User:Ygrain/Ned 1

He hated the place even before he set foot in it, ever since seeing the statues and chains marking the harbour entry.

The statues in chains and fetters, tortured, broken, subjugated. The symbols of the City of Chains.

Ned hates every breath, every step he has to take within its walls.

Back then, when Solaryn appeared at Highever out of nowhere and asked him to join the Wardens on a mission once again, the thought actually seemed appealing. Though Fergus was always glad to see him come, infrequent as his visits have been, Ned is also acutely aware that he is no less glad to see him go, eventually: his presence is a constant reminder of the losses suffered, a dark shadow on the bright present of his new family.

Ned doesn’t blame him: he feels much the same, unable to let go, and knowing that he doesn’t belong any longer. The Marches, Antiva, Orlais…. never staying long at one place, belonging everywhere and nowhere.

On his travels, his steps never brought him to Kirkwall before, its mere reputation repulsive to him enough. When Sol presented her request to him, though, his curiosity got the better of him; that, and the sense of purpose that the adherence to the forsaken duty might provide, at least for a time.

The purpose which drove him to abandon that duty has evaporated over the years of vain search; the name that once kept burning in his mind has subdued to mere cinders. Ned cares no longer where he goes or why, as long as there is a task at hand, and memories are kept at bay.

Kirkwall evokes the memories of chains and darkness and red-hot iron.

Treading the polished marble floors of the Viscount’s Keep, he has cursed his mistake a thousand times.

To the outer world, he shows nothing but the mask he usually wears: cold and indifferent, and walks with the self-confidence of one knowing there are few who can equal him. The Kirkwall’s seneschal is barely impressed, though: his eyes skim over the plain, unadorned armour and cloak with contempt, failing to note that Ned’s dagger only would pay for all his brocaded silks and still earn a purse of gold on top of it. His derisive tone grows even more cutting as he finally recognizes Ned’s accent as Fereldan: well, that could have been expected, given where the accursed culprit had hailed from.

Ned calmly bears the derision: the pompous wimp is barely worth a second thought, and he has seen worse from better men. He knows what impression he makes to the likes of Seneschal Bran: a man of average figure, average height, of not particularly remarkable face which years of travel have robbed of the soft youthful charm and endowed it with sharp cheekbones.

There seems nothing sharp about him, though, as he listens politely to the long tirade about the problems brought upon the good city of Kirkwall by the makerdamned refugees, slowly arriving at the conclusion that whatever reasons Anders might have had to blow up the Chantry, he should have been more thorough and blast the Keep as well while he was at it.

Nodding most sympathetically, Ned lets the seneschal believe that understanding has been reached, and only when the man all but asks for a bribe openly, Ned thanks him for his time, smiles broadly, and leaves the fuming seneschal to his own devices, certainly even more soured towards the tricky Fereldans.

Once outside the office, he catches the first servant passing by, and for a piece of silver obtains the information which the seneschal, for all his eloquent proclamations about cooperation with the Wardens, never shared during all that wasted time. It also improves Ned mood substantially, and for a moment, as he walks towards the guard barracks, he is almost cheerful. Even without a bribe, the seneschal, blinded by his dislike of Fereldans, revealed more than he had intended, and Ned now possesses quite a couple of clues about people who might provide some pieces for the puzzle called Anders.

Hawke. Dwarf Varric Tethras. Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven…

And above all, one Aveline Vallen, the Captain of the Guards… a friend of Hawke’s, and one almost directly present to that horrible deed – and one tasked with its investigation, as well.

Ned smirks inwardly. Let a conceited man talk, sooner or later, he will end up polishing his ego and dropping the bits all around.

Captain Aveline makes a very different impression than Seneschal Bran – one that Ned likes, astonishingly so in that rotten place. During that moment when they assess each other, they immediately recognize the counterpart for what they are: a warrior born and bred, following the same codes, the same set of rules.

More or less the same. Ned wonders whether her career has already tasked her with decisions which infringed on those rules.

“So you are after Anders, Warden,” she says, watching him intently with clear green eyes. “Did Seneschal Bran send you to me?”

“He mentioned your name, Captain,” Ned says neutrally, and from the way the woman’s eyes sparkle he can tell that she knows her seneschal all too well. “Would you be willing to assist the Wardens in our search?”

Folding her arms on her chest, Aveline holds his eyes. “You are aware of my… association with the Champion, I presume.”

“That I am.”

She taps her fingers on her bracer several times. Ned waits: the Captain is apparently struggling to make a decision.

“If you are looking for Anders, Warden, you must know this: he and Hawke ran away together,” she says finally.

For a moment, Ned is stricken with doubt: could he have misjudged the Captain? Why is she betraying her friend like this?

His eyes narrow ever so slightly but Aveline sees. Her eyes lock into his and never waver. “Hawke has no honour,” she proclaims firmly, “never sees anything past his own personal gain. He was an associate, never a friend to me. I owed him my life, and repaid tenfold or more during the years.” There is bitterness in her voice, and memories which make her pause before she continues: “Whatever I may have owed him yet I repaid when I let him go even though he decided to harbour Anders after what he had done. I want no more to do with Hawke, ever.”

“Will Hawke stand down when we come for Anders?” Ned asks slowly.

Aveline is silent for a while. “Dubious,” she says softly. “I don’t see him willing to die for Anders, or for anyone, but if he thinks that the odds might work for him…”

This time it is Ned who remains silent: the pressing question “how does Hawke fight?” might be too much to ask of the Captain. Instead, he says: “I’m afraid it is not an option for us to stand down if Hawke refuses to see reason.”

Aveline flinches a little as if struck but replies without hesitation: “Then it cannot be helped. Anders has done a horrible thing and deserves to be punished for it. If Hawke cannot see it… I will not blame you, Warden.”

Ned slightly bows in response, leaving to the woman to continue or not.

With a sigh, Aveline turns and motions him to come over to her desk. Producing a map from under the piles of documents, she starts marking points which might provide an efficient hideout for the two runaways. “Take this,” she says. Then, dropping her eyes, she sighs heavily. “I am not entitled to task you with trying to avoid unnecessary bloodshed but… I would appreciate if you tried.”

Ned has to gulp suddenly to relieve his throat: to his uneasiness, her plea acutely reminds him of Cauthrien, whose request he promised to grant, knowing it to be a blatant lie. He slowly releases his breath. “I cannot guarantee it, Captain, but I will try nonetheless.”

Aveline nods but then turns her head away abruptly. “Please, go now, before I start to regret it,” she says in a muffled voice.

Complying with her request, Ned bows low before he closes the door.

Outside the Keep, with wind in his hair, he feels slightly less confined but the heat of the fading day is draining. Despite the proximity of the sea, there is something stale in Kirkwall’s air, and something ominous in the shapes of streets and passages. Ned’s Templar training sensitized him to the manifestations of the Fade, and though he cannot feel or see as a mage would, the thinning of the Veil can be perceived in tens of little, improminent signs, from the suddenly prickling skin to the feeling of someone’s stare on his nape in an otherwise empty alley.

No wonder that Anders went mad here.

His feeling of satisfaction over obtaining the map evaporates after a few turns in Kirkwall’s maze of alleys. The past, recurring with every little detail, keeps pressing on him – after the years which he spent running from it, the onslaught is exhausting. Inevitably, his thoughts turn towards Solaryn with bitterness: even though he understands that as a single human in their party, and noble-born on top of it, his presence poises a considerable advantage in any dealings with local authorities, he nonetheless wishes for nothing else but a way out.

Stopping abruptly in the shade of a balcony, he tries for the even, controlled breathing of the Templar training, reminding himself that Kirkwall is but a brief stop and that they will be on their way again, under the clear skies, as they used to.

The times of travelling together do not bring the comfort they used to, though, not after yesterday. Clenching his fists, Ned has to finally address the event that he has been trying to put off in his thoughts the whole time.

Alistair.

The brother at arms, the dearest friend, the solid ground under Ned’s feet whenever he might have drowned in the depth of vengefulness.

When he left in search of Morrigan, the tie was somehow severed, and while Ned’s visits to Highever were scarce, those to Denerim were even scarcer.

He held a grudge that I abandoned my duty while I had him bound to one he never wanted.

And so, while the other three had a pick at the pitifully drunk man, he only stood by silently, all the words he never said to Alistair applying to himself, as well.

He abandoned a duty for a personal goal, as easy as that.

There is but one way to go about it.

Steeling himself, Ned turns his steps towards the Hanged Man.