Fool's Errand 2: The Taste of Freedom

Title: Fool's Errand 2: The Taste of Freedom
Author: R2sMuse
Game: Dragon Age 2
Characters: Cullen, Marian Hawke, Varric, Anders, Leliana
Disclaimer: Dragon Age and its characters belong to Bioware. Includes DA: Inquisition speculation and mild spoilers

Chapter Summary: Cullen adjusts to freedom while following Varric's complicated plan for finding Hawke.

---

Gwaren
Ferelden

In the weeks that followed, freedom didn't taste quite as sweet as Cullen had anticipated. So far it had involved a stomach-churning sea voyage and several weeks of waiting around in smelly Fereldan taverns, which was about as eventful as his days of incarceration. He didn't even know what they were waiting for, although he could only assume it was Hawke. He didn't want to ask for fear of seeming too eager for the answer.

Of course, their purpose in the busy seaport of Gwaren was about the only thing Varric wasn't forthcoming about. Cullen was finally up to date on the happenings of the world, since Varric was never without a tale to tell and seemed to fear silence. Fortunately, the dwarf took no issue with these invariably one-sided conversations as Cullen readjusted to life outside. Life around people.

Cullen grunted non-committally at the blowzy barmaid who had delivered his pint of ale and then tried to engage him in a breathy conversation about the weather. Finally giving up, she gave him a saucy wink and sauntered away with an exaggerated sway of her hips while the other nearby patrons glared at him distrustfully. He sighed and hunkered down over the drink he had ordered for appearances' sake.

Life outside prison was still unfamiliar, like a distantly remembered dream. It was also unpredictable, a fact that made him both anxious and exhilarated. Gone was the quiet monotony of scheduled guard changes and mealtimes, replaced by an unruly chaos of sight and sound. The town's colorfully painted shutters and fading banners contrasted with muddy thoroughfares and the monotonous gray of the buildings' slate roofs. The market square overflowed with merchants hawking their wares and gossiping townsfolk of inconstant character. The lulling sound of the sea was punctuated by chantry bells, the snap and groan of sails and ship rigging, and the lowing of oxen pulling creaking wagons. He was beginning to appreciate the disorder, for a change, but from a comfortable distance.

He still avoided directly interacting with people, other than Varric, and crowds made him especially nervous. He could now sit in the busy taproom of the tavern where they stayed, so long as he was seated far from the action and preferably in a corner with his back safely against the wall. Luckily, the salty seadogs and randy deck hands that frequented the dockside establishment were suspicious enough of outsiders that they gave him a wide berth in any event. The barmaid, on the other hand, had been more difficult to discourage.

He recognized that part of his discomfort was that he felt almost naked without templar armor. He had worn the heavy plate emblazoned with the Order's distinctive sword of mercy his entire adult life. At least, up until recently. It wasn't just the cliché symbolism of the uniform representing all that he had lost. He immediately shunted away the sudden pain that licked around the edge of that unexamined thought. Nor was it the more practical protective aspect of the armor, although it certainly was superior to that offered by the second-hand plate he now wore. No, what he missed was a different kind of protection: the virtual shield the armor had provided against the world, against the curious, the impertinent and the belligerent. No one questioned a templar.

"Hello?"

Cullen looked up from the untouched pint to focus on a slip of a girl with flat brown hair and new chantry robes. Her large, round eyes darted around the boisterous tavern and she jumped nervously when a nearby group of sailors abruptly broke into raucous laughter. Cullen stared at her in silence until she looked back at him again.

"Hello?" she repeated.

"Yes?"

"I . . . I have a message for M-Master Varric. From the Revered Mother." The girl looked at him askance, her eyes noting his rough appearance, the hollows around his eyes, his long mane of twisted curls, and the heavy red beard that still obscured his face. Although he had started to gain back some of the weight he had lost, he had followed Varric's suggestion that retaining the long hair and beard would help him remain incognito. He could also admit that he wasn't ready to fully bare himself to the world yet. Not when he could still shield himself in some small way from prying eyes. The girl hesitated before asking, "You . . . you are his friend, right?"

Not the word he would have used, but Cullen nodded anyway.

"Here." She handed him a folded note and then jumped again as one of the sailors suddenly pounded the table in amusement at some joke they couldn't hear.

Cullen nodded again, which was enough of a response for the girl who promptly turned tail and fled. He went back to rolling the warming pint between his hands and watching the crowded room, uninterested in the contents of the note sitting on the stained wooden table.

About an hour later, Varric waltzed through the tavern door looking pleased with himself. He had spent his time since they arrived from Kirkwall mining Gwaren's citizenry for information, schmoozing here, bribing there. In order to avoid surprises, he said. As a result, they had been able to avoid the notice of the local guard and get a sense of the political undercurrents in Ferelden.

Like the rest of Thedas, Ferelden scrambled to adjust to the shift of power as the templars abandoned their traditional posts at the Chantries to join the war, and mages ran for their lives. Brazenly assuming sole responsibility for containing the mage threat, the Templar Order—led by the mysterious Seekers of Truth—retained control of the Circle towers for use as prisons in their war on the mages. This new scarcity of templars in most towns would make it easier for Varric and Cullen to avoid notice, but it also meant that local peacekeepers were now stretched beyond their means. Crime rates were already showing a marked increase.

Varric immediately headed for the dark corner where Cullen hid out without even waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior. After so many weeks, Varric now knew his companion's habits. He sat down across from Cullen with a swish of his long coat and gently adjusted the enormous crossbow that lay across his back, which was curiously named Bianca for reasons the dwarf hadn't shared.

"A drink, Virna!" Varric shouted to the waitress. He rubbed his hands together and declared, "Good news! I hear there's been a sudden drop in bandit activity in the region. Hawke must be nearby." He then glanced briefly around the secluded corner, which boasted the only empty chairs in the crowded tavern. "Still making friends, I see," he said drily.

Cullen grunted and slid the Chantry note across the table to Varric. The barmaid dropped off another pint while the dwarf scanned the notes contents. Finishing, he looked up at Cullen and grinned broadly. "About time! Seems our wait is over, Templar."

Cullen ground his teeth. "I have asked you not to call me that."

"Yes, you have." Varric smiled again and took a long draught of his pint. He then took a handkerchief from pocket and wiped his mouth, the fastidious mannerism revealing the upper-class upbringing Varric tried to hide in his preference for such coarse establishments as the dockside tavern. The handsome dwarf's medium-length blond hair was pulled back, revealing that he still wore large gold rings in his ears, but he had put aside his flashier, chest-baring city clothes in favor of more practical travel leathers. "We'll need to get ready to move out. Drink up and we'll go see what the Revered Mother has for us."

Soon after Cullen was hovering on the threshold of Gwaren's small cathedral, waiting for the sense of peace and comfort he typically felt at the Chantry. But, again, nothing. Nothing but guilt at their deceitful purpose in coming there. That must be the problem. Hopefully once Varric's scheme was behind them, whatever it might be, he would be able to sense the Maker again.

A suspicious look from the guard at the entrance brought him back to himself, reminding him to be grateful that it was a city guardsman and not a templar scrutinizing him so closely.

He ducked his head and followed the dwarf down the broad nave toward the dais and then through a side door that led to the Revered Mother's office. The matronly clergywoman sat behind her desk, her robust size dwarfing the tiny chair upon which she sat. She rose awkwardly to her feet when Varric entered and clasped her hands. "Ah, Varric, there you are, dear. I'm glad you came so soon. I have good news! Your parents may now rest in peace, Maker watch over them. Someone has finally tracked down the villains who robbed them."

"Wonderful, Your Reverence. Please tell me who has been my deliverer, so that I may thank him or her."

"They have asked to remain anonymous but have returned your mother's locket. With blessed Andraste's sword of mercy, just like you described!" The Revered Mother rifled around in a locked drawer before handing a heavy golden locket to Varric. Engraved on the locket's surface was an upright sword surrounded by stylized flames inlaid with a darker, burnished copper. The locket was held shut with a small, intricate locking mechanism. "And, see, it is still safely locked."

"Thank the Maker," Varric said without a hint of irony.

"I knew that we could restore your faith, child. When you told me of how such devoted converts to the Maker's love could be taken from us so soon, and in such a brutal manner, I prayed to the Maker for help. And, some kindly soul has answered His call," the Revered Mother gushed.

"Maker be praised," Varric murmured.

Cullen had to work hard not to roll his eyes at the farce and descry Varric's blasphemy. Cullen was pretty sure that, being dwarven nobles, Varric's family members had not been Andrastian converts. He was also sure that they had not recently been slaughtered by a mysterious one-armed man who had taken Varric's mother's locket. Nevertheless, shortly after they had landed in Gwaren, Varric had set off for the local chantry where he had told this pitiable tale to the gullible Revered Mother. With Varric's penchant for storytelling—and, lying—she had accepted his tale, hook, line and sinker. She immediately had posted a notice to the chanter's board asking for some courageous adventurer to bring the culprits to justice and recover the heirloom for Varric.

In the subsequent weeks that they had waited in Gwaren, adventurers from every walk of life, from random street thugs to off-duty guardsmen, had tried to claim the sizable bounty Varric had laid on the elusive one-armed man. The upside was that a number of completely unrelated, minor criminals had been apprehended during the search. Cullen tried to be mindful of these unforeseen benefits since deceiving a Revered Mother was something that disturbed him deeply. He could only hope that somehow this ridiculous lie was going to help them find Hawke, so he kept his mouth shut.

Cullen distracted himself by watching the dust motes float through a beam of light slanting through the tall clerestory windows while Varric expounded on his praise for the anonymous adventurer and for the Revered Mother's kindness to a solitary surface dwarf. Thankfully, Varric stopped talking eventually, and they escaped with the locket back to their room at the tavern.

Sitting at the one table in their cramped quarters, Cullen watched silently as Varric drew off one of his rings and gave it a complicated twist. When a small cross-shaped key popped up on the ring, he then applied it with a few deft twists to the mechanism on the locket. With an audible click, the locket snapped open, and Varric drew out a compactly folded note from within the locket. He gently unfolded it and smoothed it out on the surface of the table.

Cullen canted his head to read the cramped chicken scratches and after some squinting, recognized what they were at last. "Directions?"

"Indeed, Templar. To the next stop in our journey. Luckily, this hollow doesn't seem to be far, so we can probably start off in the morning and be there before sunset."

Cullen watched him for a beat. "This wasn't your mother's locket."

Varric snorted. "An Andrastian locket? Great Ancestors, no. It's part of my system to find Hawke. I told you that she's been spending her time helping people out with their problems. She tends to frequent chanter's boards, so this was our way of getting her attention."

"And, there was no one-armed man."

"Of course not. That's our code word. I post a plea for help featuring the nefarious one-armed man and a lost locket. Hawke swoops in and claims the bounty, in the process returning the locket through official Chantry channels. We find out where she is. Easy as pie."

---

Easy as pie. Cullen ground his teeth at these innocuous words as he looked over his shoulder again for the telltale signs that they were being followed through the dense wood. Hawke's directions sent them away from the coast on paths that were little traveled. With each turn, the wood became wilder and the road more isolated. The fading sun now struggled to reach them through the tangle of leaves, casting their twisting path into a lonely twilight. The bandits were likely to move in on them soon and the tension was making his body thrum with adrenaline.

He was just wondering how to warn Varric about the impending attack when he heard the dwarf give a heavy sigh. Without turning his head from where he led the way, Varric said in a low voice, "Well, I don't think we're going to shake them. You ready to make our stand now or should we string them along a little further?"

"No time like the present."

Varric grinned at him. "I like the way you think, Templar. All right, that next outcrop of rock, we'll turn and fight."

Cullen grunted in acknowledgment. From the movement he'd seen, they were significantly outnumbered anyway, so it was as good a plan as any.

Upon reaching the outcrop, they turned and waited in tense silence. Varric stood with Bianca at the ready and scanned the surrounding wood. Cullen gripped his newly acquired sword and shield, his palms sweating a bit as he compensated for the difference in weight and balance from his templar arms. Cullen heard Varric mutter under his breath, "Gotcha." With a faint twang, a bolt was away, followed by a distant cry of pain and then a shout. The shout was soon picked up by others, with multiple targets moving in toward them in a wide circle. Perhaps eight to ten men. Not great odds.

"Show time," Varric said, and then his crossbow was a blur of motion as it sent out volley after volley of suppressing fire. More cries revealed more bolts hitting their targets, although it wasn't clear if any of them had been removed from the fight.

It was several more heartbeats before the first bandits emerged from the cover of the wood. Cullen moved to intercept them before they could close in on Varric, and then instinct took over. His focus narrowed to the swing of his sword, the clang of blows deflecting off his shield, the shower of blood from a hit. As he moved methodically through the bandits, a quiet inner voice was grateful that his training was so instinctual that it automatically rose to the challenge, even after all this time.

A sharp pain in his bicep brought him out of his battle-induced haze and he glared at the garishly dressed man whose knife had just slipped through his guard. Cullen bellowed with rage and struck the man with the full force of his shield, dropping him heavily to the loamy earth. With the wind knocked out of him, the bandit gasped for air. Cullen stepped in to finish him when the man abruptly dropped his knives and held up his hands in supplication. "Stop! Wait!"

Cullen paused. "Tell me why I shouldn't end you here?" he asked, his sword arm holding rock steady as he pointed the tip at the man's neck.

"Because then you would also be dead."

Cullen risked a glance at the wood around them, finally noticing the archers whose deadly arrows were now trained on him. The archers were soon joined by several more swordsmen who moved out of the woods to circle them. Then were all dressed in patched and second-hand leathers, suggesting they weren't terribly good bandits. Varric lowered his crossbow and held up one hand in surrender. Cullen considered the odds for a moment more before stepping back slowly, but with blade still held at the ready.

The man stood up, brushing dirt off his clothes in an almost laughably meticulous manner. He adjusted his ostentatious red cravat, which clashed badly with his faded, green-striped doublet. His faux-aristocratic manner was completed by the large-brimmed hat he retrieved from the ground and set on his head at a jaunty angle.

"Nice hat," Varric remarked drily.

The man nodded his thanks at Varric. "Ahem. Now, look, I think we might have got off on the wrong foot. I am a businessman, see?" The man hooked his thumbs in his over-sized lapels and rocked on the balls of his feet. "I think we can all win here and avoid any further unpleasantry." The bandit looked pointedly at Cullen's still raised sword. "Please?"

Cullen didn't drop his arm but nodded slightly. "Continue."

The bandit sighed. "All right, look. We tried to find this one-armed man of yours, all honest-like. Honest work for honest pay, we say." Cullen snorted in disbelief. Seeming to give up on Cullen, the bandit leader turned instead to Varric. "We was lookin' hard. But we found no sign of this fellow anywhere in the area. Then, someone else comes along and claims the bounty, right out from under us. From under us!" He sniffed and looked down his nose at Varric. "All our hard work, wasted. Eh, boys?" He looked around at his men, who all nodded and continued to give him their rapt attention.

"But, now we figure someone who pays so well for vengeance likely has more to share, right? Especially that oh-so-valuable property he just had returned to him. So, we will alleviate you of that locket now, along with whatever coin you have. Then we may all go about our normal day. Fair-like, see? We finally get compensated for our substantiable efforts. And, you get to be alive. Everybody wins." He beamed at them as if this were a truly fair deal.

Silence fell in the small clearing as Varric made a show of considering this ridiculous offer, looking down and rubbing his beardless chin in a thoughtful way. Cullen slowly shifted his weight, preparing to attack the instant Varric rejected it. Then, out of the blue, a new voice floated across the clearing. "Perhaps you should take up your complaint with the person who actually claimed the bounty then, hmm, friend?"

Everyone's heads spun around, searching for the source, and eventually looked up to the top of the rocky outcrop behind them. Standing at the rock edge above them was a lithe, dark-haired woman dressed all in dark leather.

Hawke.

A shock ran through Cullen at the sight of her, still larger than life, still impossibly composed in the face of staggering odds. Just like the last time . . .

He was then overwhelmed by a riot of inconvenient emotions boiling to the surface. Some he easily recognized, relief, excitement, resentment, spite, but others were merely confusing and would take time to unravel. He quickly shunted them to the side.

Her green eyes narrowed, almost catlike as they gleamed down at the group. She gave them a feral smile and then launched herself at the bandit leader with daggers drawn. The leader gave a high-pitched scream and was trying to scramble back when she knocked him to the ground. She gracefully tumbled to the side, immediately gaining her feet, and forced the man back with deadly slashes of her knives.

Everyone stood with mouth agape, watching Hawke tussle with the bandit, when the surrounding archers were abruptly wreathed in a wall of crackling flame. Some dropped their bows, others ran, but all of them screamed in terror and pain. Only two succeeded in stumbling away from the locus of the flames in time to drop to the ground and extinguish their burning clothing.

Finally coming to his senses, Cullen surged forward and sent out a pulse of spirit energy that flung the remaining swordsmen to the ground. He then moved over them, dispatching the first two easily where they still lay stunned. He turned to a third, deflecting a hasty blow with his shield, but as he moved to counterstrike, one of Varric's dark-fletched bolts blossomed from the man's throat. With a gurgle and a fountain of blood, the man slipped to the ground dead. Cullen didn't spare a glance for Varric but moved on to the next bandit, who was wild eyed with fear and starting to edge away.

The bandit leader was bleeding from multiple wounds when he licked his lips nervously and yelled, "Jig is up, boys! Run for it!" The few remaining bandits and the leader then turned and ran. Hawke's face crinkled in amusement as she stood back and let them go.

"Impeccable timing, Hawke. As usual," Varric said, hefting Bianca up to his shoulder with a lopsided grin.

Hawke laughed. "I guess the mythical one-armed man is starting to get a little popular, Varric. We'll have to come up with something better next time."

But before Varric could respond, a blond man holding what was clearly a mage staff strode into the clearing from behind them, eyes blazing. Thinner and scruffier than the last time Cullen had seen him, Anders had retained that desperate energy and zeal that marked him as dangerous.

"You brought a templar with you?" Anders demanded through gritted teeth. He glared at Cullen and drew everyone's attention to the former Knight-Captain. Cullen clenched his jaw as curious eyes roamed over him, measuring, questioning, judging. He remained very still, not wanting to make any sudden moves around the unstable mage. The mage who had reduced Kirkwall's chantry to a smoking crater. The mage who had destroyed countless lives and incited a war.

Hawke frowned, really looking at Cullen for the first time. "What—?" She sounded skeptical, so Anders interrupted her.

"His holy smite just now drained all my mana!" Anders looked accusingly at Varric while he pointed at Cullen. "Who is this man? Are you insane to bring him here? We spend years being careful to avoid the notice of the Chantry and then you—"

"Cullen?" Hawke gasped. Her face had gone white and her mouth was agape in surprise as she stared at him, seemingly more shocked than Varric had been those many weeks ago. "Is . . . is that really you?" Anders also gave him a confused double take, but it was the extremity of Hawke's reaction that made Cullen suddenly even more self-conscious.

Varric watched Cullen for a moment out of the corner of his eye and then intervened. "Ah, yes. Well, we've got a bit of a tale to tell, but preferably once we're somewhere no longer surrounded by suspiciously slaughtered corpses. By the way, lovely to see you both, too."

Hawke closed her mouth with a snap and gave herself a little shake. "Right. Let's get back to camp." She rubbed her eyes tiredly. "Lucky we decided to do some scouting in preparation for your arrival. I had one of my bad feelings again." She dropped her hand and glanced at Cullen uncertainly, finally giving him a faint smile. "It looks like you do have quite the tale to tell, my friend. It's good to see you again. Both of you." She looked around at the others. "Let's go."