2.
By evening, Brona was entering into the Hanged Man, trying her best to appear calm. She had been in the establishment before, of course, doing work for the Red Iron, but she never really felt welcome there. She was so unsure, she had stopped at home to put on her sword belt before heading over. Bethany had offered to accompany her, but she had declined. It was better to meet Varric without the distraction of ensuring her sister’s safety.
The sounds of the bar met her first, and then immediately after, the slosh of a beer over her entire front. She gasped and pushed the drunkard off of herself, and he went sprawling onto the floor. The tankard rolled after him with a loud clang, and half of the patrons looked over to see what was the matter.
Hawke still stood there in the doorway, now drenching wet through her cloth to her skin, but she composed herself enough to enter properly. The drunkard rolled himself up to sitting, but she ignored him, starting to pick her way through the inebriated crowd, head turning this way and that, looking for where Varric might be.
She saw a group of mercenaries playing a card game at a low table, a harrassed serving girl there waiting on them. In the corner sat a man given a wide berth, tapping the empty flagon, upside down, loudly on his table. A few dwarven merchants took up a pair of square tables, looking to be in the throes of a heated negotiation. None of them were Varric, or his brother.
Upon reaching the stairs on the far side of the room, she paused, unsure if she wanted to ascend. Her mind turned to the empty rooms she remembered being there from her last time in the Hanged Man, when she was chasing some little bounty. He had been entertaining a… lady.
As she stood there, Varric himself came into view, sliding a little on the wood at the top of the steps as he halted at seeing her. “I thought you didn’t drink,” he jested, and she scowled up at him. He waved a hand to invite her up, so she took the stairs as he once again disappeared from view.
To the right, and down a small hallway, he waited for her at the entrance to his quarters. He turned to walk to his table, sitting down in a grand wooden chair, his boots up on his table and over some paperwork. The dwarf just watched her take in his main room, and then threw the bag full of the prince’s coin there in front of his boots.
“I’m in.”
“After all that debate, you’re in, just like that?”
“Yes.”
Varric studied her before his boots dropped heavy to his floor, and he pulled the bag with a finger over to inspect it. For a long moment, there was only the soft clink of coin as he roughly counted the contents. “This is a good start, but it’s not nearly enough.”
“I know. You said you have leads.”
“I do. Quite a few.” He paused and kicked out a chair for her. She took the cue and sat in it, accepting the towel he offered her. “The first one isn’t a job at all, actually. I’ve heard there’s a Grey Warden here, and we could use their information.”
“For the Deep Roads?”
He nodded. “I think they’re one of yours— Fereldan, I mean, though probably a human. They came in with the other refugees.”
“Then how did you hear about this Warden at all?”
“Word gets around, Hawke. Even if they don’t advertise it, Wardens are kind of hard to miss, and one from Ferelden, after the Blight…” he trailed off, but she didn’t need to hear the rest. She folded up the towel carefully to distract herself as she thought of the Darkspawn, of Ostagar, of Wesley… “Anyway, I thought that if anyone could find them easily and not spook them, it would probably be you.”
“Why’s that?”
“Shared heritage, shared experiences, and you’re quite—“ Her eyes darted to him quickly, and he cleared his throat, suddenly very interested in resecuring her bag of coin. “Intimidating.”
She made a noise in the back of her throat that declared her displeasure without her having to vocalise it.
“We can go now. It’s early enough that we might be able to get it done and over with.”
“We? You want to come with me?”
His head tilted to the side with a little smirk. “You want my intel, then you’ll have to accept me and Bianca along with you.”
“And Bianca is your… wife?”
“Crossbow,” he corrected in a happy voice, standing to retrieve the weapon from where it sat on its own table, looking to be freshly oiled. He hefted her with ease, and then presented the engineering marvel to the warrior, all while keeping a firm grip on her. Brona was eager to get a better look, making sure to take in all she could while she had a chance. “Never go a day without her company. You’ve already seen her in action, but soon enough she’ll be your best friend, too.”
“That would be a first,” she mused. “I’ve not named my sword, or my dagger, but now you have got me thinking that perhaps I should.”
“I can help you. I’m great at names,” he replied in a happy tone still. He set Bianca down on the table before he slid the bag of the prince’s coin over to her. “Keep it for now. Whatever you collect as an investment will go right to Bartrand.”
“And does he know about any of this?”
Varric was away, gathering together is gear for going out, but he continued to speak to her as he did. “No, but I know my brother. He needs the funds, he needs your experience, and if we can get any kind of resource from this Grey Warden— say maps or even an entrance— it’ll be all the better.”
“An entrance?” She gasped, eyes following him. “He’s planning an expedition, and doesn’t have an entrance?”
“He did— but it’s no good. He’s been trying to find work arounds, but with all the collapses, it’s damn near impossible. If we can get anything reliable, that will certainly ingratiate Bartrand to you.”
“So… A Grey Warden you think would have that, because of how often they go down into the Deep Roads.”
“Tabris did it, a few times. There’s no reason to think that whoever this one is, that they’re not at least vaguely familiar with them as well.”
“I suppose she did,” she murmured, thinking of the Hero of Ferelden, though she was so far removed here in Kirkwall, that it all seemed too fanciful to be real. Tall tales with a fairy book ending. “Have you heard anything of her recently?”
“No, not since Amaranthine,” he noted in an offhand way, pulling on his gloves before stowing Bianca on his back. “And that was months ago.”
“What of the other Wardens?”
“Not much there, either. Before the coup, I heard some faint things from my contacts in Starkhaven about that exiled Warden, but they’ve since dropped off.”
“You don’t think this refugee is him, do you?”
He shook his head, waving a hand to make sure she followed him. She was quick to do so. “I doubt it. I’m sure he’s laying low somewhere, avoiding attention as much as possible, given his previous station.”
“And what of Loghain?”
“What of him?”
“Have you heard about his whereabouts?”
“No, but I promise you that this Warden we’re seeking isn’t him. He’s much too recognisable.”
“I suppose so,” she murmured.
He noted the disappointment there, but waited until they were outside into Lowtown before he wondered, “did you hope to see the disgraced General, Hawke?”
“I served in his army. Perhaps one day I’ll get to see him again.”
“Perhaps in the Deep Roads,” Varric mused, and she frowned at him. “All right, Fereldan, where should we start?”
She made a thoughtful noise, hand at the hilt of her sword for reassurance. Outside of the tavern, the full smell of the ale from her clothes and skin was almost dizzying, but she tried her best to ignore it. “Darktown, I suppose, but it couldn’t hurt to go and talk to Lirene. We went to her a few times while we were trying to settle in.”
“The charity woman?”
Varric followed her as she began to make her way towards the shop through the evening market. “Yes. Once I made some extra coin, I made sure to contribute, but in those early days, having a few extra meals for mother and Bethany was well worth the trip.”
“I haven’t really heard of any kind of stories from back then. Will you tell me about it?”
“What’s to tell? After weeks aboard a boat, and days spent in the Gallows, the adjustment to Gamlen’s hovel wasn’t as hard as one might have expected, but they had it the worst. I got meals when I was out and on jobs, or with Meeran or whomever, but they were stuck with whatever Uncle could buy, or however he got it. I had to take on extra work to make sure they even got enough to eat.”
“You could have gone to the Chantry.”
“We did, once a week, mother and I. We would bring home a meal for Bethany, maybe some extra bread for throughout the week.” She felt Varric look up at her, but she ignored it. “And now we’re free, and I will hopefully never have to worry so much about such simple things again.”
“Wasn’t your sister working, too?”
“Yes, but not as much as I could. Despite all of his so-called connections, he was rather reckless with how he exposed her at times. I didn’t like it, and I told him so. Hence why I worked so much.” She climbed the steps up to Firene’s import shop quickly. “Here we are, and a line nearly out the door, too.”
She pushed into the charity shop, and people moved easily for her, wanting to avoid both her figure and her sword, and then Varric once he joined her. He fell silent, observing rather than interfering, and watched as she interacted with a few of her people that she knew, or that remembered her.
It was Lirene herself, a tired-looking middle-aged woman, who called over to Hawke with her name and an arm wave. She stood behind a table covered with all sorts of things, mostly looking to have been scavenged out of a midden… or the bottom of a ship. “Hawke, is that you? Who else could it be?” She offered the woman a smile, though it didn’t quite extend to her eyes.
“It’s me,” Brona confirmed, a hand out to her that Lirene took, a few choice coins in a bit of cloth transferring as they did. Brona’s hand returned to her sword then. “How are things?”
“A bit better now that the Blight’s over and all, but it’s still something of a struggle. You aren’t needing any help or anything, are you? I can’t say I have anything worth your while.”
“I was actually wondering about some information,” she answered, leaning towards the other woman, who met that gesture, eyebrows raising. “I heard a Grey Warden was amongst some recent arrivals?”
“A Grey Warden?” Lirene stood up again, looking over the shop with a growing frown before her attention was again to the warrior. “Yes, I suppose he is one. He got a bounty or something?”
“No, nothing like that. I only wish to speak with him.”
She studied Brona’s face, trying to determine if she spoke the truth. “You promise, Hawke? I know what you do for a living.”
“Hand to the Maker,” she stated, right hand raising to illustrate that. “I will not harm him, and I won’t report him.”
Lirene nodded then, bending in closer so her voice could drop to a dead whisper. “He’s a healer, down in the Undercity. If you follow the lit lanterns, you’ll find him, in his clinic. Any of our people down there can point you to him.”
“Thank you, sincerely,” Hawke replied with a smile for her. “I’ll come with more, when I can.”
Once out in Lowtown, Varric let out a low whistle.
“What?”
“I’ve never seen you in action, not like that. How are you the same person that got a drink spilled on them an hour ago?”
“It’s not like that. I’m fine with crowds. It’s drunken and rowdy crowds that I am ill-experienced in.”
They were walking together, side by side, heading down into the depths of Kirkwall, where she dreaded to go. But at least the smell of her clothes would be welcome there, instead of what it normally smelled like.
“And why not? I know you’ve spent years of your life looking after your family, but haven’t you gone out and lived for yourself at all?”
“You sound like my mother.”
Varric guffawed, and then laughed, looking up at her. “What? You’re not serious?”
“I am.”
“So? Why don’t you live for yourself, if so many people in your life echo it?”
She was quiet for longer than necessary, but she wanted to make sure that she worded it exactly right. “Despite what it might look like, I am living for myself. I enjoy my work. It is my honour to look after my family in my father’s and Carver’s stead. I work so hard now, because I know that it is not forever. There is an end I am working towards, and then I will… do other things.”
“Noble. Stupid, but noble.” She sent him a frown, which he ignored, pointing her towards a long corridor that darkened before she could see the end of it. “If he’s a healer, then he’s probably a mage.”
“Likely.”
“No other comment about that?”
“What might you want me to say?” She wondered, eyes sweeping the people and their shanty dwellings now that they were in Darktown proper. A smell of waste and taint permeated everything, and despite her ale perfume, it was hard not to wrinkle up her nose. If she hadn’t already been in dire need of a change of clothes before, she certainly would be after talking to this healer.
“I don’t know. I know your family has mages in it, but how do you feel about apostates like this one?”
“Is he an apostate if he’s a Warden?”
“I think the templars would say that he is.”
“I don’t really care. What I care about is the information he might offer, and what he might ask for in return. What about you?”
“What, mages and apostates and templars?” She made a quiet affirmative. “I’m with you. I don’t think much about it, so I don’t really care either way. About your sister, sure, she’s important to you, but the average mage?” He shrugged.
“As long as they aren’t harming anyone, I say we let them be.”
“Ah, so you do care.”
“You asked about the Warden. He’s a Grey Warden and a healer. I sincerely doubt he’s on the top list of dangerous apostates.”
“Or, that he’s so well battle-trained and hardened is all the more reason for the templars— and consequently us— to worry.” Brona made another noise, this one of dissatisfaction. “I guess we’ll find out ourselves soon enough. What were those directions again?”
“She said to follow the lit lanterns.”
They fell quiet as they navigated the little streets in the semi-darkness, the rush of the waters and the pleas and sobs of the refugees and destitute in their ears. One lantern led to another, and then that one, on the next street, to another. The one further had a little charm hanging from it, and she paused to inspect the tiny carved mabari. Someone, probably one of the refugees, had hung it there. Her mind flipped to the lines of the hounds at Ostagar before she came back to the task at hand.
There was no real time down in the Undercity, but she was starting to sweat by the time they reached a pair of lanterns in front of doorway. The wooden door, many times repaired, stood slightly ajar, and so Brona— with a glance to Varric— pushed it open and peeked through.
Inside was fairly well lit. There were a number of cots, and many of them filled, along each wall of the long and narrow room. Down the center were tables filled with cobbled-together supplies, bandages made from rags, and bowls of water. Behind the cots, along the far wall, was a curtain kind of tacked up to the wall and hanging haphhazardly, but where there were gaps she saw the telltale signs of books and another cot. Where he slept, then.
Brona’s attention was drawn to the distinct sound of healing, and her head turned as she stepped properly in to take in the man performing it. His staff was on the wall beside the cot, and his hands were over the boy there while his mother looked on with a tear-stained face and a worried expression. He was tall, blond, and dressed in whatever he had fled Ferelden in, probably— a mish mash of different fabrics, accented here or there with fur. Definitely Fereldan, then.
She cracked the door behind them again as Varric stepped in with her. He wandered off to talk to some of the patients and people waiting, but Hawke was still watching the Warden. He took his time in healing the boy, so she went and sat on an empty cot, just watching him work with fascination. He was concentrating, his breaths coming harder the longer he worked, but the boy’s leg popped back into place. The wound healed as she looked on with wide eyes, her fingers up to her lips to hide a little plea to the Maker.
It was only when the healing light faded and he looked from the boy and his mother, who was now fawning over her lad, that he noticed her. Her hand fell to her knee as their eyes met for a long few breaths.
He was evaluating her, she realised.
He picked up his staff from its resting place and then walked to where she sat. She stood immediately, and as she did, she imagined that she looked a fright. Sweaty, smelling of ale and the Undercity, and dirty besides. He had seen worse, she was sure.
“Are you injured?” He wondered in a quiet voice. She shook her head. “Are you safe? I know the templars are very vigilant here.”
“You’re in no danger from me.”
His attention was drawn to a peal of laughter, and he left her with strong steps to Varric, who was smiling as he told a tale to some children waiting there. Brona followed quickly after him. “What are you doing?”
“Just spinning a story,” Varric replied with a crooked smile up to the mage.
“He’s with me. I apologise if he’s disturbing your clinic, but we need to speak with you.”
“I’m hardly disturbing anything. I’m just telling them all about Gris the Mabari. Do you know the tales?”
The Warden frowned lightly at the dwarf. “Yes, of course I do. Just keep in mind that this is a place of healing, and some here might not ever recover.” Varric waved a hand at him before returning to the children’s rapt attentions, jumping back into the story. The mage looked to Hawke instead, and took a couple of steps from her companion. “What do you need from me?”
“Are you a Grey Warden?”
“Yes.”
“So you know how to get into the Deep Roads?”
His frown deepened. “Suppose I did. Why would you need to know?”
“Varric’s brother is planning an expedition, and so we were looking for any new entrances. Now that the Blight is over—“
“Barely. It’s barely over. You can just look around and see that.” She did, hand tightening on her sword’s hilt with a furrowed brow. There were people in those cots with the telltale signs of the Blight— the sickness that had killed Wesley, and so many others. It made her chest tighten to think about it, and about what these people he was treating were going through.
Still, he continued.
“I understand the— no, you know what, I don’t understand the obsession that dwarves and treasure seekers have with the Deep Roads. It isn’t a place you just go without consequences. I hate it there. How did they get you involved?”
“I was at Ostagar. I know what I’m getting into, and I need the funds if we’re to reclaim what is rightfully ours. Our estate, our titles, all of it.”
“You were in the Circle? I know they sent a few senior enchanters to Ostagar, but I don’t ever remember seeing you there.”
“What? No, I was in Teryn Loghain’s army— well, I suppose the Late King Cailan’s, technically. My brother and I barely made it out alive.” His eyes didn’t leave hers, studying them again like they had before. This time, though, there was a spark of bright blue that lit them up. It was gone so quick, she might have imagined it.
“I see,” he said in a tight voice, his entire stance shifting, and his staff along with it. He let his gaze fall to where Varric was getting to the climax of the story, taking in a couple of deep breaths, before his eyes returned to her. “This might be a boon. You being trained in the sword, and having such experience, is just what I find myself needing.”
“So you do have a way to get into the Deep Roads.”
“I have maps, yes. You help me, and they’re yours to use.”
She offered him her arm. “Brona Hawke.”
He took it to her forearm, gripping through her cloth, perhaps more than necessary. “Anders.”
“And Varric Tethras, of course,” she continued after their arms released, looking to the dwarf. He was standing with an adjustment for Bianca, and looked to them at his name. She inclined her head in an invite, and he joined them. “Varric, this is Anders. He’s agreed to help us, provided I help him with something first.”
“Anders?” Varric’s arms crossed as he studied the mage. “I thought you died in Amaranthine.”
“You know of me?” Varric nodded, frown slowly growing. “Ah, well, the Warden-Commander helped me to fake my death. Shae— well, she was worried that the Circle would come for me again after she left.”
“And so you came to Kirkwall.”
“I have a friend here. I have to be sure that he’s safe.”
“Is that why you need me?” Brona wondered, and he nodded at her. “He’s a mage?”
“Yes. The specifics I’d like to discuss with you in private.”
“So,” Varric began, and their attentions returned to him. “You must’ve met Loghain then.”
The mage smirked. “I met him. He was organising and training the wardens in Ferelden, last I heard.”
“Is that where she went?”
“Probably. When we parted, we both knew we’d never see each other again, so we didn’t exchange information. It’s safer this way.” It was then that Varric seemed to relax. “Have I passed your test?”
“Can never be too careful.” He glanced at Brona. “Shall I leave you two to scheme, then?”
She nodded. “I can bring the maps to you after we’re done.”
“Be careful,” he urged her, before he waved farewell to them both.
Anders went to go and check on his patients, and so she followed him, holding the staff for him because he thrust it at her. It felt odd in her hands, more than simply the awkwardness of holding such a weapon. It sent a shiver up her and she let out an audible breath that made him look at her quickly. He had been in the middle of assessing a new set of sores, and so she suppressed any further comment on it. He went back to his work, albeit slightly distracted, but it was still some time before he was finished checking on them for the night.
He led her back behind the curtain that led to his sleeping quarters— really nothing more than a cot with a thin blanket and a stack of reference books. There was a scattering of extra clothes, and there was a cat stalking something in the darkness, but he ignored it all. He fell down heavily to sit onto his bed, head in his hands with deep breaths.
“Anders?” The mage’s hands fell to his thighs, and he looked up at where she stood, still clutching his staff. “What’s the matter?”
“Oh, there’s a lot, but let’s focus on what I need your help with.” He scooted over and patted beside him, so she came to sit there with him. He took his staff back and twirled it rapidly between his hands with its base to the floor. He seemed to be contemplating, and she let him. “When I was at the Circle in Ferelden, I had a friend— a good friend. Karl. He got transferred here back before the Blight, and we’ve been in nearly constant contact since. He’s been describing the conditions here, in the Gallows, and I— it’s only been getting worse. His last few notes were especially troubling, and now they’ve stopped coming altogether.”
“When was the last?”
“Nearly a week ago, now. I sent him a note last night, saying that I can meet him in the Chantry if he can get there, and I can help him. I plan on going every night for a while, to see if he shows up.”
She sat up quickly, hand to his arm to make him look at her. “No, you cannot. I was just there earlier, and the templars know.”
“What? They— how could they know—“
“I’m not sure, but I’m certain that they do.” She frowned, hand up to her lips instead as she thought through it all, everything that Frian had told her. “I can go and scope it out, instead. I am not in any danger going there.”
“And what if you see him? No— no, I need to go with you. I don’t want to spook him.”
“Anders, please,” she breathed. “The templars— everyone at the Chantry— they’re on high alert.”
“Tell me,” he demanded.
“It was Ser Frian that told me— well, I overheard him warning one of the Sisters, and then I asked him about it. He warned them about a dangerous apostate, Anders. They know you’re coming.”
“You’re on a first name basis with templars?”
She waved it away. “I always have been. I used to get to befriend them all whenever we moved to somewhere new. I learned their schedules, what they liked to eat, all of it. I did it so they would turn a blind eye to my sister.”
“While endangering yourself.”
“Hardly. I just got some free training from them.” She winked at him to illustrate the point, but despite her light tone, he wasn’t convinced. “Does it matter in this moment? Let me go and see if Karl is even there.”
“You think something might have happened to him.”
“Don’t you?” He nodded, face back into his hand. “I do, too.”
Toro Tokuda 