Chapter Text
“Get back here, you knife-eared brat!” The man behind them shouts furiously, footsteps pounding as he and his lackeys draw closer.
They’re running again. They zigzag and weave through the packed Llomerryn bazaar, hearing the merchants hawk their likely stolen goods to the masses as they pass. All I wanted was an apple. If they steal everything and sell it, why can’t I have anything to eat? The crowds finally thin out enough that the harbor becomes visible. They're panting, hide hide hide echoing in their mind, wide brown eyes frantically seeking a place to stop. Then they see it. A huge ship, billowing striped sails, with the gangplank blessedly down. They race up onto deck, legs threatening to give way, and duck into the first doorway they see as the angry yelling of the men chasing them gets closer. As they finally find what appears to be a storeroom and squeeze themselves behind a crate, their shouts get louder. Then they turn to screams. Metal clashes, there's crackling and the smell of burning, the sound of gleeful laughter and heavy thumps on wood. Finally, all at once, silence.
Holding their breath, they silently count to fifteen, then thank the absent Maker that it is still quiet. Lifting their head, they peer over the edge of the crate. Nothing. Taking a deep breath, they carefully unfold themselves and shakily stand up.
“Well hello, little one,” says a clear voice right behind them. They jump; only catching the glint of silver in their peripheral vision, they frantically take off again, only to run directly into a pair of leather clad legs. They fall back and stare up at the person, tears blurring their vision as their thoughts race. Lie lie lie, what’s a good lie?
“The… the captain sent me!” they blurt out in a quavering voice. Enough ships have urchins on board for errands, don’t they?
“I don’t recall sending anyone to hide in our stores, certainly not a little bird like you,” the woman says, raising a brow pierced with gold, amusement evident in her tone. “I am the captain.”
Upon hearing this, the tears they had almost tamped down came rushing back, sobs bubbling forth as they sit up and hug themselves. Of course she had to be the captain, they think. She’s gonna give me to the guards, and they’ll whip me again. They hear footsteps approach from behind them, then they register the person sitting down to their side, metal clinking again as she settles. They rub their eyes with their fists, and peer at the other person curiously. Warm amber eyes, brown hair in a messy topknot, a red stripe across the bridge of her nose. The woman meets their gaze and smiles crookedly, carefully reaching out and smoothing their choppy dark hair out of their face before looking up at the woman calling herself the captain.
“Bela,” she says, her tone conveying a thousand things at once. The captain sighs, rolls her eyes, and folds her arms across her chest.
“Hawke. We cannot keep a small child.”
“But—” the woman she called Hawke protests. Their mouth drops open, and they stare at her wide eyed.
“You want to keep me?” they whisper, fear and hope warring. No one ever wants to keep me. What if this is a trick? Hawke grins at them, and opens her arms in invitation all too easily. They squint at her suspiciously. “You’re just gonna give me back to the watchmen. Or whip me yourself. Or—”.
“Or perhaps, we could start by feeding you,” interjects the captain. They both look up at her. “We may have a tunic somewhere, as well,” Isabela adds, keeping a carefully blank face as she appraises their thin shirt, worried about just how easily she can count the child’s ribs through it. “Come.”
“Up you get, little one,” Hawke says, standing and offering a hand. They take it and stand, still trembling.
Hawke leads them out onto the deck of the ship, pausing when they tug at her. The men who had been chasing them are at the foot of the gangplank; all of them are dead now. One appears to have been sliced belly to neck, another looks to be a mostly burnt husk. There’s numerous scorch marks on the deck, and blood splatters adorning the wood. They look at Hawke, who meets their eyes and shrugs, utterly unashamed of the carnage. She gently leads them onward, ducking under a low doorway.
“The world can always use less slavers,” she comments, nodding more to herself than to them, then changes the subject before they can ask questions. “Do you like honey bread?”
“Honey bread?” The thought makes their mouth water. It’s hard to remember the last time they managed to steal more than stale crusts from behind the bakery, and even those were a treat some days.
“Here.” She produces a loaf of bread from somewhere and seems to concentrate on it for a moment before tearing a piece off and handing it to them. They marvel at how warm it is and the sweet scent nearly overwhelms them. They tear into it, gulping it down in only a few bites, then glance back at Hawke. “Hungry, are we?” she says wryly and hands them the rest. “Slowly. Don’t want to make yourself sick.” They barely hear her, focused so completely on this gift—it's so warm!—that they hardly notice when she steps away from their side.
When their hunger is sated, they take a moment to peer at their surroundings. Sunlight streams through a porthole and illuminates the room; there's a desk with papers scattered over the top, an intricate map pinned to its surface with a penknife. A well worn wooden chair sits in front of it, and a few feet behind is a huge bed that dwarfs the rest of the quarters, topped with a cheerfully patterned quilt. Clothes are strewn to one side, and the women who's ship they'd boarded are standing in the other corner, conferring quietly.
They're clearly talking about me, they think, catching a few phrases here and there: whiplash thin, starving, delicate as a bird. The captain pauses and looks directly at them, appearing to be deep in thought. She’s decorated in gold and silver; a stud below her lip, medallion earrings, an ornate necklace, even gold thread in the bandana she wears catching the light. They count six, no, seven visible knives, and think that a woman like that likely has twice that number hidden elsewhere.
“What is your name, little sparrow?” she asks. ‘Little sparrow’ is certainly better than dirty mongrel, or knife-eared thief, they think. I’ll take it.
“Sparrow.” They whisper, and Hawke smiles.
“Like that name, do you? Okay. Sparrow. You can call me Lottie,” she replies, and makes her way back to them, kneeling so they’re eye level. “Do you have a home, or parents?” she asks softly. Sparrow’s bottom lip trembles in response, and she has her answer. Hawke opens her arms once more, and they wind thin arms around her, burying their face in her neck. She stands, and Sparrow’s grip tightens around her. “Hush, I’ve got you,” she murmurs, carrying them back over to where Isabela has perched herself on the edge of the bed.
“We’re keeping them, aren’t we?” Isabela asks, watching her wife rub the child’s back in soothing circles. Hawke just looks at her evenly, lifting a hand to stroke the child's hair. “Of course we are. You truly will be the death of me.”