"D'you know I killed an ogre b'fore I ever got to Kirkwall?"
Varrick sighed. "Yes, Hawke. You told me three times."
Kennit Hawke did not seem to hear him. "Was jus' me an' Bethy an' Aveline… killed him. Dead," she thumped her tankard on the table for emphasis, then sighed, her shoulders slumping. "I c'n kill ogres an' demons an'… what was that rock thing?"
"Rock wraith," Varrick supplied helpfully.
"An'… an', an', an' rock wraiths. An' I couldn't stop a few stupid sodding templars from taking my sister!" The tankard was empty now. Varrick caught Edwina's eye and shook his head slightly, signaling the bar maid not to refill Kennit's drink again. The dwarf did not relish the thought of trying to carry an unconscious Hawke back home. "I could've killed them too," Hawke muttered darkly. "Should've killed 'em. Varrick, should I have killed 'em?"
"No, Hawke. Killing a bunch of templars in broad daylight in your uncle's house would have been a bad idea."
"But… they took Bethy!" There was a hint of a sob in her voice. Varrick was still searching for an appropriate answer when a tall, fair-haired human walked into the Hanged Man. With a sense of relief, Varrick waved Anders over to their table, and noticed with interest how abruptly Kennit's mood brightened when she saw the mage. "Anders!" She tried to jump to her feet to greet him, stumbled, and fell back in her chair with a thump. "Varrick was buying me a drink…" her brow furrowed in thought, "or… a couple drinks…"
"Time to take her home, Blondie," Varrick suggested.
"I see that," Anders replied to one or both of them. He held out a hand to Hawke, "Come on, Kennit."
This time, with Anders' help, she managed to get to her feet—and promptly fell against his chest, holding herself up by wrapping her arms around his neck. She gave a small squeak of surprise, then nuzzled her face against the feathered shoulder of his cloak, mumbling something that sounded like, "…fuzzy."
Forcing himself to breathe normally, Anders gently repositioned her at his side, supporting her with an arm around her waist. He nodded farewell to Varrick, and guided Kennit out of the tavern. On the street outside, she detached herself from Ander's support, declaring with slurred dignity that she could still walk. She made it only two or three steps before swaying, wobbling, and grabbing for his arm.
"You've got strong arms," she observed, hugging the bicep she was clinging to. "Must be from swinging that big, heavy staff around all the time," she giggled. "Big… staff…"
Anders swallowed the teasing answer he would have given to such a comment a year and a lifetime ago, and concentrated on not noticing the warm bosom pressed against his arm. "Let's just get you back to your uncle's house."
Kennit stopped in her tracks, pulling Anders to a halt by the arm she was still holding. "No! No, no, no; I can't go back there! My mother will be there!"
"Yes, probably," he replied, not understanding her protest.
"I can't see her—she can't see me—not now! Not like this!" He was still looking at her blankly, so she tried to explain. "I didn't protect Carver, and I didn't protect Bethany, and then I went out and got sitfashed…" she stopped and screwed up her face in concentration, "shitfa… I got drunk."
Of its own volition, Anders' free hand reached out and brushed back a lock of black hair that had fallen into her eyes. "I'm sure your mother will understand."
Kennit gazed up at him, a pleading look in her vivid green eyes. "I'm not," Suddenly she smiled, struck by a new idea. "I know! I can stay at your place. Just for tonight. Can't I?"
Anders blinked. Even without the unbearable strain such an arrangement would put on his own fragile self- control, there was no way he was taking Kennit to darktown in the middle of the night in this state.
"No," he replied shortly. "Come on."
Kennit remained rooted to the spot. It was remarkable; Anders thought with exasperation, that a woman too drunk to put one foot in front of the other without tripping over it could stand so stubbornly in one spot. "'M not going," she declared mulishly.
"So you're just going to spend the night in the middle of the street?" he demanded.
"If I have to."
His jaw clenched in frustration. "You can't stay out here all night."
She smiled hopefully up at him. "So I can come with you?"
Those shining green eyes would be the death of him. Anders grimaced and sighed. "Fine."
Fortunately the clinic seemed to have been well tended while Anders was in the deep roads. He guided Kennit to an empty cot near the back of the room, and she sat down with a grateful sigh. "I'm sorry it's not more…" he shrugged helplessly.
She gave him a wry smile. "It's better than Uncle Gamlen's house," On the other side of the room, a child cried out in his sleep and someone hurried to soothe him. "Cleaner, anyway," Kennit added. Her gaze dropped to her hands, resting in her lap. "Bethany was so looking forward to getting out of that place," she murmured, "but… not like this," she looked up at Anders, and there were tears caught in her dark eyelashes. He almost looked away, unable to bear the sight of her pain, but he forced himself to hold her gaze, offering his silent support and listening ear. Kennit went on. "We… Bethy and I… used to talk about what we would do if we were ever real noblewomen, with money and everything," she gave a short, harsh laugh. "Never thought it would actually happen. She… she always wanted a pink silk dress. Do you think… if I sent her one—at the Circle—would they let her have it?"
Anders shook his head sadly. "She'd probably be allowed to keep it, but not to wear it. Circle robes are enchanted to limit mages' ability to cast spells. They say it helps the mages control their power," He could not hide the bitterness in his voice at this, and Kennit snorted.
"Of course they do."
Her shoulders shook, and Anders foolishly sat beside her on the cot, putting a comforting arm around her. Without warning, she turned and buried her face in his chest, sobbing quietly. Unable to resist, Anders bent and softly kissed the top of her head. Under the smoky, beery tavern smell, her hair smelled like honeysuckle, and his arms tightened involuntarily around her, drawing her close. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to breathe, to relax, to let go. As his arms loosened around her, Kennit looked up at his face, her eyes clouded with weeping, alcohol, and simple exhaustion. "Thank you, Anders," she whispered, and pressed a brief kiss to his lips before slumping against his shoulder, asleep.
Anders lowered her gently to the cot and tucked a rough, woolen blanket around her slender form before retreating to a chair against the wall. He did not sleep that night, and the next morning, when Kennit rose to return, somewhat sheepishly to her family, he could still taste the salt of her tears on his lips.
