Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Templars were holding him in the Chantry.

It could be worse, Hawke supposed. He could be in a cage like the Qunari murderer. Or in the same cage, considering he didn’t think Lothering had that many cages going spare.

He’d been an idiot - but a scared idiot. The darkspawn scout had broken through the brush on the outskirts of Lothering when he’d been distracted with thoughts of how much longer they could wait for Carver to possibly arrive back from Ostagar. Hawke knew better than to start casting, usually, but the thing running towards him hadn’t been human and for all the rumours of the Blight, of the whispers of the King’s defeat, he hadn’t truly anticipated seeing one so close, so soon. Lothering had less time than he’d thought.

So he’d blasted it with fire pulled from the Fade, just as two Templars appeared, swords drawn, to kill the thing.

The only thing that might have saved him was they were as surprised as he was. But running would only bring them down on the family - and on Bethany, still at home. Templars were still Templars, even in the middle of a crisis as big as the Blight. And where else could he have run to? The wilds were to the south and the Darkspawn horde was pushing in on all sides. There were plenty of forgotten Deep Roads entrances in the area.

Surrendering had galled, but at least the Templars knew him by name and didn’t immediately run him through alongside the darkspawn. At least the confirmed presence of the creatures in the area kept most of the village distracted as he was firmly escorted into the Chantry.

Ser Bryant had looked at him with such disappointment Hawke had wanted to shrink in on himself. That would be that, now. Every face in Lothering that had been a friend turned in suspicion, fear and betrayal - as if he had been the one who murdered Corrin and his family.

“Today of all bloody days.” The Knight-Commander muttered, before looking at Maron. “Stick him in the cold storage. Maker knows it’s empty enough now. We’ll work out what to do with him.”

What to do with him? The only thing the Templars should be doing to him was escorting him to the Ferelden Circle. Hawke tried to protest but Maron was quick to smack him around the back of his head - not hard, but hard enough considering the metal gloves.

Out the back of the Chantry, the cold storage stood empty. The Templars found cuffs and magebane and the next thing Hawke knew he was retching pathetically in the cold bunker, stomach twisting from the poison.

He hoped, prayed, that in the chaos of Lothering’s evacuation, the Templars didn’t have time to go and investigate at home. That Bethany stayed away and didn’t come looking for him. That the Templars didn’t up and leave without him.

Once that idea had taken root in his head, he couldn’t shake it off. He could hear the commotion in the village from within the stone walls of his makeshift prison. He could hear distant shouting and wailing. It would be so easy for them to abandon him to the darkspawn. Even if they had the best of intentions, in all the chaos, he could slip their minds.

Hawke hated the idea of the Circle Tower. His father had impressed on him and Bethany both that they were not fit for purpose - that a mage, with the right training, was no more dangerous than anyone else. He knew that Lake Calenhad was meant to be one of the better Circles - that it wasn’t the Gallows, the Circle their father had escaped years before. But Templars still abused their charges, and the Chantry still taught that mages were a corrupting influence on the world that had to be watched. But even Hawke would rather be trapped in the Circle than dead at the hands of Darkspawn. Or left to starve in the cold.

He became aware of voices outside, much closer than the distant babble. He strained his hearing, trying to listen. Was it Bryant?

- I know his sister

Hawke watched the door. He thought he recognised that voice. There was only one Orlesian accent in Lothering.

The door opened and two women stepped in - Sister Leliana, and an elf with strange markings on her face. She looked fierce, with a shaved head and daggers strapped to her back. Hawke made himself stand on cold, shaky limbs.

“Who are you?”

The elf regarded him and Hawke got the distinct impression she was gauging how much of a threat he was.

“My name is Ailsa Maheriel,” she said after a moment, “And I am one of two remaining Wardens in Ferelden.”

Hawke blinked. She didn’t look much like a Grey Warden. And besides, that was a dangerous claim in Lothering.

“Didn’t Loghain just denounce you all as traitors?” He asked, raising an eyebrow.

She snorted.
“Loghain is the traitor. He abandoned the field at Ostagar and left the Wardens and his King to die.”

Hawke’s mouth ran dry.
“You were there.” He said.

He wondered, stupidly, whether she knew Carver. But how could she? She would have been among the Wardens, not the Ferelden Army.

She nodded, glowering.
“Whilst he plays at being King, I plan to stop the Blight. Sister Leliana here has vouched for you. You have a choice, Serah. Join us, or hope the Templars have time to escort you to the Circle as they flee this place.”

Despite himself, Hawke laughed.
“That… isn’t much of a choice.” He glanced at Sister Leliana. “The Templars will let me go?”

“They will have to.” Ailsa replied. “I can invoke the Right of Conscription - as I have with the Qunari at the gates.”

Hawke’s mouth dropped open.
“You’re taking the murderer?”

“The Grey Wardens welcome any and all.” She said with a shrug. “I am Dalish. You are an apostate. Why not take the murderer, when we have so few left to us?”

Hawke’s mind reeled.
“If I come with you… I’m safe from Templars? Safe from the Circle?”

Ailsa nodded.
“I’m pretty new at this Warden shit, but that is my understanding.”

Hawke gave his best charming smile.
“I’m Garrett Hawke. Nice to meet you, Warden Mahariel.’

She rolled her eyes.
“I’m pretty sure I’m immune to shemlen charm, boy. Don’t bother trying.”

Hawke frowned.
“Shemlen?”

Sister Leliana spoke up.
“An elven word for human.” She said, helpfully.

“An insulting elven word for human.” Ailsa clarified, just as helpfully.

Hawke winced and offered out his wrists.
“Any chance you’re going to let me out of these?”

Sister Leliana stepped forwards with the key. She looked at him, eyes narrowing a little. Then she dropped her voice.

“Your sister is safe?”

Hawke stared at her, dumb-struck. She had known? Maker, she was with the Chantry. She should have turned Bethany in the moment she realised. How long had Bethany been going to listen to her stories? He swallowed and managed a weak nod.

“Just me,” he said, quietly, “Being an idiot.”

Leliana crooked an eyebrow.
“You don’t strike me as an idiot, Garrett. How long have you hidden here, in plain sight?”

Hawke swallowed.
“Ten years.”

Ten years ago, they’d arrived in Lothering after being forced to flee their old home thanks to Bethany’s awakening. She’d thrown a bully across the field when he wouldn’t stop pulling her hair. The bully and his family had been at the front of the mob that had burned their house to the ground. They’d been in the village only a fortnight when Hawke woke up from dreams of that fire to find his bedsheets burning. Both siblings, in a matter of months. At least they’d been able to hide his manifestation successfully.

Sister Leliana hummed in thought.
“A long time for an apostate. A longer time for two.”

“Three,” Hawke whispered, “Our Father -”

He cut off. Malcolm Hawke was three years dead, but it still hurt. She nodded. She hadn’t been in the village at the time, but people still spoke of his father as a good man.

“What are you two whispering about?” Ailsa called from where she’d moved off to speak with the Templar who’d been guarding the bunker.

Leliana unlocked the cuffs on his wrists and called out.
“Just ensuring we understand each other.”

Ailsa was frowning as they stepped out into the Chantry grounds. The temperature was warmer, out of the cellar, but Hawke still shivered with the magebane in his system.

“Oh. This is a thing, right?” She said, looking over to two others who were waiting further back, a dark haired woman and a handsome man in platemail, alongside a mabari dog. “The Chantry doesn’t like magic?”

The handsome man winced.
“That about sums it up, yes.” He said as the woman rolled her eyes. They were the most incredible shade of yellow.

Ailsa looked at the two of them.
“This going to be a problem?”

Hawke rotated his now freed wrists and managed a smile.
“I can get on with anyone. Isn’t that right, Ser Maron?”

The Templar who’d been standing guard wouldn’t meet his eyes. By the back door of the chantry, the dark haired woman spoke.

“So we’re picking up all the strays?” She said, dismissively. “The Qunari I understand, but these two?”

Hawke glanced at Sister Leliana.
“You’re coming too?”

She nodded and smiled.
“I lived an exciting life, before I joined the Chantry.” She said, “I believe I may be of some assistance in the fight to come.”

Hawke didn’t know how much help he would be - but he was hardly going to mention that in front of the Warden who’d saved him from the Circle or near certain death.

“Morrigan,” Ailsa said, eyeing the dark haired woman. “We need allies. We’re in no position to be picky.”

“If we were,” the handsome man chipped in, “My vote would be to kick you out, not these two.”

The dark haired woman - Morrigan - rounded on the man.
“And you would be sorry for it, the first time we fought something worth fighting. The woman sees visions and the boy got himself captured by Templars on the one day a year they’re not looking for apostates. They are both fools.”

“Didn’t get myself captured for the last ten years.” Hawke muttered, aware of Ser Maron standing behind him. The man gave an uncomfortable cough.

Ailsa sighed and pressed her fingers into her forehead.

“Creators preserve me,” she muttered, “All of you, shut it, or we’ll still be standing here arguing when the Darkspawn show up.”

Hawke winced, but shut up. He wasn’t about to push his luck when on such shaky ground. Morrigan looked as if she wanted to carry on arguing, but even she pursed her lips and fell quiet. Ailsa looked at them all and shook her head.

“Right. Come on. We’ve got a murderer to add to our ranks.”

The mabari barked in agreement.

Chapter Text

They headed out towards Redcliffe.

Outside Lothering, Hawke was made to feel absolutely useless as several refugees tried to attack the Warden and without his magic he was practically dead weight. At least his new companions were clearly competent - although the moment he saw Morrigan blast something with her staff his jaw dropped at her audacity to complain about him being an apostate. When one of the refugees went down, Hawke hurried forwards and grabbed the man’s pitchfork. It wasn’t a staff, and he couldn’t cast, but he could fight as if it were a polearm. Which was useful, because only a few hundred paces further up the road, they rescued a dwarven merchant from Darkspawn.

As they started the long walk, Hawke glanced at Ailsa.

“Um, Warden? My family’s holding isn’t far… could I say goodbye?”

Morrigan muttered something under her breath but Ailsa gave her a cool look and she stopped.

“How far?”

“Not far.”

She sighed and looked at the group.
“Hold here, we’ll be back. Cabbage, with me.”

The dog barked and moved up to her side. As they walked away, Hawke glanced down at the mabari.
“You called the dog Cabbage?”

Ailsa sighed.
“Alistair still hasn’t forgiven me. If you’re about to lecture me -

“Mine’s called Pumpkin.” Hawke said rapidly.

She faltered and eyed him.
“Huh. You might be okay, Hawke.” She said, before scratching the dog’s ears. “I saved this one at Ostagar. Wouldn’t leave me alone after. I hear that’s a badge of honour among Fereldens.”

Hawke nodded.
“You… said you were Dalish?”

His father - worldly, clever, wise - had told him of the Dalish. Elven nomads who tried to keep to the old ways. He’d never thought he’d meet one. Certainly not one among the Wardens.

“I am,” she said, “More used to running from your Bann’s hounds than having one of my own.”

Hawke winced.
“I know a little of running for your life.” He muttered. “I’m sorry.”

She snorted and for a while they walked in silence. Then she spoke.
“You are an apostate. I saw you use that pitchfork like a quarterstaff. Can you fight?”

“I’ve never had to.” Hawke admitted. “Been trying to live quietly after all. Would have brought the Templars down rapidly if fire just erupted from the farm every so often.”

A smile quirked her lips.
“You will need to learn fast.”

Hawke reflected on that. He wasn’t entirely useless - Carver and his father both had taught him how to wield a staff in melee, and his affinities with the Fade were destructive by nature.

“I will.”

Then they were nearly at the farm gate and the door was opening, Bethany running out to greet him, and Maker, he was hours later than he’d hoped to be. She must have been so worried.

She practically threw herself into his arms.
“I wanted to come find you,” she said, “I thought darkspawn might have got you, or -

She cut off, sharply, spotting Ailsa.
“Long story,” Hawke said, “And not much time. Listen to me Beth. You and mother - you can’t wait for Carver. You have to leave, now.”

Their mother stuck her head out, and Pumpkin, smelling a strange dog at the gate, started to bark, barrelling forwards. Bethany got her fingers under the dog’s collar and held her back as Cabbage whined from behind Ailsa’s knees. She looked unimpressed.

“Aw shit, we should bring yours along.”

“Garrett,” Leandra said, frowning, “Who is this?”

“Ah, Mother, Bethany. Meet Ailsa. I, uh - I’m going to be leaving with her. She’s a Warden. One of the few left. She kind of saved me from the Templars in the village.”

Bethany’s eyes went wide, and the hand that was still holding onto him tightened painfully.

His mother swayed.
“T-Templars?”

Hawke sighed.
“I killed a darkspawn but got spotted. Ser Bryant seemed quite happy to let me leave with Ailsa if it got me out of his hair. But Mother, listen - there are darkspawn here already. You can’t wait for Carver any longer, you have to join the others going north to Denerim. There’s safety in numbers.”

“Is there?” Bethany asked hollowly. “If they know about you…”

“Then go west to Gwaren,” Hawke said, “But you can’t stay here. The village will be overrun.”

“I’m not leaving.” Leandra said firmly. “Not without your brother. Not if you’re going with this elf.”

Ailsa eyed her with a frown.
“This elf,” she said, “Saved your son’s life.”

“And now you ask him to march against the Blight!” Leandra retorted.

Hawke stepped in, hurriedly.
“Mother,” he said, “It’s okay. I’m fine. This is better than the Circle. At least I’m doing something.”

He’d hated watching Carver go off to war, knowing that there was nothing he could do. But his mother was potentially losing both her sons. Who knew if Carver had survived Ostagar? He tried not to think about it, not really. And if he was truly about to become a Warden, then he would probably never see her again.

Suddenly, there was a lump in the back of his throat as he stared at her, at Bethany. He swallowed it down.

“Please,” he said, as serious as he ever was. “Please listen to me. You have to leave. You have to go. The darkspawn are already here.”

Leandra let out a shaky sigh and wiped a tear from her face.
“A day, Garrett. I have to - one more day. Then we’ll go. I promise.”

It was all he was going to get. He prayed it would be enough - that Lothering wouldn’t be destroyed overnight. He gave a shaky nod, then pulled Bethany into his arms.

“It’s going to be okay,” he lied, “We’ll find each other again, I promise.”

Bethany shook in his arms.
“It’s not fair,” she whispered, “Not you too.”

Hawke kissed her hair.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, “I’ve got Wardens watching my back.”

She pulled away and went to stand by their mother, who looked wrecked. He knew that if he hugged her, she wouldn’t let go. Instead, shakily, he crouched before Pumpkin who was still growling at Cabbage.

“Hey you,” he whispered, scratching at her ears. “Look after them for me, will you? You always were the best guard dog.”

Pumpkin barked and licked at his hand.

Hawke made himself stand and look at Ailsa. She seemed faintly awkward, standing there.
“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be. No - wait. Hold on.”

Idiot. He darted inside and found the staff that had belonged to his father and the emergency pack that every member of the Hawke family had, just in case they ever had to flee. He wasn’t running for his life, as such, but close enough.

His mother and sister were clutching at each other when he came back out, Pumpkin sitting at their feet. He swallowed, looking at them.

“A day,” he said, “Just a day. Then you have to go.”

Bethany nodded, as practical and as sensible as ever.
“We will. I promise. I’ll look after mother.”

He nodded, and then breathed out, turning to Ailsa.
“I'm ready. Let’s go.”

He didn’t say another word as they walked away. He didn’t look back. He didn’t dare. Together they walked back to the main road where the others were waiting.

Ailsa took the lead, the other Warden, Alistair, joining her. Morrigan and Sten walked along, pointedly ignoring each other. Hawke and Leliana hung back, just a little.

“Are you okay, Garrett?” She asked. “This must have been a tough day for you.”

Hawke snorted. He’d started the day being arrested by Templars, had been shoved into cold storage and half-poisoned, and now was leaving Lothering without his family, under no illusion that he would see them again. Tough wasn’t an adequate word.

“Oh, fine.” He said, “When I woke up this morning I thought maybe it was time for a change.”

She gave that secretive, half-smile of hers.
“It has been quite something, hasn't it?”

“So. Do I still call you Sister Leliana? Even with that bow?”

“Just Leliana, please.” She said, before eyeing him. “You flinch every time I call you Garrett. Is there something you prefer?”

He wrinkled his nose.
“It’s just - only my mother calls me that. And usually only if I'm in trouble. I prefer Hawke.”

She nodded.
“I understand. They are leaving, no?”

“Eventually.” Hawke said, keeping his eyes firmly ahead. “Carver - he went to Ostagar. Mother still hopes he’ll come back.”

Leliana sighed and Hawke had the distinct feeling she was offering up a prayer. Thoughts of Carver fighting - and dying - on the field filled him and he pushed them away. He had to believe. He had to believe his mother was waiting for a reason.

As they walked, Hawke spotted a collection of mushrooms in the shade and managed to pull up a few. A little further down, he spotted some herbs that double up in meals and in healing potions. Morrigan eyed him as he used the knife that had been in his satchel to cut the stems.

“So, our hapless apostate can bring in dinner at least - if we’re content to forage like animals.”

“Not hapless once the magebane wears off,” he said, wiping mud from the blade, “And willing to learn. Perhaps you could give me a few pointers? I’ve always been told I’m too charming for my own good, you could teach me how to be a bitch.”

Alistair almost choked and Ailsa turned her head sharply to look at him, a measure of respect on her face. Morrigan glared.

“Cocky, aren’t you? Perhaps it is a good thing Ailsa took pity on you. I hear the Templars can be vicious to lippy mages.”

Hawke didn’t doubt that one bit.
“Oh I’m well aware - my father escaped the Circle in Kirkwall.”

Something shifted in Morrigan’s face even as Alistair practically tripped over his own feet. An interesting reaction - what did the Warden know of the Gallows?
“A brave man, willing to risk his life for freedom. So how did his son end up in handcuffs?”

“His son,” Hawke said, holding her gaze, “Had a sister to be thinking of. And a village that will need every able sword to defend it before the week is out.”

Morrigan regarded him a little longer, then nodded.
“Ah,” she said, looking faintly disgusted, “The noble sort.”

Hawke didn’t bother to respond. She may have thought she had the measure of him, but he didn’t think so. It was a little hard to guess what kind of person you were whilst living quietly on a farm. He suspected he might learn a thing or two now that he was following a Warden during the Blight.

He looked back, just once, as they joined the Imperial Highway heading West, towards Redcliffe.

Chapter Text

Hawke liked Ailsa. She was no-nonsense and practical, with a sharp tongue. A little rough around the edges, a little prickly, but Hawke could forgive her that. She’d gone from practically no contact with human civilization to seemingly the only person trying to hold it together. Or at least, the only one pointing out the murderous hordes of Darkspawn whilst everyone else bickered and played politics.

What did it matter who was on the throne if there was no kingdom left to rule?

She seemed to like him, well enough. At least, she tolerated his company more than Morrigan’s. Perhaps because he got on better with Alistair. Cabbage liked him too, which clearly played in his favour.

The first night they camped, there was a rapid realisation that with all the new companions picked up in Lothering there were no longer enough tents to go around. Some would have to share.

No one wanted to share with Sten - partially because he was so much bigger than them and partially because he was a murderer. When Alistair suggested the men and the women shared according to gender to ensure no shenanigans, Hawke had grinned at him.

“Oh you’re cute if you think that’s going to stop anything.”

Morrigan had cackled at that, although she cut off sharply when Ailsa had casually suggested that her and Alistair share to force them to get along. Apparently it was a Dalish method, but she had such a wicked smile as she said it Hawke was pretty sure she was bullshitting.

The two Wardens bunked together, having gotten used to sharing whilst at Ostagar. Morrigan got her own tent, because she threatened to hex anyone who dared to share. Which meant Hawke and Leliana shared. Sten took first watch.

“I thought Alistair might pass out after your comment.” She said lightly as she crawled under the blankets. “He is… quite naive, isn’t he?”

Hawke had a brief thought of himself, not a fortnight back, on his knees in the barn for a merchant guard. He shoved it aside, hurriedly.

“It’s impressive,” he said quietly, “For a man who fought in an army. What did he think was happening in those tents?”

Leliana giggled.

“My question,” she said, voice dropped to a whisper, “Is how long before he realises he’s sleeping next to a very handsome woman?”

Hawke considered Ailsa in all her sharp lines and angles. Handsome was a good word. She drew the eye. Then he considered that he too was sharing a tent with a very pretty woman.

“Him? A few months. Me? About the time I realised I wouldn't be bunking with Morrigan. Although I’m afraid Alistair is more my type.”

He let the confession linger there in the air between them. Leliana had been a surprise, so far. He knew that his sister had liked her, a lot. And she’d seemingly known that they were both apostates and never turned them in. She could also fight, and fight well from what he’d seen. Still, she had been a Lay-Sister. How much judgement would there be?

“And Ailsa more mine.” Came the response, before a giggle. “Perhaps we should have let the original proposal stand.”

Hawke grinned at her across the tent.
“You know,” he said, “This might not be too bad. Saving the world and all.”

It was pretty bad though. Morrigan remained horrible and aloof, Sten remained a lurking murderer and the first time they were truly set upon by Darkspawn, Hawke had nearly dropped a fireball on Ailsa in the chaos.

It took them over a week to reach Redcliffe with the state of the roads and the near constant threat of attack. As they set up camp for the night, Hawke went foraging in the area. They had enough rations and Leliana had killed a Fennec that crossed their paths, but any extras were always appreciated. Most of the bushes and fields on the road had been stripped bare by refugees, and there had been a few places where the ground was twisted and blackened from the Blight. A little further off though, Hawke found a good selection of mushrooms, nettles and some wild garlic.

He was heading back towards the camp when he heard voices, slightly raised.

“And when were you going to tell me this, Alistair?”

Hawke hesitated. That was Ailsa’s voice. She sounded strangely hurt.

“Never? Look - I’ve never told anyone. Everyone either already knew or wasn’t allowed to know. I just… I’ve liked being me. Just me. Once people know they treat me differently. Even Duncan kept me out of the fight at Ostagar because of it.”

“And which part of being Dalish and not really giving a shit about shemlen politics suggested to you that I might start bowing and calling you Your Highness? Shit, is that even the right form of address?”

“Not for a King’s bastard, no,” came Alistair’s response, rather dryly.

It was around then Hawke figured he really shouldn’t be overhearing this. The question of Alistair’s parentage had come up - in so much that Hawke knew he was a bastard, and rather unwelcome in Redcliffe. But to be the King’s bastard? It had to be Maric. Cailan had only been twenty-five when he died at Ostagar, and whilst Hawke was pretty sure Alistair was younger than him, he wasn’t that much younger for the maths to work.

Which, Hawke realised sharply, meant that Alistair was Cailan’s half-brother. Not only had he lost the Wardens at Ostagar, but family too.

He tried to creep away, turning back the way he came, but even his footsteps were enough sound to cause both parties to hush.

“Morrigan, if you’re snooping -

“Hawke,” said Hawke, rather hurriedly, “Sorry - I was coming back to camp and -

“And we decided to have an argument in the wrong place.” Alistair said, as Hawke stepped into the trees to look at them properly. Ailsa still looked angry, but Alistair just looked tired. “How much did you hear?”

“Enough,” Hawke said, “But you are talking to an apostate who grew up keeping secrets. No one else will hear from me.”

Ailsa though was frowning.
“They should know, Alistair. Eamon and the others - won’t they want to put you on the throne? That’s how this works, right?”

“Maker, no, I hope not.” Alistair said, with a nervous chuckle. “Being a bastard kind of rules me out.”

“Apart from all those times in history it didn't.” Hawke said, helpfully.

A flash of panic crossed Alistair’s face.
“I don’t want it. The crown, I mean. Maker, I’d be an awful King.”

“Worse than Loghain?” Hawke asked. The man was setting himself up as regent over his daughter, Anora. King in all but name. How long before he was just King?

But Ailsa raised a hand to stop him, looking at Alistair.
“If you don’t want it, you don’t want it.” She said, simply. “End of discussion. But you do need to tell the others.”

Alistair blinked at her, gobsmacked.
“It’s really not that simple -

Ailsa arched an eyebrow and folded her arms over her chest.
“You’re a Warden. And there’s a Blight. It really is that simple.”

Hawke had a sudden sense of exactly how this plan of utilising the treaties was going to go - direct, unyielding, stubborn. Maker, he wouldn’t want to stand in her way. Alistair shot him a pleading look and he gave a shrug.

“I’m not arguing with her.” He said. “She’s scary.”

“Clever lad.” Ailsa said with that wicked grin of hers. “Come on, Alistair. Come confess to the others and get it over with. You can’t tell me you’re worried Morrigan’s going to start being respectful now, can you?”

Ailsa was right - Morrigan simply sneered and sniped as usual. Sten didn’t seem to get it until it was explained to him in terms of military leaders at which point he asked why military leaders would ever be picked by heritage, not merit. Which, for all the limited things Sten had said since joining them, made far and away the most sense to Hawke. Leliana asked a bunch of questions, mostly about Alistair’s childhood. Hawke could almost hear the story she was beginning to build in her head. The night before, she’d entertained the group in camp with a retelling of the Chevalier Aveline, and she clearly had the knack. Even if they’d had to keep stopping to try and explain the concept of female warriors to Sten.

He sat up on watch, that night, with Cabbage at his feet, and wondered whether Carver had made it back from Ostagar. Whether his mother and sister had fled, with or without him. Whether any of his family were still alive.

Immediate family, anyway. There was Uncle Gamlen up in Kirkwall, and various cousins. There was a cousin in the Ferelden Circle, wasn’t there? His mother hadn’t really talked about Revka Amell, and her five children that all manifested magic. He just knew that Leandra considered herself lucky to have Carver, and to know that he’d never be taken away from her like that. And then he’d gone to Ostagar to fight, and she might have lost him anyway. Hawke closed his eyes and made himself breathe out, through his nose, stilling his breathing.

Daylen Amell. That was it. That was his cousin’s name. Ailsa wanted to go to the Circle. Maybe they could actually meet.

He heard a sound and looked up and round to find Sten coming out of his tent. Hawke didn’t say a word until the Qunari settled himself down in front of the fire. They looked at each other over the flames.

“You are not like the other - what is your word for it? Apostate.”

Hawke snorted.
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

Sten’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he had not meant it to be taken as such. Odd. He didn’t seem to like Morrigan much either. Or any of them.

“Morrigan. She knows she is dangerous and delights in it. You do not seem to think you are a threat.”

Hawke thought about that.
“You and Alistair both have trained for years. Ailsa too, in a different way. Leliana can shoot that bow of hers better than any I saw compete in the Bannorn Fair each year. I do not think I am the threat in this company.”

Sten scowled.
“But you are a mage.”

Ah. He’d heard rumours of the Qunari views on magic - that when they’d marched upon Thedas in the ages past, they did so with enslaved mages. He didn’t know the particulars - didn’t care to - but he understood that Sten was uncomfortable.

“Ah, so I’m inherently dangerous. Is that it? Would you rather the Templars had taken me to the Circle?”

Sten considered him over the fire.
“An unbound mage is like wildfire - as prone to consume itself as it is to devour all in its path.”

Hawke swallowed. He did not like the analogy. But he kept on meeting the man’s gaze.

“Well,” he said with a smile, “Just point me at the darkspawn and let me devour, I suppose.” He paused, just a moment, to watch the Qunari’s face. “You can take watch, as it seems you don’t trust me to do it.”

He stood up from the fire and walked away, towards his and Leliana’s tent, heart in his mouth.

Chapter Text

Redcliffe was a mess.

The story of Arl Eamon’s illness and his knight’s subsequent departures from the territory looking for the famed Urn of Sacred Ashes that had spread around Lothering had failed to mention the undead.

“Undead? Blood magic or demons.” Hawke said, flicking his gaze to Ailsa. “Although it is possible most people wouldn’t know the difference between darkspawn and the undead.”

“I do,” The Bann said, frowning at him, “And this is no darkspawn attack. Something has happened at the castle, but we cannot get near it.”

Ailsa frowned and eyed Bann Teagan.
“I came to speak with the Arl. We must have his support against Loghain.”

“I don’t doubt you’d have it - if he is still alive. Help us, Warden, or all may be lost.”

Alistair cleared his throat.
“It’s not my decision but - I grew up here, Ailsa. If we can help…”

He trailed off, looking uncertain. From what he’d said before in camp, not all those memories were happy. But Hawke was thinking of Lothering, of the village sitting abandoned before the darkspawn moved through.

“My home is gone.” He said, a lump in his throat, “I’m with Alistair.”

The Warden shot him a grateful look as Leliana concurred. Ailsa sighed.

“We will do what we can, here. Leliana - gather the others.”

Morrigan, of course, complained that they were wasting time. Sten seemed hesitant, but came around shortly after Ailsa started issuing orders. There was a blacksmith and dwarven veteran to browbeat into contributing, and a knight up on the hill that needed talking to. And, apparently, a young boy to find.

They split up - Ailsa and Morrigan heading to the dwarf, Alisatir and Sten up the hill to the knight. Cabbage followed Ailsa, panting. Hawke went with Leliana in the direction of the blacksmiths. When he refused to let them in, Leliana simply drew out a small leather case and knelt down before the lock. Hawke stared at her.

“Well,” he said, “More subtle than my plan to break a window. But where did a Lay-Sister learn that trick?”

Leliana had a pick in her mouth as she tried one in the door.
“Orlesian bard.” She said, “Although, I am a little rusty.”

She had it open soon enough, and the smell of drink hit them the moment they walked in.

“Well, someone’s coping with the situation.” Hawke muttered as the drunken blacksmith blinked dumbly at the two of them.

It turned out his daughter was trapped in the castle and it was easy enough to promise to look for her when they finally made it up there. Something in the man’s sorry state twinged at Hawke. Was his mother faring any better, wherever she was? As they left, Leliana reached out and squeezed his hand and he managed a shaky smile.

“Fuck this is going to be rough. Fancy a drink? I think I saw a tavern up the hill.”

The Lay-Sister raised an eyebrow.
“We will be fighting later.” She pointed out.

“Well in that case let’s go secure a keg for the aftermath?”

She sighed but followed him up the hill.

They found several of the militia in there, moaning that they were still being charged for drinks despite there being no money left. Hawke eyed the bartender whilst Leliana spoke with the serving girl. She beckoned him over.

“This is Bella,” she said quietly as the young woman eyed him up and down. “She says Lloyd at the bar won’t keep his hands to himself. That she doesn’t have any other options here if she wants to survive.”

The woman, Bella, smoothed the front of her dress.

“The lady says you have a sister, Serah and -

“It’s okay.” Hawke said, keeping his voice low, “I’ll speak to him.”

Leiana shot him a look.
“Perhaps he could be persuaded to join the battle tonight?”

Hawke nodded. The man was unlikely to survive such a fight, but he couldn’t bring himself to be sad about that. He wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find one of Leliana’s arrows in his back come morning. He wandered over to the bar and gave his best smile.

“Afternoon, good Sir. I hear you’re still charging the militia for drinks.”

Lloyd eyed the staff on his back nervously as the militia men looked up, watching. Hawke hadn’t bothered to disguise it since leaving Lothering. He was, technically, a Warden-Recruit. And if anyone had an issue with him, they had an issue with Ailsa.

“Man’s got to make a living. You with that Warden who’s poking about?” he asked. “Thought you all died at Ostagar.”

“Oh Ailsa? Saw her kill an ogre with those daggers of hers,” Hawke lied, “The only thing she likes less than darkspawn are corrupt shemlens taking advantage of chaos to make a little coin.”

The man blanched.
“Now see here, Serah, I am an honest businessman -

Hawke leant forwards on the bar, just a little, meeting the man’s eyes.

“Yes, yes. You’re an honest businessman and I carry a staff to beat darkspawn to death. I get it. But without those soldiers sitting here, drinking your ale, you would be dead. And you have the gal to charge them?”

Lloyd’s eyes widened and his eyes darted to the staff on Hawke’s back.
“You - you should be in the Circle.”

Hawke smiled, and it did not meet his eyes.
“But I’m not, am I? I’m here, in Redcliffe, saving your fucking ass. So how about a deal, hmm? You get yourself down to Murdock and tell him that his men can drink for free - and that you’re going to be in the defences tonight - and I won’t burn you alive, hmm?”

Silence settled over the tavern and for a moment, Hawke wondered if he’d miscalculated - if the militia would decide an angry apostate was more of a threat than the undead. Then Lloyd seemed to crack.

“I - Yes. I’ll do it. Free drinks for all. Just - I’m sorry, I’ll go now.”

He was babbling, practically tearing off his apron and heading for the door as fast as his not inconsiderable bulk would allow. He didn’t look back as he fled.

Hawke gave it a moment before bursting out laughing.

“Maker, what an idiot.”

He turned back to face the rest of the room.

“Free drinks, my friends. Bella - would you mind getting behind the bar for a bit? I don’t think Lloyd will be back any time soon.”

The militia relaxed, and then one of them gave a cheer, draining the rest of his tankard. Bella blinked several times before nodding and hurrying to her place. Leliana shook her head a little, watching him.

“That could have gone badly.” She said, with a false lightness to her tone.

Hawke smirked.
“I figured the men would rather drink for free than pick a fight with the apostate. And if you thought he could be persuaded you would have done it yourself.”

He could be charming, but he doubted it would have worked on a man like Lloyd. He doubted much could persuade him to not be an arse. Easier to be the boogeyman people already half-expected him to be. Wildfire, Sten had said.

“Um, Serah?” Bella said, “Would you care for a drink?”

Hawke winked at Leliana and turned back to the bar.
“Oh go on. Maker knows what will happen later.”

As she slid the tankard towards him she crooked a finger and Hawke leant in. She bent to meet him and her lips pressed into his cheek, which was a rather pleasant surprise.

“The elf in the back, Berwick, is a stranger.” She whispered as she pulled away. “Suspicious, perhaps, that he has not left?”

Hawke took the drink and raised the tankard at her with a smile.
“You’re too kind.” He murmured.

He and Leliana sat at one of the tables where they had a view into the back of the room where indeed, an elf in armour was sitting alone. He didn’t touch his drink and he seemed very intent on not making eye contact with anyone. Hawke hadn’t even realised he was there when he’d threatened Lloyd, and the elf hadn’t seemingly reacted to the possibility of free drinks. Every so often his hand would go to his belt and the pouch there.

“Something of value?” Hawke muttered. Leliana shook her head.

“I don’t think so. Talk to him - distract him. I’ll find out what he’s got.”

Hawke nodded and stood up, taking his half-finished ale and plonking it down on the table before the elf, who jumped at being disturbed.

“Ah - um, no thank you. I don’t want company.”

“Why not?” Hawke asked, sitting himself down. “You’re not with the militia? You’re certainly dressed like a soldier.”

The elf sneered, just a little.
“I am not.” He said. “And you, I must say, aren’t dressed like a Warden.”

Hawke shrugged.
“Not one, technically. Been conscripted but not gone through all the ceremonies. Something about most of them being dead and there being a Blight on. I’m sure we’ll get to it.”

The elf eyed him.
“Which just makes you an apostate, does it not?”

“If it helps,” Hawke said, “One of the Wardens in Redcliffe is a former Templar. I’m sure he’ll know what to do if I suddenly start consorting with demons. Or - and I’m just spitballing here - we could focus on the important things. Like the undead.”

Behind him, Leliana had somehow procured a letter and was reading it.

“Or,” she said with false casualness, “A spy who knows what’s happening up in the Castle.”

Berwick openly flinched and Hawke raised an eyebrow.
“How do -

He shut up and turned to look at Leliana who waved the note under his face. Hawke was aware of the militia in the other room all falling silent, watching. At least one man was holding the hilt of his sword.

“Who sent you?”

“Look,” the man said uneasily, “I don’t know what’s happening up at the Castle. I was just paid to watch, and report back - and I can’t even do that with these undead everywhere. It’s not what it looks like.”

Hawke tilted his head considering the man. The panicked strain in his voice sounded genuine.

“So, someone - and I think we can guess who if we followed the trail - paid you to sit here and watch the castle and we’re meant to believe you don’t know what’s happening?”

“I swear,” Berwick protested, “All I know is the Arl was ill and then the undead started attacking. I’m as trapped here as everyone else.”

Hawke considered that. The letter wasn’t evidence that Loghain had poisoned Arl Eamon, but it was evidence he knew something was happening at Redcliffe castle - and that the undead hadn’t been part of the plan.

There was another mage in Redcliffe, he was sure of it. And not one in control of themselves. He looked up at Leliana.

“We’ll take him to Ailsa and Bann Teagan. They need to know.”

Berwick looked as if he were about to fight, but then he glanced again at the three militia men and slumped. Leliana tucked the letter into her pocket.

“I’m glad you wanted a drink, Hawke.” Is all she said.

Chapter Text

Somehow, they survived the night.

Hawke had never been in a battle before, not really. A couple of darkspawn ambushes didn’t really count. The undead just kept coming - walking through the fire traps they’d laid down as if they were nothing.

He saw the mayor go down and tried to fight his way over there, to drag him back from the front line, but there wasn’t much of the man left by the time Hawke reached him. In the aftermath, he’d had to sit on the Chantry steps and remember how to breathe. He could still hear the man screaming.

Alistair came and sat next to him.
“You doing alright?”

Hawke swallowed and nodded. He wanted to vomit.
“My first real fight,” Alistair said quietly, looking around to ensure no one could overhear, “Afterwards, I walked out of camp and just cried. Nothing prepares you. But you get used to it, in the end.”

Hawke didn’t think he’d ever get used to it. Less than a fortnight ago, he’d been planning to run from the darkspawn, had been drawing together supplies for the long trip north. Now here he was, fighting the undead, and worse.

They caught a few hours sleep, just before dawn, in the back of the Chantry. Alistair found Hawke another blanket and Leliana stayed close, offering her hand without a word. She looked grim, but she’d clearly seen death before. Hawke, it seemed, was the anomaly in the group. When he closed his eyes, he could see the blank, vacant stares of those who had died defending Redcliffe.

He slept in snatches and was up with the rest of them - even if he didn’t manage to eat the rations Sten handed out.

Hawke stayed near the Chantry, helping Leliana with the dead. Sten was talking with the remains of the militia, helping to patch the defences. Ailsa and the others had disappeared up the hill to speak with Bann Teagan.

She reappeared after a bit, frowning.

“We have a way into the castle,” she said quietly, ensuring they weren’t about to be overheard. “I want you with me.”

Hawke blinked.
“Me? Why?”

“Blood magic or demons, you said yesterday.” Ailsa said. “Let’s see if you’re right.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.
“Morrigan refused to help again, didn’t she?”

The elf rolled her eyes.
“Don’t even know why she bloody agreed to come with us.”

Hawke accompanied her back up the hill to where Alistair and Cabbage were waiting. Cabbage barked at him and he took a moment to scratch at the war dog's ears. He’d been very glad to see the dog unharmed at the end of the battle.

They entered the castle through the hidden passageway, under the mill. Ailsa brought Hawke briefly up to speed - of Lady Isolde’s sudden appearance and highly suspicious behaviour.

“She mentioned a mage,” Ailsa said, “Which fits with your theory.”

The entrance came up in the prison and they soon found themselves face to face with the mage in question, alone in a cell.

Lady Isolde hired me to tutor her son, Connor.

Hawke groaned.

“So a kid whose father is dying starts developing signs of magic?” He said. “Ailsa, I think we’re dealing with an abomination.”

“Connor? A mage? I can’t believe it.” Alistair said, and Hawke realised with a guilty twist that Alistair likely knew the kid in question.

Ailsa eyed him.
“You seem certain, Hawke.”

Hawke tried not to think of his own awakening, of the panic and uncertainty so close on the heels of Bethany. He tried not to think of his father dying, not three years ago.

“Look,” he said, trying to keep the edge from his voice, “I know a few things about this. I know manifesting your magic is terrifying. I know losing your father is terrifying. And I know that both happening, at the same time and with limited support, is only going to go badly.”

Ailsa nodded and looked back to Jowan in the cell.

“Connor has little knowledge of magic, but he may have done something out of ignorance.” The mage said reluctantly. “Maker, I never meant for it to end like this, I swear. Let me help you fix this.”

Ailsa glared at him.
“I’m not letting an apostate who tried to kill the Arl out of any damn cell.”

“Please,” Jowan begged, “I was just following orders. Teryn Loghain - he said he’d help settle matters with the Circle.”

Hawke frowned, even as Ailsa cursed at the confession.

“The Circle? Did you run away?”

Jowan hesitated.
“I - I made a mistake. I dabbled in blood magic. When they found out - I had to run. I thought Loghain was giving me a chance to redeem myself.”

“A blood mage!” Alistair said, hand going to the hilt of his sword. “Maker.”

“You seem to make a lot of mistakes,” Hawke said, “Trusting Loghain, poisoning the arl, dabbling in blood magic…”

“Alright, Alright!” Jowan said hastily, “You’ve made your point. I - I am not a good person. But I want to make amends. Please. Please let me help.”

“No.” Ailsa said, firmly. “I don’t trust you, and I don’t believe you. Come on you two. Let’s go see if we can find Connor.”

“I pray you’re wrong, Hawke.” Alistair said, heavily. “He’s just a boy.”

Hawke hesitated as they walked away, down the cells. Bethany had been nine. He’d been thirteen. All mages were just children, once, and most came into their powers around those ages. And every mage that was found was taken away, forcibly removed from their parents and thrown into the Circle. The youngest his father had known in the Gallows had been five.

He forced the anger and hurt down and followed Ailsa.

In the courtyard, they found more undead waiting for them. And Ser Perth and his knights waiting for them on the other side of the drawbridge. Hawke made a break for the lever before turning, summoning a gout of flame that took out a skeleton that had been shambling towards them. They’d be glad of the support if it came to a fight with a demon inside.

“Ser Perth,” Ailsa said, pulling one of her daggers free of a skeleton and checking the blade for damage, “We have reason to suspect that the Arl’s son is behind this.”

“C-Connor?”

“We think he is a mage, newly come into his talents,” Hawke said hurriedly, “With the fear of his father’s illness, it’s possible he’s come under the influence of a demon.”

“Maker.” Ser Perth said, looking pale. “I … I knew he had a new tutor. Weasley fellow, seemed a bit damp.”

“He’s in the cells.” Alistair said, drinking a healing potion where a skeleton had got a lucky blow to his shield arm. “Confessed to poisoning the Arl on Teryn Loghain’s orders.”

“I plan to find Connor,” Ailsa said, “And do what is necessary to stop this madness.”

Alistair looked faintly sick.
“He’s a child, Ailsa.”

“As was I.” Hawke said, with a heavy sigh. “As was my sister - and my father, once. None of us accepted a deal with a demon.”

“Enough,” Ailsa said. “Ser Perth, are you with us?”

The knight looked torn, but he stared down at the skeletons and gave a nod.
“We follow Arl Eamon. If this is what keeps Redcliffe safe…”

He trailed off, and together the group walked into the Fortress.

Hawke didn’t have much experience with abominations, but Connor was one, that much was clear. Everything was wrong - from the way he could compel his Uncle to act the Fool, to the timbre of his voice, to the way he moved, like he wasn’t used to his own body. Hawke’s skin crawled. Was that what he could be, if he ever slipped? He understood the kid’s fear and anguish - could understand how he’d been driven to this. When Connor’s eyes turned on him, he wanted to look away.

“This woman spoiled my sport with that stupid village, and now she’ll pay!”

Bann Teagan and the guards moved forwards, weapons drawn and Ser Perth cried out to try and take the Lord’s brother alive. Hawke backed up, fast, and concentrated on the guards. He didn’t know how to help Teagan regain sense of himself.

Apparently, a heavy smack on the head with Alistair’s shield did the job, dropping him to the floor like a sack of potatoes before he sat up, blinking stupidly.

Isolde still believed Connor could be saved.
“I didn’t tell you because I believed we could help him. I still do.”

Hawke closed his eyes. The desperation of a mother. He could remember how tightly Leandra had held Bethany as they’d fled in the night.

“The boy is an abomination.” He said, heavily. “There is only one way to stop it.”

“He is not always the demon you saw. Connor is still inside him, and sometimes he breaks through. Please - I just want to protect him! I don’t want to lose my son! Not to magic!”

“I know,” Alistair said, “I’m so sorry, my Lady.”

They argued. The demon seemed to be keeping Eamon alive for the bargain with Connor, and Isolde was desperate to try anything that wasn’t killing him - including involving the blood mage down in the cellar.

“You can’t trust him,” Hawke argued, “He poisoned your husband. He’s a blood mage.”

Isolde wouldn’t listen, though, and Jowan was dutifully brought up. He proposed a ritual that would send a mage into the Fade to fight the demon, severing the connection between it and ritual. It used blood magic - and required not only Hawke’s agreement as the only other mage in the Castle, but a blood sacrifice.

“No.” Hawke said flatly. “Absolutely not. I won’t be part of a blood magic ritual. I won’t let someone die for this.”

Ailsa sighed.
“So. Do we kill him?”

Isolde let out a whimper and Hawke couldn’t look at her. He couldn’t tell if he was furious with her for how this had played out or sympathetic to her desperation.

Bann Teagan hesitated.
“There is the Circle. A day’s journey, across the lake. If they could provide lyrium and one of the more Senior Enchanters…”

“You would risk the village for this?” Ailsa asked, frowning. “Two days is a long time to hold out against the undead horde.”

The Bann grimaced.
“If we clear out the remains of the undead in the Castle, there shouldn’t be enough corpses left for the demon to manipulate. Ser Perth and I can keep the village safe for a few days.”

Ailsa looked at Hawke.
“Could it work?”

“It’s a better option than blood magic.” He said. “But still a risk. What if we come back too late?”

Ailsa closed her eyes and breathed out slowly.
“If we kill Connor, Eamon will likely die as well, and with it our best hope of challenging Loghain. We head to the Circle.”

Chapter Text

No one was allowed across the Lake to the Circle. The ferryman was rather disgruntled about it, and Leliana offered to buy him a drink in the tavern to get his story. Something was wrong, up in the Tower, said the man. Mage business.

“I’ve got a plan.” Ailsa said as they sat in The Spoiled Princess, considering their options. “Hawke, come here.”

Hawke finished his drink and scraped back his chair to move to the other end, where Ailsa was sitting. She regarded him for a moment, before drawing back her fist and punching him straight in the face, breaking his nose.

Carroll absolutely bought the story that Hawke was an apostate that the others were escorting to the tower, mostly because Hawke was swearing up a storm at Ailsa and Alistair was doing his best impression of an actual Templar to keep him from hitting her back. On the row boat, Leliana squeezed Hawke’s knee in silent apology.

Ailsa slipped him a healing potion before they entered the Tower and winked at him.

“Next time,” he muttered, “Use Morrigan as your mage-bait.”

She laughed, and pushed open the doors.

She wasn’t laughing a few minutes later, deep in discussion with the Knight-Commander about the state of the tower.

I shall speak plainly: the tower is no longer under our control. Abominations and demons stalk the tower’s halls.

“This,” Sten said, frowning, “Is why we cut the tongues from mages, in Par Vollen.”

Hawke had opened his mouth to say that they needed to help, that they needed to do something, and shut it again, rapidly, eyes wide at the Qunari. Maker, they cut out mages’ tongues?

Ailsa raised a hand in a gesture that meant she wanted them all to shut up before a fight could erupt. Hawke took half a step away from the giant warrior, towards Leliana, who looked just as horrified as he felt.

“What happened here?”

Knight-Commander Greagoir didn’t seem to know - only that the result had been disastrous. He was waiting for reinforcements and the Right of Annulment - everything in the tower had to be eliminated.

Hawke couldn’t hold his tongue then, Sten be damned.

“You can’t.” He blurted out, “That’s monstrous. There are innocent people up there!”

The Knight-Commander eyed him, and Hawke wanted to shrink back on instinct. He’d spent so many years of his life avoiding Templars that standing here, in the Circle, under their gaze made his skin crawl. Maker, what would have happened to him if Ailsa hadn’t intervened in Lothering? Would he be trapped behind that door, waiting to die at the hands of the Templars or the demons?

Alistair spoke.
“The mages are probably already dead.” He said gravely, “Any abominations remaining in there must be dealt with, no matter what.”

“You don’t know that.” Hawke argued. “No one can know that. Ailsa, please - we have to stop this.”

The dalish elf was frowning. She eyed the Knight-Commander.
“The Warden treaty is with this Circle. It makes no difference to me if I have mages or Templars at my side to fight the Blight, but we came to secure the help of the First Enchanter with a matter in Redcliffe. Allow me access to the Tower and I will investigate.”

Hawke bit his tongue so hard he thought he would draw blood. Investigate wasn’t a commitment to help. If they entered through those doors, and Ailsa decided to support the Templars in their annulment…

The Knight-Commander agreed and Hawke could feel his heart pounding in his chest as they walked up to the doors that sealed the tower off from the outside world. Greagoir went to turn away and Hawke suddenly thought of something.

“Wait - I have a cousin. Daylen Amell. He should be here -

Greagoir frowned at him.
“Daylen? He’s in solitary awaiting trial for his part in helping a blood mage escape. Maker, I’d forgotten he was down there in all this chaos.”

Hawke stared at him. The templars had forgotten they had a prisoner?

Leliana spoke.
“Well that can’t be a coincidence. Was the blood mage named Jowan by some chance?”

“Yes - how did you -

“He’s in the cells at Redcliffe Castle,” Ailsa said. “If we get through this, you can go pick him up. Hawke - we’ll find your cousin.”

Then she was pushing open the huge doors and striding into the Tower.

Hawke followed her, still horrified. The chaos in the Tower had been going on for days. What were the chances his cousin was still alive, down in the cells? Another family member, probably dead. His world was shrinking away to nothing but this cause.

Nothing but Ailsa, and she was holding the fate of the whole Circle in her hands.

The demon tearing through the barrier in the hall took a stonefist to the face so hard it fell back, but Hawke only had eyes for the fact there were children here, children abandoned to their fate as abominations by the Templars. An older woman with white hair finished the demon off with a spell of ice, before turning and facing Ailsa, eyes widening in surprise.

“It’s you,” she said, before raising out a hand, “No, come no closer. Grey Warden or no, if you mean harm to us, I will strike you down where you stand.”

“Wynne?” Ailsa said, frowning. “I came here with the treaties seeking help. Got more than I bargained for.”

Wynne sighed softly.
“We are in no shape to help, I’m afraid. But why did the Templars let you in? Do they plan to attack?”

Hawke didn’t know how they knew each other, but he relaxed, just a little, to hear them talking reasonably. He eyed the barrier over the archway. It was powerful - more than something he could manage. And this Enchanter appeared to be maintaining it. She was strong, no doubt about that, in both magic and in will. To be standing, to be protecting the children, even now? She was proving Greagoir and Alistair wrong. Hopefully this wasn’t the only pocket of resistance.

Wynne explained that a mage named Uldred had rebelled, relying on blood magic and demons to do so.

“I will not lose the Circle to one man’s pride and stupidity.” She said.

Hawke glanced at Ailsa and saw her nod, once. He held his tongue.

“Leave it to us,” she said, “We will help you.”

Leliana squeezed Hawke’s hand and he looked at her, grateful for her support. But she was nodding her head towards a door that appeared to go down, into a basement. Hawke stared for a moment. The cells.

“Wait,” Hawke said, turning to Wynne, “Does that lead to the cells? My cousin - Knight-Commander Greagoir said he was down there.”

Wynne blinked at him and then frowned.
“Your cousin? I was not aware of this. Come quickly, Serah - it may be too late.”

Ailsa looked at the rest of their companions.
“Stay here,” she said, “Protect the children.”

At least, Hawke thought numbly, the cells were the right side of Wynne’s barrier. But how long had he been down there alone?

Wynne strode at the front, but she spoke to Hawke.
“I could sense the magic in you, young man, even if I had not seen you cast that spell at the demon. Are you a Warden?”

Hawke swallowed.
“Ah - no. Not technically.”

Wynne paused, regarding him.
“An apostate.” She said, although her tone held no judgement. “How did you survive out there for so long when your cousin did not?”

Hawke breathed out.
“It’s complicated. He’s from the Kirkwall nobility branch of the family, not the eloped-with-a-Ferelden-apostate branch. We’ve never actually met. But… he might be the only family I have, now.”

Ailsa looked at him and shook her head.
“At some point,” she said, “You’re going to sit down with Leliana and tell that story. She’ll love it.”

They were down in the cells now, the temperature dropping with every turn of the staircase. Four cells stood empty, but a door in the far wall was locked and bolted from the outside. Hawke hurried forwards.

“Daylen? Daylen?”

Nothing, for a heartbeat, then a quiet, weak voice came through the door.

“Who - who’s there?”

Ailsa dropped to her knees before the lock, picks already in hand.

“We’re here to get you out.” She said, “Although it might actually be safer in there.”

There was a small noise that might have been a sob.
“If there’s food and drink out there, I’ll take the risk.”

Ailsa got the door open and pulled it back to reveal a cell barely large enough to hold a person. A straw mattress was against one wall and a bucket against the other. The smell was acrid.

Hawke stared at the man who was his cousin. He might have been handsome, but days alone in solitary had left him half-starved and wild. His dark hair was redder than Hawke’s own, and his eyes were grey. Hurriedly, Hawke offered him a waterskin.

“Drink.” He said, “There are rations upstairs.”

Daylen drank greedily, and then wiped his mouth, looking between the three of them.

“Senior Enchanter,” he said, “What - what is happening? I heard screaming, and then nobody… nobody came.”

Wynne stepped forwards and Hawke felt the shift and whirl of the veil around her. Magic flared, and Daylen seemed to stand a little straighter. Healing, of some kind then.

“The Circle is under attack,” Wynne said, “From blood mages.”

Daylen flinched.
“Shit - did Jowan -”

“He’s in the dungeons at Redcliffe castle,” Hawke said hurriedly, “This isn’t on you.”

“We’re trying to save as many mages as possible.” Ailsa said, “And, shit choice of friends aside, that includes you. Come on.”

Daylen stared at her, at her facial tattoos and daggers.
“Who… who are you?”

“Ailsa Maheriel, Grey Warden.” Ailsa said shortly. “And this is your cousin, Garrett Hawke.”

Daylen’s eyes swivelled to Hawke who gave a shaky smile.
“Leandra’s son?”

“That’s me,” Hawke said. “Charming place, the Circle. Glad father escaped. Glad I didn’t end up here.”

He was babbling, a little. But fuck, the Circle had been a shadowy fear of the periphery of his life since he was old enough to understand that his father had escaped a prison of sorts, and so far, this situation had done nothing to ease his mind. The Templars, willing to abandon innocent mages - to kill innocent mages. They had abandoned his cousin, and Daylen would have died quickly, down in solitary with no access to food or drink.

Ailsa squeezed Hawke’s arm.

“Come on,” she said, “Let’s get Daylen back to the hall. He can wait with the others whilst we stop this chaos.”

Chapter Text

Hawke knew it was a dream the moment he saw Bethany and Carver coming out of the house.

He was back in Lothering, back home, with Pumpkin jumping up at him, stretching to lick at his face. He’d been away for a while, but he was home now - and he wouldn’t be leaving again. Hawke knelt on the ground and let the dog fuss over him, utterly relieved to see her. He’d missed her. He’d missed her so much.

The sun beat down overhead, one of the lovely warm summer days in Ferelden, between the rain and the cold. Several chickens clucked and strutted around the front of the house, ignoring Pumpkin as they searched for misplaced seed. It was peaceful. Quiet. Content.

Hawke stared at his siblings and wished he could pretend this was real.

Carver didn’t snipe at him, that was the first clue. In fact, his brother was all too friendly and happy to see him, asking about his adventures with an enthusiasm that struck Hawke as false. Bethany was a little more believable - except she didn’t ask if he’d been safe, if he’d avoided notice. She worried about him, more than she worried about herself. And with good reason - Hawke had a habit of backchat and taking risks. Even if he hadn’t been a mage, it would be all too easy for his mouth to get him in trouble.

At least, he thought as he closed his eyes to the scene, trying to will it to disperse, as he usually could in the Fade, at least the demon hadn’t tried to paint his father into the scene.

When he opened his eyes, everything was still there. Bethany was looking at him worriedly.

“Are you well?” She asked.

“You’re…. You’re not real.” Hawke said, the words ash on his tongue. “Carver you - you went to Ostagar. Lothering is gone. I don’t - I don’t even know if you’re all alive.”

Carver laughed, an awkward chuckle.
“Did you hit your head on your travels?” He said, throwing an arm around Hawke. “King Cailin won, remember? Stopped the Blight before it could even truly begin.”

For a moment, it was real. A world in which Loghain hadn’t betrayed the King - a world in which the Wardens had killed the Archdemon and saved Ferelden. Carver had come home a hero. Hawke had never been spotted by the Templars.

Hawke shook his head, stubbornly. No. He was dreaming. It was all a little fuzzy, a little distant, but he could remember standing before a demon, the will draining out of him. He could remember a tower.

There had been death, and destruction and something awful, waiting for them at the top.

“No,” he said, “This isn’t - Maker, this isn’t real.”

He wanted it to be though, and that was almost as dangerous as the lie itself. All it would take would be him closing his eyes and accepting this, and it would be his. His mother would be in the farm house, alive. They could live as they always had.

He wanted it so much he couldn’t breathe.

“Should have known you’d figure it out.” Said a voice behind him.

Hawke whirled to find a Dalish elf standing at the entrance to the farm, arms crossed as she regarded him.

“Who -

It came to him.

“Ailsa? How did you get here?”

Her eyes flicked to the scene before her.
“Not too dissimilar from Alistair’s.” She said, “Although it seems you were a happy family to begin with.”

Hawke managed a tremulous smile.
“That’s what clued me in. Carver’s an arse in real life.”

His ‘brother’ protested behind him and Hawke wished, more than anything, that the demon had been smarter. That he could stay here, in denial. And fuck, that scared him. They had never had a pull before. They’d never had something to hurt him with.

Ailsa snorted and drew her daggers.
“Come on then,” she said to Carver, “Let’s get this over with.”

It was a dream, Hawke knew, but that didn’t make it any less hard when his siblings shifted into demons and attacked. The image of Bethany twisting into a rage demon would stay with him, he knew.

When Hawke came round, back in the tower, there were tears on his face as he sat up. His family were most likely dead, and even if they had somehow escaped, he would never see them again.

Beside him, Alistair groaned and rubbed at his forehead.

“Fucking demons.”

Hawke exhaled sharply and looked up to find Ailsa offering him a hand. He took it gratefully, before rubbing the tears from his face. No one else seemed to be crying. Alistair looked angry, and Wynne reflective. Hawke tried to pull himself back under control.

“You good?” Ailsa asked.

Hawke swallowed and searched for a joke, a quip that would deflect.
“I will be. Hardly the first time a demon tried to use my family against me.”

Alistair looked at him as he stood up himself, hand going to the hilt of his sword almost instinctively.

“Is that - is that what it’s like, every time?”

“No,” Hawke admitted, “Usually it’s more obvious. Once you deny it, it goes.”

He wanted to make a joke about the last desire demon he’d encountered trying to mimic Alistair’s looks but getting the blush all wrong, but he suspected Alistair felt as frayed as he did and wouldn’t take well to being flirted with. Instead he looked away to give Alistair privacy to brace himself.

They took a moment to regroup, and Hawke took the time to breathe, to remember the mental cues and techniques his father had taught him to help maintain control. An irrational, scared mage could lead to more trouble ahead. Hawke didn’t think he was about to succumb to demons or blood magic, but he felt fragile and wounded, and clever demons could use that. Wynne too, looked as if she was trying to recenter herself. Ailsa was searching Niall’s body for the Litany that might help protect them from the blood mages ahead.

They hadn’t found any living mages that weren’t on Uldred’s side. They were on the fourth floor, and there wasn’t much above them at this point. Just the Harrowing chamber, according to Wynne. It didn’t bode well for the Circle. They’d searched most rooms and found more demons and the dead than anything. Hawke tried not to think of how many people had been living in the tower before Uldred attacked. How many people were now dead, or worse.

They’d left half the group behind, defending the few remaining mages and the children. Hawke wished now that they were with them. Even Sten.

Well, maybe not Sten. Cutting out mages tongues? It was enough to make Hawke start the breathing exercise again.

“Got it,” Ailsa said, “Wynne - think this might be best with you, considering.”

Wynne took the scroll and skimmed through it, lips moving as she considered the weight of the words.

“This should protect us from blood magic,” she said, nodding, “It may give us an advantage against Uldred.”

Hawke wondered exactly how Chantry Verse could counteract something as powerful as blood magic, but he didn’t vocalise his scepticism.

Ailsa gave Alistair’s arm a gentle squeeze.
“Ready to carry on?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” The other Warden said, looking grim.

Hawke simply nodded and followed.

He was not prepared though for the Templar in the cage of magic, driven all but mad in his desperate attempts to stay alive, to resist the blood mages. Hawke had spent his whole life being taught that magic was not something to fear - that mages that were well-taught and disciplined were no more dangerous than anyone else. But the Tower had been challenging that opinion every step of the way, knowing that the chaos had been unleashed by one of the Senior Enchanters, simply because his ambition had gone too far. Would there always be mages who would stoop so low?

Looking at Knight-Templar Cullen in the prison, surrounded by the bodies of dead Templars, listening to him deny that they were real - that they weren’t illusions, conjured to break him - Hawke wasn’t so sure magic wasn’t something to be feared.

Even so, he wasn’t prepared for when the young man - young enough that he couldn’t be much older than Carver - argued that none of the mages could be saved.

“You can’t save them. You don’t know what they’ve become.”

Hawke shot an uneasy look at Ailsa.
“Uldred needs to die,” he said, uncertainly, “But Irving? The others?”

“They’ve been surrounded by blood mages,” Cullen argued, “Their wicked fingers snake into your mind and corrupt your thoughts. They’re not safe.”

Hawke took half a step back, away from the edge of the barrier, even with the Templar trapped. Not safe. Maker, how safe was this man, driven to madness? If the magical prison came down, would he attack him and Wynne, just for being mages? Had Uldred driven a once reasonable man to the edge of wild, desperate fanaticism - and were they about to set him free?

Wynne was talking, of torture and hatred and fear. Cullen’s face showed the same signs of deprivation as Daylen’s had done. To have lasted so long - was it any wonder he was half-mad with hate?

“I am thinking clearly,” Cullen insisted, “Perhaps for the first time in my life.”

“Fuck,” Hawke muttered, “Best to not introduce him to Sten, Ailsa, they’ll share ideas.”

The dalish elf looked unamused.
“I will save those I can, Templar.” She said, arms folded. She was a good head and a bit shorter than him, but she still seemed to command the conversation.

“Are you really saving anyone by taking this risk?” Cullen asked. “To ensure this is over - to guarantee no blood mage or abominations live - they must all be killed.”

“No,” Hawke growled at the same time that Ailsa sighed and shook her head.

“There is no reasoning with you. Good thing you’re still in that bloody cage, isn’t it?”

Then she turned away and started walking up the steps to the Harrowing Chamber. Hawke hesitated, just a moment, before looking at Cullen who was watching her go like a man awaiting execution.

“If we survive up there,” he said, “Try not to kill Wynne and I when we come back down.”

“Hawke,” Ailsa called from further ahead. “Stop prodding.”

The Templar glared at him with absolute and genuine hatred. Hawke swallowed and followed Ailsa up the stairs into the Harrowing Chamber.

“No one ever listens,” Cullen muttered as Hawke walked away. “Not until it’s far too late.”

They walked into the chamber to find Uldred torturing a mage, and Hawke almost wanted to go back and apologise to the poor sod. Almost.

Chapter Text

They stayed that night in The Spoiled Princess, and Hawke wasn’t the only one drinking heavily.

They’d won the day. The Tower was safe and the remaining mages were free, despite Cullen’s continued protests to the contrary. First Enchanter Irving was travelling with them along with a shipment of lyrium so that he could attempt to save Connor. But Hawke still felt as if the ground had given way under his feet.

Alistair was several pints down, staring glumly at his drink. Ailsa had sharpened her blades to the point that they could probably cut air, if she tried hard enough. And Wynne had a pint of her own clutched in her hands.

Leliana leant over and gave a smile.

“Ailsa tells me you have a story, Hawke. About your parents.”

Hawke blinked and flicked his gaze to the elf.
“You really want to hear more?”

Ailsa looked up and resheathed her knife.
“You’ve been holding out on us, blue blood.”

Hawke groaned as Alistair looked up, faintly startled.
“Shit, fine, whatever. Right - so my mother was born into the Amell family in Kirkwall…”

The story of his parents meeting, dramatic love affair and eventual elopement eased the mood, somewhat. Or at least it distracted from it. When he was done, several of the group made their excuses to head upstairs to sleep. Soon, it was just him, Alistair and Sten left downstairs.

Hawke eyed the remains of his drink. Not much. He downed the rest and pushed it away, trying to remember how many he’d had. Leliana had definitely bought him at least one more around the time he was telling of his parent’s fleeing Kirkwall. Standing up might be interesting.

Still, he had something to say to Sten. Something that had been on the tip of his tongue all evening. His tongue, he thought bitterly, that Sten would rather he didn’t have.

“You know,” he said, looking the Qunari up and down. “When we talked before. You said I did not seem to think I was a threat.”

Sten’s eyes narrowed, just a little, but he nodded without speaking. Alistair lowered his tankard from where he’d been about to take another drink, eyeing them both.

“I think I get it now.” Hawke said, quietly. “I - I grew up with my father teaching me how to be a good man - a good mage. But that, today - what we saw - what they’d done to Cullen, and were going to do to Irving - maybe Mages are dangerous.”

It didn’t justify the Circle. It didn’t justify what Templars did when they abused their charges. Hawke had left out details of his father’s story, considering the audience that night. And it didn’t mean that Alistair, or Sten himself, were any less dangerous themselves. But before Redcliffe, Hawke had only ever heard the warning stories of abominations and blood mages. Meeting them, fighting them - witnessing their victims - was quite a different thing.

He swallowed and made himself look Sten in the eye. The Qunari regarded him for a moment before nodding.

“You are still unbound.” He said, “But you begin to understand.”

Hawke didn’t think he was about to join Sten’s side of the argument anytime soon. But he nodded, then excused himself to head up stairs. He heard Alistair’s heavy exhale of relief as he went that the conversation hadn’t got any more fraught than that.

He didn’t sleep much that night, between the drink and the nightmares. When he joined the rest of them for breakfast, Wynne didn’t look that much more alert. She smiled gently at him and pushed a plate of sausage and eggs towards him.

“Eat up, Hawke. It’ll be another long day.”

He was relieved to still see Redcliffe still standing as they sailed back in - almost as relieved as he was to see the shore. Boats, it turned out, didn’t agree with him. Even boats on relatively still lakes.

Ailsa sent Irving and Wynne straight up to the Castle to prepare the ritual, but checked in herself with Ser Perth and Murdock. A couple of skeletons had staggered out of the lake, but nothing like the waves from before they’d managed to infiltrate the castle. It sounded as if they’d managed to destroy most of the demon’s army - which, Ailsa noted sourly as they walked through the gates to the Castle, just meant it would be mad.

They had enough lyrium to send exactly one mage into the Fade to face the demon, and only one shot at that. Irving looked tired as he said.

“I would suggest sending someone who has experience with demons.”

He meant, Hawke suspected, Wynne - in that she would have passed her Harrowing, many years ago. But Ailsa turned to him.

“You recognised Sloth for what it was in the Fade.” She said. “Fancy another trip?”

Morrigan muttered something about sending the least experienced, but she also didn’t volunteer herself. Wynne frowned, but seemingly more out of concern for Hawke than any sense of being passed over.

Hawke nodded, mouth dry. He’d refused to be part of a blood ritual to save the boy, but this? This he could do. He glanced at the First-Enchanter.

“Sure, why not. I had such fun denying Sloth, after all.”

It was Irving’s turn to frown at him.
“This is serious, young man. I do not doubt your skill having seen it first hand, but fighting a demon is no laughing matter.”

“Ah you get used to me.” Hawke said with a shrug. “Come on, let’s do this. Any last words of advice?”

The First-Enchanter sighed.
“It truly depends on the manner of the demon. It sounds like a spirit of greed and desire, one of the most powerful in the hierarchy. It will likely engage you in dialog and tempt you with an offer. Avoid it. Making deals with demons never turns out well. “

Hawke bit back his rather sarcastic response that his father had taught him even before he’d awakened as a mage. Instead he looked to Ailsa and nodded.

“I’m ready.”

This time, Hawke knew from the start that he was in the Fade. He wondered, briefly, if the ritual was similar to that used in the Harrowing. Around him, everything was covered in fog. He could hear someone calling Connor’s name and walked towards the voice, wary of being lured into a trap.

Arl Eamon stood in the fog, turning this way and that. When he spotted Hawke, he frowned suspiciously at him.

“You there. Have you seen my son? I can… I can hear him, but I cannot find him. This blasted fog has me turning in circles.”

Hawke considered for a moment. Clearly, the demon had trapped Eamon alongside his son. It would explain why he was so ill, and unable to wake.

“Stay put, Messere, I will find your son.”

Eamon’s frown deepened.
“Who - who are you? Where are we?”

“My name is Hawke - I’m a mage. I’m here on behalf of the Circle to save your son. Stay here - don’t get involved. It’ll be too dangerous for you.”

The man eyed him, then nodded once.
“You must help my son.”

Hawke heard a childish giggle from somewhere in the fog, and turned towards it. He walked towards the noise and caught a glimpse of Connor, disappearing into the mist. Steeling himself, Hawke went in pursuit.

Words floated to him through the mist.

Who are you?
Are you the one who made father ill?

Hawke didn’t answer. If Connor was here, it wasn’t him - it was the demon. Better to not speak, to not engage, until it grew frustrated and shifted form. Sure enough, the next words that reached him were angry with childish frustration.

Tell me now!

The fog cleared, and Hawke found himself standing before Connor, who glared at him.

“It is time for you to go now.” He said, in a voice too deep, too mature for his age. “Do not persist, or things will go badly for you.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow and gave a smile.

“Sorry, kid, I’m real stubborn.”

Connor turned and fled into the fog, and Hawke followed.

The next time they met, the demon shifted, and Hawke found himself standing before a nearly naked desire demon. The creature met his gaze for a moment, and Hawke watched as it shifted from a feminine form to one more masculine. He let his eyes linger on the creature’s abdomen, on the muscles there and trail of hair, for a moment before grinning.

“You could have kept the tits you know, this whole act isn’t going to work regardless.”

Irritation flickered over the demon’s face as it shifted back to vulpine.

“Very well - no more illusions. You see my true form and stand in my domain. Shall we converse?”

Hawke gripped his staff. Conversing wasn’t really his plan. He hadn’t needed Irving to tell him that talking with a desire demon was a bad move.

“Not so much.” He said, before summoning fire.

The demon screeched in fury and the sound rang in Hawke’s ears. Then Hawke was fighting for his life, and whilst he’d expected a fight, he hadn’t expected one quite so fierce.

He threw up a barrier as the demon’s claws ripped towards him, and managed to pull another gout of flame at the creature before backing up, spinning his staff to try and keep it at bay. The desire demon hissed as it burned, and the smell of burnt flesh was different here, sweeter and sicklier at the same time. Hawke gathered at the Fade around him and formed a fist, smashing it into the desire demon as it tried to hit him with a spell of its own. His blow knocked it off-balance, and the spell shot past his ear, into the fog.

The demon died, body burned and raw, with Hawke’s staff blade stabbed through its chest, but not before it had managed to catch him with a spell of its own, leaving his mind reeling with horrors and his body weak with something that seemed to cling to his soul, dragging him down.. The scene faded and Hawke staggered in the Castle throne room. Alistair was there to catch him.

Alistair. Real, strong, comforting. Not anything terrifying. He was back, he reassured himself as reality reasserted itself.

“My hero.” Hawke muttered, before pulling himself up right. Lady Isolde was looking at him, wide eyed with terror.

His nose was bleeding, he realised. Ailsa handed him a rag as he forced himself to stay upright.

“Are you well, Hawke?” Wynne asked.

Hawke shoved the rag to his bleeding nose.
“Never better.” He managed. “Someone go check on Connor. I think he’ll be alright.”

Chapter Text

The ambush was not a subtle one, and Alistair brought his shield down on the head of the handsome elf, knocking him to the ground. Hawke let the barrier around Ailsa fade as Sten dispatched the last of their attackers.

She walked over to the elf and crouched down.

“Still breathing. Wynne - heal him.”

Wynne looked as if she’d rather not, and Alistair was protesting, but Hawke watched as Ailsa removed the other elf’s daggers and checked for other, less obvious weapons. An interrogation was sensible, considering.

She had his hands tied with rope before nodding to Wynne to fix the elf’s bleeding skull.

His response upon waking startled Hawke.

“Oh. I rather thought I would wake up dead, or not wake up at all, as the case may be. But I see you haven’t killed me yet.”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed. There was something to the elf’s voice, a layer of humour there that hid an edge. What kind of attacker didn’t expect to win?

Ailsa crouched down at his level and tattooed dalish elf met the gaze of tattooed city elf.

“Who are you? Talk, now.”

She had one of his daggers in her hands. He must have got enough of a view of her skills before going down to know not to mess with her.

“Ah, not one for chit-chat, I can respect that. My name is Zevran - Zev to my friends. I am a member of the Antivan Crows, sent to slay any surviving Grey Wardens. Which, as you can see, I have failed at.”

Ailsa frowned.
“Who are the Antivan Crows?”

“You don’t know?” Zevran asked, startled.

“Dalish,” Ailsa said with a shrug. “And it’s not as if I’ve been across the Waking Sea is it?”

Leliana piped up.
“The Crows are an order of assassins - very powerful and renowned for always getting the job done. Someone went to great expense to hire this man.”

Ailsa snorted.
“Not very good assassins, clearly.”

Hawke gave a chuckle, despite the situation. She was so damn unfazed to have an assassin from one of the most dangerous groups in Thedas. He’d only ever heard of them in stories - the kind where King’s died and heroes didn’t win. Zevran’s eyes flicked momentarily to him before settling back on Ailsa.

“Ouch - is this what you Fereldens do? Mock your prisoners? Such cruelty.”

“Dalish,” Ailsa said again. “And we tend to skin our prisoners.”

She was lying, Hawke was fairly sure, but Zevran barely even blinked. Slowly, prodded by Ailsa, he explained that he’d been contracted by Loghain to kill them - and that Zevran was more than willing to offer his services to Ailsa instead. Apparently, he had no choice in joining the Crows - sold to them as a slave when still a child. They would kill him for failing his contract, so he was more than happy to change sides. Staying alive was paramount.

“I am skilled at many things,” the assassin was saying, before listing a selection of talents that included picking locks and massage. Hawke chuckled, and the elf’s eyes slid to him once again before shifting back to Ailsa.

He liked him. Yes, he was an assassin - and either a very bad one, or one very desperate to escape his personal circumstances. But there was something to his sense of humour, to the way he didn’t look afraid, or even desperate, when faced with Ailsa and her companions. Hawke wasn’t sure he could be trusted - he wasn’t an idiot - but considering Ailsa already counted murderers and apostates among her friends, he really wasn’t that more outrageous.

Ailsa had seemed to have reached a similar conclusion.

“Fine. You can come with us. But if I get even a hint that you’re about to try and kill us, trust me when I say I will gut you.”

Zevran blinked slowly and nodded, even as Alistair started protesting.

“What? You can’t be serious - this is a terrible idea.”

Ailsa turned her head to look at him, scowling a little.
“We could use him, Alistair. We’re not in a position to turn down help.”

“As evidenced by the murderer, two apostates and a former Chantry Sister.” Hawke pointed out helpfully.

Morrigan eyed the elf with distaste.
“I would examine your food and drink far more closely from now on, Ailsa, were I you.” She paused and then added. “Alistair, I’m sure yours will be fine.”

Hawke snorted. Their ongoing animosity was either going to be resolved when they fucked or when Alistair finally snapped and tried to kill her, and Hawke’s money was strongly on the latter. Ailsa rolled her eyes at the two of them and then unbound Zevran’s hands. She eyed him for a moment before offering him his daggers back.

When she helped pull him to his feet, Zevran gave her a rather serious, solemn vow of loyalty. She raised an eyebrow to hear it and then looked at the others.

“Why did none of you give me an oath like that when you joined up?” She said, her lips quirking into that wicked smile of hers.

Hawke folded his arms over his chest.
“I probably would have done to be fair, if it had been required. I really didn’t want to end up in the Circle. Or trapped for the darkspawn.”

Morrigan rolled his eyes.
“Desperate fools, both of you.”

“Alive desperate fools.” Hawke countered and Zevran gave him a knowing smile.

They set off, having stripped Zevran’s ambush of any useful resources including firewood. It was getting late, and they wouldn’t get much further that day, but they all agreed putting some distance between themselves and the corpses was a good idea. Ailsa filled Zevran in as they went - telling him that they were on their way to Denerim to try and find Brother Genitivi, who may or may not know the location of the Urn of Sacred Ashes. She sounded authoritative and confident, despite the fact that three nights before, Bann Teagan had had to explain exactly what those Ashes were meant to be. Whatever gaps her heritage had left, she was quick to understand what was important.

As dusk fell, Sten returned from scouting ahead and led them off the path to an abandoned farmer’s field. For a while, everyone was busy setting up tents, setting up a campfire and working together to cook some dinner. Hawke kept half an eye on Zevran, but if he was honest with himself, the others were doing a much better job of it, and Hawke’s attempts to watch the elf were often half-hearted and distracted. The elf had found time to clean the blood from his injuries off his face and without it, he was very handsome. At least once, Zevran looked up to meet his eyes and Hawke looked away, rapidly. Best to not be caught staring.

He offered to take first watch, and Ailsa nodded before offering to take second. As the evening drew on, the group scattered a little - Morrigan retreating to her tent with the grimoire Ailsa had found in Irving’s study, and Sten to practice drills a little outside the camp. Leliana told a few stories before Ailsa went to talk with Bodahn. Hawke wasn’t entirely sure why the dwarf was tagging along with them - it wasn’t as if they were the best source of income - but Ailsa seemed intrigued by Sandal’s talents and was willing to buy trinkets and nonsense that passed through Bodahn’s hands. This time she headed from the dwarf’s merchant wagon over to Morrigan’s tent, and when she came back she looked faintly pleased with herself. Whatever she’d brought to soothe the woman’s prickly nature had clearly been well received.

“You don’t buy me presents.” Hawke groused good-naturedly. “Is it because I get along with everyone?”

Ailsa raised an eyebrow at him.
“Everyone?” She repeated. “Should I leave you alone with Sten more often?”

Hawke wrinkled his nose.
“I would miss having a tongue.”

Zevran gave a low chuckle from across the campfire, but didn’t say anything. He’d been quiet most of the evening, clearly taking the time to work out his place in the group. Ailsa’s eyes flicked to him before looking back to Hawke.

“Okay, well. What kind of things do you like?” She asked, and the question startled Hawke. He hadn’t expected her to take him seriously.

“I… I don’t know.” He admitted, suddenly rather abashed. “I had to lead a rather quiet life before. Ale’s pretty good, and I’ve got a soft spot for Cabbage - the mabari, not the vegetable - but besides that? Leliana’s stories are fun…” He trailed off and gave an awkward shrug. “I suppose I’m rather boring.”

Ailsa snorted.
“Sure, I’ll keep an eye out for another mabari wandering around.”

She meant it kindly, but it just made Hawke think of Pumpkin, of his family. He shoved that thought away and gave his best smile.

“Morrigan would love that. I heard her berating Cabbage earlier for chewing on her unmentionables. She didn’t appreciate it when I said at least something was interested in the contents of her underwear.”

Zevran laughed openly that time and Hawke gave him a grin.

It didn’t take long for them to be the only two left at the campfire. Hawke could already hear Sten’s snoring from his tent. They’d picked up spares at Redcliffe so no one had to share anymore, and Zevran had had his own.

“Keeping me company?” Hawke asked quietly. “Or plotting our deaths?”

“Ah, apostate, you wound me.” Zevran said, placing a hand over his heart in theatrical fashion. “I gave Ailsa my word. Besides, I’m pretty sure you’re not a Warden, so you’re not part of my contract.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.
“That simple, huh?”

Zevran gave a laugh.
“I’m a simple guy.” He said. “Life is easier that way.”

“Not sure much is easy about this situation.” Hawke said. “We’ve faced abominations, blood mages, darkspawn… Crows…”

“With worse to come, no doubt.” Zevran said with a shrug. “But your leader, she is something, yes? She would have made a fine Crow.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment.” Hawke said slowly, “Although she is very good at killing things with those daggers of hers.”

Beside him, Cabbage gave a huff in his sleep and rolled over, shuffling closer to the fire. Hawke reached over and scratched absently at the hound’s belly. Zevran watched him.

“Fereldens and their dogs.” He said, shaking his head, bemused, “I will never understand.”

“Antivans and their murder.” Hawke replied with a wink. “I… could see the appeal.”

Zevran chuckled, low in the quiet camp.

“Good night, Hawke. I look forward to travelling with you.”

Chapter Text

Hawke had never seen anywhere quite like Denerim.

He’d grown up in small villages and towns, and Redcliffe was probably the biggest settlement he’d ever seen. The sprawling streets of the capital were astonishing. The market square alone was about the size of the centre of Lothering.

Zevran caught sight of his wide-eyed wonder and gave a low chuckle.

“Oh? The country boy thinks he is worldly now because he’s seen Denerim.” He said, loudly enough that Leliana could hear. The Orlesian bard laughed.

“Maker preserve him if he were to visit Val Royeaux, or even Halamshiral.”

“Antiva City would take his breath away.” Zevran agreed.

“Alright,” Hawke grumbled, trying to not look quite so lost in the hustle and bustle. “I notice you’re not poking fun at Ailsa.”

Their fearless leader didn’t look quite so fearless in the face of somewhere quite so big. Her tattoos and elven ears were drawing stares and whispers even more than her Warden uniform.

Zevran grinned at him. He too, was getting stares, although his seemed a little softened - a lingering glance, followed by a blush.
“Ah, but she is dangerous - and you are rather cute when you’re flustered, hmm?”

“Leave him be, Zevran.” Alistair said, “We can’t all be worldly like you.”

Hawke winked at the elven rogue.
“You can fluster me all you like, Zevran. Show me all your worldly tricks.”

“Stop it, Hawke.” Ailsa said, rolling her eyes. “Creators, I should have known you two would be as bad as each other.”

“I don’t think I’ve called attention to Wynne’s bosom recently.” Hawke protested. From behind him, he heard the older woman sigh.

It had taken several weeks of travel to make it to the capital - in which time, the group had faced several clusters of darkspawn, a wolf pack, and deserters from Cailin’s army turned bandits. Everyone had got a little more used to the idea of having an assassin who’d tried to kill them in their midst, even if only Hawke had responded to the near-constant flirting by trying to match the elf for every ribald joke and salacious line. Nothing had come of it - yet - but Hawke hadn’t failed to notice the way the elf’s eyes lingered now, considering him over the campfire most nights. Considering how the elf talked, he had to be getting bored of having only his hand for company.

They gathered near the Chantry Board and Hawke tried to push thoughts of Zevran aside, feeling faintly sinful. Alistair wanted to go and find his sister. Wynne wanted to refresh their supplies. Cabbage wanted to dig at the ground and sniff at every possible scent.

“Right.” Ailsa said, shrugging her satchel off her back and thrusting it at Wynne. “Go sort us out. Alistair and I will be back.”

Alistair was very obviously nervous. Hawke felt a little sorry for him. The King’s bastard, trying to introduce himself to his half-sister, whilst barely able to spit his words out didn’t exactly fill him with confidence. But there was something about the way Ailsa offered out a steadying hand, squeezing his forearm as they walked away, that was endearing, really.

Zevran watched too.
“Hmm, now that is an odd pairing.”

Morrigan sneered.
“He follows like a dog.” She said, as Cabbage barked and charged after his mistress, “Of course he would adore her. The question is what does she get out of it?”

“Strong arms.” Hawke supplied, helpfully, because really, it wasn’t fair that Alistair had biceps like that. “A nice arse, warden stamina…”

Leliana giggled as Wynne sighed and started to walk towards the market. Morrigan turned sharply to follow, muttering something about fools - as if she hadn’t been flirting with Sten of all people only a few nights back.

Zevran’s eyes lingered on Hawke for just a moment longer before he too followed Wynne.

Hawke wandered up and down the rows of merchants hawking their wares, trying to keep an eye out for anything that seemed interesting. Wynne, Ailsa and Sten between them tended to handle the essentials, and Hawke’s own coin purse was quite a bit lighter once the camp contributions were pooled. But it did mean that what he had was his, and his alone.

He found a decent bottle of wine which he paid a fair price for, hoping to share the bottle with Zevran or Leliana one night in camp. Then he picked up a book by a dwarf named Varric Tethras that seemed to be about a Carta Feud. It didn’t look exactly high quality, but it would offer distraction for a bit. Hawke was just browsing at the Antivan merchant’s store when Alistair and Ailsa reappeared. Alistair looked roughly like a kicked puppy. Cabbage was busy trying to nudge the back of his knees with her muzzle to get his attention.

Hawke gave a low whistle.
“That bad huh?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Alistair said, although he did bend down to scratch Cabbage’s ears. “Come on, don’t we have someone to find?”

Hawke exchanged looks with Ailsa who shrugged. She looked angry - but seemingly, not with Alistair. When he walked away, rapidly, with Cabbage at his heels, she watched him go before shaking her head.

“His sister was… bitter. I’m not good at this, Hawke. How do I make it better?”

Hawke blinked rapidly.
“How would I know?” He said with an awkward shrug. “Just tell him you’re there for him. He’ll talk about it if he wants to.”

“Or,” Zevran said, suddenly appearing out of nowhere. “Skip that bit and get straight to the business of -

“Yes, thank you, Zevran.” Ailsa said, rather abruptly even by her standards. She stomped off, after Alistair and Hawke had to resist the urge to laugh. Zevran’s mouth twitched into a smile.

“Did I see you buying wine?” He asked Hawke.

“Shh,” Hawke said with a grin. “Our secret.”

Zevran winked.
“I knew you were my favourite, Hawke.”

Hawke tried to ignore the flutter in his chest when Zevran said that.

They found Brother Genitivi’s house and Ailsa walked in, seemingly looking for a fight. She found one - or at least, she found a wary man who introduced himself as Weylon who wouldn’t let her look around. Ailsa didn’t take well to being told no at the best of times, and whatever had passed between Alistair and his sister had clearly been the end of her patience with Shemlens that day. Weylon ended up pinned to the wall, a dagger at his throat - which was when two more people appeared out of the back room, weapons drawn.

In the aftermath, Hawke eyed the now dead Weylon.

“What was that he said about Andraste?”

Alistair looked faintly stunned at what had just happened, but Morrigan and Leliana were both stepping over the corpses to investigate the next room as if dead bodies were usual. Which, Hawke supposed, they kind of were.

It turned out the real Weylon was dead, stuffed in the wardrobe, and the three in Genitivi’s house had come from a place called Haven in the Frostback Mountains. Leliana found Genitivi’s notes about the place in a false bottom in a locked and trapped drawer in the desk. She handed them over to Ailsa.

“Couldn’t be bloody closer, could it?” Ailsa growled, before pinching her nose. “The Frostbacks. We were just there!”

Another month of journeying ahead of them, at least - and cold weather to boot. How much further would the darkspawn advance as they ran about, trying to save the Arl’s life? Hawke swallowed and glanced at Ailsa.

“We could divert south - to the Brecilian Forest.”

“Every day we delay is a day Arl Eamon can’t afford.” Alistair protested.

“Every day we spend walking backwards and forwards across Ferelden is another day for the darkspawn to gather - another day for Loghain to tighten his grip.” Hawke argued. “A fortnight out of our way now could save us months.”

Ailsa looked uncomfortable.

“Come on,” she said, “Let’s get out of here, at least. Find a tavern. We can work out what to do.”

There was an inn across the street, and they all crammed into an annexe off the common room to talk. Morrigan and Sten were on Hawke’s side, Leliana on Alistair’s. Zevran simply shrugged and said he’d go where Ailsa led, which earned him a scowl from Alistair.

They had a map that had been recovered from Ostagar of Ferelden - a thing of great value that was probably worth more than the jewellery that Morrigan seemed fond of. Ailsa had traced the lines of the Imperial Highway over and over, trying to plot a route that involved the least amount of back-tracking. The problem was they didn’t know how badly the Blight was spreading. Lothering was gone, but how far east and west had it spread?

“The Forest is huge,” Alistair said, “We might not see signs of the Dalish for weeks.”

“All the more reason to get it done.” Hawke argued back.

“Enough, enough.” Ailsa said. “Hawke - you are right. We have to be practical. We’ll head south to the Dalish, then follow the Imperial Highway to Orzammar. At which point - we’re in the Frostbacks. Heading south to Haven from there should be fairly easy.”

She looked at Alistair, who looked crestfallen.

“Arl Eamon will be fine, Alistair,” she said, her tone much more gentle than usual. “He won’t wake without the ashes, but he was stable when we left. The demon did that much in its dealings with Connor.”

Alistair sighed, heavily, then nodded.

“I need some air.”

He walked out and for a moment, silence reigned. Then Zevran looked at Ailsa.

“What are you waiting for?” He said. “Go to him.”

“I’m part of the problem,” Ailsa protested.

“Look,” Hawke said, “I don’t know what happened with his sister, but he’s clearly hurt. You’re the only one who was there. Cabbage can’t offer advice, can he?”

The mabari hound raised its head from where it had been napping and gave a small rumble of agreement. Ailsa sighed, her ears going slightly pink.

“Creators,” she muttered, “And I thought it was difficult with Tamlen -

She shut up and practically stormed out of the room. Hawke exchanged nonplussed looks with Leliana, wondering who Tamlen was.

“Two sovereigns that they're all loved up by morning.” He said.

Leliana giggled.
“No one is going to take that bet, Hawke.”

“Sten might,” Hawke argued, “Pretty sure the Qunari don’t do love. Right?”

“A gross oversimplification.” Sten intoned. “And no. I would not take that bet. I am not a fool.”

More's the pity. Hawke could have done with a few more coins.

Chapter Text

Hawke would have won the bet.

Ailsa’s demeanour remained roughly the same - still prickly, straight-forward and practical. But there was a softness now, when she spoke to Alistair that hadn’t been there before. And her fellow Warden kept turning rather pink.

Zevran sidled up as they left Denerim, heading south. Alistair had accepted their new path that morning without a word.

“So, my dear Alistair, was it everything you dreamed of?”

The poor sod nearly fell over his own feet as Hawke snorted. Leliana gave a soft laugh. Ailsa, up front with Sten, glanced back and the look she shot at the elf was nothing short of murderous.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Alistair said blandly “My sister turned out to be a money-grabbing harpy.”

Zevran raised an eyebrow.
“Come now,” he said, with a grin, meeting Ailsa’s eyes across the party, “You know that is not what I am referring to.”

“Zevran, did your oath of loyalty include shutting up as a clause?” Ailsa asked. “Or do I need to threaten the balls you seem to permanently think with?”

Leliana laughed louder. Alistair winced, already an interesting shade of pink. Zevran gave a sweeping, mocking bow to his fellow elf.

“I meant no offence -

“That’s not shutting up, is it?” Ailsa said.

Zevran shut up. They walked a few more paces before Hawke said.

“No, but really, Alistair. You’re blushing like -

“Hawke,” came Ailsa’s voice, “Finish that sentence and I’ll hand you over to the next Templars we see.”

Hawke shut up, rapidly. He was fairly sure Ailsa’s threat wasn’t serious - but he didn’t want to test her limit.

That night, the two Wardens shared a tent. No one commented out loud, but there were some pretty hefty grins on some of their faces. Hawke broke out the bottle of wine he’d got at the market and shared it around. Even Wynne got involved. Sten didn’t, of course, but he was also on first watch, so probably shouldn’t be drunk.

The journey south was slowed mostly by the flood of refugees coming from the other direction. Some stopped to warn them, and gave news of how the Blight was spreading, the dangers ahead, but most trudged by, eyes on the road. Hawke searched every group for a sighting of his sister and mother, until his heart was heavy with hurt. Had they even been able to escape Lothering?

On the fourth night, Leliana came and sat beside him at the campfire as he drank from a keg of ale they’d managed to trade off a merchant more than willing to part with heavier goods for quicker progress.

“I’m sure they got away.” She said, quietly, leaning against him. Hawke swallowed and made himself exhale.

“I’ll probably never see them again.” He said, after a moment. “Even if they ran. It’s not as if there’s a home to go back to.”

Lothering was gone. More than one group of refugees had told them that the darkspawn were nearly all the way to South Reach. It was only sheer luck that they seemed to be heading north-east that spared Redcliffe - although if Ailsa couldn’t find a way to bring her army together, it would hardly matter.

It took six more days to reach the Dalish, the elves stepping out of the trees seemingly from nowhere, startling them all apart from Ailsa and Zevran.

The woman in charge eyed those in the party that weren’t elven and spoke only to Ailsa, words and gestures utterly alien to Hawke. Even Zevran looked lost - which, considering he’d been raised amongst the Crows, wasn’t entirely surprising. City elves only held fragments of the old language, most in phrases in greetings. An elf raised in a whorehouse, and then among killers, wouldn’t know any more of elvish than the average human, regardless of who his mother may have been. Hawke glanced at Zevran and found he looked strangely sad.

Ailsa turned to the group.

“It’s not good news.” She said. “But we have been allowed passage to Keeper Zathrian. Follow me and try not to insult anyone.”

She seemed to look dead at Hawke when she said that, which was a little unfair. Morrigan was far more likely to offer insult. Still, he kept quiet and followed Ailsa and the unnamed Dalish hunter as they traversed the trees.

He’d never seen a Dalish camp before. The aravels were impressive with their bright red sails. Hawke imagined they were more comfortable than a tent. Two children went running past, but most of the elves seemed to watch them suspiciously, even with Ailsa at the front.

An older man was standing before one of the great sailing wagons, wearing a smart set of robes. Once again, he and Ailsa greeted each other in elvish before the Keeper switched to Trade. When he had, Hawke almost wished he hadn’t.

Werewolves. Actual, real werewolves. It was almost too much to believe - except that he understood how such creatures could come to pass. Hunger abominations. Non-mages and animals possessed by creatures of such a base needs that they were driven to hunt and kill.

Cabbage growled at Zathrian as he spoke, until Alistair dragged the mabari away. Perhaps the dog could smell the werewolf scent still on the survivors of the ambush.

Ailsa was more than willing to go kill Witherfang - not only to ensure the pact with the Wardens, but to protect her people. Hawke couldn’t exactly blame her. This wasn’t her clan, but the Dalish were protective of their own. The idea of hunters like herself being killed by such monsters - or worse, turned into one - must have hurt. As they moved off, back to where Alistair was waiting with Cabbage, Hawke said.

“Are you okay?”

“I will be,” Ailsa said, sourly, “When this Witherfang creature is dead.”

It was too late to head deeper into the forest that night, and so they were welcomed to the Dalish campfires - although, in some cases, welcomed was too strong a term for it. They received more suspicious looks and mutters than they did open arms. But Ailsa managed to soothe most fears with a few words in elvish, and Wynne endeared herself when she started speaking of herbalism. Hawke stayed quiet, not mentioning his father. It wasn’t as if he had more than the most rudimentary of skills in that area. Wynne was the expert.

Leliana and the clan story teller, a dour man named Sarel, cautiously compared tales, staying clear of anything that could involve tensions between the Dalish and humans. Morrigan quizzed the First on Dalish Magics.

Across the campfire, Hawke heard one of the Dalish say.

“Aneirin? The healer?”

Something shifted in Wynne’s face, caught out by firelight. Hawke listened in, watching, as she stammered that it couldn’t possibly be the same one. That the Templars had killed him - even if they’d never confirmed it. Ailsa looked thoughtful.

“If he’s in the forest,” she said, “we can look for him.”

Wynne nodded, looking somewhat stunned.

“I - I would like that.” She replied, “I would apologise to him, if I can. I have learnt much since he was in my care - many of them hard lessons. I hope he is at peace.”

Sarel and Ailsa exchanged words in elvish, then Ailsa nodded.

“I understand. Wynne - we’ll find him. I promise.”

“I wonder if they would trade with us.” Zevran said suddenly, next to Hawke. Hawke blinked and turned to look at him.

“I don’t know if they’ll have wine, Zev.”

The elf smiled, a little wistfully.
“Oh? You don’t think the Dalish drink? I imagine most of them could drink you under the table, Ferelden. No - I meant real trade. My mother had this pair of gloves from her clan. I remember them well. So soft and supple.”

Hawke bit back the instant, teasing response about Zevran and leather and instead said.

“Tell me about her?”

He knew part of it already - that she’d left the Dalish for a man and died in childbirth. That Zevran had been raised in a brothel, where she’d been forced to work in the last few months of her life, desperate and impoverished.

The elf shrugged.

“What is there to say? We never met. My first victim - deadly from the start.” He gave a mirthless laugh, and Hawke realised he could tell the difference now between genuine and defence mechanism. “The madame said she was kind and gentle - that she never stood a chance.”

Hawke thought of his own mother - a noble who’d had to learn to get by in harsh circumstances. What would have happened, if the Templars had ever tracked down his father? What lengths would she have gone to to protect her children? No wonder she had waited for Carver.

He stood up, mumbling about needing to relieve himself. Sten and Alistair had set up their tents just outside the ring of Dalish aravels, and Hawke walked out further still until he was pretty sure there wouldn’t be a Dalish Hunter watching him.

On his way back, he spotted Zathrian’s First, a woman named Lanaya. She’d peppered them with questions when they’d first arrived, curious both about how a Dalish elf had come to be with the Wardens, and news from outside the forest. She smiled at him from where she had been sorting through the contents of a chest.

“Do you have enough blankets for this evening?” she asked. “The forest can be cold.”

“We’ve camped all over at this point.” Hawke said politely, “But thank you - it is a kind offer.”

She closed the chest and stood up to face him. Hawke got the distinct impression he was being weighed and measured.

“If you don’t mind me asking - how did you come to follow Ailsa? You do not wear the uniform of a Warden. Most of you don’t.”

Hawke smiled faintly.
“Most of us aren’t Wardens.” He said. “Not yet, at any rate. I myself was conscripted - to save me from the Templars who would have taken me to the Circle.”

Lyana wrinkled her nose, just a little. She’d been a city elf, and seemed to have more understanding than most about human civilization.

“So you will be a Warden? One day?”

Hawke gave an uneasy shrug. He didn’t really like to think about it.
“Probably. If I survive the Blight.” He looked around for a change of topic. “Hey - I don’t suppose we can trade? I uh, I’m looking for some gloves.”

Chapter Text

Three nights later, the group were back on the outskirts of the Brecilian Forest, more than a little subdued.

It wasn’t, Ailsa had said that first night after leaving the Dalish camp, staring into the fire, that they’d killed the Keeper. It was what the Keeper had done - what he’d allowed to happen for centuries. Yes, she understood justice against those who had harmed his family, who had broken his heart so completely. If such magic had been at her disposal, perhaps she would have done the same in his position. But to allow it to carry on, to harm innocents, even when those innocents had been his clan? He had failed as a Keeper. And that hurt more than anything.

The Keepers were meant to be the best of them. And Zathrian had chosen eternal revenge over his people - had been forced to see sense at blade point. He’d even sent Ailsa, who wasn’t of his clan, to do his dirty work for him, to hide his shame. If Alistair and Wynne hadn’t counselled listening to the Lady, she would have killed the werewolves without ever knowing the truth - because she had trusted him to be thinking of the clan, not himself, not his anger.

At least Layana, as the new First, was more amenable. At least she accepted her duties and the treaties. The Dalish - what was left of them after Zathrian’s folly - would be at the battle against the Archdemon.

Ailsa was so damn proud to be Dalish, and Zathrian had shaken that pride. When she retired that night - to the tent she now shared with Alistair - everyone else seemed to let out a soft exhale. Even Wynne, who’d come face to face with her old student in the woods and walked away knowing that she was forgiven for what had happened had been tense as Ailsa spoke. The elf was prickly, for sure, but they’d never seen her truly hurt. None of them quite knew what to do about it.

Hawke found a moment, away from the campfire, to offer Zevran the gloves he’d bartered off Layana. Zevran’s eyes glittered in the dark.

“Oh? Buying me presents now?” He said, teasingly - but he put them on straight away and flexed his fingers to test the leather. “You have spent too much time with Ailsa, my friend. You know, she gave me a bar of silver she found in the ruins? All because I said I like shiny things.”

Hawke grinned at him.
“I think a bar of silver might be worth a fair bit more than some old, worn gloves.” He said. “I’ll have to try harder next time.”

Zevran eyed him, eyes dark in the shadows of the camp.
“A bar of gold,” he joked, “Or some Antivan leather boots.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.
“Not sure how many of either of those we’ll find on the road to Orzammar.” He said. “But I’ll keep an eye out.”

“Oh?” Zevran purred, his eyes roving over Hawke. “I’ll be keeping an eye on something on the way, that is for sure.”

Over the next couple of days, Ailsa seemed to cheer up, just a little. By the third night, she was comparing favourite styles of daggers with Zevran whilst Alistair looked more and more concerned about the direction the conversation was going. Hawke grinned at him across the campfire.

“Don’t feel like comparing longswords with Sten?”

Even Alistair caught the innuendo and flushed. He went to retort when a familiar shrieking sound echoed around them and the mood shifted from relaxed to high-alert. Hawke jumped to his feet, staff in his hand and scanned the woods around them. There - something moving, fast, in their direction. He moved, reaching into the Fade, but couldn’t risk fire when still on the edges of the forest. Instead, he thought of stone, of the earth, and a fist. Magic punched into the creature running towards him, flinging it backwards with a howl of agony that threatened to disorientate. Then a shadow closer to Hawke shifted and the darkspawn Shriek reared up, claws flashing in the moonlight.

He threw himself backwards, even as Alistair, ever the hero, planted himself between Hawke and the Shriek, shield smashing into the creature. Then it was bedlam for a short while, every shadow and hiding spot in the camp a possible ambush until the final creature died, felled by Sten’s greataxe, and the awful screams died on the wind.

Hawke’s arm was bleeding from a claw, and when Morrigan shifted back from where she’d a bloody bear of all things, Hawke spotted that she was limping badly, blood streaming from a deep gouge in her thigh. Wynne hurried over to the younger woman, helping her back to the campfire before calling upon the spirits to help guide her healing. Morrigan muttered something that didn’t sound entirely grateful, but her tone suggested it was more performance than genuine. Wynne looked up and round at Hawke, gesturing him over.

A figure moved at the corner of Hawke’s vision, off in the darkness, and Hawke heard Ailsa’s voice from near a patch of trees.

“T-Tamlen? Shit, Tamlen? Can you hear me?”

The three of them still at the fireside looked at each other, then hurried towards the sound of Ailsa’s voice. Hawke’s bleeding arm could wait.

The others had already gathered, looking to their leader the moment the Shrieks died without wounds to distract them. Hawke’s steps faltered when he saw the corrupted form of an elf standing amongst the trees, seeming to hug himself like a frightened child. Ailsa was standing before him, daggers still drawn.

“Don’t - don’t come near me! Stay away! Don’t… look at me. I am … sick…”

Hawke could just about make out the dalish markings on the elf’s face where the skin was still intact. The same markings Ailsa had. The taint had claimed almost all of him, blackened veins and broken, weeping skin. Ailsa took half a step forwards, then froze in place when Tamlen flinched away.

“P-please.” He said, every word clearly a struggle. “The song… in my head. It calls to me. He sings to me! I can’t stop it! Don’t want… to hurt you, lethallin. Please… stop me…”

The song - the song of the archdemon, calling for him. Turning him into this. Hawke swallowed, horrified. How long had he been resisting? What had happened to the rest of Ailsa’s clan?

Ailsa took a deep, shuddering breath and raised her blades.

“I’m sorry, Tamlen.” She said, before closing the gap between them and driving the daggers through his chest.

The elf made a rattling, wheezing sound as the air left his lungs, and collapsed to his knees before pitching forwards, into the grass. For a moment, no one spoke. No one breathed.

Then Ailsa turned, jaw clenched and saw them all, standing there. With utter composure, she flicked the blood off the blades and resheathed both her daggers before speaking.

“We were exploring a ruin together when we came across an ancient mirror. It did… something. It called to him and he disappeared. Duncan saved me, but we didn’t … we couldn’t find Tamlen. Even when we went back to look again. And then I had - I had to go. To complete the Joining before the taint got to me, too.”

She faltered, uncertain, and Alistair stepped forwards, gently pulling her into his arms. For a heartbeat, she stood there, pressed against him, unyielding, before she seemed to understand what was happening and wrapped her arms around him. Hawke thought he’d never seen her look so young. She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead into the front of Alistair’s armour.

Wynne touched Hawke’s right shoulder gently and led him back to the fire to see to his still bleeding arm.

“She doesn’t need us gawping.” She said, quietly, as she settled herself.

The others were making their way back too, Hawke realised. Sten took Cabbage and started a walk around the perimeter, ensuring that no other darkspawn lurked in the dark. Leliana went back to sorting the stew that would, at some point that night, be their dinner. Not that Hawke felt hungry, in the aftermath. He doubted the others would be either.

Wynne’s healing suffused him, and Hawke watched as muscle and flesh reformed. When she was done, he flexed his hand and felt no pain. He looked at her.

“My father was a spirit healer.” He said, self-conscious about talking as everyone else worked in silence. “I wish I had even a little of his skill.”

Wynne smiled at him.
“We are called to different paths.” She said, “Your skill with fire far surpasses most I have seen within the Circle.”

Hawke smiled weakly.
“My awakening involved me setting my bed on fire during a nightmare. I had to learn quickly.”

Wynne reached out and cupped his cheek, as if he were one of her young apprentices.
“That must have been difficult, even with your father to guide you.”

Hawke thought of Bethany, her hand gripping his, whispering that she thought she was alone - that she was glad her big brother was like her. He thought of his mother, pulling him into her arms even as she cried, worried and afraid for him. He thought of his father, and the look on his face as he healed Hawke’s burns.

“He was a good man.” Hawke said, somewhat avoiding the answer. “He taught me not to fear who I was - what I could do.”

Leliana’s voice called out over the muted, quiet camp, declaring that the stew was ready. Hawke pulled away from Wynne and helped the red-headed bard sort out portions. She left two bowls on the side for Alistair and Ailsa, for when they were ready. The rest of them sat down to eat.

“Did I hear that you set fire to your bed?” Zevran asked, curiously. “Is that… a common occurrence for you, as a mage?”

Hawke rolled his eyes.
“Come join me sometime.” He said with a smile. “And find out.”

Wynne sniffed disapprovingly as Morrigan sneered, and like that, things eased, just a little. And when Ailsa and Alistair did appear from the darkness, they slotted into place without a ripple.

Chapter Text

Do you flirt with everyone like that? He wasn’t even that good looking.
Oh? Are you jealous, Hawke? A handsome man like yourself?

It was a long journey back to the Frostbacks, and by the time they reached Gwaren’s Pass, Hawke was more than a little done with the whole situation. His boots, hardy but old to start with, practically fell apart somewhere near West Hill, and he’d ended up having to steal a pair off a pack of bandits who’d been preying on those fleeing north. The heels rubbed for the first few days until he’d managed to break them in, and there was only so much teasing from Zevran about foot rubs that he could take.

Because Zevran was a problem all of his own. They’d flirted and danced around each other practically since the start, but recently Hawke had noticed a change in that the elf flirted with him less and flirted with everyone else more. Was it that it wasn’t as fun for the assassin when he got a positive response? Or was he deliberately trying to make Hawke jealous?

Then there had been the peddler at Lake Calenhad, when Ailsa had been busy trying to track down Sten’s sword. Hawke, feet still store and rather hungry had snapped at Zevran for trying to charm the peddler despite him not having anything worth selling. And Zevran’s response had only made him more annoyed.

The problem, Hawke conceded to himself as they followed the Imperial Highway around the edge of the lake, was that Hawke hadn’t really done this before. As a young man in Lothering, he’d realised rapidly that love and marriage were unlikely with three apostates hiding in the family - but that sex could be discrete and fun. Hawke was more used to brief propositions, perhaps a drink, and then finding a room, or a barn. The fact that he and Zevran had been travelling together for months, moving in and out of each other’s orbit, changed things. Had he missed his moment not pushing earlier? Or was Zevran just trying to navigate what sex meant now that it wasn’t inherently tied to murder?

He was still stewing as it started to snow. Leliana muttered about the cold and drew her cloak closer around her. Ailsa looked up at the sky - at the solid block of clouds above them - and made the call to stop now before it got too deep.

They assembled camp hurriedly, and Hawke got a fire going, coaxing it to life on damp firewood through magic, not kindling.

“How far are we from Orzammar?” Alistair asked as he helped stretch a tarpaulin over their heads to try and keep the snow from them.

Hawke didn’t have a bloody clue. Wynne, always more worldly than the Circle Mages Hawke imagined, reckoned another three days. By the fire, Hawke groaned at the idea of trekking through snow for three days on the trot.

They ate a brace of rabbits Ailsa had managed to catch, alongside the last of the root vegetables they’d been able to acquire at Lake Calenhad. It would be strict rations until they reached the Dwarven city. Hawke’s mood soured with every mouthful.

Ailsa offered to take first watch as the sun set over the mountains, before suggesting that they double up for warmth. Hawke glanced at Leliana, but found, to his surprise, that she was looking at Wynne. Morrigan muttered something about tolerating Sten for his body heat - she’d stopped flirting with the Qunari and the two seemed to have reached an uneasy accord. Hawke realised who that left.

Zevran winked at him.
“I can think of several ways we can stay warm.”

Hawke couldn’t shake that bloody comment for the rest of the night, and when Zevran retired late despite the weather rapidly becoming a snowstorm around them, he was almost hesitant to follow. It didn’t help that Ailsa winked. He probably deserved that, considering how much he’d teased Alistair.

Inside the tent, Zevran had stripped out of his armour but was wearing an oversized shirt that might have once belonged to Alistair, looking at the size of it. Hawke wondered if Alistair knew Zevran slept in one of his cast offs - or, perhaps, whether Ailsa knew. If she did, she probably would have found him something more appropriate.

Still, the effect of seeing him like that was… probably exactly what Zevran wanted. With a grunt, Hawke looked away and dropped his belongings in one corner, sitting down to take off his boots. He tried to think of something funny to say, but all he could think of was the sliver of Zevran’s collarbone that had been visible when Hawke had entered.

It occurred to him that if Zevran could tease, so could he. He removed his gloves, and without looking at the elf, pulled off padded leathers, letting his undershirt ride up as he did so, revealing muscle and a trail of body hair disappearing into his trousers.

Hawke knew that he didn’t look like most mages. That whilst most mages his age had been trapped in the Circle for years, only able to pursue the more cerebral of tasks, he’d been a farmer. And that now, he was a fighter on the front lines of the Blight. Whatever softness he might have had in Lothering was long stripped from him. He wasn’t Alistair by any stretch, but he was strong, and powerful, and he could feel Zevran’s eyes on him, even in the half-darkness. The intensity of the elf’s gaze roused Hawke’s blood.

Hawke crawled over to Zevran and the blankets, heart pounding. When he was close enough to just lean forwards and kiss him, he instead moved to lay down, pulling the blanket over him. Zevran huffed out a small noise of amusement.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Ferelden.” He whispered, his Antivan accent stronger at lower volumes. Hawke’s pulse jumped as a finger reached out and brushed over the curl of his bicep.

“I thought you preferred Peddlers.” Hawke said, as blandly as he could. The chuckle that elicited from Zevran pooled heat in his abdomen.

“I prefer you jealous.” Zevran admitted, before leaning in and kissing him.

It had been a long time coming, and Hawke enjoyed every moment. Zevran was, by his own admission, an experienced lover, unconcerned by the moral qualms of the Chantry or non-Antivans. When he broke away, Hawke was already breathing hard.

He was dimly aware that they had to be quiet - that Ailsa was on watch, not that far away, but Maker, it had been a while and Zevran had been a bloody tease since the day they met. He rolled them, pinning the elf underneath his bulk and bent his head to lick at that expanse of collarbone that had greeted him when he’d entered the tent.

“We’re doing this again, right?” He asked, “Because I want to worship you naked, spread out in bed and this really isn’t the time or place for that.”

Zevran’s hands were busy exploring Hawke’s back, but he paused to grin wickedly up at Hawke.

“Oh? I’m sure I could be persuaded - if you get on and do something.”

Well, Hawke could take orders. Quite liked them, actually. He licked another line up Zevran’s collarbone before taking his teeth to the fragile skin there. Zevran’s fingers teased at the band of his trousers before squeezing at his ass.

A snowstorm, halfway up a mountain, with their friends trying to sleep around them, wasn’t exactly ideal circumstances, but Hawke groaned against Zevran’s throat and hurriedly shoved both their trousers down, before spitting into his hand and wrapping it around both of them even as he held himself up, over the elf. Zevran’s exploring hands found his nipples and pinched as Hawke started to work them both.

They kissed, Hawke groaning into Zevran’s mouth as he picked up the pace, quietly cursing the elf’s fingers being everywhere all at once, until Zevran finally settled one hand onto Hawke’s hip, the other joining him in getting them off.

“F-Fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, trying desperately to stay quiet and Zevran smirked, the bastard, and teased at the head of Hawke’s cock.

“If you can’t stay quiet,” the assassin said, mockingly, “Find something better to do with that mouth.”

Hawke kissed him, dragging out the elf’s bottom lip with his teeth, before shifting down Zevran’s body to take him into his mouth.

It was Zevran’s turn to stifle a sound, his hands tangling into Hawke’s hair. Back in Lothering, more than one passing fuck had praised his cock-sucking skills, but getting a muffled noise from the assassin felt like a whole different level of praise. He closed his eyes and let Zevran’s hand guide him further down, teasing at himself as he did so.

Zevran fucked his mouth almost languidly, until suddenly his legs tangled against Hawke’s neck and shoulders, changing the pace whilst holding him pinned. And shit, Hawke was suddenly deeply aware of how dangerous the elf was, how easily he could kill him and somehow that was even more arousing. Hawke moaned, half-choking as Zevran’s grip tightened in his hair, and felt the elf spill down his throat, the only concession to sound from him a soft sigh as he came. Then he was pulling Hawke up and sliding two of his fingers into Hawke’s mouth, his other hand coming between them to tease at Hawke’s balls.

Hawke’s own orgasm crashed into him, making him shudder as he moaned around Zevran’s fingers. He collapsed down on one elbow, breathing hard, aware of the mess on his and Zevran’s hands. When the elf raised his hand to lick his fingers clean, Hawke couldn’t help but groan at the sight of it. Zevran grinned at him.

“And you were doing so well at staying quiet.”

He raised Hawke’s fingers to his mouth and licked them clean too, and Hawke swore he might be ready for a second round sooner rather than later. Somehow, he remembered how to speak.

“So,” he managed, “How about it? You, me, a proper bed…?”

Zevran chuckled and leaned forwards to kiss him.

“I look forward to it.” He said.

Chapter Text

Hawke sat in the crowd, bunched up on the stone rows alongside Zevran and Alistair, holding two separate pints of ale. Say what you liked about the dwarves, they sure liked their drink.

It had been a rather odd day, starting with Ailsa threatening a scavenger over Sten’s missing sword and then a representative of Loghain at the gates of Orzammar. It turned out the great dwarven city was in the midst of a succession crisis and that everyone wanted their opinion as the only outsiders in the city. Well, they wanted Ailsa’s opinion.

She’d listened to the speeches and arguments with barely concealed bafflement before cautiously mentioning that reform didn’t sound all that bad, and suddenly, they were all on Bhelen’s side. Alistair and Wynne didn’t seem too happy about it. Something to do with him probably murdering his brother and framing his other brother for it. Hawke figured that neither of them had brothers.

Still, they’d spent a decent chunk of their early afternoon either revealing a real estate scam linking back to Harrowmont - or, perhaps, falsely accusing Harrowmont of fraud. It was a little hard to tell. Hawke had never been so glad that his mother had left Kirkwall and he hadn’t grown up around nobles. They seemed exhausting. And that was before they’d had to fight their way through the literal deep roads to the Aeducan Thaig to find one of the Lords Bhelen was duping. Hawke had known, theoretically, that as a conscripted Warden-Recruit, he’d end up in the Deep Roads one day. He just hadn’t expected it to be quite so bloody soon.

By the end of it all, Ailsa had looked like she wanted to hit something, hard. So Zevran had casually suggested that she enter the Provings. It was a clever move - it got her to blow off some steam, and she could announce her intentions of supporting Bhelen. If she did well, the Prince’s cause would get a serious boost.

Alistair, by contrast to Hawke and Zevran who were there to watch the fights, looked faintly stressed about his beloved’s choice of downtime activity. Everyone else had retired to the Tapster’s Tavern that was serving as their home base for their stay in Orzammar. Wynne had been curious to try one of their fifty-two ale options, rather startling Hawke who had her pinned as strictly a wine person. Morrigan had looked absolutely disgusted over Ailsa’s choice of accommodation. Then again, she probably wouldn't have been happy anywhere but the palace, and even then, only if she were Queen.

Hawke took a sip of the drink in his right hand - made, apparently, from mushrooms - and almost choked at the taste. Zevran grinned at him.

“Don’t get too drunk, Ferelden. You made me a promise featuring a bed.”

His friendly slap on the back did absolutely nothing for Hawke’s wheezing.

Alistair, who hadn’t heard Zevran’s comment over the roar of the crowd, pointed.

“There she is!”

Her opponent, apparently, had won his first proving at age twelve - by defeating his own father. Zevran grinned and snaked his hand onto Hawke’s thigh.

A few of their companions had clued into the growing relationship between the two of them. Ailsa had pulled Hawke aside the day after their first night together to make it clear that Hawke hadn’t been successful at staying quiet, and that he was entirely to blame if the assassin put a knife in his back. But she’d said both with the kind of grin that suggested she wasn’t entirely furious with him. Leliana had prodded and poked for details the next night, and Morrigan’s sneer suggested she knew. Although it could also be their ongoing dislike of each other. No one else had mentioned it, which could mean anything. Still, Hawke suspected that if Wynne knew, she’d be busy meddling out of concern for Hawke’s future. And Sten would have opinions on a mage doing anything that indicated they were capable of making their own decisions. Although he’d probably also see Hawke sleeping with the assassin in their midsts as further proof that Mages could not be trusted.

Alistair, bless him, hadn’t noticed a damn thing. Although at that moment, as Zevran’s hand teased further up the inside of Hawke’s thigh, the Warden was entirely focused on the fight taking place before them.

“I put a bet on Ailsa to win.” Hawke said with a grin. “She was on good odds, Alistair, relax!”

The blonde Warden didn’t seem to hear him. Hawke tried to ignore Zevran’s teasing fingers and drank, watching the fight.

He didn’t really get much opportunity to watch Ailsa fight - normally too busy scrabbling for his own life. She moved with the confidence of someone who had been trained for years, her skills honed by the Blight and Warden ability. When she darted behind the dwarf and slid her daggers into the gaps in his plate armour, Hawke cheered.

There had been a time when the idea of bloodsport would have horrified him. It probably still should, but even after only a few sips of the ale in his hands, he was feeling faintly warm and fuzzy and his friend was alive. Not to mention Zevran’s wandering hands.

Alistair looked faintly sick and muttered something about going down to meet her in the grounds. Zevran looked at Hawke and leant in to whisper in his ear.

“Well, death is always delightful - as long as it’s not ours - but surely we can entertain ourselves better than this?”

Hawke grinned at him. Maker, the elf really was very handsome.

“Does that mean I need to stop drinking?”

“I can smell mushroom beer on your breath.” Zevran replied. “Yes. You need to stop drinking. For my sake, as well as your own.”

Hawke pouted, just a little, but he wasn’t too sad to put down both tankards and leave them on the bench.

They were heading through the door of the Tapster when a red-headed dwarf who seemed faintly familiar practically fell into them in his attempts to exit the building. Hawke wrinkled his nose a little. If Zevran had been able to smell questionable drink choices on Hawke’s breath, this dwarf had seemingly bathed in ale. For days. Pickled, perhaps.

Hawke recognised him, dimly, as the dwarf who’d been arguing with Ivo about Branka, the missing-but-perhaps-still-living paragon. On instinct, he shot out a hand to steady the dwarf.

Which was a mistake, apparently.

“Get your stinking hands off me, human.” The dwarf - Oghren - said, with a belch.

Hawke quickly withdrew his hand.
“You were falling face first into my crotch.” He said, in what he thought was a semi-reasonable tone. “I thought you’d prefer my hand.”

The dwarf looked at him - and at Zevran standing close behind - bleary eyed. Then he sneered.

“Save that shit for your pretty elven girlfriend there.”

“Oh?” Zevran said, his tone vicious, “You think I’m pretty?”

Oghren appeared to realise his mistake and spluttered.

“W-what? No! Draw your weapons and say that again you -

Hawke raised an eyebrow, knowing he should probably try and de-escalate the situation but also enjoying himself just a little too much to do. He didn’t know this dwarf, but he was clearly a drunken ass, and if he wanted to pick a fight, he’d picked the wrong pair to start on.

“I definitely heard you call him pretty.” He said with a grin. “Perhaps you’d have rather fallen into his crotch instead…?”

Zevran chuckled and placed a hand on Hawke’s shoulder as Oghren choked and went a rather incredibly angry shade of red.

“Fucking surfacers,” he muttered, before pushing past Hawke and out, properly, into the street.

“Well he was charming.” Zevran noted, before smiling wickedly. “I thought he might actually draw that axe of his for a moment there.”

Hawke had thought he might too. Considering they’d started their day in Orzammar watching Bhelen’s men brawl with Harrowmont’s in the street, it hadn’t been entirely out of the equation.

“Dwarves,” he said with a shrug. “They’re crazy.”

“And they make terrible ale.” Zevran said, still smiling. “Come on.”

Their friends were sitting at a table, near the back of the Tavern. Several of the men that Ailsa had spoken to earlier that day were still in there, drinking. Nevin nodded at them as they passed by.

Leliana tilted her head at Hawke.

“Has Ailsa won already?”

“Don’t know.” Hawke admitted, “She won the first bout but there were like - five more planned. We got bored.”

“Alistair was very nervous.” Zevran said, feigning boredom. “He went to wait in the grounds.”

Wynne was on her second mug of something that smelt even stronger than the mushroom beer Hawke had had in the stands. She didn’t look quite as unfocused as Oghren had but there was something loose in her usual impeccable posture.

“I was wrong about them,” she murmured. “I will have to apologise to Ailsa.”

Leliana looked as if she really, really wanted to pry. She sipped on her own drink - an imported wine - a little too casually.

“What did you say, Wynne?”

The older woman sniffed.

“None of your business.” She said, a little too defensively. Next to Hawke, Zevran gave a low chuckle.

“Oh? You told them not to be sweet, didn’t you?”

A flush of embarrassment covered Wynne’s cheeks, although it could also have been the alcohol. She looked as if she would retort, but Hawke cleared his throat before she could speak. Zevran’s plans for the rest of the afternoon were rather more interesting to him than Wynne’s meddling.

“Um, do we have rooms?”

Sten, frowning, pushed a heavy metal key towards Hawke.

“Leliana insisted the two of you were sharing. Third room on the left upstairs.” He intoned.

Hawke snatched the key up.
“Great, thanks Sten - thanks Leliana. We’ll uh - go dump our stuff. Can’t imagine Ailsa will be long.”

Suspicion filtered onto Wynne’s face and Hawke walked away, rapidly.

“Wait, are those two …”

Hawke kept walking. Zevran, never one for subtlety, slapped him on the arse as they walked up the stairs. Below, Leliana burst out laughing.

Chapter Text

If Hawke had been a rather reluctant recruit for the Wardens before, the Deep Roads sealed it for him.

He’d hoped that Oghren’s breath was the worst thing he’d face, down in those tunnels. The angry, drunken dwarf was waiting for them at the entrance once Ailsa had agreed to find Branka, the missing Paragon. Apparently, this living ancestor, this beacon of all dwarves, had been married to the alcoholic foul-mouthed creep. Hawke wondered, aloud, if she’d gone into the Deep Roads to avoid him. Oghren had been no less pleased to discover that the two surfacers he’d been bickering with outside the Tapster were in Ailsa’s party. He was especially unhappy when Zevran winked at him.

But then they’d met Ruck, down in the dark, driven mad on darkspawn flesh, and Hawke had thought it a mercy when Ailsa killed him. He noticed that he wasn’t the only one who counted their rations at the next break, wondering how long they’d be down in the dark - how long they’d have before darkspawn flesh seemed like the better option than starving.

And then they’d come over the cliffs and found the river of darkspawn below and the Archdemon itself, bellowing out purple fire over the horde. Alistair and Ailsa had shared grim, knowing looks whilst Hawke had taken a moment to remember how to breathe. Just his luck, he thought, that the first dragon he ever saw was the fucking Archdemon of the Fifth Blight.

At camp, that night, after a long talk with the Legion of the Dead, he pulled Ailsa to the side.

“Aren’t you scared?” He asked, unable to find a clever turn of phrase to soften the question. “How are you still going, after everything?”

Ailsa looked him dead in the eyes.

“Of course I’m scared you idiot,” she said, “There’s exactly two Wardens left in the whole of Ferelden, and I undertook my Joining mere hours before the battle of Ostagar. There were thousands, hundreds of thousands of darkspawn down there. But what good does fear do? What does it matter that I’m terrified? Someone needs to do this. And I don’t see Loghain making the right calls, do you?”

It helped, in some ways, to know Ailsa was scared. It also very much didn’t. She seemed so strong, so fierce in everything she did. Even coming here, into the Deep Roads, with no experience as a Warden. She’d marched into Orzammar, listened to their petty squabbles, and decided change was needed. By the time she was done, Bhelen would be on the throne, Branka found, and the city left reeling. She was a whirlwind, a storm - a force of nature in her own right. It didn’t seem possible that she was scared.

The Archdemon should have been the worst thing they found. It proved that this was a true Blight, and its monstrous form was a reminder of the threat to them all. But then they found Hespith, and her whispered song of feasting and corruption - and then they found the Broodmother.

That’s where they come from. That’s why they hate us… that’s why they need us. That’s why they take us… that’s why they feed us. But the true abomination is not that it occurred, but that it was allowed. Branka… my love…

Hawke looked, involuntarily, at the grotesque, bloated corpse of a dwarf once named Laryn. Force fed darkspawn flesh, and the flesh of her family until she became this. Bile rose in his throat and he had to force it back down, turning away from the sight.

His mother. His sister. Maker, he prayed they’d make it out of Lothering. This was beyond horror. And for Branka to have allowed it - to have given her people to this. Why? It made no sense.

“Oghren,” Ailsa said, her voice clipped with anger. “If we find Branka, I am going to kill her.”

Next to him, Leliana was offering a quiet prayer to the dead, her hands clutched in front of her so tight her knuckles were white. Even Zevran didn’t have a witty comment or inappropriate joke to make. Wynne had her arms wrapped around herself, over her stomach. She’d had a child - taken from her by the Templars. Quietly, Hawke touched her elbow and offered her a hug. She folded against him, still staring at the Broodmother's corpse.

“Like shit you are, Warden. The dwarves need her alive. For …” Oghren trailed off as Ailsa slowly turned to look at him, daggers still in her hands. Hawke didn’t think he’d ever seen her look so angry. Not even when facing down Zathrian in the Brecilian Forest.

“She turned her own people into this.” Ailsa said, with a false sense of slowness and calm. “She is a monster.”

Oghren didn’t have a response to that. He shook his head, staring at Laryn’s mutilated body.

“Shit,” he muttered, “Didn’t think extra tits would ever be a bad idea.”

Hawke narrowed his eyes over Wynne’s head and pinched at the Veil beside Oghren’s head. The tiniest flicker of force magic. Oghren yelped and clapped at his ear. It helped, a little. Apparently, Morrigan had a similar idea as a heartbeat after grabbing at his ear, Oghren rubbed at the back of his head. He glared at Hawke, but didn’t speak again. When he looked away, Hawke met Morrigan’s gaze and gave a small nod. They both did it again for good measure.

“Fucking stop that!”

Ailsa turned her head and looked at Hawke, knowing immediately what he was doing. She didn’t exactly look pissed though.

“Come on,” she said. “I don’t want to be here any longer than I bloody have to.”

Somehow, though, the horrors weren’t done. Hawke wasn’t sure how much more the group could take, after corrupted spiders, undead spirits, pride demons and everything else. But after battling their way through to the Anvil of the Void, they found themselves in front of a golem who named himself Caridin and explained that every Golem created came at a heavy cost - one that he’d eventually paid himself.

“That’s monstrous!” Leliana objected. “All those people…”

Hawke didn’t disagree. Volunteers were one thing - although he wondered, darkly, how many of the volunteers had truly understood what they were signing up for - but the others? The price had been too high. And in the hands of someone like Bhelen…

“Ailsa,” he said, “We can’t do this. We can’t give this power back to the dwarves.”

“It’s not your bloody call to make,” Oghren growled. “All you surfacers, casting judgement. You don’t know what it's like, down here. Fuck, there will be volunteers lining the streets.”

“And then what?” Ailsa asked. “When they die, who’s next? The casteless? The Carta? The nobles? How long until there’s no fucking dwarves left, Oghren? Are you going to volunteer? Or will you have to be dragged kicking and screaming to the end?”

“‘Tis it not better?” Morrigan murmured, looking at the golem before her, “Then the option the darkspawn offer?”

“No,” Ailsa snapped. “The dwarves have held back the tide for centuries. The Wardens have held back the tide. This? This is not the answer.”

Which wasn’t, unsurprisingly, what Branka wanted to hear. Hawke had just enough warning of the other Golems in the room coming to life before there was an entire shattered column being thrown at him and Leliana. His barrier barely held over the both of them as Ailsa launched herself towards the living Paragon.

Hawke picked himself off the floor where he’d thrown himself down to avoid the projectile as Leliana readied her bow. But besides Branka, every single one of the enemies moving towards them was made of stone and steel. Arrows weren’t going to be much good in the circumstances.

At least, Hawke thought wildly, Caridin was charging in - on their side.

He backed up as Morrigan shifted into a bear, barrelling forwards to meet one of the golems with snarling teeth. It was quite the trick, he had to admit. Sten, Alistair and Oghren had all piled in too, Zevran skirted the edge to flank with his daggers where he could.

Hawke concentrated, and tried to make a fist from stone and steel, slamming it into the side of one of the golems under Branka’s command. It buckled, and Alistair brought his shield down on its head. His shield dented under the force of the blow.

“Hawke, look out!”

Hawke turned, and found another hunk of stone roughly the size of his torso being hurled at him. He didn’t get the barrier up in time.

He’d been injured, during their travels - cuts and scrapes, a concussion and a fractured jaw. Nothing Wynne couldn’t handle, or a healing potion made tolerable. This was different. Hawke was thrown backwards, ribs and left arm taking the brunt of the blow. He heard something give way, not with a snap, but with a crunch. He was barely aware of hitting the ground, pain radiating through him in jarring waves as he tried to breathe through shattered ribs. He could taste blood in his mouth. The world flickered in darkness, spinning wildly. And then he knew nothing.

He came to with Wynne’s hands on him, magic pouring from her, into him, trying to rebuild bones that were more pieces than whole. He tried to scream, but someone shoved a healing potion into his mouth and forced him to swallow. Everything hurt.

“It’s okay, Hawke.” Came Leliana’s voice through the agony. “Wynne’s got you. I’ve got you. Just try to breathe.”

He turned his head to the side and spat out blood. He hoped, vaguely, that it didn’t land on Leliana.

Slowly, too slowly, the pain started to fade. By the time he was able to open his eyes and take a breath without it rattling and wheezing, everyone was standing around him.

He was half pulled into Leliana’s lap, Wynne on her knees at his back, hands still glowing with magic. An empty lyrium potion bottle was beside her. She looked drained, even as she kept going. Hawke managed to swallow and look at Ailsa.

“Is Branka dead?”

The words were hoarse and weak. She nodded.

“Caridin has destroyed the anvil.” She said. “It’s over.”

Hawke managed a small nod of relief.

“No offence, Ailsa - but I don’t want to be a Warden anymore.”

Then he passed out again.

Chapter Text

They stayed another day in Orzammar upon their return to give Hawke more time to recover from being partially crushed. It gave Ailsa time to persuade Dagna’s father to let her study with the Circle, and to clear up the information they’d found about the Legion of the Dead with the Shaperate. Bhelen, as King, was already making his authority known across the city. Several of Harrowmont’s associates were heading to the surface, choosing exile over death. Hawke wondered how many more would flee. He understood Ailsa’s preference for change - and a closer relationship with the surface - but Bhelen clearly had a vicious streak.

By the time they left, Oghren in tow, stumbling over his own feet a little as he stared up at the sky - Hawke was more than glad to be out of the underground. If he found himself in the Deep Roads ever again, it would be too soon, which was faintly awkward with him conscripted into the Wardens.

He’d used a not insubstantial amount of his coin to buy Wynne an entire keg of her favourite dwarven ale, as a thank you for saving his life. He had no doubt he wouldn't have made it without her. She was currently trying to distract Oghren from the sky by talking about the brewers back at the Circle. It was kind of her, considering how much of an arse the dwarf was. No one else was making an effort.

They had to head back down Gherlen’s Pass, and rejoin the Imperial Highway as it wound by Lake Calenhad. From there, they’d make their way back into the Frostbacks from a slightly lower point to try and find the village of Haven from Genitivi’s notes.

That first night, camped under the stars, Sten argued that the search for the Ashes was an unnecessary distraction, much to Alistair’s disagreement. The two warriors argued so much that Hawke wondered if it would come to blows before Ailsa stepped in, warning Sten that they were doing it regardless. The elf stared down the giant Qunari until he stomped away, muttering about running drills as they ran away from the real fight. Across the fire, Oghren burped.

“By the stone,” he muttered, “Is she always so damn scary?”

“Pretty much.” Hawke said. “Good thing she’s on our side.”

Ailsa turned and moved back to the fire, slotting in next to Alistair. Oghren eyed the two of them, and Hakwe could have guessed the next words out of his mouth.

“So, with the boss, huh?”

Hawke decided he’d rather be somewhere, anywhere else than by the fire. It was almost as if the dwarf was trying to make Ailsa angry.

He made an excuse about needing to pee and walked away quickly, just as Ailsa’s voice growled out a response whilst Alistair mostly seemed baffled. He wondered if the dwarf would make it to Haven with the rest of them, or if someone would kill him first. He wasn’t exactly endearing himself to anyone.

Hawke stepped off the path and walked a little way off before doing his business. But as he turned to head back, hoping that he wasn’t about to walk into a murder scene, Zevran was there with a wry smile.

“The dwarf stinks, and picks fights.” He said. “I’m sure we can find more fun ways to entertain ourselves - without him present.”

A smile flickered across Hawke’s face and he glanced around. The mountain path offered several secluded spots, and no one would come looking for them.

“I could be persuaded.” He said, trying to sound casual. This was still new to him - having someone who was both willing and present to fool about with. He’d only ever been with passing strangers, who left before there could be a second tumble.

They ended up a little way off the path, against a rocky outcrop, Hawke keeping his thighs tight together as Zevran fucked between them, hand bringing Hawke to the edge.

“Shit.” Hawke muttered as they collapsed to the ground, panting. His hand went to his ribs as pain sparked through them. “Might not have been healed enough for that.”

Zevran chuckled.

“Shall we go back?” He said, teasingly, “Tell Wynne I broke you?”

Hawke eyed him in the twilight.
“I’d rather not,” he said with a weak grin. “You heard her in Orzammar - she likes to meddle.”

Zevran stilled a little, only for a moment, but Hawke caught the movement. He wondered what he’d said wrong. Then the elf was sighing and offering a cloth to Hawke to help him clean up the mess on his thighs.

“Oh, and she would warn her favourite apostate off the dangerous Crow, would she?”

“Come on,” Hawke said, busying himself for a moment, “She warned Ailsa about Alistair. The bloody Chantry boy.”

Zevran was lacing up his pants, his blonde hair having come loose from its usual ponytail and falling over his face a little. Hawke swallowed and looked away, focusing instead on pulling up his own trousers.

The dangerous Crow spoke.

“I’m curious, Hawke. Have you ever had a relationship?”

Hawke’s mouth ran dry.
“I - no.” He said, before giving an inelegant shrug. “Apostate in a family of apostates. I couldn’t trust anyone enough to let them close. A little like you, I guess - with less murder.”

Zevran laughed and the sound eased the tension in Hawke’s chest at the question.

“Do you think I’ve killed every partner I’ve slept with?”

“If I thought that,” Hawke challenged back, “I wouldn’t have even dared to flirt, Zev, let alone suck your cock with your thighs wrapped around my head.”

The elf was smiling as he helped Hawke to his feet. It looked sharp and predatory in the dying light.

“You have such a way with words, my friend.” He said and Hawke didn’t quite know what to make of friend in the context of what they’d just done - of what they were discussing. “Strange, perhaps, that we find ourselves in a similar position.”

They were still holding hands. Hawke untangled his fingers, quickly. He was dimly aware that this probably wasn’t a conversation for having in the afterglow.

“Strange pretty much sums our lives up at this point.” He said. “We’re about to head into the mountains to try and find the ancient dust of a prophet. We fought werewolves. I got a boulder thrown at me by a fucking golem.”

Zevran smiled and stood on tiptoe, brushing his lips against Hawke’s cheek.

“I’m glad you did not die, Hawke.” He said.

By the time they’d finished cleaning up and wandered back to camp, most of their companions had excused themselves and gone to bed. Alistair sat up on watch. He eyed them both warily.

“And where have you been?”

Hawke paused, staring at the man. Surely he still wasn’t in the dark about what was happening between them? But he hadn’t been there in the Tapster when Wynne had worked it out, and it was entirely possible Ailsa hadn’t mentioned it.

Zevran, of course, seized the moment with a delicious smile.

“Oh? Where do you think?” He purred. “You’re not the only one having fun in this camp, you know.”

Alistair clued in and went a rather incredible shade of pink. He stared at Hawke.

“You are…” he trailed off, uncertain. Hawke gave a grin of his own.

“You’re cute when you blush.” He said, “What’s the matter? Picturing it?”

Somehow, Alistair went even pinker.
“Maker no!” He protested, before hurrying on. “I just - he tried to kill us, Hawke.”

Zevran rolled his eyes.
“I tried to kill Ailsa.” He corrected, “And now I owe her a blood debt. Which would include not killing her friends.”

Hawke smirked.
“But didn’t prohibit fucking them.”

Alistair looked a little as if he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. Zevran kept pushing.

“You know, Alistair, my friend, if you have questions …”

“Absolutely not.” Alistair said flatly. “Maker you - just - I hope you know what you’re getting into, Hawke.”

“Oh I do.” Hawke said, still smirking.

As they were still high on the mountain side, they were sharing a tent, a little way back from the campfire. Zevran, never able to stop teasing, groped Hawke’s arse as they ducked inside. The strangled sound Alistair made was rather fantastic.

The next morning, Hawke found himself walking with Wynne at the back of the group. His ribs still ached a little, and he found the path down the mountain a little hard going. Wynne, older, was moving more slowly too.

“Go on then,” Hawke said, glancing at her with a wry smile. “Give me the lecture.”

Wynne raised an eyebrow at him.
“Ah, you think I will warn you off your dalliances with Zevran?”

Hawke blinked, then frowned.
“... You’re not going to?”

Wynne smiled slightly.
“Ailsa carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, thanks to Loghain’s betrayal of the Wardens. I worried about her being hurt, or distracted. You, Hawke? I doubt anything I could say could protect you from yourself.”

Hawke snorted.
“Ouch, Wynne. Say how you really feel.”

She rolled her eyes.
“You are impossible,” she said, but her tone was fond. “And stubborn. Don’t pretend that any warning I gave you wouldn’t just make you worse. I heard the two of you teasing Alistair last night.”

She wasn’t wrong. Nothing she - nor anyone else - said would deter him. Even if it stayed as a casual affair, Hawke was having fun. And Maker, he needed a bit of fun in the middle of a Blight. He was surprised more of the companions weren’t finding ways to alleviate the stress.

“If it helps,” he said, “I really don’t think he’s going to kill us all.”

Wynne snorted and shook her head.
“I don’t doubt it either. Whatever else Zevran is, he appears to be as loyal to Ailsa as the rest of us. But he could still break your heart, Hawke.”

“Ah Wynne,” Hawke said with a smile. “If we’re all still alive for him to break my heart at the end of all this, I’ll still be better off than I ever imagined.”

She looked down the path, towards the long, strung-out group.

“These are dark days.” She conceded. “But have faith. If anyone can lead us through this, it is Ailsa.”

Hawke didn’t disagree.

Chapter Text

The High Dragon screamed as Oghren’s axe buried itself in its back leg, pinning it down. Hawke watched, heart in his mouth as Ailsa jumped up, bringing her daggers into the side of the creature's throat, hanging on with all her might. The false prophet of the cult of Andraste tried to shake her off, and Ailsa replanted one of her daggers slightly higher up and dragged it down, ripping through scales and muscles. The creature snarled one last time, and then collapsed, Ailsa rolling away in the dust.

For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Then Ailsa started laughing.

“Fuck.” She said, “I can picture the Chantry condemnation now. Dalish elf kills Andraste reborn.”

Hawke snorted, breathing hard. It had been a tough fight.

The village of Haven was nothing like they’d expected upon arrival. From the small child offering Hawke a damn finger bone to the bloodied altar that Morrigan confirmed was human blood, it had all been so deeply wrong. Ailsa had managed to convince Brother Genitivi that returning to Denerim was the safest approach - which had proved the sensible call once they’d found dragons, drakes and eggs in the tunnels. In any other circumstance, Hawke would have been bloody thrilled to actually get to see dragons. Except, the dragons kept attacking and they were tied to an insane, bloody cult.

Hawke hadn’t really partaken in the fight at the Anvil, thanks to taking a boulder to his chest, but he’d fought blood mages, werewolves and brood mothers since being conscripted. Killing the High Dragon was another thing entirely. He leaned on his staff in the aftermath, trying to recover some strength. He felt drained beyond measure. Next to him, Wynne was sipping a lyrium potion to try and regain some form of equilibrium. Across the battlefield, Morrigan was brushing dust and dirt from her skirts.

Leliana was looking up at the building across the way.

“Do you think they’re really her ashes?” She asked. She sounded faintly nervous.

Hawke swallowed. He’d been trying really hard to not think about it.

“Guess we’ll know, soon enough.” He said.

Their path to the Ashes was blocked by the guardian the mad leader of the cult had wished Ailsa to kill. A spirit, or a human, life long prolonged by the magic of the place. Hawke shivered a little as they faced him. There was something so very blank about him.

“Before you go further, there is something I must ask. I see the path that led you here was not easy…”

Ailsa tensed as the Guardian mentioned Tamlen, questioning her sense of regret about abandoning him - about having to kill him for her own failures. Hawke felt his heart sink through the floor. No human should have that knowledge - and if this was a spirit, what else did it know about them?

Ailsa answered with a short, sharp response. Yes, she regretted it. Her eyes were as hard a stone as she stared up at the spirit.

The Guardian nodded, as if satisfied.
“And what of those who follow you?”

Oh. Fuck. Hawke braced himself for the worst.

The spirit turned its gaze on Alistair first, and Hawke winced as it asked if he should have died, instead of Duncan.

Alistair closed his eyes.

“I… yes. If Duncan had been saved, and not me, everything would be better. If I’d just had a chance, maybe…”

Ailsa turned to him, eyes flashing.

“If you had been with him on the battlefield,” she said, fiercely, “You would just be as dead as him. And I would be alone.”

He flinched a little at that and Hawke looked away, suddenly very interested in his boots.

“If we’d just traded places…” Alistair began. Ailsa cut across him, sharply.

“Don’t, Alistair.” She growled. “There isn’t a scenario where he would have let you be in that fight. You’re torturing yourself for something you could not have changed.”

The Guardian was already turning its attention to Wynne, questioning if she ever doubted that she was just a tool of the Chantry. Hawke’s breath caught in his throat, but Wynne simply met the spirit’s gaze and acknowledged that only a fool would be certain.

The spirit went on, down the line, accusing Leliana of making up her vision, accusing Sten of failing the family that took him in in Lothering. When it reached Oghren, however, the dwarf sniffed.

“Why don’t I save you some time? Yes, I wish I could have saved my family from Branka. I wish I’d been a better mate; maybe she would have stayed at home with a bellyful of baby Oghren and never gone for the anvil. Maybe I failed her. And yes, I came to the surface because I’m barely a dwarf anymore. My family is dead, my honour as a warrior long gone. I’ve lost my caste and my house and I have nothing else to lose.”

Hawke actually felt sorry for him. Maker, how awful must it have been, down in the Deep Roads, for the dwarf? Facing a broodmother from his own clan. Hawke could understand the drinking - although it didn’t excuse the gross attitude and grosser behaviour. Although it was perhaps testament to how serious the dwarf had been that he didn’t burp during his speech.

Morrigan refused, archly demanding the Guardian move on - and it did, which was interesting, as it suggested they were under no obligation to answer. Hawke’s mind was already racing ahead, to what he feared his question would be. Could he refuse, as Morrigan had done?

He heard Zevran’s voice next to him and realised what was about to happen.

“Is it my turn now?” The elf said, voice heavy with sarcasm. “Hurrah, I’m so excited.”

“Many have died at your hand. But is there any you regret more than a woman by the name of -”

Zevran’s voice cut across the end of the sentence, no longer able to hide the tension in his voice. Hawke blinked. A woman? Who?

“How do you know about that?”

“I know much,” The Guardian said levelly, “It is allowed to me. The question stands, however. Do you regret - ”

Zevran was practically hunched over as he snapped back, shutting the spirit up once again. Whatever had happened, whoever the woman was, he didn’t want the others knowing. Hawke, being Hawke, ached to know.

“Yes. The answer is yes, if that’s what you wish to know, I do. Now move on.”

There was only one person to move on to, and whilst Hawke suspected Zevran just wanted the attention off him, it still hurt a little. Hawke breathed out slowly and met the Guardian’s blank, dark eyes.

“You left your mother and sister -

Hawke didn’t need to hear the rest, had known what it would be. He’d lived a blessed life, really, until the Blight. There was only one thing he regretted, that haunted him, that left him wracked with guilt.

Were his mother and sister still alive? Was Carver? Had his brother escaped Ostagar, just to die on the way back to Lothering? Had they waited too long, or had Carver returned to an empty home and nowhere else to go? The questions span in his head, an endless cycle of guilt that threatened to drown him if he let himself stop and think of his family for any length of time. They lingered in the dark, waiting for him. He thought he understood how Alistair felt - the guilt, the what ifs, the grief.

“ - Do you regret abandoning them to their fate?”

“Of course I do.” Hawke muttered, the words almost sticking in his throat. “My father - he made me promise to look after them. And I left them to fend for themselves against the fucking Blight.”

“Oh Hawke,” Leliana said, reaching over and squeezing his hand. “Bethany - she’s a sensible woman. They’ll be okay.”

Hawke sniffed. He didn’t doubt that this sister was sensible, that Carver was head-strong, that his mother had survived hardship beyond measure. But a Blight wasn’t something that you could face with strength, or wits, or toughness. The darkspawn had destroyed Lothering - there was nothing left. Slowly, the Blight was marching further and further north, spreading through the Wilds and up to Denerim. It was like trying to fight a flood.

The worst bit, that he’d never, ever voice aloud, was that he didn’t know what he’d done to make it worth it. He wouldn’t deny that he had helped - that he was part of the team - but he was also damn sure that if he wasn’t there with them, nothing would have changed. Wynne or Morrigan could have saved Connor. He’d done nothing else beyond offer support, and jokes and firepower. He wasn’t needed here. And his family had needed him.

If they were dead, he should have died with them. And if they were alive…

There were tears in his eyes, threatening to fall as the Guardian acknowledged their regrets, and opened the path on.

“Shit,” he muttered, “The rest of the Gauntlet better be fucking killing things.”

Next to him, Zevran snorted, but he was already drawing his knives in anticipation. The elf hadn’t said a damn word during Hawke’s question. He wasn’t the only one split open, hurt and aching by the spirit’s questions. Morrigan looked angry, and she hadn’t even deigned to hear her question. Alistair was looking haunted, and Ailsa kept glancing at him, frowning. Hawke suspected there would be some complicated conversations amongst those two when this was over. He made himself breathe out.

His family wasn't there. Wherever they were - alive or dead - Hawke had a job to do in supporting Ailsa. And she needed the Urn of Sacred Ashes. If they could heal Arl Eamon - if they could face the Landsmeet with support - they could turn the country against Loghain. And if they could do that, they could unite what was left of the Ferelden army against the Blight. And if they could do that, they could get Ailsa and Alistair close enough to the Archdemon to kill it. And then Hawke could find out what happened to his family. Even if it took him the rest of his life.

He stepped through the door, readying himself for what came next.

Chapter Text

Redcliffe appeared to be in a better state than they’d left it - which, Hawke had to admit, was quite the achievement considering the Blight swarming over the south of the country.

The palisades were still up, now aimed at defending the village from darkspawn and in places they had been reinforced. Debris from the burned out houses now formed a defensive wall around the Chantry, and guards patrolled around the docks and path up to the castle. They all seemed to be wearing new armour, which suggested the blacksmith was back in operation.

“Before we go up,” Ailsa said, “I need to have a little chat with our old friend Dywn.”

Hawke had forgotten that they were also on the tail of Sten’s lost sword. The Qunari looked as impassive as ever, but followed Ailsa without a word through the village. Hawke and Leliana sat on the Chantry steps to wait. Everyone else scattered - Wynne to the general store, Oghren to the tavern. Zevran and Morrigan appeared to be having a genuine conversation about whether Alistair could be King of Ferelden, and whether he’d need the services of a former Crow. No wonder the Warden had hurried off to the blacksmith at some speed when he’d overheard them. Hawke didn’t blame him - the idea of those two in cahoots about something was quite frankly terrifying.

“I prayed for your family last night.”

Hawke blinked and turned his head to look at Leliana. She was looking out, up at the castle.

Everyone had heard the Guardian’s question to him, a fortnight ago. No one, not even Zevran, had mentioned it. They were all playing a wonderful game of pretending their fears and regrets hadn’t been aired in public. Apart from Morrigan, of course, who was doing a wonderful job of acting superior for not letting it happen to her.

He sniffed.

“There’s a lot of families out there, Leliana, fleeing the blight.” He said, before pausing. “But thank you.”

He’d prayed, in the nights following the Gauntlet. He’d never really been devout, but it had helped, a little, with the crushing guilt. And when Zevran had reached across the tent for him that first night, that had helped too - everything driven from his head as Zevran’s hand at his mouth silenced the desperate, broken noises falling from him. If the elf was a little harsher, a little more urgent, neither of them brought it up. They were both trying to chase demons away.

Something occurred to him.

“I never thanked you for not turning my sister in.” He said. “Although how you worked it out is beyond me. She was always the cautious one.”

Leliana gave a half-smile.

“I figured you out first,” she confessed, “And these things run in families… Bethany was such a lovely girl. She liked my stories. And Carver…”

Hawke snorted.
“Carver fancied you.” He said. “Quite smitten by the red-headed Orlesian in the Chantry.”

The half-smile became full and genuine, and Leliana giggled.
“Oh, I know. He stared so much once when he came to find Bethany that he walked into a pew.”

Hawke grinned at the image, then found a lump forming in his throat. His grin faltered.

“Shit, I hope they’re okay.”

“I’ll help you find them,” Leliana promised, reaching out and squeezing his hand. “When this is all over.”

It was sweet, and kind-hearted and Hawke squeezed her hand back. Whatever else had happened, he was glad that Leliana had come with them from Lothering. She was not the person he thought she was, but he found himself liking the earnest, hard yet soft woman more. She helped him feel a little less alone.

Across the way, Ailsa and Sten were returning. The qunari had a rather large sword strapped to his back, and Ailsa had a maul roughly the size of her horizontal across her shoulders and a large grin. Dywn had clearly given up Sten’s sword. The damn qunari still looked much the same as ever for someone who’d just had their soul returned to them. He didn’t even look as if he’d cracked a smile. Hawke untangled his fingers from Leliana and stood up, grateful for the distraction.

“Wonder if he’ll be kinder to mages now.”

It was unlikely. From what Hawke had understood of the whole situation, Sten was now qunari again - although he wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been in the interim. And it was the qunari who collared their mages and sewed their mouths shut.

Indeed, when Hawke grinned at Sten, the giant warrior simply glared back, in his usual manner, and Hawke decided it wasn’t worth the attempt to try.

All together, they went up to the castle, where they were escorted through to the main hall. Bann Teagan seemed relieved to see them.

“You return! Is there news?”

Ailsa bounced the small pouch of ashes in the palm of her hand, in a manner that was probably disrespectful to the Chantry, the Maker and several people in the room.

“After quite a roundabout route, some detours including werewolves and Paragons, we ended up fighting a dragon cult in the Frostbacks.” She said. “But we found the urn.”

Wynne, Alistair and Ailsa were escorted up to the Arl’s bedroom, leaving the rest of them to wait and find out what happened. Leliana retreated to a corner to pray. Morrigan was scowling into the fire whilst Zevran sharpened his knives. Hawke leant against the wall and wondered what was happening upstairs, what they would do if it all came to nothing - and what it meant if the ashes worked.

He’d never been particularly religious. It was hard to get on board with a doctrine that justified locking him up for a quirk of birth. He believed that there was something out there, bigger than them, but the rest of it was just legislation and dogma. Andraste may well have been a real person - but she could easily have been several people, or entirely symbolic. How many slaves must have risen up against the Imperium? How many people saw visions or saw themselves as part of something greater? But if those ashes helped bring Arl Eamon out of his coma… were they real? And if so, what did that make the woman who’d died, all those centuries ago?

Still, he’d prayed more since the Blight had begun than at any other point in his life. His thoughts turned back to his family once more, their ghosts lingering.

When the Arl walked into the room, several guards fell to their knees. Hawke stared at him, stunned, even as Leliana praised the Maker.

It was real. It had worked. The ashes of the prophet had brought a man back from the edge of life when even Wynne’s healing hadn’t been able to do it alone.

He was still stunned when Eamon declared them all Champions of Redcliffe, and thanked Hawke personally for saving Connor from the desire demon. Ailsa raised an eyebrow at him.

“Not like you to be quiet, Hawke, what’s wrong?”

“Oh just not every day you witness a damn miracle.” Hawke shot back, rattled.

The look Ailsa gave him was somewhat puzzled, but she moved on, swiftly pivoting the conversation from what they’d done for Redcliffe and the Arl, and what they needed from him - namely, a way to stop Loghain. Hawke wondered how she was taking it so calmly when Andraste wasn’t her prophet, the Maker not her gods. Maybe the separation helped.

Hawke forced himself to listen. Theological crises would have to wait. Arl Eamon was busy pointing out that they needed a rival candidate for the throne to move against Loghain - and that it couldn’t be him, or Teagan. Hawke watched Alistair wilt, practically hunched in his armour. There was only one other candidate, in the circumstances.

You have a responsibility, Alistair. Without you, Loghain wins. I would have to support him, for the sake of Ferelden. Is that what you want?

“I… but…”

Ailsa spoke.
“You don’t have to do shit, Alistair.”

Arl Eamon blinked, clearly startled. But Hawke jumped in too.

“Yeah, stay a Warden. Maker knows we need more Wardens than we do Kings right now.”

The Arl frowned at him, but Alistair was wincing.

“I - I don’t want to. But if it’s the only option…”

Across the room, Morrigan snorted and muttered something under her breath about bad rulers being as useless as no ruler. Ailsa turned and looked at Alistair.

“We will find another way.” She said, firmly. “Creators, we’ve got a sodding Archdemon to kill. Anora can run the country for all I care.”

“That…” Eamon began, before trailing off and heaving a sigh. “I shall call for a Landsmeet. It will take time for us to reach Denerim. But we will need allies, Warden, and we will need an alternative to Loghain’s rule.”

Ailsa sighed and pinched her nose.
“It won’t matter to the Dalish whose arse is on the throne.” She said, “But if that’s what it takes, we’ll find someone. Someone who isn’t Alistair.”

Alistair looked a little bit relieved that she was on his side. But he still wouldn’t meet the Arl’s gaze. Eamon nodded, although he looked uncertain. Hawke didn’t blame him. Who else was there? He was right that putting forward either his own or his brother’s name would look like a grab for power. And Alistair was Maric’s bastard son. People would overlook the illegitimacy just to keep a Therin on the throne. The nobles would back Loghain, rather than risk a civil war. Orlais was, after all, still a threat.

Perhaps, Hawke thought, Ailsa had been on to something with the flippant remark about Anora. A problem for another day - although one they needed an answer to, and fast.

“So, to Denerim?” Zevran asked, sheathing his knife. At the door, Sten looked ready to move out then and there.

“To Denerim,” Ailsa agreed, before pausing and looking to Morrigan, “Possibly with a detour south, to the Wilds.”

“What, why?” Hawke asked. “It’s overrun with darkspawn by now, surely?”

“Ah well,” Ailsa said with a shrug, “No big deal, but Morrigan wants us to kill her mother.”

Chapter Text

If I were you, I would believe nothing she says. Not a one. She will use you. You look at her and you see a simple girl - a friend, trusting and warm. It is an act.

Hawke gripped his staff a little tighter as he regarded the Orlesian woman in front of them.

It had begun with assassins on the road, outside Denerim, and a confession from Leliana going into more details of her past as a bard. Apparently, Ailsa had already known, but she’d been reluctant to talk to the others until their lives were in danger. And now they were here, facing down the bitchiest Orlesian Hawke had ever met, who seemingly hated everything Ferelden and wanted them all to believe that Leliana was the danger in the room.

Well, Leliana was dangerous. He couldn’t deny that. But she was also those things Marjolaine claimed she was lying about. She was a friend - warm, and kind. She’d held Hawke’s hand in the face of death and entertained them all with stories around the campfire. She’d argued for the mages, for mercy when it could be given, but was made of more steel inside than even Morrigan.

He couldn’t help but snort and glared at the woman.

“Look, I know you’re pissed that Leliana’s thriving without your bullshit, but come on. You picked the wrong audience.”

Ailsa was drawing her knives.

“So busy obsessing over your ex you didn’t even stop to think about her friends and what they might do to you.”

“Ailsa please,” Leliana said, looking pained, “You don’t have to -

“I want to.” Ailsa said, eyes narrowing. “You can’t let her get away with what she did to you. I won’t let her get away with what she did to you.”

Hawke sensed Marjolaine reaching for something in her dress and let the prison snap around her, slowing her movements to a crawl. Leliana and Alistair both reached for their own weapons.

In the aftermath, Hawke gently tugged Leliana in a hug.

“Hey,” he said, “Just in case you need to hear this - you’re nothing like her.”

She gripped him tight before pulling away.

Ailsa cleaned blood off her daggers and shook her head.

“Come on,” she said, “Let’s head back to Arl Eamon’s estate. It’s been a shitty day.”

They’d been in the city for two days, and Hawke wanted to leave. From Ailsa’s comments, he wasn’t the only one. They’d faced Loghain, an obnoxious, smarmy git named Howe, and several dangers already. There’d been a warrior, loyal to Loghain, who’d only backed down from challenging Ailsa to a duel when she’d been so totally up for it as to terrify even Sten with her eagerness. Two separate groups of thugs had been dispatched whilst moving through the city - and then there had been the mercenaries at the Gnawed Noble Tavern. At least Brother Genitivi had made it back to the city in one piece.

Still, they were there for the Landsmeet, and they had a job to do. Namely, trying to work out how to get the nobles of Ferelden to support them against Loghain. It wasn’t going well.

When Alistair spotted a poster up in the market district the next day, supposedly in support of the Grey Wardens, several of the group suggested it was suspicious. Ailsa, naturally, wanted to spring the trap, so they headed on over to The Pearl.

Hawke had never been in a brothel before, but he had some inclination of what to expect - mostly half-naked, or entirely naked people and a host of sweaty, dirty clientele. What he didn’t expect was to witness a beat-down by a woman with rather impressive cleavage and legs that went on for days.

She looked up from where she’d just used the hilt of her dagger to break a man’s nose and her eyes settled on Zevran.

“And look who we have here.” She said, sheathing her weapons, “Come to apologise for leaving me bereft of my lord husband and then vanishing without a trace?”

Hawke managed to close his mouth from where it had been hanging open and glanced at the elf, who was smirking. They knew each other - this woman’s husband had been murdered by the Crow.

She was introduced as Isabela, queen of the eastern seas, and she was rather amused to find out that Zevran had fallen in with two Grey Wardens.

“Oh and aren’t you just a delight,” she purred, eyes sweeping over Ailsa. “I like the blades. A woman after my own heart.”

Ailsa grinned.
“Where did you learn to fight like that?” She asked. “I know it wasn’t Zev who taught you, as I beat him.”

Isabela laughed as Zevran spluttered his indignation, eyes sweeping over the group and settling, briefly, on Hawke, and the staff strapped to his back.

“Ah - I have picked up skills from many different places.” She said with a grin, and Hawke got the distinct impression, standing in a fucking brothel, that she wasn’t entirely talking about fighting, “Speed, not strength, is what is essential. I call myself a duellist.”

“We should spar,” Ailsa said firmly, “I’d like to see if there’s anything I can learn from you.”

Isabela’s eyes glittered.
“An unusual request - I am flattered, sweet thing. Perhaps I could tempt you to spar in other ways, too.”

Hawke caught her meaning, and about a heartbeat later, Alistair choked as he did too.
“I don’t think so -

The Rivaini’s smile widened.
“Ah, I thought I detected something between you two. Don’t worry, you’re invited, handsome. You look delicious enough to eat.”

Hawke nudged Alistair in the ribs as the Grey Warden squeaked.
“Oh go on,” he said, grinning, “You can’t be that much of a Chantry boy. Make Oghren proud!”

“I’m flattered,” Ailsa said, archly, “But I will have to decline. Perhaps try your luck with Zevran and Hawke, considering his enthusiasm.”

“Weren’t we here to trigger an ambush?” Alistair asked weakly, looking a little like a rabbit in the eyeline of a wolf.

Zevran laughed.
“Oh Isabela - how can I say no? What do you say, Hawke?”

Hawke’s mind reeled a little. Isabela was eyeing him up and down, and then she smiled.

“I do enjoy the occasional apostate,” she said, “There was this one young man, from the Circle, he could do the most incredible things with his - ”

Hawke blushed, which really wasn’t like him at all.
“If that sentence ends with lightning magic, you’re out of luck I’m afraid. But I’ve been told from reputable sources that my tongue is quite good.”

“Can confirm,” Zevran purred, before turning his head to Ailsa. “Wardens - try not to get killed in the ambush whilst we’re distracted.”

“You can’t be serious -” Alistair began to complain, but Zevran was already heading out the back of the brothel, tossing several gold coins to the proprietor, and when Isabela crooked a finger at Hawke with a wink, he followed without looking back.

“Casavir, be a darling and watch out for any trouble makers.” Isabela called back over her shoulder.

Hawke entered the room Zevran had found and Isabela shut the door behind him. The latch clicked, and Hawke’s pulse sped up. This was happening. It was really happening.

Isabela seemed to sense his somewhat stunned response and she stepped up, pushing him back, against the door.

“You can’t be that much of a Chantry boy,” she repeated, teasingly, before kissing him. Hawke closed his eyes and kissed back, arms wrapping around her instinctively as he deepened the kiss into something filthy. When she broke away, she was breathing slightly heavier. He took the opportunity to slid one of his hands down to her arse, the other coming round to undo the front of her blouse. Zevran stood behind her, slowly kissing his way down her neck, his own hands loosening her corset.

“The Circle never got its hands on me” Hawke said, his voice a little hoarse, “I never learned any better.”

Isabela laughed, her own hands under his shirt, fingers running over muscles and chest hair. Zevran met his eyes over her, smirking, as he sank his teeth into her skin. Her corset fell to the floor, and Hawke made quick work of pulling her blouse up, off over her head.

“You’re both rather dressed,” she said, standing there in her underwear and thigh-high leather boots. “I want to see a show.”

She moved aside and settled herself on the bed, still in her boots. Zevran moved towards Hawke and kissed him, up on tip-toes, before helping them both out of their armour. Hawke was vaguely aware of Isabela’s eyes on them, but it was hard to concentrate on anything but the Crow who was lavishing attention on his chest, fingers teasing at him through his trousers. He stuttered out a moan and picked the elf up, Zevran’s legs locking around his hips as he carried him to the bed, beside Isabela and dropped him down, breathing hard.

Zevran reached up and tugged Isabela down for a long, languid kiss as Hawke lifted his hips and pulled his trousers and smalls off. The elf’s hands dipped inside Isabela’s underwear as Hawke lowered his mouth to his lover’s cock. The sound both Zevran and Isabela made was everything.

“Hmm, I think I want a taste of that tongue.” Isabela purred, her hand coming down to tug at Hawke’s hair.

Hawke buried himself between her thighs, marvelling at how wet she already was, as Zevran positioned himself over her, letting Isabela take over cock-sucking duties. Isabela shoved her legs over Hawke’s shoulders, boots still on, the leather and buckles digging into his skin. Hawke moaned around her, desperately hard.

“Shit, sweet thing, you weren’t wrong about that tongue.”

Zevran chuckled.
“I think we’re being very selfish, Isabela, no? Making him do all the work.”

Isabela’s grip on his hair tightened, keeping him trapped between her legs and he took the hint to keep teasing and probing, his tongue pushing inside her.

“Oh don’t worry,” she said, breathing heavily, “I want to see you fuck him before we’re done here.”

Hawke’s hips twitched instinctively, grinding himself against the bed at the idea of it. Silently, still intent on bringing Isabela off with his tongue alone, he thanked whichever idiot had set an ambush up in a brothel. They could have burst through the door right then and there, and he would have died happy. Then the thought was gone and he was lost to the rhythm and pleasure of being in bed with two masters of their craft.

By the time he staggered back into the main room of The Pearl, several hours later, deliciously sore and wrung-out, Hawke was as far from a Chantry boy as it was possible to get.

Chapter Text

The Crow ambush didn’t appear to take Ailsa or Zevran by surprise.

He’d talked a little, in camp, about his life in the Crows - mostly in light hearted jokes and smutty stories. But away from the campfire, in quiet conversations in the tent they sometimes shared, he’d shared a little more of the reality of it. The harsh training, the abuse - and the reason why he’d come south and taken the contract on Ailsa.

When Hawke heard the name Taliesen, his heart dropped.

The handsome Antivan man smiled.
“I volunteered, of course. When I heard that the great Zevran had gone rogue, I simply had to see it for myself.”

Hawke gripped his staff. He wanted to burn the smirk from the man’s smug face. It seemed Ailsa had a similar view as he hand hovered near the hilt of her blades as she growled.

“Zevran doesn’t need the Crows any longer.”

“Yeah,” Hawke chipped in, “He has us.”

Taliesen’s eyes flashed and he regarded Hawke with a sneer. Did he know? Had he twigged that Hawke was the elf’s lover - as Taliesin had once been? How much trouble was Hawke about to be in? If the Crow went for him…

“Ah, the new beau. Tell me, apostate - does Zevran need to live?”

The threat was clear. Return to the Crows, or die. Hawke readied himself for the fight.

The Crows surged and Sten gave a furious yell as he drew his broadsword, charging forwards. Hawke backed up, hesitating a heartbeat to see where his barrier would be most needed, before letting the flickering green magic envelop Ailsa. The Crow contract was on her. And the world needed her alive.

But it was Zevran who landed the killing blow on Taliesen, his blades ripping out the man’s throat. Hawke threw himself aside as a Crow dagger came perilously close to his ribs, ripping through his armour and scoring a shallow slash across his side. Snarling, Hawke pulled fire from the Fade and burned the man alive. After months of fighting darkspawn, Loghain’s men and demons, he didn’t flinch. His hand went to his ribs as he breathed, pain sparking over his chest. It wasn’t a dangerous wound - one of a handful of similar injuries he’d picked up following Ailsa - which was good, as Wynne was back at the Arl’s manor. With bloodied fingers, he managed to pull out a healing potion.

He was leaning on his staff, swallowing the miserable tasting thing down, when Zevran spoke across the way.

“And there it is. Taliesen is dead, and I am free of the Crows. They will assume that I am dead along with him.”

That was good, right? Hawke finished swallowing the potion and shoved the vial back into his pouch, wincing at the pain still flaring through him as he moved and breathed. The Crows wouldn’t be back. Zevran was safe - or at least, as safe as any of them were. But would the Crows keep hunting Ailsa for the sake of the contract?

Ailsa cleaned blood from her blade, and then crouched down over Taliesen as Hawke moved over gingerly, eyes moving from the Warden to Zevran. The Antivan elf looked… relieved.

“That’s good right?” Ailsa said. “Being free of the bastards?”

“A very good thing,” Zevran reassured with a smile.

Hawke’s ribs burned as Zevran kept talking, but Hawke barely noticed because the former Crow was suggesting that he leave.

Ailsa had helped him kill the Crows tailing him, and now he had nothing to stay for. Zevran had never claimed to be anything but selfishly motivated, but it still hurt.

There is a freedom awaiting me that I have never known.

And just like that, Hawke felt like a dick for even silently protesting the idea that Zevran would just abandon them - abandon him. Shit, they weren’t even serious, he didn’t think. And that opened up a whole world of questions he wasn’t in any state to think about. He shoved those thoughts away and made himself see it from Zevran’s view. Freedom. Just his oath to Ailsa holding him in a fight that was looking bleaker and bleaker with every day they spent in Denerim. No wonder he was considering going. There was, Hawke could admit, a little bit of him that was envious.

Ailsa looked up from Taliesen’s body for a moment, frowning slightly.

“Do you want to go?”

Such a direct question, but Hawke couldn’t bring himself to breathe as he waited for Zevran’s response.

The assassin looked uncertain.

“I… don’t know.” He confessed. “It’s never been an option before.”

Ailsa grunted, and then her gaze flicked to Hawke.
“I’d like you to stay, as a friend.” She said. “And I think - Shit, Hawke, are you bleeding?”

Hawke blinked and looked down. He wasn’t, was he? He’d taken a healing potion. But everything felt a little too warm, too sharp. He’d thought that it was the conversation but…

“I took a healing potion.”

Zevran cursed in antivan and hurried over.

“Crows often poison their blades.” He said, his fingers sliding into the score of Hawke’s armour and touching the healed-over wound. They felt strangely cold on his warm skin. That wasn’t a good sign.

Hawke managed a shaky smile.
“You can’t keep your hands off me.”

The elf’s fingers withdrew and it was probably testament to how serious it could be that he didn’t flirt back. Instead, Zevran reached into the pouch on his belt, drawing out a purplish brown liquid in a small vial.

“Drink that.” He ordered, no nonsense in his tone, “It’ll counteract the most common poisons until we can get you back to Wynne.”

Hawke blinked. That bad huh? He knocked the vial back and then spluttered at the awful taste. Shit, that made healing potions taste like fine wine.

“We’ll go straight back to the estate.” Ailsa said, hovering. “Shit, I don’t even care about this Slim Couldry that much anyway.”

It turned out to be a good call. Even with the anti-toxin, Hawke felt nauseous and shaky by the time they picked their way through the side streets and made their way back to Arl Eamon’s estate. His side burned uncomfortably. As they made it through the gates, he stumbled, and it was Sten who helped pick him up, navigating his size with ease. He was carried into the estate whilst Ailsa called out for Wynne.

He was dimly aware of voices.

Toxin not common in Ferelden -
His tongue is starting to swell, shit.
… Give him space.

It would be rather pathetic, he thought dimly, if this was what killed him. And then he didn’t think about anything, for a while.

When he woke up, he was in his bed in one of Arl Eamon’s guest bedrooms, naked from the waist up, with Zevran spooned against his side.

He felt surprisingly okay. Drained, tired, weak, but considering the last thing he remembered was what had felt like fire in his veins, he’d expected so much worse. Thank the Maker for Wynne. He’d owe her another keg of ale.

He shifted, just a little, and Zevran’s hand on his hip tightened.

“Don’t move.” He muttered. “Wynne gave me detailed instructions, hmm? Bedbound, Hawke. She didn’t appreciate the joke I made.”

Hawke snorted and closed his eyes again.

“You can make good on that joke later,” he said, before hesitating. “If you’re still here.”

Zevran had been kissing the side of Hawke’s neck, but he stilled at his words.

“Ah. I will be here, at least for now. Ailsa and I… talked, whilst you slept. I will help save the world, before enjoying my freedom. Which means I will be here a little while yet.”

Hawke swallowed, both relief and guilt sitting in his stomach.

“I… I wouldn’t have blamed you if you did leave.” He said quietly. “I just…”

He trailed off, uncertain. What could he say?

Zevran sighed and his hand on Hawke’s hip moved up, over his chest, pulling him closer.

“Listen, Hawke. This started as something fun - a way for us both to relieve some stress, no?” He chuckled low, fingers trailing through Hawke’s chest hair. “A lot of stress. You do like to nearly die, occasionally, to keep things interesting.”

Hawke let out a protesting sound, which became rather strangled as Zevran’s fingers found one of his nipples.

“Ah-ah, don’t interrupt. I won’t pretend this hasn’t been fun but… you understand, don’t you, that we murdered my one other attempt at a real relationship this morning?”

Taliesen, dead on the ground, and vengeance for Zevran for what he’d done to Rinna. Hawke could understand why Zevran had wanted to get away - and why he didn’t want this getting any more serious. And Hawke? Hawke would take what he could. It was already more than he’d ever dreamed of. A steady partner for a short while, rather than bodies passing through his bed.

“I get it,” he mumbled, “Look. This can be whatever you want it to be. And you can go whenever you want.”

Zevran’s hand stilled, just a little.

“Hmm, and what do you want it to be?” He asked, a little too casually.

Hawke made himself breathe out.

“I don’t know.” He confessed, “But I know I want you here, with me.”

Zevran gave a low, soft laugh, his fingers starting to explore again.

“Hmm, I might need you to be more specific.” He whispered in Hawke’s ear. “Are we talking right now, in this bed, or more generally?”

Hawke closed his eyes. Sometimes, Zevran was a teasing bastard. He would never admit out loud how much he liked it.

“Right now in this bed I don’t think I’ve got the energy to do more than lie here,” he admitted, “More generally… I want you to stay. And I want …”

He wanted Zevran’s hands to stop wandering during a serious conversion, and he wanted no such thing at all. The elf’s breath was hot against Hawke’s neck, and he shifted position, just a little, to press against him.

“... I want you.” Hawke managed, “Here. With me. Until you’re bored of me, or I die down in the Deep Roads, I guess.”

Zevran kissed the pulse in his neck, biting down gently, before murmuring.

“I don’t think I’m going to get bored, my dear.”

Chapter Text

Hawke glanced at Zevran as they strode through the Fort.

“Are we really doing this?”

“Of course,” Zevran replied with a smirk. “Breaking and entering into the most well-guarded castle in Ferelden? I’d have thought you’d be up for the challenge.”

“I nearly died yesterday,” Hawke grumbled, “Forgive me for not leaping with excitement.”

Zevran winked at him.

“Just follow my lead and look handsome.”

Well, Hawke could do that.

They’d been left at home for Ailsa’s attempt at rescuing the Queen from Arl Howe’s manor, mostly due to the fact that Hawke had indeed nearly died the day before. But when Anora had hurried into Eamon’s study, alongside a furious Wynne, everyone had scrambled into action. Or at least - those in the estate to hear her story scrambled into action. Unfortunately for everyone, Leliana had opted to go to the Chantry that afternoon and therefore their best lockpick, liar and charming wide-eyed bard was unavailable for the rescue. Which meant it was all on Zevran - and Hawke.

Mostly Zevran. Hawke was there for back-up of the more dangerous kind. Somewhere in Denerim, Morrigan was also providing a distraction by fuelling rumours of a large direwolf loose in the city. Hopefully it would draw some of Loghain’s soldiers out.

The two guards up ahead raised a hand and the one of the right spoke.

“Halt - who goes there?”

“Ah, my friends, I have a delivery for your commander.”

Hawke kept his face straight - somehow - as the two guards prodded Zevran for details and the elf casually suggested that the items were of a personal nature, and of course their commander wouldn’t want it known about the Fort exactly what and when. The guard who’d spoken first was rapidly turning a shade of pink that Alistair would be proud of. When Zevran raised his voice to start describing one of the items, they were ushered into a side room to await the captain.

“Well,” Hawke said, leaning against the wall, “This is progress, I suppose.”

Zevran smirked.
“We just have to get past one man. I’m sure, if it comes to it, we can overpower him.”

Hawke sighed and folded his arms against his chest.

“One man, and then a dozen others.” He said. “And what if the commander hears -”

He cut off as footsteps began outside the room. Zevran gestured for him to move away from the wall, and together they turned to look innocently as the captain of the guard strode into the room.

“Right then,” he said, looking faintly harassed, “What’s this about a delivery? Maker, it’s all happening today.”

Hawke didn’t ask what else was happening. With any luck, he was referring to the wolf spotted somewhere in the city and not the new arrivals in the cells. Zevran smiled.

“Ah, yes, my good captain. You’re a busy man, we’re busy men - if you would just let us through -”

“You’ve not even told me what you’re delivering.” The captain replied, scowling.

“Ah, we have some ah - private, luxury goods for the commander.” Zevran said, still smiling. “A small collection of items, but -”

The captain put a hand up to stop Zevran mid-flow, his other hand going to his temples. He looked stressed. Hawke certainly felt stressed.

“Maker, not - not from that little shop down the alley to the Emporium?”

Hawke really, really hoped he was managing to keep his face neutral as Zevran smiled wickedly.

“Ah, my good sir, you know of it? Well of course, such a fine distinguished gentleman such as yourself…”

The captain winced.

“Maker’s breath, the commanders getting deliveries here? What in the world… No, I don’t want to know. More than my bloody paygrade to get involved in that.”

Hawke couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him, and it nearly undid the lie. The man’s eyes shot to Hawke, and a scowl descended.

“But why does it take two to deliver such… items?”

Hawke’s heart skipped a beat, but his tongue didn’t. He smirked at the man and winked.
“I’m one of the luxury goods.”

The look on the captains’ face was priceless. Even Zevran looked as if he were holding back a smirk. Hawke watched as the captain went pink, eyes looking Hawke up and down. Dressed in servant’s finery from Arl Eamon’s manor, he looked less like a mage and more like… well, a well-paid whore. Slowly, keeping his eyes on the Captain, he undid the top button loop on the collar and gave his best smile.

“I ah, have a bit of time before the Commander expects me, if you’d like a taste.”

He would absolutely distract the guard for as long as necessary for Zevran to reach Ailsa, if that’s what it took. Thankfully though, the captain practically choked and backed up, raising his hands.

“Ah, that won’t be necessary Serah - just uh - why don’t you both get on with it? I’ll let you into the main hall, just - ”

He’d practically backed himself all the way to the door. Zevran beamed at the captain, striding past. Hawke winked at the poor, spiralling man before passing him.

Neither of them spoke until they were some distance from the poor man, at which point Zevran let out a low whistle.

“I’m almost tempted to go find this commander…” He said, voice low as they kept walking.

Hawke snorted, and shot a look at the elf.

“If we take too long, Ailsa will have rescued herself - and she won’t be pleased that we got distracted.”

Zevran sighed and gave a small pout.

“Alas, you are right.”

Hawke was, on reflection, pretty pleased with how the rescue attempt was going. No one had died yet, and they were still free. It was more than he’d hoped for, in the circumstances. They entered through the next set of doors and once out of sight of the guards from before, peeled off to the right, towards the wing that held prisoners. Whilst neither had been inside Fort Drakon before, Eamon and Anora had both been familiar. As long as they didn’t go upstairs, Hawke and Zevran knew roughly where they were going.

There was a barking noise from one of the side rooms and Zevran paused for a moment before groaning.

“We should have brought Cabbage. A purebred mabari - no one would have questioned us taking him to the kennels.”

It was, Hawke admitted, a much better ploy than sexy deliveries. Still, it was too late now - Cabbage was back at Arl Eamon’s estate and they didn’t have that option. Instead he glanced at Zevran and gave a wicked smile.

“They won’t have questioned me, but an Antivan elf? Best stick to sex as your story, Zev.”

“I’m not the one offering to fuck the captain and the commander.” Zevran replied. “I fear I’ve been a corrupting influence on you, Ferelden.”

He really had been. Hawke tried not to think of Isabela at the Pearl. Somewhere below their feet, Ailsa and Alistair were being held - and quite possibly tortured. It really wasn’t the time to be thinking of anything else.

The next chamber had several guards milling around, and a single woman standing watch over the door they needed to get through. Hawke hesitated, but Zevran grinned.

“Hmm, this one is mine, I think.” He said, “Try not to look too suspicious, Hawke.”

Hawke was an apostate standing in the middle of Fort Drakon, with no reason to be there. He shot Zevran a look as the elf moved to go speak with the woman. Sighing, he leant against one of the walls and tried to look bored rather than worried.

There were two men standing guard at the other end of the corridor. They were both watching Zevran with something that might have been suspicion. Hawke felt sweat building on the back of his neck. If it came down to it, he could probably drop the two guards before an alarm could be raised. Probably.

Hawke watched as the guardswoman blinked several times, eyed both of the guards across the way and then walked straight past Hawke to confront them both.

“Have you been hanging around here all day just to watch me?”

Both men opened their mouths to protest, then realised that the other had done the same and turned, suddenly intent on each other. Hawke clearly heard the words known her longer and figured it was long past time to be gone. He moved, quietly, away from the wall and walked across the corridor as if he had every reason to be there. As he crossed, the woman started lecturing both men about how she couldn’t care less who had been assigned duty first, their behaviour was weird and creepy and out of line. And that as their superior officer, they could both consider themselves on latrine duties for the foreseeable future.

They slipped through the door and Zevran rolled his eyes.

“Maker, and I was trying to persuade her to accept both…”

Hawke snorted.
“Can’t be a corrupting influence on every Ferelden, Zev.”

The elf pinched his arse as he moved on ahead.
“Just the best of them.”

They hurried down the steps into the prison.

There were two guards before the final door. No deception was necessary, down here. Zevran slit their throats as Hawke held them in a prison, slowed to almost paralysis. Together, they dragged the bodies through the door and into the dungeon.

Ailsa and Alistair were in a cell together, naked except for their smalls. Ailsa was knelt before the cell door, trying to pick the lock with what appeared to be a rusty nail. She looked up and grinned as they dumped the two dead guards just beyond the door.

“Ah, there you are Zevran, took you long enough. Hawke - you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“Right, sorry - I’ll get right back to it once we’re done rescuing you.” Hawke said grumpily, breathing a little too hard from manhandling the dead guard. Shit, he really wasn’t at full-strength thanks to the Crows. “Leliana was busy praying, so you got me.”

Ailsa grunted as Zevran started checking every key on a ring liberated from the guards against the cell door. Alistair stood up from where he’d been sitting against the wall and Hawke took a rather selfish moment to eye the other man up and down before mumbling about finding them suitable disguises. Ailsa at least would need a helm to try and cover her dalish features. There was a click as Zevran found the right key and the cell door swung open.

“Right,” the elf purred, “Come on you two. As much as I am enjoying the view.”

Ailsa strode past him, flicking him in the ear like a parent telling off a child. Alistair was quite a bit more pink as he hurried past. He practically snatched the guard’s trousers out of Hawke’s hands.

Chapter Text

It is your or me the men will follow. So let us fight for it. Prepare yourself.

In some ways, it had all been building to this.

Hawke watched, alongside the others, as Ailsa drew her blades and faced down Loghain, regent of Ferelden and a man desperate and angry beyond measure. She’d taken a moment to reach up on tip-toe and kiss Alistair on the cheek, seemingly just to rile him.

In most situations, Hawke wouldn’t have doubted Ailsa for a moment. But this wasn’t most situations. She was facing one of Ferelden’s heroes - a fierce warrior in full mail. Loghain towered over her. Ailsa was swift, and deadly, but all it would take was one blow from the man’s shield to knock her off balance, one sharp thrust from his sword to pierce through her leather armour. Even Alistair looked worried - wishing, clearly, that she’d let him take her place against the man who’d betrayed Duncan to his death.

But Ailsa had her own grievances with the man. Not just for the Wardens that she’d never truly got an opportunity to know, nor for the way he’d hounded her across Ferelden in the months after, but for the alienage. For the elves sold into slavery, handed over to Tevinter Magisters as if they were nothing. Ailsa had burned with fury ever since they’d stepped through the alienage gates and she had come face to face with how her city counterparts lived.

You sold Ferelden citizens to fund your war. My people - as if they were cattle. I should kill you where you stand.

Well, here was her chance. She’d argued that he was obsessed with Orlais and ignoring the Blight, that he’d sent a blood mage to poison Arl Eamon. His own daughter had denounced him. It had felt, at least for a moment, that the Landsmeet would back Ailsa entirely. A few held out - but not many. And Loghain’s stubborn refusal had brought them here - to a duel.

If Ailsa lost…

If Ailsa lost, Ferelden was doomed. The Wardens would die with her and Alistair - and with them, the only people who could kill an Archdemon in the country.

Then again, if Ailsa lost, Hawke probably wouldn’t live long enough himself to worry about the blight encroaching every day on Denerim. At best, Loghain would have Ailsa’s friends arrested. An apostate like himself, a Warden conscript, if not a true Warden - he’d be lucky if he was sent to the Circle to await the coming of the darkspawn there.

The whole room seemed to hold its breath as the two began to circle.

On the sidelines, next to Alistair, Cabbage gave a loud, aggressive bark and Ailsa sprang forwards. Her daggers flashed, and met Loghain’s shield. She darted to the side, moving fast, and the warrior’s sword thrust wide. Hawke’s heart hammered in his chest. Maker, he wanted to throw a barrier over her, or sunder the stone under Loghain’s feet or … He could do nothing. None of them could even twitch for fear of accusations of cheating.

Alistair wasn’t blinking, his jaw clenched, his fingers wrapped around Cabbage’s collar as a precaution.

Loghain surged forwards, sword moving to strike at Ailsa’s torso. Hawke recognised the form from watching Alistair spar with Sten and prayed Ailsa would spot it too. She did, practically dancing away and ducking under the warrior’s arm to try and get at the vulnerable spot of his armpit. But he moved back, parrying her blade with his own.

Leliana was praying, Hawke could hear the words she was whispering quietly. Wynne’s head was bowed too, eyes closed. Hawke wished he could believe that the Maker watched, that the Maker cared enough about them to intervene.

Ailsa kicked out, aiming for Loghain’s knee, and the warrior snarled in fury at a cheap trick for a dirty knife-ear. Something flashed across Ailsa’s face but she didn’t lash out, didn’t allow herself to be lured into a reckless move. Instead she planted her foot on the inside of Loghain’s and tried instead to trip him.

The warrior stumbled, and Ailsa’s blades snaked through the air. Loghain’s shield came up to protect his throat at the last moment.

It was as if that changed the tempo - as if before then they’d been testing each other's boundaries and limits. Loghain shoved Ailsa back, hard, and charged her down, and Ailsa moved as if it were a dance, ducking and diving and deflecting. Hawke forced himself to breathe, mouth dry.

Duels never lasted long. Even practiced warriors tired eventually, allowing for mistakes. Only in the stories did they drag on for hours, days even. The reality was much quicker - and much more brutal.

Loghain overextended, just by a hair, and Ailsa seized the advantage, driving her blade through one of the joints near the man’s hip. When she pulled back, her dagger was slick with blood. Hawke’s heart leapt at the sight of it.

Someone on the balcony - possibly Bann Sighard, whose son had been found in Howe’s dungeon, cheered.

Not a killing blow, but a dangerous one all the same - and Loghain knew it. He tried to push forwards, to attack, but his balance was off and Ailsa had the advantage. This time though, instead of driving forwards with her daggers, she aimed a fist right into the man’s face. Loghain’s nose broke with a satisfying crunch.

He should have surrendered. Hawke wondered, for a moment, whether he would. But instead he raised his sword and swung at her, snarling.

“No Dalish bitch will claim -”

The rest of his sentence was cut off by Ailsa swinging her blade back around and ripping out his throat.

For an age, silence reigned in the hall. Then Ailsa, splattered with the man’s blood, lowered her daggers, breathing hard.

“For Cailin,” she growled, “For Duncan - and every nameless Warden, soldier, Ferelden, elf and innocent you discarded for your stubborn refusal to see sense.”

Anora gave a cry and ran forwards, towards her father. Several of the guards tried to stop her, eyes darting to Ailsa. But Ailsa turned her back and started to clean blood off her daggers.

The queen broke past the guards and sank to her knees before the crumpled form of Loghain, eyes shining with unshed tears. Whatever she had said in defence of Ailsa - whatever she had said as a criticism of Loghain, it hadn’t prepared her for this.

It was Arl Eamon who cleared his throat, and at Hawke’s side, Alistair appeared to wilt, waiting for the inevitable. Loghain was dead. There was only one opposing candidate for the throne.

Ailsa silenced the Arl by sheathing her daggers and turning back to face the room. Her eyes were cold.

“Loghain was a fool.” She said, “He refused to see me as anything but an enemy. A dalish pretender who’d prop up the man I love as King to rule, no better than the Orlesians he hated. He was wrong. I don’t want that. Fuck, Alistair doesn’t want that. I wasn’t lying - the blight is our enemy here, and we are Wardens. Not rulers. I suggest you all rally around Queen Anora - and fast.”

Hawke blinked and shot a look at both Alistair - who looked like he couldn’t breathe - and Anora - who looked entirely impassive.

“Didn’t she betray you and leave you to rot in Fort Drakon?” He blurted out before he could stop himself.

Ailsa raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed.
“Aren’t you fucking the assassin that tried to kill me on her father’s command?”

And yes, well, he was - and said assassin was chuckling quietly to himself nearby, just to really make Hawke squirm - but there was a difference between the camaraderie they’d established over the long months since and putting Anora on the damn throne. And if Hawke had been stupid enough to say it aloud, at least half of their friends would be thinking it. Indeed, Wynne was frowning heavily in disapproval.

“Tis a better decision than Alistair,” Morrigan said, “The queen has experience, and is well liked. Whereas Alistair…”

She still managed to get a jab in there, even when she was offering a view that was probably similar to Alistair’s own. Anora rose from the floor, brushing out her skirts. She met Ailsa’s gaze with heat, but steadily.

“Alistair will need to renounce any claim to the throne.” She said, “But I would pledge the remaining forces of Ferelden to your side, to help combat the blight.”

“Maker,” Alistair said hurriedly, “I’ll make that oath here and now if you want.”

He seemed so desperately eager to have nothing to do with the throne. Arl Eamon was frowning at him, but Alistair wasn’t looking at the man who’d helped raise him. His eyes were entirely on Anora.

It was the Grand-Cleric who spoke.

“I would accept Queen Anora remaining on the throne.” She said, “She has shown courage throughout these trying times. Ferelden could do far worse.”

Several other Bann’s stepped forwards, speaking in agreement. Oddly, the one who’d voted against Ailsa, who had supported Loghain, wasn’t one of them. When Hawke spotted him on the balcony, he was deathly pale and clutching at the balustrade, staring down at Loghain’s corpse. Hawke wondered, dimly, what deal he’d made for his loyalty - whether he’d been bought with gold or threatened into following. He barely seemed aware that Loghain’s daughter was about to retain the throne.

Alistair was swearing - in the presence of the Grand Cleric - that he would never seek the throne and would remain a Grey Warden for the rest of his days, and Hawke thought he looked almost as relieved as he had when Loghain had fallen. Ailsa was smiling slightly - that small satisfied smile she had when she’d managed to browbeat people into doing what she wanted. She was still covered in Loghain’s blood.

Queen Anora turned to her, chin raised slightly in defiance in the face of the woman who’d killed her father.

“Warden,” she said, her tone carefully controlled, “May I suggest you return to Arl Eamon’s estate with your friends? I will join you to discuss the upcoming war shortly.”

Ailsa nodded, and then her smile widened, just a little.
“Don’t take too long.” She said. “Or my forces will be at the gates with no orders.”

Anora blinked.
“Forces?”

Alisa raised a hand and started to tick off her fingers.
“Some of the Redcliffe guards are already here but the Circle Mages, the Dalish and the dwarves of Orzammar should be here in the next few days. I was not idle, your majesty, in my attempts to stop the blight.”

At least someone hadn’t been. They might just win.

Chapter Text

Word reached them on the darkspawn heading to Redcliffe that evening, before the dust had settled on the Landsmeet. They set out then and there, riding into the night to try and make it there before the horde, even as they knew it was an impossibility. Arl Eamon and the Redcliffe guards rode with them, grim faced. The Warden Riordan, discovered down in Arl Howe’s dungeons, came along too, alongside the earliest arrivals from the Dalish. Their numbers cleared the roads at least. But progress could never be fast, and the village had suffered greatly already. Every hour that slipped by made it less and less likely that the hinterlands would survive.

Somehow they made it back, and somehow, the village still stood. The castle still stood. Hawke took some satisfaction from killing darkspawn in the place where he’d first been thrust into battle, green and terrified. Well, he was still scared shitless in many ways, but it was different now. His fireball brought down an ogre as Morrigan tore through darkspawn as a Direwolf. To his left, Sten and Ailsa were carving their way through a clutch of Hurlocks, blades bloody. By this time, the group worked well together, able to step into each other’s weaknesses and press the attack. A far cry from the first time they’d stood together to protect Redcliffe.

Inside the castle, they had a precious few hours to rest and recuperate. Ailsa disappeared - first with Arl Eamon, and then with Riordan.

Hawke was browsing the books in Eamon’s study when Ailsa stuck her head back in. She looked tense.

“Have you seen Alistair?”

He slid the book back onto the shelf and looked at her.

“I think he was talking to Teagan - in the courtyard? What’s up?”

“Warden business.” Ailsa grunted, before ducking back out again.

He didn’t see her - or Alistair - again for the rest of the night. And at breakfast, something was off. Alistair, oddly, couldn’t seem to look at Ailsa, who was very busy studying her food. When Hawke looked around at the assembled group, trying to work out what had happened, he spotted Morrigan smirking into her porridge.

Had she caught them together somehow? Hawke itched to know. He shot a look at Zevran - always the gossip, always the one to tease at tensions - but the elf was deep in conversation with Wynne about something to do with antidotes. Another look at Leliana suggested the Orlesian bard was still half asleep, hair tousled at the back. That in itself was interesting. She was normally an early riser, and impeccably put together. Perhaps she hadn’t gotten much sleep that night. For a moment, Hawke was distracted trying to spot if any of their other companions looked as if they had been up all night. Although, perhaps Morrigan’s smirk…

He opened his mouth to ask Leliana what she’d been up to when a messenger practically fell into the room.

“Darkspawn spotted,” he said all in a rush, “Near Denerim.”

Ailsa cursed sharply and stood up, practically knocking over her plate of food in her hurry. Always pale, now she looked ghostly.

“This was a diversion.” She said, almost snarling, “Shit, shit shit. How far? How far man?”

Too close to the city for them to reach in time. Hawke’s heart sank into his shoes, all teasing questions about possible bed arrangements dissolving in the face of what was happening - what was about to happen. The darkspawn horde had lured them from the city, and whilst Denerim was far from defenceless, the only Wardens in Ferelden were half the country away.

How fast could they get back? How well could the city hold out?

They didn’t wait to find out. Within the hour, they were back in the saddle and hurrying with all pace back towards the city. They had to outpace some of the soldiers on foot that were travelling with them. Ailsa sent birds ahead, both giving orders and begging for more information - for some kind of word on how far, and how many.

That night, Ailsa paced before the campfire, muttering to herself about being a damn fool. She only relented when Alistair led her away, out of earshot. When they came back, she slipped into their tent without a word to the others.

They came across a pack of darkspawn, near South Reach, and Ailsa could have killed them all personally. As it was, it hardly counted as a fight.

Past the town, the refugees fleeing south seemed to disappear, as if cut-off, strangled at the source. Every village they passed was abandoned. Soon enough, they found signs of blight - blackened, twisted fields and fissure down into the dark. Packs of darkspawn roamed, in small numbers but more numerous than any found before. Alistair and Ailsa both grew quieter, tenser, more withdrawn - and with them, the others. They stopped as late as they dared each night and rose as early as they could each morning, pushing the pace as much as they could. No one talked much - all eyes on the road, looking out for darkspawn.

When a rider, pushing a horse harder and faster than the horse would allow, winded and exhausted, appeared in front of them, bleakness settled across the group.

The news was not good - but not as bad as it could have been. The darkspawn had reached the city the day before, and were on the cusp of breaking through the gates. The city guard and the dalish were holding out as best they could, but there had not yet been any sign of the dwarves of Orzammar, or the mages. They’d be coming from the other direction - north, not west. The only saving grace was that the Archdemon had not yet arrived. Although, in the intervening hours, anything could have happened. There could have been reinforcements on either side.

They were too far out that night to do anything other than camp and save their strength, pushing on with the dawn. The forces of Redcliffe were over a day’s march behind them. If Eamon kept them going through the night, they might make it. Might. Realistically though, it was just the mounted Knights who would be at their side, facing the horde. Hawke prayed that their allies were close. It would be a short battle without them.

Sten took watch, muttering about needing little sleep. The others retreated to their tents to try and snatch a few hours before hitting the road again.

In the dark of their tent, Zevran reached for Hawke and Hawke pulled the smaller figure closer, into his arms.

“You know,” he said, keeping his voice low, “I really thought this wouldn’t happen. That somehow, we’d be able to put it off forever.”

Zev made a small noise of amusement and brushed a lock of hair from Hawke’s forehead.

“Hmm. You never struck me as the naive type, Hawke.”

Hawke closed his eyes, mostly to avoid the weight of Zevran’s gaze. It hadn’t been naivety, it had been denial. Tomorrow. Tomorrow they could both die. Well, that was theoretically true of any day - but tomorrow? If they did not win, Ferelden was doomed. And even if they did, there was no guarantee either of them would live to see it. Hawke’s hand tightened involuntarily on Zevran’s hip.

“I’m scared.”

Two words, whispered between them. Hawke wondered, dimly, what Alistair and Ailsa were saying to each other in their camp, or whether they’d moved on to desperate kisses and possibly last couplings. He wondered if he’d ever be able to sleep, mind racing through the thousand possible scenarios for the next day - the thousand possible ways to die.

Zevran’s lips found his forehead.

“That is only natural before a battle.”

Then they were kissing and Hawke was trying to pull Zevran in closer, so close that there was no space between them, and closer still. Pressed together in the dark, frantic and urgent, Zevran rolled them so he was on top, kissing his way down Hawke’s exposed throat to his collarbone.

A tent in camp was hardly the place for luxurious, slow sex and nothing about the battle awaiting them inclined them to anything other than getting off, hard and fast. Zevran’s teeth worried at the skin of Hawke’s throat, shoulders, chest and was left with his own bruises from Hawke’s fingers digging in tight to his thighs and hips as he let the elf rut against him. He choked back a moan, face covered in the crook of his elbow as Zevran swallowed him down, bringing him to the edge before sliding off and smirking in the dark at Hawke’s protesting whine.

Hawke teased at the elf’s nipples before Zevran took them both in hand, his other hand buried in Hawke’s hair, tugging his head back for just the right side of rough.

“You're so good to me,” he purred, “So good.”

It was everything and not enough. Hawke’s world narrowed to the tent, to Zevran’s body, to pleasure and pain and the building sensation in his balls as his hand closed over Zevran’s to help increase the pressure.

Hawke whimpered as he came, body tensing with the strength of it. His grip on Zevran’s hip tightened instinctively, his other hand working with Zevran’s continued thrusts. With a short, sharp curse, Zevran followed him over the edge.

One of Hawke’s shirts was sacrificed to clean up the mess on his stomach from them both. Outside, there was no noise. For a little while, Hawke drifted, body pleasantly loose and relaxed even if his mind still wanted to think. Zevran sucked more marks over his ribs before settling down against his side.

“Sleep, Hawke, if you can. I would not wear you out for tomorrow, hmm?”

Hawke went to point out that it was a bit late for that, but ended up stifling a yawn. He closed his eyes.

“Hey Zev?” He mumbled after a few moments.

“Hmm?”

“Don’t die.”

Zevran snorted, the rush of air playing out across Hawke’s chest. He laid a gentle kiss against one of the marks he’d made.

“A deal, Ferelden. Let us both live, hmm?”

Hawke tightened his arm around the elf.

“Deal.” He said.

Despite everything, sleep claimed him.

Chapter Text

Hawke burned the darkspawn running at him and took a moment to breathe.

The darkspawn were inside the city - but enough remained outside that fighting their way to the gatehouse had been a monumental task. Thankfully, the Legion of the Dead had shown up at their backs, giving them numbers. Ahead, Ailsa cut down a trailing hurlock and turned, eyes scanning for her friends and allies.

Redcliffe soldiers and the Circle were about an hour away, according to the scouts - but it was possible Denerim didn’t have that time.

After a brief respite and conference with Riordan and Alistair, Ailsa called them all in.

“This is it,” she said, “Our last stand. Morrigan and Wynne - you’re with Alistair, Riordan and I. We’re headed for Fort Drakon to try and lure the Archdemon away.”

Hawke wanted to argue, but Ailsa ploughed on.

“There’s two Darkspawn Generals in the city, co-ordinating the attack. We’ll take out the one in the market on our way, but the other is in the alienage and it’s a dead fucking end. Hawke, Zev, Oghren and Leliana - I want you to get over there and kill them. Sten - I need you and the Legion to hold this fucking gate. No more darkspawn getting in - and any that try to make their way back don’t get out, you hear me?”

It made sense. Morrigan could offer both front and back line support, and Wynne’s healing made her invaluable. If they could get the Archdemon to focus its attacks on Fort Drakon, having all three Wardens in one place was the best chance of killing it.

Now that they were here though, three Wardens just seemed… hopeless. Even with Ailsa, force of nature that she was. Hawke shoved that thought away. They couldn’t lose hope now. Denerim was burning.

Oghren burped and wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Right, let’s go kill the nug-humping bastards.”

“Send the Circle Mages and Redcliffe soldiers in the moment they arrive.” Ailsa said looking at Sten. “Get them clearing the streets. The Dalish are doing a good job of ambushing the darkspawn, but they’re not rank and file soldiers.”

Sten nodded.

“It will be done.”

Ailsa spat on the ground.

“I’ve never been one for big speeches.” She said. “But if any of you fucking die on me now, I’ll find a necromancer to bring you back so I can kill you again myself. Tonight - when this is done - I swear to the Creators I will drink each and every one of you under the table.”

Then the slim, sharp-edged elf was turning, advancing through the gate, daggers drawn.

Hawke eyed Zevran who gave him a wry smile and a wink.

“Come on,” he said, “We can stick together as far as the market.”

A clutch of Legion soldiers and city-guard followed Ailsa, and the group advanced into the city. Hawke gripped his staff a little tighter and tagged along at the back with Wynne. Morrigan strode on ahead, unconcerned.

The main square of the market was a writhing mass of darkspawn, and Hawke settled his stance before pulling fire from the Fade. His fireball lit up the night sky.

An ogre hurled itself forwards, snarling, and found itself being hamstrung by Ailsa and Zevran in unison. As it pitched forwards, Oghren buried his axe in its skull. Around them, the darkspawn surged and scattered, ravenously pushing forwards and running away in panic each to their own whim. When one broke through, near to Leliana’s position, Wynne froze it solid before a Legion of the Dead dwarf shattered it with their shield. Chaos ruled.

Hawke hauled up debris from the broken buildings, slamming it into the darkspawn still fighting. And there, in the middle, a huge hurlock with twin axes that seemed desperate to reach Ailsa. Hawke watched as it cleaved a city guard in two and kept on charging.

Gritting his teeth, he warped and twisted the air around the warrior, slowing its movements. Alistair and Ailsa pushed forwards to meet it.

It died under their blades, several of Leliana’s arrows sticking out of its chest. Ailsa broke away, panting, then called out.

“Get your asses to the alienage, then back to Sten, now!”

Hawke dug in his pack and found a lyrium potion. He hated the things - hated how shaky and wrung out he felt in the aftermath. But this wasn’t the time to be picky. He pulled the cork out with his teeth as they hurried towards the alienage gates.

Overhead, there was an awful, draconic scream, and a shadow fell across them. Hawke looked up and saw the Archdemon whirling overhead.

“Well at least it’s here!” Zevran called out.

Hawke almost choked as he swallowed the last mouthful of the lyrium solution. Shit, it was so much bigger close up - the size of the High Dragon they’d fought, at least. He tried to tell himself that they had killed that dragon, that Ailsa could kill the Archdemon, but with the city burning, it felt like they were fighting a losing battle.

The darkspawn in the alienage seemed to writhe and spill over each other like a swarm of rats in their attempts to reach anything living. Hawke heard someone screaming for help- and then heard the sound cut off, sharply. He shuddered and readied himself again.

No Wynne this time, no Morrigan. Just him. Maker, he’d need another lyrium potion or two.

Oghren and two other dwarves were holding the front line, axes swinging. Zevran darted in between, blades dancing. Leliana stood at Hawke’s side, firing arrow after arrow into the melee. She’d have to abandon the bow for her own daggers, soon enough. Hawke threw fire, and earth, and force, and kept an eye on his friends as best as he could.

Hawke spotted the bloody Emissary a heartbeat too late and tried to yell a warning whilst throwing a barrier over Zevran.

Fire erupted, and it wasn’t Hawke’s spell. For a few horrifying moments, the elf was engulfed. Hawke strained, keeping the barrier up even as it threatened to shatter under the brutality, before snatching at the Fade and forming a fist of stone and force magic. It smashed into the Emissary alongside Oghren’s axe.

An arrow glanced Hawke’s shoulder, tearing through armour and skin alike. Hawke gritted his teeth, ignoring the throb of pain, and sent force magic through the earth, erupting the ground beneath the darkspawn’s feet.

The Emissary screamed as it died, its ear-piercing wail clawing at Hawke’s mind, filling him with dread. Breathing hard, Hawke sank to his knees, fighting that last piece of wild, awful, blighted magic. He would not run. He would not run. He would not…

“Hawke!”

Leliana’s voice. Hawke looked up and saw a darkspawn wave crashing against Oghren and Zevran. Desperately, drained, he reached one last time through the Veil. Not fire - his friends were too close, too much chance of being hit. Instead he focused on a barrier to cover the two of them. Leliana had abandoned her bow and was running in, blades drawn.

The hurlock burst out of the nearest house, barrelling straight for her.

Hawke couldn’t maintain three barriers. Snarling, cursing, he dropped the spell and changed tact, dragging the last of his strength into a telekinetic burst.

The darkspawn was thrown back, slamming into the house it had just exited, and Hawke pivoted, already trying to grasp at the last drops of his mana whilst grabbing another lyrium potion. Shit, he needed to get that barrier back, and fast.

Spirit magic burst across Oghren and Zevran as Hawke drained the flask dry. His skin felt like static, his mouth tingling. Too much, too fast. He’d have the fucking shakes if he survived the night.

Oghren killed the final darkspawn and for a moment, none of them moved, ears straining, eyes darting, waiting for the next wave, or the ambush. Then Zevran turned and slowly limped towards Hawke.

Limped.

There was blood running down the elf’s thigh, and his elbow and forearm on his left side looked to be burned. Hawke felt fear stab through him and managed to stand, hurrying to meet him.

“Shit, Zev, are you -”

“I’m fine,” the elf lied, wincing, “Or at least, I have had worse.”

Oghren grunted. There were two quite hefty dents and breaks in his armour, but Hawke couldn’t see any injuries. Leliana looked unharmed. Hawke’s own shoulder throbbed, but he’d had far, far worse following Ailsa.

He reached out a - trembling, near shaking - hand and brushed his fingers against Zevran’s face. His healing skills were pathetic, but he could try.

“Don’t,” Zevran said gently, “You’re running on fumes, no? And already twitchy. Come - let us head back to the gates. I can take a healing potion as we go. Save yourself, Hawke. The night isn’t over yet.”

Still, Hawke let Oghren and Leliana take the lead, lingering at the elf’s side until he saw the Crow drink the whole damn vial of one of Wynne’s best potions.

They were crossing the market square when they heard the Archdemon roar again and Hawke turned, looking up. It flew above Fort Drakon. As he watched, a storm of lightning lit up the sky, striking the creature. Morrigan. The Archdemon screamed and arced in the air, turning to barrel at the ground. Hawke hoped, prayed, it was crashing, not landing.

“Come on,” Zevran said, “We’re not helping gawping.”

A regiment of Templars marched past, escorting a half-dozen Mages. They were heading for Fort Drakon, to help. Hawke hated the fact they were going the other way - right until they turned the corner and saw the ongoing fight.

It was possible, he thought faintly, that Ailsa could win the battle, and they could still lose the city. Maker, there was just so many darkspawn.

He wasn’t sure how long they fought there at the gates - fighting from both sides to protect the city from without and from within. A third and fourth lyrium potion, until his insides were knots and his blood was roaring in his ears. He wondered, dimly, how many lyrium potions a mage had to ingest in a short period to give themselves lyrium poisoning. And then he dropped another fireball on the horde, unwilling to stop even if he was killing himself with the effort.

A roar, echoing through the streets, seemed to reach Hawke through a haze. And then, around him, the darkspawn seemed to shudder. He stabbed the closest through with the blade on his staff, careful to keep his mouth closed against the darkspawn blood. The creature didn’t react - didn’t defend himself.

It took a moment for it to sink in. And then, around them, the darkspawn broke and scattered, charging this way and that in panic.

The Archdemon was dead. And across the battlefield, Hawke heard Sten roar.

“Press the advantage!”

Shuddering, Hawke reached into the Fade again. Dead. The Archdemon was dead. They had won - and the battle was far, far from over.

Chapter Text

Hawke was pleasantly drunk.

The ceremony had been formal, stiff, and entirely too surreal for his tastes. Half the city still stood in ashes, and yet all the nobles had gathered to coo over Ailsa’s achievements. Anora had named her Bann of Amaranthine with a completely straight face - as if raising a Dalish elf to nobility didn’t completely upend things. The Warden - now Warden-Commander of Ferelden - asked for sovereign land for her people, and Anora granted it without batting an eye. In two strokes, the Dalish were elevated beyond any elves since the destruction of the Dales. Hawke hoped it lasted, but he doubted it. Memory of what Ailsa had done would fade, and the old resentments would come flooding back.

Afterwards, things had relaxed a little. The feast was nothing like Hawke had ever experienced before, and felt rather guilty tucking into thrice-stuffed birds and enough cheese to make even Alistair happy with refugees still trailing into the city, desperate and hopeful in the same breath. Still, Hawke took advantage of the beer, if nothing else. And as the plates were cleared away and the nobles took to the next hall to celebrate, it was clear he hadn’t been the only one.

Ailsa was busy dragging an older, grey-haired Dalish around to meet everyone. When it was Hawke’s turn, the woman was introduced as Ashalle - not Ailsa’s mother, but the closest thing to it. Hawke turned up the charm.

“Oh, so you’re to blame, are you?” He said with a grin.

Ailsa rolled her eyes.
“Watch yourself, Hawke.”

Ashalle looked amused though, which had been his intention. She’d been looking a little tight around the eyes, as clearly as unused to Shem compliments as Ailsa had once been herself.

Leliana was already on the dancefloor, enjoying a dance with a young, blonde, Ferelden noble. Sten was standing by the door, but when Hawke watched him, the Qunari knelt down and offered Cabbage something from his pocket. It looked like cookie crumbs. Across the room, Alistair was talking with Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan. Wynne was talking with First-Enchanter Irving, watched over by the Knight-Captain from the Circle who’d escorted the mages to Denerim. Even here, the mages were watched. Hawke’s shoulder blades itched as the Templar looked up and spotted him.

Morrigan had disappeared - slipping away at dawn after the battle. Hawke wasn’t entirely sure why, but he understood that he and her had shared a precarious place at Ailsa’s side. He was, in theory, protected by the fact Ailsa had conscripted him - but Morrigan had never had that same understanding. Perhaps she’d opted to leave before questions were asked.

A hand touched Hawke’s shoulder and he looked around to find Zevran smiling at him.

“Did you not fancy a dance?” He asked, smirking.

Hawke eyed the dancers. It had a few similarities to the dances he’d attended in Lothering - but not enough. He might have been dressed fancier than he’d ever been in his life, but it wouldn’t take eight beats to out him as peasant-stock. He wondered, dimly, if that would alienate him from this crowd almost as much as being a known apostate.

“Not here,” he said, before winking at Zevran. “Perhaps later.”

The elf looked amused for a moment, before it dropped away. A woman had started to sing to the tune being played, and the words chronicled some of their exploits. Shit, that hadn’t taken long.

“Ah…”

Hawke groaned and grabbed another drink from a servant as they went past.
“Oh yes, let’s start singing about beating back the darkspawn whilst we’re still rooting them from all the buildings.”

“Could be worse,” Zevran replied, “Could be singing about the broodmother.”

Hawke shuddered at the memory of that creature, feeling suddenly queasy.

“I suspect the bards will gloss over that fight.” He said, casting around for a better topic. “And focus on your stunning looks and charm winning over the hapless apostate.”

“Hmm,” Zevran said, clearly in agreement, “But that… it poses a problem, no? The Crows believe I am dead - but the stories and songs tell another story.”

Hawke frowned. He hadn’t considered what news of their victory would mean for Zevran. No anonymity. Maker, if he wasn’t sworn to the Wardens, it would be an issue for him too. How hard would it be to hide, to stay out of sight?

“Ailsa won’t let them hurt you…” He trailed off, knowing it was neither that simple, nor guaranteed that Zevran planned to follow the Warden. He stared at his drink, rather than that at the elf. “You’re going to have to run, aren’t you?”

Zevran made a small noise of annoyance.
“Or, I could take the fight to them.” He said. “I miss Antiva, after all.”

Hawke covered his reaction by taking a drink. Take on the Crows? It sounded impossible.
“I… I won’t be able to follow, Zev.”

He had to follow Ailsa to Amaranthine.

Zevran swirled his own goblet of wine.
“I would not ask you to. In fact, I would insist you did not. You are many things, Garrett Hawke - but you are not an assassin. And I would not put you in that danger.”

Hawke breathed out slowly, feeling more sober than he had done, and more pained.

Rationally, he’d known this was coming. It had to be. Zevran wasn’t going to be a Warden, had laughed when Alistair had suggested it at camp weeks before. No, having freed himself - of sorts - of one group, Zevran had no desire to join another.

“So. Is this it?” He said, trying to sound casual. “The end? One last dance, as it were?”

Zevran seemed to tense next to him.

“If that is what you want.” He said, cautiously.

Hawke looked over the dance floor. Was it? A clean break before one of them died, down in the Deep Roads, or far away in Antiva? Or…

“It’s not.” Hawke said bluntly. “I like you, Zev. But I don’t know how to make it work.”

Zevran’s hand found the small of his back, a gentle brush before moving away. Hawke made himself turn and look at the elf.

“How about this,” he said, “It should be obvious neither of us are ah, adverse, to others being included, hmm? And we do not know when we will see each other again. So perhaps we see other people, but we hold space for the other. And should we meet again… well, perhaps things will be different.”

Hawke swallowed. Should they meet again. Maker, he hoped they did.

His hand found Zevran’s and he interlocked their fingers.

“I… I can work with that.” He said, before managing a smile. “A promise, as it were.”

Zevran smiled, and leant up on tiptoes to capture Hawke’s lips, the briefest press.

“A promise.”

They excused themselves from the celebrations not long after, not bothering to say goodbye. They were all staying in the Fortress, after all, and no one would be leaving the next day. They’d drift apart, soon enough - Wynne back to the Circle, Sten to Par Vollen, Zevran to Antiva - but for a time, they had earned a rest. They’d earned good company, good food and time to unwind.

Hawke came apart under Zevran’s attentions, keeping the litany of meet again locked inside his chest. And when he found a small gold earring on his side of the bed the next morning, he scoured his own belongings for a token. He had so little to offer. Finally, he prised one of the stones from his staff and got a silversmith to set it in a simple ring. It was hardly flashy, but that almost suited the situation more.

The days became a fortnight, and slowly the group disbanded. Ailsa started to mutter about the journey to Amaranthine. Preparations were made. Zevran found a ship heading north. Leliana talked of a task set for her by the Chantry and the Grand-Cleric, of returning to Haven. She would set out for Redcliffe with Teagan and Arl Eamon. Alistair, rather reluctantly, was heading for Weisshaupt to brief the First Warden whilst Ailsa settled in at Vigil’s Keep. Oghren, it seemed, was joining Ailsa in Amaranthine. Hawke wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about that.

It was the night before they departed that the letter arrived.

Garrett,

I can’t believe I’m writing this letter. I don’t even know if it will reach you. News out of Ferelden grows more and more hopeful with each whisper and rumour, but the stories of Warden Ailsa all mention a loud-mouthed, cocky, dark-haired apostate. Not the most flattering of descriptions, brother.

Carver made it home and somehow we got away from Lothering with hours to spare. We tried to head south, to the Wilds, but the darkspawn had already swarmed the roads. It’s a long story, but we managed to make our way to Kirkwall. Mother hoped that we could find shelter at the family estates, but it turns out they’re long gone. Uncle Gamlen gambled everything away years ago.

It’s hit mother hard - that, and your absence. She prays every night for news of you, and for your safe return. Carver and I are working to pay off some debts, but as soon as we’re done we’re going to try and find a way to establish what Gamlen lost.

I know Kirkwall isn’t safe. But if you could come - even for a bit - it might ease mother’s pain. There’s a tavern near us called The Hanged Man. Send word, and I’ll check for you there every day.

Your favourite sibling,

Bethany

P.S Pumpkin is with us too. Thank the Maker for mabari war hounds, she kept us safe on the long road.

Hawke read it, twice, and then hurried to Ailsa’s rooms. She didn’t look best pleased to see him, and her blouse looked faintly rumpled as she opened the door. But she took the letter and read it, frowning, before handing it back.

“Well, that’s that then.” She said with a crooked smile. “You’d have made a shit Warden anyway. Too many orders to follow.”

Hawke blinked, staring at her.

“You’re… letting me go? Just like that? I thought - ”

Ailsa slipped out the room and shut the door behind her rather solidly.

“Hawke,” she said, “Your one regret in all this was leaving your family behind. They’re alive. What kind of arsehole would I be if I insisted you stayed?”

Hawke’s hands shook over the letter.

“I - I can return…” He began feebly, but Ailsa waved a hand.

“If you want. But I don’t think you do. I think you’d rather be in fucking Kirkwall of all places, dodging Templars and trying not to get stabbed in Darktown. Go, Hawke. We can sort details in the morning.”

He hugged her, tightly. It took her a moment to relax into it.

“Thank you.” He muttered. “Fuck, thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ailsa said, pulling back with a wry grin. “Thank me when the Templars have got their hands on you. Shit, what a waste.”

Hawke managed a grin.
“Ah, I avoided them for ten years - I can do it again.”

It would be harder now, of course. His face might not be famous, but his name would be. As he made his way back to his room to start packing, a new destination in mind, he touched the earring that now pierced his left ear. A new destination - and a new life.

Kirkwall awaited.