Chapter Text
There was a certain charm to walking around Hightown in the mornings. Or maybe it was just vindictive enjoyment Fenris got out of all the scared and outraged looks thrown in his direction. Respected nobles and wealthy merchants were very much offended by sharing a street with some elf-scum that thought he was entitled to be there, but they didn’t have enough courage to do something about it, seeing that the aforementioned scum had a dangerous-looking greatsword while they were armored with only their own excessive fat. Perhaps later in the day they would have found safety in numbers, but in the first hours after dawn there were not enough of them to form a decent crowd. The servants, scurrying along the side-streets, looked at him as well, and in their eyes Fenris read a hefty bit of envy alongside the customary anger and fear. That too never failed to amuse him.
None of them – neither masters, nor their valetry – had the strength to meet his challenging gaze, and that was, perhaps, the most pleasing thing of all. For far too long Fenris was a slave – no more worthy of notice that any inanimate object in Danarius’s household; and even after his escape he had struggled to continue that life of invisibility, until the day he realized that hiding forever was not much better than slavery. He enjoyed that those who would have overlooked him before now had no other choice but to pay attention.
It was a rare day when something was more disturbing than a lyrium-marked elf with a sharp sword, so when a small group of gossips only glanced in his direction before returning to their previous lively conversation Fenris was understandably intrigued. When a second cluster of citizens ignored him completely, faint surprise transformed into full-blown curiosity, and Fenris lengthened his stride, heading to the market square – a most convenient place for eavesdropping.
It didn’t escape his attention that all discussion centered around notices pasted on the walls, but the only information he could obtain from them – to his frustration – was the Viscount’s coat of arms. However, this fact didn’t prevent him from brazenly plucking one leaflet from the notice board; and when he did find out what all the commotion was about, he concluded that it all had been definitely worth his attention.
Fenris had a general idea of where Hawke lived, since they had passed the place once (with some mildly disparaging comment from Aveline) on the way from The Hanged Man to the Alienage. Now it took him a bit of wandering along the narrow streets, but he was finally knocking on the door that he was reasonably sure belonged to Terrance’s uncle.
A grumpy, unkempt man that answered it looked him up and down with distaste, turned away and hollered: “There’s a knife-ear for you, nephew!” somehow transforming the word nephew into a dirtiest curse. “The company you keep, I swear! And all that scum turning up at my door!”
“And you are such a paragon of respectability, aren’t you?” came Bethany’s raised voice from somewhere inside, followed by – of all things – excited barking.
“Fenris?” Hawke’s appearance at the door went unnoticed in the whole commotion. He was chewing something and looked surprised (and honestly pleased) to see the elf. “Sorry for Gamlen, he’s just–”
But what exactly Hawke thought of his uncle’s behaviour was drowned out by another loud bark, and a mabari shouldered its way past the door, sniffed appraisingly and launched into a whole growling tirade.
“No, you are not going for a walk with the nice elf,” Hawke answered patiently, as if he heard a real question instead of simple barking. The dog bared its teeth in an almost silent snarl.
“Was I really referred to as nice?” Fenris asked, amused now despite previous irritation at Gamlen’s slur.
“Anyone is nice compared to me, if you ask Dwyn,” Terrance shrugged, “though I can’t fault his taste in this particular instance. He was Carver’s, you know,” he made as if to pat the mabari and got snarled at again, “and inherited all the disdain his master held for me. It’s not my fault that you’ve been careless enough to walk into a trap, is it?” he asked the dog in a snidely reasonable tone, receiving a scornful bark in reply. “He still listens to Bethany though, so that’s a small consolation,” Hawke continued with a sad smile. Fenris had little opportunity to find out anything about the Hawke brother who died on the way to Kirkwall, but in was obvious that no matter how hard they clashed, Terrance was still grieved by this loss. “Bethany!” Terrance shouted into the shack, “tell the stupid mutt that he’s not going anywhere before his paw heals!”
“Are we going somewhere?” came his sister’s voice before she herself appeared at the door. “Hi, Fenris!” the elf nodded with a small smile.
“I don’t know about going; the beast didn’t give us a chance to exchange so much as a greeting, much less get to the point of the visit.” Terrance sighed. “I apologize for not inviting you in, the atmosphere there is just not conductive to civility.”
“What my brother means to say is that uncle can’t stand our presence in his home and swears up a storm when we disturb him,” Bethany supplied helpfully.
“That’s all right,” Fenris answered her with a crooked grin, “you know I don’t put much stock in hospitality. As for the purpose of my visit,” he parroted Hawke’s wording, “I’ve heard some news that may be of interest to you,” and he held out the misappropriated note. Since it was the original source of information, Fenris decided it would be more effective than sharing his own secondhand knowledge.
The fereldan scanned the lines quickly, shook his head and chuckled, passing the note to Bethany. “Look, sister, a chance to save a prince charming – this is right up your alley!”
“Why?” she frowned, skimming the text and raising her brows in surprise.
“Aren’t you always bemoaning the fact that girls never get any active roles in fairytales and have to quote-unquote just sit on their pretty asses and wait to be rescued? Now you can finally show them all how it is done!” Terrance’s enthusiasm wasn’t in the least bit hindered by his sister’s unimpressed stare. “You can even get a crown and a city-state out of it all!” he concluded cheerfully.
“Oh, now I get it! You just want to marry me off, don’t you?” Bethany poked him with a finger. “Why don’t you save the prince instead? Political marriage is definitely more to your tastes than mine.”
“I would prefer to find someone capable enough to get himself out of captivity,” Hawke objected, “or cunning enough to not get caught in the first place.” Surprisingly, while Terrance was still mostly talking to his sister, his last words were followed by a sidelong glance and a conspiratorial smile at Fernis, who was silently enjoying the byplay. Does it count, the elf wondered to himself, if that someone uses you in a ploy to dodge his captors?
Bethany, who seemed to never miss anything her brother was doing, also turned her attention to their silent observer. “What do you think, Fenris? Who should marry the prince?”
“I think,” he answered with an emphasis on the word, “that it’s too early for matchmaking. Shouldn’t you at least save him first?”
“Where would be the fun in that?” Bethany laughed. “So, we’re going?” she asked her brother, and after receiving an affirmative nod retreated into the house with an “I’m going to pack then.”
“Setting aside future matrimonial plans,” Fenris said, seeing that Hawke was not yet joining his sister in getting ready for the trip, “I think that having the Viscount beholden to you for his son’s rescue could be very useful in your attempts to restore your family’s standing.”
“Undoubtedly,” Terrance nodded, once again scanning the notice. “Thank you for brining in to my attention.”
“It’s nothing. I’m sure Varric would have told you about it soon enough,” Fenris shrugged, secretly pleased. Hawke’s answering smile was equal parts warm and teasing, showing that he saw right through the façade of casual indifference.
“Ah, Hawke! Just the man I was looking for!”
Their little band of three, properly equipped and outfitted, was passing The Hanged Man when they were hailed by the very same dwarf Fenris mentioned not so long ago. It was generally impossible to predict by Varric’s appearance alone whether the tales he intended to share were idle gossip or call to arms – he didn’t part with his trusty crossbow even on a night of drunken revelry and proudly displayed his chest-hair even when it would have been more prudent to don the armor – but today Fenris was ready to bet all his wine collection that the dwarf was bearing the same news he had already delivered.
“God morning, Varric,” Hawke answered pleasantly. “You’re up early, I see.”
“But not as early as you, obviously,” Varric looked the three of them over appraisingly. “Could it be that you already know the funny tale I was going to amuse you with?”
“That depends,” Terrance answered musingly. “Does it concern the Viscount’s son?”
Varric’s eyes, narrowed in suspicion, landed on Fenris. “Seems to me that someone’s trying to steal my place in our little operation.”
“News travels fast,” the elf said innocently, “especially when it has longer stride.”
“Oh, but it usually pays to slow down a little bit if you want all the juicy rumors to catch up to you,” Varric smirked. “You were going to the Viscount’s Keep, right? I can save you the trip: we should head to the Wounded Coast instead, that’s were Seamus was supposedly taken.”
They obligingly turned in the specified direction. Varric’s information was unfailingly accurate and he was sure to know much more than any official source at the Keep would be willing to share.
“So, what’s the story?” Bethany asked eagerly.
“Well, Sunshine, officially the Viscount’s boy was abducted sometime last night right out of the Keep, and was then seen being whisked away by a band of qunari. They are supposedly planing to use him as a bargaining chip in their negotiations with the Viscount.” Even without the dwarf’s emphasis Fenris would have been suspicious of the official version: kidnapping and bargaining had never been the way of the Qun, and the elf doubted that anything could have changed that.
“Why not send some official force to retrieve him then?” Hawke inquired.
“Because the Viscount – or rather, seneschal Bran – is wary of making an already tense situation with the horned guests of our city worse, since the official version doesn’t have all that much solid proof to back it up,” Varric smirked. “But let’s not spread the vile rumors right in the middle of Lowtown, lest we besmirch the Viscount’s – or his son’s – honor.”
The suggestion had some merit: not in the sense that the topic of their conversation should be kept secret – Fenris didn’t think that some noble’s life was all that important to Lowtown dwellers, even if that noble was Dumar’s son – but the streets were getting more and more busy, so it was easier to devote all attention to picking their way though thickening crowds instead of trying to keep up the conversation in the morning-town din.
When the gates of Kirkwall were behind them, and the river of merchants and nearby villagers hurrying to start the day’s trading dwindled into a trickle, Varric, who for the past half-hour had been busy spinning a truly outrageous story about a hurlock and three drunken dwarfs for Bethany’s amusement, finally turned to serious matters once more.
“This Seamus fellow turned out not at all how his father wanted,” he explained. “No interest in politics whatsoever and no desire to take his allotted position at court. It’s not unusual for him to leave the Keep for a time, and Dumar has already lost all hope of controlling these little escapades, so he’s just resigned to waiting them out. Not to mention, Seamus, being the spoilt brat that he is, generally returns home for supper.”
“Can I exchange my problems for his?” Bethany asked hopefully.
“Wasn’t that exactly what Hawke suggested earlier?” Fenris wondered aloud, adding an almost innocent smile when she looked back at him.
“Oh, but it’s really not right for me to marry before my older brother,” she objected sweetly. “Unless he already has someone in mind?”
“Please, Varric, do continue,” Terrance said, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t heard the exchange.
“Hmm?” the dwarf had a speculative look on his face that promised he’d be definitely returning to the curious topic of Hawkes’ matrimonial plans at a later time. “Right, Seamus. So, he went for a walk some time last morning, and no one was worried until he didn’t return at night. All his usual haunts turned up empty, and by this morning the Viscount had no other choice but to declare him missing.”
Hawke frowned. “And how qunari figure into all this?”
“Apparently, someone did see him in the company of qunari. Here’s the rub, though,” Varric paused for dramatic effect, “rumor has it, it was not the first time this happened, and he was not held against his will.”
“He wants to spend time with qunari?” Bethany exclaimed, appalled. “But! But they’re so–”
“Big and scary?” Varric suggested when she seemed to be at a loss for words. “Tastes differ, Sunshine.”
“The question should be: what qunari would want to waste their time on him?” When three pairs of enquiring eyes turned to him, Fenris elaborated, “while this version does indeed sound more plausible, the qunari would not consider Seamus worthy of their attention, if what you say about him is true.”
“What about political expediency?” Hawke suggested. “No matter what Seamus’s virtues are, he is still the Viscount’s son.”
“That would mean nothing to the qunari,” the elf shrugged, “they care little for social standing.”
“Be that as it may,” Varric said, although he didn’t sound as if he entirely believed Fenris’s words, “that’s the only halfway decent lead we have. Or rather, that’s what seneschal Bran tells all the eager would-be rescuers. No harm in checking it out before starting investigation from scratch.”
Hawke nodded; but then shook his head dejectedly. “No matter how I look at it, it’s still a fundamentally idiotic way of handling the situation. The Viscount as good as admits that the city guard is useless. Why promise a reward and invite all and sundry instead of making discreet enquiries and dispatching a small well-trained taskforce? Or does he think the situation will grow less tense if the qunari are attacked by all the riff-raff who want to get their reward for rescuing Seamus?”
“Well, get to Seamus first, and you also help the Viscount save face,” Varric concluded cheerfully. “But honestly, this is by far not the first time old Dumar demonstrated his – ahem – unique grasp of politics.”
Unlike Hawke, Fenris wasn’t all that interested in the Viscount’s pervious mistakes, so he fell back a bit while still listening to Varric’s accounts and Hawke’s questions with half an ear. The story of Seamus’s disappearance (it was equally wrong to call it abduction or escape) was very unclear, but it was unlikely that anyone other than the young man himself could shed light on the situation. Meanwhile, it provided a convenient excuse for a pleasant morning stroll along the seashore – according to Bethany, who had also dropped back after a while, growing tired of political talk – and a prospect of a fight, which, while not so pleasant in comparison, was still quite exciting.
“You shouldn’t sound so bloodthirsty if you want to maintain an image of a nonthreatening, law-abiding mage,” Fenris noted mildly.
“My image, I’ll have you know, is perfectly maintained!” she objected heatedly. “I’m staying cooped up in our Lowtown hovel for days at a time without so much as a spark on my fingertips! No magic anywhere inside the city walls, no carrying my staff unless it’s in the dead of night and brother absolutely can’t take Anders or Merrill with him instead, no lighting my stupid uncle’s stupid goatee on fire no matter what filth he spews! Urgh! Can you blame a girl for needing an outlet for her frustrations?”
“Have you considered embroidery to occupy your time?” the elf suggested mildly. “I hear it’s all the rage among the nobility.”
“Hmm…” Bethany pretended to ponder the topic. “Maybe I should. I could poison my needles and use them to stab those who try to be funny at me.”
“And that way you will only have to deal with city guard instead of templars,” Fenris agreed readily, “so it’s win-win.”
“You’re in a good mood today, aren’t you?” Bethany turned to him more fully, as if trying to divine the cause of his cheerfulness though visual inspection.
“It seems that I am,” he answered quite honestly.
To tell the truth, Fenris agreed with the mage’s earlier reasoning – he was itching for a good fight himself, and its prospect was already lifting his spirits. His own voluntary reclusion, while it had given him a sense of security in the beginning, was now starting to grate on his nerves. What did it say about him that his only source of entertainment lately was scaring rich idiots into running to the other side of the street?
Perhaps it was time to use his not inconsiderable talents for something more practical? There was always a need for hired swords, even inside the supposedly safe city walls, and coin would not go amiss in furthering his plans of safeguarding himself against slave-hunters.
Or maybe, he thought with a speculative glance at the broad back of their de-facto leader, he should simply let Hawke know that he won’t mind being invited along more often. Wherever Terrance went, there was never a shortage of excitement as well as profit. And the company was… pleasantly friendly, which was also a factor in his good mood. Fenris hadn’t had friends before, but he was reasonably sure that’s what his relationship with the Hawkes and Varric should be called. (He would not have been quite so hasty to call others in Hawke’s motley crew friends, but he was prepared to make some small concessions for the sake of peacekeeping – and seeing Hawke’s smile, but that was, of course, secondary).
“Halt!”
The sudden exclamation worked as intended, making all four of them stop and jerk their heads upwards, trying to find its source among the rock outcroppings. “There is an ambush up ahead,” the same voice continued helpfully.
“Who are you?” Hawke asked. “Why would you warn us?”
“Better yet, why should we believe you?” added Fenris, coming closer to the other half of their little group.
“It is, of course, your right to disregard my words. I have warned you – you can make of it what you wish.” The speaker finally chose to reveal himself – although he was not really hiding before. The play of light and shadows, coupled with his coloring and a lack of distinctive markings, combined to conceal him from a passing glance.
“You’re a qunari!” Bethany cried out in surprise.
“No. I am what they call tal-vashoth, as are those who lay in wait further along this trail,” came a measured response.
“But–”
“Qunari is not a race,” Fenris explained quietly, “it’s a religion or, rather, an ideology those who are of the Qun follow.”
“And the tal-vashoth?” Hawke prompted.
“–are their version of heretics.”
“Is it possible that Seamus was taken by these–” Hawke made a vague gesture in the tal-vashoth’s general direction, “–not-really-qunari? The witness would hardly know one from the other, wouldn’t they?”
“A fair point,” Varric agreed. “Maybe we should ask our helpful guide about it. Excuse me,” he raised his voice a bit, “have you been here for long? Did anyone else pass through here sometime yesterday morning? A lone dark-haired human, perhaps?”
“No-one came for the last three days. There was a caravan, but its leader heeded my warnings and turned to find an alternative route.”
“That doesn’t prove anything, unfortunately,” the dwarf sighed, “this may not be the only trail the tal-vashoth stake out – simply the only one with a portent of doom.”
“Wait!” Hawk frowned thoughtfully. “Didn’t that dwarf, Javaris, tell us something about qunari bandits that were bothering the Arishok?”
“He did. But if you remember, I advised you against accepting his deal, and I still think it sounds fishy.”
“It seems we’ll be cleaning them out anyway,” the fereldan shrugged, “might as well kill two nugs with one stone. I wonder–” he turned to the tal-vashoth and, judging by the momentary pause, tried to come up with a respectable form of address before abandoning it as a lost cause, “– why warn the passers-by at all?”
“It is not right, what the others of my kind are doing. They have left the Qun, but they do not know how to be outside of it, so they kill because that is the only thing that they know how to do.”
“If you think it’s wrong, why not do anything about it?”
“I am doing something.”
Fenris thought it quite reasonable that a single warrior would not rush to engage a whole band, no matter his moral high ground (although the elf had some suspicion about what Hawke would have chosen in a similar situation – the fereldan had a way of getting impossible things done when he felt strongly enough about them). Hawke’s next question, however, was completely unexpected.
“Are you, perhaps, simply not fond of fighting?”
“Do you aim to insult me, basra?” Ah, and it seemed that the perceived insult had found its mark.
“No,” drawn out vowel turned the word in a question. Hawke was frowning, as if he could not see even a hint of offence in his words. “There is no shame in it. I myself generally prefer non-violent solutions.”
“And yet you plan to go forth and fight,” the tal-vashoth objected.
“I have certain obligations I must fulfill. You, I presume, have none.”
“That is indeed the meaning of being tal-vashoth,” he replied ponderingly. “You have given me food for thought,” and, without bothering with any social niceties, the horned giant stepped back, once again merging into the backdrop of shady mountainside.
“What was that all about?” Bethany huffed. “I thought you were going to ask him to fight with us, since he’d obviously disapproved of those other qunari.”
“I was,” Hawke agreed and resumed walking, although more slowly and cautiously than before. “but there was just something about him… When he was telling us that other tal-vashoth knew nothing but killing, I’d got the impression that he was speaking about himself as well,” inexplicably, he turned a questioning gaze towards Fenris, who needed a couple of moments to grasp that Hawke was seeking some sort of confirmation of his guess.
“Well,” the elf mused, “if he had been a warrior, fighting was literally the only thing that he did in his life.”
“If so, then I doubt he was afraid to attack the others, and yet he chose to warn the travelers instead, as if he didn’t want to fight. So I just asked,” Hawke shrugged. “I can reason it out now, but really, it was mostly a hunch.”
A hunch. Fenris remembered the time when he was left on Seheron by his master, alone for the first time in his memory, cast adrift without purpose and with no means of finding it. If not for the Fog Warriors, who’d shown him how to make choices for himself, he was not sure he’d be able to survive at all. The tal-vashoth, who had just escaped a lifelong slavery of the Qun, must have been facing the exact same thing, and yet Fenris did not recognize the similarity until now. Terrance Hawke was quite a fascinating man, capable of great empathy as well as understanding.
Strange, how this trait coexisted with his ability to sometimes pass harsh judgment on the matters of others’ life or death.
Spears flying form behind the rocks surrounding the trail were a clear indication that no amount of fast talking would set the other tal-vashoth on a peaceful path in life. They were some of the best fighters Fenris had met since entering Kirkwall, very obviously trained to fight as a cohesive unit, and just as obviously not doubting their place in a natural order of things. There was a couple of moments when he thought strategic retreat would have been the best course of action – especially when they had entered the caves that the tal-vashoth dwelled in and encountered not only ordinary reinforcements but a saarebas as well – but Hawke was resolutely cutting his way through the enemy, and the others had no choice but to follow his lead.
Of course, their group had their own tricks. The swordsmen hemmed the enemy in so Bethany could let loose a wide-ranged elemental attack, while Varric guarded all their backs with preternaturally accurate shots. Unfortunately, the appearance of a qunari mage shifted the balance of power.
Hawke cried out in surprise and pain when a wave of force and electricity slammed him into a wall. “Bethany, do something about it!” he demanded though a coughing fit.
“You do something about these stupid spears!”
Cutting his own opponent down with a diagonal slash over unprotected chest, Fenris hurried over to the mage. Qunari warriors were trained to deal with all kinds of threats – now four of them were throwing spears at Bethany, forcing her to concentrate on shielding and interrupting all attempts at offence. Varric was busy with his own group of assailants who tried to get to the wooden platform he’d chosen as a vantage point, so it was up to the elf to help their heavy-hitter.
He rushed the tal-vashoth, surprising them with the speed and ferocity of his attacks, and jumped back just as quickly at the first sign of brewing magic. Bethany’s staff moved in a wide arc, creating a palisade of ice needles in its wake, either freezing or impaling its victims; and almost in the same breath the apostate cast a crushing prison spell on the saarebas, leaving him in a crumpled heap where he stood only a moment before over a still dazed Hawke.
Fenris took an involuntary step back. Most of the time he managed to willfully forget about the powers the younger Hawke had at her disposal, but in the moments like these he was forcefully reminded of them and couldn’t help but question his own foolishness. Was there really only concern for her brother written all over Bethany’s face, of was she secretly reveling in her ability to destroy with a single sweep of hand? How stupid was he to trust his life – no, to protect her with his life! – when she could just as easily turn her magic on him?
“Are you all right?” His appalled musings were suddenly interrupted by Hawke, who came up to him unnoticed. The worry in his face was too great for the meager bruises and scratches Fenris acquired during the fight, and what was even more strange, he didn’t immediately rush to help Bethany and Varric with the last tal-vashoth.
“Of course,” Fenris answered, frowning at the gauntlet-covered hand hovering over his chest.
“I could’ve sworn I saw a spear go right though you,” Hawke muttered, perplexed.
Fenris chuckled. “It did. Several of them, in fact.” His lyrium markings briefly flared to life, a reflexive response to the memory of danger. “If I can make my hand pass though solid objects, then in stands to reason that I can make myself be passed through by solid objects as well.”
“That is–” Hawke shook his head with a bewildered smile, “–a very weird grammatical construction, and an amazing ability all at once.”
Fenris’s lips quirked in response. He was never sure what to feel when someone commented on his ill-begotten powers; they were, without a doubt, very useful in a fight, but thinking of them unfailingly tugged at some of the worst memories of his life. It was truly fortunate that in the heat of a fight he called upon lyrium embedded in his skin by instinct and not though a conscious effort – Maker only knew how often he would have hesitated otherwise.
Their silent contemplation was interrupted before Fenris could come up with an appropriate – or indeed, any at all – answer to Hawke’s observation.
Bethany, having helped Varric dispose of the last attackers, returned to Hawke’s side to fussily check on his injuries. Her worry, not coincidentally, was much more founded than her brother’s; Terrance was definitely the most hurt of them all, having broken two ribs in his collision with the wall. It was not an unusual occurrence either: Hawke was always quick to engage the most dangerous foe, since he considered himself responsible for the wellbeing of those who followed him, no matter how willing those following were to risk their own lives. It was a source of unending frustration for Bethany, who had very little talent for healing and was therefore forced to rely on potions and poultices to help him with the consequences of his ‘foolhardy heroics’.
“On the bright side,” came Varric’s voice, and Fenris only then noticed that the dwarf did not come back with the mage, “we are several sovereigns closer to our Deep Roads expedition. On the not so bright side, there is no trace of Seamus anywhere around the cave. Well, maybe I should put it on the bright side too, since these fellows don’t strike me as ransoming type.”
Apparently, search for the elusive prince turned up only a stash of goods the tal-vashoth collected, which was not a bad compensation in Fenris’s opinion.
“I wonder,” Hawke mused, “where one draws the line between practicality and marauding?”
Fenris, who was carefully buckling his breastplate (that Bethany insisted he remove because she needed to check Hawke’s ribs and of course Hawke couldn’t do it himself for fear of aggravating his injury), favored him with a crooked smile. “I would say it lies right between you looting someone else’s body and someone else looting yours.”
Bethany frowned disapprovingly. “You two are so morbid!”
“And the scary thing is–” Varric added, rejoining them, “–they almost seem to enjoy it.” Indeed, Hawke’s earlier question was not laced with regret, as could have been expected, but was more an expression of detached curiosity; Fenris’s words brought an answering appreciative smile to his lips.
With a quiet thank you after his armor was once again in order, Hawke put his sword on his shoulder and looked around the cave for the last time. “Well, now we’ve completed the task that we hadn’t even thought about, and we are still no closer to the one we’ve actually set out to do.”
“Cheer up, brother! It’s not even noon yet.”