… the blade descended.
Time slowed.
A cry rang out.
A thud when the razor sharp edge of the axe buried itself in the block.
Wait…
Hawke opened his eyes. He had not screamed. He had not screamed because he had not felt any pain, but somebody was screaming alright.
Above him, his torturer and would be maimer waved his arm around, a shaft stuck through his wrist. Hawke almost smiled a little, he wasn't above enjoying himself when other screamed and others bled. And the man was bleeding. Profusely. The artery, he noted to himself. An expert shot.
He should have cheered, but it felt too hard when just clinging to his consciousness was a chore, and then a furred shadow leapt onto the platform, bringing the torturer down.
"Wolf!" A cry rung out from the crowd, panic spreading because there were screams now, howls of pain and fangs tearing flesh and ouch, that did not look nice at all. The 'wolf' had just torn open the man's gut, tearing at his intestines. It wasn't a wolf at all really, Hawke noticed through a distant veil of pain and shock. It was a mabari sans kaddis. People could be so stupid sometimes. And the guards looked too afraid to charge the beast.
Just like they should be.
There was smoke now, filling the air, and fire and screams and more panic. People were so noisy, he just wanted to sink to the floor in a dead faint, but his trapped hand made that less than comfortable. Perhaps he should escape. That would serve them right. The axe was still embedded in the block an inch from his hand, it wasn't that hard to budge it enough to sever the leather thongs that held his hand immobile.
There. That's better.
People were rushing the platform now, but the mabari was there, all teeth and claws and the smoke was growing heavier and Hawke decided it was easier to just roll off the platform. He was still chained, so once he had fallen to the cold and muddy ground his escape turned into a crawl. The crowd was hundreds of feet milling about, sometimes tripping over him, sometimes stepping on him, but there was no smoke down here and if he remembered the scent right, that was a lucky break. Just the right mix of hallucinogenics to heighten paranoia and fear, turning the crowd ugly.
They were still screaming about fire, Blood Magic, and even the odd cry that this was the Maker's judgment descending on them just like in Kirkwall. Idiots. The Maker's judgment was nothing more than a mage pushed too far. Maker's breath he hoped that Anders was here, because it hurt to crawl, it hurt to stay conscious, it hurt to think. The smoke thinned for a moment, and a guard brought down a spear on him, only to stumble forward and fall to the ground next to Hawke. Bleeding from the back of his cracked head. Eyes glazed over.
The large boots in front of the rogue paused for a moment, the heel of the carved staff resting on the cobblestones. Then the boots turned and left. Hawke was peering after the massive form, wondering what the blight had happened when rough dwarven hands grabbed him. His protest was a pained groan; he was far too tired to put up much of a fight. But he did manage to get a two-legged kick in before they rolled him in a blanket and dumped him on a cart, covered with furs.
The cart smelled of candied winter apples and meat pies. A street-vendor's push-cart, now propelled through the narrow streets at breakneck speed together with the rest of the fleeing crowd. He should probably faint here, Hawke thought to himself. But it was too uncomfortable with the way he was jostled this way and that at every turn. His back felt like someone had lit it on fire, but he smelled nothing burning. Had that been his dog back there or had he been dreaming? Was he dreaming now?
"He's in there," An out-of-breath voice said as the cart screeched to a halt. A dwarf. Harl?
"Any problems?" Another voice, equally familiar, but names escaped Hawke like water through his fingers. Especially the implausible ones.
"Blighted slippery nug almost slipped away in the crowd. Otherwise, great distraction Erick," Duster said, patting the side of the cart.
"He's good at that," the man called Erick said with a familiar laugh. "I'm glad to hear not all things change."
"Anyway," Duster continued. "Where's our money?"
"One more piece of evidence that indeed the world do not change," Erick lamented. "Don't you trust me?"
"Only thing I trust is gold," Duster said with a world-weary tone to his voice.
"A wise man," Erick said, and Hawke could hear a jingle of metal softer than his chains. "Perhaps these will sooth your worries?"
"That will do just fine," Duster said. "Pleasure doing business with you."
"And not a word of this to Captain Geir?" Harl still sounded nervous.
"My lips are sealed," Erick said solemnly.
"As if ever," Duster scoffed. "Come on Harl, let's get some distance between us and this blighted madman."
The cart started moving again, slower this time. Hawke found himself drifting. He smelled blood and pies, and the odd juxtaposition of flavors made this feel like a dream. There were no screams outside now, no cries, nobody to speak and anchor him to wakefulness. Consciousness was hard to hang on to, and it was not until fresh air hit him in the face as the furs were pulled away that they realized they had stopped.
"Out Hawke." Erick's voice, and the name wasn't quite right. Just almost. "I need you to help a little here, you humans are too blighted tall. What do you need those gangly legs for anyway?"
"Varric," Hawke mumbled, finally putting a name to the voice. "I swear to you, if you turn out to be another hallucination I am punching you in your beardless face."
He tried his best to move, rolling over the edge of the cart, only to land on the cold and frozen ground. He was still wrapped in the blanket and had no way to protect himself when he fell, but luckily Varric had his arms around him, easing the descent somewhat. He still gasped in pain. Just a little. Loudly. The movement had brought life into his back again.
"There," Varric said, voice all soft and worried. "Just roll over on your stomach Hawke, we need to get this blanket off you before it sticks even worse."
"You… grew a beard," Hawke muttered, trying to do what Varric asked him to. That was usually the best thing for everybody concerned. Even if Varric had a beard now. And a glorious beard it was, braided and brushed and luxuriously thick and blond.
"So did you," Varric remarked, gently peeling the blanket away from Hawke's flesh, inch by torturous inch. "And a rather scruffy one at that."
"At least I didn't grow boobs…" Hawke mumbled to nobody in particular. "That would have looked… odd." A thought suddenly struck him, because he had to think of something that wasn't the fact that it felt like Varric was flaying him alive. "Did you shave your chest hair and glue it to your face?"
"I most certainly did not," the dwarf said with mock annoyance. "I simply buttoned up because this blighted country is far too cold and I don't need my nipples chafed."
"Because that… would be painful." Hawke sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth as Varric worked the last of the fabric loose. At least it hadn't had time to dry completely.
"Maker's breath Hawke, how do you get yourself into these situations?" Varric asked, sighing as he bundled up the bloodstained blanket.
"If… I knew that," the rogue said between hisses of pain, "… then I'd stop."
"Somehow I doubt that," Varric said with a sigh, walking over to the cart.
Once the dwarf retreated, he was replaced by a wet nose, warm breath and a very wet mabari tongue licking Hawke's face.
"Go away boy, I want to faint in peace," the rogue mumbled, because even if he wanted to make a move to pet his dog, his arms and legs were still securely chained. Maybe later. If this didn't turn out to be a dream. He didn't want it to be one. He wanted his dog alive, he'd missed him more than most his friends once he ordered him to leave with Bethany. Keeping her safe. Good job they both had done of that.
"No fainting yet, Hawke, drink this." Varric uncorked a small bottle, putting it against the rogue's lips.
Hawke drank, then coughed. The taste was bitter enough to make his eyes tear up, or maybe that was just relief. This had to be real, no hallucination could taste this bad. Which meant that Varric was here and his dog was alive and he still had both his hands.
"I hate your potions, Varric," he mumbled. "Anders always puts some honey in his. Do you have any idea how absolutely awful elfroot tastes?"
"Probably about as awful as your back looks. Drink up. All of it."
"Bossy dwarf. And it's nothing. Just a flesh wound."
"Care to prove that? We need to get you over on the stretcher before you catch a chill. We can't linger here; it's too close to the city."
"Just don't laugh when I crawl. I don't think I could handle that right now."
"When have I ever laughed at you Hawke?" The dwarf's innocence was laughable.
"I… have a list," the rogue started. Varric had moved the stretcher close, but he still had to actually drag himself on it. And that meant getting up on all fours. "There was that time at the Hanged Man… when I… lost to Aveline at arm wrestling."
"It was not that you lost Hawke, it was the mad notion that you had a chance in the first place."
"That's still…" he had to pause, because the pain was enough to make his eyes tear up and Varric made a move to help him, but pulled back as Hawke continued talking. "… man has dignity." On all fours now, just a short, short crawl, then blessed oblivion."
"If you had dignity, you would not have bet that you'd prance around the tavern in her underwear if you lost."
"I… thought she'd never… oh blast it… take them off," Hawke said, voice tight with pain, his hands finding soft furs as he gently lowered himself down on the improvised stretcher. "How… was I supposed to know that Isabela had a pair of hers? With her?" That was better. The furs tickled his face, warm and safe like a comfortable hound in front of the fire.
"You should always be prepared that Isabela will have everything she needs on hand to make fools of all the parties present."
"So I've learned," Hawke said, smiling despite the pain. Part of him wanted to faint, but he was afraid that he would wake up with Varric gone. So he asked "What was she doing with Aveline's panties anyway?"
"She had planned to hoist them as a flag, commandeering the bar of the Hanged Man as her pirate ship. This was more fun."
"I'm glad to hear that."
"Good, because you are not going to like this." Varric knelt next to the stretcher, pulling out a bottle. "I am going to disinfect your back."
"Grand," Hawke muttered. "Don't you have any mages around?" He knew that it needed to be done, but Maker's breath, head grown spoiled travelling with first his sister, and then Anders. Even if wounds that were too severe to heal right away could be treated, skin scabbed and pain relieved. Not for the first time he wished that Anders had come along. But then again, then it might have been Anders Sebastian took his grudge out on, and then he very much doubted there would have been a hand on the block. A head more like it.
"No mages I'm afraid," Varric sounded rather sad at that, uncorking the bottle. "Just me, a cranky old mabari and a pup too crazy to bring along this far."
"How…" Hawke started, anxious to put this off for as long as possible.
"No hows now Hawke. There will be time for explanations later. Right now we need to do this and then get as far away as we can. I would bite down on something if I were you."
"A true gentleman would offer me his hand," Hawke complained, but obeyed and folded a corner of the furs to bite down on.
A moment later his back turned to ice, then fire, and then consciousness mercifully fled the battlefield his body had become.
…
When he awoke, he was carried on a stretcher, surrounded by trees on the narrow forest path. Snow drifted down haphazardly, covering the ground like stubble creeping in on a teenager's chin. The front end of the stretcher was lashed to the mabari's broad back, while the tail end was carried by Varric. Next to the stretcher a young mabari trotted, a spring in his step though his back was laden with heavy packs.
Hawke could feel his back hurt, but it was a distant ache as long as he didn't move. The chains still bruised his arms and legs, but he was covered with a thick fur that kept out the worst chill. The hide didn't get stuck to his back the same way the blanket had, but it was still in no way pleasant. The cold, he suspected, would be worse.
"You taught my dog how to carry a stretcher," Hawke started, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. Had he screamed that much?
"I taught him how to play diamondback, didn't I? This was easy. The young one there, he's the real handful. Luckily he worships Woofles here." Varric sounded tired but amused, and Hawke wondered how much time had passed.
"Are you going to tell me what happened now? Or are you saving it for your next book?"
"Alas, I haven't had time to write in a long time now. Sometimes I think of my poor readers, forever waiting for the last installment of Hard in Hightown." The sigh was theatrical and brought a puff of white mist to the chill air.
"I could use the distraction," Hawke pointed out. "Or else I could start whining. Incessantly. I am feeling particularly cranky right now."
"Fine," Varric said, rolling his eyes. "If you are lucid enough to joke I suppose we might as well talk. You first."
"Not much to tell," Hawke begun, focusing on the comforting sound of paws padding over frozen ground. "We got Sebastian's little taunt that he had captured Bethany and Merrill. I convinced Anders to stay behind, and set out with that Crow assassin, if you remember him?"
"Maker's breath I remember him. I did not care for the way he looked at my chest."
"We went in as mercenaries, got the lay of the land, made a plan and broke in. Worked like a charm, both Bethany and Merrill were drugged but otherwise fine. And then, on the way out, things turned sour. Chanced upon guards that should have been asleep, the alarm was raised, I got separated from the rest and they made a run for it while I tried to get out another way."
"And distract as many as you could on the way I suppose."
"She's my sister," Hawke said simply. "I might have some blame in what Anders did, she has none."
"And so they got away, leaving you in Sebastian's hands. I can't imagine he was very displeased with that trade if he wanted Anders."
"Anders is not here. Sebastian refused to believe it, hence the little scene you broke up. Intended to draw out my friends to try to rescue me. Sadly enough for him he set the trap for mages, not dwarves with crossbows and poison gas." A small bark from the front of the stretcher. "Or veteran mabari wardogs," Hawke quickly added. "Good boy. I have no idea how he ended up here though, I sent him off with Bethany. She thought he might be dead."
"I don't know either," Varric admitted. "We met up in Starkhaven, he must have followed her when she got captured."
"Across the sea? Aren't you a brilliant dog," Hawke mumbled, getting a happy bark in return. This set off the small mabari, who did a mad little runaround before slowing down. Luckily the packs had been securely fastened to his back. "And yes, you are a brilliant puppy too… Feathers, isn't it?" The barking in return said Yes!Yes!Yes!
"You know the crazy little monster?" Varric asked incredulously.
"I think so. He's named Feathers. He's apparently bonded to Merrill."
"Why does that make too much sense?" The dwarf groaned and shifted his grip on the stretcher.
"Your turn now," Hawke said, closing his eyes. He felt safe enough to do that now.
"I heard about Sunshine and Daisy much like you did," the dwarf started. "While I never cared too much about chantry boy, the way he used my nicknames to draw you in was a slap in the face. My words! I don't let people steal from me, be they princes or paupers. So I went to Starkhaven."
"And grew a beard," Hawke filled in.
"Oh I already had a beard. There was a… spot of trouble with some Chantry Seekers, and I realized I had better be a little more nondescript until things calmed down. So exit handsome storyteller Varric Tethras, and enter Erick, casteless bearded surface trader and occasional mercenary. Starkhaven has been hiring mercenaries like mad, especially of the dwarven and Tal Vashoth variety, so I had no problems getting in. I was just on the verge of executing my rather brilliant plan, when you barged in and upset everything."
"Sorry."
"It's fine Hawke, I'm used to it by now," Varric said magnanimously. "I was about to pack up my things and leave, because rumor had it that you all had escaped, and then someone owing me a whole lot of money tried to fence your stuff. Imagine my surprise, there's no mistaking those daggers, and I know you wouldn't part from them willingly. It wasn't hard to get some more information from him, and luckily Sebastian gave me enough time to come up with a daring plan of rescue."
"Like assaulting the city square," Hawke said dryly. Varric had his daggers. He'd lie if that didn't make a stone drop from his chest.
"Oh it wasn't that much of an assault," Varric said humbly. "Just a bit of smoke and firebombs, and a few mercenary dwarves not above making a bit of coin on the side."
"Not that I'm not grateful for the rescue, but did you have to wait until the last minute?"
"There were more guards with you in the wagon, and then you were chained to the pole," Varric said apologetically. "And then… do you have any idea how hard it is to get a shot off in the middle of a crowd where people tower head and shoulders above you?" The dwarf's annoyance came half from being questioned, half from knowing how close he came to failing.
"It was a very good shot," Hawke admitted.
"Thank you," Varric said, mollified. "They loaded you in the vendor's cart, then ran for the west gate while me and the dog kept the crowd panicked and the guards busy. The guard posted at that gate is not above being bribed to be elsewhere for a while, that's how most of the goods are smuggled into Starkhaven. Used him before when I was bringing in some trinkets to sell off, I don't think he'll talk and risk his business. After that, things were simple. I left the street-vendor's cart down the road, where it has now probably been stolen and leading people off track if they ever put together what really happened. Now we are cutting cross-country, just two dogs and a single man, and the hound have not been bred that wants to track a mabari. By nightfall we'll hit the western road, and if my contacts have earned their money, there should be a cart there waiting for us."
"West…" Hawke muttered to himself. "That's towards Kirkwall."
"The direction nobody would look in," Varric assured.
But Hawke didn't answer; he had slid off into painful dreams once more.
…
The next time Hawke awoke, he was face down on a cart, his stomach empty enough for its growling to penetrate the haze of dull pain that had been his state for the last days. There was a canvas roof over his head, and though he had to share the space with boxes and crates, the bedding was surprisingly comfortable. His back ached, but felt dull and numb, and he knew that he was scabbing over. Moving too fast would probably tear everything open again, but he raised his head a little, calling out.
"Varric?"
"Erick," came the reply. "I'm Erick now, and you're… Ian."
"That's my real name," Hawke pointed out.
"Your name that almost nobody outside your family ever uses. And it's common enough to work. Simple lies are the best."
"Like Erick is almost Varric."
"Exactly, my good man. Now, how are you feeling?"
"Hungry. Sore. Wanting the chains off." In need of a bath. Needing Anders. Wanting to know if his sister was safe. Hawke realized that if he stated listing things, he'd never stop so he turned quiet.
"We'll stop to eat soon; you've had nothing but elfroot for days. How's your back?"
"Hurting like a dragon threw up on it. But it's still better than being skewered by the Arishok."
"Good. It didn't look like you had any fever last time I checked in on you. We'll deal with the chains as soon as we find a smithy that looks safe to bribe. I'll have to hand it to the chantry boy; he was clever not to have any locks on them. Almost makes me believe all the stories about his sordid past."
"If they had locks, I wouldn't have stuck around to be entertained at the pole. Maybe that's what passes for fun in Starkhaven, but this is one time I didn't want to be the center of attention. First time being lashed, and I can't say I approve of it."
"Few people do Ian, few people do."
Silence fell between them for a while, and then Hawke finally said the words he had wanted to say for months now.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have dragged you all into this." Varric. Aveline. Isabela he didn't feel badly about, she owed him. Merrill and Bethany were involved despite what they might want just by being mages, and Fenris had opposed him. But both Varric and Aveline had come along grudgingly, out of friendship and little else. Hawke supposed he had a lot better friends than he deserved really.
"The thing is," Varric started, voice so low it was hard to pick out through the creaking of the wheels. "I might have been a bit unfair to you. Not much, mind you, it still was a blasted insane thing to do. But… you've been there for me, Ian. You didn't hold it against me when my own blasted brother betrayed us all, and you helped me care for him and even talk me into keeping the blighter alive. Something I never thought I would be grateful for, but you are right. Family is family. And then you helped me with that remnant of the idol that was turning my brother's house into Thedas favorite vacation spot for spirits. And you kept me from keeping it and risk ending up like Bartrand. That's evening the score between us quite a bit."
"Not to mention the small fact that I've netted you a fortune in story fodder over the years," Hawke muttered through the smile that was spreading unseen over his face. "Don't think that I don't read your books, and never think I'm not grateful that I come out the way I do. Anders is… less than happy."
"Oh every hero needs a love interest that swoons over him and ends up in peril," Varric said. "Perhaps the dialog has been a little on the… let us say cheesier side, but have you heard some of the things that Blondie spits out when drunk? He should be glad I write adventure romances, not comedy."
The silence fell again, and this time Varric was the one to break it.
"How… is he?"
"I'm not you Va… Erick. I can't sum things up that neatly. And I'm not eve sure I know." Hawke only knew that he missed him and never planned to leave him behind again if he could help it. "We dealt with his… little spirit problem. He's sane now. Funnier. You'd like him I think."
"Still starting a revolution?"
"Leading it more like it. Losing his passenger didn't change his views, just mellowed him a bit. A little bit."
"Revolutions are bad for business. Unless you're in the business of looting and war profiteering, there are no winners in a war, and I still have some standards."
"There's more to life than business, Erick."
"Easy for you to say, you have the business sense of a drunk nug, I remember then…"
"I love him," Hawke interrupted. "And I think he's right. I'm in this, all the way."
"You do know that way will probably end up six feet underground with a templar pissing on your tombstone, right?"
"You're such an optimist to think I'll even get a tombstone," Hawke said, smirking in the back of the wagon. "I was planning more on being cut down in the wilderness, then eaten by wolves."
The loud howl that echoed from the surrounding forest made them both fall silent, the mabaris growling in alarm. Wolves. And dusk was coming.
"Now why did you have to go and say that?" Varric complained, the cart quickening its pace.
"Because some things apparently never changes," Hawke said, wishing how that wasn't true. Flogged back. Chained hands and feet. Unarmed and trapped in the back of a cart.
What more could possibly go wrong?