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Dorian has feared this possibility since the day he and Hawke crossed the border into Tevinter.
They had been quite busy over the months that followed, finding lodging and settling into the motions of their new life. Tiring work, but joyful and satisfying, fully occupying Dorian’s energy from day to day.
And yet, through it all, the inevitability of this confrontation has been looming at the back of his mind.
He is studying in the archives of Arcanist Hall, bent over a dusty old tome in one of the many private reading rooms, when he detects a familiar scent. A soft but distinctive blend of saffron, rose, and cinnamon… It sends an instinctive chill racing up his spine. He knows exactly who is standing behind him even before he hears her voice.
“So,” she says. Each word wrought in casual ice. “I understand you had a wedding, and did not see fit to invite your own mother.”
Dorian sighs with exasperation as he turns to face her.
There is Aquinea Thalrassian, just as perfectly immaculate as he remembers. Her indigo silk robes flow from her as though perpetually drifting upon a motionless breeze, and her long, dark hair is twisted and pinned with jewelry that glitters like stars in a lustrous night sky. Though it has been several years since they last saw each other, she appears not to have aged a day.
She stands in the doorway, an elegant obstacle between him and any chance of escape, and presses him with her pointed stare.
“It was a small, private affair,” Dorian says. “Besides which, I rather had the impression you would not approve of the occasion. Much less be interested in celebrating it.”
“I would have appreciated the opportunity to make that judgment for myself.”
“Oh, yes! I am quite certain you would have relished the opportunity to cast judgment upon it. That is your favourite pastime, after all.”
“And yet you cruelly deprived me of the opportunity.”
“Perhaps I wished to enjoy my own wedding day without bearing the burden of your judgments.”
“Oh, please,” Aquinea says. “If you did not wish to face judgment, you would not have married yourself to a man. Let alone a southern peasant with such a notorious reputation.”
“Have you considered that I might have married him because I genuinely love him?”
“And what does that have to do with the matter?” Aquinea asks. “If marriage had a whit to do with love, our world would be a very different place, my pet. You would certainly not be standing here to lash me with your impertinent tongue.”
“Yes, well. Forgive me if watching you be miserably trapped in a loveless marriage with Father did not inspire me to take the same interpretation.”
“I am hardly trapped with the man,” she says. “Why, I’ve not laid eyes upon him in months.”
“How fortunate for you.” Dorian turns back to his books. “Now, I am quite busy, so if you would—”
Aquinea says, “You must introduce me, at the very least.”
Dorian halts, turns back about. “Why?”
“Perhaps I am simply curious.”
“I repeat, why?” Dorian says. “You have hardly taken an interest in my affairs before now.”
“Then you should be pleased that I am now taking an interest.”
“And for what possible purpose would you do that?”
Aquinea narrows her eyes. “It is rather unfair that your father should be allowed to meet this man by means of subterfuge, while I have come to you to request the meeting quite politely, and find myself denied. What sort of message does that send to your poor mother? Must I also resort to plotting and ambush in order to satisfy my curiosity?”
Dorian sighs. “Ah. I see. You are jealous that Father met him and you did not.”
“Jealous? Of that man? Don’t be so silly. I simply do not see why the privilege of meeting your chosen should be his alone.”
“Which is the definition of jealousy.”
“Incorrect.” Aquinea nonchalantly examines her nails. “Also, I have heard it said that your notorious southerner is rather handsome, and wish to see for myself.”
Dorian snorts. “There we are. An understandable reason at last.”
“Indeed. I would have thought, if you are as fond of him as you claim, that you would be pleased for the opportunity to display him to me.”
“Not if you intend to criticize him in the process,” Dorian says. “If this meeting were to happen—if, mind—it is conditional upon you being kind.”
Aquinea lifts one perfectly sculpted brow. “Kind?”
“Yes, kind,” Dorian says. “He is my husband and that must be respected. I will not stand for any rudeness toward him, do you understand?”
“If he is truly worthy of you, my darling son,” Aquinea says, “then he will be capable of defending himself from rudeness, without requiring you to leap to his defense.”
“Of course he is capable—”
“Then I see no harm in testing him.”
“I am saying he should not have to be tested!” Dorian says. “He has earned my adoration a thousand times over, and if you have any care for my happiness, then that should be enough for you.”
Aquinea is now regarding him with a squint. “I begin to suspect we are participating in two entirely different conversations. What sorts of strange fancies have you been filling your head with down in those wretched Free Marches?”
Dorian sighs. “Nothing you would be interested in, I expect.”
“Well, that is a given. Such dreary country. So little civilization to be had, and nary a winery in sight. What in the world even is there to drink?”
“Precious little, if I’m quite honest,” Dorian says. “Look… I shall consider it. All right? Give me some time to discuss the matter with Hawke.”
“Very well. Then you shall bring him to my city residence for supper next week.”
“I said I will consider it.”
Aquinea languidly rolls her eyes as she turns to depart. “Consider it, then, but be swift about it. I can be patient for a short while, my pet, but some limits are best not tested.”
Dorian waits that evening until all the candles are snuffed out, until he is lying in the warmth of Hawke’s arms in the dark, before he finally scrounges up the courage to say it: “My mother wants to meet you.”
“Mm?” Hawke mumbles against the back of Dorian’s shoulder. “That’s nice.”
Dorian takes a few moments with this. He swivels an incredulous look backward. “Nice?”
Hawke cracks an eye open. “Hmm? Not nice? Then, uh, of course I meant… No! Dear Maker, anything but your mother!”
“That is roughly the thought I had when I saw her, yes.”
“Oh… you mean you actually saw her? She found you in person?” Hawke asks. He wraps Dorian up more tightly into an apologetic squeeze, tucking his chin over Dorian’s shoulder. “What happened? Are you all right? Was she awful? Did she say something cruel to you? Do I need to take revenge by going to her house and breaking a priceless vase?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. It, ah… It seems she is jealous that Father met you and she has not.”
Hawke snorts. “The time we argued with him for a few minutes? I wouldn’t call that a ‘meeting.’”
“Still. She hates to let him have anything over her, however slight. I fear she’s determined to lay eyes upon you as well.”
“Hmm,” Hawke says. “And you don’t want her to lay eyes on me? That’s fine, I can avoid her.”
“I—no, please don’t say it that way. It’s not that I do not want you to meet her, as if you are some dirty secret to be hidden. Of course I would be proud to introduce you.”
Hawke’s brow is beginning to furrow. “In that case, I… will meet her?”
“Logically, you should. And—stranger still, in a way, I want you to. But that would subject you to her behaviour, and how can I possibly do that to you?”
“Right,” Hawke says. “Are you doing a riddle, my love? I don’t think I’m clever enough to solve it.”
Dorian sighs bitterly. “I fear I’m not either.”
Hawke hefts himself up to a sitting position, propping his cheek on his palm, as Dorian rolls over to face him. “All right. What’s the worst that happens if I meet her? I embarrass you terribly?”
Dorian’s shoulders slump. He can’t take up Hawke’s joking tone, not for something like this. “No, beloved. I’m not concerned about her opinion. It’s your opinion that matters to me.”
“Aha,” Hawke says. “Then, you think she’ll embarrass you in front of me! Well, don’t worry about that. You know I could never find you embarrassing. As a matter of fact, I’ve been told that I fail to grasp the very concept of embarrassment.”
“I suppose it’s more… I fear my mother won’t understand us, or the life we have built. She has her own standards, forged here, and I’ve diverged quite far from that path over these last years… She is sure to have criticisms.”
“And would that change things for you?” Hawke asks. “Do you think your opinion of me could change, if it turns out your mother doesn’t approve of me?”
“No, Hawke. Absolutely not—of course not.”
“Well, that’s good!” Hawke says. “Because I wouldn’t be surprised if she doesn’t approve of me. That’s the reception I expect from most parental figures…”
“But that is not what you deserve,” Dorian says. “And if she did make you feel lesser, I would not be able to forgive her for that.”
“What if I promise you not to take it personally?” Hawke says. “If I’m good enough for you, and her opinion of me won’t change yours, then what’s the difference to me what she thinks?”
“I suppose that is true…”
“How can she complain, anyway?” Hawke asks. “Just look at you. You’re incredible! You’ve made yourself an amazing life. There’s not a thing anyone can say to change that fact.”
At last, Dorian smiles. “It is a rather good life, isn’t it?”
“It certainly is,” Hawke says. “And—dare I say it—you also have an amazing husband. Really, he is just the world’s most perfect man.”
“Hm. If a tad delusional at times.”
“Ah, but you love that about him,” Hawke says. He drags Dorian into a squeeze, pressing noisy kisses against his face, as Dorian squirms and attempts not to reward this behaviour with laughter. “Mm, yes, you are so very smitten with your delusional husband, you think he’s the most charming and handsome man to ever exist…”
“Stop,” Dorian laughs, wrestling out of Hawke’s hold to halt Hawke’s kisses with one of his own, long and adoring. “Of course I think that. I wouldn’t have chosen my delusional husband if I weren’t smitten with him beyond reason.”
“Well, then! I expect we’ll be fine.”
“Still. My mother is—well, she is my mother,” Dorian says. “I have a reason to spend time with her, as unpleasant as she might occasionally be. But you… I don’t want to burden you with her presence unfairly.”
Hawke wrinkles his brow. “Unfairly! That’s… Dorian. Sweetheart. My darling husband. Light of my life. Wind in my sails. Plum in my pudding. My charming little egg.”
“Have you finished…”
“The fluffy, wagging tail upon my heart’s mabari,” Hawke says. “You travelled into the mountains with me, alongside my brother. For weeks. If you can camp in close quarters with Carver for literal weeks, then I think I can survive having tea with your mother for a minute.”
At last, there is a logic that eases the knot in Dorian’s chest. “I will say this for my mother… top-notch hygiene. I have never once been disgusted by the stench of her footwear.”
“There you have it. Carver loses as usual.” Hawke gently tweaks Dorian’s chin. “All right? Has that helped?”
“It has,” Dorian says. “Thank you, darling. I’m… Admittedly, against all sense, I would like you to meet her. It feels as though you should know each other. I only wish it were possible to do without the…” He trails off, squinting into the distance.
“…Interaction?” Hawke guesses. “The risk of damage to my fragile self-esteem?”
“Well, yes. That.”
“Not to worry, my love,” Hawke says. “I wake up every morning married to the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen in my life, and sometimes he even tells me he loves me. My self-esteem is robust.”
Dorian scoffs. “Is that all it takes?”
“All?” Hawke says. “What do you mean, all? You’re clearly underestimating how very beautiful my husband is! Should I describe his best features to you in great detail?”
“Another time, perhaps,” Dorian says, fondly patting Hawke’s cheek. “I’ve kept you up late enough now with my petty troubles.”
“This wasn’t petty. Don’t be silly,” Hawke says. But he gladly settles back among the pillows, opening his arms in invitation.
Dorian lays his head on Hawke’s chest, sighing with contentment as Hawke’s arms wrap around him to ensconce him in their warmth. This reliable comfort is a feature of his husband that he’ll never tire of.
Just as silence is beginning to thicken in the darkness, Hawke murmurs, “What’s she like?”
“Mm?” Dorian asks. “You’ll see that for yourself soon enough.”
“I meant more… How angry do I need to be on your behalf when we meet?”
Dorian snorts softly. “Ah… She was never involved in my father’s plans, if that is what you mean. The two are rarely even in the same room if they can avoid it.”
“But she didn’t stop him,” Hawke says.
At this, Dorian feels a fond tug on his heart. Hawke is so determined to protect him from any pain—even pain in the past, as impossible as that might be. Though, when wrapped up in his arms like this, Dorian almost believes Hawke could manage it.
“True enough,” Dorian says. “But I expect she wouldn’t have known about it, either. She is neglectful, yes, wrapped up in her own business, and rather cold and impersonal, as far as mothers go. But she taught me a great deal, when she was present enough to do so, and she has never actively wished me harm.”
“I see,” Hawke says. “I guess it’ll be a touch easier not to assault her, then, compared to your father.”
“Pardon? You didn’t assault my father.”
“Which took every ounce of strength and maturity that I have ever possessed. You’re welcome!”
Dorian chuckles. “How impressive. I am very proud of you, darling.”
It had been simple enough for Hawke to profess nonchalance when the meeting with Aquinea had been theoretical.
Hypothetically speaking, there was nothing to fear. Hypothetically speaking, he could weather the storm of any parental figure’s disapproval. He had borne a shattering level of disappointment from his own family, after all. What more could Dorian’s mother possibly add?
That is what he had told himself, at least, until he found himself in Aquinea’s sight.
As Aquinea stares Hawke down, it is abundantly clear where Dorian got his striking good looks. She shares that impression of having been sculpted out of some otherworldly material, her cheekbones and her jaw too immaculate to be accidental, her nose a work of art—a nose perfectly crafted for her to look down it at the man stood before her.
Her eyes are a piercing grey, much like her son’s. But while Hawke has often thought of Dorian’s eyes as being filled with fire—a light that dances cheerfully, that can burn with passion—Aquinea’s gaze is cold and exacting, a spell of ice that locks him where he stands and chills him to the bone.
“So,” Aquinea says. She gives Hawke a long, slow look from top to bottom and back again. “Here you are.”
Hawke does his best to smile. “Here I am!”
“Hawke, this is Lady Aquinea of House Thalrassian,” Dorian says. He gestures to Hawke with a dramatic flourish, clearly brimming with sarcasm—though Hawke straightens up regardless. “As requested, Mother: I present to you my husband, Garrett Hawke.”
“And by what title shall I refer to you?” Aquinea asks.
“Just plain old ‘Hawke’ is fine! It’s nice to meet you, my lady.”
“Nice, is it?” Aquinea asks. Her voice carries the same chill as her gaze—a sharp and frigid judgment. “After all the time you have spent evading this meeting, I find that sentiment rather unconvincing.”
Hawke pauses. He hardly has a lack of possible things to respond—he can think of numerous cheeky rejoinders, in fact—but what to say that won’t cause trouble or embarrassment for Dorian? He begins to wonder if they shouldn’t have rehearsed this interaction.
Fortunately, Dorian comes to his rescue: “It wasn’t Hawke who was avoiding it. I was the obstacle. Don’t hold him responsible for that.”
“And does he not act without your approval?” Aquinea asks. She continues to pointedly hold Hawke’s gaze.
“I could, technically, but I do generally try to court Dorian’s approval,” Hawke says. “The secret to a happy marriage, some might say!”
“I see,” Aquinea says.
Hawke marvels at the way she has somehow crafted such simple words into an insult.
She turns from them with the clink of jewelry, her fine silk robes and her waves of raven hair seeming to float ethereally behind her. “Come. We shall sit in the viridarium.”
They follow her through the halls of her residence to a sunken space where sofas are interspersed with artfully arranged potted plants upon a floor of warm stone tiles. The many flowering trees fill the air with a sweet natural perfume, and a tray of wine and candied dates awaits them like a prize in the centre of it all. Hawke lifts his gaze as they walk in—the ceiling is domed, ringed with fantastically hued windows that let colourful light filter down to dance across the tiles. It may be the most beautiful room he has ever seen.
Aquinea settles herself on a tufted settee, takes up a glass of wine, and waits expectantly as Dorian and Hawke sit themselves on a sofa across from her.
“What did you call this room, again?” Hawke asks.
“Viridarium,” she says. “Garden room, if you must be common.”
Hawke pauses. “Not usually offered a choice on that… In any case, it’s a lovely room.”
Aquinea clicks her tongue with disgust. “Hardly. The lemons are half the size they should be in this season, and the hibiscus tree is clearly languishing, despite my best efforts.”
“…Why, if you hadn’t said so, I would never have noticed the… state of the hibiscus,” Hawke says.
“Not very observant, then. I see.”
“Mother,” Dorian says.
“It’s not exactly what I’m known for, in fairness,” Hawke says, with a half-grin.
“On the note of what you might be known for,” Aquinea says. “I understand you are called the ‘Champion of Kirkwall.’ Is that correct?”
“They did call me that… at some point,” Hawke says. “Not everyone judges me worthy of that title these days! Better if you don’t ask the Orlesian Chantry what they think.”
“Past the prime of your influence, then,” Aquinea says. “With that being the case, what makes you suitable for my son?”
Dorian sighs audibly.
Hawke takes a moment to roll that around in his head. “Well, I… like him a great deal? And he seems to tolerate me well enough…”
Dorian sighs again. “Tolerate, he says!”
“Such a persuasive case you make,” Aquinea says, arching a brow. “You do realize the quality of the man you have ensnared, do you not?”
“Of course!” Hawke says. “It’d be tricky to miss that. Dorian’s the finest and most talented man there is.”
“So you have the capability of grasping that much, at least,” Aquinea says.
“Mother—” Dorian says, his irritation quite audible.
She proceeds to speak over her son: “Then allow me to rephrase my question for your understanding. Given our mutual recognition of my son’s fine quality, what makes you think you are worthy of standing at his side?”
“I asked you not to interrogate him this way,” Dorian says. “I very clearly said—”
“Is it such a difficult question to answer?” Aquinea asks. “I would have thought it quite simple. What do you say, Hawke? Does my question upset you?”
“It’s all right! I’m not so easy to upset,” Hawke says, giving Dorian’s knee a reassuring pat. Dorian frowns back at him. “Why, you should hear the sorts of things my own mother would say about me.”
“I would be intrigued to hear them,” Aquinea says. “Tell me, on that note. This ‘wedding’ you had. Was your mother present, Hawke?”
“My mother? Uh, no,” Hawke says.
“So, you snubbed us both equally. I suppose that is of some comfort.”
“…Yes,” Hawke says. “Although, in fairness, it would have been a bit more difficult to invite my mother, seeing as she is dead.”
Aquinea pauses delicately. Even in this moment she has the air of a graceful portrait, with a crystal wine glass held elegantly aloft in one perfectly posed hand. She says, “Then, you suggest I should not diminish my level of offense. Noted.”
“Well,” Hawke says, and nothing further.
“Let us return to my first question, then. What makes you think you are worthy of my son?”
“Once again—” Dorian says.
“What is your complaint, my pet? Hawke has just said that the question does not upset him.”
“It upsets me,” Dorian says. “This is not your judgment to make! If you do not accept Hawke at my side, we do not need to spend this time with you. We can simply leave.”
“Why do you say ‘accept’? Don’t be so dramatic,” Aquinea says. “I am making no judgment of my own. I am simply asking your man to explain his view on the matter, the better to understand your relationship. Is that not precisely what you wished me to do?”
Dorian narrows his eyes, frowning.
“As a matter of fact, the greatest rudeness I see here is your insistence on interrupting him,” Aquinea says. “Why do you not let him speak?”
Hawke glances at Dorian’s sullen face once more—he has let his hand rest on Dorian’s knee, and now fondly squeezes it. “In all honesty, my lady,” Hawke says, “I’m not always sure that I am good enough for Dorian.”
“Oh, please,” Dorian says.
“Shh—that is enough,” Aquinea directs at her son.
“He’s certainly much cleverer than I am,” Hawke goes on. “Though, in fairness, I think he’s cleverer than most anyone.”
“Indeed, he is exceptional. The legacy of his forebears is clear in him,” Aquinea says. Dorian theatrically rolls his eyes at this statement. “But should such an exceptional man not have an equally exceptional match?”
“Well—”
“Hawke is exceptional,” Dorian says.
“If that is so, then he can surely prove it to me himself.”
“He is from the south,” Dorian says, gesturing at Hawke, who looks at him nonplussed. “Southern mages are taught to hide their talents, not boast of them. You are asking him to do something entirely against his culture!”
“Huh,” Hawke says, idly scratching his beard. “You see? Brilliant observation. I would never have thought of it that way…”
Dorian feels frustration rising in him with every second he sits in his mother’s viridarium.
He knows both of the people sitting before him so terribly well. Each of them has a wit that’s become woven within the fabric of who he is—he’s certain that his time with them both has made him the person he is.
By all accounts, they should get along, he thinks. And yet this is agonizing. Why must my mother be like this? And why is Hawke not snapping back at her? What is happening here?
“Well,” Aquinea says. “If, as Dorian suggests, you would prefer to seem uninteresting, then I can simply assume you are uninteresting, and we can leave it at that.”
Hawke’s brows lift. At last, Dorian can see an impertinent retort forming—he’s spent enough time next to Hawke to sight that look in his eye and know what it means. Dorian braces himself for the impact.
Hawke takes a moment, smirks, and says, “Might be easiest.”
Dorian stares with disbelief. He begins to wonder if someone has replaced his husband with an imposter.
“Shame,” Aquinea says, and takes a leisurely sip of her wine.
“I’m…” Dorian says. “Pardon me, Mother, but I’ve just thought of something important.” He takes Hawke firmly by the arm. “Could I have a quick word with you, darling?”
They head to the far side of the room, ducking behind the potted hibiscus tree, whose blossoms hardly provide much shelter from Aquinea’s continued scrutiny. Dorian lowers his voice to a hiss and asks, “What is the matter with you? Why are you being so odd?”
“Me? Odd?” Hawke says. “Er… I think that may just be what I’m like?”
“Not like this. I have never seen you so quiet. What happened to your incorrigible cheek? Where are the ill-considered inappropriate remarks?”
“I sort of assumed you wouldn’t want me to say those out loud to your mother…”
“Why not? That is who you are,” Dorian says. “At least then she would know something of the actual you!”
“But—uh. It seems a bit rude?”
“Come, now, she’s hardly been on her best behaviour this evening. Why should you be?”
“…I do also get the sense that she is judging me terribly harshly already…”
“Of course she is. She is my mother! Judging is what she does. It has nothing to do with you.”
“Her judging me, specifically… has nothing to do with me?” Hawke says. “That seems contradictory.”
Dorian peeks past the tree, and sees that his mother is clearly still watching them from across the room. He leans in and hisses, “You said you would not take it personally—that none of this would bother you!”
“I’ve never been in this situation before!” Hawke whispers back. “How was I supposed to know what meeting one’s mother-in-law is like? Why would you ever listen to me? You know I just say things without thinking them through. That’s my entire way of being!”
“Maker’s breath,” Dorian says. “Has it ever occurred to you that I married you because I am fond of the person you are?”
“Are you really?” Hawke asks. “Well, that explains it! I’ve been wondering about that.”
“I have no expectations for this meeting, is what I am saying,” Dorian says. “Beyond you being yourself. If that goes poorly, so be it. I accepted that consequence when I chose you.”
“But…”
Dorian seizes Hawke by the shoulders. “Darling. Stop that. And mark this occasion: For once in your life, I am advising you to think about what you say a lesser amount.”
But Hawke’s attention has been snatched away; he frowns, gazing upward, furrowing his brow.
“Are you even—” Dorian begins, interrupted when Hawke whips up an arm with a hum of force magic.
Dorian whirls around. Up in the domed ceiling, one of the panes of colourful glass has been removed from its frame. A hooded figure who was in the process of slipping through the gap has become entangled in Hawke’s spell, which now pins them against the ceiling.
“…Goodness,” Dorian says.
“What have we here!” Hawke says. “Pardon the interruption, my love, I’ve just got to check something…”
With Dorian following behind him, Hawke strolls back to Aquinea, who has not bothered to stand. She lounges on her settee and gazes upward at this trapped intruder with a peevish frown, as though simply annoyed by the inconvenience.
And Hawke rather mirrors her lack of concern—he holds his spell on the intruder as though it’s a simple conjuration, and not a sophisticated vortex of force powerful enough to completely arrest an adult.
“If I may just check, my lady,” Hawke says. “This isn’t an old friend of yours making a whimsical visit from an unexpected entry point, is it?”
“Certainly not,” Aquinea says. She sighs, lifting her wine glass to her lips. “An assassin, no doubt. What horrible drudgery.”
“In that case!” Hawke says. He swirls his hand in the air, directing his tendril of force to wrap itself about the assassin, and with a casual flick of his wrist he sweeps them right back out the window.
The three of them wait a few moments before hearing a distant thud from outside.
“This brings back memories,” Dorian says. “Odd that they would only send one—”
Hawke quickly shoulders Dorian aside to place his own body in the path of a sizzling bolt of magic—the spell shatters against his barrier. Hawke shifts into focus as he begins to conjure some fiery magic of his own to address the three assassins who have just spilled in the doorway. “I reckon that was meant to be a distraction!”
Dorian sighs with exasperation and reaches for his staff.
But his mother’s hand shoots forth to grab him by the sleeve, halting him. She has her gaze narrowed on Hawke.
Hawke flings a lash of fire, which deftly avoids Aquinea’s flowering trees to explode in the faces of the three assassins, driving them back. He drags his hands aloft as he conjures two currents of force to sweep up two of the three assassins… and knocks them against each other, depositing them in an unconscious pile upon the floor. (Dorian marks this as a slightly less impressive effect than Hawke’s usual strategy of hammering his opponents into the ground, but one that leaves Aquinea’s travertine tiles unscathed.)
The third assassin darts forward. Hawke sends forth a wave of force, knocking him backward—along with a beautifully blossoming lemon tree in a porcelain pot, which begins to topple over. Hawke gasps and hurriedly reverses the direction of his force, righting the tree, and bringing the assassin flying toward himself.
Perhaps purely out of reflex, Hawke stops the man’s hurtling trajectory by catching him in his arms.
For just a moment the only sound is the lemon tree’s pot wobbling safely to a stop, as the assassin looks up incredulously within Hawke’s embrace.
“Hello!” Hawke says, and with a ripple of force magic he heaves the intruder straight up over his head—using him as a shield from a fourth assassin, or rather the original one, who has just returned through the missing window and attempted to leap on Hawke from above. The airborne assassin’s enchanted blade catches their own ally instead of Hawke, splattering blood across Hawke’s shirtfront.
Dorian slaps a hand over his mouth.
Hawke casually tosses the third assassin—now injured badly enough to be out of commission, and yowling with indignation at his teammate’s blunder—upon the pile of his two unconscious fellows.
Having landed on their feet, the final assassin is circling with their enchanted blade drawn. They disappear in a puff of smoke, which has Hawke frowning with confusion—only to reappear behind him, and leap at him with their blade drawn.
“Behind!” Dorian cries. Hawke spins about, and so swiftly weaves a wall of force that the airborne assassin crashes into it at top speed. They crumple, stunned, to the floor, the conjured blade disappearing from their hand.
Hawke takes a step toward the four incapacitated combatants, halting as more figures hurry into the room… But it’s not reinforcements. Instead, several of Aquinea’s household staff have arrived, wielding protective magic of their own.
“At last,” Aquinea says with impatience. “Four assassins, and it took you this long to notice? Honestly.” She waves a hand toward the intruders sprawled across the floor at various levels of consciousness, as her servants set to restraining them and hauling them upright. “Kindly clear away this rabble! I have guests.”
“Oh, good!” Hawke says. “Thanks for the help. I hate doing the cleanup.”
He turns about, dusting off his hands, as though that might do something about his newly charred cuffs and the violent spray of blood across his fine doublet.
Yet another outfit ruined, Dorian thinks mournfully. Alas.
“Well!” Hawke says brightly as he strolls back over. “Are you two all right?”
Aquinea doesn’t dignify the question with a response; she is still lounging on her settee, having not moved from her spot even once during the onslaught. But she is still studying Hawke, her chin balanced thoughtfully on one bejeweled hand.
“That was…” Dorian looks about the room. “Remarkably tidy! Aside from wreaking havoc to your clothing, but that much is a given… I’ve never seen you cause so little damage in a space.”
“I wasn’t about to destroy the garden room, Dorian,” Hawke says. “Your mother’s had trouble enough with that hibiscus.”
Aquinea exhales, soft but swift.
It’s the most pale and parched indication of amusement, but the sound of it seems to put Hawke at ease, immediately relaxing his shoulders.
“I do apologize for the mess, though, my lady,” Hawke adds.
Aquinea waves a dismissive hand. “No need for an apology. You have adequately resolved the situation.”
“Did you want me to question any of these people?” Hawke asks.
“I appreciate your offer, but there is no need. My people will take care of that,” Aquinea says. “I sincerely doubt a minor threat like this signals anything beyond the general routine.”
“This happens to you often, then?” Hawke asks.
“Indeed, the family of any magister is at great risk. The same goes for my son, as you have no doubt noticed.” She levels her gaze with Hawke’s. “Does that trouble you?”
“Does it…? Of course it troubles me. Any threat to my husband is something I have to answer.”
“And, indeed, you must answer them,” Aquinea says. “That is my intended point. Anyone who claims to be part of Dorian’s family must be prepared to defend him from such threats.”
Hawke laughs loudly with disbelief. “Oh, really, now! Is that so?”
Dorian had been opening his mouth to retort, but this familiar sound holds him back. Ah, Dorian thinks. Here he is at last.
“Let me ask you a question, my lady,” Hawke says. “Do you consider yourself to be part of Dorian’s family?”
Aquinea once more lifts an unimpressed brow. “Surely you don’t expect an answer to such a foolish question.”
“Is it foolish?” Hawke asks. “By your own criteria, I’d say you’re missing the mark.”
Dorian looks at Hawke with surprise.
Aquinea’s eyes narrow—she is considering Hawke quite intently now. “What are you implying?”
“Are you aware of what Dorian’s father threatened to do to him?” Hawke asks. “Blood magic to alter his mind—to alter this mind, this brilliant mind! Tell me how you possibly allowed that. Why didn’t you stop him? Why did Dorian have to escape from him alone?”
Even this accusation has not been sufficient to disturb Aquinea’s generally cool air, but her feigned disinterest has fled. “Dare you imply that I might have been complicit?” she asks. “Let me ease your mind, then: I am no friend to blood magic. I had no knowledge of my husband’s plans, nor was I even present in Tevinter at the time to be aware of them.”
Hawke has not raised his voice either. He speaks nearly as calmly: “Ah! You weren’t there. Fantastic excuse. And if your son was wounded by assassins, and my excuse to you was that I wasn’t there and didn’t know he was in danger? Would that be acceptable to you?”
“Clearly not,” Aquinea says. “But you profess to be his husband. Should you not be present for such things?”
“And you profess to be his mother. Should you not be the one to protect him from his father?”
“My son is a grown man, and a talented one. He does not need his mother to defend him.”
“Of course not,” Hawke says. “Dorian’s the most incredible man there is. He doesn’t need me to protect him, either. But that doesn’t absolve me of my duty to stand by his side. And it doesn’t absolve you of yours, my lady.”
For a few moments all is silent as Aquinea stares Hawke down.
Then she just barely smirks. “Well, well. What a pleasant surprise. I was beginning to wonder whether you possessed any backbone at all.”
“You must be joking!” Dorian says. He fondly rubs Hawke’s back, as Hawke glances at him uncertainly—trying to grasp the abrupt shift in the conversation’s tone, it seems. “Have you not heard tell of his many accomplishments? It would be impossible to achieve so much without a backbone. Or incredible talent, for that matter.”
“Such tales often take on a life of their own. I prefer to judge with my own eyes,” Aquinea says. She sweeps said eyes across Hawke again—dishevelled and bloodied as he still is. “You have made your point, Hawke. But, now, I must insist you change these clothes. You cannot dine with me in this state.”
Hawke glances down at his charred and bloodied outfit. “Uh… But I don’t…”
“My people can find you something suitable to wear. Once you have bathed, of course.” Aquinea gestures for one of the stewards of the house. “Ovidia, would you kindly show this man to the baths, and fetch him something fashionable to wear for supper?”
“Of course, my lady!” Ovidia says. “Right this way, my lord.”
Hawke throws Dorian a look of clear concern. Dorian stifles a laugh. Trust this man to face down multiple assassins with casual aplomb, only to look like a frightened puppy the moment someone mentions a bath.
“Go on, darling! You’ll survive, I expect,” Dorian says.
“You’re sure?” Hawke asks softly, pitched for Dorian’s ears. “Will you be all right?”
“Yes, I will also survive,” Dorian says. “Not to worry. There is something I ought to discuss with my mother anyway.”
So, with a distinct air of unease, Hawke consents to be escorted off by Aquinea’s servants. Which leaves Dorian standing over his mother, hands on his hips.
Aquinea has once more reclined upon her settee and is sipping her wine, appearing wholly unconcerned with her son’s scrutiny.
“You dismissed him rather than answer his argument, I see,” Dorian says.
“His point was made well enough. I did not think more discussion was required.” She squints across the room, as though considering something else entirely. “Is it also your opinion that I failed to protect you from your father?”
Dorian is briefly at a loss. He had hardly expected her to take Hawke’s comments seriously. How to even address such a question? “Not actively, perhaps. But you certainly did not stop him.”
“You could have come to me, when he threatened you with that procedure. You chose to disappear instead. Why was that?”
“You shared Father’s opinion on my behaviour, did you not? I didn’t expect you would have much sympathy for me.”
“I have certainly had my concerns with your choices. But I would not have agreed to risk you that way. I would never have supported it, if I had known. You could have come to me.”
“I appreciate that, I suppose,” Dorian says. “But I think now that I needed to get away. Not only because of what happened. The time abroad—I learned much from it. Things I rather needed to learn.”
Aquinea raises her brows.
“Yes, Mother, I am well aware that you see it differently.”
“I said no such thing. Don’t be so very quick to take offense,” Aquinea says. “You have grown, darling, and seized your own life, whatever I might think of it. It is well past time you and I learned how to speak to each other as we are.”
“I don’t disagree with you! How novel,” Dorian says.
“That means honesty, mind you,” she says, pointing a severe look his way. “I should like to hear about your developments from you. And not be forced to learn of my son’s wedding from a relative stranger, months after the fact. Understood?”
“Perfectly!” Dorian says. “But you do understand that honesty goes both ways? If that is your expectation of me, I shall expect you to be honest as well.”
“And when have I not been honest with you?”
Dorian folds his arms and sends her a severe look of his own.
As ever, she appears to be immune. “Precisely,” she says, lounging back, once more taking up her glass. “I am above reproach.”
“Answer me this honestly, then,” Dorian says. “Did you hire those assassins?”
She does not bother to meet his gaze. “And what difference would it make if I had?”
Dorian’s jaw drops. “Mother!”
“As if that little trifle was any true risk,” Aquinea says. “Your life is frequently under much greater threat than that, my pet. And he was clearly skilled enough to manage it, so what is the issue?”
“Of course he could manage it—”
“Almost too skilled,” Aquinea says, frowning. “Hardly a scratch upon my viridarium. Here I had rather been hoping to remodel… At the very least, he might have done me the favour of destroying the hibiscus.”
“Hang the blighted hibiscus—you cannot possibly mean to convince me that sending assassins after my husband is acceptable behaviour!”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. I was also here. Had he failed at the task, I could have rescued him myself.”
“You are… I’m… that is simply…” Dorian exhales harshly, shaking his head. “I have absolutely no words for you.”
“Would that that were true, dear. The silence would be a welcome change.”
Dorian sits heavily in the nearest armchair, burying his face in his hands, groaning between his fingers. His mother is content to ignore this entirely.
Two thoughts war in Dorian’s head: first, I cannot stand my family. And second, Thank the Maker that Hawke isn’t phased by such outrageous challenges. If that truly was a test, he must have earned top marks for his performance.
Dorian scrubs his face, then looks over at his mother. She continues her unconcerned lounging and does not address him.
“Well?” Dorian asks at length.
She scarcely even looks up, as though his continued presence is a terrible bore. “What now?”
“I notice you have yet to give your opinion.”
“Now you are interested in my opinion?” Aquinea asks. Her gaze is still casually adrift in the wine glass she swirls in her hand. “When you have so strenuously explained to me that it matters nothing to you?”
“I—well—I simply find it odd that you have yet to share your thoughts. That is hardly like you.”
“Indeed, but I will not waste my breath giving my ungrateful son assessments he has no interest in hearing.”
Dorian clenches his fists, his skin crawling with irritation. Of all the bloody nerve of her. “Fine.”
“Hmm?” Aquinea asks. “What was that? Speak up, my pet.”
“I am curious. You win.”
“Be more specific, darling.”
Dorian throws his head back, speaking it petulantly up to the ceiling: “Mother, I would like to hear your opinion of Hawke.”
“Much better,” she says, and indulges herself in a long, leisurely, drawn-out sip of her wine.
Halfway through the silence, Dorian begins to fantasize about slapping her wine glass to the floor.
At last, she sets the drink aside, instead thoughtfully rubbing her chin. “I see the rumours were true. He is quite handsome.”
“That much, you needn’t point out to me.”
“His magic intrigues me as well,” she says. “I have never seen force wielded that way. The man has an undeniable talent for spellcraft. It speaks of a clever mind beneath his rather unrefined manner.”
With just those words, Dorian’s tension eases. She has seen him, after all. Dorian hadn’t dared to think that was possible.
“And, if nothing else,” she says, “he is wise enough to be aware of his great fortune in having snatched your attention.”
“Naturally, he is quite fortunate,” Dorian says. “But so am I. Incredibly fortunate. I’m quite certain there’s no other man in this world like Hawke.”
“I did not mean it as a slight against him,” Aquinea says. “I only meant to say that his adoration for you is clear.”
True, Dorian thinks, letting a hint of a smile escape. Hawke never leaves me any doubt of his feelings for me. And even she could see it—that is actually rather sweet.
“So,” Aquinea says. “Finish civilizing him and he might one day be something approaching acceptable.”
“Ah. There you are. For a moment I feared you were not yourself.”
“You know that I must keep you on your toes, darling… We shall see how your husband fares against me at supper.” Aquinea pauses, wrinkles her nose. “He does have table manners, does he not?”
“Yes, for the love of the Maker!” Dorian says. “…That is… Mostly.”
“Well. As long as he knows not to stab his meat with a knife and gnaw it off the blade like a Fereldan barbarian, I’ll consider it an improvement over my expectations.”
“Ah, the benefits of a low bar. Lovely,” Dorian says. “I notice you called him my husband just now. Dare I think you might be accepting us as legitimate?”
Aquinea scoffs. “Legitimate? I would not use that term. But you are pursuing something that few would have the courage to, and I can see it brings you joy.”
“It does,” Dorian says. “More joy than I can measure.”
“I am pleased to see it. In some ways, I might even envy it,” Aquinea says. “Still, of course, it does concern me. It’s not an easy life the two of you have chosen. There will surely be crueller challenges to this marriage than mine. Your husband must have strength enough to face that.”
“He does,” Dorian says. “I wouldn’t have chosen him if I didn’t believe in him beyond a doubt.”
“As I said, I prefer to confirm such things with my own eyes,” Aquinea says. “But perhaps I ought to have had more trust in your wisdom. You may be an impetuous Pavus, but you have a Thalrassian mind as well.”
Dorian chuckles. “All of the good qualities from your side, then, is it?”
“Naturally, my pet. Where else would they have come from?”
At the end of the evening, Aquinea bids the two of them farewell in her grand foyer.
“Let it not be so very long before I hear from you the next time,” she instructs Dorian.
“Yes, yes,” Dorian says. “You have made your point… I will be in touch.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, my lady,” Hawke says. He plucks at the fine silk shirt he is wearing. “Er… How should I return these clothes to you?”
Aquinea grants him one brusque laugh. “Do not return them. Keep them. I daresay they flatter you much more than the clothing you turned up with.”
“Ah! Well—thank you, then!” Hawke says. “I’d be a tad embarrassed to be dressed by my mother-in-law, but in fairness, this is an awfully nice shirt.”
“There we are. He can learn,” Aquinea says.
The evening’s light is warming and waning as Hawke and Dorian head home, forgoing the city’s enchanted carriages to stroll on foot. They choose the scenic route, following the overlook path that winds its way down toward the city centre and gives them a sweeping view of Minrathous Harbour.
“That wasn’t so bad, in the end!” Hawke says. “I don’t think I made a complete fool of myself.”
“Not at all, beloved! You did well. Supper was very nearly pleasant.”
“I’m almost relieved those assassins broke in, as odd as that sounds,” Hawke says. “I was sort of panicking back there! Nothing like enacting some useful violence to make me feel more at home.”
Dorian sighs heavily. “Well… on that note, there’s something you should know about that—”
“Oh,” Hawke says, stopping in his tracks. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make light of—did you learn anything of who they were? Could they be connected to the—”
“No, no,” Dorian says. “Quite the opposite. I’m afraid those assassins were hired by none other than my mother.”
Hawke stares at him.
“Not to harm anyone… she claims,” Dorian says. “As a test, apparently, to see if you could adequately defend me.”
Hawke remains speechless for a few more moments.
Then he claps his hands over his face and breaks into laughter. “No!” he gasps. “Oh, Maker, that is so…”
“You’re laughing,” Dorian says. “My mother sent assassins for you and you’re laughing.”
Hawke wipes his eyes, still shaking with amusement. “Not so very many assassins, in fairness! She must not have expected much of me… Wait. Is that an insult? Should I be offended by this?”
“Is that the gravest insult you can find in this matter? Maker’s breath. You’re as bad as she is.”
“Sorry,” Hawke says. “Terribly sorry, you’re right, I don’t… You don’t think—did she actually think that might get rid of me?”
“No, no! Maker, no. I would have ended her myself if that was the intent… She claimed she would have rescued you if it came to that. Still, to put you at risk in the first place! To act as if you even need testing, given all you have accomplished. The absolute bloody nerve of her…”
“Well. No harm done, in the end,” Hawke says. He captures Dorian’s hand in his, giving it a squeeze. “Are you very upset, love?”
“I am… exasperated with her,” Dorian says. “And grateful that, in a life as preposterous as mine, I have a man as perfectly suited to bear it all as you.”
Hawke lights up with a smile, warmer and brighter even than the sunset that slants across the harbour behind him. He lifts Dorian’s hand to kiss it and says, “It’s my pleasure to bear. It really is.”
“You’re slightly mad, evidently,” Dorian says. “But so must I be. I’m descended from that woman, after all.”
“Ah, she’s not so bad, is she?” Hawke asks. “She obviously loves you, in whatever odd way she’s capable of doing that.”
This is a remarkably Hawke way to interpret his mother, Dorian thinks. The man fair overflows with affection, seeming to kindle it in everyone he meets. Of course Hawke would find a way to read ‘love’ in this of all places.
Then, Dorian’s mother had been a great deal more understanding of him this evening than he would have dared to expect.
Perhaps we have both gotten older and wiser, Dorian thinks. Or perhaps it was Hawke’s darling influence upon us? Either way.
“Who’s to say!” Dorian says. He pulls Hawke along by the hand, squinting into the warmth of the golden sunlight that floods their way home. “I suppose it might even be possible.”