Chapter Text
It shouldn’t be this easy.
A few coins to grease a palm and a guard that looked the other way at just the right moment. Add a thick cloak and hood, a walking stick and a patently fake limp – Maker, he was bad at this – and he might as well have been invisible as he moved through Skyhold. Even if Varric had been the one to arrange it all, even if the dwarf was trusted by the Inquisition, it shouldn’t be this Blighted easy. Not after all he’d heard of Haven’s demise at the hand of a creature that should be dead. No, not should be. Maker’s tears, he was dead.
Fucking Corypheus.
They’d checked his corpse twice before combing through the area for any additional dangers or torn trousers to sell. Then, because Fenris was a paranoid bastard, they’d checked a third time. Halfway to the surface, the ex-slave got twitchy, so they’d trudged back and checked again. When they got there and the darkspawn menace was still very clearly a dead body, they’d all forced the broody elf to pay for several rounds at the Hanged Man when they finally made it back to Kirkwall.
Andraste’s tits, Fenris was going to be impossible when he found out that the damned dead darkspawn – possibly a Tevinter Magister, at that – was actually alive, killing things and taming Archdemons so he could kill even more things. The elf wouldn’t say anything, or even really gloat, but he would wear that insufferable smirk that said ‘I told you so’. A lot. So much smirking. Fuck.
The cap on the whole thing was that now, because of the flaming bastard that should be dead, Jarod Hawke felt obligated to step out of the shadows. After Anders had blown up the whole fucking Chantry and shit went even further south after that, the idiot mage had no choice but to run. Even if they weren’t together any more, Hawke had run with him – the teeniest part of him thought maybe Anders had been right. Maybe. But only a little. Not with the explosive bit, as Jarod generally frowned on destroying buildings in a fiery blast, but the other stuff. The mage rights stuff. There, Anders had a few good points.
They’d ended up parting ways soon after fleeing, however, when Fenris of all people tracked them down. Informing Hawke that he would take control of guarding and caring for ‘his’ Mage, he’d freed Jarod of that responsibility. He’d thought that relationship doomed and more than a little twisted, but they seemed happy enough when he made his rare visits. Such visits to his friends were the only times he had to be ‘Hawke’; the rest of the time, he was as good as a ghost.
He liked it that way, blast it.
But now here he was, in the ass-end of fucking nowhere, surrounded by far more people than he would have liked and worrying about their safety and lax security measures. They’d just barely survived the assault on Haven; this place should be locked up tighter than a Circle while they recovered. Instead, they went blithely along, accepting strangers into their ranks with scarcely a question. Jarod suspected it was Varric’s love of the dramatic that had him sneaking about rather than any true need. If he’d just walked in, no one would have blinked an eye.
If he decided to stay with the Inquisition, he’d have to speak with Cullen about that. Surely the Commander of the illustrious Inquisition wasn’t happy with the open-door policy Skyhold had adopted.
That was something he still wasn’t sure of, however. A huge part of him longed to give what information he could, then vanish into the wind. Getting pulled back into the real world was not high on his list of priorities, and he had more pressing things to worry about – namely Carver. His infuriating brother had disappeared even more neatly than Jarod could manage. With worrisome rumors about the Wardens circulating, he’d asked Aveline to find his little brother and take him away. The Guard Captain had tried, but… Carver was already gone.
That’s where his energy should be focused, not on holding the hand of some stuck-up brat who thought she could save the world. ‘Herald of Andraste’ indeed. Sure, she’d managed to close the hole in the sky, but he thought that had more to do with the Templars she’d recruited to her side. And why had a mage asked the bloody Templars for help and not the Mage Rebellion? Now her people – their people – were tools for Corypheus. If anyone had asked him which group to sacrifice, he’d have happily sent the Blighted Templars marching to their doom. Not the bloody Herald of fucking Andraste. She had other ideas.
What Varric saw in her, he didn’t understand.
But the dwarf had been pushing even before Haven went up in flames. The whole ‘stay away and I’ll keep your secret’ line had turned into ‘I think you two would get along, so come help us save the world’. When he’d heard about Haven and the letters had stopped coming, Jarod cursed himself for a fool. He could have helped, could have stopped the enemy and saved his friend… or at least seen him one last time. Receiving a letter from Varric had him so relieved he nearly shed a tear, until he read the contents. Then he'd shredded the letter instead. The enemy was Corypheus, and now Hawke had to be involved. On Varric’s insistence, that involvement couldn’t be limited to a letter or two that delivered pertinent information.
So he was here, walking through one of Skyhold’s lower courtyards, and he couldn’t say his sentiments had changed. Varric’s newest friend was not only the Herald of Andraste, no. Now she’d also come back from the bloody dead. Did the woman have no shame? Her title was on everyone’s lips, and many venerated her so much that they practically worshiped her. Allowing that kind of nonsense didn’t bode well for her character. No matter what the dwarf thought, what he saw in her, Jarod wasn’t impressed. He would tell her what he knew about Corypheus, mention Stroud’s name, then get back to his own life. A simple, professional relationship where he didn’t have to spend a moment more than necessary with a vain, narcissistic-
Something was happening, and it brought his attention back to the world around him. He hadn’t seen Cullen since everything in Kirkwall had gone tits up, but the man was unmistakable. The Commander of the Inquisition looked more enthused than Jarod had ever seen him, and he was gathering up everyone who could walk into a large throng. Even some of the less wounded were put on stretchers or offered the support of someone more able-bodied so they could attend… whatever was going on. A memorial, perhaps? But no – the mood would be far more somber if that was it. It wouldn’t feel like they were off to a bloody fair.
Letting the crowd carry him, Jarod soon found himself standing in front of a rather impressive set of stairs – impressive because of their lack of rubble more than anything else, really. As Cullen paced before one of the companies that comprised the Inquisition’s forces, he looked as nervous and giddy as someone about to visit a whorehouse for the first time. This was obviously for the blasted Herald, some sort of demonstration that would bolster her already massive ego. How she had Varric so completely fooled and willing to believe in her goodness was beyond him.
“I see you came after all. I wasn’t sure, with all your pissing and moaning.”
“You asked me to, Varric. Of course I came.”
The dwarf had sidled up to him, now standing with his arms crossed and his attention fixed on the stairs. Hearing Jarod’s reply, he snorted and delivered a light kick to his ankle. “I’ve been asking for months now. I was beginning to doubt even Corypheus would be enough to bring you back to the world.”
“Hm. Where’s Bianca?”
“In my room. She didn’t want to see this.”
“What, all the pandering to a woman who will probably become a tyrant didn’t appeal to her?”
“Think what you want, Hawke.” Jarod quickly scanned the crowd to see if anyone had heard Varric murmur his name; thankfully, they all seemed wrapped up in this euphoric moment. Maker, this woman had them all under her spell. “That’s what you always do. I think you’ll change your tune quick enough. I don’t need to beat you about the head with the truth.”
“You wouldn’t know the truth from a good story if it came up and introduced itself.”
“Stories are a kind of truth, my friend. Sometimes the most important truths are hiding in them, where no one will think to look.”
“Yes, you belong to a noble profession. How could I have ever thought you just liked to hear the sound of your own voice? Also, what exactly is going on here?”
“Something as inevitable as it is terrible.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Just be quiet and watch the show.”
Whatever reply Jarod might have made was silenced by the appearance of Leliana, who was climbing those rubble-free stairs with a sword in hand. Even as a mage and from a distance, he could see it was more ceremonial than anything; any purpose it served was not performed on the battlefield. He could also see that Leliana probably hadn’t gotten any cheerier since their last meeting. Still, a hush fell over the crowd at her arrival, and Cullen even stopped pacing and turned to watch her instead. Jarod couldn’t see his face, but his stance was proud – this moment clearly meant a lot to the man. Maker’s Blood, what was going on?
Then he saw her.
He’d known a bit about her, of course; enough to form an opinion anyway. But seeing her side-by-side with a woman he could only assume was the infamous Cassandra Pentaghast, he was struck by several things that had him and his opinion reeling. The first thing he noticed was that she had horrible taste in clothing; the second was that the awful beige outfit hugged her curvy figure well enough that it almost didn’t matter. Though her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight braid, he could still note the fascinating color – strawberry blond with hints of gold and copper that flashed in the sun. Noticing that drew his attention to her face, eyes directed there by two loose locks that framed it perfectly.
Maker’s breath, she was so young. Around the same age as he’d been when he first arrived in Kirkwall; definitely no older than twenty-four. There was also the look that he associated with mages newly out of the Circle… which he realized she was. It was all in the wide-eyed innocence that was palpable as they discovered the ‘real’ world, balanced by the shadows put in their eyes by the one they knew. She’d been in the Circle at Ostwick, he remembered – one of the only ones still functioning after the Mage Rebellion. The Conclave was probably the first time she’d left that Circle since she was a child, and she’d gotten dragged into this madness. The girl had the weight of the world on her shoulders through no choice of her own, and part of him thought he’d judged her too harshly, too quickly.
Another part of him was sure that this was how she got people to follow her and sing her praises. Playing the young, innocent Circle mage would rally people behind her that otherwise would never support someone with magic. Those who didn't hate mages on sight could easily be swayed by a 'poor me' story, becoming sympathetic and easy to recruit. She could simply be canny beyond her years.
If that was the case, the exhaustion she wore was another layer of the deception. He could see it as she came closer to the stairs, even as he noted her nervous evaluation of the whispering crowd before her. The Herald was paler than he thought she should be, and there were signs of strain around her mouth. Dark circles under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights and long days, while her eyes themselves looked bloodshot. “She scouted the path here right after Haven.” Varric told him in a soft aside. “Before she was even fully healed, she was trudging through snow. Took almost a week to get here.” A week leading her people through the cold and snow with no real shelter? That didn't sound like any kind of fun. Snow stopped being pretty very quickly, and being cold lost it's charm even quicker. “Now she spends her time visiting wounded soldiers and doing whatever scut work she can beg from the workers instead of resting.”
“You’re trying to soften me, and you’re not being very subtle about it.”
“If I were subtle with you, you’d never have gotten the coin together to go to the Deep Roads. You’d still be scraping by in Lowtown.”
“Pity you weren’t subtle. The Chantry there might still be standing.”
“Point.”
“I think that puts me in the lead, doesn’t it?”
“No. That time we visited Antiva to see the Rivaini put you twenty points down, remember?”
“You said you weren’t counting that.”
“I lied. That’s my prerogative as a storyteller.”
As they talked softly to each other, the Seeker was speaking to the Herald, probably telling her what in the holy Maker’s name they were doing out here. The two women were climbing the stairs toward Leliana and that Blighted sword, and suddenly, Jarod knew what this was. “They’re making her-“
“Yes.”
Suddenly, Cassandra’s voice was loud, cutting through the murmurs of the crowd as she and the Herald closed in on Leliana. “The Inquisition requires a leader – the one who has already been leading it.” The Seeker sounded so fucking pleased with herself, like handing the Inquisition over was a gift, and one that the Herald should be grateful for, instead of the terrible burden that it was. He couldn’t see the Herald’s face just then, but he did see the way she recoiled instantly, actually backing down two steps before she managed to catch herself. Her shoulders were hitched up in a defensive way, tension written in every line of her body as she faced down the two women before her. Had she not known of their plan? Her reaction told him that she was genuinely unnerved and taken aback by the proceedings. The Seeker looked surprised, while Leliana wore a steely expression; Jarod had the sinking feeling that the Herald would not be allowed to refuse this ‘honor’.
Unable to watch as the Seeker began to speak in a low tone to the woman they wanted to make Inquisitor, he turned his attention to the crowd. Most of them were so swept away by the momentous occasion that they didn’t seem to notice the Herald clearly wanted no part in this. There were a few concerned faces he could pick out of the crowd – one of those a Qunari because of course the Blighted Herald could charm one into following her even if she was Bas Saarebas – but most wore looks of anticipation, hope and faith.
Cullen, however, looked shaken and unsure; had the Commander thought the Herald knew and was willing? The man who had once been a Templar knew that eyes were on him so he recovered quickly, but now he seemed more resigned than giddy. At his side was a woman with an exceptionally shiny shirt, a woman he could only assume was in charge of the Herald’s current and terrible wardrobe. Though her expression was one of joy, her eyes were as hard as Leliana’s, and he knew for certain that the Herald would be called ‘Inquisitor’ before the day was over.
Maker, she needed new friends.
The arm that the Seeker put around the Herald’s back looked supportive, but Jarod had a feeling she was actually dragging the other woman forward, toward the title and responsibility she didn’t want. The man was reminded powerfully, viscerally of the night his life changed forever. All he’d really wanted to do was keep his friends safe; if that meant dueling the Arishok in full view of every Blighted noble in Kirkwall, then fine. After that dazzling display of magic, he’d expected to be thrown into the Circle. Instead, he’d been named Champion. Suddenly, he was responsible for everything from chasing down smugglers to keeping the peace between Meredith and Orsino. The look of cruelty on the Knight-Commander’s face when she named him thus now made sense; it was a fate far worse than anything she could do to him, barring the brand of Tranquility. He hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t asked for it, but the decision – and all its consequences – was made without him.
Jarod wanted her to put up a fight, lash out and refuse the ‘honor’ being thrust on her. If she said no loud enough, they would have to hear her. Fuck, if she said no and they wouldn’t hear her, then he’d make them. If he’d known then what he knew now, he would've told Meredith exactly what she could do with that Blighted title, and he’d have left Kirkwall to fend for itself. All it had ever done was bring him grief, and now… now he was watching the same thing happen to someone else.
Just say no… say no and I’ll kill everyone here if I have to… say no and I’ll save you.
“Having flashbacks, Hawke?”
“Shut up Varric.”
Maybe if she’d known he was there, she wouldn’t have let them force it on her. Maybe if he’d joined the blasted Inquisition the first time Varric asked, he could have stopped this madness. If she knew he was at her back and willing to shed blood to keep this from happening, she might have told them all to go to the Deep Roads and walked away.
Instead, she took hold of the Blighted sword.
When she turned to face the crowd, the Herald looked absolutely bewildered, like she didn’t even know which way was up. Her eyes scanned the crowd, who were all looking at her like she was a miracle come to life, but he wasn’t sure she was really seeing them. For long moments, she stood woodenly, the sword held awkwardly in front of her – Maker’s tears, why a sword? She didn’t know how to hold one, and trying made her seem like a silly child; if they’d given her a staff, maybe she could have pulled this off the way they wanted her to.
There were no speeches in the Herald that day as she stood there in front of the eerily silent crowd. Later, when stories were told, the awkwardness would be left out. They would gloss over the way the Herald said absolutely nothing; they would speak of a moment so solemn and holy that no words were needed. They wouldn’t mention the way the Seeker was the one to move the ceremony forward, or that shiny-shirt had informed everyone who their new Inquisitor would be before the Herald could even accept.
They wouldn’t mention the hint of regret in the Commander's eyes as he rallied the company he’d brought to bear witness to the event. All of them wore marks of battle – two were in stretchers. They were men and women who had earned the right to be there by bleeding for the cause, now swearing their lives to an Inquisitor that wished she was somewhere else. When they roared along with the crowd their agreement to Cullen's words – they would follow, fight and triumph – all he could hear was their eagerness to fight, kill and die for her. She held every one of their lives in her hands, and the lives of every soldier not present. She was responsible for a hold full of people, responsible for everyone who would flock to her banner; she was responsible for the whole fucking world, and they’d never even asked if she wanted it.
Watching as Leliana took hold of the Herald… no, the Inquisitor’s arm and ‘helped’ her raise the sword to the sky in ‘triumph’, he knew that he would stay. He wouldn’t get too involved, because he knew how that always turned out in the end; Kirkwall had taught him well. But he would stay and give her the information she needed on Corypheus face-to-face, because she deserved at least that much respect. He would stay to let her know that the Champion of Kirkwall was behind her. Even though they’d likely never speak except in a professional capacity, he hoped she would know that he stayed because he understood what had had just happened to her.
The air was still festive as people began to stream out of the courtyard, headed off to wherever the fuck these people went to have a good time. They’d get drunk and celebrate their new leader, never caring a bit that the object of their adoration now stood at the top of the stairs, looking lost, vulnerable, and so terribly, terribly young. His fists clenched tightly, and he was filled with the urge to hit someone, anyone… everyone. He also wanted to get very, very drunk, but in his current mood he’d start flinging Stone Fists at anyone who looked at him wrong, which was not a good way to make friends in new places. Except Antiva, of course.
He didn’t realize that Cullen had come to stand at Varric’s other side until the former Knight-Captain spoke. “Maker, I thought she wanted… I thought she knew… what have we done? What have I done?”
“Easy, Curly. I’m guessing Ruffles and Nightingale forgot to mention the Inquisitor didn’t know that she was about to receive the title. This isn't your fault, not entirely.”
“That doesn’t matter. I should have sought her out, asked her… but there was so little time, and I thought… Maker. We’re going to destroy her.”
“That’s why this is going to be a tragedy. Even if she doesn’t die-“
“She’s not going to die.” Jarod wasn’t the only one surprised to hear his own voice. Cullen started, then looked over to peer under his hood, and recognition dawned on his face.
“Fine, Hawke. When she doesn’t die, the ending still won’t be happy. No way this doesn’t end bad for our Inquisitor.”
‘Our Inquisitor’. Already, the woman was disappearing beneath the weight of the title – what little of her was left after that ‘Herald’ nonsense, anyway. Suddenly, he wondered if she’d ever been the one to claim that title at all. How much of her current predicament was the fault of her advisors, the people she should have been able to trust? If the world didn’t end, would history even remember her as anything but the Herald-turned-Inquisitor?
“What’s her name?” He hadn't cared enough to learn it before, but he needed to know it now. If no one else remembered, he would. He’d write his own book about her, and he’d use her name on every Blighted page.
“Alysia.” Jarod had expected Varric to answer, but it was Cullen who spoke the word. “Her name is Alysia Trevelyan.”
The Champion of Kirkwall nodded, his eyes focused on the young woman who still didn’t quite know what to do with the ridiculous sword she held; she didn’t even seem to know what to do with herself. If no one else remembered her name, he would. Even if he didn’t want to befriend her, he would make sure she didn’t go down in history as just a title. To him, she would be a woman – distant, but still flesh and blood, with a name and hopes and fears.
And even if no one else did, he promised himself that when he looked at her, he would see Alysia.