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Hawke came into the Hanged Man, her eyes going immediately to Varric's table. He was there alone. She hesitated in mid-step. The past couple of weeks she had tried to make sure she brought someone with her when she came in, and otherwise threw herself on the mercy of Isabela, who had finally returned to Kirkwall. But Isabela was nowhere in sight tonight, and Varric had already looked up, so Hawke couldn't duck back out the door and pretend she had never come in.

She headed across the room to the table, hoping Varric hadn't noticed the hitch in her step but knowing he almost certainly had.

Apparently, he had decided to ignore the tension between them, just as she had. "Hawke! Pull up a chair."

"Something wrong with the ones already here?" She was only half-kidding. Nothing in the Hanged Man stayed in good repair for long.

"If you sit in one and find yourself on the floor, then I guess you have your answer."

Gingerly, she lowered herself into the chair, holding her breath until she was sure it was going to hold her.

Varric cleared his throat. "Blondie stopped by earlier."

"Oh, yes? In his right mind?"

"He was himself, if that's what you mean." Varric shook his head. "I don't know, Hawke. Something might have to be done."

Given that there were only two solutions to a mage gone 'round the bend—death or the Gallows—and neither of them were willing to take either of those steps when it came to Anders, Hawke let the comment go.

"He left as soon as it started to get full in here."

"At least he's keeping away from people."

"I can't decide if that's a good thing for them, or a really bad thing for him."

"Probably both." Hawke signaled Norah, the waitress, for an ale, which arrived speedily.

"So. Hawke. What can I— Uh, what's going on?"

She took a deep sip of the ale, gesturing with it to indicate that was all that was happening. "Unless you're buying, which would be a banner day."

"You, the Champion of Kirkwall, suggesting someone else should buy your drinks?"

"Yes, of course. What was I thinking? Since the title comes with so many riches, after all. Anything new in Lowtown?"

"Nothing you don't know already. Vacuum of power, trouble brewing. Nothing to write about."

Hawke chuckled. "Aveline will be glad to hear it."

"Aveline's domestic bliss is costing me a fortune. You think we could manage to create some drama there?"

"For your book? She'd kill us."

"Well, that would be interesting, anyway."

Before Hawke could think of anything to say that didn't feel painfully stilted, Isabela appeared at the table. "Come on."

Both Hawke and Varric were instantly on their feet. Isabela was rarely that direct.

"What's going on?"

"The elf is up there, and things are about to get dicey."

"Which elf?" Hawke was on the stairs even as she asked the question.

"The long tall broody one. He wrote to his sister."

That stopped Hawke short. Fenris had been told he had a sister in Tevinter, but he had never mentioned writing to her. "And?"

"And she came here—but not alone."

Varric growled in annoyance. "Are you telling me some Tevinter magister snuck in here under my very nose?"

"Mine, too." The Rivaini looked as outraged as Varric felt.

"I say we kill him," Hawke said coolly. Her sword was already out.

"No argument here."

By the time they reached the room where the elf's sister had been staying, it was clear more was going on inside than a cheery family reunion. Varric could hear the dry rattle of skeletons, the moan of shades, and the dying gurgle of a human being with the elf's glowing fist buried in their chest.

Hawke didn't wait to hear more—she kicked the door in and charged, sword swinging as soon as she caught sight of an armed Tevinter slaver just inside.

The Rivaini followed, daggers out, and Varric drew Bianca and took aim at a shade.

With the four of them working together, it was over quickly, leaving Fenris staring down a grey-haired man in mage robes. The elf's former master, Varric presumed. The Tevinter made a play on the elf's emotions, but Fenris had grown past that in his time in Kirkwall—he had become a person in his own right, not just a former slave. His response to the Tevinter was a glowing fist to the heart.

Behind the Tevinter, a red-haired woman, apparently Fenris's sister, cringed away from the sight of the elf, and the blood dripping from his hands. Fenris didn't appear to want to give her any quarter.

Varric generally took a hands-off approach to other people's decisions, and he and the elf had never particularly warmed to one another. But he couldn't help remembering what it had been like to take his own brother's life. "Elf. It's not worth it."

"Isn't it?"

"No."

Fenris glanced at him sharply, then turned back to his sister. "Go."

She did so, gladly, leaving the four of them standing in the midst of the mess she had made. Hawke approached the elf. "Are you all right?"

"I … will be." He hesitated. "I should go."

"I'll go with you." The Rivaini took him by the arm.

Hawke watched them leave the room, her eyes filled with concern. "You think he'll be all right?"

"I think the Rivaini's got a cure for what ails him. They're more alike than you'd give them credit for."

"True enough." Hawke's gaze settled on Varric, and then she looked away. "I'm going to go home."

Anything Varric might have said to that would only have gotten him into trouble of one kind or another, so he kept quiet and let her leave. His penance would be to get this mess cleaned up before Corff got wind of it.