Chapter Text
Hypetia had read quite a lot regarding Dwarven culture during her time in the tower: their history, the caste system, their contributions to surface society and language, and ancestor worship and paragon ascension, but as was becoming blindingly clear, her books could not truly capture the reality of day to day existence. As the tomes housed on Circle shelves had not prepared her for the horrors of the Deep Roads, they also failed to capture more pleasant things like the taste of Orzammar ale or the rhythm-heavy melodies of their drums.
Her head bobbed absently to the music as she watched nobles dance and mingle, toasts to Behlen’s long reign ringing out at regular intervals. It was nice, even given her urgent desire to get out of the underground city. She and the others had packed their things the instant they had Behlen’s word he would honor their treaty, but the newly crowned King had insisted that they stayed for his coronation at least.
After what he had offered them it was a small request and would have done more harm than good to refuse.
Alistair took the seat beside her, a plate laden with food in his hands. “You're not eating,” he pointed out, in a friendly, concerned sort of way.
Hypetia shrugged. “I still don't have much of an appetite.”
His brows dropped. “You need to eat something.” He set the plate on the table in front of her. “I brought you a little bit of everything.”
Alistair was always so kind to her, even when she didn’t deserve it. She’d been quiet, and more than a little abrupt since the Deep Roads. She could tell Leliana was avoiding her, with good reason, but Alistair, he hadn’t stopped reaching out. “Thanks, Alistair. I’ll… well, I’ll try.”
“Do you mind if I talk to you, while you do?” He rubbed a hand through his hair, something of a nervous habit. “I understand if you’d rather not.”
“I'm alright,” she told him reassuringly. The things they had seen below still haunted her, the fact that they had been forced to experience them had made her bitter, and she was tired of being underground. But she was alive—they were all alive—and so she could keep going. “What did you want to talk about?”
Alistair smiled, his shoulders relaxing with relief. “I was uh— thinking about where we should go next, and about what you said about Eamon.” He leaned back on his hands. “You were right, of course. The more support we have when we approach him the better, the easier it is for him to offer us support.”
Hypetia picked at the food he had brought her, tearing off little bits of this and that to shove into her mouth, not really tasting anything. “You don't want to go to Redcliffe yet?” She was surprised both by his faith in her and his intentions.
He shrugged sheepishly. “It's not that I don't want to go, I just…” he sighed. “I have history with Eamon, and I guess I just don't want anyone to say that that was why he helped us. So I think we should approach the Dalish or the Mages—”
“Not the mages,” Hypetia cut him off so sharply his eyes doubled in size. She ducked her head, a flush coloring the back of her neck. “I mean, the Circle is part of the Chantry, right? They have as much on the line, politically, as Arl Eamon does, if not more.” Her heart was in her ears, panic chasing up her throat that she quickly swallowed back.
Alistair nodded slowly. “That's true… and for mages to declare against the regent, that would probably be dangerous for all of them,” he thought out loud. “I understand why you're afraid for them.”
Afraid for them. That must have been in, must have been the reason her lungs seized at the idea of returning to the Tower.
“Yes,” she sighed. “They could all be declared apostates if things go wrong.”
His nod was more firm the second time around. “We can go to the Dalish first, figure out the rest later.” He adjusted his attention to the crowd, giving Hypetia a chance to take a deep steadying breath and resume picking at the food.
Despite her earlier dismissal, Hypetia found she was actually quite hungry and, although she didn't know what exactly she was eating, it was all quite good.
“You sure about Oghren?” Alistair asked, distracting Hypetia from her nibbling. “Him coming along I mean?”
A quick glance in the direction of his focus spotted the dwarf stumbling through the crowd looking red-nosed and pleased with himself. Hypetia watched him almost trip into a group of disapproving dwarven nobles, and noticed Alistair's wince as the man poorly covered the flub and tottered off in the opposite direction.
“I am,” she confirmed. “He's not perfect, got a lion’s share of struggles, but he helped us when he didn't have to; and it seems he doesn't have much reason to stay with Branka gone for good.” Even with his faults, Oghren seemed a good man. It didn't feel right leaving him to the scorn and judgment of his peers when he was willing to give everything he knew up to fight for their cause.
Alistair sighed. “You're right. Again.” He smirked.
“How long do you think it will take to reach the Brecillian forest?” She turned the conversation back to pertinent matters, wiping her fingers on her leg when she realized the plate Alistair had brought was empty.
He considered. “A month, I'd say. Maybe less if we don't run into any trouble.”
“Seems we've had more than our share of that already,” she commented wryly.
Alistair laughed. “Sure have.” He slapped his knees and rose to his feet. “Come on. Let's mingle.”
Hypetia opened her mouth to decline, but he stopped her before she could begin. “We could get you some more to eat. Going to be a while before anyone offers us a feast again, you should enjoy it while you can.”
Hypetia’s stomach rumbled in agreement, and she found she couldn't argue with that.
They ran into trouble.
“He's quite handsome isn't he?” Leliana looked down at the unconscious man, nudging him with the tip of one boot to make sure he was not going to spring back up again.
Alistair stared at her, confusion and disgust written clearly in his furrowed brow. “You're talking about a man that just tried to murder us.”
She shrugged. “Doesn't mean he can't be handsome.”
“Handsome or not,” Morrigan interjected, her arms crossed over her chest. “What is to be done about him?”
Scoffing, Alistair pointed the tip of his sword at the man. “Kill him? Obviously?”
Sten nodded resolutely. “Cut the head off the viper before it can strike again.”
“Suits me,” Morrigan assented.
“I want to talk to him,” Hypetia spoke up at last, rising to her feet. She had gone through the man's pockets, but they hadn't contained anything worthwhile.
Alistair gaped at her. “What? Why?”
She looked down at the unconscious assassin. He was very handsome, probably the most beautiful man she had ever seen, and she couldn't deny that was part of the reason she didn't want to kill him. There was no real mystery as to who had sent the Crow after them, Loghain had made his intentions clear enough, and she'd learned that letting the Teyrn’s men live didn't earn her anything but more trouble… but like in Lothering, it didn't feel right. He was subdued, no longer a threat, the thought of slitting his defenseless throat turned her stomach and sent bile up her throat.
Sten would say she was weak. Morrigan would call her a fool.
“To interrogate him,” she answered as if it were obvious.
Morrigan raised an eyebrow. “I am fairly certain we know who sent him already,” she pointed out, echoing Hypetia's thoughts. “Pray tell, what else could be gained?”
“We assume, you mean.” Leliana gave Hypetia a little nod, understanding, it seemed, the struggle she was having. “And assumptions like that can get people killed. I for one would like to be sure that no one other than Loghain has decided that we're better off dead.”
Sten nodded again, his expression unchanging. “And then kill him, once he is no longer of use.”
Hypetia winced. “Let's see what he has to say before we make any decisions,” she suggested, meeting Alistair's gaze imploringly.
That look seemed to finally make Alistair realize the source of her request. His shoulders slumped, blade hanging loose in his hand. “Oh, alright. Can we at least tie him up for this interrogation?”
“Take his weapons too,” Leliana added, starting to do just that.
Sten had a rope, Hypetia wasn't sure where he'd gotten it, and set about rolling the man onto his stomach and hogtying him.
It looked uncomfortable.
“Alistair,” Hypetia put a hand on his arm as he sheathed his sword, dropping her voice so only he could hear her. “Let me take the lead on this. Please?”
He blinked at her, and she realized he hadn't even considered any alternative. “Of course, but are you sure about this?”
Glancing over at where Sten tied confident, firm knots, she winced again. “No, if I'm honest. I know he would have killed us if he could, but that's not the kind of person I am. Not the kind of Warden I want to be.” She shook her head. “You think I'm being foolish.”
Alistair shook his head. “I don't. Really I don't.” He took her hand, squeezing it reassuringly.
“I just, well, look at him,” she gestured vaguely at the trussed Crow. “He can't be much older than us. I don't know, I just feel like he deserves a chance to… live.”
Pursing his lips doubtfully, Alistair looked at the assassin and back at her. “You’re a better person than he probably deserves to have judging him.”
She shrugged. “Maybe, but if Duncan hadn't been there to listen to me I might be dead. I want to at least do that for him.”
Alistair sighed. “Oh, alright. But if you keep picking up strays we're going to run out of supplies.”
Hypetia laughed, patting his shoulder and stepping away as the assassin seemed to begin rousing. “Don't be silly, Alistair. I never said I was going to keep him.”