HAWKE
The Hanged Man's bursting with patrons again tonight. It's as if all the bloody souls of Kirkwall have gathered to celebrate the return of the Maker. Either that, or it's the end times, and they're all determined to drown their sorrows out in one last hurrah.
Strange, though, that I didn't get the invite for either occurrence. And here I thought we were all making such great friends, too . . .
Varric's booming voice echoes amongst the bustling crowd, off on yet another one of his amusing tangents, about a time when he and his brother were small. Or . . . smaller, I suppose.
"And I shit you not, the poor bastard fell face first into a pile of fresh meat!" He slams his mug down on the bar in front of us, sending droplets of ale splattering everywhere. "The neighbor's mabari tried to chase him around the block for about a week. He almost got him once, too. Got a scar on his right butt cheek and everything to prove it."
The bartender laughs, and I notice a few other nearby patrons chuckle as well. Their typical reaction only bolsters my resolve to name him the Hanged Man's nightly court jester. Although, he'd probably prefer storyteller to the prior. But with his penchant for comedy, it's hard to justify the switch. So, I don't.
"That's great, Varric," I reply nonchalantly, then take another cringy sip of my already flat ale.
I would like to have be more supportive of him. But Maker, I can hardly stop the room from spinning right now, let alone focus on a single conversation and come up with a witty one-liner! Multi-tasking just isn't in the cards right now.
Varric frowns. He inclines his head toward me, craning his neck even further over the bar. "What's bothering you, Hawke? You're never this quiet, even when you're drunk. What's on your mind?"
I clench onto my mug.
Andraste's sweet flaming arse, am I that much of an open book? To the point where even Varric can sense my frustration? I thought I was doing a damn good job at hiding it this time, too.
"It's nothing," I mutter, cursing my own obliviousness.
Varric raises an eyebrow at me, his golden eyes glimmering with evident suspicion.
Knowing he won't back down now that he's caught on, I purse my lips and look down at my ale again. Words attempt to form, but my thoughts continue to feel jumbled, swirled, incoherent. A mess, just like these barely buried frustrations.
Varric shifts slightly in his stool, waiting quietly, but his eagerness obvious in his persistent gaze.
I let go of my mug and swivel toward him. "Why do you think Serena won't confide in us about anything?" I ask. "All she's told us so far is that she's a Fereldan and a Dalish. Nothing more. Is it wrong for me to be frustrated? Or is requesting just a bit more information unreasonable considering our current work situation?"
A wide smirk graces Varric's lips.
"Sounds to me like you've developed a bit of a crush, Hawke."
"What? Maker, no!" I snap and shake my head. The nerves all over my body flare to life all of a sudden, like an accursed, uncontrollable heat wave burning me to my core. Unable to look Varric in the eye from the unexpected sensation, I rub at the back of my neck and focus on the bar. "Do not get me wrong," I whisper. "She is a beautiful woman. I cannot deny that I have . . . enjoyed the view. But is there anything more? No. No, I do not believe so."
"You don't sound too certain, Hawke." Varric wiggles his eyebrows at me.
I glare at him.
Varric rolls his eyes and leans back in his stool. "Fine, fine. I can't tell you how you feel. But for future reference, you might want to remember your words the next time you ogle her again. I imagine pissing her off would be an . . . unhealthy life choice."
My jaw drops. "I do not ogle!" I bang my tankard hard on the counter.
"Maker, that's a lie if I've ever heard one," a familiar woman's voice speaks up behind us.
Varric and I both peek over our shoulders to find Bethany. Her short black waves fall gracefully down her sides like small, unraveled tornados, just like Mother's.
"Sunshine! Welcome!" Varric grins.
She nods her head to him, then looks at me again. "I hate to interrupt your charming conversation, but Mother's waiting for you at home. You promised to help groom Titan. You might want to consider returning home before she asks Aveline and the rest of the guard to search for us again."
"Blasted mutt," I grumble, licking my lips. "Very well." I stand up. My legs wobbles beneath me. The drink tingling my muscles, all the way down to my toes.
I eye Varric, refusing to give in to the moment or his made-up fallacies.
"We'll finish this conversation later, but I do not ogle!" I point at him.
Varric snickers and picks up his mug. "Goodnight, Hawke," he says before taking another sip.
And then Bethany and I take our leave. My frustrations no better than when I first kept them all to myself.
