Mirror, Mirror

Warnings: Crack, inappropriate use of the Mirror of Transformation, polyamory, multiple ships, really terrible jokes of all stripes.

Pairings: M!Hawke/Anders, M!Hawke/Fenris, M!Hawke/Anders again, F!Hawke/Isabela, Isabela/Merrill, F!Hawke/Isabela/Various

"No, listen, just trust me," Hawke said. "This is a fantastic idea."

"Trust you?" Varric raised an eloquent golden eyebrow. "Listen, Hawke, I trust you enough to have our backs in a fight. I trust you to swoop dramatically to the rescue when someone is in need. I trust you enough to follow you into a dragon's den, for pete's sake, but I don't trust any of your brilliant ideas to be remotely safe, sane, or sanitary."

"This baby is going to solve all our problems," Hawke said, standing in front of the mirror with his hands planted on his hips. "Well. All of my problems, anyway. Not yours. And not all of my problems, only the ones relating to my romantic life."

Hawke's romantic problems, as Varric saw it, mostly boiled down to the fact that he was too blighted appealing for his own good. Handsome (for a human) charming (after a certain insufferable fashion) and unfailingly kind to those whose lives had contained far too little kindness, Hawke tended to inadvertently steal hearts wherever he went. On the whole, Varric considered himself more lucky than not to be immune to the Hawke appeal; unfortunately, the same could not be said of their companions.

Aveline was married and thus safe (though Varric had his suspicions about what might have gone on on the boat ride over, which he'd written out in his up-and-coming bestseller 'Heal My Blighted Heart,') but she was the only one. The dalish mage, the broody elf, the warden apostate... even the Rivaini captain seemed to have broken her own no-strings-attached rule when the one on the other end of the string was Hawke.

"Even with the qualifiers, I don't think I'm sold," Varric remarked.

"For all my multiplicity of talents, Varric," Hawke said, "I'm still only one person, and I can only be in one place at a time. Barring some extremely exhausting and awkward time-sharing arrangements, that means that no matter what I do, I'm doomed to break at least three of my best friends' hearts. After all they've been through - after all the people who have let them down in the past - I can't do that to them, Varric."

Varric squinted at the artifact in question, a tall skinny sheet of (probably) glass set in a heavy, grotesquely warped wooden frame. "And a magic mirror that changes your appearance will help with that how?"

"Oh, but that's not all it can do," Hawke said, glowing with enthusiasm. "I don't know if you were listening to Xenon's speech -"

"I have a highly developed talent for tuning out droning speeches delivered by pompous windbags trying to sell me things," Varric told him. "Self-defense mechanism developed from years in the Merchant's Guild."

" - but this mirror doesn't only let you change your hair or nails. It actually reaches through the Void into other worlds - other realities - other possibilities. This thing shows you not as you are, but all the ways you could be, and you can choose whatever among the possibilities suits you best. And then, once you've found the greatest possible you... it doesn't just show you that, it can actually bring it into being!"

Varric didn't often admit it, but that was pretty impressive. Also terrifying. This was why no self-respecting dwarf let himself get involved with mages or their freaky magic shit. "So, what?" he said. "You're going to use it to transform into a 'potential you' that can triple-time three or four of this city's neediest legends?"

"Nope," Hawke said with a shining white grin. "I'm going to use it to bring in reinforcements."

Varric slapped his hand over his face, and dragged it down with a groan. "Hawke, no, " he said, an all-too-familiar refrain. "Do you want infestations of eldritch horrors in Kirkwall? Because this is how we get infestations of eldritch horrors in Kirkwall!"

"Just think of it!" As usual, Varric's direly worded warnings went unheard. "Hawkes enough to go around, Hawkes enough to make everyone happy. I can't say I'd mind the help dealing with the bandits and Qunari and blood mages that are constantly pestering the city, either. Maybe, with four of us handling the crises that keep popping up, I'll actually be able to take a day off without someone clamoring for help finding a lost family heirloom or something."

"Or you could just learn to say 'no' for a change," Varric suggested hopefully. "Same effect, less creepy, reality-breaking magic."

"I've got it all planned out," Hawke said, ignoring the suggestion. "The perfect me for every occasion. For Merrill, a me that's a mage - one that's kind and gentle, who'll support her and understand her like only another mage can. Fenris on the other hand hates mages - he needs a warrior, someone direct and down to earth, someone who speaks his language -"

"You don't speak any Tevene," Varric reminded him. "Aside from the swear words."

Hawke huffed in annoyance. "If I can potentially be a mage, I can potentially speak Tevene," he said. "But I was talking metaphor, Varric, metaphor. I mean someone who understands the struggle, the fight, someone who hates slavery and tyrants like Fenris does and puts it down wherever he finds it."

"Ah." Varric nodded knowingly. "The language of the curb-stomp, you mean."

"Anyway!" Hawke cleared his throat. "Isabela just wants someone to laugh with, someone who can keep up with her and have fun. Someone who won't try to tie her down, or burden her with expectations she doesn't want to meet. Probably better be a rogue, since otherwise she'll just stealth off and leave me - I mean him - behind."

"It certainly sounds like you've put a lot of thought into this," Varric remarked, then paused. Something - or rather someone - was notably missing from this lineup. He began to get a foreboding feeling about this. Surely Hawke couldn't be that oblivious? "Ah - Hawke," Varric said, clearing his throat. "Are you sure you aren't leaving something out?"

Hawke jumped, looking spooked. "What? Who? What are you talking about?"

Varric fixed him with a stern glance. He'd resolved not to interfere with the ongoing circus of Hawke's love life, but three years of watching Blondie waste away after his unattainable crush while crouching in a Darktown sewer was more than enough. If Hawke hadn't picked up on it by now, it was more than time to enlighten him. "A certain apostate we both know? Tall, skinny, perpetually unshaven? Don't tell me you haven't noticed, Hawke. He's completely smitten."

"Oh. Ah..." Hawke squirmed uncomfortably. "Well..."

"It's pretty cruel, to do something like this for all the rest of your friends and leave him out, isn't it?" Varric asked sternly.

"I wasn't planning to!" Hawke objected. "I just figured... well... I don't really know what it is he sees in me, so I couldn't... I thought I'd just... once the others are taken care of, I mean... and I don't have any other obligations... I thought he and I could..."

The torch went on over Varric's head. "Hawke, you sly dog," he exclaimed. "You? And Blondie?"

"There's no need to sound so surprised," Hawke huffed. "I've been thinking about it for a while now. I just... didn't want any of my other friends to get hurt because of a choice I made."

Varric clapped Hawke on the elbow, the closest he could come to a pat on the shoulder while Hawke was standing up. "Hey, no objections from over here," he said. "I think you'll make a sickeningly cute couple. And if it gets you two to stop pining over each other and actually do the funky fandango, then this idea is sounding better all the time."

"Great!" Hawke perked up again, beaming that sunshiney grin.

"So that's Blondie, Daisy, Broody, and Rivaini all taken care of," Varric said, ticking them off on his hands. "Aveline's married, and I want no part of this. What about Choir Boy?"

"Sebastian?" Hawke gave Varric a puzzled look. "What about Sebastian?"

"Never mind," Varric sighed.

"So you'll help, Varric?" Hawke said hopefully.

"Yes, may my dwarven ancestors roll over in their stony graves, I'll help you with your insane world-breaking magic plan," Varric said, rolling his eyes. "Besides, I know you'll do it with or without me, so I might as well be on hand to put out the fires."

At the very least, he should get enough material out of it for another book. Or maybe a serial.

Breaking the enchantments on the mirror to allow it to create multiple copies instead of just replacing its target with one, thanks for the help of Sandal, turned out to be the easy part. Mostly what Hawke wanted Varric around for, as it turned out, was to help him design the new and improved Hawkes. There were not, as it turned out, actually an infinite number of potential Hawkes to choose from, but there was still quite a lot of variety.

"Varric, get a load of some of these beards! What are these people thinking? " Hawke laughed into the mirror. "This one looks like he has a badger eating his face. In what possible world is this fashionable?!"

"I don't know, Hawke. You're the expert on beards between us."

"Aren't you a dwarf? Aren't your people all about beards?"

Varric rubbed his clean-shaven chin. "I like to buck the stereotype."

"Hawke..."

"What?" At least he had the grace to look sheepish.

"I don't know if it's escaped your notice, but..." Varric nodded into the mirror. "That's a woman."

"No, no. See? She's got a beard -"

"Which is obviously fake and pinned on!"

"...Yes... well..." Hawke looked at his distaff counterpart in the reflection, who smirked back at him. "I make a very pretty woman, don't I?"

"I don't consider myself an expert in human women, but I'll take your word for it," Varric shrugged. "So who is this one for? Fenris?"

"Oh, I don't know, I was thinking Isabela."

"Isabela? Really?"

"Yes, haven't you ever heard her talk?" Hawke grinned. "The way she says it, men are only good for one thing, and women are good for six."

"Oh sweet Maker, look at the nose on this one. Varric, do you suppose this is an alternate universe where my mother married that ponce du Launcet after all?"

"I wouldn't hazard a guess."

"Hawke... no."

"Come on, Varric," Hawke pleaded. "I can get the slider all the way out to -"

"I'm telling you, no." Varric put his foot down.

"But -"

"This one's for Fenris, isn't it?" Varric interrupted. "Do I have to remind you that Fenris is an elf? He's already going to be pretty petit compared to you. There's no need to complicate the issue by saddling him with a horse's cock."

Hawke pouted. "You are no fun at all."

"So much secrecy, Hawke," Isabela purred as she followed Hawke into the Hanged Man. "What part of Kirkwall are we fucking up today?"

"No part of Kirkwall," Hawke huffed, offended by the question.

"Really?" Isabela chuckled with disbelief, idly fidgeting with the handle of her daggers. "Not going to expose the corruption of some city high officials, paralyzing the department as the Viscount scrambles for a replacement? Not going to murder any gang leadership, opening up a power vacuum that leads to a bloody gang war as underlings fight for the top spot? Not going to destroy the marriages of any hightown nobles by revealing the infidelity of one or both parties? Not one single building on fire?"

"I do more than just ruin lives and set things on fire!" Hawke objected. "I help people! I make them happy."

"She's got a point, Lethallin," Merrill said apologetically. "I mean I know you mean well, but you do have a tendency to leave an awful lot of dead or dismembered bodies everywhere you go."

"No one is getting dismembered today!" Hawke shouted. "Not even slightly!"

"If no one is getting dismembered then why the fuck did I get out of bed?" Fenris said crossly. He definitely did look like he'd been woken up too early for this, his hair messy and his still fixed in a thousand-yard squint. But then again, Fenris being Fenris, it was just as likely that he was still technically up too late from the day before.

"I have a surprise," Hawke said, full of wounded dignity. "A nice surprise. I got you gifts."

The three companions exchanged nervous glances. "What?" Hawke exclaimed.

"Gifts? From you? That's not exactly reassuring," Merrill said nervously.

"Is it going to be another toy ship for the landlocked sea captain?" Isabela said sweetly.

"Or another book for the elf who can't read? " Fenris added caustically.

"Or another shield for -"

"You are all horrible ingrates," Hawke announced, stalking down the hallway towards the closed door at the end.

Varric was seated on a low stool outside the door at the end of the row, and he scrambled to his feet as they approached. "Hawke," he greeted him with fervent relief. "Thank goodness you're here. I don't know how much longer I could keep Sappy, Sassy and Scowly in there off each other."

"Who, who, and who?" Isabela asked. "Are we getting some new playmates for Varric to nickname? Will we be seeing some new faces around here soon?"

"Well, in a sense, yes," Varric hedged, "but in a sense, also very much no."

"Don't keep us all in suspense," Isabela scolded Hawke teasingly.

Fenris shifted his weight and sighed. "Can we just get on with this?"

"Ta-da!" Hawke crowed, throwing open the door to one of the Hanged Man's bedrooms.

It was a fairly standard room for the Hanged Man, aside from the monstrous eldritch mirror crowded in one corner; bed, desk, table, chair. Leaning hip-slung against the desk, bulky and intimidating in full plate, was Hawke; he had a great two-handed broadsword across his back and a red sash tied around his waist. As the door opened he straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest, turning towards the door with a stern scowl behind his full bushy beard.

Sitting on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed was also Hawke, dressed in leather with fur trimming, picking at her nails with the point of a knife. She glanced up through her eyelashes as the door opened, and the red streak across her nose wrinkled up slightly as she smirked in welcome.

In the chair on the other side of the bed was also Hawke again, dressed in blue robes and with both hands wrapped around a long polished-wood staff. He too was bearded, although much smaller and more neatly trimmed than his martial counterpart. He stood up when the door opened, turned towards them and bowed politely.

"Hawke, what's going on here?" Merrill took in the scene with wide green eyes. "What did you do?"

Hawke's expression was insufferably smug. "I found out how to use the Mirror of Transformation to make extra copies of myself," he said. "And... viola!"

"That's the instrument," Varric muttered out of the side of his mouth.

"- Hawke dating service at your service," Hawke said, ignoring Varric.

"So you're... they're... really all you?" Merrill said, mouth dropping open. "But - different you?"

"One hundred percent!" Hawke grinned. "They have all my memories, all my talents, all my positive attributes -"

"Plus quite a few more, in some cases," the female Hawke commented dryly from her seat on the bed.

"Does this mean what I think it means?" Isabela gasped, clapped her hands together under her bosom. "Ooh, Hawke, you're too good to me!"

Hawke cleared his throat. "Ah... not to mislead you, Izzy, but they're not all for you," he said. "Only the middle one."

"Oh." Isabela pouted, dropping her hands. "Well, that's better than nothing, I guess."

"So let me get this straight," Merrill exclaimed. "Are you saying you dabbled in dark arcane magics and violated the fundamental boundaries between one reality and the next in order to create uncanny simulacra of life that should not be... to set me up with a date?"

"Uh," Hawke said, smugness melting away. "Well... when you say it like that..."

Merrill clasped her hands and bounced on her toes, beaming up at her human friend. "Oh, Hawke! You're ever so sweet! "

Isabela did a quick tally of the count of bodies in the room, and frowned slightly. "So, wait," she said. "If the lovely lady Hawke is for me - and I do thank your taste - then what about Sebastian?"

Hawke blinked at her. "What about Sebastian?" he repeated blankly.

"Never mind," Isabela sighed, waving the comment off.

Fenris stared at the three Hawkes - four, including the one hovering nervously by his elbow - and then at the mirror lurking ominously in the corner. Without a word he turned on his heel and stalked out, barely missing clipping the doorframe with his sword.

"Wait, Fenris, where are you going?" Hawke said, calling after him in distress.

"I refuse to be involved in MAGE SHENANIGANS!" Fenris yelled back up the stairs.

"He's right, you know," the warrior Hawke said, uncrossing his arms. "This was a terrible idea."

"You wouldn't even be here if not for this idea," the mage Hawke pointed out.

"Just imagine it," the rogue Hawke sighed wistfully.

The original flavor Hawke made flaily gestures at him. "Well, don't just stand there!" he exclaimed. "Go after him! See, already you're of the same mind. You were made for each other! Literally, in your case!"

The Hawke in plate rolled his eyes and stomped out, brushing past Merrill, Isabela and Varric on his way.

"Thank the Maker I didn't get stuck with the broody death elf," the female Hawke said, rolling her eyes. Her gaze went to Isabela, and raked deliberately down the pirate's form and back up again. She grinned and changed her posture, slowly uncrossing her legs before rolling off the bed to her feet, deliberately stretching her arms over her head before she let them drop. "I definitely think I got the better end of the deal."

Isabela returned the grin, striding forward to stop in front of the new Hawke and plant her hands on her hips. "So, sweet thing," she purred. "What should I call you?"

"My name is Marian," Hawke replied, "but I also answer to gasps, moans, and screams of 'Oh Maker!' So it's up to you, really."

Isabela laughed. "I like you!" She hooked her arm through Hawke's, bumping their hips together, and guided her towards the door. "Come on, sweetie. There's a whole tavern full of fools downstairs just waiting to gamble their money away, and after that I've got a room..."

The two of them exited the room in step together, and Hawke breathed a sigh of relief that at least one of his plans was going right today. That left only Merrill and Hawke still in the room together, hovering shyly with the desk between them.

"Um." Merrill glanced at her toes, then back up to meet Hawke's eyes, a faint blush stealing between the lines of her vallaslin. "So... so, you're really a mage? I mean. I don't mean to sound as though I think you aren't. It's just that our Hawke isn't, so I thought..."

"I am the son of a mage and the brother of a mage," Hawke replied, reaching across the table to take her hand. "Magic runs in my family on both sides. I honestly think it's almost stranger for me not to have magic. But I am the son of Malcolm Hawke. Magic will serve what is best in me, not what is base." He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the back of it gently. "As I hope that the best in me will serve you."

"Oh," Merrill said, color flooding her pale skin. She hemmed and stammered but did not, Hawke noticed with great interest, take back her hand.

"Well!" Hawke clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly, looking around for Varric. "That's a job well done, wouldn't you say?"

"Well, two out of three ain't bad," Varric allowed.

"Let's let the lovebirds have the room to themselves." Hawke headed out into the hallway, a spring in his step. "I'm sure I'll read all about it in your next book. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I have a doctor's appointment. In Darktown."

Hawke stalked through the streets of Kirkwall, the crowds parting before his intimidating armoredness like water before the bow of a ship. He knew where he was going, Fenris' mansion in Hightown; he knew everyone and every inch of this awful town.

Maker, what a pit. And he didn't just mean the parts of the city that were, literally, a pit. It had got to the point where he didn't know if anyone would even notice if the Qunari's crazy-poison were released into the water supply. Maybe it had been, and people were just too used to it to tell. Built on a graveyard of bones and a thousand years of misery, the legacy of atrocity was literally carved into the stone of this city, and did anyone care?

No. Only the rich and powerful covered up the evidence with the thinnest of veils so that it wouldn't disturb their view. The Lowtowners hated the Hightowners, the nobles hated the commoners; the Mages hated the Templars, the Templars hated the Mages, and absolutely everybody hated the Fereldens, and the Chantry sat on their asses and did jack-all about any of it.

It was a mess. It was a mess, was what it was, and the worst part about it was how everybody just let it happen. No one ever tried to fix the system, they just wanted to get ahead. People came to Hawke to do their dirty work or clean up their messes but Maker forbid he actually do anything to change the status quo. Even his friends - though he would defend them to the death - only cared about themselves, or about enforcing the corrupt order of the city! The only one in this whole damn town who cared, the only one who was actually making an effort to change things was...

Hawke stopped short in the middle of the Hightown market, staring off into space with one step half-taken. After a moment, he nodded slowly to himself, mind and heart coming into a harmonious alignment. With one plated boot grinding on the flagstones he turned on his heel, putting the elegant mansions of Hightown behind him, and set off for the Undercity.

"Well." Isabela stretched luxuriously on the sheets of her bed in the Hanged Man, enjoying the slip of sheets over bare and heated skin. "That was certainly enjoyable."

"Yes, it was," Marian said with a laugh, draping herself over Isabela's side and digging her chin into Isabela's shoulder. Isabela took the opportunity to get in a quick grope of Marian's breasts - such nice breasts, who would ever have thought Hawke had it in him? - which elicited a pleased purr. "Next time I won't even try to keep up with you in a drinking contest, though. You drink like a sailor, Izzy."

"That's because I am a sailor, sweet thing," Isabela purred. She sighed, turning her eyes up to the ceiling. "This was ever so thoughtful of Hawke, I must say."

"Seeing as I wouldn't exist otherwise, I have to agree," Marian said. "And existing is just too much fun to pass up on."

"There's only one thing that's missing to make this perfect." Isabela frowned. "Can't think how Hawke overlooked it, really."

"Not enough cock?" Marian guessed.

"My thoughts exactly!" Isabela struck her fist against the pillow, then rolled over to the edge of the bed. "Let's go and find some."

"Welcome to my home," Merrill said, fluttering about the small apartment nervously. "Would you like some tea? I can make some tea... do you like it the same way Hawke likes it? I don't think I have any honey left..."

"Tea would be lovely," Hawke said, sitting on the short bench at her table. "Plain is fine."

"Of course, right away," Merrill chirped. She opened her cupboards, then had to duck as a couple of bats flew out over her head. "Oh, oh dear, sorry about the mess..."

"You don't need to apologize." Hawke shook his head. "Especially not for the condition of the alienage. It is so wrong how elves are forced to live like this."

"Do you think so?" Merrill looked pleased, setting a cracked saucer and a teacup in front of Hawke and sitting beside him with her own. "Sometimes it seems like I'm the only one who thinks so..."

"You aren't," Hawke said firmly. "The plight of the elves is a terrible one. Mages have their own difficulties, but at least there are some places in the world where they can be made welcome. The elves have been betrayed time and time again, driven out of every place they might have called home. To say nothing of the condition of the elves enslaved by the Tevinter Empire!"

"Oh, I know!" Merrill exclaimed. "Fenris likes to talk about the magisters... well, rant about it, really..."

"Fenris has every right to rant," Hawke said vehemently. "He's been through so much pain in his life, so much atrocity. He's unbelievably strong to have survived it, incredibly brave to hope for better than he's had, unimaginably brave to fight back against those who oppressed him, and still hold on to his innate sense of self and integrity..."

Hawke trailed off in mid-sentence, staring off into the distance. His eyes gleamed with tears, and Merrill looked worried.

"...Hawke?" Merrill asked anxiously. "Are you okay?"

Carefully, Hawke set the cup of tea back in its saucer . "...Ex...excuse me," he stuttered. He pushed the chair back and stood up from the table. "I'm sorry, I... I have to go."

To her astonishment, he walked out of her house without another word, setting off for Hightown.

Hawke stopped at a florist on his way down to Anders' clinic, acquiring a bouquet of embrium arranged with spindleweed. Fragrant, pretty, and useful for healing potions, there was no possible way this could go wrong.

Except that by the time he got to Anders' clinic, wending his way through the cavernous maze of Darktown, it was to find that someone had beaten him there.

"Anders!" It was the warrior Hawke, still dressed in full plate and with the red sash tied around his waist. "Anders, I know you're in there! I need to talk to you!"

He pounded one gauntleted hand on the clinic doors, putting up a tremendous racket. The inhabitants of Darktown were beginning to take notice, poking heads out of makeshift shanties and turning their eyes towards the clinic. Hawke tried very hard to pretend that he didn't know the him who was knocking on the clinic door.

The door eventually opened, and Anders appeared in the doorway. He looked like he had been pulled from sleep, hair down and in a messy tangle around his face, stubble even less under control than usual, clutching his ratty coat around him. He squinted closely at the figure in his doorway, one hand clutching his staff for dear life. "Hawke...?" he said uncertainly.

Hawke wanted desperately to run his fingers through that messy hair, to pull him close and kiss him. Nor, apparently, was he the only one, judging by the way the warrior Hawke slammed his hand against the wall beside Anders' head and leaned in close.

"I know what you've been trying to do, Anders." If nothing else, Warrior Hawke certainly had a strong voice; it carried clearly across the cavern to Hawke's ears. "You don't have to do it alone. I want to help you. I want you to be mine. You want to be mine! Come with me, and let's burn this city down together!"

Anders stared. Hawke stared. Half of Darktown stared. My pick-up lines! He's stealing my lines! Hawke thought desperately as he lurched forward, brandishing the flowers like a dagger. He's stealing my boyfriend!

And then the air cracked like thunder as Anders let loose a spell; Hawke vaguely recognized it as a mind blast. Warrior Hawke reeled backwards, stumbling and dazed, and Anders slammed the door in his face.

Hawke skidded to a stop, horrorstruck. His other self didn't seem to notice him, quickly resuming his shouting and banging on the clinic doors, this time with no response from within. Hawke felt his heart plummeting into his stomach, where it didn't stop until it reached his knees.

The other Hawke. The one he'd made to be with Fenris. Except that apparently the copy had decided he didn't want Fenris, he wanted Anders. And Anders had demonstrated in no uncertain terms that the affection was not reciprocated.

Anders didn't want Hawke.

Hawke dragged his way back up through Darktown to the Hanged Man, his head clouded with misery (then again, it was Darktown; that could have just been poison gas.)

"Back so soon, Hawke?" Varric looked surprised to see him, and he eyed the now-bedraggled batch of flowers suspiciously. "Don't tell me you got that far and then lost your nerve."

"I didn't!" Hawke dropped into one of the chairs in Varric's suite, then dropped his head into his hands. "It's ruined, Varric. My life is ruined."

Varric pulled up a tankard and poured something into it from a large bottle, then a smaller bottle, then a flask, then pushed the concoction down the table to Hawke. He picked it up and drank it without asking what was in it, since the less he knew the less Aveline would be able to yell at him later for not reporting. "What happened?" Varric asked him kindly.

"He turned me down," Hawke said, and covered his face with his hands. "Well, not me me, but - the other me! He got to the clinic first and he was pounding on the door and shouting for Anders that he belonged to him and - and he just slammed the door in his face!"

"Well, with an approach like that, I can't say that Blondie's at fault here," Varric commented, and Hawke groaned.

"He's ruined it for me," Hawke moaned. "The other me, I mean. Ruined everything! All I wanted to do was use illicit black magic to create artificial copies of myself to do my bidding. How could things have possibly gone wrong?"

Varric opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it again. "You know, there's really nothing I can add to that statement," he said. "But look here, Hawke, you're giving up too easily."

"He hates me," Hawke said miserably.

"Well, you don't know for certain -" Varric began, when they were interrupted by the sound of running footsteps in the hall. Anders burst in, looking even more disheveled than when Hawke had seen him in the clinic, clutching his staff and slung about with satchels.

"Varric!" Anders shouted. "Thank Andraste I found you here! You've got to gather everybody together. Kirkwall is being invaded by demons!"

"Good morning to you too, Blondie," Varric commented, pouring himself another drink. "What's this about demons?"

"Demons disguised as people!" Anders exclaimed. "One showed up at my clinic! It looked just like Hawke. But even sexier!"

Hawke dropped his mug. The thud and splash made Anders look over at him in surprise. "Oh, hello Hawke," he said. "Good to see you, as ever. What are you doing here at this time of day?"

"Er..." Varric cleared his throat. "If you don't mind my asking, what makes you so sure that the Hawke you saw at your clinic was not, in fact, Hawke?"

Anders shook his head. "It was a good likeness, but it wasn't real. Justice could tell. There was no human soul inside - just an empty magic shell." He shuddered dramatically. "Maker, that was creepy. I drove it off and went out the mineshaft, and I don't think it followed me here, but who knows how many of them are still out there?"

"Um," Hawke said nervously.

"I feel like I should take this opportunity to say 'I told you so,' " Varric remarked. "Relax, Blondie, we're not actually being invaded by demons. Have a seat, I'll order some breakfast, and Hawke here can explain to you in detail just how badly he fucked up this time."

Anders stared at Hawke, his eyebrows sliding up his face, while Hawke's face grew redder and redder with shame. "Hawke?" Anders asked incredulously. "Why are you carrying - are those flowers?"

This was going to be good. Varric stood up and went into the hallway with a spring in his step, looking for Norah to put in an order for pancakes.

What met his gaze, instead, was a tableau of chaos. The stairs leading downstairs, the hallway outside his suite, and the doorway to the now-empty room housing the mirror were all coated with a shimmering black sludge like an oil slick. As he stared, the door to the room creaked and swung, heaved open by a knee-high blob of coruscating darkness. It oozed through the narrow opening into the hall, and began sliding slowly along the black trail towards the stairs.

"Oh hey, look at that," Varric said in surprise. "We are being invaded by demons."

~to be continued...