, not as masters but just people like her and not above her. And Isabela clearly knows it. How lucky I am in my friends.

I take up the hand of cards Isabela swiftly deals, trying very carefully to hide them from her cunning sight. "You'll go easy on us poor little elven girls, won't you, Isabela? We're only beginners, after all, and so very young and innocent." I wink at Orana and then turn my gaze on Isabela, widening my eyes to full effect and putting on my best pleading expression, seeing Orana cover a smile and copy me from the corner of my batting eyes.

"Oh, Maker," Isabela laughs, putting a hand on her heart and feigning a swoon. "How can I resist such looks?" She grins, laying down the first card. "Good thing we aren't playing for coin, or this big nasty human would be in a lot of trouble. Perhaps I've been teaching you too well, kitten."

I giggle a little, unable to help it, and indicate quickly to Orana which of her cards she should put down to counter Isabela's play. "I'm a very good student, Isabela."

Xxx H xxx

"You are improving, Hawke," Aveline comments, moving through the rooftop door I hold open for her with a small nod of thanks before heading down the stairwell. "Much more quickly than I would have thought. At this rate, you'll be able to hold your own with any of my guardsmen soon. It would be a good idea to begin sparring with some of them in future, in fact. I know of one or two I could call upon to assist us."

I grin slightly, flicking my sweat-soaked hair out of my eyes as I follow her into the house. "Oh yes? Would one of those be Guardsman Donnic, by any chance?"

Her eyes find mine in surprise from the landing below me. "As a matter of fact, I was thinking of him. He's very adept with a longsword. How did you know I had him in mind?"

I shrug lightly, gesturing with the scabbarded sword in my hand. "Oh, merely an educated guess. You always seem to have him out on the tougher patrols with you. You obviously have a great appreciation for his… skills."

Aveline's brows draw together in a frown. "You think I'm giving him too many difficult patrols?"

I shake my head ruefully at my friend's almost wilful cluelessness. "No, no, that's not what I was implying at all, truly." A great rush of laughter floats up from beneath us. I smile, recognising Merrill's cheerful giggle alongside Isabela's ribald chuckle, and head towards the source of the noise. "Merrill? Isabela?" Another familiar laugh reaches my ears, and I halt in the doorway to the parlour, gazing in some surprise at the gathering inside. "Mother?"

My mother, Lady Leandra Amell, looks up at me from the floor where she is seated by the fire, playing cards with my pirate friend, my lover and our new maid, the latest member of our eclectic little family. I blink stupidly at the sight as Mother smiles gaily and says, "Oh, hello darling! Finished your training session so soon?"

"It's been two hours, Mother. Quite long enough for today," I comment lightly, grinning as Mother gasps in surprise.

"My goodness, I didn't realise! I've been playing for an hour!" she exclaims. "Time passes in the blink of an eye in the best of company, does it not?" she says, smiling around the little group. "Perhaps we should leave it here for today?"

"Oh, Lady Amell, flattery will get you everywhere," Isabela grins rakishly at Mother. "Let's play again soon. I'd like the chance to get my pride back. Good thing we weren't playing for coin, right sweetlings?" She winks at Merrill and waves to a smiling Orana as she takes her leave of us, then turns her golden gaze on me. "You ought to let your mother give you a few lessons, Hawke," she chuckles, ruffling the feathers of the slumbering griffon pup beside her who wakes with a startled squawk and blinks up at his pirate friend, a reproachful look in his bright eyes.

I frown, noting the flash of white as Isabela deftly tucks something into her belt. "Isabela… are you plucking Feathers' feathers?"

Merrill glances at her in astonishment. "I wondered why he kept squawking like that. I thought it was just because you kept waking him." She takes Feathers into her arms, looking at Isabela with wide, sad eyes. "Oh, Isabela, how could you? Feathers likes you, you know. How would you like it if he pulled out locks of your hair?"

Isabela has the grace to look slightly ashamed, though she shrugs rather unapologetically. "Have you any idea how much real griffon feathers are worth these days? Not many left after all, and in more demand than ever for their magical properties. Come on, he won't miss a few." She tries to peer into the little griffon's face. "You won't miss a few feathers for your Auntie Isabela, right?"

Feathers gives a loud keening cry of denial, turning around quickly to glare at Isabela from the safety of Merrill's arms.

"Rather than taking them from Feathers while he is still wearing them, why don't you just take some of his cast-offs from his grooming sessions?" I suggest lightly, gesturing to the table by the hallway door. "In fact, there's a little sack of them right over there."

Feathers wriggles out of Merrill's arms, scrambles across the floor and up onto the table, picks up the little sack of his cast-offs in his beak and brings them to Isabela, depositing them pointedly at her feet.

"Oh," Isabela said. "Right. Well... thanks." She bends down and offers a hand to Feathers, who sniffs cautiously at it before pressing his head into her fingers, prompting her to laugh as she obligingly scratches his ears. "Sorry about that, pup. No hard feelings, eh?"

Feathers considers, then purrs his acceptance of her apology and trots over to the fire, curling up beside the snoozing mabari with a squeaky little yawn. Isabela grins with delight at his antics.

"But be discrete when you sell them, please?" Merrill pleads. "We're trying to keep his existence quiet. Rub some dust on them, say you found an old Warden cache or something."

"Of course, kitten," Isabela grins, peering into the bag. "I am the very soul of discretion. Maker, Hawke, there's a lot here! Are you certain you want to part with all of this?" she asks, somewhat reluctantly.

Amused, I exchange glances with Merrill, and raise an eyebrow at the pirate queen. "Since they belong to Feathers really, and he freely gave them to you just now, I think you can consider them a generous early Feastday present to his Auntie Isabela." Isabela grins widely, clutching her bounty tightly in her long, nimble fingers.

"Oh, Maker, Feastday!" Mother groans, putting a hand to her forehead somewhat dramatically. "How the time does fly! We'll need to prepare! What shall we do this year?"

Oh, no. "Not a party, please, Mother, not again," I hastily plead. "I was hoping to simply ask a few friends over for a meal."

Mother frowns, a stubborn glint in her eye. "Oh, but darling-"

"That sounds lovely, Hawke," Aveline interjects smoothly, eyes twinkling. "A small gathering of friends, sharing Feastday together. Sounds perfect. Shall we say sundown on Satinalia, here at the mansion?" She nudges Isabela, who smothers a grin.

"Sounds good, big girl. I'll spread the word among the usual crowd."

"Wonderful, it's decided." Aveline nods cordially to the room at large. "See you then, Hawke, Merrill, Leandra. I'm sure you'd like the chance to talk about plans for the evening." She claps Isabela on the shoulder, grinning slightly at the Pirate Queen's wince. "Come on, Isabela. Heading to the Blooming Rose? I'll walk with you as far as the Keep."

"You know me too well, Guard-Captain," Isabela purrs, linking her arm through Aveline's. "By the way Hawke, Varric wanted a word with you, when you can make it to the Hanged Man. He said it was a family matter," she says as they head for the door, arm in arm like the best of friends. "He did say more, but I wasn't listening. See you here for Feastday!"

I stare after them in astonishment, not entirely sure of what just happened. Though certainly not ungrateful, by any means. It rather seemed like they were helping me on purpose.

Mother turns narrowed eyes to me once they are gone, her expression somewhere between irritation and amusement. "That was neatly executed, sneaky child of mine."

Merrill giggles, glancing at me and I raise my hands defensively. "It wasn't planned, I swear it! But," I press on as Mother coughs in delicate disbelief. "I think it would be a better idea this year, Mother, what with Orana being here with us now. I'd rather not subject her to serving a house full of entitled human nobles. Not after all she's been through her whole life with the Tevinters."

Mother's eyes soften immediately. "Of course. You're right, love. A quiet gathering it is then. I'm sure I can find a party to go to afterwards if I feel the need."

Oh, hurrah! A quiet Feastday for once! Maker knows I need a proper rest. "Thank you."

"I'm a little surprised at you, love," Mother says unexpectedly, and I blink, surprise and apprehension rising in me as though I were a child again, discovered in a misdeed. I shake it off, irritated at my childish reaction, and look at her inquisitively. She smiles a touch wickedly and nods at Merrill. "You've been in this lovely girl's enchanting presence for a full ten minutes now, and you've yet to notice and admire her new attire."

Obediently, I look at Merrill properly and stop breathing on the spot. She is resplendent in a lovely garment, designed in a very elven way, not restricting her feet and falling gently from her shoulders. Made of silks in greys and greens, it is elegant and light, artfully slashed in places to reveal thin light leggings hugging her skin tightly from the tops of her feet, held in place by a strap in the arch of her foot. She smiles at me and clasps her hands together, shy.

By all the gods in every realm, she is beautiful.

"It's the first of the order I placed with Jean-Luc, do you remember?" Mother says, looking oddly flattered by my awed silence, as though she made the clothes herself rather than simply commissioning them. "With something more the way," she adds slyly, though I hardly notice what she is saying. I think that's what she said. I'm a little preoccupied.

"You like it then, ma vhenan?" Merrill says knowingly, eyes twinkling.

"Yes," I manage. "Oh, yes. Beautiful."

"I'll be off to visit Gamlen, then," Mother announces, looking between us, laughter in her eyes. "I won't be back for a few hours, I'd say. Have a nice afternoon, you two. There's a cold collation set out in the kitchen if you're peckish." She looks at me, fingers my damp hair with genteel distaste. "Though I think a bath might be in order before you do anything else," she advises in a loud stage whisper, and heads for the door without further ado. "I'll leave you to it."

I smile at Merrill; whose eyes darken with desire and delight. "Bath, hmm? An excellent suggestion."

xxx M xxx

"She thought you were my slave?" Hawke asks, her sweet voice humming through my back, pressed as it is to her chest as we lay back in the luxuriously warm water. Her tone is sad but unsurprised. "I suppose that's understandable, given her history."

I turn my head to look at her, resting my cheek against her heart. "I explained to her you would never keep slaves, especially for... you know. I told her what we are to one another." Her arms tighten around me and she smiles into my eyes. "You aren't upset, ma vhenan?"

A few moments pass, during which I feel her struggle to suppress the hurt she feels at Orana's assumption. "No," she replies at length. "I know why she thought that way. It's nothing personal. Maker knows I've learned to try not to take everything Fenris says about mages personally. It just makes me sad and angry by turns. But not at Orana, or Fenris." I raise an eyebrow, and Hawke laughs. "Well yes, alright. I do get angry at Fenris. But I hide it well, I think."

"I do wish he'd realise that we're not all that terrible, after three years," I comment, running a hand along Hawke's smooth leg. "Have you heard from him?"

"Not yet," Hawke sighs. "He'll come back to the city when he's ready."

"He can take care of himself," I agree. Fenris and his ceaseless emotional turmoil are not the most pressing things on my mind right now. "What shall we do about Orana, love?"

Hawke gives a world-weary sigh. "The only thing that will help her is time to adapt to her new world, and exposure to people who will treat her like a person. She should still be protected of course, until she is strong enough to handle herself against the cretins. So no parties with guests outside our family and friends for the moment." I hear the grimace in her voice. "No nobles, certainly. They would treat her as badly as they treat you, and I can't go beating on all of them without risking censure from the Viscount. We would of course put them in their place..."

"... but likely the damage would be done," I finish her though for her, tracing gentle patterns with water on the surface of Hawke's arm, "and there is just no sense inviting such risk to the girl for no benefit to her."

She presses a tender kiss to the tip of my ear. "Precisely."

We rest in contemplative silence for a while, enjoying the warmth of the water and the pleasant contact of skin on skin. It's so nice to have time for this; to not have to rush off anywhere. We are going to visit Varric later this evening, but that won't be for hour yet. I blink sleepily, looking up into her perfect face. She senses my regard and turns her gaze on me, surveying me with languid affection.

"Your eyes are so beautiful, ma vhenan." She grins rakishly at me, causing her lovely eyes to sparkle delightfully. I turn and relax back into her arms, tucking my head safely beneath her chin. "Such a bright clear blue. Very different to Leandra's or Carver's. Are your eyes like your fathers?"

"No," Hawke says, a smile in her voice. "My father's eyes were golden, like my sister's- though you never met, of course. A similar shade to Isabela's eyes, then. Carver had Mother's eyes, but Father said that mine were like his mother's. My grandmother, though I never knew her. Father was taken away to the Circle as a child and lost contact completely when he and Mother ran away to Ferelden. He rarely spoke of his family or life before the Circle."

"You don't know anything about her?" I ask.

I feel Hawke shrug a little. "I know she had eyes like mine, and that her name was Caelan."

I twist around in surprise, sending a wave of water splashing onto Hawke's chest. "But that's an elven name! Was she an elf then?"

Hawke shrugs again, though she doesn't seem surprised. "I really couldn't say. She could have been, for all I know. Father shared so little about his past."

"Well, if she was, chances are good that she and your father lived in the alienage, before he was taken to the circle. Maybe someone still living there would know something."

Hawke lifts a brow, thoughtful. "It's worth the asking. Let's see what we can turn up, the next time we're there. No tonight, though. We won't have time to go there."

"Do you think Varric will want us to stay long?" I ask.

"If it's about Bartrand like Isabela thought, Varric might want to go out and find him tonight," Hawke replies, her voice hardening the way it always does when Bartrand's name is mentioned. I think she relives Carver's death every time she hears it. If not for his betrayal, Carver wouldn't have got the blight, down there in the dark. Hawke would never have had to give him the mercy of a quick death. I know it haunts her still, what Carver asked her to do.

"Best be prepared for that, then," is all I say, knowing that this is not the time for a deep conversation about her feelings. For now. "We don't need to leave for the Hanged Man for some time yet, Hawke." I turn, straddling her hips and leaning against her, pressing her gently back against the warm stone lip of the bath. "Any thoughts on how to while away the hours?"

A lazy smile lights her features, and she grips my hip with one hand, sending the other seeking beneath the water, stroking, touching. I gasp and smile as her fingers find their goal, closing my eyes in bliss.

"A few ideas, if you're willing," she replies, voice husky with want and love.

"Oh... yes..." I slip my arms about her, keeping pace with her movements. She needn't ask, but I love that she does. "Always."

xxx H xxx

The crumbling facade of the old Hightown mansion doesn't exactly fill me with confidence that anyone lives here at all, let alone a dwarf used to the finer life of a well-set up merchant. Perhaps that damned idol didn't quite earn the treacherous bastard dwarf as much as he thought it would, when he abandoned us to die in the Deep Roads, including his own brother. And mine.

I push away the image of Carver's lifeless body in my arms and turn a sardonic grin on Varric. "Bartrand really hasn't done much with this place, has he?"

"Hm." Varric murmurs, looking up at the house with a perplexed line creasing his brow. "I don't get it. My sources saw people making deliveries here just a week ago. This… looks like it's been empty for months."

I raise a brow. Well, lovely. This has 'ambush' written all over it. "You think he put the cobwebs up to discourage tax collectors?" Behind me, Isabela muffles a snort of laughter.

"Oh, you're thinking it's a trap!" Varric realises, and shakes his head, grinning slightly. "Hah. Great. It's been ages since my brother tried to kill me!"

"Maybe we'd better go inside then, before the guard asks what we're doing standing about in the dark?" Merrill suggests, keeping her sweet voice hushed and low like I showed her. Whispers carry further than simply speaking in a low voice. "If you're ready for this, Varric."

"I've been ready for this for three years, Daisy," Varric growls, loading Bianca and stepping up to the door. He tries the knob, finding that it opens easily, an oddity which I file away. Surely Bartrand has not become so lax in his security. Especially here in Kirkwall, where his betrayed brother resides.

Varric turns to look at us, eyes hard with grim purpose, glittering in the light from the torch-lit street. "Come on. I've been saving a few choice words for my nug-humping brother. I'd hate to keep him waiting."

"Bartrand!" Varric groans quietly to himself, his eyes wide with horror as he stares at the bodies of what appears to be most of the servants, piled in a wretched heap on the floor of the storeroom. "What have you done!?"

I crouch to examine the corpses, trying to breathe through my mouth. The bodies are in various stages of decay, which I take to mean that these poor people have been killed at different intervals over a fair period of time, though there are rather a lot of freshly murdered corpses as well. The stench is terrible.

"They weren't all killed at once." I speak my thoughts aloud for the benefit of my companions, glancing up at them. Merrill's face is ghostly pale, her eyes gleaming with sorrow for the dead. Isabela has her arm around her, her own features grim. Varric's eyes are still round, disbelieving. I don't know what to think myself. I believe Bartrand to be a heartless bastard after what he did to us, but this? This is another thing altogether. "This has been going on for a while, though things seem to have… escalated recently. Many of these bodies are fresh. And those guards we fought couldn't have been surviving in that condition for long. They're too crazed to take care of themselves, to eat or drink or sleep."

"Did they kill these people?" Isabela wonders. "What part has Bartrand in all this? I haven't seen signs of any dwarves since we've been in here."

"No dwarf would deal with Bartrand after his betrayal of his men – and brother – in the Deep Roads," Varric says harshly. "None but loyal servants who came with the family from Orzammar. I see only human and elven bodies here. What Bartrand might consider expendable."

"We don't know his involvement yet," I caution Varric. "We don't have a lot of information. Let's look through the rest of the house."

He nods, eyes hard, and hefts Bianca in his arms as we leave the room. I close the door gently behind us, in respect for the dead. When this is done – however it plays out – I'll make certain their bodies are identified for their families and given proper rites.

"Right," Isabela murmurs softly as we head back down the hallway, looking for a door into the closed off main foyer. "Ideas on what the bloody shit is going on here?" She sounds strained, unlike herself. It takes a lot to rattle the Pirate Queen. "Could it be magic? Maybe blood magic?"

Merrill and I both shake our heads. "Not blood magic," Merrill answers, her voice sure. "At least, it certainly doesn't feel like anything in my experience. I can't rule out some other sort of magic, though. If it is, it's nothing I'm familiar with. Hawke?"

I open my mouth, about to concur, and then close it as a familiar sensation triggers a memory. There is… something at work here, some current that I recognise, strange and alien as it is. A tainted thread of power, a note of darkened song in the back of my mind. "I feel… something," I tell them, unhelpfully. "There's something at work here, but I can't put my finger on where I've felt it before."

"Keep it in mind, Hawke," Varric advises, trying a door and finding it locked. He bends down to examine the lock, drawing his roll of picks out of his belt. "Knowing you, it'll turn out to be important. I think I can get this open. Just a minute…"

The lock turns with a satisfying click, and Varric stows his tools away as he pushes the door open cautiously. The room beyond is dark, and large; high ceilings over a dusty double staircase up to a suite of rooms on the landing, likely reserved for the master of the house. I'd wager Bartrand is there, if anywhere in here.

Varric moves to step into the room, his eyes fixed on the upper level doorways, but Isabela grabs his arm, shaking her head slightly and indicating a faintly discoloured patch of tiles on the dirty floor at our feet, barely noticeable in the gloom. Then she points silently at the chambers to either side of the middle room on the landing, where we can see shadows moving in the slivers of light beneath the doors. Merrill turns her head to the side, concentrating, and meets our eyes, tapping her ear and murmuring the words, "Swords and bows being drawn. Babbling voices. Lots of booted feet. Clinking."

I am rather envious of her superior hearing, truth be told.

Right. A trap, cunningly set into the floor itself, likely installed pre-madness. Guards, likely as frenzied as the ones we've already had to dispatch, armed, armoured and ready to attack. No way to get the drop on them, and they have the high ground. And the heedless strength of the crazed.

Excellent.

Merrill, Isabela and Varric all look to me, clearly waiting for my direction. I do wonder sometimes why everyone effectively cedes me leadership in these situations. I suppose I have managed to get us through fairly unscathed a great deal of the time, but there have been many times where I wonder if we might have achieved a better outcome if someone else was leading. I haven't always gotten things right, and usually those times were when my failure to protect those in my charge mattered the most. Bethany. Carver. If I had been quicker or closer when Bethany attacked that ogre to protect Mother, I might have drawn its attention long enough to save her. If I had been more attentive to Carver in the Deep Roads instead of focusing all my energy into getting us out of there, I could have noticed he was ill sooner and found a solution; burned out the taint from his blood at the very beginning of his infection, found a Grey Warden patrol, something, anything…

I shake the dark thoughts out of my head, irritated at myself, and confused by my lapse. I am a decent leader. This is not helpful! Keep in the moment, or you'll never have another. Aveline's wise words clear my head, dampening the strange singing note I am vaguely aware of pervasively winding through the back of my mind. Stay aware of your surroundings, girl! I look around, swiftly taking note of the trap, the high ceilings, the numerous guardsmen, weighing our options and silently sketching out a plan in my mind. Taking a tighter grip on Vigilance, I lift a hand, motioning for Isabela to sneak forward and disarm the trap, as quietly as she can. Merrill, I instruct to watch the door to the left of the stairs while I cover the right. I tell Varric to load Bianca with a scattershot of explosive bolts – what a marvellous contraption Varric's crossbow is – and wait for my signals. Once Isabela returns to our little huddle in the doorway I give Varric a nod, and as we move swiftly out into the room, finding cover behind the overturned tables and benches along the walls, Varric brandishes Bianca and yells at the top of his lungs:

"You want a piece of me? Let's dance, you sons of bitches. I'll take you all!"

The left and right upper doorways burst open, spilling screaming, spitting guardsmen onto the landing. They spot us and charge, practically tripping over each other as they run full-tilt towards the stairs, eyes wide and mouths foaming with their madness. One of their number falls on his way out the door and is trampled by those behind him, none noticing their crushed brother-in-arms beneath their feet.

As they draw near to the stairs, I catch Merrill's eye and nod. As one, we send a wave of liquid ice over each group, freezing those not still in the room behind in their tracks and blocking those behind them from rushing out to attack us. I wait as they struggle past their frozen comrades towards the stairs, heedless of the icy fate of their brethren. When the first man reaches the head of the stairs, I glance at Varric.

"Now!"

Varric shoots, his barrage of explosive darts looping gracefully towards the high ceiling. Just as they seem about to impact and bring the roof down around our ears, they drop, exploding at the feet of the guardsmen, shattering the frozen men and turning the others into splatters of blood and meat. I close my eyes briefly at the sight, feeling the horror of it. But faced with the four of us against untold numbers of men with maddened strength… sometimes these sorts of tactics are necessary, if only to even the odds.

More demented howls of unfocused rage assault my ears, and I look up to see a few straggling guardsmen leave the room to the left, their weapons raised, their faces contorted with uncomprehending fury. Varric shoots one; Isabela throws a knife at another, killing him instantly. I wrap the mind of the last one with my magic, seeking to learn what drove him mad. If I could just have a few moments, just to heal one… but it's no good. His mind is gone completely. There is nothing left of him; just swirling blackness, echoes of that strange singing note, whatever it is. I step back, withdrawing my mana from him and nod to Varric. He falls with a bolt in his throat, his misery ended.

"Everyone alright?" I ask quietly, receiving determined nods in return. "Let's search the rooms."

At the top of the stairs, a voice reaches us from the room to the left, rough, low and male.

"Varric? Is that you?"

I move towards the voice, fingers tightening around the blade of my sword, but Varric stops me, putting his arm out in front of me as he peers at the shape in the darkness.

"Praise the ancestors!" the voice says, and its owner steps out of the shadows, a look of relief on his beardless face. It isn't Bartrand.

"Hold up, I know this man," Varric says quickly. "He's Bartrand's steward." A loyal servant, then. And loyal he would have to be, to remain at Bartrand's side throughout all of this madness. I look at the man closely. He is dishevelled, careworn, with deep lines around his eyes and mouth that likely weren't there before whatever happened in this house. His eyes are bloodshot and slightly wild with fear, but they contain no hint of madness. Perhaps only the guards were driven out of their minds.

"I've been hiding in that room for hours. Those lunatics followed me in, but their brains are addled. They never thought to check under the bed," Hugin babbles, glancing rapidly around our group, his nerves clearly shot. "By the Stone, I'm glad to see you, Varric."

Varric's attention is fixed to the steward. "Hugin, what happened here?" he asks, his tone gentle but demanding.

Hugin lifts weary, sad eyes to Varric's face. "Varric… your brother… that statue he brought out of the Deep Roads… Bartrand said it sang to him. Even after he sold it."

Maker. That blasted red lyrium idol. I should have smashed the damn thing to pieces the moment I picked it up!

Wait… It… sang to him? Is that what I've been hearing? But how can that be, if Bartrand sold it? Echoes, perhaps. Traces lingering in the madness the vile thing caused.

"I've been hiding in here," Hugin continues, his voice trembling slightly, "but the guards… they're like crazed animals. I didn't dare go past them. Everyone in this house has gone mad."

Poor man. "We've seen," I tell him gently, sympathy filling me for the terrors he must have been living with. "What did Bartrand do to the guard to turn them to this?"

Hugin swallows thickly. "He's been forcing them to eat lyrium."

I start in surprise, sharing a shocked glance with Merrill. I should have been able to sense that! In hindsight their minds did feel rather like some of the older Templars I've been around, those who have spent far too long in the service, poisoned by the liquid magic that once gave them such power over their charges. I didn't think to look for it here. Why would Bartrand do such a thing?

The dwarven man shudders, closing his eyes against the horror of his tale. "Some of the servants, he… cut pieces off them while they were still alive."

"Why?!" Varric's voice is strained with anger and bewilderment.

"He says he's trying to help them hear the song," Hugin replies, desperation colouring his tone. "Please, stop him!"

Varric looks up at me, shaking his head in disbelief. "Bartrand's not exactly a nice guy, but… this doesn't sound like my brother.

I nod in agreement, and turn back to Hugin. "You said he sold the statue. To who?" I ask him, keeping my voice level to calm him. "Where is it?

"I don't know," Hugin moans miserably, rubbing his temple with a grimy hand. "It's why we came back to Kirkwall." He glances at the centre chamber door, where a faint light can be seen flickering through the keyhole. Bartrand must be in there, surely. Maker only knows what kind of state he's in. "He was already starting to rant about the sodding idol and it's singing. On his better days, he hated the thing. Wanted to get rid of it. But the minute it was gone, he got worse."

It's starting to sound very much like the idol has been… possessing him? No, that isn't quite right. Certainly it has affected his mind somehow. "I haven't seen anyone alive in here except for guards," I ask, wanting to know if there might be anyone else alive in here. Anyone else who could be saved. "We saw the bodies of the serving staff in the storeroom, but that can't have been everyone. What happened to the rest of the staff?"

Hugin hesitates, his breath coming more quickly, eyes turned towards the door behind which Bartrand must lurk, thoughts turned to some awful memory, by the look on his face. "I don't know what Bartrand did to them," he says slowly. "By the ancestors, the sounds coming from his study… they're dead by now. I hope."

"What do you mean, you 'hope they're dead'?!" Varric all but explodes, incredulous and horrified. He takes a step towards Hugin, and Merrill places a gentle hand on his arm. He subsides, but continues to gaze at Hugin unbelievingly. "How can you say that?"

The man stares back at him, his gaze flat, his shoulders slumped. "Just… whoever… whatever you find in that room… Varric, give them a merciful death."

"Maker's arse," Isabela mutters behind us.

"Where is my brother?" Varric growls, his leather gloves creaking ominously as he tightens his grip on his crossbow.

"Bartrand took the servants and locked himself inside the study," Hugin answers, gesturing to the central chamber. "No one's come out for days! And those sodding lunatics just keep prowling the halls."

"Then we go in after him," Varric says grimly. "Come on, Hawke. Let's finish this."

I nod to him in acknowledgement, and return my attention to Hugin. "Everything will be alright. We'll take care of this," I say, clasping Hugin reassuringly on the shoulder. "The halls are clear." I gesture in the direction of the front entrance, just in view past the door to the foyer. Presumably Hugin has the keys to it somewhere on the large ring of them hanging from his belt. "You can leave freely, Hugin. You're safe now."

Hugin gives me a faint, sickly imitation of a smile. "I wish I believed that, human."

"Go to the Hanged Man in Lowtown," Varric tells him. "Ask Corff the bartender to let you into my rooms. You can wait for me there. I'll find you after we deal with Bartrand, and figure out what you'll do next. I can speak to the Guild on your behalf, see if I can get you situated somewhere." He waits until Hugin looks him in the eyes. "None of this is your fault, Hugin."

Bartrand's former steward gazes at Varric for a few moments more, then nods once sadly and turns to leave.

We wait until he finds the key to the front door and exits through it, shutting it quietly behind him. Then we turn to face the study door. If Bartrand is still in there, as Hugin suggested, why hasn't he come out yet? Surely he heard us talking outside his door. Does he think he can hide from us? Or is he lying in wait?

I look at Varric, and gesture for him to take the lead. "He's your brother, Varric. You can call the shots here. How do you want to play this?"

Varric considers, staring hard at the door for a few moments. At last he sighs. "I'll go in first. Try not to kill him if he tries anything. I want… I need to ask him some questions."

He moves towards the door, quietly trying the handle, glancing back at us in surprise when he finds it unlocked. Slowly, he pushes the door open.

The first thing I see is a mound of bloody bodies, then the sound of breaking glass echoes in the little room, and a cloud of smoke billows out of the door, obscuring my vision.

"I'll make your blood and bones sing the song for me!" a voice screams from the middle of the smoky haze.

A knife flies out of the smoke, missing my head by inches as I duck out of its path.

"No you don't!" roars Varric, charging in, his stocky form disappearing into the cloud. I hesitate, unwilling to cast any spells toward Bartrand that might hit my friend. I glance around at Isabela and Merrill, both frozen in the same agony of indecision. Sounds of a scuffle emit from the slowly dissipating smoke cloud, then the distinctive sound of wood striking flesh, and the metal clatter of a dagger falling to the ground and being kicked away. The smoke clears to reveal Varric standing over a cringing, dirty, unkempt Bartrand.

"I can't… I can't… hear it anymore…" Bartrand mumbles, clearly unconcerned about the blow delivered to him by his little brother, who is standing in front of him with a look of mingled fury and disgust. "I just need to hear the song again. Just for a minute." Suddenly he raises his head and looks around wildly, eyes tracking something invisible around the room. "Stop saying that!" he cries as he rises, anger and anguish warring in his rusty voice. "I know I shouldn't have sold the idol to that woman! It was a mistake!" He shakes his head, his voice now low and sorrowful. "A mistake…" he moans softly to himself.

So he sold the idol to a woman. Who, I wonder? We may need to try and track her down if we can, if the idol is what wrought such a change in Bartrand. Andraste, but the man is a shadow of his former self. I barely recognise the gruff, arrogant but well-presented man who left us to die in the Deep Roads in this filthy, thin, wild-eyed man.

"Bartrand!" Varric yells angrily, taking a hold of Bartrand's shirtfront and shaking him. "Get a hold of yourself! Do you know where you are? Do you know what you've done?!

"Varric?" Bartrand blinks, gazing in Varric's direction with unseeing eyes, despite the fact that Varric is standing right before him. "You'll help me, won't you little brother? Help me find it again!" His hands scrabble at Varric's hands in a clumsy pleading clasp. "You were always the good one."

Varric pulls his hands away, stepping back a pace and staring at his older brother. "Help you?" he repeats, voice rough with emotional. "Bartrand, you left me to die! You left all your men to die! And for what? Some trinket? Look at yourself! Look at what you've done to the men and women who served you! Where's your nobility, brother?" He steps back in towards Bartrand, glaring into his brother's face. "Where's your dwarven honour?"

Bartrand doesn't appear to hear him. I can see Varric working himself into a fury at Bartrand's apparent refusal to answer him, but I truly think he can't. I doubt he registered what Varric said at all. He isn't really… present. "Steady, Varric," I caution him gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. "He doesn't look so good. I don't think he even knows we're here. Will you let me look at him?"

Varric nods grudgingly after a moment, as though he doesn't believe that Bartrand deserves it. But he moves aside to let me come closer.

I reach for my mana and examine him, this man who left us to die in the Deep Roads, the man who left his own brother to rot in the dark and cold of some long-forgotten thaig for the sake of a carving. The reason I had to end my own brother's suffering.

I look into his clouded blue eyes, shot through with blood red, and feel only pity. He is being torn apart inside his mind by something cold and dark, and he can't escape as we did. I can't imagine the terror of that, assuming he has any true awareness of himself at all.

"There's something… wrong, in his mind," I tell the others at length. "Something dark. It doesn't feel natural. If he weren't a dwarf, I'd think a demon did this." I look at Varric in the eyes, wanting him to know I speak the truth. Not that I would have reason to make excuses for Bartrand. I have as much cause to hate him as Varric does. But, seeing what's become of his mind… "It's like his mind has been poisoned. Like the guards, but different. More powerful, but also a more gradual change. He's not all gone, but he isn't right."

"The song…" Bartrand moans to himself, illustrating my point rather effectively. "I can't hear the song!" He grabs at his temple. "I need it… can't think without it…"

The song… that strange almost-music in the back of my mind. I remember. I've heard… felt… it before: when I first picked up the idol in the thaig. I remember feeling as though there was a note of a strange strain of music in my mind as I touched it.

"It was the idol," I tell the others. "That's what did this. It has some sort of power I've never seen." I meet his eyes regretfully. I can see the hope in his expression, even if he denies it's there. "I don't know how to cure him of this, Varric. It's beyond my knowledge to heal. I can try to clear his mind, at least a little."

I lay a healing on Bartrand, focusing hard. It's like trying to move through a pool of syrup; everything I do takes a monumental effort. At last, I push back the clouding madness from his mind, though it lingers, prowling on the edges of his mind like a living, stalking mist awaiting its chance to return. The effort leaves me sweating, trembling. Merrill, who has been watching me closely, moves up beside me, slipping a slender arm about my waist and keeping me on my feet until I steady myself.

"That's all I can do," I breathe, my voice oddly weak. That was draining; far more so than it should have been. "I'm sorry, Varric. It won't last long."

Bartrand gasps, blinking. He raises his head and meets the gaze of his brother, recognition flaring in his eyes. "Varric?"

"I'm here," Varric says, holding out his hands to Bartrand in a comforting gesture.

Bartrand steps a little closer to his brother, his expression shifting through in a flurry of emotion: confusion, fear, comprehension, horror. He looks around him, face paling at the sight of the dead servants lying in his room. "Varric! What have I done?"

"I don't know." Varric meets his brother's eyes squarely, though I see the effort it costs him, see him fight against his anger at Bartrand, win, and let it go, replacing it with sorrow and anguish on his brother's behalf. "I honestly don't know."

"Make it stop, little brother," Bartrand cries as he grabs Varric by the shoulders, gripping tightly. "Don't let me… Don't let House Tethras fall like this!" Varric lowers his head, trying to hide his emotions as his brother pleads with him to end his torment. "I know I don't deserve it. But please Varric! Don't leave me like this! Make it stop!"

"Enough with the speeches," Varric mumbles, gently backing out of Bartrand's grasp. "I'll get you to a healer, and you'll be fine."

I wince as he glances at me questioningly. There's nothing I can do for him. I haven't the faintest clue where to start, not without the idol to examine. And to my mind, it isn't worth risking my own health or my family by exposing myself to it. Not… Maker this is an ignoble thought, but… not to save Bartrand. If we find the idol, it would be better to simply destroy it so this can never happen again.

Isabela speaks before I manage to figure out how to articulate my thoughts to Varric diplomatically. "Varric, he's not going to be fine," she says softly, laying a hand on her friend's burly shoulder comfortingly. "You know that."

"I can't do anything more for him, Varric," I agree, grateful for Isabela's helpful interjection. "Not without knowing more about the thing that caused this, and it's long gone."

"Maybe Anders can help him," Varric says, a slight tone of desperation in his voice.

"If Hawke can't heal him, I don't know if anyone else could," Merrill tells him, her voice sympathetic but sure.

Despite the situation, I can't help but blush. "I very much doubt I'm the best healer in the world, Merrill."

She gazes at me seriously. "You're the best healer Varric could find this side of the Waking Sea," she replies. "Anders cannot hold a candle to you."

"I've got to try something!" Varric rubs a hand over his hair, signalling his growing anxiety and frustration. "He's my brother."

"Alright, Varric," I relent. "Perhaps Anders and I can examine him once he's somewhere safe, to try and find some way to help him. But I doubt that staying in this house is helping his condition."

"I'll come back to collect him, with help. I'll pay for him to stay in a sanatorium under guard."

After a moment of consideration, I nod reluctantly. That will do, I suppose. But it had better be a very heavy guard. "For now, I can put him into a sleep, if you wish," I offer, glancing at Bartrand, who has started mumbling to himself about the song again, his lucidity eroding. My jaw tightens, and I fight against the instinct telling me it's too dangerous to let the man live. This is Varric's decision. And if he wants to keep his brother alive, I certainly will not fault him. I've no leg to stand on in that regard. Which again, I can blame on Bartrand, though without that damned idol, who knows what would have happened instead really… "So that he won't leave, or hurt himself." Or anyone else.

"Alright, Hawke," Varric agrees. He follows me as I move cautiously over to Bartrand, extending a hand toward him. "Sit tight, brother. Help is on the way."

Bartrand sighs, folding as I touch his shoulder and send him to sleep. Varric catches him under the arms while I take his legs, carrying him to a bed in the far corner of the room, away from the bodies of Bartrand's victims. Their pain-filled faces, frozen in unavenged death, will haunt me in my dreams, I'm sure. But… this is the right decision. For Varric, if no one else. He would regret killing his brother, especially in cold blood, and if I had done it… well, I know Varric would have understood, but our friendship would surely have suffered for it. Perhaps this is the best outcome we could have achieved.

"Come on, Hawke," Varric says, after staring at his unconscious brother for a few charged, silent moments. "The sooner we get out of this house, the better."

Outside, the dark streets are mercifully quiet. We walk along in silence through the noble quarter, alert but subdued. That whole affair went nothing like I expected it to. I'm not quite certain how to feel about it all. I probably won't know until I get the chance to talk with Merrill about it. She has a way of getting to the core of what I'm feeling even when I don't know myself.

As we draw closer to the Chantry courtyard, I feel eyes on me and glance down towards the source, finding Varric gazing up at me with an unfathomable expression.

"Are you alright, Varric?" I ask with the suggestion of a questioning smile, not certain of his motivations. "Did you need something?"

"A stiff drink, maybe," Varric says with a sigh, stopping by the stairs to Lowtown. "I feel like I've been kicked by a horse." He regards me with that same level, unreadable stare, and then gives me a small grin. "I almost wish you hadn't wiggled your fingers and cleared Bartrand's head," he grumbles, his good nature well and truly reasserting itself now that we've put some distance between us and the house containing his unfortunate brother. "I liked it better when I just wanted to kill the bastard."

He's left his anger behind him, and so should I. I smile fondly at him. Can't keep a good dwarf down. "If I ever had doubts about who was the better brother, they're long gone." I give him an approving nod. "You did good."

"Oh, please, Hawke, there was never any doubt! I'm the handsome, irresistibly charming one!" Varric grins wider, more and more like himself every moment. He sobers a little, rubbing at his temple with a gloved hand. "I'll… deal with Bartrand, somehow. Maker, that'll be even more of a joy than it used to be. I still can't believe what he did in that house. It's one thing to walk away and leave us to die, but that?"

"The statue drove him mad. He didn't do this on his own," I remind him, trying to give him something to hold on to. His brother was an arse, but not a murderous lunatic. Not before the idol. That much is true at least. "The artefact from the thaig warped his mind."

Varric narrows his eyes, though his renewed surge of anger isn't directed at me. "Don't let him completely off the hook. He chose to steal the damned thing; he brought it on himself." He sighs, making a visible effort to calm himself. "Anyway. Thank you. I'll deal with the bodies of the servants and guards, inform their families, compensate them, all of that. And I'll keep looking into who bought that blighted statue. At the very least, they need to be warned about what happened. How long do I have until Bartrand wakes?"

"Another day and night, at least," I assure him. "Get some sleep and deal with it in the morning, Varric. He's safe enough there for now, locked up in there. He won't wake, and no one can get in to him."

"Thanks, Hawke," Varric says again, and Isabela puts an arm about his shoulders.

"Come on, Varric," she says, her voice warm with friendly affection. "Let's go find a pint and our beds. I'll help you out with all of it tomorrow." She throws a glance over her shoulder at Merrill and I. "See you two for Feastday, if I don't see you beforehand."

"Feastday?" Varric asks her as she steers him towards the stairs, then we hear the low buzz of their voices fading as she leads him away, explaining our apparent Feastday plans to him as they go.

I reach out an arm to Merrill, and she slips beneath it, wrapping an arm about my waist and fitting her body to mine as we turn for home.

xxx M xxx

Ah! There's the mansion, at last. Creators, this has been a long, harrowing night. Poor Varric. Poor Hawke. Poor Bartrand, I suppose, though I do agree with Varric; he did bring it on himself, really. All those people he hurt… I wouldn't have blamed Varric or Hawke if they had ended Bartrand's life back there in vengeance for the lives he took, and to prevent him from hurting anyone else. But they didn't. I suppose that's good?

Hawke was feeling very conflicted about it, I know. It was Bartrand's betrayal that lead to Carver's death, after all. She seems to feel better about it after talking it over with me as we walked home, though I'm not quite sure why: I doubt I said anything she didn't already know. It just helps to talk about such things sometimes, I suppose. I'm glad it's over, anyway.

"Home," Hawke says softly, and I glance up at her, squeezing her gently about the middle. "At last. Maker, what a day. And night, I suppose."

I nod in agreement. "And not much left of it, at that. Mythal, but there's nothing I'd like to do better right now than to crawl into bed and sleep for a week."

Hawke smiles crookedly, a dimple adorably visible in one cheek. "I can think of a few things I'd rather do in bed," she quips cheekily, hugging me to her and gazing at me in a way that never fails to set my blood on fire, even as tired as I am right now. Then she sighs regretfully. "But nothing I have the energy for tonight, alas."

She's so exhausted, my poor Hawke, so drained from the healing she laid on Bartrand's mind after spending so much energy fighting, and a prolonged sleep spell on top of that! It's a wonder she's still standing at all. I tell her as much.

She graces me with that wonderful smile of hers. "I'm fine, love. Nothing a good sleep won't cure, especially if my Dalish lover joins me in the Fade."

"Well, I'm certain that can be arranged," I smile, unlocking the front door and pushing it open. I'm sure everything will be fine. If I can just get her into bed now, without any further trouble…

A white shadow rises from a bench in the hallway. I start, closing the door quickly behind us as we step inside, thinking for one bizarre moment that Feathers is trying to get out again.

"Hawke," the shadow says in a voice of honeyed gravel, and I sigh, too tired and irritated to try to be quiet.

Fenris. Well, he would choose now to turn up again, wouldn't he?

He glances between us and wets his lips a little, a sure sign that he is nervous. Uncertain of his welcome, most likely, and well he should be after how he spoke to us - to Hawke - back in that awful slaver's den. "I realise it is late," he begins, all politeness and formal courtesy now. "I only wish a few moments to speak with you, if I may."

He doesn't say it, but it is obvious he would rather speak to Hawke alone. I'd rather he left and went I care not where, but I suppose it's better to get this over and done. He doesn't know what we've been through tonight, after all. But perhaps he'll realise how tired Hawke is and keep this short. I glance at Hawke, and she gives me a small nod and a loving smile. I return it, and step away. "I'll let you have some privacy," I say, walking into the parlour and leaving them to converse in the entrance hall.

I don't go far though.

Swiftly and silently as I can, I make my way into the reading room and up the stairs to the landing overlooking the entrance hall. I settle down behind one of the barrels of wine Bodahn has stored away up here to listen. I can't help it. I don't mean to pry or intrude, but I am not leaving her with him, not after his angry outburst and the violence of his manner when last we saw him. Not with Hawke so drained and tired, less well equipped to defend herself if he should work himself into a rage again.

Gods be damned, Fenris, but you always have the worst timing! I seethe silently to myself, watching what little I can see of the pair of them and listening hard for any signs of danger. What does he want? Why is he here so late? Is it really just to apologise? Why couldn't it have waited until tomorrow? I suppose Bodahn must have let him in, since he's supposed to be trustworthy after all, and he's been waiting for us to return ever since. He'd better not betray that trust now.

"Your manservant let me in," Fenris says at last. "He allowed me to stay when I learned you were not here. The household has turned in for the night, but your mother graciously allowed me to stay longer and wait for you."

"You've been sitting here in the entryway?" I hear Hawke ask, a carefully playful note in her tone as she attempts to set Fenris at ease. "This whole time?"

"No," Fenris says, a little hurriedly, perhaps not wanting to appear foolish. It would be a rather strange thing to do; to pine away in the cold entryway of the home of your unrequited love. "I have been speaking to the girl. Orana?"

Making sure she's being paid? I think ungraciously.

"Yes, that's her name," Hawke replies patiently, though I believe her thoughts are running parallel to mine as she says after a short pause, "Were you checking that she's being well care for?"

"No," Fenris says again, having the grace to sound chastened. "I was simply… trying to help her adjust to her new position. Her new freedom." He pauses as though to allow Hawke to comment, but she says nothing. I can see her a little through the bars of the stone railing from my vantage point. She is standing relaxed, a pace or so from Fenris. From the tilt of her head, I can tell she is watching him passively, allowing him to continue, to say what he has to say. "I told her my story," he offers after a moment. "Some of it, at least. Not as much as I ever shared with you, but enough to be helpful, I hope." He smiles a little; I can hear it in his voice more clearly than I can ever make it out on his inexpressive face. "She's a bright girl. I believe she'll do well here, with you."

"She's doing quite well so far," Hawke agrees, her tone still light but careful. She is waiting for him to broach the subject of why he is here.

Fenris shuffles his feet a little, the sound of rough bare skin scuffing quietly over smooth stone reaching my ears. "I've been thinking about what happened with Hadriana," he says at last. Hawke nods slightly, encouraging him without words to continue. He obliges. "I… took out my anger on you. Undeservedly so." I see him rub at his chin with a gauntleted hand and wonder idly how he managed not to cut if off with those metal claws. "I was… not myself. I'm sorry."

"I understand," comes Hawke's gentle voice, which takes on a wry tone as she tilts her head the other way, lifting her shoulders in a shrug. "That's what I'm here for! People take their frustrations out on me all the time." Her voice softens. "But I accept your apology, and I appreciate it."

"You are generous," Fenris says, his tone one of surprise, his caution dissipating. I smile to myself. Perhaps now he might finally see and remember that not all mages are monsters, as he has been used to. Even in Tevinter, they cannot all be like Hadriana and her ilk. Not all of them.

Fenris sighs, and I return my attention to him properly, watching him rub the back of his head as he paces slowly away from Hawke, staring unseeing at the wall below me. I draw back further into the shadows. "When I was still a slave, Hadriana was a torment. She would ridicule me, deny my meals, hound my sleep. Because of her status, I was powerless to respond, and she knew it," Fenris explains, his voice growing harsher with every word as he turns back to face Hawke. I tense, wondering if he is working himself up again, and Fenris appears to read the same worry in Hawke's eyes, as he makes a visible effort to calm himself, stepping back from her a little and schooling his expression as he looks into her eyes. "The thought of her slipping out of my grasp now… I couldn't let her go. I wanted to, but I couldn't."

But you gave your word, I think, just as Hawke asks, "That's more important than your promise? Your word is your word, no matter who you are giving it to."

Fenris grimaces, not meeting her gaze. "It's not easy to discover your principles are less noble than you believed."

"I can understand that," Hawke murmurs, her voice low, and I know she is thinking about her anger towards Bartrand. It isn't the same, though. She didn't kill him. Moreover, she didn't promise to free him and then decide to kill him anyway. I will make certain to let her know that, somehow. Later.

"This hate." Fenris says, lifting his eyes to Hawke's, his voice soft but ragged with feeling, with… regret? "I thought I'd gotten away from it, but it dogs me no matter where I go. To feel it again, to know it was they who planted it inside me… it was too much to bear." He gives his head a small shake, as though realising for the first time how much of himself he is revealing to her. And to me, though he doesn't know that. I know I shouldn't have listened to all of that, but I think it helps that I did. I do… understand him a little better now, even if I can't say I like him any better. Hawke must see this side of him more often than I do. I can see why she seems to understand him at a depth that I cannot. He is not so forthcoming to anyone but her, that I believe for certain.

Fenris gazes at Hawke for a few moments more. Perhaps he sees at last how tired she is, as he turns away, making as though to head towards the door. "Ah, but I didn't come here to burden you further."

Hawke touches his arm briefly, causing him to look at her in surprise. "Talking with you is not a burden," she tells him firmly. "We're friends, Fenris."

He turns back, taking another few steps towards the door. "I'm not certain I know what that is."

"Fenris, it's late," Hawke tries again, genuine concern in her tone. She doesn't want to leave him all on his own in this mood, I can tell. "You can stay in one of the guest rooms."

Oh, Mythal, I'd rather he didn't stay! Uncharitable it may be, but I'd feel so much more comfortable in my own home if he were not in it. I'd suggest he make his way to the Hanged Man, if it were me speaking to him. I bet Varric and Isabela would welcome him into the drinking session the two of them are no doubt hazily engaged in right now. It would be better than letting him drink alone, which is what he'll be doing if he stays here or goes home. But I can't tell her that without letting them know I'm here.

Fenris has stopped, though he only looks at her over his shoulder as she makes her offer. She smiles encouragingly at him. "You don't need to leave."

Creators. I can see the longing in his face as he looks at her from here. Were I a dog, it would raise my hackles. Can she truly not see it? Doubtless not, if she doesn't expect it to be there. "I think it would be best for both of us if I did," Fenris replies at last. He turns away again and slips out of the door, closing it with quiet finality behind him.

I wait a few moments, then go down to her. She is still standing in the entryway, gazing at the door Fenris left by. One look at her expression - troubled, bewildered, and utterly confused - tells me that she truly has no inkling that he loves her. Well, I promised him I would not betray his secret, and I won't. I wish she knew, though. I believe this needs to be dealt with, and not by me. He can't carry this forever, and she will never be his. He needs to move on, to be free within his own heart, and not just from the impossible love he feels for Hawke, but from his past.

Right now, all Hawke sees is a friend who is hurting, and whom she has been unable to help.

I slip my hand into hers.

"At least you know he's safe, Hawke," I offer gently, reading Hawke's emotions and following her thoughts as only I can. "He isn't content, or completely as he should be yet, but he needs time. He'll get there at his own pace. We can't expect more than that."

She nods, seeing some sort of truth in my words, vague though they were. "He spoke to Orana while he waited for me," Hawke muses, letting me lead her into the parlour, past the gently snoring griffon pup and the snoozing mabari curled together on the rug before the slowly dying fire in the hearth. "He seemed… better for it. Calmer. Perhaps it would be good for them to spend some time talking to each other, about things only another former slave could understand. I wonder if I can suggest it to them somehow in a way they'll both accept."

"It sounds like a good idea, love," I agree, resting a hand on her cheek and drawing her face closer to mine, meeting her eyes seriously. "But you are not to spend any time worrying about how you are going to achieve such a thing tonight. Alright?" When I get her conceding nod, alongside an amused grin, I smile in satisfaction. "Good. You need rest, ma vhenan. We both do."

"What I need," she says, slipping an arm about my waist as we make our way up the stairs towards our chamber, "is nothing more or less than you, my love." At my wry chuckle, she presses a soft kiss to my temple and sighs. "But I suppose I'll take some rest into the bargain, as long as you're there with me."

"Always," I promise, letting her lead the way into the bedroom, and shutting the door firmly behind us, locking all the shadows of the world away beyond it.

The troubles of everyone in Kirkwall can wait until later. Tonight, tomorrow, and all the days left till Feastday if I can manage it, my Hawke and I will rest.

Hope you enjoyed this chapter! FYI, "Maker Bless Us, Everyone!" takes place in between this chapter and the next, when it's written. Happy New Year, and may your 2017 be a good year.