Hawke wished (as she often did) that Varric would stop talking. She almost had it. His idle chatter was throwing her off.
"Hawke, this is foolish. Just let me—"
Hawke ignored Varric's warning and charged. Her shoulder connected with the wooden door, and she was thrown sideways. Hawke narrowly avoided colliding with the nearest wall. Instead, she tripped over the stairs and landed on her ass. Somewhere behind her, Varric snorted. Hawke swore at him under her breath.
The Harimann Estate was proving to be less penetrable than Varric's suite at the Hanged Man. The damn door wouldn't budge.
Hawke tried twice more. By the end of her third charge, her shoulder was pulsing in pain. Hawke hated to see Varric this smug. It was time for a new approach
Hawke reached into the left pocket of her robes. She removed a small package encased in tattered red cloth. Hawke pealed back the wrappings to reveal a small set of lock picks. Hawke had won this particular set off Varric in a game of Wicked Grace. There were only three picks in the set, but Hawke considered their acquisition to be a great victory. Hawke had little patience when it came to Wicked Grace. She was quick to anger and (according to Varric) a "poor sport".
Her spoils were well won.
Hawke held up the picks, and waved them lazily over her shoulder. Hightown was dark at this hour, and Hawke wanted to ensure Varric got a proper glimpse. She hoped Varric would be reminded of her earlier victory. It was a comforting thought.
Hawke pressed firmly against the door. To her slight annoyance, Hawke realized Varric was hovering over her shoulder. He muttered (what Hawke assumed were) words of encouragement, but might well be patronizing jests. Hawke tuned him out. After three minutes of unsuccessful labor, Hawke threw the pick to the ground. She removed the tension wrench from the keyhole, and re-adjusted her stance.
She tried the second pick. Nothing.
"Insufficient skill?" Varric asked and placed a hand on Hawke's (probably bruised) shoulder. She looked down at him. The corners of his mouth were pulled up into a stupid slack-jawed grin. "It's alright Hawke, you did your best. Lock picking isn't your forte. Perhaps you could do something more suited to your skill set. I know! You could try smashing the window."
"Asshole." Hawke grumbled and swatted Varric's hand off her shoulder.
"Self-proclaimed." Varric grinned.
She wandered over to the nearest window and pressed her fingertips against the glass. As Hawke moved her palm downward, little streaks formed along the foggy surface.
Below the windowsill, Hawke noticed a loose chunk of cobblestone. It looked as though no one had bothered to mortar it back into place. Hawke wrapped her gloved fingers around the stone and tugged. It sprung free without protest. Hawke eyed the thin windows surrounding the door to the estate. The windows were far too skinny for Varric or Hawke to slip through. Pity. Hawke would have liked to see the look of indignation on Varric's face. Hawke debated smashing the window anyway.
"Hawke! What are you doing?" Varric asked. "Andraste's ass, I was only joking. Just, give them here. Please."
Varric outstretched his palm expectantly. In annoyance, Hawke dropped the cobblestone into his palm. He cast it aside with a scowl.
"Oh… for the Maker's sake." Varric reached forward and tugged the lock picks from her grasp. He squatted down next to the door. Within a matter of seconds, the lock clicked. "There. You should have let me do that in the first place."
Hawke brushed past him without comment. The estate was dark; the moon was the only source of light. After her eyes adjusted, Hawke scanned the room. There were no candles, and the fireplace was empty. Upon closer inspection, a fistful of ash was scattered across the hearth. It was eerie. The ash in Hawke's own fireplace was filthy and overflowing. Bodahn said it reminded him of a mineshaft. Hawke hated it. Now, Bodahn and Sandal were long gone. She ought to have it emptied.
Varric followed Hawke into the foyer. He pulled Bianca from her home on his back. His footing was painfully slow, as if the darkness caught him off guard. Hawke snorted in amusement (wasn't he supposed to be a dwarf?). He quickly fell out of step with Hawke. Despite his caution, Hawke strode forward without her weapons. There was no need.
The estate had been empty for well over a year. Hawke had met (and killed) Lord Harimann a half decade ago. She could not recall the reason for his preemptive death. Some mercenary had paid her three gold pieces. Perhaps she hadn't asked.
Lord Harimann's remaining relatives (his daughter and her next of kin) perished recently. Unlike Lord Harimann, these lives were not taken by Hawke's hand. Aveline and her guardsmen investigated their disappearance. After a quick scope of the premises, all four of the remaining Harimann legacy were proclaimed dead. Had Aveline said something about Blood Magic? Demons?
Hawke had accused Merrill (or was it Anders?) of…something. Varric had called her response petulant. She didn't speak to him for a week after that.
"What is it we're doing here, Hawke?" Varric asked. He lowered Bianca, and examined the desolate walls of the estate. "This place was reclaimed by the city of Kirkwall."
Ah. So Varric remembered.
"And yet you agreed to come." Hawke said.
"That I did. At your request, might I add." Varric said. He re-slung Bianca over his shoulder and hobbled over to the staircase. The two of them trudged up the stairs. Hawke (who was far quicker than the dwarf) beat Varric to the top. From below, Varric called to her. "We might as well see what the Viscount left behind."
Hawke knocked open the nearest door to reveal a junkyard of abandoned goods. The hallway was littered with broken portraits and trinkets of no value. Upon first glance, Hawke saw the leg of a table, a pair of mustard yellow curtains, and a portrait of Lord Harimann himself. It was quite the contrast to the barren foyer. When Varric caught up, he swore under his breath. They were going to be a while.
Hawke did not pay attention to the passing time. It was nearly dawn before something of value caught her eye. At first, Hawke thought it was a dirty bottle. She puckered her lips and spit on the glass. Varric (who was examining a plate with possible gold rimming) furrowed his brow at the display. Hawke used the cusp of her sleeve to clear the grime off the surface. When she was finished, Hawke had a figurine clutched in her grasp. It was in the likeness of a small boat. An uncomfortable laugh escaped Hawke's lips. Of fucking course.
"Do you think Isabella would want this?" Hawke asked and dangled the neck of the bottle between her fingers. It swung between her knuckles like a pendulum "I vaguely recall something about her wanting a ship."
From the beginning, Isabella and Hawke had squabbled over nonsense. For that, Hawke held herself mostly accountable. She enjoyed pushing Isabella to the limits. Their spat from earlier was a perfect example. That did not mean, however, that there wasn't originally understanding between them.
It was only a few months ago when Isabella and Hawke's relationship became downright hostile. Hawke had ordered her ensemble to kill a slave trader by the name of Castillon. Varric and Fenris wouldn't have approved if Castillon had walked away with his life. Even so, that is not what motivated Hawke to make the decision. If Hawke let Isabella get her hands on Castillon's ship, Hawke was certain Isabella would never return.
If asked, she would deny it. But Hawke was worried she'd lose Isabella.
"Vaguely?" Varric snorted. "Maker, Hawke. Don't let her hear you say that. I don't fancy having to pry Isabella's fingers from your throat."
"I would imagine not. It would be quite the reach, dwarf." Hawke said and held it down to Varric's eye level. "You didn't answer the question."
"It's a perfect replica of an Antivan frigate." Varric said and eyed the ship warily. "Coming from anyone else, she'd love it."
"Is that supposed to mean something?" Hawke asked.
"No." Varric sighed and relaxed his gaze. "I suppose not. You're giving gifts, now?"
"It's not a gift." Hawke said and removed the lock picking kit from her robes. She shook the picks and tension wrench loose into her pocket. Hawke used the remaining cloth to safely wrap the ship. After she was finished, she returned the cloth and the ship to a pouch below her dagger holster. "It's compensation."
"Compensation? Fuck, Hawke. What have you done?" Varric asked. He took a moment, and then reconsidered. "Oh, never mind! It's better that I don't know. Ignorance is bliss, and all that."
The two of them went back to their treasure hunting. The room was silent for a long while. Hawke had already examined three pairs of (ultimately worthless) shoes before Varric spoke again. He started his thought with a few sparsely placed "hmm's".
"I didn't know you bothered with 'compensation'." Varric said. " What about your favorite dwarf? I could use a new set of lock picks. The Champion of Kirkwall cheated me out of my best set."
Hawke froze in place. Her jaw tightened and her shoulders hunched. Varric, who was getting quite good at Hawke body language, leaned away from her. Whether involuntary or not, Hawke was unsure. Bastard knew what was coming.
"Isabella makes her unhappiness known." Hawke said, and ground her teeth. "As do the others. Aveline. Fenris. Anders never shuts up about it, actually. It's holier-than-thou bullshit, if you ask me. I never asked any of them to follow me around. I think he sleeps better at night knowing he's fought me at every turn. They all do." Hawke raised her eyebrows in challenge. "I was unaware the feelings you harbor are mutual."
Varric pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Hawke. That's not what I meant." Varric said, and slumped his shoulders. "It was joking. We do that, you and I. Less frequently than I'd like… but you never had much of a sense for humor."
He tried to catch Hawke's eye, but she refused.
Hawke had gambled against Varric for several years. She knows him well enough to tell when he is about to forfeit the round (Hawke was unsure she'd ever win, otherwise). Varric was looking to make amends, but Hawke wasn't about to let him back down. They had been rearing for a proper fight ever since Hawke knocked down his suite door. Perhaps, even before that.
"I had no idea my presence was such a burden." Hawke said. She held herself at full height, purposefully looming over Varric. Her words were calculated, and spoken through her clenched teeth. "I should visit Merrill. I yelled at her last week. Poor thing; she must be terrified. Otherwise, she would have spoken up. Perhaps she's just too stupid… I sometimes wonder if she understands that I'm insulting her. I should get her an elfy trinket, just in case."
"That's not fair, and you know it." Varric said. He was nearly shouting. Good. He'd taken the bait. "Daisy hasn't done a damn thing wrong. Could you leave her the fuck alone? Just this once, Hawke. "
"I don't know Varric." Hawke spat. "Blood magic and demon mirrors…tsk tsk. It seems our Merrill isn't the maid in white you make her out to be."
"You're a blood mage!" Varric scoffed.
"And you're a poor shot."
"At least I'm not the most self-righteous mage in Kirkwall!" Varric was in fight mode. He took two large strides forward. To avoid an invasion of her personal space, Hawke was forced to back into the nearest wall. Hawke had to give it to Varric. Even without height, he managed to be intimidating. "Isabella might be stubborn, but at least she's willing to admit when she's wrong. Here's a hint, Hawke. If you actually listened to them…gave a damn about their feelings, perhaps they wouldn't complain so much. "
"Sounds like you're speaking from experience. Tell me Varric, how's Bartrand these days?"
"I don't know, Hawke. How's Carver?"
Hawke winced. It was a low blow, on both their parts.
"Wouldn't know. Doesn't write much. Grey Wardens get busy, you see. You understand. When's the last time you heard from Bianca?"
Varric inhaled sharply. Hawke felt a wave of pride. She was winning.
"She stopped by the Hanged Man about a month ago. Or so Isabella told me. I don't know, I wasn't there." Varric said. "Leandra had just died. You needed— I had somewhere else to be."
Oh.
Oh, shit. It had been two months. They didn't talk about… that.
Hawke was paralyzed.
She remembered that night. Neither of them had said a word. They sat, back to back, in front of her fireplace. Neither Hawke nor Varric had bothered to light it. It was fucking freezing. At dawn, Varric had stood and left the Amell estate. He had told Hawke to 'get some rest'. Hawke ignored his request and followed him. She had nowhere else to be. No one left to be there for.
Together, they killed nearly fifty men that day. Neither of them bothered with cleanup; bodies were left behind like breadcrumbs. Unfortunately, Aveline and the city guard did not follow her corpse trail. One less fight, Hawke supposed. Not that she was particularly eager to brawl with Aveline (especially not after her black eye). It had been a strange day.
The strangest part of it, however, was Varric. When Bartrand died, the fucker wouldn't shut up about it. It had been "remember when my bastard brother…" this and "fuck Bartrand" that. It was nearly a week before Hawke lost it. The look on the dwarf's face was a punch in the gut. Since her blowup, Varric hasn't mentioned his brother. That hadn't been her intention. At the time, it had been a bit much.
This time, Varric refused to speak. It was like he was waiting for Hawke to react. He waited all night. The entire day. The week after. The month after. Even now. Hawke knew she still hadn't. Not really. It was Varric's own problem. She wasn't about to put on a show for his benefit.
Oh. Varric was still speaking.
"So, yeah." Varric sighed. He rubbed his palms awkwardly and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His eyes were scanning the room. Looking anywhere, but where Hawke was standing. "The sun is about to come up. If you don't fancy walking out of here in front of Hightown and the city guard, I suggest we head out…I'm sure they'll let you pass just fine, Champion. But Aveline will have my head. She's been eager to keep me locked up overnight. Said I'd just might learn a lesson." Varric paused. He seemed to have realized she was out of sorts. "Hawke?"
"Wouldn't be my problem." Hawke replied automatically. Despite her words, she turned towards the staircase. Hawke raised an eyebrow. "Coming?"
Varric squatted down and picked up an object resting near his foot. Upon further inspection, Hawke discovered it was one of her lock picks. Damn thing must have fallen in the chaos. Varric got back to his feet (not that it made much of a difference) and slipped the pick back into Hawke's pocket as he passed.
"I thought," Varric said and smirked. "That you 'never asked' any of us to follow you around. That sounded like asking, to me…"
"At least you're right about one thing, Varric." Hawke said and made a beeline for the front door of the estate.
"And what's that?"
"You and I have a very different opinion on what constitutes as funny."