Author's Note: I apologize for the long delay, but such is life. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. I appreciate the feedback, truly I do.

Honestly, I never really gave Isabela much consideration during the game itself, but in this story…I don't know. She's probably one of my favorites. I just hope I can give her the characterization that she deserves.

As for a Carver/Merrill romance, I don't know how far I'm going to develop that, but I did want to mention it at the very least. Carver's an insufferable prat at times, but the little "romance" with Merrill in-game was absolutely charming. (Also, I initially had a much different plan for Merrill, but then she ended up being written as a prostitute…I don't know what happened. It sounds cliché, but the characters write this story, not me. I'm just here to tap away on the keyboard so the pretty words appear on the screen.)

Ten

New York Harbor

February 18, 10:24 PM

The prow of their ship broke through the night-darkened waves, seeming to Garret how the tip of a quill pressing through a pool of ink might look. Zevran steered the little vessel expertly, humming a little tune as he maneuvered the ship towards an open port. Bodahn and Sandal moved about the deck tying off ropes and pulling in sails; Garret helped where he could, but for the most part just tried to stay out of the way of the motley crew's routine system.

Zevran steered the ship into a berth and before Garret could blink, Bodahn and Sandal were out on the dock and tying the vessel off. It had been a similar process in Lisbon when they had landed and although Garret had spent much of the voyage trying to learn what he could about sailing, Zevran and his crew always had matters under hand before he could even attempt to help.

"Home sweet home, sì?" The Italian patted Garret on the shoulder as he passed, headed for the trapdoor in the prow of the ship.

For the first time—and he hadn't even realized it—Garret looked up at the tall buildings of New York. He hadn't seen the city in nearly two months, and yet…nothing looked different. There were the same dark shapes, the same foggy sky…the same feeling of being so small, so insignificant, in a world that did not even deign to recognize his existence. When Garret looked upon the vast expanse of America's veritable heartland, he did not see opportunity—he did not see freedom.

If anything, he saw only a cage; not even very well gilded, at that.

"Do you plan on standing around all night, then?" Zevran's voice queried, breaking through the gloom of the young man's thoughts.

Sighing, Garret forced himself to focus on the matter at hand. He wasn't on a pleasure cruise; there was a job to be done. There was always a job to be done.

Outside the Hanged Man

February 19, 1:26 AM

It had taken them a little under two hours to unload the ship's illicit cargo and transport it via wagon to Zevran's warehouse. Zevran handed the crates up from the hull to Garret, and Garret lowered them over the edge of the ship to Bodahn who stacked them neatly in the same small wagon Zevran, Garret, and Aveline had used the night they had met. Sandal could usually be found sitting on the dock not too far off, feet bare and swinging over the gently lapping waves below. The boy was a hard worker—just like his dad—but there were times when his attention wandered and there was no getting him back on track.

"Took 'im to a doctor once," Bodahn had explained to Garret one night at sea after Sandal, who had been in the middle of swabbing the deck, suddenly began waltzing with the mop. "Might be a few loose screws in the boy's 'ead. Dunnae really know for sure. But, he's a good lad through and through. A good son, even if blood dunnae tie us."

And that was that. Sandal would do his own thing and Garret found that, despite his initial reservations, he was charmed by the boy. Perhaps it was because Sandal seemed so innocent, so removed from the filth of the world. Perhaps…

Zevran brought the wagon to a lumbering stop as they reached the back alley where the Hanged Man's cellar doors waited. Garret silently cast his swarming thoughts to the four winds as he moved to open the double doors set down towards the grimy earth. The pair then began unloading their illicit cargo into the depths of the tavern's cellar, stacking box after box to replenish the room's depleted store. It had been a long winter.

When the last crate was securely tucked away, Garret moved to unhitch the old nag from their wagon while Zevran went to meet with Varric and inform him of their successful venture. The nag—or Nat, as Aveline was fond of calling her—grudgingly followed Garret into her small stable behind the tavern. Garret kept the nag in one eye at all times: all the crew of the Hanged Man had learned never to underestimate the old horse. Nat wasn't a particularly vicious beast, but she was stubborn and a bit spiteful at times. Aveline called her playful since the big Irishwoman was the only person Nat didn't periodically bite; Varric called her conniving, especially after she had once taken him off guard with a lazy swat of a back hoof that sent the small man tumbling to the muck. She had yet to do anything too horrible to Garret other than nibble on his ears on occasion when he was mucking out her stall. Whichever way a body looked at the horse, though, she was definitely a character.

Sated with a serving of hay and oats, Nat summarily forgot Garret's existence as he patted her side on his way out of the barn. He quickly closed the cellar's double doors and fastened them with a large, sturdy-looking padlock. That done, Garret made his way around the building to the tavern's main entrance, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his mind.

At the door to the tavern, Garret paused. He wasn't sure why, there was just something in the air that had forced him to stop. Wary, Garret took in his surroundings, searching each shadow with the practiced ease of one accustomed to life on the streets. Nothing was out of the ordinary; no one was near. At least so far as he could tell. And yet…something felt wrong. Not the kind of "something" one could put a finger on; more a gut feeling than any actual of danger. The city wasn't the same one Garret had left on his sojourn to Portugal. The change wasn't a thing to be seen by the eyes, but rather sensed in the ethereal way that a body seems to know its home.

"Garret?"

A gruff, familiar voice. He turned towards the tavern's door.

Aveline's figure met him, holding the wooden portal open for him. From that uncharacteristic gesture alone, Garret knew something was wrong. The look of uncertainty floating in the green depths of the Irishwoman's eyes only made the feeling more acute.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"You'd best come inside," she said, and then disappeared around the corner of the door before he could protest.

With no other real options—curiosity and apprehension digging their cold fingers into his gut—Garret swiftly entered the tavern behind her. The main room looked much the same as it had upon his departure: wooden tables, smooth wooden floor, long wooden bar. The place was empty, which was a bit odd but not so odd as to cause worry.

Garret turned to where Aveline leaned against the inner doorframe, arms crossed over her muscled chest.

"What's with all the secrecy?" he asked, casting one last glance around the empty room before settling on the forbidding redhead once more.

"Well," Aveline began, "I'm not quite sure how you're going to take the news."

Brow furrowed, Garret mimicked the woman's crossed-arm stance. "You could start by telling me said news. Then we can go from there."

Aveline sighed gustily, eyes sliding closed for a moment. For the first time, Garret found himself wondering when the lines around the woman's mouth had grown so deep. He knew that the Irishwoman held a few years over him, and yet he had never thought of Aveline as that old. Looking at her now, with the sparse lamplight barely illuminating the woman's face, Garret found himself seeing a side of Aveline that almostbespoke frailty. Almost.

When she looked back up at him, her eyes seemed almost apologetic: "Your brother showed up a couple of days ago."

The news struck Garret like a fist to the gut. He blinked at her as the words sunk in. Aveline sighed again.

"He showed up one night out of the blue and has been shacking up with Merrill ever since."

Garret attempted to clear the lump in his throat before asking, "A-and is that where he is now?"

"I assume."

"I see."

For months, Garret had tried not to think about his wayward brother. The pain of betrayal was still far too fresh and glaring, not to mention the guilt. Every time Carver drifted into his thoughts, Garret found that he could no longer picture the minute details of the boy's face; all that Garret saw was a burning red, for reasons born of both fury and shame. It was yet another mark against his name, another fault that Mother could use in her fuel against her eldest son. Leandra hadn't said much since Carver's departure, but Garret could see the blame in her eyes every time she looked at him. It was part of the reason he had agreed to accompany Zevran. Part of the reason he found himself wishing for something…else.

It was Aveline's turn to clear her throat to break up the uncomfortable silence that had stretched after the minor revelation. She had witnessed the silent war raging behind Garret's eyes, but, as ever, Aveline was the kind of person who respected the privacy of others. Garret was a longtime acquaintance—perhaps even a friend—but even so, Aveline doubted that he would like any kind of audience to the pain so clearly evident on the weary planes of his face.

"You, uh, could probably go up and see him if you want…"

A visible shudder ran through Garret's body at her words, as if Aveline's voice had violently drawn him out of some deep reverie. He looked up at her, eyes glassy and uncomprehending; instead of speaking, Aveline just waited for her words to sink in.

At last, the fog in his eyes seemed to clear: "No. No, that's all right. I'm sure…it can wait 'til morning." Scrubbing a hand over his face, Garret sighed. "I don't suppose there's an open room up there? I don't think I have the energy to walk home…"

"I have an extra pallet," she said. "If you don't mind that, you can spend the night in my room."

"Thanks, Aveline. I appreciate it."

She reached and squeezed the young man's shoulder with reassuring firmness. "Don't mention it."

Garret smiled wearily at her, the lines of exhaustion and inner turmoil etched across the rough planes of his face. Aveline wondered why she had never been able to see those lines before; perhaps he had been better able to hide them then. But something had happened—was happening—and the walls around Garret's tight self-control were beginning to crumble. Loyalty and love made Aveline hope that she would be nearby when the whole façade finally fell even as they made her fear the day it would.

"Oh, and by the way…"

Garret halted on the stairs leading up to the tavern's rooms, eyebrow cocked as he turned to look over his shoulder at the woman.

"Varric has hired a few new…people," Aveline finished. "He seems to believe that we are in need of new blood to keep this place running."

Confusion furrowed the man's brow. "That's odd. Wouldn't paying more prostitutes drain our funds even more?"

Aveline shrugged and was about to answer, when someone else beat her to it:

"Ser Tethras seems to believe that some variety would do well to pick up business."

That voice—familiar, velvety-smooth, haunting, damning and yet so utterly dead beneath the embroidered façade—pierced Garret's heart with the force of a javelin. Slowly, slowly, he turned back towards the stairwell, eyes lifting (not wanting to see) to behold the golden-haired image of a man standing at the top. Honey-colored eyes gazed back him (so cold) levelly; Garret had the feeling that he was recognized—known—and yet, at the same time, held in disdain, as of a fly caught in the web of a glutted spider.

"…Anders?" he said, voice barely more than an exhalation of breath.

"My friends and I are quite good at what we do," Anders continued as if Garret had not spoken, "and I agree with Ser Tethras's assessment." He bowed rigidly. "I look forward to working with you, Ser Hawke."

Garret found that it was difficult to draw breath. His lungs were working furiously, expanding and deflating with all the power of a bellows, and yet he couldn't breathe. Dark spots were beginning to line the edges of his vision; his head ached. Lips moved without sound; fists clenched open and closed without feeling; eyes fluttered without seeing.

"Hawke?" Aveline's voice said behind him, but he was beyond hearing.

Above him, Anders continued to gaze down, implacable. Those honey-colored eyes (painfully beautiful) watched him, dispassionate, as Garret found himself quickly beginning to descend into darkness.

Anders, he wanted to say—to scream! Anders, please. Don't do this. I'm…I'm…

Lucidity vanished, though he didn't know it; legs buckled, though he didn't feel it. All that Garret saw was the darkness closing in around that golden-hued frame of the man who had become his greatest, deepest longing…and his ugliest nightmare.