"I know you fear us! Knight-Commander Meredith uses that fear to take control of your city. She opposes every effort to replace Viscount Dumar and you have seen the chaos of her reign already. Will you allow it?" Orsino himself wasn't sure what exactly he was trying to accomplish here, on the Hightown courtyard, but he felt like he was choking in his small office at the Gallows lately. He had to do something, anything, yet he had no idea what it should be. Should he continue trying to keep the fragile peace between the Templars and mages? Should he appease Meredith's every whim because he was too afraid of the consequences if he didn't? Should he hold back the rebellion that had been brewing in Kirkwall Undercity for years? Orsino clutched the staff he had been leaning on, but before he could continue, the large crowd of grousing listeners waved, gasped and started parting by itself in front of Meredith and her wrath.
"Return to your homes!" she rapped out at the gapers and jabbed her eyes into the First Enchanter who returned that disdainful gaze. "This farce is over," Meredith gestured at the nearest people to get lost. Her heart started racing when she realized nobody had moved, the people no longer mindlessly obeyed her commands like she was used to.
"As you can see Knight-Commander, there are plenty of good people in Kirkwall who would like to listen to me and who would like you to answer a few questions!" Orsino made a few bold steps towards the fuming Meredith and, just to be sure, he grasped his staff with both hands. Seeing he had at least a few supporters in the crowd, the First Enchanter continued. "How can you claim Kirkwall needs its Templars more than its new ruler? How far should I let you go, so everyone could see your true nature, true plans of seizing the power? Or should I remain patient and simply stand by while you're looking for evil in every corner?"
"See?" Meredith glanced around her and laughed openly at the First Enchanter's desperate face. "People of Kirkwall, should I remain calm when this mage provokes an uprising? I think not! For the sake of all of us. I dare not! My only interest here is to keep order and protecting the innocent. And no mage will lecture me about how to do my damn job!" Meredith closed the distance between her and Orsino and gave him such a glare the First Enchanter gulped and remained silent.
"What the hell are you all doing here?" an unfamiliar voice growled loud enough for everyone to hear it. The crowd once again parted by itself and everybody fell silent, even those two irreconcilable rivals.
"It's the Champion… Champion's here… Maybe he should say something… Maybe he could do something… The Champion came…" The whispers spread throughout the whole crowded courtyard and those on the far end started stretching their necks to see for themselves what was going on in front of Hawke estate.
"Ah, Hightown," Varric sighed in contentment like a half of Kirkwall wasn't staring at them right now. "Where the rich go to piss their money away. This really is the best place in Kirkwall," he looked up at Hawke's loured face and smirked.
"Varric!" Aveline sizzled and punched the dwarf to be quiet. Anders made an inconspicuous step behind Hawke's broad back. There were way too many Templars at the courtyard at that moment; he wasn't sure if Hawke's presence meant any protection for him and he wasn't about to tease the snake and find out.
"Ah, the Champion and his minions," Orsino snorted, folded his thin arms on chest and ignored Aveline's outraged face. That insulting word minion included herself after all. It took Samael several unbelievably long seconds to realize the whole crowd was waiting for him to say something. Meredith's eyes narrowed, but even she remained motionless and silent for now.
"So," Hawke coughed in uneasiness and stalked to those two morons who were about to tear Kirkwall apart, "what's going on here?" he asked and was proud of himself that he even sounded like he cared.
"Orsino decided to play games and test my patience, Champion. Again." Meredith took an opportunity and strolled by Hawke's side, so there were the two of them facing Orsino right now.
"And I imagine you're quite happy to finally have a reason to throw his magical ass into prison for that…" Hawke raised an eyebrow and folded his arms on chest, too. He did notice Meredith's repositioning and he made a step so he would stand between them again.
"And what else would you have me to do, Champion? Should I ignore his malicious words? He's igniting a rebellion here!" Meredith shrieked and threw her arms sideways like she had no other choice than to clap Orsino in irons which would deeply upset her no doubt, judging by that victorious sneer on her face.
"Do not drag the Champion into the mess you've caused by your blind desire for power, Meredith!" Orsino flared up and his staff sent a few purple sparks into the air. He turned to Hawke afterwards because his next words were meant strictly to him. "Go throw some party, Champion, or smuggle even more lyrium into Kirkwall, Champion. Nobody needs you here."
There was deafening silence after this impassioned statement and all eyes were set at Hawke who definitely wasn't known for his good manners and tolerance for insults. Judging by his fiery eyes which were about to set Orsino on fire, Hawke was going to live up to those legends about him.
Without needless words, Samael unwittingly made a step towards the mage and a blade flashed in his right hand.
"Hawke!" Aveline tried to catch Samael's hand unsuccessfully and she thought indeed this was bound to end badly for the First Enchanter.
"I love drama, Hawke, but, you know, maybe it's not a good idea to murder a city representative at a crowded Hightown courtyard," Varric muttered and couldn't help himself but admired Orsino's courage to stand up to, well, everyone.
"My, my, such a terrible commotion." A calm, nonchalant voice entered the quarrel suddenly. It was like Samael had heard a voice of reason in his head, since the blade disappeared in his shroud before he turned to the newcomer.
"Your Grace…" Hawke gave the Grand Cleric a subtle bow and it was hard to say who was more surprised by his unexpected and polite greeting he had just performed. Hawke's companions exchanged an astonished glance when Samael's head remained bowed like he wasn't able to face the grey wise depths of Elthina's inquiring eyes.
"This mage incites rebellion, Your Grace." Meredith rushed forward to explain what was going on. "I'm dealing with the matter, as always."
"I have ears, Meredith," Elthina remarked dryly, "the Maker would have me use them." She overlooked the whole scene and considered carefully her next words and actions. There was the frustrated Orsino desperately clenching his staff, Meredith, warped by a thirst for power, and the two-faced crowd that would hail to anyone strong enough to win this fight. And then there was Hawke. The enigmatic Hawke, infamous mercenary, smuggler and vanquisher of the Arishok. Elthina had to admit she expected Hawke to look different. Maybe a scarred tall scoundrel, chewing tobacco, or a little sly man with insincere smile and cunning eyes. Definitely not this young lad with long black disheveled hair and fire within his eyes. A lad who wasn't even able to look into her eyes properly for unknown reasons. Oh, she saw well that long sinuous blade in his hand just a second before it disappeared. But there he was, standing without a move in front of her with his head bowed in mute submission. Elthina sighed before she spoke again.
"I do not know nor do I care for what was said here. This matter won't be resolved at the city courtyard nonetheless," she glanced at Orsino and he understood her words were meant mostly for him. He felt silly. What was he thinking, nettling Meredith and pushing her over the edge of a mountain called insanity?
"But —" Meredith stepped forward and her exasperated face demanded at least punishment for the First Enchanter. Even the Grand Cleric's raised hand couldn't stop her outburst. "He should be clapped in irons! Made an example of what happens to those who are disturbing—"
"That's enough, Meredith." Elthina straightened up and the authority breaking through her serene face made the Knight-Commander to shut up. "This," Elthina gestured around her, "demeans us all. Surely you are able to see that. Go back to the Gallows and calm down, like a good girl," she gestured in the proper direction and Meredith had no other choice than obey that indirect order. "Young man," Elthina turned to the nearest Templar with an imperceptible smile on her lips, "see the First Enchanter back to his office. Gently, if you please," she granted Orsino a thoughtful gaze before her eyes found Hawke again.
"Champion," she addressed the young taciturn man and she simply stood in front of him as long until he finally looked at her. "You have my thanks for stepping in. I don't dare guess where this would ended if you hadn't interfered." Elthina decided to test Hawke; to make him think she didn't see that he was about to overreact and attack Orsino over a few harsh words.
"I didn't mean to meddle, Your Grace." Samael was no fool and he knew that she knew. Although he wasn't sure if she knew, that he knew, that she knew. Well, it was complicated. Elthina watched in silence Hawke's withdrawn face for a while before she spoke again.
"I would like to speak with you, Champion." Elthina glanced around her and she was well aware of the departing Meredith who stopped to hear what Elthina had been saying to Hawke. "In private," Elthina added casually. "Come to the Chantry when you have time to spare, Champion." Elthina's kind, yet imperative words left no space for Hawke to maneuver and avoid the confrontation with the Grand Cleric. What could she possibly want from a bad, blasphemous person like himself? There was no topic they could discuss together, no reason he should go there and talk to her. So why the hell he bowed in agreement and headed for the front door of his estate?
"Sheesh, Hawke, one would hope that book about diplomacy I gave you was supposed to teach you something." Varric collapsed on the sofa and clenched his heart in pretended shock. "Now I see I should've invested the coins I paid for the book into Antivan cigars or Nevarran wine," he belched and snatched a drink he found prepared on a table.
"At least he didn't kill anyone…" Aveline murmured and sat down. Her words were barely audible above the clinging of her armor.
"See?" Samael grinned and made a triumphant gesture. "I didn't kill anyone," he added a bit hysterically, pulled a cork out of the whiskey bottle with his teeth, spat it out and took a generous gulp. If anyone would take a closer look at their leader, they would see he was deeply upset after the encounter with the Grand Cleric. And even more upset after he realized the people of Kirkwall were counting on him, looking up at him, listening to him. He really was the Champion of Kirkwall and he was being ridiculous denying this inconvenient fact.
"Well, let's drink for that then." Anders raised his own glass of whiskey. "To Hawke who hasn't killed anyone today!"
"Yet," the self-willed dwarf murmured, but lifted up the glass as well.
"And the Maker wept…" Aveline sighed, but met Hawke's bottle with her own glass, if only a bit hesitant. She twitched when it chinked though. It was like a presage of horrible things that were about to happen in Kirkwall.
oOo
Once again Hawke found himself at Sundermount. He even ceased all attempts to curse himself anymore; it was futile after all. Occela was happily roaming around a vast glade and Samael watched him for a while before his feet took him inadvertently closer to the Dalish camp. Without difficulties, Hawke sneaked past the patrols and seated himself cheekily on a huge willow tree as usual. A full moon lit the whole camp that night with a silver light. A cold spring running through the camp sang of oblivion and branches upon Hawke's head waved in a gentle breeze. Samael leaned comfortably back on his seat and pressed his cheek against the coarse bark which smelled of resin and moss.
Quiet.
Peace.
A silhouette creeping along the rivulet.
Samael's eyes narrowed when he focused at the intruder, yet he remained motionless, making no sound which could easily startle the creeper who just skillfully jumped over the rivulet.
A rustle of folded vellum, almost inaudible hissing sound as the silhouette glanced around the camp, then back at the vellum, then once again at the arravels and tents around. Samael's heart skipped a beat when the stalker stuck the vellum back into a pocket and headed infallibly for the Keeper's tent. Hawke shifted on his spot and the moon reflected itself in a short blade in the stranger's hand. The thick branch Hawke had been sitting on a second ago was empty now.
The stranger felt his heartbeat in his throat, yet he wasn't doing this for the first time. It was something he had been trained to do after all. The Maker Himself approved of this deed after all. So why he jumped up in alarm when the wind in grass behind his back whispered of murder? The silhouette looked around wildly, brandishing its weapon in disquiet. But no – there was nobody nearby. Just wind, yes, it must have been wind. The silhouette turned back to the Keeper's tent and froze on the spot. Somebody stood there, motionless, while the wind was playing with long dark hair protruding from beneath the hood.
They stared at each other for one long minute, silent, still, estimating the unexpected opponent. Samael needn't bother guessing twice about the reason that man had come here for in the middle of night. An assassin. And as far as Hawke could tell, a well-trained, well-equipped assassin, expecting no resistance. It should have been a clean, easy job. The elves were supposed to find their Keeper dead in a bed in the morning, no traces of an intruder, no struggle, nothing.
Yet the hired assassin was now facing this tall, motionless ghost, whose intentions were revealed when Hawke slowly unsheathed his rapier and a short dagger. So… a protector then. The assassin sneered and mirrored Hawke.
Their duel was vicious, merciless and silent. Samael quickly learned he had no amateur in front of him and after five minutes he had to admit the guy was good. Hawke's wounded thigh hurt, a deep slash on his cheek throbbed, but Samael's attack was speeding up while the assassin was quickly tiring, yet until now he was able to parry Hawke's attack, which was something unnatural for Samael indeed.
Hawke knew well they could have been easily interrupted by the patrol or by Merrill, awakened by the fight, however quiet it was. Or the assassin would beat him and finish his job. Samael shuddered at this thought and marshaled his every resource of body and spirit, calling upon all of his abilities and strength. Block the pain, focus, kill. It was that simple. This needed to end and end quickly. He leaped forward, flying through the air, his hair whirling in streams behind him, his weapons aimed.
Utter silence settled at the Dalish camp once more after the assassin gave his death rattle, his writhing body stiffened and the dirt started drinking his blood voraciously. Samael collapsed in the grass right next to the corpse, panting and clenching his leg. The pain flooded him and he felt his own warm blood soaking his hands.
"Who the fuck were you," he muttered under his nose and groaned in pain when he reached for the vellum the assassin had in his pocket. A detailed plan of the Dalish camp, the Keeper's tent was crossed with fat red X. The worst part? The vellum carried the Templar insignia. Hawke dragged himself up on his feet again, hiding the incriminating vellum in his shroud. He felt dizzy, but it was Meredith's obvious intervention which was worrying him right now.
Samael's wandering eyes stopped at the cooling assassin and he didn't give it much thought before he arranged him into a calm sleeping position with his arms folded on chest and his weapons lying in his lap. He would never know whom he had killed that night and how he ended up with an assassination contract on a Dalish Keeper. Something prevented Hawke from simply leaving the camp and that something was Merrill of course. Perhaps this was the reason she came to Hawke. Perhaps she was scared, hunted, and he refused to even see her in his arrogance and wounded pride. She came for help and he let her down. Yes, he might make it better by taking down the assassin, but it was just one man. What would have happened if he hadn't been here tonight? Would Hawke have learned from a Kirkwall crier that the Dalish Keeper was murdered in her sleep?
Samael knew he should return to Kirkwall, leaving no traces of his presence behind, yet he couldn't move. His vanity didn't let him. With a quiet curse, Hawke stuffed his blood-stained handkerchief into the assassin's mouth and made sure the Amell crest embroidered on it was well-visible and prominent.
"Who are you?" a hoarse voice slashed the silence suddenly and Samael whirled around as fast as his exhausted body let him. An elf stood four feet away from him, unarmed, staring at him with wide-open lucid eyes. The elf blinked and the silhouette was gone. At the same time he felt a cold blade on his slender throat, yet he noticed the blade was quivering and the stranger behind his back was breathing heavily.
"What's your name?" That hushed velvet voice in his pointed ear sent shivers down the elf's spine and for a brief moment he couldn't move nor talk.
"Veryan," he replied finally and tried to peer at his tormentor's face. All he was able to glimpse before his head was forced to look forward were the blazing amber eyes and an ugly bleeding slash across the left cheekbone.
"You saw nothing, Veryan," Samael sizzled through his teeth clenched in pain. Indeed he considered the possibility to dispatch that nosy elf, but Merrill would kill him if he dared to touch one of her precious brethren. Well, he did leave his own crest here, so there was no reason to kill anybody else, right? Judging by these confused thoughts and a mist he had in front of his eyes, Samael vaguely realized he had lost a lot of blood and he needed a healer.
The elf turned around in surprise when the blade disappeared and thus he saw the stranger tumbling down into the grass, crawling away and leaving a smear of black fluid behind him. Before the elf could move, a silhouette of a beautiful stallion materialized from the shadows, heading straight away to the fallen stranger. The beast whinnied softly and it slowly fell to its knees when it was clear its master wasn't able to mount it on his own. The elf watched in rapture as the stranger clenched the long silver mane, pulled himself up into the saddle and the stallion straightened up again into his full impressive height.
Full moon silvered the whole camp that night, a cold rivulet was still running tirelessly through the camp and it was still singing. Only now it sang of death.
oOo
"Oh, good, you're back, Hawke! We kind of forgot ourselves here, sorry, playing cards, chilling out, you know. And I wanted to ask you… about… my…" Aveline's words trailed off when she actually looked up from her cards and saw Hawke supporting himself on a door frame.
"Don't let me disturb you. I think… I'll just sit… Right here..." Samael murmured and started slowly collapsing down along the wall. Anders managed to catch him before he fell down completely. Soon enough, the mist in front of Samael's veiled eyes started dissipating and he felt this warm wave inside of his veins, washing away the pain and exhaustion.
"Fool of a Hawke!" An outraged cracked voice exclaimed and everybody glanced in surprise at Ichabod who had been practically running down the stairs with a book in his hand. It looked like he was about to bludgeon to death the poor Samael with it. Ichabod had been feeling like he had been walking on pins and needles for the last few weeks during which his son had been disappearing and reappearing as he pleased, spending nights outside, wandering Maker knew where and doing Maker knew what.
Feeling much better thanks to Anders' magic, Samael supported himself on the elbows and frowned at the impudent old man. Oh yes, the goblet of Hawke's patience with that peculiar man just overflowed. Who was he that he dared questioning him all the time, ferreting about him and his business, watching him with both vigilance and gall? And now he dared approaching him in this demeanor, yelling over a teeny tiny scratch he had sustained, like he cared about him! Cared about him! How dared he? And why anyway? It was ridiculous! And what Ichabod meant by those words 'fool of a Hawke'? Did he know any other Hawke?
Samael forgot completely about his barely mended wound on his thigh as he swung his feet of the sofa and marched right in front of Ichabod. Anders wanted to object, but Varric was well-aware Samael was at the end of his patience with Ichabod. Just to confirm his thoughts, Samael pulled out a dagger in a blind rage as he pushed Bane against the wall and positioned the weapon precisely against Ichabod's racing heart. Killed by his own son, his own flesh and blood. Yeah, that made no sense to Ichabod, but, after all, his last few years of life weren't making any sense to him either. Warped by this frantic thought, Ichabod cackled, poked the dagger playfully with his finger and Samael started seeing through a red veil, panting, fuming and desperately searching for a reason not to push the blade into that insufferable being. He found none and Ichabod's dark cackling was growing louder and louder while the companions were gaping in awe at the absurd scene in front of them. The blade cut through the skin when Varric closed the distance between Hawkes and himself, clutching Samael's shoulder roughly, obviously unable to stand by and watch as his friend was murdering his own wacky father.
"Stop," he ordered Hawke with such a severity in his voice, that Samael actually listened to him.
"Why?" Samael asked, breathless, not taking his burning eyes off Bane's sneering face.
"Because he's your father," the dwarf uttered nonchalantly into the absolute silence. Oh, he loved drama indeed. Samael's hand holding the dagger dropped along with his mouth as he was watching in turns Ichabod and Varric. His head started shaking as he contemplated this information, realizing in horror that he knew it for weeks now. His father, who was supposed to be dead, was standing right in front of him, alive.
Malcolm Hawke. Alive.
Samael staggered a few steps away from him, watching him in disbelief. Malcolm's insane sneer was slowly vanishing. A dagger thudded on an expensive Orlesian rug. Nobody moved.
Malcolm Hawke. Very much alive.
Samael gasped when his back hit the wall and he groped it with his hands, looking for a way out. When he found the door, he tried to open it and succeeded when he tried it for the fourth time. A few steps towards the front door and he would be free of this nightmare. He would run away, far away, and never look back. His hand froze on the elaborate door knob when Malcolm shouted at him
"As I can see, running was and still is your answer for everything, son."
This simple statement broke Samael, shattered his mind into pieces, killed him. Thousands of memories connected somehow with his father flooded his already scattered mind. He slowly turned back and strolled in front of Malcolm who was watching him in suspense. Nobody even peeped.
"Go away." Samael's first attempt to send Malcolm out of his sight, out of his life, was almost inaudible.
"Go away." Samael leaned closer to his father, that even his hushed words were now perfectly clear and concise.
"Go away and never… come… back." Hawke hissed at his father with such a hate and scorn in his voice, Malcolm shivered and headed slowly for the front door in trance.
"Hawke…" Varric was about to reprimand the young rogue no doubt, but Samael's raised both palms stopped him. Anders simply stared at Malcolm's back as he slowly walked through the door, glanced back at his son for the last time and then he was gone.
"What did you want to ask of me, Aveline?" Samael couldn't believe his own voice asking with calmness about the things that didn't mattered right now. Nothing mattered. Nothing made sense anymore.
"Samael… I… Your father…" Aveline rambled when it was clear Hawke was waiting for her reply.
"Your question, Guards-Captain." Samael approached her, scowling, his eyes savage. He was about to lose it.
"Well, I wondered if there's a chance my wedding reception would take place here at your estate, Samael. But it can wait and surely you have other —"
"Permission granted. Ask that traitor," Hawke shot a glare at Varric, "to help you with preparations. He loves making parties and apparently stabbing friends in their backs." Samael didn't wait for some catty reply Varric would come up with no doubt, so he bolted out of the mansion, but not before he snatched a bottle of whiskey.
"Damn it…" was Varric's only comment before he collapsed on the sofa, hiding his head in palms. He felt, well, like a traitor indeed.
oOo
The bottle of Antivan whiskey was empty by the time Hawke reached the Hanged Man. He smashed it against the wall, spooking two lovers intertwined in a dark alcove and four cats snooping around for something to eat.
Corff cocked his head in thought when he had spotted Hawke making his way through the regulars towards the bar.
"Lord Hawke. Greetings," he spoke when Samael literally crashed into a bar, steadying himself on a solid wooden column. He had never seen Hawke in more sorry state than at that very moment. Drunk, disoriented, dirty, covered in blood and with no cloak despite the fact there was a spring early chilly morning outside.
"Just… in need of my lovely room, if you don't mind, Bowbitter." Hawke tried to focus at Corff's worried face, but gave up. The whole room was spinning around him. Hell, the whole world was spinning around him. He felt like the Maker Himself was toying with him for weeks just for His own personal amusement, turning Samael's life upside down just like that. Oh yes, Samael was gifted in many ways, but somehow he managed to screw up everything he had touched lately. It was like the Maker had been whispering in his ear fake advices, then rubbing his treacherous hands when something went wrong, laughing his sick fucking ass off. Look, but don't touch! Touch, but don't taste! Taste, but don't you dare swallow! And while Hawke was jumping from one foot to the other, the Maker fell off his throne, guffawing in tears. Worship something like that? Never! And Sebastian wondered why Hawke kept refusing to come to the Chantry; in only once.
"At your service, my Lord." Corff ruptured Samael's chain of muddled thoughts while he kept watching Hawke's face and he couldn't bear that sight of a broken man anymore. "What happened? Can I help?" he asked in a small voice, expecting insults or even threats from Hawke. Samael was thinking about those questions and decided to pass them with a joke; what else.
"Nothing a barrel of vintage Nevarran wine couldn't wash away," he replied and headed upstairs, swaying. Corff did notice Samael stopped by the table of frolicsome ladies, observed every each one of them carefully, before he nodded at the elven twins and continued in his way up. Corff just blinked in disbelief when the ladies followed obediently Hawke and closed the door of his room behind their backs, giggling.
"You are Hawke, aren't you," a woman purred when she started unbuttoning Hawke's dirty white shirt with broad bulbous sleeves.
"And you are a whore, aren't you," Samael countered with a venomous remark. The giggling stopped abruptly. "So shut up and make me… forget." Samael tossed a fat pouch of gold on the floor. The twins glanced at each other, shrugged and started giggling again. That request Hawke just had made was quite common after all.
oOo
A bland light of the spring sun started breaking through the early morning mist. Corff was about to turn in and his swollen eyes told Varric the young bartender had a long, long night.
"Where is he?" he lashed out at Bowbitter and kicked the overturned chair. Corff watched that outburst with his eyes narrowed into disapproving clefts, waiting for an apology. It was more than obvious Hawke and his companions were in trouble, but that was no reason to take it out on Corff or his property. Varric knew that as well, so he raised his palms in an apologetic gesture and exhaled loudly.
"Where is he?" the dwarf asked again, as calm and polite as he could be at this dire situation. Malcolm disappeared. Samael disappeared, too. Furthermore he was weak after his injury and he ran away last night like an insane person. Varric was worried; like really worried which wasn't normal for him.
"He came last night, grabbed some wine and women and went to his room. It's been only two hours since there was silence from the room, so I guess he's asleep finally," Corff glanced upstairs and sighed. Varric nodded and sauntered slowly towards Hawke's room, step by step, hesitant.
This scene was painfully familiar for the dwarf after he had opened the door. Room itself looked like after an explosion; scattered garments, pungent stink of alcohol, sweat and sorrow, and naked human entanglement on the messed up bed. Varric rolled his eyes and poked the whores as long as it took to wake them up and make them dress during which Varric had been staring outside the window intently.
"Did he pay you?" he asked hoarsely when they finished lacing up their bustiers which were more revealing than covering.
"Oh, he didn't have to…" the elder woman tittered and traced Hawke's well-defined back with her finger. That damned assassin didn't even move! Varric breathed a sigh of relief when they finally teetered away from the room and then he scratched his head, suddenly clueless. Why he had come here anyway? Damned Hawkes! Varric knew from the beginning Malcolm's plan had some serious flaws, like the one about Malcolm's crazy son. They almost killed each other last night – what a surprise.
Varric realized only now Hawke had been watching him with his swollen, barely open, still drunk eyes.
"Hawke…" the dwarf addressed his still-friend and tossed a blanket over his naked body.
"Varric…" Samael mirrored the dwarf, staying in his position. They gaped at each other in silence for a while, but then Varric realized he was angry. Well, angry, more like mad at Samael. The reckless boy threw out his own father last night, for the Maker's sake! Almost killed him in the first place! Not knowing how to come to terms with this fact, he grabbed the whores and liquor to make problems go away for a few hours, instead of dealing with them. Oh yes, Varric was furious.
"Samael, I just came here to say a few things," Varric's voice trembled as he sat down into the three-legged armchair. "Malcolm Hawke is alive. You kicked your father's ass out of your estate last night, without any regret. I promised I wouldn't tell you the truth about him and as much as it's hard to believe it – I do keep my promises." Samael opened his mouth to comment the dwarf's daring words and judging by his outraged, however sleepy expression, it would be nothing but accusation and insults. But Varric wasn't quite done with him, oh no. "Seeing you how you've been destroying yourself for weeks, tormenting those who care for you, I have come to a decision. Consider us no longer as friends, Hawke. Malcolm was and still is my friend, it's obvious you don't and you even won't treat him as my friend, but I won't let you hurt him, just like I haven't let anyone hurt you. Sure, you can come talk to me, have a beer or something, but do not consider me as your own personal punching bag or an adviser anymore. That would be all. Farewell, Hawke." Varric stood up hastily and headed for the door, too afraid, that Hawke would see those damned tears in his eyes.
"Varric…" Samael scrambled off the bed in panic, wrapping the blanket around him. "Varric, please…" he whispered, reeling as he brushed his hurting forehead with a palm. Maker, it felt like a dozen of tiny dwarves were gnawing tunnels in his head.
"You have been almost everything at some point in your life, Samael." Varric granted Hawke a sad smile full of sorrow and disappointment. "Everything, but never pathetic," he shook his head and opened the door. "Until now." Varric swept away a single tear roaming down his cheek and walked away.