The air in the Hanged Man was less air and more whatever happens to beer once its been through a man's body, often several times over. You could bottle it. In fact, Anders wasn't entirely sure that wasn't the main component of the 'Landlord Special'.
Isabela leaned in and gave him a heavy-lidded smile. 'Something on your mind, droopy?'
His reply stopped in his head; his jaw was stiff. He managed to shake his head, with more effort than seemed necessary.
'Why is it that nothing seems to interest people so very much? Do share.'
'You would be very disappointed.' He'd said it wrong. Hearing himself, he sounded stern.
'Don't believe a word of it. He's very … appointing.' Hawke settled onto the bench between them. 'What? Weren't you talking about sex?'
'We are now.' Isabela smiled as Hawke began regaling her with sordid gossip regarding the upper echelons and their unusual proclivities.
Anders wasn't listening. Work at the clinic meant he could contribute more than enough to the conversation but today he didn't feel like sharing, not even with names removed. The triviality of their concerns grated; Isabela, Hawke, all these ignorant humans feasting themselves on waste and idleness. The buzz of the tavern spun round his ears, but he couldn't distinguish any words. Was he drunk? It couldn't be that; drinking clouded the judgement and dimmed purpose. It made the walls stretch away in green, glassy planes.
Isabela slurped her dirnk noisily as Hawke enacted a particularly vulgar motion. The candle in front of him sputtered; the wax almost burned to the base. What time was it? Anders didn't remember the sky when they arrived. Now that he thought about it, he couldn't even remember arriving. The candle flickered again, its long stem in full bloom.
Wait -
'Hawke!' Isabela snapped. 'Your man is without a drink. How do you expect to get any if he's not pliant?'
His drink. Was it full before? He wanted to look, but couldn't persuade his body to do it. It was as though someone else was operating his body. He focused on the sensation of the glass in his hand, tried to inspect it, throw it, but the feeling was dulled and his arm unresponsive.
Panic rose like bile in his throat. 'Wait!' The command was barked before he'd even thought it.
'It's fine.' Hawke rose. 'I like the idea of you pliant.'
Isabela's hand whipped across the table and fixed itself across his lips. Her smile was playful but the grip was harsh. 'There, young one.' Her voice was a hiss of velvet. 'The Champion won't be denied.'
The moment Hawke stepped away from their table she narrowed her eyes. Their whites darkened to a deep purple. Now his arm was raising, he could feel his muscles readying to thrust his fist into her body.
She smiled and put a finger to her lips. 'Shhh.'
With more force that he thought possible she shoved him back. He flew across the tavern, landing hard against the wall. Winded, he opened his eyes to see he'd gone straight through. He picked himself up, momentarily glad for his unusually distant body cushioning him from the pain. No-one in the place had noticed his improbable journey, but they would notice his response. He thought to use magic, but instead his arms pulled back to swing. Strength felt like instinct. He barrelled forward and a barrier knocked him flat.
Shocked, he pushed forward, to find his way barred by an invisible wall. Shouting threats he hadn't conjured, he kicked and pounded his fists at the solid air. Nobody acknowledged him, save for the Isabela-shape, who blew him a kiss. He could hear the noise in the tavern just fine; picking out her syrupy tones as Hawke returned from the bar. She thanked him for the glass as he sat, momentarily confused.
Hawke wore a frown, as though he had forgotten something important, but it dissolved as Isabela directed the conversation again.
'So, sweet thing, I brought you here for a proposition.'
'If I remember correctly, the last time I accepted one of your propositions, the bruises lasted for weeks.'
The Isabela-thing laughed, a scraping, scratching sound, and Anders thumped the air.
'It's not real! For the love of everything, don't trust her!' He tried to shout, but didn't hear the words come out. He pounded again; his fists tight rocks cracking with fissures.
'Only good bruises last. Think of them as a signature.'
The familiar green taint stained everything in the bar, but even without it Anders could see the seams of the illusion. The patrons were stuck in a cycle of repeated actions; there were no signs of life, no sound or movement behind the closed doors off the main bar; the bar itself had no stock except for the bottles staged on its top. It was all so obvious.
He'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be in the Fade. This was Justice's realm and he was usually happy just to let him stand a steady, dull watch until sunrise. Or earlier. This time they'd both been caught off guard, their exchange caught up in trickery. The thought stirred a very tangible anger and Anders was overwhelmed by it. He had to remember that here he was the passenger.
'What's this proposition, then?' Hawke was light, and teasing as he leaned into the false Isabela. 'And is it likely to involve me getting maimed, mangled or otherwise attacked by unscrupulous characters?'
'Only if you want it to.'
Hawke laughed. 'You know me. A day's not complete without a sword pointed at a favourite part of my anatomy.'
'Then come with me, Hawke. You, me, a ship -' she put a possessive hand on his arm, 'the sea, adventure, wenches of all varieties...'
'You're forgetting something quite important.' Hawke dragged his finger through a pool of thick liquor. He gave a light tap and the streak took hold fiercely with a blue-tinged flame. 'Most people don't like my party tricks.'
Isabela smirked and snuffed it out with the slam of an arm. She leaned forward conspiratorially. 'The magic doesn't matter; I've heard of a place where there isn't any trouble. North of Rivain, where the Chantry's gold doesn't reach.'
She didn't have Hawke's full attention. He was sniffing his fingers and studying the table quizzically. Anders could have laughed with delight. Yes. He tried to push the encouragement through the world, out through his remote body, Nothing in this place is that pure.
She lay a hand on his arm. 'Hawke? Isn't that what you want? Get away from all this … nonsense.'
He looked at her intently. 'What's the trick, Isabela?'
She placed both hands on the table, palms open. 'I need a cabin boy to scrub my - '
Hawke flicked his hand into her cuff and pulled one of her hidden aces. 'Cards on the table, Isabela. What's going on?'
She grinned, then caught Hawke's expression and pouted at the table. Eventually she shrugged and the cocky confidence slipped away, as though she'd shed a skin. She fixed Hawke with a deep, earnest stare and said, 'Oh shit.' She scratched the back of her head. 'You did something very nice for me. Why can't you stop being a big dumb hero and let someone help you for once?'
It was hard not to be impressed, even as Anders felt his arms hammering fruitlessly at the barrier. The Isabela's eyes creased by years of laughter at their corners, but their deep brown shimmered with embarrassed regret. It was an excellent portrait.
Hawke relaxed and kicked his feet up on the bench. 'Cabin boy, eh?' He fingered the rim of his glass. 'So would I spend more of my time above or below deck?'
She slipped an arm around his neck. 'Above deck. Can't you just picture it? Fresh air, freedom and space to run. Isn't that what you want?' Dark fingers slipped within his collar.
Hawke turned his mouth to her ear. Despite his low whisper, Anders could hear him clearly. He was being taunted. 'And my responsibilities? Polishing the deck and shinning the mast?'
'Whatever you like, sweet thing.'
Glasses jumped as Hawke grabbed her neck and slammed her head to the table. The partrons jumped in unison. Their shock was mirrored in the face of the Isabela-demon.
'Hawke!'
'You're not Isabela. Isabela would never let those awful jokes pass her by.'
The crowd was staring and motionless; puppets directed by one hand. Hawke kept his grip tight on the back of her neck and growled. 'So what's the trick?'
'Very well.' Long nails shot from nowhere and scraped across his face. The surprise gave her the chance to worm from his grip and dance away, no trace of blood where her face had been smashed into the wood.
They faced each other over the table, their backs rigid and bristling like warring Mabari. 'I've been through this before,' Hawke scoffed, 'why don't you guys use a little imagination? Offer me a golden pony, a pair of self-buckling trousers.' As he spoke, Hawke's worked at his cuffs. He was searching for his weapons, but Anders knew he would find none. Not here.
Anders shouted in impotent horror as Justice piloted his body out into the darkness behind him. You can't leave him! Don't leave him! When the response came it travelled through the air and in his head in unison. 'I am attempting to find a way.'
Hawke was still talking, inching sideways as he gestured about. 'Instead, you give me this place. I mean, I didn't even like it much when it was my home.' His hand was at the neck of a bottle. He gripped it tight and smashed the end away. Immediately, he was swamped by the patrons, their faces eerily blank even as they gripped his arms behind his back.
Justice pushed on into the dark, but despite his determined steps they got nowhere. There was nowhere to go to; they ran into nothingness and dragged the awful scene with them. He turned and watched helplessly as Hawke was wrestled by the vacant mass at the mercy of the demon.
Justice! Why can't you do something? He sent the thought as loud as he could, even as he knew the answer. The response fell fully formed in his head, more ideas than words. This was her place, and made for Hawke. Which meant it wasn't their fight. The knowledge solidified into doubt and despair; Hawke would lose alone. Anders fought against his own pessimism. Hawke was still struggling – Anders focused on that. On the set of his jaw, the clenched teeth and the arrogant brow. He would beat it. Anders channelled all his belief – all his foolish and petty admiration – into hope, because this was Hawke.
The Isabela smoothed her hair. Wisps of it were curling into horns that beckoned coyly from the sides of her head. 'They will not hurt you.' She purred. Hawke took this as an invitation to kick the closest one viciously in the leg. The demon flinched as it cried out and fell to the floor. Immediately, another took its place.
'They will not hurt you.' She repeated. 'But they want you to listen.'
She prowled around the tables. 'It is much more interesting this way. You have bested my trick; I cannot fool you. If we are to end this well, I must give you a genuine offer. One of real value.'
She raised a hand, and everything changed. The bar shifted – its sticky frame retreated behind a long table and a throng of people. The high ceilings descended, their drapes replaced by beams upon which were speared many scraps of paper. They bore pronouncements displaying a range of content and competence; if Anders squinted he could just make out 'Ifan Jones owes me 8 silvers and not a penny less', and several unpleasant scribbles about a Frederic Broun.
The mob had disappeared from Hawke. The patrons here seemed to have no interest in him. Released, Hawke thrust himself forward, colliding with a chair that had not been there a moment ago. The demon tutted as he pulled himself to his feet. Chastened, he took in his new surroundings. The air heaved with shouts and laughter, and the occasional peep of a lute as it strained to be heard through the din.
'Yet another bar? I dread to think the impression I must give.'
'Not another bar. A new bar.' The demon was still Isabela, but her brow was noticably sharper and her eyes were dark. She seemed to glide rather than walk across the room. 'A whole new place to tame. To own.'
She moved gently among the the people. They were too busy drinking, loving or fighting to notice her presence. She gestured to a lone figure in a shadowy corner. It was a young woman, head bent so that her hair mostly obscured her face. She was sobbing quietly, twisting a piece of fabric between her fingers. A handkerchief? A scrap of clothing? It was hard to tell.
'I wonder what she needs? And I wonder if anyone here is ever likely to ask?'
Hawke scroffed and stalked closer to the demon, but Anders saw the glimmer of interest that he failed to hide. Dodging Hawke's progress, the demon ducked behind a card-strewn table. She placed her hands on the shoulder of the most successful player. His smile was crooked and confident as he stroked his cards with long fingers. She let him notice her and accepted a wink from unusually green eyes. He was handsome, if handsome hadn't shaved for days and then rolled through a brewery.
'What makes him so good at this game? Is he good? Does he cheat?' She peered into his hand and raised an eyebrow. 'And what does he spend all those winnings on? It certainly is not clothes.' She flicked the frayed edge of a greying collar.
Green-eyes gave a deep, triumphant laugh as he displayed another winning hand. His frustrated opponent stood to complain, only to find himself toppled as the handsome player landed a swift kick to his chair under the table. The fallen man swore and spat as the table stuttered into full blow laughter. Hawke had stopped to watch and his eyes widened to see the cursing man rise with an outstretched dagger. Green-eyes threw his hands up in shock, attempts at sweet talk tailing off as muscles bunched and the dagger cut the air.
A chair exploded as the would-be assailant was thrown to the floor by the full force of Hawke.
Metal skittering across the floor was the only sound in the room. In a flash the demon swooped and picked up the knife. Everyone else was still, frozen in their stages of shock, anger, or in one particular case, green-eyed relief.
Hawke shoved himself to his feet, chest heaving. His eyes were wild, and more alive than they'd appeared in a long time. The demon twirled the knife curiously before tossing it away. 'Don't you just hate a bully?' she asked. Hawke was still panting, skin twitching. He was glowing, lit from the inside by something Anders couldn't understand but recognised enough to fear.
The demon's voice was honey. 'The war has not reached here, but there is always trouble.' She said the word with reverence, as though laying out a prize offering. 'Think of all the things you could change here. Think of all the things you could do.'
Gone was the fury and the fight. Hawke's expression was desperate; the picture of a man lost. 'I'm too old for this.' He managed.
'Oh, but that's the best part.' She sayshayed towards him and took his hand. He hesitated, but did not resist as she pulled him across the room.
They were coming toward him; she must have a plan for them, too. Anders thrilled. Whatever bargain she offered, Hawke would never sacrifice a friend.
No matter what they've done? That voice was not Justice; that shame was all his. Gripped with new fear he screamed to be heard. His voice forced its way through his hijacked jaw. 'Hawke! Don't listen to her. You know what she is!'
Hawke's eyes boggled in surprise and he stepped closer to Ander's prison. He grew closer and larger than seemed possible. Anders could only see him from the chest up. But that was all he needed to see. Hawke himself was changed. Gone were the creases and lines, the early specks of grey at his temple. Hawke was tracing his face in wonder. 'What does the glass show you?' The demon spoke and Anders finally realised where he was trapped. Of course a looking glass would be the thing to finally come between them.
'Vanity.' Justice's voice was heavy with condemnation.
The demon continued: 'A young man. The world his for the taking. Wouldn't you like to take it properly this time? Grab it by the scruff of the neck and see what you can make of it?'
Hawke was breathless, eyes gleaming with adventures not yet taken and loves not yet pursued. He ran his fingers over full and youthful cheeks.
'You shallow, self-absorbed fool.' Justice and Anders were united as they pounded the glass. The staring face did not flinch as blows rained down upon it a hair's breadth away.
'And what do you get out of this arrangement?' his voice was hoarse. 'A warm, fuzzy feeling?'
The demon laughed. 'I get time.' Its eyes were now fully black and they lingered on Hawke like a tender piece of meat. 'You don't get something for nothing. We take time from one end – from your miserable dotage – and you reclaim it as youth. As a new beginning! The process is...' she inhaled deeply, 'exhilarating.'
There was silence. Hawke splayed his hands and leaned against the wall. He stole a glance at his own arms; full, muscular, with none of the waste of a life on the run.
Preening son of a bitch. Anders wrenched control of their hand, ramming it onto the glass and sending electricity rippling across its surface. It hissed and spat back at him but made no difference to the man on the outside.
'I have a duty.'
'Your mission?' she scoffed. 'Your mission will fail. They will not let you achieve it. You know this.'
'I don't believe you can do it.'
'You know better than others the potential of the Fade. How little you truly know of our worlds. If we work together … what could be achieved?'
Hawke was gasping now, the corner of his jaw twitching. He closed his eyes and wrenched himself from the glass. He had decided.
Anders saw with glee the panic in the demon's eyes. 'There is one further offer. For your defeat of me, I offer you a wish. I would not send you alone. You may take one with you.' The demon's voice had changed; it was lighter, younger. A girl's voice.
Hawke turned, and gasped at the sight of a young woman with pale skin and soft eyes. She had the same mouth as Hawke. The demon smiled as he reached out to touch her dark hair.
'To start again. To do it right this time.' The demon changed again; dark hair became grey. Hawke snatched his hand back as he stared into the face of Leandra.
'I could watch my son grow.' she smiled. Anders shivered to remember the last time he'd seen that smiling face, eyes white with some unspeakable corruption. He could not see Hawke's face, but his shoulders were tight. Anders remembered the days spent under the silent weight of despair and blame, that swallowed her loss and lingered still around the memories of his mother and sister. How could he resist?
The demon shifted again. 'Or perhaps the one who never got to see his son become a man.' That deep voice – Anders remembered it cutting through the infernal whisperings in the depths of the Vimmarks. Malcolm Hawke had Carver's jaw; it jutted proudly even beneath the thick trimmed beard. The top of his face was all Garrett, the thick brow, the slim, haughty eyes, irises as dark as the pupils.
Hawke himself seemed struck by the resemblance. He reached out to touch the too-familiar face, palms to cheek. A coil of frustration bunched in Anders' throat and he felt Justice's muscles tighten in tandem. It was awful to recognise helplessness in his friend. Together, they pushed their body fully against the glass. Perhaps, if they tried hard enough, they could fall right through. Or fall out of this nightmare completely.
They stared helplessly at Hawke's back as the man slowly caressed the monster's face. He stood transfixed, watching Malcolm's foul smile as his hands moved slowly across his temples. Hawke paused, then twisted its head with a violent wrench. The monster screeched as it fell to the floor. Its illusion was shattered and its purple neck laid slack and misshapen.
'My mother was brought back once.' The desire demon squirmed feebly as Hawke raced fire across its chest. 'She didn't like it.'
The thing howled and the frozen patrons descended on Hawke at once. They had been still and silent but they were inescapably vocal now – each squeal from the demon setting off an unholy chorus of screams.
They set on Hawke with clawed fists, acting in unison but as a messy swarm rather than a coordinated unit. Hawke used this to his advantage, waiting until they clustered to slam them to the ground, or send scorching blasts through their ranks. Each fell easily – the danger was their number which Hawke quickly whittled down. The demon herself posed little threat, her energy was expended sustaining the mob and as each sputtered and fell she let out a fresh howl. By the time the final one fell, her cries were mere whimpers. She barely had the energy to plead as Hawke slammed his boot into her skull. Once, twice. A sickening crack and it was over.
Anders slumped with relief, and found himself supported by the same barrier as before. The bar, the shimmering green walls, he and Hawke, they were still here. How?
'We must be freed!' His voice rumbled with authority, but it went unanswered.
Hawke seemed troubled, too. He sank to a bench and held his head between his knees. Even now he couldn't hear Justice's shouts. Or doesn't care to, the traitorous voice whispered. He swallowed the guilt, a weak, unhelpful emotion.
The stillness dragged forever before Hawke shoved himself upright. He stalked towards the glass, eyes filled with purpose. Justice placed their head against the glass and Anders coiled all his need and desperation into an arrow to send out into the world. Feel me. Please feel me.
Hawke studied his youthful face before closing his eyes with a sigh. That twist of his mouth – what did that mean? Normally he would know, but through Justice's eyes it was hard to make sense of it. What was wrong now?
Hawke snapped to and scowled at his reflection. Without warning he thrust his fist in the looking glass. Shards flew and the illusion shattered. As the world around them crumbled, Hawke's hand drove through the dissolving barrier.
His fist connected with full force to Anders' face.
