XIV: Of the Curative Nature of Alcohol

Carver swayed in his seat, trying to think while the world rolled around him.

"I heard your uncle's gambling again," Varric gabbed from across their table. The Hanged Man was loud and uproarious, the night in full swing – but Carver didn't care. He wasn't feeling it.

I've… forgotten something. Aveline. The guard? What the… bl-… bloody hells. He shook his head to clear his thoughts – and when that didn't work, he took another long swig from his mug.

"Gamlen gambling? It's hardly a gamble to guess he is," Nell laughed loudly. "Gamble… gambit. It's his gambit, to gamble, his game – " she hiccupped loudly.

They'd been at it all day, then all evening, though the party had only really started when Varric and Martin had arrived – unfortunately without Merrill.

Maker, the way she smiles. Carver grinned stupidly at the memory of her tattoos crinkling under her grin. Another thought flitted by without prompting, that of her breasts heaving under him as she smiled a different sort of smile. He shuddered ever so slightly at that.

"Your uncle's game is to gamble, sure," Varric persisted. He'd had half as many drinks as Carver had had, Carver figured, so that would make him about as drunk as the human when you took into account the fact that he was half a man. Yet the stupid bastard didn't have the good sense to totter in his chair, or even slur the littlest bit. The midget never shows his drink, just talks everybody's ear off. Not much change from him sober, that.

"But he's playing with the wrong people this time," Varric pressed, his own mug ignored. "People he's played with before, practically paragons of virtue in the criminal world. The Red Iron, Josren One-Eye, Athenril – "

"Athenril!" his sister spat, her good humor suddenly gone. She struggled for a moment, teetering, as she noisily gathered a large wad of phlegm in her mouth. After a moment she released it right where her mug had sat not a moment before. She took an incredibly long draft of her drink before slamming it back on that unappealing impact point. "You've got a straaaange idea of paragan, you beautiful little man, if you count Athenril as one of them." She mumbled something into her mug.

"What was that?" Martin asked from Nell's left, marking the first time he'd spoken in hours. "Who is this, 'Athenril?'" The words seemed to crawl out of the scarred warrior's mouth, then tumble and slide down his face so slowly that even inebriated Carver noted their dulled pace.

"A filthy, sister-shagging arse-sniffing… cunt!" Nell replied, accompanying the last word with another loud snort of phlegm which she promptly spat down onto the floor.

Varric seemed taken aback. "Woah. Easy there, Hawke, I know you worked for her but – "

"Plough off, Varric. You might know every bastard from here to Hightown. but you don't know shite in this case. Bugger off it."

If the dwarf's jaw were to drop any lower Carver was certain he'd be chinning the floor. Not too far for him though… heh. Varric sat stunned for a moment before shaking it off. "Whatever, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to poke a sore spot. Point is, your Uncle's dipping his wick in shit too deep for him to be able to pull out of if he slips. Just thought you should know."

Nell took a sullen drink. "Consider me informed," she muttered lucidly.

They all muddled into silence: Martin, Carver, Varric and Nell all nursing their drinks in a now uncomfortable quiet. Usually this was when Nell would crack a joke, thump her mug, ask a question – anything to bring life to the table. Carver waited, and drank.

To his surprise it was Varric who spoke first. "Qunari are acting up again," the dwarf offered.

"The Qunari?" Martin asked in sudden interest as he leaned heavily onto his mug arm.

"You know…" Nell drawled. "The onesh camping near the docks. Southwise… or so..."

"Qunari… camp? In the city?" Martin was teetering, clearly lost.

"You blind? Deaf, or somethin'?" Carver interrupted, annoyed at the recalcitrant warrior. "How do ya miss… bloody Qunari?"

"Heard… something," Martin answered. "But thought it was drunks… mad tales. I've not been here long."

"It's mad allll right," Nell replied. "There was a storm. Proper gale, months ago."

"Fifty days, give or… take," Varric clarified, smarmy tone dragging over Carver's ears.

"Sod off. This here's my story!"

"As the lady wishes." Varric mock bowed in his seat. Bet he could… kiss the floor. Right easy. Heh.

"Damn right. Anywaysh… they set up camp, right near where they wrecked their ship. Right there, on the pier. Hundred Qunari – "

"More like two hundred," Varric cut in again. "Two thirty, maybe. What my friends say, at any rate."

"Shut it, shorty, or I'm taking a razor to your chest, right?"

"Anything but that!" Varric snorted, but he nestled attentively back into his seat.

"What was I on about? Oh. Guard tried to treat with 'em, Viscount tried – bloody Templars almost made a fight, the Knight-Commander all piss and fury. Close thing, but it simmered down – cooler heads and all that. Viscount's son ended up begging them to move to some old bailey. Now they camp there."

The scarred veteran sat in silence, squinting at his mug, before taking a long drink. "So – they remain? For what purpose?" He asked at a snail's pace – to Carver's continued irritation.

"Nobody knows. They don't say bugger all. They don't really leave that old bailey of theirs, and nobody's too keen to visit." Nell replied amiably. "Nothing else to say, really."

They quieted again, even as the tavern roared around them. At first everyone but Nell nursed their drinks, though after noting his sister's alacrity Carver matched her gulps. It seemed hardly a moment before she managed to kill a tankard and move on to another one. Quietly even, which was strange for her. Unwilling to be outdone, Carver kept up.

Though not as awkward as the last pause in the conversation, this one stretched for a minute. Then what felt like ten. There was only so much enjoyment Carver could get from reveling in the acrid burn of the booze he shoved down his gullet, and at managing to, if not best, at least keep up with Nell at something.

Finally the silence dragged on for too long. "Andraste's tits. You'rea all… loushy, tonight." The younger Hawke pushed himself to his feet, swaying as the world tilted about him. "I'm gonna go see… see what Merrill's up to."

"Great idea!" Varric hopped off his own chair. "I'll be right behind you, Junior. Talk you up real good."

"Oh… noooo..." Nell slurred. "You lie… ar… Varric. You just wanna see Carver kiss dirt." She accentuated her point with another draft from her drink.

Carver shook his head then, an act he immediately regretted as his world slid about his eyeballs. "I can… walk… jhust fine, shister."

"I say… ten silver..." Martin drawled at his maddeningly slow pace, looking to Hawke. "That the boy does not make the door."

"Doubt hheee will," Nell nodded dumbly. "But gots to stick wit' family. I see you, Martin o' Highevar."

"Hessarian's… burning blade… Jus' Martin, Hawke." Martin whined. Like the… bloody… shite he is.

Nell ignored him, turning sloppily to Carver with what her drunk self could conjure as a stern expression. It looked halfway between a giggle and a frown. "Go… get her, Carver. For the family. Do us proud."

Carver snorted in response. He caught himself on the table as he turned, his rear hitting it hard and bodily shoving it back half a pace.

"On second thought," Varric chimed, "Maybe you should just sit down, Junior."

"Sod off," Carver barked, iron in his voice. "I will go."

He held for a moment, waited for everything to still. When he could see the path before him, could make out that those that were paying attention had cleared out of his way, he pushed forward.

The younger Hawke did not remember the impact, did not feel his misjudged step send him careening down onto his face. Nor did he hear the crack as his head hit plank. Luckily for him, he also did not hear Varric's uproarious laughter.

[=]

I shouldn't. I shouldn't. It's not fair, come on.

He tried, he really did. But Varric couldn't help himself.

Another bark of laughter burst from his gut, threatened to wrench him from his seat. He hadn't had too much – he never had too much – but it was enough for some unsteadiness to nearly topple him from his perch. The amused dwarf had to cling madly with one arm to his chair as he shook with laughter that physically hurt, it was so hard.

But he couldn't stop.

Hawke laughed with him at first for half a breath before she stumbled out of her own chair, stepping herself over to her fallen brother's side.

Martin moved to follow her, but he seemed even less steady on his own feet – he too clung to his chair rather than fall below. Unlike Varric, he wasn't laughing, though a self-satisfied smirk graced his scarred mug. Must be what a full-on laugh is to him, poor guy. Missing out.

The tightly packed tavern crowd had backed up at Carver's collapse, the din of the malcontented patrons of the Hanged Man quieting as they all took stock of the sudden commotion. It only lasted a moment before they turned away and the normal cacophony resumed.

"Carver?" Hawke called with actual concern as she poked his fallen form. She cursed, loudly, lifted her brother a handspan off the floor before dropping him in a huff. "Martin, give us a hand."

"Aye," Martin responded, trying his best to get out of his seat. Again he slid, and again he grasped for dear life to his chair. This time he had leaned too far, committed too much – while he held fast, his own weight betrayed him. Chair and man tumbled to the floor in loud, crashing heap. This time the crowd completely ignored the noise even as Martin shouted, "Maferath's flaccid cock!"

"Oh my!" A woman's voice, hard and heady cried from behind Varric. He turned to see the unfortunately named Marlowe of the Docks, Nora's stand in for whenever she couldn't make work. Or Corff's extra hand on the rare nights when he and Nora weren't enough to run their ill-reputed tavern.

The middle-aged brunette gasped in alarm, hurriedly dumping the tray and pitchers she carried on their table as she half stepped to Carver's side. Varric immediately took advantage and grabbed one sloshing pitcher, from which he promptly refilled his mug. As Martin righted himself and placed his own cup back on the table – he'd kept it in hand all the way to the floor – Varric topped him off too. Martin nodded his way and knocked glasses with Varric.

"What has happened?" the woman fretted, her curves bouncing in such a way even Varric found himself leering. Not much ever tempted him away from Bianca. Or her memory. He wasn't blind, though.

"Hullo, Marlowe," Hawke said. "Nora out tonight?"

"Drunk herself sick, silly girl," Marlowe nodded. "What has happened to the poor boy?"

The tavern wench threaded a tautly muscled arm underneath Carver's left as Hawke did the same at his right.

"Well," Hawke muttered before bracing herself. "He – heave! - is much like our dear pasty Nora. He drank himself to the floor."

Between the two women they managed to lift the lolling boy up. Marlowe seemed to have a better grip than Hawke as the part-time bar maid, part-time dock worker held him tight with both hands.

"The poor thing," she said. "Where will we lay him? Can't keep him here in the scuff, although… we could take him round the bend – my place is just down the way."

Oh. OH. Varric interrupted that thought before it could go any further. "Take him up to my room," he offered instead, tossing his key to Hawke. That she caught it hardly surprised him, even in her tossed state. "Though if he pukes on anything, you're cleaning it up."

"No way in hell Varric, but I'll see to it that he does," Hawke bit back as they half carried, half dragged the unconscious Carver around and behind him. Towards the stairs and his suite above.

Varric suddenly found himself alone with Martin, the man he knew least of all Hawke's ragged tag-alongs.

Shit, I know more about Daisy after two days than I know about him in… he wasn't sure. Couple weeks? A bit more?

Let's catalog: He's fereldan. Blight veteran, usually pretty quiet. Fast bastard, good with those hammers of his. Drinks like a fish, flask was full of moonshine yesterday. Could be he actually likes that in particular, or could be he just got the cheap Ratfish shit they brew in Darktown. Seems to like Hawke, so he's gotta have some taste – yeah, no way he actually likes that shit.

Varric realized he'd lost his thread, his thoughts had spooled sideways. He shook his head to clear it, then took another drink for a good measure.

Dunno why he'd leave Ferelden after the Blight. Here for coin? Lots of shit a fighter like him could get paid to do in Kirkwall. The Red Iron'd take him. Old One-Eye's always looking for hands – hell, if he didn't give a shit where his coin comes from Faucher, or the Coterie – De Palma if he's a fucking psycho.

From what Hawke's said he'd just hung around drinking until she picked him up… so he had some coin already. And just burnt it on booze? Drunkard? No, he'd definitely need someone higher paying than us if he had a real habit. What then?

Varric studied the scarred man, took in his roughed-up face, especially the one wicked mark that looped above his eye, down the cheek and nearly met with his mouth. Martin seemed in another world, his eyes on his mug, his hands clenched about it in a near death grip. Varric noticed then the mercenary wasn't wearing any gloves for once – his hands were much like his face, nicked and battered in ways that made Varric's stomach lurch. He was even missing the slightest edge to his ring finger on his left hand, the remaining bit hardly standing to his little finger. No one gets as marked up as that without seeing serious shit and standing right up to it.

Varric had it then, the story of Martin, the hammered warrior from Ferelden.

King's man. A bleeding patriot. Joined the Ferelden regular army before the Blight, saw some action against… the hell do they fight usually… Orlesian loyalists. Yeah. Orlesians make great villains.

Martin of Highever fought bravely against them, rooting out western treachery and border skirmishes. When the Blight came, Martin marched to face it too – and when the famous Teryn Loghain betrayed the fereldan King and retreated from Ostagar, Martin was one of the few survivors.

The seasoned warrior fought through darkspawn and traitor alike to make it back to the forces of the liege loyalists – the only survivor of the battle, aside from the Heroes, of course.

His hammers brought death to all who stood with the traitors, and when the insurrection was crushed, he fought for the new King…

Wait. Why would he leave then? Hmm. Gotta change some things.

Martin was a King's man who followed under the famous Teryn Loghain. When Loghain committed his dastardly treachery, Martin was in his army – and fooled, like many others.

He fought the supposed Warden–backed rebels, only ceasing when the full extent of Loghain's evil was revealed and the new King was crowned.

Martin fought bravely for his new liege, eager to wash away his dishonor – all the way to the great final battle.

When it was all over, Martin found he could not live with what he'd done – so he banished himself to Kirkwall.

Shit, that's not enough. Oh, his lady love was part of the contingent who died at Ostagar so Martin felt a great sense of loss yada yada… shit. I'm not on my game today.

"What are you gawking at, Varric?" Martin's voice brought Varric back to the present – revealing to Varric that he had been staring dead-eyed at the fereldan.

Who needs bullshit when honesty'll do? "Just thinking of your history, Mallet. Your backstory, if you'll excuse the expression. I find myself more than a little curious."

Martin simply grunted in response.

"Come on," Varric insisted. "I know you're not that hammered. You can hear an implied question."

"And I did not answer..." Martin said, enunciating to an infuriating degree, as slowly as possible. "Does that tell you something, dwarf?"

"Sourpuss," Varric complained. "Well, we gotta talk about something. So, you got a thing for elves, or what? You're pretty cozy with the Dalish."

Martin's already present frown somehow dipped even lower.

Varric held his hands up before the man could respond to that. "Fine, consider the subject tabled. How about places – what's something different in Kirkwall to Ferelden? Like, something little, that bugs you more than it should."

The frown remained plastered to his face as the human took another sip. "I find that… there is less comraderie here. In a fereldan tavern, like as not you'll be offered a pint by someone within a bell's time. Here? The only one who's ever offered me a drink was Hawke, and she's fereldan."

"Well," Varric explained. "You're fereldan. That doesn't really cozy you up to Kirkwallers, especially lately. We took on quite a few of you when the Blight hit, and suddenly within the year we have hundreds upon hundreds of outsiders desperate enough to do just about anything." Varric frowned at that. "Didn't really hurt anybody up in Hightown, but down here? Supply met demand. Jobs got scarcer, poor folk got poorer – and those lucky enough to work found themselves competing for lower pay."

Martin thoughtfully sipped his drink at that. "So are Kirkwaller's typically more hospitable with their fellow natives?"

"Not really. We're more independent here, don't really come together except over really big shit. Though we definitely tend to insult each other less than we do fereldans."

Before Varric could broach another painfully mundane topic the table rocked suddenly. He turned to see Hawke knocking the table as she collapsed into her chair. She grabbed at her mug and drank greedily.

"Well," Hawke said. "Put the brother to bed, tucked as safe as you please – thanks Varric – alls right… as rain." She quickly drained her mug and belched loudly. "What'd I miss?"

"We were..." Martin attempted before listing into silence.

"Discussing the culinary merits of rat," Varric interrupted, not really willing to discuss the 'fereldan issue' with a soused Hawke.

"I'm partial to it smoked, myself," Hawke nodded seriously. "Though it'd be downright palatable if it was steamed and tossed into a tasty stew."

Martin slammed his mug on to the table, startling both Varric and Hawke. "Agreed," he almost bellowed. "This backwater needs… stew." His head lolled as he settled in his chair.

The roar of the crowd rose up in a clamor, as a crash and clatter echoed over the din. Varric swiveled to see Corff duck behind the bar as a bottle just missed him and shattered along the wall behind.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING INTERRUPT," a man in striped leathers bellowed, leaning over the bar. "THIS WENCH AND ME HAVE BUSINESS."

A woman, rivaini in complexion with curves like hell sauntered up to the man. "We've got business like you've got balls, Maggie." Her voiced was raised, but not to the level the man's was.

The man whirled on her, face red. His angry spittle was visible even half-way across the tavern. "YOU FUCKING WHORE," he screamed, lunging at her with a clumsy right hook.

It was so fast Varric was hardly sure it even happened at all. She side stepped, pulled the man's arm down and kicked him hard in the nethers. He went down hard, squealing.

She stepped over striped leather's fallen form and leaned up against the bar. Corff stood back up and she spoke, though Varric couldn't hear her over the sounds of the tavern. "The pirate!" he heard Hawke gasp beside him.

The pirate's conversation with Corff barely lasted ten seconds before striped leathers was back on his feet, the glint of steel in his hand. Corff's cowardly drop alerted the rivaini and she twirled. Striped leathers hit the bar hard, his dagger dropping in his apparently too light grip. The woman grabbed his head and slammed it with force onto the counter-top. The impact made Varric wince, but she didn't so much as pause – she grabbed the now silent man by the back and threw him to the floor.

Turning to the crowd she bellowed, "A round for whoever throws this sod out the door!"

Eager cheers and eager hands reached for the man on the floor. Hawke was up in a flash, nearly capsizing their table as she cheered. "Bloody brilliant!" was all she said as she bounded to the bar, stooping to assist taking out the trash.

"What is she… on about?" Martin asked. "What just happened?"

Varric glanced at the man – Martin listed, blinking, trying to look at the bar but was clearly unable to really focus on it. "That pirate woman who's been around a few times just kicked someone's ass real good," Varric smirked. "Guess Hawke's a fan."

"A fan?"

Varric shot the fereldan a withering look. "A fan, you know, when you like someone you don't really know. Like, you'd be a fan of that king of yours."

Martin choked back a laugh so strained it sounded like a cry. He immediately lifted his mug back to his lips and drank, drank until the thing was empty. The mug fell with a clatter as Martin let it slip from his hands.

"Hey, you alright Mallet?" Varric asked, concerned.

The man muttered something before dropping his head onto the table, pillowed in his arms. His shoulders shook a moment before they steadied. Deep, even breathing.

Martin was asleep.

Varric hardly turned back when the table rocked – again to Hawke sitting back down. Her face was tight, nearly pale.

"So, how'd you like meeting a pirate?" Varric asked.

Hawke grimaced. "Well, she bought me a round, and when I asked her if she had any treasure buried she just leaned forward and told me she was digging my chest."

Varric guffawed. "What? She said that to you? For real?"

"Did I stutter?" Hawke barked back, her slur gone. "You know what? Sod this. I'm going home. Hope you have fun with Martin."

She nearly tossed her chair away as she marched out – Maker's breath, she's pissed. When one particularly unsteady bar patron stepped in her path, she practically tossed him too.

Varric could only sit and watch her go, dumbstruck.

What the hell did I say?

[=]

Martin groaned in pain, coughed and spat out dirt that his moaning allowed into his mouth. Bone dry earth that clung to his tongue and teeth.

Not dirt. Sand.

He opened his eyes even as he spat over and again, dragging his tongue between his teeth to free every bit of grit that stuck to the moistness. He raised his head from the dark sand, looking up.

Pain pounded at his temples as he took in the wasteland before him – no, not before him. The wasteland stretched in all directions, dark and scorched as if a great cataclysm had once burned the land clean.

Storm clouds gathered above; a distant peal of thunder echoed over the land. Martin stood, looked down at his battered armor.

I feel as if I have been here before, he mused. Though I have never seen a desert.

He shook his head to clear the familiar fugue of alcohol as best he could, though pain and nausea still beat and clutched at him in equal measure. He turned, taking in the strange place he found himself in.

Emptiness. Wherever he turned, the lone and level sands stretched far away.

He realized he could not be here, not truly – he last remembered drinking in the Hanged Man. Discussion and carousing. This is a dream, a conjuring of the Fade.

He had never seen the desert. Never even pictured it – not until he dreamt of it.

This is no memory of mine, no dream space I formed or nurtured. He felt a sudden sense of dread, of steadily encroaching fear. This place comes from without.

The once-Warden steadied himself, shoved his hand beneath his shirt just below the neckline. Even in the Fade, even here, he found the ring he sought. He clutched it, remembered Her words.

That which dwells in the Fade has power here… but so do we. Those with the Gift… A flash of a playful, mocking smile seemed to form in the sand before him as her voice whispered at the edge of thought. Even those with weak an ability as yours. Though… 'tis strange you found me so quickly, here.

The sand suddenly scattered around him, stirred by a silent wind. Instinctively he covered his eyes, covered his face with an arm – willed that he would leave this place. Do not follow me.

He banished the thought of her from his mind, pictured the open road along the Highway that stretched south of Amaranthine, not a dozen leagues from the Waking Sea. He saw the wild berry bushes that lined that great road, the rolling hills of mud and earth – grass verdant under a fresh rain.

Rain. Martin felt droplets of moisture strike his bare arm, his exposed head – he lifted his limb and gaze.

He stood in the desert still, rain falling from the sky. There was no road, no verdant grass – but in the distance he saw a structure standing tall. Through the moisture and he could not discern its shape, could not even make out how far it was.

The rain was warm against his skin, the earth cold. Within him, nameless dread rose as he stared at the thing in the distance.

He was afraid, and he knew not why.

Martin took a step, a terrible, painful step forward – towards the shape.

The sand gave way beneath his foot and he fell, painfully dry, stars blinding him as his head met hard wood.

He lay on the floor of his unlit room in the Hanged Man, head throbbing, stomach turning – and still he remembered a dark form in the desert.

The fereldan exile shivered.