Warmage, Chapter 12
Title: Warmage, Chapter 12
Rating: T
Universe: Dragon Age AU
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: It has been a thousand years since the Tevinter Imperium put down the rebellion of Andraste. Magister Marian Hawke-- the Warmage, scourge of the Qunari-- has beaten her peer Danarius in a duel at court, winning quite a number of his possessions...and finding herself forced to help govern the southern city of Kirkwall. Her greatest ambition is to take command of the legions at Par Vollen and win the war. The trick is just getting there. Something one former piece of Danarius' property may be useful in accomplishing.
“Fenris,” Hawke said, “could you go get me Waters of the Fade from the library?”
“What?” he asked, stalling. He tapped the tips of his gauntlets against his empty potion decanter. Hawke had managed to make it less foul tasting. He still drank it like foul ale. Perhaps it had the same effect on his head.
She glared at him from her desk with impersonal irritation. “Waters of the Fade. Bethany needs a certain passage, and she can’t seem to find the silly book in the Archon’s humongous library. It should be a blue book, first level, ah, third shelf to the right of the door.”
He could not tell her that he was illiterate. He should, but he could not bring himself to do it. There might be a ban on slave literacy, but large households needed to get things done, and slaves who couldn’t read hindered that. So far as he could tell, he was the only illiterate in the manor. Legality was not one of Hawke’s main concerns in life. “Of course, mistress.”
Fenris headed down to the library, not quite sure what he was doing. Really, he should have stayed with Hawke. That was his duty, after all. He was her bodyguard.
A fire was burning in one of the hearths of the library, for some reason. A single chair had been pulled usually close to it. Unsafe and sloppy, not all like things usually were. That idiot wild elf at it again, probably. The amount of trouble she could cause in a week was baffling.
Kalias walked around a bookshelf, arms full of books. “Fenris,” he said by way of greeting.
A tall blond man leapt out from the chair. “Finally!” The abomination. No wonder the chair had been facing away from the door.
The rebel mage snatched the books from Kalias and began flipping through them, somehow managing not to put any of them down.
“Kalias,” Fenris growled, “What is it doing here?”
“’It’ has a name, you know. And a gender. And feelings.”
Fenris disregarded the comment. “This is a very bad idea.”
“Anders is safe enough here,” the old elf said.
“I disagree.” Fenris turned toward the man in question so he could tear his throat out. Anders narrowed his eyes and lifted a hand, ready to cast a spell.
“Fenris?” Hawke called from the hall.
The trio froze. Kalias shoved the abomination behind a bookshelf. Hawke entered the room, looking unusually soft in the firelight, dressed in breezy silk robes. “I realized something,” she said, walking over to a bookshelf not too far from the door. She ran her fingers over few spines and pulled out a blue book. “You don’t know how to read do you?”
He blinked. “I…no, mistress.”
She shot him an annoyed glance. “Not now with that.” She shifted the book from hand to hand. “Would you like to learn? Not with this stupid thing. Something more entertaining.”
He nodded. She smiled, not her killing grin or her wry smirk, but a smile like you might imagine on a woman not known for warfare. “Well, then. I have just the thing, and I need a break.” She gestured to the hall and headed back towards her study.
“That was the Prefex?” the abomination asked, poking his head out, “Teaching a slave to read?”
Something in his tone irritated Fenris to an irrational degree. “Get him out of here, Kalias. No good will come of it.” He headed after Hawke.
She was waiting for him in her study, smiling fondly at a worn green book. “This was my mother’s,” she said, “An old silly, story. Cincinnatus Corvus, the story of Cincinnatus Corvus, a ridiculous ancient hero from the days before the Imperium. A man an awful lot like my father.”
“You don’t need to do this.”
“What is it with you and need?” she asked, dropping into one of the luxuriant chairs. She gestured to the one beside her. “I’ve argued the practicality of my actions enough for several days; now I do something because I feel like it. No justifications.”
He sat, feeling awkward. He was not going to do well at this. Reading looked to require a patience he didn’t have. It was arcane as any mage’s art, and also highly illegal on Hawke’s part.
She opened the book and handed it to him. “You recognize some words, don’t you?”
What must have been the title of book stared at him, alone on a brittle yellowed page. “Very few,” he said, “Archon. Tevinter.” He gave a short bitter laugh at old memories and himself. “Words from monuments and banners in Minrathous. I recognize the way they look.”
“Not the best way to learn, but clever. Not a lot of slaves figure that out on their own.” She flipped the page delicately for him. “So, we begin at the beginning.”
---
The alphabet was not complex on its own; symbols and sounds made sense, like a certain stance meant your sword would hit a certain way. In theory, at any rate. Stringing the letters together was more complex, especially when they did not sound like they should.
Hawke snorted when he growled at this fact and almost tore the book in half out of frustration. She took it gently from his hands. “Language is about as logical as the people who speak it. Which is to say, not very. “
He flexed his gauntleted hands. “We did not get through the first page. Through the first…paragraph.” Or first three sentences.
“All things in time.” She set the book aside on her desk. “Thank you, Fenris.”
He stared, not understanding. “You are teaching me.”
“It’s good to do something not caught up in this city.” She smoothed her hair back. “The game is hard. There’s no compassion or stopping. Survival and ambition are the same thing; failure and death are identical.” The vibrant blue eyes stared at the study’s fire. “Thank you. We’ll finish this.”
Fenris watched her. She was something out of another life right then; not simply a different kind of magister, but a different kind of person entirely, as alien as anything out of the Fade. He thought…stupid.
“How was your father like Cincinnatus Corvus?” Not that Fenris knew anything about the ancient hero; they hadn’t even covered the man being born yet, mostly just his father’s name, profession, and renown. But it was something to say to her.
“That would be spoiling the story.”
Fenris shrugged. “Varric tells the end all the time.”
Hawke threw her head back and laughed. She shook her head and rubbed her temples. “I’m avoiding sleep. Very well. He dies, in the end, like all men do. Does that give enough of a hint for you?”
“Alone?”
“No. Surrounded by his loving family and friends and slaves, on the sweet laurels of victory, under the springtime boughs and the evening star.” She grinned like a child. “It’s a rather dramatic old tale. Beats Varric at his worst.”
What else was there to say? He searched for something that would stretch this soft moment out longer. He was the bloodied blade and branded flesh, and so could find nothing.
Hawke was a magister, and so could not even try. She stood and stretched, back cracking. “And the years tell. Another dawn of paperwork and meetings tomorrow-Orsino has an audience, I think-so we should both rest. I’m half tempted to see you pull out his belly and find out if it’s nearly as yellow as I think. Or do it myself.”
Fenris stood and found himself bowing. It seemed appropriate. “Thank you again, mistress.”
“Please don’t do that right now.”
He followed her silently to her chambers and his nearby room. She nodded to Aveline’s guardsmen at her door and paused for a moment before opening it.
Fenris supposed there was no mercy in this life for anyone.
---
Hawke lay staring at the image of Lusacan on her bed’s canopy. Urthemiel danced on the headboard behind her. The gods were carved lovingly, always, even beautifully, but there was little of comfort in their powerful draconic shapes. None of her prayers had eased her nightmares.
They were worse, and growing ever more incoherent. She could feel the demons circling. If she couldn’t repel them, if she couldn’t conquer this child’s problem, the gods would indeed abandon her in all ways. They wanted strength. The weak were not worth their time. They brought no glory. There was no god of the defeated or downtrodden.
This was too much. She needed rest.
Fenris had been gift. He set her at ease, these days, though why was never clear. He had killed mages, slain those who had tried to imprison him.
He was outside it all. Kalias, Aveline, Varric, and even Isabela saw her as Prefex Hawke, their mistress or Prefex, or at least an entertaining time. Fenris didn’t live in that world.
Hawke rolled out of bed, unwilling to face the nightmares right now. She padded along the rich carpets and out the door, where the floor became cold stone. Her dutiful guards glanced at her, alert and awake, but did nothing else.
Impulse guided her four steps over to Fenris’…closet. She opened the door and leaned in the doorway. The dim light of the hallway caught his white hair and made it stand out. His markings glowed dimly in her sight and in her general awareness. He claimed the pain had lessened from them, but that might have been slave’s humility.
He had woken when she opened the door, she knew-she was a soldier, she knew how it worked-but he hid it. Slave’s humility.
She stood there, simply not being this thing that she was, and then returned to her bed to face the nightmares.
Rating: T
Universe: Dragon Age AU
Disclaimer: Not mine
Summary: It has been a thousand years since the Tevinter Imperium put down the rebellion of Andraste. Magister Marian Hawke-- the Warmage, scourge of the Qunari-- has beaten her peer Danarius in a duel at court, winning quite a number of his possessions...and finding herself forced to help govern the southern city of Kirkwall. Her greatest ambition is to take command of the legions at Par Vollen and win the war. The trick is just getting there. Something one former piece of Danarius' property may be useful in accomplishing.
“Fenris,” Hawke said, “could you go get me Waters of the Fade from the library?”
“What?” he asked, stalling. He tapped the tips of his gauntlets against his empty potion decanter. Hawke had managed to make it less foul tasting. He still drank it like foul ale. Perhaps it had the same effect on his head.
She glared at him from her desk with impersonal irritation. “Waters of the Fade. Bethany needs a certain passage, and she can’t seem to find the silly book in the Archon’s humongous library. It should be a blue book, first level, ah, third shelf to the right of the door.”
He could not tell her that he was illiterate. He should, but he could not bring himself to do it. There might be a ban on slave literacy, but large households needed to get things done, and slaves who couldn’t read hindered that. So far as he could tell, he was the only illiterate in the manor. Legality was not one of Hawke’s main concerns in life. “Of course, mistress.”
Fenris headed down to the library, not quite sure what he was doing. Really, he should have stayed with Hawke. That was his duty, after all. He was her bodyguard.
A fire was burning in one of the hearths of the library, for some reason. A single chair had been pulled usually close to it. Unsafe and sloppy, not all like things usually were. That idiot wild elf at it again, probably. The amount of trouble she could cause in a week was baffling.
Kalias walked around a bookshelf, arms full of books. “Fenris,” he said by way of greeting.
A tall blond man leapt out from the chair. “Finally!” The abomination. No wonder the chair had been facing away from the door.
The rebel mage snatched the books from Kalias and began flipping through them, somehow managing not to put any of them down.
“Kalias,” Fenris growled, “What is it doing here?”
“’It’ has a name, you know. And a gender. And feelings.”
Fenris disregarded the comment. “This is a very bad idea.”
“Anders is safe enough here,” the old elf said.
“I disagree.” Fenris turned toward the man in question so he could tear his throat out. Anders narrowed his eyes and lifted a hand, ready to cast a spell.
“Fenris?” Hawke called from the hall.
The trio froze. Kalias shoved the abomination behind a bookshelf. Hawke entered the room, looking unusually soft in the firelight, dressed in breezy silk robes. “I realized something,” she said, walking over to a bookshelf not too far from the door. She ran her fingers over few spines and pulled out a blue book. “You don’t know how to read do you?”
He blinked. “I…no, mistress.”
She shot him an annoyed glance. “Not now with that.” She shifted the book from hand to hand. “Would you like to learn? Not with this stupid thing. Something more entertaining.”
He nodded. She smiled, not her killing grin or her wry smirk, but a smile like you might imagine on a woman not known for warfare. “Well, then. I have just the thing, and I need a break.” She gestured to the hall and headed back towards her study.
“That was the Prefex?” the abomination asked, poking his head out, “Teaching a slave to read?”
Something in his tone irritated Fenris to an irrational degree. “Get him out of here, Kalias. No good will come of it.” He headed after Hawke.
She was waiting for him in her study, smiling fondly at a worn green book. “This was my mother’s,” she said, “An old silly, story. Cincinnatus Corvus, the story of Cincinnatus Corvus, a ridiculous ancient hero from the days before the Imperium. A man an awful lot like my father.”
“You don’t need to do this.”
“What is it with you and need?” she asked, dropping into one of the luxuriant chairs. She gestured to the one beside her. “I’ve argued the practicality of my actions enough for several days; now I do something because I feel like it. No justifications.”
He sat, feeling awkward. He was not going to do well at this. Reading looked to require a patience he didn’t have. It was arcane as any mage’s art, and also highly illegal on Hawke’s part.
She opened the book and handed it to him. “You recognize some words, don’t you?”
What must have been the title of book stared at him, alone on a brittle yellowed page. “Very few,” he said, “Archon. Tevinter.” He gave a short bitter laugh at old memories and himself. “Words from monuments and banners in Minrathous. I recognize the way they look.”
“Not the best way to learn, but clever. Not a lot of slaves figure that out on their own.” She flipped the page delicately for him. “So, we begin at the beginning.”
---
The alphabet was not complex on its own; symbols and sounds made sense, like a certain stance meant your sword would hit a certain way. In theory, at any rate. Stringing the letters together was more complex, especially when they did not sound like they should.
Hawke snorted when he growled at this fact and almost tore the book in half out of frustration. She took it gently from his hands. “Language is about as logical as the people who speak it. Which is to say, not very. “
He flexed his gauntleted hands. “We did not get through the first page. Through the first…paragraph.” Or first three sentences.
“All things in time.” She set the book aside on her desk. “Thank you, Fenris.”
He stared, not understanding. “You are teaching me.”
“It’s good to do something not caught up in this city.” She smoothed her hair back. “The game is hard. There’s no compassion or stopping. Survival and ambition are the same thing; failure and death are identical.” The vibrant blue eyes stared at the study’s fire. “Thank you. We’ll finish this.”
Fenris watched her. She was something out of another life right then; not simply a different kind of magister, but a different kind of person entirely, as alien as anything out of the Fade. He thought…stupid.
“How was your father like Cincinnatus Corvus?” Not that Fenris knew anything about the ancient hero; they hadn’t even covered the man being born yet, mostly just his father’s name, profession, and renown. But it was something to say to her.
“That would be spoiling the story.”
Fenris shrugged. “Varric tells the end all the time.”
Hawke threw her head back and laughed. She shook her head and rubbed her temples. “I’m avoiding sleep. Very well. He dies, in the end, like all men do. Does that give enough of a hint for you?”
“Alone?”
“No. Surrounded by his loving family and friends and slaves, on the sweet laurels of victory, under the springtime boughs and the evening star.” She grinned like a child. “It’s a rather dramatic old tale. Beats Varric at his worst.”
What else was there to say? He searched for something that would stretch this soft moment out longer. He was the bloodied blade and branded flesh, and so could find nothing.
Hawke was a magister, and so could not even try. She stood and stretched, back cracking. “And the years tell. Another dawn of paperwork and meetings tomorrow-Orsino has an audience, I think-so we should both rest. I’m half tempted to see you pull out his belly and find out if it’s nearly as yellow as I think. Or do it myself.”
Fenris stood and found himself bowing. It seemed appropriate. “Thank you again, mistress.”
“Please don’t do that right now.”
He followed her silently to her chambers and his nearby room. She nodded to Aveline’s guardsmen at her door and paused for a moment before opening it.
Fenris supposed there was no mercy in this life for anyone.
---
Hawke lay staring at the image of Lusacan on her bed’s canopy. Urthemiel danced on the headboard behind her. The gods were carved lovingly, always, even beautifully, but there was little of comfort in their powerful draconic shapes. None of her prayers had eased her nightmares.
They were worse, and growing ever more incoherent. She could feel the demons circling. If she couldn’t repel them, if she couldn’t conquer this child’s problem, the gods would indeed abandon her in all ways. They wanted strength. The weak were not worth their time. They brought no glory. There was no god of the defeated or downtrodden.
This was too much. She needed rest.
Fenris had been gift. He set her at ease, these days, though why was never clear. He had killed mages, slain those who had tried to imprison him.
He was outside it all. Kalias, Aveline, Varric, and even Isabela saw her as Prefex Hawke, their mistress or Prefex, or at least an entertaining time. Fenris didn’t live in that world.
Hawke rolled out of bed, unwilling to face the nightmares right now. She padded along the rich carpets and out the door, where the floor became cold stone. Her dutiful guards glanced at her, alert and awake, but did nothing else.
Impulse guided her four steps over to Fenris’…closet. She opened the door and leaned in the doorway. The dim light of the hallway caught his white hair and made it stand out. His markings glowed dimly in her sight and in her general awareness. He claimed the pain had lessened from them, but that might have been slave’s humility.
He had woken when she opened the door, she knew-she was a soldier, she knew how it worked-but he hid it. Slave’s humility.
She stood there, simply not being this thing that she was, and then returned to her bed to face the nightmares.