Eleven
February 19, 12:35 PM
It was not a dream that followed Garret into the darkness. No dream could possibly feel so real. The colors were muted—everything tinged in greyish hues of forlorn desire—and the voices were dull, but even so everything seemed so frighteningly tangible.
Suspended in grey fog, Garret was forced to watch as the different figures from his life marched past him. Some he recognized, some he did not, and still some wore no faces at all. Endlessly, they moved before him, marching towards some distant point that he could not fathom. Garret tried to speak to them, but his voice was nowhere to be found. His lips moved without meaning, throat strained without directed purpose.
Look at me! his thoughts screamed at them. LOOK AT ME!
On and on they marched. Old friends, distant relatives, minor acquaintances—they all danced before his vision, moving forward with a determined resolve that Garret could not hope to understand. But above all, the stream of people was dominated by the faceless. The unknown.
Do you not see me? Look at me!
One from their numbers paused; the others continued to flow around it as of water around a sturdy stone in the path of a river. Slowly, the faceless head turned towards Garret. No eyes, and yet he could feel the weight of a gaze settling upon his frantic soul. Faceless, and yet with expression. Unknown, and yet familiar.
Do you see me? his thoughts whispered.
The featureless figure moved towards him, away from the marching stream of people.
Please, talk to me!
It stopped barely a foot away from Garret, faceless head cocked to the side slightly as if in silent question. Then a voice, soft as wind through a willow, vibrated in his mind:
You are a long ways from home.
What do you mean? Where am I?
The featureless face cast about slowly, looking around at their surroundings with what Garret could only assume was a penetrating understanding of the gray-tinged realm. When it finally focused on him once more, Garret sensed that he was being mocked.
What will you do? it pondered inside his mind. It should be an interesting journey…
What is that supposed to mean? Garret demanded, but the faceless figure was already turning away, already rejoining its brethren.
No! Stop!
One last glance—if it could be called that—over its shoulder, and Garret swore he saw the thing wink before it melded back into the endlessly marching crowd. He screamed after it, struggled against the unseen bonds that held him, railed against the injustice of it all—in vain.
"…et…"
A distant voice, drifting through the gray ether.
"Garret…"
Could it be…no, not possible.
"Garret, it's time…"
"Bethany?" he croaked, voice released from whatever prison had held it before.
"Come on back…"
The sun shone strongly through the lone window in the cramped tavern room. Bright gold light pierced Garret's eyes as he cracked them open, stinging with a pain that was both unexpected and yet wholly welcomed. He blinked through the ache, trying to clear the fuzzy haze that seemed to have descended over his gaze. When the world around him became clear at last, one name floated from the depths of Garret's groggy mind to match the face staring down at him:
"Carver."
The younger Hawke tried a lop-sided grin. "Hey."
Never once taking his eyes off his brother, Garret forced his aching body to sit up on the bed he lay in. He leaned back against the headboard, grateful for the feel of the solid wood behind him. It would serve as an anchor and a reminder that this was all real, no longer a dream (if it was a dream).
Carver squirmed under the intense glare Garret pinned him with, hands fidgeting in his lap and eyes darting about as if checking his avenues of escape. Not that Garret blamed him for that much, at least. Bright blue orbs continually met the elder Hawke's stern golden gaze, nervous and frightened and so full of uncertainty. After a short while of the close scrutiny, the younger man finally snapped:
"What?! If you want to say something, then say it! Don't just stare like that!"
"I was waiting," Garret said, hoarse voice chilled.
"Waiting? What for?"
Growling, Garret swung his legs over the side of the bed. His body didn't feel as if it had been immobile for more than a few hours, but the exertions of the night before had left his muscles sore. The other pain…well, that would have to be saved for closer study at another time.
Hands clenching the bedframe beneath him, Garret turned his head to level a cold glare on his brother. "Is 'hey' all you can really think to say? After everything that's happened? The way you hurt Mother and have kept her worrying all this time without even a simple letter to let us know you're alive, and all you can say is 'hey' like some back-alley street urchin?"
Carver's face had turned considerably pale; it took him several attempts to swallow past the lump in his throat.
"W-well, I—"
"Forget it." Garret rose shakily to his feet, hands moving to smooth the creases in his clothes. "I don't want to hear your excuses. Honestly, I don't even want to look at you right now, let alone talk to you."
"Brother, please—"
Garret whirled on him in a wide-eyed fury, grasping the collar of Carver's shirt and pulling the boy clear out of his chair. Face-to-face, Garret stared down at his brother, knowing that he looked murderous from the fear evident in the boy's eyes and yet unable to care.
"Don't call me that!" he hissed. "You haven't earned the right!" Angrily, he shoved Carver back. "I called you brother once, you should recall. And how did you repay me?"
"Please, I—"
"With betrayal!" Garret roared. "You turned your back on me—on your family—all for some stupid notion of justice! Well, tell me brother, did you find what you were looking for? Did you find the righteous fucking path?"
Silence stretched between them as Garret continued to seethe and Carver regarded the floor with a stony focus. Outside, the sounds of shuffling feet—probably brought about by Garret's raised voice—echoed beyond the door, perhaps waiting for any sign of fighting before whoever stood past the wooden portal decided to intervene. Garret continued to stare at his brother, waiting for the boy to say something. He wasn't sure what he expected; all that Garret knew was the fact that his anger had been unleashed and unless Carver said something truly convincing, that fury would be directed at him once again.
At last, Carver lifted his gaze from the floor. Staring into the boy's eyes, Garret saw not the stubborn indignation he expected; instead, he saw shame. Carver began in a trembling voice full of unshed tears:
"No, Garret. I didn't find anything righteous where I went. You were right, as always. I am a fool." A single tear slid down the boy's cheek and he quickly scrubbed it away. "All I found were lies and greed and death. I thought…I thought that I could do something good. I wanted to do something good." More tears began to fall, this time unheeded. "I wanted to prove you wrong…but I also wanted you to be proud of me. I wanted Mother to be proud of me."
Carver raised his red-rimmed eyes, steadfast determination overcoming the deep-seated shame. "I came here to beg your forgiveness for the way we parted. I didn't want it to be like that. But I will not apologize for trying. I did what I thought was best. I may have been wrong, but I don't owe you an apology for that."
The brothers regarded one another for a long time in the stillness of the room. Bit by bit, Garret found his anger leaching away. He had held onto his resentment for so long—had fed it and coaxed it to grow—that he wasn't sure what to do now that it was slipping away. For so long, Garret had thought of his brother as nothing more than a spoiled, self-righteous brat—which, in some ways, he still was—and had never taken the time to truly consider how Carver must have felt all those years living beneath the dark shadow that Garret cast.
Garret was far from a saint or a hero; if anything he was barely above a "villain." And yet…he had always seen Carver as the little boy from childhood, crying because Bethany had stolen his toy sword. He remembered the little boy that followed him like a loyal hound, always eager to be in the middle of his big brother's business. Garret had taken it for granted that Carver would always look up to him, always follow the example that Garret did his best to set.
Garret studied his brother closely, tracing the lines of tragedy in the young man's face that had not been there before. When had his shoulders grown so broad? When had he become a man? Every tensed muscle in his body relaxed, leaving Garret a slumped, pathetic figure in the middle of the room. A wry smile strained at the edges of his lips.
"I see," he murmured.
Carver let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Are we…okay?"
"No, brother, I don't think we'll ever be 'okay.'" Garret lifted his eyes just in time to see the crestfallen look that descended on Carver's face and he forced a more sincere grin. "But we'll get by all the same. That is the Hawke way after all, right?"
Carver returned the gesture, only slightly hesitant. "Yeah, I guess it is."
The Hanged Man
1:18 PM
Isabela pressed her ear against the door as close as she could manage. The most she could make out were muffled voices and the occasional mangled word; Garret's outburst had been rather clear, but now the brothers were speaking much too quietly for her to hear. Behind her, Merrill shifted nervously; Serendipity leaned on the wall next to the door, the look on his face reminiscent of smug amusement.
Initially, Isabela had been a bit apprehensive about Varric's new hires—even though the whole thing had been her idea—due for the most part to Garret's connection to the trio's unofficial leader. But she had to admit that, of all the fairy-types she had seen throughout the city, Anders and his lot were certainly some of the most appealing, and it was appeal that they needed to draw in a wider clientele.
That didn't mean, however, that Isabela got along with the golden-haired man. He was pleasant in a professional way, but there was something altogether detached about his personality that made him seem so damned cold. Isabela would have put money that his attitude was connected in some way to Garret's increasingly soured behavior. Her friend hadn't been the same since Anders had come onto the scene; watching Garret go from somewhat "normal" to bashfully happy to a broken mess had affected her more than Isabela wanted to admit.
"I dunnae think we should be eavesdroppin'," Merrill said, cheeks flushed a light shade of pink shame.
"If they didn't want us to listen in, Garret should have kept his voice down," Isabela replied matter-of-factly.
"Mhm," Serendipity said, lips curled in a lazy grin. "I'm sure it has nothing to do with the man's murderous rage and the fact that none of us want to be cleaning blood off the walls."
Merrill gasped; Isabela gave him a sharp look.
"Keep your mouth shut," she snapped.
Serendipity chuckled. "Oh, I'm shaking in my slippers!" He pushed off from the wall, arms crossed over his chest as he continued to regard Isabela with that infuriating, smug little smirk. "Ignore the truth all you want, sweetheart, but that doesn't make it any less true. That man is a killer through and through. You can see it in his big dumb eyes."
"If that's so true," Isabela said, voice a low growl, "then why agree to work here? You knew before you came that Garret is a trusted employee."
He shrugged, completely nonchalant. "A job is a job, sweetheart. The perks of this job—" he waved his hand, taking in the tavern's upper floor and its rooms—"just happen to be a better deal than I've ever been offered. Working on the streets holds just as much danger as does working alongside a killer. The only difference is that at least here I know the face of the one I should be wary of."
"That's enough, Serendipity."
The trio turned to where Anders had suddenly appeared at the head of the stairs. He was dressed in men's clothing, shirt and trousers, and held a small bag in his arms. His golden hair was pulled back into a half horse-tail to keep it out of his face; his eyes were hard and cold as always, regarding each of them in turn before settling quite firmly on Serendipity. The latter's smug attitude had vanished, replaced now by something that bordered on fear.
"A-Anders," Serendipity said, swallowing nervously. "When did you get back?"
"Just now," he replied.
"Oh. Well…good. I'll…go see if Jethann needs any help."
Anders nodded once, eyes following the fairy's retreating form until he disappeared into a room. His gaze then slid over to Isabela, the emotion in those honey-colored depths completely unfathomable.
"I have a few things here that should help Garret recover a bit more quickly," Anders said before handing Isabela the bag which was full of sweet-smelling herbs and food. "Would you make sure he gets this?"
Isabela accepted the bag without a sound, mind working furiously to try and divine the man's true motive. Anders didn't wait for a verbal response; he merely inclined his head, thanked her, and started back down the stairs.
"Wait!"
He stopped two steps down, turning slightly to look back up at her.
"Why are you doing this?" Isabela asked.
Anders smiled and their eyes locked together for a brief instant. Brief, and yet so charged with heart-rending emotion that Isabela found it was difficult to breathe. Anders had been a closed book from the day he had appeared at the tavern; Isabela had tried every trick she knew to get some kind of emotional response out of him, but the most she ever received for her efforts was an empty smile or a few cold words of rebuke. Nothing real. Until now: the raw emotion in Anders's eyes spoke to a part of Isabela that the woman had thought she had buried long ago in the recesses of her mind. A kind of raw, throbbing pain that never really went away.
He said nothing, but there was nothing that needed to be said. When he turned and continued along his way without a word, Isabela didn't stop him. There were certain things she would never understand about the silent message he had shared in that brief moment, but Isabela had understood enough to know not to pursue the man.
"Izzie? Oh dear! Izzie, what's wrong?"
Isabela looked over at Merrill, confused—until she realized that her cheeks were wet. Reaching up, Isabela smeared at a line of tears that had come unbidden to her eyes. She stood in shocked silence; she couldn't remember the last time she had cried.
Merrill reached out to dab at Isabela's face with a handkerchief, worry etched over the supple planes of her young face. "Should I go 'n' find Varric?"
"No, kitten. I'll be fine." Isabela gave the girl a reassuring smile before turning away from the stairwell and back towards the door where the Hawke brothers were still cooped up, drying her eyes before she grasped the door's brass handle. "Let's see how the boys are doing, shall we?"