Chapter Text
It happens because Bethany twists her fingers in her hair.
It is a habit now. Like smiling at Templars.
A trick she learned so long ago she can't even remember not twisting her fingers in her hair. The only one of Malcolm Hawke’s children touched by Malcolm Hawke’s greatest secret. Garrett had his daggers. And Carver had his sword. And she had her fingers all up in her hair.
(Carver always used to say that was why she was the only Hawke with curls, and he said it with the smug superiority of one whose hair stayed perfectly straight and orderly even in the wet sticky heat of summer. So she’d lick her palm and muss his hair until it stuck out in whorls and cowlicks.)
(Oh, how she misses her twin.)
She had to do something to keep her hands busy –– busy with something that wasn’t magic. Busy doing something a normal girl might do. Because normal girls don’t shoot lightning from their fingertips when they’re startled or stressed.
It was supposed to keep her safe.
Garrett and Carver learned to charge ahead, blades bared, all muscles and sweat and unrestrained steel. And unrestrained curses. And unrestrained rage.
(She has never been unrestrained for a moment in the whole of her life.)
But Bethany –– she has her fingers in her hair when the hurlock hits. Stupid, stupid. Never learned to reach for her magic before her hair.
She’s three heartbeats too slow. Feels a tearing pain in her side even as her spell blooms from beneath her, all rock and thunder and the hurlock’s dead before it hits the ground. But she’s dead too, she just doesn’t realize it. Not until black begins to fill her veins and swallow her senses.
Stupid. Is this what Carver died protecting?
He should have had the chance to grow up and grow old.
Now neither of them ever will.
Taint.
It is such a grim word.
It’s harder than she thought. Dying. More painful. She clutches her side and tries not to cough up anything alarming. Garrett already looks so –– Maker, no one should ever have to look like that, with the broken, red bits of his soul sticking out at ungainly angles. She thinks she can’t see him looking like that and die peacefully.
Carver didn't die peacefully. There was blood on his lips, and terror in his eyes, and ––
Maybe none of the Hawkes are destined for peaceful ends.
Not Father. Not Carver. And one has only to look at Garrett to know he'll go wreathed in violence.
But Bethany's always been such a good girl. So careful not to break her family's heart. But here she is down in the dark, with the taste her own end on the back of her tongue. The bitter certainty of death.
Garret is going to be so mad at her. And Mother –– oh sweet Maker, Mother…
Varric keeps muttering platitudes under his breath, as though a Surfacer has any domain over the deep dark places of the world. But Anders knows the truth of it the minute he puts his hands on her; Justice flickers grimly behind his irises.
It hurts so much just trying to breathe.
And ––
And…
Oh.
Carver.
***
A face. “Hello?”
Bethany blinks, and then promptly closes her eyes again.
She was dying, wasn’t she?
Shouldn't she have done it by now? It seems only mannerly.
“You’re not dead,” the face says rather dubiously.
She opens her eyes again to be sure. It’s a nice face, bronze and faintly freckled, but it’s not one she recognizes.
“Garrett––?” She croaks and flings her arm out, reaching. Her brother would be near.
“Oh. Was that the shouty one with the terrifying… and, ah… rather… ” the face casts about looking for a diplomatic word to describe her brother, and instead gestures to his own chin. “Um... beard?”
She sits up. Or tries to. Or does something else that must be equally distressing for the face –– which she can see is a whole person now, with startlingly broad shoulders and faded blue armor. A Warden? –– presses her back to the floor with a sound of alarm.
“Hey now, none of that. You’ve been out for three days. Stroud… that is, the Warden-Commander wasn’t… was sure you wouldn’t –– well. You’re not dead.” He says again, firmly, as though she might change her mind about it at any moment.
“Where is my brother?” The words come out like a shaky rasp, all jagged edged with dread.
“He was your brother then?” The Warden with the face inquires, dark auburn brows shooting up in surprise.
“Was?” She does sit up then, though the Warden keeps her from rising further. She can feel his hand at the small of her back, and against her shoulder, holding her steady. And she fights the inane urge to reach for his other hand as the world tilts on its axis, and black spots flit across her vision. Because Garrett isn’t. Garrett would never ––
“No no no, hey. He’s not dead. Stroud took some men to escort them back to the surface. Never should have been this deep. Surprised any of them made it out in one ––” He clears his throat, looking embarrassed. “Well, hmm.”
She clutches her side automatically, but there’s no pain now. The blood is gone, wiped cleanly away, and she can feel the ridges of new scar tissue beneath the rents of her gown.
“You were lucky you brought a healer. Luckier still that the healer was a Warden –– is a Warden,” he corrects himself with a frown. “You never really get to leave the Order, after all.”
She fastens on the only word in that sentence that doesn’t give her terrible vertigo. “Lucky?” she repeats inanely.
Something in his expression goes soft and gentle. “What do you remember?”
Nothing. Everything.
Papa’s hands filled with light, cupped around her own, helping the magic flow out of her clean and clear and easy. Mother’s easy smile as she knelt to kiss her goodnight, long fingers brushing gently through her curls. Garrett’s new beard growing in sparse uneven patches across his jawline, strutting in circles around his smooth-cheeked little brother. And Carver –– awkward and surly, only half-grown, feet already too big for father’s boots. Carver –– curled beside her at night, holding her whispered secrets close to his heart. Carver –– eyes like blue fire, flushed and breathless from swinging around that bloody great sword of his. Carver –– the smothered snort-chuckle he’d make when he was startled out of gruffness and into laughter. Carver –– pale and spotted with blood, eyes going cloudy, surprise and determination still stamped on his features.
She shakes her head mutely, surprised by the tears that fall.
“What’s your name?”
“Bethany Hawke,” she says, and sticks out her hand like an idiot, the way her mother always taught her –– palm down like a lady, not a secret apostate, or an up-jumped refugee, or whatever she is now.
He takes her hand, thumb brushing across her knuckles the way a well-brought up man’s lips might. “Alistair. Welcome to the Ferelden Wardens.”
***
The other Wardens give her a wide berth. Giving her time to adjust, Alistair insists, but in truth Bethany doesn’t care why, she’s just glad for the distance. It’s too much. Losing Garrett, and her freedom, and the sunlight all at once. And Mother… she cannot even bear to think of her Mother.
Only Alistair keeps her company.
It’s a while before she can see past her own misery to notice how he shadows her every step.
He’s –– well she’s not sure what he is. He’s young, and noticeably un grim, with an easy self-deprecating humor he applies freely once he’s certain she’s not going to die of shock, or stubbornness. He smiles too much, all lopsided and crinkly. And though he’s never loud –– none of the Wardens ever are –– she has the distinct feeling he was, once.
And he's handsome ––
(From somewhere in the world above, Garrett is rolling his eyes.)
–– well he is –– tall and broad-shouldered, skin a surprisingly sunny bronze. And it's not a crime that she notices. No one was ever supposed to notice her, but somehow Mother forgot to teach her the other way round.
She watches Alistair with the other Wardens. Half-a-head taller than the lot of them, he sticks out like a shiny new penny –– hair as coppery bright as his smile. There are eleven in all. All well accustomed to this role. Even Alistair, if the faded blue of his uniform is any indication, has been a Warden for some time. There is an easiness between them all. A synchronization of their movements that reminds her forcibly that the Warden’s are a disciplined military unit, not the ragtag assortment of misfits she’s used to. And yet there is undeniable warmth in the way they interact. Constant small touches. A jostle of the hip. A brush against an elbow. A soft slap against a back. Remnants of a physical sort of communication that exist in a world that is often dark and silent.
A Warden’s world.
Her world now.
She shoves her fingers in her hair.
For a moment she's too busy blinking the tears from her eyes that she doesn’t notice Alistair sitting back down next to her, until he passes her a bowl of something steaming that smells of nothing she’s able to identify.
“Dinner,” he offers. He eyes her portion critically, and scoops out nearly all of his own meal into her bowl. “You’ll be hungry,” he says in a tone that books no disagreement.
She is, she realizes suddenly. Ravenous. But she forces herself to take the bowl from him calmly, with a murmured word of thanks before she dips her spoon and takes such an enormous, hasty bite that she scalds her tongue before she realizes ––
“Something wrong?” He pauses, spoon halfway to his mouth, eyebrow cocked at her queer expression.
“I can’t taste anything.”
“Ah.” The line of his mouth smooths out. “Sorry. I’d forgotten to warn you about that, but it’s perfectly, um… normal, if such a word can apply to the Wardens. Something to do with the joining. Just as well you were nearly unconscious for that bit. Your taste buds don’t stop working until after the black draught.” He makes a face at the memory. “Like arse and death. But it’ll wear off in about a month or two, so. Ironic, yes? And patently unfair. But that’s the Order for you.” He sketches a sloppy salute with his spoon. “But we will keep you fed, I can promise you that.”
He says that last bit with a strange sort of solemnity for a man who’s all red-ears and lopsided smiles. It sounds like a vow.
She shoves another bite into her mouth so she doesn’t have to reply, and also because she does feel like she’s halfway to starving –– hollow through to her core and ragged with it. The food is…
It helps, and it… doesn’t. She’s been on the run half her life. Amaranthine. Lothering. Kirkwall. She’s known hunger –– she just hasn’t known this. The strangeness of eating and eating and still feeling…
Unfulfilled.
Her spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl and she frowns.
“You’re not missing much,” Alistair says, eyeing her grim expression. “It’s mostly… well, um, never mind what it’s mostly. It’s edible. Or at least it won’t kill you.” He pushes a lump around his bowl with a spoon “Probably.” The corner of his mouth quirks up apologetically. “We haven’t been to the surface proper in months now, and Briggs is a right shite cook. I’m worse though,” he grins brightly. “So that’s you being lucky twice. Didn’t get killed by the joining. Didn’t have to eat my cooking.”
Something about Alistair's smile makes her insides shift. It isn’t discomfort, but it isn’t not discomfort. It’s a bit like having her center of gravity tilt suddenly in his direction and ––
Oh, hush Garrett.
***
Every few hours she has to sit down and eat or she starts to feel hollow and light-headed with it. But Alistair is there for that too, pushing bits of food at her, mostly stale bread and salted fish, but once a dried apple excavated from somewhere that he’d clearly been saving for himself.
He keeps the misery at bay too. Speaking to her whenever he can, low voiced and gentle. Hands fidgeting with the hem of his frayed blue surcoat.
He never strays far from her side. Even when the Warden’s cluster together to discuss Wardeny things, she remains in Alistair's line of sight. Once or twice she catches him looking at her –– gaze distant, brow furrowed. But when he sees her looking back, his expression softens, and she’s the one who has to look away.
The Wardens move more swiftly through the Deep Roads than her brother and his entourage ever had. Even with Anders to guide them, and whatever connection he retained with the darkspawn, their progress had been difficult. In contrast, the Wardens slide almost effortlessly through the tunnels and ruins –– marking an incomprehensibly twisting route through the darkness, as though following instinct or some ancient memory.
Every so often they stop and confer in that oddly silent way of theirs, hand in hand in hand in hand. Communicating as much through touch as anything else. It's fascinating. One of the Wardens leans close enough to Alistair that their foreheads practically touch, mummering something that Bethany can't catch, but Alistair’s ears go a bit pink. He glances back at her briefly, and his body language goes tight, and urgent, and two other Wardens reach over and sort of pat him on the shoulders and back.
She wonders if they’re consoling him for getting stuck with her. That’s a… That hurts a little.
A lot.
She looks away, blinking back tears and a sudden swell of loneliness.
She hears footsteps shuffling towards her, and looks up.
Alistair’s expression is troubled, but kind. He stops a few feet away, blinking, fidgeting with the fraying hem of his uniform. “Are you alright?”
She nods. “Are you?”
The furrow in his brow holds for a moment before it smooths out, and his lips quirk up in a small, lopsided smile. “I’ll do. Mera and Briggs have offered to go on ahead and bring back supplies. The way is clear… well, clear enough. But it will take them a full day there and back if they have to go it alone.” He wipes a hand over his face, thinking. “I can’t send anyone else though, in case there’s a fight. You likely wouldn't have the energy to defend yourself, not unarmed, and without proper rest and a proper meal. You’re already so ––” He glances at her, eyes flicking up and down her figure.
For a moment she wonders what she actually looks like now. Terrible, probably.
“–– tired,” he finishes softly.
“I don’t want to be any trouble.” She frowns, still feeling awkward and wrong footed. Her fingers tangle in her hair.
“You’re not any trouble,” he assures her. “You could never be. It’s just… we don’t usually do this. Perform the joining in the dark when we’re ill-prepared, and ill-supplied. It’s no little thing to change someone so entirely, but your brother was quite... insistent.”
“You mean threatening.” Bethany smiles a little despite herself.
“I do.” Alistair’s lip twitches. “But he said you were a mage of no little skill. And that more than anything is what swayed the Warden Commander to intercede on your behalf.” He sighs, the sound low and weary, and gives her a long look, clearly mulling over something in his head. His hands clench and unclench at his sides. “If we push on a bit you won’t have to sleep on bare rock tonight. And we have a –– well the Warden’s keep supplies stashed at certain points all along the deep roads. You’ll do better if we feed you properly, but it’s a bit of a climb, and I'm not sure ––”
“Food.” Bethany says definitely.
Alistair grins, all wide and lopsided, and Bethany feels her stomach give a decided flip-flop, but she can pretend it’s just the promise of a proper meal.
***
The climb is a bit more than a bit. Bethany can’t judge time in the dark. Nor can she judge distance when everything is laid out in twists and turns, and she’s sure once or twice they double back when the back of her head gets… itchy with something. Two miles? Three? She doesn't know. But Alistair gets more and more anxious as they push onwards, looking back at her more often, with a growing sort of intensity. And once they clamber over a loose section of rubble, she knows why.
The trail ends. Just ends. A collapse that occurred ages ago, or maybe the roads were never built beyond this point. There’s just a smooth rock face that just goes up and up and vanishes into the darkness above. She can’t tell, but the other Warden’s are all sheathing swords, and securing their packs, casting speculative, but not uneasy glances to the rock wall before them.
They mean to climb it.
Oh no.
She isn’t wildly fond of heights, and she’s even less fond of falling from them.
She takes a small step backwards, and bumps right into Alistair.
“Don’t be afraid,” he says, “it isn’t as high has it looks. There’s a tunnel just about fifty feet up, and there are handholds throughout. See there? It’s sturdy. The Wardens have used this wall for centuries. And I will be right behind you, Bethany. I won't let you fall.”
There’s something in his voice that reminds her of Carver. The solemnity of the promise. Carver was always the most serious when it came to protecting her. And well… that's something isn't it?
She takes a step towards the wall.
“The first handhold is there. Just follow behind Reece. She'll show you the path,” he murmurs, voice pitched low.
She reaches.
The stone is cold, and though it looks wet –– all black and glossy –– it isn't. The handhold itself is easy enough to grip, the next lingers just above the first, within easy reach. Almost like a ladder of stone.
She climbs the wall. Step by step. Hand over hand. A ponderous pace, and soon they are the only ones left that she can see. She shivers. It feels like it’s getting colder the higher they go, and she wonders what might happen if they were beset by darkspawn right now. They’d fall is what. Down into the silence and the dark.
She reaches, misses the next hand hold and slips. A startled cry, and she slides a heart-dropping foot and a half before she slams into Alistair, below.
“Ooof! Maker!”
She grabs at him instinctively, fingers slipping on the smooth edges of his armor, and ends up elbowing him in the ear.
Alistair's arm comes around her, steadying. “I have you,” he says urgently. “It’s alright. I have you. Reach for the –– there!” His body weight shifts with her own, supporting her, carefully trailing her up to the next set of handholds. “Again. Do you see the next one?”
She does, reaches, feels Alistair move with her again.
“I’m right here,” he says, “I have you. Up above your head, to the left. Got it? There.”
Handhold by handhold she climbs. Alistair pressed against her from behind and below, urging her on with gentle pressure, and even gentler words. Twice more her trembling fingers slip from the jutting stone, but Alistair is there beneath her, steady as the rock, and she doesn’t fall.
By the time they reach the ledge at the top, it’s not just her hands that are trembling. Her shoulders ache, and her knees wobble, and even when she manages to keep her grip she’s half afraid she’ll just shake herself loose and tumble to the bottom, knocking Alistair off in the process.
She’s not sure she has the strength to pull herself over the edge.
Then all at once she feels Alistair shift beneath her, get a hand braced against her arse and –– really Bethany, this is not the time to be marveling at the size of his hands –– boost her up and over the ledge.
Her arms are unsteady enough that she practically faceplants on the other side. Someone drags her fully away from the ledge, and she looks back to see the other Wardens reaching for Alistair, hauling him to safety.
Alistair flops on his back with a breathless chuckle, feet still dangling over the ledge. “Told you I wouldn't let you fall.”
That sounds like Carver, too.
***
The cache is little more than a stone slab set into the bedrock, marked with a hastily carved griffon and a series of wards laced with magic strong enough to make Bethany buzz if she stands too close. Inside there’s a neat stack of palettes piled with weapons, and distinctive blue padded armour; straw filled crates cradle rows of gleaming red and gold vials; and barrels of foodstuffs packed nearly to the ceiling of the tiny space.
Alistair strides straight to the back, pries open one of the barrels, and pulls something out. He tosses it to her. “Here, eat that.”
It's a wheel of pale-colored cheese, bigger than the palm of her hand, but not by much. She has no blade on her, but the rind seems soft enough so she bites right through it. She can't taste it, of course, but the cheese has a creamy sort of texture that coats her tongue with every bite.
Alistair peers at her, looking relieved. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” She shoves her fingers in her hair. He’s close enough that she can feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek, which is… distracting.
“Oh?” His eyes dart down to her lips for half a moment before flitting back up again. “Good… good good… that’s very… uh…”
“Good?”
“Eh?” His gaze drops down her lips again. “What? Oh. That is, um… you have a bit of... just there.” He reaches with his thumb, as though to brush it against the corner of her mouth, but stops, hand hanging awkwardly in midair.
Bethany pulls away, flushing, hastily swiping at her mouth with the back of her hand. Alistair's gaze lingers on her a moment longer before he looks away.
Well.
Ok.
But now there's the pair of them standing side-by-side in the awkward silence, not looking at each other, and blushing like mad. And of course Bethany's stomach takes the opportunity to make a loud, awful, gurgling noise that sounds like some mid-sized animal is being slowly and painfully strangled.
Alistair bursts into a surprised sort of laughter.
He ratchets the sound back almost at once, but the grin remains. And he does meet her gaze again, even if he’s still a bit pink around the ears. “Still hungry?” He guesses.
She nods, and his smile pulls a little wider, softening at the edges.
“Well, let it never be said that the Order didn’t feed you proper.”
He digs through several more crates and comes up with another wheel of cheese, a string of dried peaches, a large, squat jar of summer pickles and what appears to be an entire smoked ham shank. Practically a weeks worth of provisions. Her mouth waters. Something must show in her expression, for Alistair chuckles, and leads her to a flattish sort of rock, passing her a small knife from his boot.
“You eat,” he instructs, “I’ll get us settled for the night.”
As the Warden’s make camp, Bethany sits off on her own, eating, and watching. There’s that well-oiled efficiency again, the way they break out supplies from the cache, food and bedding, and flasks of oil. But it’s their strange, wordless way of communicating that makes Bethany’s heart ache for something she can’t even name.
She hears the smothered-wheeze of Alistair’s laugh, and she glances up to see him with his arm slung casually around another Warden at the far-end of the ancient courtyard. There's a little knot of them, all squished together like friendly links in a chain. Each one connected to another.
Bethany watches, becoming aware of a hard-edged ache that’s growing steadily within her.
Alistair has never touched her. Not really. Not like that; easy and familiar. With his big hands, and long fingers, and ––
Oh.
Oh.
She feels a flush of heat and realization roll through her.
It’s want.
Desire.
Well that’s…
…not entirely surprising.
She shifts on her rock, and tries not to look at Alistair. But even so her mind calls up an image of him, clear as anything. Tall, and strong, and kind, and vivid as the sun. His lopsided smile. His easy humor. The steady husk of his voice as he held her against him. I’ve got you.
She feels that heat between her thighs begin to throb, steady and bright. She’s felt desire before –– a young woman in Lothering who dreams of romance will readily imagine nights spent with the blacksmith’s thick-armed son –– but this is… not an idle fantasy. It’s ––
The sound of footsteps approaching.
She looks up.
Alistair’s steps falter. He freezes, smiling uncertainly at her.
She smiles back, heart hammering.
Fingers twist up into her hair.
He’s got a bedroll under each arm. Well worn and thin, but clean enough. There’s a pair of faded, mismatched quilts, and a single, flat pillow. He sniffs unobtrusively at each of the blankets, wrinkling his long nose a little, and starts to make up the beds.
Around the clearing the other Wardens are bedding down in clusters, forming a roughly lopsided semi-circle. There’s no firepit, but here and there an oil lamp burns, casting a warm, wavering light over the campsite.
“That’s that then.” Alistair rises to his knees, gesturing invitingly towards the bed with the pillow.
She gives him a look of surprise. A flare of heat blossoms low in her belly.
Oh.
Oh yes.
“Oh no no no,” he flushes, shooting her a panicked look as he swipes a hand through his hair. “No. No, no. You don’t –– you don’t have to sleep here, or anything. Next to me, that is. I mean, you can if you’d like to. Not that you’d want to. Just that you’re, um… able.” Alistair looks like he’s swallowed his own fist. “Warden’s always sleep close together.” He clears his throat and looks away, squinting into some vague, middle distance. “We’ll be safe enough tonight, but some nights there isn’t any choice and––”
“Safe? How can you be sure?”
He blinks and cocks his head at her, “Can’t you tell?”
She… can. Somehow. Like a map in her mind she doesn’t remember drawing, but can navigate all the same. The details are blurred. Like looking at the world through the bottom of a brown bottle of stout. But nothing that carries the taint draws near. Nothing except for her. And him. And the handful of Grey Wardens nearby. But the Wardens feel… different somehow. Fuzzy. Safer. “Yes, I suppose I can.”
He nods, and some of his embarrassment lessens, though his cheeks still retain bright spots of pink. He fusses with his bedding for a moment, and mutters something under his breath before sitting down and working off his boots one by one. He sets the boots carefully nearby, and arranges his sword and shield beside them, taking care to ensure they are all easily grasped in case there is a need.
In peace, vigilance.
Though she wouldn’t use the word peace to describe the Deep Roads, anymore than she would the word safe.
Bethany mimics Alistair. Laying out her own boots in similar fashion, the heels, just slightly splayed. She’s no armor to speak of beyond the chainmail girdle she wears. She hasn’t been given a set of Warden armor yet. She wonders if she has to prove herself first, or if they simply have none to spare.
She tries not to watch as he reaches for the straps of his own armor, and begins to extricate himself, piece by piece –– but not very hard. There’s a little rip along the shoulder seam of his undertunic she notices. A tiny slice of bare skin peeks through and Bethany’s eyes keep sliding back to it as his shoulders shift. She has the strangest urge to touch him right there and feel the fraying linen give way to warm skin beneath her fingertips.
She can feel a faint buzz of anticipation run through her at the thought of touching him like that. Of running her hand up beneath the rumpled linen and finding a wide expanse of bare bronze skin, dotted with freckles and mapped with scars. The dip and curve of his spine as he arches, gasping, shuddering beneath her touch, until ––
“You shouldn't undress,” Alistair blurts out.
Bethany’s fingers still at the buttons on the front of her tunic. She didn’t even realize –– they’re nearly halfways undone, the pale curve of her breasts only just concealed.
He blinks rapidly at her, the tips of his ears going quite pink. “Sorry. Not–– it’s not safe. I mean, it is safe, I just said it was safe. And it’s safe. Yes. Very safe. Well… goodnight!” He pulls the blanket up around his ears and promptly rolls over, and away from her.
Well.
She stares at the broad curve of his back for a moment before carefully doing her buttons up again. For some reason her heart is still hammering in her chest, and she feels ––
Empty, empty empty.
Something like hunger.
Nothing like hunger.
But she’s dizzy and wrong-footed with it.
She breathes through her nose trying to calm herself, but that terrible emptiness persists, sliding down down through her core until it nestles in the cradle of her hips. Hungry. Empty. And all she can think of is how big Alistair’s fingers are. How delicious the stretch would be if he ––
Bethany Hawke, you are awful.
She lays down, and curls around herself, knees drawing up with a tiny sound of dismay. What is wrong with her? Garrett is probably halfway back to Kirkwall, and doesn’t even know if she’s alive or not, and all she’s barely thought about him –– or Mother –– because she’s too busy fantasizing about a man she barely knows.
Alistair rolls back over, frowning slightly. She stares at him through the fingers laced around her knees.
“Bethy… Beth-aaah-ny. ” He clears his throat and tries again. “Warden-Recruit Hawke.”
She blinks, momentarily disoriented. No one ever calls anyone else Hawke, except her brother, Garrett. But she raises her head up off her knees to look at him. “I suppose it doesn’t matter what you call me now.”
“You still have a name,” Alistair says solemnly, and props his head up on his elbow. “The Wardens take much from you, but not that.” His ears are still a little red.
“How long have you been a Warden?” She asks.
“Oh. Well, longer than any in this sorry lot. I joined the Order when I was nineteen.”
Nineteen. Bethany blinks. He can’t be more than a handful of years older than that. There's only the faintest crinkle of lines at the corner of his eyes. She counts backwards in her mind. “You were a Warden during the fifth blight,” she says, surprised.
“I was.” Alistair’s countenance grows momentarily serious. He looks like wants to say more, but after a moment he presses his lips together with a slight shake of his head. Almost a shiver. “I was.”
“My brother was killed in that blight,” she says after a quiet moment. It seems important, somehow. “My other brother. Carver. My twin.”
Alistair looks stricken.
“It's not so terrible I suppose,” she continues thickly, “killing the darkspawn that took Carver. I can do that, I mean. That's… that's a life.”
Wordlessly, Alistair reaches out and grasps her hand. Fingers tight around her own.
A good life, maybe.
It is surprising how little it matters that it is not a life of her own choosing.
But then, she has been waiting the whole of her life for this day. Waiting for something to come and claim her for their own, and rend her family apart. It was always inevitable. The price to be paid for the magic flowing beneath her skin. A debt owed to the the Chantry. To the Templars. It is somewhat of a relief to have it over and done with. And the Wardens offer her something the Chantry never could: vengeance.
And Alistair. A tiny, crazy part of her mind offers.
Her hand twists, fingers entwining easily with his own.
She's not sure how long they lay like that. Rolled so far towards each other they are each halfway out of their own beds. A strange spiral of emotion rolls through her. Grief. Guilt. Terror. Relief. Hope. Hunger. And a sense of longing, so strong it colors the edges of everything else she feels.
She wants.
Maker, what does she want?
“Are you alright?” Alistair asks. His voice is all husk.
“Of course,” she says automatically, hiccuping back a tiny sob.
Alistair frowns. There are faint freckles across the bridge of his nose, she sees. His voice, pitched low, drops lower still. “Are. You. Alright?”
She blinks hard. Hopes that the dimness will disguise her tears. But she and Alistair are practically nose to nose. And even if he can’t see her, he's sure to hear the wet sort of snuffling noise she can't seem to stifle. She shakes her head, confused.
“Beth…”
There’s something about the way he says her name that cuts through the grief. A startling bolt of sunlight through the clouds.
“Hey,” he whispers, and reaches out with a single finger to touch a teardrop hanging on her cheek. He stops half an inch away from touching her. “Oh bugger,” he says very, very softly. Almost to himself.
But his fingers tighten around her own, and he doesn’t let go, even as she drifts off into a strange, foggy sleep, where dark shapes move at the back of her mind.
***
In the morning, his hand is still in hers.
And she is starving.