Soon after they had recruited Anders, Varric found himself taking cover in a narrow back alley, huddling with the others while an alarm was sounded from the Chantry. Only a few feet away, Templars' boots pounded the ground, their heavy armor clanking and jostling as they passed by in a blur. Varric held his breath. If any one of those Templars decided to cast something to track the faintest vestiges of magic right there, they would all be done for. One glance over his shoulder revealed a pathetic scene: Bethany, crouching beside him, her face frozen in an expression of abject terror, Anders, behind her, his hardened glare focused on the activity beyond the alley, and Hawke at the very end, emitting a strong pissed-off vibe.
They finally risked scurrying from their hiding place once things appeared to quiet down. He and Hawke knew that if they lingered in the alley for too long, they were likely to end up being trapped and discovered. The Templars were still scattered, rushing inside the Chantry building, trying to make sense of why they'd been summoned. It was only a matter of minutes before they began dispersing to establish a perimeter, fanning their search out further. It was time to move. Hawke led the way, stealthily weaving through shadow, guiding them silently down deserted streets, on a heightened lookout for undesirable activity. They managed to reach the guard's headquarters at the Keep, where they could count on receiving shelter from Aveline, the Captain of the Guard.
Aveline greeted them warily.
"What is it now?" she whispered.
Only a few guards remained in the foyer at that hour: a few sentinels, a couple patrolmen finishing a report, and another guard preparing to retire for the night. Aveline was the only one among the guards who resided in the barracks full time.
"I have come to offer our services! Does the guard need our help on any missions tonight?" Hawke delivered theatrically.
Varric lowered his head and rubbed his forehead. She was a hopeless ham.
Aveline frowned, examining her friends' blood streaked faces, and rapidly ushered them towards her private office before anyone took real interest in them.
"Not tonight," she replied loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might have been listening in. "But there is another matter I'd like to consult with you about—a smuggling ring operating from the docks…" she embellished.
When the door was firmly locked behind her, she crossed her arms and took in their exhausted faces.
"All right. Who is going to tell me what happened?"
"That's what I want to know!" Hawke beat her chest with a splayed hand. "What the Fade just happened?" She leaned out of their lineup to glower at Anders.
"There were Templars everywhere," Bethany shivered, a haunted look on her face.
"You could have told us you were a healer AND a fucking nightlight!" Hawke accused Anders.
Aveline glanced uneasily at Varric. He rubbed his face again. Anders did not react to her words; he remained sullen and quiet.
"I thought we were just doing a courteous pickup at the Chantry. If I had known our activities tonight would have included putting a poor Tranquil mage out of his misery and fighting a bunch of Templars, I would have never dragged my poor sister to this shitstorm!" Hawke indicated a cowed Bethany, sitting on one of Aveline's chairs. She pointed at Anders. "And you have some explaining to do! What was all that…glowing?" she gesticulated exasperatedly, at a loss for words. "And don't try to deflect the question and be all funny and clever, saying something like you were having gas, because Maker help me, I'm going to—"
"Hawke," Varric interrupted. "Sit down," he ordered her calmly.
Aveline waited patiently, still staring at Varric. Hawke pressed her lips and scrunched her nose briefly before leaning against Aveline's desk quietly.
Satisfied he'd gotten her to quiet down somewhat, he began to explain to Aveline what had happened.
"We almost fell into a trap," Varric began. "We went to the Chantry tonight to help spring Anders' old friend loose…but it turns out someone was using him as bait to lure us out."
"Not just someone," Anders snapped. "Otto Alrik," he muttered darkly. "I swear I will avenge Karl."
"Apparently, Ander's friend was rendered Tranquil as punishment for exchanging correspondence with him," Varric continued. Aveline's face clouded. "Once we showed up, guess what lay in wait for us…"
Aveline clucked.
"What a mess."
"Let's take bets on what the official story is going to be tomorrow morning: "Apostates broke into the Chantry, Templars were killed in a scuffle..." Varric proposed. "I don't think Meredith will mind that we didn't wrap this present to her."
The redhead frowned.
"I hope you are wrong, Varric. The Knight-Commander has seized any and all opportunities to give her Templars even broader powers. They overrule the guard's authority and jurisdiction as it is. I pray we don't get another official proclamation declaring greater penalties for anyone aiding and abetting mages," she lamented.
Varric apprised her of a few more details while the others settled around the office tiredly.
"Wait another hour- make it look like you're in here sorting through some evidence I've shown you," Aveline proposed. "Your being here gives you a believable alibi," she explained. "So stay put and you can follow me when I and a few of my men go on patrol. We can walk down together: I have a beat along the docks today—I wasn't lying about that smuggling ring."
They wiped off the blood the best they could. Bethany curled up into the chair and fell into an uneasy slumber. Anders also surrendered to sleep, sprawling over the rug.
Hawke sat leaning against the wall, next to Varric. They both stared ahead despondently, bone-tired.
He shook his head and snorted.
"I don't know why anything surprises me anymore," he mumbled.
Hawke dragged herself closer and dropped her head on his shoulder.
"What are you doing?" he wondered, gazing at the tousled hair before his face.
"Do you ever think of writing all of this stuff down?" she wondered.
"Sometimes," he admitted. "But who would want to hear about all this crap we wade through?"
"I would," she confessed. "You have a way of making it sound so…so…badass."
"I suppose you can't make this stuff up," he murmured, his nose and lips brushing over strands of her hair. It was fine, soft, and smelled of soap.
"You should write about all the messes we find ourselves in," she yawned.
He nodded.
"Mhm. Come to think about it: I do have a lot of material already."
"If you do ever commit our adventures to writing, you have to promise me one thing."
"What?"
"Promise!" she demanded.
"I don't even know what I am promising...but fine!" he sighed.
"You better describe me like Genevieve Feathers," she warned him.
He burst out laughing at her request to portray her as one of the sultry, alluring exotic dancers at The Blooming Rose.
"Gimme some real good cleavage too," she chuckled. "And a cool tattoo."
He was still grinning.
"A tattoo of what?" he humored her.
"I dunno…A dragon…" she suggested.
"How about a spray of roses on your shoulder—you'd rarely wear sleeves...or much of anything, anyway," he joked.
"I like it! I like it!" she concurred, snuggling up closer to him. "Although we both know what any tattoo I get should say."
"What's that?" he asked, enjoying her proximity, her head resting on his shoulder, that silly conversation he could only ever indulge with her.
"It would be written across my forehead and it would say: 'If found, please return to The Hanged Man.'"
He chuckled.
"You know what the only good thing about this rotten city is?" she continued sleepily.
"What's that?" He rested his head over hers and let his bleary eyes close.
"You," she whispered.
He brushed his forehead over her hair affectionately.
Even as they both gave in to their exhaustion and would later wake up complaining about the stiffness that had settled in their limbs, the faint smile remained on Varric's lips long after they'd fallen asleep.