Morning
Hawke leaned forward on a worn-down couch in a small, rather dark room. Across from her, Fenris leaned back in an armchair, gazing at a nondescript spot on the ceiling. His large sword leaned against his chair, the blade still a little dirty. He hadn't moved for at least several minutes, but Hawke could see from the glint in his eyes that he wasn't asleep.
A small window allowed for a view of the skies and a faint glow indicated the approach of dawn. It would be a while before the sun would fully rise, meaning Hawke and Fenris weren't allowed to leave for some more time.
Maker's breath, she was bored. Shifting restlessly, Hawke let out a deep sigh. She winched, and gently touched her face. A large red cut started at her eyebrow and traced over her cheek to her upper lip. It hadn't been bleeding for the last half hour, but it certainly still stung.
The stillness of the room grated on her nerves. Balls, there was nothing here to keep herself occupied. Hoping she would find something, she reached into her pocket and found a six-sided die.
Relieved, she held it up to Fenris. "First to roll a six?" she suggested hopefully.
Fenris turned his attention to her. Without a word or expression of enthusiasm, he took it and rolled it onto the low table between them.
"Six," he declared in a tone devoid of triumph.
Groaning loudly with frustration, Hawke let herself fall back on the couch. "So... let me get this straight. We kill some scum out of self-defence because they attacked us, helping the city get rid of them in the meantime, and our reward is... Waiting for hours with nothing but dry biscuits and sweet tea? This is unfair."
Fenris released a non-committal groan that Hawke interpreted as agreement.
Hours ago, they had left Varric's room in the Hanged Man, where the gang had been playing games. Hawke had been lamenting loudly that the only benefit of having lived in her uncle's dingy house had been its proximity to the tavern. Now that she lived in Hightown, she had to walk a lot more before reaching her bed. But at least she didn't have to walk alone, since Fenris's mansion was in the same direction.
They hadn't even passed the empty Hightown market, joking about their evening's game, when they struck. Bandits appeared out of nowhere, half a dozen dressed in shoddy leathers, holding gleaming swords.
Fenris's and Hawke's quick instincts had their weapons in hand before the bandits could hit them. After the initial shock of being attacked on a quiet night, the fight itself was short. A small group of guards hurried around the corner just as Hawke pulled her dagger free. Aveline was among the guards, and luckily, she understood self-defence. Unfortunately, that didn't change the fact that several bodies now littered the streets of Hightown. And since the amount of unrest in the city was only increasing, Aveline demanded they handle this by the book.
And that was how Fenris and Hawke found themselves in a forgotten room in the Viscount's Keep, waiting to give testimony. Hawke reasoned they could have waited in her home just as well since it was so close by, but Aveline wouldn't allow it. She was Captain of the guard now after all, and wouldn't break away from protocol, friends or not.
Besides, Aveline assured them that the Seneschal always arrived early and would take their testimony first thing in the morning. Hawke could only hope that he didn't choose this day to sleep in.
To keep herself occupied, Hawke took the little die and rolled it on the table. It landed on another six. Interested, she started to roll it again and again.
"Hawke," Fenris said shortly. "Can you please stop."
But she had just released the die and kept her eyes locked on its trajectory. It landed on another six. After a sigh, she pocketed it and turned to Fenris. "This thing has a bias," she said. "It rolls a six about half of the time, and I've only seen one one."
"Perhaps it is one of those cheater's dice," Fenris suggested.
"Possibly," Hawke mused. "I don't even remember where I got it from. Must have nicked it from Varric. Accidentally, of course."
"It would explain why the dwarf wins so often."
Hawke grinned. "Yeah. For someone who claims playing games is all about the good times and sharing stories with friends, he does win awfully often."
The next fifteen minutes passed in laughter as they relived past games and accused Varric as a cheat. They had spent so much time together, Hawke, Fenris, Varric and Anders, those weeks in the Deep Roads. With nothing much for entertainment, they had often resorted to playing dice and card games.
And there were those few times when she and Anders had snuck off together, of course. By now, that was a thing of the past. If Hawke could turn back time, she almost wished it had never happened. The best thing she could say about it, was that it hadn't tarnished their friendship. And well... those stolen nights had honestly been the highlight of those last trapped days, before reaching the surface.
"How is your eye?" Fenris asked, breaking the silence.
Hawke looked up. "Hurting, now that you draw attention to it again," she stated, gently touching the skin around her cuts. She winched as a sharp jab of pain was followed by a dull, hollow ache.
Fenris appeared unimpressed. "You shouldn't have let yourself be distracted like that," he chastised. "You of all people must know the value of verbal bait."
During the fight, one of the women called out that the elf would make a good slave. Hawke had been fighting someone else, but the words cut deeper than the blade she easily parried. Ready to retaliate, she spun around to sink her daggers into the speaker, blinding her to an approaching target. The blade grazed her face with stinging pain and white light, and without Fenris' well-timed counterattack, she wouldn't be sitting here.
At least they were certain the group wasn't sent by Danarius. The woman would have shouted something different if that had been the case.
"Well, I wasn't going to let her get away with it," she said through gritted teeth.
"She would have paid for it with her life even without your interference," Fenris shot back, and leaned forwards. "Hawke. You're not responsible for solving all the world's problems."
"If you phrase it like that, I'll consider it a challenge."
Resigned, Fenris sighed. Hawke shrugged and dropped her smirk. "But it doesn't matter," she said quickly. "I'll pass by Anders later and he can fix it. I don't want to look like this for this stupid ball tomorrow."
"You have to be careful," Fenris replied. "A ballroom full of nobles isn't without threat."
Hawke couldn't help but laugh. "The Kirkwall nobles are all like sheep. They don't pose a danger to me. What are they going to do? Stick out a foot to trip me?"
But Fenris didn't laugh. Right, Hawke thought. He had been to fancy parties before, attending as a slave. For all she knew, he had witnessed more than one murder and countless more abuse. "This is not like Tevinter," she said in a tone between apologetic and exasperated.
Fenris glanced up and lowered his voice. "And you know why that is, don't you? Here, there won't be any mages."
She opened her mouth to say that it wasn't a fair comparison, but closed it again. "You know what, you're right," she said, not in the mood for that discussion.
He eyed her suspiciously, weary by her lack of an argument. "Can you even dance?" he asked instead.
"Well enough to manage," Hawke shrugged. "You've met my mother, haven't you? She made sure that all her children could dance a mediocre waltz. It seems that it falls to me to put it into practice. I've promised her one dance." She paused, allowing for a wide grin to spread on her lips. "But I never promised anything about who I would dance with. I plan to find the oldest man."
Fenris shook his head. "If I can make a suggestion, go for the second eldest."
And with that, the next minutes passed in laughter as they verbally abused imaginary guests, until a knock on the door silenced them. In walked a guardsman that sounded as bored as Hawke felt. "The Seneschal will see you now," the man said as he left the room.
Hawke rose to her feet with an exasperated groan. "Thank the Maker. I was starting to think we'd die waiting here." She picked her daggers from the table and tugged them into her belt. "Though, high chance that the Seneschal will bore us to death."
"You sound like you prefer fighting bandits," Fenris replied as he followed her, sword in hand.
"Maker's breath, wouldn't you?" Hawke said wistfully.
They passed a noticeboard crammed with overlapping announcements. Fenris slowed down just enough to draw Hawke's attention to it. "Isn't this where bounties are posted? Might be something there."
Hawke halted and scanned the notes. "This one is about missing shipments and a break-in in a warehouse."
Fenris smiled faintly. "Want to investigate after we get some sleep?"
"Yeah, let's!" Hawke agreed. "Nothing to get me in the mood for a ball like good, old-fashioned justice."
"Violence, you mean," Fenris corrected.
"Oh well. Same diff."
Bran preferred to begin his days early. Mornings were peaceful, undisturbed by the endless stream of interruptions that plagued his afternoons. The Keep was still quiet, and he usually managed to finish more work in his first hour than the remainder of his morning. And if nothing else, one of the staff made an exceptional cup of coffee.
This morning, however, any hope for tranquillity evaporated before he even set foot inside the Keep. The guards on the square stood in tight clusters, their usual vigilance replaced by uneasy whispers.
"An attack in the Hightown market, Ser," one of them reported as he approached. "Bandits. They've been dealt with. The ones responsible for stopping them are waiting to give their testimony. They're in the Keep, Ser."
Bran resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. It was far too early for this. Violence in Hightown meant a mountain of paperwork, and that was in addition to the extra work to prepare the quarterly ball. This meant he wouldn't be able to catch up on work before meeting the ambassadors from Ostwick for lunch. More chores he could have done without.
And as he settled himself at his desk and noticed Aveline's summary of the events, a nagging suspicion began to take shape. It was just a feeling, but whenever trouble stirred, a certain black-haired woman was close.
And sure enough, her name was written in the notes. Hawke, and Fenris. One of her friends, Bran assumed. The white-haired elf perhaps?
The soft echo of footsteps in the corridor outside his office told him of two approaching people, and judging from their cadence, neither was a servant. Before the sound even stopped, the door swung open without so much as an announcement.
Bran's irritation instantly grew as he realised he hadn't yet received his coffee. "Would it hurt you to knock?" he asked sharply, but the words caught in his throat the moment he saw her. "Hawke," he let slip.
A dark red line of barely congealed blood crossed the left side of her face, tracing from her brow to her lip. Bruising already spread around her slightly swollen eye. Bran's stomach churned. He did not like the sight of blood. Blood belonged inside a body and seeing it all bright and red and vicious reminded him of chaos and disorder, and the fragility of life.
Hawke, however, seemed a lot less bothered than him. "What can I say?" she said with a wide grin as she placed her daggers on the table between the two visitor's chairs. "I thought the bruise would really bring out the blue in my eyes, you know."
It was true that she had the most electric blue eyes, but he would have been a lot less blasé about those wounds.
"Morning, Seneschal," her white-haired elf friend grunted. Bran took it as a happy chance to look away from Hawke's wounds. Fenris placed a sword against the chair, the blade nearly as tall as himself, before sitting down. Bran had seen him before, back when Hawke and her friends brought back Saemus.
"Morning," he greeted back, also omitting the good as neither he nor the elf would consider this morning as such. The best he could do was come to the point. "According to my notes, both of you were involved in the incident in the Hightown market."
"If that's what you call being attacked and then defending ourselves," Hawke argued.
"That's the essence of it," Fenris agreed.
Bran sighed and picked up his quill. "I need you to tell me what happened from your perspective. Lady Rose Amell, and..." Instantly, Hawke scoffed at her name, exactly as he expected she would. He paid her no heed and turned to her friend. "Fenris. Where do you reside?"
Hawke's response was almost too quick. "He lives with me," she said. Bran glanced at Fenris for confirmation, but instead caught the elf glimpsing reproachfully back at Hawke.
"I live in the house at the end of Willow Lane," Fenris corrected.
Willow Lane... Bran knew the street, remarkable for its ironic absence of willow trees, even if it was on the other side of the city from his own residence. Was the elf a servant? Bran had yet to process the area for taxes, so he wasn't sure who owned the house.
Across the desk, Hawke shot a silent, but accusatory glare at Fenris. Fenris responded with a glare of his own, and Bran could understand their unspoken word loud and clear. Hawke had tried to cover the truth when she claimed Fenris lived with her.
"You would tell falsehoods in this office?" he asked her, wondering why he was actually surprised.
Hawke turned to him, her defiance burning hot. "To protect my friends?" she asked unflinchingly. "Of course."
"Hawke," Fenris grunted. I don't need protection, his silent glare at her seemed to say.
Yes, you do, she silently responded.
The elf raised his brows and glanced at the red cut on her face. You're one to speak, he implied.
Bran resisted the urge to groan. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. A split second passed before he reasoned that he had much more pressing matters to worry about than the possibility of an elf illegally living in some mansion. That could wait.
"Hawke," he interrupted the pair. Two sets of angry eyes turned to him in unison, but he promptly ignored both. "I am not saying that loyalty is not an admirable quality, but you should know that lying in this office constitutes a breach of the law. However, I will let it slide this time, but do not expect the same lenience in the future. For now... Let us direct our attention to the events that transpired this night."
Hawke looked like she was going to argue with him, but Fenris interspersed. "Your cut's bleeding again."
"Ah, balls," she cursed, and she touched her cheek. She winched in pain, and sure enough, a bright red trickle ran down. The sight of her own blood clearly didn't perturb her, and she stared at her finger with mild curiosity. She glanced up just in time before Bran could mask his look of discomfort. The corner of her mouth twitched into a grin. Almost tauntingly, she wiped the finger over her nose, creating a bright red smear.
"It's just a scratch," she remarked. "I survived worse."
Still grinning, she cocked her head to the side, clearly trying to provoke him. Candlelight painted sharp shadows on her face, hiding her bruised eye. If he could see the blood as paint, he could almost appreciate the artistic contrast of red against her pale skin and black hair.
But he wouldn't let her taunt him. He opened a desk cabinet to take a handkerchief from a small pile and wettened it using the last water from yesterday's jug. "I have no desire for you to stain this furniture. Clean your face," he demanded.
Hawke debated for a few seconds before she gave in and took the offered handkerchief. She muttered a near-inaudible thanks as she pressed it against her cheek, wincing as it touched the cut. "Yellow irises..." she muttered as she glanced at the vase on his desk.
Ignoring her, Bran took the time to refer to his document. It would be a long morning if they continued at this pace. "BC," he heard Hawke mutter, and he looked up. She glanced at the now red-stained handkerchief and read the small, embroidered initials. "What's the 'C' stand for?"
Bran had no desire to indulge her. "I do have a family name, believe it or not."
"Of course you do," she agreed. "It's Bran. First name Seneschal."
He was about to make a comment that they weren't nearly close enough to be on a first-name basis, when he swallowed his words. Indulging her now would just lead to her forever foregoing his title. "When you are finished joking, let us proceed. I assume all of us would rather be elsewhere."
But Hawke kept the grin on her face. "I'm wounded. This verbal sparring is the highlight of my day, Seneschal."
"You are in need of better friends, if that is the case," he responded.
Hawke opened her mouth to continue, when Fenris interrupted. "I can tell you exactly what happened," he said. "We crossed the market, when..."
The story he told matched Aveline's brief description. They simply crossed the market, chatting together, when the group of bandits attacked them. They managed to kill them all, but not before one of them wounded Hawke. The story was simple and made sense, but he needed more details.
"I think they were slavers," Hawke muttered uncharacteristically quietly.
Bran paused his scribbling. He looked up to find her fidgeting with his handkerchief, while Fenris sat still as a statue, looking like he was ready for the kill.
Slavery belonged to Kirkwall's past. The city no longer belonged to the Tevinter Imperium, the only place where slavery was still legal. Bran knew it was foolish to assume that just because something was illegal, meant it was no longer happening. If these bandits belonged to a larger organisation acting within the city's boundaries, he couldn't close his eyes to it. Or were they stragglers, thinking Hawke and Fenris made easy targets? They were rather scrappy looking, after all.
"Was there anything more to indicate a cause for their attack?" he asked.
Hawke released a dramatic sigh. "Perhaps I just have one of those faces that says please attack me. Certainly feels like that sometimes."
Fenris shifted. "You are aware that the Amell mansion was previously inhabited by slavers? Perhaps these belonged to the same group. We know slavers don't take kindly to escaped property."
The words made Hawke pause. "Oh," she said. "Didn't really consider that. But I mean, I do own the legal rights. I've been living there for a few months now."
Bran took a deep breath, trying to ground himself. He didn't need all of this with Ostwick's delegation in the city, ready to discuss trade. Protocol dictated to discuss the matter with Aveline, but sense knew the guard had little time for this investigation. Besides, there were two perfectly capable fighters and would-be vigilantes in front of him.
If only Hawke was capable of following rules, she'd have made a good addition to the guard.
"If you are so inclined, we could set out a bounty for the investigation," he suggested reluctantly.
Hawke's eyebrows shot up. "So, you have the resources to host a fancy party but not the resources for an official investigation?"
Bran didn't blink. "If you take the bounty, you will be the official resource. Besides, the parties are essential to the city's well-being. They remind the nobility that their fortunes are still flowing, that the city still stands proud, and that their lives remain untouched by chaos or unrest. Frankly, the city's economy thrives on these events, and any funding it costs us, is less than dealing with the aftermath of riots."
"Right," Hawke scowled. "Appearances above all, is that it?"
"Hawke," Fenris said shortly. "We could take on this bounty. You did say you wanted to pursue some work. We can ask Aveline if she found anything to pursue on the bodies."
Grudgingly, she sighed. "Alright, alright. We'll do it. I do care about this city, you know."
Bran counted it as a success. Perhaps he could finish this meeting sooner than expected. "Well," he said, maintaining his impassionate tone. "In that case, we make a preliminary conclusion of under investigation."
"So we can go?" Hawke asked hopefully.
"Yes. Leave and discuss with the Guard Captain."
"Guess I'll see you tomorrow, Seneschal," Hawke said as she rose from the chair.
Bran collected the papers to free his desk for his next task. "You have confidence in your skill if you assume to be finished that soon," he remarked.
She paused after tucking her daggers in her belt to stare at him. "Tomorrow… The ball?" she asked, and laughed. "Right. You thought I wouldn't come. Well… Not sorry to disappoint. I am invited, you know."
"Our previous meeting gave me the idea that your interest in these events was close to non-existent," he replied. If he was honest, he would have preferred it if she remained behind.
A wide grin spread on her face. "Perhaps I changed my mind. Mingling with Kirkwall's esteemed elite? I couldn't pass on that. And don't worry if you care about appearances. I'm blessed with a remarkable constitution. My wounds will have fully healed, mark my words."
He knew exactly who would be responsible for that. "Your resilience is truly inspiring, Hawke," he commented dryly.
Fenris was already in the door opening with his sword strapped to his back, when she turned around. Approaching his desk, she held up something red-and-white between her thumb and forefinger. His handkerchief, he realised, stained with her blood.
"This is yours," she said. "I don't want you to think I'm a thief on top of everything else."
He looked at her, to the wounds on her face and the crooked smile on her lips. She got off easy this time, he realised. A future time, she might not be as lucky. But still… He didn't like the sight of blood. "Consider it... a gift."
The grin on her lip twitched. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Now, If I ever have to duel to defend your honour, I have a memento to dramatically wave in the air."
"If my honour is ever in jeopardy, Maker forbid you'd be its champion."
A full smile spread on her face as she tucked the handkerchief in her pocket. "Excuse me, I'd make an excellent champion," she said before she turned to follow Fenris.
Bran hoped he'd never see the day she gained more notoriety. "Hawke?" he called when she exited the office. "Close the door behind you."
She paused, one hand resting on the doorframe. "You didn't say the magic word," she teased in a sing-song voice, flashing him one last grin. But despite her words, she spun around and pulled the door closed with an audible click.
The silence that followed was as welcome as it was fleeting. But this time, the interruption was decidedly more pleasant. A servant entered, holding a small tray. "Coffee, Ser?"
"Yes please," he sighed gratefully.
Note: Next chapter is called "Ball". And yeah. Hawke and balls don't mix.
