HOME | DD

Description

Author: SurelyForth
Title: Maps & Legends
Game: Dragon Age 2
Character pairing: F!Hawke/Anders
Disclaimer: Rated T for language, violence and some sexual content.
"You're here early, Hawke," Aveline barely raises her eyes from the disarray of parchment, ledgers and schematics that blankets her desk. The woman is a warrior, a soldier to her core. Paperwork is not the reason she wanted to become Captain and on days like today, when she's drowning in reports, requests, proposals, applications, patrol logs and evidence statements, there's nothing she wishes she could do more than chuck the entire lot into the barracks fireplace and run off with Hawke to go hit bandits with swords for fun. "Here, why don't you read Seneschal Bran's five-part proposal to redraw the districts in Kirkwall in order to even out tax distributions."
Settled in her favored chair, Hawke lifts her chin in a fake show of interest.
"When does he even have time to draft those things? From the way you talk, he's always here."
This gets Aveline's nose out of her work, a rare amount of mischief loosening her tongue.
"From what I've heard, he keeps a second office at the Blooming Rose," she lowers her voice, fighting against the urge to smile in response to Hawke's own open-mouthed sign of approval for this Aveline. "Maybe one of the whores is a political genius."
"I'm sure Varric would know, but he's oddly recalcitrant when it comes to sharing information with people we know," her eyes roll upward in feigned innocence. "Not that I've tried to get it out of him or anything."
"Of course not," Aveline snorts. It's surprisingly nice to be able to relax for a few minutes. She's been running since Sundermount and, between training, meetings, inspections, patrols and trying to get enough sleep to keep it up, she's had precious little time for anything but work. "So what brings you to Hightown this morning, Hawke? You're not in trouble again."
"Not yet...but I might be heading in that direction," it's admirably forthright, something at which Hawke doesn't always excel, and Aveline sets aside her paperwork so that she can give her friend as much of her attention as she can.
"You know the rules...as long as we're here, edit out the illegal parts."
"I've gotten pretty good at censoring myself, you know. If you asked Mother, she'd probably tell you that Bethany and I are professional trash-collectors and believe every word," guilt darkens her features for the briefest of moments. Aveline is sympathetic, and even more so when guilt is dismissed by a tightening of Hawke's jaw, and a slight narrowing of green eyes. Leandra Hawke is a kind woman, but Aveline can see the pressure she places upon her eldest child to simply make things work. It's not entirely fair, but taking the pressure is pretty much what Hawke does.
Aveline gets that, too.
"What do you know about the Tal'Vashoth?" Hawke pronounces the foreign term with practiced fluidity. "I know you've had encounters with them...we followed a patrol route back down the coast yesterday and had to divert to avoid their camp."
Whatever relief Hawke's visit had brought her up until this point dissipates immediately. The qunari.Besides the refugees, and the headaches caused by the Knight-Commander's near daily letters to Captain Vallen reminding her of her sworn duty to protect Kirkwall from everyone who would see it harmed, the qunari are Aveline's largest headache.
And it shouldn't be the case. The amount of civil disobedience in their compound is far less than any other district in the city, Hightown included. Even their mercenaries are less aggressive than the average gangs that scurry through Darktown during the day and haunt the rest of Kirkwall in the night. But, from the way people react when the word qunariis mentioned, it would be quite easy to assume they're stealing children from their beds and molesting women in the streets.
But they're not. They're just...there.
Looming.
Aveline hates how they loom. She's not easily intimidated, her own sense of strength drilled into her very marrow over long years of martial training, but the qunari have not only physical power, and a disconcerting lack of apprehension. Lone qunari, usually scouts or messengers, walk the city unafraid, even in the markets and the crush of Lowtown where they are in a sea of suspicion and Maker only knows how many readied daggers.
It's made things difficult for her. The nobles and some members of the clergy have started to demand that she increase the patrols along the docks, a proactive measure only, but even a subtle change will not go unnoticed by the qunari and they will, correctly, assume paranoia. And who knows how they'd react to that? Aveline doesn't want her guards on the frontlines of perceived escalation, nor does she think it prudent considering there's already growing tension in Lowtown as more and more refugees are finding footholds in Kirkwall and settling in, albeit uneasily.
But it's not a reason, concern for her men and an eye towards a potentially more volatile situation. She's been told this a hundred times by Bran alone, his eyes rolling only slightly as he says it. It's an excuse for why she doesn't simply throw her people at the problem until it goes away, which is what's expected, of course. It's what Jeven did and, embezzlement, corruption and sacrificing his men for profit aside, Jeven got along pretty well with his superiors.
Aveline shakes it off, a wave of bitter resignation at the realization that, as Captain of the Guard, her power is limited by the whims of the Viscount, the Grand Cleric, the Knight-Commander and, most infuriatingly, the nobles.
But Hawke isn't asking about political drama. Hawke will probably never be interested in political drama unless it's scandalous, sexy, or both, and she gets enough scraps from Varric and fromthe whispers around Anders' clinic to satisfy her wanton, if mild, curiosity to that end.
No, Hawke is caught up in something and she's trying to decide if she should roll with it or attempt to back out. It's in her stiff posture and the bareflickering of doubt in eyes that are usually much more difficult to read.Maybe Hawke's maturing...
"So you don't know what I'm talking about? Or...maybe you really like what I've done with my hair this morning?" She whips it around for a brief but vigorous shaking and Aveline can't tell a difference once she'sstopped moving. So much for maturity. "Give me something to work with, Aveline. Otherwise I might just blunder into the biggest mistake of my young life." She pauses, her face twisting thoughtfully to the side, "Or of this week...if this week started before daybreak yesterday."
Oh, Hawke. "What did you do before daybreak yesterday?" Aveline stands, taking a seat on the edge of her desk. Without intending to, she's become the interrogator, arms folded across her chest and all. "And remember the rules."
"Shortest story ever told- I helped a boy," she smiles prettily, to deflect and to needle, but also to express something close to pride. Stifling a groan of frustration, Aveline moves her hands back down so they're gripping the edge of the desk on either side of her legs. "Oh, don't worry, Captain. It can't possibly be as bad as you're thinking and we took out loads of slavers in the process, which...win!"
Aveline's lips quirk up into a grin despite the fact that she should probably be a little more firm with Hawke when she gets into the vigilantism side of things, although Aveline has no doubts the slavers had it coming...even beyond them being slavers.
"You asked about the Tal'Vashoth?" Aveline forces herself back to business. She doesn't have much time before she's to meet with her lieutenants about the newest recruit training schedule. "All I know is that they're the only ones we can touch without having to answer to the Arishok."
Hawke nods. "So they're not fond of mercenaries, or are the Tal'Vashoth a different breed?"
With a wave of her hand and a dismissive snort, Aveline tries to explain it the way Bran had outlined it for her. "The Tal'Vashoth are hated because they're not...of the Qun. They left their station, became mercenaries who refuse to take any work here, and then started attacking travelers and caravans to survive. My men have taken out a few and we've not experienced any backlash."
"So, if I were to, say...drag the lot of you out to kill every Tal'Vashoth on the Wounded Coast, I wouldn't be casting something like political shitstorm?" Hawke's eyebrow dances up.
"That's disgusting, Hawke," Aveline winces at the mental image. "But I don't think you would. Although it won't be an easy job, if you choose to take it. However..."
It's an idea she shouldn't have, considering her ire just minutes before over the idea of using her men to deal with the qunari "threat." But this could be seen as a compromise...since the nobles had no concept of outcasts and Tal'Vashoth, an operation to remove them from the routes along the coast would prove the guard capable of handling any legitimate threats posed while doing nothing to ruffle the Arishok.
"Take a few guards with you," she turns to rifle through the papers on her desk until her fingers brush against the most recently dated roster. "Brennan, Coulter and...Sorrell should all be in the barracks and about to report for duty. I can pull them off of their patrols."
Hawke, whose expression had brightened at the first suggestion, appears distinctly discomforted by Aveline's choice of reinforcements.
"Brennan's a gifted swordsman, but she's deadly at range and Coulter is one of the best point men in our ranks," her voice goes someplace a little more openly ribald than she'd intended. "And you know what Sorrell can do."
Despite her cheeks turning a shade of pink that makes her eyes seem even more outstandingly green, Hawke smirks it off. "Somehow I don't think what Sorrell does for me will help us much against the Tal'Vashoth."
A shudder is suppressed and Aveline waves her friend to her feet. "He's a good man, you know. Did he ever tell you how he became a guard?"
"We don't actually talk much," Hawke stretches her shoulders. "And I'm not just saying that to put you off food."
"He was working for the coterie when a woman got involved in a transaction that had turned violent." No surprise there. "She was left for dead and he carried her to the nearest outpost for medical attention. I didn't know who he was when I asked him to apply."
"I don't believe you," Hawke's hands are defiant on her hips. "It has your meddling ways all over it..."
"And such a nefarious plot it would be," Aveline's more amused than offended by the other woman's suspicion. She did meddle sometimes in the affairs of her friends. But not that often."Helping a well-intentioned thug find respectable work. In your words, I might be the worst person in the world."
Hawke wavers for a moment, and blinks. "I just don't want him to be encouraged to think that-," her faces scrunches. "I don't want him to feel as if I'm waiting on him to be, you know, respectable. Because I'm not. If I wanted him...like that, what he does and where he lives wouldn't change that. And now...I don't want him like that and nothing is going to change it."
"Have you tried?" It's an unfair question, but Aveline does like the elf. Of all the men and women she's seen show interest in, or receive interest from, Hawke, he's the only one of the lot who isn't likely to end up in prison, or the Gallows.
"I shouldn't have to try," Hawke insists with a smirk. "Or at least that's what the tiny Wil Hawke inside me who inherited her parents' propensity for romantic idealism has managed to convince me."
She pushes her way out of Aveline's office and into the barracks' commons and is almost immediately greeted by Sorrell, who's settled against the side of the fireplace and watching his fellow guards who are coming in to report.
"Sorrell," Aveline nods after he's said his deferential hellos to his captain and his lover, is all business. "You, Coulter and Brennan will be working with Hawke on special patrol up the coast. I expect for you all to mind your duties as guardsmen."
"So no pulling me behind a shrub or rock and having your way with me until afterall the bad guys are dead." Aveline doesn't have to see Hawke's face to know she's wearing one of her more wicked grins. Sorrell tries very hard not to react, but his eyes are too expressive and he darts them away, his own lips wavering on the brink of a smile.
"Disrespectful, Hawke," Aveline pushes down on her anger, but allows no small amount clear in her voice.
"Apologies, Aveline," she might actually mean it.
"Brennan and Coulter are on the main floor, Captain," Sorrell smoothes things over, or attempts to. "Their patrols aren't scheduled to leave until the next hour."
"Then you can let them know of their change of orders. I'll alert their lieutenants," with a curt nod to Sorrell and less friendly glare at Hawke, Aveline returns to her office to await the coming onslaught of meetings and spend the rest of the day hoping that she's doing the right thing.
"I promise you, you're fine," Wil rolls her eyes slightly, knowing Sorrell can't see them. "Aveline's one of my best friends...she very well can't think less of you for your association with me. It would be hypocritical!"
"Hmmm," he's not convinced.
"Listen, I've seen her angrier at a pigeon before. Granted, it had shat on her armor," this comes with a helpful demonstration that eases his concern into laughter. "She waved her sword at it, too. It was after several too many ales, but-"
"I'll bring in that whiny bugger if it's the last thing I do," the woman storming up the stairs glares at Wil as if she's the intended recipient of this threat. For her part, Wil's fairly certain she has no idea.
"Pardon?" She attempts politeness, but the woman elbows past, despite there being ample room to go around Wil, and continues up the stairs towards the Viscount's offices. "Andraste's ass, what was that all about?"
Sorrell studies the woman's departing frame, his eyes narrowed in consideration. "She looks familiar, I think I've seen her livery in the alienage...Oh!" He claps his hands and speaks a shade too loudly, several of the nobles littering the mezzanine above them shooting dirty looks at the knife-ear. "The Viscount's son is missing. They posted it this morning. I bet she's here for the reward."
"Missing?" Wil's proud of herself for getting that out first. "And...reward?"
"Probably substantial, knowing Dumar," Sorrell's voice drops and he leans close. "You should go for it."
His expression is suddenly slightly dangerous, and she realizes that his fingers are tentatively pressing against the side of her waist...in ownership, perhaps. Or maybe it's innocent...We are sleeping together, after all. The boundaries around us are totally confused.
"Okay," she moistens her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue and tries to ignore the heat that creeps into his gaze. "It's worth a try..."
Bounding back up the stairs means she can shake of a sense of guilty unease. I shouldn't have made that joke in front of Aveline...it was an acknowledgement and acknowledgements are bad in situations like this.
Like it's life or death and not just sex.
Still, she's grateful when she stumbles over the woman confronting Seneschal Bran, the man working his air of perpetual annoyance to the hilt.
"Insist if you must, but the Viscount will see nobody today," he tilts his head back to indicate the ornate doors behind him. "If you have any information about Saemus, you will deliver it to me."
The woman's hunched forward, her arms inelegantly folded over her chest. "Fine," she spits. "Tell Dumar that my scouts have tracked his son and his qunari captor to the coast and I'm taking all my men after him...and when I return, I expect for him to make a show of the reward."
Her finger is threatening in the seneschal's face, and Wil's uncertain how that's supposed to ingratiate her to anyone.
"So many to deal with one qunari seems...," he studies her face, a muscle tugging just beneath his right eye belying the deliberate boredom of his tone. "Excessive."
"He may be Tal'Vashoth," she snaps, stepping away. "The Winters leave nothing to chance."
Once again she barrels towards Wil, her pale eyes spitting hatred as she snarls, "Get out of my bloody way, princess."
Wil does as demanded, jumping back and staring after for a few long moments before her attention returns to Bran.
He is not thrilled to see her. To put it mildly.
"Yes," he exhales. "What is it?"
"If this is about a rescue, that woman did not seem the type," Wil settles in front of him. "Saemus might be better off unfound."
"She is the type I feared we would attract," he speaks honestly. "Viscount Dumas' son, Saemus, is missing. We suspect he was taken by a qunari. If you would like to...try your hand at securing his safe return...well. We have certainly not granted exclusivity to the Winters and their violent approach."
"Do we know anything about this...qunari?" Is my life going to become all qunari-centric now? Have I broken some kind of seal, and now it's nothing but huge, half-naked men for the next couple of weeks?
Bran's cheek twitches again, and she can almost see the wheels turning beyond his light brown eyes. Aveline respected the man's intelligence, if not his approach, and Wil knew whatever information he gave her would need to be parsed for subtext and not merely taken at face value.
"Truly, we know nothing. Saemus was last seen on the coast, and there have been reports that a qunari may have been with him," his voice is smooth. "The main complication is that Saemus has a tendency to be of a sympathetic mind."
"So he may have placed himself in danger?" Sorrell hangs back from her elbow and speaks in a murmur. He's not comfortable addressing Bran directly, but the seneschal responds and seems unfazed by the interruption.
"But it's still danger, nonetheless," he assures them.
"The boy will be home soon enough." Wil doesn't know at what point during the exchange she decided to take on an additional challenge, but it's too late now; Bran's lips quirk in amusement at her self-assurance.
"Declare it if you like, but the reward goes to whoever brings him back safe," the way Bran stresses safe, Wil has to wonder what sort of reputations these Winters have. "A conversation you are welcome to have with the Winters, should you encounter them on the Wounded Coast."
That's his final word, his attention going from Wil to address a pair of nobles waiting for an audience with the Viscount. His tone is no different when he addresses them and Wil appreciates the consistency, at least.
"Are you ready for an awesome day gallivanting along the coast with me, fighting giant warriors and being harassed by my merry band of misfits?" Wil offers Sorrell a wry smile which he returns, along with a nudge of her shoulder with his own.
"With you?" His eyes soften. "Always."
And he means it.
Balls.
Anders isn't certain why the elf needs to be here.
Fenris is murmuring complaints as he wipes at his chest, bare and covered in the blood of Maker only knows how many qunari. His breastplate has been torn clean off and cast aside, the overlapping metal plates bent and no longer fitted to each other. Anders would never have guessed that Fenris could be his favorite elf in the room, but here they are.
Granted, his competition isn't exactly stellar. Merrill is bandaging her own hand, eyes buggy and intense as she studies the wound made by a blade she wielded. Justice is urging his tongue to speak out against the demons she summons with her blood, but yesterday Wil had been adamant that he cut Merrill some slack, for now. His argument that the mental frailty implied by her over-protectiveness for the elven mage didn't exactly set his mind at ease had fallen on stubborn ears and a scowl...
...but it had been stubborn ears and a scowl lying next to him in an impossibly comfortable bed and even with the pillows that had been stuffed between the two of them as a sort of chastity barricade, it was one of the better wake ups he's had since...ever.
She's not even paying attention.
I know, he acknowledges it, but forces back the miniscule flare or jealousy, knowing better than to give into Justice's slip thin goading. You can't be jealous, Anders. You can't have what he can. Who he can. It's simple.
And she's just a woman.
He knows. Yet there's the way his stomach feels at this very moment...hot, queasy. Part of it might be the residual effects of his virus, but all the other symptoms had passed by yesterday afternoon and this has a tendency to intensify when the elf so much as looks at Wil, his violet eyes warm with adoration that she has to see.
"It's a bit sickening," he mutters, bitter coating every syllable. Varric stiffens next to him, turning his head to observe Anders with one eye.
"I can bend over if you want me to, Blondie," the eyebrow in view waggles up. "If that would make things less sickening."
Lips drawn into a tight line, Anders grabs his staff and makes one final pass of his comrades. Despite the fact that they'd entered the Tal'Vashoth's hold in the coastal cave, they'd managed to only encounter a few of the warriors at a time. Sheer numbers and smart positioning had given them an excellent advantage. Only once they'd reached this final room had the qunari proven any real challenge, and...well, they were all alive and Fenris had gotten the worst of it, damaged armor and some bruising along his pectoral.
Hardly anything to get excited about.
Wil's working with her sister and her non-crossbow obsessed rogues to free the dead raiders from their horrible burden of stolen loot. Anders wishes he could just leave, slip out of the cave unnoticed to return to Kirkwall and his clinic. It feels as if he's been gone forever, and they're rapidly approaching the expedition. In fact, he'd taken his dinner the night before at the Hanged Man, listening to Varric and Wil discuss the supplies that Bartrand can't be trusted to provide and asking him questions about the Deep Roads that betrayed their mutual lack of knowledge regarding the dwarven substructures.
He shivers, and this time it's a different sick that threatens the contents of his stomach. For a few precipitous seconds he's inundated by the feel of being below the earth, miles and miles and forever it seems like with nothing but rock, stale air and darkspawn ahead, above and beside. What had seemed so distant on the morning he'd offered an odd but helpful refugee his assistance along with his maps is...soon.
What was I even thinking? He mops at his suddenly sweaty forehead with the rag he keeps near his throat for times like this. Wouldn't thanks for helping me kill templars, now here's your maps and have a nice life! been so much easier?
Undoubtedly, as Wil signals for them to head back to the coast and waits until all have started ahead, a great, shaggy guard named Coulter on point with Fenris close behind, and a smitten by exposed manflesh Isabela close behind him. When all have passed, she falls into step beside him, her long strides shortening to fit his own which betray the residual fatigue in his limbs.
"How goes the recovery?" She walks with her hands behind her back, her gaze ahead. "I imagine that, were you your own patient, you'd probably tell yourself not to do things like fight qunari."
His mouth curls at the corner. "Maybe not in so many words, but yes. These sorts of excursions are usually not in a sick person's best interest."
"Yet here you are," she offers him an unexpected glance and he catches the quickest flash of gratitude
"I'm just here for the celebratory pie," he pauses to lean against his staff or, more accurately, to get a better glimpse of her amused expression. "You did promise celebratory pie, didn't you?"
"Sure," she comes through with a wide smile. "For you, anything."
And he doesn't think she means it literally but it's nice to hear even if she's just being friendly, and what just moments ago had felt like a slight breakthrough is a backslide into...he studies her face for a moment, keeping all the things he notices from fully connecting with what it means to be noticing them.
He catches a fresh trickle of crimson winding its way down her neck and his fingers are automatically drawn to seek it out. Hair is pushed aside until he feels the sticky warmth of the source, just behind her left ear, a healing spell already in progress as he searches the area for knots before he's satisfied that it's just a gash.
She's got her eyes on his wrist and not his face, and the smile has faded to caution. "I know for a fact that you don't have to touch someone while you heal them."
It's true, and he acknowledges it by relaxing his arm and allowing his entire palm to settle against her jaw, his thumb dragging gently across her cheek. For a moment she gives in, her eyes falling closed against the crystalline light that spills across her features, but she catches herself before she can turn her slightly parted lips against the inside of his wrist and then it's a decidedly less amused glare.
"You must be feeling better if you're willing to play Sarcastic Healer," it's a deliberate missing of the point. She leaves him at that, moving quickly until she catches up with their group to take her place between Bethany and Varric at the rear.
Anders gives himself little longer to pull it together, his bloodied hand curling to hold onto the warmth imparted by skin to skin and desire being pulled to the surface.
She's just a woman.
And even though he's not letting it fully connect, the sensation of her against him and the many ways that he shouldn't be wanting more of that, much less all of it, it makes the rest of the slog back to the coast so very tolerable, especially when the elf goes to bump Wil's arm, a show of affectionate solidarity, and she responds by crossing both over her chest to prevent it from happening again.
It's a mess and Wil just steps in it.
The Winters get there first, as fair and as square as these things can be, and the qunari is slain, on his side and bent at the waist next to a wooden crate that Wil imagines he'd been sitting on when he'd died. This theory is borne out by Saemus Dumar's reaction, his brilliant aqua eyes burning with frustration, hurt and rage as he turns against the woman Wil had seen earlier in the Keep.
"He was no threat, and you killed him," his voice, cultured and clearly more fluent in philosophical debates than this, seethes. "You vashedan whore."
Even Wil cringes at that one, and it only inflames the mercenary further.
But she keeps her anger sharp.
"Is that one of their words? A sure sign that you need to be taken back to daddy," it's all incisively vicious. "You're playing too nice with those things...and I'll wager you've gone even further than that, you twisted little brat."
It spits out, it jabs, and Saemus flinches as if he's been slaped, his face closing for a moment in shame...Wil cannot tell if it's because the accusations are true or if he merely wishes they were.
"This all seems a bit rough for a rescue," Wil intervenes as smoothly as she can, forcing herself between Saemus and the woman.
"Competition. Heh," she sneers, eyes blazing. "I should have known the moment I saw you and your knife-ear that you'd try to steal what's rightfully mine. Don't know why you Fereldan's need the coin, ain't cost nothing to fuck a stray dog, and that's all your lot is good for."
It doesn't really anger Wil to hear her nationality so succinctly dismissed, but it seems like something that deserves a response.
"Then I will resist my overwhelming urge to hump your leg," Wil deadpans. "For the time being."
"The Winters...," her eyes darken, but her tone remains the same. "I have already claimed him."
As if he's a thing to be claimed, and not a person.
"Serah," Saemus whips his head towards Wil, his hard expression at odds with the wild mass of ebony hair that drifts around his bone white face. He's a whimsical looking young man, strong-featured but somehow fragile. His voice, though, belies strength as he lays out his terms. "I will go back, if I must, but I cannot see these...murderers rewarded."
The woman has a dagger in her hand, pulled out of nowhere, and she dances it towards Saemus' breast as she speaks.
"You really are the worst kind of spoiled shit," she snaps."Fine. Then I'll just cut out your tongue and demand more coin for bringin' you back quiet." She turns on Wil, the dagger joined by another and they catch the sunlight as she flips them around for a better grip, "As for you, I could do with some entertainment until the others show up. You and your friends look like a nice little diversion."
It lasts all of four minutes.
"So who, exactly, was the diversion supposed to be? Us?" Wil, struggling to catch her breath, glances at Varric who shrugs and tries to suppress a smile. The mercenary woman is dead, as are the men she'd had with her when Wil and her friends had arrived. Bodies litter the sand around them, some of them still smoldering from Bethany's exquisitely timed fire spell, and their leader is face down or, rather, belly down alongside the dead qunari. Her face is someplace else, her head flung back by the combined force of Wil's sword and the woman's own forward momentum. "I can't say I feel too bad about how this turned out."
Saemus is barely able to keep on his feet, his skin glistening with sweat as he struggles not to look at of the corpses or Wil's companions as they pick over the corpses.
"Sweet Andraste," gone is the qunari posturing. "I've never seen so many dead bodies...so much blood."
Wil, warmed by a flare of sympathy, feels suddenly as if she's sullied something quite pure. His face is tense with distaste, but there's also regret that shadows his eyes...guilt for all the lives lost on account of him.
"Hopefully you'll never become used to it," she scouts the camp to avoid further involvement in his disquiet. One side is covered by a sheer stone wall and two sides are on the water, and not in a fun, beachy way. It's nothing but a precipitous drop down into jagged rocks and the foaming sea that crashes against them, improbable for escape and impossible for ambush. The only way in or out is along the paths that brought them here in the first place. "But now's not the time to soil yourself. More will be here, and we'll have to fight."
Anders glances up from where he's been rummaging through a chest for supplies. "There are worse places to be trapped like rats. If we die here, at least we die with the sun on our faces and the ocean breeze in our hair."
"Strangely optimistic of you," Wil tries to frown but when she looks at him, really looks, all she's seeing is the need in his eyes as he held her face and all she's feeling is her own pooling somewhere below her stomach and pressing hard against the inside of her throat. It's not fair of him to do that to me, she knows this. But it's...something.
What I want.
She ignores the voice, ignores whatever Anders says in response, ignores the growing sweat stains forming under Saemus' underarms that stretch almost to his waist. There's a real chance that they'll be overwhelmed soon and they can't be unprepared.
"Should I warn them, Hawke?" Isabela, from her position closest to the paths, is practically coming out of her skin with excitement. Strange, she seemed less thrilled earlier.
"I think Bethany and Varric can..." she shouts towards her sister. "Some flaming bolts to the face might convey the signal quite efficiently, I think."
Isabela cackles, a magnificently hearty laugh. "They heard you, Hawke! One of them just went, 'Did she say flaming bolts? Oh, shit!'."
So they're close. But there's only a narrow passage into the camp, and Wil has so many on her side this afternoon...
"Choke the access. Bethany, start chucking fireballs as soon as they crest the hill and Merrill, focus your attention on the same spot. Fenris, Coulter and Isabela can handle those who make it through," she glances back at Saemus. "Anders, you and Sorrell stay with Saemus. Varric, Brennan and I will watch for anyone who finds a back entrance."
Wil's orders are still echoing when she hears the first fsssssch of flame being flung through the air. It lands just past the choke point and, from the screaming, seems to have taken down at least three of the Winters. A few slip by, one caught immediately by Coulter rushing forward, shoulder down and tucked behind his shield as he attacks. Fenris chases the other towards Isabela, the man clearly confused by the glowing half-naked elven death that is bearing down upon him and the half-naked, dagger-wielding wench that gleefully awaits.
From her vantage point, WIl can see almost everything and what she sees makes her feel strangely proud as the Winters are easily dispatched, even though they outnumber her and her companions at least seven to one.
She doesn't even need to draw her blade, a clear sign of a clean victory if ever there was one. What's more, most of the bodies are in one area, which makes for efficient looting.
How practically I deal with death today.
Saemus won't be thrilled to have to wade through corpses, but Wil doesn't imagine anything could make him happy at a time like this. With the threat seemingly gone, he's finally settled beside the fallen qunari, his knees pulled tight to his chest as he mourns his dead friend.
"Ashaad never lied or coddled," it's a eulogy. "You were either worth his time or you were not." He struggles to his feet, resolution clear in his eyes. "They're not brutes. That's what we hear, what we're told to believe and it's not true. Take me to my father, serah. Take me so I can try to make him see. Before it's too late."
"You and Ashaad were...friends?" Wil hates that she fumbled for the word, because she didn't mean to imply more than that. "I mean...clearly this was not your first encounter."
"I was...we met shortly after the ship ran aground. I was fleeing the Keep, my father. I come here to think, freely and away from everything, everyone," he clearly sees the Keep as just as much of a prison as would the criminals it holds. "Ashaad was mapping the coast, to 'find an answer for the Arishok'. I had so many doubts...the qunari have none."
"I've not heard much about the qunari being friendly, though. I've met about fifty Tal'Vashoth today, and only one so much as attempted anything close to polite conversation," she's being mostly facetious. About the Tal'Vashoth, at least.
Saemus smiles grimly. "Perhaps friend is not the right word...I am the Viscount's son, that is my identity. Ashaad saw me and I was worth his time. We were both seeking something, and that was enough."
It explains so much and ends her desire to push.
"So...," with a nod to Ashaad's lifeless form. "I'm not certain what one does with a dead qunari...do we bury him? And do we tell his people?"
At some point during the conversation, as if stealing strength from his slain companion, Saemus' romanticism has turned into something practical.
"It is just a body," the skin around his eyes pull tight as he struggles within himself to see it that way. "It deserves no special treatment. That is, apparently, their way. As for the others...they'll know. Whether they deign to acknowledge what happened, I have no idea." Then, without prompting, his tone grows wistful. "I did not understand Ashaad, not completely. But it was so very worth trying."
Wil tries arrange her face into an expression of understanding, because she knows what he's trying to say. Isn't she caught in her own little web of confusion? Feelings that shouldn't be felt, on top of a lifetime of ingrained belief on top of, yeah, maybe a little hero-worship because how many people are willing to dedicate themselves to something so thoroughly that they'd hand over their mind and their body? But, despite the complications and frustrations, wouldn't it be worth trying?
"Serah?" Saemus' gaze is surprisingly sympathetic.
"Yes," she drowns her musings in purpose. "We should get back to the Keep. The Viscount is worried."
It's the first really wrong thing she's said to him.
"The Viscount sends thugs to do a father's job," Saemus fumes. "I was in no danger until his 'help' arrived."
"This might have been avoided had you just told him what you wanted...where you were going," Wil gestures to the corpses around them, remembering the warnings about Saemus implied in what Seneschal hadn't said. "He might have taken a different approach."
"Or not let me leave at all," he sneers. "Keep your assumptions. He does not hear me, and he is as tired of being disappointed as I am of bearing it. I thought this might be...but now, Ashaad is dead. It's not right or fair."
Wil bites her tongue. Saemus is right that she should mind herself as she knows literally nothing of the Viscount or his relationship with his son.
"I..." she wants to apologize, but doesn't trust her ability to not screw things up even more. It has been known to happen. "Let's go, Saemus. It's getting late, and I'm not much in the mood to fight anyone right now."
Anger draining from his face, the young man nods in agreement. He, no doubt, would rather not see her fight anyone, either.
"Who would have guessed that being accused of screwing dogs would be the high point of my day?" Hawke murmurs aside to Sorrell. He's the only one besides her sister that had accompanied her all the way back to the Keep. Beth is currently in Aveline's office, catching up.
"I think anyone who knows you probably could have guessed that," he laughs. "Although how many people can say they've been thrown out of the Viscount's office for calling him stubborn?"
It's said a bit too loudly, because Bran hears, his eyes rolling upward and his mouth twisting into a put upon frown. While it's mortifying to think about the lapse in judgment that allowed her to say it, Wil can admit that his reaction to her remark that the Viscount and Saemus were both being hardheaded had been hilariously over the top.
"I should tell Aveline...it would give them something to commiserate over," Wil imagines the seneschal slumped in Aveline's comfy chair, complaining bitterly about Serah Hawke and her mouth. Aveline would, no doubt, offer him a flask of whiskey to ease the pain she herself knew so well. "Who knows? Maybe Aveline can get another promotion out of it."
"Captain's too good at what she does to be promoted. Even I know that," Sorrell's lips retain a ghost of a smile and his posture is relaxed as he lounges against the wall next to her. With his battle marked Kirkwall livery, and roguishly disheveled hair, he cuts a lithe yet handsome figure.
He's also nice. Even Fenris had thawed a bit, and she swore she'd overheard a chuckle or two emitting from the foul-tempered elf. So funny, too. And not half bad in bed.
Also, not possessed by a spirit that might very well be the thing that makes him a man that I want to be with.
This is a dangerous road, Wilhelmina.
"Maker's breath. What's taking so long?" She wields her impatience like a shield against her own thoughts. They're waiting for the accountant to process her payment, which promises to be substantial. Not that it will seem like much once she divides it seven ways, but she wants every penny. Her mother will need coin while Wil and Bethany are in the Deep Roads and Gamlen certainly can't be counted on to support her. As a matter of fact, Aveline will be the one who keeps Leandra's purse. Just to be on the safe side. Enough of the cash Wil earns goes to the Blooming Rose already via Isabela, Gamlen would probably earn himself a statue in the foyer if she left any laying around the apartment.
"Hey," Sorrell's hand out of nowhere is on her shoulder, and his thumb sneaks it's way beneath the edge of her undershirt. He doesn't wear normal gauntlets, the leather binds his fingers and compromises his grip, so she can feel the warmth of his skin at her collarbone. "I want to buy you dinner...you and Bethany, if she wants to come. There's a common house near Lirene's in Lowtown that Donnic swears serves the best ...what?"
Her hand is wrapped around his, her fingers sliding between his and her chest. "Not tonight, Sorrell. I've barely been home except to nap for Maker knows how long, and I'll be leaving soon. I really should spend some time with Mother before I'm gone for a month or two."
Something strikes through his eyes, not quite outright disappointment but close. She thinks he's going to hold it in but he gives small a huff and raises his eyebrows. "Why do you think I want to take you to dinner?"
"To thank me for getting you out of patrol?" She offers a hopeful grin. "You have to admit, we had way more fun running around killing qunari than you would've had frowning at beggars in the alienage."
He leans away from her, his lips twitching into a half-hearted smile. "You have me there, Hawke."
And he leaves it at that, because it's what he does. They wait for the reward in silence and he parts ways with her at the barracks, his gaze less warm but still familiar as he wishes her good night and, if he doesn't see her before she leaves, a safe and successful trip.
"Copper for your thoughts, Mina," Bethany's managed to sneak up on her. "Not that you need any more coin."
When Wil turns, she sees her sister's eyes seize upon the small, velvet purse embroidered with the seal of Kirkwall in white thread.
"Fancy, isn't it?" Wil hefts it aloft before chucking it into her pack. There's a whole jumble of loot within, including some more that might interest the mysterious Sebastian Vael, for whom she's been killing mercenaries. Apparently the Tal'Vashoth and an arm of the Flint Company had encountered each other on the coast before she could get to either. "Our cut of this should cover Mother while we're gone. Whatever I can get that dwarf to pay me will buy our supplies."
Bethany pulls her black hair away from her neck, wrapping it around her hand in thought. "What are we going to do if this all works out? I mean, if we actually find a fortune in the Deep Roads, and we get the estate back...what then?"
"I haven't really thought ahead that far," Wil shrugs and heads back to the Keep. "Mother will probably want me to play at politics or get married to some nobleman's son. You know, like Saemus. Which means that most of my time will be spent hiding at the Hanged Man or in the clinic. So...pretty much what we're doing now, only with a less rampant bloodshed. Why? Do you have a better plan?"
"No!" Bethany takes her elbow as they descend the main staircase. "Although...I didn't think he was that bad, to be honest. I have no love for the qunari after...but I can understand what he means. Sometimes I feel like I have no identity, beyond being your apostate sister."
Wil's stomach clenches and she fights the urge throw her arm around her...apostate sister.
"I don't mind, most the time," Beth's speaking frankly. "I actually like it, because it's safe. But sometimes I wish I could meet someone first, get to know them independently of you, or Mother." She laughs, "But don't worry, I'm not about to wander off and fall in love or convert or anything."
"You could if you wanted to," Wil hates the thought, herself, but it's true.
"I bet if his father had said that, and meant it, Saemus would have never ran off," she squeezes Wil's arm. "It's funny how people work. What they cling to and what they let get away."
It is funny, and it lurks at the back of Wil's mind like a sinister crow.
"You're pretty astute, Apostate Sister Hawke," Wil leads them through the door and into a brisk early evening that's perfect for many things, but especially this. Which is important and, as Bethany said, safe. "Do you want to stop by the Hanged Man and see if Varric will buy us a couple rounds? I need to tell him how I got kicked out of the Viscount's office for being an ass...surely that deserves some kind of reward."
"If only that's how things worked around here," Bethany sighs dramatically. "We'd be rich already."

Description

Author: SurelyForth
Title: Maps & Legends
Game: Dragon Age 2
Character pairing: F!Hawke/Anders
Disclaimer: Rated T for language, violence and some sexual content.
"You're here early, Hawke," Aveline barely raises her eyes from the disarray of parchment, ledgers and schematics that blankets her desk. The woman is a warrior, a soldier to her core. Paperwork is not the reason she wanted to become Captain and on days like today, when she's drowning in reports, requests, proposals, applications, patrol logs and evidence statements, there's nothing she wishes she could do more than chuck the entire lot into the barracks fireplace and run off with Hawke to go hit bandits with swords for fun. "Here, why don't you read Seneschal Bran's five-part proposal to redraw the districts in Kirkwall in order to even out tax distributions."
Settled in her favored chair, Hawke lifts her chin in a fake show of interest.
"When does he even have time to draft those things? From the way you talk, he's always here."
This gets Aveline's nose out of her work, a rare amount of mischief loosening her tongue.
"From what I've heard, he keeps a second office at the Blooming Rose," she lowers her voice, fighting against the urge to smile in response to Hawke's own open-mouthed sign of approval for this Aveline. "Maybe one of the whores is a political genius."
"I'm sure Varric would know, but he's oddly recalcitrant when it comes to sharing information with people we know," her eyes roll upward in feigned innocence. "Not that I've tried to get it out of him or anything."
"Of course not," Aveline snorts. It's surprisingly nice to be able to relax for a few minutes. She's been running since Sundermount and, between training, meetings, inspections, patrols and trying to get enough sleep to keep it up, she's had precious little time for anything but work. "So what brings you to Hightown this morning, Hawke? You're not in trouble again."
"Not yet...but I might be heading in that direction," it's admirably forthright, something at which Hawke doesn't always excel, and Aveline sets aside her paperwork so that she can give her friend as much of her attention as she can.
"You know the rules...as long as we're here, edit out the illegal parts."
"I've gotten pretty good at censoring myself, you know. If you asked Mother, she'd probably tell you that Bethany and I are professional trash-collectors and believe every word," guilt darkens her features for the briefest of moments. Aveline is sympathetic, and even more so when guilt is dismissed by a tightening of Hawke's jaw, and a slight narrowing of green eyes. Leandra Hawke is a kind woman, but Aveline can see the pressure she places upon her eldest child to simply make things work. It's not entirely fair, but taking the pressure is pretty much what Hawke does.
Aveline gets that, too.
"What do you know about the Tal'Vashoth?" Hawke pronounces the foreign term with practiced fluidity. "I know you've had encounters with them...we followed a patrol route back down the coast yesterday and had to divert to avoid their camp."
Whatever relief Hawke's visit had brought her up until this point dissipates immediately. The qunari.Besides the refugees, and the headaches caused by the Knight-Commander's near daily letters to Captain Vallen reminding her of her sworn duty to protect Kirkwall from everyone who would see it harmed, the qunari are Aveline's largest headache.
And it shouldn't be the case. The amount of civil disobedience in their compound is far less than any other district in the city, Hightown included. Even their mercenaries are less aggressive than the average gangs that scurry through Darktown during the day and haunt the rest of Kirkwall in the night. But, from the way people react when the word qunariis mentioned, it would be quite easy to assume they're stealing children from their beds and molesting women in the streets.
But they're not. They're just...there.
Looming.
Aveline hates how they loom. She's not easily intimidated, her own sense of strength drilled into her very marrow over long years of martial training, but the qunari have not only physical power, and a disconcerting lack of apprehension. Lone qunari, usually scouts or messengers, walk the city unafraid, even in the markets and the crush of Lowtown where they are in a sea of suspicion and Maker only knows how many readied daggers.
It's made things difficult for her. The nobles and some members of the clergy have started to demand that she increase the patrols along the docks, a proactive measure only, but even a subtle change will not go unnoticed by the qunari and they will, correctly, assume paranoia. And who knows how they'd react to that? Aveline doesn't want her guards on the frontlines of perceived escalation, nor does she think it prudent considering there's already growing tension in Lowtown as more and more refugees are finding footholds in Kirkwall and settling in, albeit uneasily.
But it's not a reason, concern for her men and an eye towards a potentially more volatile situation. She's been told this a hundred times by Bran alone, his eyes rolling only slightly as he says it. It's an excuse for why she doesn't simply throw her people at the problem until it goes away, which is what's expected, of course. It's what Jeven did and, embezzlement, corruption and sacrificing his men for profit aside, Jeven got along pretty well with his superiors.
Aveline shakes it off, a wave of bitter resignation at the realization that, as Captain of the Guard, her power is limited by the whims of the Viscount, the Grand Cleric, the Knight-Commander and, most infuriatingly, the nobles.
But Hawke isn't asking about political drama. Hawke will probably never be interested in political drama unless it's scandalous, sexy, or both, and she gets enough scraps from Varric and fromthe whispers around Anders' clinic to satisfy her wanton, if mild, curiosity to that end.
No, Hawke is caught up in something and she's trying to decide if she should roll with it or attempt to back out. It's in her stiff posture and the bareflickering of doubt in eyes that are usually much more difficult to read.Maybe Hawke's maturing...
"So you don't know what I'm talking about? Or...maybe you really like what I've done with my hair this morning?" She whips it around for a brief but vigorous shaking and Aveline can't tell a difference once she'sstopped moving. So much for maturity. "Give me something to work with, Aveline. Otherwise I might just blunder into the biggest mistake of my young life." She pauses, her face twisting thoughtfully to the side, "Or of this week...if this week started before daybreak yesterday."
Oh, Hawke. "What did you do before daybreak yesterday?" Aveline stands, taking a seat on the edge of her desk. Without intending to, she's become the interrogator, arms folded across her chest and all. "And remember the rules."
"Shortest story ever told- I helped a boy," she smiles prettily, to deflect and to needle, but also to express something close to pride. Stifling a groan of frustration, Aveline moves her hands back down so they're gripping the edge of the desk on either side of her legs. "Oh, don't worry, Captain. It can't possibly be as bad as you're thinking and we took out loads of slavers in the process, which...win!"
Aveline's lips quirk up into a grin despite the fact that she should probably be a little more firm with Hawke when she gets into the vigilantism side of things, although Aveline has no doubts the slavers had it coming...even beyond them being slavers.
"You asked about the Tal'Vashoth?" Aveline forces herself back to business. She doesn't have much time before she's to meet with her lieutenants about the newest recruit training schedule. "All I know is that they're the only ones we can touch without having to answer to the Arishok."
Hawke nods. "So they're not fond of mercenaries, or are the Tal'Vashoth a different breed?"
With a wave of her hand and a dismissive snort, Aveline tries to explain it the way Bran had outlined it for her. "The Tal'Vashoth are hated because they're not...of the Qun. They left their station, became mercenaries who refuse to take any work here, and then started attacking travelers and caravans to survive. My men have taken out a few and we've not experienced any backlash."
"So, if I were to, say...drag the lot of you out to kill every Tal'Vashoth on the Wounded Coast, I wouldn't be casting something like political shitstorm?" Hawke's eyebrow dances up.
"That's disgusting, Hawke," Aveline winces at the mental image. "But I don't think you would. Although it won't be an easy job, if you choose to take it. However..."
It's an idea she shouldn't have, considering her ire just minutes before over the idea of using her men to deal with the qunari "threat." But this could be seen as a compromise...since the nobles had no concept of outcasts and Tal'Vashoth, an operation to remove them from the routes along the coast would prove the guard capable of handling any legitimate threats posed while doing nothing to ruffle the Arishok.
"Take a few guards with you," she turns to rifle through the papers on her desk until her fingers brush against the most recently dated roster. "Brennan, Coulter and...Sorrell should all be in the barracks and about to report for duty. I can pull them off of their patrols."
Hawke, whose expression had brightened at the first suggestion, appears distinctly discomforted by Aveline's choice of reinforcements.
"Brennan's a gifted swordsman, but she's deadly at range and Coulter is one of the best point men in our ranks," her voice goes someplace a little more openly ribald than she'd intended. "And you know what Sorrell can do."
Despite her cheeks turning a shade of pink that makes her eyes seem even more outstandingly green, Hawke smirks it off. "Somehow I don't think what Sorrell does for me will help us much against the Tal'Vashoth."
A shudder is suppressed and Aveline waves her friend to her feet. "He's a good man, you know. Did he ever tell you how he became a guard?"
"We don't actually talk much," Hawke stretches her shoulders. "And I'm not just saying that to put you off food."
"He was working for the coterie when a woman got involved in a transaction that had turned violent." No surprise there. "She was left for dead and he carried her to the nearest outpost for medical attention. I didn't know who he was when I asked him to apply."
"I don't believe you," Hawke's hands are defiant on her hips. "It has your meddling ways all over it..."
"And such a nefarious plot it would be," Aveline's more amused than offended by the other woman's suspicion. She did meddle sometimes in the affairs of her friends. But not that often."Helping a well-intentioned thug find respectable work. In your words, I might be the worst person in the world."
Hawke wavers for a moment, and blinks. "I just don't want him to be encouraged to think that-," her faces scrunches. "I don't want him to feel as if I'm waiting on him to be, you know, respectable. Because I'm not. If I wanted him...like that, what he does and where he lives wouldn't change that. And now...I don't want him like that and nothing is going to change it."
"Have you tried?" It's an unfair question, but Aveline does like the elf. Of all the men and women she's seen show interest in, or receive interest from, Hawke, he's the only one of the lot who isn't likely to end up in prison, or the Gallows.
"I shouldn't have to try," Hawke insists with a smirk. "Or at least that's what the tiny Wil Hawke inside me who inherited her parents' propensity for romantic idealism has managed to convince me."
She pushes her way out of Aveline's office and into the barracks' commons and is almost immediately greeted by Sorrell, who's settled against the side of the fireplace and watching his fellow guards who are coming in to report.
"Sorrell," Aveline nods after he's said his deferential hellos to his captain and his lover, is all business. "You, Coulter and Brennan will be working with Hawke on special patrol up the coast. I expect for you all to mind your duties as guardsmen."
"So no pulling me behind a shrub or rock and having your way with me until afterall the bad guys are dead." Aveline doesn't have to see Hawke's face to know she's wearing one of her more wicked grins. Sorrell tries very hard not to react, but his eyes are too expressive and he darts them away, his own lips wavering on the brink of a smile.
"Disrespectful, Hawke," Aveline pushes down on her anger, but allows no small amount clear in her voice.
"Apologies, Aveline," she might actually mean it.
"Brennan and Coulter are on the main floor, Captain," Sorrell smoothes things over, or attempts to. "Their patrols aren't scheduled to leave until the next hour."
"Then you can let them know of their change of orders. I'll alert their lieutenants," with a curt nod to Sorrell and less friendly glare at Hawke, Aveline returns to her office to await the coming onslaught of meetings and spend the rest of the day hoping that she's doing the right thing.
"I promise you, you're fine," Wil rolls her eyes slightly, knowing Sorrell can't see them. "Aveline's one of my best friends...she very well can't think less of you for your association with me. It would be hypocritical!"
"Hmmm," he's not convinced.
"Listen, I've seen her angrier at a pigeon before. Granted, it had shat on her armor," this comes with a helpful demonstration that eases his concern into laughter. "She waved her sword at it, too. It was after several too many ales, but-"
"I'll bring in that whiny bugger if it's the last thing I do," the woman storming up the stairs glares at Wil as if she's the intended recipient of this threat. For her part, Wil's fairly certain she has no idea.
"Pardon?" She attempts politeness, but the woman elbows past, despite there being ample room to go around Wil, and continues up the stairs towards the Viscount's offices. "Andraste's ass, what was that all about?"
Sorrell studies the woman's departing frame, his eyes narrowed in consideration. "She looks familiar, I think I've seen her livery in the alienage...Oh!" He claps his hands and speaks a shade too loudly, several of the nobles littering the mezzanine above them shooting dirty looks at the knife-ear. "The Viscount's son is missing. They posted it this morning. I bet she's here for the reward."
"Missing?" Wil's proud of herself for getting that out first. "And...reward?"
"Probably substantial, knowing Dumar," Sorrell's voice drops and he leans close. "You should go for it."
His expression is suddenly slightly dangerous, and she realizes that his fingers are tentatively pressing against the side of her waist...in ownership, perhaps. Or maybe it's innocent...We are sleeping together, after all. The boundaries around us are totally confused.
"Okay," she moistens her suddenly dry lips with the tip of her tongue and tries to ignore the heat that creeps into his gaze. "It's worth a try..."
Bounding back up the stairs means she can shake of a sense of guilty unease. I shouldn't have made that joke in front of Aveline...it was an acknowledgement and acknowledgements are bad in situations like this.
Like it's life or death and not just sex.
Still, she's grateful when she stumbles over the woman confronting Seneschal Bran, the man working his air of perpetual annoyance to the hilt.
"Insist if you must, but the Viscount will see nobody today," he tilts his head back to indicate the ornate doors behind him. "If you have any information about Saemus, you will deliver it to me."
The woman's hunched forward, her arms inelegantly folded over her chest. "Fine," she spits. "Tell Dumar that my scouts have tracked his son and his qunari captor to the coast and I'm taking all my men after him...and when I return, I expect for him to make a show of the reward."
Her finger is threatening in the seneschal's face, and Wil's uncertain how that's supposed to ingratiate her to anyone.
"So many to deal with one qunari seems...," he studies her face, a muscle tugging just beneath his right eye belying the deliberate boredom of his tone. "Excessive."
"He may be Tal'Vashoth," she snaps, stepping away. "The Winters leave nothing to chance."
Once again she barrels towards Wil, her pale eyes spitting hatred as she snarls, "Get out of my bloody way, princess."
Wil does as demanded, jumping back and staring after for a few long moments before her attention returns to Bran.
He is not thrilled to see her. To put it mildly.
"Yes," he exhales. "What is it?"
"If this is about a rescue, that woman did not seem the type," Wil settles in front of him. "Saemus might be better off unfound."
"She is the type I feared we would attract," he speaks honestly. "Viscount Dumas' son, Saemus, is missing. We suspect he was taken by a qunari. If you would like to...try your hand at securing his safe return...well. We have certainly not granted exclusivity to the Winters and their violent approach."
"Do we know anything about this...qunari?" Is my life going to become all qunari-centric now? Have I broken some kind of seal, and now it's nothing but huge, half-naked men for the next couple of weeks?
Bran's cheek twitches again, and she can almost see the wheels turning beyond his light brown eyes. Aveline respected the man's intelligence, if not his approach, and Wil knew whatever information he gave her would need to be parsed for subtext and not merely taken at face value.
"Truly, we know nothing. Saemus was last seen on the coast, and there have been reports that a qunari may have been with him," his voice is smooth. "The main complication is that Saemus has a tendency to be of a sympathetic mind."
"So he may have placed himself in danger?" Sorrell hangs back from her elbow and speaks in a murmur. He's not comfortable addressing Bran directly, but the seneschal responds and seems unfazed by the interruption.
"But it's still danger, nonetheless," he assures them.
"The boy will be home soon enough." Wil doesn't know at what point during the exchange she decided to take on an additional challenge, but it's too late now; Bran's lips quirk in amusement at her self-assurance.
"Declare it if you like, but the reward goes to whoever brings him back safe," the way Bran stresses safe, Wil has to wonder what sort of reputations these Winters have. "A conversation you are welcome to have with the Winters, should you encounter them on the Wounded Coast."
That's his final word, his attention going from Wil to address a pair of nobles waiting for an audience with the Viscount. His tone is no different when he addresses them and Wil appreciates the consistency, at least.
"Are you ready for an awesome day gallivanting along the coast with me, fighting giant warriors and being harassed by my merry band of misfits?" Wil offers Sorrell a wry smile which he returns, along with a nudge of her shoulder with his own.
"With you?" His eyes soften. "Always."
And he means it.
Balls.
Anders isn't certain why the elf needs to be here.
Fenris is murmuring complaints as he wipes at his chest, bare and covered in the blood of Maker only knows how many qunari. His breastplate has been torn clean off and cast aside, the overlapping metal plates bent and no longer fitted to each other. Anders would never have guessed that Fenris could be his favorite elf in the room, but here they are.
Granted, his competition isn't exactly stellar. Merrill is bandaging her own hand, eyes buggy and intense as she studies the wound made by a blade she wielded. Justice is urging his tongue to speak out against the demons she summons with her blood, but yesterday Wil had been adamant that he cut Merrill some slack, for now. His argument that the mental frailty implied by her over-protectiveness for the elven mage didn't exactly set his mind at ease had fallen on stubborn ears and a scowl...
...but it had been stubborn ears and a scowl lying next to him in an impossibly comfortable bed and even with the pillows that had been stuffed between the two of them as a sort of chastity barricade, it was one of the better wake ups he's had since...ever.
She's not even paying attention.
I know, he acknowledges it, but forces back the miniscule flare or jealousy, knowing better than to give into Justice's slip thin goading. You can't be jealous, Anders. You can't have what he can. Who he can. It's simple.
And she's just a woman.
He knows. Yet there's the way his stomach feels at this very moment...hot, queasy. Part of it might be the residual effects of his virus, but all the other symptoms had passed by yesterday afternoon and this has a tendency to intensify when the elf so much as looks at Wil, his violet eyes warm with adoration that she has to see.
"It's a bit sickening," he mutters, bitter coating every syllable. Varric stiffens next to him, turning his head to observe Anders with one eye.
"I can bend over if you want me to, Blondie," the eyebrow in view waggles up. "If that would make things less sickening."
Lips drawn into a tight line, Anders grabs his staff and makes one final pass of his comrades. Despite the fact that they'd entered the Tal'Vashoth's hold in the coastal cave, they'd managed to only encounter a few of the warriors at a time. Sheer numbers and smart positioning had given them an excellent advantage. Only once they'd reached this final room had the qunari proven any real challenge, and...well, they were all alive and Fenris had gotten the worst of it, damaged armor and some bruising along his pectoral.
Hardly anything to get excited about.
Wil's working with her sister and her non-crossbow obsessed rogues to free the dead raiders from their horrible burden of stolen loot. Anders wishes he could just leave, slip out of the cave unnoticed to return to Kirkwall and his clinic. It feels as if he's been gone forever, and they're rapidly approaching the expedition. In fact, he'd taken his dinner the night before at the Hanged Man, listening to Varric and Wil discuss the supplies that Bartrand can't be trusted to provide and asking him questions about the Deep Roads that betrayed their mutual lack of knowledge regarding the dwarven substructures.
He shivers, and this time it's a different sick that threatens the contents of his stomach. For a few precipitous seconds he's inundated by the feel of being below the earth, miles and miles and forever it seems like with nothing but rock, stale air and darkspawn ahead, above and beside. What had seemed so distant on the morning he'd offered an odd but helpful refugee his assistance along with his maps is...soon.
What was I even thinking? He mops at his suddenly sweaty forehead with the rag he keeps near his throat for times like this. Wouldn't thanks for helping me kill templars, now here's your maps and have a nice life! been so much easier?
Undoubtedly, as Wil signals for them to head back to the coast and waits until all have started ahead, a great, shaggy guard named Coulter on point with Fenris close behind, and a smitten by exposed manflesh Isabela close behind him. When all have passed, she falls into step beside him, her long strides shortening to fit his own which betray the residual fatigue in his limbs.
"How goes the recovery?" She walks with her hands behind her back, her gaze ahead. "I imagine that, were you your own patient, you'd probably tell yourself not to do things like fight qunari."
His mouth curls at the corner. "Maybe not in so many words, but yes. These sorts of excursions are usually not in a sick person's best interest."
"Yet here you are," she offers him an unexpected glance and he catches the quickest flash of gratitude
"I'm just here for the celebratory pie," he pauses to lean against his staff or, more accurately, to get a better glimpse of her amused expression. "You did promise celebratory pie, didn't you?"
"Sure," she comes through with a wide smile. "For you, anything."
And he doesn't think she means it literally but it's nice to hear even if she's just being friendly, and what just moments ago had felt like a slight breakthrough is a backslide into...he studies her face for a moment, keeping all the things he notices from fully connecting with what it means to be noticing them.
He catches a fresh trickle of crimson winding its way down her neck and his fingers are automatically drawn to seek it out. Hair is pushed aside until he feels the sticky warmth of the source, just behind her left ear, a healing spell already in progress as he searches the area for knots before he's satisfied that it's just a gash.
She's got her eyes on his wrist and not his face, and the smile has faded to caution. "I know for a fact that you don't have to touch someone while you heal them."
It's true, and he acknowledges it by relaxing his arm and allowing his entire palm to settle against her jaw, his thumb dragging gently across her cheek. For a moment she gives in, her eyes falling closed against the crystalline light that spills across her features, but she catches herself before she can turn her slightly parted lips against the inside of his wrist and then it's a decidedly less amused glare.
"You must be feeling better if you're willing to play Sarcastic Healer," it's a deliberate missing of the point. She leaves him at that, moving quickly until she catches up with their group to take her place between Bethany and Varric at the rear.
Anders gives himself little longer to pull it together, his bloodied hand curling to hold onto the warmth imparted by skin to skin and desire being pulled to the surface.
She's just a woman.
And even though he's not letting it fully connect, the sensation of her against him and the many ways that he shouldn't be wanting more of that, much less all of it, it makes the rest of the slog back to the coast so very tolerable, especially when the elf goes to bump Wil's arm, a show of affectionate solidarity, and she responds by crossing both over her chest to prevent it from happening again.
It's a mess and Wil just steps in it.
The Winters get there first, as fair and as square as these things can be, and the qunari is slain, on his side and bent at the waist next to a wooden crate that Wil imagines he'd been sitting on when he'd died. This theory is borne out by Saemus Dumar's reaction, his brilliant aqua eyes burning with frustration, hurt and rage as he turns against the woman Wil had seen earlier in the Keep.
"He was no threat, and you killed him," his voice, cultured and clearly more fluent in philosophical debates than this, seethes. "You vashedan whore."
Even Wil cringes at that one, and it only inflames the mercenary further.
But she keeps her anger sharp.
"Is that one of their words? A sure sign that you need to be taken back to daddy," it's all incisively vicious. "You're playing too nice with those things...and I'll wager you've gone even further than that, you twisted little brat."
It spits out, it jabs, and Saemus flinches as if he's been slaped, his face closing for a moment in shame...Wil cannot tell if it's because the accusations are true or if he merely wishes they were.
"This all seems a bit rough for a rescue," Wil intervenes as smoothly as she can, forcing herself between Saemus and the woman.
"Competition. Heh," she sneers, eyes blazing. "I should have known the moment I saw you and your knife-ear that you'd try to steal what's rightfully mine. Don't know why you Fereldan's need the coin, ain't cost nothing to fuck a stray dog, and that's all your lot is good for."
It doesn't really anger Wil to hear her nationality so succinctly dismissed, but it seems like something that deserves a response.
"Then I will resist my overwhelming urge to hump your leg," Wil deadpans. "For the time being."
"The Winters...," her eyes darken, but her tone remains the same. "I have already claimed him."
As if he's a thing to be claimed, and not a person.
"Serah," Saemus whips his head towards Wil, his hard expression at odds with the wild mass of ebony hair that drifts around his bone white face. He's a whimsical looking young man, strong-featured but somehow fragile. His voice, though, belies strength as he lays out his terms. "I will go back, if I must, but I cannot see these...murderers rewarded."
The woman has a dagger in her hand, pulled out of nowhere, and she dances it towards Saemus' breast as she speaks.
"You really are the worst kind of spoiled shit," she snaps."Fine. Then I'll just cut out your tongue and demand more coin for bringin' you back quiet." She turns on Wil, the dagger joined by another and they catch the sunlight as she flips them around for a better grip, "As for you, I could do with some entertainment until the others show up. You and your friends look like a nice little diversion."
It lasts all of four minutes.
"So who, exactly, was the diversion supposed to be? Us?" Wil, struggling to catch her breath, glances at Varric who shrugs and tries to suppress a smile. The mercenary woman is dead, as are the men she'd had with her when Wil and her friends had arrived. Bodies litter the sand around them, some of them still smoldering from Bethany's exquisitely timed fire spell, and their leader is face down or, rather, belly down alongside the dead qunari. Her face is someplace else, her head flung back by the combined force of Wil's sword and the woman's own forward momentum. "I can't say I feel too bad about how this turned out."
Saemus is barely able to keep on his feet, his skin glistening with sweat as he struggles not to look at of the corpses or Wil's companions as they pick over the corpses.
"Sweet Andraste," gone is the qunari posturing. "I've never seen so many dead bodies...so much blood."
Wil, warmed by a flare of sympathy, feels suddenly as if she's sullied something quite pure. His face is tense with distaste, but there's also regret that shadows his eyes...guilt for all the lives lost on account of him.
"Hopefully you'll never become used to it," she scouts the camp to avoid further involvement in his disquiet. One side is covered by a sheer stone wall and two sides are on the water, and not in a fun, beachy way. It's nothing but a precipitous drop down into jagged rocks and the foaming sea that crashes against them, improbable for escape and impossible for ambush. The only way in or out is along the paths that brought them here in the first place. "But now's not the time to soil yourself. More will be here, and we'll have to fight."
Anders glances up from where he's been rummaging through a chest for supplies. "There are worse places to be trapped like rats. If we die here, at least we die with the sun on our faces and the ocean breeze in our hair."
"Strangely optimistic of you," Wil tries to frown but when she looks at him, really looks, all she's seeing is the need in his eyes as he held her face and all she's feeling is her own pooling somewhere below her stomach and pressing hard against the inside of her throat. It's not fair of him to do that to me, she knows this. But it's...something.
What I want.
She ignores the voice, ignores whatever Anders says in response, ignores the growing sweat stains forming under Saemus' underarms that stretch almost to his waist. There's a real chance that they'll be overwhelmed soon and they can't be unprepared.
"Should I warn them, Hawke?" Isabela, from her position closest to the paths, is practically coming out of her skin with excitement. Strange, she seemed less thrilled earlier.
"I think Bethany and Varric can..." she shouts towards her sister. "Some flaming bolts to the face might convey the signal quite efficiently, I think."
Isabela cackles, a magnificently hearty laugh. "They heard you, Hawke! One of them just went, 'Did she say flaming bolts? Oh, shit!'."
So they're close. But there's only a narrow passage into the camp, and Wil has so many on her side this afternoon...
"Choke the access. Bethany, start chucking fireballs as soon as they crest the hill and Merrill, focus your attention on the same spot. Fenris, Coulter and Isabela can handle those who make it through," she glances back at Saemus. "Anders, you and Sorrell stay with Saemus. Varric, Brennan and I will watch for anyone who finds a back entrance."
Wil's orders are still echoing when she hears the first fsssssch of flame being flung through the air. It lands just past the choke point and, from the screaming, seems to have taken down at least three of the Winters. A few slip by, one caught immediately by Coulter rushing forward, shoulder down and tucked behind his shield as he attacks. Fenris chases the other towards Isabela, the man clearly confused by the glowing half-naked elven death that is bearing down upon him and the half-naked, dagger-wielding wench that gleefully awaits.
From her vantage point, WIl can see almost everything and what she sees makes her feel strangely proud as the Winters are easily dispatched, even though they outnumber her and her companions at least seven to one.
She doesn't even need to draw her blade, a clear sign of a clean victory if ever there was one. What's more, most of the bodies are in one area, which makes for efficient looting.
How practically I deal with death today.
Saemus won't be thrilled to have to wade through corpses, but Wil doesn't imagine anything could make him happy at a time like this. With the threat seemingly gone, he's finally settled beside the fallen qunari, his knees pulled tight to his chest as he mourns his dead friend.
"Ashaad never lied or coddled," it's a eulogy. "You were either worth his time or you were not." He struggles to his feet, resolution clear in his eyes. "They're not brutes. That's what we hear, what we're told to believe and it's not true. Take me to my father, serah. Take me so I can try to make him see. Before it's too late."
"You and Ashaad were...friends?" Wil hates that she fumbled for the word, because she didn't mean to imply more than that. "I mean...clearly this was not your first encounter."
"I was...we met shortly after the ship ran aground. I was fleeing the Keep, my father. I come here to think, freely and away from everything, everyone," he clearly sees the Keep as just as much of a prison as would the criminals it holds. "Ashaad was mapping the coast, to 'find an answer for the Arishok'. I had so many doubts...the qunari have none."
"I've not heard much about the qunari being friendly, though. I've met about fifty Tal'Vashoth today, and only one so much as attempted anything close to polite conversation," she's being mostly facetious. About the Tal'Vashoth, at least.
Saemus smiles grimly. "Perhaps friend is not the right word...I am the Viscount's son, that is my identity. Ashaad saw me and I was worth his time. We were both seeking something, and that was enough."
It explains so much and ends her desire to push.
"So...," with a nod to Ashaad's lifeless form. "I'm not certain what one does with a dead qunari...do we bury him? And do we tell his people?"
At some point during the conversation, as if stealing strength from his slain companion, Saemus' romanticism has turned into something practical.
"It is just a body," the skin around his eyes pull tight as he struggles within himself to see it that way. "It deserves no special treatment. That is, apparently, their way. As for the others...they'll know. Whether they deign to acknowledge what happened, I have no idea." Then, without prompting, his tone grows wistful. "I did not understand Ashaad, not completely. But it was so very worth trying."
Wil tries arrange her face into an expression of understanding, because she knows what he's trying to say. Isn't she caught in her own little web of confusion? Feelings that shouldn't be felt, on top of a lifetime of ingrained belief on top of, yeah, maybe a little hero-worship because how many people are willing to dedicate themselves to something so thoroughly that they'd hand over their mind and their body? But, despite the complications and frustrations, wouldn't it be worth trying?
"Serah?" Saemus' gaze is surprisingly sympathetic.
"Yes," she drowns her musings in purpose. "We should get back to the Keep. The Viscount is worried."
It's the first really wrong thing she's said to him.
"The Viscount sends thugs to do a father's job," Saemus fumes. "I was in no danger until his 'help' arrived."
"This might have been avoided had you just told him what you wanted...where you were going," Wil gestures to the corpses around them, remembering the warnings about Saemus implied in what Seneschal hadn't said. "He might have taken a different approach."
"Or not let me leave at all," he sneers. "Keep your assumptions. He does not hear me, and he is as tired of being disappointed as I am of bearing it. I thought this might be...but now, Ashaad is dead. It's not right or fair."
Wil bites her tongue. Saemus is right that she should mind herself as she knows literally nothing of the Viscount or his relationship with his son.
"I..." she wants to apologize, but doesn't trust her ability to not screw things up even more. It has been known to happen. "Let's go, Saemus. It's getting late, and I'm not much in the mood to fight anyone right now."
Anger draining from his face, the young man nods in agreement. He, no doubt, would rather not see her fight anyone, either.
"Who would have guessed that being accused of screwing dogs would be the high point of my day?" Hawke murmurs aside to Sorrell. He's the only one besides her sister that had accompanied her all the way back to the Keep. Beth is currently in Aveline's office, catching up.
"I think anyone who knows you probably could have guessed that," he laughs. "Although how many people can say they've been thrown out of the Viscount's office for calling him stubborn?"
It's said a bit too loudly, because Bran hears, his eyes rolling upward and his mouth twisting into a put upon frown. While it's mortifying to think about the lapse in judgment that allowed her to say it, Wil can admit that his reaction to her remark that the Viscount and Saemus were both being hardheaded had been hilariously over the top.
"I should tell Aveline...it would give them something to commiserate over," Wil imagines the seneschal slumped in Aveline's comfy chair, complaining bitterly about Serah Hawke and her mouth. Aveline would, no doubt, offer him a flask of whiskey to ease the pain she herself knew so well. "Who knows? Maybe Aveline can get another promotion out of it."
"Captain's too good at what she does to be promoted. Even I know that," Sorrell's lips retain a ghost of a smile and his posture is relaxed as he lounges against the wall next to her. With his battle marked Kirkwall livery, and roguishly disheveled hair, he cuts a lithe yet handsome figure.
He's also nice. Even Fenris had thawed a bit, and she swore she'd overheard a chuckle or two emitting from the foul-tempered elf. So funny, too. And not half bad in bed.
Also, not possessed by a spirit that might very well be the thing that makes him a man that I want to be with.
This is a dangerous road, Wilhelmina.
"Maker's breath. What's taking so long?" She wields her impatience like a shield against her own thoughts. They're waiting for the accountant to process her payment, which promises to be substantial. Not that it will seem like much once she divides it seven ways, but she wants every penny. Her mother will need coin while Wil and Bethany are in the Deep Roads and Gamlen certainly can't be counted on to support her. As a matter of fact, Aveline will be the one who keeps Leandra's purse. Just to be on the safe side. Enough of the cash Wil earns goes to the Blooming Rose already via Isabela, Gamlen would probably earn himself a statue in the foyer if she left any laying around the apartment.
"Hey," Sorrell's hand out of nowhere is on her shoulder, and his thumb sneaks it's way beneath the edge of her undershirt. He doesn't wear normal gauntlets, the leather binds his fingers and compromises his grip, so she can feel the warmth of his skin at her collarbone. "I want to buy you dinner...you and Bethany, if she wants to come. There's a common house near Lirene's in Lowtown that Donnic swears serves the best ...what?"
Her hand is wrapped around his, her fingers sliding between his and her chest. "Not tonight, Sorrell. I've barely been home except to nap for Maker knows how long, and I'll be leaving soon. I really should spend some time with Mother before I'm gone for a month or two."
Something strikes through his eyes, not quite outright disappointment but close. She thinks he's going to hold it in but he gives small a huff and raises his eyebrows. "Why do you think I want to take you to dinner?"
"To thank me for getting you out of patrol?" She offers a hopeful grin. "You have to admit, we had way more fun running around killing qunari than you would've had frowning at beggars in the alienage."
He leans away from her, his lips twitching into a half-hearted smile. "You have me there, Hawke."
And he leaves it at that, because it's what he does. They wait for the reward in silence and he parts ways with her at the barracks, his gaze less warm but still familiar as he wishes her good night and, if he doesn't see her before she leaves, a safe and successful trip.
"Copper for your thoughts, Mina," Bethany's managed to sneak up on her. "Not that you need any more coin."
When Wil turns, she sees her sister's eyes seize upon the small, velvet purse embroidered with the seal of Kirkwall in white thread.
"Fancy, isn't it?" Wil hefts it aloft before chucking it into her pack. There's a whole jumble of loot within, including some more that might interest the mysterious Sebastian Vael, for whom she's been killing mercenaries. Apparently the Tal'Vashoth and an arm of the Flint Company had encountered each other on the coast before she could get to either. "Our cut of this should cover Mother while we're gone. Whatever I can get that dwarf to pay me will buy our supplies."
Bethany pulls her black hair away from her neck, wrapping it around her hand in thought. "What are we going to do if this all works out? I mean, if we actually find a fortune in the Deep Roads, and we get the estate back...what then?"
"I haven't really thought ahead that far," Wil shrugs and heads back to the Keep. "Mother will probably want me to play at politics or get married to some nobleman's son. You know, like Saemus. Which means that most of my time will be spent hiding at the Hanged Man or in the clinic. So...pretty much what we're doing now, only with a less rampant bloodshed. Why? Do you have a better plan?"
"No!" Bethany takes her elbow as they descend the main staircase. "Although...I didn't think he was that bad, to be honest. I have no love for the qunari after...but I can understand what he means. Sometimes I feel like I have no identity, beyond being your apostate sister."
Wil's stomach clenches and she fights the urge throw her arm around her...apostate sister.
"I don't mind, most the time," Beth's speaking frankly. "I actually like it, because it's safe. But sometimes I wish I could meet someone first, get to know them independently of you, or Mother." She laughs, "But don't worry, I'm not about to wander off and fall in love or convert or anything."
"You could if you wanted to," Wil hates the thought, herself, but it's true.
"I bet if his father had said that, and meant it, Saemus would have never ran off," she squeezes Wil's arm. "It's funny how people work. What they cling to and what they let get away."
It is funny, and it lurks at the back of Wil's mind like a sinister crow.
"You're pretty astute, Apostate Sister Hawke," Wil leads them through the door and into a brisk early evening that's perfect for many things, but especially this. Which is important and, as Bethany said, safe. "Do you want to stop by the Hanged Man and see if Varric will buy us a couple rounds? I need to tell him how I got kicked out of the Viscount's office for being an ass...surely that deserves some kind of reward."
"If only that's how things worked around here," Bethany sighs dramatically. "We'd be rich already."