Chapter 3: The Man Who Thought He Could Bring Down the General

Nathan could not breathe in the well.

It was only five feet deep: old bricks, dry dust, and the smell of water that had been gone for years. He sat with his knees pulled to his chest, his head bleeding where he had struck the brick when he fell.

He had his hand over his mouth and was biting down so hard that his teeth left marks.

If he screamed, they would hear him. And if they heard him, they would kill him too.

Through a small gap between two bricks, he could see straight into his living room.

His mother and sister were no longer inside. They had been dragged out to the street. He could hear his mother crying, and Lily shouting, "Daddy!"

Only three people remained in the living room: his father, Thomas Hills, on his knees; General Varric, standing; and one soldier behind Varric, holding an iron rod.

Thomas was in terrible shape. His shirt was torn open, and his chest was streaked with dust and blood. Blood ran from his nose, his mouth, and a cut on his forehead. One eye was almost swollen shut. His knees were shaking.

He was kneeling on the floor of the house he had built.

Varric was looking down at him, but not really *looking*, and that was the worst part. He did not see the blood, the trembling, or the man dying in his own home. He was looking past Thomas, at the walls and the ceiling, as if he were already planning how to paint them white for his new mansion.

Thomas coughed, and blood spattered the floor.

"You..." Thomas said, his voice broken. "You threw my family out like dogs."

Varric finally looked at him again, cold and bored.

"You refused to move out on your own," Varric said. "I told you yesterday: move, or we throw you out. You chose to be thrown."

Thomas tried to stand. He gripped a broken chair and pushed himself up. His legs shook badly, but he stood. He was fifty years old, and he stood.

Behind him, in the well, Nathan wanted to shout, *Daddy, don't! Stay down!*

But he bit his hand harder, and the blood from it filled his mouth.

Thomas wiped his lips with his torn shirt and looked Varric straight in the eyes.

"I have lived on this street for forty years," Thomas said. "I built this house with my own hands. I have three friends, my team, and we work together every day. You think you can come here with your boots and throw us out? I have enough strength to fight you and bring you down, by myself and with my team. I will bring you down today."

Varric raised an eyebrow, almost amused.

"Your team?" he said, and pointed to the corner of the room.

Nathan looked through the gap. Uncle Boro lay motionless on the floor, his leg bent at a terrible angle. Uncle Sam was face down, blood pooling around his head. Uncle Daniel was slumped by the door, clutching his stomach, unconscious.

Thomas looked too. For a second, his face crumpled. His team. His friends. Gone.

Then he turned back to Varric, and the grief in his face hardened into anger.

"My team may be down," Thomas said. "But I am still here. And I am enough."

He charged.

It was not a trained fighter's attack. It was a father's fight, a husband's fight. He ran at Varric with everything he had left and punched him in the jaw, a hard, heavy blow from a construction worker's fist.

Varric's head snapped to the side, and he stumbled back two steps. His lip split, and blood ran down his chin.

The soldier behind him raised the rod to strike, but Varric lifted a hand to stop him.

The house fell silent.

Varric touched his lip and saw his own blood on his black glove. He stared at it for a long time.

Then he smiled.

"You have strength, Thomas Hills," he said quietly. "I will give you that. Real strength, not like my soldiers, who only have uniforms."

Thomas was breathing hard, his fist still clenched. "Get out of my house."

Varric let out a short laugh.

"You punched a General," he said. "In his new house."

Then he hit Thomas back.

It was not a wild punch. Varric was trained. He struck Thomas in the throat with the edge of his hand. Thomas choked, fell to his knees, and clutched his neck, gasping for air.

Varric did not stop. He kicked Thomas in the chest, sending him onto his back, then planted one boot on his chest, not hard enough to kill, just enough to keep him down.

"You thought you could bring me down by yourself," Varric said, his voice calm, as though he were teaching a child. "You thought your energy, your hands, and your team of three workers were enough to fight the government. That is why you will die poor, Thomas. You never understood power."

Thomas seized Varric's boot with both hands and tried to push it off. He was weak, but he kept trying.

Outside, Grace's voice rose again, screaming, "THOMAS! THOMAS! LEAVE HIM!"

Varric heard it and did not turn. He did not care. He spared no glance for the bloodied woman outside, or for the man beneath his boot. To him, they were already gone: thrown out, already dead.

He looked at his soldier and nodded.

The soldier stepped forward with the iron rod.

Thomas saw it and knew what was coming. He turned his head and looked directly at the well, at the small gap between the bricks where Nathan was hiding.

For a moment, father and son looked at each other through that gap. Thomas could not see Nathan clearly in the darkness, but he knew his son was there. He knew his son was watching.

He mouthed a single word: "Stay."

Then the rod came down.

Once. Twice.

Nathan saw it all through the gap.

He bit his hand until he nearly broke the skin. Tears poured down his face, but no sound escaped him. Not one.

After the second blow, Thomas stopped moving. His hands slid from Varric's boot.

Varric lifted his foot and wiped it clean on Thomas's torn shirt.

"Drag him out," he told the soldier. "Throw him on the street with the wife and daughter. Then bring the truck. I want this house cleared by seven a.m. This is my land now."

The soldiers dragged Thomas out by his legs, his head knocking against the floor, through the door and onto the street.

Nathan was left alone in the well.

He could hear his mother wailing outside, a long, terrible cry that did not sound human.

He could hear Varric inside his home, pacing and giving orders.

"Break this wall. This kitchen is too small. I want marble here."

The General was already rebuilding, while Thomas Hills, the man who thought he had enough strength to fight the General and bring him down, by himself and with his team, had just died on the floor of his own house.

Nathan stayed in the well. One hour. Two hours. The sun came up.

He did not come out. He sat in his father's blood, which had dripped down between the bricks, and he me

morized Varric's face, the boots, and the rod.

He was seventeen. But in that well, the boy died, and someone else was born.