Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One

The Inquisitor

It occurred to Inquisitor Cadash--as darkened dripping limbs descended, as skittering scrambling screeches filled her ears, as the shadow of the Nightmare crossed her vision—that there might not be a way out. Not this time.

A number of opportunities for escape flashed in her mind, like passages in a book being flipped in front of her. A million ways to get lost in the crowd at Val Royeux. A hundred ships departing for lands not yet touched by the Breach. Even the backwoods of Ferelden would have been better than this. Even if she drowned in a shipwreck or she starved to death in the woods, her body would return to the earth, where it belonged. She would at least die in a way that made sense.

With every passing moment, the pain of her Mark spread and splintered, like a series of switchblades snapping under her skin. She squandered every chance to leave, she thought, and now she was paying the price.

And for what, she asked herself. Did she get complacent? Did she really start to think she could actually accomplish what people thought the Herald of Andraste could do? Did she think she could kill a few demons and Red Templars and it’d be over? Or worse, was she actually developing a conscience?

How pitiful, Cadash thought. She’d have started her new life in Rivain by now, if only she hadn’t wanted to sleep with Warden Blackwall so bad. Which she did, to her credit. But then he had to start being nice to her and believing in her and all that dumb shit. Now they were both going to die for it.

He stood in front of her, shield raised, sword swinging, always careful to be close. Always so ready to protect her, the idiot.

Cassandra stood not far from them, and was doing the same with Vivienne. The mage was spinning translucent blue barriers, one after the other, only to be unraveled by the onslaught of demon tendrils. A rare bead of sweat dripped from her silver hat and down her sleek cheekbone. She must be running out of mana, or whatever it is mages run on. Vivienne always seemed to have an endless supply, a beautiful bastion of magic, ever at the ready. But this was too much, even for her. It was wrong to ask this of anyone.

The warriors had both been panting and wheezing for some time. They were all going to die here, in this miserable place, because of her.

Cadash heard their breathing. Every grunt, every gasp, like fish flooding past her while she sank in a river. A last act of cruelty, perhaps. She would hear all their screams before she was killed; saved for last, most likely. That would teach her to try and play hero.

Cadash looked across the way and found the other two warriors had also begun to falter. Warden Stroud, his movements steady and sure, pummeled every demon that came close with mace and shield. He was tired, his line of chase ever-shrinking. He reserved his shrinking pool of energy and focused only on enemies in direct sight. Practical, but still pointless.

Champion Hawke had a very different strategy. She moved swiftly, the steel of her half-sword sparked against the mucky green and grey of the Fade, like a star in a foggy and uncertain night. In one fluid, silver-blurred motion, she slashed across the chest of an approaching demon, then thrust the blade into a second. She flung herself at every passing enemy, stomping on skittering spiders along the way. Her grunts and hisses were as exhausted as the others, but carried a tinge of anger. She was pushing herself past her own limits, Cadash observed. A shame, it must mean she wanted to go home more than anything. She wouldn’t.

Whether by morality or spite, Cadash could not decide, and she resigned herself to fight until the last breath. Not like there was anywhere to run to, not this time. She ran for the last arrow she fired, tearing off those horrible spider things as she moved, swallowing the urge to scream. She yanked an arrow from the ground with her Fade-touched hand, the green light pulsing, the pain rising.

“Come on, come on, you stupid thing,” she hissed. “If you can get me in this fucking place, why can’t you get me out?”

The green creases on her hand spread. Tiny slivers of skin began to crack, like peeling paint, revealing a swirling, sickly green light. This had happened before. Sometimes, when she closed Rifts, a flake or two would fall off, but the hole it left stayed small. It never expanded to her fingers. Never hurt this much.

A flicker of green coursed upward, reaching for the base of her index finger, like parasites inside her palm crawling about, looking for an opening. She swallowed hard, trying to keep that same scream from bubbling up again.

The Nightmare howled, its jagged limbs toppling over. A rip in the Fade, a door, cutting itself into its domain, the force of its creation making the demon shudder. This wasn't part of its plan.

The rip was a yard away, behind the Nightmare, in a pool of murky green. Cadash squinted and dared to smile.

"Everyone!" she shouted, as high as her dwarven lungs would allow. She made a wide sweeping motion with her arm. "This way! Hurry! Before it gets up!"

She waited for the moment of recognition, when everyone looked for the rip. The old Cadash would have bolted and never look back. But all these people were fighting for her, dying for her. The least she could do was give them a chance.

Once she started running, her vision blurred. She heard stomping steps, huffs of hurried breaths, but they all mashed together. There was only the door. There could only be the door, the only thing that made sense in this moment. As she got closer, she dared to look within. Was that the grey brick of Adamant Fortress? The dark blue of night sky, the same time they fell into this horrible place? Yes, she thought. It must be, it had to be. It had better fucking be.

The group was approaching the door as the Nightmare regained its footing and rushed to intercept them. Cadash could feel the shake of the ground underneath as it drew ever closer, the shadow enveloping hers.

If they stopped to fight it again, it would be over. If they kept going at this pace, the worst that could happen was a claw at someone's back. Some damaged armor.

A small price to pay. There was only the escape, the door.

"Just go!" she cried again. "Don't look back!"

Cadash had a foot in the door when a scream yanked at her hairs, made her skin ripple. The shock of it almost overriding the pain of the splitting Mark.

But she had flung herself in, and couldn't stop.

She could already see the light of the outer rim, the power of this Mark doing all it could to keep the door open. As the pain persisted, she knew there was only seconds left. She would faint from the pain and exhaustion and the door would close. This was the best she could do.

The brisk cold of night, the smell of fires and scattered flesh, the bodies dangling from the battlements. Horrible as it was, it was a relief to feel it all, for everything to be real and make sense again; like she’d been drowning in darkness and was finally pulled free.

The scream reverberated in her ear, like it had been chasing her and finally caught her. As the pain hammered into her body and her eyes fell heavy, it hit her. She recognized the voice.

She heard a, "Wait, where's Hawke?" before collapsing face first on the floor.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two

Hawke

Hawke found herself in a pool of darkness, water circling at her waist. The air was still, the sky was black. There was only the water around her, weak little fingers clutching at her, begging her to stay. The clicks of the rippling water the only sound that followed, dissipating into nothingness.

She could not see the clothes on her own body, but whatever she wore, it weighed heavy on her broad shoulders, dragging behind as she attempted to move forward. Hawke slumped, sluggish, body ached. The scars that covered her skin singed with a searing pain, like burning coals were being run along her body. Perhaps that was why she was in this pool in the first place. Perhaps if she submerged, the pain would stop.

“Sister?” a voice tore through the silence. Hawke stood upright, sealed the pain within her body, her senses alert again.

“Bethany!” she shouted, her head bobbing back and forth. "Bethany, where are you?"

“I, I don't know!” she replied. It was clearly Bethany's sweet, silvery voice, but it shook in its uncertainty. “I'm so scared, I don't know what to do!”

“Stay where you are, and keep talking! I'll follow your voice and find you!”

“All right, I... I don't know how I got here. I want to go home.”

Hawke could sense the fear jamming Bethany's throat, even talking was difficult. As her sister’s voice became louder, closer, the water began to rise, fighting against Hawke’s path. “You never liked the water much. You remember when you tried to help Mother wash clothes in the lake? But you fell in. Carver came after you. He flung himself in before Mother had a chance to act. You were both sick for a week.”

Bethany's sniffles echoed. “Carver always went in head-first in whatever he did.”

“Literally,” Hawke hoped Bethany could feel her smiling, somehow. “If that lake had been any shallower, he might have cracked his head open.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” she giggled. “He had a very thick skull.”

“That he did,” said Hawke, pushing herself through the water. “It’s good to hear you laugh.”

“It’s good to talk of Carver and smile. That his memory brings joy, not despair. You’ve come a long way.”

“I had a lot of help.”

Hawke trudged further on, in the direction of Bethany’s voice, until her silhouette became illuminated in a bright, white outline. She wore a simple white cloth dress, the ends rippled at her waist. Her curled locks shone a velvety black, even with no light cast upon it. Her honey brown eyes locked onto her sister, she smiled and extended her hand outward.

Hawke reached out, still fighting against the water. The gentle back and forth became rougher as she got closer to Bethany, until waves were pounding at her chest, thrashing at her sides.

“I’m almost there!” she cried. “Just stay there, just a little while longer!”

Bethany did not respond. She stood still, smiling, her arm still extended, palm still open. The rapid waters calmed around her form, like feral beasts tamed at her touch.

Hawke trudged through while waves bashed against her chest, until one wave rolled in, strong enough to knock her down.

Hawke saw her sister smile once more as she lost her footing, and the water enveloped her. She opened her mouth to scream, a foolish mistake, and water flooded in. All senses clogged, until there was only darkness.

Hawke winced, her body quivered, the skin of her forehead and nose crinkled. Her arms jerked, her body unaware of its place, trying to fix her position. The dark of unknown dreams lifted into a greyish film, which slowly dissolved as her room came back into place, piece by piece. The vanity, the canopy, the fireplace, her mabari curled onto the rug, all floating downwards from the abyss, to meet her back in the material world.

She gasped, moved her hands around, and took a few seconds to process the feeling of linen on her skin, between her fingers. She laid there, flat on her back, waiting for her breathing to slow down.

She turned to her side. Sebastian was next to her, a hand unconsciously reaching for her arm. His eyelids twitched slightly before opening, the blue of his eyes stark against the haze of the morning. He looked at her and his eyes instantly popped.

“Darling,” he said, brushing loose strands of hair from her face. “Are you all right? Did you have another nightmare?”

She nodded. “It wasn’t as intense this time. I don’t remember much. I was just… drowning. I think I saw my sister, but that’s all.”

“That sounds rather intense to me,” he said, his hand lingering on her cheek. “Why don’t I fix you some breakfast and we’ll talk about it.”

The morning bell clanged, its reverberations crashed through the windows and walls. Hawke groaned and threw herself upright.

“Breakfast would be wonderful, but I shouldn’t linger. Meredith has a slew of tasks for me today, no doubt.”

“Judith,” he reached for her, a finger on the edge of her shoulder, softly sliding down, tracing the jagged edges of her scars. “You can't keep pushing yourself like this."

“Feels like someone should,” she sighed, her voice gravelly with morning grog. “It feels like if I don't keep moving, I'll just waste away."

“It doesn't work that way, darling,” he sat up with her, on the edge of the bed, and looped his arms around her. “You’re still tired, you should get more rest.”

She forced a laugh. “I thought priests got up at first light.”

“Oh, that’s behind me now,” he chuckled. “I’m afraid I’ve already grown accustomed to this lifestyle.”

“Well,” Hawke chewed on her lip, leaning into Sebastian’s embrace, a single touch like a lure, bringing her in with the promise of more. “I didn’t set a specific time with the Knight Commander. It’s not as though I’m a templar. She has no control over me.”

“Exactly so. You are the Champion, after all. That’s a title that comes with its own hours, I should think. In fact, I think it should even come with a regular rest day.”

“Why, the whole day?” she laughed in earnest. “Whatever shall we do?”

“The point of a day of rest would be for you to not do anything. But,” Sebastian’s smile curled in clever coyness. “I have some ideas, if you should find yourself in need.”

“I suppose a day off every now and again wouldn’t be so terrible. And I could just… sleep a while longer. Just stay with me, please.”

“Always.”

They both fell back into the bed, staring at one another, only a small strip of linen between them.

“As difficult as it’s been,” she began, a hand slowly shifting to his face, outlining his cheekbone with her finger. “You’ve helped so much. The nightmares are less frequent. You’ve been so patient with me.”

“I could say the same,” he said, catching her hand and holding it against his face. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

“It’ll be difficult… if I become Viscount, and you Prince. We’ll have to be apart for weeks at a time.”

“I know, but we’ll make it work. I’ll write to you often, and it won’t be year-round. It’s not as though our cities are very far apart.”

“If, somehow, we’re not able to get your throne back, you could stay here. Be Viscount with me. You can see Elthina and all our friends whenever you wish.”

“That is very tempting. And I would offer the same, should things go the other way around. It would be hard to be away from everyone, but perhaps a change in setting can have its benefits. You would like Starkhaven, I think.”

“I am certain I would. If all else fails, if the worst should come to pass…” Hawke paused, body tensed and tightened for a moment.  “We could start over in Ferelden.”

“Oh? That’s far more drastic than the other options.”

“You know me, my contingencies have contingencies. We spoke to King Alistair. He would take me back as a knight in a heartbeat. In time, I could acquire my own plot of land, you would mind the estate.”

“I have been curious to see your homeland, though I hear it’s quite cold.”

“Don’t worry, dearheart,” she laughed. “I’ll get you the finest furs.”

“Oh, I’ll be certain to await your return from your various knightly quests, draped over a bear pelt by the fire. You having killed the bear with your own two hands, of course.”

Hawke laughed, “You say that as if you weren’t wanting to do that regardless.”

“Maybe so,” he laughed. “But do you want to go back? That idea does not look to thrill you.”

Her smile faded. “It would not be my first choice, no. I love Ferelden, and yet it holds too many painful memories.”

“I understand, darling. We need not speak of it.”

“There are some things I remember fondly. In Ferelden, there’s a tradition where married couples will clasp their hands together, and friends or family will tie them together with string or ribbons. It’s older than the country, I think. The Avaar have something similar, but they tie knots, and however many one partner can undo, that’s how long they stay together. The Ferelden version is more optimistic, I suppose. Mother had her ribbons kept in a wooden case that Father carved himself. He wasn’t much of a craftsman, but it meant everything to her. Sometimes I still think of that box, that one little thing Mother always carried, as we left each town and started over.”

“I like that a lot.”

“The knots?”

He chuckled, “No, the binding of hands. We should do that.”

“Oh? Would the Starkhaven court take offense to some backwater Dog Lord tradition?”

“They do like their pomp and ceremony. But as long as they get that, it doesn’t matter. My grandfather married my grandmother while they were still in Antiva, then had a ball for the courts when they got back. We could have a small ceremony, with the people that truly matter, where we pledge our love to each other, in earnest, under the eyes of the Maker. Would you like that?”

“Yes, I think I would like that very much. Something small and intimate. I should warn you, though, traditionally the hand binding is several hours long.”

“So, I spend hours looking at you and talking to you? Those are already my favorite things to do.”

“Aha,” she turned her flushing face into her pillow, muffling her giggles. “You’re so ridiculous.”

“Oh darling, don’t turn your pretty face away. I like to see you laugh. It’s good for my soul.”

She rolled to the side, into his ready embrace. She planted a few kisses in on his face, neck, then chest, before she buried her head by his heart, humming happily as she felt his fingers stroke her hair, the faint beginning of a song tumbling from his lips, lulling her into a soft liminal space between awake and asleep, drifting slowly into slumber.

“I just want to savor this time. I like having you here, falling asleep to your heartbeat, waking up to your voice. I truly can’t say enough how much it helps to calm me down. Even if the nightmares persist.”

“I love you so much,” he said, folding his arms across her back. “I’m so happy we’re together.”

Hawke approached the final slip into sleep before her body jerked into cold, groggy consciousness, as a series of knocks came on the door, heavy and hurried.

“Ugh,” she groaned. “I wish Bohdan and Sandal were still here to turn guests away.”

“I'll go see them off,” said Sebastian, gently untangling himself from Hawke’s embrace and planting a kiss on her forehead. “You rest.”

Sebastian pulled over his shirt and stepped off the bed, but was met by Varric in the doorway.

"Sorry, Hawke, this is urgent so I used your spare key and,” he tripped on his words, eyeing up and down Sebastian, as he stood between him and Hawke, in smallclothes. “Oh. Choir Boy. You're here."

“So I am,” he said, smiling while inserting himself in Varric’s view of the bed. “In fact, Varric, Hawke has elected to take a day of rest. So, if you don’t mind…”

"Actually, you really should hear this too. Hawke?"

"Just a moment," Hawke sighed, throwing herself upward.

“Uh,” Varric shuddered. "Sorry to interrupt your 'nap', but there's a situation."

"Isn't there always?" said Hawke, forcing a smile.

“True enough, but this one is a bit more tense than usual. There are templars gathering in the docks. Rumor is Orsino was going to go straight to the Grand Cleric and appeal to her about the whole mage situation, but Meredith is on his tail.”

“This very thing happened a few months ago, in the Hightown square,” said Sebastian. “Her Grace had stepped in then. I should fetch her. Perhaps she’s thought on what I said and will consider a stronger stance.”

Hawke’s fingers clutched on the bedside. “I would rather you stay at my side, Sebastian. Elthina is already at risk, I do not like dragging her out at every altercation. I will handle this. If I’m ever to be Viscount, I need to be the one to do this. Besides, I do need assistance donning my armor.”

“You’re right, darling, it’s nothing we can’t handle,” Sebastian smiled and nodded. “Let’s resolve this quickly.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Three

The Inquisitor

A solemn figure, clad in black, walked along the bridge to Skyhold. The armor’s onyx coating and the shape of its spikes contrasted with the billowy trail of snow and clouds leading to the fortress, like a lone specter crossing the heavens.

Inquisitor Cadash spotted her easily, atop a tower that overlooked the entrance. She would walk there often, sometimes to watch the progress of Skyhold unfold, sometimes to find relative quiet in the increasingly bustling base. She would brush against the walls with bare hands, feeling the weight and the age of the stone. She would look out into the sea of clouds and watch the tiniest tips of towers peak through, like ships on the horizon; a reminder that Skyhold was not as isolated as she first thought.

As Cadash closed in above the portcullis, just close enough to see a speck of the figure’s dark brown hair and confirm with confidence it was a human, she spotted Varric nearby. He was looking down at the bridge below, same as her. He met her grey-eyed gaze and waved her over. Then he began pacing back and forth, clutching a bottle of dwarven whiskey, as surely as he would with his crossbow on the battlefield.

“Rough day?” Cadash said as she approached.

“What, this?” said Varric, swishing the last swig in his glass bottle. “I’ve been nursing it over the past few hours. Still rattled after that fight with the Seeker.”

“About that. I take it that’s her now? The Champion?”

“It is. She’ll be up in a minute. I’m glad you’re here before her, actually. I wanted to warn you.”

“Warn me? Varric, you wrote a book about this woman, and I read most of it. What’s left to know?”

“It’s just,” he took a small, contemplative nip at the bottle. “I know I screwed things up, I know there’s too much at risk for me to hide, so I’m trying to do right by you and be completely honest. Judy—ah, that is, Hawke—she’s great, but her nerves might be a little frayed. I just ask you be gentle with the questions.”

“Varric, answering questions is the whole reason she’s coming.”

“I know, but I also know Hawke. She’s going to volunteer to fight, insist on it, and I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Cadash shrugged. “Exaggerated or not, this is still the woman who stopped the Qunari invasion, stopped the Knight Commander and her weird sword from wiping out the city, AND sort-of killed Corypheus once. If nothing else, there’s a lot of demons scattered in that story, and we fight a lot of demons. If she asks, I’d be hard pressed to say no. Is she injured? Sick?”

Varric’s face crumpled in pain, the creases on his nose and eyes deepened, “Yes… no. Not exactly.”

“Varric, for shit’s sake,” Cadash scowled. “Give me a straight answer.”

“All right, all right. Let me give you the quick and easy version. Hawke wanted to be Viscount, she believed she could change things from within. But to do that, she had to support the templars. It was,” Varric paused, fingers tapping on the bottle. “Rough. When Meredith finally snapped, that was it. Hawke threw it all away to defend the mages. The templars cast her out. A few vouched for her, but not enough. A lot of templars sided with her against Meredith, but a lot of them died in the fighting. She had technically committed treason, so she had to leave.”

“That was in the book, Varric,” said Cadash. “And you all ‘fled to the hills’ or something vague like that. But Cassandra found YOU back in Kirkwall. Not a trace of Hawke.”

“Right. Because I never left. Neither did Aveline or Merrill. Bethany and the other Kirkwall mages fled before the dust even settled; I left that part out, as you can imagine. Fenris and Isabela went along with Hawke, but I don’t think they stayed with her for very long. But they didn’t go back to Kirkwall. I got letters later on, before Seeker interrogated me.”

Cadash leaned in with a furled brow and folded arms. The bridge of her long nose tinged with a wrinkle of irritation. “You’re not being quick or easy, Varric. Where did Hawke go? Where has she been? Why are you so worried about her being here?”  

“Sorry, sorry,” Varric took a quick swig of his whiskey. “She fled. With her husband.”

Cadash’s eyes went wide. “Husband? There was no husband in the book. There wasn’t even a beau.”

“Oh, there was a bow, all right,” Varric groaned.

“You made it seem like Hawke was too good for anyone in Kirkwall.”

“That’s still true. She fled with him, then he became her husband, so technically… yeah. She moved around the Free Marches—probably why Seeker never found her—before landing in Starkhaven. The Seeker must have intercepted one of my fake letters and circled back in frustration for my little story, and by then Hawke has been in Starkhaven for a month or two. I think that’s why Cassandra was so mad. She’s only now realizing just how close she was to finding her.”

“Wait. The neighboring city—Kirkwall’s biggest trading partner and one the most, powerful city-states in the Free Marches—the city you mentioned once, maybe twice in your book?”

“Yes.”

“Hold on. That priest guy was from Starkhaven, right? Sebastian? I forget how Chantry priesthood works because I don’t care, but he’s Prince now, he’s helping the Inquisition. He’s one of our biggest supporters.”

“That’s the one.”

“He was the only notable person from Starkhaven in your book.”

“Right.”

“And I know you’ve been getting letters from Starkhaven. Too many, and you don’t answer enough of them for them to be anything business-related. They’re personal. From someone who knows where you are and what you’re doing.”

“Yup.”

“So, it’s him.”

“Congratulations,” Varric groaned, “you have more deductive prowess than Cassandra. Which is slightly more than a toddler’s.”

“Wow, so the Champion is a Princess now?”

“I think the technical term is Princess-Consort," said Varric, with a flourish of the wrist that wafted away all the sarcasm he was swimming in. "But nobody actually uses that. So yes, she is.”

“Wow. Cassandra’s a princess too, you know? We have two warrior princesses. It’s kind of intimidating. Too bad The Hero of Ferelden can’t come and just put me out of work. Just cover all the bases.”

“If it makes you feel better, the famed Warden Aeducan is a princess only in name. I’ve done business with Bhelen. Believe me, she’s not getting anywhere near that throne. And Cassandra is, what, 50^th in line? The title hardly means anything.”

“Interesting.”

“I fail to see how.”

“It makes sense that you would do anything to hide her status to protect her. Kind of hard to lay low when you’re a Princess. But your book came out before all this mess. I take it you disapprove of whatever followed after she left Kirkwall. Didn’t like the guy? Or is it just diehard loyalty for your city-state, can’t stand the idea she went somewhere else? Or maybe you’re not as smart as you think you are and just didn’t realize what was happening.”

Varric messaged his temples. “All right, we get it. Nothing gets passed you, Cat Eyes. Any reason you could come up with probably has some truth it in, so take your pick. Sebastian has his throne back, probably solely due to Hawke.”

“Am I detecting a hint of jealousy?” Cadash said with a wry smile. “Is THAT what this is all about?”

Varric groaned. “Mocking me is what finally gets you to smile? Fine, believe that if it makes you feel better. Anyway, Kirkwall took its toll on Hawke. She always worked so hard. A lot of times too hard. I don’t know if she’s bounced back, or if she can. What I’m saying is… she might not be at her best, so go easy on her, will you? That’s all I ask.”

Cadash shrugged. “I won’t harass her, if that’s what you mean, but we need her help with corrupted Wardens and Corypheus. I can’t afford to coddle anyone here. Are you saying she’s not fit for combat?”

Varric paused. “I am only saying she might not be just like the woman in the book.”

“I could figure that. You can’t sum up a whole person’s being in a book. Besides,” Cadash folded her arms on the stone battlements and sighed. When she looked down, the figure in black armor was gone, leaving only the bare bridge and the snow. “People like stories, not facts. If I didn’t know that before, I know now.”

“Inquisitor,” Varric paused. “Rota, please.”

“Oho!” Cadash feigned a laugh. “Using my first name to instill a sense of sincerity! Now I’m going to listen extra hard!”

“Hawke absolutely would have come to the Conclave if asked. I told her to stay away while doing everything I could to distract Cassandra. I did everything I could to prevent this exact moment from happening.”

“So, you lied to both of them, and now we’re in this mess all the same. Except I got looped into it, too.”

“It was to protect her. She needs to rest, puts this all behind her. She needs to have her happy ending and be away from all this craziness. Even if…”

The two dwarves stopped as they heard steps get louder, the blunt thumps of armor against stone. A woman emerged from the battlement tower, black armor glinting in the late afternoon sun. She wore a rich blue surcoat and two weapons strapped one each side; a dagger on one, and an elongated sword on the other. Cadash studied it briefly before her eyes wandered up the woman’s tall stature; it was not like the massive weapons Bull carried around, so big and unruly that no scabbard could contain them. But it was not like the shorter swords Cassandra or Blackwall would pair with shields.

Cadash quickly searched her memories of frontline fighters and found the half-sword, which she knew to be popular with the famed Legion of the Dead. When you fight monsters with poisonous blood, a bit more distance and reach is preferable. Cadash knew well enough you could find Darkspawn pretty much anywhere, even the Free Marches, if you dug deep enough. And she knew this whole story began with Hawke and Varric digging too deep.

Cadash did not linger on this thought, as the human’s shadow cast far overhead. She towered over her, as most humans did, although the Champion was taller than any of the humans in her Inner Circle, save for Vivienne. She carried herself in a way the dwarf had quickly come to associate Fereldens with; hardy and imposing.     

Kind eyes looked upon the dwarf as soon as she appeared, dark and stern as oak, feathered by dark bangs. She had a long face, bushy brows, dark brown skin, and a proud, protruding aquiline nose. A mane of dark brown hair was pinned back, barely contained in a large bun.

Here was a woman the people would have wanted as their Herald, Cadash thought. This is the woman that should have been Inquisitor. A noble, technically, but grounded, someone who knew the work it took, and understood the people she was protecting. If nothing else, she looked the part; a beautiful, statuesque warrior. Not a hunched, tiny criminal like herself.

“Inquisitor,” said Varric, eager to break the silence a moment before it could become awkward. “Meet Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall.”

Hawke smiled and nodded. “Though I don’t go by that title much anymore.”

“Wow,” said Cadash. “You’re really fucking tall.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Four

Varric

Before the epic final battle, Tales of the Champion concluded with Hawke saying tearful goodbyes to her companions. Uncertain of their fates, the stakes weighing heavy on their hearts, the Champion approached each of them and gave comfort. With her powerful stature, her steady voice, and her kind eyes reaching into their souls, she unearthed a courage they did not realize they had. She smiled warmly, gave a heartening speech to them and the wayward mages, and everyone banded together, one last time. That's what's in the book.

Hawke, to her credit, indeed had kind eyes and a warm smile, and she spent her whole time in Kirkwall empowering others to be more, do better. This was no different.

But that can only go so far when death glares back at you. When it creeps at your feet, when you stare into darkness and see nothing on the other end. She was like a surgeon, calmly sewing up wounds without fear or complaint, but the whole body was hemorrhaging.

Varric watched Hawke go to each of the others, a few last words before confronting the Knight Commander. Some were steady and hopeful, which he mostly kept in the book. Others crumbling and remorseful, those were heavily edited.  Felt wrong to describe something so naked.

One thing was clear to the dwarf: whichever way this ended, some of them were staying, and some were leaving.

Fenris was holding up the best, if Varric remembered right. "Na via lerno Victoria. Only the living know victory. Fight well," he heard him say to Hawke.

“Shit,” Varric thought. “That's good. If we live through this, I hope I remember to write that down.”

He remembered watching Hawke talk to her sister. Her armored palms were on her shoulders the whole time. Bethany was biting her lip, constantly nodding back and forth, trying to tuck away every last tear in her big amber eyes. She was doing well, but once she uttered Carver’s name, her round cheeks flushed and streamed with tears. When she finished crying, Bethany said something about leaving. Then it was Hawke’s turn to be hurt. They embraced for a long time, bouts of sniffling between them both.

Varric couldn't make out much of the words between Hawke and Sebastian. His own retelling in the book described exchanged looks of longing—of things that could have been, maybe things that could yet be—before the two steeled themselves for battle. It seemed the respectful thing to do.

But he remembered the way Sebastian's hands were shaking. All these years, if Varric had one nice thing to say about him, it was that he was a sure and steady shot. And there he was, trembling like a babe. How was he supposed to get through this fight? The hall was crumbling around them, and would be swarmed with templars in a matter of moments. He couldn't just stay in the back.

Hawke folded his trembling hands in her own, and then they were still, with little resistance. They spoke briefly, Sebastian would shut his eyes tight to block tears, but they still came. Hawke, a good head taller than he was, cradled his face and kissed his forehead. Her voice was soft, all Varric heard was, "I’ve got you, I’ve got you,".

He buried his face in her neck, his fingers clawing at the back, as if desperate to rend the armor between them, to feel the warmth of another. To cling to her, to tether himself to her so the grief would not take him away.

It was hardly the passionate in-case-we-don’t-make-it sort of lover’s embrace that Varric might have written in another life, had Hawke chosen someone else. If she had thrown herself in some whirlwind romance, the kind he had imagined for her, the kind he thought she deserved. But Varric saw the way her oak-brown eyes softened as she looked at Sebastian, the way her arms took him in, so firmly and so readily, to share in his pain. He did not hear all the words between them, only the love in her voice, the tender hums that surely filled his head and reminded him that he was loved, and that it was worth fighting for.  

He saw Sebastian gaze at Hawke while she thumbed away his tears, his eyes glowing with admiration. A small smile broken in, only for her, for his reason to keep going.

Varric clutched at his heart and looked away; it was clearly nothing he and his jumbled-up knot of feelings could ever understand.

A few moments passed, Varric wondered why she hadn’t gone to him yet. She did seem to be attending to the one who were crying first, the ones in worse shape. Varric was tough, his injuries were minor; a few scrapes here and there, his boots had seen better days, but he was fine. Surely, she was going to approach him eventually, though. Her trusted friend for years.

But when she finally approached, he began to crumble. An outreached hand, a shaking voice, a sensation so foreign he nearly forgot where he was. “Judy, I…”

She smiled at him, her eyes glassy, a few tears rolling down her cheeks. And for the first time in years, Varric Tethras’s words got caught in his throat. His eyes began to well up, and he coughed out a, “Shit,”.

“Varric, it’s all right,” she said, bending her knees and clutching his hands. “I’m glad to have you at my side for this.”

“This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” he finally spit out. “You don’t deserve this. Nobody here deserves this.”

“I know. But I’ll do everything I can to put a stop to it.”

“And then what? We can’t just go back to the way things were after all this.”

“My illustrious storyteller can’t think of an ending? I’m sure one will come to you.”

“But everything you did. All that hard work. It’s gone. The templars won’t let you stay.”

She sighed. “I know. I’m leaving Kirkwall once this is done, as you may have guessed. I’m going to help Sebastian get his throne back. Then, you will find me in Starkhaven.”

“Right. And then you’ll stay there. In Starkhaven.”

“This doesn’t surprise you, does it?”

“No, I just… I’ve been fooling myself; I suppose. Thinking things would stay the same forever.”

“Change need not be so terrible a thing. Isabela and Fenris are accompanying us. You’re more than welcome to join, my trusted dwarven archer.”

“I,” he swallowed hard, the lump in his throat heavy. “I just…”

Hawke smiled. “It’s all right, Varric, I understand. Kirkwall is where you belong. One day this will be over. A calm will wash over this eventually. When that day comes, I’ll write to you and visit as often as I can.”

“Right. Well, Hawke, here’s to… here’s to whatever comes next.”

She squeezed his hands, stood up, and began to walk away, toward First Enchanter Orsino.

His chest tightened. A pulsing scream inside, “It’s over, it’s been over. She’s gone. It’s too late, she’s chosen someone else,”. A twin voice twisted in, desperate to breech that layer of unspoken feelings, cracking layers like picks against the ice. “Say it anyway,” it said.

Varric held out a hand, “Wait.”

She came right back. “Yes, Varric?”

“I love you, Judy. I’ve always loved you.”

She smiled, and planted a feather-soft kiss on his forehead. “I know, Varric,” she said. “You will always be my treasured friend.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Five

Varric

One foot into the Herald’s Rest, and Varric shuddered at the blast of bards. The Inquisitor herself had requested music that did not include her various adventures, so a few extra hands were hired to aid the resident minstrel in singing more traditional tavern songs every once and again. Better for morale, Cadash said. Better for a headache, Varric thought.

They were playing some Ferelden song, Varric must have already heard it a dozen times, but it was popular.

"Off I did set, on my trail of regret,

Where I thought of you now,

In your castle and crown..."

Varric shrugged it off and walked towards his usual corner. He saw Hawke wave him over from across the bar, and suddenly the lyrics didn't twist in his ears the way they did a moment ago. In that short walk, Varric tried to process the fact that he had not seen her, his best friend, in a few years. The last time they truly spoke, she was gathering a few possessions and leaving Kirkwall. He watched the carriage with her, Fenris, Isabela, and Sebastian, disappear into the mountains, uncertain if he would ever see any of them ever again, despite Hawke’s encouraging last words. Yet, in that one warm moment, a fuzzy layer of alcohol floating in the air, the gentle strum of a lyre filling the room, it felt as though he had seen her just yesterday.

Hawke’s dark eyes followed him as he approached and took his seat, with that same gentle smile she always had. There were a few creases crowning the corners of her eyes, another scar on the edge of her chin, but she was as beautiful as ever.

“I’m truly back in Ferelden,” said Hawke, “this song would play in every tavern.”

“I thought it was familiar,” said Varric. “I’m sure I’ve heard the miners slog out this tune as they got kicked out of the Hanged Man. Ah, a simpler time.”

“It's been too long,” she said.

“That it has, Hawke. It's not how I pictured our reunion, but we'll make due. Let me get us some drinks."

"Skyhold seems to have everything."

"It's pretty accommodating," said Varric as he made a signal to one of the servers. "Considering it's..."

Hawke arched a brow and smiled. "On the ass-end of nowhere?"

"You know I feel about that area."

“That I do. I know this can't be easy, Varric.”

“Then the ball dropped, why everything fell by the way

As your teardrops were fallin', I forgot to say

That I have always loved you…

I have always loved you.”

The server quickly came and slid filled tankards on their table. Varric grazed the foamy top before speaking again. "I don't mind. You're the one putting your life on hold, after all. Been a crazy couple of years, huh? Last I saw you, you were the Fallen Champion of Kirkwall, and now you’re a Princess. You'll have to give me the details. Maybe 'The Tales of the Champion' could use a follow-up."

“I'm not sure it's as exciting as you think. There were a few tribulations, yes, but mainly Sebastian and I spoke to the leaders of the neighboring city-states. There were whispers, of course, everyone knew we were both exiles. Even when we took the throne, not everyone agreed we deserved to keep it. Then, one day, demons started falling out of the sky, and suddenly the lost True Heir with the Champion at his side quieted most dissent."

"So then... there are Rifts in the Free Marches."

Her smile receded. "A few, yes. I trained soldiers as best I could in fighting demons, but I hope to help more but attacking the source. And when you told me Corypheus was the cause, I had to come. You did the right thing, Varric."

“Thanks, Judy. Still feel shitty about it, but thanks.”

“I want to be part of this. If I can’t kill Corypheus myself, I need to at least be part of the force that takes him down for good.”

“Well,” he said, sighing into his tankard before a hearty gulp. “You’ve come to the right place.”

“I certainly did not expect to come back to Ferelden after so long, and not under such circumstances.”

“I, uh,” Varric put his cup down. “I’m shocked you didn’t bring Gallant. Nothing more Ferelden than a mabari.”

“He’s too old to make such a long trip, and I feel better that he’s watching over Sebastian in my absence.”

“About that. Choir Boy didn’t want come with you? I’m sure he and the dog were begging to follow you.”

“He wanted to come, but we only took the throne back very recently. We can’t just both leave. Besides, he has plenty of experience fighting demons, as well. He’ll keep Starkhaven safe, then I’ll return and remain at his side for good.”

Varric took another hard swallow and wiped the foam from his lips. “Why him?”

“Oh, Varric,” Hawke pinched the bridge of her nose. Her brow furrowed, as if she were expecting the question to come crashing in at any moment, and her walls of tensed muscles could never be fortified enough for the blow. “Must we do this? After all this time? With all that’s going on?”

“If I only think about what’s going on around me, I’ll go mad. Just… give me closure. I just want to understand.”

“No, you chose note to understand, you never wanted to understand,” said Hawke, lip flaring in frustration. “I know you’ve never approved, of him or our relationship. It’s cruel and hurtful, and you know it.”

“Of course, I tried to understand it! I know he’s handsome and all, and he’s got that voice, but he’s just, just so….”

“Sebastian is kind, passionate, intelligent, and brave. Several times I offered to speak with you directly about your mocking, and he would always say no. He’s a better man than you care to realize.”

Varric’s heart dropped in his stomach like a stone in a well; he knew he had gone too far. Hawke had always been slow to anger; the number of times he had seen her truly mad, he could count on one hand. She had a husky voice, always steady in tone, but anger grated at it, made it coarse.

She took a swig of ale, almost half the tankard, and slammed it against the table. Varric opened his mouth to speak, but Hawke’s voice cut as clearly and as cleanly as the swing of her sword. “No, Varric, you’ve done enough talking and I’ve held my tongue for years, so now you’re going to listen. I know what the problem is; he’s a good man, and that eats at you. You can’t fathom someone being good for its own sake, so you brush it off, call it dull. But it takes work, a lot of hard work, to become a person like that. I don’t know why it bothers you so, you’re a good person too, but clearly insecure about it. Perhaps you’re afraid of the work it takes. That’s not Sebastian’s fault.”

“Judy, I…”

“Don’t ‘Judy’ me. What exactly is it about him that you think is boring, exactly? Because he doesn’t have every problem of his on display? Because he speaks from his heart, not wrapped up in a joke for you to digest? Do you think that of me?”

“What? No! I just…”

“You don’t even have an answer for me, because you know it’s bullshit. Do you know why I chose him? He listened. When I was at my worst, when I was in pain, and in despair I was not sure I’d ever get out of, he was there, ready to listen. I know that doesn’t fit whatever narrative you concocted for me in your head, but that’s what I needed.”

Hawke shook her head and lifted herself from her seat.

“I’m sorry,” said Varric, his voice a low, pitiful rumble.

“I don’t want this to ruin our friendship. When Sebastian and I have our public wedding, I want you to be there, and I want you to be happy for me. Think on what I’ve said. You would do well to listen more, Varric.”

She walked out of the Herald’s Rest, and the door clanked behind her. The music faded, washed into the ongoing chatter of the patrons.

Chapter Text

Chapter Six

Sebastian

Hawke sat next to him, in the pews of the Kirkwall Chantry. Back straight, hands on her knees. She kept her eyes low, dark circles underneath, though slightly obscured by threads of loose hair all around. It was as though she were avoiding the stony gaze of Andraste, hanging above them. Or avoiding contact with him.

His hand hovered to her shoulder, but his fingers recoiled before they could brush against her shirt. He felt the cloth of his vestments against his palm. Perhaps it was inappropriate for him, a brother of the faith, to reach for her, even though he knew there was power in touch. Even if he wanted to reach for her, let her know he was there for her this time.

“I’m glad you came,” he said, breaking the long silence.

“Of course,” said Hawke, her voice a soft, raspy rumble. “I’m sorry if I seem a bit dispassionate, I’m just tired. But I wanted to come, truly.”

“Do you find yourself tired often? Is this recent?”

“No,” she said, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve been having nightmares of varying frequency since I came to Kirkwall. I don’t get as much sleep as I would like, and I feel I don’t truly rest, either.”

“Will you tell me what these dreams are like?”

“They seldom make sense. I’m usually alone, then I find someone. I try to reach for them, but something gets in the way. I wake up more exhausted than when I went to bed.”

“Life in Kirkwall has not been easy for you. You’ve been over-extending yourself since the day you got here.”

She laughed. Her voice was low and raspy. “You can’t know that, but it’s nice to hear someone acknowledge it.”

“I think I’ve known you long enough to be certain. No one works harder than you.”

“Sebastian,” Hawke’s hands curled into fists on her knees, tight and tense. “Are you talking to me now… as a Chantry brother, or as my friend?”

“Your friend, Hawke. I think that’s what you need most. You needed a friend the night you lost your mother, and I failed to provide. I’ll not make that mistake again.”

“Good. Because in this moment, I don’t wish to hear about how this is all part of the Maker’s plan, or how they’re at his side now.” She bent her neck down, another lock of hair falling from the loose bun against her head. Her whole form seemed to recede, like a mountain being eaten away by the sea. “My whole life was for my family. Everything I did was for them. Now they’re gone, and… and I’m still here. It’s hard to imagine what the Maker could want from me. What he wants me to be, after all this. Who I’m supposed to be.”

A dozen answers gathered in Sebastian’s throat. “You’re already so many wonderful things, can’t you see? You’re the Champion, a hero, a leader, a defender of men. A friend, a kind soul. The woman I love.”  

But they felt selfish, hollow, and fizzled like ash on his tongue.

“We had an agreement,” he said instead. “I would tell you about my family, and you would tell me about yours. One day, I hope, we can look back, and the memories will bring joy, not just despair.”

 “That came out wrong. I know you want to help, and I know I’ve been acting strangely. It’s not as though I don’t believe, I just…”

“You don’t have to apologize for the way you feel.”

“Truthfully, you’re the only one I feel like I can talk to, about this. That’s why I’m happy you made the offer.”

“I’m honored, but you don’t feel you can speak candidly with the others?”

She laughed again. “Fenris is a dear friend, but he does not even recall having a family. Isabela and Anders were taken from theirs at an early age. Merrill walked away from hers, they did not understand her. It would be wrong to go to them with my problems.”

“It’s true, the two of us share a level of privilege, and few in the group have had the fortune to grow up with parents, with siblings. But Fenris is worried for you, I can tell. Hardship is not a competition.”

Hawke turned her head away. “It feels wrong to burden him. Even you, right now, it feels like I’m taking too much of your time. I at least had years with my family, you lost everyone in one night. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

Sebastian swallowed hard. He reached for her again, but he winced, and his hand landed in the space between them on the pew. “Hawke,” he said, as firmly as he could, loud enough to reach her through the walls of tangled hair and tired eyes, but not so loud to shatter the quite of the Chantry halls. “Won’t you look at me?”

She slowly obliged, and her brown eyes met his, reddish and watery. She rubbed her eyes with her forearm, her whole face ruddy and wet. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t know what’s come over me. I must look a sight.”

“Not at all. You’ve just been grieving alone for a long time. I may not have all the answers, but I do know you shouldn’t be in this alone.”

He looked up and observed the statue. The way the light of the lanterns licked at Andraste’s visage, accentuating hard cheekbones and a stony glare, it seemed an especially intense expression, not fit for talks of comfort. “Why don’t we continue this elsewhere? After all, we’re speaking as friends, we need not be in the Chantry.”

She smiled; her eyes still fixed on them as they dried. “Yes, I think I would prefer that. Somewhere outside? It could even just be the Chantry garden, at least for now.”

“An excellent idea,” he sat up and extended an open hand. “Shall we, then?”

She nodded and put her hand in his. “I would love to.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Seven

Hawke

Hawke had been at Skyhold just long enough to take note of the members of the Inner Circle, the hand-picked individuals who accompanied Inquisitor Cadash on missions. On her journey from the port to Skyhold, she was met by a messenger bird; Varric preemptively wrote her a letter with a list of notable locations and figures. He described them all in varying degrees of flattery.

She quickly noticed that a few of these individuals came with Cadash more often than others, and the rest were sent on separate missions. She wondered if she unknowingly played favorites with her group, when they were still together. She certainly never meant to, she tried to base it on their own skills against what she thought they would encounter. If some had more overall practical skills, or were simply more accommodating, surely that was no fault of hers. Right?

There was that Seeker woman; striking, sharp, angular. For all the supposed edges, every time Hawke approached her, her face would turn red and she would sputter out some reason that she had to go somewhere else, immediately.

There was the Orlesian mage. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman Hawke had ever seen, an elegant slope of high cheekbones, honey brown eyes, a puff of dark hair that shimmered like the Royal Sea Silk dresses she wore. Wise of the Inquisitor, Hawke thought, to bring along someone so formidable with magic, and also knowledgeable on nobles and politics. Maybe she could speak with her? Any insight could help her in her political career, as well. This woman looked far more like a princess than she did, and she carried herself like one, too.

Then there was the Warden. Varric had described him in his letter as 'a big dwarf', and it was hard not to agree with the idea, once it was planted in her head. He was surely human, but stout, burly, and broad-shouldered. His face was all but devoured by a mane of dark hair and an unruly beard. He could almost be handsome, Hawke thought, if he would only trim the thing. Then she shook her head, remembering how lost in her own hair she would get in the past. When things were dark. A Warden’s life was not an easy one, she knew that well enough.

Of all the Inner Circle members, the Warden Blackwall accompanied Inquisitor Cadash the most. Perhaps every single time. It was to the point Hawke first thought him Cadash's personal bodyguard, though the truth was not that far off. They were clearly in a relationship.

Between training sessions and acquainting herself with the fortress, when she allowed herself to rest, Hawke would lean into her palm, watching the soldiers and workers and merchants all pass by, from the window of the private chamber she'd be given.

On such a day, on a simmering orange evening, she spotted Cadash slinking away from whatever business she must have had, off to the barn area, where the Warden often was. Curious, but Hawke would not blame anyone for seeking solitude in such a big, busy place. The Inquisitor obviously did not care who knew, or how clear her actions and intentions were. Why would she? Would was going to tell the Inquisitor no?

It was romantic, Hawke thought. A strong, stoic warrior, utterly devoted to the one they love, protecting them with all they had, even though they would never have a future together. Because it was more than just their own feelings for each other, it was about the future that the Beloved represented. The warrior believed in that future and would do anything to see it happen, even if they could not be a part of it.

She put her elbows on the window, cupping her face, breathed in the soft evening air, let the gentle breeze take her mind away. She would sometimes indulge in such fantasies, thinking she had a similar relationship with Sebastian.

Before she was Champion, she had no title, no real one; ‘Scion of the Amells’ felt hollow, unearned. But what she could do what fight and protect. She could do that for him. She was like the Prince’s knight, sworn to stand between him and all who would endanger him. They would exchange longing glances, perhaps a kiss in the garden as night fell, before turning their heads away with a dramatic ‘no, we mustn’t’, and yet there they would remain, in a tender embrace.

“Maker’s breath,” said Hawke, shaking her head. “We’re married! Why do I have myself suffer, even in my own fantasies?”

“Hawke?” Varric’s voice came with a gentle knock.

“Come in, Varric.”

“You all settled?” he said, his voice a low and sheepish rumble.

“I am,” she said, keeping her head towards the window, letting the child breeze brush against her face. “This is very nice.”

“It’s no Starkhaven palace.”

Hawke laughed. “I was born in Ferelden, and I lived in much more humble places. I’ll adjust fine, thank you.”

“Are you sure? I can talk to Ruffles, get you a bigger room. I’m shocked she didn’t insist on it. You’re a princess, after all.”

“That’s because I insisted right back. I don’t represent any power here, I’m here to provide information and lend my blade. I’d sleep in the barracks if she’d let me, but I do enjoy the view.”

“Right, of course.”

Hawke examined the creases in Varric’s brow, the slump of his shoulders. She gave him her warmest smile. “Varric, I want to be here, and I want to help. You don’t have to feel guilty of this.”

“The Inquisitor has lots of soldiers, and her own Inner Circle, the best and the brightest. You don’t need to be on the field, do you? At least, not more than necessary.”

Hawke titled her head. “I’m not certain I know what you mean. I am very good at killing demons, as you well know. And it’s been a few years since I’ve lived in Ferelden, but I am quite familiar with most of the areas. On top of all of that, I fought and killed Corypheus once already. Why wouldn’t I be a part of this?”

“Judy,” Varric’s breath trembled. “When Corypheus attacked Haven, he was… different from when we fought it. And even when we fought him, he did a number on you. You got hurt. Badly. Don’t you remember? Do you really want to subject yourself to that again?”

Hawke fought to keep her smile up. "If a small group can take him once when he’s less powerful, surely an army can take him again at his peak. All the more reason for me to volunteer for missions. I need to keep sharp. I'll be ready for him this time."

"Judy, I know you think this is your burden, but really, the Inquisition has it covered."

"You were the one to send for me, as I recall. Why are you regretting this now?"

"You say that like you weren't going to find out and come eventually. Obviously, I can't hide Corypheus from you. I’m not unhappy to see you. I’m just saying all you need to do is help find and talk to Stroud, straighten this Warden thing out, and you can go home."

"Oh no, that won't do. I can't return until Corypheus is dead."

"But Judy..."

Hawke's nail scraped on the stone frame of the window. Her fist coiled. The smell of singed flesh and melting armor filled her nostrils, watered her eyes. She closed her eyes and a single giant hand appeared, ridged and wrinkled, ripping through the air, hovering over her face, threatening to swallow her whole head in a single movement. A dreary, dripping laughter filled her ears, as the pointed fingers scraped at her cheek, ready to pierce her armor and flesh like a cautious predator.

"Enough!" she said, compelling the sight of the monstrous hand to vanish from her sight. The fingers faded and the laughter stopped, but Varric was still there, his eyes wide, jaw hanging. Hawke's throat vibrated, only now realizing how loud she was. "I'm sorry, Varric,” she said between heavy hefting. “I did not mean to... I should rest. It's been a long day."

Varric's mouth was open, but no argument came. "It has," he sighed. “We'll talk in the morning."

He left, and Hawke shuddered.

"I can do this," she said to herself, over and over, as soft and as earnest as a prayer, and she removed her clothes, and waited for sleep to take her. “I must.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Eight

Vivienne

Inquisitor Cadash had sharp, grey eyes. They twitched slightly, struggling to keep her focus on the inside of her cup, on the tea that slowly slipped passed her lips. Vivienne noticed the crinkle at the corners of her eyes; clearly struggling, but she gave her an encouraging smile. This woman who had known nothing but survival and crime all her life, making a true effort at courtesy. The survival and crime were still very useful, of course, as they would be travelling to Orlais soon, she just needed to learn the proper steps, channel her instincts into a new dance. It was a relief that she was trying. Now, Vivienne thought, if only she could convince Cadash to spend less time with Sera and that unkempt Warden, they could make some real progress.

“I’m glad you came to see me, my dear,” she said, a nod in approval as she watched Cadash place her cup gingerly on its plate, and lifted her head, so that their eyes would meet. “I know you must have a lot on your mind, with all this Warden and False Calling business, but the Winter Palace looms ever closer. We must be prepared for that.”

“I think I’d prefer dealing with Wardens and more demons than that Court, based on what I know,” Cadash said, a grim grating to her voice. “Besides, I don’t think they make those fancy dresses for my figure.”

“About that. You recall I spoke about bringing you to my seamstress? Well, by great fortune, she has a dwarven colleague, exiled from the Artisan Caste. There’s no hiding the fact that you’re a dwarf, why not embrace it?”

“So that’s a no to the giant-heeled shoes to make me look taller?”

 Vivienne laughed. “I think this would be more comfortable for everyone, in fact. Dwarven nobles combine armor in their formal wear, as you well know. I say we let this colleague design such a dress for you for the Winter Palace. You will stand out, be utterly unforgettable, and there will be no mistaking where the Inquisitor came from.”

“Is that a good idea? The more attention that’s paid to my being a dwarf, the more unforgiving they’ll be if I fail.”

“That will not happen, my dear. We cannot afford to think like that.”

“Even if I beat Corypheus, unite half of Thedas, no one dies, if I’m remembered at all. If I make any mistake, they’ll know it was a dwarf, they’ll hang onto that for all time. If none are made, they’ll say it was a particularly short, cute human. That’s the best I can hope for.”

“Is that why you’re doing this? To be remembered?”

“I’m doing this because I have something that can stop Corypheus. I have to. I just… I want to have something after.”

“All the more reason to do this. Go in with your head held high. They won’t touch you.”

Cadash sighed. “Well, it WOULD be nice to wear clothes made for me. I do like this idea.”

“Wonderful. I’ll write back quickly, and hopefully she can have the basic structure for your approval after this business with the Wardens in done. If we’re quick enough, we could have more styled for your personal guard, as well. I assume you’ll be keeping Cassandra and Blackwall with you? I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to wear some armor at the ball.”

“What about you, Vivienne? Can one be made for you?”

“Hmm, hard to picture myself in dwarven fashion, being as tall as I am, but… perhaps some elongated plated heels could work? You will most certainly want me at your side, of course.”

“Was there any doubt?”

She smiled. “No, but it’s nice to hear you say it.”

“I have a question,” said Cadash, her eyes creeping down into her empty tea cup, a rare sheepish look from the usually cocky Inquisitor. “While I have your attention.”

“Of course, my dear. What troubles you?”

“What are dreams like?”

“Oh my, what a question, indeed. You’re certain you don’t wish to bring it our resident dream expert?”

The upper corner of Cadash’s lip flared. “No, I don’t want to ask Solas. He’ll just make me feel foolish. Because I’m a dwarf, and I’ll never truly appreciate it, or some shi—some nonsense.”

I appreciate your restraint,” laughed Vivienne, “but I do understand. You want an answer, not a lecture.”

“Exactly. See, this is why I came to you first. I mean, you’re the smartest person in Skyhold.”

“Ah, my dear Inquisitor, flattery will get you everywhere. You’re practically ready for the Court now.” Vivienne traced the rim of her cup with a single finger. “The Fade is a place not defined by location, but concept. When most people dream, it takes shape, and their thoughts, their desires, fill the space. Mostly this is harmless. A person may often forget their dreams once they wake, or have some lingering memory.”

Cadash cocked her head. “When you dream, you re-live your memories?”

“Yes and no. What you have to remember is the Fade is never fixed. You would sooner experience a portion of a memory, mixed with other various bits of your imagination.”

“It’s like a bunch of thoughts? I can think about one thing, and then have a completely new thought, and the Fade just fills that space?”

“Exactly so.”

Her face scrunched; her mouth twisted. “That sounds so ridiculous and frustrating. Why should I be envious of that?”

“My dear, the Fade does not exist to make sense as we see it. Like the sea or sky, it exists as it sees fit, and a soul could easily get lost within. Though it’s not entirely without benefits either,” Vivienne scooped a single spoonful of sugar and whirled it into her cup, a delicate tinkling sound as it hit the rim. “One could think fondly of an old friend, and when a spirit happens upon these memories, they fill the Fade with every thought. It could be as though you’re seeing that old friend again, and you have a comforting dream.”

Vivienne offered the pool of sugar to Cadash, but she shook her head. “Hardly seems worth the risk and the weirdness. And what if a bad thought gets in there? Does the spirit turn into a demon?”

“It takes a bit more than that, my dear. Those without magic seldom experience dreams of such intensity, though I suppose one from a magical bloodline might be of greater risk. I’ve even spoken with Templars who claim lyrium gives them more vivid dreams.” She placed the spoon on the plate. “Are you at all familiar with the Harrowing?”

She waited for Cadash to shake her head. “The final test of all Apprentices in the Circle. Before they can become full Mages, they are sent into the Fade, and are tasked with facing a demon. They either emerge victorious, or become an abomination, to be slain by surrounding templars.”

Cadash’s eyes popped. “That’s, uh, intense. And that’s what you did?”

“Indeed,” Vivienne lifted herself from her set, pointed fingernails tracing the end of the table and her chair, before drifting to the balcony, the silver flaps of her dress waving in the cold mountain air.

She walked towards the balcony, a hand along the rail. The swirls of her fingertips tingling at the light coating of frost. A light flurry of snowflakes came falling from the clouds, sprinkling all of Skyhold with powder.

She closed her eyes for a moment, lids clenched tight. When she opened them, the mountains melted, the snow sucked into some forgotten void. Sunflowers sprouted at her feet, spilling out in front of her. Grassy green hills surfaced like whales shifting through the seas, gentle and peaceful, despite their girth.

Vivienne put her hand in front of her. The rings she wore were gone; the royal sea silk sleeves slipped away. She wore a linen dress, simple and more fitting for the warmer months.

The scent of salt filled her nostrils, the sun glittered on her long velvet locks. She took a step, without purpose, without care. Waves rustling against sand, crashing on waves, resounded with every step. Just over the hill, waiting for her.

As she walked past the hillside, closer towards the sea, a bit of laughter emerged, buried by the sound of waves, now blooming in full, loud and joyful. It made her want to run. She picked up the hem of her dress, the sunflowers flittering against her skin as she moved passed them all. As she pressed on, another voice, laughing alongside the first. They were gathering for her, waiting for her.

She pushed herself a little more. She could see the crystal blue horizon, brilliant against the sun. She huffed a bit, a hike in her breath, moving forward. But that horizon stayed just that, a thin blue line. A single bead of sweat ran down her forehead, as her sprint turned to running, and the hillside kept crawling, expanding, growing. Keeping her from the beach. From them.

A crack of green appeared in the afternoon sky, like a popped stitch in the perfect blue quilt. A second crack emerged, then another, and began to open; a scattering of eyes like that of a spider’s. They opened wide, their slit black pupils upon Vivienne, and the joyous laughter turned sour, into cackling.

“No,” she gasped. She stopped running and swallowed her breath.

When she exhaled, a puff of white chilled air left her mouth. She extended her hand again, and studied her ring, tying her silver silk to her hand. The mountains jutted from the horizon, the walls of Skyhold rebuilt, the snow still falling.

"Vivienne?" Cadash's voice popped from behind her. "Everything all right?"

"Of course, my dear," she replied, not a moment missed. “To answer your question, yes I did pass my Harrowing. I was one of the youngest to do so, in fact. I faced my demon; when they pour out of the Rifts, they are exposed, but when you are in their domain, they have every tool to ensnare you.”

“I bet you looked that demon in the eyes and didn’t flinch once,” said Cadash. “It never stood a chance against you.”

She laughed. “It didn’t, but I was but a girl when it happened. I had wants, fears, anxieties that I myself was not aware of. The best defense against any demon is to know yourself. I think, in another life, you would do well as a mage. That said, I wouldn’t not say you’re missing much, not being able to dream.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Nine

Sebastian

"That's not how it happened."

"Oh?" said Sebastian as he walked beside Hawke, up the winding stone stairs leading into Hightown, ribbons of purple dusk meeting them at the top. "Varric was very vivid in his description of your first meeting. He very much thinks himself your savior."

"Maybe that's what he intended, or what he wished had happened, but I chased down that thief myself." Hawke’s armored feet clanked against the tile, and her voice was muffled through the slits of her visor. She pointed to a wing that was fortified with dwarven shops and statues. "Tackled him over there, I think, by the Merchant's Guild Hall. Gave the poor boy a few coppers, it was all I could spare at the time. Varric came a moment later, pinning him to a wall and asking if I was all right, but I had it covered.”

“I like your version better. I would love to hear all you got up to, those first few years.”

“They’re not exactly rousing. Varric is the resident storyteller for a reason. He makes the most mundane things seem so exciting.”

“Even so, I would love to hear it all from you.”

Hawke’s steps slowed. “I know he’s been cruel to you. I will talk to him about it.”

“There is no need, I have gotten far venomous insults.”

“That’s no excuse. He’s usually so friendly, I don’t know why he gets that way around you, when you have been nothing but gracious.”

“We are both younger sons. Our paths are not so different, perhaps it makes him question his decisions. Perhaps he thinks I am imposing on his territory, as a second archer. A redundancy.” Sebastian paused. It was true enough that he had received worse insults; from nobles, from guards, from whispering clerics, from his own family, but it did not fully remove the dull sting of Varric’s mockery. “Or perhaps he simply does not find me a compelling character, as it were.”

“Don’t talk like that. You’re a living person with feelings, not fodder for his stories. And I happen to like having two archers watching my back, for what that’s worth. Are you quite sure you don’t want me to talk to him?”

“I am certain, Hawke, but grateful that you offered, all the same.”

“Hey,” she made a sharp turn and faced him. “Look at me. Trust me when I say you’re wanted in this group, no matter what Varric says. I want you here.”

Sebastian chuckled. “I think it would be easier to absorb if we were truly face to face.”

“Face to face? Are we not…ah!” Metal-coated fingers tapped on the space where her cheeks would be, only to realize her helmet was covering it. “Silly me, I never took it off. Force of habit, I suppose.”

Hawke lifted the helmet from her head, lowered the hood of chainmail. Strands of hair clung to the loops, while others stuck against the sides of her scalp. “Ugh,” she groaned as she surgically removed each strand. “it was especially warm today.”

Sebastian outreached his hands, but flinched, unsure where he would begin. Laughter began to bubble in his throat, his smile stretched wide. “Do you…need help?”

“No, I’m fine, I just,” she batted her head back and forth once she was certain all her hair was free, shaking away the hair from her face, her tongue stuck out to ward off strands from falling to her mouth. By this time, Sebastian’s laughter came full force. “Oh, you think that’s funny, do you?” she said, rotating her neck and thwapping her hair in each direction.

Sebastian kept laughing until Hawke pushed her hair back, matted with sweat. She was laughing along with him, her voice scratched with the stress of the day, yet still came silky and soothing to his ears.

“Here,” he said, taking a handkerchief from one of the pouches on his belt.

“Thank you,” she said, her laughter softly subsiding like the ebbing of waves against the sand. She wiped the sweat from her brow, smiling. And they stood there for a moment, in the middle of Hightown, in simmering silence.

Dusk swallowed the sky, shades of orange and purple melting together, and stars emerged from the ether, as if commanded by the resplendent brown of her eyes. As if called to her, so they might frame her form, so they would illuminate her face. A few scattered lanterns shed a dim light across the city streets, but they paled in Hawke’s radiance.

Sebastian felt his chest tighten. It was not as though he was not aware that she was beautiful in every conceivable way, or that his admiration for her was morphing into something new, just as evening falls into night; inevitable, a little frightening, but quietly glorious. But in that moment, it was all the clearer. Everything was clearer, as darkness enveloped all but her. She was a beacon, a star in this time of uncertainty.

A wistful “Maker,” slipped out of his mouth. A heavy lump formed in his throat. His tongue tingled as the words began to form, but he choked on them. Was he really going to ruin this perfect moment?

 “What is it?” said Hawke, her laughter slowly petering out. “Is there still something on my face?”

“No, it’s just,” he swallowed, pushed down the fear. He was certain she felt something for him, he had seen her wandering glances, heard her rare laughter, felt her edges soften. Around him, only with him. If nothing else, surely a few weeks of heartache would be better than a lifetime of regret, something that already clung to his feet like a looming shadow. But shadows did not creep so, in the pure night. “I love you.”

Her smile faded and her eyes lowered. It was a slow change in expression; not from shock, but disappointment. As if his declaration were bad news she knew in her heart, and was waiting for the delivery. “Sebastian… please, I can’t.”

“I know you feel the same. Why are we torturing ourselves like this?”

“Sebastian,” she stepped back, putting a cold space between them, a scraping skip in her voice. She clutched her helmet with both hands, her eyes stuck on the silver surface, looking as if she would prefer to put it back on and seal herself up. “I know we’ve flirted here and there. And I am fond of you, it’s true. But I can’t compete with Andraste, with faith. That’s not a fight I can win.”

“There’s no competition,” he said, a relieved smile. “I don’t see why I would need to choose between my faith and my feelings for you. They need not conflict. I will simply not renew my vows. I will take back my lands, with you as my wife. As Princess of Starkhaven.”

“Just like that? After all these years in the Chantry, I come along, and now you want to leave? How long before you tire of me, and yearn for the safety of the Chantry?”

“I would never…,” he began to summon indignation, but it quickly died in his throat, and swallowed it back down in a sigh. “You think me fickle as well.”

“You can’t plot your entire life based on your feelings for me, on how you feel right now. Even if I…”

“Even if you’re everything I could have hoped for?”

She looked back up at him. “And what is that? What am I to you, exactly? Do I truly look like a Princess to you? After all, I’m…” Hawke gestured her whole self, top to bottom. She let her hands linger on the crown of her head, to emphasize her height. “I’m a big, fumbling brute. I’m not politically savvy, it takes me months to accomplish the smallest improvements in this city, if at all.”

“That is what you see,” Sebastian answered quickly, smiling, slowly stepping towards her, closing the cold and empty space between them. “But do you know what I see? Someone resilient, determined, intelligent, kind. Not simply civil or polite, but truly kind. You are everything a princess should be. You are everything I could aspire to.”

Hawke rolled her eyes and huffed. “You want to take a swing at the ‘big’ part, turn that into something positive?”

“Being larger is not a bad thing, but the word hardly does you justice. You are statuesque, a marvel of athleticism and physical endurance.”

She blushed, and ran his handkerchief against her cheeks. “A marvel, he says. I certainly know who to go to when I’m having a bad day.”

“I can offer more than compliments. Much more.”

“You’re not making this easy. Have you even been in a relationship before? Been in love before?”

“No. There were a few almosts, but none like you. Before, in the Chantry, when I spoke of giving up my claim, I was afraid. Afraid of what I had seen at the Harrimans, and everything it could lead to. When Her Grace denied me, I was left to think. And I realized you had been with me the whole time. I did not defeat the demon, we did. I could do more with you. Be a better man with you.”

Hawke took another step away from him. “You make it seem so simple. I come from some nobility, yes, but you know what befell the Amell Family.”

“A tragedy, yes, but it is a name that is still remembered with esteem. And with your character, with your accomplishments, that would be more than enough. With you at my side, I could do anything.”

She scoffed. “Is that so? You know my father was a commoner. A mage, no less. You know there is a very good chance any children I have could have magic, even if there’s none in your blood.”

Sebastian walked around, to close the distance again, and meet her gaze. “I would find a way.”

“Oh? So, you’ll get our mage offspring a tutor, while everyone else’s children are tossed into a Circle, never to see their families again?”

“That’s not… I thought you agreed Circles were necessary.”

“I believe mages need training and support, of which there is none to be had here in Kirkwall.”

“You know this for certain?”

The bridge of her long nose crinkled, a rough rasp in her voice. Her eyes still glittered, but with ferocity instead of serenity, which he admired just as much. “I may be a bumbling Ferelden brute, but I am not naïve. You do not know what I have witnessed in Kirkwall, I have walked its darkest corners you would never know existed. But I could not go against the templars, for fear of exposure. Even now, the Knight Commander could use my sister to force me to do her bidding. I am trapped. A Prince would have no such fear.”

He shook his head. “You overestimate the sway I would have with the Chantry, even as Prince.”

“So, you won’t even try? You are content with everything as it is? Why do you even follow me, if that’s how you feel?”

His jaw dropped, as did his heart, leaving his chest hollow. “I want to help, truly I do. And you yourself said you wanted me here, and so…”

“But what do you want, Sebastian? What do you truly want from this life? You must know being with me would not be easy. I would need to know you want this, no doubts or regrets. I would have you wholly or not at all.”

“I do want this. I believe I do. But,” Sebastian retreated from this evening dance, and stepped back. “Clearly, I still need to prove it. To you, as well as myself.”

“I don’t say this to be cruel. But I have no intention of being complacent. After all I’ve been through, after all I have seen, I must do more. If I am to be with anyone, they must share in my convictions. My equal.”

“There is… wisdom in what you say, Hawke. I did not intend to cause you such discomfort.”

She sighed, and the tension in her face subsided. "You did no such thing. We will always be friends, and I know you’ve a good heart, but...”

“I would like to be this person, this equal, but it may take time, and I do not expect you to wait for such a change.”

She smiled. “We shall see then, won’t we?”

“Yes, we shall.”

“I should be off. I need to speak with Ser Emeric in the morning.”

She walked away, in the direction of her estate. Night spread further across the sky, the moon emerging from the darkness to guide her way back, glittering against white pillars, strewn with ivy.

Sebastian’s guts twisted in knots. In that moment, he was thankful for the small mercy of night, to obscure his face, flushed with shame.

“Judith,” he spat out. “Tell me you feel nothing for me, and I’ll not speak of this again.”

She sighed; her tensed and taut shoulders fell. “I can’t do that either. The truth is, I do feel something for you. Something that could turn into love, some day.” Her head began to tilt, but she could not bring herself to turn completely, and face him. “And that frightens me. I could not bear to have someone like you, only to lose you. I wish we lived in a world where love was enough. But it’s not, it never has been. Certainly not for me.”

She locked her arms again, crossed over her chest, the walls up. “Good night, Sebastian,” she said softly, before walking home. “I’ll return your handkerchief in the morning.”

“Good night…” the words fell limp off his tongue, they did not seem to reach Hawke before she was lost to the night. He sighed deeply; even if he managed to make up for it a thousand times over, this was still a perfect evening, utterly ruined.

Chapter Text

Chapter Ten

The Inquisitor

Cadash curled up along the arc of a window in a Skyhold tower. Not in her room, that being the first place people would look for her. Not in the garden either, where people often gathered, clamoring and crowded. She perched in a tower by the forge area, overlooking the training grounds. The clanging of hammers and the blowing of the furnace all were but pleasant hums in the background. The scent of cinder and smoke, filtered by the crisp mountain air, a calming mix of smells for the reclusive dwarven Inquisitor.

Despite this peace, her body coiled and tensed, running one of her daggers against a whetstone. The edge was not sharp enough, even though she had done this exact thing in this exact way a thousand times before. She ran along the edge again and again, but it defied her with its persistent dullness. She banged the steel against stone and sparks flickered onto her fingers.

"Damn it," Cadash hissed through gritted teeth, wincing at the heat, chucking both the dagger and stone to the ground.

“A light can’t be forced,” Cole's voice slipped in like a chill breeze through a cracked window.

"Shit!" she yelped, body jittering in anxious shock. She turned to find Cole's saucer eyes staring back at her.

“Can’t be squeezed out in anger, all you get it smoke.”

She exhaled and stilled herself. "Cole, no one is supposed to get the jump on me. You're going to ruin my reputation."

" I didn’t jump, I walked."

She took another breath. She was still getting used to Cole. "No, I mean... it's fine, Cole, sorry. Did you need me for something?"

"No, but he does. He's looking for you, where the hurting goes."

“Where the hurt…? Oh, you mean Blackwall! He’s all patched up, then?”

Cole looked down, his pale fingers knotted together, the wide rim of his face covering all but a small corner of his frown. “He helped. In a way I could not.”

“You mean my brother? Yeah, he’s a surgeon, he’s really something.”

“I hurt to help; he heals to help. I can only hurt and harm until it’s all hollowed and howling.”

Cadash put her opened palm against her face, smearing her frustrated expression like clay, until she sculpted a smile. “Hey, I only know how to shoot and stab. I only help by hurting our enemies, too. Sometimes I get jealous of my brother, and what he can do. But we’re on the field, out there with the demons. We need to be able to do that. Just like we need healers like my brother, and the cooks, and the stoneworkers, and the forge masters, and the diplomats.”

Cole was silent, fingers still twitching.

Cadash tucked her head into the shade of Cole’s hate, and met his eyes. “Come on, Cole. Look at me. You’re helping. I promise you that. We all do, in our own way.”

“There’s strength on the surface, like the Stone. But veins glow bright underneath. That’s where the light is.”

Cadash cocked her head, and a smaller, more earnest smile came to her. “I am choosing to take that as a compliment. Come on, let’s go see how our Warden friend is doing.”

Cadash shuddered as they approached the infirmary. Not because she wasn’t used to blood and death—far from it—but because it was all done in her name.

It used to be simple. Her old Carta boss would tell her to get or take things, and if that meant killing, so be it. It wasn’t her fault if a rival clan interfered in trades, or some templars decided their lyrium shipment wasn’t worth the price they agreed to. They brought death upon their own heads. If not her, someone else would have killed them. At least with her, it was quick, and usually clean. Usually.

But now, she walked under the green banner, the one raised for her, the Inquisitor. Under that banner, soldiers and agents on beds, bloody and moaning. The good news was most of them recovered, she had amassed a large staff of surgeons and apothecaries, with plenty of supplies. The bad news was that only applied to the ones that made it back. Healing magic was better for immediate care, and most mages that came to the Inquisition had some combat practice, so most of them were on the field. But it was a rare gift, one that not every mage could do. Not every group could have a healer assigned. Even with one, they could only do so much, they were in danger, too.

They knew what they were signing up for, she told herself. There was no fooling anyone that this was dangerous. Hopefully none of them died, out on the edge of the world, cursing her name in their last breath, thinking she could have reached them, somehow.

Cadash sighed, thankful to see only a few soldiers in the area, nursing minor injuries. She spotted a dwarf as he walked out of the tower, wiping his hands with a cloth. He had the same brown skin as Cadash, same sharp nose, and same thick black hair, though his had tightly, neatly spun braids and a short, cleanly trimmed beard.

“Garther,” she picked up her pace, all but leaping to his side. “How is he?”

“Wow, what timing,” said Garther, his voice bubbled, almost the point of laughter. “saves me the trouble of looking for you. I patched up your paramour.”

“Ugh,” Rota growled, jabbing the other dwarf in the shoulder. “Don’t use that old word, you sound like Nana.”

“Hey! Nana’s the toughest person I know. I’d love to sound like her.”

“Nobody’s ever gonna think YOU are tough, little brother.”

“Ha! Says the woman sweating like a greased nug.”

Rota scoffed. “I am not… that doesn’t matter. Shit, by the way, this is Cole,” she turned, but no one was behind her, not even a footprint. She turned back. “Um… he’s shy.”

Garther shrugged. “I didn’t see anyone, and I’m pretty sure you came alone. Did you send spies to check on your Warden friend? I know you don’t like showing that you care about anyone or anything. Ever.”

“Shut up. Blackwall is basically my bodyguard, I need him to watch out for me on the field. So, is he all right or not?”

“You have nothing to worry about. He got hit by a spell, but I didn’t find any signs of real damage. Just gave him something for the pain, give him another day to rest. The scar’s probably going to stay, but I see he has a few already.”

“Nothing shameful about scars.”

“It’s interesting, though. Do you remember when those Tevinter raiders intercepted our lyrium delivery? One of their mages got you in the shoulder with a lightning spell.”

“He knew I was their biggest threat,” Cadash said smugly. “Even with wobbly aim I still got him in the eye.”

“Yes, but it healed fully,” Garther pointed to Cadash’s shoulder, and she rolled up her sleeve, revealing skin with consistent color. “I remember, he got you there, and you didn’t scar. Set a dwarf on fire, they’ll burn like anyone else, but dwarves seem to recover better and faster from magic, assuming it doesn’t kill them outright.”

Cadash rolled her sleeve back down. “You’re not going to start setting people on fire, are you?”

Garther chuckled; Cadash always envied the way he smiled and laughed, with full teeth gleaming. Her own laughter was usually wrapped in a sneer. “Not without written permission.”

“That’s not going to happen, but maybe you can talk to Dorian and Felix. They love this kind of thing, they’re usually in the library this time of day.”

“Maybe I’ll do that.”

 “Garther,” she said flatly. “Thanks.”

“Oh, but of course!” he declared with a flourishing flick of his hand. “Anything I can do to assist the Esteemed Inquisitor, the Herald—”

“Don’t you dare use that title.”

“In any case, I’m glad to help in whatever little way I can. You’ve certainly got your work cut out for you, sister. I only wish I could do more.”

“No, this, this is huge. We don’t have that many mages that can heal, I hear it’s dangerous for the ones that can. And the human medics are…”

“Haha, yes, you need not remind me. I’m still trying to convince them these ‘humors’ they believe in is bullshit. Fereldens seem to be back a few decades. Not that I came to the Inquisition expecting open-mindedness, but they’re trying. Maybe I can write some letters, I know a few other proper dwarven practitioners that could help.”

“That’s a good idea. Go see Sister Nightingale, tell her it’s my order and she’ll help.”

“I’ll do that right now and swing by the library.”

“Garther,” she paused. “I mean it, thank you. Blackwall is an important part of my Inner Circle.”

Garther cocked an eyebrow. “I bet. He talked about you.”

“What?” her grey eyes popped. “What did he say?”

“Ask him yourself, I’ve got letters to write. You’re welcome, Ro-Ro!”

Cadash watched her brother bolt up the stone stairs leading up to the main tower. When he was a speck in the sky, she took a long breath and headed into the infirmary proper.

Dim sunlight filtered through glass windows upon Blackwall’s simple, flat, white linen bed. It was one of many, in twin rows throughout the wing, though all others were mercifully empty. His head was low, eyelids drooping, and back hunched, but at the tap of Cadash’s boot on the floor, his ears perked, eyes brightened. Cadash could see the bandages crossed over the injury, showing even through his shirt.

He turned himself over, one foot on the floor. Hands clenched on the side of the bed to lift himself up, but he winced, cradling one arm with the other.

“Hey, take it easy,” said Cadash. “There’s no reason to get up. I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I am well. Thank you, my lady,” said Blackwall as he returned to his bed. “Thanks to your brother.”

“He’s my twin brother,” she said, inching towards him, though her steps were slow, eyes looking away and shaded by her black hair. “I’m a few minutes older.”

“That explains why he’s the best-looking person to tend my wounds, then.”

She chuckled. “He always had more a knack for studying and fixing bodies than putting them down. Sometimes if I managed to kill someone cleanly, I would bring the corpse back to him so he could cut it up and study it.”

Blackwall maintained his smile, though Cadash saw a clear wriggle. “Very thoughtful of you.”

“Yes, well, you do what you can when you’re not welcome in high society, with their fancy schools.”

“I can imagine. But he clearly knows what he’s doing. All the other soldiers that were in here with me have healed, and I’ll be ready to get back out there in another day.”

“Good. It’s my hope that, once this is all over, he’ll have the coin and reputation to settle in some big city, take our mother and Nana. Fix up regular people. Start over with everything they need. No Carta involved.”

Blackwall raised one bushy brow, “You’re not in this equation, my lady?”

Cadash shrugged, her arms crossed, eyes on the floor. “And do what? Hand him his hacksaw? Collect herbs? No, I would just get in the way, and that life’s not for me. When this is over, I’ll probably join some mercenary group, I don’t think the Carta’s going to want me back.”

“I wouldn’t wish that for you, my lady. The Carta is behind you, and you deserve a comfortable life, as much as he does.”

“I was never made for comfortable living,” she said, her voice curt and coarse. “I thought you of all people understood that.”

“I do understand,” he said softly, “that does not stop me from wanting it for you.”

Cadash could feel his eyes linger on her, a melancholy grayish blue, compelling her to meet with them. She sighed, “Let’s not discuss this. You should focus on recovering. Not that it should have happened in the first place. I missed that one Venatori mage and he blasted you.”

“I charged ahead. The fault is mine.”

“I still shouldn’t have let it happen. Nothing should get passed me.”

“My lady,” Blackwall folded his covers and sat upright, at the edge of the bed. “I’ve never met anyone who acts as quickly or shoots as perfectly as you. Clearly, I was overly eager to impress you. You can’t be blamed for that.”

“Fine, fine,” she laughed, closing the distance and sitting on the bedside with him. “Be sure to keep it reigned in from now on. I can’t watch that nice ass of yours if it’s out of my line of sight.”

Blackwall chuckled. “I shall take that to heart.”

Cadash’s fingers wandered slowly to Blackwall’s hairy forearms. “You don’t have to come on this mission. You can just focus on recovering. There’s a good chance we’ll have to fight other Wardens, after all, and then there’s this fake Calling…maybe it’s for the best.”

“I appreciate the concern, but the injury is minor, just need a day. As for the Wardens, well, if they’re under Corypheus’s control, then this is a mercy. It brings me no joy, but better this than whatever his purpose is.”

“And you’re sure you can resist this… this fake Calling? You’re completely, totally sure?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Cadash chewed on her lip. “Then swear to me. Swear you won’t be swayed by this magic.”

Blackwall paused. Cadash could feel his eyes on her, studying the taught tension in her face. She had let him get too close; he knew she was seldom this serious.

“Lady Cadash,” he said, taking her hands and pressing them against his heart. The pained arm wriggled ever so slightly. “You have my solemn promise I will not fall to Corypheus’s corruption. I would sooner die than turn my blade against you.”

Cadash turned her head, her velvet black hair swishing over her profile, so he could not see her blush. “The idea is for you to not die at all, idiot. But I’ll take it.”

“Rota,” his voice was soft, a thumb placed delicately under her chin, turning her head back to him.

“Don’t,” her voice cracked. “Don’t die, I forbid it.”

“If my lady commands it,” he said, smiling, leaning in slowly for a kiss.

He came slowly for her, waiting for a motion of approval, a sign to keep going. She kept her lips buttoned for a moment, knowing every time she let this pass, every inch closer, it would just get harder when he eventually left. He was already occupying too much of her thoughts. He was already breathing her air. Her nose twitched at the all too familiar scent of chopped lumber ready for the fire, of rolled hay, of bubbling cider. Her fingers found his forearms, bristling against his thick, dark brown hair. Everything about him was so warm, so inviting.

But he was a Warden, and he had a duty, one that would take him away from this place, under a different banner. She knew this, and he had made that very clear to her. But she still crossed that line, and she did it over and over, because it was fun, and she was a cold lonely dwarf, all the way up in the mountains. Even with her family there, even as it got easier to talk to her Inner Circle, there was still an ache, a linger chill. Like there were still crystals forming on her back, shards in her hair. Like part of her was still lost in the snow, a lost little phantom wandering the mountains.

She unbuttoned, lips pursed and eager. “I do command it,” and she lifted herself up, pressing her face against his. What was one more crossed line?

Chapter Text

Chapter Eleven

Hawke

The names Leandra and Carver Hawke were etched carefully into a wide stone wall in the Chantry garden, its powerful pewter sheen catching the midday light. Hawke pressed her fingers against the indentations, and the cold surface sent tiny shocks in the swirls of her fingertips. The sensation sent her body into a fit of shudders, a coating of sweat. The dainty scent of flowers and clean air sucked out, replaced with burning meat. 

Her sight blurred to gray, blotting away the green garden. A singed field took its place, black trees against a red sky, like a painting covering another. As though this was always here with her, just below the surface. No matter how quiet and peaceful a place she retreated to, this place was always with her, just a few tears away, ready to unearth itself. Ready to remind her if she ever tried to forget.

“If things go bad,” Hawke said. Her lips didn’t move but she knew it was her voice. She reached out to him, and saw a hand that wasn’t hers, but was hers at the same time. It used to be her hand, her skin, younger and tauter, the calluses washed away. The jagged scar against her eye was fresh, she felt the stitches aching to burst. The horrible cry of the Shriek attack still rang in her ear. This was the body of her past self. She was moving in it like a puppet, reenacting all she had said and done before. “We need to leave.”

“Leave?” said her brother, brashness burning in his voice. “Sister, what has gotten into you?”

Carver was younger than she remembered, when the fog of time was lifted. When she focused on the night before the battle of Ostagar. Amber eyes, wide and with a spark of ambition. Lips ever-pouting, contorting with youthful frustration. The scruffy seedlings of a beard spread across his wide jaw. So young, so much promise.

“I heard the King argue with Teyrn Loghain. He’s not going to listen. He’s going to force an all-out charge, and get us all killed.”

“Why does that spell failure for you? Cailan said himself this wasn’t a true Blight. Why must he listen to an old man? He’s the one who’s king.”

“Cailan is wet behind the ears, Loghain is the Hero of River Dane. And you’ve seen the gathering Wardens. I saw two of them come from the Korcari Wilds. The looks on their faces. They saw something there, more Darkspawn than they anticipated. It’s a true Blight after all.”

Carver huffed. “Perfect Judith shows her true colors at last. She’s a coward.”

“You think this brings me any pleasure? We are but bodies to them, to slow down the inevitable. The two of us can’t stop a Blight. The best we can do is protect the family. That’s all that matters.”

“So, you want to run back to Mother, heads bowed, say sorry we could not stop the horde, let’s run to Orlais and wait it out, and hope only a few of our neighbors die?”

Hawke tried to fight it, knowing full well she could not stop what would happen. Her muscles betrayed her, as they did every time she came back to this moment. Her fists clenched, and creases hung heavy on a furrowed brow. The flare of anger burned in her throat; her younger self was much quicker to it. She could not cage the words with her teeth, though she tried every time. Her voice was hoarse as she snapped back at him. “How dare you. I was the one who wanted to be a knight. You followed because you have no path of your own. This is more important than my dreams, or your selfish desire to make a name for yourself.”

His mouth tightened; amber eyes glassy. The call of some new recruits clamored in the back, pulling him in. He was happy for an excuse to get away from this conversation, away from her, and be with soldiers that understood him. He turned away without a word.

"Carver, wait," she said. Her indignation failed her; the flame of her anger stomped flat by his cold reaction. She reached for his shoulder, but he swatted it away, leaving a smoldering pit to fester in her stomach, a dry ashen taste in her mouth.

"Hawke?" a voice popped in her ears. "Hawke, are you all right?"

Hawke's brow furrowed. She couldn't place the voice but she knew she heard it before. It was soft and soothing. It was distant and different from all the groans and grunts of the soldiers, like a gentle breeze from some far-off peaceful meadow, floating all the way to find her. It carried a faint scent of rosewater. She shuddered, not able to place how a simple peasant girl could know such a smell.

“Hawke?” the voice came again, closer and clearer. Close enough to bristle the hairs on the back of her neck, close enough to redden her cheeks.

She turned, and saw Sebastian, with the Chantry garden all around him. Flowers looked up towards the afternoon sun, and little old clerics hunched over mounds of dirt. She turned back and saw the memorial wall. She was there in the garden with him, she never left.

“Hawke,” he said again, reaching for her. His big blue eyes were wide, pouring onto her, and he was frowning, as if about to cry. “You look flushed. Are you well?”

Hawke winced, looking at his worried face; it meant her reaction was visible. She placed her hand on her chest, tried to press down the heavy breaths, to control her heaving heart. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, to let the scent of flowers fill her senses, flooding out the memory of ashes.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice low, smile up. “I just… got lost in thought.”

Sebastian cocked his head. “Are you certain? I thought you might faint. Can I at least bring you some water?”

“It’s fine,” her voice dropped flat. “I only…speaking of Carver is difficult. I have not spoken of him to anyone but family. So please… give me some time.”

Sebastian took a step back. “Of course, Hawke.

“Remind me again who told you I had a brother?”

“Fenris did, I believe. Your sister was the one who told him.”

“Of course,” she sighed. “Bethany is the only reason anyone knows. I would always turn away whenever anyone asked about my past. But Bethany wanted to remember. She spoke of Carver freely. She lit candles for him, prayed for him. She wanted his memory to live on. Meanwhile, Mother sobbed and said she wished she had died instead and I… I just put up walls.”

“Leaving your home behind after a Blight, and starting all over in a strange new place. It couldn’t have been easy, let alone finding time and space to grieve.”

“My brother and I were in the army. I had been there a few years, Carver joined when the King called for more recruits. We had an argument, the night before the Battle of Ostagar. It was the last real conversation we ever had. He believed in King Cailan and wanted to be part of the charge. I didn’t.” She pulled herself away from the wall, and retreated to a stone bench. She pushed down the urge to slump and sigh. She would be firm, serene, in control; voice level, eyes clear, back straight, head high. “You know how the rest goes. Teyrn Loghain took his troops and withdrew, leaving the rest to die, namely the King and most of the Wardens. Carver had to be dragged off the field, I needed at least three other soldiers to help me. A few of us fled, but scattered back to our home towns.”

A single finger twitched, tightening against the cloth of her trousers. A slight crack in her voice as his name creaked out. “…Carver and I got back to Lothering as it burned. Thankfully most of the people there had already fled, but Mother and Bethany were waiting for us. We got to Amaranthine and took ship. But not before…”

Hawke’s bottom lip began to tremble, both fists coiled against her knees. “I don’t know how, I thought they were all coming from the Wilds, but they just kept …emerging from nowhere and catching up with us, and…”

“Hawke,” Sebastian sat beside her, the glint of his eyes snapping her to focus. “You don’t have to say anymore if you don’t wish to.”

She sighed deeply, “I know it wouldn’t have made any difference. If we had one last pleasant talk. If we got to say goodbye. But there must have been something, anything, I could have done. Even if I died in his place, that would have…”

“Hawke,” he said softly. “I don’t have your experience, but together we’ve faced a few Darkspawn. You’re correct, they can appear suddenly, and they fight in an unruly fashion. It was not your fault.”

She shrugged. “Perhaps.”

“May I show you something?”

She nodded, and Sebastian lifted a golden locket from under his vestments, a gentle thumb over the embossment of ever-circling twin fish. “Do you remember this locket you returned to me? You had found it with the Flint Company Mercenaries, and you insisted I keep it.”

“I do and I did, it was important to you. A Meghan, I believe?”

“Ah, you remember.”

“Of course I do.”

“I don’t think I ever said who Meghan was, did I?”

“No, I did not wish to pry.”

“It was my niece,” he flipped the locket open, but nothing was inside. “My only niece, and I never met her. My eldest brother Cassian’s wife was with child when I was sent to the Chantry. He wrote to me a few times, telling me how she’d grown. He seemed happy. In the last letter I ever received, he wrote of me coming to see her. Perhaps even regularly. That I could… be a part of her life. Not return as a Vael proper, for certain, but still be part of the family again, in some way.”

“Oh, Sebastian,” Hawke said softly, a hand reached for his shoulder, but she retracted. “I’m so sorry.”

“It may have been conjecture on my part. There’s only so much to be taken from letters. But he did make the offer. I was at peace with my lot at the time, and Elthina advised strongly against it. I had no interest in returning to Starkhaven and opening old wounds. And the idea that Cassian, that he… had changed. It was unthinkable to me.” Sebastian closed the locket and sighed. “I did not write back. Not once.”

"For what it’s worth,” said Hawke. “I'm certain your niece would have loved you."

"You're being kind."

"I'm being honest. Everything about you is loveable." She paused, tripping on the last syllable. "I-I mean, that is, to children. There's no reason any child wouldn't love you."

Sebastian smiled at her. Warmly, with a gentle tilt of his head. In a knowing way, perhaps, though Hawke could not bear to dwell on that.

"I'm certain if I met her once, that would be all I'd need. I'd look upon her face and love her instantly. The lingering bitterness I have for my family, the jealousy, it would have faded. I would have forgiven my brothers, perhaps even my parents, in time. And we'd be a family, in some way, for the first time. In some golden past that never existed.”

“You know regret as much as I do.”

“I do,” he said. “Not the first time, nor the last. When you went into the Fade, to help that Feynriel boy? You told me there was a Desire Demon. I think, had I gone with you, that's what it would have lured me with, with Meghan. And it surely would have worked."

"I wouldn't have let that happen."

"I would have needed your rescue, for certain. It's a wonder the demon did not attempt to ensnare you. But then again, you're the most resilient person I've ever known. It must have known it was no match for you."

"Now you're the one being kind."

"Now I'm the one being honest."

"I think perhaps the demon saw other targets and made its choice. But it's not as though I don't... desire things."

“Even so,” he sighed. "I should have gone with you. There have been so many times I could have been at your side, supported you, and my pride got the better of me."

“What you said wasn’t wrong, entering the Fade was not something I wanted to do, and I hope I never do it again. But I… could not bear to see Feynriel suffer any more. I hoped that if I could simply reach him, appeal as a friend, I could stop him from being consumed.”

“And so, you did. I was clearly mistaken to worry, I did not have enough faith in your conviction, the way the others did.”

“Let’s not spend the entire day self-flagellating, shall we? This had happened just days after we faced Lady Harriman and her demon. You were still shaken by its whispers.”

He lowered his head in shame. “I was.”

“You think a different demon would try a new approach?”

“The Fade is their domain, where they take your fears, your desires, and use them as a cruel display. And people tend to want a great number of things. I suppose either might work on me. But between a throne and the niece I imagined, with my brother’s eyes and my grandmother’s smile… I think I could resist the former, for a time, but the latter…”

“I understand. For all my supposed resilience, if a demon took the form of Carver, or Mother, I don’t think I would be able to resist.” She let a question simmer on her tongue before asking. “Would… you come for me, if that happened?”

“Somehow I think you would still end up rescuing me,” he chuckled. “But I would not rest until you were back home.”

“I appreciate that, as I appreciate you talking to me here. It’s very lovely.” She took a deep breath, let the scent of flowers and the warmth of sunlight pass through her. There was some other, airy smell that tickled her nostrils. “Is that…. rosewater oil I smell?”

“Aha,” Sebastian ran fingers through his hair, a line of flush across his aquiline nose. “I do use a bit in my hair. Is it overmuch? I don’t believe I used more than I ever did…”

“I must not have noticed before, all the wax and incense in the Chantry is so overpowering. And while we’re out in Kirkwall there’s so much… everything, it would be too hard to focus.” She clicked her tongue, a rare coy smile. “How very interesting, it seems a bit of posh prince still lingers, after all.”

Sebastian shook his head, the flush encroaching further along his face. “If teasing my good habits is what it takes to make you smile, Hawke, I will gladly take that burden.”

“Relax, fancy boy,” she chuckled, her composure shaking off the stiffness of the vision, her voice returning to her normal steady contralto. “I like it. It’s very soothing.”

He laughed. “I’m glad I could finally reach you.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Twelve

Varric

There was a lonely corner in Skyhold, beyond the training ground, the soldier barracks, the merchant stalls, the barn, and long past where most would care to go. A tree wove itself into the walls, its roots lost in the stone, a whole section showered in leaves and vines. The wall supported the tree's massive girth, and the tree's branches thatched together gaps in the wall. The two acted as a single entity, bound together in this solemn duty. A vigilant, silent guardian watching over this ancient fortress, looking over every new group of souls that found its way inside. Its flowers still bloomed, its shade still wide, like it was always waiting, always welcome.

Varric wandered past all the busy places and found a spot underneath the tree. The garden, where he would sometimes go to collect his thoughts, was more crowded than usual today. And that minstrel at the Herald's Rest was playing that stupid song again. He needed some peace and quiet, the closest he could get to complete isolation outside of walking out the gates and sitting in the snow.

But someone already had the same idea. He found Blackwall had made himself comfortable, sitting on a bench, one that Varric suspected he made himself. Seemed likely the reclusive Warden would seek out such a place; he had to share the barracks with all the other soldiers, and the only other place he could be with his thoughts and his carvings was the barn with Dennet and all the horses. There really was little place in Skyhold where one could be truly alone.

Blackwall sat there, a solid, silent sentinel. His feet were firmly planted on the ground, blades of grass latching over his boots. Rough and calloused hands gently cradled a rounded piece of wood, pressing a knife to its surface, his eyes focused on it and nothing else. His back was straight against the corner where roots mingled with stone; it looked as if his body would be slowly swallowed if he stayed there long enough, and he would become part of the guardian, diligent in their task.

It was likely he did not even notice the dwarf was there; Varric could turn away and none would be the wiser. But as he turned his heel, the corner of his eye caught a curious pattern etched between the Warden's fingers. His brow twitched, intrigued.

He shrugged and walked towards him. The bench was big enough, anyway.

"What have you got there?" asked Varric.

Blackwall slowly lifted his head. Maker, how did he even see well enough to carve little details with all that hair in the way? “What, this?” said Blackwall. “Just something to keep busy. Trying to take things slow until we depart for Crestwood, while my injury heals."

"You don't need to justify what you do in your alone time, Hero. I mean what is it? What is it supposed to be? Can I see?"

"Ah," Blackwall cradled the wood like a newborn animal, slowly lifting his fingers and setting aside the knife. It was a curved hourglass shape, with a long wiry tail, strands of fur, sharp eyes, and a clever smile etched in. Varric had to stop himself from cooing as two little triangular ears popped out from under Blackwall’s rough and hairy fingers.

"Oh, it's a cat. Can I ask why?"

"Can't just do griffons and horses all day."

"Sure, but why specifically a cat? Is it...?”

Blackwall shuffled his wide and heavy shoulders. Varric swore he saw a hint of blush, but it was hard to tell under all that beard eating at his face. "The... Inquisitor. Seems to have a fondness for them."

"Ah. She's rather cat-like herself, isn’t she?"

"If you say so. Hence your nickname, I assume."

"Cat Eyes. You don’t think it fits?”

“She is observant, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“I knew a guy who loved cats. Sometimes they look at you like they can see right into your very being. That and they're usually ready to jump and run at the slightest noise. And they like shiny things."

Blackwall shook his head and looked back to his carving. “That hardly seems accurate to Lady Cadash.”

“You didn’t see what she was like at the beginning of this mess. Her eyes were always shifting, and she was always ready to bolt at the first opportunity. She did a few times, in fact. Seeker barreled down a crowded street in Val Royeux just to tackle her.”

“Hmm,” Blackwall grunted. “She was in the Carta before all this began, was she not? Then there’s an explosion, she was blamed for it, and next moment the Chantry is dragging her from place to place. Can hardly blame her for running at first, but it’s not like that any longer. She’s clearly committed to the role now.”

“Sure, I just wonder what changed. I guess maybe she needed people to believe in her. As a person, not as the Herald or Inquisitor or whatever.”

“We could all use someone like that. It’s surprising what one can do when you have people on your side.”

Varric paused. “You two are sweet on each other, huh?”

Blackwall groaned. “Is that what this is all about?”

“I came here for my own reasons, but I can’t help being a little curious. Don’t think no one sees her running off to the barn, or you blundering upstairs to her quarters. Neither of you are very subtle.”

Blackwall put the knife down, but his eyes stayed stuck on the wooden cat, studying the lines of fur. “It’s not a secret. It never was, though I wish I had been more careful. Everyone else has made their opinions known. Most think I’m wasting the Inquisitor’s time, or a bad influence. Only some have been the least bit encouraging but… I love Sera, but she keeps asking me what I do with her legs, and I don’t know how to answer that question.”

“Well, you’ll get no judgment from me.”

“Is that right? I’m sure you have no idea what she could possibly see in me. Maker knows I don’t.”

Varric rolled his eyes. “It’s not confidence, that’s for sure.”

“Fortunately, my lady has more than enough.”

“Yeah, about that. You… you think she’s chosen, right?”

“Yes, and I don’t see why I would stop now.”

Varric pinched the bridge of his nose and groaned; every word from the Warden was like a shove with his shield, deflecting, pushing away. He wondered how Cadash managed to get through to him. “I’m not arguing with you, Hero. I’m not saying I don’t believe. I’m not even saying she’s a bad Inquisitor. It’s just…the Chant of Light doesn’t talk much about dwarves. And Cat Eyes doesn’t seem to put much stock in it herself. You really think Andraste would pick her, of all people?”

“The Hero of Ferelden was a dwarf woman, if I recall correctly. Perhaps Lady Cadash was chosen as a reminder of the ongoing plight of dwarves. About the struggles we don’t see, and how quick we are to forget. Look how many are working in Skyhold, how many people she’s given a chance at a new start. That has to mean something.”

“Right,” said Varric, with an acknowledging nod. While this corner of Skyhold was empty, on the walk, he had passed several dwarven soldiers, cooks, laborers, stoneworkers, and merchants. A lot more than what they started with. He shivered, the realization just hitting him, like tree leaves changing colors with the season. Cadash had gone out of her way to recruit them. “Maybe there is another way of looking at it. I suppose a Warden would appreciate that better than most.”

“Indeed,” he said as he picked up the knife and resumed whittling. “And besides that, Lady Cadash is resilient. You remember when Corypheus attacked Haven? Her quick thinking bought everyone time to escape. And when the whole mountain came down on her, she survived."

Varric shuddered as the mountain chill ran spindled fingers up his spine, forcing him to remember that horrible night. He and some of the others were gathering people from the buildings as they burned. He was hurrying some people along into the escape route underneath the Chantry when the dragon’s shadow cast over all of Haven, everything they had built, bathed in its darkness, moonlight blocked by the spread of pointed, membranous wings. There was crashing, screaming, hurried huffing breaths in the tightness of the tunnels, dark and cramped and cold, before it all blurred into white.

He was with Cole at the camp, making sure he stayed warm and ate something, when someone shouted the Inquisitor's name. There was a flicker of green light amidst the whipping winds and sheets of snow. The advisors and Cassandra leapt to their feet, but Blackwall was already barreling towards it. Before Varric even understood what was happening, the Warden was cradling an ice-coated Cadash like a sickly kitten, tucked under his gambeson.

"Yeah," he said. "I remember."

Varric lingered in the memory, keeping the fragments together in his mind. The snow still crunched under his feet, the hope that Cadash was still alive--that maybe this little movement still had a chance--briefly lifted the bitter cold. The flood of survivors crowded to see her, and he got lost in the sea of legs and torsos. Cassandra snapped as she told them not to crowd, motioning Blackwall to a tent where Cadash could recover. Varric saw a frosted finger reach out before it recoiled, and the body was carried off.

Then the snow picked up, the crowd hushed, and everything turned silent and white. Varric felt the chill melt away, a silent stagehand slid his favorite chair across the floor, as the snow melted to reveal hardwood. He fell backwards into the newly placed chair, and watched as the backdrop of the Ferelden mountains was pushed aside, making way for every piece from the Hanged Man. Inquisition Scouts and laborers changed costumes, appropriate for temperate Marcher weather.

His head suddenly throbbed, fingers tensed, but he did not question it. Instead, he motioned Nora for another drink, as if he had never even left Kirkwall, and it was just another day.

Sebastian sat across from him, smiling that stupid lopsided smile of his, it made Varric’s head ache all the more.

“I’ve never heard of this before,” said Varric. “Battle fatigue?”

“It’s not common knowledge,” said Sebastian, creases of tension folded within the bridge of his prominent nose. “The university in Orlais studied soldiers after intense combat, battles with heavy losses. Some of them became defensive, frightened or anxious when things reminded them of the event, some experienced constant nightmares.”

Varric took a hard swallow. “And you think Hawke has this?”

“I think she has some form of it, yes. She has told me of her nightmares, and she is especially sensitive when her brother is brought up.”

“So…what, this is because of Ostagar? Aveline was there too, and she’s fine.”

“I cannot speak for the Guard Captain. She does not divulge much about her personal life.”

“Not to you, maybe.”

Sebastian turned his head and held in a sigh, trying to mask signs of irritation. “Kirkwall itself has had many tribulations. It’s not as though ours has been a safe occupation. There is always the possibility of injury. Of death. It takes its toll on a person.”

“And this is making Hawke… tired? Are you implying she can’t handle it? No one’s tougher than her.”

“It’s not that sort of fatigue, Varric. Perhaps even that word is insufficient, but it is the only one I have.” Sebastian ran his hand through his hair, fighting to keep that smile up. “It’s not a simple matter of resilience. I think it is a number of things that have caused it, a great many things added over time, and that she has been suffering in silence for several years. No one should be expected to do that."

Varric stilled his hand, folded fingers into a gentle fist. "All right, fine, let’s say she does have this ‘battle fatigue’. What’s the cure?"

He shook his head, voice softened. "There isn’t one. This may be a struggle she will have all her life. As for managing, I don’t have a clear answer for that, either. I believe she needs to stop engaging in combat, for one. I don’t think she can do it much longer."

“Isn’t that extreme? This is Hawke’s trade. This is how we’ve been surviving for years.”

“Come now, Varric,” he tilted his head, eyes glimmering, his smile wide, his best show of diplomacy, like a bandage on a bleeding gash. “Don’t you think it a good end to a story? The hero puts her sword down and lives the rest of her days in peace.”

Varric’s fist tightened. “Oh, I see now. And I suppose this happy ending occurs conveniently after she’s won your little war for you, and you have your throne back. Then what happens, you toss her aside when it’s all over?”

“I would never—” Sebastian winced, but quickly recovered, breathing steadily as he folded his hands on the table. An angry ember quickly stomped cold. “I realize I am also complicit in her suffering. The only reason Judith came into my life again was because I sought vengeance. Violence is ultimately what brought us all together. I am hopeful that we can reclaim the throne with no bloodshed, but it would be foolish to not be prepared. It’s for that very reason I must make up for it, and I intend to. Once I have secured my lands, I will do everything in my power to make sure Judith lives comfortably for the rest of her days. You have my word, Varric.”

“Keep your damn word,” Varric threw down as much of his filled glass as he could, a bubbling burn in his voice. “You’re talking a big game, Choir Boy. But Hawke has never talked about these things. Is this what she wants, or what you think she wants?”

“Varric, she proposed to me.”

“What?” Varric shook his head. The backdrop of the tavern seemed to blur.

There was a rattled, almost relieved, thrum in Sebastian’s heavy sigh, as if that secret had been weighing on him. Or maybe he just wanted to tell someone. “We have been together for a few months. I believe everyone suspected, yourself included. We were going to tell everyone formally, once things settled, and plans were in motion. I tell you these things now, because you’re one of her oldest, dearest friends. We thought you had a right to know, and she needs her friends more than ever.”

“Maybe I don’t want to hear it. I’ve seen you gawk at her, but she could never be happy with you, propped up in a fancy cage. That’s not who she is, I would know! Hawke was happy before. We were all happy before. Then you started coming along.”

Sebastian’s smile began to fall, the shine of his eyes turned steely. “Varric, I don’t deserve that. As I said, she has been silent about it. This began long before she came to Kirkwall.”

“Oh sure, but you’re just going to take her away and fix everything, is that it? Is that what you promised her, that this ‘fatigue’ she suddenly has would go away once she does everything you demand?”

Sebastian inhaled sharply but let the air pass slowly through his nose, as if nursing the words on his tongue. “Varric,” he said, “I know you’re in love with her, too, but that--”

Varric stared at him, voice flat and quick, like the chop of a dull knife. “I don’t like your accusations, Choir Boy.”

The steel of his eyes turned sharp, and the gentle lilt of his voice snapped like a taut whip. “Then don’t give me that bullshit.”

“Oho, look who learned a new word! Did they teach you that in the Chantry?”

“Oh please, Varric,” he sneered, lip flared. “I’ve always known, and I know you saw us at camp, after we fought Corypheus. You’re not nearly as subtle as you think you are.”

“So now you’re watching me?”

“I cannot believe you’re acting like this. I’m telling you someone you love is suffering, but you would rather believe I’m manipulating her!”

“Because she would tell me if something was wrong!”

Sebastian paused, his eyes stuck on Varric, the tension that framed his face lifted. “It will never be enough, will it? You made up your mind about me a long time ago.” The chair skidded sharply on the floor as Sebastian pushed away and stood up. “I am sorry you feel this way. I love Judith and I’m not letting her go, and I hope you can accept that someday. Because you will lose her entirely if you keep acting this way, and if I were to guess, Varric, this wouldn’t be the first time this has happened. It may not be the last, either.”

 As Sebastian walked away, swallowed by shadow, he heard another chair slide behind him. He turned and saw he was in Aveline’s office, the pieces of the Hanged Man all pushed away, replaced by shelves of records, a desk with a surface of scattered documents. Someone quickly hung a battered, tarnished Templar shield on the wall, before slinking away into the offstage shadows, but Varric didn’t remember it being there before.

“Varric,” she said, a slight quiver in her voice, her lips stretched thin, fingers neatly folded together. Varric smiled; this was her stiff, awkward attempt at being comforting, and it felt like an eternity since he last saw her do it. “I’m not overly fond of Sebastian either, but you can’t blame him just because things are changing. Things have a tendency to do that.”

Varric’s smile faded, quick as it came. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Guard Captain.”

She tilted her head; Aveline Vallen trying to soften her own voice and composure was like trying to smother a sword. “You know I haven’t been able to come as often, with all my new responsibilities. Much as you and Isabela joke to the contrary, I do occasionally enjoy not working, and being with my husband.”

“I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

“And you know it’s only a matter of time before Isabela acquires another ship. A wonder she’s been here as long as she has, really.”

He shrugged and laughed. “Kirkwall has everything; good food, good view, good company.”

“And you know… it’s not just your people with an eye on Anders.”

Varric sighed, sunk in his chair. “A wonder we’ve stayed together this long, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” Aveline nodded, pulling out a bottle and two glasses from under her desk.

“Drinking on the job, eh? Pressure’s finally gotten to you?”

“Shut up,” she said, pouring deep red wine in a glass then pushing it towards Varric. “I laughed when you first suggested forming a Guild, but it worked out well, for a time.”

“How long did you think we’d last?”

“Mmm,” she poured herself a glass. “Three weeks.”

Varric chuckled. “Ever the optimist.”

“It’s not as though we’re all leaving. You can always stop by. I don’t believe Merrill is going anywhere. Not certain of Fenris. And Hawke… if her plan goes the way she wants, there will be some time between here and Starkhaven. But she’ll carve out time for you, between whatever new duties she acquires, and any children she has. You seem like you could make a fun uncle, hmm?”

Varric’s brow arced. “Excuse me? Children?”

“What? She mentioned it a few times. Says she imagined a girl, at least to start. Has a name in mind, but she won’t share.”

“I… don’t remember her ever saying this.”

“I’m sure it slipped your mind.”

He sunk in his chair. “So that’s how it ends, huh.”

Aveline stared at the wine in her glass before taking a slow sip. “When we were running from the Blight, with her family, with… Wesley. Hawke and Carver were very coordinated, they were constantly looking out for the others, and each other. They kept calm, kept the others calm, a team. I think she’s been searching for that again. A family, something to protect. Something to… hold onto, I suppose.”

“You knew her longer than any of us.”

“Only by a year and some. And we weren’t exactly friends. I watched over her, when I could, but I became a guard, she was with the Red Iron. I offered to get her in, but she declined. She was much more distant, then, a… silent, cold anger. She came out of her shell, and I credit a lot of that to you. Maker knows I wasn’t going to reach her.”   

“You did what you could.”

“Perhaps. Even now, we don’t talk much. She’s getting into politics. I think in her ideal world, my job doesn’t exist. I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me for what happened to her mother.”

“Judy doesn’t hold grudges, and that wasn’t your fault.”

“Maybe not, but she’ll always remember my annoyance at Emeric, how I was reluctant to act any further. Even on the night it happened, I was on another job. I came to her house as soon as I heard but she had that cold, silent anger about her again. It did not feel right to be there, so I said a few words and left. I don’t know what Sebastian said to her after, but he was clearly more effective at reaching her.” She finished her glass. “We helped each other get by, those early years, but now our paths are diverging. And I don’t think there’s anything I can do about it.”

“You know, Guard Captain, I wouldn’t have called this group the closest of friends, but circumstances brought us together, and it changed us. Like the Chains that frame this city, we’re linked together, and maybe the bond never truly goes away. It’s part of us, you know?”

"Mmm," Aveline's mouth turned thin and flat again, and she poured herself another glass. "Well, you always had a rather poetic way of looking at things, Varric. There was a lot of arguing. More often than not it felt like shepherding a bunch of cats."

“Judy’s more of a dog person,” Varic interjected.

“I think that says a lot about the situation.”

"Don't tell me you've got regrets."

"I didn't say that either,” she said as she took a modest nip at her new glass. “Only that... sometimes things need to change. It’s not a failure, just natural. Like… the rising of the tides."

“Ooh, now look who’s being poetic.”

Aveline hid half her smile as she took a hardier swallow, smothering her urge to laugh. “Shut up, dwarf.”

"Would it shock you to learn, Guard Captain, that I struggled to make friends growing up?"

"What, you? Didn't you have a circle of dwarf children hanging onto your every word?"

"I was better at talking to the adults, as it were. Bartrand had the respect of his peers. Sometimes I would keep the adults busy while he and his friends snuck off, or tried to get into the good booze cabinet. I thought we were all friends together, but they left me behind every time. And I kept doing it. I thought if I proved myself to them, I would win them over. But, you know, children don't appreciate a good story or a good friend until they're older."

"I think I understand. Varric, you know we'll always be friends. As for Hawke, you know she loves you, she just... needs something we can’t provide. I was rooting for you two, for what that's worth."

Varric sighed, pouring himself more wine, staring into its bloody red surface. "I knew it would never work out. She wants more than I could ever offer. I thought it would hurt less to pretend I didn't have feelings at all, but it just made things hurt more later. It's not like I didn't see the way they acted around each other, but I was content to look away. For shit’s sake, he was a Chanty brother – I didn’t think it would actually go anywhere!"

“Clearly, Hawke’s powers of persuasion have improved.”

A deep chuckle took root in his throat, and it spilled over, even as he tried to drown it in wine. “Yeah … yeah, clearly. She might have finally succeeded me.”

“She learned from the best.”

“You know, I think this is the first time the two of us simply talked, just us.”

“Not without Hawke walking in.”

“And maybe next time we can talk about something besides Hawke.”

“Stranger things have happened.”

Aveline's desk drifted away, sliding backwards into shadow, the office taken down, piece by piece. Varric got out from his seat, and the chair slipped away, shadowed bodiless hands dragging it across the stage.

He stood in darkness, then a light beamed overhead, revealing Merrill and Isabela, walking side by side. The light followed them as they walked.

“Do you think you’ll leave Kirkwall someday?”

“Of course I will!” said Isabela. “As soon as I get myself a ship, I'm sailing wherever the sea takes me.”

Merrill’s entire face drooped. “I'll miss you. You'll write to me, won't you? Do pirates write letters?

Isabela chuckled. “Badly. Hook hands make for awful penmanship, Kitten.”

Merrill fell behind, her steps slowed. Varric walked towards her, hand outreached, but she did not react to his presence, her big sad gumdrop eyes on Isabela only.

Isabela turned back. “Hey,” she said, swiftly cupping Merrill’s face. “I’ll come visit when I can. And, if you ever feel like a change of scenery, next time I come to port, maybe you can come with me.”

“I think I would like that,” said Merrill. “Although maybe not for too long. Sometimes I’d get sick if the aravels went over bumpy rocks. I don’t think I’d fare much better on waves.”

“Don’t worry about that, Kitten. With my skills, it’ll be smooth as silk. I think it’d be good for you.”

Varric took another step, his hand still reaching for them, but Isabela's hands tumbled down from Merrill's face and locked onto her wrist, she tugged her forward, and they walked off the stage together, their laughter trailing behind the curtains.

"Varric," a voice came from behind, ragged and worn. He turned and saw Anders, his skin sallow, eyes drooping. His yellow hair turned pale like wheat left out in winter, almost white against his black feathered coat. "I want you to have something."

Before Varric could object, Anders folded a small red pillow in his fingers. It was red, with a simple cat's face lovingly stitched in the center. The ends were frayed, the color dulled with age, but the stitching on the cat was pristine, as if the love that crafted it preserved it, somehow, through the years.

"Blondie, don't," said Varric, pushing the pillow away. "Keep it, it's clearly special to you."

"That's why I want you to have it. My mother made it for me. It's the only possession I have. The only thing that... that," his voice cracked and the veins framing his forehead pulsed slightly as he struggled to string the sentence together. "That helps me remember what my mother looked like."

Varric shook his head, the beginning of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He pressed the pillow against Anders's chest. "Then why would you want to give it to me?"

Anders breathed deeply. "I have no more time for sentiment. What happens next must be done without hesitation."

"Maybe that's your conscious telling you not to do this thing, whatever it is you're planning."

"If Templars hadn't torn me from my mother, if her sobbing wasn't the last sound I ever heard her make, then perhaps I would not have to. But this is the world we live in, and I have to make a stand, so it never happens to another child again. Besides..." His brown eyes flickered a ghastly bright blue, pulsing and flickering from within his sockets like a dimming ember. "It must be done."

Anders pushed the pillow back against Varric, and he turned away.

"Blond... Anders," said Varric, wiping away mist from his reddened eyes, his vision blurring again, the stage shifting underneath his feet. "I was never mad at you. I was just mad that it came to this."

Anders turned back and smiled. "I know, Varric, but it's like everyone keeps saying. Things change. None of us can escape the rising of the tide. But thank you for making these past years so much fun."

Anders made a bow, a flourish with his thin and pale wrists, before walking behind the curtain. Varric took a step and reached out, before flops of velvet blocked his path. He rubbed his eyes again, his vision turned red and hazy, hot from tears that no amount of rubbing could stop.

 “Shit.”

“Varric?” said a gruff, grumbly voice. “Is something the matter?”

Varric fought against the strain and kept his eyes open, and the formless hazy red turned into pink leaves, bristling against the chill mountain breeze, and pale sunlight filtering the spaces between. The tree branches splintered into view, then the tower tips and the walls of Skyhold, then Blackwall, still with his wooden cat, now nearly finished, sitting beside him on the bench.

Blackwall spoke up again. “Are you all right?”

“I am, sorry, I just… got lost in thought, that’s all.”

Blackwall rotated the cat in his hands, examining his work, the seamless swirl of a tail against its side, a curving, knowing smile and curious eyes, not unlike a certain Inquisitor.

“It’s nice, by the way,” said Varric.

“Hmm?”

“The cat, it’s nice. I’m sure Cadash will love it.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Thirteen

Isabela

Varric’s room was different from the rest of the Hanged Man. It was warmer and safer, as if that single step to the right after the top of the stairs transported a person somewhere entirely different, somewhere better. All but the bones of the original room were ripped out, replaced with everything of dwarven make. The rectangular runic lanterns, the rich red sheets, the gold trimming, the hard-edged chairs, and the long table, with room for everyone; everything a strapping dwarf bachelor needed to spend as little time at his actual home as possible.

Nora and the other barmaids made practiced, precise steps around the table, dropping full plates and pitchers on the most tactical positions. They circled back and forth from the main floor, where workers came clamoring in, clinking glasses and trying to string a song together.

When I asked for a kiss,

You kindly dismissed,

So, I lead my poor heart to the slaughter.

It was rare for the whole group to be together at once, but the time seemed right. Hawke was paying for the event, and Varric was hosting it, but it was Isabela’s idea, and that had to count for something.

It was a night for a long-due celebration. Not just for the successful Deep Roads Expedition, but Hawke had firmly established herself as the city’s problem-solver, one step closer to being a true voice in this city. Why Hawke wanted this, Isabela did not know, but she was not about to ask. After all, she was benefiting from it, too; with Hawke as a civil servant with the Viscount’s favor, she was able to form a Guild. No longer were they a loosely collected gang, scrounging for coin and selling whatever bits and baubles they picked up, but an official company, under the jurisdiction—and funding—of the Viscount and Kirkwall’s elite. People wanted Hawke’s help now, and they were willing to pay for it.

They were “special contractors” or some other fancy bullshit way of saying they took jobs that neither the Guard nor the Templars cared to do. Technically, only Hawke, Varric, and Isabela were members. Anders and Merrill got their fair share, of course, but their names were on no register. Fenris would not put forward his name, either, though he got his share, as well. He didn’t seem to want to leave any sort of trail, lest he be found.

Aveline, and now Sebastian too, were volunteers, which was lucky; it made the Guild seem more like a cooperating force with the Guard and Templars, rather than undermining them. Isabela sometimes heard Hawke and Varric say that the only reason this Guild was allowed to be was so Viscount Dumar could spite Knight-Commander Meredith, in his own little way. A tug at her tight leash. And that maybe someday, when he garnered enough bravery and trust in Hawke, he would pit the two against each other. Aveline submitted that the Viscount’s family never liked the Amells, and he got some weird jollies from having a descendant as his errand girl.

But none of that mattered to Isabela; all she cared about was having some consistent coin coming in. Enough so she could keep her room, with enough left to treat herself to some fine aged whiskey now and again, and still put a few away for her new ship. Someday, eventually, probably.

Merrill sat across from her, nipping at her glass of ale like a timid kitten. Her whole body shuddered at her tongue’s touch against the foamy head of her glass, her face crinkled like old leather in the sun.

 “Not a fan, eh?” Isabela chuckled.

“I’m sorry,” said Merrill. “I’ve tried to make myself like ale, but it’s just so foul. It’s like a bubbling, burning punch in the throat.”

“Don’t force yourself, Kitten. If you don’t like it, then you don’t like it. Let’s get you something else.”

“That’s all right,” she said, pulling out a small, kidney-shaped bag, with white flowers stitched along its surface.

“Ooh, look who came prepared!”

“It’s fermented halla milk. Sometimes when we pass through Sundermount, and when the Keeper isn’t looking, Ilen will bring me some. Except,” Merrill started to tip the skin into a spare glass, but hesitated. “Except at some point, the clan will leave, and I don’t want to run out. I can’t not drink it, but I can’t make more. It’s a long process, and where would a halla even live? I can’t ask one to just stay by the mountains as I see fit. ‘Oh hello it’s me again, I’ve come for more, assume the position’, then there’s the question of where I’d put the…”

“Merrill,” Sebastian interrupted, sitting next to Merrill with a glass bottle of luminous golden liquid.

All the others she had known for a year and some change, and saw each of them out of their armor and gear at one point or another. But Isabela had only known Sebastian for a few months, and before this night, she had never seen him out of his stark white armor, or his ink-black vestments. Instead he wore a simple open-collared shirt, an earthy brown that made his eyes look even bluer. “If you’d rather save it, why don’t you try mead, instead? Goes down much easier than ale, and doesn’t anger the blood.”

Merrill put away her wineskin, her gumdrop green eyes glittering at the site of the mead. “Oh, all right! Yes, I think I’d rather save it for now.”

“I thought Chantry folk weren’t allowed to drink,” said Isabela.

“It’s not exactly encouraged, no,” said Sebastian as he filled Merrill’s glass. “But you’ll find nothing in the Chant explicitly condemning the consumption of alcohol.”

“That would require me to listen to the Chant. You see the problem with that?”

“Oh, it’s good!” Merrill chirped as she finished her first sip, wiggling in her chair, and immediately went for a second swallow.

“Ah, careful now,” said Sebastian. “Go slow if it’s your first. It may be sweet, but it’ll get you drunk just like anything else.”

“You must have some drinking stories,” said Isabela with a grin. “Cautionary tales.”

“A few, not too dissimilar from yours, I would imagine.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” she pouted. “It’s a party.”

Sebastian’s mouth slanted, chewing on an answer, no doubt pondering how inappropriate he would allow himself to be, even on a night of revelry. “Hmm, well, once I was dared to drink something called ‘Dragon Piss’, and… everything was blue and fuzzy for a while, before I woke up in the riverbed. Probably would have drowned myself, if one of my parent’s guards hadn’t dragged me by the ankles. I think he thought I was already dead until I started twitching.”

“All right, that’s a start! We’re getting somewhere!”

“I believe you have to share one. Then Merrill, if you’re comfortable.”

“Hmm, Isabela go first, I’ll think of something,” said Merrill, steadily emptying her glass.

“I’ll start small. My husband, he loved his hunting parties, you see, and he would…”

“You were married?” said Sebastian, brow arched.

“Oh!” Merrill gasped, then shook her head. “Wait, why am I gasping? I knew that.”

“You don’t need to know any more than that. Anyway, he locks me in my room…”

Sebastian’s eyes widened. “He what?”

“He’s dead and I’m fine now, so let me finish. So, he would throw me in my room with a bottle of wine, whenever he got tired of me. I didn’t drink the bottle from the time before, so I drank both that time. So naturally I came up with a brilliant plan. I thought ‘I’ll show him’, climbed down from the top floor, ran into his precious rookery, and freed all his prized falcons! I didn’t see daylight for a week, but it was worth it!”

“I did something similar, actually,” said Sebastian. “Although it was foxes, not falcons. It might have been the first time they threatened to send me to the Chantry. First few times I didn’t believe them. This was in addition to the punishments, of course. For that one… I think they started slow, and would not allow me to sit at the table. My grandmother had to bring me what she could save. What about you, Merrill?”

“Hmm, well, I didn’t release any animals, because Dalish don’t capture animals or keep them as playthings. Tamlen would often try to ride this one halla, he’d have me on lookout, to watch for the Keeper. We don’t ride halla, but we used to, and this one halla seemed to tease him. He’d get bucked over, but then he’d come over and lick his face, as if to say, ‘keep trying, you almost had it that time.’ Tamlen wanted me to try and do it too, but I was always too afraid of getting caught. It was fun enough to watch him.”

Isabela’s smile turned sour, and she quickly hid it with a hardy swallow of whiskey. She suspected that if this Tamlen person were at Sundermount, they would have already met.

“Oh, oh! One time he was on the halla for ten whole seconds before he got flung into the river! I needed Mahariel to help me rescue him.”

“He sounds like quite the adventurous one,” said Sebastian.

“Oh, he was,” said Merrill, running a finger around the foamy rim of her glass. “I haven’t even said his name in quite some time. It’s nice. You would have liked him, I think.”

“Well, I know I like you a lot,” said Isabela. “Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.”

“I knew a Dalish woman,” said Anders, next to Isabela and leaning from one side of the table, where he was listening in on Hawke and Varric’s conversation, to the other end where Isabela, Merrill, and Sebastian were sitting. “In the Wardens. She was like you, Merrill. Very, ah, studious. Much worse attitude, though.”

“Hmm,” Merrill took a contemplative sip. “I can imagine why, working with so many shemlen.”

“I will have you know I was a perfect gentleman. And there were just as many dwarves in the Amaranthine Keep.”

“Ah. Marginally better, then.”

“Oh, speaking of which!” Isabela cheered, in her best attempt to steer this conversation back into civil waters. “Did I ever tell you that I met the Hero of Ferelden?”

Anders titled his head, rapid blinking, as if to process the information. “You met Warden-Commander Aeducan?”

“A mess of red braids, tattoos, an attitude three times her size?”

“I think that description fits a lot of dwarf women, but that does sound like her.”

“She came into The Pearl in full armor, Maker knows why. I beat her at Wicked Grace and she threw down the table in a fit!”

“Ah,” Anders sighed wistfully. “That sounds like Hervor, all right. I haven’t even thought about her in months. Funny how I’ve found myself in the company of a big-mouthed dwarf, an outcast Dalish, and a snobby archer all over again.”

“Was there anyone in your old group like me?”

“No,” Anders chuckled. “No, Isabela, there’s no one quite like you. Although there was this other dwarf, and she…”

“Hold that thought,” Isabela felt the attention of Anders and Merrill on her. Anders leaned in closer, and Merrill’s green eyes glittered with anticipation of another story. But her eyes caught Sebastian looking away, chin in his palm, with an ever-climbing, dreamy smile. “Hey,” she said. “Sebastian, don’t you want to hear this? I thought you loved Warden stuff. Sebastian? Hello?”  

“Hmm?” said Sebastian, his eyes darting back to Isabela, his back straightened.

“Where did you go just now?”

“My apologies, I…must have had a bit too much to drink.”

Isabela looked at Sebastian’s solemn half-drunk glass. “Somehow I doubt that,” she scoffed. “What could you be looking at…” she turned and leaned over, only seeing Hawke at the other end of the table, laughing at something Varric said. Her dark brown eyes met with Sebastian’s, and she waved, which he returned with enthusiasm, fluttering fingers between the two. “Oh, I see now.”

“Whatever do you mean?” Sebastian’s smile turned lopsided; his eyes glimmered with a boyish feign of innocence. A look that might endear others to believe him, but not Isabela.

“Oh, THAT, I’m certain, is not allowed.”

“I was only…” Sebastian’s smile dimmed, knowing he was caught. He took another drink. “I am a brother of the faith, not a corpse, and Hawke is a woman worthy of admiration. Surely you cannot blame me for merely looking.”

“Oh, can’t I, now?”

“Isabela, if all it took was a pretty face to sway my faith, I would not have been in the Chantry for as long as I have.”

“Is that right?”

“Well, aren’t I here in a tavern right now, surrounded by good drink and beautiful men and women?”

Isabela raised a brow and smiled, pleasantly surprised. “Aren’t you a slick one? Well, we are a good-looking group. And the night is young. We’ll get him yet, won’t we, Merrill?”

“Oh yes!” Merrill giggled. “We’re playing a long game.”

Anders groaned. “You know she’s from two families with magic, right?”

Sebastian scoffed, a spike of princely indignation piercing his usual tepid tone. “I am well aware…”

“So!” Isabela inserted, leaning in towards Sebastian before the scowl could fully form on his face. “You like big girls, eh? And here I was trying to figure out what your type was. Doesn't it bother you that you’re tit-height with her?”

Sebastian chuckled. “I don’t have a ‘type’, I see beauty in all the Maker’s creations.”

“Oh come on, I’m trying to have fun with you.”

He shook his head, his soft laughter persisted, filling the room. “Besides, I reach her neck. Though it is a lovely neck, at that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Right, I’m the one who reaches her tits. Well, too bad for you.”

“Why are you talking about Hawke’s tits?” said Fenris, moving away from Hawke, Varric, and Aveline, leaning into the conversation on the other side of the table. “You are lucky she is too engrossed in conversation to hear you. Or do I need to tattle on you, Isabela?

“What good timing,” said Isabela. “Switch seats with Sebastian so he can lust after Hawke with a clearer view. Who knows when she’ll let her chest out again? It’s like a rainbow, you have to look now!”

“I am not…” Sebastian began before sucking the words back in, an audible click of his tongue. “Please, why don’t you go back to your story. Something about… dwarves?”

“She is fond of you, too, I think,” Fenris said softly, a bit of blush blooming across the bridge of his nose. “You would make a handsome couple.”

“That’s kind, but truly, I was only… admiring from afar, and that is all it will be. I took an oath, after all, to take no bride but Andraste.”

“That always confused me,” said Merrill, nudging her empty glass against the flagon, urging Sebastian to pour her more. “Didn’t Andraste have two husbands? Seems a bit selfish she would make all her followers marry her and her alone.”

“That’s…not quite it, Merrill,” he said, obliging her with half a glass.

“I’m confused, too,” said Isabela. “Is the Grand Cleric kicking you out? Is she revoking your status?”

“That… is also a difficult question.”

“Yes, but you wouldn’t get in trouble for having some fun while you’re in this… uncertain period, if you’re not technically a brother? Hawke herself could certainly stand for some fun in her life. Took weeks just to get her to agree to this.”

“You are making him uncomfortable,” Fenris said flatly.

“I’m sorry, I’m not trying to play matchmaker or anything. After the disaster with Aveline and Donnic? Never again. I’m just… curious, I guess. I had assumed you would think yourself above us rabble.”

Sebastian sighed in relief. “Of course not, and I apologize if I ever gave that impression. I am honored to be here.”

“Hey, we’re all Guild-mates now,” she said, a light clank of her glass against his.

 “It’s not as though I even know much about her. Her hobbies, the things she enjoys. All I truly know is she’s from Ferelden, and is a formidable swordswoman. And she’s fond of dogs.”

“She’s Ferelden, that goes without saying. Trust me, I was there, can’t turn a bloody corner without a wet nose in your crotch. And then there’s all the dogs!” Isabela slapped her thigh, proud of her own joke.

“I…hmm,” Fenris opened his mouth to speak, but no answer came. He tapped his fingers on his glass in contemplation. “It occurs to me that I do not know much about Hawke, either; whenever we meet, we are engrossed in combat, or I am the one doing the talking. She is a good listener; I can say as much.”

“As far as I know,” said Isabela, “all she likes to do is work. I can hear some of what she’s saying, she’s working right now! Why don’t we do something about it?”

She got up and walked around the table, grabbing Sebastian by the shoulder, and said, “Fenris, Anders, go on, scoot over.” They inserted themselves to the other side of the table; Isabela next to Hawke, and Sebastian next to Varric. The dwarf quickly took a hard drink of his ale, to obscure his grumbling at the new seating arrangement.

It was one thing to see the others out of their armor, but it was different with Hawke. She was in rare form; her hair, normally bundled in a bun, flowed freely to the space between her shoulder blades, dark and bushy, bangs brushing gently over her brown eyes. She wore a night-black blouse, the collar open and loose; from the side, Isabela could see the beginning of a scar etched across her chest.

“Hello, you two,” said Hawke, her voice cheery and relaxed. “Enjoying your evening?”

“Oh yes, very much!” Sebastian could not seem to answer quickly enough, beaming eyes stuck on Hawke like an eager puppy; if he had a tail, he would be pummeling Varric with it. Interesting how he could be such a bad liar and such a good one at the same time. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“What is the boring side of the table up to?” said Isabela. “Seems like you’ve been talking business non-stop.”

“Some of us try to look out for others,” inserted Aveline, sitting at the very end of the table. The bluntness of her voice made Isabela shudder like being kicked into the cold; she’d need another drink just to undo the damage.

“We were discussing how we might aid fellow Fereldens,” said Hawke, her voice much gentler, as if to combat Aveline’s harshness. Her words still fluttered from the laughter, a dreamy look on her face. “It seems the best legal way to earn a living in Kirkwall is through a guild. There are many, but they mostly deal with crafting, ours being a special exception. Most of my countrymen were fishermen and hunters.”

“Hawke, you’re treating things like you’re still in Ferelden,” said Varric. “You can’t just go to the village square and demand things be done differently.”

Hawke clicked her tongue and took another drink, clinging to her good humor. “I may not know the intricacies all that well yet, but I will do my best to learn. I must. The Viscount seems to like me, that’s a start. Few refugees were as lucky as I, and it is my duty to assist as much as I can.”

“Indeed,” said Aveline. “Lest they resort to petty theft.”

“That’s unkind and unfair, Guard Captain.”

Aveline shook her head. “You are the one taking this task of fixing everyone’s problems for them.”

“I thought you wanted to help others, as well.”

“Giving people everything in the hopes they might do better is not my idea of help. At some point, they have to help themselves.”

“People are only as good as circumstances allow. We must empower them; give them the opportunities they require.”

“Perhaps a conjoint effort can be arranged,” said Sebastian. “Craftsmen need supplies, after all. Fishing can contribute to the baker's guild. There should be wild boar in the Planese, and their hide can be bought from a leather maker’s guild.”

“That’s a marvelous idea,” said Hawke, her eyes aglow. “I would have to try and make some arrangement with the harbormaster, and see to it the wood areas are safe for hunting, but yes, I think that would be a good start. Thank you, Sebastian. I should have known you would have some insight.” 

Sebastian’s smile widened. “I did retain a few things watching my parents.”

“Yes, yes, what good civil servants we all are,” said Isabela. “Come on, Hawke, you didn’t come here dressed like that just to discuss work all night.” She gestured to Hawke, her hand hovering over her open neckline, fingers flourishing down to her chest. “And here I was beginning to wonder if you and Aveline were stuck in your suits of armor, or if there were any fun bits under there at all.”

Aveline groaned and rolled her eyes, but Hawke laughed, a rare smirk and a glint in her dark eyes. “I think perhaps you’re jealous,” she said. “My breasts are as nice as yours, now you have competition for the first time.”

“Hawke!” Aveline blared, the sudden shock sucking what little color there was in her face.

“Aha! A sass-back from the oh-so-stoic Hawke!” Isabela snorted, wiping dribbled whiskey from her mouth. “Didn’t think you had it in you! How much have you had to drink?”

“I, I can have a jest or two, when the situation calls,” Hawke tripped over her words. “I’ve only had two glasses.”

“Oh, I think I like Two-Drink Hawke. Maybe we should have a contest, eh? Shall we go around the table? What do you think, Sebastian? Mine or Hawke’s? Or do you need a closer look?”

“I—” Sebastian’s face enveloped in red, his eyes batted around for an answer. “I… hardly think it’s fair to have such a competition that excludes Varric.”

“Ha, I almost got you!”

“Leave me out of this, Choir Boy,” grumbled Varric. “Although it is true.”

“Oh, Varric,” said Hawke. “No need to be jealous.”

“Who’s jealous?”

“Come now, why else would you be so grumpy around Sebastian? Maybe your shots do veer a bit left, but so what? Sebastian’s punches are too wide. We all have things to improve upon.”

Sebastian maintained his smile, though his bushy brow arced. “Excuse me?”

“When you punched that fellow at the Harriman Estate? He was about to dunk someone into melted gold? You swung your arm out much too wide. I thought someone with your past would have gotten into some bar brawls.”

Sebastian laughed. “A few, but I was more inclined to throw chairs than punches.”

“I can see why you prefer long range. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to that pretty face of yours.”

His laughter spiked, and spat into a choke. “I, ah, beg your pardon?”

“Finally, we’re getting somewhere interesting,” Isabela laughed into her glass.

“Before meeting you and Fenris, I did not even know men could be that pretty. Don’t you agree, Fenris?”

Fenris chuckled, his usually stiff shoulders relaxed, and his usual grimace melted away with a wide smile. “Oh, Hawke, you do go on.”

“Besides,” said Hawke, “you’ve told me of your past, it’s not like you don’t know you’re pretty.”

“Why Hawke,” said Sebastian, a shake of his head and a click of his tongue, “if I did not know better, I would think you were flirting with me.”

“Am I? I have not done so in a long time. I thought I was merely stating truth. That’s not against any Chantry rule, is it?”

“No, Hawke, though perhaps frowned upon. In that spirit, allow me to return the favor and say you’re quite the sight, yourself.”

She shook her head and chuckled, her voice getting low for a moment. “Don’t be a tease, pretty boy.”

“Have I lied to you yet?”

“What was that about admiring from afar, huh?” said Isabela, a sly smug smile smeared across her face.

“I think the lady of the evening deserves some praise. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Oh, she could use a bit of ‘praise’, all right.”

“I’ve never been complimented by royalty before,” Hawke fluffed her hair, distracting herself from the blush. “It’s a good thing I’ve had a bit to drink, lest it go to my head.”

“So, Hawke,” said Isabela. “Now that you’re relaxed, some of us were talking, and we realized, we’ve been working with you for some time, and we don’t know anything about you.”

“Ah, my apologies,” said Hawke. There was a slight hitch in her smooth voice, before regaining that composure she always prided herself on, as if she refused to let that mead fully defeat her. She placed her hand across her chest. “I don’t know that there’s really much to tell, however. Was there… something in particular you wished to know?”

“Anything? What do you like to do for fun? Favorite food, favorite position?”

“Isabela!” snapped Aveline.

“It’s all right, Aveline,” said Hawke. Her finger traced the rim of her near-emptied glass, as her mind searched for an answer. “I like a good story. There was a lay sister, in the town where I used to live, who would tell stories all the time. My favorite was Tales of the Black Fox, sometimes I would take her copy from the Chantry and read it to myself.”

“Like your dashing rogues, do you?”

“I suppose,” said Hawke, “I mostly enjoyed how he undermined selfish lords. There was one tale in which he and all his fellows snuck into Duchess Blanchard’s castle…”

“All dressed as Chantry clerics,” said Sebastian, a wide grin. “That was a favorite of mine, too.”

Hawke smiled. “They left the halls, their robes jangling with gold, and the guards watched them leave—”

“And they said, ‘dear Maker, what do they feed them in the Chantry’ and they would not discover two chevaliers unconscious in the kitchen until nightfall.”

“Aha, just so!”

Isabela’s brows fell and furrowed. “Yes, how riveting. Tell me this, Hawke. You’re a good-looking woman, and you seem to be aware of that. Why have I never seen you with anyone? You’ve never so much as winked at anyone.”

“I don’t think I have an answer that would satisfy you,” said Hawke, taking a hearty swallow of mead.

“Oh? Do I have to wait for Three-Drink Hawke?”

“It’s just not that important to me, and I’ve been so busy. Mother keeps trying to arrange meetings with her friend’s sons and daughters, and I have tried, but they don’t… we just don’t connect, and I need that connection before I can begin to see them as appealing partners.”

“Oh, I didn’t say anything about a partnership,” Isabela giggled.

Hawke shrugged. “Nor am I. I can appreciate a person being attractive, but that alone doesn’t excite me. I can see a painting and think it's pretty, doesn’t mean I want to sleep with it.”

“I don’t see you settling for those boring Hightown folk anyway,” said Varric.

“Not the ones that Mother has picked out for me, no. Not that I have a line forming at my door. They’re mostly interested in their own prospects. I think they’re intimidated by the fact that I could kill them with a flick of my wrist.”

“So, you really have not been with anyone since you came to Kirkwall?” said Isabela, golden eyes popped in shock.

“No, is that really so strange? Neither had Aveline, until very recently.”

“Is Aveline really the standard you want to measure against?”

“You leave me out of this,” said Aveline, chugging an entire glass in a single swallow.

“I’m sorry, Isabela, there’s just not much to tell. I’m just a Ferelden trying to make it in a new place. Why don’t you tell a story? I’m sure you’ve been on lots of adventures at sea.”

“Come on, Hawke, don’t talk about yourself like that,” said Varric. “I mean shit, weren’t you at Ostagar, where the Blight started?”

Isabela saw the color drain from Hawke’s skin, and saw the grip on her glass tightened, but before she could interrupt, Aveline began, “That’s right, as was I. Hawke, you and Carver were part of Captain Varel’s infantry, were you not?”

Sebastian tilted his head. “Who is Carver?”

His words were kind and curious, but tore through Hawke’s array of disarming smiles and diverting conversations, as easily as an arrow through flesh.

“Don’t speak his name!” she barked, body snapping upright, her chair skidded harsh on the wooden floor. The table fell deathly silent, and it reverberated down the halls and throughout the tavern like a winter gust bursting through an opened door. “Don’t…” Hawke's bottom lip trembled, her eyes wide and watery, suddenly very aware of her outburst. "I, I'm sorry, I must be off," her voice went soft and she fled down the stairs.

"Hawke, wait!" said Varric.

"I'll fetch her, I clearly said something wrong," said Sebastian, already getting up.

"No, you two have done enough," said Isabela. "I'll get her."

Isabela rushed down the stairs, then swerved through the packed bar area like a fish through a rocky creek. The miners sang their favorite song on repeat, too drunk to pull any more from the backs of their minds.

Tell me dear, what did you fear?

I'd do you no wrong, though no stranger to sin.

So, Death Valley Queen, go marry your king,

Or an old maid you’ll end up for certain.

For a moment, as she walked, and the lyrics tangled in her wavy hair, Isabela remembered when she last heard it, back in Ferelden during the Blight, when she briefly met a woman who also disrupted her fun. She wondered if that woman was as difficult as Hawke. What would win out, she wondered, dwarven or Ferelden stubbornness?

The song slurred and blurred as Isabela went out the door. Outside, she picked up to a sprint to catch up to Hawke, who had already passed the closed marketplace. "Hawke, wait! What are you doing?"

Hawke stopped but she did not turn to face her.

"What was all that about?"

"I would rather not say," she answered stiffly, taking another step.

"Hold on," Isabela threw herself in front of her. "You can't just have an outburst and not answer for it. I should NOT be one telling anyone how to act civilly!"

Hawke locked her own arms across her chest. "I will apologize later, but now, I just have to go home. You can apologize to the others on my behalf until then."

"Like shit I will, tell them yourself!"

"I can't go back in there."

"I can't believe you're acting like this. We finally have a little fun, loosen up, and you still act like you're above us. Like you can't even be bothered."

"It's not like that."

"Oh? Even the way you talk, that's not how you sounded when we first met. You talk like people in Hightown. Is that it? You'd rather be with your new noble friends?"

“You presume much,” Hawke’s voice was grated and gravelly, choosing words like every syllable brought her physical pain.

Isabela groaned. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Enlighten me, then, if I’m so dull-witted!”

“If I am putting on a façade, it’s to survive. I have a family to provide for! I’m trying to provide for all of you! Not that you care. If it doesn’t get you laughs it’s not worth it, isn’t that what you said? As though I’m some jester to dance for you whenever you fancy! Do you have any idea how exhausting you can be? You and Varric, I just… I can’t be this person!”

“That’s not fair, Hawke. Don’t I come when you call? Have I not done what you ask? And all I wanted in return was a little fun. I was doing you a favor!”

“Keep your favors. You’re not trying to help me. You’re only trying to help yourself.”

Isabela’s tense posture dropped; tightly coiled muscles loosened. “I don’t know why I even thought to do this. To try and know you, to give you an opportunity to just… be a person! It was a moment of weakness, it won't happen again.” Isabela huffed and began walking back towards the Hanged Man before flinging herself back in Hawke’s direction. “You talk a big game about life being joyless without helping others. But you’re the most miserable person I’ve ever met. You’ve got the big fancy house, all the coin you could ever need, and for what? What’s it all for?”

Hawke’s arms locked tighter and she looked away. “I’ve no answer that will satisfy you, I’m certain. Good night.”

Isabela watched Hawke walk away, far from all the laughter in the tavern behind them, far from the lights of the packed apartments, into cold silence, up there where the stone of Lowtown turned into ivory Hightown.

“Shit,” she muttered as she walked back towards the Hanged Man, jumbling a dozen excuses for why Hawke was gone, and why she could not bring her back. The miner’s song started again, from the top.

Chapter Text

Chapter Fourteen

Hawke

The threads of the burlap dummies began to splinter and separate, after a thorough assault of swings. Even with a wooden sword, Hawke’s strikes were as powerful as they were swift. She stepped back, a heavy huff, observing her work in the sweltering sun.

“I’m not made out of training dummies, you know,” a voice sneered, snapping Hawke’s concentration. “You and Cassandra are going to drain our funds.”

Hawke turned and saw Inquisitor Cadash approach, a large braid of velvet black hair thrown over her shoulder, an easy smile, and sharp black eyes. She sauntered over, a full pitcher of water in one hand, two glasses in the other. Hawke swallowed at the sight of it, what little saliva she produced hit against the back of her throat like sandpaper. Without the focus of her training, her face bloomed into flush and sweat, only then realizing how hot she had become.

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Cadash continued. “I’m tying up a few loose ends, and then we’re heading to Crestwood. I trust you’re ready to go?”

“I am ever at the ready, Your Worship.”

“You don’t have to call me that. I can’t stand stuffy titles, and you don’t work for me.” She placed the water beside her on a nearby bench, took a seat, and filled a glass for herself. “Besides, I think you outrank me, being a Princess and all. Am I to call you ‘Princess’, by the way? Princess Judith? Your Serene Highness?”

Hawke’s laugh was weak from the exhaustion. “Something like that, though I hold no title in Ferelden. Why don’t we meet in the middle, for the sake of appearances? Lady Hawke and Lady Cadash.”

“Works for me,” said Cadash, filling the second glass and pushing it across the bench. “I’m glad I caught you. I wanted to ask you some things in private. Without Varric around.”

Hawke raised a single brow and smirked. “Why, Inquisitor, I welcome your company, but if you wish to be alone with me, you should know I’m happily married. Or were you looking for my approval to pursue Varric?”

A sudden, involuntary, “Ha!” belted out from Cadash’s mouth.

“Ah,” said Hawke, planting the tip of her sword in the earth. “That’s a no, then.”

Cadash shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re both very attractive. But Varric’s not my type, and I assume his attention lies elsewhere.”

“It was only a jest, Lady Cadash. I understand your preferences lie elsewhere, too.”

She laughed. “Just so. But I didn’t come to talk about me, or Varric. I wanted to talk about you.”

Hawke winced, a slight pinch of pain, diminishing her smile for just a moment before hoisting it back up again. “I wish to help as best I can, but I doubt I know anything useful that Varric hasn’t already told you himself. He wrote a book on it, as you may know.”

“So I’ve been told. I’m also led to believe some things that happened in the book are exaggerated, some outright lies.”

“It would take time for me to dissect every part, time that I don’t imagine you have. Not to mention my own memory may have its faults. I would say the spirit of events in Kirkwall was largely kept intact, and that certain parts were obscured or removed for my safety. There may have been some,” Hawke paused. “Other emotions that pushed him to action, but regardless, he wanted to convey a message without the Chantry interfering with my life. If Varric had written outright that I married the Prince of Starkhaven, then your Seeker surely would have gone there right away, and things would have happened differently. All things considered, I am grateful for the way things turned out.”

“But you would have taken the job if Cassandra came for you?”

“I would have, yes, assuming I had survived the Conclave. The circumstances that lead you to getting the Mark may not have happened to me, however.”

“I don’t remember what those circumstances are, so I guess we’ll never know.”

“I am sorry, Lady Cadash,” her voice became feather-soft, like a mother putting a child to bed. “I know this can’t be easy, and if I could, I would take the burden from you. For what it’s worth, I think you’re doing an excellent job.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s already done,” Cadash huffed. “And that’s not why I’m asking. Look, I’m a dwarf, all right? My only relationship with magic is knowing mages and templars both need lyrium, and I can sell it to them. Had things gone my way, that’s where it would have ended, but it didn’t, so here we are. Now I’m surrounded by all these templars and apostates, experts and scholars on magic, but I still don’t know what’s it’s like. What’s truly like. Do you follow?”

“I see. You want a more grounded perspective on magic, is that right?”

Cadash nodded.

“Very well,” Hawke sat on the bench, hunched over, waiting for the sweat on her back to dissipate. “As you can probably tell, I am no mage, but there is magic in my family, on both sides. My father was taken from his family very young, to Kinloch Hold. When he was a young man, he escaped, traveled with mercenaries for a while, before they abandoned him, and he was caught by Templars in Kirkwll. He met my mother, and ran back to Ferelden. He never told me much, but I suspected he preferred to risk the Ferelden Circle and Templars over the Kirkwall ones.”

“That’s the impression I’m getting, that it was bad in Kirkwall. Vivienne described her Circle experience as being mostly pleasant.”

“I cannot speak on Orlesian culture, but as I understand it, Lady Vivienne had unique trials, what with the vile Game. In both Ferelden and the Free Marches, a mage can hold no title, hold no property, cannot make their own money, and they certainly cannot have a family. As my own sister put it, had the Templars taken her, I would have been but a name on a file to her. You have family, don’t you?”

Cadash locked her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes. “I do. More cousins than I can count, my mother, my grandmother, and my twin brother.”

Hawke sighed softly; she had conversed and listened to the Inquisitor just long enough to know she was a cynical, guarded woman, and she could not fault her for it. Cadash also clearly knew she was trying to appeal to her emotions, but Hawke continued. “Ah, twins are special. They seemed to run in my family, and my husband’s,” she took a slow drink, letting her words simmer. “But, it’s a well-kept secret in Ferelden, that with the right resources, a clever tongue, and a bit of luck, you can make a satisfying life in the outskirts, as a Village Mage. Someone who can patch up wounds, un-break bones, cure ailments, ease the pain of childbirth in a few moments? That’s far more valuable to any given person than a templar marching through your town, promising to probably stop any magical-based dangers that may never come.”

“What if the Village Mage turns into an Abomination?”

Hawke maintained her soft, serene tone. It was important that the Inquisitor understood. “Is that where your mind first goes, when you think of magic?”

“Why wouldn’t it? Isn’t that the whole problem? A mage loses control, they become a monster. I’ve seen mages turn, and they’re nasty.”

“Oh, I can attest to that,” said Hawke as she took a heavy gulp of water, then pressed the glass to her forehead. “But if you see mages as only Abominations waiting to happen, you have already let fear cloud your mind.”

“They can shoot lightning out their hands, I can’t. Seems like plenty to be afraid of.”

“All the more reason to give them proper training, not cruelty. You have mages in your Inner Circle, correct? Have they been locked away? Denied their personhood? You said yourself Lady Vivienne was able to thrive. Do you worry about her turning? Accidents can happen, even with them, but you trust that it won’t.”

Cadash loosened her tense stance, her hands fell to her hips, and she chewed her lip in contemplation. “I don’t think there are many mages like Vivienne. Not many people, really.”

“Perhaps, but shouldn’t they be given the opportunity to become great, like she did?”

“I suppose that’s fair enough. You’ll have to excuse the paranoia. It’s not just mages, I tend to assume everyone is out to kill me.”

“You’ve had a difficult life.”

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Very well. Someone looking to fill such the role of Village Mage, someone who has earned the village’s trust and respect, would have the highest wisdom and discipline. I am not saying it can never happen, but it is rare, and under extreme duress. When pushed in a corner with no options left, we’re all capable of doing frightening things.”

“This still seems a strange opinion, coming from someone who helped the templars for so long.”

“Do you think me heartless, Inquisitor?” Hawke shook her head. “Before Kirkwall, before all of that, I was the daughter of an apostate, and sister to one, too. I would have done anything to keep them safe. I could not change the way things were, but I could protect those close to me, as best I could. Early years in Kirkwall, I did not go out of my way to free mages, for fear of exposing myself, and losing Bethany.”

Cadash sighed, shoulders slumped. “You were looking out for your family. I understand, for what it’s worth.

“I did not ‘side’ with anyone. As Champion, I had gained some influence, but I needed to keep trying, keep pressing, to make the changes I wanted a reality. I needed Meredith’s cooperation. I tried to reach her, but then…”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” said Cadash. “You probably figured I was going to ask about Anders eventually.”

“Indeed, though I foolishly hoped otherwise. Anders… was trying to be something like the Village Mage to Kirkwall, in a way. Bethany said he was so much like Father. I never saw it, but I wanted to see it. Kirkwall is very different from Ferelden. He had a clinic in Darktown, the lowest and darkest part of the city, where the poorest and most overlooked lived. Templars and guards seldom ever went down there. He provided a service, and people were willing to protect him for it. As uncooperative as I was, I was not about to take that from those people. At least, not until I could be in a position where I could help.”

“But he was already with ‘Justice’ at this time.”

“Yes. I never learned the exact circumstance, but while he was with the Wardens, he came across a spirit of Justice, and they became a single entity. A spirit that enters a living human body is an Abomination, no matter how long they might hold it together. I knew this, and yet…”

“He was still helping people, and you didn’t want to take it away.”

“I thought… I would watch over him. I did not aid in his cause, Varric helped more there, but I gave him work, I kept him fed, and some solace in the knowledge that if he ever lost control, I would be there to deliver a swift and merciful end.”

“So how does that lead to him blowing up a building?”

“He came to me, asking for help. To collect ingredients for a potion that would separate Justice from himself. That is what he claimed. I believed him. I wanted to believe he could rid himself of the spirit, and he could go on serving the people who needed him, while I worked from within, so that one day, he would not have to hide in the shadows. So everyone in Kirkwall could be healthy and safe.”

“It almost sounds like you regret killing Anders.”

Hawke did not meet Cadash’s gaze as the question left her lips. One glance at the dwarf’s clever black eyes and she felt stricken, like flickers of moonlight against a black ocean, leaving her only with silence, with her thoughts. She turned her head towards the training area. Two soldiers quickly took her spot, ready to ram into each other with wooden shields. Their stern footing and the way they raised their shields reminded her of the way templars fought. Former members of the Order, perhaps. Or members of whatever order would take its place.

“In this moment, it’s easy to see all but destruction and death,” Hawke began, putting down her empty glass. “Perhaps one day others will be able to look beyond, and find a man trapped, desperate for the world to see how poorly mages were treated. The mage rebellion did not start with Anders, it certainly will not end with him. But it made people pay attention. If nothing else, it became clear what a person could do, when they felt they had no options left.”

Cadash’s black brow raised. “So, you agreed with what he did? Then why did you kill him?”

Hawke shook her head, “I understand why he did it, that doesn’t mean I agree. As for my killing him? Entirely selfish. Because he upended my plans to become Viscount. Because he got me exiled from Kirkwall, making me start my life over yet again. Because he almost killed my friends, my sister, and the love of my life. I lost so much, and I was close to losing everything again…”

She looked down at her hands, trembling. She blinked, and bare sweaty hands were fully armored. In an instant, like a crack of lighting, the dull thuds of wooden training shields in the courtyard became the sharp clashes of steel in the streets. The pleasant afternoon Skyhold sunlight was snuffed out like a candle, replaced with an unrelenting, starless night.

For a moment, she was back in Kirkwall, on that night. Blood making her gauntlets creak. The taste of ash. Floating cinders in the sky. The sound of Anders’s final gurgling gasp still ringing in her ears. The ripple of cut flesh against her dagger, the steam of hot blood gushing from his neck, heightened by the cold and bitter winds. She watched him die, felt him die.

Each one of her companions saw her do it, saw that she did not hesitate. They watched her reach for her dagger, unfeeling and methodical as if preparing to gut a fish, with more in the barrel. Merrill’s big green eyes watered, her hands clasped over her mouth to conceal a gasp. Varric and Isabela looked away at the first flicker of the blade, the jovial sheen of their faces sapped away, cold and dry. Hawke saw Varric shudder, clenched fists shaking, perhaps less shocked that she did the deed, but more that she did it so quickly, after years of the threat looming overhead. He hoped this day would never come, Hawke guessed, he fooled himself to thinking this would never happen.

Aveline and Fenris were stern, watching the deed start to finish with unblinking eyes. Sebastian leaned in slightly, body still trembling from the initial shock. His eyes narrowed, focused on Hawke’s hands, the bright blue of his eyes lost in a bloated red haze, a tearful and veiny mess of admiration and anger.

Hawke’s face was as cold an unmoving as the statue erected in her victory over the Qunari. This was your Champion, bruised, bloody, but unbowed.

A raspy, austere, “Goodbye, Anders,” was all that left her lips before she cut his neck open. She did not even look down. Her eyes were clouded, looking far away, into the night.

“Hawke?” a voiced snaked into her ears, a voice that Champion Hawke did not recognize, but some other part of her did. “Everything all right?”

Hawke made a fist with each hand until the blood faded, and she could feel her own skin, and the sweat still drying on her palms. She clenched her eyes shut, and sighed. The blood and smoke and ash all drained away.

“I am well, Lady Cadash. The heat got to me, for a moment.”

“Here,” Cadash refilled her glass.

“Thank you,” she said, taking a long swallow. “I don’t expect history to care about those reasons, Inquisitor. If I’m remembered at all, perhaps it will be as a villain. The last obstacle the heroic rebel mage faced before meeting his tragic end. A symbol of how ‘changing things from within’ is not enough.”

“But you stayed, and fought Meredith. And now you’re here, helping. Fighting the good fight.”

“It wasn’t all bad. He did a lot of good. Some days I even miss him. But most days I wish I had never met him.”

“Lady Hawke,” Cadash pressed her hand on her shoulder. “Before we head out, would you please go see my brother in the infirmary? Just to … make sure the heat is not an issue?”

“I assure you, I am in peak physical condition.”

“Just as a favor to me? Since I’m so paranoid.”

“Very well.”