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Hawke clutches the oversized bag of crisps to her chest. “Oh, Fenris,” she says mournfully.
“Isabela,” Fenris calls, and Isabela looks up from the magazine she is flipping through. “Hawke is crying over a bag of crisps.”
“Oh, is that all?” Isabela says. She puts the magazine back on the rack and comes over. “Alright, Hawke?” she asks, looking down at where Hawke is sitting on the floor.
“It says family size. The bag. I usually just eat these by myself. But then I realized,” Hawke wipes her nose, eyes red-rimmed, “you’re all my family now.”
Fenris and Isabela exchange a look.
“I saw that,” Hawke says, wiping her eyes and straightening up. She is still hugging the bag of crisps. “Just because my mother just died doesn’t mean you can give each other looks when you think I’m not watching.”
“What about flirting looks?” Isabela asks Hawke. “Can I still give Fenris flirting looks?”
“Flirting looks are acceptable,” Hawke concedes, making her way to the cash register.
“Do I get a say in this?” Fenris says.
“No, you don’t,” says Isabela. “Hawke said I can give you flirting looks, so I can give you flirting looks.” Hawke then assumes that Isabela gives Fenris a flirting look, because she hears a poorly concealed snort of laughter from him. She is too busy patting her pockets looking for her wallet.
“I’ve been robbed,” Hawke says blankly.
“Oh, sorry,” Isabela says, and pulls Hawke’s wallet from out of her own bra.
Hawke sighs. “That stopped being impressive the fifth time you did it, Isabela.”
Fenris raises his eyebrows. “You have let Isabela repeatedly pickpocket you?”
“It’s not my fault! She’s very good at — at distracting, and — well. Since you have my wallet,” says Hawke, stepping aside, “you can pay for the crisps.”
“Hawke,” Isabela says.
“What?”
“You have to let go of the crisps before we can pay for them.”
“Oh, right,” Hawke says. She releases the bag of crisps, and it falls, slightly crushed, onto the counter.
Hawke knows what her friends are up to. Isabela showed up at the crack of dawn, threw Hawke’s belongings into a suitcase, and told her they were going on a road trip.
Aveline knows a guy who knows a guy who is letting them borrow an old van for cheap. It has a tendency to make very loud creaking noises when pushed above a sedate speed, and it smells vaguely like turnips, but it hasn’t failed them yet.
Even Anders and Fenris were in on it. Hawke wonders at how they’ve managed to not start a shouting match for the entire trip so far, and whether it really is all for her sake. She supposes that it helps that Merrill sits between them. And that Merrill brought so many coloring books.
Ostensibly, the road trip is so that they can all go meet up with Varric, who has been traversing the Free Marches for his Hard in Hightown book tour. But she highly doubts that anyone has bothered to tell (warn) Varric that they’re all driving up to see him.
So yes, she knows exactly what her friends are up to. But she’s going along with it anyway.
Kirkwall can suck her dick.
Night has fallen, and they’re still driving, a vast, yawning space surrounding them. Hawke can almost imagine that there’s no other civilization out there. No Kirkwall, no Free Marches, no Ferelden — just them in this small van, driving through an empty world.
She sits with Aveline in the front as Aveline drives, a roadmap open in her lap, not that she’s been paying attention to it. Anders is awake in the backseat reading a book with a flashlight, his brow furrowed. They have the radio on with the volume low, some jazz station issuing crackling saxophone from out of the old speakers. Aveline hums along to it under her breath absentmindedly, as if she has not realized she is doing it. Everyone else is asleep.
“Shit,” Aveline hisses, slowing down a little. It pulls Hawke out of her peaceful stupor. “Templar checkpoint up ahead. Hawke, wake her up.”
“Right.” Hawke unclips her seatbelt to climb into the backseat. She shakes Merrill very gently awake.
Merrill hums drowsily, eyes fluttering open. “Hawke? What is it?”
“Merrill, my sweet, you must wake up,” Hawke says. “No more dreaming, all right? Leave the Fade behind you.”
Merrill’s eyes begin to focus. “Templars?” she whispers.
“Templars,” Hawke nods.
Anders has put away his book. He has that hunted, caged-in look in his eyes, and Hawke feels a fierce rush of protection. She will not let anyone be taken away from her. Never again.
“Are you alright?” she asks him.
He nods stiffly, seeming annoyed by the question. Hawke reminds herself that Anders is the most experienced out of all of them at avoiding templar attention. “Just like we practiced, Hawke,” he tells her, voice steady.
When the templars pull them over and examine them and their papers one by one, Hawke does as Anders has shown her. She controls her breathing, pulling herself away from the Fade. It is difficult, like trying to hold your breath underwater while swimming against a strong current, pulling her down.
Merrill, she knows, has the most trouble with it, but she’s improved. Living in Kirkwall as apostates has made practiced deceivers of them all.
The templars let them pass without any trouble, seeming bored and irritated at getting stuck with checkpoint duty. Their papers are all in order, well-forged by a contact Varric has back in Kirkwall.
“I still hate doing that,” Merrill says afterwards, leaning into Isabela, who looks exactly like she was woken up five minutes ago from drooling onto Fenris’ shoulder. “It makes me think of those made Tranquil.”
“Being Tranquil is much worse than closing yourself off from the Fade for two seconds,” Anders says harshly, and after everyone in the van turns to glare at him, he adds, apologetically, “but yes, it does feel — unnatural.”
“I was having such a nice dream too,” Merrill says, already drifting off.
“We’ll be at the next town soon, and then you can dream as much as you want, my sweet,” Hawke says. Merrill smiles a little, already falling asleep.
“What do you think, Hawke?” Aveline asks her later, as they drive into a small, dusty town. “It does seem like there are more checkpoints than usual, doesn’t it? Promise me you’ll be careful.”
Hawke smiles crookedly, the smile she knows from experience gives Aveline gray hairs. “I’m always careful.”
Aveline scowls, like Hawke knew she would. “I don’t know how you survived this long, Hawke, I swear,” Aveline sighs, her eyes on the road. There is a little weariness in her voice, and, maybe because Hawke is used to looking for it: a little disappointment, too. Aveline has always wanted Hawke to be better than she knows how.
“I’ve had you watching my back, that’s why,” Hawke says.
Aveline snorts. “No pressure.”
“Look, if you kept me alive when I barely knew Kirkwall and was getting into fights with every street gang in Darktown, then you’ve got more than enough practice,” Hawke tells her, and it’s all worth it when Aveline finally cracks a smile.
“Sorry, you know how I worry,” Aveline says. “I can’t turn off being a cop.”
“I know,” Hawke says, putting a hand out and squeezing Aveline’s shoulder. “Try to enjoy yourself, will you? Aren’t these road trip things supposed to be for having fun?”
“That’s what Isabela keeps saying,” Aveline says, grinning.
They pull into the parking lot of a motel with a blinking “VACANCY” sign. Everyone gets situated, and turns in quickly. Aveline practically has to carry Merrill to her bed. Hawke, on the other hand, still feels like a live wire. Probably left over from running into templars. It feels like Kirkwall’s eyes are on her.
“They have a pool, you know,” Isabela says, quietly, nudging at Hawke with her shoulder. There is something knowing in the way she looks at her and Hawke gets the sense that she’s being coaxed. “Want to go for a swim?”
Hawke sighs. She is tired of feeling like a spooked animal everyone keeps trying to draw out from under the furniture. And she misses Varric. “Yeah, I’d like that,” she says.
They get changed, and Hawke slides into the heated water with a grateful hum, letting her muscles loosen one by one. The moon, almost full, shines silver through the clouds. She floats on her back and watches it, comparing it to her view from her roof in Hightown. It’s not so bad.
She closes her eyes. It’s not fair that she misses Kirkwall, after everything that city has taken from her.
It gave you so much too, a voice says in her head. She makes a face, and ducks her head below the surface, exhaling slowly so that bubbles fill her vision.
When she comes up for air, Isabela is taking off her swimsuit. “Oh, Isabela, really,” Hawke says. “What if someone sees?”
“No one’s awake. It’s fine,” Isabela says with a grin, and then dives headfirst, completely naked, into the pool.
“Oh, for—” Hawke says through gritted teeth as she gets splashed and pushed to the side.
Isabela surfaces, hair shiny-wet. “Oh, sorry, did I get you?” she says, innocently, and Hawke lunges at her.
They wrestle in the water, laughing louder than they should, considering it is the middle of the night. At one point, Hawke manages to pull Isabela by her legs down into the water, and they hang there suspended for a moment, staring at each other, silently daring each other to a contest to hold their breaths.
Hawke loses, of course, and has to kick back up to the surface and gasp for air. Isabela follows soon after, looking pleased with herself. They chase each other across the pool a few more times before Hawke lets Isabela catch her in her arms.
“I’ve got you,” laughs Isabela, nuzzling into her neck. “You’re mine now.” Her breath is hot against Hawke’s wet skin, and suddenly, Hawke needs to be kissed.
“Here? Really?” Isabela asks, after Hawke has wrapped her legs around her waist, has kissed Isabela until Isabela is forced to move them into the shallow end of the pool, so they don’t have to tread water.
“You’re the one who’s already naked,” Hawke says, trying not to sound petulant and failing. Isabela’s dark hair fans out in the water, reminding Hawke of mermaids and sirens and drowning in a kiss.
“That’s fair,” says Isabela, easily convinced, and Hawke wonders if this was her plan all along. Isabela moves one hand away from the small of Hawke’s back to sink lower into the water.
“You’ve — ah! — you’ve done this before, haven’t you,” Hawke says, panting a little. She shifts a little so that Isabela can get a better angle, braces herself with one arm on the edge of the pool deck.
“What, fucked someone in a pool in the middle of the night?” It’s the casual way she says it that makes Hawke moan. She can’t help it. “Actually,” Isabela continues, “this is a first. I am good at it though.”
“You are, you’re very — oh, fuck — very good,” Hawke agrees deliriously, unable to focus on much besides the sensation of Isabela’s fingers moving on her in the warm water. She feels something building inside of her, threatening to break.
“Just keep — keep doing that, will you?” Hawke tightens her other arm around Isabela’s shoulders.
“Wasn’t planning on stopping.” Isabela trails her lips up Hawke’s neck. She bites gently at her ear, and Hawke gasps.
“Good thing we have our own room tonight,” Isabela says. “Got tired of telling myself I shouldn’t just get you off under the covers, Merrill and Aveline be damned. Kept imagining the look on the big girl’s face if she found out, though.”
Hawke huffs a laugh, something between hysteria and consternation. “Yeah, that would’ve been—” Something changes in the angle of Isabela’s fingers, and suddenly Hawke doesn’t feel as much as a live wire as she feels like there’s a bolt of lightning caught in her ribs. “Oh Maker, Isabela, please.”
Hawke hears Isabela’s breath catch. She wishes she could see her face, but it’s still hidden in Hawke’s neck, her lips moving across the shell of her ear.
“Hawke,” Isabela says, and, hell, why does she sound so desperate when there’s a damn thundercloud sparking in Hawke’s chest? “If only you — if only you knew what you—” The rhythm of her fingers falters, turning into erratic shallow thrusts that makes Hawke want to scream.
There is something in Isabela’s voice that Hawke has never heard before, and Hawke wants to ask her about it, but before she can even try to look into Isabela’s face, she arches with a cry, the sensation finally enough to throw her over the edge. The pressure that has been building in her releases. It feels like lightning arcing over her skin.
And then, she realizes, there is lightning arcing over her skin.
“Fuck!” She gains control of herself just in time before the sparking energy can build up to something dangerous, but she still feels the current travel through her, to Isabela, conducting off the wet water beading on their skin. It feels like a kick to the heart. Spots appear in Hawke’s vision.
Then the lights over the pool go out with a hiss and a pop, leaving them in darkness.
“Shit!” Hawke says, wincing. “Are you alright, Isabela?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine,” Isabela says, breathing a little heavily. She looks up, and grins a little weakly. “Wow, Hawke, I haven’t had you do that since—”
Hawke closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against the cement pool deck with a wet slap. “Yes, okay, I remember. You don’t have to—”
“—that time we thought it would be a good idea to slip away during the Seneschal’s Wintersend party, and you—”
“Isabela, I know, I was there.”
“—and all the lights in the entire manor went out, and they had to roast the pig in the—”
“Okay, well, how about we finish this up in our room?” Hawke says quickly. “I don’t want anyone to come checking up on why all the lights suddenly went out.”
That gets Isabela’s attention. Not the threat of Hawke being found out as an apostate, of course, but the promise of their own room. Hawke thinks that she should be immune to blushing after being in a relationship with Isabela for so long, but it doesn’t matter. Isabela gets that considering look on her face and she’s blushing all the same. At least it’s dark.
“Well, come on, then,” Isabela says, eagerly getting out of the pool. She doesn’t bother putting on her bathing suit again, just wraps herself in a towel.
“My mother warned me about you!” Hawke calls after her, getting out of the pool a little clumsily. Her limbs are a bit weak from one of the best orgasms she’s ever had and being shot through with a lightning spell. She reaches for her towel, teeth chattering from being out in the cold air.
“Your mother loved me,” Isabela says cheerfully, and damn her, she’s right.
It is only when they’ve both stepped inside the hotel room and Isabela has peeled her out of her swimsuit that Hawke realizes that she talked about her mother out loud, and didn’t even have a cry about it.
Perhaps this road trip business is worth it after all.
Hawke wakes up some time after dawn, judging by the dim light filtering into the room. Someone is knocking urgently at their door.
Isabela makes a soft noise, scrunching her face and pushing it further into her pillow. Hawke can’t help smiling at the sight of it. She untangles her limbs gently from Isabela’s and reluctantly slips out of the warm bed.
“I swear, if this is Anders and you’ve run out of shampoo again,” Hawke grumbles, pulling on a shirt she finds on the floor. But when she looks through the peephole, it’s Fenris who glowers back.
She opens the door and blinks at him. “Fenris? What is it?” she asks.
He looks as tense as she’s ever seen him, something hardened in his shoulders that tells her he’s ready to fight. He’s got his bag slung over his shoulder, packed. She wonders if he has gotten into an argument with Anders, but instead he says, “Templars are here. They’re going door-to-door, Hawke.”
“What,” Hawke says.
“They got to Aveline’s and Merrill’s room first,” Fenris tells her.
“Oh no, did Merrill—?” Pure terror stabs at her.
Fenris shakes his head. “No, they’re — they’re looking for someone with Isabela’s description.”
“Isabela?” Hawke says in confusion. Wait. Oh. She slaps her forehead. “Shit, someone must have seen us.”
Fenris looks at her curiously. “Did Isabela manifest magical abilities while I was not paying attention?”
“I’ll explain later!” Hawke says quickly. Or never. She drags a hand over her face. Hopefully no one will ask and this experience will slip by them and she will learn her lesson and never have sex with Isabela in a public setting ever again.
“And Anders?” she asks from between her fingers.
Fenris looks briefly amused. “He escaped through the bathroom window before they arrived at our door. Aveline has started the van up in the back parking lot. Come down there as soon as you can.”
He stalks away, presumably to go help Aveline load the van. Hawke closes the door, sighs, and turns to the bed, where Isabela has now burrowed under all of the blankets. She does a mental calculation of how many rooms this motel has. They probably only have a few minutes.
“Come on, my little mage, it’s time to get up before the templars get you,” Hawke says, starting to throw stray clothes into an open bag.
“I’m not a mage,” Isabela says sleepily, from beneath the covers. “My girlfriend, though. She’s a mage. You can take her.”
Despite herself, Hawke grins to herself like a fool. Isabela rarely calls them girlfriends when she’s fully awake. Not that this is the time for that, though. Hardening her voice, she says loudly, “Isabela, I’m serious. Get up. There’s templars here.”
Isabela pokes her head out. “Fuck. Is it because we—”
Hawke winces. “Yes. But they — they think it was you.”
Predictably, Isabela is delighted by this. She bounces upright in bed, grinning. “Really? Wow. I’ve never been an apostate mage before.”
“Oh, it’s loads of fun, trust me,” Hawke tells her dryly. “Now hurry up and help me get all our stuff packed.”
Once she’s up, Isabela gets them ready to go in a flash. She is rather good at leaving premises in a hurry. They’re just turning the corner to go down the stairwell when a voice calls out to them.
“You there, stop. You’re who we’re looking for.” Two templars, a man and a woman, walking up behind them. Their uniforms are much like the Kirkwall police uniform that Aveline wears for work, except for the gleaming pauldrons and chestpieces strapped around their shoulders — holy armor blessed by the Chantry.
These aren’t just checkpoint templars barely out of training. They’re Mage Hunters.
“They haven’t seen you. Keep going,” Isabela hisses at her. “Meet me at the van.”
“No fucking way,” Hawke whispers back. “What if they take you?”
“I’ll be fine, I’m not a mage, now go.” Isabela pushes Hawke down the stairs, and before Hawke can stop her, walks back up to meet the templars.
Hawke doesn’t move, stays hidden in the stairwell. She hears Isabela say, cheerfully, “Good morning officers. What can I help you with?”
If she weren’t afraid of being heard, she would groan. Isabela is using that voice. The I-can-certainly-flirt-my-way-out-of-this voice. It has a very limited success rate.
From the tone of the templar who answers, the woman, it doesn’t work. “You were seen last night performing lightning magic. Present your papers.”
“Here they are, right here,” Isabela says, and there is the sound of rustling papers. “I’m not a mage. You can test me right now if you want. Extensively, even. I don’t mind.” If Isabela lays it on any thicker, Hawke thinks, the templars might just arrest her for outrageous flirting.
Her face in her hands, Hawke listens to the silent, drawn-out moment. It seems to Hawke like it takes a longer time than usual. These Hunters must have other ways of making sure someone isn’t a mage. Hawke’s heart hammers in her chest. If it had been her, or Merrill, or Anders, they would not have made it out undetected.
Finally, she hears the male templar speak. “No magic in this one,” he says. “Isabela, is it? Was there anyone with you last night, Isabela?”
“No, just me,” Isabela lies easily. “The lights went out all of a sudden. Must have been a fuse.”
There is a pause, and Hawke thinks that they’re convinced, that this might be the end of it.
“No, there was definitely a discharged electrical wave,” the female templar says. “I’m going to have to ask you to come in for questioning.”
“Questioning?” Isabela says, pouting audibly. “But I’m on vacation with my friends, and we—”
“Friends?” the male templar asks, instantly catching on Isabela’s slip. “Would you mind taking us to them?”
They can’t let these Hunters examine Merrill or Anders, and Isabela must know that.
“Yeah, they’re just down these stairs,” Isabela says, pitching her voice a little louder. Hawke hears it as the signal it is meant to be.
Shit, shit, shit. She flattens herself against the wall, listening to their approaching footsteps, and tries to calm her breathing. Shit, shit, shit. In a panic, she digs into one of the bags and pulls out a scarf. She ties this around her face as best as she can, hoping it’ll obscure her features.
As soon as the two templars round the corner, Hawke strikes the nearest one, the man, with a lightning spell. It’s only because she catches him unaware that she manages to hit him in the side, in the spaces between his armor. He convulses as the shockwave goes through him, and goes down with a clatter, falling down the stairs.
The other templar charges at Hawke, arm glowing in a holy smite, but in doing so, her attention slips from Isabela. Using this to her advantage, Isabela kicks at the back of her knee and the templar crumples to the floor. Isabela quickly knocks her out with a strike to the back of her head.
“Well, shit. That could have gone better,” Isabela says, propping her hands on her hips.
“We have to — we should hide the bodies, or—” Hawke says, heart beating wildly.
Isabela shakes her head. “No time. Let’s just get to the parking lot.”
“What if I hadn’t waited?” Hawke demands. “What if I had gone ahead to the van like you told me to?”
“But you didn’t, did you?” Isabela takes Hawke’s face in her hands, her fingers reassuringly solid against the back of Hawke’s head. “I know you. I know you’re an idiot who doesn’t want to leave people behind even after they tell you to. They only make stubborn fools like you Champions.”
“Maker, I hate you.” Hawke says, taking Isabela’s hands by their wrists and kissing the inside of a palm. “And you flirt terribly, by the way.”
Isabela draws her hands away quickly and winks roguishly at her. “It worked on you, didn’t it?”
They leave the templars lying in the stairwell, and make their way quickly towards the parking lot, where the van is waiting, its engine already running. As soon as they pile in, Aveline begins driving them out of there. Not very quickly, of course. As far as getaway vehicles go, this one is lousy, although Hawke has gotten oddly fond of its strong turnip smell.
As soon as they’re clear, Merrill hugs her. “Oh, Hawke, I’m glad you’re safe! I thought you’d be taken, and then we’d all have to break you out of the Circle.”
Hawke laughs, a little choked. Merrill hugs very tightly. “Yes, I’m fine. Isabela’s fine. I’m glad they didn’t take me to the Circle too. I’d look hideous in robes.”
Merrill lets go of her to go hug Isabela, and, freed, Hawke climbs up to the front passenger seat.
“That was close, Hawke. That was way too fucking close,” Aveline says in a low voice.
“I know,” Hawke says. “We had to — well. Isabela and I took care of them.”
Aveline’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel. “You — Hawke, once they find out what’s happened, templars are going to shut down the roads.”
Hawke nods, sick with guilt that she’s dragged all of them into this. “I know. We need somewhere to — to lie low, at least until they move their search somewhere else.”
“Merrill, has your clan not been occupying the Vinmark Mountains near here?” Fenris asks.
Merrill pulls away from Isabela to stare at him. “I — well, yes, but how do you know that?”
Fenris scowls. “I don’t know, you were talking about it, I suppose.”
Merrill continues to stare at him with wide eyes. “I didn’t think you listened,” she says.
“Never mind,” Fenris snarls. He buries his face up to the tips of his ears into his hoodie, and tightens the drawstrings.
“Is it true, Merrill?” Aveline asks, ignoring Fenris. “Do you think they’d take us in for a bit?”
Still looking puzzled, Merrill says, “Yes, they are in the Vinmark Mountains. I suppose we could ask them if they’ll let us stay with them for a few nights.”
“You sound unsure,” Aveline says.
“No, it,” Merrill pauses, fiddling with the sleeves of her sweater and pulling them over her hands, “it’s been a long time since I’ve been to see them, that’s all.”
“I’d love to meet them, Merrill,” Isabela says warmly. “You talk about them so often. And I’m sure Fenris is dying to see what all the fuss is about as well.”
“Oh, be quiet,” Fenris says, slightly muffled.
Merrill and Hawke switch places so that Merrill can help Aveline navigate, and Hawke sits in the back with Fenris and Isabela. Fenris has emerged from his hoodie, pacified, and is letting Isabela idly trace the lyrium tattoos on his arm. Anders has gone to sleep, a book half open in his lap.
“I’m glad that one’s finally getting some rest,” says Hawke, reaching over to mark Anders’ place in his book before it can slip from his loosened grip. “He looked even deader than I did when we set out.”
“Actually, you looked pretty dead, Hawke,” Isabela says. “I think the bags under your eyes had started producing their own gravitational waves.”
Hawke scowls. “Well, it’s not like I was single-handedly acting as the chief medic for all of Darktown.”
“No one asked him to do that,” Fenris says, but any of the usual acidity he uses to talk about Anders is absent. The temporary truce between him and Anders has held up surprisingly well over the course of their trip. Hawke only hopes that it’ll endure.
“Oh, it’s that turn just there!” Merrill says suddenly, and Aveline turns them a little sharply onto a mountain road. The entrance of it is barely visible, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it, overgrown with foliage and not maintained. There is no road sign, and Hawke wonders at how Merrill was able to remember when she still gets lost on the way to the markets in Kirkwall sometimes.
The way up is rough, the road uneven, and as they twist their way slowly up the mountain, the sun begins to set. Hawke looks out the window, sees the steep edge of the road drop off into nothingness, and is suddenly very thankful that Aveline is one of the safest drivers she knows.
Anders is awake now, looking out the window as well.
“I meant to say,” Hawke tells him quietly, “thanks for coming. I know leaving behind your clinic in Darktown must be hard for you.”
He frowns a little, looking tired. “That’s part of why I wanted to come. I heard mages in the other cities are less — constrained. I was hoping I could dig up some contacts from the Mage Underground and send some aid to Kirkwall.”
“Anything I can do to help, you’ll let me know?” she asks him.
He looks surprised. “Yeah. Of course. I thought you’d be — well. An apostate did just kill your mother.” Anders sees the look on her face and winces. “Sorry.”
Hawke takes a deep breath, and shakes her head. “No, it’s fine. It’s just — what does that have to do with anything?”
“People see something like that happen, some monster with magical abilities doing acts of inhumanity, they — they start thinking anyone with magical abilities is a monster,” Anders says bitterly.
“I’m a mage too,” Hawke reminds him. “Just because we were born with the same abilities as that — that scum. That doesn’t mean we have to share anything else.”
Anders nods, smiling a little. From up close it is hard not to see how hollow-eyed he looks. “Thanks, Hawke. That — well, let’s just say there are times when it’s easy for me to forget that.”
Casting around for a way to lighten the conversation, Hawke’s eyes fall on the book in Anders’ lap. “Is that Varric’s new book?” she says with surprise.
Anders’ eyes widen and he clutches it to his chest, hiding the cover from her, but she’s already seen it. “Maybe! Why?” he says, voice climbing in pitch.
“You’re reading Varric’s book!” says Hawke, with no small amount of glee. “You said you hate frivolous comedy. That’s what you called it!”
“We’re going to his book tour! I thought I should read it,” Anders says defensively. “And it’s, well, it’s not so bad.”
“Even I haven’t read it,” Hawke says.
Anders scowls. “Look, I had it lying around. Varric gave us those pre-print copies, didn’t he? I thought I’d skim through it.”
“Well, go on then,” Hawke says, grinning. “Read us some. We could book club it.”
“You’re joking,” says Anders. “You don’t actually want me to—”
“I’m serious,” Hawke says, gently. “You’re right. We’re crashing Varric’s book tour. The least we could do is actually read his book.”
Isabela turns towards them, halfway into a card game with Fenris. It appears that they are betting loose pieces of change that they have dug up from underneath the van seats. “I haven’t read it either,” she says. “Go on, Anders. Varric always does such good dirty bits.”
Now that even Fenris is looking at them with interest, Anders finally agrees to read aloud to them. He turns to the front of the book, and begins to read in that steady, measured voice of his, perhaps too serious for the subject material, which is quite frivolous. But Isabela’s right — Varric does great dirty bits, and it’s fun to see Anders read them, trying very obviously not to smile, and inevitably failing.
They stop briefly so that Aveline can stretch her legs. The view is incredible, the world sprawled out below them, clouds settled low so that it looks like they’re floating above an endless white sea.
As they continue driving, it gets dark. Merrill does that Dalish cantrip of hers and sends tiny orbs of light floating through the van, gently bouncing off the walls. Fenris swats at them whenever one drifts close, but otherwise tolerates it.
Helped by the dim light, Anders keeps reading. He’s gotten really into it, even doing a few voices. Hawke feels more at peace than she’s felt in weeks, like something heavy has steadied her, a paperweight on a restless, stirring page.
She falls asleep to the sound of Merrill asking Isabela what a corset is, and why a lady’s bosoms are spilling out of it.
When they arrive at the camp, Hawke is delirious with sleep. She remembers walking out of the van, bright points of lit campfires chasing away the darkness. This far away from any city, the darkness is thicker than anything she’s used to, until even the ground at her feet is hazy. She stumbles a few times, until Isabela takes her hand and leads her.
She remembers Merrill speaking with someone, an elderly woman who looks over their group with a tight expression. She remembers the hunched angle of Merrill’s shoulders, and wanting to reach out and touch her, but unsure if it would be taken the wrong way. And then she remembers being led to a tent, and collapsing.
Light spills into their tent, and Hawke tries to hide from it by throwing an arm across her eyes.
“Come on, I heard you can see the ocean from up here. Get up,” Isabela says, from somewhere to her right.
“If you want to see the ocean, go see the ocean,” Hawke says, or tries to. It comes out more like an unintelligible garble of sounds.
“Cute,” Isabela says mildly. “Come on, I brought coffee.”
Coffee! Hawke sits up so quickly that she feels slightly faint. But sure enough, Isabela is holding two cracked mugs of coffee.
“I love the Dalish,” Hawke says, two sips in. It’s good. It warms her up.
“Yeah, well, I’m not so sure they love us back,” Isabela says, passing Hawke a sausage.
“Is Merrill alright?” Hawke asks, remembering how small Merrill had looked last night when they’d arrived.
Isabela shrugs. “She was gone when I woke up. Her and the Keeper — that’s that old woman — they went off on a walk together and haven’t been back.”
Hawke finishes and dusts her hands off. “Okay well, let’s go see this ocean.”
She comes out of the tent blinking against the sunlight. It’s bigger than she thought it would be, the campground bustling with activity. Children run around, playing, and several Dalish leading halla to the grazing field joke and laugh, talking rapidly in Elvhen.
Several children stop in their tracks to stare at Hawke as she emerges. She makes a face at them, and they run off again, screaming in delight. It makes her feel a little better.
From here, she can’t see anyone else from their group except Anders, who seems to be having an animated conversation with a man holding a basket of herbs. Hawke wonders how much sleep he got.
“This way,” Isabela says, and leads her through the camp. The path begins to get steeper and they leave the bustle of the camp behind. They pass a hunter, and he looks at them with suspicion but does not stop to question them. Other than that, they don’t see anyone.
They walk for some time, the way getting gently steeper, until a sheen of sweat has broken across Hawke’s forehead despite the cool air, and she’s breathing a little heavier. Finally, there is a break in the trees. The path levels off.
“Wow,” Hawke says, looking out over the edge of the mountaintop.
“There it is,” Isabela says, voice soft. It’s a clear day, and they can easily see the strip of blue of the Waking Sea on the horizon. They sit there with their knees drawn up, gazing out at the distant water.
“Do you miss it?” Hawke asks.
“I don’t,” Isabela says, slowly, like she’s only just realizing the answer to Hawke’s question. “I don’t need the ocean anymore, I suppose. I’m done running.”
“What if I want to run?” Hawke says. She thinks of all the distance between them and Kirkwall at this very moment. It doesn’t seem like much distance at all.
“Then I’d truss you up and take you hostage,” Isabela says fiercely, and Hawke is certain that Isabela knows what she is truly asking. “I’d carry you to the edge of the map, and no one would ever hear of you again.”
Hawke yawns and puts her head on Isabela’s shoulder. “Good answer.”
The sun climbs higher in the sky, until they can feel the day heating up and the morning chill leaving. As always, Hawke marvels at the way sunlight catches off of Isabela’s hair. She still smells like pool chlorine from the night before.
Maybe it’s seeing the world from this high up, but it makes Hawke feel a little stronger, more clear-headed. She thinks about the haze that she’s been in ever since her mother died. There is a lot that she needs to do that she wasn’t strong enough to do before.
“When we get down from this mountain,” Hawke says decisively, “I’m calling Carver.”
They spend three days there. Anders pesters the Dalish into teaching him everything they know about herblore. Fenris avoids the camp, keeping to himself somewhere in the woods. They only see him at mealtimes, where he eats his food savagely as if to dare anyone to approach him, only to disappear again.
Surprisingly, Anders is the only one who he speaks with.
Anders shrugs dismissively when Hawke asks him about it. “He’s just helping me pick herbs.”
Aveline, meanwhile, mostly sits on top of the van listening to her old police scanner for updates about the templars’ hunt for them. According to the few reports that she manages to catch, Mage Hunters are still searching for them. There are descriptions of Isabela, but thankfully none of Hawke or the rest of the party.
Merrill and the Keeper never come back from their walk. One night goes by, then two more. Hawke asks the other Dalish about it, but they seem to think that it’s perfectly normal for their leader and her (ex-) apprentice to camp out in the woods for days on their own.
“Should we go look for them?” Hawke asks one night after dinner. The stars are out in their multitudes and it’s cold enough that she has to huddle under three blankets with Isabela.
Isabela chews her lip. “Merrill knows this mountain. She knows how to take care of herself. We’re probably more likely to get lost out there than she is.”
It’s annoying, but Hawke has to admit that Isabela is right. “Living in a city has made me get all soft,” she grumbles, pulling tighter into the warmth of their blankets. Not that she was much of an outdoorsman when she lived in Lothering either.
But it turns out, they don’t need to go looking for Merrill at all. They are asleep in their tent when Merrill comes in, bringing in a gust of cool air. It is hard to see her in the darkness.
“Kitten?” Isabela says.
Merrill says nothing. After a while, she gives a strangled sob.
“Merrill, what’s wrong?” Hawke says, pulling her towards them. Merrill immediately goes into her arms.
“Oh, Hawke, I knew we had to come here to get away from the templars but I wish we hadn’t,” Merrill says. “I should have said something before but I don’t think I realized until I saw her that I really didn’t want to come back here.”
“Slow down, Merrill,” Hawke says gently. “You have to start from the beginning. What happened?” She looks at Isabela from over Merrill’s shoulder. “Is this about your blood magic?”
They don’t talk about it much. Fenris and Anders both threw a fit when they found out, but Hawke has never been anything but impressed by the grace with which Merrill casts her spells, the proud way she carries the scars running across her palms. Perhaps it is chantry propaganda, in the end, to fear something as primal and ancient as blood magic.
In Hawke’s arms, Merrill pulls herself smaller until she’s practically disappearing into Hawke’s chest. She smells of wilderness and woodsmoke. “She hates me,” Merrill says, her voice small.
“Then she doesn’t deserve you,” Isabela says, matter-of-fact. Her voice is flat, like she knows just how hard this truth is to believe. “Just because she wants you to be something else, there’s nothing wrong with you just the way you are.”
Hawke is silent, just watches Isabela. By the dim moonlight filtering into the tent, Hawke can see how cold and distant Isabela’s eyes have gotten.
“That’s what I admire the most about you, Merrill,” Isabela continues, a hand going up to stroke Merrill’s hair. “You don’t let anyone hold you back, no matter what. You’re stronger than I am.”
At this, Merrill pulls away from Hawke, too surprised to be miserable, it seems. She stares at Isabela. “That’s not true,” Merrill says, sounding almost offended.
Isabela throws her head back and laughs, and Hawke loves her so much in this moment that she feels wild with it. “Learn how to take a compliment, Kitten,” Isabela says, and kisses Merrill on the lips.
Hawke sees Merrill melt into it, the way she always does — goes shivery and pleased whenever Hawke and Isabela take her into their bed. Merrill crawls into Isabela’s lap, opening her mouth eagerly, and Isabela smiles and kisses her again.
They lie there, across the blankets, and Hawke and Isabela share Merrill between them in the dark, the cold night air held at bay in their small tent.
Merrill doesn’t really try to stay quiet, and there’s a point where Hawke has her mouth on her, hoping to make her come a fourth time, where Hawke is pretty sure the entire camp can hear her. Isabela laughs and kisses Merrill quiet.
After they are finally spent, Merrill falls asleep immediately, clearly exhausted from her trip. Isabela and Hawke are awake for a long time through the night, listening to the wind howling outside their tent, telling each other stories. Of the time Bethany set Carver’s hair on fire by accident. Of the time Isabela’s mother took her down to the river and braided her hair.
As soon as the sun comes up, they get ready to leave. Hawke and Anders help Aveline in loading up the van. This is made slightly difficult by the bundles and bundles of dried herbs that Anders insists on taking with him.
“I should say goodbye,” Merrill says, sounding as if she’s dreading doing so.
“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” Isabela says.
“What if I never see her again?” Merrill says. “She’s my only family, really. Her and the clan.”
“We’re your family now too, Merrill,” Hawke says, gently. She takes Merrill’s hand. “Do you want me to come with you?” she asks, and Merrill shakes her head.
“No, I can do this,” Merrill says, and gives a quivering smile. “Thank you.”
“If you’re not out in five minutes, I’ll create a distraction,” Hawke tells her.
This time, Merrill’s smile looks much more genuine. “Oh, Creators, no. Your distractions always end up with something burning to the ground.”
“Not always,” Hawke says indignantly, and she gives Merrill’s hand one final squeeze and lets her go.
Aveline’s head pokes over the top of the van. “We’re almost ready to go. Has anyone seen Fenris?”
“I think I saw him heading to the river a while ago,” says Anders. He is busy trying to stuff what looks like a bundle of dead twigs into the space between two bags.
“I’ll go get him then,” Hawke says, and picks her way through the camp. As she nears the river, she spots Fenris’ bright head of hair. He’s sitting on the bank of the river, seeming entranced by the rushing waters.
“We’re all packed,” Hawke says, and Fenris looks up at her with surprise. Hawke realizes that she hasn’t spoken to Fenris at all over the last three days — she’s barely seen him. She sits down next to him. “Are you okay?”
Fenris smiles a little bitterly. “Always so concerned with others. Even when you’re the one who’s just lost everything. It is nothing. I am fine.”
“You know, if Varric were here, he’d say you were brooding,” Hawke says. “You are, though. He’d be right.”
“Then I should get all my brooding done before we see him, shouldn’t I?” Fenris says.
“You’re really not going to tell me?” Hawke says. She won’t push. Fenris has always been one to nurse his own hurts, in his own time.
“Home. I was thinking of home,” Fenris says.
“Kirkwall?” Hawke asks.
Fenris shakes his head. “No. Not specifically at least. Seeing the Dalish, I suppose. It made me think of home. Somewhere I might belong.”
“Oh,” Hawke says, understanding.
Fenris snorts. “A pointless riddle. One I’m sure you’ve had your fair share of trying to solve.”
“Yes, I have,” Hawke says. “Although I suppose when they make you champion of a city and put up a statue of you, that answers the question for you.”
Fenris makes a noise of disapproval. “No one should answer that for you,” he says sternly.
“Well, what about you then?” Hawke asks him. “Any progress?”
“Yes, actually,” Fenris says, smiling with more than a little irony. “I’ve learned it’s definitely not with the Dalish. We’ve been here three days and I’m already sick of their stories and the smell of halla.” He gets to his feet, and helps Hawke to hers. “Come on. Let’s be rid of this place.”
The drive down from the mountain is solemn, until Anders, without any prompting, clears his throat and begins to read from where he left off in Varric’s novel. It brightens the mood considerably, until even Aveline is chuckling over the steering wheel. By the time they reach the main road again, they are more than halfway through the novel, and Anders’ voice is growing slightly hoarse.
They stop at a gas station to refill the van’s tank, and Isabela looks at Hawke pointedly. “They have a payphone,” she says.
Hawke makes a face.
“You said,” Isabela starts.
“I know, I know,” Hawke says. “I’m going.” She marches to the payphone, puts in her coins almost violently, and then waits, heart pounding, as the call begins to dial.
Carver picks up. “Hello?”
“Carver, it’s me.” Hawke says. She grips the phone tightly. “How are you?”
“Oh,” Carver says, and is silent a long moment. “I’m fine. You just missed Gamlen.”
Hawke hates how tight her chest has gotten. “Does he visit often?” she asks.
“Yeah, bit annoying really. Ever since you left, he’s been coming round the Gallows every so often,” Carver says. “Keeps talking about, well. Mother.”
Hawke takes a deep breath and rests her head on the cool glass of the phone booth door. “I’m sorry I didn’t call after it happened. Gamlen wanted to be the one to tell you.”
“Not like you talked to me at the funeral either,” Carver points out, voice flat.
Hawke barely remembers her mother’s funeral. She had not slept in perhaps two days, and was grateful when Gamlen pulled himself together and organized most of it. Every time some Hightown noble tried to give Hawke their condolences, Hawke would just stare at a point somewhere behind their head until they were so put off by it that they left her alone. And afterwards, she got drunk at the Hanged Man and passed out on Varric’s couch.
In short, there’s a very good chance that she did not speak to Carver during the funeral at all.
“Look, I know I’m a mess. I know you blame me for her death.” Hawke says. “I blame myself too.”
Carver makes an angry noise. “I don’t fucking blame you. Maker, just because you’re a blighted Champion now, that doesn’t mean everything is about you!”
Hawke blinks in surprise, not sure if she heard correctly. “Wait, what?”
“I’m the fucking templar, aren’t I?” Carver continues, his voice rising. “It was an apostate mage that killed her. I should have stopped him.”
“Hold on,” Hawke says. “Don’t be thick. This is completely stupid.”
“Oh, so it’s stupid when I do it, is it? But it’s totally fine when you blame yourself!” Carver yells.
“Yes, it’s fucking stupid!” Hawke yells back. She isn’t even sure what they are fighting about anymore, just that all this anger she had kept somewhere locked up inside her ever since she saw her mother die is being released. “You weren’t even there! I was.”
“Yes, but I should have been there,” Carver says. His voice is shaking, Hawke realizes, even though he is still yelling. “She fucking told me about the lilies, you know. She fucking told me, and I thought she was talking about just another ridiculous Hightown intrigue.”
“Yes, but how were you to know?” Hawke argues.
“Shut up,” Carver says. “Everyone’s been saying that to me since Mother died. It doesn’t help.”
“No. No, it doesn’t,” Hawke agrees. She wipes at her wet eyes, and listens to Carver breathing harshly over the phone.
“Where are you now, anyway?” he asks, voice rough.
“Er,” Hawke says, realizing she doesn’t know. “Somewhere in the Vinmarks, outside of Ostwick, I think. A gas station,” she adds, as if that would help.
“So do you want to tell me why I just got a report about a fugitive named Isabela helping apostates hide from chantry law?” Carver says. “They say two templars got injured hunting them.”
“Oh, that,” Hawke says. “A harmless misunderstanding.”
“Maker, Sister,” Carver says. His voice goes a little hushed, as if he’s trying not to be overheard. “Look, they think you’ve moved onto Starkhaven. As long as you keep making your way to Ostwick and don’t draw any attention to yourselves then you should be fine.”
“Oh,” Hawke says. “Thank you, Carver.”
Carver sounds embarrassed. “Don’t mention it. Really.”
Hawke is tempted to make fun of him for it, but decides that leaving it alone is a good idea. “I’ll call you when I reach Ostwick.”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever,” Carver says. “Say hello to Varric for me.” And he hangs up.
Hawke hangs the phone up in its cradle and emerges from the phone booth, feeling better than she has in weeks.
“Good news,” Aveline says, when Hawke approaches the van. “We’re only half an hour away from Ostwick, it looks like.”
Hawke grins. She’s ready to be off the road. “Everyone ready to say hello to our favorite dwarf?”
They reach Ostwick without any mishap, and arrive at Varric’s book signing just as it’s wrapping up. The bookstore’s staff members are finishing packing everything up, and Varric is busy talking with a fan. When he spots them coming in, his eyebrows raise.
“Hawke!” Varric says, with a broad smile. “This morning I woke up feeling like today would make a good story, and here you are. Out from under Kirkwall’s shadow, eh?”
“You know I couldn’t miss seeing your hordes of adoring fans for myself,” Hawke says, and bends down to hug him, gripping perhaps too tightly at the leather of his jacket. Maker, she’s missed him.
“Shit, you guys look terrible,” Varric says, when she pulls away. “Like you haven’t had a hot shower in days.”
“We haven’t, actually,” Aveline says.
Varric raises his eyebrows. “So I was right about the story, then?”
Fenris nods. “Your instinct is, as always, impeccable.”
Varric grins. “Well then, you can tell me over drinks. First round’s on me.”
The bar they end up in is no Hanged Man, but it comes close in terms of griminess, noise level, and the man in the corner who is mumbling to himself over a pint. It feels very familiar. Varric buys them all their usual order, which he has memorized by heart. Hawke tells him the whole story about the templars, leaving out the specifics about the pool incident, of course.
“Trouble really does follow you like a bad smell, doesn’t it?” Varric says, sounding a little in awe.
“If the bad smell you mean is moldy turnip and halla muck, then yes, it certainly does feel like that,” Hawke says. “It seems like the trouble has passed though. Information courtesy of Carver. He says hello by the way.”
“Well, well,” Varric says. “Didn’t think I’d ever miss Junior, but I guess I should stop expecting anything when it comes to you Hawkes. Anyway, I’m glad you made it in one piece. Isabela told me you came for the book tour,” Varric says with a snort. “For a pirate, I have to say, she’s a terrible liar.”
“I had to get out of the city for a bit, I guess,” Hawke says, shrugging.
“I know,” Varric says, voice going uncharacteristically soft. “And I’m glad you did. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, Hawke. Leandra was one of a kind.”
“It doesn’t make a good story, does it?” Hawke says. “Too much tragedy. Not enough daring rescues.”
“That’s the thing about telling a story,” Varric says. “You get to embellish however you want.”
“Does it ever just feel like you’re hiding the truth, though?” Hawke asks him.
Varric’s smile is a little sad, a little knowing. “Sure it does. But people don’t listen to stories to hear the truth, do they?”
Hawke has to concede him this point. “Well, you are the expert. A toast to wildly embellishing?” she says, raising her glass.
Varric raises his own glass with a grin. “To wildly embellishing.”
They drink.
It’s a good end to the story.