Comb
The sun shone from a cloudless sky, warm for mid-spring. The storm of two days past was like a distant nightmare, with only a scatter of small branches and debris left on the pavement. It was a market day, but Hawke and her friends passed the stalls in favour of the Viscount's Keep.
"So, you really didn't see Aveline?" Varric asked.
Hawke glanced aside. They had just finished their bounty and discovered that the slavers who had attacked her and Fenris belonged to a small, independent group. It hardly mattered anymore. None of them would continue their practises.
"I told you," she replied conversationally. "There were many people there. It was easy to miss someone."
"Well, I'm just saying. She doesn't exactly blend in. But come to think of it, neither do you."
Hawke shrugged, her expression deliberately bored. The last thing she wanted to talk about, was the ball. "Perhaps she did wear pastels, like the dress code. Blending in perfectly."
Varric came to an abrupt halt, and threw out his arms to make them all stop. "Hawke," he began gleefully. "Please tell me you wore something scandalous. The thing is, we've seen Isabela in a dress. Merrill, I can easily imagine. But you? And Aveline? My imagination draws a blank. And it never does. If you don't tell me the details, I'll have to make them up if I ever need to tell the story."
Begrudgingly, Hawke glanced aside. One half of her didn't want to indulge Varric, but the other half knew she could never deny him. "I wore dark red velvet. Square neckline. Almost unadorned."
Anders, who walked beside her, let his eyes wander over her. His gaze lingered longer than necessary, as if he was imagining her in the gown. Hawke ignored him. She refused to be so arrogant as to think he still harboured feelings for her.
"Oh, I see it now," Varric continued, gesturing theatrically. "The grand doors open, and the crowd freezes. A hush falls over the nobles. A crimson rose in their pastel garden. What is this rare bloom? they whisper. From whence did it come? But alas, the rose has thorns. Who among the nobles is brave enough to risk a sting?"
"Ha-ha," Hawke said in a bored tone.
Anders laughed, half at Varric's story, half at Hawke's response. "Instant best-seller," he remarked.
"Sometimes I forget your actual name is Rose," Fenris cut in.
Hawke released an exaggerated groan. "Wish I could forget."
"And did you still manage to dance with an old man?" Fenris asked almost cheerfully.
Grinning indulgently, she looked up. "Nah, but here's something for Varric's story. I danced with Saemus."
"The Viscount's son?" Varric asked in surprise. "We saved him last year."
"The one and only!" she confirmed.
Anders raised his eyebrows. "What's wrong with men around your own age?"
Hawke shrugged. "If I avoid people within the acceptable age range, my mother can't annoy me about courting them. Saemus is a teenager, but I like him." She paused, scowling. "In a friendly, sympathising sort of way, obviously. I'd rather dance with him than some stranger. Besides, he reminds me of Carver a little. If Carver had more patience. And was better spoken. And had an interest in philosophy and reading. A better dancer, too."
"Uncanny resemblance, really," Varric remarked.
She couldn't help but laugh. "They do share a certain defiance," she said. "And well, perhaps he just looks a little like him." But Carver's eyes had been more of an indigo, while hers and Saemus' were cerulean.
"He looks a bit like you, too. Are you sure the Amells and the Dumar's aren't related?"
"Nah," Hawke dismissed. "But my grandfather was once supposed to follow up as Viscount, but stuff went wrong and then he didn't. How that for imagining, right?"
Chatting and laughing happily, the four of them made it towards the Viscount's Keep. They all checked their weapons as they ascended the stairs, making sure they were secure. Hawke laughed at one of Varric's jokes, but her laughter died as they crossed the threshold.
The Keep looked ordinary, like it always did. Just two days later, every trace of the ball was gone. She had half-expected to see remnants like a forgotten arrangement of flowers or stray decorations, but the space was bare and cold.
Her friends were unaware of her musings and turned right towards the guard quarters, while Hawke found her gaze drifting towards the left. Her stomach twisted, but she forced her feet forward.
Yesterday, she had left the Seneschal's house soon after dawn. Her sleep had been short, and her awaking abrupt. She wasn't in her own bedroom. Unfamiliar clothing against her skin, the faint smell of whiskey lingering in the air.
Her immediate instinct was to leave, but a nagging sense of courtesy made her stay long enough to tidy up after herself. If possible, she wanted to reduce all future awkwardness by not making this worse. After folding the blankets and resetting the chessboard, she opened the heavy curtains to let the weak morning glow enter the room. She almost managed to sneak away without a second thought.
Almost.
She hadn't meant to snoop. But as she turned from the windows, her gaze fell on a letter on the desk. It wasn't in the Seneschal's handwriting. She knew what that looked like, written with agonising screeches from his quill. Her eye fell on the last line without intending to read it, but once she did, she couldn't unread it.
Still living and still your son,
Alec.
She wasn't sure why this line affected her so much. Guilt, curiosity? Was it the name? If she ever blurted it out, the Seneschal would know she had snooped. Or something about the tone? It was a little passive-aggressive. The sign of a strained relationship?
Whatever it was, it had been too personal. And all effort to make herself forget, only made it more permanent in her mind.
She hadn't told anyone where she'd been that night, not even Varric, and again, she wasn't sure why. Certainly, they would have laughed at her misfortune? Or would they have made it into a running gag? She'd been foolish enough to have stumbled into this situation.
Perhaps a small part of her wanted to keep this secret, for some Maker-forsaken reason. And yet, that quiet game of chess had felt like the most profound thing she'd done in a long while.
"Hawke?"
Varric's voice broke her thought, and startled, she turned to him. "Hmm?"
"You still with us?" he asked.
She grinned, and pushed her thoughts aside. "Always. Let's get paid for our hard work."
The halls were jittery with people. A few groups of guards were readying themselves to leave for duty, and it felt like there were too many people and too much clattering armour for such a small place. Too much noise, too many smells. And worse, the office of the bounty master was closed.
"She'll be back within the quarter," one of the guards told them.
Hawke let herself drop against a wall. "Balls, I hate waiting," she sighed.
"We can go annoy Aveline?" Varric suggested.
One of the nearby guardsmen perched up. "Aveline?" he asked. Hawke remembered the man, having saved him a year ago. What was his name? Dom? Donnic? He coughed to correct himself, as if he had made a mistake by using Aveline's name. "The Guard-Captain, I mean. She is not here. She is currently on duty."
Hawke groaned. What was it with the Keep and aimless waiting?
At least Fenris was adept enough at waiting quietly and Varric had no problem mingling into the crowd. But Anders shared her disgruntlement. "This place always makes me uncomfortable," he whispered to her.
"Guards aren't templars," she whispered back, but she understood his concern.
Anders looked around shiftily, but didn't look reassured. "I always feel some of them might be sympathetic."
"I wonder why," Fenris interjected, a little louder than both of them. It earned him two scowls. But Hawke knew that Fenris' bark was sharper than his bite. He could have told on Anders for a year, but never had. Perhaps because deep down, he understood that hypocrisy.
Bored, she combed her fingers through her messy hair, wincing at the tangles. It had been years since it had been long enough to reach her shoulders. She wondered how she ever managed. It was too quick to tangle, too much maintenance. Maybe she should find Isabela and bribe her into cutting it.
Her fingers caught on another knot, and she frowned. It wasn't too long ago that someone else had combed her hair, styled it into an elegant updo, and decorated it with...
"Fuck," she cursed out loud.
A few heads turned in her direction. Both Anders and Fenris shot her a questioning frown. Neither of them liked to draw too much attention to themselves.
"My mother's comb," she elaborated. "I must have… lost it at the ball." Left it at the Seneschal's house, more like. On his washstand. In his bloody bedroom.
Anders tilted his head. "The one with the roses on it? The one your mother said inspired your name? A wish for a baby so sweet and gentle as a flower?"
Hawke gritted her teeth. She didn't need anyone making this situation worse. "Yes. That comb. My mother will kill me if she finds out it's missing."
Fenris leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. "Then perhaps you shouldn't have lost it."
It earned him a scowl from Hawke. "Great, thanks. Very helpful." She pushed off the wall, using the momentum to keep moving. "Keep our spot in line before Varric drags this out. I'll be back soon."
But she wasn't the only one to leave and she glanced around to see Anders trailing her.
"I don't need a chaperone to cross the Keep," she said, sharper than intended. But the words tumbled before she could stop herself, and she regretted it instantly. This wasn't about him. Everything about this was her own fault and she shouldn't have snapped.
She could see the hurt on Anders' face. "Just taking the opportunity to leave a place that makes me feel uncomfortable," he replied in a dignified tone.
"Right," Hawke muttered as a quiet apology. "I just need a minute, though. You don't have to bother joining me. It'll be boring."
"If it's just a minute, I don't mind tagging along," he replied in a slightly more cheerful tone.
The walk to the other side of the Keep didn't take long. It was too short, really, for Hawke to come up with a decent excuse. The further they went, the more her mouth turned dry. She didn't want to snap at Anders again, but neither did she want to tell him the truth.
They reached the Seneschal's door before she could think of anything. "Just wait here," she said in a final attempt to dissuade Anders as she knocked.
"I'm not taking any meetings," came the dry reply, slightly muffled through the door.
Hawke took a deep breath to gather strength. "It's me, Hawke," she said. "I just need a minute of your time."
The Seneschal's sigh was audible enough through the closed door. "If it really is a minute. I'm busy."
Without a pause, she opened the door and strode inside, hoping to close it behind her. But Anders followed to casually lean against the frame, inspecting his nails without much interest. He clearly wasn't going anywhere.
Balls.
Determined to feign more confidence than she had, she walked up to the Seneschal's desk. She didn't want to meet his gaze, and found an excuse in the form of a large arrangement of yellow daffodils, standing cheerfully on the corner of his desk. So there were remnants of the ball after all.
"Did they materialise from your dress jacket to this vase?" she asked, pointing at the daffodils. It was a hollow joke, and she knew it. Anything to stall for time, to hope she'd get a grip on her thoughts.
"Hawke." The Seneschal sighed and leaned back in his chair as if her very presence drained his energy. "You claimed to only need a minute. Let's not squander it on empty words."
Knowing she had no choice, she looked up to meet his eyes, trying very hard not to think of the last that she had seen him, when she had been wearing his clothes. It seemed like she just had to do what she did best: bullshit her way through a conversation. And she dearly hoped the Seneschal would catch up.
Bran was satisfied with yesterday's progress. The Keep was returned to its normal state, and business could continue as usual. The leftover food was donated to the more unfortunate part of Lowtown. That left him with fourteen dishes of leftover punch that didn't have a destination. It had a longer shelf life due to the alcohol, but with the added fruits, it wouldn't last much longer. What could he possibly do with it that made them earn a little money?
Rather unbidden, the image of Hawke appeared in his mind, wearing that red dress before the rain had ruined it. She had mentioned an establishment. The Hanged Man? What were the chances of them buying it for a wholesale price?
A knock on the door interrupted his musings.
"I'm not taking any meetings," he called, irritated that he lost his count. If it was important, they'd knock again. Or better yet, leave.
A short pause. "It's me, Hawke. I just need a minute of your time."
Bran sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. It might be one of the last people he wanted to disturb him. Nothing with Hawke ever took a minute. Besides, he hoped it would be a while before he was confronted with her again. Perhaps time would let the memory fade of her in his clothes, bend down over the chessboard in quiet concentration.
"If it really is a minute. I'm busy," he replied, knowing she wouldn't take no for an answer.
The door opened before he finished speaking and Hawke entered, mercifully wearing her normal dark clothes. To his surprise, her friend Anders lingered behind her in the doorway. Bran was aware of Anders' true nature as a mage, but he was no snitch. He knew the immense help Anders had been for the refugees and those of poor fortune. Many people would be worse off if Anders was locked in the Circle, and so Bran saw no need to alert the templars.
Even if it was rare, he didn't always care about the law, as long as it benefitted society at large.
His attention shifted back to Hawke, who was doing everything to avoid looking at him. She remained standing in front of his desk, her eyes cast downward and staring at the vase of daffodils. "Did they materialise from your dress jacket to this vase?" she joked.
"Hawke," he said, leaning back in his chair. For some reason, she was stalling for time. And that meant wasting his. "You claimed to only need a minute. Let's not squander it on empty words."
And finally, her eyes darted to his. He had seen a multitude of her expressions by now. Stubbornness, scowls, grins, hurt, vulnerability. But this one was new. Nervous determination, was the best that he could describe it.
"Seneschal," she said, in a forceful attempt to sound like her normal sarcastic self. She threw a shifty look over her shoulder at Anders, before continuing. "I was wondering... Yesterday at the ball... I seemed to have lost my comb. I was hoping, perhaps one of the nobles has found it and gave it to you for safekeeping."
He stared at her, perplexed, and let his eyes dart to Anders just as she had done. The man was fidgeting with a belt, clearly uninterested in their conversation.
"Your comb?" Bran repeated, watching her carefully. What kind of game was she playing?
"Yes," she snapped, leaning forward slightly. He watched her fingers grip the edge of the desk, the knuckle nearly whitening. "Have you seen it?"
If before, she was avoiding his eyes, then now she was boring into them with an intense, deadly stare. It was obvious that she was aware of her lie. She must also be aware that he was aware.
They both knew she hadn't lost her comb at the ball. He remembered it well. Rain. Bandits. The gleam of a dagger. Hawke, in his clothes. No... If she lost her comb, she must have left it in his house.
And if both of them were aware of it, it must mean that all these theatrics were for the benefit of neither. And slowly, Bran let his eyes glide to the only other person in the room, Anders. The man was clearly oblivious to Hawke's deceit, but that wasn't all at play. And if Bran had to guess, based on the fond look Anders absentmindedly threw at Hawke, he'd say they were sleeping together.
And suddenly, he understood.
Unexpectedly, this conversation became a lot more interesting than his calculations had been. Gleefully, he straightened his back and turned to Hawke with renewed interest.
But as his lips widened to a satisfied smile, hers narrowed into a thin, tense line. And her eyes grew twice their normal size in panic, all unseen by Anders.
Bran considered this a curious change of events. It had been strange enough that Hawke had actually spent the night in his house, but it was even stranger that she considered it anything worth hiding. He had been doing her a service, sheltering her. She might have been in his bedroom, might have been naked in there, but he hadn't been there with her. There had been nothing improper about it. He hadn't even touched her once. Was Anders such a jealous man that the thought of his girl in the house of another was too much?
An image flashed before his eyes, brief but clear. He sat in front of his fire, enjoying a drink. Hawke appeared, wearing nothing but his shirt and that dagger strapped to her thigh. She smirked, grabbed the glass from his fingers and downed the contents in a large gulp while keeping her eyes locked on his.
Without a blink or twitch, he willed the thought away. A wicked part of him wanted to see Hawke squirm if he feigned ignorance and ask if she meant that she had left her comb in his bedroom after spending the night in his house.
It wouldn't even be a lie. But perhaps it was too cruel, even for him.
And Hawke did look desperate. Please, she mouthed voicelessly, unseen by Anders, and Bran caved in. Perhaps it was best to play along. Come to think of it, he might even enjoy it.
"A lost item, you say?" he started, looking lazily at Hawke. "We take these matters very seriously. As it happens, we have a procedure for it."
Her fingers increased their grip on his desk. "A procedure?" she managed to utter.
"Certainly," he said as he opened one of his desk drawers to retrieve a sheet of paper. "You will need to fill in a lost property form. That is the standard for items lost in the Keep."
"You're kidding me," she said incredulously.
He glanced from the paper to her. Her look was all the motivation he needed to continue. "I would not kid for matters like this. We take lost properties very seriously. Didn't you say you lost an item in the Keep?"
Frustrated, she gritted her teeth. "Yes," she bit, likely wishing the word could cut him. "But you said you only had a minute," she added, failing to say it as neutrally as possible.
Her reactions finally drew Anders' attention. "Just be glad he wants to help," he offered, clearly wanting to soothe, but ending up having the opposite effect.
Hawke shot him a glare. Traitor, it said, and Anders just threw his hands up in confusion.
Bran had no problem feigning calmness. "I will take the time this serious matter deserves. Now, let us begin. For proper record-keeping, of course."
Hawke turned back to him, her jaw tightening, but she managed to force a smile. "Of course."
Bran dipped his quill in his inkpot with deliberate precision. "Name?"
"You know my name," she snapped instantly.
"I do," he agreed, unbothered. "But protocol does not allow me to assume. So, I must ask again: name?"
Hawke cursed under her breath. "Rose Amell."
He raised a brow, pausing before his quill hit the page. "Not Hawke?"
Her hand twitched against the desk. "Maker's balls, Seneschal. You're the one who told me I had to use Rose Amell for official business. Just write the damned name."
He pressed the nib to paper. "And your middle name was Marian, am I correct?"
Her expression softened for half a second of disbelief. "You remembered that?"
Bran wrote Rose on the paper and looked up with mock solemnity. "I am cursed with an impeccable memory, Hawke."
She scoffed. "Well, if your memory's so bloody impeccable, you don't need me to spell it out for you. Rose Marian Hawke. Eh, Amell. Or whatever, I don't care. Just write a damn name."
"As you wish," he said lightly as he wrote her name down as Rose Marian Hawke. "Now, the item in question. Describe it for me, please."
Her glare was back. "You have seen me wearing it, Seneschal. Are you certain your impeccable memory can't recall it?"
"I have seen many women with many hair ornaments. I must say I did not pay close attention to yours."
It was a lie, of course. He remembered it perfectly. Silver, rather delicately shaped like a rose. She had her back to him when she was confronted. It was likely still on his washstand, forgotten in the aftermath of the night. But Hawke did not need to know that.
"It's... a comb," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Decorative. Silver. I don't know what you want to hear."
Anders decided this was his moment to be helpful, and he stepped closer. "Maker's breath, Hawke. You described it better to us. It belonged to her mother," he said to Bran, as if this was critical information. "Shaped like a rose. Mother of pearl, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Hawke agreed begrudgingly.
"Ah, a family heirloom. Even more important we give this the proper attention. So, silver... Rose... Mother of Pearl," Bran dictated. "How many prongs?"
Hawke was only barely able to contain her frustration. "Prongs? Balls if I know. Five? I haven't counted."
"May have... five prongs," Bran continued calmly.
Anders snickered quietly. "You know, her mother named her after that comb. Briar would have been a better name, though," he said with a chuckle.
"Anders, not helping," Hawke said, with just as much heat.
Anders shrugged and flashed a smile. "Just trying to light the mood. Didn't know paperwork could be this intense."
Hawke scoffed. "Must be your first time."
"You are sending me mixed signals of how important this is to you, Hawke," Bran replied. "I am merely doing you a service by helping you retrieve your heirloom. Now, we have a final question. Where do you remember seeing it last?"
Bran would never admit it out loud, but the pleasure of watching Hawke struggle for words might end up being the highlight of his week.
She still gripped the desk, and if she'd been stronger, she would have damaged it. "I don't know, Seneschal," she said, managing to make it sound like a curse. "Probably right around the time I had a whiskey."
"I didn't know they served whiskey at balls," Anders commented.
Bran conjured a polite smile. "You can say that it was a special occasion."
"Oh yes," Hawke agreed dryly. "And one I'd sooner forget. Wasn't this your last question?"
Taking his time, Bran scanned the form. "Yes, everything is in order. Now, please sign below. And do be careful. That is my favourite quill."
Hawke picked it from its stand and ferociously dipped it in the inkwell. A single drop fell down, blotting out the word Rose. "Would be a shame if something were to happen to it," she muttered, scrawling across the page with what looked suspiciously like spite.
But she returned the quill unharmed. And when he glanced at the form, he saw that she hadn't written her signature.
Enjoy your victory, she had scribbled.
He looked up, meeting the full force of her stare. For eyes so deeply blue, they could burn with a surprising heat.
Bran allowed himself a small, pleased nod. "Excellent. If the comb is found, you can expect it delivered at your estate within a fortnight."
"A fortnight?" she repeated, as though the verdict had sentenced her to death.
Anders stepped forward and leaned on his desk with an easy charm. "Seneschal… Bran, is it?" he began smoothly. "Surely you can make some exceptions. A professional courtesy? A favour." He dropped his voice. "Her mother will skin her alive."
Bran regarded him cooly. He was aware of how strained the relationship between Hawke and her mother was. "I will leave miracles to the Maker, but rest assured, I will see to it with all due speed."
It was a silent, subtle peace offering.
Hawke's glare did not waver. "How reassuring," she snapped before pushing away from the desk. Without saying another word, she turned on her heel, more graceful than he thought her anger would allow, and stalked out of the office.
Anders lingered long enough to chuckle. "She's such a gentle and demure flower, isn't she?" He shot Bran an amused glance and lowered his voice again. "But I can't say I mind when she gets… passionate."
Bran didn't reply. He wasn't sure if he agreed or disagreed with that sentiment. Hawke could be insufferable, impulsive, crude, and yes, passionate, all in the span of a few minutes. In some ways, this was Hawke at her worst and at her best.
But at least Anders' words allowed him to conclude his suspicion.
He and Hawke were definitely sleeping together.
Reunited, Hawke's voice carried to his office through the closed door. "Maker's balls! Every time he opens his mouth, I want to strangle him!"
"Hawke," Anders said placatingly. "He was just doing his job."
She huffed loudly enough to hear. "Oh please. You saw that, right? He enjoyed it."
"I really think he was just trying to be professional. You made that quite hard."
Her wordless growl of frustration was the last Bran heard before her voice faded into the distance. He leaned back in his chair, folding his hands with the satisfaction of a job well done.
He would, of course, do as he promised. When he got home, he would search for her comb and send it back to her estate.
His gaze drifted down to the form. Enjoy your victory, he read. And now that he was alone, he didn't bother hiding the full extent of his pleased smile.
Oh, this had been far more entertaining than his paperwork.
Note: Next chapter will be called "Duel"! I do want to add that I've written the first version of this chapter 2 years ago, and I still love it. Hope you enjoy!
