Turning in Revolution; Chapter 1 [Anders/Bethany, Nathaniel/Bethany; PG]
Title: Turning in Revolution (1/?)
Author: chaineddove
Fandom: Dragon Age II
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama/Romance
Characters: Anders/Bethany, Nathaniel/Bethany. F!Hawke/Isabela implied.
Wordcount: 2,695
Disclaimer: I do not own DAII. Believe me, I would love to, but I don't.
Authors' Notes: The beginning of something that promises to be terribly epic, ispired by the Deep Roads, my endless fixation on Tragic Love that Cannot Be, and an array of some truly depressing music. I have no clue how long this will get, honestly. The rating will probably rise. There may or may not be OT3, but at this point the story is driving itself so I promise nothing except that we will all see when we get there (wherever there is). So, with all that said: Anders shows up at Weisshaupt, looking for an old friend and a place to hide. Things don't quite go as planned.
Chapter 1: Neither Friend nor Foe
"You're neither friend nor foe
Though I can't seem to let you go."
-Sara Bareilles, "Gravity"
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shout and bring the entire garrison down on you.”
“I saved your life.” The night air is cold through the open window, and she feels gooseflesh rising on her bare arms. She shivers and pulls the blanket around her shoulders as she rises; her light nightshirt is no match for autumn in the Anderfels. She watches him warily, but he makes no move to approach. He looks tired and bedraggled and painfully thin, and his haggard face has aged since last she saw him. His voice is raw and his eyes seem to have lost their light, and she thinks it would be the simplest thing in the world to take him down herself, without any outside assistance, but at his words, she pauses, then lets her hand drop away from her staff, leaving it propped against the nightstand. Because he speaks the truth. Because things are not as simple as she would like them to be.
“What are you doing here, Anders?” she asks in a low voice.
He gives her the ghost of a smile, an expression that changes his face - almost - to that of the man she thought she knew, long ago. “Losing my way, it seems. I wasn’t trying to - that is, I didn’t intend - I was looking for Nathaniel Howe,” he finally manages. “I thought this was his room.”
She feels unexpectedly sorry for him as he stammers in his hoarse voice, and the pity is warring with the anger she has spent the last several years cultivating. The pity wins out, as it too often does with her. “You are not mistaken, but you have poor timing; he is on patrol and will not return until the end of the week, if then.” The patrol schedule is one thing, but the darkspawn care little for it; often enough a week’s expedition can turn into a month in this wasteland.
“But why...” He trails off and she feels, absurdly, the color flooding her cheeks as he looks at her. She has assumed she is past such discomfort. Women in the Wardens are rare enough, and here at Weisshaupt they are outnumbered ten to one; none sleep alone unless they wish it. The nights are cold, and Nathaniel is kind; she considers herself lucky, in a way, because such a character trait here is a rarity in and of itself. But perhaps because this man is a relic of her past, she feels almost as though she ought to explain herself as understanding dawns on his face. He looks almost as uncomfortable as she feels as he says, “Oh, I see.”
“It isn’t any of your concern,” she says sharply in an effort to hide her rising embarrassment. She feels almost as though she is explaining herself to her sister; somehow, she doesn’t think that the nights are cold and he is kind would be considered justification enough for her arrangement. But of course, he is not her sister; he is in fact the reason that she will likely never have to explain anything to her sister, perhaps not ever again.
“No,” he says. “You are right, of course. I…” It is oddly satisfying to watch him flounder, although she has sworn to herself time and again that she has left all of this in the past. She is not that girl anymore, and perhaps he has never at all been the man she thought he was, when she was young and impressionable. And even so, she feels a twinge, watching him try to move past the revelation until at last he tells her softly, “It is good to see you, Bethany. You are looking well.”
“I wish I could say the same,” she responds. “On both counts.”
“I deserve that, I suppose,” he says, then adds with another half-smile, “You sound like your sister.”
She scowls at that; it is easier, in that moment, to be angry and allow the anger to push aside everything else. “Do I?”
“Yes,” he says. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he ventures, “How is - ?”
“I don’t know,” she snaps bitterly. It has been months since the last letter. They are not always regular; they are always vague. Beastly hot here this summer, bet you’re enjoying the cool weather. Don’t let them work you too hard. No location, no return address. The smell of the sea and spices and freedom folded into the parchment. “I am not allowed to know.” As it is, she has been transferred here, out of the rush of political unrest, for the simple crime of being a Hawke. Her sister is popular with all of the wrong people, and in some places being a Warden is not protection enough.
He looks down, breaking from her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, you ought to be,” she mutters. He looks so like a kicked, starved dog that she cannot help adding, “She wouldn’t die if someone killed her. She isn’t the one you should worry about, I would think.” Despite her worsening nightmares, she has to keep believing this. If her sister hasn’t written, it is because it is not safe to do so; nothing could have happened to her. Her sister is capable of taking on the world.
“I am not known for being sensible,” he quips, and she finds that despite her frustration, she has to stifle an incredulous giggle at the gross understatement.
“Nor am I, it seems,” she murmurs, then walks over to close the window, carefully not looking at him. She has not called for assistance and it is too late to do so now. She has the sense of once again being an accomplice to something she cannot control. “Why did you come? I doubt it is to pick up your vigil again, else you’d have gone to the commander. They may even have taken you; they need men badly enough.”
“No,” he agrees. “That isn’t why I came.” She wants to ask him, very much, how he is able to walk away, knowing what she now knows, feeling what she feels. He must share her nightmares. It has been nearly a decade since she first came into this calling, and although it is often terrible, she cannot imagine leaving it behind. It has become a part of her. Before she can find the words to ask, he sways, gripping the windowsill in an obvious effort to stay upright. “I don’t suppose they’ve moved the larder since I was last here?” he asks faintly.
She shakes her head disparagingly. “Oh, I see. Hungry work, isn’t it, running for one’s life? I’ve some experience with it myself. Stay,” she tells him, as if he really is a starving dog; certainly she thinks her sister’s Mabari likely has more sense, and thinking of him this way is considerably less uncomfortable than the alternative. “I will fetch some bread.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself, I -”
“You are not in a position to argue,” she cuts him off. “Do you think anyone in this place doesn’t sleep lightly?” He does not respond as she sets the blanket back on the bed and takes a robe from the hook at the back of the door, trying not to feel self-conscious as she turns her back on him and slips it over her nightshirt, belting it tightly, though it is flimsy armor. “Besides, Cook may be about. He is decent enough, and I’ve a way with him.”
“You’ve always had a way,” he says, very softly.
Her back is still to him, so he cannot see the pain flit over her features. By the time she turns back, she has composed herself. “Don’t,” she says firmly. “Don’t you dare. I shall feed you, because I cannot bear to see any living thing go hungry. And then you will go, and Maker protect you if he sees fit to do so. You say you saved my life; I will now return the favor. I do not want a debt between us.”
He is silent as she walks from the room and shuts the door. She leans back against the wood for a moment, allowing herself a few precious instants to regain her equilibrium. Then she shakes her head, sighs, and slips across the hall and down to the main floor of the keep.
They do not often bother locking the larder in Weisshaupt. Despite the desolate landscape, there is usually food enough regardless of the season, for the denizens of nearby villages show their appreciation as they can with donations of eggs and cheese and flour, and there is a small plot in the back to grow herbs and hardy vegetables, tended by those who have the time and inclination. Besides, the King seems to feel that it is his royal duty to keep the Wardens comfortable - or maybe it is the Warden commanders who demand it, for it is certain that they are the true power in this rocky kingdom, not the man who sits on the throne - so there are supply wagons twice a month laden with meat and wine, sugar and fruit, and any number of other luxuries. There are rules, of course, and even rations if a particular winter is hard enough, but rules can always be bent and Cook can usually be counted on to be sympathetic.
All of this is fortunate, for the recruits are ravenously hungry at all hours. It is actually surprising as she enters the cavernous kitchen and heads for the larder door that she has the place to herself; she recalls that the few hours before dawn are especially difficult for someone new to the taint, and food is one of the few comforts readily available to dispel the dark and the cold. If the sleepy scullion in the corner by the fire is surprised to see her, he doesn’t show it; with a yawn and an “Evenin’ m’lady,” he is back to sleep on his pallet by the banked fire.
In the pantry, she quickly puts together a plate of bread, cheese, and two wizened apples. She piles the food as high as she can, then heads back toward the stairs on silent feet. She tries very hard to look like she is not up to anything suspicious, and tries just as hard not to think about what she is, in fact, doing. The way back up the stairs seems to take forever, and she cannot help thinking that it would be better all around if he were simply gone when she arrives - although such an eventuality seems unlikely, considering the state he is in. It is a miracle that he got up to the third story at all.
With this in mind, she is not truly surprised to discover, upon her return, that he is slumped against the wall, asleep. She sets the plate down on the writing desk and stands over him for a moment, wondering what she is meant to do now. She cannot find it in her heart to wake him, for he looks utterly exhausted, and outside the window it has begun to snow. With a sigh, she turns and leaves once again, for there is no question of her returning to bed while he is present. In the library, such as it is, she lights a fire, then wedges herself into a threadbare armchair in the corner and closes her eyes.
The dream, or perhaps the memory, comes with an unexpected poignancy: they are both so young, she still a child in the body of a young woman, her sister barely older than that. She is shelling peas in Gamlen’s ratty kitchen, her hands moving swiftly through the familiar chore, eyes downcast. A cup of tea is set before her; when she looks up, her sister is smiling down at her, hip propped against the side of the table. Take a break.
Someone has to do this, she says with a sigh, and it will not be Uncle, though he will complain the loudest if there is no dinner.
I’ll take over while you drink it, her sister promises.
She sighs, No, I’d really rather you didn’t. But I’ll rest a moment. With a nervous shrug, she takes the proffered cup and sips, nearly burning off her tongue in the process. It is too bitter; her sister has a habit of scalding the tea leaves. It is probably fortunate that she is rarely called upon to be domestic, because her efforts at domesticity invariably end in disaster. To be fair, if it were not for her sister, it is very likely none of them would eat at all, so Bethany feels the least she can do is make some soup without complaining about it. Thanks, she says, trying to be nonchalant, but her heart is pounding in her throat as though something terrible or wonderful is about to happen.
Something’s eating at you, her sister says without preamble. Do you want to talk about it?
No, she replies shortly.
Too bad, since that means I have to nag you until you change your mind. Let me guess: is it Anders?
She jerks, spilling a couple of drops of tea on her hand, hissing as they burn. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, she says, as primly as possible, dabbing at her hand with her apron. Your personal life is not my concern.
Feeling prickly, aren’t we? The two of you are exactly alike that way, you know. You take everything too seriously.
Someone has to, she responds, failing to keep the bitterness out of her voice. You never do.
I am fond of Anders, her sister muses. It is difficult not to be. I am fonder of you.
He looks at you, she says at last. When you are not paying attention. Sometimes when you are paying attention.
He’ll get over it soon enough, her sister says with a shrug. I am not intending to look back.
Don’t stop yourself on my account, she says softly. You deserve to be happy.
So do you. They are both silent for a moment. She blows on her tea, trying to cool it, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. She has never resented her sister the way Carver did, when he was alive; she has always been her hero, and it is difficult to have these conflicting feelings now. They make her feel like a terrible person. She doesn’t want to be angry and jealous, but she cannot seem to help it. Listen, have I ever lied to you?
No, she admits. Never, unless you count the time you told me I had spiders in my hair.
I was ten, her sister points out with a laugh. I don’t think it counts, although that little dance you did, trying to get them off….
It still isn’t funny. But she giggles.
So, her sister continues, as someone who has never lied to you: your way is clear. I lack your… softness, I suppose, for birds with broken wings and motherless kittens. Stop tying yourself into knots over it, and take what you want. And if he hurts you, let me know - I’ll chop off his arms, or maybe something more sensitive.
She cannot help it; she laughs, and when she has stopped laughing, she feels very silly. You have been spending entirely too much time with Isabela.
The smile on her sister’s face is unexpectedly sly as she says, Yes, well, it isn’t my love life we’re discussing, is it?
No, it - wait, what do you mean by that? But her sister is already gone, leaving her alone with unanswered questions and the unfinished peas.
She feels the echo of it still, as she wakes shivering in the library, an ache she thought she banished years ago. She hurries upstairs in the pearly light of the snowy morning, unable to dispel a sense of urgency, but she finds the room and the plate both empty. She looks out the window, but it is a long way down, and there are no tracks in the fresh snow.
On to chapter 2!
Author: chaineddove
Fandom: Dragon Age II
Rating: PG
Genre: Drama/Romance
Characters: Anders/Bethany, Nathaniel/Bethany. F!Hawke/Isabela implied.
Wordcount: 2,695
Disclaimer: I do not own DAII. Believe me, I would love to, but I don't.
Authors' Notes: The beginning of something that promises to be terribly epic, ispired by the Deep Roads, my endless fixation on Tragic Love that Cannot Be, and an array of some truly depressing music. I have no clue how long this will get, honestly. The rating will probably rise. There may or may not be OT3, but at this point the story is driving itself so I promise nothing except that we will all see when we get there (wherever there is). So, with all that said: Anders shows up at Weisshaupt, looking for an old friend and a place to hide. Things don't quite go as planned.
Chapter 1: Neither Friend nor Foe
"You're neither friend nor foe
Though I can't seem to let you go."
-Sara Bareilles, "Gravity"
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t shout and bring the entire garrison down on you.”
“I saved your life.” The night air is cold through the open window, and she feels gooseflesh rising on her bare arms. She shivers and pulls the blanket around her shoulders as she rises; her light nightshirt is no match for autumn in the Anderfels. She watches him warily, but he makes no move to approach. He looks tired and bedraggled and painfully thin, and his haggard face has aged since last she saw him. His voice is raw and his eyes seem to have lost their light, and she thinks it would be the simplest thing in the world to take him down herself, without any outside assistance, but at his words, she pauses, then lets her hand drop away from her staff, leaving it propped against the nightstand. Because he speaks the truth. Because things are not as simple as she would like them to be.
“What are you doing here, Anders?” she asks in a low voice.
He gives her the ghost of a smile, an expression that changes his face - almost - to that of the man she thought she knew, long ago. “Losing my way, it seems. I wasn’t trying to - that is, I didn’t intend - I was looking for Nathaniel Howe,” he finally manages. “I thought this was his room.”
She feels unexpectedly sorry for him as he stammers in his hoarse voice, and the pity is warring with the anger she has spent the last several years cultivating. The pity wins out, as it too often does with her. “You are not mistaken, but you have poor timing; he is on patrol and will not return until the end of the week, if then.” The patrol schedule is one thing, but the darkspawn care little for it; often enough a week’s expedition can turn into a month in this wasteland.
“But why...” He trails off and she feels, absurdly, the color flooding her cheeks as he looks at her. She has assumed she is past such discomfort. Women in the Wardens are rare enough, and here at Weisshaupt they are outnumbered ten to one; none sleep alone unless they wish it. The nights are cold, and Nathaniel is kind; she considers herself lucky, in a way, because such a character trait here is a rarity in and of itself. But perhaps because this man is a relic of her past, she feels almost as though she ought to explain herself as understanding dawns on his face. He looks almost as uncomfortable as she feels as he says, “Oh, I see.”
“It isn’t any of your concern,” she says sharply in an effort to hide her rising embarrassment. She feels almost as though she is explaining herself to her sister; somehow, she doesn’t think that the nights are cold and he is kind would be considered justification enough for her arrangement. But of course, he is not her sister; he is in fact the reason that she will likely never have to explain anything to her sister, perhaps not ever again.
“No,” he says. “You are right, of course. I…” It is oddly satisfying to watch him flounder, although she has sworn to herself time and again that she has left all of this in the past. She is not that girl anymore, and perhaps he has never at all been the man she thought he was, when she was young and impressionable. And even so, she feels a twinge, watching him try to move past the revelation until at last he tells her softly, “It is good to see you, Bethany. You are looking well.”
“I wish I could say the same,” she responds. “On both counts.”
“I deserve that, I suppose,” he says, then adds with another half-smile, “You sound like your sister.”
She scowls at that; it is easier, in that moment, to be angry and allow the anger to push aside everything else. “Do I?”
“Yes,” he says. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, he ventures, “How is - ?”
“I don’t know,” she snaps bitterly. It has been months since the last letter. They are not always regular; they are always vague. Beastly hot here this summer, bet you’re enjoying the cool weather. Don’t let them work you too hard. No location, no return address. The smell of the sea and spices and freedom folded into the parchment. “I am not allowed to know.” As it is, she has been transferred here, out of the rush of political unrest, for the simple crime of being a Hawke. Her sister is popular with all of the wrong people, and in some places being a Warden is not protection enough.
He looks down, breaking from her gaze. “I’m sorry.”
“Well, you ought to be,” she mutters. He looks so like a kicked, starved dog that she cannot help adding, “She wouldn’t die if someone killed her. She isn’t the one you should worry about, I would think.” Despite her worsening nightmares, she has to keep believing this. If her sister hasn’t written, it is because it is not safe to do so; nothing could have happened to her. Her sister is capable of taking on the world.
“I am not known for being sensible,” he quips, and she finds that despite her frustration, she has to stifle an incredulous giggle at the gross understatement.
“Nor am I, it seems,” she murmurs, then walks over to close the window, carefully not looking at him. She has not called for assistance and it is too late to do so now. She has the sense of once again being an accomplice to something she cannot control. “Why did you come? I doubt it is to pick up your vigil again, else you’d have gone to the commander. They may even have taken you; they need men badly enough.”
“No,” he agrees. “That isn’t why I came.” She wants to ask him, very much, how he is able to walk away, knowing what she now knows, feeling what she feels. He must share her nightmares. It has been nearly a decade since she first came into this calling, and although it is often terrible, she cannot imagine leaving it behind. It has become a part of her. Before she can find the words to ask, he sways, gripping the windowsill in an obvious effort to stay upright. “I don’t suppose they’ve moved the larder since I was last here?” he asks faintly.
She shakes her head disparagingly. “Oh, I see. Hungry work, isn’t it, running for one’s life? I’ve some experience with it myself. Stay,” she tells him, as if he really is a starving dog; certainly she thinks her sister’s Mabari likely has more sense, and thinking of him this way is considerably less uncomfortable than the alternative. “I will fetch some bread.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself, I -”
“You are not in a position to argue,” she cuts him off. “Do you think anyone in this place doesn’t sleep lightly?” He does not respond as she sets the blanket back on the bed and takes a robe from the hook at the back of the door, trying not to feel self-conscious as she turns her back on him and slips it over her nightshirt, belting it tightly, though it is flimsy armor. “Besides, Cook may be about. He is decent enough, and I’ve a way with him.”
“You’ve always had a way,” he says, very softly.
Her back is still to him, so he cannot see the pain flit over her features. By the time she turns back, she has composed herself. “Don’t,” she says firmly. “Don’t you dare. I shall feed you, because I cannot bear to see any living thing go hungry. And then you will go, and Maker protect you if he sees fit to do so. You say you saved my life; I will now return the favor. I do not want a debt between us.”
He is silent as she walks from the room and shuts the door. She leans back against the wood for a moment, allowing herself a few precious instants to regain her equilibrium. Then she shakes her head, sighs, and slips across the hall and down to the main floor of the keep.
They do not often bother locking the larder in Weisshaupt. Despite the desolate landscape, there is usually food enough regardless of the season, for the denizens of nearby villages show their appreciation as they can with donations of eggs and cheese and flour, and there is a small plot in the back to grow herbs and hardy vegetables, tended by those who have the time and inclination. Besides, the King seems to feel that it is his royal duty to keep the Wardens comfortable - or maybe it is the Warden commanders who demand it, for it is certain that they are the true power in this rocky kingdom, not the man who sits on the throne - so there are supply wagons twice a month laden with meat and wine, sugar and fruit, and any number of other luxuries. There are rules, of course, and even rations if a particular winter is hard enough, but rules can always be bent and Cook can usually be counted on to be sympathetic.
All of this is fortunate, for the recruits are ravenously hungry at all hours. It is actually surprising as she enters the cavernous kitchen and heads for the larder door that she has the place to herself; she recalls that the few hours before dawn are especially difficult for someone new to the taint, and food is one of the few comforts readily available to dispel the dark and the cold. If the sleepy scullion in the corner by the fire is surprised to see her, he doesn’t show it; with a yawn and an “Evenin’ m’lady,” he is back to sleep on his pallet by the banked fire.
In the pantry, she quickly puts together a plate of bread, cheese, and two wizened apples. She piles the food as high as she can, then heads back toward the stairs on silent feet. She tries very hard to look like she is not up to anything suspicious, and tries just as hard not to think about what she is, in fact, doing. The way back up the stairs seems to take forever, and she cannot help thinking that it would be better all around if he were simply gone when she arrives - although such an eventuality seems unlikely, considering the state he is in. It is a miracle that he got up to the third story at all.
With this in mind, she is not truly surprised to discover, upon her return, that he is slumped against the wall, asleep. She sets the plate down on the writing desk and stands over him for a moment, wondering what she is meant to do now. She cannot find it in her heart to wake him, for he looks utterly exhausted, and outside the window it has begun to snow. With a sigh, she turns and leaves once again, for there is no question of her returning to bed while he is present. In the library, such as it is, she lights a fire, then wedges herself into a threadbare armchair in the corner and closes her eyes.
The dream, or perhaps the memory, comes with an unexpected poignancy: they are both so young, she still a child in the body of a young woman, her sister barely older than that. She is shelling peas in Gamlen’s ratty kitchen, her hands moving swiftly through the familiar chore, eyes downcast. A cup of tea is set before her; when she looks up, her sister is smiling down at her, hip propped against the side of the table. Take a break.
Someone has to do this, she says with a sigh, and it will not be Uncle, though he will complain the loudest if there is no dinner.
I’ll take over while you drink it, her sister promises.
She sighs, No, I’d really rather you didn’t. But I’ll rest a moment. With a nervous shrug, she takes the proffered cup and sips, nearly burning off her tongue in the process. It is too bitter; her sister has a habit of scalding the tea leaves. It is probably fortunate that she is rarely called upon to be domestic, because her efforts at domesticity invariably end in disaster. To be fair, if it were not for her sister, it is very likely none of them would eat at all, so Bethany feels the least she can do is make some soup without complaining about it. Thanks, she says, trying to be nonchalant, but her heart is pounding in her throat as though something terrible or wonderful is about to happen.
Something’s eating at you, her sister says without preamble. Do you want to talk about it?
No, she replies shortly.
Too bad, since that means I have to nag you until you change your mind. Let me guess: is it Anders?
She jerks, spilling a couple of drops of tea on her hand, hissing as they burn. I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, she says, as primly as possible, dabbing at her hand with her apron. Your personal life is not my concern.
Feeling prickly, aren’t we? The two of you are exactly alike that way, you know. You take everything too seriously.
Someone has to, she responds, failing to keep the bitterness out of her voice. You never do.
I am fond of Anders, her sister muses. It is difficult not to be. I am fonder of you.
He looks at you, she says at last. When you are not paying attention. Sometimes when you are paying attention.
He’ll get over it soon enough, her sister says with a shrug. I am not intending to look back.
Don’t stop yourself on my account, she says softly. You deserve to be happy.
So do you. They are both silent for a moment. She blows on her tea, trying to cool it, trying to ignore the ache in her heart. She has never resented her sister the way Carver did, when he was alive; she has always been her hero, and it is difficult to have these conflicting feelings now. They make her feel like a terrible person. She doesn’t want to be angry and jealous, but she cannot seem to help it. Listen, have I ever lied to you?
No, she admits. Never, unless you count the time you told me I had spiders in my hair.
I was ten, her sister points out with a laugh. I don’t think it counts, although that little dance you did, trying to get them off….
It still isn’t funny. But she giggles.
So, her sister continues, as someone who has never lied to you: your way is clear. I lack your… softness, I suppose, for birds with broken wings and motherless kittens. Stop tying yourself into knots over it, and take what you want. And if he hurts you, let me know - I’ll chop off his arms, or maybe something more sensitive.
She cannot help it; she laughs, and when she has stopped laughing, she feels very silly. You have been spending entirely too much time with Isabela.
The smile on her sister’s face is unexpectedly sly as she says, Yes, well, it isn’t my love life we’re discussing, is it?
No, it - wait, what do you mean by that? But her sister is already gone, leaving her alone with unanswered questions and the unfinished peas.
She feels the echo of it still, as she wakes shivering in the library, an ache she thought she banished years ago. She hurries upstairs in the pearly light of the snowy morning, unable to dispel a sense of urgency, but she finds the room and the plate both empty. She looks out the window, but it is a long way down, and there are no tracks in the fresh snow.
On to chapter 2!