Chapter Text
Captain Garrett Hawke, RFAC, of His Majesty’s Dragon Champion, was flying far out of his patrol grounds. Several hundred miles, in fact, and if he reckoned correctly (which he very nearly almost always did), he’d passed through the territories of at least 5 other Fereldan dragons, and possibly one Orlesian, depending on whose border one counted. They had made good time, the weather fair and winds cooperative; Champion knew her route well and kept an easy pace.
They had now been over water for several hours--it would have been easier to go as the dragon flew, as they said, but it was never wise to fly too close to Denerim, as the Aerial Admiralty had its headquarters there, and Captain Hagan of HMD Calenhad was always a little overeager in patrolling this prestigious assignment. Nolan in Alamar was old, as was his dragon Moira, and they hardly bothered to patrol the majority of Brandel’s Reach, much less the far end.
His mission this evening was, of course, not strictly endorsed by the Admiralty. They had never technically forbidden these occasional extra runs, because of course they didn’t know anything about them. Hawke personally felt that as his orders were to “serve and protect the people of Ferelden”, so long as nothing actually happened in his and Champion’s territory while he was away, he wasn’t breaking any rules, not technically, anyhow. Beside that, the people he was serving and protecting were Fereldans--at least, future Fereldans, and the small issue of their not yet having set foot on Fereldan soil shouldn’t prevent him from giving them his best. Nonetheless he didn’t fancy explaining any of this to the stiff old goats at the Admiralty, and gave Alamar wide berth.
Soon they’d come into the rendezvous point from the East, a little cove far enough from most of the populated areas to be frequented by the smugglers and raiders who generally populated the island, and on the side opposite Ostwick to avoid any unpleasantness with their own forces. Flying through at a distance was one thing, but one of the Ostwick dragons was touchy about the islands in the Waking Sea, and if a dragon knew another of its kind had landed on ground it considered its own, the fights could be nasty regardless of any national loyalty. Dragons had, unfortunately, little consideration for such distinctions.
At last they passed over Siren’s Call, waiting far enough out to sea that none onshore could see her, and it would be only moments before they reached land. Champion knew to descend, and Hawke saw that the jolly-boat had already come in as his dragon made a graceful landing on the wide beach (they had learned that lesson the first time, when she had landed so hard the boat’s occupants had been nearly too frightened to board her). He and his skeleton crew--just his Lieutenant, Athenril, and able wingman Babcock tonight--unclipped from Champion’s leather rigging and hopped down onto the sand. Champion graciously gave him a leg down, and he patted her hide affectionately, to which she responded with a puff of hot air in his direction.
Athenril and Babcock went around to the cargo holds to unpack the harnesses and blankets as Hawke headed down the beach towards the cluster of people assembled by the boat. He hailed them with a wave, and one figure approached with swaying hips and an answering gesture.
“The great Isabela herself? Whatever did I do to deserve such an honour,” he said once they were close enough not to have to shout, bowing extravagantly. She shifted her weight, jewelry glinting in the moonlight when she smirked.
“Well, I thought I might take some time off being the Queen of the Eastern Seas to deliver them myself this time around. Gets a bit boring, acquiring all that money.”
His arms, still outstretched from bowing, extended to bring her into a warm embrace. “You know a title doesn’t count if you give it to yourself,” he teased as he pulled away, but recalled he was here with greater purpose. “How many tonight?”
A pause. “See, here’s the problem--” “Aha.” Out it came, the reason she’d come herself instead of sending an underling. “Six. Five Antivan and one very surly Tevinter--my contact said five and conveniently forgot the child.”
Looking over, there was an impossibly tiny Elven girl, perhaps five years old, clinging to her mother. “I can’t take them on to Val Royeaux or Cumblerland with the rest of these goods, but surely one will strap in up top--”
Hawke turned to the refugees, smiling as comfortingly as he could, five huddled together and one standing apart, shadowed by a cloak. “All of you speak Common?” Nods all around, even the little girl, who met his gaze fiercely despite her obvious fear. “This is Champion.” A gesture to the dragon, being rigged up by Athenril and Babcock, and who snorted at hearing her name. “She’s rigged for transport, not war, and we’ve five places in the harnesses along her belly. You’ll be safe as babes in arms, but one of you will have to strap on some leathers and clip in up top. Any volunteers?”
A pause. Most people never came in contact with dragons, and the idea of strapping into one was daunting, but the same could usually be said of ships and they had certainly come this far. This far out from proper civilization, they were likely to be reclaimed without much defense, and would need to come inland if they were to have hope of establishing themselves as “productive members of society” within the year mandated by Fereldan citizenship law. The old sea-routes were patrolled mercilessly, and the traditional refugee ports of Amaranthine and Highever were long closed, leaving those fleeing slavery to seek alternate ways to trickle in.
The figure in the cloak stepped forward. “I’ll sit atop,” he said, accent Tevinter and voice deep in a way that made Hawke’s spine tingle.
“Wonderful--let’s get a move on, shall we? Want to be back before morning. She’s really quite good-tempered, as long as nothing spooks her, and she’s made this run before. You’ll be safer than that old tub Isabela put you in--” a sound of protest, “--and quite warm, as she’s a fire-breather.” They still looked at her askance, but reaching her they saw the way she cooperated with her crew, the way she let Hawke pat her encouragingly. They loaded into the harnesses with a little trepidation but little trouble despite it, the little girl needing only a moderate heap of coaxing to separate from her mother.
Hawke turned to the man in the coat. "You’ll take starboard wing, Athenril will take larboard, and Babcock will take lookout at the back. We’ll get you in a harness; clipping in is the easiest thing in the world, though you may wish another clo--”
“I’ve ridden a dragon before.” And that was that. Somehow as he took and put on the proffered harness, his hood didn’t come down. Champion had lowered her great head to watch, one golden eye following the new arrival. This was the moment where all would be decided--she was happy to carry cargo, which was blessing enough, but she took care with those upon her back.
The man seemed to look back evenly at the dragon as Hawke said his goodbyes to Isabela, who was having her men push back out to sea.
After the dragon had brought Hawke to her back (his right as Captain) without taking her eyes off of the newcomer, Champion suddenly offered the man a leg up, an honor bestowed rarely even upon the Lieutenants. Hawke breathed a sigh of relief. “Well if Champion likes you, you must be a worthwhile sort of chap--I’m Garrett Hawke,” he said as the man clipped in with the confidence of practice, Hawke offering a hand once he had done so. The man’s hood fluttered down, revealing snow-white hair and strange tattoos on every inch of skin, green eyes burning as he considered Hawke’s hand.
He did not take it, but after Hawke had given the traditional call of “All Lies Well,” with Champion’s shake and affirmative noise, and once she had taken off as Hawke’s command, the man cried over the wind, “My name is Fenris.”