V: What Lies Below
Hawke hit the bottom of the hole, her boots sinking into some unidentifiable sludge hidden within the inky black. She reached into a pouch tied at the small of her back and pulled out a torch. She looked back up the ladder, stupidly, unable to see much but a distant glimmer. I made it down right quick.
She was mad. No, mad was putting it way too lightly. Hawke was furious. Throat-cutting furious. Burn-a-nobber's-house-down furious. She channeled that rage, willed it into life. Tingling chill of the Fade flowed down her fingertips as she conjured flame to light her torch. As its fire spluttered into life and revealed the chamber before her, Carver landed behind her, splashing the sludge ever which way. She still couldn't tell what it was aside from the fact that it ranked, that it was an oily black, and was up to her ankles. Best to keep the torch away.
"Are you bloody mad?" Carver snapped as he landed. "We're not alone. They could've seen you. You want to get caught?"
Oh of any day for it you picked the worst, brother. "Carver, when will you learn that I know what I'm doing? That with years of hiding I've learned to tell who I can trust and who I can't?"
"Yeah, I always forget with you telling me every other Maker-cursed day. Thing is, you play loose and cock up - it's on us, sister. Both of us."
"It's on me regardless, brother. They aren't looking for whiny siblings."
"Harboring, I am. And so is Mother. Do you even think about her? But since you know so much better," he spat. "Would you mind explaining why you flew down here in such a rush?"
It was at that moment Varric chose to land. "Would you two please keep it down? You may not have heard, but there's rat eaters down here."
Carver sneered in the flickering light. "'Rat eaters?' Is that what they call us fereldans down below?"
Martin slid down and hit sludge as Varric answered. "No, they call you 'mongrels' or 'dog fuckers.' Rat eaters are really, really big rats. They smell blood and they come to kill. Also, they travel in packs."
Martin had already loosened the straps on his hammers and was scanning the tunnel around them. It wasn't an actual construction, more like the work of erosion and maybe occasional digging into the base of the soft rock beneath the city. The chamber they now occupied stood barely high enough for Hawke to stand in, let alone Carver or Martin. Varric seemed comfortable enough, albeit occasionally glancing in distress at the sludge nearly up to his knees. He had his crossbow drawn and cocked.
"So it's a bit more dangerous, eh?" Hawke asked, drawing her spear and stepping forward. There was nowhere else to go, though the passage ahead looked to shrink and narrow both at the same time. Who'd would've thought this morning I'd be crawling in… stop that thought. I don't want to know. "We'll just have to keep an eye out. At least It's for a good cause."
"What cause?" Carver sneered. "This is work. We're here for coin, no other reason. We left causes behind at Ostagar." He sniffed the air and grimaced. "That reminds me, what the hell did that elf want with you?"
To tell me that our fugitive's been caught before. That he's killed before. That he tortures children, removes their organs, and leaves them in the street for their families to find. That more than half a dozen children are still missing, probably dead down here. That he would pay us all he could to gut the bastard. To finally end what the Guard won't.
"He told me my shoes brought out the color of my eyes."
"Fine, be that way. Do what you want, as usual. Let's just pick this bastard up and get right out."
"And be careful of rat eaters," Varric chimed. "They bite ankles a lot harder than even you can manage, Junior."
Hawke barely heard Varric's quip as she moved forward, stopping to fit through the narrow passageway. Her only focus was on moving forward. If she thought about what that elf had said, if she thought about what she was wading through… Maker protect us.
She dimly realized that Varric had poked at Carver again, but this time her brother hadn't flown off. I should be proud of the git.
Even with her torch she couldn't see forward further than a few yards. The blackness seemed to swallow the light whole unnaturally close to the group. Still, she pressed on, careful to wade rather than step as the sludge rose ever higher.
The horrible stench that invaded and pervaded everywhere only grew worse. Further rot, further decay – her eyes began to sting with it. 'End what the Guard won't. Please, my daughter – '
"We are coming up on fresh corpses," Martin stated from the rear of the column, his voice low but not quite a whisper. "No more than a day old."
"And just how the bloody hell can you tell that?" Carver demanded.
Hawke couldn't see Martin's face as she halted and squinted forth into the black. How indeed.
"The smell," Martin answered simply.
"I smell exactly rot and shit," Carver bit back. "As I have since we landed in this rotting shithole."
"Me too." Varric chimed. "How often do you have to spend time in hellholes to be able to tell the difference between 'rotten shit' smell and 'rotten people' smell?
"Too much time," Martin replied with feeling. "The difference is difficult to describe. Fresh meat stands out from the old rot quite noticeably to me."
Hawke tuned them out, focusing on that blackness ahead. Since their entrance into the passage, they had known a pervasive silence broken only by the sounds they themselves made. Now she thought she heard… chittering.
"As fascinated as I am in the variances between different types of shit smell," Hawke said, still pricking her ears up ahead. "I believe those corpses are not alone."
"Rat eaters," Varric groaned, audibly cocking his crossbow.
"I suppose it would've been too good of them to only eat rats," Hawke muttered as she raised her torch defensively and couched her spear. "Time to earn our pay lads." She stepped forward with a confidence she didn't feel and proceeded towards the chattering.
Pretty soon the tunnel opened somewhat and ramped upward, mercifully lowering the level of the sludge. Small comfort that, though 'one can never be ungrateful to the Maker for small mercies,' as Da always said. 'At least he's looking on.'
They entered a relatively large chamber, evidently a part of a sewer system even older than that of Darktown proper. The yellowed light of her torch ate at the darkness ahead, and through the flickering haze she could see movement, big and scurrying.
"Right, come on!" She shouted, stepping forward, her eyes searching. Chattering and splashing filled the room, then an unholy cacophony of hisses.
Shadows danced at the edge of the light as she felt Carver pull along her right side, Martin to her left. Where the bloody hell is Varric? She didn't get a chance to look as suddenly the shadows took form.
Half a score of dark creatures loped towards them, hissing madly. From what she could make out in the split second she had to see them they appeared similar to rats but stood nearly up to her waist.
She could think no more as their splashing, sprinting gait reached her makeshift line of defense. She raised her buckler and stabbed forth with her spear at the closest monster, terror building in her gut as she heard its horrible screech of agony.
An absolute chaos erupted as the rest crashed into them. Carver stepped forward, shielding her right flank and engaging three of the monstrosities. Out of the corner of her eye Martin moved as a blur – crushing several in seconds.
Another two were upon her then, one particularly large blighter opening its cavernous jaws as it leapt towards her face. She pivoted backwards and thrust with her spear, gasping as the force of the rat's flight skewered itself halfway down its length. She dropped her spear hurriedly as it continued to struggle in its death throes, raising her buckler and flailing with her torch in near panic as the other rat eater leapt for her.
Two bolts fired past her, catching the creature midair and slowing its flight. It hit her shield heavily and fell dead into the sludge, nearly dragging her with it.
Sudden silence flooded the chamber.
Carver grunted as he pushed a rat eater off his blade with his foot, wiping the blade on the sleeve of his tunic. Martin squatted beside her in the muck, spattered with blood, and took the rat eater she'd skewered in his gloved hands. She pulled her spear out of it gratefully as Varric stepped up from the shadows behind. Hawke glanced to the dwarf to see his pate pale and his crossbow hard clutched in his hands.
"Mallet, uh, don't mind me but – what are you doing?" Varric asked, his voice queasy.
Hawke turned back to Martin to see him still holding the creature, probing the wounds and pulling back its fur slightly. He ignored Varric's question for a moment, apparently deep in thought.
"Making friends, most like," Carver sneered. "Must be right at home, with his smells and his bloody rats."
Martin turned the rat eater over and looked up to Hawke. "These creatures… they are familiar."
She finally looked directly at the creature. Under the torchlight its fur seemed to quiver back from the light, though long tufts of it were missing. Instead ochre rotted flesh appeared to cut through its hide, small dark horns jutting off every so often. Martin rotated the head into the light, opening its horribly large jaws to expose the blackened mouth within. Rows of razor-sharp teeth stabbed out at random intervals, rather than in a set jawline. Those strange ochre patches lined the inside of the tongue-less mouth just as they did the creature's hide.
Martin released the head of the creature, stood up and kicked it away. It spun lazily in the now shallow sludge.
"I don't recall anything that nasty in Ferelden," Hawke joked with false levity. "Though I never did get to see Highever."
Martin looked at her blankly. "These 'rat eaters' are corrupted," he said simply.
"The Blight?" Carver worriedly asked, glancing down at the dark blood now staining his sleeve. "Course it would be our luck to run right back into it."
Martin shook his head immediately. "No, though it looks similar. The Fade. They resemble abominations."
"Abominations?" Hawke looked at the carcasses with an even greater revulsion. "Well, they certainly look straight out of a nightmare."
"You weren't kidding about the shit you've seen," Varric said. "Only people I know who've actually seen abominations are Templars, and they're not the talkative type."
"Are these rat eaters common?" Martin asked, turning to Varric.
Varric shrugged. "They tend to go after fresh kills down here, below Darktown. Don't think I've heard of them anywhere else, if that's what you mean. I don't really enjoy swimming through shit enough to be down here much. Or at all."
"Satisfy your urge to gab above ground," Carver snarled. "If you don't like bathing in shite, then let's get a move on."
"Eloquently put, brother." Hawke quipped. "If you're all finished?"
Martin nodded and moved to the back of the group. Varric checked his crossbow, manually loaded several bolts into its berth from a pouch slung across his torso. Then he too nodded.
Hawke turned and strode forth once again into the blackness ahead. She didn't get far. Within a dozen paces she felt her ankle hit something hard.
She cast both her torch and eyes downwards – and saw a desiccated corpse half submerged in the minimal sludge, its eyes and lips eaten out, black blood and sludge coagulating in the gaping hole where the elf's mouth had once been.
She quickly raised her torch, sick to her stomach.
Carver muttered behind her.
"What?" Varric asked from behind. "We just going to start and stop? What is it Hawke?"
"Mind your footing," she answered. "Soil's pretty ripe. Step high."
She could hear Carver's scowl as she stepped over the corpse. She moved on quickly, taking large upward steps to avoid any obstacles. She was only partially successful, occasional feeling the weight of objects hitting her boots. Some stood their ground, but many she could feel spin and float off as she hit them.
Varric grunted loudly as his boot hit hard into something Hawke must've missed. "What…" the dwarf grumbled, his voice suddenly shifting into one of horror. "Maker's breath, is that…"
Martin's voice interrupted him, his tone hard. "Yes. Eyes up, if you value your stomach."
Don't look, don't look Nell. She lowered the torch for a moment, catching the brief glimpse of gnawed bones and strips of flesh – all stained in blood and bile. One in particular stood out to her, a length of bone bent in half and inked black by the sludge. Licked clean, save for the rotting remains of a hand at one end. Too small, it's too small.
She kept the torch firmly raised from that moment on, moisture now stinging her eyes. Press on. Press on. End it. Feel later, you silly fool.
A few minutes later a passageway emerged from the darkness ahead. It looked to be carved out of the loam by the flow of sewage, much like the rest of the foul tunnel, though the wall ahead was near black and looked to be sturdier than what they'd already passed through. The sludge below finally receded to barely lapping the tips of Hawke's boots as she reached the tight entranceway.
She shoved her torch inwards, cautiously following with her head.
Unrotted planks had been placed overtop the fluid with old worn rugs thrown down every so often. Roughspun cloth lined the walls, and a heavy wooden door lay open where Hawke now stood. For Darktown, it looked practically cozy. The highlife for those who live in shite. It still smells of it. That and… Maker damn it all. She realized she could now smell the difference. She took a deep breath and stepped in, steps light upon the carpets.
Small alcoves like the ones in Darktown proper appeared to her sides as she made her way down the corridor, towards a bend at the end. Some were innocuous; housing only jars, boxes, or nothing at all. Others were not so much – in one Hawke saw bones arranged in a circle. Long, probably leg bones stained brown. In the center of that circle, a nearly invisible ring of teeth.
Press on. End it. Feel later.
She quickly put her eyes on her boots, only to see a series of grapefruit sized skulls between two planks in the muck below. Partially crushed and missing their teeth.
Hawke gripped the torch in her hand ever tighter, casting it towards the last alcove before the corridor turned sharply to her right. More boxes. She didn't want to look any closer, dreaded what she might see there – but stopped as she saw a flicker of movement.
"To our left!" She called to her companions behind. Carver, who'd been doggedly on her tail stepped past her, shielding her as he brought his sword upwards into a stabbing position. Too little room to swing in here. Behind her, Varric noisily cocked his crossbow.
"Please! You have to help!" A small face popped out from behind the box. Haggard and bruised, pale blonde hair twisted around her pointed ears. Her eyes were wide.
Carver stopped in his tracks, his grip slackening on his sword. Hawke pushed past him, put her spear on the ground and cautiously stepped up towards the child. The girl didn't move away, but she trembled madly.
"Come now love," Hawke cooed softly to the child. "You're safe. We won't hurt you."
The child shrunk back somewhat, melting Hawke's heart. "Are the rats gone?"
Hawke looked back to Varric, who nodded. Martin had stepped back from the dwarf, his eyes on the path they'd come from. She turned back to the elf girl. "We killed them."
The girl stood still for a moment, her gaze considering as she peered over the box she hid behind. Finally, she lifted her hands towards Hawke.
Hawke stepped forward and took the frail girl under her arms, pulling her over the box and into an embrace. The child clung to her, tears staining her neck.
Hawke set her down after a moment, quickly brushing off the tears that had welled in her own eyes. Last time she'd held a girl this small had been when Bethany was nine. I was supposed to protect you, girl. I failed miserably, like the shite kicker I am.
End it. Feel later.
"You have to help him," the girl mumbled towards the floor. Hawke gently set the girl at arm's length, keeping her hands on her small shoulders.
"Help who," she asked, anxiety creeping into her voice despite her efforts to hide it. "Are there any other children here?"
The girl shook her head emphatically. "No, you have to help him! He said the demons wouldn't leave him alone unless he hurt me. Hurt us." She sniffled. "But he let me go. He said I had to get away before he hurt me."
"Why in Andraste's name should we care," Carver barked. "What's he going to do, cut on himself now? Sounds right sorted, that."
Hawke shot her brother an angry look before looking back to the child. The elf had shrunk back slightly from Carver but stood straight again when she looked back to Hawke.
"He may have been an insensitive prig about it," Hawke assured. "But my brother is right. Why are you concerned?"
The girl looked to Hawke with surprising sympathy. "My brother always smears mud on my pillow. Brothers are mean."
The unexpected revelation brought out a sudden chortle from Varric. He stepped up closer to Hawke, face still pale but the hint of a genuine smile in his eyes. "I used to do the same thing! Well, with… Though my brother deserved it. Pretty sure you don't." He flashed a toothy grin. "Thanks kid. When you talk like that it makes me think you're going to be okay."
She looked to Varric and hesitantly returned his smile. "I'm okay." She looked back to Hawke. "But he's not."
Hawke sighed. "But you said he hurt you."
"Don't you see? It's not his fault. The demons make him. He let me go to get away from them. He's not bad, demons are!"
Hawke turned back to Martin. "You said that those rats were corrupted by the Fade," she said, leaving her question unasked.
Martin nodded slowly. "Aye, I did. Could be a demon. It hardly matters."
"I'd think a demon would be all that matters," Varric grumbled. "What does matter then? How many demons? What color?"
What kind maybe. From what Da taught I'd rather it be Fear than Pride.
Martin shook his head emphatically as his brow furrowed. The shadows from Hawke's torch cast the man's eyes in complete shadow.
"This man has killed before, bloody and often. If the elves outside speak true, then capture doesn't seem to stop him. If he is possessed or not, it does not matter. I know of only one cure for his kind available to us."
"The Magistrate wants him alive," Carver interjected, though he sounded unsure. Even Carver balks to spare this monster, regardless of coin.
Hawke considered for a moment, made up her mind. Then she released the girl to grasp her spear.
The girl's eyes widened. She cried out wordlessly and dove on top of the spear. She sobbed loudly as she lay down upon it, locking it to the floor.
"Varric?" Hawke asked, voice quiet. Her heart ached. Feel later. Feel later.
Without hesitation Varric set his crossbow down beside the girl and stepped up behind her, pulling her firmly from the weapon. I can't bear to look at her. Hawke turned to head down the corridor, just then taking in the closed door a few dozen paces away. "Take – " she croaked. She cleared her throat loudly before continuing. "Take care of her Varric. We'll finish this."
Varric's response was hoarser than hers. "I shouldn't have hoped. Nobody gets out of something like this okay."
She moved down the corridor, blocking out Varric's words. She didn't look back to see if Carver or Martin followed, only focused on the battered wooden door ahead.
She couldn't stand to wait, couldn't keep cautious. She had to end this. Without stopping she kicked the door in and couched her spear.
The room before her was small, obviously carved by hand out of the rotting earth of the sewer. It was circular like some kind of burrow, only five or six paces across. Besides the light of the torch bathing the room one spluttering candle sat on an earthen rise that resembled a table. Its surface was stained darker than the rest, a sickening rust color. On the table, pieces…
END THIS. Feel later.
In front of it lay a man in surprising finery, bright blue doublet and grey trousers now stained in mud and muck. As Hawke watched him, he whined pitifully and curled in a fetal position.
She fought an extreme desire to kick him while he was down. Instead she asked, mind numb, "Who are you?"
The man uncurled somewhat and lifted his head towards her, his face gaunt and stained with moisture. His eyes were wild, heavy and bagged from sleeplessness. "The chosen," he whispered. "And the damned."
Carver and Martin stepped past her to flank her on either side, right and left. Martin crouched and seemed to take in the man before him, the strange table he curled before. He rested his arms on his thighs and allowed his wrists to cross as the hammers hung loose in his slackened grip.
"There are no spirits here," Martin intoned calmly, a strange expression on his face.
"Oh, there aren't are there?" Carver snapped. "You can tell their smell as well? Is it the freshness of evil that stands out from the rot and shit and piss and – "
Hawke ignored her brother, dropped her torch on the ground and withdrew a flask from one of her many pouches. The last of the lyrium from Athenril. She took a sip and willed her mind forth, felt the cool breath of the Fade before her. She didn't exactly have experience finding demons, though she figured she could at least feel something not of this world if it was here.
She felt nothing. The room was startlingly… quiet.
"I can't sense anything," she said quietly.
The man's eyes suddenly hardened into a crazed expression. "Ahh… connected then? Obvious. Of course Father would send one of you. As blind as the mundane. You can never see, never hear the voices that Command. That Control." He beat his fists down on the floor in frustration, splashing a liquid that Hawke just noticed he was lying in. His own filth. He looked away and rolled himself back into full fetal position.
"In dreams. On streets. In houses and lanes. They hate them – they're so beautiful. So beautiful." He began to sob. "They must be marked. They have no right to be so beautiful. It cannot remain inside." His sob broke into a strange low whine, like an animal dying. Not far from the truth, that.
"Who is your father?" Hawke asked, sickened.
"A FOOL!" the man shouted through his whines. "He does not see, he refuses to see there is only one cure for voices. For demons. For Command." He let out a keening wail as he began to seize erratically. "You must kill me! Destroy the vessel!" he cried. "You must kill me!"
Martin looked on without expression, looked up to Hawke.
"Shut your bloody trap!" Carver barked. He drove forward and kicked the man hard in the stomach. The man's only response was to keen even louder, unbroken save for an occasional yelp. "Kill me!"
Hawke didn't think. Couldn't think with that horrible sound, the children in her mind, the corpses – the skulls. She felt a spectator in her own body as she kicked the man onto his back and skewered him with her spear, cutting the keening into a horrible choking gurgle as she pierced his larynx. His hands slapped uselessly against the spear shaft for a few moments, before they slid down to sink into the ruined mess of his neck.
She pulled the spear out, flicking blood across her armor as she reflexively cleaned it against her thigh. The mess that once was the killer's throat continued to bubble and foam with blood at an irregular rhythm, slowing as the light dimmed from his eyes. Finally he stilled, save for the occasional twitch of his painted hands.
In her experiences she had seen men break down, break apart, die and weep. She had seen men torn apart by darkspawn, her king pulverized in his plate by an ogre, the nameless corpses that littered the ditches and gulley's of Darktown rotting just out of view. Those sights had been horrible, yes, but inexplicably she felt a revulsion that topped them all. Everyone had their tipping point, and she just found hers.
It was the twitching that did for her, that and her unobstructed view of her spear – her father's carved pommel, held aloft above the man's ruined throat.
She turned and wretched uselessly as her stomach craved for release. Tears burned her eyes. Carver dodged out of her way as she doubled over, hacking.
It was several moments of spitting before she realized there would be no release. She painfully gathered one last glob of phlegm and spat it out. She breathed heavily, willing it to slow. Feel later. Feel later.
A warm arm wrapped about her shoulder somewhat roughly. "Sister…." Carver growled almost kindly.
She pushed herself up to see Martin still kneeling in the same spot, his eyes on her. Carver stood before her, his face hard. He nodded and stepped back.
Martin turned his head back to the corpse which had thankfully stilled. "I suppose this means we are not getting paid," he said bemusedly.
"We could always prop him up," Hawke offered in a voice far weaker than she'd intended. "Walk him to the Magistrate and sit him down."
Martin looked to her stiffly, still expressionless.
"We need a scarf," he said flatly.
What? The absurdity of his response brought the release she so desperately needed. She laughed, and laughed hard. Martin only smiled faintly while Carver scowled.
When she'd calmed down a bit Carver spoke. "I don't see how you two can have a gaggle about this. We just waded through blood and piss and shit and corpses – fought rats apparently straight from the Fade itself all for ten bloody sovereigns which you just sank with one jab of your bloody spear."
"Relax brother," she replied. She found it strange how quickly they sank back into their usual bickering from the madness that just occurred. "The angry elf up there. He'll pay us for that bastard's head."
"And how much can he afford, can any of them afford? One sovereign? Two?" He threw up his hands in disgust. "You just do as you please every Maker-damned time."
As Carver yelled Martin finally moved, strapping his hammers back his side and drawing a heavy dagger from his boot. She averted her eyes as she saw his target, though she couldn't stop from hearing the sounds as he cut his way through the throat.
Carver heard it too and turned back to Martin. He recoiled in revulsion. "Piss on both of you. I'll be with Varric," he spat as he stormed out and back into the corridor. The grip of his sheathed sword on his back smacked loudly against the stone of the passageway.
She turned back to Martin who lifted the head by the hair. Dexterously he pulled out a roughspun bag from one of his many small pouches and shook it open with one hand.
The mashed remains of the neck still dribbled blood down on to the floor above where Martin held it. He lifted the head slightly, considering as he moved the bag towards it.
"Wait," Hawke said. She had decided. She knew. "The girl out there. She can't see that bag. Not dripping blood."
He met her gaze with a solemn one of his own. "If you wish to spare her further torment in the night, know that you cannot. She will not sleep soundly again."
His words bit at her heart and chewed. Feel later. Feel later.
"She doesn't have to see this," she insisted, stepping forward. The cool whisper of the Fade flowed through her arm and lit her palm ablaze with blue fire.
She averted her eyes, grasped the neck and held it. When the smell shifted from cooked to burnt meat, she doused the flame and took her hand away.
Martin looked at her with that infuriating strange look again. I wish I knew what it meant. They locked eyes for a long moment.
She moved her now stained hand to her mouth and lifted a single finger to her lips.
Martin nodded once, then bagged the head. Hawke made for her torch.
Picking up Carver, the girl and Varric they headed back through the horrible living space. In their absence Varric had evidently put the girl to sleep somehow. At least one of us is doing something right. The man's an absolute miracle worker. He held her, tiny hands clasped about his neck, and carried her on his stout shoulders.
Wading through the black sewage was as unpleasant going out as coming in. The darkness assaulted them still – but only accompanied by distant chittering. Perhaps we scared the little blighters off. Good riddance.
Their ascent was brief and painless, the air losing some of its oppressive thickness as they dragged themselves upwards towards Darktown proper. Andraste's tits, I never thought Darktown would smell this good. She took a deep whiff as her head passed the surface of the hole. Ugh, I take it all back.
A strong arm took hers and dragged her out of the hole. Blearily through blinking, light-blinded eyes she made out the hawkish arrogance of the noble guardsman. Around him stood his comrades, though the crowd had thinned considerably. Only a half dozen elves remained, seated half a dozen paces away in apparent prayer.
"Didn't think I'd see those mad eyes again," the guardsman grunted. "Turn chicken then, aye?"
Hawke ignored him and stepped towards the elves. The one who'd spoken to her earlier, the merchant, stood and looked to her. Elren's his name. Fire and salt's in him up to his pointy ears. Can't blame him. His daughter was taken. She had a sudden realization. Could that daughter be the girl we just rescued?
"You return." Anger radiated from him, though a tiny twinge of hope shone through. "Have you finally ended it for us? Have you brought justice?"
Hawke looked back to the hole to see Carver already out and standing off to one side. Varric was pulling himself up awkwardly with the child still dangling about his neck. Apparently there was to be no help for the dwarf from the guard, as he too stood off to one side with his arms crossed. The girl was clearly awake now, blinking her eyes at the intrusion of light into her dark rest.
Elren followed Hawke's gaze. He stood stupefied for a moment before roughly pushing past her and sprinting for the child.
"Papae!" The girl cried in sheer joy as she rolled off Varric's shoulders, then collided with her father in a desperate embrace.
The noble guard behind him spat into the hole at the sight and turned, evidently unawares as Martin pulled himself out. Martin threw a glare of hate his way before moving towards the father-daughter.
Hawke reached them the same time the scarred mercenary did. Elren stood, his child still held in his arms. Tears streamed down his face, but his voice rang clear. "You have returned my daughter to me. I never…." He put the girl down with a tenderness like to melt even Carver's heart, before turning his regard back to Hawke. "And? What of the monster?"
Martin gestured to the bag now securely hooked to his belt, dangling just behind his left hammer. He moved to retrieve it but Elren shook his head.
"No. Your word alone is good enough for me." He reached down to his belt and untied his coin purse. Without opening it or even considering he handed the whole thing to Hawke. "This is all I can give, and all the Alienage raised for a reward. Take it with our blessing. It is good to know that someone cares for our plight."
The elf bowed his head in respect then turned and headed back to his people. They whispered amongst themselves for a moment before they all stood. They slowly meandered away, a strange peacefulness wafting after their retreat. For a moment Hawke, unconsidering of the coin purse she now held in her hand, felt sure she had done something that mattered.
"So you did him in," the noble guard shrugged beside her, breaking the still. "Didn't expect the knife-ears to pay anything for that. How much you get?"
"That hardly matters to you," Hawke bit back acidly.
"You're right. Still, for what little ploughing good it does you, glad that cutter is off the streets for good. Chasing after him time on was liable to make me lose me bloody mind."
'Time on'. "He said something about his father sending us. Know anything about that?" Hawke asked. Varric seemed to perk up at that.
"No I bloody well don't and I don't want to know," the noble guard snarled. "You're in enough trouble as it is. Right or not you disobeyed the magistrate. He don't take kindly to disobeying. You know he'll plough you right good when he can get the chance, right?"
Hawke shrugged. It had been the right thing. Right now, she could not care less about what the damned Magistrate thought. "I suppose so. I don't know the man."
"He just might," Varric interjected.
The guardsman gestured backwards to his companions. "Lucky for us we're not you. Bugger it all." He turned away without ceremony. "Keep your noses out of the shit if you know what's good for you."
He waved to his companions, who fell in step behind them. Within moments they had disappeared in the opposite direction the elves had taken. Back to report no doubt.
Martin withdrew the flask he'd been nursing before they'd gone down into the hole and took a long drag. Partially through he suddenly stopped as if in realization, then offered the flask to Hawke.
"After today," Hawke answered loosely, "I don't think that measly offering will be enough."
Martin shrugged. "The Hanged Man, then? Surely we can afford at least a round or two off what the elf gave us."
Hawke jingled the pouch uncertainly.
"One round at least." Martin insisted.
She huffed. "At least."
Martin nodded. "Then it is settled." In a swift movement he unhooked the bag from his belt, then held it aloft. He glanced contemptuously at it, then the pit, then swung his arm back to throw.
Varric stepped in abruptly. "Hang on Mallet. Let me take it, I'll see it gets the proper ceremony."
Martin stopped mid-swing and stared at Varric incredulously. He looked to the bag, then to Varric, then to the hole. Finally, he shrugged and handed the bag to the dwarf.
"He does not deserve such respect," Martin said simply.
"Murderer or not, he was still a person." Varric replied, a scheme in his lip. "You guys go on ahead. I'll take care of our friend here." Hawke decided she was better of not knowing.
Martin shrugged and took another swig from his flask. Hawke waved Carver over as Martin held the flask to her yet again.
"First round," Martin explained.
This time she took it.
[=]
Varric hesitated for only half a beat before pounding on door to Magistrate Vanard's office.
Despite the open-air nature of the Hightown Chancellery courtyard in which Varric now stood, he could not shake a looming feeling of claustrophobia. The small stone compound was not half as intimidating as the Viscount's Keep, or even a tenth that of the Gallows, but here was where the Magistrate's put their feet up. Put their feet up and decide the fates of Kirkwall's citizens who the law notices. Not themselves of course. Or the people who pay them… or intimidate them… or own them...
Twilight crept its way across the sky above, purple and red tinging the black of the walls around him into interesting contrasts. Almost makes you forget where you are.
Varric pounded again – and this time, the door opened.
He was shocked to see the Magistrate himself – not a clerk or bailiff answer the door. Vanard did not cut an imposing figure: his fine ochre robes barely concealed his pot belly, and his thin arms looked like they struggled lifting a quill, let alone a sword. His face belied the unthreatening rest of him – gaunt and hallow, his eyes stone murder.
"Tethras…?" Vanard breathed in disbelief. His voice came out congested and Varric had to turn his face away for a moment. Booze. Never seen Vanard touch the stuff before. "You dare show your face here?" He looked past Varric, searching. "I'll see you in chains vagrant - "
Varric smiled congenially. "Magistrate, I'm sure this isn't a conversation you want to have outside, or with a guardsman present."
The Magistrate stopped at that. He paused to collect himself, staring daggers at Varric the whole while. Then he turned and stepped back inside. Varric followed, shutting the door behind him.
The Magistrate didn't even move past his clerk's desk, didn't make his way back to his own office. Instead he turned immediately, trapping Varric in the cramped little gateway to the Magistrate's domain. "We have nothing to discuss, dwarf," the Magistrate growled. "You broke your contract. You have lost what little confidence I had in you. Leave me."
Varric shook his head, his grin tightening. "I seem to remember we took care of an embarrassment for you. An escaped fugitive. A murderer."
"You were to bring him back alive!" Vanard barked. "Alive! You did not and so the contract is unfulfilled. Leave at once, before I really do summon the guard." The man's fingers twitched, as if eager to strangle.
"Oh," Varric bluffed, some fear starting to gnaw at the back of his mind. Maybe not piss on the Magistrate's face. Though, nothing ventured... "I wouldn't say the contract's unfulfilled. I brought him back. Just not alive."
In one motion Varric took the sack off his own belt and shoved it into the Magistrate's twitching hands. The man looked at it stupidly for a moment before he unwound the tie, then glanced inside. The bag fell heavily to the floor without bounce, luckily not spilling its morbid contents.
"You… barbaric…" the Magistrate managed to choke out. It was a struggle for Varric to resist the twitching of his own hands towards Bianca.
"Barbaric? That's hurtful," Varric retorted with as much bravado as he could muster. "I don't think the Merchant's Guild would appreciate someone referring to one of their own as 'barbaric.' We wear clothes, live in houses – even eat with forks. Sometimes spoons. Properly civilized."
Vanard shut his mouth immediately, but his eyes continued their murderous stare. Bad idea Varric. Bad idea. Varric thought to back down. Discarded the thought. Way too late.
"You know, I wouldn't usually wonder why someone like you would care so much about protecting a murdering bastard who preys on kids. I mean, you'd think someone's paying you. Or maybe owes you a favor. Some influential father, let's say, someone who still loves his son despite his little flaw of cutting up and murdering people." Varric couldn't keep the contempt out of his tone. "You'd think that this father would pay to at least fill the responsibility of properly sending off his sons sodding victims. Funerals, loss of wages, pain and suffering. It adds up."
The Magistrate breathed hard, fury evident. "How. Much." Was all he managed, probably all that he could manage to strain out.
"Don't let anyone ever tell you that House Tethras doesn't deal fair. We brought your fugitive back, but not whole. We got what mattered I'd say, so six sovereigns." Now shut up. "Plus one. For the pain and suffering."
The Magistrate stood deathly still for a moment before he abruptly turned and marched into his own office. He came back a moment later with a small coin purse, which he threw at Varric's feet. "I will not be blackmailed," he declared.
"Blackmail? Don't be silly," Varric chided, having long since thrown caution to the wind. "This is a one-time business transaction. I don't think House Tethras will deal with the honorable Magistrate ever again after this."
Varric scooped up the money, careful not to touch the bagged head. As he turned to leave, the Magistrate spoke.
"The next time I see you, you shall adorn a gibbet atop the Gallows."
Varric barely managed to suppress the involuntary shiver that ran up his back.
"And I'm sure you'll be right beside me, what with all you and the kid got yourselves into." Varric couldn't resist turning back right before he closed the door. "And a gibbet and gallows are the same thing."
Well. That went well. As he hurriedly walked away, he dug through the coin purse, counting. Trade coin for a 'friend,' get coin for an 'enemy.' Shit, probably an actual enemy. Life's not fair.
Moving without thinking he allowed himself to dream on the Hanged Man. He hoped he would make the third round of drinks at least. Knowing Hawke, he wouldn't.
Life definitely isn't fair.