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Chapter Text

Sweat trickled on the back of Hawke’s neck, the summer heat of Kirkwall as muggy and as oppressive as it had ever been. In a couple of weeks, the worst of it would break and they’d be back to cooler temperatures. Until then, Hawke’s shirt stuck uncomfortably to his skin as he sat in his office, unable to get out of paperwork for the coast. At least there, there would be a breeze.

Not for the first time since the sticky, sweltering heat began, Hawke reminded himself he was lucky to feel it, to be made uncomfortable by such a thing as warmth.

The letter in his hands was both a snake ready to sink its fangs into his wrist and the opportunity he had been dreaming about for two years.

He looked up at the gathered friends and advisors in the room. Fenris, not there in any official capacity but loath to let Hawke out of his sight, leant against the wall. Varric, as his unofficial seneschal - and Bran, as the actual seneschal who handled all the boring shit Varric couldn't be bothered with. Aveline, as his captain of the city guard. Merrill and Dorian as representatives from the Alliance. And last but not least, The Iron Bull, slouched in a chair that looked too small to hold his weight.

Hawke handed the letter out to Varric, who was closest.

“I have been invited to give evidence at the Exalted Council as part of the Ferelden nation’s push to disband the Inquisition. Bann Teagan has offered me full protection from both the Inquisition and the Chantry for the duration of the proceedings.”

Varric gave a low whistle, his eyes scanning over the letter. But Aveline had stiffened instinctively.

“It’s a trap.” She said, certain.

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t think so,” he said softly, “But that doesn’t mean it’s not dangerous.”

Three years ago, Alec Trevelyan had pronounced judgement on Hawke for his defence of the mages in Kirkwall, for denying justice to Anders’ victims and for unleashing Corypheus on the world. The only remaining sign of what had been done to him was branded on Hawke’s forehead, a scarred sunburst that would never fade. Thanks to his friends, the rite of Tranquility had been reversed; Hawke could feel again, dream again, could touch the Fade and feel part of the world, rather than be cut off from it entirely. And two years on from their escape from Skyhold, the world was a very different place for what had been done to him.

The Inquisitor had defeated Corypheus and turned his attention to supporting the Chantry whole-heartedly, with a couple of detours to explore the Deep Roads and Avvar territory. Cassandra had risen to the highest position in the land, and as Divine Victoria was enacting reforms that looked suspiciously like the old forms: a new Templar Order and a new Circle of Magi. Whatever intentions she held - and Hawke knew some of them, from his captivity - the Inquisition’s backing certainly revealed the truth. A return to the old ways, a little dressing for the sake of appearance - but mages shoved back into prisons and watched over by those who’d proven again and again that they could not be trusted.

Hawke had landed back in Kirkwall, still flayed open by what had been done to him, and chased Sebastian’s choice of Viscount out of the city. With the Gallows sickeningly empty, and the Templars either with the Inquisition or in Corypheus’ clutches, the only real resistance had come from the Starkhaven soldiers. Those that survived were encouraged to flee - to run back to their city and tell Sebastian that Hawke had more mercy than Trevelyan, but that mercy would not save the Prince of Starkhaven if he chose to continue this fight. Since then, the two leaders and the two cities had been engaged in a balancing act of pretending the other didn’t exist.

It might have been working with Starkhaven, but it wasn’t working with the Chantry - primarily because Hawke had declared Kirkwall a sanctuary for mages. Dorian, brilliant and entirely unfettered from Southern Chantry thinking, had founded the Mages’ Alliance, repurposing the Gallows into a place of learning and protection without the need for Templars. Mages, Dorian argued, were perfectly capable of looking out for their own. It had caused some rather incredible arguments with Fenris - the elf snarling about Magisters, about Anders, about overreach whilst Dorian combated with look at what they did to Hawke, Fenris, how could you even consider their side?

Things still weren’t good between those two, nearly a year on from that fight. Merrill hadn’t exactly improved matters by joining the Alliance - and yes, she no longer dabbled in blood magic, but she’d still been the very thing Fenris feared as a consequence of no oversight. The reality, though, was that Merrill brought some very different thinking about magic, the Fade and its inhabitants, and that as a result of two brilliant minds working together, the Alliance was proving much more successful at limiting maleficars and abominations than the Gallows had been. It probably helped that Solas, still occasionally in Hawke’s dreams despite his absence from the Inquisition, had pointed the new Viscount to the demon in the ancient tunnels under the city, preying on people’s desires.

The Alliance had been the final straw for the Chantry, who had already vocally condemned Hawke for what had happened in Kirkwall even before his arrest by the Inquisitor. It was in flagrant violation of Chantry Law, and a continuation of the war that the Inquisition had ended. Divine Victoria’s letter, written personally, pleaded with Hawke to reconsider, to find a way to work with the Chantry and the Inquisition, not against it. The letters from her aides and the one solitary letter from Alec Trevelyan had been far less reconciliatory. If Hawke continued on this path, Alec warned, he and Kirkwall would burn.

Hawke’s response had included a sketch of the sunburst brand on his forehead and asked exactly how he’d burn this time. If the fires of lyrium hadn’t been enough to stop him, perhaps a pyre would do. Another mage, burned for the sins of another.

Tell me, Alec, how does history remember those who burned Andraste, again?

It had been blasphemy, and even though Hawke’s point hadn’t been to compare himself to Andraste directly, Divine Victoria’s next letter had been distinctly less gentle in its tone. The threat of an Exalted March hung over the city, the only thing holding the Chantry back was the backlash they’d already faced for Trevelyan’s actions regarding Hawke. Not everyone had approved of Tranquility, or even punishment. And not everyone was entirely unsympathetic to the mage plight.

Still, there had been three separate attempts on Hawke’s life, since he’d announced his opposition to the Circles, and heading to Orlais to poke the bear was hardly sensible.

There was another thing making Hawke hesitate. It was one thing, to hate the Inquisitor from across the Waking Sea, and another to face him again. He’d walked into Alec’s realm hoping to be an ally, and left a broken man. His friends had helped put him back together in the intervening months, but he couldn’t help but feel that the moment he saw Alec’s smug face all their hard work would fall by the wayside and he'd be back where he was in the immediate aftermath of the reversal. An open nerve, screaming.

It wouldn’t help the Ferelden cause much to have a shattered apostate on their side.

Fenris was scowling at him from the door.

“You can’t go,” the elf said, as if they hadn’t had this argument separately the night before, Hawke pleading with Fenris to let it lie, to come back to bed and forget for a while, “Ferelden cannot protect you from the Chantry.”

Dorian frowned thoughtfully.

“If it is too risky to go yourself, perhaps an envoy…”

“I won’t send someone else into that rat nest on my behalf, not after what happened last time.” Hawke said heavily. “Either I go, or no one does.”

Dorian’s lips thinned, just a little, and Hawke remembered the man’s own grievances with the Inquisition. Of how he’d arrived in Haven just ahead of the rebel mages, and been thrown into jail for his trouble.

Varric handed the letter on to Bull.

“From what I’ve heard - Orlais are pushing for the Inquisition to be leashed to them, so Ferelden will be pushing hard for their disbandment. It leaves far too much power in the hands of Empress Celene. They won’t have sent the invite if they didn’t mean to hold to it - they must see you as a trump card.”

Hawke snorted softly.

“Alec’s never expressed regret for what he did to me. I don’t see how my testimony will change things.” He said.

The Iron Bull had another perspective as he skimmed the letter.

“Or, they know they can’t protect you and plan to use the outrage of your imprisonment to force the point. The Inquisition going against the political sovereignty of Ferelden…”

It had taken Hawke a little too long to realise that The Iron Bull was not just the beefy mercenary he liked to portray. He’d been Ben-Hassrath before the Inquisition, and every instinct the Qunari had honed in him was still sharp. To Hawke’s credit, he’d had rather a lot on his mind when they first met. He and Varric both kept him abreast of situations that would otherwise pass him by. Not quite spymasters, but close.

“Another reason,” Fenris growled, “That you should not go.”

Hawke sighed and drummed his fingers on the desk. He knew this. He knew his own doubts and hesitations - but all the same, the lure of the Inquisitor getting some level of comeuppance was just so very, very tempting.

“It is an opportunity,” he said, “Not only to show the Inquisitor that he failed, that I am very far from cowed, but also to speak with Divine Victoria. She was not as dogmatic as Trevelyan. It is possible I can make her see sense about this Exalted March nonsense.”

“Right,” Aveline said, frowning, “And if you can’t you’ve made it very easy for her to execute you.”

“I don’t think they can,” Bran said, scratching at his jaw, “If word got out - and it would - that Ferelden had offered protection and the Chantry had acted anyway? It could trigger another wave of violence.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. It was uncommon for the man to offer any opinion beyond a flat no at Hawke’s latest suggestion. Normally, he just looked tired and harassed by Hawke and his friends.

“Cassandra was surprisingly reasonable,” Varric said, “For a Seeker. And she liked you, Hawke. What Alec did nearly drove a wedge between them, even if Cassandra couldn’t fault his logic. I’m still not entirely sure that she didn’t leave the book in her room deliberately after our argument about Tranquility. If you could talk to her in person…”

He’d have more luck than any number of letters, any careful councils or envoys.

Dorian spoke.

“I heard a rumor that Tevinter are sending an envoy.” He said, “Although I haven’t heard who. It may well be that you’re not even the most controversial figure at the Council, Hawke.”

Hawke laughed, even as Fenris scowled at Dorian.

“This is serious, Pavus -”

“Yes, yes, I’m sure it is.” Dorian said, almost waving the elf off, “But the fact of the matter is Hawke’s already made up his mind, and this meeting is meant as a planning session, not approval.”

The Altus’ eyes were on him, as sharp as he’d ever been. Hawke managed a weak smile as every set of eyes looked at him. He avoided Fenris’ gaze.

“I uh - respect each of your opinions and wanted to hear what you had to say?” He said, emulating the kind of bullshit speech he gave to various nobles.

Varric snorted.

“You wanted us to try and talk you out of it,” he corrected, “And it’s not worked.”

Hawke pulled a face.

“Bull raised a good point, but Bran is right. The Inquisition cannot dare act with impunity at a council designed to bring them to heel.”

Varric rolled his eyes.

“Because that will stop Alec Trevelyan.” He said, before pointing at Hawke. “You just bloody love danger, don’t you?”

Well, that was one way of looking at it.

Chapter Text

Before the Gallows, Hawke had only ever been in the Viscount’s cells twice - both times picking up his Uncle after another embarrassing drunken display in public.

As a conqueror of the city, he’d come down to the cells to free a handful of people who’d had the misfortune of being possible political enemies to Trevelyan and the Inquisition. They hadn’t caught Merrill - hiding out in the Darktown sewers - but Sebastian had ruled that Aveline had more value as a hostage to stop Hawke’s attack than as Guard-Captain. He’d also arrested a half dozen others who had shown mage sympathies, or protested too loudly about Kirkwall’s independence from Starkhaven. Hawke had even found Bodahn and Sandal down there. The two had been caught in Tantervale and escorted to the city. Quietly, Hawke thought Sandal had allowed himself to be captured, considering what he’d seen in The Deep Roads. Both were now happily involved with the Alliance. Or at least, Sandal was. Bodahn was doing an admirable job as steward, even if Dorian grumbled about some of his more dwarven sensibilities.

Hawke moved down the steps to the cells, walking past several empty ones to reach a small, cramped cell at the back. There, in chains, was Sebastian Vael - stripped of his gleaming white armour and bloodied.

A gag stopped the man from talking, but there was still something haughty and imperious in his glare. He somehow looked every inch the Prince, even then. Hawke looked down at him and knew that he hadn’t managed anything like that level of arrogance kneeling before the Inquisitor.

Something in Hawke’s stomach twisted, and he took a moment to take in the scene. Sebastian at his mercy after what he’d done to Kirkwall - and what he’d urged Alec to in his letters. A hostage, to use against the Inquisition, as Sebastian had hoped to use Aveline against him - or a body to make an example of. It was so tempting.

Hawke basked in it for a heartbeat and then glanced at the guard on his left. It wasn’t a face he recognised.

“A clever ploy, demon.” He said, “I wouldn’t believe Trevelyan for a moment - but this? This is possible.”

The guard didn’t respond, but the scene was broken, and Hawke could see the missing details of the cells, the way the Fade held form. A dream, nothing more. A trap to try and lure him into bargaining away his soul.

In the aftermath of reversing the Rite, demons had circled him like vultures. They could sense his wounds, his fragile state, and swarmed to find a way to break him, to be the one who claimed him. In those first few weeks, Solas protected him from the worst, but there had been a time where Hawke had needed to stand on his own feet again. And those first few nights had been agony.

Hawke was used to demons offering him vengeance, and whilst this was a clever version of it, it was the same trap. The clever ones offered him the power to become untouchable, the smartest offered to protect those he loved.

Before him, Sebastian’s eyes widened and he started to struggle, to get away. And then he was burning, flames roaring with such heat that Hawke took half a step back before he could remind himself that it wasn’t real - that none of this was real.

The rage demon glared at him. And then it hissed and bubbled, sinking into the ground as the cells collapsed down. Hawke closed his eyes, willing himself calm. A dream, he thought. It had no power over him.

When he opened his eyes, Solas stood before him.

The elf looked different from when Hawke had known him. Usually he walked the Fade in the form of a giant wolf with too many eyes - something that always itched at Hawke’s knowledge, but seemed to fade with importance when he woke. Now though, he seemed dressed in ancient elven armour, the like of which Hawke had only ever seen in books. It was a jarring contrast to the humble, rough-spun clothes he’d worn in Skyhold. There was something else about him, Hawke thought. Something about the eyes.

“Hawke.”

“Solas - gearing up for a war, are we? Who are we fighting?”

The elf smirked.

“You are the one heading for the Exalted Council. Is that not enough enemies for you?”

Hawke pushed his hair back off his forehead, fingers trailing over the scarred sunburst.

“You know about that? Been reading my mail?”

He’d never quite worked out how the Dreamer knew things he shouldn’t. People’s dreams offered valuable insights into their thoughts and feelings, but they were hardly a reliable source of facts. Sebastian had never once been at Hawke’s mercy, after all.

“Something like that,” Solas said with an easy smile. “You would be surprised, Hawke, how many people dream of that Council. Of its denouement. Trevelyan gnashes his teeth and dreams of humbling Ferelden and Orlais.”

“Of course he does,” Hawke muttered. “Will you be there?”

“I had not planned on it,” Solas said, “Certainly not at his side.”

Hawke swallowed. Solas had stayed with the Inquisition right up until Corypheus’ death - and then he’d disappeared. According to Varric, no one had seen Chuckles since, and Leliana had been looking. He suspected, silently, that he was the only one still in contact with the elf, and even then, it was at the Dreamer’s behest. If he wanted to walk away, Hawke would never see him again. Whatever game Solas was playing, whatever his motives, he seemed to have a soft spot for the Champion that had defied Tranquility.

Of course, Hawke owed him everything. Varric and Dorian had been the ones who’d stolen Cassandra’s Tome and planned the reversal, but it had been Solas and his knowledge of spirits that had ensured it worked. Maybe the elf kept him around for an eventual favour, a debt to be repaid.

Still it was good to know Solas would not be there in Orlais, pretending to be an ally of the Inquisition. That pretence was over. And it shrunk Alec’s remaining inner circle even smaller.

“You don’t approve, do you?” Hawke asked with a wry smile. “You think I should stay away.”

“I doubt I could ever have influenced you, even before a spirit of perseverance brought you back to the Fade.” Solas said, his tone dry, “I distinctly remember your attitude as I patched you up, after that Templar attack.”

Hawke gave a laugh, finding them suddenly standing, having a conversation in the garden of Skyhold, surrounded by the healing tents.

“Alec probably wishes they’d managed to drop me off that ledge. It would solve at least one of his headaches.”

Solas gave a thin smile that did not reach his eyes.

“He’s dreamed of pushing you off himself, more than once.”

“Charming,” Hawke muttered, suddenly no longer amused. “I’m a fool, aren’t I? I should stay well away from him.”

“A fool,” Solas conceded, “But a brave one. That just about sums you up, Garrett Hawke.”

“You’re so sweet,” Hawke replied, before looking around him. “And uh - thanks. Not sure if you helped with the demon or not but… thanks.”

“All you,” Solas said with a shrug. “I watched, to be certain - but I offered no interference. You are no Dreamer, but your self-control is incredible, in the circumstances.”

That was almost sweet. It certainly was a compliment. Hawke sighed and scrubbed at his face, tired. Dreams in the Fade were never quite as restful or restoring as normal dreams. In Kirkwall, his body would be eerily still. If he knew Fenris, the elf would have woken, and would be watching over him - just in case. He needed to get back, to kiss away his fears and promise that he was okay, that the demons hadn’t gotten him.

“Right - well no offence, you’re not the elf I’d rather be dreaming about.” Hawke said with a grin, knowing that Solas very likely knew exactly what kind of dreams he had of Fenris. “At least not these days. I’ll say hi to Varric, if you’d like?”

He always offered, and Solas always declined. For some reason, the elf had decided a clean break from his old friends was a necessity. It begged the question even more what he was doing in Hawke’s dreams.

The Fade dissolved away, Hawke watching as Solas shifted shape, becoming a wolf, and bounding away. And then he was waking in the dark of his bedroom in Kirkwall, Fenris’ fingers running almost absently over his forearm.

“I’m here, Fen.” He said quietly, staring up at the ceiling, “I’m still here.”

And if he checked that he was awake, properly awake, with his nails digging into his palm before he let the elf kiss him, he didn’t show any of it on his face.

Chapter Text

Redcliffe had changed since Hawke had last passed through.

As a child, he’d been once or twice, and it had always held a bigger place in his mind than the reality. Returning as the Champion in exile, Fenris at his side, had been bittersweet. Lothering was gone, as were many of the villages he remembered, but Redcliffe remained - just smaller, more ramshackle. The Chantry and the Castle weren’t so impressive after Kirkwall. Even the walls had been more palisade than fortification.

The walls were walls, now. The mage rebellion had usurped the village, offered themselves to the Venatori and left bloodied mementos of their passing. Queen Anora clearly wouldn’t allow a seat of power to be taken from within again. Hawke wondered, dimly, how she felt about Caer Bronach in Crestwood, still flying the Inquisition banners. No wonder the Ferelden’s wanted the Inquisition gone.

The guards met them at the gates, the Captain offering a half-bow from the back of his horse. His eyes stayed very firmly away from Hawke’s face and the brand.

“Viscount, it is an honour.”

Hawke doubted it. His presence had been an uncomfortable thing when he’d been Champion. Now he was in almost open war with the Chantry. He had also brought several people along with him who did nothing to help his reputation.

Fenris, of course, refused to be left behind. If Hawke was going to risk his neck to face Trevelyan, Fenris would be there to defend him - or crush the man’s heart, if necessary. Dorian, with his own grievances and uncanny ability to cause scandal, had pointed out that at least one of the men who’d been forced to witness Hawke’s Tranquility should be present. Hawke’s own testimony about that time would be… distant. Dorian could very eloquently explain every awful moment of those months, even more so than Fenris who hadn’t been there for most of it, thank the Maker. And with Dorian’s presence, the Iron Bull had invited himself along as well. The two wore matching halves of a dragon tooth these days - which was an achievement, as Hawke was pretty sure he’d killed the only High Dragon in the Free Marches years before.

Varric, thankfully, had agreed to stay behind as acting Viscount. And the rest of his friends had less direct reason to get involved. Indeed, Aveline was more concerned about Sebastian taking advantage of the situation than she was with the Council.

“Captain,” Hawke said respectfully, “Redcliffe has changed rather, since I was last here.”

The man frowned slightly, but didn’t push about exactly when the rebel mage and Chantry pariah had been in the town. Instead he eyed Hawke’s companions and said.

“Bann Teagan is waiting. If you would follow me? I would advise staying close - not everyone in Redcliffe is comfortable with mages, considering what happened here.”

Dorian sniffed and Hawke shot him a look. The last time Dorian had been here, he’d fled on the heels of the Venatori army. Indeed, the normally haughty Altus looked more than a little grim. He’d lost a mentor, here - Gereon Alexius disappearing without a trace. After everything he’d done for Corypheus, the Blighted Magister had removed him and turned Calpurnia into his right-hand. Felix too, Dorian’s best friend, had never seemingly made it out of the place.

Bull, ever observant, started an entirely random story about something he and the Chargers had done in the area, prior to the Mage-Templar war. Something that featured absolutely no Venatori, rebel mages or Inquisition soldiers. It did seem to feature an inordinate amount of goats.

At the castle, Hawke was more than glad to get down from his horse. He’d never been a natural rider, and bits of him ached after a long day in the saddle.

Bann Teagan sat on the Arl’s throne, and his eyes narrowed as he took in Hawke’s forehead.

“Viscount Hawke,” he said, rising, “Welcome to Redcliffe. Forgive me, but Maker’s breath, that’s - rather unsettling.”

Hawke managed a smile and touched his own forehead, his fingers near constantly brushing over the lines of the brand.

“Well, that’s honest at least. Most people just pretend it’s not there.”

Teagan grunted.

“I have experienced abominations,” he said, shaking his head, “And had my home overrun with apostates. But I never had much contact with the Tranquil.”

“You wouldn’t,” Hawke said blandly, “The Venatori killed most of them, and Inquisitor Trevelyan's apathy will have done for the rest.”

There had been whispers of a Tranquil in Redcliffe, who’d seen the logic of trying to join the side that wasn’t murdering those like him. Alec had rejected him. There had only been two other Tranquil that Hawke knew of in Skyhold. How many were left in Ferelden? And how many had been made since the reestablishment of the Circles, now that the possibility of reversal was well known?

To Teagan’s credit, he did not flinch.

“The Inquisitor is a formidable man,” he said, “And one who the world owes a debt. But he has acted as a righteous thug since the moment the word Herald was uttered. The Chantry does not need another military arm at its command. The Templars and Seekers are more than enough.”

Hawke could see Teagan’s concern - and by extension, his Queen’s. Another military power on the board, tied too closely to Orlais. One with a fortress already on Ferelden lands. But it suggested that the Bann wasn’t entirely on Hawke’s side. And why would he be? The rebel mages had done great harm to their cause here in Redcliffe.

“The Chantry can argue that the Circles are necessary,” he said with a grimace, “But what he did to me was not. I would have been his ally, if he’d let me. I wanted to help. Until he is out of the picture, I cannot trust a single damn thing the new Divine says. Because I know that the hand offering a new way forward is the same hand that robbed me of who I am and used me as a puppet.”

Hmm, he’d probably have to work on being more persuasive and less righteous fury in himself, considering. But Teagan nodded all the same.

“You will have your chance to air your grievances - to hold him to account. Many of those he passed judgement on did not survive. You stand alone in that.”

Hawke smiled thinly.

“I would rather have died.” He said, ignoring the way Fenris tensed at his side. “If it were not for my friends, who risked everything to reverse what was done to me. A reversal that was a secret, hidden from the Circles, for years. Another injustice, not redressed.”

Teagan turned the conversation, delicately, onto the journey to Halamshiral, before suggesting that Hawke and his friends retire until dinner. The guest rooms were open to them, and it had been a long journey, with more to come. Hawke was grateful. It wasn’t exactly pleasant, picking at the scars of what had been done to him.

The moment he closed the door to their guest room, he almost collapsed against the wall, breathing out shakily.

“Maker’s Balls,” he muttered, “This whole bloody thing is going to be miserable, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Fenris said shortly, unstrapping his greatsword from his shoulders before turning to Hawke. “Apart from when Trevelyan gets his comeuppance.”

Hawke managed a smile, reminded of a game that Varric and Anders used to play in Kirkwall, years before.

“Boiled in oil?” He asked. “Heart crushed? Stick shoved up his arse so hard it comes out his mouth?”

Fenris snorted softly and closed the gap between them. He pulled Hawke away from the wall and held him close. Hawke let out another shuddering exhale.

“I would kill him in a heartbeat,” Fenris said, arms wrapped around Hawke like he could protect him from the world, “But you know that it is unlikely. At best, he will lose his seat of power.”

Hawke knew that. He also knew that it was unlikely the bastard would even lose that. The Chantry and the Divine would protect him. But still, Hawke could dream.

“I want to see him humbled,” he muttered into Fenris’ shoulder, “More than anything - I just want to see him realise that he was wrong.”

Wrong - to not only do what he’d done to Hawke, but to everyone else too. That he’d been wrong to not trust Dorian, who was so brilliant and could have done so much more for the Inquisition. That he’d been wrong to hear Varric’s fears in the Fade and then manifest a much worse version upon return to Skyhold. That he’d been wrong to put Fenris through such heartache - wrong to make Hawke an unrealised accomplice in the elf’s capture. How many others, Hawke wondered, had the man broken or abused in his quest to bring down Corypheus?

Fenris kissed Hawke’s temple.

“I would rather see his broken corpse on the floor,” the elf said harshly, “What was your suggestion, again? Boiled in oil?”

Hawke let out a weak laugh.

“Hmm, I mentioned a stick up his arse too, but now that I think about it…”

Fenris chuckled, and the sound reverberated down Hawke’s spine.

“How long before dinner?” He asked.

Hawke kissed him. They’d be late, if necessary.

Chapter Text

“Well,” Dorian said as they rode through the gates, “This is as gaudy and Orlesian as I remembered it.”

Hawke frowned, shooting him a glance.

“You were at the Winter Ball?”

Dorian’s lip curled into a sneer.

“Josephine’s idea,” he said shortly, “She wanted as many nobles and civilised members of Alec’s inner circle there as possible. I was given express orders to tell as many people as possible how grateful I was to have found refuge in the Inquisition, and how wonderful Trevelyan was - how magnanimous, how merciful. It rather spoiled the taste of the wine, considering what he’d just done to you.”

Fenris made a small growling noise, low in his throat, and Hawke pulled a face.

“I should probably consider myself lucky that he didn’t take me along. He did so love to make me justify my own Tranquility.”

Bull looked around, frowning slightly.

“We have beaten the Inquisition here, I would guess.” He said. “Something about the lack of weapons being aimed at us.”

Hawke managed a shallow laugh at that.

“Yes, well - if it’s going to come to that, I’d much rather we shed blood in the halls. We could ruin a few Orlesian carpets into the bargain.”

Ahead, Bann Teagan rode with his attendants, who were already beginning to dismount in the courtyard beyond. Fenris was frowning at the man’s back.

“Do we stick close to him?” He asked quietly. “Or would you rather find our own ground?”

He made it sound as if they were selecting the best terrain for a battle. And perhaps they were, in a way. Maker, now that they were here, Hawke wasn’t sure this was a good idea anymore.

“Any chance there’s a tavern?” He muttered, “I could do with a drink.”

It was unlikely in the grounds of the Winter Palace. All the same, Hawke would rather not spend every moment of the Council in the shadow of the Ferelden delegation.

“Don’t look now,” Dorian said, his tone serious, “But the Divine has come to meet us.”

Hawke looked up, eyes scanning, and spotted a woman in white Chantry robes and a faintly ridiculous hat. His chest tightened at the sight of a scowling Cassandra. She was looking straight past Bann Teagan and staring at him.

He and his friends rode into the courtyard and dismounted. Hawke could hear Teagan and Divine Victoria exchanging pleasantries, although Cassandra sounded distinctly aggrieved even if the words were polite. Then Teagan extended a hand in Hawke’s direction.

“As forewarned in my letter, Queen Anora asked the Champion and Viscount of Kirkwall to attend as part of the delegation so that his voice may be heard. I understand the Inquisition has not yet arrived, but we must have assurances of his safety - and the safety of his friends.”

Well, at least Cassandra has been forewarned. Hawke wondered if the Inquisition knew. He managed to step forwards and meet Cassandra’s glare with a grin that was more bared teeth than warmth.

“Divine Victoria,” he said, giving a bow just deep enough to be respectful and not a hair more, “It would appear both our fortunes have improved since we last met.”

Last time they’d seen each other, she’d been standing in the courtyard of Skyhold, preparing to head into Orlais, a Seeker still reeling from the destruction of her Order. He’d been half human, half corpse - unable to feel, or dream. Everything was different now. Hawke could feel sweat building on the back of his neck, the hammering of his own heart in his chest - the signs and sensations of fear building in him. It was a gift, even if it was a gift that threatened to turn his stomach in knots.

If she wanted him arrested, or dead, she could do it with only a few words, the Ferelden delegation be damned. Maker, she could grab a sword and do it herself - no would draw on the Divine to protect him. Apart from Fenris, who was practically vibrating with tension at Hawke’s side.

Her eyes flicked to the brand on his forehead and back to his eyes.

“That is… one way to put it.” She said, slowly. “Your… escape, changed everything. Where is Varric? I do not believe for one second that little shit would miss this.”

Hawke blinked. Little shit? That… almost sounded like Cassandra. The woman who’d been earnest in her belief that things could get better, that there was a way forwards. And what, exactly, had his escape changed?

“He is back in Kirkwall,” Hawke said, “Acting as Viscount in my stead. A precautionary measure in case…well. The last time I walked into the Inquisition I lost more than my freedom. Kirkwall needs a ruler, should I lose myself again.”

To her credit, Cassandra did not flinch. But her scowl was almost as vicious as Fenris’.

“It will not.” She said. “I will make it clear to the Inquisitor that you are under my protection, as well as Ferelden’s. All of you.”

If Hawke had been surprised to hear Cassandra call Varric a little shit, he was stunned at that. Cassandra nodded in satisfaction.

“I - thank you,” Hawke managed, “I must confess, considering our last exchange of communication, I thought that you might wish me dead as much as Trevelyan does.”

He would not do him the honour of calling him Inquisitor.

Cassandra sniffed.

“I never wanted you dead, Hawke. Not even at the start. We should talk in private, when we can. For now, I would speak with Teagan - and you may wish to find the Tevinter Ambassador.”

Hawke distinctly heard Fenris mutter something under his breath that sounded like I doubt it, but the Divine's eyes had flicked, instead, to Dorian. That was interesting. Someone he knew, perhaps? The man didn’t have many allies or friends left inside the Imperium.

Hawke took the dismissal as it was and bowed again, a little more deeply than before. Then he moved off, towards the gardens. He had no damn idea where the Ambassador would be, but he wasn’t hanging about near the courtyard just in case the Inquisition showed up.

The Halamshiral gardens made his own back in Kirkwall look small. Several marble carved benches clustered around a fountain, and to the left there appeared to be a maze of hedges, and to the right, several flights of stairs moving up and up. And there, sitting on one of the benches and running her fingers over the surface of the rippling water was a blonde woman in a blue dress that could only be Tevinter in fashion.

Dorian actually gasped.

“Mae!”

“Dorian, darling!” The woman said, standing up. “What are you wearing? Please don’t tell me you’ve gone native.”

The Iron Bull gave an amused chuckle, and Hawke could only stand and stare as the woman ignored him and Fenris in favour of the Tevinter Altus. And well, Dorian’s outfits had toned down a little over the last couple of years - mostly as Kirkwall wasn’t exactly well connected to Tevinter fashions - but he was still the most impeccably put together man Hawke had ever known. The idea that he had gone native had Hawke checking his shirt sleeves for dog hair. He had two mabari, now.

The woman - Mae, and Hawke realised he knew that name, this was the widow of Varric’s cousin - and Dorian embraced. When she pulled away, Mae was grinning.

“Half the reason I accepted this position was the hope you’d show up. You’re looking well! Clearly Kirkwall agrees with you. And this, I assume, is The Iron Bull?”

Her eyes were regarding the large Qunari with open interest. There was a slight hint of pink in Dorian’s cheeks as he nodded.

“Yes, yes it is. Bull, this is Maevaris Tilani, the only friend I have remaining in Tevinter. Mae, this is The Iron Bull. In the flesh.”

Her eyes roved up and down the Qunari approvingly, and Hawke exchanged faintly baffled looks with Fenris, who had tensed the moment he’d seen the woman. Dorian seemed to suddenly remember they were both there.

“Ah - yes. And this is Hawke, Viscount and Champion of Kirkwall. And Fenris. Fenris - please don’t kill Mae. I assure you, she is delightful.”

Fenris glowered at the Altus.

“As delightful as you?” He asked, his sneer obvious.

Mae laughed.

“No one could be half as delightful as Dorian,” she said, but Hawke could sense her unease all the same. Fenris had a reputation, after all. “A pleasure, Champion. I - and most of Tevinter - was sorry to hear what was done to you.”

Hawke blinked. He hadn’t considered that. The Champion who’d killed the Arishok, defied the Orlesian Chantry and the Templar Order… Yes, he would have been a popular figure in Tevinter, his choice in companion notwithstanding. And from what he understood, Danarius hadn’t exactly been a popular man. A feared one, yes, but not popular.

He managed a smile.

“The pleasure is all mine. Varric speaks quite highly of you, Magister Tilani.”

Mae’s smile was suddenly fond.

“Ah, Varric - he isn’t with you? A pity. I would have enjoyed getting drunk with him again. It has been too long. Perhaps I shall return to Kirkwall with you once this is done - a longer route back to the Imperium for sure, but worth it for the fine company.”

She winked at Hawke, and then offered her arm out to Bull.

“Shall we?” She said. “I’ve been avoiding the Orlesian delegation so far, but perhaps there is safety in numbers.”

And well, at least they had one ally in Halamshiral. Hawke and Fenris exchanged another look and followed Mae, Dorian and Bull through the garden courtyards.

Chapter Text

If Hawke had been prepared, at least a little, for facing Divine Victoria, he absolutely hadn’t reckoned with much deeper history suddenly bubbling up in the form of Lord Cyril de Montfort.

He almost choked on the wine that Mae had found from somewhere as he was introduced. At his side, Fenris tensed, all but glaring at the nobleman.

“I sense a story,” Dorian said, unable to hide his curiosity and delight at the fact that the Viscount of Kirkwall was absolutely not making eye contact with the man.

“Serah Hawke and I have … history.” Cyril said stiffly. “His actions at a party several years back led to my father’s unfortunate death.”

Both Dorian and Mae looked as if this was completely normal noble behaviour - and it probably was, among Vints. And Orlesians, perhaps. Cyril sounded awkward, not outraged. It didn’t seem a duel was incoming.

“In my defence,” Hawke said weakly, “His father was riding a wyvern and was trying very hard to kill me, at the time.”

And there was the small matter of the key, and Hawke’s wandering hands. To his credit, at the time he’d been more than up for a little dalliance with the young man, just after the theft. And then everything had gone sideways, and Hawke had left Chateau Haine rapidly.

He sighed, and managed to look the man in the eyes.

“I can only apologise for my behaviour, back then. I was rather caught up in events around me, which… well, it does seem to be a theme in my life.” He gave a rueful smile. “Did Bann Teagan at least warn you that I’d be present?”

“Your presence,” Cyril replied, “Has been discussed almost as much as the Inquisitors. Perhaps more so, considering he has to be here.”

Well, at least it hadn’t been an ugly surprise for the man then. Still Hawke needed to get away from Cyril before Fenris got territorial. In theory, Hawke’s flirtations had taken place almost a whole year before his first night with Fenris - but he remembered how revolted the elf had been at the idea that Hawke would stoop to such things for a key. Even when Hawke had pointed out it was hardly a chore to get laid.

Thankfully, Cyril didn’t seem to notice Fenris - or more likely, hadn’t noticed him all those years ago. He was an elf, after all, and hadn’t been at the main soiree. His attention turned to Dorian and Mae - and Bull, a little way back, leaning against a column and eating a bowl of chilli nuts. The Qunari winked at Hawke, and Hawke had a sudden, sharp concern about how many of the ex-Ben Hassrath reports about him had concerned the situation at Chateau Haine. Had the Arishok known, then? He’d never mentioned it if he did.

Down the stairs of the pavilion, Hawke could see Orlesian soldiers moving into position, and a procession on horseback. He did not need to see the banners to know the Inquisition had arrived.

Fenris put a steadying hand on his elbow.

“We can withdraw,” he said quietly. “Put this off until it’s entirely necessary.”

“Or we could get it over with.” Hawke replied. “If he knows I’m here - which he will - he’ll seek me out sooner or later.”

“Then let us find somewhere a little less… exposed.” Fenris replied.

By which he meant, not in front of the Orlesian delegation - and probably Mae, as well. When Hawke went to head for the stairs, Bull stopped him with one hand.

“Want company?” He asked.

Somehow Hawke managed a smile.

“Keep Dorian company. He looks happier than I’ve seen him since Kirkwall.” He replied. “Mae seems nice.”

“For a Vint.” Bull said with a grin. But he didn’t insist, and Hawke moved down the steps with Fenris at his heels.

They found a bench, a little out of the way, and settled down to wait. Hawke rubbed at his own thumb, an almost constant motion, until Fenris took one of his hands in his and squeezed tightly.

A woman in fine Orlesian dress swept past, heading into the spa. She didn’t look round, but Hawke recognised Vivienne, the Enchanter who’d been a Chantry loyalist throughout the rebellion. He wasn’t at all surprised to find her still involved in the Inquisition. She’d entirely ignored his presence in Skyhold, even before the lyrium brand severed him from the Fade. He wasn’t sure if she agreed with what Alec had done to him, and suspected now wasn’t the time to find out.

“Should have found another goblet of wine.” He muttered.

Fenris’ response was a low growl.

“He’s coming.”

Hawke looked away from the pavilion, back towards the main courtyard and the fountain. There, striding towards them with clear purpose, were two men in full Templar plate - one dark, one pale. Hawke thought he might lose his breakfast as he stood up.

Alec Trevelyan looked much like Hawke remembered: handsome and cruel. There was just something to the sneer of his lip, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way he held himself that spoke of a man who was used to people bowing and scraping - and in the case of mages, begging and pleading. Varric, ever resourceful, had managed to break into the archives of the Ostwick Circle for reports on the man before he’d become Inquisitor. Every scrap told the same story - a Templar dedicated to the cause. Hardline, but within the laws. No accusations of indecency, but a man that mages feared all the same.

The Inquisition, and everything that had happened, had not softened him.

The man next to him was Delrin Barris, the Knight-Captain who’d overseen the Templars when they were allies of the Inquisition - now Knight-Vigilant, the most powerful Templar in Southern Thedas. Not the best of companions for the Inquisitor, in the circumstances. It took every drop of self-control for Hawke to not reach for his staff. He suspected the moment the did, he’d be hit by two Smites.

“Alec,” he drawled, “It’s been a while. I would say it’s good to see you again, but I hear the Chantry doesn’t approve of lying.”

Alec’s eyes were steel.

“Hawke,” he said - ignoring both Champion and Viscount as correct titles, just as Hawke had done. “You were a fool to come here.”

Hawke spread his hands in front of him in an easy gesture. His smile could have cut glass.

“A fool, huh? Well - at least I could make that decision, hmm? I don’t think Tranquil can be foolish. You know, I had a good dozen reactions to Bann Teagan’s letter of invitation. I could run through them for you, if you’d like, but I know you preferred it when I couldn’t think at all.”

Trevelyan’s mouth was a thin line. His hand was on his sword. Behind Hawke, Fenris was so still he could have been a statue. But Hawke knew he’d move the instant he was in danger.

“You were - are - a dangerous apostate, who even now defies Chantry law. I saved this world from a monster you unleashed. I would do it again, if I thought it would stick this time.”

“Not sure I’ve got enough forehead for a second brand.” Hawke said, stamping down hard on the urge to touch the brand. “You could try the Qunari technique of suppressing upstart mages. I’m sure that will endear you to your precious Chantry.”

“If it would shut you up,” Alec responded, temper rising, “I’d cut out your tongue and sew your lips together myself. But it would be a lot easier to just take your head entirely.”

That was too much for Fenris.

“You would die before you could raise the knife.”

“Ah,” Alec said with a smirk, as if only just spotting the elf, “You still have your Tevinter attack dog, I see. An elf who hates magic so much he kneels for a man determined to found a mini-Imperium in the Marches.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow at the man.

“Fenris, kneel?” He said, smirking, “I think you’ll find it’s usually the other way around - and doesn’t that make you jealous? That you couldn’t get me to submit even an inch when -”

Colour rose on those pale cheeks and Alec took half a step forwards, that grip on his sword white-knuckle tight.

“Finish that sentence Hawke, I dare you.”

“Inquisitor,” Ser Barris, his voice tight but controlled, “This is beneath you. Let the man bring his story to the Council. They know it all already - it will make no difference.”

For a moment, Hawke and Alec simply glared at each other. Then Trevelyan turned away.

“You will not walk out of here alive, Hawke.” The man said, already walking away. “I will see you dead.”

Hawke didn’t respond. He watched the man stalk out of sight and found his knees almost giving way. Fenris’ hand at his waist steadied him.

“Brave,” Fenris muttered quietly in his ear, “And foolish. How were you going to finish that sentence?”

Hawke snorted, and found his way back onto the bench, sitting heavily. He pulled Fenris close, snagging his fingers into the elf’s armour to pull him in for a kiss.

“A reminder,” he said, after pulling away, “That I did not beg for mercy even as they tore the Fade from me. I know that galls him as much as our escape. That he never broke me fully, not really.”

“And he never will.” Fenris promised, before kissing Hawke again.

Chapter Text

Something was wrong, and it was nothing to do with Trevelyan’s proximity to Hawke.

He wasn’t part of the morning session, where Ferelden and Orlesian complaints would be put before the Divine and the Inquisition. Arl Teagan wanted to focus on the seizure of Caer Bronarch, on the presence of a foreign institution on Ferelden soil. Still, he lingered among the columns, among the small number of those who were there to bear witness, trying to stay out of sight. Dorian and Mae sat together, exchanging the occasional knowing glance. Hawke watched Dorian almost as much as he watched the Council. Something was off. The Altus was doing a fantastic job of looking bored with proceedings, but it was almost too practiced. Hawke wondered what he’d missed whilst facing down the Inquisitor.

More suspicious than Dorian though was Alec Trevelyan. He sat beside Josephine, but seemed distracted, occasionally glancing down at his gloved hand. The hand, Hawke remembered, that held the anchor.

When the blonde elf appeared and whispered in Alec’s ear, he stood up without even looking at the Council.

“Something has come up,” he said shortly, “I’ll be back.”

Josephine looked pole-axed for a heartbeat, before she started to cover for him. Cyril muttered about irregularities, and Teagan stewed. But Alec was already striding for the door, and across the room, Hawke mirrored him.

The man was a noble. He understood the Game far better than Hawke ever had. By all accounts, he’d charmed the Orlesian court and had Duchess Florianne arrested before she could even consider drawing a dagger. He knew the damage such an exit would cause to his reputation - and the Inquisition's. Either he truly did not care, was so convinced he was out of their reach thanks to the Divine or…

Or there was trouble.

Outside, Alec strode down the steps without looking around, following the elven agent. Fenris snagged at Hawke’s elbow and pointed at a different entrance into the gardens. They moved together, keeping back. Alec must have known his exit would cause questions - he may even have anticipated eyes and ears.

An Inquisition Agent stepped onto their path.

“Fenris,” she said, eyes on the elf, not the Champion, “Sister Leliana would like a word.”

Hawke blinked. Leliana? They exchanged uneasy glances, and then Hawke shrugged.

“You’re not going alone.”

Fenris' lips thinned, but he nodded shortly. If Leliana wanted to speak to him, then it might well answer the unspoken question of what was going on.

It did - sort of.

Alec Trevelyan was squatting over a dead Qunari in a side room, off the gardens. The Iron Bull was leaning against the wall, frowning down at the bloodied corpse. Sister Leliana looked grave.

“What’s he doing here?” Alec asked, not even bothering to look up at Hawke beyond a glance.

“I asked Fenris to come,” Leliana said coolly. “Another set of eyes, used to fighting Qunari.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“And I don’t have experience fighting Qunari?”

“Not like this,” Fenris muttered, stepping forwards and crouching opposite Alec. “Although I suspect Bull is the expert on his own people here.”

Bull snorted.

“I don’t know what they’re doing here, but I don’t like it.” He said, voice little more than a growl. “This man is Antaam, and he died fighting a mage.”

“Some of these wounds are from a blade,” Fenris said, pointing to one on the Qunari’s thigh. “And there’s no sign of a struggle here.”

“He was separated from his group,” Leliana agreed, “And made it here before he died. But how? And where from?”

Hawke looked around. His skin crawled at the possibility of Qunari in the Winter Palace.

“In Kirkwall - they took it from within,” he said, “Or tried to. A quick, sudden strike designed to overwhelm us.”

“There are no Qunari in Halamshiral,” Alec said dismissively, “We would know.”

Leliana and Hawke exchanged a glance and she shook her head mutely. Hawke knew that look. He should stay quiet, and not antagonise the man. If that point had come from Bull, or even Fenris, Alec might have considered it. But from Hawke? Trevelyan would swear the hedges surrounding them were red, just to spite him.

Bull sighed, clearly annoyed with the humans in the room. He moved from his position and went to the door, looking out. He sniffed the air.

“There’s a blood trail we can follow.”

“I will follow.” Alec said, straightening. “If there is a danger to this Council, I will handle it. You three can return to the hall.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow, but bit his tongue. Fenris looked irritated, but stayed crouched by the body.

“Inquisitor,” Leliana said, almost gently, “We are not at full strength here. Blackwall and Vivienne might accompany you, but the Knight-Vigilant and the Divine must hold to their roles in the Chantry. You would be wise to take any, and all back-up.”

Hawke blinked. She was suggesting they work together? After everything?

Trevelyan’s sneer showed what he thought of that.

“I would not trust this man one jot,” he said, gesturing at Hawke, “And the Qunari has already shown how trustworthy he is. The only reason I’m not suggesting clapping him in irons for questioning is that we know he is Tal Vashoth and that his days of spying are long over.”

The Iron Bull looked carefully blank as Leliana’s eyes flicked to him. Hawke got the sudden sensation that Leliana wasn’t quite so convinced of that as Trevelyan was. There was a reason she was the spymaster, he supposed.

“Well, good luck with the new Arishok,” Hawke said, with a lazy grin, “I’m not sure how you’ll survive a duel without a talented Spirit Healer nearby but I’m sure you’ll be able to do better than me.”

The look Alec Trevelyan gave him was poison. He went to argue when he winced, seemingly out of nowhere, and turned sharply away.

“I will be fine, Leliana.” He said, “Find Barris and warn him to have the troops ready.”

Barris, not Cullen? Hawke realised, suddenly, that he hadn’t seen the Commander at the Council. Leliana nodded, but she didn’t push Alec again about taking back-up. Not at full-strength, she’d said. Was Cullen absent? Who else was missing from the Inner Circle? Solas, of course - and Sera had fled in the night whilst Hawke had still been Tranquil.

It hit Hawke then that Trevelyan didn’t have anyone else - that Hawke’s flight from Skyhold had taken three of the man’s best. Four, if you counted Solas. With Cassandra in the role of Divine, Trevelyan’s friends looked more than a little depleted.

The man strode away, as if nothing were wrong. Leliana waited until he was out of earshot before looking to The Iron Bull.

“You know nothing of this? Truly?”

“I’m Vashoth,” The Iron Bull said, “As the Inquisitor so nicely put it, my spying days are long over. The Qun isn’t feeding me battleplans, Nightingale.”

The woman frowned, staring down at the corpse.

“I don’t like it,” she said, “How did this Qunari get here? And are there others?”

Hawke swallowed. Part of him didn’t want to get involved - wanted to stay far away from Trevelyan and watch him struggle. But if there was even a chance that the Qunari were planning something…

“What do you need us to do?” He asked.

Leliana looked up as Fenris muttered a curse in tevene.

“You would help, even now?”

Hawke managed a smile.

“Despite my track record on these matters, I don’t actually want the Qun to infiltrate Orlais. And I do not want to die to a Qunari blade because the Inquisitor was too blinded by his hatred of me to accept the offer of help.”

She nodded.

“Spread out and see what you can find. Bull, I assume you can track the blood?”

Hawke wasn’t entirely sure how strong the Qunari sense of smell actually was, but more than once Bull had complained of the stink from the docks when Hawke hadn’t been able to smell anything at all. The giant Qunari gave a grin.

“Better than an ex-Templar, at any rate.”

They might get there first, Hawke realised. Especially if the man went to find Vivienne and Blackwall. He had strode off in the wrong direction, and Vivienne was at the other end of the grounds, the last Hawke had seen.

“We’ll go.” Hawke said. “By the way, Leliana - where is Cullen?”

Something sad flashed across Leliana’s face.

“Retired,” she said, “For his health.”

Hawke frowned, but Bull seemed to understand. The Qunari muttered something in Qunlat. Hawke only caught the word for peace.

“... I think I’m missing something.”

“I’ll explain as we hunt Antaam,” The Iron Bull said, “Come on.”

It didn’t take them long to find the active eluvian, stored in an empty room. Hawke wished they’d found the time to grab Dorian. Or that Merrill had come with them. She’d have loved it.