9. Wrapped Up

Author: SurelyForth
Title: Life & How to Live It
Game: Dragon Age 2
Character pairing: F!Hawke/Anders
Disclaimer: Rated M for language, violence and sexual content.

The snow was charming at first, falling serenity soft across Kirkwall, painting pure even the dirtiest, most forgotten corners of the city.

Then it became a nuisance, the delicate flakes turning into wet clumps that hit windowpanes like bird droppings, or landed indelicately on eyelids in mid-conversation, rendering everyone in the city prone to a blinky convulsiveness that was amusing at a distance but annoying to endure.

With wetter snow came hopes that the remnants of earlier falls would melt away, having long since given up the ghost of purity to blacken on the edges of the streets and along eaves. Instead, the night would plunge the temperatures to well below freezing and thus the grit would become further embalmed beneath a layer of dangerously slick ice that spread like ill will over every surface, high and low, and made traveling Kirkwall before noon a fool's errand and traveling after noon a temptation of fate better left to those who could afford a few broken bones, or at least a well bruised pride.

Wilhelmina Hawke has very little pride left to bruise, and a good friend on hand to heal whatever wounds her carelessness bestows upon her, but even she would rather be safely inside on a day like today, which finds her wincing against fat snowflakes and walking with her head held awkwardly to the right to better avoid the icy winds that knife between buildings and bite at her bare cheeks and nose.

"This weather should not even be possible," she mutters to a guardsman who's watching the Viscount's Way with hooded eyes that might be frozen half open, although he manages to roll them with little difficulty. "I suppose I could have worn a scarf."

"Why didn't you?"

The muffled voice that sneaks up from behind is familiar, but not one that causes her to whip around or even react much at all, outside of relief because now that she has him they can navigate their way down the steps of the Viscount's Keep and take refuge in her manor.

"Most of my scarves are-" she stops talking, eyes widening in amusement at her guest's overabundance of wraps, layers and scarves. He's like a cocoon of wool and fur, muted shades of brown and green and two sky-colored eyes peering from within that verifies he's who she's supposed to be meeting here. "Are you going to be able to walk down those steps yourself, or should I knock you on your side and roll you?"

The eyes blink twice in response before Saemus begins to shuffle his way down the mushy, but still slippery, stone stairs that lead down to the court square.

Wil doesn't want to cross any lines here, but she also knows that if he falls she will be powerless to not laugh herself silly and something tells her that would bruise the younger man, even through his layers of protective cloaks. So her hand hovers at what she assumes is his elbow and she leads him with care to the front door of the estate, where they are greeted by Bodahn who begins the task of taking their guests outerwear only to hand him to Sandal once he realizes what a mountain it is that he's set himself to climb.

"Seriously, Saemus," Wil, her own cloak removed and put away, assists Sandal in the task and even then they're five layers down before the man can start assisting them. "Where do you think I'm taking you?"

Face freed from his scarves, his pale cheeks ruddy from the transition from cold to warmth and his chin pinkened from scratchy wool, Saemus appears somewhat frustrated by her question. "I needed to get out unnoticed."

Or maybe it's just life that frustrates him...and he would pick the most obvious disguise as a disguise.

"Because there are so many people walking around Kirkwall looking like the world's most content tick?" Wil holds up a delicately stitched velvet glove, the letters SD in gold thread on a violet backdrop. "Incognito is not your forte, Messere Dumar."

His teeth appear at the edge of his lip, his brows pulling down and Wil wishes she had Anders handy to show him how to work up a sadface that would truly win her sympathy. As it is, although she appreciates Saemus for his thoughtfulness, he's never lost the patina of willful delicacy in her eyes.

"I wish you wouldn't call me that, Hawke," the last of his jackets fall away to reveal a plain outfit of tunic and wool trousers, crumpled and clinging wetly to his sweaty skin in places, but far more disguisey than what he'd been wearing before. "Even informal titles are..."

His eyes shift down and Wil wonders what sorts of arguments he's been having with his father these days. Perhaps Who will carry on in my name if you don't rise to the task? or even a round of I don't care what you say, my boy, the Qunari are at the very least a military threat!

"Is this the part where you make my mother's forays into We need to find a husband for you, Wilhelmina! seem like wholehearted support for my independence?" A quirk of her lips takes the edge off.

Saemus' response is to exhale in a sharp, sardonic laugh. "Fortunately he's more focused on the small things. What I read, how I think, what philosophy I find to be the most compelling...you can fake marriage well enough."

"True," her head tilts. "Or you can bother to not fake at all and be That Couple that everyone invites to their parties so they can feel better about their own lackluster marriage."

This time when Saemus chuckles, he means it. "You have no idea how many That Couples I've endured in my life. It was years before I could eat borscht without thinking about the Weintraub's and how their only public exchange with one another was regarding how quickly her corpse would burn on the funeral pyre, considering that she 'bled brandy and gin in equal measure'."

"Are you certain they weren't faking it? I could see the fun in that," Wil leads him into the parlor, where Bodahn has set up a table with hot tea and pastries. "Incisive insults over dinner, deliberately flirting with the manor staff, shooting poisonous glances at one another over desperate swigs from monogrammed flasks..."

"I...I don't see the appeal," Saemus inhales the steam that unfurls itself his tea, which is a blend imported from Seheron. Fenris recommended it, and Wil had an inkling that the viscount's boy would appreciate the gesture. "I'm afraid to ask for this myself."

Wil raises her eyebrow, suddenly reminded of all the things she'd been afraid to ask for when she was young, let alone as an adult. The list is short...admirably so. Perhaps inviting a templar to dinner was punishable behavior for a Hawke child, but curiosity had been rewarded with answers and, outside of warning Carver and Mina that certain people would feel justified in hurting their dear Beth, Malcolm had always respected their pushing of boundaries and interest in other cultures.

Even when Carver had expressed an interest in joining the order, their father had not offered recrimination but polite, if sarcastic, concern that never once verged on disproval.

But it hardly seems fair to mention this to Saemus, so instead she continues with her reverie of defiance.

"Just think, though. If you were the sort to feel awkward at state functions, wouldn't it be fun to drag everyone down with you? Then you could fall into bed with someone you actually care about knowing that nobody had a good time that evening," she bites into a custard pastry and smiles. "Hilarious!"

"That...it's immature, but oddly romantic," his expression turns wistful. "Two against the world."

How he arrived at world, she's not certain, but it's nice just to see him lighten up a bit. Although the distant sadness in his blue eyes does not go unnoticed and she wonders if he thinks of his qunari friend in moments like this, or if there's someone else he's met in the interim who's shown him such respect.

Besides me, she adds, hastily, not willing to allow her thoughts to go there.

"So tell me what we're doing today," his hands press against the delicate teacup, no doubt stealing transferred heat, and he's relaxed considerably since their arrival. "Anything to keep my mind off this evening."

This evening is perhaps why their thoughts are on matters of state and status. The Viscount is hosting a summit of sorts with the viscount of Tantervale and a pair of Nevarran diplomats visiting from Cumberland and, of course, he'd like for Saemus to make an appearance.

Which, from the silent, and subtle, snarl that twists his features, is not Saemus' idea of a good time.

"It depends. Is your shadowing me today the sort of thing that will result in me being accused of kidnapping the Viscount's son?" She takes a sip of tea. "Maker knows the Seneschal wouldn't be sorry to place me under judgment."

"Bran's hand will be stayed by my father. He has a strange fondness for you, I think," Saemus leans back and there's the faintest air of envy that surrounds his words. "He thinks you have potential."

"Potential is the worst word," her gaze can't meet his own for some reason, so she uses her tea spoon to push leaked custard along the edge of her saucer instead. "And clearly your father hasn't heard what I did to Livingston Alecks."

"No, but it can't be worse than anything you've said to him," his empty cup is lowered with a soft clatter of porcelain against porcelain and now he's understanding...Hawke imagines that it's her mouth that attracts Saemus to her, or rather her ability to say the things she says and be taken seriously.

"I've been putting it off, for obvious reasons, but I need to visit the Gallows and purchase some reagents for a friend, and then deliver them. In this weather, that will take the rest of the morning and the better part of the afternoon."

Clearly Saemus was hoping for something else, but he nods in agreement and heads back to the foyer to gather his coats in anticipation of what will certainly be a chilly journey across the harbor.

"And please don't wear all the cloaks," she follows him, finishing her tea in two large swigs. "The last thing I need is for the templars to think we're smuggling mages out of the Gallows."

If Saemus didn't look so miserable, Wil might find the situation amusing.

Or not. As it is, she's far from comfortable herself, crammed between a pair of fully armored templars on a bench meant for no more than two unarmored backsides. Across from her, Saemus is nearly doubled over, his arms across his chest and his eyes telegraphing discomfort and panic from within his scarves.

"If I vomit on them, would that make this better?" She keeps her tone casual. Because of the loud and whipping gale, she could scream I AM MALEFICAR, SEE ME BLEEEEEEED! ARRRGH! and the templars would not react unless her declaration ended in them getting covered in her actual blood.

He buries his face in his knees and rides out the trip like that, not even speaking until they're within the Gallows courtyard, which has been cleared of most of its snow and is far warmer, temperature wise, at least.

"I've only been here once before," he loosens the woolen bands and pulls them clear of his face. "Father detests the place and only comes when necessary."

Wil keeps her eyebrows from expressing her extreme disappointment with this revelation. It seems a convenient excuse to ignore not only the Gallows, but the mages imprisoned within.

"Would that those like my father who share his opinion could avoid it, too," she muses, the tone of it far too breezy to obscure how she truly feels about that attitude. Regarding her with muted interest, Saemus does not react to what she says, but instead nods towards one of the alcoves along the side of the courtyard.

"I think someone requires you attention, Hawke," the scarves are being replaced, but loosely this time.

"Suspicious, Saemus," she twists around and he's telling the truth. Knight-Captain Cullen is striding across the courtyard, his expression somewhere between grim and relieved. "Ah, Ser Cullen. You templars have it pretty good, you know."

He stops close enough to hold pleasant conversation, his expression going from grim to expectant because, although it's been awhile, Wil has never not held her tongue in his presence.

Or so he thinks. He'd probably smite her where she stood if he had any idea some of her more hidden thoughts.

"I'm sure citizens of Kirkwall wouldn't mind some complementary ice removal," her toe digs into a dry crevice in the stone at her feet. "But then the mages might get the idea that they're actually useful for more than serving the templars."

"It's nice to see you again, Serah Hawke," his eyes betray the weary truth of his words. "And I would caution you to not speak so freely."

Caution is a precisely chosen word, and when he directs her towards a more secluded corner of the yard, she follows.

Saemus remains where he stands, uncertain how he would fit into their conversation or if he's welcome at all.

"You have me alone, Cullen," she announces once they are separate and shadowed, ignoring the bloom of embarrassment that colors his cheeks, although he otherwise maintains his composure. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," he exhales, gauntleted fingers tugging at the edge of his tunic. "I have a sworn duty, a duty to the Maker, yet...," this is such a struggle. "Hawke."

Is he trying to confess his love to me? "Dammit man, just spit out already!" And please don't confess your love for me.

"I have reason to suspect that a friend of yours has been involved in a recent spate of escapes and escape attempts," the words tumble out. "It is mere speculation on my part, however. The task of finding the parties responsible has not been given to me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she speaks quickly words which are only partially true. She'd be a fool not to know that Anders is the friend, and she has a vivid memory of an acquaintance of his hanged for harboring her apostate daughter. Although her mind isn't currently able to tug the separate strands together, she has little doubt that it's possible. "Should I be worried?"

It's a simple enough question, but it weighs on him. He presses his fingers to his forehead, he clenches his jaw.

He has a minor crisis of faith right there in front of her, then nods once.

"Needless to say, such actions are dealt with in a befitting manner," his voice catches. "Execution, imprisonment...tranquility, if deemed necessary."

It catches in her throat, that single word that shouldn't be worse than execution or imprisonment but is because the idea of Anders without his fervor, without that thing that he has that she does well to avoid most of the time but can't always because it's too much. It's more than just passion, it's every emotion as pure as emotion can be felt, and registered in the expressiveness of his face and in the way his hands busy themselves when they're alone and...

Stop it. It's bad enough without you going there with it.

"I will make certain that my friend knows that, were he involved with such happenings, he might be at risk for such retribution," she frowns. "Although I refuse to see such alleged activities as a bad thing."

"Of course not," his arms fold across his chest, his voice aching with disappointment. "The Chantry, and the law, views things differently.

Which is why I'm neither an Andrastian nor particularly law-abiding.

"I appreciate the warning, Knight-Captain," her tone is clipped and she begins towards Saemus without a glance backwards, leaving the templar to feel the full force of her disappointment in him. She imagines that it's a mutual lack of impact before focusing on how, exactly, she can relay this message to Anders without turning him defensive of an endeavor that he's clearly been keeping a secret.

For once daily life in the undercity is easier than on the streets above it. Besides the steady trickle of runoff that bleeds through grates and gutters, most fed into barrels and buckets to be boiled and used for bathwater, there is little snow or ice in the deeper sections of the mines and, until they arrive at Anders' clinic, it's far warmer.

Still, despite the vents and openings cut to allow access to the holding reservoir, the clinic is still comfortable. Wil attributes that to the merry crackle of twin fires burning in the back corners and the wool that's been stretch by the upper vents to prevent the air from blowing in.

It does little to comfort Saemus, however, who hangs by the doors and remains as tentative as Wil is brazen. He'd been visibly horrified at the shanties clustered around their makeshift hearths, of the beggars here, because how low do you have to be to depend on the charity of fellow denizens of the undercity? and the children in their filthy rags, or repurposed flour sacks, sitting meekly along the walkways with dark eyes of muted sadness.

Anders is busy with a patient, what seems to be a merchant who has broken his arm. He'd slipped on the ice in the Lowtown bazaar, no doubt. His back is to the door, so Wil is able to slip over to where old Muriel is resting next to the only other body in today, a boy who appears barely past puberty by the proud wisps of hair that gleam on his pale cheeks. He's sleeping, eyelids and cheeks jerking, and Muriel doesn't seem to be too concerned for him, especially not when she can harass Wil.

"Look who braved the cold for a chance to ogle messere's skinny ass," grey eyes light up beneath a snowy fringe. Her dark skin is firm save for a few papery crow's feet and deep laugh lines. Like Leandra, she'd been raised in Kirkwall before marrying herself to a Fereldan merchant. After two decades of being a mid-wife in Denerim, the Blight had returned her, alone, to the town of her youth. These days, she's almost always in the clinic, checking on patients and administering simple herbal remedies to those who don't require a healer's attention. "I think those trousers are especially flattering."

She cackles approval as Wil leans over to the point of tipping in order to verify her claim and a knee is slapped when Wil agrees with an appreciative nod.

"Oh-oh, Messere," she catches Saemus hanging back, concern furrowing his brow. He's never been to the undercity before, let alone thought about the conditions that a free medical clinic therein might be in, and it doesn't take a perceptive eye to see that he'd rather bathe in the sewage runoff than tends his wounds here. "I think you have competition, boy. And this one's got some pretty blue eyes on 'im."

Wil hides her smile when Anders starts, his chin shifting to swivel his entire head around. But he catches himself before he can see her, let alone assess the threat.

"I managed to haggle some of that blood root from Sol in the Gallows like you wanted, Mur," Wil begins to undo the clasps on her outer cloak. "This cold snap needs to end so I can go back out myself...he wanted two silver a cone!"

"Did you do your eyes at him?" Muriel flutters her stubby black lashes, yellowing teeth biting coquettishly at her lower lip.

"Yes!" Saemus finally finds his tongue and slinks towards them. "I didn't work."

"If I had any pride, I'd be offended," Wil offers Saemus a seat on the end of one of the unoccupied cots and tries not to chuckle as he lowers himself gingerly, gathering up the sodden hems of his cloaks as he does so. "So, Muriel. Have muscles, will lift heavy things. What do you got for me?"

"No bodies today, messere, but-"

"Bodies?" Saemus' voice raises at the end. "That's what you do here?"

Wil is caught off guard.

"One of the things, yes," she settles against one of the columns and wills herself to understand. This is what separates her from the other nobles. Well, one of the things. Ostagar, the fall of Lothering. Carver and Wesley and those that didn't survive the voyage over...former men and women turned to bodies to be carried and burned, or touched and abandoned, or thrown out to sea with a prayer that the Maker would understand. A life lost is to be mourned, but a body isn't a life. It's a body.

She thought he knew that, what with the Qun having no special burial practices for their dead.

"We can't leave them here, boy," Muriel pokes the young man who's still fitfully sleeping on the slab next to her. "Not ev'ryone has the coin or the space to tend 'em themselves, and Maker knows enough bodies get dumped down here as it is."

His hands clench around his knees, and he gives a hard nod. Right. Of course.

"I could use your help for a moment," Anders is pressing against his patient's shoulder, his other palm held flat against the man's back for leverage. Wil doffs her cloak and ambles over, circumventing the cot to stand behind the man, per Anders' quick gestures. "Put your hand where mine is."

Following his instructions comes automatically, although she hesitates for a second before she rests her hand on top of his, fingers fitting in the grooves between his moments before he pulls it away.

"So I just...stand here?" The man is large, heavy with fat and muscle, and it's difficult to feel through the layers of both.

"His shoulder is dislocated," the explanation doesn't have to go further than that. Wil's spent enough time as a soldier, and helping here, to know that there's only one thing that can be done in these situations. "Are you ready, Wil?"

His eyes seek hers over the man's head. Muriel is asking Saemus about his gloves, and Wil meets the warm brown gaze with abandon and pretends as if she's not immediately stabbed with panic at the thought of those eyes dead and distant, soulless instead of full of everything.

"Yes," she returns her focus to her hand, and the man, and the way she can feel Anders' magic through him. Muscles tensing, she becomes both an immovable wall and a safety net and, after a crunch and a crack and the dull sound of bone being slotted back into the joint, he sinks back against her, his unexpected weight almost sends her staggering.

"He's passed out," Anders takes his feet so they can pivot him into a more restful position. "He should be fine once he wakes up. And probably terrified of ice."

"I told the Knight-Captain that Kirkwall could use some melty-magic," her hand cups her elbow, fingers twisting a fold of fabric nervously between them. "From what I could see, he wasn't in love with the idea."

"Unsurprising," he frowns. "Can't let the mages feel too useful, or risk everyone else seeing them being useful."

She almost wants to pet him.

"That's not...all we talked about," she lifts an eyebrow. "I want you to be careful, Anders."

Understanding dawns too easily and he attempts to cover with a twist of his lips, a tilt of his head, his hands moving from his waist to his hips to hanging loosely and then back up.

"No more protests at the Gallows," he lowers his voice to a suggestive purr. "And no more signing my name to the card when I send the Knight-Commander my dirty smallclothes."

"Anders," she laughs, and she shouldn't. Or maybe she should because it makes him smile in a way she's not seen for ages. But it's also a smile that hurts because tranquility. The word is remarkably sobering, and she reaches over the cot to catch his wrist, her fingers encircling it. "Anders. I need you to be careful." The next swallow hurts, sorrow is like a jagged thing in her throat. "Please."

I'm not going to ask what you're hiding, I'm just asking you to not let it kill you.

He pulls away, almost as if her skin against his own is a hot brand, a painful touch. Almost as if they're alone and she just crossed the line.

"I do what I have to do, Hawke," turning away, he starts to where Muriel and Saemus are sitting in awkward silence. Without warning, he wheels back to her and speaks in a barely controlled hush, "I can't just stop because it's dangerous. It would be against what I am to prioritize my safety over another's freedom...if there's anything I can do to help mages, I am going to do it."

"Then let me help you," it's not an outright demand or order, and he doesn't respond as if it is.

"I can't," it sounds as if it hurts him to admit it, but his eyes are hard, unyielding. "And I can't say anything more about it."

"You will," she challenges, sidestepping him to grab her cloak from Muriel's cot.

"Probably," and it's said with defeat. Whether it's genuine or meant to indulge her is impossible to discern, and she can't ask because he's turning his charm on Saemus. "I remember you. The Viscount's boy."

Oh, for fuck's sake, Anders.

She is going to pay for that one.

Wil has been inside the Viscount's Keep at all hours of the night, running after an ambush of common bandits to give the evidence to Aveline, meeting Sorrell to escort him to his former room near the alienage.

But she's never ventured, or thought to venture, into the throne room.

"Sometimes my father holds feasts here instead of the manor," Saemus had purchased a new outfit shortly after their return to Hightown and insisted that Wil change into something formal. To all that they passed, mostly city guard who would at least recognize both of them, they were simply two nobles arriving for a feast that would be happening elsewhere. That no one had bothered to explain this to them only worked to their advantage. "He'll be angry, but it's an honest excuse."

"No it's not," Wil joins him at the top of the shallow steps that lead up to the viscount's throne, which is..."So this is the seat of power in Kirkwall? Seems a bit...low-slung."

And it is. After a brief exchange with Saemus indicating that he doesn't care what she does while they're here, she takes a seat and promptly can't figure out what to do with her legs.

"Like this?" She folds them so her knees are at her chin. "Or maybe..." she shifts down, spreading them out in front of her, her skirt pulled up to mid-thigh. "Hardly seems official."

"There's a trick to it," Saemus regards her for only a moment before returning his gaze to the door that leads to the main keep. "I've never attempted it myself. I bet you could figure it out if you were serious enough."

Sensing he's not in the mood for her brand of irreverence, Wil slithers down to sit beside him.

"From the way Mother talks, if it weren't for magic, my family would be ruling Kirkwall."

"And my father would be just another noble. Happier, probably, and more accepting of my choices," his face is even paler in a room lit only by moonlight, his hair a wild cloud of black to frame it. "Instead I must remain politically viable, no matter what I think or what I want. I cannot breathe without it being examined for traces of discontent or controversy. I cannot question anything and what I want..."

He catches himself. Her hands clasp between her knees, eyes on the sparkly toes of a pair of impractical Orlesian shoes.

"What do you want, Saemus?" She asks because someone needs to and she's still quite good at doing things that need to be done.

The response is slow in coming, although it's clear that he knows within a second of her asking what he wants...he just needs to work out the best way to convey it to her.

"Those people we saw in Darktown, those starving children, that would not be allowed to happen with the Qun. They would be fed, cared for, their safety and their futures certain," his eyes gleam, his own purpose found in these words. "It's not perfect, but it's better than Darktown, than the Gallows. It's better than nobility and those that have so much while others die in the sewers below them."

Wil is stuck somewhere around Gallows but knows better to not bring up Ketojan and how his options were...or death.

"But aren't you giving up so much for that certainty?" She meets his gaze. "Like free will? Aren't you bred to do what they want you to do? To fill a role that you can only abandon by becoming Tal'Vashoth, even if all you want to do is stop being a baker and maybe become a blacksmith instead?"

"What has choice given you, Hawke?" He's not angry, nor confrontational. If anything, he's growing excited by this opportunity to be tested, to be able to speak openly about the Qun to someone who is skeptical but not as narrow on the topic as most he encounters. "Are there not days when you wake and wish that you knew what you were, who you were, and had no doubt that you could be that person. That you could succeed in everything that was expected of you, because it was what you were meant to be doing?"

It sounds nice, on the surface. How much time had she wasted after returning from the Deep Roads? How many months had she shuffled through life, days she couldn't remember upon pain of death, nights spent drunk in the Hanged Man or curled up on the hearth of the library fireplace?

Hadn't she been searching for certainty? Isn't she still, although placated by the satisfaction found in assisting Anders, Lirene and her friends when they need her?

"But I have whims," she remembers the week before when she'd announced to Isabela that she definitely wanted to be a collector of quality erotica, and nothing more taxing than that. "And I like to do a lot of things, and I'm only good at a few of them. While being forced to do what I'm good at would probably be better for my self-esteem, I'd miss doing all the other stuff."

Saemus snorts. "Spoken like someone who has the freedom to waste time and money."

"I don't think anyone arguing for the Qun can play the freedom card, Saemus," Wil maintains a steady, if tart, tone. "And I'm not even getting into what they do to their mages."

"I never claimed it to be perfect, but it's order; it's being told what to do because they actually know you can perform in that role, and not because you're a son," he stands, his arms gesturing towards the entirety of the throne room. "My father wanted this, so I should just accept this as my future? I should play the games he plays, walk a fraying tightope with the nobles and templars on one side, and the mages and everyone else on the other? I can hardly bring myself to fake peace with him, what makes him think I have it in me to compromise myself to appease the Knight-Commander?"

His hands go to his hair, pushing through the mass of black and tugging at the ends in frustration. There's a wild-eyed clarity to his rant, the notes of which she's heard many times before and had even sang herself on a couple of occasions.

"Tell me, Hawke," his arms fall to his side, useless. "Tell me if you could see me here."

"I can't," she admits while holding back a strange thought that enters through the same opening but I can't picture you anywhere.

"I can't see you, either," his chin goes up and he's saying this as a compliment. "You would fix the city from the ground up. You want to protect the refugees and the mages. You care about Lowtown, and you don't care enough about the nobles or being liked to pretend otherwise."

And Maker knows that would go over as well as...something that would get her assassinated in her sleep. Or, if she were lucky, run out on a scandal.

"I doubt it's something we need worry about," she pushes herself up and skips down a few steps. "I don't think I have it in me to claw my way to the top, never mind the fact that my father was a mage. Kirkwall would need to be in sorry shape for me to even be an option."

Saemus' lips press together in a smile she's not expecting.

"You've thought about it."

"Not at all," Wil laughs. "I'm just prepared to talk myself out of any real responsibility that can be thrown at me. Unless it involves drinking, fighting or moving heavy boxes, I'm probably not the best fit for the job."

"Riiight," it's almost charming, the sarcasm. He sighs, his shoulders dipping in resignation. "I should make my way to the manor before the guard comes after me. Father will forgive lateness, but he's less understanding when a search has been called."

"Do you need an escort?" Wil holds the door for him and together they walk to the balustrade overlooking the Keep entrance to gather their discarded cloaks.

For a moment, Saemus is distant, consumed perhaps by the emotions stirred during their conversation and the conflict between what he wants and what he's needed to be. Eventually he declines with a slow shake of his head and a sad smile.

"There's a passage out of Father's office that I can take. Nothing more threatening than rats."

"You say that, but I've seen some pretty nasty rats in my time," Wil closes her cloak and swishes so that it falls to the floor in neat folds. "But I'll defer to your knowledge of vermin," she offers a final and lightning quick smile.

He's already walking away.

The night bites cold, the wind up Viscount's Way a blast of frigid anger that one can only tuck in and endure.

Wil walks as quickly as she can in her terrible shoes, the wool cloak billowing dramatically behind her as she moves aside to skirt the columns, which keeps her out of the direct line of the wind. It's still freezing, but she's less at risk of being caught and carried inland by a more ferocious gust.

She hears them before she sees them, three men wearing non-descript robes. The style is like that which is worn by the Chantry clerics, only instead of sun sigils and fire there is only white trimwork against a brown or grey backdrop...difficult to tell in moonlight.

It is not unusual to see people here at this hour. The guard sends and receives patrols at all hours, and criers haunt the aisles, listening for scraps of juicy information to spread in the active corners of the night.

But these men...Wil pushes her shoulders back and holds her chin just above level. She has no weapons besides her fists and although fists would defend her well enough on an average night, these men don't appear to be the sort to go down easy.

Or at all.

One is watching her, which does nothing to quell the sense of disquiet that's unfolding in her stomach, or the small flare of panic! at the back of her head. He's watching her, his eyes caught in moonlight and turned an otherworldly shade of silvery blue in a face of careless cruelty. Despite being completely bald, tufts of pale hair obscure his lips and chin, although he seems to be offering a grin over the space between them, and slowing as if to suggest more.

Maybe an assault to warm her bones? Or a quick cut and grab for the jewelry she's not wearing and the coin she's not carrying. Her heart speeds, her blood warms and when her blood starts getting involved that is not, as Anders and Fenris and a few bandits and darkspawn ave learned, something to see.

His teeth show, even with the moon behind him.

Run.

Her stomach spasms in fear, fear she's not felt for herself in a while and is it the menace in his posture or the utter carelessness of his approach? The confidence to make a move on her here, with guards posted near and it's not that late.

Who are you? She turns away, refusing the let him see anything more than a woman who is on her way and isn't about to let some creepster intimidate her, even if he is veering ever closer to her and-

"HAWKE!" This cry is familiar, desperate and comforting.

Isabela?

It's coming from the square in front of the estate and is followed by the put-upon shouts of what she can only assume are the Kirkwall guard telling the lady to Pleeeease keep it down.

"HOLD ON!" Wil starts to run, desperation helping her feet avoid any nefarious patches of ice and it's the hot burst of relief when she clears the end of the Viscount's Way and is out in the open, with familiar guards that flank an Isabela who can only be described as intensely inebriated.

"Hawke," she stops kicking long enough to put on a gorgeous smile. "And here I thought I was going to have to wake all of Hightown to get your attention."

The guard on her left, the mutton-chopped one called Donnic, levels his gaze at Wil.

"Serah Hawke," his address is clipped.

"Guardsman," she nods politely, hoping that her face doesn't reveal all the ways she wants to kiss him for not being creepy.

"Isabela," Isabela tilts her head back. "Tell them to let go of me, Hawke."

"Is that a possibility?" It's difficult maintaining such a tone of deference under these circumstances, but her relationship with Aveline has taught her that a respected guard is an accommodating guard. And Donnic is a decent man, from what she's seen. Boring, but decent.

"We found this...woman-"

Isabela manages the wherewithal to glare.

"She was entertaining a male companion just outside of the Bloomed Rose," his eyes are not meeting Wil's. "This is after, of course, being ejected from the establishment for disorderly conduct."

Ignoring the tiniest flash of surprise, Wil turns on a smirk. "I think having to call an early night at the Rose is punishment enough for this one," her hand goes up before they can protest. "I know, I know. But if you release her into my custody, I'll take her home and ensure that she has no access to anything that will help with the exquisite hangover she'll have by morning..."

"Ha!" Isabela leans over to the guard who isn't Donnic and slurs, "I live in a bar. I can stay drunk for weeks."

This time Wil doesn't bother to hide her frustration. "Not helping, Bela."

But Donnic, either trusting enough or in no mood to deal with an unsteady pirate through the process of getting her to the brig, relinquishes her and motions for his comrade to do the same.

"She's your problem now," mutters the other guard.

"Isabela is nobody's problem but her own," Wil catches her by the shoulder and spins her to face down the stairs. "But thank you. I appreciate it."

And I'll make certain the Captain knows how very much.

They've barely made it to the bottom of the steps when Isabela catches a patch of ice, the heel of her boot shooting forward. After a few seconds of arms waving, and legs staggering ahead as she searches for balance, she lands with an oof on her back, legs splayed and elbows cracking as they hit stone.

It takes Wil a few seconds to make it to her side and by the time she does, Isabela's strangely silent, her eyes on the sky as if she's nothing more than a very passionate stargazer taken by this cold, clear night.

"Are you all right?" Wil kneels next to her, uncertain where to start poking in case she's not. But even beyond concern is the image of Isabela, who moves with such unerring grace and confidence, windmilling her arms and flailing against the air as if it could save her. It's funny and it shouldn't be. Her teeth go to her lip and press down to hold back the laughter that threatens.

"Balls," Isabela shifts her hips and her feet move back and forth a few times, experimentally. "I'm not Anders, or the boy with the qunari fetish," her hand smacks Wil's away. "I'm not going to start crying if you laugh at me"

"Laugh?" Wil feigns innocence, her stomach jerking in amusement. "Why would I laugh? You took that spill like a champ. I just regret that I was the only one around to see it."

"Fuck you," Isabela grabs Wil this time, coming partially up off the pavement, and pulls hard on Wil's arm so that Wil loses balance and spills out next to her.

"Brrr!" After wrestling for a few moments, Wil twists her cloak around and spreads it so that it covers both of them.

Then she laughs.

Maybe she's been holding it back all day, in the face of Saemus' occasional ridiculousness and the thoughts she refused to allow herself to have at the Gallows and in the clinic but that were anything but amusing.

It doesn't matter, though, because now it rings out, echoing off the stone of Hightown before being swallowed by the cold wind that's not quite as terrible down here, under a cloak and next to Isabela, who is gathering her strength to stand.

"Hawke," Isabela struggles to her side, raven hair spilling across her flushed cheek. "I wasn't entertaining."

Wil realizes that, since the guards had left, Isabela hasn't been anything approaching drunk.

"I don't care if you were," Wil pushes into a sitting position and it's true that she's not jealous. "What? Did you lose a bet? Did he?"

"Something like that," Isabela manages to make it to her feet unaided, and then helps Wil, whose shoes are useless for traction. "What are you wearing?"

"A ruse," the cloak is flung into place and Wil gathers her breath.

"A ruse?" One dark eyebrow inches upwards towards the edge of Isabela's headwrap. " And you're not even going to tell me."

"Nothing exciting," Wil's breath ghosts on the wind. "A lot of talk about expectations, templars, and mages." She stops them short of the Hawke estate door and turns to face the dark-eyed woman, who is clearly considering a change her evening's fortune. "Oh, and qunari stuff. All your favorites."

Wil doesn't miss how danger prowls Isabela's eyes at the mention of qunari, and Isabela doesn't miss anything by the way she lunges forward, seizing Wil's cheeks between her gritty palms to plant on Wil's lips a kiss that is less a kiss than it is a bid for renewed ignorance.

And tonight, Wil is too quick to comply.