VI: Isolation

"Nora! Nora, you pasty wench!" Nell shouted, her words slurring nearly imperceptibly. "Where's our pitcher? I am positively dying of thirst over here!"

Carver doubted any of the other patrons of the Hanged Man could notice the slur. Even when drunk Nell always tried ever so carefully to enunciate, taking pride in her book learning and in her intelligence. Anything to show everyone how much better she is. At everything.

They sat together; Martin, Nell and Carver at a table far from the comfort of any wall. Carver would've preferred sitting in the corner out of sight. Out of the attention of others. But Nell likes to talk, likes to make friends. Not Carver. He'd grown up knowing that both of his sisters could be taken if discovered. Forced to live in a Circle, never to be seen again. Father too I guess, but he didn't need me to look out for him.

The Hanged Man was absolutely packed, the chaos of fifty or more sailors, whores, thugs and degenerates livening the place to an uproar. Carver could barely hear his drinking companions, and the place stank of all manners of human filth as he sipped awful beer. Feels like Half of Lowtown is here, drowning the sorrows of their Maker-forsaken lives in the only tavern they can afford. Bollocks, suppose I'm one of them now. He grimaced at the thought.

He missed Danal's old place in Lothering. Not as much action, true, but it was clean. The drinks didn't taste as if Danal had pissed in the still, and the girls there were… he struggled to find the words. Clean? Pretty? Not filled with lice or pox? And some had red hair…

He drank a silent toast to the chantry sister he'd never gotten to bed, then took a long survey of the room for any potential lays. Shite or not, cheaper than the Rose.

A loud belch brought him back to the table. Nell grinned stupidly at him while Martin actually smirked. First time in his miserable life I expect.

"You looked… distracted, brother." Nell's smile widened to an infuriating level. "There's no time for girls, not yet. Tonight, we all are getting drunk together – as friends."

Carver clenched his mug tightly in his hands. "At the rate you're going, dear sister, I'll be free to go have my fun soon enough."

Nell laughed merrily and slammed her empty mug down. "That's the spirit. Though I'm not passing out until our handsome dwarven friend arrives. Don't want to have to break you away to escort me home."

"There is no need to fret, Hawke," Martin interjected. He too looked to have finished his drink, his mug pushed away to the center of the table. He didn't show it all, except for his sudden lightness to his tone. Nell on the other hand did show it with her slight slur and flushed cheeks. "I shall keep myself sober enough to bring you safely to your door."

Nell beamed at him. "A gentleman in Lowtown I see. About as out of place as a hen in a whorehouse."

She fancies him, Carver realized. He felt absolutely disgusted. "Careful what you volunteer for," he sneered, his voice acid. "Knowing my sister, you'll need to carry her all the way to bed. Tuck her in like." He punctuated his statement with a deep drag from his drink, finally draining it completely.

Nell shot him a look that pleased him to no end while Martin's expression tightened, his head tilting as he did so. "I would say she deserves to skip walking - after today."

Nell shivered visibly and Carver felt a sliver of shame for his words. It only made him dislike Martin more.

Before anyone could say anything else the comely form of Norah stepped up from behind Carver and dropped a full clay pitcher on the table's center. The force sloshed a sizeable amount of drink over the vessel's battered brim and onto the alcohol stained wood.

Nell sat up with a start. "Norah, how could you! What a waste of perfectly terrible hooch!"

Norah saddled up alongside Carver, dragging her side pleasantly against his shoulder. She ignored him pointedly and thrust her hand out to Nell. "Thirty coppers!" She shouted over the din in a timed, practice tone.

His sister gawped at her. "Would you bite of bread and ask full price? For shame girl, for shame. How can you live down your injustices?" Nell's cry was exaggerated, comedic.

Norah kept her hand held out, silently waiting, though she put her other hand on her hip.

The deadlock was broken by another familiar voice behind Carver. "Here Norah," Varric called. They all turned to look at the dwarf, coin purse in his hand. The smile on his face was one of absolute satisfaction.

"Oh, pardon me Master Tethras," Norah beamed at him. "I didn't see you was here."

"I may be short, but I'm not that short," Varric chuckled. "I just got here." He happily dropped several silvers into her hand. "Keep 'em coming, beautiful."

Norah giggled most unattractively and turned away, handing Varric a mug of his own as she did so.

Carver kept his eyes on her arse as Varric pulled up a chair beside him.

"Oh come now Carver," Nell teased. "There are children present. Mind your eyes."

"Oh ha ha," Varric good-naturedly mocked. "Go after the dwarf why don't you. Can't you pick on someone your own size?"

Nell laughed in response and grasped the pitcher. She poured everyone a round, Varric first.

Carver grumbled but took his now filled mug gratefully.

"Where have you been?" Carver demanded. "You've been holding up the party." As irritating as he can be, Varric's better company than Martin and Nell.

Varric's grin threatened to split his face as he dug open his coin pouch and tossed two sovereigns each their way.

Nell gaped ludicrously and took one of the coins before her into her hand. Martin glanced back and forth and surreptitiously covered his. Carver grabbed and pocketed his share without thinking.

"Andraste's holy nickers, Varric, where did you conjure these up from?" Nell squinted his way suspiciously. "Rob a chantry on your way here?"

"Just convinced our Magistrate friend that we did finish the job… just not like he asked." Varric gulped down his drink with unfeigned pleasure, as if it was the finest stock in Kirkwall. "And that we should be paid accordingly."

Martin raised his mug in salute to the dwarf. "'May your cup runeth over.'"

"Right that," agreed Nell. "I could kiss you, you beautiful little man. Marry you even."

Varric shrugged apologetically. "It pains me to say, but I'm taken. Bianca's the only girl for me."

"Shut up and drink already," Carver growled, following his own order. It burned all the way down, though not completely unpleasantly.

"So what progress does today make towards your little venture?" Martin asked after they'd finished their round. "Hawke has told me it will cost quite the sum."

Anger burned up from Carver's stomach just as the alcohol had burned down. "You tell everyone on the street too, sister?"

Martin shot him a look but Nell just laughed it off. "Just the well fit fereldans. What can I say? I'm homesick."

"Looks more like a meat grinder got taken to his face," Carver said under his breath.

Martin set his drink down slowly. Carver could see his jaw clenching, his hands tightening around the cup. "Do we have a problem, Carver?" He asked slowly. The words seemed to grind in his mouth before he let them ooze out.

Carver dropped his cup and pushed himself to his feet. Here we go. "You bet we do. If you want to shag my sister, go bloody well ahead – then back right out of our business. We don't need you poking around, you or your bloody hammers."

"Hey everybody," Varric tried to say. "Let's just-"

Martin was on his feet faster than Carver would've believed possible. He kicked his chair back, the resounding clatter painfully loud as Carver realized that the bulk of the tavern had quieted.

"Someone needs to smack that mouth of yours shut," Martin hissed dangerously.

Carver looked down at the smaller man. "And what, that'd be you? Not bloody likely."

Martin's hands shot down to his hammers. With his thumb he flicked the thongs open and drew them up. He dropped them heavily on the table. His cup jumped with the impacts. "Aye boy, it would."

That bloody bastard, Carver thought. We'll see who's a boy when I kick his teeth down his throat. Carver was debating whether or not to leap over the table at the sod or throw his drink at him when a voice spoke up.

"Carver..." Nell's voice was pitiful, so desperate and sad that it drew his eyes to her. Her face was ashen, eyes pleading. As if blinders had been pulled off his head he truly noticed then the utter silence that filled the tavern. Everyone was turned, watching them. They smell blood.

Shame crept up his stomach but he staunched it immediately. He was still furious. Furious that Nell had left him out of the loop again, that she was sharing their business with some bastard she wanted to roll around with, that the same man was an insufferable prig -

Everyone was looking at them. They were noticed.

He looked to Martin, his eyes flashing with fury. Then he looked back to his sister.

"Sod this," he said. Without ceremony he spun on his heel and marched out, roughly shoving the tavern's mottled doors opened then closed. His first step took him right into a puddle of piss, and he cursed loudly.

He stood on the street for a moment, let his anger die down. It refused.

I need a woman. He turned to his right and headed up the street, towards the Broken Bridge and Hightown. It was dark and the night air bit at his exposed arms. I'll have to buy Varric a round later, he thought. Rose is on him tonight.

[=]

Hawke stared after Carver as he stomped out the door. She wanted to slap him, to cry out – it isn't like that, he's not even interested – but the door had already slammed behind him and the patrons had all turned back to their own affairs. The loud sound of the Lowtown tavern at night filled her ears.

That little shite. Any other night. Any other night and it would've been fine. She would've quipped something about men and their fighting, would've calmed them down with another joke. Or she would've even watched them, eager to see who would come out on top. But this night she had fought monsters. Seen horror, skewered a man without even thinking.

And her brother couldn't even behave. Couldn't treat a fellow Ostagar survivor, a fellow fereldan with respect. Couldn't shut his bloody mouth and calm his flaming tits.

She couldn't calm him down. She felt sick, powerless. She hadn't known Martin for long, but there was something about him – he was worth knowing. She wouldn't say no to a tumble, but he was worth more than that. He could be a friend. He understood.

Carver refused to understand. Refused to give her this one little thing as he both looked to her and cursed her for every decision she'd made in her whole life and would have to keep on making. It was her responsibility.

That little elf girl. The other children. She couldn't stop seeing the little pieces, the little remains, and she couldn't get the image out of her head of little Bethany amongst those ruins. Even little Carver.

She wanted to cry, but she settled for emptying her mug. She reached over and took Carver's still mostly full mug and downed it too.

She was shocked out of her thoughts by Martin falling heavily into his chair. He still glared at the door.

"Give him time," Varric soothed. "Hell, he didn't try to fight me, but I'm pretty sure Junior wanted to put his fist in my face too when we first met." She found a little part of her aching heart warmed by the roguish dwarf. A good friend.

"He's an arse," Martin replied, still fuming. "I don't think I have seen him yet not be a little bastard. How he could treat his own sister like that - "

"He's my brother," Hawke said quietly.

Martin's jaw snapped shut.

"Hmmf," Varric snorted. "Family. I know what it's like to have a brother like Junior. I'm not saying I don't have a little sympathy for the kid, being a younger brother myself. But damn if he doesn't sometimes remind me of Bartrand."

Martin kept his eyes on her for a moment as if in question. Then they turned to Varric. "Your brother?" He asked.

Varric nodded amicably. "Trust me, you wouldn't believe it if you met him. He's charmless, rude, properly bearded and not nearly as handsome as yours truly." He grinned. "Though he's got a nose for coin, I'll give him that."

"Then there's one thing you two have in common," Hawke offered quietly, trying to smile but failing.

"That we do, that we do. Though like everything else, my nose is better."

"Was it his nose or yours," Martin asked, tension leaving him as he sipped from his mug. "That led you to this mad notion of a Deep Roads expedition?"

"Bahh," Varric took a swig and waved a hand dismissively. "That would be my esteemed brother. He's practically crazy over the idea, so whatever info he's picked up's got him hopping. He hasn't stooped to sharing his source with me."

"And why," Martin asked, turning to her. "Are you and Carver roped into this? Does it not sound insane? The Deep Roads are perhaps the most dangerous place in all of Thedas."

"Because they know a good deal when they hear one," Varric interjected. "Besides, in case you hadn't noticed we just had a Blight. Darkspawn on the surface, means less down below. It's the best time for this."

Martin shook his head emphatically, an intensity to his voice and movements. "Have you ever been there? Darkspawn are not a threat to take lightly, and the Deep Roads are their home."

"No, I'm a surfacer born and raised, but Bartrand's spent some time below ground. Trouble is, he isn't much of a fighter – and the only ones I know of who fought and survived Darkspawn are the wardens," he stuck his thumb meaningfully at Hawke. "And Hawke and Junior." He squinted at Martin over his mug. "And there ain't no Wardens in Kirkwall. Speaking of… you fought in the Blight, right Mallet?"

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking Varric," Hawke interjected. "I already offered him a place."

"Is that so?" Varric asked, seemingly unsurprised. "We don't need more partners, if that's what you offered. But I'm sure I could convince Bartrand to hire him on. Maker knows we need more experience."

Martin held his hands up. "I still think this expedition is madness. What could you possibly find worth braving the Deep Roads?"

Varric chuckled. "A fortune, Mallet. A fortune."

Martin grimaced dubiously and took another drink.

Is it madness? Hawke thought. Diving into the depths where the Blight is from? Maker knows I never want to see another darkspawn. She shivered and took another drink.

She allowed herself to sink into brooding – on her brother, on the darkspawn, on the expedition, on their life in Lowtown… on to the cheery beauty that had been her sister. She'd been dead for over a year now and still Hawke found herself looking for her when she woke up some mornings. Mother tried to be strong for her and Carver but Hawke could sense her sadness. The way she single-mindedly sent letter after letter to the Viscount's, petitioning for the old Amell estate…

Maker bless her. She shouldn't have had to watch Bethany die. Carver neither. I don't think I've seen him well and truly smile since.

Hawke tipped her mug back to her lips again only to find it empty. She grabbed for the pitcher at the center of the table and poured another. Drank.

She was vaguely aware of Martin and Varric's ongoing conversation, his questions about Bartrand, the expedition, Kirkwall, work…

She took another drink. And another.

I should've protected her. Carver knows. Mother knows. I should've protected her.

Images of children flitted through her mind, of Bethany smiling as she drew water from the well.

Her face twisted in horror deep in the black, bones and rats surrounding her.

Hawke kept drinking, isolated from her friends.