III: Cohesion, Or A Redhead

He wrapped his arms around her, pinning her to the floor beneath him as he rolled over. She wriggled, giggling, stirring up straw that caused his nose to itch. Not all she's stirring up.

"Carver…" she moaned, a smile painted across her face. She had beautiful, full red lips that coupled nicely with her flaming red hair. Several strands of it threaded into a braid that dangled just perfectly over one eye. "Is this how you treat a Sister of the Maker?"

Maker, her accent. "Do not trouble yourself lady," he husked throatily, reaching up her chantry skirt and feeling at what lay within. "I know how to treat a woman." He pinned her arms above her head with his free hand. She giggled in response.

"You're so big… and strong," she cooed, pressing herself closer to him. "I would give my first to you. Take me."

With pleasure, he thought, flipping the skirt over and exposing her smallclothes. He began to salivate, his other hand still holding her hands above her head. He'd dreamed of this moment for years. It took all his will to keep his hand steady as it inched towards his prize.

He looked to her face, wanting to gauge her reaction. The bliss that painted it a moment before was now replaced with a blankness set in stone. "Someone's at the door," she said banally.

"No there isn't - " he objected before he heard the knock himself. He looked up to see the slide door banging against the bar. It escalated into a hammering as it rocked the walls, straw absurdly falling from above and raining over him.

He opened his eyes to find himself in his small cot in Gamlen's house. Maferath's balls. He pushed himself to his feet, suddenly aware of how parched his throat was. Shouldn't have drunk that last round with Milly at the Rose. Not bloody worth it. He tilted his head experimentally. Least my head's alright.

The light of noonday sun shone through the small window in his room, uncomfortably but not painfully overbright. He stretched and felt the stiff bones at the small of his back crack pleasantly.

Another pounding from the door two rooms away. Thought that was the dream. Where the bloody hell is Gamlen when you need him? He glanced over, noticing the old man's cot was unmade and dirty. Probably off gambling away our money again. He looked to his money purse on the nightstand, reached out and weighed it in his palm. Feels right. Still, can't be too careful with that bastard around.

Another set of pounding from the door. He sighed, shouting through his hoarseness, "I'm coming." Calm your bloody muffs.

He picked his way to the door, stepping over a series of rat traps set at the front of his room. Why isn't mother answering the door? Probably off to market. Feeling safe after passing the traps he continued unconcerned through the parlor. That is, until he felt something squish unpleasantly under his foot.

Carver looked down, lifted his bare foot and grimaced. Sticky, green spattled ooze clung to him with flecks of a hard, darker crust that he'd shattered with his sole. He kicked the floor angrily, grunting in pain as his naked heel caught a loose nail and cut him. Gamlen. I'm going to ring the lecher's neck. He half walked, half hopped back to his room and wiped his foot thoroughly in Gamlen's sheets.

He managed to reach the door finally, cursing as he stumbled on one of Gamlen's heavy boots that the idiot had kicked into the middle of the windowless entryway. Carver peered through a crack in the door, just to be safe. A man with only a cuirass. Not a Templar. He released a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and opened the door.

"What do you want?" He asked in irritation. "Who are you?"

The man looked him up and down, measuring him. He was shorter than Carver, lean yet muscled, his thumbs hooked into his belt. Two hammers were strapped to his waist and secured at the thigh. Carver felt strangely exposed without his greatsword.

After a moment of stares between them the man spoke. "Is this the Hawke household?" His voice was quiet and level.

Shite. This better not be one of Athenril's boys. "Yeah, I'm one. What of it?" He squinted up at the sun, gauging the time. The man stood silent for another moment. "Who are you, and what do you bloody want?" Carver was losing his patience. If I get back quick enough, maybe I can get back to that dream…

The man didn't move at first. Then he nodded. "You must be Carver. I'm Martin. Your sister hired me, last night. Is she awake?" He spoke slowly, with short pauses between each sentence.

Carver sneered. "Of course. Leave her alone for one minute and she's picking up strays." He looked the man over, just noticing how worn his armor was. Clean though. Professional soldier, right. Fereldan too. What do I care? Half of Darktown's fereldan and I don't give a proper shit about them.

I should send him off. "I'll check if she's awake," he answered instead, sullen. Always at her beck and call. Answer the door, carry the grub, skewer the bandit. One day… he thought as he began to shut the door.

Martin stuck his arm forward in a flash, catching the door and holding it in place. "Is this hospitality here in Kirkwall?" He said, his voice maintaining the same soft timbre. "Am I to wait out here?"

Carver pulled the door back from Martin's hand. "I said I'll check. Now shove off the door and wait."

Martin's arm lowered, and the door slammed. Carver saw the man through the crack, tightening his knuckles into fists. Tough shit.

Carver walked over to the girls' room, this time carefully checking each step for detritus. He made it safely and cracked the door to see Nell stretched out on her straw cot, fully clothed.

Pushing his way inside, he stepped over to her. "Nell," he pushed her shoulder. "Sister." He shook her. She moaned slightly and turned over. I tried.

He stepped back and out of her room, stopping by his room for his sword before he ambled back to the front door. He cracked it open, keeping his blade out of sight. "She's asleep. Come back later."

"How much later?" the man asked, his hands again on his belt.

"How the bloody hell should I know?" Carver spat, slamming and bolting the door. He stood at the ready, waited. Martin tsked once, kicked lightly at the stoop. Then he turned and made his way up the street.

Carver marched back to his room, cursing as he stepped into the remains of the cheese yet again. He tossed his sword down and leapt into bed, letting his feet hang off. He snaked his arm forward, grabbed his pillow, then pulled it over his head.

He tried his hardest to picture a comely red-haired Sister, begging and inviting - but his imagination refused to cooperate. A scarred mercenary popped up instead, his thumbs still hooked in his belt.

"Damn it all," Carver shouted, tossing the pillow and pushing himself up. He walked quickly back out into the hall and over to the water barrel. Mother was good enough to always have water drawn for it, so all he had to do was take the bowl sitting atop it and fill it quickly from the nozzle. Then he carefully moved his way back into Nell's room.

She'd had a bender last night, that was for sure. Her face was buried in her pillow, her legs and arms thrown about haphazardly. He could still smell the stench of Lowtown swill as it radiated from her sleeping form. Without hesitation he dumped the water on her head.

Nell spluttered and flailed, rolling as she grabbed her neck where the offending liquid had splashed. In her confusion she rolled off the bed and onto the floor, landing hard on her rear with a satisfying thump.

She looked up at Carver, squinted in pain and lifted a hand to cover her eyes. "Good morning, Carver," she whispered.

"'Good morning,' she says," Carver repeated loudly. She winced. "As if there's anything good about it. Do you know who just came to our doorstep?"

"The city guard?" She mumbled, closing her eyes again. "Come to tell us that poor Uncle Gamlen has finally left this terrible world to join the embrace of the Maker?"

"Some bloody fereldan with a set of hammers. Asked for you." He grimaced. "What have you gotten us into now, sister?"

"Oh," she muttered. "He's not fereldan. That's just for tax purposes."

"What?"

"Skip it," she rubbed her chin with her free hand. "I hired him. He's in for a share in our pay, and he might come on the expedition with us."

Nell… I'm going to bloody punch you if this keeps up. "I figured. I'm glad you signed on a total stranger without telling me. I mean, there's Varric of course, but I'm actually looking forward to who comes next. A city guardsmen? A bloody templar?"

"There's always Aveline," Nell reminded him. As he blanched in fury she quickly waved her free hand dismissively. "Calm your tits brother," she said. She lowered her shielding hand and pushed herself up, sitting and leaning against the bed frame. "She was at Ostagar. So was he."

"So?! Half of bloody Ferelden was there!" Carver shouted, and this time she shut her eyes in pain and turned away. "That's no reason to hire him, straight up, while you're so shit-pissed you can't get up before noon next day!"

She sighed, rubbing her temples. Her eyes remained scrunched up. "If I have to explain it to you Carver, then you won't understand." Her voice was exacerbated, tone not unlike a mother to an unruly child.

He threw his hands up in frustration. "Fine. Ignore me. Let's just let everybody into our little mercenary band until we've got the templars down our throats." He turned and strode out, heading for the front door.

Kicking on his shoes, he turned as the sun hit him in the face. "And when I die defending you and mother dies of mourning you it will be all your fault!" He slammed the door, feeling a fleeting sense of satisfaction from the impact. Maker, I need a drink. Or a redhead.

[=]

Well, shit.

Varric looked down at his boot, lifting his foot in one hand to check the underside. Wonderful. Seems a horse is never in sight and I'm stepping in one's shit.

He looked around the Lowtown market, sniffing the air as he repeatedly kicked his boot onto the cracked street below. He'd been stepping in shit pretty heavily lately, first with that damn duster who'd sold Bartrand on the idea of a Deep Roads expedition, then Wicked Grace with Gorr that'd cost him three sovereigns, and now Magistrate Vanard.

Varric had never had much money to kick around – Bartrand controlled House Tethras' holdings (such as they were) while the only couple of stories he'd managed to serialize were quickly converted to drink and fun. What little he'd had left had been, as Varric thought of it, shared with his "friends." That is, his contacts. People whose help he or Bartrand might need at some point, people Bartrand was too mule-headed to see the value in cultivating a… "friendship" with. People who with a whisper could secure the brothers a favorable business venture, protect them from a rival house, or even tell a good story for Varric's next book. He had found over the years that coin did more to keep them friendly than anything else in the world. Other than my winning smile.

Athenril, the only major non-Carta smuggling operator in Kirkwall, was one of these contacts. When he'd needed partners for Bartrand's expedition, she'd been one of the first he'd turned to. Maker knew, none of his actual friends could help out. Not that he had many. Once asked, Athenril was the only truly helpful "friend," letting him know that the siblings Hawke were just what he was looking for. Fit together nicely when he'd found them failing to convince Bartrand to hire them on.

Now another "friend" had stepped up. Varric had been probing them for work, seeing if there was anything Hawke and he could handle. Most hadn't bit his subtle bait, but Magister Vanard had.

And Varric wish'd he hadn't. The nug humper hadn't just given them a job, oh no, he'd insisted. And Maker knows, when a Magistrate is hiring mercenaries to capture a prisoner all while threatening their poor dwarf agent with hanging if it's not handled quietly – well, he's stepped in shit.

And so he had, and had again. He looked down at his boot again. Shit. Just spread it around. Made it worse. He sighed heavily, resigned. Guess I'll clean it later.

He set his foot down and stepped from the alcove he stood in, moving past the cluttered stalls and the shouting merchants. People of all types surrounded him – humans, elves, dwarves - all bustling through the throng intent on their own purposes. Their own lives. Their own stories. Varied as the whole of Kirkwall, except the state of their clothes. Nearly all were dressed in dull tunics, robes, even rags – only a handful he saw had any sort of color to their wear. This was Lowtown, not Hightown. No nobles here. Just the way I like it.

As he pushed through the pack he began to focus more on those he passed, telling himself a little story about the more interesting faces.

Bearded man, faded yellow tunic and cloth cap. Olfrid Edlesberg of Tevinter. Famed assassin, cutthroat and killer – aren't those three words for the same thing? In Kirkwall to kill famed guardsman Ulain the Incorruptible. Each braid in his beard stands for five completed kills. No, too small. Ten.

A young woman, blonde hair marred by dirt, a thin browned shawl covering her thin frame. Shunned daughter of a noble house, cast to the streets to beg by jealous relatives. She only need wait till the son of the Viscount finds her and falls in love, when she then reveals her noble blood. A true fairy tale.

"Oi, what you looking at shorty?" A bald human, grey bearded goatee slumping from his withered face. Varric ignored him and continued. The local drunk, Pissbreath, who'll be killed by Olfrid Edlesberg for interrupting his meal. Sounds about right.

He abruptly found himself outside the crowd, now making his way down an empty narrow street. More refuse cluttered the edges than the market square, dark stains marking the street below every window in the decrepit homes lining each side. Near the end of the alley the markings were considerably duller, as if someone had taken a scrubbing brush to them. He looked up, seeing the ramshackle home that was the Hawke residence. And it certainly was the Hawke residence now. Maker knows, dear Uncle Gamlen didn't clean that street.

He stepped up the newly repaired stoop and reached up towards the still stained doorway. Apparently even the dedicated brusher hadn't been able to shine that mark yet. He rapped three times.

Silence.

He stood for a moment, knocked again. Again, silence. Varric tilted his head, looking to the sun. Well past midday. He reached his hand up to the door again, only to hear a crash and what sounded like a curse from inside.

He stood and waited for a moment, a continued stream of muffled cursing wafting through the door. A woman.

It grew louder and more intelligible as the speaker lumbered towards the door with heavy footsteps. "Pox on the whoresons and damn any bastard who – "

The cursing stopped immediately as he heard the latch lower. The door swung inwards, and Nell Hawke poked her head out the widened crack. Her short hair was disheveled, her eyes bleary and blinking. She looked comically confused for a moment before her beleaguered gaze shifted downwards to settle on Varric.

"Good morning, Hawke," he said, unable to keep a grin from his face. I know a hangover when I see one, and this one is mean. "Sleep well, go to bed early?"

She clenched her eyes closed, turning her head back in obvious pain. She raised her hands to her forehead, massaging gently. "Shit," she muttered.

"That wasn't what I was going to say," Varric drawled, "but if the shoe fits…"

"Oh, cock," she groaned. "We were supposed to meet."

"Two hours ago, actually," he said. "I drank five tankards waiting for you. Was this some devious scheme to get me drunk? I say no, Hawke, no. You won't get to see me with a lampshade on my head so easily, mark my words."

"You can call me Nell, Varric," she sighed as she opened the door wider.

He stepped past her and into the house, careful with his steps. As much as Leandra tried, the house always seemed a disaster area when he came. Gamlen, no doubt. Or maybe Junior.

"And I could call Junior 'Carver.' There's no truth in names, Hawke. I like the names I give better."

"Funny," she said as she lurched over to the dining table near the rear of the hardly lit room. "I could of sworn it was Da who gave me Hawke."

"And who called you it before me? Nobody, that's who." He pulled up a chair across from her, leaping into it with practice ease. "When I look at people, I see past their names. With just a glance, I can get a sense of who you are. Then I call you it."

"But my name is actually Hawke," she protested, leaning her elbows on to the table and continuing to massage her forehead. "It's not some deep philosophy of my soul or something."

"And what does that say about you?" Varric chided, bemused.

She sighed and dropped her hands. "Maker's breath, Varric. I'm hung over. I don't have it in me to argue this trite."

Varric chuckled. "It's hardly trite, but fine. To business, then?"

She nodded. "Any luck?"

He sighed. "Unfortunately, yes."

She dropped her hands – and her head – down onto the table with a thump. She groaned, her voice muffled in her arms. "I'm just tickled to hear that. What's the problem?"

"Well," Varric said carefully. "As an ex-smuggler, I'm sure you're aware of the Magistrates here in Kirkwall."

"Only that half or more are paid off," she grumbled. "And the other half's whipped by threats and the like."

Varric shrugged, flicking some of the fine dirt from the street off his jacket. "This one's the former. Magistrate Vanard. Wants us to bring in a criminal. Alive."

Hawke looked up. "What's so bad about that? Legitimate bounty means we're on the guard's side, for once. If it's difficult, I'm sure Aveline would -"

He cut her off with a shake of his head. "It's not legitimate, as far as it seems. Fact is, he wouldn't give me any info on the guy we're supposed to hunt. No name, no crime, only the location. That and the fact we need to keep this completely under wraps."

"Well sod that," Hawke replied. "Problem solved. Anything else?"

Varric averted his eyes. Here we go.

She stared at him, apprehension splitting across her face. "What? What's wrong?"

He met her gaze. "Well, I may have mentioned your name a few times while talking to my… contacts. You've got a certain reputation with that sort of people, thought it might help us out."

She sighed, closed her eyes and slammed her head back down into her arms.

"And, well, the Magistrate apparently knows your name. And won't take no for an answer."

She mumbled incoherently into her arms.

"What was that?" Varric asked.

Her head turned onto its side. "I said, 'piss stain the pox head's auntie.'"

Varric shrugged. "Honestly? I think his auntie's got enough problems."

"Honestly, I bet I have her beat."

"We probably do."