Since in the world of Dragon Age there exists no such thing as Christmas, apparently, I chose First Day as a symbol for the Holidays.

So, light the candles, cut the turkey (or tofu), pour a glass of good wine and enjoy!

A Wild-Goose Carol part one

Before Hawke had reached the end of the steps, she heard the sturdy oaken door fall shut behind her back. Immediately after that, sounding like black doom itself, the heavy iron bolt on the other side clicked into place. With a bout of panic she let the lantern she was carrying drop; the open copper lamp made a dull clinking sound when it hit the stairs and tumbled down the stone slabs. And, of course, the candle it was holding extinguished.

In the sudden darkness, that engulfed her like the opposite of the fires of hell but with the same near suffocating dread, Hawke stumbled over the last step. With a crash she collapsed on the hard floor, bruising her knees and her hands along the way. She cursed out loud. She wasn't exactly afraid of the dark, but this pitch-black darkness that was almost tangible made her feel very uncomfortable. Her heart was racing. She breathed in the mouldy air with great gasps until she had calmed down somewhat and her heart wasn't racing with the speed of a prize-winning racehorse anymore.

Wonderful. What now?

Instinctively she scrambled onto her feet and tried, carefully shuffling with outstretched arms, to find a wall to lean against. The vast space made her feel like she was floating in the Void and she needed an anchor. After a few wavering steps she abruptly quit her daft action. Idiot, she chastised herself, leave the walls for later and first get that candle and go look for some matches. Great idea. Where to find those? She got down on her knees again and fumbled for the dropped lantern, or better for the treasure it had hold. She felt silly, crawling on all fours, but finally her fingers touched the lantern and, not moments later, found the candle that hadn't rolled that far away. With force she folded her fingers around it, as if it was her last line of defence, or her lifeline. Frankly, right now, it came down to exactly that. She sat up, with her trophy clamped in her hand.

Good. Candle retrieved. Now go for something to light it with. She puffed out some air. I have to get out of here before it is too late.

Bodahn stepped into the Hanged Man and wrinkled his nose at the characteristic smell of the establishment. With serious difficulty he pushed his way through the vast throng of patrons until he had reached Varric's suite. The Storyteller looked up from the notebook he had been scribbling in and stared surprised at Hawke's steward. 'Bodahn! What brings you here?'

They other dwarf cleared his throat while trying not to breathe in too deep. 'I, er, I was wondering if you know where Messere Hawke is..?' He looked around. 'Seeing as she isn't here?' He seemed to sag with disappointment. Or even with some despair.

Varric frowned. 'Hawke? As far as I know she's at home, but since you're asking about her, I suppose she isn't.'

'No, she is not. Even though she promised to decorate the house with Orana and me this evening.' He looked very concerned. 'Sandal is quite disappointed.' He threw the remark in as some kind of bonus, as if trying to trigger Varric's attention some more.

Varric, on his turn, put down his quill and leant back in his chair, taking in Bodahn's dismally expression. If the steward had gone as far as to conquer the dark streets of Lowtown, he must feel extremely bothered. The least he could do was to take him seriously. 'When was the last time you saw her?'

Bodahn rose to the opportunity and grabbed his chance to awake the Storyteller's interest even further. 'This afternoon. I took Orana and Sandal to the market to buy the last supplies for the holidays. You know, to beat the crowd before they fill the shops on the last opportunity before First Day, and at the same time Messere Hawke went to pick up her new dress.'

'And she hasn't returned,' Varric assumed, still not exactly understanding the sincerity of the situation.

Hawke's steward nervously wriggled his fingers. 'She did return. I've seen the dress she put on a coat-hanger in her bedroom, but after that she apparently disappeared once more and she hasn't returned yet. It's way past nine bells in the evening! To be honest, Messere Varric, I'm worried sick. She always keeps her promises.'

Varric already opened his mouth to tell Bodahn there probably was a perfectly reasonable explanation why she hadn't returned yet from whatever errand she was running or person she was visiting, but at the same time thought the better of it. It was strange. Hawke indeed always kept her promises and the only real explanation she hadn't this time was, he feared, she was in trouble. But there was no need to kindle the steward's anxiety even more; he looked enough on the brink of bursting into hysterics as it was. 'Just you go home, Bodahn and let me handle this. I'm sure I'll find her in no time.'

But no sooner Bodahn had turned his back, or Varric was already banging on Isabela's door. The first place he wanted to visit was Fenris's. He wasn't certain at all if the elf knew where Hawke was hanging out, not after what had happened, but he could use his assistance if things went pear shaped. If Bodahn wasn't overreacting, against all odds. One never should overlook the value of a menacing sword. But no way he would venture there alone, what with the aggravated mood the elf undoubtedly was still in. The menacing sword could work against him. And, besides that, it could be well possible he would feel a hand through his chest before he could have uttered a word to make an appeal on that infamous blade. Isabela's daggers and casual, though steadfast appearance could come in handy.

Fenris was restlessly pacing his room in the half ruined mansion. He was extremely angry with himself; he had been acting like a complete idiot – again. He had stood yelling at the only person who cared about him and, when it came down to it, the only person he cared about himself. Way to go.

Without any hesitation Hawke had gone with him to meet his sister, although she was, just like him, afraid it would be a trap. And when the encounter turned out to be that very feared trap, she, again without hesitation, determinedly had positioned herself between him and Danarius. She had forcefully defied his former master, with her head held high told the magister with angry words and matching flaming eyes where to go off. Had told him he, Fenris, was certainly no pet and absolutely no slave but a free man and belonged to no-one but himself. She was the one who had shaken him out of the stupor that had threatened to overwhelm him. He wouldn't have been able to face and defeat Danarius without her.

And yet, after it was done and he, at any rate theoretically, had been freed from the last shackles that had bound him to his past, he had without a word stormed out of the Hanged Man. Had even, and that was the worst part, lashed out to her and practically chased her away when she, that same night, had come to see if he was all right.

Why, for heaven's sake had he done that? What had he been thinking? He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his fists. He had not been thinking, that was the problem. He had done the lashing out pure out of some old and hard-to-beat instinct. It had nothing to do with misplaced pride, about that he was certain. Yes, he had been angry, at first at least, that she had prevented him of killing his sister. But that hadn't been the reason either. She had been right about that; killing Varania wouldn't have given him the freedom of mind he craved for. It would just have been a petty act of empty misplaced vengeance. By now he was certain he would have regretted it the moment he would have torn his sister's heart out.

He shook his head in impotent fury. He knew what the issue was. He had always thought that finishing his master off would settle the matter, but of course he should have known better. The death of Hadriana had only made things worse. How could he have ever believed the death of Danarius would solve all of his problems?

The confrontation with the Tevinter Magister had come as a shock beyond compare. Even though he had more or less expected it, almost foreseen it. Even though – he gritted his teeth forcefully – he had for crying out loud braced himself against the inevitable. It definitely had brought out the worst in him. All kinds of gruesome memories had been swirling through his mind ever since. All the memories he had cast into a silent corner of his mind had raised their hideous heads to pester him.

No, he hadn't been able to think clearly but that was no excuse for his behaviour. He had been shouting she didn't understand anything of his suffering, nothing of the sudden emptiness that had come over him, the black pit that threatened to suck him in. But though the pit might be black, it wasn't empty – Maker he wished it were! Instead it pulled at him with those dreadful images of his dark past. That made it even worse. And that had been the reason why he had been shouting: to drown out the whispers, the voices, the desperate screams that had haunted him for so many years and that, so unexpectedly, had crawled out of their feeble prison to make clear they weren't defeated as yet. He had been shouting to shut them out. And he had been yelling at her as if it was her fault his former master had turned up, as if she was to blame for his misery. As if she was the cause of this tormenting turmoil raging in his head. Again he cringed in remorse.

The past days he had been trying to write a letter to apologize to her and the efforts were now strewn around him in the form of crumpled up balls of paper. He absolutely couldn't find the right words to express his regret. With a frustrated growl he kicked one of the balls through the room and at the same moment Varric and Isabela entered.

The dwarf look intrigued around. 'This is the first time I see more paper than bottles scattered on the floor,' he commented. 'What have you been up to?'

Fenris scowled menacingly at him. 'That's none of your business.' At the same time he realised Varric had been present at the distressing events in the Hanged Man and he didn't doubt for a second the dwarf understood more than he was willing to admit. At least not at this moment. He must know of his idiotic behaviour towards Hawke. And so he braced himself for the next, undoubtedly painful, witty comment.

But Varric came to the point without further ado. 'You're right and it doesn't matter anyhow. Hawke's missing.' This was so unlike him that it only emphasized the gravity of the matter.

The elf grew rigid in an instant. He felt his heart grow cold. Hoarsely he said, 'What do you mean, "missing"?'

Varric snorted disdainfully. 'Hard to get, is it? I mean "missing" as in vanished in thin air, disappeared like snow in summer, evaporated like dew on a hot day, dissolved like paint in turpentine. Must I go on? Or would you prefer I'd draw you a picture? There're lying enough sheets of paper about.' Since Fenris was scowling at him right now as if he was trying to rip his heart out with a livid glare instead of his spiked gauntlet, he continued hastily, 'Bodahn came to the Hanged Man to tell me Hawke has left her home late in the afternoon and hasn't returned yet.'

Fenris allowed himself to heave a sigh of relief. Hawke always went her own way; at best she would tell her servants she wouldn't be home for dinner. Undoubtedly both Varric and Bodahn were exaggerating. So he didn't look convinced when he said, 'Perhaps she went to visit someone –'

He got immediately cut short by Varric. 'According to Bodahn she has promised to decorate the house far earlier this day.'

The impact of the word "promise" hit home the very instant. Just like everyone else, Fenris knew how much keeping her promises meant to Hawke. He grabbed the back of a chair because his knees suddenly went very weak.

'I see you understand what I'm trying to make clear,' Varric remarked dryly. Secretly he was relieved the ripping-hearts-out part was postponed, at least for the moment and, far importantly, he felt relieved that specific part was not aimed at him. But no way he would show it. It would ruin his reputation as the cool and collected Storyteller.

'We have to find her,' said Fenris with a quivering voice, oblivious of Varric's secret thoughts. He was suddenly afraid he had done even more harm with his tongue-lashing than he already thought. What if she had decided to flee this city, to turn her back on him, to turn her back on everything that – He got interrupted by Isabela before his thoughts got the chance to definitely run amok.

'I completely agree, honeycomb. Any suggestions about where to go searching?' the pirate queen informed somewhat sarcastically. 'It's not that she has a lack of enemies.'

Enemies.…

Fenris stared at the pirate and felt his worries shift. Enemies ... that put things in a whole different perspective, and not at all a better one. With force he pulled himself together; this was not the time to whine over his mistakes. Yes, it could well be Isabela had hit a dangerous spot and Hawke had been captured by one of her many enemies. She had plenty of those. If that were the case, they had to act immediately. His blood started pumping and the adrenaline almost made him combust. His markings lighted up.

'We will start with the Carta,' he had said determinedly, with a sudden flash of remembrance grasping a piece of recent history. 'I can't imagine they harbour warm feelings for her, not after the business in the Vimmark Mountains. It could well be they are behind her disappearance.'

'Brilliant idea,' Isabela scoffed, not in the least intimidated by his blue light. Secretly she was still contemplating if he bought his underwear in matching colours. 'We and what army?'

Varric pinched the bridge of his impressive nose. 'I think the elf is right, Rivaini. The Carta, just as the Coterie, always know what's going on in this blasted city. It could well be they know where she is, even if they have nothing to do with it. Fenris is right. That damned Vimmark business could very well play a significant part. Dwarfs going on a rampage ... always tricky. Short bodies having long arms, and such.'

There glowed a dangerous light in Fenris's eyes. He reached for his sword sitting on the weapon rack. 'Let's waste no time and go right now.'

'And again, we and what army?' repeated Isabela with irritated emphasis.

Varric looked up at the both of them, grimacing painfully. 'Let's pay the Merchant Guild a visit first. If it puts your minds at ease, despite my aversion to the greedy bastards, I maintain my contacts with them. Close ones, to be frank. If only to know what they're up to and to avoid unwanted and nasty surprises.' He closed his eyes and groaned. 'Who would have thought the Merchant Guild would one day come in handy. Ancestors preserve me.'

In fact, this short story is dedicated to Fenris. About how he finally shakes off his shackles and learns about the value of love and family. After all, this is a Christmas tale.

I can only hope you'll appreciate it.

Anyhow, thank you for reading!