XXII: A Friend in Need

It hadn't been a good day for Varric.

True enough, he could grouse with the best of them. Rub shoulders with nobles, kick up heels with merchants. It actually paid off, too – more than half of the Guild seemed to like him, most days, and that was a feat in and of itself.

But by Andraste's sodding fingernails, I can't stand Assembly Day.

Varric sat in the lower meeting hall of the Kirkwall Merchant's Guild, idly picking at his nails as two dozen kalna rabbled and pushed to be heard. They all clustered about the elongated table that filled the hall, a table sunk into a deep crimson rug. Chicken bones, half torn dumplings and spilt ale covered both rug and table – the aftermath of dwarven appetites.

As Varric fidgeted in his chair, he noticed that even the banners that lined the hall's pillars hadn't escaped unscathed. If he squinted just right at those banners across from him, he could just make out that they bore splatterings of both wine and ale.

I know one of those was Dace, Varric mused. Duster slammed a full mug down. He's got reason to be touchy though – if the word about him and Serendipity chumming it at the Rose is true. Hell, even if it's not. Especially if it's not.

Old Tintop stood up then, his place at the far end of the table with the lowest kalna caste forcing him to shout to be heard. "I've got a pr… proposal to make!" He slurred, clearly three stones down. Not even midday yet. I have some catching up to do.

"Sit down, Javaris!" sang out a voice from even farther down the line. It sounded like Lady Hamden, but Varric couldn't be sure.

"For the Paragons' sakes, Javaris, sit down!" Echoed half a dozen other voices. This was an old game at this point – Old Tintop desperately trying to rope some suckers into his ludicrous Qunari scheme every time more than two dwarves congregated, while those who'd had enough shut him down before he could even begin. Mullen Pollas started it – the sodding song. It was even funny. Last month. Now it's played out, but people can't let it go.

Played out like Tintop's stupid idea. The Qunari won't ever part with that powder of theirs – least wise not for any sodding gold. Shit, they don't even have their own coin. They don't believe in it! Can't deal with people like that.

Iren Malden rapped a chicken bone on the table to call for attention, standing from her place half a dozen seats down from Tintop – who was now himself sitting in shame as half a dozen other kalna continued to crow at him.

Varric's attention was stolen from the rap of the chicken bone by an insistent tapping on his shoulder. Slouched in his chair as he was, it took Varric a full second to turn around – to catch a mealy faced attendant, face blanched and pocked, nervously pulling at his beard. Varric didn't recognize him.

Stonecrusher Cadash Junior, son of Stonecrusher Cadash Senior. One got the name for cracking skulls and stones with his shield, the other for cracking his own bones climbing up a pile of rocks.

The dwarf servant was now gesturing with a hand, gesticulating to the nearest door.

Varric shrugged, both curious and grateful to be rescued from Iren Malden's too predictable speech about "surface paragons" that deserved an insulting song just as much as Old Tintop. His idea tickled the stubborn pride of the Assembly, though, so he was actually humored.

Sliding off his chair, Varric retrieved Bianca (unloaded, as the guild insisted) from the stool beside him, completely unnoticed in the ever-increasing pomposity of the kalna assembly.

They wound out the door, back to the main hall – a sweeping antechamber with chandeliers to put the Viscount's keep to shame. The room was mostly empty – except for the guards at the relatively modest door that marked the entrance to the Guild Hall.

The servant who Varric trailed finally turned, still pulling at his beard, half bowing and muttering.

"Speak up, Stonecrusher. What's the word?" Varric asked, aloof as he eased Bianca on to his back.

The servant's brow furrowed at that, but his servile training got the better of him. "Messere, there is an… elf to see you. I'm sorry to have pulled you from the hall, but - "

"What," Varric asked, more interested now. "Young girl? Face tattoos? Talks a mile a minute?"

The dwarf shook his head. "No, a young male, Messere. He was most insistent that he speak to you at once. Something about 'wandering off,' I believe. He is outside."

The copper dropped, and Varric felt his stomach drop with it. "Shit." He just managed to toss the man a silver as he pushed past him, bundling past the uninterested guards and out into the street.

Damn it, Daisy.

[=]

Half the morning was gone before Merrill realized her mistake.

I don't know this place in the slightest, she worried to herself, clutching at the hem of her tabard as she trod through Lowtown.

Or at least, what she thought was Lowtown. She remembered something about a Market, Estern or something like that, but she could hardly tell where she was going. All the avenues and lanes looked the same to her – the stark walls towering over her whichever way she turned. Humans were all around – bustling, laughing, yelling, moving. She could hardly even think over the din.

At first, she had tried moving towards the sun – if the market was east, so too was the inn Varric lived in. After all, it was just off the market… wasn't it? Of course, it was down the Rope Street… or was it Knot Street? Something with rope? Oh Merrill, where are you?

Following the sun quickly ceased to be an option – she lost it under a series of low hanging roofs, behind tall walls and towering statues.

It was when the smell of the sea hit her – or more accurately, the smell of putrid refuse and rot mixed with the sea – that her realization managed to cut through the chaos and finally echo within her mind.

I'm hopelessly lost.

Merrill tried to center herself, repeating calm words and lessons. We are proud. The last of the Elvhen. We are always lost. That's not helping. Actual lost. What do we do, when lost? She looked, tried first to pick out any landmarks she recognized. No use. It all looks the same, somehow.

Instead, she took stock of the crowd about her, to see who might be willing to point her in the right direction.

A steady throng of humanity marched all around her – most clearly uninterested, minds set and paths sure. But some… some of them looked at her. Some glared at her.

She felt naked, afraid – but… not all of them looked with hatred. Some seemed kind, some concerned – some seemed to hold her in no regard at all. Someone will help. Maybe.

Merrill chose one man who looked particularly friendly, a big smile splitting his bearded face as he strode along.

"Ara seranna ma, do you - " She managed before someone bumped into her, nearly knocking her down. She spun, stumbled, and dodged back under the shadow of an awning. The friendly looking man was gone, as if he'd never been. Countless more humans moved this way and that, a sea of unfamiliarity.

She looked again, this time finding a woman in a tightly clasped robe, seemingly missing in places. A red cloak swirled behind her as she gripped the hand of a ragged man who seemed as pleased as one could be. Neither of them seemed to hold any anger towards her.

Merrill made eye contact with the woman, opened her mouth to speak – only for the woman to shake her head and say without stopping, "No alms now, mayhaps - "

The rest of whatever she had to say was lost as the man pulled her along, around a corner down the way into yet another alley. Merrill stood for a long moment silent, mouth agape, before she managed to close it and steel her courage yet again. That woman seemed nice, but busy. She must have had very important work to do, though I don't know what she meant by 'alms.'

With that partial encouragement she decided to chance it – she chose a man at random without looking. Like all the others he seemed in a hurry, though his hurry was lesser than most. He had a scowl on his face, but one that need not seem focused at anyone in particular. His irritation seemed more directed at the sun, a splinter, or something else unrelated to the people around him.

This time Merrill did not delay, she stepped to her chosen man without hesitation. "Please, do you know - "

The man didn't even spare her a glance. "Piss off, knifey," he grumbled without stopping.

Merrill's words died in her throat. Sadly, she stepped back into shadow. What little courage she had mustered to speak with the strangers about her evaporated, gone and done. For a long moment she stood in the awning, people still bustling about before her, moving without care. Again she noticed some who looked her way, though now all looks seemed unkind. Angry even.

Merrill slumped and turned, uncaring. If she could not find help, one direction was as good as another. She stepped forward without looking, joining into the flowing crowd.

An odd sort of comfort came to her as she moved with and around strange humans, even as she felt sadly futile. At least I'm just another shape among many. Perhaps they won't notice that I'm an elf. She let her feet carry her forward, unmindful and unheeding of the people around her – and at whatever looks they might be throwing her way. There was no one about her, and nothing before her.

That is, until she found that there was. She was so insulated in herself that she didn't feel the rough dirt beneath her feet change to cobble, nor the cobble shift to planked wood. Nor did she see the edge of the pier she had somehow mounted. One moment she was moving forward, deliberately ignoring those around her, and the next the expected ground ahead of her was only air.

Merrill teetered on the edge with a squeak, floundering, the greenish water reflecting back at her. Never before had water seemed so menacing, so willing to swallow her whole as it did in that moment. With a final twist of her arms she just managed to stagger back from the edge and regain her footing.

Someone laughed behind her, a sudden, cruel sound that carried over the bustle.

She didn't turn. Didn't face what felt like a thousand eyes on her. Her face burned in shame. Her hands shook in unbidden anxiety, her self-containment shattered.

Merrill hunched down, clasping her hands together with force to suppress her shuddering. They are looking. They are all around me. Strange humans, strange people – laughing.

She turned away from the edge, looked down the wharf on which she now stood. Great ships towered before her in the water, sails fluttering in the breeze. At least half a dozen humans seemed to mill about in her field of view, no doubt all gawking at her. Laughing at her.

Without thinking she began to move, initially at a swift walk. Almost immediately her foot caught a loose plank and she stumbled, pain throbbing up her leg. She embraced the pain, carrying her unsteady momentum into the beginnings of a run. She had to get away – out of sight, where they could not see her – where someone might look to her with kind eyes that didn't see her as filth to… 'piss off, knifey.'

Her feet ached as they pounded on rough wood, scraping and tearing at her foot wraps. She paid no mind to the increasing pain, to a man who tried to block her path, to the increasing level of shouts. Without thinking, she put her hand to her paring knife as she ran.

Run. Run. Run.

She was so blinded, so panicked that she didn't hear the command, didn't see the plate – not until her arm was suddenly wrenched back behind her and her momentum sent her spinning hard to the ground.

Stars filled her vision as her head thumped heavily on the planks below. She couldn't see – couldn't think. All Merrill could do was wallow in the sudden agony and fight absolute confusion.

The large arm that still gripped her bit deep with steel fingers into her forearm. This pain was direct enough to shock the elf out of her sudden fugue, enough for her to swing her head upwards to see just what was grabbing her.

A hairless human with a nose like a hook towered above her. His cuirass, scuffed as it was, blinded the elf as she turned her eyes to it. Blearily blinking tears, she looked back down and desperately tried to order he addled mind.

Another voice was shouting, barking orders. "It's under control. Back to your business! Back, I said! Thief's caught, sod off!"

Pain stabbed through Merrill's arm, radiating to her temples as the man still holding her shook her roughly. "And what've you got, elf? Where you off to with it? Speak up, 'fore I kick your teeth in."

"I… I – " Merrill stuttered, looking back up at the man. She managed a clearer look before the pain beating within her skull and the harsh sunlight sent her eyes back downward.

He wears orange shoulder pieces. Like Aveline.

City Guard?

Merrill licked her painfully dry lips, tried to speak through her sprint-sore throat. "I haven't taken… I was just... Please. I just need to get to the Hanged Man. I was just trying to find my way there, following the sun, then I lost it… and my way. I don't know where I am, I don't - "

"Ahh…" the man spoke with a sudden shift in tone. "Hanged Man, is it? You a new western walker? Well, you've done walked all the way east. Well, you shouldn't have taken to snatching. Girls lose their right to walk with that." He sounded less hostile, but the something that had slipped into his voice set Merrill's teeth on edge.

"I didn't snatch anything," Merrill protested, blinking away pain-soaked tears. "I was just af- "

"Just thinking of snatching, yeah?" The other man snarled. He too bore the markings of the Guard. "Too late to get out of it now. Though we haven't the time to learn you the law proper. We got business of our own. Now, how are you going to apologize for your thievery?"

"Sathan, tel'eloasa," she managed, her head swimming as the bald guard shook her again.

"What's that gibberish? Sounds like a right gargle," the man who held her complained stupidly.

"Speak right or shut it, knife ear," the other man barked. "Now, what you do to make this right?"

Merrill said the only thing she could think to. "Please – I… just ask Aveline! I wouldn't steal - "

"Ho…" interrupted the bald guard, incredulous. "You know the Sergeant, walker?" He suddenly burst out laughing. "Didn't think she was the type," he guffawed. "Still, fat lot of good she'll do for you. See - "

"Hold on a moment," growled the other guard to his companion. He knelt down beside Merrill. "How do you know the Sergeant?"

Merrill sat up as best she could with steel claws still grasped around her forearm. The world slowly dripped in around them then, starting from their faces – the guard who held her stood casually above her, staring at her as if she were a fresh cut of meat. A horrible grin split his plain face.

The other guard looked at her intently from within his open-faced helmet, measuring – despite his earlier slur, of the two his look seemed the less aggressive. On the wharf on which she now sat, Merrill could see people scurrying past – apparently unwilling to be caught near the three.

"Well – er, we're friends. At least I think we're friends," Merrill explained. "I mean, she's friends with Martin and Varric, and they're my friends. I was actually looking for Varric, I didn't want to bother – "

"Oh, what's it matter, Tress?" Grumbled the bald man. "We've got the whole afternoon, who cares who this trollop knows? Not like it'll matter tomorrow. Come now, let's have some fun."

"Not another word, Arren, or I'll see the Captain tans your hide!" barked Tress. He looked back to Merrill. "See, we're looking for Aveline. Like you're looking for this other fellow, wherever he is. We're supposed to meet, see. Down the bend, behind the fishery. You've done wrong. You sit with us, wait for her – maybe she speaks for you, if you speak true. Right?"

Merrill looked the man in the eyes – tried her best to gauge what he was thinking. He seemed a wall, dark eyes reflecting nothing. "I – my arm," Merrill answered, as the bald man shifted in his stance, sending another stab of pain through her held limb.

"Right," Tress nodded, looking to her captor. "Let go, Arren. No point to tearing that off."

"What are you playing at, Tress?" Arren demanded, his grip tightening. "Maybe she knows Aveline, what of it? What's even the point?"

Tress kept his eyes locked to Merrill's for a long moment – then he sighed heavily and stood. "Arren, you numbskull. Drop that arm. The Sergeant can speak for her if she likes – and if she does speak for her – well, how do you think a friendly face at arms-length might tip things?"

"… So you're saying…"

"If she's truthful, she's like to make things smoother."

"But - "

"Any trades you might want can come after we meet the Sergeant, see?"

"Ahh…" Arren finally replied with apparent comprehension. He abruptly released Merrill's arm, dropping her heavily off balance.

"Come on, wait with us," Tress said, looking down to Merrill. "Aveline will be by soon enough. Might be your lucky day."

Merrill, unsure, looked about, then shakily stood. The men had her trapped, both standing within arm's reach in either direction before her – and behind her lay the water. That was no escape – though Merrill could swim, after a fashion, wherever she would struggle to swim to would be within reach of this wharf, where the two guards could follow her at their leisure. She found herself unsettled – she so wanted to believe Tress, to believe that he was to meet Aveline.

Whatever happens, if Aveline comes, she will be able to help. She wouldn't let them do… whatever it is they… would she? No, she wouldn't.

Besides, whatever ails Martin I cannot fix. He needs help, and I can't give it to him without someone who would know. Oh, if only I'd thought to ask the Hahren, or anyone in the Alienage. Stupid. Stupid!

She screwed up her courage – and chose to believe. "Alright – I… I'll go with you." Elgar'nan, please, bring her quickly.

Tress took her by the shoulder – his grip was in no way gentle, but it did not hurt like Arren's had. "Right. This way. And don't you think of running off."

I won't, Merrill thought. For Martin's sake.