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The Darktown Job	By : MorierBlackleaf Category: +A through F > Dragon Age (all) > Dragon Age (all) Views: 2847 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age nor any of the related characters. I make no money from writing about them.

Chapter List
- 1-The Darktown Job
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 1
- 2
- 3
Chapter 02
Hawke rapped his sword against the wooden slats of a crate to knock off the gore that was stuck to his blade. He watched idly as two young kids helped a woman up the ladder that led out of the slavers’ hiding place, where they had stashed a group of elven and human women and children. The kids and woman were the last of the freed captives to flee, which they had only done after thanking Hawke profusely. They had all been very eager to leave, to return to their families or homes, to forget that they had nearly been sold off to masters in a distant land. Some of the captives had been injured, so Anders had instructed them to go to his clinic nearby and wait for him, where he would heal them in turn once his mana was regenerated enough. First, though, Anders set about helping his friends with what mana he had left.
Indeed, once the woman and kids were up the ladder and out of sight, a warm feeling spread over Hawke’s body that was accompanied by a temporary, fleeting flash of light; Hawke looked back just in time to see Anders lowering his hands. The mage nodded at him but turned away quickly, his overwrought features fixed into what was becoming Anders’ permanent expression of melancholy and disappointment.
“Thanks,” he told the mage, grateful for the healing spell, although his injuries had been minor.
Anders didn’t respond. The mage didn’t say much these days. His mind was typically occupied with his manifesto and dreams of revolution, although every now and then, Hawke would catch the mage staring at him with the same longing with which Hawke used to stare at Fenris. It was Hawke’s fault, he knew. When first he had met Anders, before he had met Fenris, he had flirted with the mage a bit. He hadn’t meant to lead on Anders and might have pursued the mage, had not he become utterly infatuated with Fenris upon first sight.
Hawke looked around the dark and crumbling room to check that all the slavers were dead and not just injured or unconscious, but also to ascertain that Varric and Fenris were unscathed. Varric, who usually managed to stay back and away from the worst of the fighting, didn’t have a speck of blood on him and nary a cut, but Fenris, who was always in the thick of things right beside Hawke, was inspecting his arm, where one of the slaver’s blades had grazed the unprotected skin just above where his gauntlet ended. It was barely more than a scratch, but without being asked, Anders cast the same healing spell upon Fenris, who scowled at Anders as if the mage were attacking him rather than aiding him.
Anders did that just to piss off Fenris, Hawke decided with a sigh.
And it worked. No sooner had the mage lowered his hands than Fenris and Anders began to bicker, as they’d been doing all morning.
He had a motley lot of friends, to be sure, who did not often see eye to eye, but for him and for common purpose, they tried to get along. And yet, nothing that Hawke could say or do could ever seem to ameliorate the tension between Fenris and Anders, no matter what he tried. Even now, after slaughtering two dozen slavers and freeing the poor souls who’d been snatched out of Darktown’s alleys and hovels to be sold like cattle, Anders and Fenris were at each other’s throats about something that they had been going on about since earlier that morning. Hawke wasn’t sure what had started the argument because he had learnt long ago that pleading ignorance was sometimes his only defense. He hated choosing sides between his friends because he loved them fiercely; he accepted them as they were – flaws and all. That didn’t mean that Hawke didn’t try to steer them in the right direction. That’s what friends were for – to be there through the hard times as well as the good, and to offer the counsel that no one else dared to.
But he truly loved Fenris, without question. He sympathized with Fenris. He knew what incited the elf’s rage for mages. But Hawke also loved Anders. He was a good friend. He also commiserated with Anders, who wanted the same thing that Fenris did – the freedom to live a life without fear, without oppression for being different, and without shame for merely existing. Fenris was an elf, which to many humans made him a thing, a possession that could be owned and treated however one’s master wished, and which made him disposable, while Anders was a mage, which to those without magic made him a threat, a menace that needed to be controlled, and which also meant that he might be made a tool of sorts by the Templars.
Hawke bent down to check one of the slaver’s weapons. He was always on the lookout for upgrades to his own arsenal. As he checked the sword over, he thought, If only I could make them see how alike they truly are then Fenris and Anders might be allies. However, Fenris’ hatred of mages ran deep, and while it was understandable, Hawke did not condone it. His father had been a mage. His sister was a mage, as well, and she was currently trapped in the Gallows, where Anders might end up if he didn’t exercise more caution, especially in regards to his plastering all of the city with copies of his manifesto. Still, Hawke couldn’t fault Fenris, though, for hating mages, when all that he’d ever known of mages was pain and humiliation. All he could do was slowly work on the elf’s blind hate and hope that one day Fenris would be more accepting.
And so, for now, Hawke ignored his two bickering friends. Instead, the warrior continued searching the slavers’ bodies for clues, for coin, or for anything that might be of use. As Isabela was wont to say, if they killed them, they got their stuff. Hawke had wealth now, but he never turned down more free coin. Rising with a grunt after finding nothing but a stale biscuit and a dull shiv on the leader of the slavers, Hawke looked for Varric. Oftentimes, when Fenris and Anders were fighting, Varric could be seen rolling his eyes and shaking his head – that is, except for when he egged them on for his own amusement.
At least he’s staying out of it today, Hawke noticed of the dwarf.
Across the way, Varric was fondling Bianca, as he often did when thinking, when drinking, or sometimes just to make others uncomfortable with the strangely sexual display of profound affection he held for his crossbow. At seeing Hawke looking at him, the dwarf grinned and walked over, leaving Fenris and Anders behind – not that they noticed, so entrenched were they in discussing the difference between being a slave and being a mage.
As he sidled up next to Hawke, Varric gave the warrior a sly lift of his eyebrows and said, “Say, Hawke, thought you and Fenris went back to your place to get some rest last night.”
Puzzled, Hawke nodded. He and Fenris had left the Hanged Man early in the evening and gone back to his estate. He couldn’t convince Fenris to move in, but the elf often spent the night there at least two or three times a week – assuming they were actually in Kirkwall rather than on tasks in the surrounding lands. “We did. Made it home before sunset.”
Varric’s mischievous grin grew, causing Hawke to feel like he had fallen for one of Varric’s ruses, though he had yet to figure it out. “Say, Hawke,” the dwarf repeated in the same intentionally ponderous tone, giving Bianca a final stroke before slipping her over his back, “didn’t we clear out all the new gangs of thugs in Hightown… what, last week, wasn’t it?”
Growing ever more confused, Hawke nodded again. He knelt down beside the last of the slavers and checked his pockets, where he found a few silvers and a small bottle of what smelled to be very potent moonshine. He stuck the moonshine in his pocket with the shiv and biscuit. He could sell the junk and earn enough to buy a round at the Hanged Man later. He answered Varric, “Yes, last week. I haven’t seen any more since then.”
The dwarf harrumphed; Varric brushed at his exposed chest hair as if dusting off crumbs. He inquired deliberately, “And you came straight to the Hanged Man to meet me this morning? Didn’t stop off to do some other job first? Didn’t run into any abominations, no blood mages, no angry mobs?”
Now utterly ensnared, Hawke stood, crossed his arms over his chest, and returned the dwarf’s grin while waiting for the punch line. “No. We had an uneventful evening and morning until just now.”
Unable to keep a straight face, Varric outright chortled as he asked, “Are you sure about that? Looks like you had a run in with a desire demon who mistook your neck for your crotch.”
He had forgotten already about the bruising on his throat, where Fenris had latched on with his mouth last night, sucking at the underside of his jaw until he had created a huge, discolored contusion. I fell for that one, he rued to himself, laughing right along with Varric.
“I am no demon and I was not mistaken,” Fenris said abruptly, stoically, having come up behind the dwarf and warrior with Anders just a step behind him. He then smiled, which was ephemeral and rare for the elf to show in public. “Trust me; I know the difference between Hawke’s neck and his crotch. There is a distinct dissimilarity in taste.”
Hawke flushed just a bit at hearing Fenris speak with such ribald humor, although Varric began cackling. That’s going to end up in his book, I just know it, the warrior thought, unable to keep from chuckling right along with Varric. Only Anders was not amused by their conversation. The mage still had a crush on Hawke and it burned him that Hawke had chosen to be with Fenris, especially given that Fenris hated what Anders was, even if he did not exactly hate Anders himself.
To spare Anders from having to listen to anymore of Varric and Fenris’ lecherous jests, since once they got going they would be hard pressed to stop, Hawke told them, “Come on. Let’s go talk to Aveline. She’ll want to know why there are two dozen corpses down here, I would wager.”
As usual, Hawke led the way and the others fell in behind him, luckily without Fenris and Anders resuming their quarrel. Even after several years, he was still in awe that these people looked to him for leadership. He was nothing special, in his thinking. Carver had been the brave one – to the point of being reckless, sometimes – and had been his mother’s favorite, Bethany was the smart one who could never do wrong, and Hawke, well, he’d just been the responsible one. In fact, no matter what had happened, Hawke had been responsible for it, even if it hadn’t been his fault. Shouldering the responsibility for his family and taking care of his mother, brother, and sister had been his impetus in his rise from just another Fereldan refugee to a person of note in Kirkwall. Somehow, Hawke kept collecting more people to look after, it seemed. He now had Merrill, Aveline, Isabela, Varric, Sebastian, Anders, and of course, Fenris, all of whom needed him just as much as he needed them.
No one looked twice at them in Darktown, unlike in the city above, where people would call out to Hawke. Not even Fenris and Hawke’s blood coated clothing earned them a second glance from the jaded residents of Kirkwall’s underbelly. Hawke took them the short distance to Anders’ clinic, where already several of the captives they’d just saved were waiting around the doors for the mage’s help.
“Find me if you need me,” Anders offered to Hawke quietly before he slipped inside to do his chosen work as a healer.
For a moment, Hawke stared at the closed door to the clinic. Hawke knew that it was hard for Anders to be around Fenris these days but he missed the times he and the mage had spent together before Anders had become so utterly serious and withdrawn. Heaving a sigh, Hawke told Varric and Fenris, “Before we go talk to Aveline, let’s stop by the Hanged Man for an ale and something to eat. Nothing like a bloodbath to work up the appetite.”
The dwarf and elf agreed, as they usually did to whatever Hawke suggested, and they moved on, threading their way through the people, stalls, and hovels of Darktown. As they finally came to the exit, which was one of the more disused ones as it necessitated climbing a narrow ladder up to Lowtown, a young fellow came up to them. The young man had dark hair that hung over his face, his clothes were filthy and worn, he was shoeless, and he carried no weapons. Thinking that he was about to be asked for money, Hawke reached into his pocket for the silvers he had found on the slaver, for he was always willing to hand out some coin for the starving, but rather than coming to him, as the beggars usually did, this one went to Fenris. In surprise, Hawke turned around to make certain that Fenris didn’t overreact to the young human. He moved closer to the man, just in case the beggar tried to plead his case with Fenris and ended up trying to touch the elf, which Fenris sometimes reacted poorly to when the touch was uninvited or from a stranger.
But the beggar stopped before getting too close. Without greeting, the young man told the elf, “You killed them.”
No one else was about other than Hawke, Varric, and Fenris, so there was no mistaking that the man was speaking to one of them and not anyone else, though the beggar’s gaze was fully upon Fenris. Hawke wondered, Is he talking about us killing the slavers?
Fenris’ carefully blank face gave nothing away, but the elf was tense and his hand was clenching and unclenching. Hawke had seen the elf do this numerous times – right before Fenris would thrust his lyrium-etched hand through someone’s torso.
“You killed them,” the young man was whispering fiercely. With eyes that were wide with fright, the beggar was still angry enough to charge again, “You murdered all of them.”
Ever one to try to be diplomatic, Hawke approached the young beggar with his hands out to show that he was friendly and without drawn weapon. “Who are you? What are you talking about? If you mean the slavers, then we all had a hand in it, but I can’t imagine why you would lament their passing.”
As if suddenly aware that Varric and Hawke were there, too, the beggar spun around to face them, though he then backed away so that he was out of reach of Fenris. “You. You’re the Champion,” the young man said to Hawke, his eyes seemingly growing wider at recognizing Hawke. “You saved the city from the Qunari.”
Hawke was still not used to that title. He guessed he had earned it, though, through hard work. He’d also lost a lot before his taking on the Qunari, all of which had influenced his decision to duel the Arishok that day – he lost his mother to a madman, his brother to a troll, and his sister to the Gallows, for starters. Everything that he had done, he had done for his family, but now that it was just him, Hawke had thrown himself into truly being the Champion of Kirkwall because the city’s people direly needed the hope that having a Champion seemed to bring. Sometimes, though, people looked to him as if he were a city guard. They brought their minor problems to him, problems that in the past he would have solved for some coin to help feed his family, but now for which he didn’t have much time. Hawke could tell from the excited way in which the beggar looked to him that he expected that the Champion of Kirkwall would take up his cause.
Indeed, the young man insisted while pointing at Fenris, “He’s a murderer. He killed four of my friends.”
Stunned to hear this, Hawke immediately assumed that the young man had been a thug of some sort. He could imagine no other reason for Fenris to have killed his friends, if the beggar was even being honest. “Did he now?” he said congenially, giving the young man a frown. “Why would he do that?”
“Hawke.” Fenris stepped closer to the beggar, his fist clenching and releasing repeatedly in an ever-increasing pace. “Let us go.”
For a brief moment, Hawke considered doing as Fenris suggested. He would shortly wish that he had left as Fenris had bid. Instead, he asked the elf, “What is he talking about?”
They stood in an irregular circle, with the dim illumination of the exit’s tunnel the only light in this part of the alleyway. The young man fervently looked to Hawke rather than Fenris; it was the beggar who answered Hawke, questioning him with true bewilderment, “You’re the Champion, aren’t you? You’re the one who has been clearing out the trash from the city. But you know this murderer?”
“Enough. Be quiet,” Fenris warned his accuser, taking another step forward, his gauntleted hand out towards the young man. “You were spared but if you do not quiet, you will share your friends’ fate.”
The young man would not hush, not since he thought that none other than the Champion of Kirkwall was about to see justice done on his behalf. He smiled at Fenris, apparently thinking that the elf would be made to pay for his alleged crimes, “He made a deal with my friends, but then he took their money and killed them.”
Varric had kept quiet thus far, but he asked now, “What kind of deal?”
Before the man could answer, Fenris leapt forward while sliding behind his accuser. Fenris’ lyrium carved flesh glowed blindingly brightly in the shadowed corridor. Before the man knew what was happening and before Hawke could try to diffuse the situation, Fenris’ arm was jutting out from the young human’s chest on the opposite side from where he stood. Hawke stood motionless, watching the life leave the young man’s eyes, his face showing his surprise, for he had clearly thought that he was safe with the Champion of Kirkwall there. And then, with a grunt, Fenris removed his hand, the light of his lyrium markings faded, the young human fell into a heap upon the ground, and the elf was striding towards the exit.
“Wait,” he called out to the elf, but by then, Fenris was gone and Hawke and Varric were left with the corpse of a young man whose name they didn’t know, and whose accusation against Fenris was apparently veracious enough to warrant his death.
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The Darktown Job