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It was a dispirited group who walked into the Hanged Man late that night. Of the three mages Meredith had set them to find, they had located two. Huon, an elf of the alienage, had indeed been a blood mage, and had used his wife, Nyssa, to fuel his attempt to take over the world in the name of elven power. They had been forced to kill him, but had been too late to save Nyssa.
Evelina had fled Ferelden during the Blight, collecting a small band of orphaned children along the way. She had attempted to keep them alive and fed in Darktown over the years—most of Hawke's people had given money to her at some point, and Anders had treated her and the children for free in his clinic—but eventually the costs were too much, and she had gone to the Circle for help, where she was promptly locked away. Worrying about her children had turned her mind, so once she escaped, she was easy prey for a pride demon. They had been forced to kill her, too, in front of the children. Hawke had given the oldest, Walter, a generous amount of coin to take the others far from Kirkwall and find a place to live that would be healthier and safer than Darktown.
Now they were looking for the last of the three—Emile de Launcet. His mother was one of the snooty Orlesians who had looked down on Hawke at Chateau Haine, which she was trying not to hold against the child. He already had difficulties enough. His mother had given him vast amounts of coin to run away and start a new life, but according to his father, that 'new life' consisted of drinking in dive bars.
Since there was no bar in Kirkwall divier than the Hanged Man, they went there. The whole group was more than ready to do some drinking themselves.
Hawke volunteered to buy the first round while the others hunted for anyone who looked like an escaped mage. As she waited for Corff to fill a tray with their drink orders, she heard two men farther down the bar in the midst of a drunken conversation.
"I hear," said the first, speaking carefully slowly and enunciating every word, "that the Champion of Kirkwall's killed a dozen dragons and sleeps on a bed made from their bones."
Shaking her head, Hawke couldn't help but grin. That Varric.
The second man, unwilling to let his friend have the last word, lifted his ale mug. "And I hear she uses the Arishok's skull as a gravy boat."
That one sent a chill through her. She didn't want to think of the Arishok dead at her hands, or speculate on what had happened to his body. She didn't want to be the Champion of Kirkwall, amusing though the stories about her might be.
Fortunately, Varric was there at her elbow right when she needed him. He was grinning at the men down the bar. "They really do believe everything they hear, don't they?"
"Your work, Varric."
"No, your story has grown a life of its own."
"I'm not sure I like that."
"Yeah, I'm not sure you do, either. Here, let me give you a hand." He took two of the mugs off the overly laden tray and led the way through the crowd to their table.
After the drinks were passed around, Sebastian lifted his mug. "For the souls of the departed. May the Maker have mercy on them."
"Because the Templars certainly didn't," Anders muttered. But he drank with the rest of them.
"We should look for this Emile," Hawke said reluctantly after most of the mugs had been drained and Aveline had gone up for the second round.
"Why? So we can kill another mage today?" Anders demanded.
Sebastian glared at him. "Maybe so we can keep him from killing someone else."
"Or prevent anyone from getting killed," Merrill put in. "Wouldn't that be nice for a change?"
It would, in fact. None of them felt like arguing with her.
"His father begged us to save his son," Sebastian reminded them. "This is not a blood mage; this is a foolish child free for the first time in his life."
"So naturally we should lock him up again."
This time they all ignored Anders.
"Do you remember what his mother said?" Varric asked. He parodied a terrible Orlesian accent. "'Oh, but ze 'Anged Man is so feelthy!' It is, too," he added, looking around with satisfaction. "Just like it should be."
"Hawke." Fenris spoke softly, for her ears only. "To your right, at the table in the back. Does that not look like a young man on his own for the first time?"
She followed the line of his gaze discreetly. The young man at the table was surrounded by bottles and glasses—clearly he had been using his mother's money freely—and he had a truly terrible haircut and clothes someone had clearly told him were the height of fashion, since he was preening openly anytime someone glanced his way.
"Good eye," she said, getting to her feet and walking over to the table. Slowly, so as not to spook the young man.
He looked at her blearily as she approached. "Are you a mage? Because you've certainly magicked my breath away."
She rolled her eyes. "I'm not, but you are. Emile de Launcet, am I correct?"
"Oh, you've heard of me." He stood up, wobbling slightly and catching himself on the table, knocking down bottles and glassware in the process. "I can promise, I am just as skilled as you've heard." He was moving closer now, leering at her.
Varric was suddenly there, shoving himself in between her and the mage. He growled. "Can I kill him now?"
"He's lived in the Circle all his life," Anders said softly. "He can't function in the real world."
"Please, friends. Round of drinks on me," Emile said, attempting a charming smile. "Allow me to show you—"
Hawke cut him off. "Allow me to drag you back to the Gallows."
His face paled. "What? Wait, no! I promise, whatever you might have heard, I am not really a blood mage. I only started that rumor because I thought it would make me look dangerous, and … uh … suave."
Anders stared at him in shock. "Do you have a death wish? You grew up in the Circle, you know what the Templars do to blood mages!"
"I—I've only told women. You don't understand," Emile said, dropping the posturing. "I've been in the Circle since I was six. Six!"
"And yet somehow he's held on to that accent," Varric muttered.
"For twenty years I was locked up. Never had a real drink or … or chosen food for myself. Never stood in the rain—or kissed a girl."
Anders chuckled softly. "The Ferelden Circle was more fun. Everyone was kissing everyone. Granted, that was before the abominations."
Hawke frowned at Emile. "Did you really escape the Circle just to kiss a girl?"
"No, not just that! I've heard so much about all the other things you can do with girls."
Anders laughed outright at that one, the most natural sound Hawke had heard from him in a long time. "You can't deny the boy that, Hawke."
"You can't run. The Templars will find you eventually."
Emile nodded. "I know. Just … give me tonight. Just tonight. One of the serving girls, Nella, has agreed to lie with me. I have even paid for a room. Please, let me have this. You can take me back in chains after."
Hawke didn't see the harm. This boy didn't seem to have the guile to be lying. "Just know if you try to crawl out a window, you're going to be very, very sorry."
"I won't. I promise. Thank you, messere!" He took hold of Nella's hand and hurried up the stairs with her.
Hawke turned back to the table, nearly falling over Varric in the process. Their eyes met, and both of them hastily looked away. It was going to be a long night, Hawke reflected, sitting here together, waiting while Emile got what he wanted, knowing the same fate was not in the cards for her.