Sundered, Chapter 2
Apr. 11th, 2011 07:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bamftastikTitle: Sundered, chapter 2
Characters: Isabela/Fenris, implied Hawke/Anders, Surin
Rating: T
Words: 1,300
Summary: Isabela let one sodding person get close – agreed to do one bloody favor – and finds herself raising a young apostate as part of her crew.
It was the worst of the summer storms. These northern routes were dangerous enough, the presence of the Qunari fleet strong this close to Seheron. Yet even they dared not stray beyond their bays when the season reached its peak. Black waters and red skies could become squalls and hurricanes without warning, sending the long days crashing into endless dark. Dangerous in the best of times, the passage became all the more profitable for those mad enough to brave it.
Isabela would have welcomed the storm. She stood at the starboard rail, rubbing at her arms as she hugged herself. But she was not cold – no, the air was perfectly tepid, blowing straight and sure. Too sure. Around them the clouds roiled and the lightning crashed, held at bay in a calm oasis around the ship. Stretching out a hand, she let her fingers play over those unnatural currents, her eyes straying to the tiny figure perched in the prow. Surin, he was called. It meant "sundered" in one of the old Ferelden tongues, Hawke had said, from a time when the land was little more than warring and savage tribes. The name was all that she had left him, that and a few short months of nursing, before setting off after his father again.
The boy did not notice her gaze, curling his fingers to stir the winds. Not yet in his seventh year and he already knew the ways of sea and storm better than half of the old, weathered bastards in her crew. But this bastard had the means to bend them to his will. Isabela cared not one whit for the revolution that seemed to have spread to every shore, but any observant port guard could turn the lot of them over to the Chantry for harboring one, small mage-child. And yet...
Lightning crashed just out of reach, safe beyond the barrier of air. There were benefits and there were risks. She was no stranger to this dance. Watching the boy, Isabela found herself smiling.
"He shows a... surprising degree of control."
She turned at the voice, smirking to see Fenris slipping from her cabin. She had picked the elf up in Kont-arr, a surprise and a decidedly pleasant one.
"From you, that's practically a compliment."
He snorted, but the glower softened as he moved to her side and gripped the rail. His eyes narrowed, watching the arrow-straight current churning the waters below. "I do not like it."
"But we're making brilliant time."
"To where, I wonder?"
She smirked. "How was Varania?"
Fenris winced at that, as she had expected he would. He had admitted to convincing his sister to flee the Imperium some years ago, citing the newfound freedom being won by mages in other lands. There was no excuse he could make for this convenient change of heart, for his continued contact with a sister who happened to be one of the dreaded magic users. It had already provided Isabela with endless opportunities to tease him.
"Regretting that she did not become a Magister. Though less now than before, I expect." He sighed. "She is with child again."
"That husband of hers." Isabela clucked her tongue. "And how are the girls?"
"They were... pleased to see their... Uncle Fenris." His tone was mystified.
"Not 'Uncle Leto?'"
He growled beneath his breath. "No."
"Funny thing, you being an uncle."
"No more so than you an aunt." He nodded toward the prow and Isabela's gaze could not help but follow.
"He's merely another member of my crew, and a useful one at that."
"You are a poor liar."
She sighed. It had been over a year since Hawke had last been aboard, and then only long enough to be ferried to the latest uprising. Surin had been a boy in truth for that too-short week, but once she disembarked he had returned to his silence and his scowls. He had seemed disconcertingly older than his years from nearly the moment he could speak, able to veer from a child's laughter to an old man's stares in a matter of moments. She was seeing more of his father in him every day.
Isabela studied him now, his back to them as he waved his tiny fingers almost offhandedly. His skin was a shade darker than either of his parents', already tanned by years at sea. But his cheeks still had a tendency to blaze mottled, the easy blush and naturally fair complexion of his mother. It nearly matched the red tint to his golden hair, a gift of the long-missing Anders, shining all the more from long days spent in the sun. He wore it long now, the familiar brow and angular chin all the more apparent when tied back.
If the whispers of the mages were true, this was the child of two heroes. Isabela was discovering that there were few fates to be envied less.
She had asked him about those patterns, the waving dance of his hands. He had made them up, he claimed, spells of his own making learned simply by long hours watching the sea. One of the men had been secretly sneaking him books on magic, she later leaned, purchasing them whenever they docked. When she had confronted him, though, he merely said that a trained mage – even poorly – was safer than a wild one. She had not even had the chance to retort; he had quit the crew out of fear then and there.
Something would have to be done, she knew. The boy was six years old; in any land he might well have been taken to the Circle by now. Against his will and to his detriment, if his father was to be believed.
Again, she sighed.
"I was not speaking entirely of the boy."
Isabela shook herself, looking back at Fenris. He produced something from behind his back, dropping it into her hands with a smirk. It was a copy of the Chant of Light, her copy.
"You have heard from Hawke."
"What? No I haven't."
Chuckling, he turned the pages in her hand, opening to the hollow at the middle. She had carved it there with her own blade, destroying what she was certain was some lovely and dreadfully boring prose to fashion a tiny hiding spot.
"I thought it odd that you would have such a book."
"And what were you doing looking at it?" She quirked a brow as he flushed and fell silent. It had been many years since she overheard him speaking with Sebastian, but the thought of Fenris kneeling in a Chantry still brought a bemused smile to her lips. She was sure the Chant would have a thing or two to say about what they had done last night.
The folded note was still inside the hollow, though she need not read it to recall the words. The message had been simple enough: Denerim. The first of autumn.
"Denerim."
"This was waiting when last I docked in Antiva."
"What was she doing there, I wonder?"
Isabela shrugged. "There was a slave uprising a few months back, maybe she figured Anders had something to do with it. Or maybe she simply had a craving for chowder."
"I hope you are speaking of the soup."
Linking an arm through his, she laughed. "But, yes, we're going to Denerim." Her smile faltered as she looked again to Surin. She needed to speak to Hawke for reasons of her own and most of them would not be pleasant. "It seems I'm everyone's ferry these days."
Fenris smirked. "I have paid my passage."
Isabela cast a last lingering glance at the boy, at the few crewman working the deck. She had no doubt that Surin would see them safely through, tried not to let herself be unsettled by the thought.
She clucked her tongue. "Not in full." Tightening her grip on his arm, she hauled the elf back to her cabin.
Characters: Isabela/Fenris, implied Hawke/Anders, Surin
Rating: T
Words: 1,300
Summary: Isabela let one sodding person get close – agreed to do one bloody favor – and finds herself raising a young apostate as part of her crew.
It was the worst of the summer storms. These northern routes were dangerous enough, the presence of the Qunari fleet strong this close to Seheron. Yet even they dared not stray beyond their bays when the season reached its peak. Black waters and red skies could become squalls and hurricanes without warning, sending the long days crashing into endless dark. Dangerous in the best of times, the passage became all the more profitable for those mad enough to brave it.
Isabela would have welcomed the storm. She stood at the starboard rail, rubbing at her arms as she hugged herself. But she was not cold – no, the air was perfectly tepid, blowing straight and sure. Too sure. Around them the clouds roiled and the lightning crashed, held at bay in a calm oasis around the ship. Stretching out a hand, she let her fingers play over those unnatural currents, her eyes straying to the tiny figure perched in the prow. Surin, he was called. It meant "sundered" in one of the old Ferelden tongues, Hawke had said, from a time when the land was little more than warring and savage tribes. The name was all that she had left him, that and a few short months of nursing, before setting off after his father again.
The boy did not notice her gaze, curling his fingers to stir the winds. Not yet in his seventh year and he already knew the ways of sea and storm better than half of the old, weathered bastards in her crew. But this bastard had the means to bend them to his will. Isabela cared not one whit for the revolution that seemed to have spread to every shore, but any observant port guard could turn the lot of them over to the Chantry for harboring one, small mage-child. And yet...
Lightning crashed just out of reach, safe beyond the barrier of air. There were benefits and there were risks. She was no stranger to this dance. Watching the boy, Isabela found herself smiling.
"He shows a... surprising degree of control."
She turned at the voice, smirking to see Fenris slipping from her cabin. She had picked the elf up in Kont-arr, a surprise and a decidedly pleasant one.
"From you, that's practically a compliment."
He snorted, but the glower softened as he moved to her side and gripped the rail. His eyes narrowed, watching the arrow-straight current churning the waters below. "I do not like it."
"But we're making brilliant time."
"To where, I wonder?"
She smirked. "How was Varania?"
Fenris winced at that, as she had expected he would. He had admitted to convincing his sister to flee the Imperium some years ago, citing the newfound freedom being won by mages in other lands. There was no excuse he could make for this convenient change of heart, for his continued contact with a sister who happened to be one of the dreaded magic users. It had already provided Isabela with endless opportunities to tease him.
"Regretting that she did not become a Magister. Though less now than before, I expect." He sighed. "She is with child again."
"That husband of hers." Isabela clucked her tongue. "And how are the girls?"
"They were... pleased to see their... Uncle Fenris." His tone was mystified.
"Not 'Uncle Leto?'"
He growled beneath his breath. "No."
"Funny thing, you being an uncle."
"No more so than you an aunt." He nodded toward the prow and Isabela's gaze could not help but follow.
"He's merely another member of my crew, and a useful one at that."
"You are a poor liar."
She sighed. It had been over a year since Hawke had last been aboard, and then only long enough to be ferried to the latest uprising. Surin had been a boy in truth for that too-short week, but once she disembarked he had returned to his silence and his scowls. He had seemed disconcertingly older than his years from nearly the moment he could speak, able to veer from a child's laughter to an old man's stares in a matter of moments. She was seeing more of his father in him every day.
Isabela studied him now, his back to them as he waved his tiny fingers almost offhandedly. His skin was a shade darker than either of his parents', already tanned by years at sea. But his cheeks still had a tendency to blaze mottled, the easy blush and naturally fair complexion of his mother. It nearly matched the red tint to his golden hair, a gift of the long-missing Anders, shining all the more from long days spent in the sun. He wore it long now, the familiar brow and angular chin all the more apparent when tied back.
If the whispers of the mages were true, this was the child of two heroes. Isabela was discovering that there were few fates to be envied less.
She had asked him about those patterns, the waving dance of his hands. He had made them up, he claimed, spells of his own making learned simply by long hours watching the sea. One of the men had been secretly sneaking him books on magic, she later leaned, purchasing them whenever they docked. When she had confronted him, though, he merely said that a trained mage – even poorly – was safer than a wild one. She had not even had the chance to retort; he had quit the crew out of fear then and there.
Something would have to be done, she knew. The boy was six years old; in any land he might well have been taken to the Circle by now. Against his will and to his detriment, if his father was to be believed.
Again, she sighed.
"I was not speaking entirely of the boy."
Isabela shook herself, looking back at Fenris. He produced something from behind his back, dropping it into her hands with a smirk. It was a copy of the Chant of Light, her copy.
"You have heard from Hawke."
"What? No I haven't."
Chuckling, he turned the pages in her hand, opening to the hollow at the middle. She had carved it there with her own blade, destroying what she was certain was some lovely and dreadfully boring prose to fashion a tiny hiding spot.
"I thought it odd that you would have such a book."
"And what were you doing looking at it?" She quirked a brow as he flushed and fell silent. It had been many years since she overheard him speaking with Sebastian, but the thought of Fenris kneeling in a Chantry still brought a bemused smile to her lips. She was sure the Chant would have a thing or two to say about what they had done last night.
The folded note was still inside the hollow, though she need not read it to recall the words. The message had been simple enough: Denerim. The first of autumn.
"Denerim."
"This was waiting when last I docked in Antiva."
"What was she doing there, I wonder?"
Isabela shrugged. "There was a slave uprising a few months back, maybe she figured Anders had something to do with it. Or maybe she simply had a craving for chowder."
"I hope you are speaking of the soup."
Linking an arm through his, she laughed. "But, yes, we're going to Denerim." Her smile faltered as she looked again to Surin. She needed to speak to Hawke for reasons of her own and most of them would not be pleasant. "It seems I'm everyone's ferry these days."
Fenris smirked. "I have paid my passage."
Isabela cast a last lingering glance at the boy, at the few crewman working the deck. She had no doubt that Surin would see them safely through, tried not to let herself be unsettled by the thought.
She clucked her tongue. "Not in full." Tightening her grip on his arm, she hauled the elf back to her cabin.
