Act IV: Justice - ch 21 [DA2]

Epilogue

[The Siren’s Call II]

The horizon was a brilliant blue on blue where the lighter sky met the darker ocean, no trace of land or ship. The ship raced steadily across the waves in the brisk wind, strong enough to give them speed, but not strong enough for the rolling waves to truly be a nuisance. Still, Fenris clung to the mast, unused to the odd swaying of the crow’s nest, wary of being taken off guard. Isabela showed no such compulsions where she stood; leaning over the edge, face in the wind and a smile that went from here to the horizon.

“This is what freedom is, Fenris, this is what I was talking about.”

The elf did not lose his frown, but he let go of the mast, echoing her stance, trying to understand what she was talking about.

“Look,” she laughed, placing an arm around his shoulders, ignoring the slight stiffening it caused. “There is nothing out there but us, and the ship, and up here I can feel it all. This is me. My body. This ship. These sails. The creaking of her hull. I can feel how she leans into the wind, the shifting waves, and the smell of the ocean. No chains. No walls. No boundaries. On land I am a whore, a drunkard and a duelist, here I am a queen. Always a captain though,” she added with a smirk. 

They had spent the night talking, reluctantly, haltingly, the pair of them unused to sharing. They hoarded their feelings like beggars hoarded coppers, but now in the daylight it all seemed like a dream. Looking at her, Fenris could not imagine her as a young girl, sold off to be a wife before she was ready. He could not imagine her being trapped by anything or anybody; she had broken her chains so thoroughly he could not even see the marks.

Except sometimes. At night. When the smile faded.

She knew he would not tell anybody.

“I see water and the sky, but no freedom,” he rasped, more puzzled than annoyed. “I’ve been on a ship before; it has nothing to do with being free for me.” Cramped holds. Unwashed bodies. Denarius escaping, leaving him behind. Not free. Thrown away.

“That is because you’ve just been a passenger silly,” Isabela laughed, the wind tearing at her hair, the sunlight casting reflections in her jewelry. “You’ve been dragged through life by one boat or the other, but you’ve never really sailed. Other people have held your rudder, but…” Her eyes flashed teasingly, the joke dirty but her intentions pure. “…I intend to teach you how to sail.”

Fenris was quiet for a moment, watching her face, willing himself to find faults and causes for anger. To rile against the world and stalk off, finding refuge in a dark corner somewhere. But there were no corners or cobwebs up here in the sky, just the swaying mast and a dark-skinned, curvy woman with a smile like the sun. He looked up, into the glaring heavens, shadowing his eyes.

“I think I would like that very much.”

Act IV: Justice - ch 9 [DA2]

The heavy hand on Hawke’s shoulder made him jump and nearly reach for his daggers.

“Please, don’t do that,” he complained, then drew himself up to his full height, which was woefully inadequate compared to the Qunari… warrior? Ben-Hassrath? He wasn’t sure what the male was supposed to be, but Maker he was big, and the ornate staff strapped to his back looked more than enough to cave in his skull if he resisted. Still, the hand was removed.

“It is time,” the Qunari said roughly, voice thickly accented.

“Oh,” Hawke replied, scratching his neck. No choice now he supposed. Had he been watched? Or was the timing simply terrible? “Lead the way then,” he said at last, giving the foreboding walls one last look. For better or worse, he had no choice but to try for a peaceful solution.

Act IV: Justice - ch 8 [DA2]

Disclaimer: Characters and world: Copyright by Bioware. Ian Hawke and his tale is entirely by me. Spoilers aplenty, since this story takes place after the final act of the game and chronicles what I would have had happen once the dust had settled.

Consciousness came slowly like an uninvited guest, turning blissful oblivion into aching awareness. Hawke groaned as he turned, the bed was soft enough, but right now the very act of existing set his nerves on fire. 

“You are suffering from frostbite,” a deep female voice informed him as he forced his eyes open, blinking like an owl caught out by dawn.

“I take it that the fact that it feels like my fingers are going to drop off is a sign that they won’t?” Hawke hoped that was true. He fervently hoped. If he had to choose between fingers and his life, he would argue that they were one and the same. He relied on his hands far too much.

“There will be no permanent damage,” the Qunari woman assured, shifting slightly on the chair where she had been resting. Perhaps waiting for him to awake. 

“Thank the Maker for that,” Hawke said, sinking back on the bed as he looked a bit closer at the woman. 

She was as tall as any man that Hawke had ever met, and only slightly less bulky than the male Qunari. Her horns curved backwards in elegant sweeps, the brow-ridge shadowing her eyes. Like all Qunari she was almost impossible to read, but from what he could see of the small room he was in, it didn’t look like he was imprisoned. There were no bars on the open window, he wasn’t strapped to the bed, and his daggers lay on a small table next to him. Not that he would be running any time soon, but it was good to be armed all the same. There were too many memories attached to those daggers for him to feel good without them around. 

He was alive. It took a moment for that to truly sink in. He had honestly not expected that when Anders had admitted that he had nothing left inside him and had used the last reserves of mana to thicken the ice that supported them before losing consciousness. They must have drifted ashore, he vaguely remembered trying to get Anders to breathe… Anders!