Dimly lit lanterns and the dull smell of pine brought him back. Too many chairs clustered around tables, too many stools clustered around the bar, the swish of Norah's skirt as she bristled by. Varric Tethras breathed in the stale air as he nursed his jack of ale. Human make, there was once a time, long ago, when he'd criticize the hops and jeer at the inferiority of all other beverages compared to a good dwarven stout. But then he'd actually tried a good dwarven stout. Despite his heritage, Varric was a surfacer through and through and he shamefully lacked the stomach for the flavors of his motherland.

The real dwarves could keep their drink. Varric was special. Varric smelled of sunshine and daisies. He took a long swig of his human ale.

It had been nice of the Seeker to deposit him back at the Hanged Man. His home away from home, his favorite haunt. Kirkwall may have been in shambles, but it certainly wasn't too war torn to lack drink. His forearm grazed across the gouged out initials Isabela had left in the bar as a reminder. She'd left for good maybe a year ago on the ship she'd so eloquently named, "The Champion." She'd smirked and commented on how now she too would be riding Hawke and then she was gone amid a flurry of innuendos involving the "poop deck." He snorted. It was so like Isabela.

Of course, Cassandra Pentaghast's sudden appearance was disconcerting. As far as Varric was concerned, anything more enclosed than the walls of the Hanged Man was too claustrophobic for his tastes. He'd discovered that years ago in the Deep Roads. Trapped, the idea of no back exit, no plan B did not sit well with him. So he had crawled and clawed and fought his way to the surface, just as the darkspawn fought their way out of the broodmother's womb.

Varric finished his drink.

He wanted to believe that so much had changed. To the point where all the stories he told were nothing but stories; their heroes and villains alike long forgotten whispers of memory and hearsay. Nothing ever changed. Someone was cackling drunk in a corner and Norah rubbed her lower back when she thought no one was looking. Varric slumped down in his bar stool as if he had never been so rudely plucked from it.

Of course Blondie showed up. Why not? It was ballsy of him, Varric had to give the kid that. He'd grown his facial hair out, something beyond stubble, but too spotty to be considered a beard, and wore a simple shirt and pair of trousers. A testament to the sense of humor of whatever creator there was that Anders managed to avoid being apprehended by the Grey Wardens all those years, he supposed.

Or maybe they were just content to let him remain missing from their order. Varric chuckled to himself.

"Varric, I need-"

"I can't protect you anymore." Varric gestured for a refill. "Your actions have seen to that. I can't just bribe a few Templars or talk your way into a syndicate's good graces."

"I know that, I just-"

"Then what?" One drink was not going to do. Amber ripples against the lip of waxed leather. "It's too dangerous for you to show up here just for the ambiance."

"I need your help." Anders slammed his open palm down on the bar and leaned over Varric. His voice dropped to a near inaudible mutter. "Esther left."

Varric grinned upward, his lips tight, his face warm with drink. "Serves you right."

"This is serious!" Anders' shout lanced over the din of the other patrons and had it not been for the careless wave Varric gave to Norah, the other man probably would have been escorted out. He lowered his voice. "I think it has to do with her sister."

"Do you?"

"You're playing games, but this is serious." The other man's head jerked around suspiciously at the other drunks in the tavern before he sat down on a bar stool. "Those bastards made Bethany tranquil."

Varric tried for a sympathetic look over the lip of his ale. His eyebrows kept sneaking down to angrier expressions. "Before you jump to conclusions, it might be better if you knew the whole story."

"What else is there to know?" Anders demanded. "I saw the mark upon the girl's forehead with my own eyes. Hawke's last remaining family and they do that to her? No wonder Esther left."

"Sure, I see how that's easier than believing it might have been you," Varric replied.

"I beg your pardon..!"

"Don't you think Hawke would stop at nothing to free her sister if Bethany was in danger?" Varric ran his fingers across the initials in the bar. They'd been rough when first carved, but had since been rubbed smooth.

Anders had that slack-jawed exasperation expressed perfectly across his features, complete with the useless flapping of his mouth. "She was too late!"

"Like she always is?" Too late for Carver, too late for Seamus, too late for Leandra. Too late for Anders, that asshole. "Did you ever once consider that it was what Bethany wanted?"

"You haven't seen her, you don't know what the rite of tranquility can-"

"I have seen her."

Something in Anders' eyes wavered. He swallowed. "How can you accept that so calmly?"

"It was what Bethany wanted." Varric let the words settle between them as he drained his ale. "The Circle was the only place she'd ever felt safe. Unfortunately, that all changed when someone blew up the Chantry. The kid grew up as an apostate and the circumstances terrified her. With the civil war, she didn't want to get butchered by a Templar, and she didn't want to get cornered and forced into blood magic or turn into an abomination."

"But no one would ever willingly, not in their right mind would they wish for tranquility..."

"Bethany did." The sun had set and the moon struggled to light the world in its stead. Varric could still smell sunshine in his hair, sometimes, if he closed his eyes. Stupid, stupid kids. "She said Hawke had showed up, thought that she was going to rescue her, but ended up getting a chance to say goodbye, instead. She gave Bethany her blessing, by the way."

"I just..." Anders was a lanky, overgrown child as he slouched on the bar stool. "I just want Esther to come home."

"Did you think about that when you used her trust in you to murder the Revered Mother?" Varric asked.

"You cannot possibly judge me any harsher than I judge myself." Anders' eyes narrowed. When was the last time Blondie had a good night's sleep? "What I did was for all mages, and my rewards are hearing her sobs at night and knowing that her sister would prefer tranquility to living. There are so many ways I've wronged the world and the only right thing in it has vanished from my life."

Varric stared at Anders and Anders right stared back. He shrugged and frowned at his empty jack. "I wish I could help you."

Anders head fell into his hands. "I miss her so much."

"Me too, Blondie," Varric murmured. "Me too."

They didn't have much else to discuss. They'd never been particularly close. Anders stumbled out of the Hanged Man with that same frantic, lost look that he'd entered with. Varric refilled his jack for a final time that evening and shook his head. Poor, son of a bitch.

He sipped that last drink slowly. With a nod from his head Norah disappeared upstairs, a crude remark ready on her lips for anyone that might try to distract her. The ale always became less bitter the more he drank, almost flowery.

A lifetime on the run had made her footsteps inaudible, but the shadow that fell over him was telling. "It's alright," he told her. "He doesn't have a clue."

"I always could count on you." Hawke leaned up against the bar. "Thanks, Varric."

He waved a hand. "I just wish you'd have come sooner."

She looked at him with those lyrium blue eyes. "How was he? Did he ask about me?"

"You don't want me to answer that honestly."

"Tits." Her hand made its way across her stomach idly. "You always did lie so prettily, Varric. Lie to me? For old time's sake?"

"You know, I was thinking about that game we used to play up in High Town," Varric said. "Staring at the unwed noblewomen and trying to decide if they were just fat or pregnant."

"I want to see him." Her mouth twisted into something that was supposed to be a smile. "I don't want to hurt him. I don't want to hurt, anymore."

"Hawke, really?" Varric pushed his drink away. Anything to avoid that lyrium blue gaze. "When did you turn into a bundle of laughs?"

She shook her head. "I won't. I have something more important than him, now. More important than me. I won't be around someone who uses and betrays those he claims to love." Her last bit of bravado spent, she laughed. "But I really, really want to."

"It'll be okay."

Hawke exhaled and deflated, a slouched body against a bar. "I should probably go back to him."

"Hey!" Varric snapped his head toward her. "We can do this."

"No." She smoothed a lock of her black hair behind her ear. It promptly fell back out of place. "It's not fair to him. I should probably go back, it's still not too late, I-"

Varric placed a hand on her shoulder. "Hawke. We can do this."

And he had told Cassandra Pentaghast that Esther Hawke was fearless. Shoulders hunched, lower lip trembling and a belly that wasn't quite yet showing, the Champion of Kirkwall cowered with one of the last friends she possessed. This wasn't a story that Varric wanted to tell.

"My mother would have known what to do..." She noticed his hand on her shoulder and leaned into it. "Can we?"

He squeezed. "Of course."

"Maker knows it'll probably be a mage."

"So we won't tell Fenris if that's the case."

"I just don't want to fail. I can't afford to fail at this."

Sunshine and daisies. When Varric was little, he used to stare at the sun until he couldn't see straight, but then, Varric had always been special.

"I won't let you," he told her. "We can do this."

Light from the full moon trickled in past the oiled sheepskin that covered the windows. The furrows in her brow began to soften. "Yeah?" Her shoulders may have been slight, but they were sturdy.

He grinned. "Yes, Hawke. We can do this."