On the Run: Chapter Two

[ashfae]

Title: On the Run
Chapter Rating: T (for now)
Spoilers: Everywhere
Summary: Post-game fic following Hawke and company after the events at the Gallows. In this chapter: Captain Isabela explains the rules, and Anders talks with Merrill. Chapter one back here if you missed it, and thanks as always to A for betareading. Still needs a series tag if a kindly mod will oblige! =)

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Isabela is in her element. For the first time in years, she's home; the tides sing to her, the ship speaks to her, ocean winds caress her skin. It's more intoxicating than any drink, any duel, any lover. They've only been at sea a day and already it's as though she never left.

For her, at any rate; the others are not adjusting as well. Seasickness has hit Varric worst, unsurprising given that the dwarf had never set foot onto a ship until now. Merrill and Fenris have also been a bit green in the face, though they're quickly recovering. Bethany and Anders have had no trouble at all, and while Anders at least has some experience from all his years on the run, Bethany's has been minimal; Isabela wonders if it's something to do with their healing magic. Hawke is pale and withdrawn, but it's impossible to tell if that's seasickness or other things. Only Bethany and Merrill have been willing to try eating anything.

Ah well. They'll all get used to it soon enough.

More, she's conscious of a sense of relief. Living in Kirkwall for the past few months has been rather like sailing in a storm. Not for the thunder or lightning, though there were certainly enough fireworks by the end, but because of the feeling that an enormous wave is cresting behind you, and if you're very lucky your ship might be able to ride it, but more likely is that it's going to crash over your head and break your ship and life to pieces. Worse, there's nothing you can do: you can't get out of its way, you can't duck through or around or behind it, all you can do is ride the wave and wait to see what will remain after it hits. During a real storm that moment is exhilirating; having it stretched out over months had been an odd mix of tiresome and unnerving.

The wave has crashed, and as far as Isabela's concerned things could have been much worse. She can feel sorry for everyone who died that night, but they're dead whereas she's still alive, and the latter fact is more impotant to her.

She intensely dislikes having another implacable enemy at her back, however. Arguably Sebastian is only after Anders, and perhaps Hawke, and not Isabela herself. But still...it's only been a few short weeks since they got Castillion off her back, and she was enjoying the feeling of not anticipating a knife between the shoulderblades for a while.

But she has no intentions of letting Sebastian catch up with Hawke. Period.

And her ship, her lovely Siren, is a fast and clever girl, a two-masted schooner. Not as powerful as other ships, and without as much space in the hold, but even laden with a full cargo and full crew able to get quite close inland thanks to her shallow draw, which makes her excellent for smuggling. She's built for speed and manueverability, which suits Isabela perfectly. Isabela prefers mobility to power; the best way to not die is to not be there when the blow falls. She has every confidence in her ability to out-manuever anything Starkhaven has to offer, and almost looks forward to the attempt. Perhaps it's just as well that they do still have enemies. Life is so much more exciting during a chase, regardless of if you're predator or prey.

And she has the whole world to run in as she wishes.

No one likes being in the hold, including the crew. It still reeks of slaves, the bodies crushed together for weeks on end, an ingrained taint of fear and despair. It will take time for that to fade, but the rest of the ship is fine, and for now Isabela plans to stick to cargo rather than passengers. That's her preference anyway; cargo doesn't complain, or need food, or panic and get in the way during a minor squall, or tell the authorities about you later. Though smuggling people can pay remarkably well, and she suspects there will soon be quite a market on mages trying to escape from one place to another and willing to pay for the privilege...not a thought she's shared with the others.

That opportunity will appear or not, however; she won't depend on it. Meanwhile she has the names of several merchants along the coast of Thedas who might be interested in some unobtrusive shipping by means of a fast boat skilled in avoiding guards and taxes, a few dwarven businessmen who might willing to provide lyrium, a few contacts who might be willing to purchase it. If Circles do start to fall, the black market for lyrium could go through the roof...

Isabela shakes off the distracting vision of future profit and returns to the task at hand. Her friends--and what a delicious word that is, still a surprise and pleasure to her, though she doesn't admit it--are all gathered together in the Captain's stateroom. It's a temporary room, usually; walls can be taken down and replaced to create space when needed, but Isabela is thinking that for this voyage she'll leave it open as a gathering space for all of them, away from the rest of the crew. It's certainly the most comfortable place aboard ship, and the most attractive. At least, it is since she replaced that hideous mustard satin...what was Castillon thinking? The man had no taste.

"Now that we have time for a proper introduction, welcome onboard my ship." She grins, feeling again the thrill of my ship. "Since some of you haven't been at sea before, and certainly haven't had me as a captain before, a few ground rules you'll all need to be aware of."

"Rules? From the Rivaini?" Varric mutters. "This ought to be good."

"Shush, you'll ruin the moment. First, and this is serious, be careful with fire." Isabela looks at each of the mages in particular. "Fire can sink us quicker than you want to know. All sailors know that, but you might not, so watch those sparking fingers."

Merrill tentatively raises a hand. "Um, we can put out fires as well as starting them."

Isabela brightens at once. "I didn't know that. You're full of useful tricks, Kitten. Please do, if it seems appropriate. Next rule, the alcohol is strictly rationed, so no taking more than your share. If we run out before we make it to our next port the crew will mutiny." She grins. "Not that we couldn't deal with that, but if we kill them it'll make sailing the ship damned difficult; it takes a crew of fifty to seventy to keep my Siren running smoothly, and all of them are very devoted to their drink. Sailors usually are. Don't get between them and the grog."

"Captain excepted, of course?" Fenris asks, sardonic.

Isabela shrugs. "I don't drink while at sea."

Everyone stares at her.

She frowns. "What? It's true!"

Anders looks at her with open disbelief. "Are you sure you haven't been possessed?"

"You're one to talk," Fenris growls.

Isabela ignores this. "Being master of a ship requires discipline. Everyone has their responsibilities but ultimately it comes down to me. I can hardly enforce discipline if I don't keep it myself."

"I didn't think you knew what the word meant," Anders says.

"It's because I know what it means that I'm so wild onshore. Might as well get my kicks while I can, you know?" She looks wistful for a moment, but shrugs again. "I don't deny I'll miss it, but the ocean is better." Which is true. More than true, though she suspects they'll never really understand that. "Now, most captains don't allow gambling onboard, but I do; what's life without some risk, and what fun is risk without the chance of profit?"

"Thank Andraste," Varric says fervently. "I was beginning to think this would be the most boring trip ever."

"With us around?" Merrill chirps. "That's unlikely."

"Too true," Fenris agrees.

"What can we do onboard, exactly?" Hawke asks. "Last time I was on a boat I sat in the hold and did nothing for two weeks. I'd rather not repeat that."

Everyone turns to look at her; it's the first time she's said anything today, and she hasn't spoken to anyone except Isabela and Bethany since they left. It's left them all...uncentered, ungrounded, and they turn to her automatically, but she ignores them and just waits for Isabela to answer.

Isabela shrugs. "Up to you. I have enough crew, but if we lose some along the way--and we almost certainly will, to disease or desertion or something or another--I may need to commandeer any of you to help keep things running. So if you want to learn the craft, I'm not about to object. Time onboard a boat tends to flip between being very, very busy, and incredibly dull. There's time to teach anyone who's interested during the dull bits. You'd be surprised how much of it just involves scrubbing things."

"Andraste's breasts," Varric groans, looking greener than ever. "No."

"You'll start feeling better soon, Varric. I already have, and I was sick for a week last time. It's better if you're in the open air." Merrill pats Varric awkwardly on the back; he winces.

"Unless you want the contents of my stomach on your shoes, Daisy, stop doing that."

"But I don't wear--oh! Right." She stops patting and shifts away, looking apologetic.

"If you're not helping the crew, try to stay out of their way. If any of them bother you, try not to do any permanent damage, and tell me afterwards. And any of you are welcome in here, anytime," Isabela concludes. "Which is a privilege, by the way, so enjoy it."

There's a long moment of silence, then Anders--after looking at Hawke, who's now looking out one of the windows--asks, "What's our destination?"

Isabela also glances at Hawke before answering, but Hawke shows no interest whatsoever in the answer. "Llomeryn. I have some cargo I know I can unload there, and it's the best place to find out about other jobs that need doing. It should take us about six weeks to get there. We'll make a few stops along the coast on the way, though I haven't decided exactly where yet. I'll let you know when I do." She flashes a wicked grin at all of them. "You'll like Llomeryn. All sorts of trouble to get into there."

"I think we have enough trouble on our hands just now, thank you," Bethany murmurs.

"Oh, but this will be much more fun trouble. You'll see."

Varric clutches his stomach. "I'll go anywhere that has land. Preferably as soon as possible."

Isabela waits a moment, but none of the others object or speak up, so she claps her hands together. "All agreed then, end of lecture. I have to go be captain and make sure everyone's doing their jobs properly; this early in a voyage they'll be testing me to see what they can get away with."

"I'll come with you," Hawke says, standing. "I'd like to know how a ship works."

Isabela grins. "I'll give you the grand tour." She holds the door open for Hawke, and they go out into the open air; the others leave behind them, wandering to their various preferred destinations, but Isabela doesn't bother to watch. "Do you know anything about the basic layout of a schooner?" she starts.

Hawke raises an eyebrow. "What's a schooner? I thought this was a boat."

Isabela chuckles. "Right, from the beginning then..."

Things could definitely be worse. She has a beauty of a ship, comrades close at hand, and a number of opportunities for excitement in her future. She whistles as she lets the door close behind her, and could not be more content.

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Anders has never felt more alone, which says a great deal.

He spends a lot of his time watching people. Ostensibly he's the ship's physician--Isabela asked, and he was relieved to be given some sort of place--but so far there's not much work for him, and lurking below deck in the area designated as his clinic feels too solitary. At least on deck he has the illusion of companionship. He joins in with the crew sometimes; he's worked on boats before, during his years on the run, and there's always menial work to be done. But mostly he watches people, especially his companions. Former companions. He doesn't know which it is, or should be.

Aside from Isabela, Merrill is the most outgoing member of their group, to everyone's surprise. Once her initial seasickness is passed she seems to fall in love with the new experience of living on a ship. It doesn't take a day before she's climbing ropes with more grace than even the most experienced sailors, and she spends astonishing amounts of time up in the crow's nest. Every so often she'll laugh at the sight of a bird or whale or wave, and the sound of it echoes down to the deck and makes most of the crew smile. Isabela has made it very, very clear that Merrill is not to be intimidated or interfered with--though she hasn't mentioned that this as much for the crew's sake as the elf's.

Anders has heard a few of the sailors make suggestive comments at her even so, and seen them be nonplussed when Merrill completely misses or misinterprets them. Few try anymore; instead most have adopted her as a sort of mascot. Bethany had more trouble, but a quiet word from Isabela, and a not-so-quiet word from Hawke, has ensured that there's been no repeat incidents. Anders and Fenris each had a few offers, quietly refused in the case of the former and aggressively in the case of the latter, because Fenris can't seem to do anything without aggression, even here. Varric had one too, but inevitably it lead to stories of the mystery of Bianca, which lead just as inevitably to stories of Hawke.

Between that and other things, it is perhaps not surprising that no one has suggested anything to Hawke herself, so far as he knows. But then, she barely seems a woman at all these days. She keeps as busy and active as possible, learning shipmanship from Isabela, climbing up to the crow's nest with Merrill, spending time with Bethany and the mabari, listening to Varric's stories, dicing with Fenris and the crew. She doesn't talk much. She doesn't laugh at all.

That last is what hurts Anders most to see, more than the fact that she won't speak with him. She won't even look at him. If he approaches, she finds an excuse to move dexterously away without it appearing obvious that's what she's doing. It's the same smoothness Isabela displays when avoiding being hit by a weapon in battle, and Anders can tell Hawke is avoiding him for the same reason. And because he doesn't want to hurt her more than he already has--if that's even possible--he finally stops trying to approach her, and just watches from a distance as best he can, wondering what in the hell to do with the mess that's become his life. The mess he's made of her life.

He could say this wasn't what he intended, but it wouldn't be accurate. He knew all these things would happen. He just didn't think he'd be here to experience it, and there's a sickened part of his stomach that knows it was partly his old cowardice that was responsible for that. It's so much easier to cause damage if you don't expect to be around to see the consequences. He'd imagined them, a thousand times over, but seeing them is...worse. And he hasn't seen all of the consequences of his actions, he knows. Barely the surface.

He can't undo it. Perhaps the worst is, he wouldn't if he could. Anders has regrets, scores of them, he even has doubts. But the feeling of being stretched past the breaking point is gone. What he did will change the world, for the better, even if it takes years of warfare before they get to that point; he's sure, and the fact grounds him as nothing else could. The stalemate is over. No matter how often he thinks about what happened or wonders what could have been done differently, he can't be anything but relieved at that. Even exultant, sometimes. Even at this price.

But it doesn't mean he knows what to do with himself. He's torn in so many directions...part of him wants to jump ship, swim to land, find the nearest Circle and tell them about Kirkwall, show them they can be free, and make it happen. Part of him screams that he deserves to be dead, that he has to pay for the lives he took at the Chantry. Justice calls for it, and he wants to answer, and he doesn't know which call is stronger. All of him aches for Hawke, and that pain holds him motionless. He doesn't know whether to ask her forgiveness, demand that she join him, beg her to kill him, or kiss her until they can't breathe. He does know that this silence between them is choking him, and he'd prefer any outcome to staying in it.

But he doesn't seem to have any options, at least not at the moment. He can't leave the ship, even if he wanted to; not yet, at any rate. Even if an opportunity arises later, he doesn't know if Hawke will let him leave. She's seemed determined to stay with him, for all that she doesn't acknowledge him directly. His lover turned gaoler.

And even though he itches for movement, action, resolution, something...he doesn't want to leave her. Especially not when she's like this. He'd give anything to be able to comfort and help her, and he's the one person who can't.

He'd rather be in a real prison, where he could see the bars.

"You're not wearing your feathers."

Anders looks up to see Merrill looking disappointed, and shrugs. It's true; on the ship he only wears his loose shirt and breeches, not his usual mage robes and armor. "Not much need for pauldrons here."

"But don't you get cold? There's so much wind!" She sits next to him. "I always thought of the sea as being empty, I never expected all this wind."

Anders just shrugs again. Merrill isn't company he would have chosen back in Kirkwall, and she treats him with a mixture of sympathy and pity, which is maddening coming from a blood mage. But frankly he's glad for anyone to talk to at the moment. Any distraction from his circular, trapped thoughts. "I thought you'd traveled across the ocean before. Didn't your clan come from Ferelden?"

"I was in the hold, not on deck. It was awful, I was sick the whole time." She smiles up at the open sky. "This is much better. Isabela told me it would be, but I didn't believe her. Have you been up to the crow's nest?"

"Maker, no!"

"Oh, you should! The view is wonderful."

"I think I'll keep my feet on the ground, thanks," Anders says firmly.

"What ground? We're on a boat."

"The closest to it I can get, then."

There's a long moment of quiet as they listen to ship sounds; various shouts as crew pass information to each other, the rhythmic clanking chains as they move in time with the ocean swells, gulls overhead.

"How are you, really?" Merrill asks abruptly. She clenches her hands. "I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I wanted to ask. Especially since it doesn't seem like anyone else is."

That catches Anders by surprise. "You want to know how I am?"

She gives him an odd look. "Of course I do. Why shouldn't I?"

He starts to try and put it in words, then stops. Everyone else is avoiding me, so why aren't you? can't possibly go anywhere good. And he can guess why. She seems to feel they are kin now, and perhaps she has a point. He can't deny he has as much or more blood on his hands as she does, even if it's never been as literal. He's always despised blood mages for their lack of self-control, viewed their giving in to darker temptations as a weakness, but it's impossible to view himself as superior after what he did, no matter what his goal was in doing it.

Merrill looks back up at the sky. "I was talking to Fenris, once--"

Anders breaks in to say, sardonically, "I can't imagine why you'd want to do that."

"I was worried about you. I told him I thought you'd broken the thing you were trying to save." She hugs her knees. "He said I felt sorry for you because you were me."

Broken the thing you were trying to save... He thinks briefly of all the mages who died in the battle after the Chantry's destruction, sacrifices for those who will come after. Unwilling sacrifices. How many of my own people did I kill, indirectly? And then he thinks of the look in Hawke's eyes as she asked what he'd done, just before she found out for herself. Anders has to swallow several times before there's enough moisture in his throat to let him speak again. "I'm not sorry. Or rather, I am, but I'd still do it again. It was necessary." He doesn't know if it's true or if he's trying to convince himself.

"I envy your belief."

"You said that before."

"It's still true. It must be a comfort to you." She looks down and adds softly, "I wish I still had that."

"It's not as much of a comfort as you might think."

"I know. I thought what I was doing was necessary, too."

He sighs. "Fine. We have something in common. Are you happy now?"

There is a long moment of silence, and then she whispers. "No. And...we have more in common than you think."

Anders is going to dismiss that cryptic comment, but then catches her intense, sorrowful gaze. She's looking at the main deck, where Hawke is standing, talking to Varric. Or more accurately, listening while Varric talks; Hawke's just staring off towards the horizon, expression unfocused and blank. Merrill's expression, on the other hand, screams yearning more than any words could.

A dozen images and impressions suddenly join into a picture with a clarity that leaves Anders shaken, and a rush of emotion hits him: a possessiveness he no longer has any right to, the now-familiar punch of grief, followed by...sympathy. "I...didn't know. I'm sorry."

Merrill shrugs. "Well, it was never...important. I didn't really..." She stops, and swallows. "She wouldn't have...I never expected..." She stops again, biting her lip. Her lack of ability to find words is more eloquent than words themselves would be, given her usual tendency to babble on. Finally she shrugs again. "It was never very important," she repeats quietly. "It...it was enough to be able to travel with her, to be her friend. I made that be enough. Except now...I miss her. She's right here, but I still miss her. Isn't that strange?"

Anders looks back up to the deck. Isabela's joined the other two there, and whatever she's saying involves expansive arm gestures and makes Varric laugh. Hawke smiles a bit, and her stance is deceptively casual, but Anders lived with her for over three years and can read the screaming tension. It's been there ever since they left; he's beginning to think it's going to be there forever, and he no longer has permission to try to ease it, or even acknowledge it.

"No," he says softly. "No, that doesn't sound strange at all."