Rain
Fuck.
Hawke couldn't even appreciate the irony of her current situation. It couldn't get worse, she might have thought a few minutes ago, but then it hadn't been raining yet. She'd been following her angry feet, speeding through the dark without a specific destination, so long as it was away.
She didn't belong here. Not at the ball, not in these fancy clothes. Not among those nobles who only cared about appearances. She didn't belong on these streets, wandering aimlessly like a fool.
She had to admit that she was truly and utterly lost. The streets blurred together in the darkness, every alley looking the same, and every corner unfamiliar. She had tried to retrace her steps, but the events of the evening mingled together in a single, confusing haze.
Rose has nothing to gain from her current behaviour. She is twenty-seven, already!
Every echo of her mother's disappointed voice felt like a new stab. It wasn't true. Hawke had plenty to gain. Remembering what was important to her. Remembering what came before. Staying true to herself.
But who was she, really? A Ferelden refugee who gained a title but lost everything along the way?
Another turn, another wrong street. Hawke wrapped her arms around herself, trying to calm a cold shiver. For all her bravado, she felt a pang of homesickness. But for what, she wasn't sure. Her large estate didn't feel like home yet, but neither had Uncle Gamlen's shack. Perhaps Varric's room in the Hanged Man came the closest. Or perhaps it was simply the presence of her friends.
Balls, she was tired. It had been a while since she had seen anyone out on the streets. The ball probably ended an hour ago. Admitting she was lost for the fourth time this evening, she paused to lean against the wall surrounding a mansion. How would she ever find her way back?
And then the rain started to fall. It didn't even start as a nice, quiet drizzle, the type of rain that could make you feel serene or melancholic. From the first drop, the rain fell down in a torrential downpour. Hawke scrambled to find shelter, but in the thirty seconds it took her to find a covered alleyway, she had gotten drenched to the bone. Heavy velvet clung against her legs. Her hair hung in bedraggled tendrils around her face.
The evening had only been mildly cold, but now that everything she wore was sodden, it wouldn't be long before the cold would seep into her bones. The velvet had already been heavy, but now it dug into her waist like a hangman's noose.
Shit. She could take off the dress, but she only wore a thin shift underneath. She'd freeze and besides, she didn't want to be seen like that. This dress was worse enough.
What could she do? With an overcast sky, she couldn't use the stars to navigate. Retracing her steps had proven futile.
Hawke never gave up. She might conjure a grin, say a sharp word, or even flee… But giving up was something she had never done.
And she wouldn't start now.
Would she?
There was one option left, of course, though it felt close to giving up. She could knock on the closest door and ask for help. If she watched her manners, how could anyone deny a lady?
It was something.
She still had her dagger and toolkit strapped around her thigh. It was something to ground herself. Her shoes bit into her feet, and she contemplated throwing them away. Sure, the cobblestones might be wet and slippery and sharp in places, but that would be a different pain. Different was good.
And if nobody wanted to help her, she could use the dagger to cut the skirts away at her knees. That would reduce the weight tugging at her waist.
She was nothing if not inventive, after all.
Glad to have made a plan, she took a deep breath, leaned her head back against the wall, and started to count to ten.
It was somewhere around six that she felt her strength waver, and then somewhere around eight that she thought she heard voices. It was at ten when she was sure of it.
"Miss. Miss," someone was repeating, the sound just carrying over the ruckus of the rain.
It was said in such a specific way that her senses tensed up instantly. The accent was undoubtedly lower-class Ferelden. A refugee?
She spun around, body on high alert. In front of her were two men, both of them dressed poorly. Unmistakably refugees, indeed.
"Are you lost, miss?" the man repeated. "It's very late."
"You must have gone to the ball in the castle, haven't you? That's a fancy dress," the second one added. He had a bit of a lisp, and when he laughed, Hawke could see two missing teeth.
"Bugger off," she cussed at them. Shiftily, she scanned her environment. She was usually quick-footed, but she wasn't sure if she was quick enough in her current state.
"That's foul language for a miss," the first one accused.
Hawke's eyes landed back on the man. "Idiots, I am Ferelden like you."
The second man burst into laughter again. "I don't care if you came from bloody Tevinter. You are dressed fancy. We want your jewels."
Hawke shifted around, trying to gauge how the skirts affected her. She wasn't happy with the result. "You are better looking than you are smart, then," she taunted, and lifted her wrists to show an absence of rings or bracelets. She glanced down to indicate a lack of a necklace as well, and noticed the weight of her gown had dragged the neckline down. As a result, more of her chest was on display than she liked. Ah.
"See?" she continued sarcastically, ignoring her neckline. "No jewels."
"You do have something in your hair. Give us that. It'll fetch a pretty penny," the first man demanded.
The blood drained from Hawke's face. She'd forgotten about the comb, but her mother would kill her if she lost it. "Or what?" she challenged.
"We have ways of gettin' what we want," the lisping man said, raising a rusty dagger in front of him. It didn't look sharp enough to cut dramatically, but it looked dirty enough to create an infectious wound.
Shit. Hawke shuffled back, willing her mind to think of something. A solution hit her in the shape of a soaked leather strap chafing uncomfortably on her thigh, and she smiled to herself. "Wait!" she called, making her voice tremble as if she was feigning defeat. "I have something better. The comb isn't that valuable, but I have gold."
"Oh?" the first man replied, already counting himself rich. "Let us see."
There was no way Hawke could get to her knife without showing them her leg. "I keep it safe," she elaborated. Slowly, deliberately, she lifted the hem of her sodden skirts, baring her ankles and calves as she pulled the fabric higher.
The two men snickered, grinning as they looked at each other. "Didn't think it'd be that kind of night," the first man said.
"Me first," the lisping one added. "Rich Ferelden cunt is a great ending to this night."
Hawke could only gag at the idea of any of these men touching her, but she kept going. When the skirt was lifted above her knee, she was quick. With a practised flick, the dagger was in her hand, glinting in the near-darkness. Her skirts fell down, but she didn't need the distraction anymore.
She stepped forward, raising the dagger in front of her, ready to pounce.
"You are a disgrace to the name of Ferelden," she snarled, her voice sharp enough to cut through the pounding rain. Her knuckles whitened around the hilt. Her grip was different than that of the bandit, a practised duellist's grip instead of a scrapper's poor excuse.
The lisping one blinked at the blade, his grin faltering. His companion, clearly less easily shaken, sneered. "What, just because we ain't as lucky as you? What did you do, whore your way to the top?"
Hawke moved the blade. She could her pulse spike, with adrenaline or dread of fury, she couldn't tell. "Idiots!" she spat and stepped closer. Rain dripped from her dishevelled locks into her face and she blinked to keep her vision sharp. "You think this was luck? Do you think anyone handed me a single damned thing?"
The lisping man raised his rusty dagger in defiance, but Hawke moved faster. She lunged forward, twisting her wrist in a tight arc. She didn't even have to think. The motion was practised, deliberate, and stroke true against the rusty blade. It spun out of the man's grip and clattered onto the cobblestone with a hollow, metallic ring.
Both men flinched, but Hawke didn't let them recover. "You can work for your coin, same as me," she shouted. "Hubert, Hightown market. Ask him about the Bone Pit. They take Fereldens."
The first man hesitated and glanced at his partner. "Pete works there, don't he?"
"Now," Hawke snapped, stepping forward again, slashing the air with her dagger. "Get out of my sight before I change my mind!"
The men scrambled backwards, nearly slipping on the wet cobblestone as they turned and fled. Their retreating figures disappeared into the rain-soaked darkness, leaving Hawke behind with nothing more than a racing heart and heavy breath.
The dagger trembled in her hand. Curiously, she looked at it. She wasn't sure why she was trembling. She wasn't cold anymore. And the refugees were gone. Steeling herself, she lowered the knife and leaned back against the wall. She was alone again, and didn't have to fear being attacked.
"Hawke."
Her instincts still sharp, she spun around, knife at the ready.
Emerging from the darkness came a figure, only visible as a dark outline. With the next step it took, a faint glow of light revealed someone dressed in a long oilskin cloak, a hood hiding their features.
Worst of all, the figure held a dagger, not rusted, but silvery and sharp.
Gasping, Hawke took a step backwards, first creating space to assess the situation before striking. With a dagger like that, this was no scrappy bandit.
"Hawke," the figure repeated. The voice was somewhat pleasant, and familiar. "It's me."
Slowly, the figure lowered its hood. Light reflected off a mane of red hair, a little tousled from the hood. The face was familiar to her, a sharp nose, pale skin, and warm amber eyes.
"Seneschal," Hawke managed to say.
Stray drops of rain dripped down from his hair where the hood hadn't quite covered him. "Hawke. Are you alright?"
This wasn't the Seneschal. The Seneschal didn't ask about feelings or offer assurances. He snarked or sneered and answered insolence with rudeness. Was her situation so bad she even got him worried?
"Why are you armed?" she asked, her breathing still ragged and shallow. Suspiciously, she eyed the dagger in his hand. The weapon was beautiful, the cross guards elegantly carved from reinforced wood. And he held it completely wrong, of course.
He blinked at her. "Because you were just attacked," he stated matter-of-factly.
She blinked back. "And you wanted to help me?"
"If it was necessary," he replied, shrugging casually. "And it wasn't necessary."
Hawke wasn't reassured. "I didn't know you could fight."
The Seneschal sheathed the dagger, but Hawke held onto hers. "I have had lessons. I never cross the streets alone without a weapon. Yet it is hardly ever needed."
Relieved, Hawke released her breath. "Your grip was wrong," she muttered begrudgingly, unwilling to accept that he actually intended to help her. "Makes it easy to disarm you."
"It was lucky I did not need it, then," he replied. Silence fell between them, until the Seneschal spoke again. "Hawke. What are you doing here?"
As if she was going to tell him the truth. He had been there at the ball. He'd heard the words her mother said. Twenty-seven. Nothing to gain.
"I'm out on a relaxing stroll, of course," she sneered, pushing away her spiralling thought. "What are you doing here?"
"I live around the corner," he replied impassively, and took a step closer to her.
Instinctively, Hawke backed away again. The only thing on her mind was safety, and clearly, her subconscious didn't consider herself safe yet. She raised her dagger in front of her, unsure if it was in offence or defence, or both. Suddenly, her heart was pounding in her chest again.
The Seneschal paused his steps and frowned. "Rose. You know I'm not going to harm you."
Hawke blinked, barely processing his words. Her pulse still rushed in her ear, unwilling to fade. Did he say her name, or did she only imagine it? She wasn't sure. There were a lot of things she wasn't sure about anymore. It would have felt wrong, out of place, here in the rain. Too familiar. Too intimate. Or did he say it to get her to calm down? As if she needed calming down.
But then, she realised she just raised her weapon against him. Maker's breath, what was getting into her? He wasn't going to harm her.
"Of course not," she muttered, trying to sound composed. The dagger in her hand felt like an accusation now, evidence of her guilt. She needed to put it away, but the only way to do that, was to lift her skirt. And she wasn't going to do that in front of the Seneschal.
But he sighed as if he read her mind. He gestured to her skirt and turned around. "Go ahead," he stated.
Hawke hesitated, and stared at his rigid back. "Did you see me take it?" she asked, wondering how else he could have known. The thought of him having seen her lift her skirt made her cheeks burn.
"I saw your back," he admitted, glancing briefly over his shoulder to address her. "Leave it up to you to take a dagger to a ball. But at least your quick thinking turned out effective."
Hawke snorted softly, dismissing the unwanted praise. Pulling her skirt up just enough, she sheathed the dagger with a click that got drowned by the sound of the rain. She winced as the movement made the waistline cut painfully into her skin. "And you saw all that, and decided to stay back?"
He turned to face her again, his expression unreadable. "You had it under control. As I said before, I was ready to help if needed. It wasn't."
Hawke arched an eyebrow. "What you meant to say is that I'm a much better fighter than you."
The corner of his mouth twitched. "I did not think you needed my praise. But yes, to state the obvious: you are a much better fighter than I am."
She straightened herself to speak, but she wasn't sure what she was going to say. The movement again made the waistline dig into her skin. Unable to help herself, she winced and tugged at the fabric, trying to shift the weight. But the only possible relief would be to take the gown off entirely, and that was something she couldn't do.
The Seneschal didn't move. He just stood there watching her silently, his sharp eyes softened by something she didn't quite recognise. Patience, maybe. Or worse, something closer to pity.
"You are lost, aren't you?" he asked calmly, devoid of mockery.
"I can't help it that everything looks the same in this horrid rain!" Hawke snapped before she could think of a proper response.
He sighed, his expression barely shifting. "No, you can't. For next time, I will tell you that we advise against travelling alone from a ball. Most guests wear valuables, and robbers know it. We increase patrols near the Keep Square and—"
"So, you're saying it was my fault for almost being robbed?" she interrupted in disbelief.
"No," the Seneschal replied, surprisingly sincere. "Do you want to press charges?"
She could only scoff. "Why? They didn't even take anything, and the guard doesn't have time. So, you'll just post a bounty, and then I will..." Her voice faltered, her frustrations draining into weariness. She didn't have the energy to fight back anymore. "I already gave them enough punishment. Just let it go."
The Seneschal regarded her silently, and for a moment she thought he might argue. Instead, he sighed in resignation. "Hawke. It's late. You're drenched, exhausted, and clearly not thinking straight. I have no desire to escort you back to your mansion and then back here again. But I have a sofa in my library. You can sleep there and find your way back in the morning, when you've rested and when the sun is up."
Hawke blinked, caught off guard. "Why would you help me?" she asked, her voice smaller than she intended.
"Because you need help, Hawke. And it seems that I am the only one that can provide it."
Her immediate instinct was to refuse. His answer was a little too arrogant, too superior. Surely he'd never let her forget this if she accepted. Yet what was the alternative? Knocking on someone's door, hoping someone agreeable would answer? All sorts of people lived in Kirkwall. Slavers previously owned her own house. Who knew who would open? She certainly couldn't defend herself in this state.
It should be easy to accept someone's offered help, shouldn't it? Was she truly so stubborn or proud to refuse help? To admit that she desperately needed it? Or was it simply that she never expected empathy from the Seneschal?
He didn't take her silence gracefully. "Besides," he continued in a colder tone. "If you remain here, you will undoubtedly sink your dagger into the neck of the next passerby. I have no desire to process the resulting paperwork on top of everything else I need to do."
Hawke kept looking at him. Perhaps it wasn't empathy at all, but merely self-interest.
"As I said, just refrain from killing anybody," he continued with an increasingly icy gaze. "Good night."
Her chest tightened as he turned away, lifting his hood against the rain. She wanted to call after him, but her voice caught in her throat. Her feet didn't answer her. She felt frozen in the moment, unable to react. And quietly emerging, faint and disjointed, she thought she heard whispers – taunting and provoking, spoken by a lisping Ferelden accent. The hairs on the back of her neck rose, but the street was empty.
Besides herself and the Seneschal, of course, and the rain was already starting to swallow him.
"Wait!" she called before the rain would drown her voice.
The Seneschal stopped instantly and turned back, mildly annoyed and exasperated.
Hawke hesitated. "Please," she continued, hating how hard it was to say the word. "I'll take your help. You don't want to deal with paperwork, and I don't want to die of pneumonia. Let's call this mutual self-interest."
She was stretching the truth and she knew that he knew it, but the hint of a smile curled around his lips. "Mutual self-interest. Of course. Follow me, Hawke."
Relieved, Hawke hiked up her skirts to avoid tripping. Without a cloak or hat to shield herself, she had to surrender herself once more to the miserable rain. With any luck, the Seneschal's house wasn't far.
The night had long overstayed its welcome, though truthfully, it had done so before it began. Once upon a time, balls had been fun, back in his days at the academies. Now, he enjoyed the art of planning, and ensuring everything ran smoothly. But participating, he couldn't care less for. He'd rather stand on the sidelines, watching.
He supposed, reluctantly, that he and Hawke shared that sentiment.
A quick glance back confirmed she was still following. Hawke was trying, mostly successfully, to gather her skirts high enough not to trip. The gown clung to her like a second skin, the soaked fabric dragging down the neckline far lower than propriety would have allowed. Rain splattered on her exposed collarbones, tracing down into her bodice without so much as a necklace to create distraction. Just ivory skin against dark red, a classic, beautiful contrast.
Bran's jaw tightened as he turned his gaze forward, refusing to dwell on the sight. He had more respect, for her and himself, than to let his thoughts stray. Besides, if she saw him looking, she'd have her dagger against his throat.
He quickened his pace, wanting to escape the storm as much as he wanted to outpace his thoughts. Behind him, Hawke trudged on, her eyes cast downwards to keep the rain from blinding her.
He wasn't sure why he offered to help her. Common decency, perhaps. It would be hypocritical to call it his Andrastian duty. He hadn't been an active Chantry-goer for a long time, aside from the yearly holidays.
Perhaps a nastier part of him gloated for the chance to see Hawke down on her luck. But as he glanced behind him, he didn't feel any triumph. But what then? Empathy? Pity?
Hawke called it mutual self-interest. Perhaps it could be that simple.
His front door emerged from the curtain of rain. A small shelter above offered relief from the rain, but it was barely large enough for the both of them. Hawke dragged herself up the steps behind him, almost tripping on her sodden hem. In an attempt to stay out of the rain, her arm brushed his.
Bran ignored her and lowered his hood, glad that his oilskin cloak had managed a decent enough job of keeping himself dry. He grabbed his keys and wanted to unlock the door when a small cough made him pause.
"Don't - don't you have a son at home?" Hawke asked, her voice uneven. She frowned at him, but he could still see the anxiety she tried to hide.
It was an unexpected expression from her, and Bran paused before he answered. "My son lives with his mother in Markham. He attends the University there."
Raindrops clung to Hawke's lashes and fell down her cheeks like mock tears. "Oh," she noted. Just one syllable, quiet and uncharacteristically subdued. He'd never heard her say so little.
"My housekeeper and butler are away," he continued, feeling he might as well explain what she could expect. "I prefer to tend to myself in the evenings."
As he turned the key in the lock, no sarcastic remark or quip followed him. He glanced around to see Hawke still hugging herself for warmth, looking like a bedraggled cat.
He forced his gaze away from her and the way the sodden gown clung to her form. His fingers tightened around the key as he retrieved it and opened the door. Maker's breath, it was too late to reconsider now. He wasn't inviting her inside out of sentiment. It was practicality, something every sensible self-respecting person would have done.
He stepped inside, glad to feel warmth washing over him. He didn't bother with the pleasantry of welcoming Hawke inside. Neither of them cared about hollow formalities anyway. Their eyes locked accidentally and he received an instant scowl, as if he was a fool to offer help.
After a second's hesitation, she hiked up her skirts and dragged herself over the threshold. The door shut behind her, cutting off the rain and enveloping them in near darkness.
Note: The next chapter is called "House", and well, it isn't exactly the place where Hawke thought she'd end up this night.
I'd love to hear your thoughts, whether it's just a few words or some concrit!
