9:31 Dragon - Lowtown
When Varric returned to the Hanged Man, time nearing midnight and Bianca thankfully unsullied by the blood of any hapless thugs who might have thought it a good idea to rob a solitary well-dressed dwarf, he was rather inordinately pleased. Even though she was but a few years removed from Orzammar and some of the Carta's shadier dealings, Rensil Cazda made for pleasant, honest company and an even better resource for a man looking to sell priceless ancient artifacts. From the way she told it, finally making the sane choice and heading to the surface had been quite the ordeal, but Varric had a suspicion it hadn't taken her long to establish herself as a reputable fence to clientele as diverse as starry-eyed scholars and buyers of questionable virtue interested in rare treasures, and even some of the puffed-up dwarves who worked in the Shaperate, though if he had to guess he'd say that last one involved a fabricated identity or two. Either way, he could trust that he'd be seeing some of his hard-earned expedition coin soon, and it had barely been a day since they'd gotten back. A success like that made it worth the late hour of his homecoming.
Considering it had just been this morning when he'd made it back to the city, however, he was rather less than prepared for the sight that greeted him when he entered the tavern.
"Hawke?" he said, incredulous. The human was alone, hunched over a tiny corner table and practically marinating in the shadows cast between lanterns, hand fixed to a glass that had presumably once been filled with one of Corff's whiskeys. As it was now, there was only a swallow or two remaining on in the bottom. Varric stepped over to him, dousing the human's face in shadow, and Hawke looked up, staring for a few moments in a way that Varric found a little too reminiscent of somebody trying to resolve a double image. "What are you doing here by yourself?" he asked, racking his brains for some reason Hawke would be skulking at a table in the Hanged Man this late on the night of his triumphant treasure-laden return to Kirkwall. "Shouldn't you be at home or out somewhere celebrating with your family?"
Hawke only scowled and drained his drink before slamming his glass against the table. "What family?" he asked, voice bitter and slightly slurred. "Mother's busy weeping n' 'm not spending any more time with Gamlen."
Varric raised an eyebrow. That didn't seem right at all."And what about your brother? What's little Hawke so busy with that he can't have a night off to celebrate us all getting rich?"
"Learning how t' abuse people like me with that shiny new armor of his, 'm sure. How 'bout you get me another drink 'stead of poking 'round my business?"
"Hawke, what in the name of Andraste are you going on about?" Varric asked, pulling a chair out from beneath the table and sitting opposite him. "And I think you've had quite enough already."
"I dunno, d'you think I'll 've forgotten today when I wake up in the morning yet?" Hawke replied. "'Cause if there's one memory I don't need, 's Carver saying he's joined the bloody templars."
Varric blinked a couple times, trying to make sure he'd actually heard what he thought he'd heard. The templars? Bloody flames. Well, considering that, he could hardly blame the human for his present state… though that didn't make it any better for him. "What on earth possessed him to do that?"
"Sod 'f I know," Hawke mumbled. "Threw a hissy fit 'bout me easing Mother's mind not letting him come with us… idiot probably woulda caught the damn Blight or gotten crushed by rocks and then she woulda blamed that on me too, but no, 's all about how he's stuck in my shadow 'n decides he's gonna go live up his name or some rubbish. Never shoulda given him those sodding letters…" He trailed off pensively, and attempted to take another drink before realising his glass was empty. "I should go 'n… warn Anders there might be visitors, 'r somethin'…" he muttered, and stood. Varric eyed the way he leaned against the table with a knowing eye.
"Hawke, right now, I don't think you're in the best position to go wandering around the Undercity at night."
"'m fine," he said sullenly. "Anyone tries 'ttack me, I'll set 'm on fire."
Set them on fire. Honestly, Varric shouldn't have been surprised, but he was anyway. He'd have to work on that. "That might not be the best idea if you're trying to keep the templars away from Blondie, you realise," he said.
"Yeah, need to warn Anders 'bout the templars."
It took some amount of effort for Varric not to put a hand to his forehead and sigh. Just when he'd been looking forward to a quiet night in his suite. How did he manage to get himself involved in this sort of thing, again?
"Okay, if you really want to, I'll take to you go see Blondie. Maker knows you'll need to get to his clinic for more than just warnings about templars if I don't escort you…" he muttered. Hawke nearly tripped over his own feet getting up from the table, but that only just proved his point.
Summers in Kirkwall were unbearably hot, Anders was coming to learn, and the fall of night did little to dissuade the sticky humid air from hanging about him like an unwanted blanket. It had something to do with their proximity to the ocean, he suspected; the little village in the Bannorn where he'd spent his early years had been all clear blue skies and crisp heat in the summer, the stone walls of Kinloch Hold had been enchanted so as to keep even such a mundane thing as weather away from their prisoners, and while he hadn't spent enough time in Amaranthine to experience its summers, the spring there had shown enough hints of what it would be like that Anders felt fairly confident in his assessment.
As much as he complained about never being able to feel a sharp gust of wind or the drip of rain onto his head and down the back of his neck once his hair grew sodden when he lived in the Circle, though, he would have relished the presence of those enchanted walls around his clinic if they came by themselves to relieve him of the heat. Such magic was centuries old and sadly beyond his talents though, so he had to make do with stripping down to his undertunic and shorts and condensing the moisture in the air to coat his walls with a thin layer of already-weeping ice crystals. His hair was still damp and stringy about his face, but there was little and less he could do about that now, given the awkward length he'd saddled himself with from that impromptu haircut. Shorten your hair and wear it down; tear up those robes and make new clothes with them, they're too ostentatious and just as bad as that I'm a mage sign, and there's a hole torn in the chest anyway. And get rid of that damned earring. Looking like yourself will only get you caught again, and it's not a game anymore. You've made sure of that.
He was hardly expecting a knock on his door at this hour, given how most of the residents of Darktown had curled up in whatever patch of slightly-less-mucky-floor they could find in hopes of passing the fetid night in unconsciousness, not to mention the doused state of his lantern. And his relative lack of presentability, considering.
But the knock came, nonetheless, once and then again and then followed by an awkward sort of thump that sounded like it might've come from someone cracking their head on his door. Who could it be this time? he wondered, only slightly irritated. The place was substantially less of a wreck than he'd cringingly expected when he opened the doors to stale unmoving air earlier in the morning; apparently the temporary removal of the free healer from Kirkwall's Undercity had persuaded people to stop getting sick and injured with quite the same frequency as before. But now? Perhaps somebody nearly passed out from heatstroke, he could understand, but some poor street thug deciding it was a good time to get in a fight rather than sit still and drape a wet cloth over his forehead would remain thoroughly incomprehensible to him.
"Open up, Blondie!" came a familiar voice from the door, accompanied by another round of raps against the wood, and Anders hurriedly grabbed the nearest pair of trousers, nevermind that they were probably disgusting and sweat-stained and covered in Maker-knows-what-else from the Deep Roads since he hadn't gotten around to doing wash since he'd gotten back, accidentally pulling them up as far as his bare calves before realising they were backwards and having to step out of them and turn them round.
When he finally made his way over to open the door, he was greeted to the sight of not only Varric, but also Varric holding tight to Hawke's arm, seemingly to keep the other man from stumbling and falling onto Anders' floor. From a second's glimpse, he seemed to have been leaning against the wooden paneling. Even in the dim lighting, Anders could see lines around his eyes that hadn't been there when they'd parted ways this morning, and when he stepped closer, half-stumbling and nearly smashing his nose into Anders' shoulder save for Anders catching him, he was overwhelmed by the stench of cheap liquor.
"Varric, what on earth…?" Anders stuttered out, turning to look questioningly at the dwarf as he lifted a rather limp and clingy Hawke away from his person and struggled to maneuver him into sitting atop the nearest wooden table. "Just because I have magic doesn't mean I can instantly make someone sober."
The dwarf edged the door shut and rubbed his forehead. "Look, this wasn't exactly my idea. I found Hawke when I came back to the Hanged Man after a meeting with one of my contacts. He insisted on coming down here, and I couldn't very well let him wander around the Undercity by himself."
Hawke swayed a little on the table and made a grab for Anders' wrist, pulling him closer. His eyes shined golden in the soft lantern light, fixed and insistent. "Had t' warn you 'bout th' templars," he said, words mumbled yet somehow emphatic.
A bolt of fear lanced through him, oft ignored but always readied in the pit of his stomach. Had someone ratted him out in his weeks of absence? If that were the case, it seemed more logical for an ambush to be waiting when he got back to the clinic, but perhaps they were only waiting to lull him into a false sense of security? You could never be certain. Templars were devious.
"Is this something you've heard, Varric?"he asked, unable to keep the note of worry from his voice. He slipped his arm free from Hawke's grasp and began pacing tight ovals in the space in front of them.
Varric shook his head and sighed. "Actually, no. This is all Hawke's idea. From what I could get out of him, it seems Junior got a bit offended at being left home from the expedition, and thought it'd be a good idea to get back at his brother by joining the Order."
Anders stopped his pacing and stared. "Are you kidding me?" he hissed, brows knitting together and the fear in him quickly replaced by anger. "Carver, a templar… How could he even do that? How could he do that to you?" His last words were savage, and he whirled around to face Hawke. No wonder the other mage was so drunk he could barely stand. Anders knew what such a betrayal felt like, even if his own had been over half his life ago. A punch to the chest that knocked all the air from your lungs; a clawed hand ripping open your belly and tearing out all your insides. And how much worse, when you'd grown up together, weathered loss and death and starting a new life over how many times already? He felt sick at heart for the man before him, head spinning and boiling with rage. Had mages offended the Maker so much that He couldn't even let Hawke - kind, selfless, clever, adorable Tam Hawke - lead his life without constantly being dogged by those sadistic, self-righteous fools?
"Easy there Blondie. I have it on good authority that your eyes are prettier when they're brown." Varric patted his arm amiably, and Anders' gaze flicked to the dwarf, then further down to his bare feet and the floor.
"Sorry," he murmured hoarsely. That was not good. That was very extremely not good, and worse, he wasn't sure what he could do about it. It was bad enough that spending time with Hawke distracted him from his healing, or the manifesto he'd begun writing recently, or doing more investigation into this mage underground he'd heard whispers of, but to think that his coming to harm might provoke Justice into emerging… And this was even with Anders holding him at arms-length. Ha, 'arms-length', another part of his mind chided. If that's arms-length, I'd like to see what you consider being close. It wasn't like they had known each other all that long, though adventuring through pits full of darkspawn and giant spiders and ancient lyrium-eating dwarven constructs did tend to foster a deeper bond between those who shared such an experience than that of those who merely went about their day-to-day lives together.
Time to change the subject. "Do you think Carver would tell the Knight-Commander about us?" Anders himself, or even Carver's own brother… the Dalish girl, Merrill. And then Anders mentally kicked himself, because what a lovely topic to switch to. Certainly less likely to invite in his angry blue self.
Varric shrugged. "I don't think we can know for certain, not right now at least. I'll talk to some friends who have sources in the Gallows. I think Hawke said something about Junior promising not to turn him in, but you'll understand it's a little difficult to get good information out of him. Me, I don't think he would, but then again I also wouldn't exactly say we've had the best luck lately in terms of brothers being trustworthy."
Anders let out a sigh and leaned against Hawke's table, brows tight. "No, I wouldn't say we have." Hawke had apparently decided that was a good moment to fall against Anders' side and bury his face in his shoulder. Anders could feel his scruffy beginnings of a proper beard through the thin fabric of his tunic. With some regrets that he dutifully pushed to the back of his mind, and thankfully before Hawke managed to test his resolve any further by clinging to him, he removed the other mage and propped him back up far enough away that any additional flopping over wouldn't result in more of the same.
"So what do you suggest doing then, about this hypothetical templar horde that may or may not descend upon us?"
Varric looked up at him and scratched his chin. "Hmm," he said. "Well, I could probably lean on a few people I know to get some scouts to watch this place for you, alert you to any forces of law and order that come snooping around. You probably shouldn't stay here overnight though, not until we've got better information."
A brief scowl crossed Anders' face. "Great. Just what I needed: to actually be homeless as well as look like it."
That got a chuckle from the dwarf, followed by an echo from Hawke, who at Anders' glance seemed more amused by the fact that someone was laughing than by the reason for said laughter. "Hey, I never said wearing feathers was the fashionable thing to do, did I? And there's nothing wrong with staying over at a friends' place for a few days, is there? Think of it as a well-deserved vacation."
"I should be getting back to work with how long I've been gone, not going on holiday," Anders sighed. "But I see your point. Unless some inkeep wants to accept old dwarven jewelry as payment, though, I don't have any money, so I'm hoping that was an offer to put me up the Hanged Man."
Varric spread his hands outward. "What do you think I am, a charity case?" He snickered. "Of course it was. Better bring him, too - " he jerked a thumb in Hawke's direction - "because I don't fancy taking him home to his mother in that state."
Anders thought on what little he'd seen of Leandra Amell, and decided he had to agree with that statement. He'd only met her twice, once just before they left for the Deep Roads and once shortly prior, when Hawke had shown up in his clinic to tell him his mother had been horrified by how little he ate and had insisted he come visit for supper. Anders had raised an eyebrow at that, questioning why somebody he'd never met knew about his living conditions, but he'd visited nonetheless. The slum that Hawke's family lived in was better than Darktown, at least, but the houses were still windowless caves dug into crumbling stone, and the air was still clogged with haze and smog despite the distance from most of the foundries. Regardless, Leandra had tried to make the place inviting, and Anders couldn't have faulted her cooking even if he hadn't been living on stale and battered leavings from Lirene's charity and merchants' days-old selections. She was unfailingly polite, (somehow even while deflecting her two sons' sniping at each other), asking about his work with the refugees and telling him how nice it was that Hawke was finally making friends. Amidst it all, Hawke had given him an awkward sort of grin, too, and made several jokes at the expense of his living conditions and his uncle over the course of the evening, which all in all was more charming than it had any right to be. But the point was not, as it so often mutated into, that Hawke evoked all sorts of feelings in him that he'd rather not have to deal with, but rather that Leandra clearly cared deeply for her family. The increasingly-tattered remnants, at least. It would do Leandra no favours to let her see her son like this, particularly with it the result of her other son's actions.
"We should get going," Anders murmured. He glanced over at Hawke, who seemed to be staring vacantly at the table and mumbling uncomplimentary things about his brother, seasoning with occasional profanity. "I should get some of my things. I'll only be a moment."
He slid shut the plane of wood he'd installed to separate his… bedroom seemed too promising a word… from the rest of the clinic and began packing supplies into a sack: the beginning pages of his manifesto and his writing materials, some spare changes of clothes, the few leather-bound tomes that would scream mage to anyone who spared a cursory look. Socks and boots were pulled over his feet and laced up; his coat tossed over his shoulders but not buckled. Unwise as it would be to wander shoeless through Darktown, he would concede the discomfort to his feet, but he found his concern for being halfway decent quailed beneath the bullying heat when it came to his coat. He emerged from the back room then, and did a round of the clinic, pulling his most common remedies from the shelves for his pack so he could do at least some work while in his temporary exile, along with one of the last flasks of a hangover remedy potion, and finally took his staff.
"Ready?" Varric asked, and Anders nodded his assent. "Sorry to put this all on you so suddenly, you know, but - "
"Better paranoid than Tranquil," he finished grimly.
Hawke slid down from the table at that, and Anders instinctively reached out a hand to steady him. He could have sworn Varric was giving him a Look, though of course the dwarf would deny everything if he ever mentioned it. Better just to keep all his limbs in his own bubble of personal space and… distinctly not let Hawke encroach upon it for the purpose of petting his shoulders. Maker, he would not be able to deal with the man at all if this was how he behaved while intoxicated.
"I'll kill anyone who tries t' make you Tranquil," he stated, face scrunched up in what could have been concentration, or melancholy, or a mix of the two and more. His fingers were still entwined in the feathers of Anders' coat, and Anders wasn't sure whether to blame that or the other man's declaration for the jumpy, fluttery feeling in his stomach. Probably both, with a side of templar-related anxiety. He almost wished that side were the main dish, so to speak, because at least it was familiar - unpleasant, but something that had slipped into the recesses of his mind in a process of nearly two decades, and companions that old had a way of feeling enticing even if they dripped with poison.
"All right, you two lovebirds. Let's go get that room from Corff before there's no more night left to use it for." Anders could have sworn he blushed crimson at Varric's comment, but at least the lighting, or lack thereof, would have made it more difficult to see. He hoped.
He dislodged Hawke from his shoulders with a little noise of disappointment from the other mage that made Anders want to ruefully shake his head, and they set off. An attempted mugging barely a few turns through the winding tunnels managed to undo that work with ease, though; Anders trapped the offending slum-dweller in an invisible prison before he could do any damage, but afterward Varric pointed out with impeccable logic that Bianca would hold off unsavoury characters just as easily as magic and with substantially less templar-beckoning, and so Anders was left supporting Hawke as he stumbled along. Anders had started off just grasping his arm, but soon enough Hawke had leaned against him, again, slid an arm around Anders' middle and left him to awkwardly hold his shoulder and sigh. Infuriating tease. But that probably wasn't fair; the man was drunk and preoccupied and Anders had half a suspicion he'd be too oblivious to notice what he was doing even if he were sober. His words from after the debacle at the Chantry spring to mind: So that explains your whole… sexy… tortured… look. He didn't know how the man could make such shameless flirting sound like a distracted commentary on the weather, but Maker, Hawke could do it anyway, sense be damned.
The rest of their walk passed without incident, as did the room rental. It was nice to acquire an actual bed, for once, even with… other things. Hawke had curled up on his own mattress almost as soon as he was led to it, and from across the close space, he looked almost peaceful in his sleep. Anders wondered if the other mage's time in the Fade had often been intruded upon by spirits or demons - neither of them had spoken of such matters before, but it was common enough, as mages began to grow into their power. Not so common, he suspected, as certain people liked to say; demons, he'd observed, seemed to like the convenient, the weak, the despairing, and the particularly unfulfilled, but otherwise were content enough to leave you alone. They were clever bastards for the most part, save for the occasional snuffed candle that would attempt to deal with a human and end up stuck inside a cat. Either way, if Hawke's dreams were interrupted by any creatures of the Fade, the other man didn't show it.
Anders sighed as he sank down onto his own rag-stuffed mattress, glad for at least the temporary comfort. Strange it should come on the heels of such tumultuous news, though looking back it seemed most misfortunes carried a spark of hope, most sweet fruits a bitter seed. The opportunity to learn and master his powers in the Circle; the burdens of a Warden and the whims of the new Commander in freedom. All that was left was for Hawke to find some good in his loss, his betrayal. But that was an endeavour for the morning, for clearer heads and cleaner clothes. He was tired. Like always since Justice, his sleep came dreamlessly.