Chapter Text
Bethany was always nervous when walking around Kirkwall. The life of a “free” mage was one of continuous discomfort and uneasiness be it strolling in public with a conspicuous stave or in a temporary home after being displaced times before in effort to outrun suspicion. She always looked twice before turning corners; remembered the face of every Templar in excruciating detail so she’d know from a glance whom to not pass. She found herself picking at the hem of her tunic.
Her father, Malcolm Hawke, was a mage like her who did not live within the confines of the Circle of Magi. He had escaped from Kirkwall some time before Bethany had been born in the neighbouring Ferelden. He’d taught her to control and gave her the tools master her “gift”. These were his words; Bethany likened it more to a “curse”. She found shame in what her magic had forced upon her family.
Although Kirkwall had Bethany feeling more anxious than before with the tightening vice the Templar Knight-Commander held on the resident apostates, she took disquiet comfort in the companions her elder sister had acquired.
Today was a quiet day, so far. There had been little in the way of physical altercations; most of the errands being simple delivery runs of items the eldest Hawke had collected throughout their recent travels and budgeted purchases of much needed gear upgrades.
However this wasn’t the only reason things were quiet. Bethany had a keen ear for listening, but she was not blessed in the skills of conversation. As much as she liked to learn and understand the people around her, or simply share a well-meant observation, she found herself walking into awkward exchanges more often than she’d like. She herself did not see them as such nor understood why people found them to so artless, but she had grown to understand that the confusing subtle expressions those around her adopted when she had breached some kind of unwritten cue in one way or another and opted to return to silence.
She hated how poorly her meager existence reflected on her family.
She didn’t understand how her elder sister, Hawke, so effortlessly began and maintained a friendly dialogue, let alone be so astute in keeping a relaxed lack of with the people about her. What Bethany wouldn’t give to be “normal” like her. It wasn’t time to reflect on that right now.
Hawke led her charge to the bustling Hightown bazaar, the harsh sunlight causing her to raise her hand to shield her eyes as the group made their way down the cobblestone stairs. Bethany felt slight panic rise in her throat as she approached the body of people. She glanced to the apostate beside her, Anders, who held a noticeably rigid posture. She wondered if he worried about being in the open for the same reasons she did.
The fair skinned guardswoman Aveline was watching Bethany when she turned her gaze to her. She gave the young mage a reassuring nod; that she was not alone, and there were people here to protect her. Aveline was never entirely settled on where the youngest fledgeling stood in the seemingly rigid ideals she held on the importance and necessity of the Circle, and always felt quietly challenged by Bethany. She’d never willfully tip-off the Kirkwall Templars to the apostate’s location, Maker no, she loved and respected Hawke’s family too much to ever conceive of doing such a thing, but still she shared the Chantry’s nervousness on the topic.
Being sure to stick close to Hawke as the well armed warrior weaved her way through the throng, Bethany nervously played with the thread of her tunic while counting her breaths. She keenly observed every face that passed them by.
“Sister,” she leans in to Hawke’s ear, not wanting to speak louder than the chatter of the crowd, “will we be here long?”
Hawke turns to her with a warm smile and stops, placing her gloved hand on Bethany’s shoulder. She immediately sank in shame for what she felt like was making this simple excursion about her.
“I will be as quick as I can,” the elder smiles and gives a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, I won’t keep us here any longer than we need.” This does not wash away Bethany’s guilt.
“Bethany, I’ve been meaning to ask: how is Leandra?” Aveline interjects. Bethany does not know if this is an attempt to distract her from her anxiety, or simply the guardswoman choosing now to strike up this line of conversation.
“Mother says she is well. Although I do not entirely believe her.” the mageling sighs with brows drawn together. She wants to add her own thoughts on her mother’s disposition; that she is utterly miserable.
“I doubt she will ever recover from the unexpected loss of her family’s estate.” With a shrug, Aveline pats Bethany on the upper arm in endearment. “It’s okay to be worried.”
“I’d really like us to put the earnings from our expedition into the Deep Roads towards buying back the Amell estate,” Bethany admits, “Mother talks about her childhood home a lot. I’d like to give it back to her if it means she would be happier.”
Drawing her coloured lips into a thin line, Bethany’s frown deepens as her mind wanders back. Her fingers bunch together her old tunic. “It’s been especially hard for her since losing my brother. Father too.”
She doesn’t know how, but the confidence in her voice and the keen look in Aveline’s eye is all it takes to convince Bethany for now when the older woman holds her gaze and tells her “All will be well.”