Chapter Text
“But I am your keeper,
And I hold your face away from light.
I am yours 'til they come;
I am yours 'til they come.
—Devil’s Spoke, Laura Marling
“Maker’s breath, Hawke,” Varric said with a low whistle. A fire was burning merrily in the hearth and the sound of laughter and raised voices drifted from beyond the nearest closed door. “When you say you’re going to move up in the world, by all the graces you mean it.”
Hawke crossed her arms with a teasing smirk, watching as the dwarf poked through a pile of letters on her new desk. It was the first time she’d allowed any of her friends into the old Amell estate—bought, scrubbed, refurbished and furnished over three long years. “Did you see my crest?” she asked. At Varric’s raised brows, she pointed up the steps. “See? There on the wall, fit to smack you between the teats if you even think about braving the bedrooms. Mother had Bodahn moving the bloody thing for a full three hours before she was satisfied.”
She pushed away from the wall, long robes brushing the gray flagstones. She’d taken to wearing less conspicuous clothes in public—trouble was brewing in Kirkwall, and having a brother in the Order wasn’t exactly the best way to avoid Templar notice—but here in the comfort of her own home, she could do as she damn well pleased. “I’m half convinced she put it there as a warning. Beware all ye who wouldst defile my daughter.”
Varric snorted, carefully tugging Bianca from her strap and setting her on the table. “And has there been any defiling you wanted to tell me about? It’s shameful how long Hawke’s Nest has been collecting dust half-penned, waiting for a friendly…” He turned to consider her. “Apostate mage? Broody ex-slave? Saucy pirate wench? Help me out here, Hawke.”
“It’s magnificently hairy dwarf or nothing, Varric,” Hawke teased.
“Damn and blast.” He reached into his pocket, producing a sizable coinpurse, and tossed it to her. Hawke caught it easily, cocking her head at the soft clink of metal. “Looks like that crest will go unchallenged for some time yet. I’m a one-woman dwarf, Hawke; you know who has my heart.”
She pried open the knots to peek inside, firelight catching on silver and gold before she carelessly dropped the pouch next to his crossbow. “That bitch,” she said dryly. “Come on. You’ve gawked at my magnificent stairwell, admired my crest, taken care of business,” their Deep Roads venture was still paying off, though Hawke could never bring herself to care much for the growing pile of gold in her vault, “and crushed my erotic hopes and dreams. Let’s join the others before they manage to burn down my new library. Most everyone’s here already,” she added as they turned and fell into step.
“Most everyone?” Varric held the door open, gesturing broadly for her to precede him. The raucous noise mostly muffled by thick stone and aged wood was now near-deafening.
“Mm,” she agreed, stepping into the library. The party was upstairs, in the loft. The strange Tevinter statue watched them as they moved toward the steps. “Anders is late—probably still at his clinic, if I know him. If he doesn’t come up through the cellars within a half-hour, I’ll send Trouble after him.”
Hawke crested the stairs, Trouble lifting a huge head from folded paws at his name.
“Hawke!” Isabela had a glass of red wine in each hand, drops scattering in a dramatic arc as she turned, like her own drunken brand of blood magic. “And Varric, good. Now we can really have fun. Kitten, make room for Varric.”
Merrill obediently scrambled up onto the arm of the huge wingback chair Hawke had dragged in for the party. She perched there, small and delicate as a bird, smiling as Varric took the seat.
“Here you go, sexy.” Isabela pressed a glass into Varric’s hand, the other into Hawke’s. “Aveline was just about to tell us which of her guardsmen she’d most fancy to tumble if she could have her wicked way.”
“Aveline was about to tell you no such thing,” Aveline said firmly. The wine had brought unaccustomed color to her pale, freckled cheeks.
Isabela tutted in response, moving toward where Aveline and Fenris were sitting together with a familiar sway to her step. Hawke watched her go, lips twisting wryly, then leaned in to murmur, “Careful, Varric. I have it on good authority that vintage was made with the blood and tears of Tevinter slaves.”
Varric paused, glass halfway to his mouth. “And who shared that lovely bit of information with you?”
Hawke grinned and tilted her head toward Fenris. The elf was half in shadow, watching Isabela and Aveline bicker with a faint frown. “Who do you think? He’s got a better sense of humor than you give him credit for,” she added, moving to sit on the footstool. Trouble lifted his head again, whuffing out a heavy breath. “He does.”
“He’d have to,” Varric decided, studying the fine, rich red of the wine. Held up to the firelight, it really did look like blood. “Seeing as I don’t give him any credit at all.” At Hawke’s laugh, he tipped back the glass, taking a deep swallow.
Merrill curled up smaller, elbow on one knee, chin resting on her fist. “What do the blood and tears of slaves taste like?” she mused. “I’ve drunk my share of blood, but never tears.”
Hawke choked on her own swallow of wine, nearly spitting a mouthful across Varric’s knees. Whining low, Trouble rose and padded over, sticking a cold nose into her armpit. Because that was helpful. “You, I, what?” she managed, wiping at her mouth and staring at the tiny mage.
Hawke was the daughter of an apostate. She and her sister had learned two lessons at their father’s knee before anything else: never get caught and never, never give in to the temptations of demons. She’d taken those lessons to heart, and Maker’s breath, after over three years of friendship, Merrill’s blithe acceptance of the vilest magic still made her limbs go cold.
“Oh,” Merrill said, limpid eyes going huge. “Was that not a good joke?”
Varric snorted and Hawke carefully set aside her glass, fighting the temptation to rub her temples. She opened her mouth to say something—diplomatic or teasing, she was never quite sure until it came tumbling out—but stopped at the sound of the main door opening.
“Saved by the apostate,” she said, rising to her feet. Fenris looked over at that, dark brows drawing together. Hawke pointed a single finger at him in warning—they’d come to their own uneasy peace long ago, and she was more than willing to use their friendship to keep Fenris and Anders from tearing at each other’s throats—before heading down the steps, Trouble at her heels. The party continued without her, voices rising and falling, irrepressible laughter mixed with growls of annoyance: merriment poised forever on the knife’s edge of violence.
“I was half convinced we’d have to drag you out of your clinic,” Hawke said merrily, heading out into the main room. “You’ve already missed half of the— Oh.” She stopped, robes swaying about her legs, faithful mabari tensing at her side. “You’re not who I expected.”
The filthy little boy scrunched up his face in apology. “Sorry about barging my way in,” he said, smoothly slipping his lockpicks into a pocket. “But I was banging awful loud and there was no answer. I was told I had to get this to you right away.” He paused, eyeing her. “You don’t look at all like he described. You’re much prettier.”
“Thank you,” Hawke said dryly. She’d have to ask Isabela to check the locks for damage before the party wound down. “Usually I get the opposite reaction.” She paused, waiting for the boy to hand over his message, but he seemed content to just stand there and stare. Finally, Hawke moved to the desk and opened her coinpurse, poking around until she found a silver. “Here,” she said, flipping it toward the boy. It glinted in the firelight, bright as a virgin blade, before he caught it in one grubby hand. “Buy yourself a meal and a warm bed for the night—it’s going to be a cold one.”
The silver disappeared into a worn pocket in a flash. “And you ain’t lying. Winters’ve been getting worse and worse. Some say them bloody Fereldans brought their ice and snow to the Marches with them.”
Trouble growled low in his throat. Hawke sank her fingers into the golden fur of his scruff, trying not to let her own expression cool. “Did you have a message for me?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. Your dog ain’t gonna bite, is he?” The boy pulled a folded slip of paper from his shirt and passed it over, eyeing Trouble warily. “I didn’t mean nothing bad about them Fereldans. Their land’s cold, is all.”
“He won’t bite.” She offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but the messenger wasn’t looking at her as he edged out of the room, toward the main door. “Can you tell me who sent the message?”
The boy shook his head, hand on the knob. “Some dark-haired man,” he said, “in shiny armor. Caught me just inside the Gallows. I don’t remember the name.”
“Carver?” She’d never admit to the way her heart constricted at the thought. “Did he say his name was Carver?” Carver sent the occasional letter to their mother, of course, but he didn’t write Hawke often. There was still bad blood there, despite long years and distance. She supposed there always would be.
The boy just shrugged his shoulders, already out on the stoop. He was turning and trotting away before Hawke could say anything more, lost amongst the respectable crowds of Hightown within moments.
Hawke stood there staring after him for a few long minutes before shaking herself. She moved to shut the door, twisting the lock experimentally, then sighed. Isabela would definitely have to take a look—or Varric, if Isabela was too far into her cups.
She turned, murmuring, “Come on, boy,” as she headed back into the party, pausing long enough to snag the coinpurse and tuck it into her robes, just in case the little rogue came back. The welcome roar of her friends’ voices pulled her in, banishing the dark thoughts fighting for her attention.
Carver had sent her a message. Carver wanted her to read it right away. Carver had probably cocked up with the Templars and needed his big sister to come rushing in to save him.
Carver could go hang.
Feeling a brief stab of justified spite, Hawke slipped the note unread into her pocket and moved to retake her place on the footstool. Merrill had stolen her glass of wine and was already tipping dangerously close to drunk—it took so little. Isabela had found a new chair in Fenris’s lap, and though he looked halfway to crawling up the wall to escape, he was sitting still for now, only the faintest blue-white of lyrium flickering in warning.
“Was that Anders?” Aveline asked.
“No, it was a messenger.”
Merrill brightened, leaning forward. “But I thought you were never here for messengers?” she said, nearly toppling over. Varric reached out to steady her, one strong hand at her elbow. “I thought you were cursed.”
“Oh, Merrill,” Aveline sighed.
“What’s this about curses, Kitten?” Isabela called. “Three gold says the curse is on Hawke’s smallclothes. Ooh, I think I’ve read a romance about that. Should I go fetch a dashing Chantry brother?”
Hawke closed her eyes, tipping her head back. Maker, they’d be the death of her someday.
“What does it say?” Merrill continued. “Is it important? Is it from your mother? Didn’t you say we had to be gone before your mother got home? Should we go now? I don’t think I can go now. My knees don’t want to work.”
“No, it’s— Oh, Andraste’s tits, here.” She pulled out the folded note and thrust it at Merrill. “It’s not from Mother, it’s from Carver. And I’m not willing to be arsed enough to care what he has to say right now, but you should feel free.” Hawke rose, forcing herself to gentle her voice—because she really didn’t mean to snap—as she added, “And be careful, Kitten, or even Varric won’t be able to keep you from falling.”
Merrill hummed in low agreement, spreading open the note. Feeling agitated, Hawke crossed the room to secure a new glass, filling it to the brim. Droplets of red spilled over her fingers as she lifted it for a deep drink—her hands were shaking.
“Do you think he’s in trouble?” Fenris’s low, gravelly voice barely carried to her, and she half wished she could pretend she hadn’t heard.
Hawke downed her glass with three long swallows and slammed it onto the table. She pressed a hand to the warm, fine-grained wood and leaned forward, head dropping. “Yes,” she said. “No. I don’t know. He doesn’t exactly make a habit of writing me.”
Isabela propped her chin on Fenris’s shoulder, still perched easily on his lap. “Screw him, I say!” she said, concern lacing through her forced gaiety. “If he wants to be an utter cock, he can keep it up in the Gallows where it belongs. Take his moodiness out at night and stroke it.”
Hawke huffed an amused breath. “Please don’t talk about my brother and stroking things in the same sentence,” she said, glancing at her friends with real warmth. “If I—”
“Hawke!”
There was real fear in Merrill’s voice. Hawke immediately whirled, lightning springing to her fingertips as she scoured the room for their attackers and saw…nothing. No men with swords, no Carta thugs, no giant spiders. Just Merrill perched on the arm of the wingback chair, delicate face gone bone white, huge eyes lifting from Carver’s note.
“What is it, Kitten?” Isabela asked. She’d slid smoothly from Fenris’s lap, blades in hand. He was shifting uneasily next to her, glowing with blue-white fire.
Merrill’s eyes met Hawke’s, and Hawke felt her insides go cold at the sheer terror in them. “Oh, Hawke,” Merrill said, beginning to tremble. “He says… He says the Templars are coming for you. The Templars are going to make you Tranquil.”