4.
Bethany had always been the compassionate one.
For Brona, compassion and empathy was something she had learned, that she had forcibly taught herself in the eyes of the Chantry, and her father. Malcolm had spent a lot of time alone with his eldest, teaching her things she would need while never explicitly telling her why. It was only later, after Ostagar, after the Blight, that she truly appreciated them.
Bethany, though, it came as naturally to her as breathing. She was an adept mage, of course, and while she didn’t enjoy or relish in the battling aspect, she was quite efficient at it. Her real talent, however, was healing— not only with her mana, but with her words. She felt things through others that Brona could never have even imagined, much less been able to help them through. While Brona dealt with all the gritty aspects of their adjustment to life in Kirkwall, Bethany had been the keeper of everything else. Their mother, Carver’s memory and his belongings, the rift between Gamlen and Leandra that grew the longer they stayed with him.
Brona had always appreciated that her younger sister had these talents, but never so much as when she watched her sitting with Anders.
He had refused to talk any more, but he had taken her lead without question, knowing that if nothing else, she would keep him safe. It was the dead of night when they returned to Gamlen’s, and Bethany had barely slept, but she was as kind as ever. She took a hold of the mage dressed as their late brother, sitting him down on her bed and just holding him. Anders clutched to her as the emotions came leaking out of him.
Brona came and sat on the floor in front of them, telling her sister in a quiet tone what had come to pass. Their eyes stayed locked as she listened, but her eyebrows slowly furrowed, and the strength leeched out of her the further into it she delved. “Killing templars, in the Chantry?” It was a whip of a whisper, but it didn’t need to be any louder. “Were you trying to get us all killed?”
“The only templar who knew who I was was killed by Anders,” Brona countered. “Brutally,” she added in a breath, eyes finally falling to where her hands were intertwining. “But I think the others will survive. I didn’t check them before we left.”
“It wasn’t me,” Anders murmured, and Brona’s attention rose to where he pulled from Bethany, hands over his face. “It was, but it— it’s hard to explain.”
“I know it was a spirit,” Brona replied, “but without any context—“
“Yes, that’s right. My friend, Justice.”
“Who is trained as a warrior.” Anders nodded at that assessment. “So, what happened?”
He took in a shaky breath, hands falling to his knees. His gaze was steady on where the warrior sat directly in front of him. “When I was in Amaranthine, Shaenni and I— well, other Wardens, too— we got taken to the physical Fade. We had to get sent back, and Justice helped us achieve that. In aiding us, however, he got trapped on this side of the Veil, and took over a corpse.” Her eyebrows rose quickly, but he continued before she could interrupt. “When that war ended, when Shaenni released me, it felt wrong to leave my friend stuck in a rotting corpse. I offered to take him with me. He agreed, because he had seen what kind of injustices mages like us face on the daily, and he wanted to help me put it right. But—“ He let out the rest of that breath, scooching forward on the bed so his voice could drop, and Brona met the move, barely a hands’ breadth between them. “But when he joined with me, he changed. What was once a pure spirit of Justice, a good spirit became… something else. I have too much hatred and resentment, my memories are too tainted, and… he’s more of a spirit of Vengeance now, but he is still helping me. We are one and the same, but at times our entities are separated, like with what happened in the Chantry. My emotions overwhelmed the connection we had, and he took over.”
Silence enveloped the three of them after that confession, with nothing but the sound of Leandra and Gamlen sleeping next door to break it. Anders’ deep brown eyes searched Brona’s golden ones, watching her process all of it.
“Well, that explains it,” she said simply, honestly not sure what else to say. “Is that why they are trying to capture or kill you?”
“No, that’s just because I am an apostate,” he murmured, eyebrow raising. “I don’t think anyone else knows— though I suppose now they do, at least in an abstract sense. Did Sebastian say anything of it?”
“Some. He said ‘demon’ and I corrected him. If he asks again, I can explain it properly.”
“Carefully. Who is he, anyway?”
“He’s a Brother that I did a job for, and spoke with to work through some things. He’s trustworthy, Anders. You don’t have to fear him letting anything slip, even accidentally.”
“He’s with the Chantry. That’s suspicious enough.”
“He’s a Brother,” she repeated with a light laugh, “and now he is like my brother. Please, trust me in this.”
Anders studied her face for a breath, before he nodded. “If you say so, then of course. I can’t very well argue when he’s the reason we escaped at all.” His eyes finally left her, sitting up and looking instead to Bethany. “Thank you.”
Bethany’s hands came to her chest, having just been listening silently. “Yes, of course. You can stay as long as you wish. I don’t think it would be safe to return to your clinic, at the moment.”
“No, probably not, though my patients will need me by morning.” He dropped back the hood, and then took the scarf that had hidden his hair off quickly, twining it up in his hands nervously. Neither sister commented until he came to himself, and carefully began to fold it.
“At least get a little bit of sleep here,” Brona insisted, standing and offering a hand to the mage. He allowed her to bring him to his feet, and then assisted her in removing the borrowed armour, and that sword belt. “You play-acted as Carver well.”
“Brona,” Bethany breathed out desperately. “Don’t.”
The warrior looked at her sister as she wrapped the leather of the belt around itself carefully, but then her gaze fell back to her task. “It was only a few moments, but it was…”
“I understand now why you only wear black,” Anders noted. “I was confused when we met, thinking it was just because of the task you were undertaking, but it wasn’t. I see that now. All three of you are still mourning him, and here I am, blatantly wearing his gear, probably defiling his good name—“
“Your spirit would have made him angry, and yet proud, all at once,” Bethany cut in, and the two mages looked to each other. “He would’ve hated that a mage wore his armour, but that Justice wielded that sword, that he— that he protected you both— that’s just what Carver would’ve done.” She sniffed, looking away from the half-dressed man. “It’s been over a year now. We could wear colours again. We are well past the mourning period.”
“You are not alone,” Anders replied, stepping from Brona to go and find the clothes he had come in originally. “No one escaped from the Blight unscathed. Take as long as you need.”
Bethany didn’t speak again, but wrapped herself up in her bedclothes in her bed, her back to the rest of the room. Brona took the opportunity to finish getting out of her own gear, carefully arranging it under her bed.
Anders and Brona shared a look, but neither said a word to disturb the still-mourning twin. Instead, they stood there beside Brona’s bed and as more time passed, the increasingly awkward it got. She finally just took one of the blankets from her bed and laid down on the floor with it. He opened his mouth, as if to protest, but changed his mind. He collapsed into her bed, moving over to the wall in case she decided that sleeping with the roaches and spiders wasn’t her ideal.
It was nearly an hour later that she did, over on the edge, being very careful not to touch or disturb him. That meant being up on her side, and so her gaze was across the small room, watching her sister’s breath fall up and down slowly. She let the sight of knowing that she was safe ease everything else that plagued her, and she soon fell asleep herself.
Anders was already gone the next morning when Brona finally awoke, and Bethany with him.
Brona frowned down at her bowl of mush after her mother told her this.
“He seems like a good man. I think she could do much worse.”
Her frown intensified. “It’s not like that, mother. He is a good man, but please, do not see romance wherever you look.”
“What would you know about romance?” Gamlen wondered from the other side of the table. He was sitting and sorting through letters.
“What do you?” Brona shot back with venom, and her uncle sent her a glare. “I’m sure she’s just helping in his clinic, and if so, then that’s good. I know he’ll keep her safe.”
There was quiet then but for the little shuffling of papers from Gamlen.
“More work for you today?” Leandra wondered, to which Brona nodded. “Good. I think I will, as well, up at the Keep. I need to find someone to talk to about Father’s will. The sooner we get our nobility status back, the sooner we will no longer have to worry over Bethany.”
“There’s always a worry, even if we do become nobles again,” she reminded her mother, mouth half-full of mush. “You make the connections, I’ll be sure to secure the funds.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full, darling,” Leandra scolded lightly, opening a letter that Gamlen slid to her. “Oh, it’s a letter from one of my friends in Starkhaven,” she breathed out, eyes still reading it over. Brona coughed on her swallow of food, which both siblings ignored. “Oh, oh no— it seems that the entire royal family was assassinated.” It was said in a breath. “I suppose… no help will be coming from them. This is simply terrible. Remember spending our summers there, Gamlen?”
“That was a long time ago, Leandra. Better not to dwell on things long since dead.” He slid over a letter to Brona then, and she abandoned her nearly-empty bowl to open it. “And those assassinations happened a few weeks ago, now. I suppose the messengers are delayed.”
The two of them began to argue, but Brona did her best to tune them out. She finished off her breakfast while reading the short letter, then dropped the dish on the counter before she was gone and back to her room. She got dressed in her basic gear, the sword at her hip as per usual, and then quietly and quickly escaped the house out into Lowtown with the letter tucked into her bag.
Her first stop was to the Hanged Man. It was getting on towards noon, but she wasn’t sure if the place ever was truly empty. It looked just as lively when she walked in that morning as any of the nights. She was more careful to avoid everyone that dared to cross her path, making a bee-line for Varric’s rooms at the top of the stairs.
The dwarf was in the middle of a meeting, and Brona, not wishing to disturb his business machinations, went to stand on the far end of the room. It just happened to hold a table with tea, of which she helped herself.
Varric was sitting at the end of his table, watching three of the merchants argue with themselves, before he looked over his shoulder to the warrior. Hawke granted him a smile, which he returned with a bid of her with a hand. She came, setting her tea down on the table over his papers, and sat on the arm of his chair.
“Oh, the tales circulating about last night probably pale in comparison to the truth,” he mused, looking up at her with the glint of a story-teller in his eye. “And so, I need to hear it.”
“How are you so sure that it’s me?”
“Please, Hawke, don’t be so damn humble. It didn’t take me long to piece it together, but don’t worry— I doubt many others could.”
She made a displeased sound and reclaimed her tea.
“Won’t you tell me?”
“Later,” she murmured around the cup. She took a long drink, and then handed him the letter from her bag. “Anso, do you know him?”
He shook open the sheaf of paper to read over it quickly, but then shook his head. “No, but that’s not really a surprise. If they’re going through the Red Iron, that means either they don’t want to go through the Coterie or the Guild… or they can’t. Neither of those spell an easy time for you.”
She reread the letter once he handed it back to her, and then it was shoved back into her bag. “Well, provided it pays, it’s worth it. Every little bit helps.”
“Ah, yes, and I have some work for you, too. Just a few bums or fellows who owe my family or our associates gold.”
“That’s thug work, Varric.”
“Sure, but you’re much more intimidating than some whelp from the Guild. It’ll be easy, and I’ll even give you a cut from each debt you collect for us.” There was a sound released from the back of her throat akin to a growl. “Hawke, you know you’re going to take it, and you’ll be done before that job tonight—“
“Fine,” she sighed out, dropping back the last of her tea. The dwarf could not hide his smile as he handed her a stack of small slips that he had all ready for her. It did nothing to improve her mood. She sat there on his chair’s arm as she read through them, and Varric returned to his meeting. He had even arranged them in an order that made the most sense in the circular aspect of the city.
When Brona left him, she did it without ceremony. She did the jobs without any hint of emotion crossing her features, but none were needed. Most of them were weasels of men or dwarves, and caved easily with as little as her crossing her arms or setting a hand on her sword. The circle that he had had her run led her back easily to the Hanged Man, and she returned to his quarters to find him waiting for her, oiling his crossbow.
“See? It didn’t take you long at all.”
“You’re a pest,” she noted, which made the dwarf grin for all he was worth. She unloaded the bag, and with the slips to match up, too. “This one,” she said, brandishing a double debt slip, “said he’d bring it to you first thing tomorrow. He apparently has to sell something to get the funds. If he fails to do so, I will gladly drag the pathetic bruise of a man in myself.”
“I’ll probably take you up on that,” he stated with a nod, helping her sort it all out. “Have you gone and seen Anders yet?”
“No, I didn’t want to go that far into Darktown carrying all of your coin around. No need to tempt fate, or anyone else. I was going to go there now.”
“Good. Make sure you get those maps from him.” He made a few small noises as he counted. “And tomorrow I’ll have your share set aside, too. With that, and whatever you get from this Anso, we are well on our way.”
“Not enough, but yes, it’s better than a few days ago.” She watched him count before she turned away, re-setting her bag onto her hip. She checked her sword, and then again, just glad it was there for her reassurance. “I’ll see you later.”
“Did you want me to come with you tonight?”
“Did you want to come?”
She paused at his door, surprised at the question, and his gaze came up to her. “Well, yeah, of course I do. And Bianca might come in handy, too.”
“Well, then, good. I’ll come by tonight, then.”
“I’ll even buy you dinner first,” he teased, and her brow fell into a frown. “That was a joke, Hawke, but if you don’t eat before you come back, I will make you eat dinner.”
“Pest.”
She descended the steps while listening to his chuckle, shaking her head as she did. She was getting better at navigating the tavern, and could step out of the way of most of the patrons now, even with a day of practise. But, it was only a day, and she was delayed by a large and loud group blocking the way to the door. She diverted herself to the bar, and took a look around at the patrons there in the afternoon.
A few sailors were at the bar proper, playing some kind of game with dice while they gathered empty bottles on the wood. The same patron sat along the far wall, nearly in the corner, tapping his flagon on the table in front of him. He was zoned out, melancholy, and her eyes lingered on him for longer than they should have.
“I’d keep looking,” a woman’s voice purred from beside her, and Brona jumped and pulled back from the sound. “Did I scare you, kitten?”
Hawke was staring at a woman nearly her own height and dark from years spent in the sunlight. She was dressed in a spattering of clothing from different regions, white mixed with different kinds of blues, as if trying to emulate the ocean and take it with her. And gold— hanging from her ears, pierced through her skin, of which quite a bit was showing. And then Hawke wasn’t staring anymore, looking away and to the rest of the bar with her cheeks slowly flushing.
“I did scare you. What’s a little prudish thing doing in a place like this?”
“I was leaving.”
“Why, because of me?” The woman slid back into her view, having switched sides, but looking no less non-chalant. “Or because that man over there is in a drunken stupor and won’t even throw you a glance?”
“Because of work, actually.”
Hawke looked away, towards the door, but it was still blocked. It didn’t matter, because the woman was hovering.
“And you’re a… mercenary, are you? I bet you used to be a soldier, you’ve got the build for it,” she observed, a step away to really take a look at the entirety of Brona. “You can certainly do better than that man— or any man for that matter—“
“I wasn’t looking at him because of any kind of interest like that. He’s just always here, and I was curious.”
“I’ve seen a few people ask, sure, but he just yells drunken things at them. He pays his tab, he even pays for his room— but who knows where he came from. He’s been here since I’ve been.” Her eyes went from Hawke to the man, contemplating him and his echoing taps of metal on wood. After a long moment, she took in a breath and returned her attention to Hawke with an easy smile. She offered her a hand. “Captain Isabela, at your service, Serah…?”
“Hawke,” she replied, taking that hand and shaking it, out of her refusing to be so rude to leave the woman hanging. “Just Hawke.”
“Hawke,” Isabela repeated with her smile returning. “I like it. It’s got a nice sound to it, doesn’t it? A name one could call out over a battlefield, or,” she lowered her voice, “in a bed.”
“That would be my brother, and not me,” Brona returned, trying to ignore the implications.
“If he’s as strapping as you are, then I’m inclined to agree.”
“He’s my brother. I tend not to think of him like that.”
Isabela let out a musical laugh, hand to her arm gently before realising she was wearing armour, and it fell away again. “Yes, of course, kitten. I was simply teasing.” She looked away, clearing her throat lightly.
“So, you’re a Captain. A sailor, then?”
“Yes, though unfortunately I lost my ship not too long ago. In that big storm, do you remember?” Hawke nodded to affirm she did. “I was lucky to survive at all. The rest of my crew weren’t so, I’m sad to report.”
“Oh, I am sorry to hear that. Are you here to look for a new crew— and ship— then?”
A long sigh preceded her answer. “If only things were that simple. I’m stuck here while I try to find my lost cargo, and the mercenaries in this miserable port are useless.”
“Did someone steal it from the wreckage?” Isabela nodded. “The Storm Coast is a horrible and windy place. You might be fighting for a lost cause.”
“I know that, of course I do, but if I don’t find it, it’s my neck, and that’s more valuable to me than nearly anything else.” Her eyes went over to where Brona was eyeing the door again, biting her lip. “So, if you were to offer to help a poor girl out, I’d certainly have to repay you somehow.”
“Gold is useful.”
“Well— yes, I suppose it is.” Isabela put her tongue in her cheek for a second as she reassessed. “So, is that an agreement, then?”
“I don’t have the resources to track something like that down—“
“But you have a lay of the land, right? I bet you could find it if you really put some effort in. You and I against all these Marchers who have nothing better to do than go and steal what I was transporting.”
“I’ll think about it, how’s that?”
That answer made the pirate break out in a grin. “Perfect! And next time I see you—“
“Will be later, but it’s for another job. Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Fine and good, kitten. I can see if anyone found anything useful in the meantime.” Her head turned to the doorway, and the group still blocking it. Isabela called out to them, and told them in no uncertain terms to clear off. “There you are,” she said in a quieter tone, just for Hawke, who smiled at the gesture. “Be careful out there. I’d hate to see this city chew you up and spit you back out.”
“You too, Captain.”
Isabela chuckled and then clicked her tongue, head tilting to the door to encourage her to leave. Brona took the out, but paused before the door to look back at that drunken patron, curiosity piqued more than ever.
Brona’s trip down to see Anders was quieter than it had been the day before, but there was a sort of quiet that made her miss home more than it was a calming lack of sound. Walking through all the Fereldan refugees, watching the children with dirty feet still playing as if nothing was wrong— her brow furrowed, and she tried to ignore the feeling.
She pushed open the clinic’s door carefully before she shut it again the same, looking around at the healing space. Some of the same patients were there still in their cots, and though things were different on the tables, in the waiting area, they were very much the same.
“Hawke,” came a warm voice, and she offered a smile for the mage as easily as it was breathing. He was standing with Bethany at a table, and they looked to be mixing up potions. She came and joined them, looking as curious as she dared over their work. “Your sister is quite the healer. It really is remarkable that we found each other. She’s agreed to help in the clinic.”
“Well, she’s had lots of practise with Carver and I,” Brona replied in a light tone.
“Yes, I’ve told him all about your most embarassing accidents and injuries,” Bethany stated in the same kind of tone, though she was carefully measuring out a small pile of some dried herb. “I had to knock down his opinion of you a little.”
“You didn’t succeed,” Anders said with a frown that he couldn’t keep. He took in a deep breath instead, eyes up to Brona’s before they were away again. He cleared his throat when neither sister answered, and his statement hung there in the air between them. “Ah, did you come to get your sister, or to see me?”
“To see you, of course.”
“Really?” His eyes were instantly back to hers, a smile threatening.
“Yes,” she replied with a nod, “because you promised me some maps.”
His face straightened out. “Right, of course.” He left the table and headed back to his sleeping quarters.
“You could be a little more sensitive,” Bethany whispered, and Brona’s brow rose as they looked at each other. “He’s not shut up about you this entire day— well, for the patients, obviously— you know what I mean.”
“It’s just gratefulness that I didn’t let him die, or walk into a trap.”
“Perhaps, but you didn’t need to crush him so completely.” Her voice lowered more, leaning towards her sister. “He’s a good man, Brona.”
“I am not a replacement,” she returned in the same tone, eyes searching hers. “He’s just displacing his emotions—“
“Everyone processes grief in different ways—“
“It doesn’t mean that its healthy!”
“Just, please, be kind to him—“
“Deep Road maps, as promised,” Anders cut through their conversation, and the two sisters returned to stand up straight. He pretended not to notice. He held the scrolls out to Brona, and she took them carefully. “You more than earned them. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
She brought the scrolls to her chest, cradling them as if they were a newborn infant. They were just as important to her, especially in that moment. He tried to distract himself with their potions ingredients, and then he was flipping through a book there, as noisy as he could be.
“Are… you all right? I know a lot happened—“
“I’m fine,” he snapped. “You don’t need to coddle me, Hawke. And don’t worry, I’ll see Bethany home safely.”
“I appreciate it,” she replied softly. “I would stay longer, but Varric has another job for me.”
“Not much for you to do here, anyway. You’re not a healer.”
“Anders,” Bethany said in a quiet tone, and he glanced at her frown.
He sighed before he looked up at the elder sister. Their eyes lingered together before she turned to the door, and glanced back at him. He excused himself and followed her, and then out through the door so they could stand close together in the darkness and shadows just beyond. Not exactly comfortable, but out of sight and earshot.
“She doesn’t know,” he stated, but it was in a breath, barely audible— but firm. Accusatory.
“No,” she replied in the same way, eyes not leaving his.
“Why not?”
“No one does, and you will not tell them.”
“Of course not, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
She took in a breath to answer, but then let it out as she thought it all through. It was two more before she had anything satisfactory to tell him. “It scared me. My father taught me what was happening, how to control it and how to protect myself— especially in the Fade— but he didn’t push me to do anything beyond that. He did try a few times, but then Bethany was showing signs herself, and he shifted his attention to her.”
“And then you worked to protect her,” he finished, and she nodded. “She thinks quite highly of you, you know. Like you’re the only thing in this world, and the only thing keeping her in it.”
“We’ve had a lot of close calls.”
“You know what we face here, every day. You—“ he cut off, emotions crossing his face that he couldn’t control. “How did you find me, exactly the person that I needed, exactly when I needed them?”
“Providence.”
He made a quiet noise, perhaps of disagreement, and his hand rose to her cheek. She didn’t move until he leaned towards her, and she pulled back quickly, and then a full step back and out of his touch. He didn’t react right away except for his fingers to curl there in the air. His eyes fell from her to the darkness surrounding them, and he retreated back to himself. “Perhaps it was the Maker,” he agreed, a tone of pain laced through it.
“Anders, it’s just that—“
“Don’t. Just— don’t,” he cut her off.
She continued anyway. “She’s more important. I can’t be distracted. Maybe when we get back from the expedition, when we have some semblance of safety—“
“You’re doing it again,” he whispered, taking a step towards her again. “Just say it, if you’re going to say it.”
“Say what?”
“Say that you have no interest in a mage like me, harbouring a spirit—“
“I can’t say that, because it’s not true.” His eyes finally returned to hers. “But I don’t do romance, or even real friendships, or— any of it. You might see it as me tiptoeing around your feelings, but I was being serious. The truth is, Anders, that Bethany and my mother are more important to me, and I’d like you to not pretend that last night wasn’t difficult and breaking for you. Perhaps when we’re both more ready, we will be able to revisit that thought in a better state of mind.”
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” he agreed, turning from her and running his hands through his hair roughly once, and then a few more times. “Ever since I woke up beside you this morning, it’s consumed Justice and I both. It is a distraction, I know that.”
“We can be friends though, can’t we?”
A quiet noise came before a softer affirmative. “I’d rather like that. We both would.”
“I’d like it, too. I barely know either of you, and I would… I want to.”
He left her there at the entrance with a quiet reminder that he would see Bethany safely home. She watched him through the doorway return to his work, and then she closed the clinic’s door, very much ready to leave and get out of Darktown.
Toro Tokuda 