Very short multi-chapter. AU to Armour, though my Amell's in it. This is my take on that ending and DA2's slightly dissatisfying resolution of it. Enjoy.
The Drunkard
-1-
A Man With A Story
They have a new customer.
He looks exhausted, and any attempt to tame too-long, ragged hair has clearly failed; he smells of several things she's determined not to think too hard about, but underneath it all is the tang of... woodsmoke? The broad build of a soldier, that will go to seed if not tended (though, from the scabbard at his hip, she'd assume it is). A Fereldan accent with a hint of education about it - she notices this even from the mumble. She makes out the word "ale" and little else.
She shakes her head - odd types are nothing new here.
The tankard is shoved into her hands, and she walks cautiously to the table; they do get the occasional violent type, though Varric and the Rivaini pirate can often be relied on to weed them out.
She is surprised by the nod, the muttered "thank you" as he stares at the furniture, slumped in a chair, and she can't help but look back at him as she walks away.
Varric soon arrives, leaning on the bar and openly staring. "Now there's a man with a story."
She only nods, wondering what has caused his fall from grace.
He is there the next night, and the next. The next too. She does nothing but serve, stare, and wonder. She doesn't know how he gets the silver, and she hesitates to guess.
She finds out, one night.
It's just the little things - ever-so-slightly fewer slavers on the Wounded Coast, the Guard having to be a little less vigilant. Seeing how he drinks, she's surprised he can see straight to use the sword.
The nod, the words of thanks. Then he seems to finally notice her staring at the silver, and says quietly, "The Captain pays good money." There's a hint of a humourless smile at the corner of his mouth.
The other Fereldan, then. Not the unnamed Champion she keeps hearing of - the woman knight. Adeline, was it?
"Aveline," he corrects her, no unkindness in the slightly slurred word, eyes still boring twin holes into the table.
A quiet "oh" finds its way out of her mouth, and she walks away knowing just a little more.
For now, that's enough.
When he gets really drunk, to the point where he comes and leans on the bar and she prays to the Maker that he won't fall over, he begins to spout tales of Grey Wardens - the Warden, that Amell woman - and princes.
They all know what happened at the Landsmeet - some unnamed (kept under wraps, they all theorise) pretender, quickly vanquished by the Queen. The drunkard looks nothing like the descriptions they've heard; some scoff, laugh, others shake their head at this poor deluded soul. She can only pity from afar.
The bitterness in his voice poisons the room, and it's only her hand on Varric's shoulder, her curiosity, and the good coin that stops him throwing the man out.
It's only weeks later, after the bandits and her tears, that, in one of his rare moments of sobriety, he asks her name.