Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Garrett Hawke was woken by his twin sister Bethany in the middle of the night.

“Carver’s back. We need to go.”

He blinked, struggling to claw his way from the Fade back to reality. The outskirts of Lothering, their farm house, the room he shared with his sister. And voices - raised - in the main room of the house.

“He’s back? So the rumours were true?”

Bethany looked pale as she grabbed her staff and the ever present quick-escape satchel she kept under the bed. Hawke practically fell out of bed to find his clothes and his own emergency supplies. They were meant for the possible discovery that one of them - or both of them - were apostates. They’d been in Lothering for ten years, the longest the Hawke family had ever managed, but there had been a time in their lives when running was a frequent occurrence. Especially when he and Bethany had come into their magic not six weeks apart.

Carver stuck his head in, eyeing both of them.

“Move it,” he growled, “The Darkspawn are almost here. You shouldn’t have waited.”

Garrett pulled his shirt over his head and then glared at him.
“Mother wouldn’t let us go without you.” He said.

“And I’ve told her she was a fool.” Carver said shortly. The five years between them felt like a lifetime as he regarded them. “It may already be too late to escape.”

The younger Hawke didn’t argue as he grabbed his overcoat and staff. Both of them carried staffs adapted from common farm tools. At first glance, most people would not be able to tell the difference. Safer, that way. Their father had always impressed on them the importance of staying quiet, of not seeking attention. Bethany had taken to the lessons better than Garrett had. He was, to quote his older brother, a sarcastic little fucker.

In the living room, their mother was busy throwing sand over the remains of the smouldering hearth whilst Sabre barked and whined at the door. Garrett sniffed, more awake now, and realised he could smell burning. He crossed to the front door and let Sabre out. There, down the hill in the dark was an orange glow.

“Shit is that -”

“Lothering.” Carver grunted. “Mother, we need to go - now. Leave the bloody fire, we’re not coming back.”

Bethany appeared at her twin’s side, pale in the night.
“Oh Maker, all those people.”

“Most have fled,” Garrett said, trying to stay quiet, “They weren’t waiting for family returning from Ostagar.”

There was a clip around his ear and Carver was standing there, glowering. Of course he’d heard. Their mother slipped out the door, eyes red from tears.

“I didn’t escape that trap to die here.” Carver growled. “Or to listen to your tongue, Garrett. Get moving.”

They moved in the dark, the twins huddling together as Carver pushed them to run and walk in bursts. Bethany kept looking back over her shoulder, squinting into the dark like she could see the darkspawn catching up with them.

“We can’t outrun them,” she whispered, “They don’t sleep, right? What happens when we need to stop?”

Garrett didn’t know. He didn’t really want to think about it. He’d known their mother’s insistence on waiting one more day, just one more day for Carver to return was a bad idea. But how could he have pushed her to run when it was her oldest son they’d have been abandoning? When she had only just started to come out of her shell after the death of their father?

Dawn rose and they kept moving. The first darkspawn found them not long after, Sabre offering a warning growl moments before they burst from the undergrowth, and Carver put his maul through its head as Bethany screamed in panic.

Carver’s eyes found Garrett’s and he said.
“Eyes sharp. There will be more.”

There was a cluster not long later and Garrett remembered his father’s words as he reached into the Fade and pulled back fire. Never in violence, always in self-defence. To protect those you care about. Their mother was defenceless as he burned the creature, heart in his mouth. Carver stepped back, two more dead by his hand. Garrett realised he was shaking. He’d never actually fought anyone before using magic. His fists, yes. But it wasn’t like he could punch the darkspawn.

Ice erupted next to him and Bethany clutched her staff in a death grip as she killed the final blighted creature threatening them.

They ran. And when their mother finally stumbled, it was Garrett who helped her to feet and turned to Carver.

“We need to stop. Mother can’t keep this up.”

“I’m fine,” their mother lied, but there was a tension in her voice, “We have to keep going.”

Carver looked up and down the road, as Bethany chipped in.

“Where are we even going? Where can we run to that isn’t overrun?”

Carver gritted his teeth.
“North,” he said, “We just need to stay ahead of the Blight.”

Garrett swallowed his retort that they’d run out of north eventually - and that historically, the Blight kept spreading.

“We can go to Kirkwall. My family still has estates there.”

The twins swung to stare at their mother. Their mother, the noble woman who’d run away from the Free Marches to marry a Ferelden apostate.

“There are a lot of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother.” Bethany said.

Hawke shuddered.
“Yeah, not a fan. Bad call.”

“Not your call to make.” Carver said, shooting his brother a look. “It’s no more dangerous than Ferelden. The only place the two of you might be even slightly safe would be Tevinter and that’s not going to happen. Come on. We can’t stop.”

As if to prove his point there was a warning growl of oncoming darkspawn and Garrett slung his staff off his back to fight once again.

When they came to a curve in the road ahead, they found a man and a woman in leather armour fighting a dozen darkspawn off. Carver didn’t hesitate - just hefted his maul and charged forwards. Sabre charged after him, a mabari wardog at heart despite the years spent in peace at the farm. Bethany raised her staff and ice crackled, but Garrett had spotted the man’s shield, the style of his armour and hissed.

“Templar!”

It was too late - and Carver needed help. Cursing, Garrett set the nearest darkspawn on fire.

The Templar looked up as the ice and fire hit the cluster of darkspawn, and one of them took advantage to sink its teeth into his neck. The younger Hawke brother swore again as the red-headed woman gave a cry and started to fight with a ferocity that put Carver to shame. She ripped the offending darkspawn off of the Templar and put her sword through it, snarling. Garrett concentrated and tried to summon a fireball. Not exactly a skill he’d had to practise, back on the farm. The rush of fire filled the air and two more darkspawn burned. Huh. He was quite good at this.

Then it was over and it was just their luck the Templar was still standing.

“Stay back, apostates.”

The man was bleeding badly as the woman tried to staunch the flow of blood. His eyes were hard and staring at the two of them. Bethany hesitated, but Garrett moved on instinct, putting himself bodily between the man and his sister. He met the Templar’s eyes with raised chin, heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t Smite both of them, could he?

“Should we have left you to die?” Carver growled.

The woman turned, and Hawke recognised some of her armour as Ferelden. She must have been at Ostagar. With Carver. He stayed quiet, Bethany’s hand clutched in his as a warning that his tongue might not be the best option right then.

“They saved us, Wesley.” The woman said hesitantly. “The Maker would understand.”

The younger Hawke brother snorted, quietly. The Maker. What the fuck did the Maker care what happened? He’d sent the Blight as punishment after all. The Templar’s eyes hadn’t left his and he glowered at Garrett’s reaction.

But when he spoke, the woman’s words seemed to have reached him.
“The north road is overrun. If you had hoped to make it that way, you are too late.”

“Then we’re trapped,” Bethany said shakily as their mother offered a prayer out to Andraste to guide them. “The wilds and the horde are to the south.”

“We’ll take our chances.” Carver said, before eyeing the two strangers. “Come with us, if you want. Or not. I don’t really care.”

The Templar, Wesley, braced himself and rolled his injured shoulder. The woman - his wife? - took his shield without a word. As Garrett walked past, still holding Bethany’s hand, Wesley growled.

“I’ll be watching you.”

“Probably better to be watching for the darkspawn.” Garrett responded.

Carver called out without looking back over his shoulder. Sabre was walking at his feet, alert to danger.
“Shut it, brother.”

Bethany’s shoulders hunched a little. Gritting his teeth, Garrett nudged her ahead so it was his back exposed to the Templar as they walked. He tried to ignore the sensation of the man’s eyes on the back of his neck.

The next band of Darkspawn came running down the road to meet them and between the now six of them including Sabre the blighted creatures died without much struggle. The bigger concern, Garrett realised, was that he was starting to feel tired. He’d never have to fight like this before. How much mana did he and Bethany have left? How exhausted was Carver, having seemingly travelled through the night to reach them? How much longer could their injured companion keep going?

They crested the top of a hill and the biggest monster Garrett had ever seen came crashing up to meet them, aiming straight at their mother.

Carver was there in an instant, maul raised to meet it, but the ogre had momentum and size on its side. Garrett tried to get a barrier up between his brother and the darkspawn, but it smashed straight through and kept going. Everything seemed to slow down around Garrett as he watched his brother crumple in its grip, maul dropping to the floor as the older Hawke was thrown bodily across the plateau.

Reality reasserted itself as Bethany screamed Carver’s name and ice seemed to form in the air, hanging like crystals before stabbing down at the ogre. Garrett blinked rapidly, trying to shake the afterimage of Carver collapsing from his vision as he reached for fire. Heat flared, roiling off his own skin. The ogre snarled and thrashed as it burned, but neither twin stopped casting. It toppled over slowly, downed under the twin’s desperate assault.

Sabre was standing over her fallen master, snarling and attacking a darkspawn that had gotten too close. The red-headed woman who’d introduced herself as Aveline put her sword through the thing and Sabre hunched over Carver, keening.

Their mother stood frozen before the dead ogre, staring into nothing.

More darkspawn were coming. Garrett hurried over to Carver’s limp form. This couldn’t be happening.

Carver had always been so solid, so present. Some of Garrett’s earliest memories were his brother, in easier times, before their father had died. Before Garrett and Bethany had manifested their magic, and they were just the Hawke siblings. Before Carver had been forced to be the man of the house, before he’d promised their dying father to protect the twins. Before the weight of that promise had led him to Ostagar.

His brother was so small, Garrett thought as he stared down at Carver’s broken body.

“More darkspawn,” Aveline said, sounding grim. “Stand up, Garrett. Don’t let them take you too.”

She didn’t know him, but her tone brooked no disagreement. Stumbling, Garrett got to his feet and turned to face the approaching horde.

Maker, there was no way they could fight that many. Sabre snapped and growled and ran forwards. Something in the back of Garrett’s mind whispered that he was the head of the family now. Second-born, by not much at all. He could hear Bethany crying.

Then there was a screeching, piercing cry and Garrett Hawke looked up to see the dragon.

Chapter Text

“You’ve got two choices, as far as I see it.” Uncle Gamlen said with a sneer. “Take the deal, or walk over to the good Lieutenant of the guard over there and hand yourselves in as apostates, and I’ll find the money for your mother.”

The now-eldest Hawke stared at his uncle, mind reeling.

It had cost them everything to get to the docks at the Gallows, both financially and emotionally. They’d had to leave Carver and Ser Wesley where they fell on the outskirts of the Korcari Wilds, bodies broken by the Darkspawn. Aveline had ended her husband’s life herself when the taint had become obvious, her hands shaking with the weight of it as she’d driven in the blade between his ribs. Sabre had refused to budge from his master's side and they’d left the dog in the care of the Witch. His mother’s weeping as they fled the plateau in the wake of Flemeth’s intervention still haunted Garrett when he tried to sleep at night. Flemeth had promised to burn them, but there was no guarantee she would have held to her word. She’d done more than enough for them at Hawke’s desperate urging.

The last of their coin had gone on the ship passage, and Aveline had bribed the city guard with a chantry ring of some value to get a message to Gamlen. Only for the twin’s Uncle to turn out to be a drunken reprobate who’d gambled away the family fortune.

The only thing holding Garrett Hawke in that courtyard, underneath the harrowing statues of slaves and the shadow of the Templar Order, was his mother.

She’d blamed him for Carver. Had cried that she hadn’t wanted a hero, she’d wanted her son - and why hadn’t Garrett’s barrier held, why hadn’t he been able to save him. What good was his magic if it couldn’t do this? Garrett hadn’t known what to say. It was always Carver who had saved him, after all. Carver, who’d taught him how to throw a punch when it was clear that Garrett’s smart mouth would get him in trouble. Carver, who’d taken the time to show him how to fight with a polearm when it was obvious Hawke would need to hide a staff in plain sight for the rest of his life.

The polearms he and Bethany now carried thanks to Flemeth’s magic twisting their humble farm implements into something less likely to raise suspicions in a city. What kind of peasant ran with their tools to an urban environment, after all?

He’d mentioned, in those bleak moments after realising that they were standing in the Gallows Courtyard with no way into the city, that they could try their luck elsewhere. That there were other cities in the Free Marches. His mother had started to cry again, after weeks of numb silence and hollow eyes. Bethany had swallowed and whispered.

“She won’t make it, brother.”

He was so tired. His hand shook as he ran them through his matted, overgrown hair. For the first time in his life, he had an actual beard rather than awkward patchy wisps. Two months on the road to be denied at the end.

“I’ll speak to her,” he muttered, shoulders slumping, “But Bethany …”

“- Is right here and able to speak for herself.” Interrupted his sister, shooting him a glare. “I won’t let you take this burden on alone.”

“Yes, yes, she’s expecting both of you. Down by the market stalls, looking for a knife-ear in dark green leathers. Make the deal, and she’ll get you into the city.”

Athenril. A smuggler who was willing to take a shot on two Ferelden refugees. A year of indentured servitude to a criminal enterprise in exchange for access to the city. And somehow it was still the better option than the other. The Gallows towered over them, a shadow that lingered over the twins threateningly. Their Uncle had hardly lowered his voice as he’d thrown the word apostates at them. How easy it would have been for someone to overhear - it would have been over in a heartbeat. They’d seen a mage dragged into the tower by Templars only the day before. The woman had been pregnant.

Bethany’s hand found his as they walked past the city guards. They’d always been close - how could they not? They were twin apostates. Garrett had found himself on that first night fleeing the wilds riddled with guilt for the relief he felt that it hadn’t been Bethany taken by the ogre. Carver hadn’t deserved to die - hadn’t deserved to survive Ostagar and then fall unmarked and unknown as just another casualty of the Blight. But Bethany’s death would have broken the remaining Hawke brother. He’d do anything to keep her safe - including selling himself to a smuggling ring. Just for a year, he reminded himself. And it wasn’t slavery. Not really.

Aveline was talking to the Lieutenant. She’d mentioned trying to join the guard as a way into the city that didn’t leave her in debt to the Hawke family. It might be useful to have a friend in the guard, once they were inside.

The smuggler eyed them over as they approached.

“Shit, you look young.”

“We’re nineteen next month,” Bethany said, letting go of Garrett’s hand. “And we can fight. We came all the way from Lothering, through the darkspawn.”

The elf raised an eyebrow, then looked at him.

“Can you talk, or does your sister not let you get a word in edgeways?”

Garrett snorted.
“I was going to try and convince you to take just me on, but she’s determined to see her own way into the city.”

“Hmm. Your Uncle promised me two apostates. It’s both of you or nothing.”

She dropped her voice, but Garrett still felt Bethany tense next to him. He glanced up and down the narrow street, but no one was nearby to overhear.

“He mentioned that did he? I hope he can keep his mouth shut once we’re in the city or this is going to be a very short business arrangement.”

Athenril smiled thinly.
“Don’t worry, kid. Gamlen is a fool, but a harmless one. And I can keep the Templars looking the other way as long as you’re smart about it. Can you fight with that polearm you’re carrying?”

“A little,” He said, “Older brother taught me a bit. Enough to survive.”

“Healing?”

“Not really our thing.” Bethany chipped in. “But our dad used to make all sorts of potions and poultices. We can keep the group supplied.”

It had been one of their father’s biggest disappointments in training them to discover that his own talents for creation magic hadn’t passed down. He’d joked that the magic in their mother’s line clearly ran to the elemental, but he’d been despondent however much he tried to hide it. Garrett could just about heal bruises, Bethany a little more, but their father had been a healer. People from all over the Lothering area had come to him for the poultices and stitches that worked better than they should have done. No one had ever worked it out, or if they had, they’d kept silent. The town had mourned his passing, but not as much as the twins.

Athenril was considering them, clearly trying to decide whether they were worth the effort. A question burned at Garrett and he couldn’t stop himself from asking, despite the risk.

“What do you smuggle? It’s not slaves, is it?”

The first boat they’d tried to pay for passage across the Waking Sea had felt wrong to both twins, and suspiciously cheap in the Captain’s fees. It had been Aveline though who’d spotted the manacles not shoved entirely out of sight. And they hadn’t wanted to take Leandra. When the ship had sailed out later that night, it was replaced by a similar one promising passage to Rivain for half the price of the others.

The smuggler glowered.
“What kind of prick do you think I am?”

“The kind who associates with our uncle?” Garrett responded and that glower became a snort of amusement.

“No, not slaves. Black market stuff, mostly, some lyrium. Never people. On my honour - which I do have.”

Garrett nodded.
“Fine. We agree.”

“Not so fast,” Atheneril said, raising a hand, “It’s a lot of money to get the three of you in, and I’m only being compensated for two. There’s a dwarf who owes me money in the square. Get him to settle his bill without drawing Templar attention and I figure you’re worth it. Understood?”

Through gritted teeth, Garrett nodded and went to turn away when Athenril spoke again.

“Oh, and kid? Question me again and I’ll use you for skinning practice. I didn’t say shit about selling bits of shem to questionable sources.”

Despite himself, he froze. Then he walked away without looking back, her laughter following him back up the street to the square.

It wasn’t hard to threaten the dwarf, considering the burning in his own blood about the situation. He looked like he could hold himself in a fight at the best of times, but towering over the merchant he channelled as much of Carver as he could into his attitude. It worked. Bethany collected the payment with a beatific smile and a smooth apology for her brother’s attitude, and even got a stammered polite response from the merchant. Impressive.

“Try not to look quite so furious.” Bethany whispered, as they walked away, “We need her on our side.”

That was easy enough for her to say. But Garrett made himself slow his pace and focus on his breathing. If nothing else, he didn’t need a fire starting spontaneously to draw the Templars' eyes.

Bethany handed over the pouch and Athenerill bounced it in her palm, checking the weight before peering in and drawing out a sovereign. Garrett watched her bite it for authenticity, wondering if they could have just taken the purse and bribed the guards themselves. But it didn't seem wise to have a smuggling outfit on their tail from the start - especially if their leader knew they were apostates. She could ruin their lives so easily, even without resorting to physical threats. Garrett closed his eyes for a moment, breathing out. He was so tired.

When he opened his eyes, Athenril was regarding him.
“Well done - quick and efficient. I liked the stick followed by the honey. Although I think you've got more honey in you kid than you’re pretending.”

Garrett blinked. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to respond to that. She grinned at his lack of response.
“Quick learner too. You could be an excellent investment.”

He tried not to shiver under her gaze. Maker, he wished Carver was there. He wouldn’t tolerate this. He wouldn’t roll over and let Gamlen sell them into servitude.

But he wasn’t, and now Hawke had to step up and be the head of the family. And that meant getting his family into Kirkwall, at any cost. He swallowed.

“Did I see your red-headed friend chatting to the guards?” the elf asked, changing the topic so sharply Hawke jerked a little.

“She wants to join. She was an officer in the Ferelden army.”

Antherill looked back down the corridor towards the main plaza, considering.
“Well that will be useful. An inside contact.”

Garrett winced.
“She’s very… straight-laced. I don’t think she’d agree to help.”

He tried to phrase it in a way that couldn’t be taken as contradicting the smuggler. She shot him a look that suggested he’d only half-succeeded.

“Oh, she doesn’t need to agree. You’re going to do everything I ask, aren’t you? I’m sure she’ll tell you the guard routes if you ask her nicely.”

Bethany was eyeing him worriedly. But he made himself nod, like there was nothing he’d rather be doing in the world.

“Good. In that case, go running back to your mother and tell her the good news. I’ll have the bribes in place before sundown. And I expect both of you to report to The Broken Oxcart at the docks at sunrise. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Anthenril chuckled.
“Such a good boy.” She said, before patting him on the cheek and strolling out towards the plaza like she owned the whole damn world.

Chapter Text

Hawke lounged by the wind-sheared tree on the edge of the cliff, watching.

He really didn’t like this plan. A subsidiary of the Carta, that was pretending to all and intents purposes to not be the Carta, had been wrestling in on Athenril’s smuggling routes for the last weeks. In theory, their little outfit wasn’t big enough to take on the dwarven crime empire. In theory, the Carta left small fry like them alone. But in the last eight months, Atheneril’s crew had moved from being unworthy of attention to a thorn in the Carta’s side. The addition of two human apostates had been a very successful gamble on the elven rogue’s part. But that kind of growth got you noticed. And that notice had come with more challenges to their territory, to their suppliers - to their routes.

This group had Carta links for sure. A subtle testing of Athenril’s mettle where both sides could claim ignorance afterwards.

It was, also, testing Hawke’s mettle because Bethany was currently in the cave with several other members of the gang, trying to harry the enemy group onto the cliffs. They’d entered from another cave mouth and had several smoke bombs and poison grenades that would force the panicked not-Carta smugglers out to the fresh air. Bethany was there as back up, should anyone try to flee in the wrong direction. She shouldn’t need to get involved. But Hawke hated having her out of sight on missions.

Two more months. Two more months of this and they could walk away.

A bird call from a hedge close to the cave entrance alerted Hawke to the fact that there was movement, finally. He pushed away from the weathered tree and readied his staff. No need to be cautious, here. There wouldn’t be any survivors.

The first smuggler staggered out of the cave, coughing, and an arrow took him in the throat.

Hawke went to move forwards when there was another, sharper bird call from further down the path. Behind them. Hawke whirled, and moments later the trap sprang.

A dozen men charged over the dune, rushing up to meet Anthenril’s gang at the same time another handful of men advanced out of the cave mouth. At least, Hawke realised, the ones in the cave were struggling with the poison gas in the systems. But the ones closest to him seemed clear-eyed, clear-lunged and ready to kill.

His mind raced as he threw the barrier over Athenril with casual ease. Eight months of fighting had ingrained some things as instinct. Regardless of how the other smugglers had discovered their plans and countered-trapped them, they must not have known about the other cave entrance, or they wouldn’t have let themselves be caught in the gas. Which meant Bethany was probably safe. Probably. Certainly safer than he was.

Fire flared and men died screaming. But then Hawke felt the tug of static and yelled as he flung himself to the side.

“They’ve got an apostate!”

The lightning bolt cracked down where he’d been standing. Hawke scrambled to his feet and spotted the woman hanging back, eyes on him. He pulled magic through the Fade and concentrated on a new trick he’d been learning. The sand of the Wounded Coast crawled up his body and solidified into a form of armour that should dampen the impact of any magic that she was able to fling at him. He still shouldn’t take a direct hit, but anything less than that would be far less dangerous. Dodging backwards from a smuggler’s blade, he brought his staff round and smashed it into the dwarf’s skull, breaking through skin and bone. The dwarf dropped, dead.

It was chaos, but the poison gas had taken the edge off of the ambush. It didn’t take long for those at the cave mouth to turn and join the fray further down the path. Hawke flung another fireball out and the scrubland burned, along with a poor unfortunate soul who hadn’t gotten out of the way in time. Static built up again and Hawke dropped to the floor and rolled as more lightning crackled over his head. Then it cut off, too sharply. Hawke managed to right himself and found Antheril standing over the corpse of the enemy mage. She blew him a kiss across the battlefield and Hawke let out a laugh before falling right back into combat.

Finally, the last dwarf lay dying and Hawke looked around. Two of their number dead, another three hurt. Bad, but not as bad as it could have been. Instinctively, he let the rock armour fall back to sand and pool at his feet before he hurried down the path, towards the second cave entrance.

Athenril stepped in front of him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” She asked, reaching up and brushing sand out of his hair.

She knew, of course, but she liked to turn him around until he didn’t know what was up or down.

“Bethany.”

“She’ll be fine. Safer in the cave than out here. Honestly, you’re such a loyal Ferelden dog.”

She sounded amused. Hawke tried to side-step her and her eyes narrowed. One of her knives, still bloodied, appeared pressed to his collarbone. No longer amused.

“Stand down, dog. I need you here. What if there are more? Would you leave me without my favourite apostate?”

Hawke gritted his teeth, but didn’t move. He’d never truly given her a reason to use those knives on him, and he wasn’t about to start now. Eight months. He’d made it eight months.

“My favourite apostate might be dying in that cave, Athenril. They knew we were coming.”

Athenril glowered.
“Yes, about that. One of our crew is a traitor. So how about you stop worrying about your perfectly capable little sister and start worrying about finding who it was before I get angry.”

Hawke blinked. Our crew. He wasn’t going to mention that slip. They might have reached a rather indelicate understanding about the tension between them, but Hawke was as much hers to command as the others. More so, considering, and not because of the months still left on his indenture. He let himself be led back to the others.

How was he meant to find the traitor? Hawke was her enforcer, yes, but his skills were mostly around burning things and looking surprisingly tough for a mage.

It probably wasn’t someone in Athenril’s tightest circle, he figured, or the enemy would have had antidotes to the poisons. And it probably wasn’t one of the dead, for obvious reasons. Was there anyone who wasn’t here, who should have been? Or anyone who had been picked to come who had wanted out? Anyone who in the heat of battle had seemingly not been too concerned about the fight?

“Garrett!”

Hawke turned and Bethany was running towards them, eyes wide. Athenril gave him a knowing smirk that said, see, I told you she was fine. Hawke crossed the gap and pulled Bethany into his arms.

“I came as fast as I could. Stefran tried to kill Jana just before she launched the poison and I barely stopped him in time. Maker, what happened out here?”

“A trap,” Hawke said, holding her a little bit tighter. “Stefran tried to kill Jana?”

Stefran’s brother, Naffi, froze where he’d been going through the Carta dead, going pale. Hawke caught Athenril’s eye and cast without hesitation, trapping the man in a prison. He barely had to move to do it. It was one of the spells she liked him knowing, and used often for intimidation. Or assassination. Much easier to slide the knife in if the victim wasn’t able to twitch a muscle.

“Well well,” Athenril purred, approaching the paralysed man, “You and your brother thought you’d get a better cut under the Carta, huh?”

Hawke held the spell without a word until she was done. Bethany didn’t watch. For a smuggler, she still held some more gentle sensibilities. Her brother didn’t. He watched every cut of Athenril’s knife.

Back down on the beach, the group set up tents for the night. Bethany cleaned the wounds of the three injured men whilst Hawke did one final sweep of the area to ensure nothing nasty lay in wait for them. Athenril glowered into the fire until he was done and gave her one small nod to say it was safe.

“I want double guards on every watch.” She said out loud to the assembled group. “And no drinking. I want us sober and ready in case of another attack.” No one argued.

Hawke took first watch, sitting in silence next to three others all on edge. When he crawled into the tent he shared with their leader at the end of his stint, he found her awake. Not entirely unsurprising. Athenril slept little, even when not reflecting on betrayal in the ranks.

She looked at him, cold eyes full of heat for once.

“All quiet?”

He nodded, peeling himself out of his armour and watched the heat in her gaze shift slightly. She was just in her undershirt, and Hawke could see the lithe outline of her body, even in the dark. He crawled across to her and she kissed him, cupping his chin in her slender hand, fingers running across his stubble from the two days out of the city. Then she pushed his head down between her thighs.

She was still in charge, even here. When they’d first tumbled into bed after a dangerous row four months ago, Athenril had made it clear that his contract didn’t extend to this. That he could get up and walk away whenever he wanted. And then she’d called him dog and pulled at his hair and Hawke had been lost, regardless of whether it was right, or sensible, or good for him. She’d laughed at his naivety, his enthusiasm, his inexperience, and moulded him into what she wanted. Hawke assumed he wanted it too. At least, it felt good and she seemed less inclined to stick daggers in him when he was sharing her bed.

In the aftermath, Hawke curled against her slender body as she smirked.

“Your Uncle should have sold you to The Blooming Rose,” she said, still idly playing with his hair, “You’re a natural.”

Hawke stilled at the joke.
“I would have killed him for doing that to Bethany.”

She reached down and pinched, hard, at the skin on his ribs, aiming to hurt.
“Bethany this, Bethany that. What about what you want? Would you have wanted to be a whore, Hawke?”

He bit his lip and didn’t answer. No, he didn’t want to be a whore, but he would have done anything to get them into Kirkwall in the aftermath of Carver’s death. Anything that wasn’t the Circle.

She tugged at his hair, pulling his head up. Clearly, she wanted a response. Hawke gave one of his best charming smiles.

“Only if you were one of my regulars.”

Athenril rolled her eyes, but she kissed him gently on the forehead, pleased all the same.

“Idiot shem.” She said fondly. She didn’t call him boy anymore. He was dog, or shem, mostly. Hawke replayed her words in his head and caught what he’d missed the first time. Ah. They weren’t actually talking about him being a whore.

“What I want,” he said, sitting up to look at her, “is for Bethany and I to be safe.”

Her face darkened. They were back at their now familiar argument.
“You cannot be safe, dog, not in Kirkwall. If you leave my service there will be no one to organise accidents like the one that befell Ser Vylen.”

Ser Vylen. A Templar that had gotten suspicious of the twins and had been unfortunately killed by muggers on a Darktown street two months ago. No witnesses. A tragic accident.

“I don’t want this life for Bethany, either.” Hawke argued, retreading familiar ground. “She deserves better.”

“Then I’ll let her go, and you stay here with me.”

Hawke really wasn’t about to mention to Athenril that Bethany had made it very clear that he wasn’t staying either. She disliked the hold the elf had on him. She disliked the work. She disliked the person her brother was becoming. And who was he to deny her anything?

“We’re leaving, Athenril. Nothing you say will change that.”

Her eyes glittered in the dark and she pushed away from him.
“You can find somewhere else to sleep.”

Chapter Text

“Should we be worried about our growing reputations?” Bethany muttered as they walked away from the dwarf.

Hawke swallowed and shot his sister a look.

“Perhaps,” he said, “But I don’t see what we can do about it. What did you think of his offer?”

Bethany adjusted the neckerchief at her throat as they walked.

“It is not a small amount of money,” she said, “But it’s doable. If it’s doable whilst staying unnoticed however…”

They were a fortnight out of Athenril’s employ, and already they felt the squeeze of the Templar’s fist on the city. In the smuggling ring, they’d spent more time out of Lowtown than in it. They’d gotten used to moving at night, at wielding their polearms as weapons, not staffs. But now they were without her protection - and were unlikely to get it again, after the threats she’d uttered in Bethany’s face when she’d put her foot down and insisted that Garrett was walking away with her.

He didn’t blame her - he hadn’t wanted to stay anymore than she did. But Athenril had killed off one Templar for them, and bribed a couple of others to look away at strategic moments. Now those payments had stopped, and more than one Templar had started digging about, wondering what had changed.

Hawke sighed.

“Right, well. We invite the dwarf up Sundermount to do Flemeth’s little amulet jaunt, then what - ask around for work?”

“The Chantry board will have something, I’m sure.” Bethany said. “And I want to investigate the old Amell Estate. Gamlen’s evasion about the will stinks.”

It definitely did. Hawke pushed hair that was getting too long off his face.

“Do you think Aveline will help?” He asked. “That’s a nice crossbow the dwarf wields, but we really could do with a heavy plate of armour between us and any slavers.”

“We can ask,” Bethany asked doubtfully, “But maybe we should keep an eye out for more allies. Maker, I don’t miss Athenril’s gang at all, but it was useful having someone else watching your back.”

Hawke grunted in agreement, and they swung left at the market, heading for the Viscount’s Keep.

Their first ally turned out to be a Dalish elf who seemed at odds with her clan and entirely too innocent to be slitting the palm of her hand to summon a demon. Bethany had tensed at the knife, but it had been Garrett who went wide-eyed as the barrier before them dissolved into nothing.

“That’s not - you didn’t -”

“Don’t worry,” the elf said with a smile, “It won’t hurt you. I know what I’m doing.”

Garrett doubted that, but he couldn’t argue with the result. Still, he made sure Merrill stayed ahead of him as they approached the elven graveyard.

Flemeth was every bit as intimidating and awe-inspiring as he had been back in the wilds, and still entirely disinclined to take Hawke’s request to learn to shapeshift as anything other than poor flattery. Still, they had paid their debts to the witch, and hopefully wouldn’t ever have need of her again.

“She seemed to like you, Garrett.” Bethany said as they wound their way back down the mountain. “Although, I didn’t like what she was saying about change and the world.”

“It is only when you fall that you learn how to fly,” Hawke muttered, wincing a little, “And she still wouldn’t bloody teach me how to be a dragon. How am I meant to fly as a human?”

A letter back at Uncle Gamlen’s led them to a second elf, who was angry and as deadly as Merrill was sweet and naive. Garrett’s eyes widened at the sight of all that lyrium under the elf’s skin. Maker, that had to be agony. The idea that Fenris had been a slave - that his former Master was in the city, sending hunters after him - he was quick to offer support. Bethany hissed at him in warning that perhaps a Tevinter warrior might not be too pleased to have two mages as back-up, and the elf caught the end of her sentence.

He glowered at Garrett, and he wanted to shrink back, but he kept his ground.

“Mages. How do I know you’re not in league with Danarius?”

“You don’t,” Hawke admitted, “But we just killed a dozen Vints for you, and you can’t go alone. Why not take a chance?”

Fenris scowled, eyeing both twins.

“I will kill you both if you betray me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Hawke replied faintly.

Danarius was gone by the time they swept the manor, leaving corpses and demons. Some of the corpses looked very, very old. Hawke didn’t know if they were, or if something had been done to them using blood magic. He wondered if he’d be stupid to ask Merrill.

A couple of days later he went back to the manor to find the elf.

“I know we don’t have much in common,” he said, as Fenris glowered at him at the back door, “But how would you feel about helping us clear my family estates of slavers?”

Unsurprisingly, Fenris was up for it. Bethany handed the key over to Varric, down in the Darktown sewers and let him lead the way, checking for traps the whole time. Hawke brought up the rear, tense. His magical affinities weren’t hugely helpful, here. Not unless he wanted to burn the place to the ground. He and Bethany shared a talent for force magic, but that too was probably a little too dangerous. He’d be able to smack slavers into the walls, but anything more might challenge the foundations.

Still, he got a barrier up over Varric when the first slavers reacted to their presence, and managed to send a small, controlled gout of flame at one of them. The man screamed, horribly, and Bethany’s ice magic followed Garrett’s, dampening the flames but ensuring the man did not survive.

Cautiously, they crept through the manor, killing slavers as they went. In one room, they found manacles attached to the wall and the overwhelming stench of human bodily fluids. Garrett’s stomach twisted in knots.

“I will kill them,” he said shakily, hands clutched over his staff, “I will kill every last one of these fuckers.”

Fenris grunted in approval and stalked out the room, lyrium glowing faintly. Perhaps they did have some common ground, after all.

Upstairs, they found a man in Tevinter style robes who had to be the leader. The man took one look at Fenris and paled.

“You - !”

The warrior seemed to step in and out of the Fade, fist clenching around the man’s heart. A row of spikes in the floor that he should have triggered went up, belatedly. Varric hurried to disarm the trap as Hawke trapped the man in a cage. Not that Fenris needed it.

Bethany went exploring in the vault as Garrett and Fenris checked the final few rooms. It was odd to think that this should have been their home - their estate. Could it be theirs again?

“Garrett, I’ve found it,” Bethany said, returning with a grim look on her face. In her hands she held a set of papers. They were trembling slightly. “Grandfather left it all to mother. A small stipend to Uncle Gamlen - he stole it all.”

Hawke blinked and stared at her. Then he took the papers and skimmed through them, reading, the anger growing in the pit of his stomach.

“Stole it, and lost it.” He said, before giving a brittle, fragile laugh. “And then he sold us to Athenril.”

Bethany’s hands covered his own gently.

“We’ll take this to the Viscount,” she said, “After mother has seen it. And we’ll make Gamlen squirm.”

Hawke nodded, and let her take the papers back. He looked at Varric and Fenris. The elf was frowning.

“Sold?” He asked, and Garrett flinched, immediately regretting his words.

“Not like that,” he said hurriedly, “We had to work for a smuggler for a year to pay the debt of getting into the city. We had a choice - just not much of one.”

One that would have led him and Bethany to the Gallows if they hadn’t agreed. But he didn’t think Fenris would necessarily see the problem, there. Varric sighed and shouldered Bianca.

“Nothing like a little family drama,” he said, “Come on broody - let’s go get a drink and wait for the inevitable update.”

Fenris’ frown deepened for a moment, regarding Hawke, before he nodded.

“You’re buying, dwarf.”

“Of course I am,” Varric said, “By my reckoning, you’re more broke than these two.”

“Trying to be less broke, Varric.” Garrett said as they headed for the door, “Fifty sovereigns. We’ve managed to save up a whole eight so far!”

Back at Uncle Gamlen’s hovel, they walked back in just in time to hear their uncle baldly suggest to his sister that they should pay more upkeep, now that most of their money wasn’t tied to Athenril.

“I think we’ve paid more than enough, actually,” Bethany said coldly, waving the documents in Gamlen’s face. “Or at least mother has.”

Leandra’s hands grabbed the paperwork before Gamlen could, reading the pages.

“Oh Gamlen, how could you!”

“Because he’s a lying, cheating, thieving scumbag, mother.” Garrett said dryly.

“You weren’t here!” Gamlen protested, “You’d run off with your dog lord and -”

The temperature in the room dropped a degree or two, rapidly, as Bethany’s hand tightened on her staff.

“That’s our father you’re talking about.” She said, her tone far more calm than the fog of her breath implied. “He was a better man than you.”

She didn’t get angry easily, but she loved their father.

“You didn’t even come back for the funeral!”

“The twins were a month old!” Leandra said, tears welling up in her eyes, “I could barely get out of bed!”

“You don’t need to answer to him, he’s not worth it.” Garrett said, putting an arm around her and pulling her in for a hug. Leandra seemed to crumple against him, mumbling her father’s name under her breath. They hadn’t been written out of the will. For all his fury, the grandfather they had never known hadn’t hated them. Sure, he hadn’t lived long enough to discover his youngest grandchildren had taken after their father, but still.

Gamlen drew himself up, glaring at Garrett.

“This is the bloody thanks I get.” He growled. “I got you into the city! I gave you a home! I’ve fed and bloody clothed you! You ungrateful little brat, I should have handed you over to the Templars the moment you arrived in the city. They’d give you something to whine about.”

Against Hawke’s chest, Leandra gave a shuddering sob. Hawke tightened his grip on his mother and glared at his Uncle.

“Careful, Gamlen. Don’t make me do something my mother will regret.”

He wouldn’t regret it for a damn moment. Neither, looking at her face, would Bethany.

Leandra pulled away from him, shaking her head.

“No, Garrett, don’t - I don’t care about the money. It’s enough to know father didn’t hate me, didn’t hate you. It’s enough.”

Hawke bit his tongue, still glaring at his Uncle, who’d gone pale. His eyes were wide, staring at his nephew. His nephew, the mage. Who’d spent a year under Athenril’s thumb, learning a dozen different ways to kill a man who’d crossed her. At him - not Bethany. Never Bethany.

Maker, he could take the man’s hatred and fear if it kept his ire away from his sister.

“Mother says it’s enough,” he said, as blandly as he could, “So how about it, Uncle? Is it enough? Or do we have a problem?”

A Templar shaped threat hung between them. Then Gamlen cursed and spat on the floor near Hawke’s feet.

“I need a drink.” He muttered. “I won’t hand you over. For your mother.”

Then he was gone, and Hawke rather wanted a drink of his own.

Chapter Text

Isabela smirked at him across the table and took another sip of her beer.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, “You desperately need to scrape together fifty sovereigns to join this expedition of Varric’s, and your ex has offered you the loan and you’re not planning to take her up on it? Just how bad was the sex?”

Hawke buried his face in his own drink.

Three months he’d been free of Athenril. In that time, he’d turned twenty, cobbled together a rag-tag group of friends and somehow avoided being dragged off to the Gallows despite finding himself in a life-and-death fight alongside the Knight-Captain of the Templars. And fighting Templars in the Chantry. And lying to Templars on the Wounded Coast to protect apostates from Starkhaven.

It was, he had to admit, a small miracle in many ways, that he was still a free man to be worrying about such things as money.

But fifty sovereigns? That wasn’t a small sum.

He’d considered going to Athenril the moment Varric had mentioned the need to invest in the expedition to the Deep Roads. But Bethany wouldn’t have it, had insisted they could stand on their own two feet without her. And they had - but the money still wasn’t where it needed to be. They were running out of time.

She’d written to him, a note slipped into his pocket down when he’d been visiting Anders’ clinic in the wake of a rage demon burn that wouldn’t heal without attention.

Dog, I hear you need money. Come crawling back, and I’ll give you your loan. Your sister doesn’t need to know.

He had burnt the note, but it had burned itself into his mind. Isabela was watching him, amused, over the top of her drink, waiting for a response.

“It’s complicated.”

“Sex shouldn’t be complicated.” Isabela said with a shrug. “What’s the problem, Hawke?”

Hawke swallowed and considered what he should say. He liked Isabela, but something about her put him on edge when she flirted with him. Or when she poked and prodded at his love life.

“I don’t want to know what her conditions are for the loan.”

Isabela sat back a little, folding her arms under her breasts. Hawke, only human, let his gaze wander before looking away.

“Shall we go pay her a visit?” She said. “It sounds like you might need back-up. And I know you’ve not told Sunshine about this.”

Hawke didn’t really want Isabela to meet Athenril in any circumstances, let alone those that might lead to him really, truly, whoring himself to her. But he also didn’t want to go alone. Sighing, he finished his tankard and nodded.

“Come on then. Let’s get it over with.”

“You want Varric in on this too?”

Hawke shook his head and stood up. No, he didn’t want the dwarf to see him play nice with the woman who’d effectively owned him for a year.

Walking through Lowtown, they both kept an eye out for possible thugs. Hawke and his friends had taken down the main gang that had been operating in the streets, but there were always opportunists.

“Have I told you how my husband died, Hawke?”

Hawke nearly tripped over his own feet.
“You were married?”

Isabela chuckled.
“Pick your jaw up, sweet thing. Yes, I was married - sold off at nineteen to a man from Antiva. It happens.”

Hawke glanced at her, wondering where this story was going.

“Nineteen? Shit.”

Isabela tilted her head at him.
“You were nineteen, Hawke, when you went to Athenril’s bed.”

That was different. It hadn’t been marriage. But he knew that wasn’t the point she was making.

They started to walk up the stairs to the hightown markets.
“It was all very dull, of course. He wanted me to be a proper lady. And then I found out he was planning to lend me out to a friend.”

Hawke stilled.
“What did you do?”

“I had him killed.” Isabela said shortly, turning to face him. “No one gets to use you like that, Hawke. No matter who they were to you before.”

“We’re… we’re not talking about your husband, are we?” Hawke said weakly.

In the darkness, Isabela reached out and ruffled his hair.

“Clever lad.”

They neared the neighbourhood in The Red Lantern District where Athenril could be found some nights, coordinating the movement of goods. Indeed, under the torch light of the ally, he could see shadows moving. For a moment, he reconsidered this idea.

He knew what she wanted. And he knew he couldn’t give it to her. Perhaps he should just turn around and leave it be. He’d find the sovereigns elsewhere.

Then one of the silhouettes stepped into the light and Hawke swallowed as Athenril regarded him with a smirk.

“So. Here you are. I wondered when you’d come begging. Shouldn't you be on your knees?”

Hawke flinched and he could feel Isabela tense, just a little, behind him.
“Athenril. I got your note.”

“Hmm,” the elf rogue said, inspecting her long slender fingers, “Who’s your friend? Have you found yourself a new mistress already? I thought dogs were meant to be loyal, but it seems you roll over for anyone.”

Isabela didn’t say a word, which was unlike her. She was clearly letting him take the lead, although that was the last thing he wanted right then. Hawke made himself speak.

“The loan,” he said bluntly, “What are the terms?”

Athenril’s eyes flashed, and Hawke half expected a knife at his throat. She certainly wouldn’t have tolerated the disrespect before.

“The Carta would like to negotiate with me about exactly who runs this city. I’d feel a lot safer at that meeting with my favourite apostate at my side.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. That didn’t sound too bad. Well, it sounded like a trap, but he’d expected worse. He’d expected months of answering to her again - it was suspicious, to say the least.

“Is that it?”

“And a night. I was hurt when you left without saying goodbye properly.”

A night. He could do that. Except…

He didn’t want to. In the three months since the twins had walked away, free, he hadn’t missed her once. Yes, the sex had been good, but he’d slept with one eye open the whole damn time. He hadn’t minded her being in charge, had liked it even, but the way she talked about him now made his skin crawl. She really didn’t see him as a person, he realised with a twist in his gut. He’d been a pliant body she could mould into what she wanted.

“I’ll support you against the Carta,” he said, “But I won’t sleep with you. And once the meeting with the Carta is over I never want to see you again.”

She took half a step forwards towards him, and Hawke stood his ground, heart in his mouth.

“I should have taught you manners, boy. You should be crawling on your knees, begging me to take you back.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“I’ve crawled enough for you in my life.”

“You ungrateful little shit.” She growled. “I’d cut out your tongue if it wasn’t your best feature.”

A glint of steel in the torchlight and Hawke reached for the Fade on instinct, preparing to protect himself from those knives. But suddenly, Isabela was behind Athenril, her own blade pressed to the slender elf’s throat.

“Don’t move,” The Raider said, “Now, I’m all about people enjoying themselves in bed, but I don’t like this one bit. So, let’s negotiate how you’re going to make this up to my friend.”

Athenril was very still. Hawke’s heart hammered in his chest, the Fade still there at his fingertips if he needed it. And he would need it, if any of those shadows in the ally way dared to intervene. If Athenril called Isabela’s bluff. If it was a bluff. It was, he realised shakily, entirely possible Isabela would kill the smuggler.

“Your new mistress has claws.” Anthril said, glaring at Hawke. “Call her off, and I’ll let you both walk away.”

“I’m pretty damn sure I can’t make Isabela do anything she doesn’t want to do.” Hawke said. “And she’s not - we’re not - we’re friends. I think.”

Isabela let out a low chuckle and pressed her dagger a little closer to Athenril’s skin.
“You’re not calling the shots here, sweetheart. Let’s start negotiations at fifty sovereigns, an apology, and a deep, sincere promise to stay far away from the Hawke twins for the rest of your miserable life.”

Despite the situation, Hawke was utterly grateful that Isabela thought to include Bethany. What good would it do him if Athenril simply took revenge for this humiliation out on his sister?

The elf’s teeth were gritted as she spat out.

“You’re not getting shit from me.”

“Aww come on,” Isabela cooed in her ear, “Varric told me you were a smart businesswoman. You can’t enjoy your little smuggling empire if you’re dead now, can you? Oh! Do you have a boat? I’d love a boat. Maybe I can take your place. I’ll be kinder to your men. They’ll love me.”

“Just give me your word you’ll stay away from me and Bethany,” Hawke said, “I’ll find the money elsewhere.”

Athenril glared at him, then she said stiffly.
“You have my word. Now get the fuck out of here.”

Hawke caught Isabela’s eye and gave a small nod, mouth dry. The knife against Athenril’s throat disappeared and Hawke tensed, waiting for the elven rogue to attack. She didn’t. Isabela moved, coming to stand beside Hawke as he stared at the woman who’d controlled his life for a year, who’d delighted in making him dance for her pleasure. Then he very carefully, very deliberately, turned his back and walked away. He couldn’t look back - couldn’t give her the satisfaction. Isabela knew her craft. He had to trust her to keep him safe.

He kept waiting for the blade between his ribs until they were back at the hightown markets all the same.

“You good, Hawke?”

No. No he was not good. But when he spoke, he tried to keep his voice light.

“That went as well as I’d expected.”

Isabela laughed.
“I’ll say. Catch.”

Hakwe turned and fumbled the coin purse she threw at him. He stared down at it, nonplussed, before looking up at her.

“You robbed her.”

“She deserved it for what she did to you.” Isabela said before looking at him uncharacteristically serious. “I mean it, Hawke. Are you okay?”

He swallowed and looked back down at the coin purse in his hands. Even if it didn’t make up the difference to fifty sovereigns, it would come close. His hands were shaking.

“I - I thought I liked it. I thought I liked her.”

It wasn’t what he meant to say. He closed his fist over the coin purse and tucked it away without looking back at Isabela.

“Hey,” she said, into the aching silence, “Fair warning, I’m going to hug you, okay?”

He looked up, frowning, only to suddenly find her pulling him into her arms. Oh. He was taller, but she’d manage to angle it somehow so he could rest his head on her shoulder. He closed his eyes, breathing out shakily, as she said.

“Sometimes, we can only recognise something isn’t good for us afterwards. And she wasn’t good for you, Hawke.”

That much was obvious, now. Maker, he’d been an idiot. He pulled away slowly and made himself breathe out.

“I should listen to Bethany more.”

Isabela laughed.
“She’s your sister. She’s meant to disapprove of your romantic entanglements.”

He didn’t think the word romantic applied here. But he conceded the point.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, still not quite able to look at her, “I - uh. Can we not tell the others about this?”

“I only discuss the fun sexy stuff.” Isabela said, and Hawke could picture her grin as she said it despite still staring at the flagstones between them. “Come on. Let’s get you home before your sister starts to worry.”

They were half-way down the steps to Lowtown when she spoke again.
“Oh - and if you ever want to explore some of that stuff you thought you liked with her in a way more fun environment, you know where I am.”

Hawke groaned, despite himself.
“I think I’ve gone off sex for a while.”

“Said no twenty-year old man in history.” Isabela snorted. “Give it time.”

Chapter Text

Hawke stared at the stone door that Bartrand had just closed on them with dawning horror that they were trapped.

They’d passed so many of those dwarven doors on their journey, the sturdy stone and metal impossible to shift even for Fenris. All four of them together wouldn’t be able to push it open.

Betrayed, for an idol of strange red lyrium that had made his skin crawl to touch.

A small voice that sounded suspiciously like his mother’s whispered in his ears.

I told you. I told you this was too dangerous.

She’d begged him not to take Bethany, and after she’d started to cry in the square, Bartrand muttering something behind him about foolish humans, he’d acquiesced to her pleas. Bethany had been furious, of course, but thank the Maker she wasn’t there now.

He didn’t think he’d cope if she was trapped too.

Bethany would be okay, without him, wouldn’t she? She was the quieter, more cautious twin. She’d be safe, without him dragging her into every fight in Kirkwall looking for coin. She could look after mother, find a way to get them out of Gamlen’s house before he grew too sour at housing an apostate. Their mother was petitioning the Viscount about the family title and estate. They’d be okay. They didn’t need him.

Varric kicked the door with a ferocity Hawke hadn’t thought the dwarf possessed. Hawke briefly considered whether dropping a fireball on it with enough heat might melt the stone. Magma was a thing, after all.

“Varric,” came Anders’ voice from somewhere behind them, “No offence, but your brother is a massive arsehole.”

Hawke snorted, despite the situation.
“Rather the understatement, Anders. If we get out of here, Varric, I’m going to murder him.”

“You and me both, kiddo.” Varric muttered, before kicking the door again, more half-heartedly this time.

Fenris was suspiciously silent. Hakwe turned to see the elf standing there, golden skin a little paler than usual. But he held himself with that same composure he always did. Not for the first time, Hawke found himself wondering what shit he’d seen in his life to not even flinch at the very real possibility of dying down in the fucking Deep Roads of all places.

“Come on,” Hawke muttered, “Let’s find a way out.”

They were in a vault. There was no way out, no corridor or side passage. It became all too obvious, all too quickly, how trapped they were.

Hawke was reaching for the Fade before he consciously knew what he was doing, mind racing through all the spells and manipulations he could think of to try and break down the door. The world around him seemed to warp as he pushed force magic at the stone, willing it to move, straining as hard as if he were physically pushing at it. The ground trembled beneath his feet. He kept pushing, dragging everything he could from the Fade. More power than he’d ever dared hold in his life coursed through him, finding the cracks in the stonework and obliterating them. The stone altar the idol had been resting on shattered.

He was vaguely aware of voices rising, but it all seemed very far away.

There was a flare of blue light and Hawke was thrown, bodily across the vault, hitting the wall with a crunch.

“Shit, don’t kill him!”

Hawke’s vision swam as he tried to force air through his winded lungs. When the world stopped spinning, Fenris was standing a little way off, still glowing faintly. Anders was kneeling before Hawke, looking worried.

“Garrett, you with us?”

Hawke pressed a hand to his temples. A headache was forming, pulsing under his fingers.

“Urgh, what happened?”

Fenris spoke, his voice leashed with tight anger.

“You would not listen to reason.”

Anders shot the elf a furious look, then pressed his own hand to the top of Hawke’s head. Hawke felt the faint tingle of healing magic as the former Grey Warden checked he wasn’t seriously hurt from whatever Fenris had done to him.

“You were drawing too much power from the Fade,” The other mage said, brown eyes angry, “I don’t know what you were thinking, but it nearly brought the ceiling down on us before Fenris blasted you. Not that he should have done that either, he could have killed you.”

Hawke swallowed and looked at the elf. They didn’t exactly get on. If Aveline could have gotten the time away from the Guard, he would have been Hawke’s first pick for a front-line warrior. But she was Captain now, and her time was scarce. Too scarce for spending weeks exploring the Deep Roads. So Hawke had asked the ex-slave with a grudge along, knowing that his skill with that greatsword would be more than worth the pain of his arguing with Anders at every possible moment. Still, he wouldn’t have said that the elf’s dislike for him was so great as to nearly kill him.

“I was trying to force the door open.”

The elf regarded him, and the last of the blue-white light around him flickered and died.

“You would have buried us alive down here before it even budged.”

Anders offered Hawke a hand and he took it, shakily. He felt wrung out and weak, body battered from both the forces of his own magic and what Fenris had done to him. He stumbled, just a little, his feet not quite steady beneath him.

“I was trying to do something about this situation,” he growled, “Do you want to die down here?”

“Not because of your magic, no.” The elf responded flatly.

Varric’s voice came from across the vault.
“Hey, if the three of you are done posturing, I’ve got something you should see.”

Hawke looked up and round. The dwarf was standing in the opposite corner to them, prodding the wall. The wall that now had a resoundingly large crack in the stonework.

Leaning on Anders for support, Hawke limped closer, staring at the fissure. He’d done that. Yes, Fenris was right, he could have killed them all, let alone burn himself out of magic permanently, but he’d forced a hairline fault in the stone to widen and split.

Varric looked at him.
“You’ve looked perkier, Hawke. If you’ve got another of those in you, we might be able to get out. I think I can see a corridor on the other side. Just uh - aim a bit more, this time.”

Hawke did not in fact have another of those in him. Nor did he have any lyrium potions on him. Bodahn had been in charge of all their supplies day to day, and the grim reality was that the group had limited resources on their person. Why would they, when the camp was always close by? Hawke had used his last lyrium potion against the dragon earlier the day before. He had two healing potions, a waterskin and a stale set of rations. That was it. He doubted the others would be in better shape.

“I’m going to need a long sleep and a decent meal before I can do anything like that again.” He said, before shooting a glance at Anders. “Going to guess that force magic isn’t in your wheelhouse.”

The Grey Warden’s mouth thinned.
“Spirit Healers don’t tend to go around learning how to smash things with telekinesis. I’ve got a lyrium potion, but it won’t get you back to the levels needed for something like this.”

Hawke looked up at the ceiling and the spiderweb cracks he’d put in that, too. It looked sturdy enough. He could rest up. But hours spent sleeping here would be hours longer added to their escape time when they didn’t have enough resources already.

Not that it would matter how much water they did or did not have if they couldn’t get out of the vault.

Fenris shifted where he was standing slightly further back.
“If you are careful, you can use my markings.”

“Your markings?” Hawke asked, dumbly.

The blue-white light flickered under Fenris’ skin and he removed a gauntlet, offering out a slender hand. The brands ran down the back and palm, whorling around his fingers. Hawke’s mind wondered if the markings were as intricate in other places the elf wasn’t keen to show. He jerked his gaze up to the elf’s face.

“My master would make use of the lyrium in my skin to power his spells.” The elf said in that carefully tight way he had that suggested he was moments from violence. “With contact, you can do the same.”

Behind Hawke, Anders made a choking noise.
“Fenris that’s - ”

“I do not want to die here,” Fenris said, cutting across the other mage, “If you can force the crack to open without bringing the ceiling down, it is worth it.”

Hawke wasn’t sure what he’d missed, what it was that had Anders looking quite so horrified at Fenris’ suggestion. But he also couldn’t see another way. He grabbed Fenris’ hand and reached for the Fade again.

The first time Hawke had drank a lyrium potion whilst working for Athenril, the buzz had crackled under his skin like static build-up. This was like standing in the eye of a storm. The trickle of the Fade became a torrent, crashing through Hawke as he clung to focusing on the crack that could be their way out, and not the whole room. He was less controlling the magic and more clinging on desperately. Maker, if this was the power Fenris’ veins offered, no wonder his master wanted him back so badly.

Hawke heard the elf snarl in pain, and realised from somewhere far away that for Fenris, that was as much as a scream of agony. The crack in the wall fissured and split and Hawke dropped the elf’s hand, severing the connection as fast as he could.

The dying echo of magic in his veins throbbed, and Hawke staggered with the sudden loss of power. His hand found the wall and he braced himself, panting for air. The world seemed alive and sharp in a way that it hadn’t before. For a moment, Hawke could see a dozen new colours in the stone, ancient threads of stone that faded as he blinked back tears. He wanted to feel that again. He wanted to stand in that storm and bask in it until it drove him insane.

He turned his head and found Anders gathering an unconscious Fenris into his arms. There was blood dripping from the elf’s nose. He looked so very small cradled against the mages’ chest.

That was what Anders had tried to protest about. Hawke had hurt him - hurt him badly. Cursing, Hawke tried to move closer, but Anders just jerked his head at the open cleft Hawke had rent into the stone.

“Move it, Hawke. He’ll be fine.”

That wasn’t the point. Hawke had hurt him, and if Anders was going to carry him, both their front-line warrior and their healer would be out of action. Varric though was already darting through the hole in the wall, Bianca ready to fire if any darkspawn appeared.

They didn’t, thank the Maker. Slowly, the group headed down the corridor, not knowing which direction was the right one to take.

Anders moved slowly, careful not to jostle the unconscious elf in his arms. Hawke was barely faster, now that the lyrium was gone from his system. Everything ached from the over exertion. Only Varric seemed fully alert as they stumbled through the corridors, alert to the threat of darkspawn - or possibly crossing paths with Bartrand again.

Fenris didn’t stir, and after what felt like hours, Varric called a halt, muttering that they were all half-dead on their feet. They had no camping gear, no blankets, no way to start a campfire. Hawke didn’t care as he sank to the floor, so tired he probably could have slept through a darkspawn horde. He was dimly aware of Anders offering to sit up on watch, making a half-hearted joke about Grey Warden stamina and darkspawn sense being useful for once, before he was spiralling away into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Hawke sat in Varric’s suite in The Hanged Man, numb.

There was a plate of food and a full tankard of ale in front of him, but he’d touched neither. Someone - probably Merrill - had set a blanket around his shoulders.

They’d taken Bethany. Whilst Hawke had been in The Deep Roads, Knight-Captain Cullen had arrested her as an apostate and taken her to the Gallows.

She was meant to be safer, back in Kirkwall. As Hawke had fought his way through darkspawn, demons and rock wraiths, he’d comforted himself knowing she wasn’t there. That she wasn’t going to die, down in the dark.

To come back to this? To find his mother weeping, hollow-eyed and broken all over again? He couldn’t bear it.

He stood up, looking about him, helpless. Across the table, Merrill stared at him, her large green eyes wide with unspoken pity.

“I - I should go - I need to speak to Cullen.”

He was sure the Knight-Captain hadn’t known about Bethany. Had he gone to the house to arrest Hawke, finally, and found the wrong twin at home? Or had Bethany slipped up somehow? Their mother had been so sure she’d been careful. So how had Cullen known to take her?

“Sit down.” Fenris said from where he was standing by the door, lounging against the wall with his arms crossed, “You’re not going anywhere, Hawke.”

“I have to -”

“No. Varric and Isabela will have word soon. If you go out there, you’ll just get yourself caught.”

Hawke turned on him, temper flaring.

“Like you care. We’re mages. Don’t you want us all locked up and leashed to the Templars?”

He was squaring up to the elf before he could stop and think that doing so was a spectacularly bad idea. Things were tense enough between them with what had transpired in the Deep Roads.

The elf just looked at him and Hawke wanted to punch him, to do something to get him to show a flicker of emotion beyond sneering distrust.

“Sit down, Hawke. I won’t tell you again.”

Hawke sat down, heavily, suddenly exhausted and tired of the posturing. How many times had he threatened to leave, only for Fenris to stop him? Too many. Merrill tried to reach across the table to hold his hand, and he pulled away.

A knock at the door next to Fenris and Hawke looked up and round sharply, hoping for Varric or Isabela to come swaggering back through with news. Instead, a harried looking Anders stepped in.

“I came as soon as I heard.” He said, and he looked tired and haggard enough that Hawke didn’t think he’d had time to rest since they’d arrived back in Kirkwall mere hours before. “I’m so sorry, Hawke.”

Hawke couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the apology, the sincerity of it, the pain in Anders' voice at losing another good person to the Circle. Something inside him broke and he was suddenly crying, great heaving sobs wracking him.

They had his sister. They had the other half of his soul.

Anders practically pulled the younger man into his arms and Hawke crumpled against his shoulder, unable to stop the flood of emotions crashing through him. He’d lost Carver fleeing Lothering, had had the ground ripped from under his feet by the ogre’s fist crushing Carver’s chest and lungs. He’d been fighting ever since to try and protect his family, to pull them out of poverty and fear, only to lose Bethany all the same. She was alive, yes, but the Gallows was a prison like no other in Thedas. He would never be able to visit, for fear of his own capture. He would never forgive himself for this.

The words were leaving him before he could stop them.

“I should h-hand myself over. I have to b-be there for her, I have to -”

If Fenris had been infuriatingly calm in the face of Hawke’s anger, Anders was hot-blooded temper in the face of his desperation.

“No,” the other mage growled, and for a moment blue veins flickered over his face before he got Justice under control, “No, Hawke. That helps no one.”

Hawke pulled away, glaring at him, struggling to get his breathing under control. A few of the candles in the room flickered.

“She’s my sister, Anders. What if they hurt her? What if they -”

He cut off before he could say the word Tranquil, thinking of Karl in the Chantry. Anders heard it anyway and flinched.

From the door, Fenris spoke.

“Your sister is strong, Hawke. She will be fine.”

“You don’t know that,” Hawke snarled, glaring at him. “You don’t understand, Fenris.”

The door to the suite opened again and Varric stepped in, looking round at them all and then spotting the untouched food and drink on the table.

“Damn it, Broody, Daisy, you were meant to get him to look after himself, not let him work up into a frenzy.”

Merrill stared despondent at the now very cold, congealing food. Fenris didn’t blink.

“Varric,” Hawke said, turning to him, “What have you found out? What’s happening? Is she - Is she okay?”

Okay being a relative term when the reality was she was a prisoner of the Gallows. Okay being not dead, or tranquil.

The dwarf looked stressed. They’d only been back a few hours before Hawke had staggered into The Hanged Man in a state of sheer panic. He had enough shit on his plate to deal with without this, but Hawke hadn’t known where else to turn. And as much as Bartrand’s betrayal would still be hurting the dwarf, everyone loved Bethany. Even Fenris quite liked her. Or at least, he had made it clear she was his favourite of the four apostates in the group. Not that she’d had much competition against a blood mage, an abomination and her idiot brother.

“I spoke with the Knight-Captain.” Varric said, sitting down. “Eat, Hawke. I’m pretty damn sure you’ve not eaten anything all day.”

Hawke couldn’t have eaten even if he wanted to. His stomach was a mess of anxiety and guilt, both hollow and faintly nauseous at the same time. He pushed the plate towards Anders, who never seemed to have enough food. Varric’s frown deepened.

“Tell me, please.”

The dwarf sighed and laid Bianca against the leg of the table.

“He confirmed an anonymous tip-off came directly to Meredith’s office three nights ago. He would have buried it if it had come to him, which suggests whoever it was knew he was already looking the other way when it came to everyone’s favourite twins.”

Well. At least Cullen wasn’t the reason for Bethany’s incarceration, even if he had been the one to carry out the order. If he had been, Hawke would have killed him.

“I need to speak to him.”

“You’re not going anywhere near the Gallows.” Varric said, as Anders echoed his sentiment. “I’ll arrange for a meeting when it’s safe, and not before. Andraste’s tits, kid, you want to get caught too?”

Hawke set his jaw, stubbornly.
“If it will keep her safe -”

“No,” Varric said, almost as sharply as Anders had. “Listen to me, Hawke. I know you’re all team Anders when it comes to mage freedom, and that you’re more thick-skulled than a bronto, but the last thing you should do if you want to keep her safe is join her in the Gallows.”

Fenris had snorted at the description of Hawke and Hawke glared at him, mostly so he didn’t have to look at Varric. The dwarf was right, and he knew it, even as much as he hated it. His sister was practical, gentle, quiet, where he was stubborn, prickly and sharp. She was ice, where he was fire. And in the face of the Circle, she would survive and he would find himself with a sunburst brand on his forehead, cut off from the Fade permanently. And what good would that do her? How much more hurt would that cause?

Merrill spoke into the painful silence.

“Can we help her escape?”

“Not easily,” Anders said with a sigh. Hawke watched as Varric reached across the table and picked up Hawke’s untouched tankard, taking it for himself. “Standard practice for adult apostates to be harrowed as soon as possible - three days have passed, she’ll have a phylactery and everything by now.”

Hawke didn’t want to think about his sister’s blood in one of those damn vials.
“The Mage Underground - ”

“Will help, if she escapes.” Anders said, looking at Hawke. “But they cannot snatch people from the Gallows itself. She needs to take that risk.”

His tone seemed doubtful that she would. Varric cleared his throat.

“The Knight-Captain said she seemed relieved to have been caught, Hawke. I’m not saying the Circle is where she should be, but I think she was tired of hiding. Kirkwall was taking its toll on her.”

Hawke closed his eyes, shoulders slumping.
“We should never have come here,” he said, “We should have kept running.”

“It’s not all been bad,” Merrill said gently, “You met us.”

Hawke cracked one eye open to look at her. She seemed so bloody genuine. Varric lowered his tankard and sighed.

“Look, kid. It hurts. I get that. At least your sibling didn’t just try to kill you and your friends. The money from the Deep Roads - we can set up bribes to keep her safe.”

Anders snorted and started to mutter something about corruption in the Circles before cutting himself off, glancing at Hawke as if he’d said too much. Hawke wanted to question him on every horrible, awful thing he’d ever witnessed in Ferelden. He wanted to close his eyes and ears and pretend that he didn’t know half of them anyway. He wanted Sebastian’s blind faith that the system worked, that no mages were ever harmed who did not deserve it. He wanted to burn the Gallows to the ground.

He let out another ragged breath and suddenly wished he had taken the ale. Being blind drunk sounded like a good idea, right then.

Fenris spoke from by the door.
“So who was the anonymous tip?”

Hawke’s mouth ran dry and he looked at Varric, who shrugged.
“Working on that one still. I’ll know soon enough - there’s only so many people who knew Bethany was an apostate.”

Their small circle of friends, and a smaller circle of associates. Hawke’s hand shook at the idea that someone he knew had betrayed them.

“Your Uncle has a loud mouth and a habit of visiting the Rose.” Anders said darkly. “I don’t imagine he said anything on purpose but…”

Hawke winced. It was possible. He hated it, but it was possible. Templars went in and out of the Rose all the time - all it would have taken was one too many drinks and a loose tongue, trying to impress someone. But then…

“I’d have been implicated too.” Hawke said, before bitterly adding. “Besides, he likes Bethany. He would have been bitching about me, if anything.”

They’d clashed, often - and that had only gotten worse once Hawke had broken into the Amell Estate to find the will. If it had been vindictive, on his Uncle’s part, it would have been him in the Gallows. And if it had been accidental? It was still more likely to have been him. Gamlen liked to moan even more than he liked gambling, and Hawke gave him plenty of material to work with.

The door swung open, and Isabela was standing there. She looked furious.

“I know who snitched,” she growled, walking over to Hawke and slamming a slip of paper down in front of him, “Found this waiting for you in the house, where only you would look.”

Hawke looked down, and read the words. Then read them again. And again.

What’s a dog to do without a sister to protect? You will beg for death before this is through.

He looked up at Isabela as Varric craned his neck to get a look at the note.

“I am going to kill her.”

Isabela’s eyes glittered.
“Oh sweet thing, we are going to destroy her.”

Chapter Text

Brother,

I hope this letter finds you well

It didn’t, and he’d already read it half a dozen times since it had arrived that morning. The letter was stilted and cautious, saying more in the silences and omissions than it did on the page. Still, Hawke had been lucky to get a letter at all. Apprentices were not permitted to write to their families, to discourage possible homesickness in a mages' formative years. The only reason Hawke had got a letter at all was that the Templars had harrowed her as soon as she’d arrived, and she was now, formally, an Enchanter.

My time in the Circle has been bearable.

Bearable. Not good, or gentle, or better than expected. Bearable. The word jumped out of the page at him, a knife sliding between his ribs. Bethany deserved more than bearable.

There's one creep named Ser Alrik who likes harassing mages, but I'll steer clear of him!

Ser Alrik. The same name had signed the letter they’d found on the Templars into the Chantry in the aftermath of the trap set for Anders. Hawke had already set Varric to discovering everything he could about the man. If he even looked at Bethany wrongly, he would die. Hawke would have burned down the whole Gallows to protect her.

His letter back to her sat unfinished beyond the opening lines.

Bethany,
I’m so sorry. This isn’t fair. It’s all my fault.

She didn’t know that he’d pissed off Athenril, that he’d brought this upon her by refusing to play her games any longer. He should have accepted her deal. One night. It would have just been one night. He didn’t know if her knowing would make it worse. Would she be disappointed that he’d even considered it, or angry that he was to blame?

Growling in frustration, he forced himself to write another few lines. He’d loved reading, as a child, but writing down his thoughts had always been a struggle. And now? When he had to be so careful of what he did and did not say, when he wanted to pour his heart out on the page? It was a problem he couldn’t untangle.

I can’t believe you would have been safer with me in the Deep Roads. Bartrand almost killed us and yet I’m -

That was too close to writing something incriminating.

- wishing you had been there. Or that I had been with you. I wouldn’t have let them take you, Beth.

If he’d been there when Cullen had knocked, he was pretty sure both he and the Knight-Captain would be dead. And where would that have left Bethany? Would they have punished her for her brother’s crimes?

He pushed the thought - and the parchment - away and stood up to find another drink. He was sitting in Varric’s suite in the Hanged Man, avoiding going home. The dwarf was writing his own letters across the table, far more fluidly and with less grumbling.

“Want a drink?”

The dwarf glanced up and looked at Hawke.
“When did you last eat?” Then he shook his head. “Andraste’s tits, I’m turning into your mother.”

Hawke snorted and didn’t point out that his own mother was neither eating, nor talking to him. Instead, he headed for the door just in time for there to be a knock and for Knight-Captain Cullen to stick his head round.

The two men stared at each other. Somewhere behind Hawke, Varric muttered.
“Well, shit.”

“H-Hawke,” Cullen stammered, stepping into the room properly and closing the door behind him. “I did not expect you to be here.”

“Not here to drag me to the Gallows then?” Hawke snapped before he could consider quite how foolish, how dangerous, his words were.

Cullen actually flinched and Hawke made himself breathe. The last thing he needed now was for the candles to gut out, or flare, and give the Knight-Captain reason to think he wasn’t trustworthy.

“I was not responsible for what happened to your sister, Garrett - just the one sent to carry out the order.”

A sneer flickered onto Hawke’s face for a heartbeat. How many times had this man been ordered to cut down a desperate, scared apostate, ordered to rip apart families, ordered to hold a mage down as their magic was severed?

“Garrett,” came Varric’s voice, heavy with warning. “Why don't you sit your ass down and talk this through like an adult.”

Hawke swallowed. Varric took a lot of his shit in his stride - but apparently squaring up to the Knight-Captain in his chambers was a line he shouldn’t cross. Gritting his teeth, he practically fell into the chair he’d vacated only moments before. He definitely wasn’t hungry any more. The alcohol should probably wait too.

Cullen looked hesitant, but after a short nod from Varric, he stepped away from the door and sat down opposite Hawke, clearing his throat.

“Your sister is adapting well to the change in circumstances,” He said, meeting Hawke’s glare with his own steady gaze, “She has already made friends, and shown to be both trust-worthy and amenable. The First-Enchanter has put her in charge of some of the apprentices' lessons, considering her experience learning to control herself as an apostate.”

“I’m so proud,” Hawke said sarcastically.

Varric shot him a look, and then turned to Cullen.

“We all liked Sunshine, Knight-Captain. We want to keep her safe.”

Cullen raised a hand, looking faintly pained.
“I don’t take bribes, Varric, if that’s about to be your next sentence. But I will watch over her. Make sure she comes to no harm. I owe her brother that much.”

Varric raised an eyebrow at the idea of a Templar not taking bribes.
“Well - if money in someone else’s palm would make that easier, let us know.”

Ser Alrik. The name came to Hawke unbidden from Bethany’s letter - from the incident in the Chantry with Karl. Maker, how much money would Hawke pay to keep the man away from his sister? Could he dare name him to the Knight-Captain?

Hawke hesitated for a moment before glancing at Varric.
“Would… would you give us a moment, Varric? I promise not to kill the man.”

Varric’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded, muttered something about being kicked out his own rooms and left for the main floor of the tavern. Cullen paled, just a little, which was impressive considering the man didn’t exactly have much colour to him to begin with.

“If you’re going to threaten me, Hawke…”

“Cullen,” Hawke said, his heartbeat in his mouth, “Have I ever told you about my brother, Carver?”

Cullen blinked. Clearly, this wasn’t going where he thought it would. It wasn’t going where Hawke thought it would either, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them and now he had to try and explain the mess in his head and the painful, awful, blinding hurt in his heart since they’d taken Bethany.

“I was not aware you have a brother.”

“Had a brother.” Hawke corrected, looking down at his hands and realising he’d spilt ink on his fingers earlier that day. “He was older - non-magical. We didn’t get on much, especially after I - well. I don’t know if he resented me, or if I was just that much of a mouthy prick.”

The look that crossed Cullen’s face suggested firmly that it was the latter. Hawke ploughed on, conscious of Varric waiting outside, kicked out his own rooms for this conversation.

“He died during our escape from the Blight, trying to save our mother from an ogre. And suddenly I was the one mother looked to, the one trying to look after Bethany, the one who had to fix everything.”

He let out a shuddering breath and looked up from his hands to stare at Cullen.

“I don’t think I need to tell you how that’s going. But I need you to know - I need you to understand that I will do anything to protect Bethany. Any amount of gold, any awful, illegal thing, any Templar I need to fuck, any -

He meant it. The Templar-Commander herself could have demanded his head on a platter and Hawke would have knelt for the blade gladly to keep Bethany safe. He’d smuggle them lyrium, somehow, or be their bloodhound, hunting down blood mages. He’d let them hurt him, if they just didn’t hurt her.

“You’ve made your point,” Cullen said hurriedly, eyes widening. “Maker, Hawke, please - this isn’t necessary.”

“I know what can happen in the Circle, Cullen,” Hawke said, hating that he was pleading with this man, but knowing he would do so much worse than plead if he needed to, “I know Bethany is sensible - that she will keep her head down, and won’t try to escape. She’s not like me. But what - what if it’s not enough?”

His voice cracked.

Their distant cousin had died in the Ferelden Circle - although at the hands of the Templars or the Blood Mages was not clear. Anders had horror stories aplenty about his time in the Circle, and could point to the Templars hounding him even when he’d been with the Wardens. Karl, whose only crime was trying to escape. Bethany, calling Ser Alrik a creep in her letter. The whispers all over Kirkwall of what went on behind those walls.

“Bethany is a careful, clever woman.” Cullen said, trying to sound encouraging. “I do not believe she had anything to fear from the Circle. Ser Thrask and I will keep an eye.”

It wasn’t enough - and it was all Hawke would get. He nodded miserably, and then sighed.

“I should let Varric back in.”

“Before you do - how are you holding up?”

The question was asked gently, as if by a friend, but that was the Knight-Captain of the Gallows sat across from him. There wasn’t an honest answer Hawke could give that wouldn’t come back to haunt him.

“I will be fine,” he said, not looking at the man, “As long as I stay out of the Circle too.”

He was under no illusions that he’d adapt as well as Bethany. And with the trail of dead Templars in his not so recent history, he doubted he’d be given a chance.

Hawke stuck his head out and spotted Varric before Cullen could continue the conversation.

When the dwarf wandered back in he searched both of their faces questioningly. Cullen still looked a little pale.

“You good there Captain, Hawke didn’t threaten your balls too much?”

“I didn’t threaten him!” Hawke protested.

“He didn’t threaten me,” confirmed Cullen, “Although I perhaps would have been more comfortable if he had.”

Varric sat back down and shuffled some of his letters about, seemingly thinking.

“There is currently a petition from the twins’ mother, Leandra, with the Viscount to reinstate their title. With the gold discovered in the Deep Roads, the Hawke family could well be on the rise in Kirkwall. How much easier is a noble's life in the Circle?”

Cullen swallowed.
“Technically? None at all. Any claim Bethany had to her lands and titles would have been stripped upon entry to the Circle. But having a family of position outside the Circle? It has been known to influence things inside.”

Hawke glanced at Varric.
“So we need to get that petition through the Viscount’s office.”

Cullen cleared his throat.
“There is a complication here. Hawke - I suspected your sister may be a mage from the moment I knew the truth about you. If I made the leap to your sister - others will make the leap to you. If you want to stay out of the Circle, you can’t do anything that may court attention.”

“Including supporting your sister from the outside.” Varric concluded, frowning. “And any activity in public that might draw the eye.”

Cullen nodded as Hawke’s heart sank somewhere into his boots.
“So - what? I just do nothing?”

The Knight-Captain stood up, as if making to leave.
“If you want to keep your sister safe, and you want to remain free, you will do nothing. No letters, no protests, no demands. And certainly no wandering about the Gallows arguing with the Knight-Captain that mages should be free.”

Hawke winced. He had done that. But the idea of essentially cutting Bethany off? Of abandoning her to the Circle? It was unthinkable.

It was a reality he was having to face. Maker, he was going to kill Atheneril for this.

Chapter Text

Considering the riches that were flowing in from the Deep Road vault, Hawke didn’t need the money Magistrate Vanard was offering for the work of bringing in an escaped criminal. Especially as the reward was practically insulting.

But his mother’s petition to the Viscount was sitting on the man’s desk and didn’t seem to be getting anywhere fast, and Vanard held power in the city. If Hawke could do him a favour, perhaps the man could do him one back. He had no doubt the petition would go through, eventually - but he wanted to speed it up. Gamlen’s house felt awfully empty without Bethany, and the tension between him and his Uncle was worse than ever. At least the man had confirmed that he hadn’t been the one to betray Bethany - and that he seemed genuinely sad about her internment in the Gallows. It went unsaid that he’d have had no such sorrow if it had been Garrett dragged away.

So, he wanted out. He wanted into Hightown. Which meant he dragged Varric, Isabela and Fenris up to Sundermount to find Vanard’s criminal and bring him back to justice.

Except it didn’t seem that justice was on the cards. Hawke headed into the ruins, fuming.

“So, a creepy murderer has been killing kids for years and no one gives a shit because it’s just elves?”

Isabela shot him a sympathetic look.

“New to this, are you, sweetness?” She said. “Doesn’t matter if you’re in Treviso or Kirkwall, it’s the same story.”

“Worse,” Fenris muttered, “In Tevinter.”

“It’s bullshit.” Hawke protested, knowing it made him seem younger, more naive, but Maker, he just didn’t care. No one should be able to get away with killing kids. “When we get back to the city, I’m bringing this to Aveline.”

“Right,” Varric said, “Is that before or after we drag the guy to Magistrate Vanard?”

“She’s Guard-Captain, she must be able to do something! That’s her men out there, just standing by.”

“She’s been Guard-Captain for less than three months, kid. Give her a chance to straighten out the top.”

Hawke growled to himself, knowing Varric was right.

It got worse from there, with them discovering Lia in the tunnels, sobbing and shaking and somehow still pleading for mercy for the man. Varric disarmed several traps as they moved on, Hawke starting to feel vaguely sick.

Kelder was a strangely calm individual - and Vanard’s son. It wasn’t Hawke realised with a sickening twist, a matter of justice. The Magistrate simply wanted his son back under control and quiet - a scandal to be buried, until he escaped again. And the man swore he heard demons. Furious, Hawke picked up a stone from the ground and flung it at the side of his head. Next to him, Fenris tensed, hand going for his greatsword instinctively. But no demon roared in fury, no barrier appeared to protect the man. There was no demon, just a very sick son and a father who wouldn’t do the right thing.

Hawke stared at the man, chewing at the inside of his lip. It was almost in a permanent state of shredded, these days.

If he wanted the Magistrate on his side, he had to take his son back in chains. But he knew that wasn’t fair on the elves - on Lia and her father and every other nameless victim. He gripped his staff.

“Fuck I’m going to regret this.”

He cast a prison over the man and turned away as Fenris buried his fist in his chest. At least it was quick. He wasn’t sure if Kelder deserved that.

The man saw demons who weren’t there. Hawke didn't know if that was better or worse than the ones that were - the ones that smiled at him in the Fade and tried to claim his body as their own.

“You good Hawke?”

“No,” Hawke said quietly, hand gripped around his staff, “Not really.”

At least Elren was reunited with his daughter. At least he was grateful. At least it had been a good deed for the elves of Kirkwall. The city guard shook his head and muttered something about pissing off the Magistrate, and it took all of Hawke’s impulse control to not force throw him into the broken column behind him.

Vanard was, of course, furious, snarling that Hawke would never see his title and that he’d made an enemy for life. Hawke closed his eyes as the man finished publicly haranguing him, and made himself breathe out.

“Why,” he asked thickly as Varric’s hand touched his elbow, “Do men like him get to walk free and my sister …”

He cut off, unable to finish the words. Varric squeezed his arm.

“Come on,” he said gently, “Let’s go get a drink somewhere more our level.”

Fenris muttered some excuse, but Isabela threaded her arm through his with a grin.

“Nonsense, I know you’ve got some coin to lose. First drink on me.”

Fenris tensed a little at the touch, but let himself be dragged down the street. Hawke followed, grateful for his friends at least.

“No but seriously,” he said a little later on, a tankard of ale in his hand and Varric’s door shut to shield them from the rest of the tavern, “Bethany was a fucking saint, and she’s being treated worse than Kelder ever was.”

Varric sighed and took a sip of his own drink.

“But not as bad as Kelder should have been.” He said. The dwarf claimed he had no strong opinion on mages or Templars beyond too many skirts, but he could do politics. “Look, he’s dead now - and we were too late for the other elven kids, but we weren’t too late for Lia.”

Isabela had convinced Fenris to start a game of Diamondback, and the elf was frowning at his cards.

“If the world was fair,” he said, “Every Magister in Tevinter would be on the scaffold for their crimes.”

“My sister,” Hawke snapped instinctively, “Was not a Magister.”

But it was sticky ground, with the elf, and in theory, neither him nor Bethany were entirely innocent people anyway. Athenril had seen to that. And yes, he could justify most of the deaths on his hands as bad people, people who had it coming but…

He took a long drink.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, staring at the table, “I … I can’t even imagine how this shit would have played out in Tevinter.”

Fenris made a noise of consideration and then played a card. He didn’t look at Hawke.

“It would depend on how powerful the Magistrate’s family was, and how obvious Kelder was. Not much different from here, really. If it became public, everyone would pretend to be shocked, but everyone has skeletons in their closet.” He paused and reached for his drink. “Danarius didn't have many friends, but one he did have preferred corpses to living bed slaves. In fact, he preferred to make them corpses during the act, if he could. It was an open secret in Neromenian.”

Hawke nearly choked on his own drink. Maker. Even Isabela looked grim.

“I’m glad you escaped.” Hawke said, before wincing and burying his head in his drink. Idiot. But he so desperately wanted Fenris to like him, rather than tolerate him, and he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to consider the reason why.

“Me too.” Fenris said dryly.

“Me three,” Isabela said, playing a card, “You just piss money away on cards, don’t you? Hawke might as well start giving me your cut for our bullshit jobs from the start.”

Something flashed in Fenris’ eyes and he raised an eyebrow.

“Trying to unsettle me, Rivaini?” He asked. “A bad hand?”

She laughed and blew him a kiss.

“You’re the one with the twitchy ear,” she said with a grin. Fenris’ hand shot to his ear.

“They don’t -”

Both Varric and Isabela laughed, and Fenris realised he’d been played. Hawke smiled into his beer, a little less brave. He’d never seen the elf’s ears move at all, but clearly it was something of a sore spot. A quiet, jealous, part of Hawke’s mind asked how Isabela had known. He stood up and mumbled about buying them all another round.

A couple of hours later, he was on his fourth - no fifth? - pint, when there was a polite knock on the door to Varric’s suite. Varric raised an eyebrow and paused in his story about the Denerim market and a dozen escaped nugs that he’d heard first hand from a merchant who was there, on his honour, and frowned at it.

“Who… who do we know who would knock?”

“...Cullen?” Isabela guessed.

Fenris moved to the door, hand glowing blue as a precaution. But when he pulled it open, it wasn’t the Knight-Captain or any other number of Templars. It was just Hawke’s mother, red-eyed and pale. Her eyes alighted on her son.

“Garrett,” she said, trying to sound composed. “There you are. You - you didn't come back home for dinner and I…”

She trailed off, but Hawke felt his heart sink through the floor. She’d thought he was gone. Whether he’d been lost in the ruins, killed by someone unscrupulous or snatched by the Templars - she had assumed the worst. Under the table, Isabela gave his knee a sharp squeeze.

And it should have been ridiculous - he was twenty, and hadn’t been a child for years, not since his father had died and left them bereft when he was just fifteen. But it wasn’t, because in the space of less than eighteen months, she’d lost Carver and Bethany both. And Garrett had always been the reckless one, the one who ran his mouth and found trouble. How long, realistically, did he have before that trouble ended with a knife in his ribs, or a Smite that would signal the end of his freedom? Maker, she had to be terrified every time he left the house. Every time Gamlen left the house, considering what he’d threatened.

He swallowed, feeling queasy, and that had nothing to do with the ale and the lack of food.

“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to stand, “I’m coming, I … I should have sent word.”

She sniffed, blinking rapidly, but held on to her poise - all that nobility coming to bear. She eyed her son’s friends and Hawke could practically feel the judgement. Somehow, Isabela had managed to adjust her blouse so less of her cleavage showed. He was grateful as he stumbled past her.

“N-No,” Leandra said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn't have worried. Of course you’re okay. I don’t know how you manage it, but you’re always okay.”

Hawke managed a smile.

“Nine lives like a cat.” He joked. He looked at his friends. “I uh - wanted to run out to the coast tomorrow, but it can wait. Varric, I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

Varric waved him off.

“See you soon enough, kid. Fenris will need more sovereigns if Isabela keeps rinsing him.”

Fenris scowled, and then cleared his face to placid nothingness when Leandra glanced at him, lips pursed. She clearly thought very little of Hawke’s friends - the gambling and the drinking. Hawke couldn’t help but shudder a little at Fenris’ sudden meekness. It reminded him all too much that the elf had been a slave.

“Master Tethras,” Leandra said politely, “Thank you, for looking out for my son. I know he’s a troublemaker.”

Hawke rather wanted the ground to open up and swallow him, but Varric gave a grin.

“He fits right in at The Hanged Man. Good luck with the petition to the Viscount, Lady Amell.”

She looked a little pleased at the title, even if it wasn’t yet accurate. Hawke followed her out into the tavern.

Outside, Hawke very gently - and slightly drunkenly, pulled her in for a hug.

“I’m okay,” he lied, refusing to think about the day, about Bethany, about Carver, about every fucking thing in Kirkwall, “I’m sorry I scared you.”

“My darling boy,” Leandra said quietly against his shoulder, “I am your mother. I will always be scared for you. And this city…”

She left it hanging, but Hawke understood. This city had more than thugs at night to be worried about. He kept an eye on their surroundings as they cut through the Lowtown streets to Uncle Gamlen’s house.

Chapter Text

Hawke woke up sluggishly, head ringing.

He was pretty damn sure he hadn’t drunk that much the night before. The last he could remember was leaving The Hanged Man, heading back towards his new estate up in Hightown. Well, old estate, really. When the Viscount had finally approved their reinstatement to nobility, he’d bought back the Amell mansion to try and cheer his mother up, and whilst the place was a practical ruin, it was still a damn sight better than Gamlen’s hovel. A longer walk though, and everything went a bit fuzzy after he reached the stairs to Hightown.

Even before he could manage to open one swollen eye, Hawke knew that he was in trouble. His hands were in manacles, and the strange, a sour taste in his mouth was accompanied by a cloth gag.

Someone had captured him - and he had a good instinct as to who.

You will beg for death before this is through.

Why suspect anyone else? The Templars wouldn’t wait until he was drunk and staggering home to arrest him, and as much as he had other enemies - gangs, slavers, any surviving members of The Flint Company - only Athenril had actively sworn revenge on him.

They’d been trying to find her, but all her usual haunts had been empty. She knew that Hawke knew her business, knew her routes and hide outs. She had to have been laying low, waiting to strike, and he had been busy establishing himself in Hightown, busy trying to ignore the hole in his sense of self where Bethany should have been. His attention, whilst not entirely unfocused on finding the woman who’d betrayed his sister to the Circle, had been split. His mother had needed him, and the sudden reinstatement of the family name had come with a rush of unexpected visitors and complications. And Athenril had seized her moment.

He tried, in vain, to reach for the Fade, but the sour taste in his mouth could only be magebane, leaving him cut off from his main source of power. He could fight, physically, and was fairly handy with both staff and dagger, but like this, with his hands shackled and without magic? The only thing he’d be able to do was headbutt his captors - which he was definitely not above doing.

Hawke struggled to stay alert, forcing himself up to his knees, watching the door of the cellar. How long had he been out? How long would it take for his friends to realise something was wrong?

Not soon enough. He could hear footsteps approaching.

Athenril stepped down into the cellar, a cold smirk on her face.

“Well, well, did you figure kneeling would get you out of this?”

Hawke growled, low in his throat, knowing that any words he tried to say would be lost to the gag but unable to stay silent. She stepped forwards, and with the whip crack speed she always seemed to possess grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing his head up. A knife pressed into the side of his neck, resting on his pulse. Hawke didn’t breathe.

“You know,” she said, and Hawke could hear the anger in her voice, “I would have let you be if the humiliation ended with your bitch friend robbing me. But the Carta took advantage of my missing apostates and cleared me out. I lost everything - and if you’d just fucking taken my offer, maybe I’d still be a player in this fucking city.”

Hawke’s mind raced. Well, that explained why she’d gone so thoroughly to ground - she was hiding from the Carta, not him. But he hardly thought it was fair of her to blame him for that. He’d agreed to go with her to the meeting, as suspicious as it had sounded. She was the one who’d pushed for more than he was willing to give.

It wasn’t as if he could say as much though.

Athenril smiled down at him, and it was as sharp as her knives.

“I liked your sister, I really did. But I lost everything. And so now you will too. You’re lucky, really. If you hadn’t been in the Deep Roads, I would have reversed the roles. You, trapped in the Circle and Bethany, here, beneath my knives.”

Hawke jerked, despite the knife at his throat. He couldn’t help it - the idea of this being Bethany was like a red flag to a bull. But Athenril was stronger than she looked and she kept her grip on him, moving the knife so he didn’t accidentally impale himself and ruin her revenge. Her smile grew more satisfied as he tried to curse at her through the gag.

“Hmm,” She said, the knife disappearing in a flourish, “Perhaps I should let you talk. I do so like to hear you beg.”

Her fingers hooked into his mouth and pulled at the cloth, tugging it down onto his chin. Hawke took a moment to swallow and work his jaw before speaking.

“I will kill you - ”

Pain flashed across his face and it took him a moment to see the knife again, now red with blood. A warning slice.

“Ah, ah,” she said, placing the flat of the blade against his jaw, pressing down on the cut as he hissed in pain, “No threats now, dog. The only thing I want to hear is you begging for mercy. Don’t worry - we’ll build up to it. We’ve got all night.”

Two men stepped down into the cellar behind Athenril and Hawke recognised two of the old crew, Rast and Owain. Neither man had ever particularly liked him. He wondered what had happened to the others - whether they were dead at Carta hands, or if they’d changed allegiances. But their presence here helped explain exactly how Athenril had managed to subdue him. Even drunk, he should have been able to put up a fight.

The two men grabbed him and Hawke tried to fight, tried to kick out, but his body was clumsy from the magebane and still aching from the beating he’d taken in being captured. It was all too easy for them to slam him into the wall, chest first and hook the shackles up above his head, leaving his back exposed to the room.

Athenril knew her art well. Hawke had watched her do this to other unfortunate sods before; other smugglers who had information she wanted, the occasional do-good vigilante that crossed their path. When she wanted something, she’d start small - little warning cuts to try and encourage the hapless victim to squeal early. But all she wanted from Hawke was his agony, his suffering. After that first slash to his face, everything else was deliberate and slow - and designed to slowly skin him alive. She’d threatened him with it, once, before he’d signed on to her crew. Now she would see it out.

It didn’t take long for Hawke’s stubborn will to crack, for the muted suppressed growls of pain to become full-throated cries, for him to start truly, honestly begging for her to stop, to just kill him, please, I’ll do anything, just stop, please, please, please.

There was a sound, somewhere, as if from far away, and if Hawke hadn’t been floating in a haze of pain and blood loss, he would have sworn it sounded like Bianca firing.

The sensation of heat splitting at his flesh stopped and Hawke cried out, utterly lost. It had to be a trick, one final cruelty before she started up again. She wouldn’t show mercy, now, as much as his throat was raw from pleading.

He thought he heard Athenril scream, but that couldn’t be right. Maybe he was hearing himself and his mind was trying to protect him somehow.

“Anders, do something!”

Anders? He wasn’t part of Athenril’s crew. He’d come after. Hawke’s mind stuttered, and there was a sudden flare of blue light followed by a wash of something cold, and gentle and soothing. Hawke whimpered pathetically, trying to push into that sensation, trying to escape the burning agony of his shoulders and back, the lines following his muscles that Atheneril had carved to separate flesh from bone. For a moment, everything hung suspended, floating in a haze of blood and pain and healing.

When he managed to open his eyes, he was on his side on the floor of the cellar, cradled in Fenris’ arms as Anders glowed with the blue light of Justice, his hands pressed to Hawke’s torso. Varric and Isabela were kneeling before him. Every single one of his friends was blood-splattered, Anders' hands and robes stained red.

His blood, he realised numbly.

He tried to move and Justice rumbled.

Stay still.

“Listen to the glowing demon, Hawke.” Varric said, looking shaken, “It was touch and go there. Still is, I think.”

Hawke blinked and looked around the cellar. A crossbow bolt stuck out of Athenril’s back, and her glazed eyes looked surprised. Her throat was a cavernous maw where Isabela’s knife had clearly done its work. Rast looked entirely too whole in that way only Fenris’ lyrium could manage. Owain looked as if everyone had taken a piece of him in the fight.

He licked dry lips and tried to speak, his throat scratchy and abused.

“H-How did you find me?”

“One of the new guard recruits under Aveline was off-duty and saw you get taken.” Fenris said. “She ran to report it, and Aveline came to us.”

Hawke closed his eyes. Aveline. He owed her. He owed the recruit. There wasn’t enough gold in Kirkwall to thank her.

“I - I know we wanted revenge, Bela - but not like this.”

It was a poor joke, and Hawke was glad he had his eyes closed when he heard Isabela make a small, quiet noise that sounded too much like a sob.

“Shit Hawke - I’d kill her again if I could. Fuck.”

Hawke didn’t disagree. He felt as if he’d picked a fight with a dragon and lost. Anders was still glowing with the blue light of Justice, healing flowing into Hawke and doing something between his shoulder blades that was almost as painful as Athenril’s knives as muscle and flesh rebuilt and scarred over. A convulsion wracked Hawke and he suddenly understood why Fenris was holding him when the elf tensed, keeping Hawke still against the spasms.

A pathetic, mewling sound ripped from Hawke’s mouth and Fenris eased off, just a hair.

“Breathe, Hawke.”

Hawke let out a ragged, pained breath and tried to think of something funny to say.

“If I survive this,” he hissed between the next pulses of healing into his ribs, “I’m going to the Rose and having sex with someone who won’t try to kill me after.”

Isabela snorted, softly. The blue light of Justice slowly faded and Anders withdrew his hands, trembling slightly. Maker, he looked wrecked. Hawke didn’t want to think about how bad he looked.

“That’s - that’s as much as I can do, now. You’re going to feel like shit for at least a week as there’s nothing I can do about the blood loss, and I’ll need to check how the muscles are doing if you want to ever be able to use your shoulders properly again, but you’re going to be okay.”

He swayed slightly and Varric offered out a steadying arm.
“I’ll get Blondie home to bed.” He said. “Rivaini, Broody - get Hawke home.”

“No,” Hawke mumbled. “Can’t go home - Mother can’t see me like this.”

If he was carried home, covered in his own blood, too weak to move? It would be worse than if he didn’t go home at all. At least then he could send a message that he was hungover and sleeping it off somewhere. His mother’s disapproval was infinitely preferable to her worry.

Varric seemed to understand. He nodded.
“Take him to my suite.” He said to Fenris. “Maker knows the idiot has fallen asleep there enough times that it won’t seem out of character.”

“Love you too Varric.” Hawke managed as Fenris scooped him up like he weighed nothing, like he wasn’t a nearly six foot human. Every muscle in Hawke’s back and shoulders screamed in process - but he was lucky in some ways to even be able to feel it.

He passed out before they made it out of the cellar.

Chapter Text

Hawke managed to sign a note to his mother to cover his absence from the house.

Gone adventuring, back soon. H.

If you squinted at the handwriting, a careful study would have revealed it was Varric’s imitation, but Leandra had no reason to suspect that her only remaining son was recovering from Athenril’s less than tender mercies. And that was fine by Hawke. The less his mother knew of his life, the safer she was.

Hawke slept like the dead, only waking when Anders came by to check on how his skin and muscles were healing. For the first day that was fine, but on the second Anders started to insist that Hawke move - that he rolled his shoulders, arched his back, made a fist - a dozen things that caused agony to burn through him. By the fourth set of checks, Hawke was cursing the man’s mother, father, cat and everything in between whilst Anders frowned and ignored him in favour of watching the range of motion, muttering to himself. When he finally announced that he was done, Hawke was light-headed from the pain.

“Is that really necessary?” He growled as Isabela helped him settle back down on the pile of pillows and cushions that allowed him to sit up a bit. Even the soft contact of the textiles on his skin felt raw.

“If you want to be able to swing that staff of yours in future, yes.” Anders said. “I’ve seen injuries like this before, Hawke. You could damage the muscles for life if you’re not careful.”

Hawke didn’t ask where Anders had seen flayed skin and torn muscle before. He wasn’t an idiot.

It settled into a routine. For a week, Hawke slept in Varric’s bed, exhausted, moving only when Anders came and insisted that he did so - and insisted afterwards that he stayed still. He was so weak, so broken that he couldn’t even feed himself. Isabela and Norah took it in turns, and occasionally Merrill when she came to visit.

After the fifth day, much to Isabela’s initial delight, Anders hesitantly suggested a massage. Strictly therapeutic, to check the muscles and ease any knots, or clots, or scars. Isabela looked slightly less keen after the explanation and let Anders do it.

If the mobility exercises had been painful, it was nothing compared to the massage.

“How is this a thing people do for fun?” Hawke gritted out between grunts of pain as Anders pushed his fingers deep into his shoulder.

“Normally, it’s less about whether your scars are healing well and more about oil and sensuality.” Isabela replied with a grin. But she offered out her hand and let Hawke squeeze it as the agony down his spine continued.

He had visitors who were less inclined to torture him.

Aveline showed up most nights after work, sitting in one of the chairs and telling Hawke about her work day. Merrill wandered in occasionally, usually when she went for a stroll through the markets. She always seemed slightly startled to see him there, even after the third time. Sebastian visited every day at the same time, and cheerily told Hawke that he was praying for his recovery. Hawke wished his shoulders were up to more, because he would have thrown something at the pious man. The Maker’s prayers were doing shit all for him - the only thing that seemed to make a difference was Anders’ healing. And without that, he would have been dead down in that cellar.

The only person who was absent from the near constant cycle of friendly visits was Fenris, who had, apparently, disappeared from his manor and appeared to be doing a frighteningly good job of wiping out every smuggler and slaver he could come across out on the coast.

“Think it shook him up a bit.” Varric confided. “Not sure if it was the state of you, Hawke, or something from his past in Tevinter, but I would give him space.”

It wasn’t as if Hawke could do much else, confined to his bed as he was. It took until the ninth day of healing, of salves and massage and mobility exercises for Anders to declare he was happy with Hawke starting to move about more freely.

“Great,” Varric said with a grin. “Does that mean I get my bed back? Rivaini snores.”

“I do not!” Isabela protested lobbing an empty tankard at the dwarf’s head.

Hawke sat up, slowly, his muscles protesting even that. He looked at Anders.

“I could - I could come down to the clinic. If it were easier.”

Anders considered it. The healer looked exhausted - running himself ragged between the clinic and Hawke’s care.

“It wouldn’t be as luxurious as this.” He conceded. “But I would be able to keep an eye on you better.”

Varric snorted.
“Luxurious, he says. In The Hanged Man.”

“And we’d have to share a bed. The camp beds won’t do you any good in the circumstances.”

Hawke’s mouth dropped open and Isabela cackled.
“Sparklefingers, you’ve broken him!”

Anders blushed, glaring at Isabela.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, Hawke will not be up to any strenuous activity -”

“He can lie there and let you do all the work!”

Hawke definitely didn’t look either Anders or Isabela in the eye as he said.
“Uh - Sparklefingers?”

“Andraste’s flaming tits.” Anders hissed, rubbing at his temples. “One time, Rivaini! And I’m not that person anymore.”

“No, you’re boring and all demon-y.” Isabela retorted. “You used to be fun! Imagine it, nursing the poor hero back to health, giving him massages -”

“Still not explained Sparklefingers.” Hawke put in, not quite able to hide either his grin or the flush of his cheeks.

Anders cursed again and reached forwards, putting two of his fingers to Hawke’s jaw. A small, tiny, barely perceptible shock of lightning played across his skin, forcing a gasp.

“Now imagine that somewhere else.” He snapped, irritable.

Hawke’s eyes went wide.
“Wait, that’s a thing? That’s an actual thing? Where did you even learn that?”

His mind was suddenly filled with ideas about magic and the bedroom. Ideas that he’d never had before. Varric groaned.

“Look at his face, you two, you’ve corrupted him.”

Isabela chuckled.
“Oh Hawke, my offer still stands, you know.”

Ah. Yes. Quite. Hawke swallowed and looked anywhere else, which unfortunately due to the layout of the room basically meant looking at Anders. Which was not much of an improvement because… well…

“Define strenuous activity for me?” Hawke said, proud that his voice didn’t squeak too much.

Anders groaned.
“I take it back. Stay here. I’ll make the trek every day.”

“No,” Hawke blurted out, before realising quite how that sounded and blushing further. “I - I just meant. You’ve done enough for me, Anders. I’ll come to the clinic. I might even be able to help out a bit. Just uh - nothing too strenuous.”

“More's the pity.” Isabela muttered. “That could have been the premise for your next book, Varric.”

“Already in motion, Rivaini.”

Anders sighed heavily, looking somewhat defeated and looked at Hawke.

“Gather your things. You’ll probably find it more peaceful, down in the clinic.”

It wasn’t. Yes, his friends weren’t there to tease him mercilessly, or to keep him distracted, but the clinic was full to bursting that day with desperate folks in need of help. A cart had collapsed in Lowtown, crushing a young boy who even Anders couldn’t save, and some kind of outbreak had begun in Darktown, leaving people sick and wan.

Hawke tried to throw himself into it. He really did. But he couldn’t do any lifting, his own healing magic was practically non-existent and the sight of blood made him suddenly feel very ill. That had never happened before. Fucking Atheneril.

Anders practically shoved him into the back room, and told him to chop herbs if he could. Thankfully, the shitty dull knife Anders had for such tasks looked nothing like the curved, wicked blades Atheneril preferred, so Hawke could at least make himself useful for a bit until the repeated motion burned at his shoulder and he had to stop. He’d barely made it through one bunch of elfroot.

When Anders found him in a lull, Hawke was hunched on the bed, staring at his hands.

“Hawke?”

“I hate this,” Hawke growled, not looking up. “Fuck, I can’t even cut up herbs without it hurting. And the blood. I’m so fucking weak.”

Anders sighed and came and sat down gently beside him before resting a hand on his knee. Hawke got the distinct impression that he wanted to put an arm around his shoulders and had thought better of it.

“Listen,” Anders said, “Physical injuries take time, and what she did to you? That wasn’t something your body is going to be able to just shrug off. But even when it’s all healed - sometimes the emotional scars remain. Sometimes, things just - don’t heal right.”

Hawke snorted, but it sounded more like a sob even to him.
“Great job, healer. I feel so much better.”

“Well now you’re being a sarcastic bastard.” Anders said, “You must be feeling at least a little better.”

Hawke closed his eyes.
“You know, no one has shown me what it looks like.”

“Your back?” Anders said, surprised. “It - well, it’s not too bad. I had to prioritise what to heal, but - would you believe me if I said mine is worse?”

Hawke turned to look at him.
“Yours?”

Anders smiled sadly.
“The Templars didn’t like me much. Some of them thought the only way to get through to me was a whip. And they wondered why I kept trying to escape.”

There was the sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway and Hawke looked up to see Fenris standing there. Anders flinched, then stood up, hurriedly. Hawke missed the weight of his hand on his knee.

“What do you want?”

Fenris regarded Anders, and then Hawke, frowning slightly.

“I - I came to see Hawke at The Hanged Man, and Varric told me he would be here. I did not mean to interrupt.”

Anders sighed and brushed dirt from his robes.
“In that case - I will leave you to speak. Maker knows I’m busy enough without your judgement.”

He went to push past the elf but Fenris held up a hand.
“Stay a moment. I would - I have something to say to you, too.”

“Then say it,” Anders snapped, and Hawke realised the man was uncomfortable with what Fenris might have overheard, “I have patients.”

Fenris' jaw tightened for a moment, but then he lowered his hand.
“I wanted to thank you. I - I am not comfortable with magic, but you aided me in the Deep Roads when I collapsed, and you saved Hawke from certain death.”

The two men stared at each other, before Anders slowly nodded.
“Well,” he said, “It’s a start.”

Then he was sweeping out into the clinic and Hawke was alone with the elf. Hawke swallowed.

“Sorry - he’s cranky. Spending every waking hour making sure my skin doesn’t go gangrenous, or something. It sounded bad.”

Fenris grunted.
“He is not your responsibility.”

The elf stepped closer and Hawke got the distinct impression he’d only just returned to the city. His clothes were dirtier than usual, his white hair lank with grease. He looked rough.

“You … had something to say?” Hawke prompted.

Discomfort flashed across Fenris’ face for a heartbeat.

“I am sorry I disappeared. I didn’t have any memories of my time before these markings but something came back to me after seeing you in that state.”

Hawke winced. He’d almost fainted at the sight of the blood in the clinic and yet Fenris had somehow managed to carry him back to The Hanged Man with memories of his own haunting him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “Did… did you want to talk about it?”

“No,” Fenris said flatly, “I do not want to talk about it. I have not found that it helps. But when you are stronger, if you would like to share a bottle of wine with me… I’d be willing to not talk about it, together.”

Hawke managed a weak smile.
“Does the night end with smashed glass everywhere?”

Fenris smiled thinly back.
“You know me well.”

Chapter Text

Bethany grinned at Hawke from over her shoulder, beckoning him into The Hanged Man.

“Come on,” she said, “I missed drinking. You have time, don’t you?”

He had all the time in the world for her. His twin sister.

“I would,” he said, “Except you’re not real. This isn’t real. You’re in the Gallows, Beth.”

She faltered for a moment, but then she laughed, reaching out to grab his hand.
“What are you talking about? Come on, it’ll be fun. Isabela was going to teach me about body shots - like I didn’t know what they were - so now she’s roped Merrill in, instead.”

Hawke closed his eyes. He wanted, so badly, for this to be real. For it to be any sunny afternoon in Lowtown. For Bethany to be free.

“Desire, I assume? Figured you’d try a different approach from the usual, did you?”

Maker, it was so much more tempting too. The others wore the faces of Isabela, of Fenris, of Anders, trying to tease out which of his friends he would react to. The rage demons and the fear demons would pretend to be Athenril, either beaten and at his mercy or vice versa.

The demon flickered for a moment, and Hawke swore he could see the vulpine face behind Bethany's, the purple eyes, the horns. Then it solidified back into his sister’s face, with a sharp, cruel smile. Hawke took half a step back, bracing himself.

The Fade around him shifted and he was back in the cellar, back in the dark and the dank and the pain. The monster pretending to be his sister laughed as he turned, trying to reach the steps back up, out, and then it was on him and the pain flared across his shoulders, and it was Bethany’s laughter, Bethany’s voice, Bethany, Bethany, Bethany…

Hawke woke, a yell ripping from him before he could swallow it. The dark of his room in the manor bore down on him and he ripped off the covers and was staggering from his bed before he could orientate himself.

It took an age, on his knees on the floor, chest heaving, for some semblance of reality to start to reassert himself. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he kept them screwed shut tight. He wasn’t back there. He wasn’t flayed open. He wasn’t dying.

The Fade was no friend to any mage, and the demons had always utilised any thought or feeling that could get them what they wanted. But since Athenril, the demons had grown vicious, taunting him, making relive it most nights. Hawke had managed to persuade his mother that the nightmares were just the Deep Roads, just the guilt of Bethany, nothing more. He never gave her an opportunity to see him shirtless. She still didn’t know what Gamlen’s contact had done to her children. She never would, if Hawke could help it.

Hawke listened to the sounds of the manor, alert for footsteps that signalled Leandra or Bodahn had heard him scream. There was nothing.

Slowly, Hawke picked himself up off the floor and found his clothes. Once he was dressed he headed out into the main room of the house. At the writing desk, he left a note that was becoming so frequent he may as well use the same one.

Couldn’t sleep. Have gone out. Will be back.

A message not to worry, and a promise. It was all he could do. He certainly couldn’t sit in a half empty manor until dawn. The nightmares left him feeling too on edge for that.

Outside, Hawke paused to take in the night air and to consider his options. It had been six months since Athenril had taken her knives to him, and since then he’d learnt what options he had late at night. The Chantry was never his favourite option, although it was marginally better in the early hours of the morning than when it was filled with the devout. The Hanged Man was a long walk, and it seemed late enough that even Varric and Isabela were asleep. Anders was probably up in his clinic - he slept even less than Hawke did - but Hawke wasn’t sure he was looking to be put to work chopping herbs and washing sheets. It helped, sometimes, but this felt very much like a getting-blind-drunk time.

Which meant Fenris.

Danarius’ old manor looked like a ruin in the dark, which, Hawke supposed, it mostly was. Abandoned around the same time as the Hawke estate, only one had been reclaimed by its owners and patched up. Fenris simply squatted in the shell of the house to spite his master.

The door swung open and Hawke closed it behind him.

“Fenris? Are you awake?”

It took a heartbeat for the response - the same routine they’d established over the last few months.

“In here.”

There was, as far as Hawke knew, only one room Fenris bothered to occupy - the old study at the back of the manor, as far from the front as possible to limit the chance of being seen. Rumours still swirled that the place was haunted. The corpses didn’t help.

Fenris was stoking the fire when Hawke walked in. He looked tired.

“Are you just always awake, or are you a light sleeper?” Hawke asked.

The elf smiled thinly.
“This time? You did wake me. No matter - do you want a drink?”

Hawke nodded and practically collapsed into the second chair in the room, pulling one knee up next to him, staring into the fire. Fenris went to walk past, to head to the wine cellar, but paused and placed a hand gently on Hawke’s shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his gauntlets.

“How bad?”

“Bad. Really fucking bad.”

The softest of squeezes, and Fenris’ hand was gone.

“Would you like to come with me?”

An option if Hawke didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts and his dreams right then. Hawke gave a shaky breath and shook his head.

“The fire helps. I’ll be okay.”

The warmth did help. It wasn’t that his manor was cold - it was, generally, warmer than the ruin of Fenris’ house - but the sharp contrast of the heat of the fire against the chill of the room felt good. Like the cold side of the pillow in the morning.

It didn’t take long for the elf to return, carrying two bottles. He handed one to Hawke.

“We’re out of the Aggregio, but this is the Tevinter take on Celestine Black.”

“Celestine White? Or is that too heretical?” Hawke asked, taking the bottle and finding the corkscrew. Fenris smirked.

“Valhail Black, naturally.”

“Should I know who that is?”

“First Imperial Divine.” Fenris said, settling himself in the armchair and taking a drink. Hawke had, at one point in the last six months, brought him wine glasses. They did not use them.

“Of course,” Hawke muttered before taking a sip. “That - tastes like wine.”

Fenris made a small noise of amusement.
“Ferelden barbarian. The Hanged Man is killing your palette.”

Hawke swilled the bottle.
“Never had one to begin with. Shit taste in everything, me.”

“Present company notwithstanding, I presume.”

Hawke went slightly pink and darted a look at the handsome elf. No, Hawke didn’t have shit taste in everything it seemed. But he was a coward. He took another gulp of wine.

Why do you think I keep coming back here?

“It was Bethany this time.” He said, not looking at Fenris. “With the knives.”

He heard the elf give a soft sigh.

“It was not her, Hawke.”

An involuntary shudder flashed down Hawke’s spine and he pulled his knee into his chest, tighter. No, it had not been her. It had been a demon. But that didn’t mean it had been any less real in the moment.

“The demon - it tried to tempt me with her freedom. That was new.”

He still wouldn’t look at Fenris. The elf would be studying the bottle, no doubt. He wasn’t exactly comfortable with the reminder that Hawke dealt with more than nightmares when he lay down to sleep. Hawke wasn’t exactly comfortable with the reminder, either.

“I was wrong about you, Hawke.”

Hawke looked up, startled.
“What? When?”

Fenris lips were a thin line.
“When we first met. You were so cocksure, and went around with a blood mage, an abomination. I thought you were like them - prone to weakness. I thought only your sister had any sense.”

Hawke winced. Well, it wasn’t anything he hadn’t figured out for himself. Fenris hadn’t exactly kept his thoughts on mages private. And then the situation in the Deep Roads wouldn’t have helped.

“Please tell me there’s a compliment coming.”

A slight quirk at the corner of Fenris’ lips made Hawke’s stomach twist in knots.

“You have experienced much since I’ve known you, and yet you have not given in. You have not resorted to the worst mages can do. I have …” A pause, choosing the right word, “Confidence, in you. It is no small thing.”

Hawke blinked and the twisting in his stomach tightened sharply. Oh.

In the firelight, Fenris’ green eyes were stunning. Shadows flickered across his face, accentuating his sharp features and the lines of lyrium.

“I - I don’t think I ever apologised for the Deep Roads.” Hawke said, voice a little too strained. “For what I did to you. I’m not sure I deserve your confidence.”

“You got us out,” Fenris said evenly, “When I fled Danarius, I swore no one would use me that way again. I do not intend to make a habit of it, but you saved us. I do not regret it.”

Hawke swallowed. Maker, he wanted to kiss him. He took another large mouthful of wine instead.

“We got us out. We uh - make a good pair.”

A flash on Fenris’ face, a knowing smirk, and Hawke would have crawled on all fours to him if that was what he wanted. Would have done it gladly.

The thought of it - the desire - stuttered in Hawke’s mind and wouldn’t budge. He thought he’d left such things behind, buried them deep after Athenril. Shit. Why now? Why with Fenris? He wrenched his thoughts away, sharply and made himself take another swig from the bottle. It was emptying, fast.

“Hawke?”

Shit, he’d missed something. He blinked and tried to come up with an excuse.

“Sorry, distracted by that smirk of yours.”

Well. That wasn’t an excuse, was it? Shit.

Fenris blinked, clearly startled and Hawke knew he’d fucked up. He stood up rapidly, muttering something about going home and sleeping it off. The elf didn’t try to stop him, and fuck, that hurt more than the nightmare knives still dragging at his skin.

He took the half-drunk bottle of wine with him. Maybe if he kept drinking he’d forget what he’d blurted out. What he wanted to do for Fenris - with Fenris.

It was nearly dawn outside, the sky lightening behind the clouds above Kirkwall. Hawke practically fell over the uneven cobblestones outside Fenris’ door. His feet were clumsy as he slunk home, more of a mess now than he had been when he’d left in the first place.

His mother was awake when he let himself in, still clutching the bottle. He heard her moving about her room moments before he made it up the stairs to his own. Then she was there, in the hall, watching him try to slip away into his room with the remains of the bottle.

“Oh, Garrett.”

He leant his head against his bedroom door, eyes closed, knowing how much she disapproved, how much she worried. Leandra Hawke had left Lothering with three children, and only one remained to her. Garrett didn’t doubt for a second that she’d trade his life for Carver, or for Bethany. He would have done it without hesitation.

“I’m fine,” he lied, not even bothering to make it sound convincing. She heard his nightmares. She didn’t approve of the company he kept - of his late nights and early mornings, of his drinking, of his refusal to act like the nobility they now were.

She sighed, but didn’t stop him as he found the handle and went into his room to continue drinking.

Chapter Text

He found Isabela drinking in The Hanged Man as a man tried to recite poetry to her.

“Should I come back?”

“Maker, no, please rescue me from this.” Isabela said before turning back to the hapless poet. “Sorry, I just got a better offer. Try another night.”

Hawke watched the man move off, looking dejected. When he looked back at Isabela she was frowning at him slightly.

“What?”

“You look - I don’t know. Sadder than usual.”

Hawke snorted and leant against the bar as she finished her drink. It had been two months since he’d accidentally crossed the line with Fenris - two months of awkwardly pretending nothing had happened. He’d turned twenty-one, and had spent it trying desperately to not think of Bethany, alone in the Gallows. He’d promised his mother not long after to try and curtail his drinking - and he was, albeit mostly because he wasn’t making his way through Fenris’ wine cellar in conjunction with the elf. But drinking less meant he had more time to think and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“I wanted to talk to you.”

Isabela raised an eyebrow.
“We’re talking.”

Hawke hesitated, knowing there was a flush building on his face. Her eyes widened and she grinned.

“You got laid.”

“No, I - ” He cut off, awkward. Shit, he’d been so sure of this when he had walked over from Hightown. “You made me an offer, before.”

For one heart-stopping moment, he thought she was going to laugh at him. But instead she looked serious, turning to face him entirely.

“What brought this on?”

Hawke looked around. The tavern was busy, but someone could overhear him if he wasn’t careful. Isabela caught the look and beckoned him out of the main tavern room towards her room.

Isabela shut the door the moment he stepped in and Hawke braced, unsure what to expect. But she simply leant against it, arms folded, and studied him.

“Talk to me, sweet thing. What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

“I … I ran away from Fenris because of what I wanted him to do. To me. With me.” He gave a nervous laugh. “Maker, I was going to say this all a lot more smoothly.”

Isabela’s face softened a little.
“Athenril really fucked you over, didn’t she?”

Hawke flinched and if she hadn’t been leaning on the door he would have walked out.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he whispered, “She was a bitch.”

Isabela chuckled.
“She was, but that doesn’t mean you’re wrong for liking the things you did with her. You just - need to have a better partner.”

“Like you?”

“Well, sounds like you want it to be Fenris,” she said with a grin, “It might work out, you know. I imagine he wants to be in control as much as you want to give it up.”

Hawke’s eyes widened. Was that what he wanted? He didn’t know, and this wasn’t going like he thought it would go at all.

“I - I can’t think about Fenris right now.” He said weakly. “I just - what am I doing, Isabela? Why do I want him to hurt me?”

“Do you want him to hurt you?” She asked. She still hadn’t moved from the damn door.

Hawke thought about it.
“I don’t know,” he said, shoulders crumpling a little, “Fuck, I don’t know what I want, Isabela.”

“Oh, sweet thing. You look like a kicked puppy.”

The word was like being punched in the gut and Hawke flinched bodily. Isabela’s eyes widened and she moved from the door and took a step towards him before pausing.

“Shit, okay. Going to guess that was the wrong thing to say? Can you tell me which bit?”

Hawke managed to find his tongue.
“She’d call me her dog.”

“Okay, we’re going to stay well away from that then. Do you know what a watchword is, Hawke?”

“You stop right, if I say it?”

“That’s right. Do you have one?”

He didn't. They hadn’t. He thought if he admitted to that outloud, Isabela might find Athenril’s ashes and grind them into the sewers of Darktown with her heel. But his hesitation was clear enough because she cursed in a language that Hawke didn’t recognise.

“Okay. If you say lyrium at any point, all this stops. I give you space and make sure you’re okay. I’ll even let you have a cuddle if that’s what you need.”

Hawke nodded, not quite sure Isabela was the cuddling type. She smiled.

“Good kid. Now, apart from what we’ve already discussed, is there anything you know for sure you don’t want to happen?”

Hawke blinked.
“Like - anything?”

Isabela’s grin was wicked.
“Well, we’re probably not going to go too hard on our first session, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I, for example, really don’t do small spaces, so I don’t like blindfolds.”

Hawke tried to think, but his mind was rapidly emptying of any conscious thought beyond the fact that he was standing in Isabela’s room asking for her help understanding the part of himself that thought that submitting to Athenril had been a good idea.

“I can’t think of anything.”

Isabela nodded.
“Alright. Are you sure you want to do this, Hawke? Final chance to back out before I start giving you orders.”

His heart was hammering his chest, but he nodded. Underneath the nerves, he was dimly aware he was already half-hard and they’d just been talking.

“Going to need words, sweet thing.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Her smile returned, and she stalked forwards, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and kissing him, deeply. She kissed like a raider, like he was a bounty to be claimed. When she pulled back she dragged out his bottom lip until he gasped. Her eyes glittered.

“I want you naked and sitting on the bed, can you do that?”

He could do that. But the moment his hands went to his shirt he hesitated, looking back at her.

“I - There’s a lot of scars.”

“You can keep it on.” She said immediately, catching his jaw and planting a gentle kiss on his cheek, “But I’m going to let you in on a secret - I’ve got one or two too.”

He watched as she lifted the hem of her blouse to reveal a scar just above her hip, then turned and pulled up her dark shorts to show most of her ass and another, longer lesion. He swallowed, only partially because of what they were discussing. Isabela was a very attractive woman, and she knew it. She smirked at him when she caught his gaze.

He pulled the shirt off and Isabela made a sound of appreciation at the sight of his chest, at his muscles and the dark hair trailing down under his trousers. She barely even glanced at the marks over his shoulders, but the scars would be harder to ignore if he turned his back, so he stayed facing her as he stripped. With his shirt off, the rest was easy - boots, trousers and smalls discarded as he went to the bed and sat, facing her.

Isabela’s eyes were gleaming as he looked up at her, heart in his mouth.

“Well, aren’t you handsome? And so brave for me, taking off your shirt.”

Hawke felt the flush crawl up his face and she raised an eyebrow as he dropped his gaze.

“Ah, do you like that? Being praised?”

“Apparently,” Hawke managed, before giving a wry smile. “Better than dog, anyway.”

Isabela stepped closer and ran her fingers through his hair, down his face, lifting his chin up.

“Hey,” she said gently, “None of that now. We’re here to work out what you like, not what that psycho ruined for you. If you like being praised, you like being praised. That’s all there is to it.”

Hawke blinked and made himself breathe out before he nodded. She smiled at him and then pushed with one hand, forcing him to lie back and straddling his hips.

“So,” she said, “Let’s explore, hmm?”

They kissed, and Isabela’s hands roamed over his chest, fingers deftly dragging through the hair there. His hands went to her hips, aware that she was still fully dressed and slightly miffed about it. When he tried to tug at the hem of her blouse to work it up, she pinched a nipple, sharply, causing him to stutter a groan.

“Sensitive.” She said with a sharp grin. “But no undressing me. In fact, keep your hands on my hips or I’ll start counting spankings for a later time.”

Hawke’s brain temporarily vacated his skull. Spankings? Another time? But his hands moved back to her hips on instinct and she whispered praise in his ear before she started sucking marks over his neck and collarbone.

He should have expected the sharp bite, but his body still jerked and it took half a second to realise his hands had moved from her hips. She looked at him, grinning, then pinched the spot she had just bitten, ripping a hiss from his lungs.

“One.” She said, before lowering her mouth back to his chest, over his nipple this time and Hawke realised what she was about to do and braced himself.

It didn’t come. Instead she breathed across his skin and teased him with her tongue and the sound Hawke made that time was definitely a groan. He closed his eyes, and her tongue became teeth, just as her fingers found the bite from before and pinched. Pain and pleasure blurred and Hawke had to fight to keep his hands on her hips, as she ground down, finding his hardening cock with her ass and pulling another sound from him helplessly.

She kept biting, and the line blurred so much Hawke let out a whimper, his own hips jerking to try and find that friction again and she let go, finally, grinning down at him.

“I’m going to say that you want it to hurt a little, sweet thing.”

His body definitely agreed. Hawke tried to sit up, but he couldn't move his hands from her hips which made it more difficult. She casually reached behind her and her fingers wrapped around his cock as Hawke made another involuntary sound.

“F-fuck, Isabela, you -”

She stroked him, even though the angle wasn’t right and she couldn’t see, and it was still so fucking good Hawke’s hips lifted into her touch.

“So,” she said, far too casually considering the situation, “A little pain is good. How about a little denial? Do you think you can keep from coming until I tell you to?”

Not if she kept that up, he couldn’t. The look he shot her must have been enough as she chuckled and released him, leaving him gasping for breath.

“No? Too eager? But you like being told what to do, don’t you? You’re so determined to keep your hands on my hips like the good boy that you are.”

“F-fuck,” Hawke groaned, hands on her hips tensing as she wiggled a little, offering that blessed friction again. “You’re not even undressed, Bela, you’re going to ruin me -

She laughed, and the sound was so genuine, so sincere that it threw Hawke for a moment. Sex had never been a laughing matter with Athenril. Apart from if she were mocking him.

Isabela’s fingers pinched his nipples, dragging him back to the present.

“Hey now, no going away inside your head just yet. Need you to keep talking to me. All good so far?”

Hawke nodded and she pinched again.

“Words, Hawke.”

“It’s good,” he said, his voice breaking a little as she pinched and teased, “Fuck, it’s good.”

She grinned.

“Hmm, well in that case I’m going to give you two options and you tell me which sounds better. One - you hold onto that headboard for dear life whilst I ride you, or two - I sit on your face and you show me what that tongue can do.”

Both sounded like fantastic ideas. But the idea of Isabela’s thighs surrounding his head, the way she’d be able to grip his hair and direct him as he ate her out was almost enough to make him embarrass himself then and there.

“Two, definitely two.” He said, and her face lit up with delight.

He was good at this. Isabela was already wet as she peeled off her underclothes and straddled his face, letting out a shaky groan as Hawke’s tongue darted and teased. Hawke wished, wildly for a moment, that she was still in her boots. He gripped her hips tighter as she began to grind against his mouth, whispering praise all the while.

Her rhythm changed, picking up, the praise becoming a litany of swear words before she was shuddering, and Hawke teased and teased until she pulled back, allowing him to breathe.

“Fuck, sweetie, you’re too good at that.”

Hawke was breathing hard, but he felt the curl of that praise low in his gut and gave a smile as she looked down at him.

“So uh - I can come back? For that spanking?”

Isabela laughed and ran her fingers through his chest hair, following it down to his hips.

“You’re so bloody obedient you only earned one. But we’re not even done here yet, sweet thing. I can feel you pressing up against my ass you know.”

Hawke blinked.
“But you -”

Isabela stilled.
“Shit. Did she just leave you desperate if she was done?”

Hawke winced. Yes, yes she would, and he’d gotten so used to it that he’d just assumed…

“Sometimes?” He said, trying to pass it off.

Isabela cursed, then got off him and for a heartbeat Hawke thought he’d fucked up by not mentioning this sooner. But then she settled on her knees before the bed and smiled up at him.

“Well, no one leaves my bed unsatisfied, Hawke. Unless they specifically ask for it. Going to guess she didn’t ever do this for you either, huh?”

Then she was taking him into her mouth and Hawke thought he might just die.