Chapter Text
Hawke hadn’t expected to still be so tied up in titles and politics nearly 10 years after she’d accepted the title of Inquisitor. She’d never expected to even be the Inquisitor in the first place. She’d had the same strong pull that Varric did – to fix the goddamn mess Anders had instigated, as best she could. She’d felt responsible. But then, it had turned into fixing the whole goddamn world. She’d known the world would change, but she’d not expected it to be so consuming. She felt like she’d spent her life stumbling from one crisis to another.
Varric had told her this was his last adventure. “One last chance to fix this mess, I’m getting too old for this shit.” He’d told her, before heading out with Harding. That was more than a year ago. Before he’d left, he’d promised he’d get a message to her when he was close. If anyone deserved to face Solas, she did. She wanted to believe there was still something left of the man who’d help save the world from Corypheus.
Thinking of Solas always made her left arm ache. She squeezed her mechanical hand shut, the soft whir of gears a stark reminder of the lack of flesh there. “I’d cherish being wrong again, my friend.” They were his last words to her, before she’d passed out from the pain. When she’d woken with her arm amputated before the elbow, she hadn’t been surprised – only frustrated. If she’d just had a little more time, maybe she wouldn’t have had to spend the past 10 years sending others to chase him across Thedas; always five, or six, or ten steps behind him. It was like Anders, but worse – Anders had kept secrets, but she thought after Kirkwall’s Chantry, she’d at least gotten a little smarter.
Hawke was drawn from her reverie when she heard the faint kerfuffle of voices in the antechamber outside her office. Not unusual for this time of day – it was strange, still being so in demand even after all this time. Still, her seneschal would handle any visitors. She’d never quite figured out how she’d moved from battling demons and monsters to the endless stream of paperwork and correspondence. She still had to sort through this correspondence from Halamshiral – Orlesian politics still gave her a bloody headache. She longed for the days of just killing off annoying Dukes by letting them fall of the edges of cliffs. These days, she had to be diplomatic. She could almost hear Josephine trying to coax her through her impulse to bash their heads together until they cooperated, but her Kirkwall days are long behind her.
“Inquisitor!” A distant voice called her attention from where she sat at her desk.
“Yes?” She answered, cursing as her mechanical hand tipped over the inkwell onto the freshly finished letter.
The hand was a engineering and enchantment marvel – As sophisticated as Varric’s Bianca. Dagna had gone through countless iterations of putting together the materials, and she continued to make adjustments over the years. Powered by magic flowing through runes, it was nearly as dexterous as a real hand, but had none of the feeling that her flesh one had, and so none of the subtlety of sensation. She couldn’t name the number of crystal wine flutes she’d accidentally shattered over the years due to accidental flares in her mana – a side effect of the mark Solas’ orb had left on her. Still, it made her life easier. Having runes on hand certainly continued to allow her to harness her spirit healing and battle magic adeptly, even down part of an arm. Not that people let her on the front lines very much anymore.
“Inquisitor!” The door banged open, and she glanced up to see her seneschal’s breath heaving in his chest. She looked behind him, but it was only Charter.
“Kieran.” She said firmly. “When it’s just us, you might as well call me Hawke. I don’t even really have claim to that title anymore.”
“But that’s how the world knows you. How you want the world to know you.” Kieran frowned at her.
“Is it?” Hawke replied dryly. “Much of my life has been having titles thrust upon me. Never the name that I chose for myself.” Kieran looked hurt.
“I’m sorry.” He said quietly, and Hawke stood, moving over to him.
“I didn’t say it to wound you, lad.” Hawke put a hand on his shoulder, feeling a twinge of regret.
“I know.” He murmured.
Hawke looked steadily at him. Morrigan’s son had turned into a fine young man – Hawke had never thought she’d see the boy again after they’d defeated Corypheus – his mother had seemed far too protective of him to allow him much contact with forces associated with the halls of power. But when he’d reached adulthood, he’d basically shown up at her door, demanding to help. The slightly strange, polite boy had transformed into a handsome, diplomatic, and charming young man. Initially, she’d turned to Josephine for advice. She’d expected Josephine to co-opt him into a diplomat, but to her surprise, she’d suggested he work as her seneschal. Hawke had never had one before, and he was nothing like Bronn had been to Viscount Dumar and Varric.
“So,” Hawke changed the subject, glancing at Charter, “What does my spymaster need from me?”
“Letter for you Inqui—Lady Hawke.” Charter’s lips twisted awkwardly.
“You’d think after all this time, you’d at least sound less uncertain about my name.” Hawke shook her head. “Still, it’s unusual for you to deliver something from the rookery personally.”
“They’re of a more… Personal nature. One of them is from Master Tethras.” Charter grimaced. “Among others.”
“Who else?” Kieran eyed the pile of letters curiously, and Charter looked affronted, which made Hawke bark a laugh which she tried to hide with a cough. “You know I can access her desk at any point, right?”
“Hiring you was against my council.” Charter said pointedly.
Still, if the elven woman had found even an ounce of dirt on the lad, Hawke suspected he would have been quietly pushed out of her orbit. Diplomatically. After all, she wasn’t quite like Leliana – and hadn’t had the same brutish lessons in survival that Leliana had either – the veteran of the Fifth Blight was not above disposing of those who got in her way. It was hard to tell whether Leliana’s ties to Morrigan would give her more or less reason to use whatever means at her disposal to protect her favourite figurehead. Hawke studied Charter for a long moment. On second thought, given her race, maybe she did have the same capability. She was, after all, Leliana’s hand chosen successor.
“Thank you, Charter.” Hawke said, as the woman handed over a pile of letters.
Charter gave her a curt nod, and turned to leave. The woman had her own pile of paperwork to reckon with, though Hawke wasn’t sure if it was better or worse to spend your life sorting through the contents of gossip, reports from agents all across Thedas, and others. The Inquisition may have been formally dismantled, but they’d learned a lot about practices of the Ben Hassrath.
“Thank you, Bull.” Hawke murmured to herself.
“You think of him often?” Kieran asked her. “He’s… Tall.”
“That he is.” Hawke flashed a grin. “Should be back at Skyhold soon, if his plans were right. And if Krem kept him in line.”
“And I’m sure we’ll hear him coming in with the Chargers when that comes. They aren’t subtle. Let’s just hope they don’t upset the Nevarran delegation.” Kieran sighed.
“Aww, come on.” Hawke lightly slapped his cheek. “Keeping them off balance is to our advantage.”
“You spent too much time with Divine Victoria.” Kieran shook his head.
“And you took lessons from Josie too well.” Hawke shook his head, before flicking a letter over to him. “Deal with Prince Vael for me, would you? Sebastian’s an insufferable ass at times, and I’ve been dodging him knowing my identity for certain for years.”
“Of course, Inquis- Lady Hawke.” Kieran smiled ruefully at her as she handed him the letter with the seal of the Prince of Starkhaven, before retreating back into her office and closing the door.
She’d been surprised at how she’d managed to avoid Sebastian for all these years – even despite his attempted invasion of Kirkwall some years ago. He’d never forgiven her for what Anders had done – not that she could forgive himself, but Kirkwall shouldn’t have to pay the price for their mistakes. Varric and Aveline had always believed he blamed them to avoid having to blame himself. She’d still taken his hostility hard when it’d happened. Years of friendship lost over her inability to murder her mentor.
She pushed thoughts of Prince Vael aside as she flipped through the letters. She left Varric’s for last. The first she opened was from Aveline. The guard captain had kept her post all these years, and had long turned down the role of Viscount, despite pressures after Varric left in search of Solas. Instead, that duty had been left to Seneschal Bran – now Viscount Bron – and Aveline happily kept order in the city. She and Donnic had produced twins not long after the Exalted Council where the Inquistion was disbanded, and Hawke did not make it out to visit them often enough. Hawke had quietly sobbed when Donnic had sent the letter telling her the twins had been born – and they were named Bethany and Leandra. Aveline spent most of her letter updating Hawke on the state of the city, griping about Bran and his inability to take sides. It was near the end of the letter where Aveline finally spoke about herself and Donnic, and the twins. The girls were unholy terrors, completely unlike who they were named for, and entirely cut from the same cloth as their mother. The girls were six and had started attending lessons at the new chantry, and had subsequently beat up several noble children for bullying some of the orphans. Aveline’s tone in the letter was exasperated, but Hawke knew that beneath that was pride.
Merrill had sent a letter as well – she was travelling with Isabela’s Lords of Fortune, trying to track down elven artefacts that might help lead them to Solas. Merrill spoke about how different the Lords were from her own people, but how the felt warm, like family. They’d marvelled at her magic, and at the eluvian that Merrill still brought with her. She’d told them she thought she was close to being able to unlock it – and she believed it would lead them to somewhere that had been hidden from others. Once, she’d hoped it would lead to answers to save her people – now Hawke believed she searched for a way to get more information on the other gods and their prison. Hawke had been surprised a little that Merrill hadn’t been on Solas’ side, but Merrill had told her that returning to how the world had been wouldn’t save them. Enclosed in Merrill’s letter was a piece of paper, stained with lipstick kiss marks and covered with raunchy illustrations. Isabela was not a letter writer, generally. But it did remind Hawke she was missed – cold reassurance when she slept in an empty bed. The years they spent apart did not mean her heart had strayed, though Hawke wouldn’t have been surprised to find Isabela’s bed less empty, even though she knew it wasn’t the same as what they shared.
Dorian had sent a message about the state of the Magisterium, how much he despised the politics, and how he wished for the simpler times of the Inquisition. It was full of gossip of who was sleeping with who, who had killed who. Beneath that in the things he didn’t say, were all the problems he’d gone back to try and fix. She felt a twinge of kinship. Like her, Dorian had always been a fan of lost causes – or nearly lost causes, as they tried to believe.
Leliana wrote about the progress of her reforms, almost perfunctorily, before insisting that the two of them were long overdue for a night of too much wine and pastries in Val Royeaux. This was followed by a detailed discussion of her progress in breeding different kinds of nugs, how the latest litters were doing, and asking if Hawke was entirely certain she didn’t need a small companion? Much had changed in the intervening years, but Leliana’s ability to spy and know the state of those she cared about had not.
Vivienne sent an invitation to the latest gathering Halamshiral. Her letter was involved all the courtly intrigue Hawke expected of the empress’ arcane advisor, though to hear Vivienne tell it, Ambassador Briala was the one with the real power behind the throne. Vivienne also spoke of the Chantry reforms, though her perspective was much more hostile. Nothing much had changed in that regard in several years.
Finally, she turned to Varric’s letter, her fingers running over the familiar seal – his father’s, the one she’d found again after the expedition. She slid her finger under the seal, and frowned as she opened the paper. The writing was familiar, but not what she’d expected. It was Harding’s writing, not Varric’s.
Inquisitor,
I don’t know how to write this. We found Solas, we stopped his ritual, but things went wrong. Very wrong. Rook’s hurt, and Varric… He didn’t make it.
There was more to the letter, but Hawke didn’t finish it. She barely noticed the other paper that slipped out, that she clutched in her hand. She was on her feet, staggering to the door. She grabbed the door knob, surprised to find her hand shaking. It rattled beneath her grip, but she managed to get it open.
“Kieran.” Hawke’s voice was raw, and Kieran startled looking up at her.
“Inquisitor. What’s happened, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The lad was on his feet, moving toward her.
“Your mother. If you contacted her, would she come?” Hawke clutched at Kieran’s collar desperately, looking into his golden eyes.
“I… Yes. I have a sending crystal, but yes, she’d come.” Kieran looked disturbed. “What’s happened?”
“Solas made his move.” Hawke whispered. “Varric’s dead.”
