Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kirkwall was burning.

Hawke had known that the Arishok was losing patience, that every new incident was pushing him closer and closer to the edge. He just hadn’t known what the Qunari leader had been planning. This wasn’t an act of rage, of impulsive decision that he’d come to regret. This was planned - tactical and complete.

He’d been fighting his way through the docks, up to Lowtown, when he spotted the Dreadnought on the horizon and knew that this wasn’t just an isolated act of aggression. The Arishok had back-up. And Kirkwall, with no army and open harbour, was a sitting duck.

There wasn’t time to get the chains across the harbour. There wasn’t time to coordinate a counter attack. Across the bay, the Templar Order would be cut off from the mainland, only the tunnels under the water offering a chance of intervention. The city’s defence would come down to the City-Guard, and whatever resistance Hawke could scrape together.

It hadn’t been enough. It hadn’t been enough when Hawke faced the saarebas across the Hightown Market, only for the Knight-Commander to run the Qunari through, regarding Hawke over the corpse.

“Serah Hawke.” She intoned, eyes narrowed, “I heard a rumour but…”

“We both have slightly bigger issues than a wayward apostate,” Hawke said hurriedly. “You left the Gallows undefended?”

Maker, what would the Qunari do to a tower of undefended mages? He felt sick.

Meredith’s lips thinned at being challenged by an apostate.

“Knight-Captain Cullen and First-Enchanter Orsino holds the line against the new arrivals.” She said. “I led a smaller squad out to try and regain control here. If you work with me to defeat these Qunari, I will overlook your apostasy. For now.”

Hawke swallowed, and glanced at his friends. Fenris was glowering, but he’d been furious from the moment the attack began. Varric looked tense, but gave the slightest of nods. Fuck, Hawke was glad he hadn’t brought either Anders or Merrill along. He could have done with Aveline at his back though. She’d gone on ahead, to try and rally her guards into mounting a counter-attack. Hawke hadn’t seen her in hours, and the only guards he’d come across were dead. The situation was far, far from being under control - even with the Knight-Commander.

“We think they’ve taken the Keep.” He said, pushing his hair back, off his forehead. “Possibly the Chantry. Fenris…”

The elf spoke up, cleaning blood from his greatsword in the pause.

“They will round up the important figures from the city and the nobility to force a surrender. Those who resist will be executed in a show of strength.” He regarded the Knight-Commander, before raising his chin, just a little. “You would be among their number. As would Hawke.”

Knight-Commander Meredith frowned.

“Elthina? Dumar?”

Hawke swallowed.

“Probably both already in their hands.” He said.

“So we need to storm the Keep,” Meredith said, “Before they can consolidate their position and bring in their soldiers from across the city.”

She made it sound so easy. Hawke was exhausted, body aching from being slammed into the floor by the Saarebas’ storm magic. But he nodded, knowing that he had no choice. If Meredith had a small number of Templars with her, he’d be a fool to try and get away.

There was movement behind the Knight-Commander, and Hawke’s jaw nearly dropped as Isabela appeared, closely followed by two Templars who looked as if they’d just lost a fight with her. One of them had a broken nose. Tucked under one arm was a book.

The book. The Tome of Koslun.

“What is -

“Knight-Commander,” Isabela said with a grin, one dagger pointed at the woman, “I believe I can help.”

Hawke’s mouth was dry as he stared at her. She’d come back. And if the Qunari really, truly, just wanted the relic, they could have it. Hawke would move heaven and earth to keep her safe from Castillon, in the circumstances.

Meredith raised a hand to her Templars, warding them back as she looked at Isabela.

“You have the relic?” She asked. “You were the thief?”

Isabela winced, but she didn’t lower her dagger.

“Look, it’s a long story. Needless to say, I was on my way to Ostwick when I spotted the dreadnought sailing into the harbour and figured I should turn back. Let Hawke and I handle this, Knight-Commander.”

“You’re both half the reason the Qunari feel so emboldened!” Meredith spluttered.

“Hey now,” Hawke protested weakly, “That’s not … Shit, Meredith. Isabela came back. We can fix this. You can point the finger of blame after.”

He knew how that would go, and the hope he’d felt in his chest at seeing Isabela again was fading away instinctively. Perhaps they could run together. It wasn’t as if Hawke had any reason to stay, any more. His brother in the Order, his mother dead… and Fenris…

Hawke shoved it all down. This wasn’t the time.

“Help us get to the Keep, Commander,” he urged, “We’ll do the rest.”

The Knight-Commander looked as if she’d rather be doing anything else than putting the fate of Kirkwall in the hands of a thief and an apostate, but she nodded. Relief rushed through Hawke. They might make it out of this. Kirkwall might make it out of this.

True to her word, Meredith and the Templars helped forge a path through the Qunari to the steps of the Keep, where they staged a distraction to get Hawke and Isabela past the soldiers on guard.

Moments before they headed for the shadows, Fenris called Hawke back.

“Don’t die.”

Hawke snorted and managed a weak smile at the elf.

“Will give it my best shot.”

He didn’t say that if the options were death or capture, he’d take death. He suspected with Fenris, he didn’t need to.

They made it up to the doors of the Keep and entered the main hall. Hawke’s footsteps faltered as he saw a half-dozen dead city guards and several dead nobles who’d clearly fought back. Heart in his mouth he tried to check for any sign of Aveline, of Donnic, but they didn’t have time. He hurried up the stairs to the throne room, the blood rushing in his ears. So many dead. How many more before the Qunari would call the invasion off?

Two Qunari stood on guard at the door and Hawke pulled fire from the Fade as Isabela darted forwards. And then they were through, practically running into the throne room in their haste to get this done.

“Shanedan, Hawke, you were expected.”

Hawke missed the end of the Arishok’s sentence because he was too busy looking at the man’s feet, at Viscount Dumar’s head. When he managed to look up, his heart was hammering in his chest.

“We have the Tome,” he said, gesturing at the book in Isabela’s hands, “It’s what you wanted, right? You can sail off in your dreadnought and leave us alone.”

The Arishok was staring at Isabela, who offered out the book with her best charming smile.

“It’s mostly undamaged.”

Hawke couldn’t help but wince. The Arishok took the book, showing more gentleness than Hawke had ever seen him use before.

“The Tome of Koslun…”

Isabela glanced at Hawke and swallowed. This was it. Would he agree to leave?

A smaller Qunari, still in armour but of a different style stepped forwards and took the book, running his clawed fingers down the front and spine. Then his brow furrowed and he started to flick through the pages, muttering in Qunlat.

Hawke stilled, barely breathing. Something was wrong.

In broken trade, the Qunari looked up, staring right at Isabela.

“It is a fake. The thief lies.”

Isabela blanched.

“What? No - I -

Hawke’s mind reeled. It wasn’t possible. There was no way Isabela would have taken that risk - would have had time to pull together a forgery of any scale. And from the stunned, uncertain, panicked look on Isabela’s face, she truly hadn’t known either. She was a good liar, and an unscrupulous thief - but not about this. Not whilst Kirkwall burned, and she’d risked everything to return.

Which either meant the Qunari were lying to justify their invasion, or…

Or Isabela had never had the real relic. The Orlesians had sent a dupe, and it had never been in Qunari hands to spot the deception.

The Arishok hefted the weapon he was holding across his shoulders and Hawke’s heart plummeted through the floor. They were going to attack - they were going to attack, and there were thirty of them in the room, and only two of him and Isabela.

“That’s the only Qunari relic in Kirkwall.” He tried to argue, taking half a step back, “This deception isn’t ours -

The Arishok growled a single phrase in Qunlat, eyes locked on Hawke and he threw the barrier up, over Isabela, without thinking. They’d go for her, first. The thief. If they truly thought she’d tried to dupe them…

They made it to the door, a Qunari spear missing Hawke by luck more than skill on his part. Isabela managed to throw one of her smoke grenades onto the ground, giving them cover as several nobles screamed in panic and stampeded.

In the hallway, they didn’t stop moving. Hawke’s barrier faded and he glanced across at Isabela, still reeling.

“Tell me you didn’t -

“Shit Hawke, you think I’d be this stupid?” Isabela snapped back, practically hurdling the banister on the stairs to put more distance between herself and the throne room. Hawke was taking the steps two or three at a time. He didn’t dare look back. “What the fuck do we do?”

“Keep running.”

It was all they could do.

Chapter Text

2 months later…

Hawke crouched on the flat roof of the lowtown building and watched the Qunari patrol passing down below. Across from him, on the other side, Varric lined up the shot on Bianca, waiting for Hawke’s signal.

Six Qunari. They were almost at Fenris’ hiding spot. Hawke gave one final glance up and down the district, checking there weren’t others following. Then he pulled against the Veil.

Below, the six Qunari slowed mid-step as Hawke created a miniature vortex of force magic that kept their movements sluggish, their reactions slowed. Bianca sang out across the rooftops.

Below, Fenris moved from where he’d been crouched behind the abandoned lowtown market stall. As one of the Qunari went down with a crossbow bolt in their neck, another was carved open by the elf’s greatsword. And then Isabela was there, moving out of the opposite alleyway to join the fray.

Within heartbeats, the patrol was dead. It was testament to how numb Kirkwall had become that no one screamed. No one reacted. The few market stalls still open just continued trading, as if they’d seen nothing.

Fenris and Isabela ran, and across, on the roof, Varric was already disappearing through the trap door, down into the building. Hawke turned, taking one last moment to check the paths leading to his current position before moving back and jumping across an alleyway, landing on a set of scaffolding long since abandoned in the rebuild of the district. He followed the line of it away from the scene, before jumping down and disappearing into a house that concealed one of a dozen entries into Darktown.

Two months. Two months of killing the Qunari who thought they ruled Kirkwall, and he still felt some satisfaction from it.

The Qunari had come in numbers, and even now, they held Hightown with a steel fist. The nobles had either capitulated or been killed to make a statement. Viscount Dumar hadn’t survived the initial attack, and the Grand Cleric and a dozen Mothers were being held somewhere in the Keep as hostages to keep both the Templars and the Divine dancing to the Qunari tune. But the further down into the city you went, the more the Qunari grip loosened. Darktown was as ungovernable as ever, even if the docks were entirely in the hands of the invaders. Legal trade had ground to a halt, the chains pulled across to strangle the life out of the city. A siege from within. And out on the bay, the Gallows stood silent, cut-off and isolated.

It was Lowtown that struggled. Lowtown where Hawke struck.

In the immediate aftermath - as Meredith had turned on him and his failure to appease the Arishok, Hawke had done everything he could to protect the people that he cared about. The people who’d be rounded up for being a known associate. Isabela and Varric were more than willing to hide out, in the circumstances. Somehow, in the chaos, he’d reached Sebastian, fighting for the remains of the Chantry, and begged him to flee - to get to Starkhaven. It would take time for the man to reclaim his throne and send troops south to liberate the city, but it was the best long term plan Hawke had - and it was a better use of the man’s life than dying defending a religion that saw men as lesser.

He never found Aveline, that night - nor in any of the days since. He tried not to think about what that meant, about how he’d failed her. The rest of the city guard had been removed from their posts. Most had disappeared - presumably prisoners. Donnic was missing too. Hawke hoped, prayed, that Aveline hadn’t lost a second husband. That wherever they were, they were together.

In the days following the initial attack, the Qunari moved through Lowtown, getting the fires under control and corralling the people into registering and assignments. Those that struggled found themselves dragged to the docks, imprisoned and held indefinitely. The Qunari had taken one look at the alienage and ordered the elves out - into the general population. Several had happily converted, seeking solace in new found equality and meaning. Hawke’s only focus had been on getting Merrill out unnoticed. She’d only gone to the compound with him once, but her dalish markings made her distinctive. If the Qunari realised she was a mage - let alone a blood mage - they would not allow her to live. He got her out just in time.

He wasn’t quick enough to reach Anders. Sometimes, rumour reached him of an apostate, down in Darktown, who glowed blue as he killed the Qunari patrols that dared to venture in that deep. But the clinic had been destroyed, and Lirene was arrested for working with a mage. Within two days of launching their attack, the Qunari had managed what the Templars never did. Anders had disappeared - although the rumours that swirled suggested some form of him was still alive. Or at least, Justice was.

Hawke gritted his teeth as he came out in Darktown and looked around, trying to spot any sign of danger.

The Viddathari and Qunari agents made it impossible to tell friend from foe, even down here, where the Qunari grip was loose at best. Every few weeks, a squad would march down here and round up individuals, dragging them up into Lowtown for interrogation and assessment. A not insignificant proportion of the forgotten down here had gone up of their own accord, as desperate as the elves in their own way. But others stayed, stubborn, dug-in like cockroaches, refusing to trade their freedom for shelter and a job.

They weren’t forcing everyone to convert - just submit. To them, this wasn’t an invasion. It was a temporary occupation. Those who wished to join them, could. The rest just had to stay out of their way. And for those people like Hawke… they were to be made an example of.

Several passersby nodded at Hawke as he went by. He was rather recognisable, these days - his likeness plastered to abandoned buildings and the Chantry board alike. Even Isabela had fewer than him. The Arishok had figured out who ran the operations against the Qunari swiftly. After all, Hawke wasn’t trying to hide. Not entirely, at least.

It had been Varric’s idea. Varric, who’d started drinking in the taverns around Lowtown, telling stories of resistance, of Hawke’s heroics - of how Kirkwall could be free. The Marchers had thrown out the Imperium and the Qunari alike. This was just a temporary set-back. They had to fight, to resist. And so Hawke had become the only true resistance in the city.

Dangerous, really. They’d catch him eventually. And then where would they be?

He pushed that thought away and darted down a back passage, to come back up in Lowtown, a fair distance from the sight of his last ambush. He was, slowly, winding his way back to their current base of operations, in the cellar of a burned out Hanged Man. The tavern - and the whole line of houses - had been one of the first casualties of the fires, but the cellar was reachable if you picked through the burned out, hollow structures. Carefully, over the first few days, Varric had reinforced the main route in - and made sure it wasn’t obvious from the outside. The Qunari guarded the street in question heavily, thanks to the presence of the market - and it being a known gathering point for Hawke and his friends.

Hawke made his way through the blackened stone and charred beams before dropping to his knees and crawling through the patch most visible from the street. By the time he made it to the stone steps going down, his friends were already there. And Pumpkin, sitting at Varric’s feet. She jumped up at the sight of him and trotted over, stump of a tail wagging. They’d had to teach her, quickly, not to bark at Hawke's arrival.

Five of them. Five people trying to keep fighting. Not for the first time, Hawke wondered if he was a damn fool.

But every person on that market street would deny seeing them - or point to the wrong rooftops. And more than once, a stranger on the street had saved his life, whispering of a patrol nearby, or a Templar in the area. The people of Kirkwall were stubborn. They hadn’t given in completely.

Hawke managed a grin as he looked at his friends.

“That went well,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Third patrol in five days.”

Fourteen dead Qunari. They’d upped the patrols to six the day before yesterday, after the second attack. Tomorrow, they’d probably up them again. Eight would be tricky. Hawke might have to risk asking Merrill to come along. She wasn’t always the best at getting away safely.

Varric grunted.

“Yeah, well, keep that positivity up, Hawke. Your brother wants a word.”

Hawke closed his eyes and groaned.

Chapter Text

Carver Hawke was a problem all of his own.

The Templars had fallen into line with the Qunari - under the agreement that once they’d found the Tome they would leave Kirkwall and not return. When it had become clear that Hawke’s attempt to broker peace had failed, Knight-Commander Meredith had initially withdrawn back to the Gallows, intending to bring down the whole Order on the Arishok. Instead, they’d been besieged, with the tunnels under the bay falling rapidly into Qunari hands. She’d been forced to negotiate with the heretics to save the Order, the Chantry and the mages. Now they held the Gallows in a tight grip, bolstered by the Qunari forces, and with a small number stationed in the city to hunt down apostates. They were neither Viddathari, nor seen as a threat. And certainly, whilst the Qunari continued to hold the upper echelons of the Chantry hostage, Meredith did not want to be seen as one. Her men searched as diligently through the streets, markets, houses, smuggling lines and warehouses for a hint of the Tome as much as the Qunari themselves, but she wanted them gone. On that, she and Hawke were in agreement.

What they disagreed over was how. Meredith believed, as the Arishok did, that Isabela had pulled the fraud - and that Hawke was protecting her. She wanted to find the Tome, and the two of them in equal measure. She’d burn Hawke’s mind out with Qamek herself, if she could - or brand his forehead with the sunburst of the Chantry, if allowed.

Carver, thankfully, had a little loyalty to his brother, despite his Commander’s views on the matter. And whilst he was unconvinced about the relic, he understood that fighting back was the only way to liberate the city. They met rarely, not risking regular contact. For Carver to ask to see him… well, it was entirely possible every time that Hawke would be walking into a Templar trap.

This time, Hawke managed to sneak into the back entrance of The Rose - one of the many establishments no longer operating under Qunari rule. The Arishok didn’t hold his city to the standards of the Qun, but a brothel was exactly the kind of filth that he would not abide. As if closing the building did anything but drive the trade underground.

Still, it gave Hawke an abandoned building he could get access to in Hightown that wasn’t his own manor, which had conveniently been razed to the ground, the tunnel found and filled in. Even now, the Qunari watched the burned out ruins, just in case.

Carver was not alone, which was concerning. The red-headed woman looked up as Hawke, Fenris and Varric entered.

“Carver this isn’t a brothel anymore, you can’t - wait, don’t I know you from somewhere?”

The pale, red-headed woman smiled.

“Lothering Chantry, or Chateau Haine - take your pick, Serah.”

Hawke stared at Sister Leliana, spy for the Chantry and hero of the Fifth Blight with some surprise. They’d met a couple of times in Lothering, although Hawke had, for obvious reasons, avoided the Chantry and the Templars there as much as possible. And the less said about Chateau Haine, the better. Although…

“You pick the strangest places for a reunion. Do you just like to be where the Qunari are?” He asked. “Or have you come to help?”

Carver frowned, but Leliana gave a small laugh.

“I remember you being more charming, no?”

“I have my moments,” Hawke said with a shrug, “But losing my city, my home, my friends … I don’t have much to be charming about.”

“Well perhaps I can help,” Leliana said, “You know I am an agent of the Chantry. These days… These days I am also the Left Hand of the Divine. I bring news from Orlais.”

Hawke breathed out and braced himself.

“Tell me you know if they still have the bloody relic.”

“They do,” Leliana said, no longer smiling, “A deception that has most angered the Divine. The Empress has argued that they put so much effort into the replica that it is almost as valuable as the original - not that the Qunari interest is in material value, of course.”

Hawke closed his eyes. Why? Why had Orlais gambled and played this game? And why did Kirkwall have to suffer for it?

“Great,” he said, his tone heavy with sarcasm. “So, what - you’ve got it with you, and this whole nightmare can be over by the end of the night?”

He could dream. But the fact the Left Hand of the Divine was here, meeting with him, and not the Arishok, suggested that the Tome remained firmly in Orlesian hands.

He wasn’t wrong.

“I’m afraid your actions at Chateau Haine have… soured relations, somewhat. Even if you were not directly involved in the situation here, the Empress would be reluctant to hand the relic over.”

Hawke groaned, and covered his face with his hands, taking a moment to breathe. Chateau Haine. Just over a year ago, he’d been duped into helping the Qunari handle a small matter of a Tal Vashoth and a list of Qunari Agents in Orlais. And then, upon discovering the truth, had agreed to keep helping, hoping to keep bodies on his conscience to a minimum. That had, apparently, been the wrong call. Next to him, Fenris muttered a curse in tevene under his breath. He hadn’t agreed back then. And now…

Now it was another thing Hawke had fucked up in his attempts to do the right thing.

“Shit,” he said, “How about she hands the Relic over and I throw myself at her mercy so an entire city doesn’t get caught in her revenge?”

“No,” came Fenris’ response flatly, tone distinctly unamused. “You will not do this, Hawke.”

And Maker, that was a whole other conversation he needed to have - and was rather putting off. It felt like forever ago that Fenris had walked out on him. Hawke had been running on sheer desperation for long enough that time was beginning to lose meaning. But sometimes, out of nowhere, the elf reminded him that there had been a night, not that long ago, where he hadn’t been alone. And that whatever had happened since, that neither of them were entirely over it.

Leliana’s eyes flicked from Hawke to the elf, considering, then back.

“Whilst it is a brave offer, I doubt it would persuade her. She is Empress of Orlais - what does she care if a Marcher city burns? It suits her to keep the truth that the relic was never in Kirkwall hidden.”

“Right,” Hawke growled, “Which works right until the city is ash and the Qunari realise they’ve been looking in the wrong place.”

But, if it came to that, could the Qunari possibly hope to invade Orlais? How much time did Celene need to prepare for a fight? Did she see Kirkwall as so expendable that she’d just use the time until it was destroyed to bolster her own defences?

Leliana nodded in agreement.

“It is… short sighted. I have faith the Divine will be able to persuade her to see sense.”

“And in the meantime, what? She sends her best spy?”

“I am here to assess the situation,” Leliana said coolly, “And to report whether the Qunari threat is temporary - as they claim - or if this is not just a violation of the Llomerryn Accords, but an obliteration of it.”

“And then, what? An Exalted March? There are Templars already here, Leliana, and they are doing nothing. They’ve basically rolled over.”

Carver protested, but it was rather half-hearted.

“Meredith is doing what she thinks is right to protect the Grand Cleric and the people of the city.” Leliana said, sounding more fair about it than Hawke would ever be. But he caught the wording all the same.

“What she thinks?” Hawke repeated back at her. “So what do you think, Leliana?”

For a moment, silence reigned.

“I fought the Fifth Blight alongside a Qunari warrior.” She said, her eyes hard. “They do not think like us. They are not like us. Appeasement will not work.”

Well, it was a small measure of comfort to have someone on his side.

“I get it,” he said, with a shrug, “They’ve… They've done what is necessary to seize control of the city. But they’ve not been pushing, or forcibly converting people. Meredith knows that if the Templars attack, hundreds - if not thousands - more will die, starting with Elthina. But she thinks that the Tome is here. That any day now, they will find it. And we know the truth.”

If Leliana could convince Meredith that the relic wasn’t in the city…

“I will speak to her.” Leliana said. “But I believe we are operating alone, Hawke. And that the only way this ends is with the Antaam leader dead. The duty to find the Tome was handed down to the Arishok. If he were to die, the Qunari would retreat. Especially if you have made the city inhospitable to them.”

Hawke gave a thin smile. The Left Hand of the Divine thought like he did.

“Two others came on the Dreadnought,” he said. “Rassan, a .. Tamassran? And Viddasala. Both women. They seem to advise him.”

“I will find out what I can.” Leliana promised. “The Qunari seem to like things in threes. We may need to deal with both women as well for them to head back to Par Vollen.”

Hawke nodded, and managed a smile.

“I think I’m going to like your presence here, Sister. Stay safe, would you? I don’t have many allies in this fight.”

Chapter Text

There was a warehouse down on the docks that had been cleared out and was now holding prisoners - and the chains across the harbour had been lowered in preparation of an arrival. The two things were unlikely to be a coincidence. Whether there was a warship inbound, or supplies from Par Vollen, it was likely one of the things about to land in Kirkwall was Qamek.

Varric argued that it was a trap. Hawke didn’t disagree - but that didn’t mean he could ignore it. There were a dozen people as bait.

He tried to insist Isabela stay behind, at least, but she wasn’t having any of it. Which meant, not long after sundown, they all slipped into the streets and made their way carefully down to the docks.

They had to avoid notice until the last possible second. If a patrol spotted them too far out, the Qunari would have time to mobilise. Hawke stuck to alleyways and tunnels where he could, avoiding the most direct route along the market.

He joined them last, and with bad news.

“They have a Saarebas with them.”

Fenris swore in tevene and the plan shifted to accommodate. The Qunari mages were hard hitting and trained almost entirely in combat. They would need to be dealt with - which meant Fenris. He had the most experience fighting them and their ability to dispel magic made them almost as frustrating for Hawke as Templars - and no less dangerous.

The first pair of guards on patrol died to two rapid crossbow bolts before Varric melted back into the shadows. Across the alley, Hawke sent a stacked set of boxes tumbling with a small push of force magic. Shouts in Qunlat rang out.

Footsteps hurried past and Hawke stayed very still, hiding in the shadows. All it would take was one Qunari looking the other way…

They didn’t, and Hawke waited a heartbeat before reaching into the Fade and shifting the forces around them to slam them all into the ground.

He felt the static building around him that suggested the Saarebas knew where he was, and flung himself back, deeper into the alley. A lightning bolt cracked past him, missing him by a hair, close enough it left imprints in his vision. He cursed sharply and kept retreating, hoping to lure the chained creature out towards him.

Isabela darted amongst those Hawke had brought down, knives glinting, as Varric fired down from above. Merrill kept look-out, trying to ensure that they weren’t pincered between two groups of Qunari. And Fenris…

The Saarebas rounded the corner, and there was a flash of blue-white light as Fenris shifted from his hiding place to behind the creature, punching through its chest.

Two more Qunari ran up, spears readied, and Hawke dropped a fireball over their heads, narrowly avoiding Isabela as she sprang back, out of the reach of an offensive strike. Fenris pulled his hand back through the Saarebas, who pitched forwards, dead. He went for his greatsword without hesitating.

Soon, it was done. Hawke breathed out, ears straining for footsteps or cries in Qunlat. Nothing. It felt too easy.

He eyed Isabela across the way, who was frowning.

“Suspicious, right?” He said.

Varric snorted and started to move - carefully - towards the warehouse entrance, eyes searching for traps, tripwires or anything else they might have missed.

He was a few paces from the door when it burst open, the largest Qunari Hawke had ever seen crashing through and almost barrelling right into the dwarf. A half-dozen warriors followed.

So much for prisoners. Hawke threw a barrier up over Varric, although it was a little too late as he was thrown bodily backwards. Varric, ever the professional, somehow managed to land without damaging Bianca.

Next to Hawke’s ear, a screeching, screaming spell whistled past, signalling that Merrill had joined them. The oversized Qunari roared, and it took Hawke a moment to realise the thing he was holding was a gaatlok cannon.

Fire was out - Hawke couldn’t risk it. If the gaatlok exploded, it could take out half the dock. He tried to slow the creature before yelling a command to get out of the alleyway, that it was a death trap. But he was the one between passages, with nowhere to run. For a heartbeat, Hawke stared down the barrel of the infernal device and waited to die.

Varric, still on the floor, fired Bianca and a crossbow bolt sank into the back of the Qunari’s hand, forcing the aim off. The burning grenade of pitch and sulphur fired into a wall, and not into Hawke’s chest.

Hawke didn’t breathe as he sent a fist of force energy down the alleyway, smashing into the giant Qunari and forcing it back into the path of the other oncoming soldiers. And then Isabela and Fenris were rushing past him to meet the new threat. Merrill stepped up alongside him, looking pale. Hawke felt the Veil tug, and lightning erupted further up the alleyway, the far side from the gaatlok. To his left, the warehouse wall was in ruins.

The giant Qunari died, Isabela driving her daggers through its torso as Fenris ghosted past and started to take out the other Qunari warriors. Hawke ran forwards and grabbed at the gaatlok cannon, but it was heavy enough that he simply ended up dragging it away from the fight and the smouldering warehouse. He threw a barrier up over Fenris and staggered a little, exhaustion hitting him like a body blow. Too much magic, too fast.

Fenris killed the final Qunari still fighting and Hawke scrambled to Varric’s side. The dwarf had managed to sit up, but he looked winded.

“Shit that was close,” Hawke said, drawing out a healing potion and offering it to Varric, who waved him off, “I think I’d be a dozen lumps of half-charred meat on the ground if it wasn’t for you.”

“Charming image,” Varric grunted, accepting Hawke’s offer of a hand up.

“When did they get bloody gaatlok in?” Isabela asked, staring down at the cannon like it was alive. “Shit, this isn’t good.”

“They probably had most of the ingredients here to create it,” Fenris noted sourly, “The question is, do we take the thing with us?”

Hawke didn’t want to leave such a weapon in the hands of the enemy. But none of them knew how to operate it safely, and it was dangerous to try and handle.

“Dump it in the water, Fen.” He said before looking at Isabela. “Come on, let’s see if there are prisoners in the warehouse at least.”

He let the uninjured rogue go first, because she had the better eye for traps. But he’d hardly taken two paces into the building when she whistled, low with surprise, and Hawke looked down the steps to the private jetty and saw a shock of red hair and freckles among a clutch of prisoners.

“Aveline!”

Maker, she was alive. Hawke would have triggered any number of trip wires in his hurry to reach her.

She was gagged, with several bruises on her face and jaw, and she looked to have lost weight, but she was alive. And next to her, already struggling against the ropes holding him, was Donnic. Hawke could have kissed them both.

“Andraste’s tits, you’re alive.” Hawke said, grinning with almost hysterical relief. “You’re alive, and I didn’t die in the fucking trap they set. Fuck, we’re finding somewhere to have a drink, after this.”

Isabela was at his side, using one of her smaller knives to start cutting through the ropes binding their hands and wrists. Hawke managed to fumble the knot in the gag and cursed before getting it, letting the thing fall away from Aveline’s mouth.

She took a moment to swallow, still looking faintly stunned. Then her eyes fixed on him.

“Hawke,” she said, “Maker, why did I know you’d still be fighting?”

Of course he was. His hands shook as he turned to Donnic to free him too. Ten other sets of eyes watched him with hope and suspicion in equal measure. He recognised most of them - nobles who’d sneered at his sudden rise to prominence, a couple more of Aveline’s guards, and an older woman he thought might be a Chantry Mother. He made himself address them as he helped Aveline to her feet.

“All of you - I can get you out of here, but I can’t guarantee your safety in the city. I’m a wanted man by both the Qunari and the Templars. Your best bet is to head into Darktown. There are tunnels out of the city, if necessary.”

Varric and Merrill had appeared and were hurrying towards Aveline. Merrill looked as if she were crying. Hawke found a lump in his own throat. There had been so many losses, so many hurts. But this? This was a victory.

Aveline looked up from hugging the elf.

“We’re with you Hawke,” she said, “Whatever the risk.”

Before they left, Hawke made sure to set the warehouse on fire. No one else would be held prisoner there.

Chapter Text

Another victory came a few days later, with word from Leliana of Rasaan’s presence in Lowtown.

The woman was a priestess - one who helped shape the Qunari to the Qun. She was the only one that was ever seen outside the Keep. It was whispered that Viddasala spent time up at the Gallows, but Hawke and his friends had never caught sight of her. But if Rassan was in the city, she was vulnerable. Even with Qunari around her.

A plan was hatched in the back of The Sleepy Nug, one of three taverns in Lowtown that they could still gather in; as long as they stayed out of sight. The innkeeper, a man named Yura, hated the Qunari and so turned a blind eye to the rebels in his pub. As long as they paid, and drew no attention to themselves, they had a room to drink in and the occasional bed. Hawke was careful not to abuse the situation, or do anything that might draw the Qunari’s ire down on the place.

Rasaan was setting up an educational centre in Lowtown, using the empty alienage as a base of operations. Whilst the Arishok was focused on keeping the citizens of Kirkwall in line, there were some who turned to the Qun, and they needed more space.

The plan, such as it was, was simple. The alienage was a death trap thanks to the one entrance and exit. Getting in wouldn’t be difficult - but getting out could be. So Hawke, as the most obvious target, was going to offer a distraction, drawing away as many of the Qunari as possible before slipping away into Darktown. In the meantime, the others would attack those left in the alienage, with Leliana and Isabela slipping around the slums to come up behind, presumably where Rasaan would be. Aveline and Donnic, not quite at full strength after weeks in the Qunari dungeons, would be on lookout to sound the retreat if necessary.

Hawke hated it. It was dangerous for everyone, and it kept him away from the fight. But, as he skidded around the corner towards the Foundry District, a dozen Qunari on his tail even as he stooped to the ground to surge magic through a previously laid fire mine trap, it was proving effective. At least, he was proving quite the distraction. He had no bloody idea how the others were doing.

A spear missed him, barely, and Hawke continued running, taking the stairs several at a time and throwing a barrier up to try and deflect any possible projectiles. Thank the Maker there hadn’t been a Saarebas when he’d made his presence known. Behind him, there was a cry of pain as some unlucky sod triggered the trap and a roar of flame went up. He skidded past where Samson used to beg for coin for lyrium before the Qunari had removed him. The entrance to Darktown was close, he just had to…

Two Qunari were standing at the entrance, clearly on guard. Hawke cursed and sent a slamming wave of force magic towards them, sending them flying back into the wall. He jumped the last six steps and bolted past before they could recover. Shouts of qunlat followed him into the underbelly of the city.

He had to lose them. He couldn’t kill fourteen warriors, not alone.

Hawke turned, diving into the warrens of tunnels. Around him, the few people out and about realised who he was and turned to watch as the Qunari pursued him. Breathing hard, Hawke concentrated on the Fade. The ground erupted, sewage erupting from underneath their feet. Slow them, he had to slow them.

Swinging left, Hawke spotted an opportunity. Ahead of him, one of the grates down into the quarry tunnels stood open. He didn’t hesitate, jumping down and landing with a crunch as he underestimated how far down it would be. Pain jarred up his ankles and shins, but he kept moving, unable to stop. He hoped, prayed, the Qunari would keep on going above.

The Maker smiled down on him, and they didn’t follow him into the sewer. Hawke stopped running, taking a moment to breathe - or breathe as much as he could in the fetid air. Then, when his lungs no longer burned, he started to limp down the sewer, looking for a way back up to the surface. He was far from safe. The Qunari would have spread out the moment they realised they lost him, and it wouldn't take them long to descend into the tunnels and sewers.

By the time he made it back to their agreed meeting spot - an abandoned house near the dock entrance to Lowtown where the door was off the main street - it was dark.

He saw the shutter move, just a little, as he approached. Someone was inside.

The door opened before he reached it and Isabela’s hand reached out and grabbed him, dragging him inside. She was grinning in the low light of a solitary torch. Her relief was almost palpable.

“Shit, Hawke, you took your time.”

“They had every entrance out of Darktown under guard,” Hawke muttered, pushing hair out of his eyes. “Would have been quicker to head for the coast and try to sneak back in the fucking gates.”

He searched his friends' faces and bodies, looking for signs someone was hurt, or worse. Across the room, Fenris was watching him, just as intently. The elf looked unruffled. Hawke tried to ignore how his relief was sharper upon seeing him. Pumpkin was at the elf’s feet, as if guarding him.

Leliana offered him a bottle of something that smelt potent.

“Rasaan is dead.” She said, “There will be consequences, but for now? This was a victory, Hawke.”

Hawke took the bottle and sniffed, conscious that he could mostly smell sewer on himself. Maker, how long had it been since he’d been able to take a proper relaxing bath? When he took a sip, the whisky burned all the way down.

“Is everyone alright?”

Everyone gave a nod or mumbled that they were fine. There was a bloodied rip in Isabela’s blouse, and Merrill had a bandage wrapped around her head, but they both confirmed that they were fine - no long term damage. Hawke took another drink.

“We did it,” he said, somewhat bewildered. “We actually did it.”

Leliana was right. The murder of one of the Qunari leaders would never go unanswered, but they hadn’t been caught. And whilst they were still at large, they could resist with everything they had. Hawke passed the bottle onto Varric.

The house was too small for much more than sitting in a circle, passing the bottle around with some rations and talking, voices low to not arouse suspicion. Somehow, Hawke found himself next to Fenris. He thought Varric might have managed some trickery there. The group filled him in on the numbers in the Alienage, and how Rasaan had fought more like a warrior than any Chantry priest. Leliana raised an eyebrow a little at that, but she kept her thoughts to herself with a small smile. Soon after, she made her excuses to slip away. She had more strings than them to pull in the city, after all. Not long after, Aveline and Donnic headed out. The group didn’t stay together for long. It wasn’t worth the risk. They all cycled through a dozen abandoned buildings, cellars and Darktown tunnels, trying to stay unnoticed.

Merrill and Isabela went next, long after night had settled in. Hawke was warm from the whisky, the company and the knowledge that there was one less Qunari ruling his city. His knee kept knocking into Fenris’ as he talked animatedly about his escape. The elf was growing quiet as the time wore on. Hawke knew that soon, he’d leave too, and it would just be Varric left.

But it was the dwarf who finally stood up, stretching and fingered Bianca on his back.

“I’ll head out.” He said, with a grin. “Catch you both in the morning. Come on mutt.”

Hawke frowned, momentarily confused, and then realisation flooded him. Oh. He was even taking the dog. He gave Varric a vaguely panicked look. The dwarf rolled his eyes, entirely unsubtly, and then left, with Pumpkin at his heels. He took the rest of the whisky with him. And suddenly Hawke was alone with Fenris for the first time since his mother had been murdered and the elf had tried his best to offer some sort of encouragement whilst Hawke had been too numb to even respond. And the time before that…

He realised how closely together they were sitting. If he turned his head, they’d be almost nose to nose.

It was Fenris who broke the silence.

“I should go.”

Hawke’s hopes crumpled. Swallowing, he nodded without looking at the elf.

“Yeah I… I’ll see you later, Fen.”

He stayed staring at his muddy, sewage covered boots as Fenris stood up and moved towards the door, where he paused.

“When you weren't here…” The elf trailed off, and Hawke risked glancing up, only to see him shake himself a little. “No matter - I will see you in the morning.”

Hawke waited for the door to shut quietly and for Fenris to be a good few paces from the door before he groaned and slammed his head back, a little too hard, into the wall of the house. Fuck, he was an idiot.

Varric wouldn’t let him live it down.

Chapter Text

There was a letter waiting for Hawke at the drop-off Varric had managed to set up as a redirect from The Hanged Man. Usually, it was only the dwarf who got letters - his ongoing dealings with the Merchant Guild still went on, even in a city in crisis - but Varric had handed it over with a shrug.

“Looks like Sebastian’s writing. Let’s hope it’s good news.”

It wasn’t, particularly, when Hawke found a quiet moment in the back of what had once been Lirene’s Ferelden Imports, before all imports stopped and Lirene herself disappeared.

Hawke,

I arrived in Starkhaven just over a fortnight ago, and have made some progress towards reclaiming my rightful place as Prince. My cousin, Goran, clings to power but his weakness has become more obvious since the Qunari attacked Kirkwall. The Chantry and remains of the Templar Order here in the city push for action that he is too cowardly to take.

I have met with the Grand-Cleric and the Knight-Commander. Both would vouch for me if I stepped forwards, but I cannot risk war. The Qunari must be brought to justice, and Elthina saved from their hands. She would advise caution in this, as in all things.

Once I have secured the throne, I will be able to act. You are not in this fight alone, my friend. Starkhaven is coming.

Though I walk through the mists on the edge of the void, I shall not fear, for you are with me.

Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven

It wasn’t a particularly long letter, but the contents essentially boiled down to needing more time - which wasn’t a commodity Hawke, or Kirkwall, had available to them. Hawke breathed out slowly, and then set the parchment on fire between his fingers, watching it burn. Too risky to keep it on him. The Qunari couldn’t know that there was a long-term plan to bring another city down on them.

He had two back-ups to killing the Arishok - somehow persuading Orlais to give up the relic through Leliana and the Divine, and Sebastian in Starkhaven. Hawke closed his eyes and tried not to think about how long either of them would take, or what could happen in Kirkwall before either plan was pulled off. Of what could happen to him.

Hawke distracted himself by sorting through the last of the supplies still available inside the shop. For weeks, the place had been boarded up, and the Qunari had taken most of the resources for themselves. Desperate looters had taken almost all the rest. But Lirene had had two separate smuggling caches that had been untouched. Her willingness to bend the rules to help people from her home country had kept Hawke and the others supplied with herbs, potions, poultices and Ferelden ale for weeks now, but it was beginning to run out. Everything was beginning to run out across the city. Soon, the Qunari would have to lower the chains and allow trade to flow again, or face riots. And then what would happen? How hard would they come down on the desperate and hungry?

Still, at least Hawke had managed to have a bath the day before, risking his life and freedom to do so. It was good to feel at least a little bit clean, even if it wouldn’t last. The years in Hightown had done more than put some softness around his waistline. He missed perfumed soap and having clean nails. Even when he’d shared a room with Carver in Gamlen’s shack, it hadn’t been this bad.

There was a sound at the back of the shop, by the window that they used for entrance. Hawke froze, ears straining. In the corner, Pumpkin raised her head and growled low. His hand edged towards his staff.

Leliana stepped into the front of the shop and Hawke breathed a sigh of relief.

“Shit, I thought I was done for there.”

The red-headed woman smiled as Pumpkin sniffed a few times and settled back down.
“And why would the Qunari come through the window and not the door?”

“Element of surprise,” Hawke grumbled, realising that she was right. If the Qunari knew he was in the shop, they’d probably blow the whole front open with gaatlok, not try to sneak in one by one.

She didn’t comment though, just came to kneel beside him, eyes sweeping over the dwindling supplies.

“I should have some supplies arriving in the city in a few days,” she said, “I will pass on what I can.”

Hawke heaved a sigh of relief, despite himself.

“Thanks,” he said, before pulling a face, “Shit, if only Anders hadn’t -

He cut off. He didn't know if Leliana knew about the abomination in Darktown, and talking about Anders hurt. Instead he changed tact.

“Were you looking for me?”

Leliana frowned, but didn’t push. Instead, she said.
“I spoke with Meredith.”

Hawke tensed. How easy it would be for her to stick a knife in his ribs from this close. It wasn’t out of the question. She’d put her backing behind him, but he’d be a fool to think she wasn’t above betraying him if a better option to save the city - to save the Grand-Cleric - became available. Shit, he wouldn't even necessarily blame her if it happened.

“How did that go?” He asked, a little too casually. No dagger yet.

“She has accepted my word that the relic is not in the city.” Leliana said carefully. “And has agreed that the Qunari cannot know this. Currently, they hope to search one city. If they were to turn their attention to Orlais, they may decide Kirkwall and the wider Marches must be subjugated to give them a foothold in Southern Thedas.”

Hawke winced. Perhaps it was a good thing the Arishok hadn’t believed his protestations in those first desperate moments when they’d discovered Isabela’s relic was a fake.

“Well that’s something,” he muttered, “Does that mean she’s more willing to see reason about fighting back too?”

“She cannot, and will not, whilst the Chantry leaders remain imprisoned.” Leliana said. “And as harsh as she is on mages, she would not see two hundred of her charges killed or enslaved. That would be a moral failing beyond measure.”

Hawke thought of Ser Alrik, and how Meredith turned his plans down. Harsh wasn’t strong enough for her views on mages, on how she held the Gallows in her fist, but she wasn’t as cruel as the Qunari. Just about.

But if she wasn't willing to entertain the possibility of resistance, then she was unlikely to give ground to Hawke, either. She certainly wasn’t about to start looking the other way.

“Going to guess she’s still planning to hunt me down.” He said, trying to sound more upbeat than he felt.

Leliana eyed him flatly.

“She plans to divert some of the men currently searching for the relic to focus entirely on finding you. It would seem the Knight-Commander has decided that if there is no relic to be found, she will concentrate her efforts on securing the Grand-Enchanter's freedom by handing you over in an exchange of prisoners.”

Hawke closed his eyes, trying to suppress a groan.

“And you endorsed this?”

“I saw no reason to stop her, but I offered no encouragement.” Leliana said evenly. “If you are successful in killing the Arishok, I will intervene on your behalf. And if she manages to capture you, your friends will do well enough to avenge you, no?”

Hawke pinched the bridge of his nose. If Meredith managed to capture him and hand him over… his life better be worth enough to free Elthina.

“You’re a hard woman, Leliana.”

“I do what I must. As do you, Hawke. You offered yourself up to Orlais in our first meeting. We both know that reaching the Arishok within the Keep will be a challenge. It cannot be our only ploy.”

“It’s not,” Hawke argued, consciously aware of having to keep his voice down, “The Divine is trying to source the relic, and Sebastian is in Starkhaven -

“Both of which take time,” Leliana said, cutting across him, “Time Kirkwall may not have. I managed to confirm that there was Qamek onboard the dreadnought that arrived recently. I will not risk the Qunari truly seizing control, Hawke. The world doesn’t need another Exalted March.”

On that they could agree. Hawke let out a long sigh.

“Any other news?” He asked.

Leliana gave a thin smile.
“I received word from an old friend who is rather well versed in assassination. I’d written more in hope than expectation, but he is on his way.”

Hawke grunted. Another plot, another indefinite stretch of time until it could be realised. They needed action now, before the hammer came slamming down on them. He stood up, body aching from being crouched over the false floorboards.

“We killed one,” he said, trying to sound confident. “We will kill the others. And if I have to avoid every Templar in the city to do it, we will.”

They hadn’t caught him yet.

Chapter Text

Hawke crawled on all fours towards the cellar door of The Hanged Man, vision starting to fade.

He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up, and he was hurt, and he was leaving a fucking blood trail right to his hiding place. Any Templar or Qunari with half a mind for tracking would be able to find him. If he was lucky, he’d be dead before they could drag him out into the light.

They’d hit another patrol, but Hawke hadn’t gotten away cleanly. He hadn’t spotted the two Qunari guards rounding the corner from the other direction as he’d jumped down, into the alleyway. He did notice the spear entering his side.

Somehow, he’d gotten away, although he wasn’t entirely sure how. The Maker must have been smiling down on him. And whilst it wasn’t the agreed meeting point for those involved in the hit, the cellar of The Hanged Man was closest.

It was a struggle to get the cellar door open one handed, his right arm practically useless. Shit, it was only when he was hurt that Hawke realised all the ways the muscles in the body interconnected. He practically fell into the cellar, and was somewhat surprised to hear a voice.

“Creators, Hawke!”

Merrill. Thank fuck for Merrill. The world was spinning dangerously as Hawke managed to speak.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a healing potion?”

Everything went black.

He came to, stripped to the waist down in the cellar, on a makeshift bed of blankets. It should have been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t, which suggested he was either quite drunk or high on healing potions.

Trying to move was a mistake. He let out a groan and heard someone call his name.

“Hawke?”

“Here,” Hawke mumbled, “No thanks to the Qunari. Andraste’s tits, I didn't think I was going to wake up.”

He managed to open his eyes and found Varric and Merrill down in the cellar with him. Both looked utterly relieved to see him awake.

“Neither did I,” Merrill said, eyes wide, “Elgar’nan, when you went down…”

Hawke winced.

“Sorry,” he managed, “Must have scared the shit out of you.”

“You scared the shit out of all of us.” Varric said. “We saw the fireball from our position and tried to find you but…”

But Hawke had already fled, moving to the closest place of safety. Well, at least his friends had been close when Merrill had run to find them. He owed her his life.

“How many… how many of our healing potions did I drink?” He asked.

They didn’t have many. But that had been the kind of injury that Anders would have needed to heal, before. Hawke could feel gauze and poultices clinging to his skin without twisting to try and get a look, on his side on the floor. A spear piercing him would have been a small, but dangerously deep wound. He’d been lucky it hadn’t perforated his gut, or he probably wouldn’t have made it back to the relative safety of the cellar.

“Don’t worry about that,” Varric said, in a way that avoided the answer and suggested Hawke didn’t want to know the truth, “Just stay still until broody gets here.”

Hawke blinked. Everything was growing fuzzy, but the mention of the elf sharpened his focus, just a bit.

“Fenris?” He asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Varric replied, “Just him and Aveline handling the blood trail and any one sniffing around. He’s fine. Shit, you’re fine. Just stay still.”

That was good. He was okay. Fenris was okay. Hawke closed his eyes.

“Great,” he whispered, “I… I’m gonna…”

He was asleep again before he could finish talking.

The next time he woke, he could hear Fenris talking to someone. There was a warm mabari asleep next to him.

“- I am not ungrateful -”

The floating sensation was gone, which was good in some ways as Hawke felt more alert, more awake - but also meant he was much, much more aware of the pain. He couldn’t stifle the sound as he tried to sit up. Pumpkin whined instinctively and tried to lick his face.

Across the room, Fenris and Leliana looked over, and the elf was moving before Hawke could even speak. He wasn’t wearing his gauntlets, Hawke realised dimly, as he felt the faintest buzz of lyrium against his skin as the elf steadied him.

“Hawke,” Fenris growled, “Varric said you wouldn’t stay still.”

Hawke managed a weak smile.
“You know me,” he said, “I just like to be difficult.”

Fenris grunted, and helped Hawke to sit up, back supported by the cellar wall. Pain flared through his side, then settled to a throbbing ache. Hawke’s hand went to the thick wad of bandages wrapped around his side. Pumpkin nudged his knee and settled down next to him again. He scratched her ears.

“The wound is sealed over, but fragile.” Leliana said from where she was standing by the stairs. “And the muscle will take longer to heal. Your movement will be limited for a while, Serah.”

Hawke eyed her, wondering how long he would have before she decided another plan was necessary.

“Is everyone else safe?” He asked.

She nodded, eyes flicking briefly to Fenris.
“A cluster of Qunari searched the area, but they were dealt with.” She said, “Varric is watching the street to ensure nobody can get close without warning.”

Hawke’s hand found Fenris and squeezed it, recognising exactly who had dealt with the enemy looking for him. He breathed out.

“So I’m stuck here,” he said, “At least, for a little while.”

Leliana nodded.
“I will take my leave, for now. If I can, I will bring some more supplies in the morning.”

She seemed eager to get away. Hawke couldn’t tell if something had passed between her and Fenris, or if she simply had better things to be doing than caring for a wounded rebel. Still, he didn’t try and stop her as she headed up the stairs and cautiously pushed the cellar trap door open, heading out into the night.

The moment she shut the door again, Fenris’ hands tightened on Hawke’s.

“Fasta Vass, Hawke, you -”

He cut himself off sharply, something close to anger flickering over his face. His grip on Hawke’s hand was like a steel trap. Hawke gave a weak smile.

“I’m here, Fenris. Still breathing.”

For a heartbeat, Fenris looked at him if he didn’t quite believe it. Then he let out a ragged breath.

“I… I would not lose you. Not like this. Not to the Qunari, or the Templars.”

Hawke’s own heart sped up, hammering in his ears. Oh.
“I’m so damn scared everytime we make a move.” He admitted quietly. “For everyone. But especially you. I - I don’t know what I’d do, Fenris, if they caught you.”

Or worse. But he couldn’t even breathe life into the words, just in case.

For what felt like forever, they stared at each other, Hawke sitting against the wall, Fenris knelt before him. And then the elf brought his free hand up to Hawke’s face and leant in, kissing him.

Hawke was both grateful that his narrow escape had forced them to talk, to confess, to come back to this point - and also really, really miffed that he was in too much pain to do anything but sit there and let Fenris kiss him. He couldn’t even lean forwards into it. He could just about lift his left hand and bury it in the elf’s hair.

When Fenris pulled away, breathing hard, Hawke couldn’t suppress the panic in his chest. He’d left before - walked out with limited explanation. Would he do it again, even now, with Hawke hurting?

He had to say something - do something. But all his words deserted him when he saw that Fenris was blinking back tears.

“I was a coward,” the elf whispered, “When I left. The pain - the memories - it was too much. But the idea of losing you… it is worse.”

Hawke swallowed, still half-expecting the moment where Fenris broke his bruised and damaged heart.

It didn’t come. Instead, Fenris’ hand trailed from his jaw, down his throat, to his chest, fingers burying themselves in Hawke’s chest hair.

“I would stay at your side,” he said, “if you’d have me.”

Hawke clasped Fenris’ hand between his own and his chest.

“Fenris,” he said quietly, aware of his heart hammering in his rib cage, just under the elf’s fingers, “I’m yours. I think I always have been.”

From the moment the elf had stepped down the stairs of the alienage, lyrium veins flaring, Hawke had been his.

They kissed again, soft and slow and tinged with desperation. When Fenris broke away again, he helped rearrange them so Hawke was lying on his uninjured side, head resting against Fenris’ thigh whilst the elf carded his fingers through Hawke’s hair. He didn’t fail to notice that Fenris had managed to position them so he could see the cellar door - and react, if necessary. Even here, like this, he was trying to protect him. Pumpkin had taken one baleful look at the elf and gone to lie near the steps. She was trying to guard him too.

“Sleep, Hawke.” The elf said gently. “I’ll be here. I promise.”

Hawke reached out, and rested his hand on Fenris’ knee, before closing his eyes. The floor of a cellar was hardly the worst place he’d had to fall asleep recently, and it was easier with Fenris there, their bodies touching.

Safe and protected, Hawke slept.

Chapter Text

The moment Hawke was able to move, he did, crawling out of The Hanged Man and making his way slowly and cautiously to Lirene’s shop. It was better not to stay in one place, and there was at least a proper bed and supplies on the upper floor.

Not for the first time since getting hurt, Hawke missed Anders - and then felt guilty for missing the man’s healing when the man himself was gone.

Fenris shadowed him the whole way, unwilling to leave him for more than a few moments. When Hawke faltered on the stairs up to the bedroom, he was there to help with the last few steps, guiding Hawke down onto the bed as Hawke clutched at his side.

Three days. Three days of pain and being trapped in the cellar, unable to move. And there were still days to go before he was strong enough to fight - days after that until he could run, and jump and pull himself up over walls and drop down the other side. He felt useless. As Fenris checked that the scar held, Hawke stared up at the ceiling.

“Can’t even bloody wash properly.”

Fenris’ hands stilled on his side.

“You’re Ferelden,” he said dryly, “I thought that was a given.”

“Oh haha,” Hawke muttered, “Kick me whilst I’m down, why don’t you.”

Fenris smiled slightly, then kissed his temple.

“I’ll be back.”

“Wait, Fenris -”

But he was already heading back down the stairs and Hawke groaned, closing his eyes. If he came back with a bloody bucket of water…

He did, of course, and Hawke wanted to throttle him for risking standing at one of the nearby Lowtown pumps, and wanted to kiss him at the same time.

“You might want to heat it.” Fenris said with a small smile, before pulling Hawke back to his feet and helping to get his shirt off over his head. It wasn’t a comfortable position for Hawke’s arms, pulling at the muscles and scar on his side. Hawke tried not to think about the last time Fenris had helped him undress.

Hawke insisted on doing what he could, alone. He heated the water and was grateful for the sliver of soap Fenris found in the shop, before wringing out the rag and using his left arm to clean his face, neck and shoulders as best he could. He avoided his side, of course, but soon had to face the reality that he couldn’t bend over to even remove his trousers, let alone wash his legs. With a wry, slightly embarrassed smile Hawke glanced at Fenris.

“Some help?”

The elf smirked, damn him.

Hawke tried to ignore what was happening, he really did, because Maker, they were on fragile ground around each other, and this blurred that line between Fenris helping him and Fenris serving him in a way that Hawke didn’t want to touch. Besides, they were in a damn safehouse and at any moment, one of their friends - or worse - could join them. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend it was Merrill, or Varric, or even the Knight-Commander, helping him clean up after days of not being able to.

But he was also only human, and he desperately, desperately wanted Fenris.

When Fenris’ mouth lingered for a moment, too close to the inside of Hawke’s thigh, Hawke twitched. The slightest brush of the elf’s lips and Hawke’s resolve nearly snapped.

Fenris pulled away and Hawke’s heart tried to escape his chest as he focused back on cleaning the dirt and grime away from Hawke’s legs. When his hands went to pull down Hawke’s smalls, Hawke panicked and stopped his hands.

“I can -”

Amusement flashed across Fenris’ face.

“Let me help, Hawke.”

Hawke breathed out shakily. Fenris was on his bloody knees before him, and he was a weak, weak man. He let Fenris remove his smalls and tried to suppress the groan building in his chest as the elf started to clean.

He was slightly light-headed, and more than slightly hard, when Fenris said.

“Why don’t you sit down before you fall down?”

Hawke made his way to the bed, sitting on the edge, trying to keep his breathing even as Fenris wrung out the rag one final time and brought towelling over to start drying Hawke’s legs. Hawke managed a half-hearted glare down at the elf.

“You’re determined to be a tease, aren’t you?”

Fenris’ self-satisfied smile was something to behold. His hands moved up Hawke’s thighs as he settled himself entirely between Hawke’s legs.

And yes, this was foolish. Hawke was still recovering, and taking the time to be intimate would always be risky now, but Hawke had thought this would never be his again and shit, Fenris just looked so damn good on his knees.

Hawke moaned, desperate, as Fenris kissed his way up his inner thigh before taking him into his mouth.

He wasn’t going to last. It felt like Fenris had been teasing him for hours - if not days, with how close they’d been sleeping, wound around each other for warmth and comfort. And the sight of him on his knees, eyes closed as he teased Hawke with his tongue was going to haunt Hawke’s dreams for the rest of his life. And quite possibly his waking moments too.

Hawke tried to shift his hips, but the ache in his side flared, just a little, and Fenris fingers found his hips pushing him back down into the bed, holding him still - and Maker, the fact that the elf was strong enough to pin him forced another shaky groan from Hawke. He balled his hands into the bed sheets beneath him, unwilling to bury his hands in Fenris’ hair when they hadn’t discussed whether it would be okay. The last thing Hawke wanted was to make Fenris feel trapped, or like he wasn’t absolutely in control. Because he was. Hawke would have done anything the elf wanted in that moment.

Fenris teased at his tip and Hawke swore, breathing heavily.

“F-Fuck,” he groaned, tilting his head back, eye screwed shut as he breathed through Fenris’ teasing. The elf’s fingers dug into his hips, adding just the slightest edge of pressure.

When he looked back down, Fenris’ eyes were open, looking up at him through his lashes, and Hawke was lost, the pleasure burning through him. He had just enough time to stammer out Fenris’ name before he was coming, something close to a whimper leaving him at the sight of Fenris pulling back, just a little and swallowing.

The elf smiled, and leant back in to kiss at Hawke’s thighs.

“Shit, Fenris you -”

Hawke trailed off, still trying to find his breath. Fenris stood up and bent over Hawke, burying his hand in Hawke’s hair and kissing him intensely. Hawke could taste himself on Fenris’ tongue.

When he pulled back, Fenris was smirking.

“Why don’t you get some rest, Hawke?” He said, his voice a little husky, “I’ll keep watch.”

Hawke wanted to protest, painfully aware that he could see Fenris’ own arousal pressing at the front of his leggings and wanting to reciprocate, to watch Fenris come undone. But he didn’t want to push, didn’t want to ruin this precious, fragile thing they had. And with the rush of pleasure slowly fading, he could feel the ache in his side from tensing muscles and the exhaustion in his bones that never seemed far away these days. Still, he snagged his fingers under Fenris’ armour and tried to tug him back, for another kiss, and Fenris complied.

“Think you’re going to have to help me get dressed.” Hawke said weakly.

Fenris made a small noise of amusement.
“That’s not quite as fun.”

It wasn’t, and by the time they’d tugged Hawke’s shirt down, over his head, Hawke was hurting. He breathed out and Fenris helped him back to the bed, lying down on his uninjured side.

“Shit,” Hawke muttered, “Do we have any healing potions? Feel a bit bad about using one up but...”

Fenris snorted and promised to go find one. He took the bucket of dirty water with him when he went. Hawke closed his eyes, and despite his best efforts, found himself drifting off.

He was shaken awake a little while later as Fenris whispered his name. He’d found a healing potion - and lunch.

“You’re my hero.” Hawke said with a tired smile.

Fenris sat on the bed alongside him, and Hawke leant in, just a little, as they ate. Fenris’ hand rested on Hawke’s thigh. For a little while, Hawke forgot about the Qunari, about the resistance weighing on his shoulders, and just allowed himself to enjoy eating lunch with Fenris.

It couldn’t last, he knew. Soon, he’d be strong enough to be back out there, leading the fight. But until then, if he was going to be in convalescence, he wanted Fenris there for as long as possible.

Chapter Text

A week later, Hawke found himself entering the Gallows tunnels from Darktown, back in action - kind of. In theory, there should be no fighting that night, and if there was, Hawke’s injuries would hardly make a difference.

The tunnels were a dangerous place to be. The Qunari had boarded up as many of them as possible, but had acknowledged that Templars moving back and forth to the city without being seen at the docks was useful. The few paths that remained open were patrolled by both Templars and Qunari alike. Hawke wasn’t sure if lyrium was still being smuggled into the Circle for the more desperate Templars, but he knew that mages found in the tunnels trying to escape the Gallows were executed on the spot. He hadn’t heard of anyone taking the risk in the last few weeks.

But he needed to speak to Orsino, and there was only one way to get to the Gallows.

Carver waited for him, looking nervous.

“Are you sure you want to risk this, brother?”

All Templars had orders to bring Hawke in alive, and he was about to walk into their stronghold - or at least, underneath it. It was beyond foolish. The only reason Fenris had let him come at all was Carver’s involvement. Whatever else his brother was, Carver would never betray Hawke to Meredith. He’d held Hawke’s identity secret for three years, and with their mother’s murder, they were both the only family they really had left.

Still, Hawke had to go alone - and unarmed. The plan was to dress Hawke as a Templar, and the patrols moved in pairs. Hopefully, with a helmet on, no one would look twice at Hawke - and no one was paying too much attention to the number of patrols on the move.

“Not at all.” Hawke said with a wry smile before accepting the bundle of clothes Carver offered out.

Templar Mail was heavy stuff. Hawke hoped he didn’t have to run at any point - he doubted he’d make it very far.

Together they walked through the tunnels, not talking. When a second patrol appeared at the other end of the stretch, Hawke’s heart started to pound in his chest, loud enough that he thought the other Templars would be able to hear it. But the two men simply nodded at them and continued to walk. Hawke kept his eyes in front and his pace even.

Passing the Qunari patrol was even worse, but they barely even glanced at the two of them. Hawke imagined Templars were probably all the same to them.

They made it to the one remaining entrance into the Gallows and Hawke breathed a small sigh of relief. It wasn’t over yet, though. Now they had to reach Orsino.

Carver ascended first, and Hawke followed. He found himself in a storeroom inside the Gallows. A rather bored looking Templar on guard eyed them both.

“It’s not time for shift rotation.” He said. “Get back down there.”

“We weren’t on rotation,” Carver snapped, “We were in the city on behalf of the Knight-Commander.”

“Searching for the relic?” The other Templar asked, before sighing and shaking his head. “Alright, go report.”

Hawke didn’t speak. He didn’t dare. He let Carver take the lead, sweeping out of the storeroom as if he had every right to be there.

The corridors were eerily empty. Most of the mages were held in their rooms, unless there was a reason for them to be out. Any that complained were kept sedated. Hawke’s skin itched under the bulky clothes and armour. Maker, this was a fool’s errand.

Orsino looked up as they entered his office and Carver hurriedly shut the door.

“What - ”

Hawke hurriedly removed his helm and the First-Enchanter’s eyes bulged. He rose to his feet a little unsteadily, hand reaching for his staff. Not for the first time, Hawke wondered what he was doing there, what risk he was taking. Was it possible Orsino would betray him to the Templars?

“First-Enchanter, we should talk.”

The elf breathed out slowly, and lowered his hand.

“Serah Hawke. Do you have any idea how dangerous it is for you to be here?”

Hawke grinned weakly.
“It’s the last place they’d expect to find me.” He said, with a confidence he did not feel. “Listen to me, Orsino. There is Qamek in the city. Do you know what that means?”

The First-Enchanter stiffened, which was quite impressive considering how tense he already seemed.

“I do. And it is another reason you should not be here. You would doom us both.”

“The mages are already doomed,” Hawke argued, trying to keep his voice low, “You have to start fighting, First-Enchanter. The relic is not in Kirkwall - it has never been in Kirkwall. What do you think will happen when the Qunari discover the deceit?”

Orsino’s eyes narrowed.
“We have done everything we can to appease them…” He began, but Hawke cut across him, taking half a step forwards.

“You cannot appease them, Orsino. They will only accept conversion to the Qun. Every single mage in the Gallows will have their minds burnt out, it is the only acceptable solution to them.”

Orsino breathed out slowly.
“So you ask us to risk death, or Tranquility?” He asked. “It is impossible. Even if I could rouse the Circle, the Templars would quell any rebellion before the Qunari could arrive. We’d simply be expediting our downfall.”

Hawke hesitated. Shit, he wished he could get Meredith to work with him. But he couldn’t risk going near any Templar that wasn’t Carver. Even Cullen, or Thrask, would be dangerous now.

“Enough of you could make it into the tunnels.” He argued.

“Which is how you came here, I presume?” The First-Enchanter asked. “Your resistance, Serah, endangers us more than anything else. How long do you think you can struggle before the Qunari decide that domination is required?”

Hawke winced. He’d asked himself that question most nights. What if they decided to crush him, and torched the city to do it? What if they decided Lowtown and Darktown had to convert, not just play lip service? Was he just making things worse with every act?

“It is only a matter of time before they grow frustrated by their lack of success, my resistance or not. The Gallows will be one of their first targets. They cannot risk having free mages remain in their city. Please, Orsino. You cannot rely on the Knight-Commander to protect you.”

It was possible that if the Arishok did launch an attack on the Gallows, Meredith would try to defend the mages. Hawke didn’t think she would stand aside and let that happen, even with the Grand Cleric still in Qunari hands. But neither did he think that the Arishok would give the Templars warning to mount a defence. He’d take them both out at once. The Qunari had already proved more than adept at rapid, overpowering strikes.

“The Knight-Commander, for all her failings, has protected us so far.” Orsino said. “I must continue to put my faith in her, Hawke. There is too much at stake.”

Hawke gritted his teeth. If he just had a handful of mages, it could turn the tide against the Qunari. If he had the whole Circle at his back…

“There is too much at stake,” he agreed, “And you’re letting yourself sleep walk into disaster. Please, Orsino - don’t make me defend this city on my own.”

Orsino sat back down behind his desk. He looked tired, drawn. Hawke wondered how the pressure was getting to him, how desperate, how bleak the situation looked to him.

“There is no defence to be had, Serah. We wait - either for the relic to be found, or for the rest of Thedas to rise to our defence.”

“And you think you will live to see that?” Hawke snapped, unable to contain himself any longer. “If the Divine calls an Exalted March, we won’t be an occupied city, we will be a Qunari one.”

Orsino eyed him darkly.
“My understanding, Hawke, is that the Arishok has three demands. The relic, the thief, and you. Perhaps I should hand you over to secure our safety.”

Hawke’s breath caught, but he made himself meet the First-Enchanters gaze.
“I would throw myself at the Arishok’s mercy if I thought for a second it would save the Circle, but you know as well as I it won’t.”

They stared at each other for so long Hawke started to sweat. If the First-Enchanter decided to attack, Hawke wouldn’t be able to fight his way out. Then Orsino sighed.

“Get out of here, Serah. Do not risk returning.”

Hawke let out a shaky breath and turned for the door, jamming the helm back onto his head. He spared the elf one last glance.

“If I still live when the Qunari come for the Gallows,” he said, “I will do what I can.”

Then he stepped back out into the corridor to find his brother.

Chapter Text

Hawke was cutting through Darktown when it happened - a whisper of his name, and a cloaked figure beckoning him down into a narrow passage.

It was fifty-fifty as to whether it was a friend hoping to pass on valuable information, or the trigger for a trap. But Hawke spotted the boots looked a little too well-heeled for darktown, the cleanliness of the man’s cloak - apart from the hem, and took the risk, stepping off the main path. People trying to ambush him were usually more circumspect.

“You need allies in this fight,” the man said smoothly in an accent that wasn’t Kirkwallian. “There are those who watch your struggle and would help, for a price.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.
“Mercenaries tend to help those with the highest coin.” He said. “And I don’t think I can outbid the Qunari, if it comes to it.”

Maker, he was stone cold broke these days. As bad, or as worse, as it had been upon arriving in the city four years ago. It had been a nice couple of years of plenty, but he couldn’t have paid for one mercenary, let alone a group. And he couldn’t think of anyone else who would be willing to help Kirkwall, in the circumstances. At least, he couldn’t think of anyone who’d approach him, rather than Leliana or Meredith.

The man shook his head.

“You misunderstand,” he said, “No mercenaries, Serah. My ah - associate - can offer something far greater than swords. Imagine, for a moment, what you could do, with both more magic and experience fighting the Qunari at your disposal.”

Hawke stared at the man, mouth going dry.

“Tevinter.”

“Ah - not officially. You understand of course that the Archon could never be seen to interfere in the Marches. But an alliance with one… well, if they are sufficiently respected within the Magisterium, it could turn the tide for you.”

If the possibility of Tevinter offering help had dangled hope on a string before Hawke, the idea of an alliance with one Magister made his blood run cold. There was only one he knew by name, after all.

“Let me guess.” Hawke growled. “You work for Danarius.”

The man’s smile faltered for a moment and then came back, greasier than before.

“One elf, Serah.” He said quietly. “One elf for the safety of the city. It is a small price to pay.”

Hawke turned his head, just a little, to check if anyone could see them, before punching the man in the face. His nose crunched satisfyingly under his fist. The man staggered back, and Hawke grabbed the front of his robe, slamming him into the wall.

“Tell your Master that one person in slavery is one too many. And that I will kill him if he dares to come here. Fenris is a free man. And we will die free men if it comes to it.”

He let the man go and watched as he dropped to the floor, anger still burning through him. Danarius. The Magister thought Hawke would betray Fenris - that Hawke would believe the offer of aid from the Imperium, when the Imperium did nothing that did not help itself. It would have been as bad as making a pact with a demon. Worse, even. An abomination could be killed. Imperium influence was much, much harder to kill.

There was blood on his knuckles. He wiped his hand on his trousers and hurriedly stepped back out of the alleyway, into the main thoroughfare of Darktown. And if he checked to make sure he wasn’t being followed more than once, he was only being cautious. It was entirely possible Danarius had more men, watching and waiting for Hawke to lead them right to Fenris. Maker, Hawke would have to tell him. He’d have to warn them all to keep watch. Another pressure. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take.

He was meant to be heading for the safe house near the Foundry District, but he instead swung right and navigated around, past the empty alienage, and found The Sleepy Nug. As hoped, Varric was in the back room, writing correspondence.

“Have you seen Fenris today?”

Varric looked up and a wry smile played across his features despite everything.

“My my, eager aren’t you?” He said. “You two making up for lost time?”

“A Vint in Darktown just tried to offer me Imperium support if I hand him over to Danarius.” Hawke snapped, unable to keep a calm facade. “I want to know if he’s safe, Varric.”

Varric blinked, then cursed.
“Andraste’s tits, were you followed?”

“I don’t think so - and he’s not here so if they attack it’s only us who’ll die I guess.” Hawke said, trying to sound flippant even as he started to pace with worry.

The dwarf snorted and stood up, moving away from the desk and grabbing Bianca.

“He was with Isabela the last I saw.” He said, “Down at the warehouse. Come on.”

Hawke didn’t know if trying to find him was a good plan or not - but he also really, really wanted to see the elf. He needed that reassurance. They slipped out the back door of the tavern onto the street.

“I don’t suppose you’ve heard anything.” Hawke muttered as they hurried through the alleyway and out into the street. He took a moment to check for patrols before crossing and moving into the next lane.

“Nothing that suggests a Magister in the Marches.” Varric replied. “But my guess would be Ostwick, if he’s anywhere. Unlikely he’s come by land, which rules out Starkhaven. And he wouldn’t risk being here.”

Hawke’s mouth tasted of bile. Wouldn’t he? How badly did Danarius want Fenris back?

“Find out what you can.” He said. “We can’t let Fenris know. He’ll… Shit, he went haring off after Hadriana and - ”

“He’ll be pissed if you keep it quiet.” Varric argued. “Real pissed, Hawke.”

Hawke swallowed. The dwarf wasn’t wrong. There wasn’t a good option. Either he risked Fenris trying to find his former Master at a time where it was dangerous to even be out in the streets, or he risked Fenris ire when he found out what Hawke had hidden from him.

They made it to the warehouse - an old Mage Underground location that had helped shelter runaways from the Gallows. No one dared anymore. Hawke slipped inside and found the false wall with shaking hands.

Fenris was there, playing cards with Isabela and Aveline. Hawke felt his knees almost give way with relief.

It must have shown on his face though as Fenris was standing up, abandoning his cards on the table and crossing over.

“Hawke, what’s wrong?”

Varric muttered tell him under his breath as he slid the wall back into place. Fenris caught it and stared at Hawke, anger already building in his face.

“Tell me what?”

Hawke let out a deep breath and positioned himself slightly to the right, blocking the exit.

“I was approached by someone in Darktown. They were working for Danarius.”

Fenris stiffened, which was impressive, as he hadn’t exactly looked relaxed to start with. His eyes flicked from Hawke to the wall as if he wanted to crash straight through it and start searching. Hawke raised his hands, as if to placate him, and spoke rapidly.

“They thought I’d give you up for Imperium support. I broke the man’s nose and sent him running. But it means -”

“That Danarius is here, in the Marches. Or he’s sent someone else he trusts.” Fenris said shortly.

Hawke wanted to hold him and never let go, but Fenris looked as if physical touch was the furthest from his mind, so he held back.

Varric spoke.

“I’ll dig about, see if I can get confirmation but… we need to be careful.”

Hawke fixed his gaze on Fenris.
“You need to be careful.” He said. “I can’t - I can’t lose you.”

And well, shit, that wasn’t what he’d meant to say, especially in front of a fucking audience that included both Varric and Isabela. The bloody Rivaini was smirking, despite the situation.

Fenris’ eyes narrowed, just a little.
“He offered Imperium support?”

Hawke’s mouth ran dry. Shit, why had he mentioned that?

“I suspect he would have offered me my mother returned to life if he thought it would work.” He said through gritted teeth, “I don’t believe him. And I don’t want any help that he - or any other Magister - would offer.”

“The Imperium,” Aveline said from where she was still sitting, “Cannot be trusted. The Archon himself could offer help and I’d look sideways at it.”

“I won’t let him take you.” Hawke said, as steadily as he could. “Any more than I will let the Qunari have Kirkwall.”

Fenris still seemed as if he wanted to be half-way out the door, greatsword ready to kill any and all Vints he came across. But he gave a short nod.

“I will be careful.” He said, his tone carefully controlled. “For you, Hawke. But if Varric get’s confirmation that he is here…”

Hawke nodded.
“If he’s here, we’ll deal with him.” He said. “Somehow.”

Killing Danarius felt a damn sight easier than killing the Arishok.

Chapter Text

Hawke was asleep, pressed against Fenris in a narrow single bed when Aveline burst in.

Neither slept well - or heavily - in the circumstances, and Hawke almost slammed Aveline back through the door as he startled awake. Fenris flickered blue for a heartbeat, and Hawke felt the tingle of lyrium through his spine before they both realised they weren’t under attack.

“Shit, Aveline, what’s happening?”

“The Qunari have marched into Darktown.” Aveline said, breathing heavily. She must have run with the news. “It’s a massacre, Hawke.”

Half-naked and half-asleep, Hawke stared at her, mind racing. Darktown. The Qunari had finally had enough of the poverty and resistance at their feet. Shit.

“We’re coming.”

He was almost entirely out of the bed when Fenris grabbed his elbow.

“They’ll have eyes on the entrances.” He said, “It’s a trap. They want you to come running.”

“I’m not letting them slaughter the people of Darktown, Fenris.” Hawke snapped.

But the reality was that there was nothing Hawke could do. There was nothing any of them could do. Aveline filled them in as Hawke pulled on his armour. Five regiments of Qunari had entered the main entrances into the tunnels and they were rounding up anyone they could find. Those that resisted were being killed. Several fires were raging, cutting off the myriad smuggler exits across the city. Other known tunnels had been collapsed, or barred somehow, trying to ensure no one could get free.

“Are they looking for me?” Hawke asked as they hurried out, into the Lowtown streets. Maker, he could smell smoke.

“Not publicly. The Qunari standing guard are saying it’s a clean-up operation to root out corruption.”

Hawke probably counted as corruption. It seemed impossible to him that there had been a time, not that long ago, when the Arishok had respected him.

“There’s the entrance in the Foundry District.” Hawke said, “Come on.”

It was testament to how bad it was that he was willing to go near that tunnel - the warren of cellars and sewers where Quentin had made himself at home. Where his mother had died. But if the main tunnels were being watched, they had to risk one of the lesser known ones. Fenris eyed him, frowning, but he didn’t protest.

Hawke descended the ladder, trying not to think of the last time he’d been here. It still smelt of death. His legs trembled as he found steady ground beneath him.

They didn’t get far before smoke started to billow out of the tunnels ahead. Cursing, they retreated back the way they’d come. A second tunnel, nearer the docks, proved to be more successful. Right until they crawled through the nearly collapsed end and found a stack of corpses waiting for them.

Hawke didn’t remember much, after that. He’d tried to head further in, but Fenris had pulled him back, snarling that it was too dangerous, that they’d get killed. He hadn’t cared - had wanted to find the nearest patrol and end them. It was only the rising smoke that had made him finally, finally crawl back to the surface.

From a rooftop in Lowtown at dawn, they watched for survivors. Varric brought word of prisoners taken up to the Keep, others rounded up in a warehouse under guard. Hawke stared out, eyes stinging from the smoke. Every breath burned.

It wouldn’t, couldn’t, be the end of Darktown. People would have made it out. But how many hadn’t?

Isabela stepped up onto the roof. She looked as if she had been crying.

“Leliana’s at the Rose, Hawke.”

Hawke nodded and made himself turn away. He’d asked her to track the Agent of the Divine down. This attack changed things. It was the first real flex of Qunari muscle since they’d seized the city. It made Hawke’s attempts to resist look like flies buzzing around a mountain lion. And he couldn’t help but wonder if this was his fault - if he’d irritated them into retaliation.

He should have been prepared for that possibility. He found himself utterly broken in the face of it.

Fenris had a grip on Hawke’s elbow. He shook the elf off and headed down the ladder to the Lowtown streets.

Leliana looked pale when he entered. He’d barely taken basic precautions as he walked through the streets. If the Qunari had spotted him, he wasn’t sure what he would have done - whether he would have burned them to ash, or thrown himself at their mercy.

“Hawke, I am so sorry - ”

Hawke cut across her.

“Tell me you have news from Orlais.” He said, “Or Starkhaven - or something. Anything.”

Her lips thinned.

“I’m sorry.” She said. “No news. Or at least, nothing you don’t already know. We’re working on getting the Tome, I promise.”

Hawke closed his eyes and made himself breathe out, anger raging through him. How long did it fucking take for the Divine - the most powerful person in Southern Thedas - to convince one nation to stop holding out? How much of Kirkwall would burn for Celene’s folly?

Shakily, he ran his fingers through his hair.

“Do we dare keep fighting?” He asked. “Was this a warning to us to back off?”

“You must keep fighting.” Leliana said firmly. “There were always going to be casualties, Hawke. Now, more than ever, the people of Kirkwall need a reason to believe, to not surrender entirely.”

He was pacing, distractedly, even as she talked.

“All I’m doing is riling them up.” He said. “What if next time they kill Elthina? No one will be on my side then.”

“Elthina is safe from retribution whilst the Templars stay in line. The moment she is threatened, Meredith will fight back, and that changes the balance, no?”

That much was true. He wasn’t sure that having the Templars and the Circle in the fight would be enough, but it would be more than he had now. So why would the Qunari risk it?

He had to keep fighting, to keep making the lives of the Qunari dangerous and miserable. And when the opportunities arose, he had to kill the Arishok.

“Is there… any chance, Orlais will give up the Tome?” He asked. “Or are we waiting on Sebastian?”

“Celene will give it up.” Leliana said confidently. “Sooner, rather than later, I suspect. Especially now, with the Qunari cracking down. The Divine will see that it is imperative we act now, before it is too late.”

Well, that was something. But even as the reassurance settled on Hawke’s shoulders, another worry burned into his mind.

“They won’t accept the Tome alone.” He said. “Not now. Not after everything we’ve done. Rasaan’s death… they will want that answered in blood.”

It wouldn't matter, of course, if they got to the Arishok first. But if Celene gave in and the Tome arrived on their shores before then… They’d demand Hawke’s surrender. The beaten general - the lone resistance.

For a moment, there was silence as Leliana considered him.

“I wonder, Hawke. You were willing to throw yourself at Orlais’ mercy for the Tome. What would you give to see the Qunari leave Kirkwall?”

He barked a laugh and turned to look at her.

“Do you even have to ask?” He said. “Isn’t it obvious? But I can’t ask the others…”

He’d throw himself at the Arishok’s mercy, submit to their awful fucking collars, surrender and let them break him. He wouldn’t resist as they ground him to dust. But he’d never let them do the same to his friends. And they would want Isabela, at the very least.

Leliana eyed him.

“I think,” she said quietly, “That Isabela needs to leave Kirkwall. And that we should not speak of this to Fenris. If it comes to it - I will negotiate you leaving with them. Only you.”

Hawke swallowed, mouth tasting of ash. He nodded, numbly. The Arishok might take him as the ringleader - and accept that Isabela was out of his grasp if the Tome was not. Might. Could they risk it?

They would have to. Hawke had led his friends into this foolish war, he would take the consequences, if he had to. He sighed, rubbing at his face. It had been a long day, and it was barely mid-morning.

“I’ll talk to Isabela.” He said. “Shit, she won’t be impressed.”

“Hmm,” Leliana said. “I’m surprised she stayed this long, considering. But if you tell her that there’s a chance this ends with the two of you in Qunari hands… She won’t stay loyal, Hawke.”

Hawke thought back to the moment she’d walked up behind the Knight-Commander, all those weeks ago. Loyalty. He’d never expected it either, but she’d proven herself over and over since then. As had every single one of his friends. The idea that he could be leading them to their deaths, or worse, was galling. The idea that he could protect them, if it came to it… Well, loyalty went both ways.

“Get that Tome, Leliana.” He said. “I want the Arishok dead, but I’ll take the alternative.”

Then he turned and slipped out, into the alleyway, to go find Isabela. She needed to leave whilst she still could.

Chapter Text

Two days after Hawke managed to persuade Isabela to leave, Merrill found him down at the docks, playing cards with Varric.

“Um, Hawke? I uh, think you should meet someone.”

Hawke looked up from over his cards and eyed the dalish elf. She seemed alone - which was good. There was a difference between possible allies in this fight and just inviting them into one of the last secure locations they had left to them. Only the night before, the Qunari had raided Lirene’s shop again after a tip off. They’d found enough evidence of someone using the space that the whole district in Lowtown was now locked down, which meant The Hanged Man was dangerous to approach as well. Two of their most critical hideouts, gone.

“Who is it Merrill? Not like you to be offering contacts.”

The Dalish were still camped, somewhere near Sundermount, but Merrill had never really integrated in the alienage. Isabela and Varric had friends across the city, some of whom had become useful eyes and ears over the weeks. But Merrill had been as isolated as Fenris, in some ways.

“There was an elf, Addra, in the alienage.” Merrill said, before going slightly pink at the obviousness of the statement. “He sold baked goods, when he could. I didn’t know him well, but we talked sometimes. He converted when they closed the alienage, but he’s been having doubts.”

Hawke glanced at Varric.

“And he came to you?”

It was both entirely possible, and entirely suspicious. Merrill was sweet, and genuine, but not exactly worldly and she’d absolutely believe a sob story of regret. Then again, how hard was it to believe that some of those who converted willingly did now reflect on it with sorrow? Tensions between elves and humans were high in the city, and with the Qunari cracking down in Darktown, they’d shown a level of brutality not seen even on that first night.

“He didn’t know how to approach anyone else.” Merrill said. “Creators, he scared me when he appeared out of the alleyway. I think if he’d tried to approach anyone else, he’d be dead.”

If he’d tried to approach Fenris, he would have been. The elf was on edge with Isabela gone. Hawke hadn’t entirely convinced him that it was an effort to check if Danarius truly was in Ostwick - even though that had been the agreement with the Rivaini pirate, who’d refused to run away without Hawke and the others running too.

“Where is he, Merrill?”

Their reluctant Viddathari was hiding out in the Foundry District. Varric muttered about sweeping the area for an ambush and started to gather in the cards. Hawke sighed and wondered whether it was worth it. What could one elven grunt offer them that they didn’t already know?

Well, if they could convince him to go back, and play spy - quite a bit. They had no way into the Keep themselves, beyond a full assault, which would be suicide.

Varric set off, ahead of Hawke, and Merrill went running to find Aveline as back-up, before heading back to their potential new friend. Hawke wondered, briefly, about finding Fenris as well, but decided against it. If Addra was scared, an angry, lyrium-enhanced elf snarling about slavery under the Qun wouldn’t help matters. Even if Hawke would feel more comfortable with him there.

Hawke left the warehouse a little after dark, keeping to the alleyways and shadows as much as possible. His journey to the Foundry District went unnoticed.

He spotted Aveline, and looked up to the rooftops. A small glint, aimed at him, told him that Varric was in position. The flash disappeared as quickly as it came. If the dwarf had kept signalling, Hawke would have known not to approach. Instead, he braced himself and wandered up to Aveline.

“Where are they?”

She jerked her head behind her, into the alleyway.

“He’s nervous, but that’s not surprising. You’ve got quite the reputation, these days.”

He did. Before, he’d been known as the Ferelden refugee who’d clawed his way back into nobility but who preferred taverns and brawls to soirees. Now, he was a rebel and a fighter - and to the Qunari, a danger to their way of life. Even if Addra didn’t know specifics, he’d know that Hawke was dangerous. Hawke braced himself and walked down the alleyway, Aveline at his back.

Hawke dimly recognised Addra from the alienage - had seen him once, selling a strange flatbread made of acorn flour. The elf’s brown eyes widened at the sight of him.

“It’s - It’s really you.”

Hawke tried to give an encouraging smile, but he imagined it probably looked more grim than anything.

“It’s really me.”

“You have to help me,” Addra began, before faltering, “Please. I - I thought it would be better.”

Cautiously, Hawke took another step forward. He sounded genuine, at least. Merrill, standing next to him, looked pale. He wondered what they’d discussed before he arrived. Had they compared the names of those from the alienage, sounding out who still lived, who had disappeared, who had converted?

“They sell you a promise of belonging.” Hawke said. “It’s a good dream, a good ideal. But they ask too much in exchange.”

Addra hesitated.
“What they do to their mages… my cousin, he’s in the Gallows. I thought that was harsh but…”

Hawke thought of Ketojan, of the nameless Saarebas he’d killed since this fight began. He couldn’t entirely suppress a shudder. Addra shuffled his feet, moving a little closer.

It happened quickly, even with Hawke alert to it. The elf’s hand disappearing into a pocket, his posture changing. The knife was a slender, short thing, the blade not much larger than one of Hawke’s fingers. Designed for sliding into ribs, or through the gaps in plate mail. Aveline shouted a warning, hand going for her sword as Hawke readied himself for a fight. He could throw up a barrier, but he’d be risking making his presence known if there were Templar controls in the area. He had to hope that Addra was a poorly trained assassin.

They never got to find out. There was a familiar, rhythmic vibration above their heads and Varric put a bolt through the elf’s throat. Blood splattered across Hawke’s face.

For a moment, none of them moved. Hawke strained his ears, listening for the cry or the shout that suggested others in the area - a more coordinated attack. Nothing.

Merrill broke the silence.

“Creators, he -”

“A long shot,” Hawke muttered, crouching down to prise the dagger from the elf’s hands. “An amateur with a blade had more chance of getting close than any number of patrols.”

“This is new, Hawke.” Aveline said. “They wanted you alive, but now they’re sending desperate Viddathari to kill you in some back alley?”

Above their heads, Varric spoke.

“We should argue about this somewhere safe. I don’t know if this was a practice run or some kind of dummy feint or what, but we shouldn’t hang about.”

That Hawke agreed with. He took a moment to check Addra’s pockets, hoping for some hint of what the Qunari were thinking, before rising and following Aveline out of the alleyway.

Back at the warehouse, Hawke handed the dagger over to the dwarf.

“Looks pretty normal to me.”

Varric considered the blade.

“Not even poisoned.” He said, shaking his head. “I wonder… The Ben Hassrath can do much, much better than this. What are they thinking?”

“That their raids aren’t working?” Aveline offered as Merrill sank into a chair, head buried in her hands. The former Captain of the City Guard, squeezed her shoulder. “All you had to do was let your guard down for a moment and Addra would have had his chance.”

Hawke grunted and ran his fingers through his hair.

“This is… good, right?” He said. “I mean, it’s not. But if the Qunari are willing to try and kill me any way they can, we must be infuriating them, at least.”

“I think that much was obvious from Darktown.” Aveline said with a frown. “They’re escalating.”

“Hawke,” Merrill said, despondently, “Nothing about this is good. I almost got you killed.”

“Merrill,” Hawke said gently, “I believed him - I suspect only Varric here would have sensed the truth. He was a good liar… or he was that torn, and hoped that killing me would save him somehow.”

That seemed to help the elf, a little.

“Can we return to the whole they’re trying to kill you thing briefly?” Varric said. “What changed? Every poster and bounty says alive.”

Hawke shrugged.
“I guess they can still make a statement with my corpse.” He said, more uneasy than he sounded. “Might be easier, actually.”

Dumar’s head was still mounted in Hightown, over the steps of the Keep, after all. Perhaps Hawke’s head would join it.

“Shit,” Varric said, shaking his head, “You can be the one to tell Fenris, Hawke. I’m too delicate for that.”

Hawke closed his eyes and groaned. That wasn’t going to be a fun conversation.

Chapter Text

He was making his way across one of the squares in Lowtown when Hawke spotted the bodies.

In the first week of the Qunari invasion, a handful of those who resisted were strung up as a warning to others - but mostly, the Qunari preferred to take prisoners. They were hostages to keep others in line, and if necessary, labourers broken by Qamek. It was rare, now, to see new bodies gracing the gallows. Those accused of murder, or similar violent crimes still met their fate at the end of a hangman’s noose, but that was in accordance with Marcher law, not Qunari. Any lesser crime, from thieving to public disturbance simply got you a thrashing and released - until you did it twice. Then you disappeared.

There were rumours of camps, set up on the coast, to hold prisoners. There wasn’t enough space in Kirkwall jails for everyone seen to be a threat to the Qunari order. Hawke wished he could risk getting out of the city - and back in - to see the truth of it for himself. Liberating a camp shouldn’t be too hard.

The difference with these bodies was that they wore robes.

Hawke hesitated, looking around. There had to be Viddathari watching from somewhere, even if there wasn’t a Qunari patrol in the area. Spotting nobody obvious, Hawke changed direction and walked towards the three bodies.

Circle mages - that much was clear from the robes alone. No one else wore that shade of dark blue. Two men and one woman. Hawke stared up at their bodies, feeling sick. None of the three had been alive when they’d been hung here - their necks were not broken, their faces didn’t show the tell-tale signs of a hanging. Instead, all three looked as if they’d been stabbed multiple times. It hadn’t been an execution, not in the traditional sense. They’d been caught escaping.

The Qunari had sewn their mouths shut.

Hawke backed away, the urge to vomit rising in his stomach. A flyer on the struts of the gallows caught his eye and he grabbed it, reading frantically.

For the crimes of -

Unharnessed magic
Defying Chantry law
Rebellion against the Antaam

Maker, they’d been trying to reach him. They’d escaped the Gallows and fled into the tunnels, and instead of making a bid for freedom, had tried to enter the city and find him. Hawke crumpled the parchment in his hands and stamped it into the mud of the street, looking around him for the trap.

Nothing. No one. The few people on the street were very carefully not looking at him - or the bodies.

He didn’t even know their names. He breathed out shakily, wishing that he could do something - anything for them. With the Chantry in ruins, the bodies would be left to rot unless the Templars intervened. Hawke doubted they would, for mages. Could he find Varric, work with him somehow to get the bodies down and cremated? If he could risk casting in the middle of the street…

Cursing under his breath, Hawke turned and walked away. He’d find out their names, at the very least. He’d find a way to honour them.

Merrill took one look at his face at the meeting point and wilted.

“You saw.”

“I saw.” Hawke said through gritted teeth, looking to Aveline. “What do we know?”

Aveline had as little as he did. She hadn’t seen the bodies - Donnic had. He was out, trying to find anyone who would risk cutting them down and setting up a pyre. When Varric arrived at The Sleepy Nug a little while later, he only had one name. Farron Aydair - the younger of the two men. A transfer to the Gallows from Ostwick only a year before.

“I can try and get a message to Carver,” the dwarf said, even as he shook his head, “But I don’t know what good it will do.”

Since Hawke had risked reaching out to Orsino only to be rebuffed, Carver had withdrawn. It wasn’t surprising. Carver’s superiors had made it clear that Hawke was a threat, and with no possible alliance between them, continued contact only put them both in danger. Hawke hadn’t even seen him out in the city. Meredith clearly did not trust the younger Hawke brother not to be a liability. They were probably both lucky that Carver was a good enough Templar that Meredith hadn’t sacrificed him to the Arishok to try and draw Hawke out into the open. Although, it may only be a matter of time.

Hawke pushed that thought away.

“Don’t worry, Varric.” He said heavily. “Shit, I just hope when word reaches Orsino he’ll start to see sense.”

He wouldn’t, of course. The three mages had taken the risk, and paid the price. Orsino would hold the others tighter in an attempt to save them from harm. Insanity, when the Qunari could break them all whenever they wished.

Fenris arrived - the last of their number. His jaw was clenched tightly.

“Hawke something’s happened - near the dock entrance to Dark Town.”

Hawke went to say he knew, but the Lowtown square wasn’t near the docks. He frowned.

“What? What did you see?”

If there were more dead mages…

“A dead Qunari patrol.” Fenris said. “But… staged. They were all hanging from the steps. I couldn’t get close but I think I saw signs of magic.”

Hawke stared at Fenris and then looked at the others.

“If it was the patrol that found and killed the mages…”

“... You know, they didn’t find Anders during the purge of Darktown.” Varric supplied.

“The Darktown entrance at the docks?” Aveline muttered. “It’s possible…”

If Anders had seen the attack - or heard about it after - and had taken matters into his own hands… Well, it was no different than what Hawke wanted to do. He scratched the back of his head, then looked to Varric.

“Could you…”

Varric groaned and patted Bianca.

“We’ll be back. Just stay put. If Anders has slaughtered a whole patrol the Qunari will be on a rampage.”

Hawke nodded and watched him head for the door. Fenris stepped aside, and for a moment, he looked as if he wanted to join Varric. Then he sighed and settled in one of the few remaining chairs. He fixed Hawke with a look.

“You mentioned dead mages.”

Hawke sighed and filled him in on the situation. Merrill offered a quiet prayer to the dead. The woman had been an elf. Fenris was scowling by the time Hawke was done.

“And you weren’t followed here?”

Shaking his head, Hawke had to push back the flare of irritation. Fenris was just worried about him, he reminded himself. They were all stressed and tired - and all it would take was one slip. It wasn’t that Fenris didn’t trust him, or thought he’d fucked up.

Maker, he was so tired if he was losing it with Fenris. He hadn’t slept properly since Addra’s fumbling attempt on his life. The Fade was becoming more and more dangerous. And of all of them, Fenris knew how much he was struggling.

He looked away from the elf and rubbed at his face.

“Three people.” He muttered. “Three fucking people who just wanted to fight back.”

“You are not responsible, Hawke.” Aveline said gently.

That was too much.

“Not helping.” He said, bluntly. Shit, he wanted to be out of the room. But there was nowhere to go. They couldn’t walk around the inn safely, and wandering Kirkwall would only get him caught. Instead he looked about the room, not meeting his friends' eyes.

He felt trapped - not literally, but close enough. There was a deck of cards on the table in the room, but he was so sick of whiling away the hours that way. He could drink, but getting drunk was risky, and when he was in this mood he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop.

When he looked up, Aveline was eyeing him cautiously. He made himself breathe.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, “I just …”

“It’s okay,” she said, “We’re all on edge.”

“It’s just so hard.” Merrill admitted, her voice breaking slightly.

Hawke looked at his friends.

“You could leave,” he said quietly, “Head north - to Starkhaven. Come back with Sebastian’s army.”

“No,” Fenris said, his tone offering no compromise, no quarter. “We will not leave you to this, Hawke.”

“You could come with us.” Merrill said, blinking rapidly.

He could. He could abandon the city and hope there was enough left to save by the time Sebastian was done. He could pray that the relic would be enough to appease the Qunari - that they wouldn’t look north the moment rumour placed him in Starkhaven.

He might as well have said he could fly.

“I’ll be fine.” He lied. “Just - a bad day. That’s all.”

Merrill hugged him and Hawke was so startled by the sudden armful of elf he let out a grunt. Then he tightened his arms around her.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” Merrill whispered, “You don’t have to shoulder the blame.”

Hawke blinked, fighting back tears.

“I know,” he said, “Thanks, Merrill.”

Aveline cleared her throat.

“We’re in this together, Hawke.”

Fenris stayed quiet, but his eyes were locked on Hawke. They’d talk - later, when everyone else was gone. Hawke hoped it didn’t become an argument. He didn’t think he’d had the strength for one.

Chapter Text

The Pride demon wore Leliana’s face.

It was crafty, just like her, but the deception was still obvious. Leliana had no time to handle Hawke’s battered ego - did not care what happened to him, as long as the Qunari were dealt with. This version of her soothed and flattered, muttering that he deserved better than living on the run, waiting to die like an animal. It was, somehow, even less effective than the rage demon that had worn Anders’ face. At least then the focus had been on vengeance, on making the Qunari pay in blood.

When it was clear Hawke wouldn't budge, the demon changed tact - offering strength and courage to attack the Keep. Not the brute force of rage, but a clever, strategic approach. Hawke walked away, out of the dream tavern that mimicked the burned out Hanged Man. The demons would not have him.

Still, when a desire demon approached, wearing Fenris’ face and little else, Hawke wanted to weep. He wouldn’t give in, but Maker, he wanted the long, luxurious days the creature promised - the occupation a distant, hazy memory. Almost as much as he wanted a way into the Keep, the Arishok dead at his feet, the city free.

Hawke woke alone with a gasp, body shuddering with tension. Despite the ache in his heart - and lower down, thanks to the bloody desire demon - he pinched the skin over his ribs to check that this was real, that he was safe from their influence.

In the dark, Varric mumbled something in his sleep and rolled over. Hawke let his head fall back onto the pillows, mentally running through one of the many mantras his father had taught him years ago for handling the aftermath of a hard night in the Fade. He relied on them more and more. That, and Fenris - and he couldn’t be there every night. Varric was only there because upon trying to cross the city earlier that night, he’d found the district cut off by the Qunari, who were out in force thanks to Anders’ retaliation over the dead mages.

It wasn’t entirely clear if the Qunari thought the dead patrol was Hawke and his friends, or the abomination, but it hardly mattered. Blood had answered blood, and once again, tensions were rising.

Hawke stared up at the ceiling, wishing he could sleep. He’d gotten used - as much as one could - to less, to snatching hours at odd times, to light sleeping and pushing through. But on nights like this, he needed his mind to work with him, not against him.

He was still awake when dawn broke, and a quiet knock on the door startled Varric from sleep.

Leliana’s voice came through the door.

“Hawke?”

Hawke rolled out of bed and moved to the door, drawing the bolt across. He cracked the door slightly, reaching for the Fade instinctively. Behind him, Varric already had Bianca in his hands, as if he hadn’t been snoring moments before.

Leliana stood out in the street, alone. Hawke let her in, eyeing the empty street.

“It’s early, Leliana. What’s wrong?”

The red-headed Orlesian gazed at Varric as he lowered the crossbow, a slight frown flickering over her face. She’d hoped to get him alone, Hawke realised.

“Two things,” she said, “Firstly - Zevran has made it into the city. Bring your friends to the Rose, and we can discuss how best to utilise his skills.”

Hawke blinked, something that felt a little like hope rising in his chest. Zevran. A Crow - or at least, a former one. If anyone could break into the Keep and kill the Arishok, it was him.

“Zevran?” He repeated, “Maker’s breath, Leliana, you’re a marvel.”

She smiled thinly.

“My second news - Empress Celene has agreed to hand over the relic. It is on its way.”

Hawke’s knees almost gave way. Good. That was good - wasn’t it?

“How long?” He asked.

Unspoken, with Varric there - how long before Hawke’s surrender was more valuable than his struggle? How quickly did they need to utilise Zevran’s skills before Leliana decided it wasn’t worth risking the life of someone she cared about, when she could appease the Arishok instead?

“A month,” Leliana said, “Give or take a couple of days.”

Hawke swallowed. Across the room, Varric spoke.

“You don’t seem thrilled about that, Hawke.”

His voice was cautious. The dwarf was far from an idiot, and knew a little about plots, plans and indeed, betrayal. It had been Varric, the night of the Qunari attack, who’d suggested getting Sebastian out of the Chantry. Without his expertise, Hawke doubted he’d have made it through that first awful week.

Hawke didn’t look at him.

“If the relic makes it to the city before we can kill the Arishok, the plan is to surrender.” He said quietly, “They’ll leave - if they have what they want.”

The relic, and Hawke. For a moment, nobody spoke. Then Varric gave a low whistle.

“So you sent Isabela off to Ostwick,” he supplied, “Clever. What are you going to do about Fenris?”

“Not tell him.” Hawke growled.

Varric muttered a curse under his breath.

“Andraste’s tits Hawke that’s… “ He trailed off, shaking his head. “A month, huh? We better move fast.”

Hawke snorted, finally turning his head to look at his best friend.

“Having a Crow will help.”

Varric eyed Leliana, before shaking his head.

“Maybe,” he said, sounding doubtful, “Shit, I hope you’re right.”

Hawke threw on his leathers swiftly as Varric grabbed his duster. With Leliana, they hurried out of the safe house.

The others were scattered across Lowtown, and it took a while to gather them up, to get word that they were needed at the Rose. Leliana didn’t wait for them, heading up to Hightown to get back to Zevran. Hawke told himself that he wasn’t walking into a trap - that if she’d decided his plans weren’t worth the risk, she wouldn’t have invited the whole team up.

Unless she planned to betray them all to the Arishok, of course. Hawke shoved that thought away. He had to trust her - for now.

At the Rose, a singularly handsome elf was perched on a table, dancing a sovereign between his fingers. Hawke paused at the sight of Zevran - former Crow, Hero of the Fifth Blight, and infamous flirt.

“Oh?” The elf said with a smile, eyes flicking from Hawke to Leliana. “You lied, Leliana. He’s quite handsome - in an unwashed, rugged, kind of way.”

Leliana rolled his eyes.

“Behave, Zevran.” She said, a small sympathetic smile on her lips for Hawke. “I did not invite you here for sex.”

The elf chuckled.
“This was a brothel, was it not?” He said, gesturing around. “We could have fun before the killing begins.”

Hawke was glad Fenris wasn’t there yet. It was early enough in the morning though that he wasn’t exactly in fine form himself.

“You can fuck the Arishok for all I care.” He said, trying to make it sound like a joke. “As long as he ends up dead.”

The elf’s smile gained a sharpness, a merest curl of his lip to reveal teeth.

“He will,” Zevran said, “I may not be a Crow, these days, but I do not fail.”

Varric snorted at Hawke’s side.
“You are Zevran Araini, who rather infamously failed to kill the Hero of Ferelden?”

Leliana’s lips twitched, but Zevran waved his hand rather casually.
“Yes, yes - and aren’t we all glad of it.” He said. “I spend my days now killing my former colleagues. When I am done, House Araini will no longer exist. But I have paused my personal vendetta to help out an old friend.”

The back door to the brothel opened and Fenris stepped in. Hawke watched as Zevran switched his gaze to the newcomer - and then very clearly licked his lips.

“Hello handsome. You must be Fenris. Leliana was accurate for you, at least.”

Fenris blinked, then raised an eyebrow.
“Accurate?”

“Don’t ask -” Hawke muttered, running his fingers through his hair. “Murder, Zevran. Should we plan an assassination rather than thinking with our libidos?”

Mostly for his own sanity, as his mind had helpfully reminded him of the desire demon in the Fade, and he was growing acutely aware of quite how handsome both elves were. Maker, he needed to stop that trail of thought, sharp. Varric smirked at Hawke, as if he knew what Hawke was thinking.

Zevran jumped down from the table, and feigned a yawn.

“If we must. Are we waiting on others?”

“A couple - but let’s start.” Leliana said, jumping in. “I have filled Zevran in on some details, Hawke.”

“Including, apparently, who is the most handsome,” Hawke said dryly.

Zevran laughed, and Leliana gave a small smirk.

“If you must know, I rated Donnic highest.”

Varric burst out laughing.
“Shit, don’t tell Aveline. She might be more possessive than Fenris.”

“And what does that mean, dwarf?” Fenris growled, still lingering by the door.

“It means all of you need to sit down and shut up,” Hawke groaned. “We’ve got a murder or two to plan.”

Chapter Text

They had a plan. It had taken half a day and two near escalations of violence thanks to Zevran’s inability to stop flirting, but they had a plan.

And really, when Fenris dragged Hawke into the safe house and pinned him to the door, growling about whore crows, Hawke could have thanked Zevran for his efforts because sweet Maker, the real thing was better than any desire demon.

Zevran had asked for two days to scope out the Viscount’s palace - and Aveline had offered up several secret passageways inside that weren’t widely known. They were, unfortunately, known to the Qunari. Still, a passageway was easier than the main entrance, and as well-guarded as they would be, it gave the Crow options.

If they couldn’t get the Arishok to leave the Keep, they would go to him. Or at least, some of them would. The others would trigger distractions across Hightown and Lowtown to try and keep the bulk of the Qunari forces out of the Keep. The main distraction, much to Leliana’s quiet disapproval, was Hawke setting fire to the Chantry.

The building was closed, the clerics either Qunari hostages or forced into hiding. But it was still a symbol of the city, of the hope that faith provided. And it was still the second biggest building in Hightown. The Qunari could not risk allowing it to burn - and the people of Kirkwall would never believe that it had been Hawke who did it. They’d blame their heretic rulers. Ideally, Hawke would be long gone before the fires spread too far. He had other chaos to sow across the city - and a more obvious stand to make, if necessary. Once the Qunari were spread thin, Hawke would sneak out of hiding and start the assault from the front of the Keep. As the Qunari left on guard focused on him, Zevran, Leliana and Varric would find the Arishok - unless he found Hawke first.

Like every plan Hawke had ever been involved in, it was messy, had its flaws - and fell apart the moment it began.

It wasn’t yet dawn when Hawke crept through Hightown towards the Chantry. A fair distance back, Varric kept watch to ensure he didn’t run into any trouble.

Getting into the Chantry turned out to be relatively easy - the problem came when Hawke was inside.

The Qunari had been rather thorough in their dismantling of the place. The great tapestries and hangings Hawke had been hoping to use as kindling were mostly gone, as were a fair few of the great wooden pews. The hangings made sense - the Qunari would struggle to remove the rather intimidating statue of Andraste, but the minor symbols of the faith seemed to have all gone, and he could only assume the wood of the pews was being repurposed into palisades somewhere in the city. But it left him with limited options - and more reliance on magic.

Hawke gritted his teeth, offered a half-hearted prayer to the Maker not to strike him down for what he was about to do, and set to work.

The carpet runners went up easily, as did the remaining pews and a room full of empty supply crates. The dormitories towards the back had been raided for their mattresses, but the empty frames caught. Hawke backed towards the main doors, drawing his shirt up over his nose and mouth to try and limit the smoke he was breathing in. Now that the fires were going, they were moving rapidly. But unless he found another, bigger source, they wouldn’t catch before dying out. He needed something more.

The bannisters started to smoulder and Hawke looked up, into the rafters. The building was mostly stone, but there, in some critical places, wooden beams helped support the roof. But reaching them would be more than calling heat and flame to his hands.

Well, he thought, as he pulled magic from the Fade - if he became part of the distraction, so be it.

Fire poured up into the cavernous ceiling, catching at the beams. Hawke hurried for the Chantry doors, trailing fire in his wake on every possible flammable surface. The doors themselves glowed orange at his touch as he slipped through.

Smoke was already climbing into the dawn sky.

Hawke hurried down the Chantry steps, looking left and right for a sign of anyone watching. Which was when the Smite slammed into him so hard he almost lost his footing.

There, rounding the corner from the direction of the Keep, were Templars. And not just any fucking Templars. Knight-Commander Meredith and a dozen retinue all reached for their weapons.

Hawke couldn’t breathe, could barely stumble the last few steps before sinking to his knees, world narrowing to the wrenching, aching loss in his bones. Shit. He managed to look up, eyes searching not for the Templars, but for Varric. Thirteen of them, and him all but defenceless. This wasn’t a fight he was about to win.

“Karras, Venta - search the area. He might not be alone.”

Hawke gritted his teeth and forced words from his mouth.

“Knight-Commander Meredith.” He said, his tongue feeling heavy with the pressure on his body. “What -”

He wanted to ask what she was doing there, up in Hightown at that time in the morning, but it was a waste of precious moments. With a retinue like that, she had to have been preparing to meet with the Arishok. Had they felt the burst of magic as he’d started the fires, or seen the smoke and come to investigate? It didn’t matter. They were here, and he was fucked.

He changed tact.

“- Please. We’re on the same side.”

Meredith’s mouth was a thin line as she stalked forwards towards him. She’d drawn her sword, ready to react. A powerless mage was never quite as powerless as they looked. Hawke couldn’t sense the Fade, but he knew if he went for the knives he carried at his hips the first thought in the Knight-Commander’s mind would not be the possibility of melee. He wondered if the Qunari demands that he was taken alive would outweigh the danger of blood magic in the eyes of a Templar.

“You offer commonality after burning the Chantry?” Meredith growled. And shit, yes, that probably wasn’t endearing him to her at all, at that moment. Hawke could hear the crackle of flames.

He tried to rise, to stagger away, but there was nowhere to go. The plan had been to hide out in Bartrand’s old manor, using the weakness of the Veil as a deterrent to anyone searching for the arsonist. But the manor was just another dead end. They’d capture him there, or here, it did not matter. He hoped, prayed, that Varric had managed to slip away.

The Smite intensified, drawing an instinctive hiss from Hawke as he thudded back to his knees, his grip on his staff white-knuckle. He suspected every fucking Templar in the plaza was stripping him of magic, not just the Commander.

“We - we both want the Arishok gone.”

Dead, ideally, but gone. But even as he said it, Hawke knew it would not work. He wondered if Meredith knew the Tome of Koslun was on its way to Orlais - that Hawke in chains would be the final piece of the puzzle to get the Qunari to leave voluntarily. Or if she thought that his value was as a hostage, to negotiate the freedom of others like the Grand Cleric.

Karras stepped back into the plaza and shook his head, and Hawke couldn’t help the relief that flooded through him. Varric had gotten away. Which meant the others would know soon enough. Small mercies.

He tried not to think about Fenris.

“Enough,” Meredith said, before starting to bark out orders - who to seize Hawke, who to secure the area around the burning Chantry, who to get back-up from the City Guard to try and control the fire.

Ser Karras smiled smugly as he grabbed Hawke’s staff, ripping it from his hands. Hawke went to growl, to protest that he wasn’t fighting back, damn it, when the butt of the weapon crashed into his jaw. It seemed the Templar’s didn’t care that he was complying.

He went, foolishly, for his knives, because if they weren’t going to be gentle he might as well go down fighting. Meredith snapped out a warning, and Karras brought the staff down against Hawke’s ribs. He felt the impact through his leathers, bone fracturing as pain radiated through his side. The little air he had rushed out of his lungs. A third blow, across his shoulders and Hawke pitched forwards. He could taste blood. Dangerous - dangerous for a mage.

He spat onto the street, and for a heartbeat, every Templar seemed to tense, waiting for the inevitable. Hawke was an apostate, after all - didn’t they all resort to this, in the end? Most didn’t even need this level of provocation, of desperation. Through the Smite, Hawke could feel something in the Fade watching him, waiting.

Hawke met Meredith’s eyes, tongue running over his teeth where Karras had struck him, checking to make sure he hadn’t lost any - yet. Then he gave a bloodied grin.

The fourth blow, across the back of his skull, sent him spiralling into unconsciousness.

Chapter Text

Hawke huddled in a prison cell, as far from the door as he could get, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Everything hurt. The collar at his throat pinched at his skin, tightened to the point of nearly suffocating him, although the awful severing sensation of being cut off from the Fade was the worst of all. His hands were tied behind his back, his fingers held in strange metallic linking cuffs that stopped all movement. When they weren’t interrogating him, they forced a leather bridle into his mouth, pinning his tongue down. He supposed he should be grateful they wanted him to talk, or they’d have cut out his tongue entirely and sewn his lips shut, but as silver linings went it was spectacularly bleak. All this, because he was a mage. Because he was dangerous, even captured.

The Arishok had thanked the Knight-Commander for bringing him in, and handed him straight to Viddasala - the Ben-Hassrath agent from Par Vollen who’d arrived with Rasaan and specialised in studying and stopping dangerous magic. Which included him.

Hawke wasn’t sure how long he’d been down in the cells, but it had to have been at least a couple of days.

He’d known, logically, that if he handed himself over as part of a surrender, his fate under the Qun would have been Qamek. A mindless, drooling labourer, torn from the Fade and broken as much as the Tranquil were broken by the Templars. Not a fate he would have picked by any stretch. But whilst he held secrets and plans in his mind, the Qunari did not resort to Qamek. He thought now that he’d beg for it before the end. That the oblivion of the Qunari poison would be a relief, after all this.

They’d started by questioning him about the Chantry - about what he and his friends had been planning. For hours, he’d held off talking, hoping and praying that the plan was continuing somehow. But as time had slipped away without a whisper of panic in the city, or unrest in the Keep itself, Hawke had started to break, the reality of his position sinking in. A captured rebel, likely abandoned. The plan, somewhere in the city, pivoted to holding out for a few weeks before the tome arrived.

The finger cuffs pressed into the sensitive, raw skin where fingernails had been removed, torn out at the root. The collar, in combination with the binding rod, forced storm magic through his body, leaving him twitching and thrashing against the restraints. His back was a mess of welts, bruises and cuts from various implements. They’d taken them to his feet and calves as well, until he couldn’t stand because of the pain, and then they’d made him walk, leaving blooded footprints on the floor. He was lucky, in a way, that they wanted him physically whole at the end of it to still serve a purpose under the Qun, or it would have been worse. At one point, Viddasala had been arguing with a different Ben-Hassrath about whether a labourer required teeth - or both eyes.

They’d been speaking Trade, knowing he could hear. He’d given them the rest of the plan to break into the Keep at that - and wept when they’d offered him a healing potion instead of pliers in his jaw.

There were small victories in his confessions. Details kept back, or obscured. Admission of things that didn’t matter, or that they had to already know. Yes, of course it had been him at the warehouse who’d freed Aveline and Donnic. Yes, of course they had joined him in defence of the city. But he didn’t mention Leliana or Zevran, and they never came up in the Viddasala’s questions. Carver stayed firmly on the periphery - a Templar, not an ally. Fenris was just another friend, another ally, the truth of him locked deep inside Hawke’s chest. They’d crack his bones and find out eventually, but until then? It was everything.

He’d been fed scraps, had water forced down his throat, and left to recover, even marginally. The blood dried on his skin, bruises spreading, and there was no comfortable position to try and rest in, even before the cold flagstones beneath him entered the conversation. In the dark, Hawke was almost glad for the restraints that made blood magic impossible, the way the collar dampened the impression of demons reaching for him through the Fade. Here, like this, he could understand the temptation that tested all mages. What would he give for freedom? For an end?

He thought of Fenris, and the furious hurt he’d feel if Hawke caved. He thought of Anders, or what remained of him, down in Darktown. And he held on, running through training mantras in his head to try and hold his control together.

He didn’t matter, not really. Either his friends managed to do what he hadn’t been able to, or the tome found its way back to Kirkwall and the matter was resolved less violently. But he’d been a symbol to the city, and he’d be damned if he ruined that by becoming a monster.

Footsteps outside his cell made him tense, heart hammering in his chest. It was about to begin again.

There was the click of a lock, and the door swung open. Two Qunari stepped into the room and crossed over to where Hawke was struggling to rise. One grabbed him by his hair, practically lifting him into the air. Hawke snarled with pain as his abused feet touched the ground. The Qunari holding him laughed and said something in Qunlat to his companion, who bent a little, set their shoulder to Hawke’s ribs and hauled him bodily off the floor, carrying him like he was nothing. Hawke didn’t struggle. It was less painful than being made to walk, and he was well past the point of worrying about being dignified in capture.

There was a dingy, awful room across the cells that Hawke had become painfully, intimately familiar with. The Qunari dropped him back to the floor from a height that had Hawke’s knee caps screaming in protest. He thought he might be sick from the sudden jarring shock. If he was, he would choke on it, the bridle still in his mouth. What a miserable, pathetic way to go.

Viddasala’s second-in-command stepped forwards, pulling at the buckles at the back of Hawke’s head, letting the damn muzzle loosen and fall away. Hawke spat out the acid and copper taste that had been filling his mouth. He turned his head away from the Qunari, having learnt his lesson painfully about defiance.

The Ben-Hassrath agent petted his hair soothingly, like he was a damn dog.

“Today,” the man said in calm, collected Trade. “You will tell us where your companions hide out. Where they meet. The secret places you have in the city.”

Hawke gritted his teeth and said nothing. No, he bloody wouldn’t.

Except he would - eventually. He could only hope that Varric and the others had already abandoned every safe house and location they used. Although he thought bleakly, they were running out of other places to hide.

The Ben-Hassrath drew a small knife from his belt, the blade barely longer than one of Hawke’s fingers. He laid the flat of it against Hawke’s cheekbone.

“Yesterday, we decided your eyes were valuable. Today? We have reconsidered. Talk, Hawke. Where do your friends gather in the city?”

Hawke tried to jerk back, but the hand that had been petting him tightened its grip, holding him still. One of the Qunari guards put a knee to Hawke’s back, pinning him. The knife in the Ben-Hassrath’s hands turned, the cutting edge sliding slowly down the skin of Hawke’s face, an almost painless slice. Almost.

“Lirene’s Fereldan Imports.” He said, breathing out in a rush. “The shop in Lowtown.”

The knife dug a little deeper and Hawke hissed.

“That is known.” The Ben-Hassrath said. “Another.”

No. He wouldn’t give the others - not even The Hanged Man, which should have been obvious if the Qunari knew even a little about the city and the people they’d conquered. Lirene’s had been the only one he was sure they knew about. Hawke gritted his teeth and felt the knife shift in his flesh, pressing against muscle.

“Fuck you.”

A sigh of feigned disappointment from the Ben-Hassrath agent, and the knife moved up, the tip of the blade pressed gently to the edge of Hawke’s lower eyelid.

“Last chance, basra.”

Hawke wondered, wildly, if he could shove his face forward and drive that blade deeper than the Qunari planned, if he could injure himself so badly that it would all be over. But the grip the spy had on his hair was like iron, and he didn’t know what would happen to the appeasement plan if he died, so instead he met the Qunari’s gaze as best he could.

“You won’t win,” he growled, “Kirkwall will -”

The blade pushed forwards and Hawke’s words ended in a scream.

Chapter Text

Hawke was more aware of the noise of the door opening than the sight of it.

He must have blacked out, for a moment, as when he came back to himself, he was collapsed onto the floor on his side, dropped like a discarded toy. Pain throbbed through his skull, radiating from the now empty socket on the right side as blood and tears and something more slick dripped down his face. He couldn’t blink properly. He groaned, mouth full of blood. He’d almost bitten clean through his tongue upon hitting the ground.

He heard the Qunari above him sigh.
“Messy.” He said, sounding as if he disapproved of his own work. “Should have threatened your balls. Humans always seem to break when faced with a knife down there.”

Hawke tried, almost instinctively, to curl up. As if that would help protect him - as if he wasn’t reacting exactly how the Quanri wanted. Which was when the creak of the door reached him through the pain.

“Viddathari,” came the torturer’s voice, “You were not-”

His voice cut off with a sound that might have been a death rattle. A shout of surprise, a flurry of thumps and the familiar sound of blades meeting flesh. Hawke’s breath caught in his throat and he tried, in vain, to open his eyes.

“Maker,” came an Orlesian voice, “His eyes…”

Leliana. She’d come for him - despite the fact that it was foolhardy, that it gained them nothing. If there was anyone he would have bet on risking a rescue, it wasn’t her. But here she was. That voice could be no one else.

Somehow, Hawke managed to croak out.

“Eye. The other is still there.”

Hands touching him, not gentle but not rough, either, and he was pulled upright onto bruised, aching knees. Fingers on his face, inspecting the damage.

“Zev, get Fenris, now.”

Hawke’s heart stuttered in his chest. Fenris was here. Stupidly, he didn’t want the elf to see him like this, so hurt and vulnerable. He tried, foolishly, to pull away, only for Leliana’s hands to steady him.

“Easy, Hawke. Let us help.”

Hawke gritted his teeth.
“Get the damn collar off.” He said. “There should be a control rod somewhere.”

If he could just reach the Fade, he wouldn’t be so damn helpless. But something pressed against his lips, and he smelt elfroot and embrium. A healing potion. He let Leliana tip his head back, letting the liquid slip down his throat, icy cold.

It wouldn’t bring his eye back. It wouldn’t be enough for the hurts in his knees, feet and back, the ruined nails on his fingers. But it might cushion the worst of it whilst they got him out.

Hawke heard a series of curses in Tevene, Fenris’ low rumbling voice and looked up and round, forcing one good eye open. Light shone blearily, and he had to close it again, disorientated.

“We don’t have long.”

Zevran’s voice, clipped of all amusing flirtation - deadly serious.

“Let them come,” Fenris growled, and Hawke wanted to sob when he felt the elf drop before him, fingers curling under the collar, close to Hawke’s throat. The blue-white light flickered behind Hawke’s eyelids and the Fade came rushing back in a gasp as the collar was torn open.

Hawke pitched forwards, magic tingling across his skin, and was caught by Fenris, his grip tight on Hawke’s shoulders.

“Cuffs,” Hawke muttered, wincing at the grip Fenris had on him. “The fingers… Maker’s Balls it’s going to hurt.”

Leliana was already on it, and Fenris’ fingers loosened on Hawke’s left shoulder, moving to wipe blood and other fluids from Hawke’s cheek.

“I’m sorry,” the elf whispered, his voice tight with anger, “I’m sorry we couldn’t get here sooner.”

Hawke went to speak, but his words became a whimper as one of the cuffs sprang free, tugging at the metal framework over the back of his palm, tugging at his fingers. Leliana muttered an apology and started easing the metal up and off his finger tips. Cramp seized his fingers and Hawke hissed between his teeth.

“I… I didn’t expect rescue at all.” He managed, and he could sense Fenris stiffen, his grip tightening on Hawke’s shoulder.

“I would have come alone, if necessary.”

Well, Hawke was grateful it hadn’t come to that at least, even if he still wasn’t sure why Leliana had agreed to help - why Zevran was in support. What had happened, out there in Kirkwall whilst he’d been breaking under the Qunari’s less than tender mercies?

His hands were free, and Fenris was pulling him up, which only served to remind Hawke of the agonies his feet had experienced. He leant heavily against the elf, trying to remember how to breathe.

“I’m okay,” he lied, as Fenris enquired, voice breaking with concern. “Just… shit. Might need a little help.”

A little. He could barely see out one eye, vision a mess, and he was struggling to stand. He gritted his teeth and tried to reach for the Fade. It felt like smoke, even without the collar. Pain made his concentration a fractured, scattered thing.

“I’ll take him.” Zevran said. “We may have need of your blade, no?”

Fenris growled a response that more than suggested the Crow keep his hands to himself. Hawke tried to pull away from the elf, to stand on his own two feet.

“We may need to reconsider,” Leliana said, “Hawke cannot possibly make it back to the entrance we used.”

They’d snuck their way through the Fortress, Hawke realised. They had to be disguised, somehow - but he was both half-naked and a mess.

He breathed out through his nose, trying to think. The cells were just past the city guard barracks, in a wing of the Keep that was basically a dead end. If they had to fight their way out…

There was noise from out in the hallway. They weren’t alone.

Zevran cursed in Antivan and then Hawke heard him moving. Fenris grabbed Hawke’s arm, throwing it over his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “We have to go.”

Hawke gritted his teeth and made himself take a step. Pain flared through him, but he kept focused on putting one foot in front of the other. He couldn’t do anything else. The helplessness gnawed at him. Through the Veil, he felt more than one demon press close, aware of a mage in pain, struggling, still fighting.

A woman’s voice reached him down the corridor and Hawke’s knees almost buckled.

“Bas Saarebas, you will not escape.”

Viddasala. Whether she’d come to see how her protege was doing extracting information out of Hawke, or she’d heard the disturbance hardly mattered - she was here. And she would not be alone. How many Qunari now stood between them and freedom?

Maker, his friends should never have come. They should have left him to die.

Fenris tensed.

“Can you touch the Fade?” He asked, very quietly, so quiet it was almost a whisper.

Hawke swallowed and nodded. Ahead of them, somewhere further up the corridor, Zevran was talking - trying to draw Viddasala’s attention.

“Use me,” Fenris said, his tone cautiously even as he shoved up the sleeve of his diguise. “The wall to your right will lead us out of the Keep.”

Hawke grasped his meaning immediately, when Fenris shifted his arm from over his shoulder to grip at the elf’s forearm instead, skin to skin. He could never make it through the Keep, and now that they were found, the others couldn’t either. They needed a new exit, and fast. And if there was one thing Hawke was good at, it was force magic. With the lyrium in Fenris’ veins - he could do it. He could get them out.

If he could hold the concentration, keep his pain at bay to save them all. Hawke gritted his teeth, opened himself to the Fade and reached for the lyrium Fenris offered.

They’d never done this. An idle conversation once with Anders had nearly ended up with Fenris putting his fist through the healer’s chest at the idea of being used so. It had taken days of sulking and a whole bottle of wine before Fenris explained that it had been one of his principle functions for Danarius - a walking power reservoir. Hawke had apologised for being an inconsiderate arse, and they’d never discussed it again. If they made it out of this, Hawke would need to do more than find a bottle of wine to apologise.

Hawke grasped at the Fade with everything he had, letting lyrium and magic pour through him. Beside him, he felt Fenris stiffen, a grunt of pain as Hawke took and took and took.

Viddasala was yelling a warning, but nothing mattered beyond the Fade, the magic crackling over Hawke’s skin and the wall of stone and granite separating them from the outside world. Hawke couldn’t see a damn thing, but he could feel - and he could feel rock splintering.

There was an almighty crack, followed by a rumble of aftershock under his feet. Several people cried out, and Hawke could hear more and more cracks forming all around them. Shit, had he overdone it?

Fenris snarled in pain and yelled.
“Run!”

Then Hawke was being half-dragged, half-carried into the light.

Chapter Text

Pumpkin wouldn’t leave Hawke alone.

He sat, slumped with the mabari pressed to his chest, her nose practically buried in his armpit as Leliana checked over the mass of injuries over Hawke’s back, searching for possible infection. Merrill was busy cutting up elfroot and embrium to form a paste to smear over the bruises, welts and cuts on his feet. His right eye - or the weeping mess that remained of it - was wrapped in gauze and careful stitches held his cheek together. Varric was out, somewhere in Kirkwall, trying to find someone with more healing knowledge than their ragtag group. A risk, but one that had to be taken. Hawke was free, but without Anders, he was far from out of the woods.

It had taken some firm commands for Pumpkin to stop trying to lick at Hawke’s face. But he couldn’t bring himself to send her away, clinging to her instead as Leliana drew needle and thread through the worst of the cuts.

Hawke kept tilting his head to the left, to where Fenris slept, pale and exhausted. The elf had clung on through Hawke using his lyrium, had managed to navigate a blind and broken Hawke through the ruins of the prison wing, and back to a safe house - eventually carrying him for those last few streets and alleyways. He’d collapsed himself not long after, and hadn't stirred since. Leliana assured Hawke he just needed rest, but Hawke couldn’t stop watching the elf breathe, terrified that he’d taken too much, that he’d broken something in Fenris just as the Qunari had broken him.

At least he could watch Fenris in his sleep. His left eye was unharmed, just struggling to adapt, and with the mess cleaned from his face, the light kept low, Hawke could see. For now. One of the reasons for finding a healer was to try and make sure no infection could spread and rob him of sight entirely.

Merrill finished cutting and crushing the plants and padded over, kneeling in front of Hawke. The bucket of water was turning a rather grim shade of pinkish-grey.

“Creators,” she muttered, “I’ll be back.”

Hawke swallowed and spoke, voice raw.

“Be safe.”

His fingers were bandaged and wrapped, but she squeezed his wrist before rising again and heading for the door, bucket in her arms. Then he and Leliana were alone.

Aveline and Donnic were out, watching the street from every direction. Not that it would do much good if the Qunari descended - Hawke and Fenris both were in no position to fight. Zevran had muttered about gathering news before disappearing out the door. There had been no word from him since.

Hawke kissed the top of Pumpkin’s head before whispering.

“Why did you come for me?”

Leliana’s fingers stilled.

“Your friends are very loyal.” She said, “Not one of them would accept that leaving you was an option. As it was, I could convince most of them to stay behind as too recognizable. I suppose we should be grateful Fenris would not listen to reason, no?”

Hawke swallowed around the lump in his throat, looking again at the elf. He was still dressed in the strange clothes of the Viddathari, most of his markings hidden. Thank the Maker for Fenris’ sheer stubborn will.

“I am grateful to all of you.” Hawke said, quietly.

Leliana squeezed his shoulder, before reaching for the long strip of gauze.

“Pumpkin’s going to have to move, I’m afraid.”

Hawke scratched the mabari’s ears and then nudged her to her feet.

“Go on,” he urged, “Go keep Fenris company.”

She eyed him balefully, before going to settle down next to the elf. Leliana started wrapping the gauze around Hawke’s abdomen, trying to offer some level of protection to the injuries across Hawke’s back and ribs.

“We need to rethink the plan should the tome arrive.” She said, her tone no nonsense. “Whether you could stomach it or not, your friends would not allow it.”

Hawke winced. He could in fact, not stomach it. Even if surrender was more likely to mean Qamek than further torture, the sheer idea of being at their mercy again made his chest tighten like a vice. But before he could bring himself to speak, Merrill reappeared with clean water, Zevran following her behind.

“He found me at the pump,” Merrill said cheerfully.

The side of Zevran’s face was bruised and he was limping, but he gave a charming smile.

“I come with good news,” he said as he sat himself on the one chair in the room. “It would appear that Hawke’s rather…extensive destruction of the wing of the Keep had unintended consequences. Viddasala is dead.”

Hawke jerked, looking up sharply, then hissed between his teeth at the tugging sensation down his back and shoulders. Merrill made a sound of sadness before she dragged a rather lumpy cushion under his heels and rinsed out a rag.

“How?” Hawke managed, looking at the Crow.

“I wasn’t certain,” Zevran said with a small smile, “Considering the roof collapsing over us, but I got a dagger in her before I made my escape. She bled out before the Qunari could pull her from the rubble. A joint effort, serah.”

Hawke wasn’t fussed about claiming the kill. Viddasala was dead. They were one step closer to the Qunari invasion crumbling - and the woman who’d orchestrated the worst of his suffering had not survived his escape. He went to speak when Merrill dabbed at his heels and a grunt of pain burst from him instead.

“Sorry, Hawke, this is going to hurt.”

No shit. Hawke reached for the bottle of Antivan brandy that had been acting as the best possible painkiller - and disinfectant - in the circumstances.

Leliana spoke.

“This is good news,” she said, rising from where she’d been kneeling and brushing off her clothes. “And you left quite the hole in the Keep, Hawke. It may be that reaching the Arishok is no longer improbable.”

Hawke looked at Fenris, still unconscious. It would be a while before either of them was up for a fight, let alone the kind of fight needed to storm the Keep. Weeks, perhaps. By which point, the Tome of Koslun would be in Leliana’s hands.

“They’ll be furious.” Hawke muttered. “Viddasala dead and me loose in the city again. They’ll come down hard.”

On what, was the question. Darktown was in ruins, the few people still down in the sewers more isolated and cut-off than ever. Lowtown was too big, but the Qunari could target specific districts if they thought Hawke and his friends would be there. But Hawke couldn’t help but worry that the Qunari would turn their focus on the Circle.

If they did… what would Hawke do? What could he do?

Merrill uttered a curse under her breath and looked to Leliana.

“I think one of these cuts has something stuck in it.”

It wouldn't be a surprise, Hawke thought numbly. He’d staggered out of the Keep on open wounds, over rubble and onto dirty streets. Leliana sighed and found a clean looking blanket, and the spare shirt that Varric had scrounged up. She helped him into the shirt and then gestured for him to lie on his front, on the blanket, with his knees bent, weight mostly in his elbows. His bruised knees complained, even with the blanket bunched up to try and offer a little padding. Hawke was more than a little aware of his soiled smallclothes, but at least the shirt offered a little more dignity than he’d had before.

“Take another drink, Hawke,” Leliana said, “You’re going to need it.”

Hawke did as instructed, and then Leliana took the remains of the bottle.

“Think sweet thoughts,” Zevran suggested, “Perhaps exactly how you’ll thank the angry elf once he’s conscious, hmm?”

Something cold and metallic pressed into the sole of his left foot, and Hawke couldn’t think of much at all beyond the sharp stab of pain. Tweezers? Something to pick the debris from the cuts. He breathed out through his nose, wishing that Fenris was awake and able to offer some level of comfort. He tried to clench his fists, only for his fingers to throb, forcing him to grind his teeth against the pain.

Merrill, bless her, patted his head and then rubbed at his shoulder, trying to soothe him.

“I’m sorry,” she said over and over.

Then it was over and Hawke managed to raise his head from where it had been hanging down.

“Andraste’s tits,” he muttered, “I don’t think there’s enough alcohol in Kirkwall to numb that.”

Zevran chuckled.
“I hear the elf’s master had quite the wine cellar at some time. Should I risk breaking in to liberate a few bottles?”

Hawke puffed out a sigh.
“We tried, in the early days. The bastards took the lot. Didn’t think the Qunari would have a taste for Tevinter wine, but there you go.”

There hadn’t been much left, but the last few bottles would have been a consolation prize, back then. Hawke turned his head to look at Fenris. It was testament to how exhausted the elf was that he hadn’t stirred during that. Hawke had not been able to suppress every noise despite his best intentions.

The elfroot paste was blissfully cold as it was smeared onto the soles of his feet and the backs of his calves.

“You’ll need to stay off your feet for a couple of days.” Leliana said. Hawke winced, and he slowly, cautiously, crumpled onto his side.

“I don’t think my hands and knees are up for crawling.”

Across the room, Zevran made an amused sound.
“It looks like our rebellious leader will be bedbound, for a little while. What a pity.”

Hawke groaned.
“You,” he said firmly, “Do not get to play nurse. Not if you want your heart to remain in your chest.”

Pumpkin gave a low growl of agreement, and sweet Maker, Hawke would take the mabari over the Crow any day.

Chapter Text

Varric found a healer in the form of a wizened old woman originally from Ostwick who’d spent most of her life delivering babies and offering hedge charms to the superstitious. Her hands were arthritic and she walked with a cane, but she took one look at Hawke’s injuries and did not bother to hide behind poultices and wise tales.

She was no Anders, but her magic served well enough, and her limited talent had probably kept her free in a city where being too good would have caused suspicion. As it was, she could keep infection at bay and help reform skin - and she had more herbs and healing supplies that she was willing to share. Her husband, she informed Leliana, had disappeared the night of the Qunari invasion and had not been seen since. Her two sons had been private guards for a merchant at the docks and neither had survived the initial assault. It left her a daughter in Tantervale and a grieving daughter-in-law, barely able to hold herself together for the baby in swaddling.

It was a bleakly common story, especially among those in Lowtown. The woman gave no name and disappeared back onto the streets without a word. Zevran followed her at a distance for a while to ensure she did not go running to the Qunari.

Fenris woke, briefly, and Hawke crawled into bed alongside him, mumbling apologies. The elf gripped Hawke’s hip like he never wanted to let go before exhaustion claimed him again.

Their friends drifted, the danger of being together finally outweighing their concern for Hawke’s health. Merrill went first, and slowly everyone followed, until it was just Pumpkin and Zevran left, the Crow keeping watch outside.

Hawke and Fenris slept like the dead, and when Hawke woke, it took a moment to orientate himself. Fenris kissed his forehead and reassured him that he was safe, that the Qunari did not have him.

He could stand, thanks to the healer, and that meant that after a scant breakfast, Zevran led them both to a new, safer location, scouted out by Varric whilst they slept. Twice, they had to duck into alleyways or backtrack sharply to avoid a Qunari patrol, taking to the rooftops at one point to double-back on themselves. By the end of it, Hawke was shaking with the exertion and was leaning against Fenris for support. But they found themselves in a new basement room on a near deserted street, further away from Hightown and the bulk of the Qunari. Hawke stumbled to the bed and fell asleep, Pumpkin curled up next to him.

That night, Varric came and played Diamondback with Fenris whilst Hawke unpeeled the dressings on his hands and used one of the tinctures the healer had provided to encourage healing on his nail beds. He needed to be able to fight - to grip a staff without pain.

They waited, with baited breath, for the Qunari revenge. Word reached them - from Varric and Zevran, mostly - of how the Templars were furious that the Qunari had not done more to save the Chantry, now little more than a burnt out shell. Other rumours swirled, including the persistent rumour that Hawke was dead, killed in the crush of the wing collapsing. Hawke tried to argue that he should be seen in public, should lead an attack on a patrol to prove that he was alive, and that he was still fighting. Leliana simply raised an eyebrow and in a startling display of speed, tripped him up and sent him crashing to the floor. It rather made the point that Hawke was not ready for a fight.

Revenge came eventually, in the form of mass arrests across Lowtown. Aveline and Donnic only just slipped out the back of one of the safehouses before the front door was forced open. Varric estimated fifty people were rounded up, on any pretence, and escorted down to the docks in one of the warehouses. If the Qunari could not find Hawke and his friends, they’d simply retaliate against others, until the public turned against them.

Fenris wanted to storm the warehouse, kill the guards and free the prisoners - as they’d managed with Aveline, weeks ago. But it was different now, and even with Hawke slowly recovering, the Qunari would be waiting.

When the first prisoners came back though, faces blank and movement shambolic, hunched, slow, Hawke thought he’d be sick from where he watched on a rooftop. It had to be Qamek. Maker, the Qunari were burning the minds out of innocent people to try and scare the rest of the population. He made himself watch as people on the street drew back in horror from old friends and former neighbours. Then he slipped off the roof and into the basement.

Leliana and Zevran were not present, busy with their own schemes. Donnic was also out, as the least recognisable member of the group, trying to buy supplies. There had been a brief window where the Qunari had lowered the chains over the harbour. Two more dreadnoughts had arrived, but with them had been a merchant vessel from Rivain. Starvation was still a threat, but it was not an inevitability - for now.

Everyone else was at the safehouse, ready to talk.

Hawke sighed and shakily ran his fingers through his hair. A week had passed since Fenris and the others had snatched him from the cells in the Keep, and he was physically on the mend. His vision was adjusting slowly, and he was getting used to the change in depth perception, the limited field of vision. Everything else would take much, much longer. But Kirkwall didn’t have much longer.

“The Tome of Koslun is on its way from Orlais.” He said. “Leliana and I had a back-up plan, if it arrived before we were able to kill the Arishok.”

Varric snorted and muttered something under his breath. Fenris, leaning against the wall, had his jaw set. They hadn’t talked about it. Hawke hadn’t been able to find the words. He needed to find them now.

“They are… unlikely to accept the tome without consequences for those they deem to be at fault for this war.” He said. “I sent Isabela away for her own safety. The plan was that I would surrender myself up alongside the Tome.”

Fenris jerked. Merrill covered her mouth, the gasp escaping her anyway. Hawke made himself smile, the scarring on his face pulling at the movement.

“Needless to say,” he said, “That is no longer an option.”

Oh, the Qunari would want him more now than ever - to answer for the Viddasala and the escape. But he would not betray his friends by capitulating after everything they had risked. And he could not bring himself to face their punishments again.

Aveline spoke.

“It should never have been an option, Hawke.”

Hawke pursed his lips. He very specifically did not look at Fenris.

“The long-term plan still sits with Sebastian and Starkhaven.” He said, trying to keep his voice measured and relaxed. “The plan to surrender was only ever a back-up - a way to cut this misery short.”

“At what cost?” Fenris snapped, unable to contain himself. Hawke flinched.

“A cost I was willing to pay.” He said, before amending. “Was. Not anymore. I want the Arishok dead, now more than ever.”

Varric spoke up, trying to steer them to the conversation at hand.

“Which is all fine and well Hawke, but how do we do it? The Tome means shit if they won’t accept it and go. We need to kill the bastard.”

Fenris though, wouldn’t be guided. He pushed away from the wall and stalked forwards, towards Hawke, and Maker, he should have said something before. He didn’t want to have this argument in front of his friends - didn’t want to see the pain and fury on Fenris’ face at the idea that Hawke would have surrendered.

“And what about us?” Fenris demanded, in Hawke’s face. “What about those you would have left behind? Did Isabela know, when you sent her away, what you planned to do?”

Hawke closed his eyes, the eyelid under the hastily made patch pulling taut at the instinctive movement. His silence was answer enough. Somewhere in the room, Aveline cursed.

“Hawke…” She said, her voice tight with anger. “Maker, she would not have forgiven you.”

It wasn’t Isabela’s forgiveness Hawke needed - it was Fenris’. But no, that was wrong too. He’d wronged them all by planning this, by betraying their confidence and their rebellion. It had been the right thing to do - for Kirkwall - but the wrong thing for those who cared for him.

Hawke swallowed and opened his one good eye, meeting Fenris’ furious gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I thought - I wanted this to be over, one way or another. And I’m just one man.”

Something passed across Fenris’ face, and he glared at Hawke.

“Not to me.” He growled, before stepping past Hawke and moving to the door. Hawke flinched, but did not try to stop him. The door slamming echoed in his ears as the elf walked out, leaving Hawke’s heart breaking.

He made himself breathe out, aware of the others' eyes on him - their judgement and their own anger. Their own hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, before adjusting the edge of his eyepatch. “Varric… Varric is right. We need a plan.”

A plan. He needed something to cling to, if it wasn’t going to be Fenris.

Chapter Text

In the dying twilight of the day, Hawke moved out of the basement and headed for the roof, where he’d watched the Qamek broken prisoners earlier that day.

They had a plan, of sorts. It relied on a whole lot of luck, not least in the first stages. When the Qunari had escalated their execution of the mages for escaping the Gallows, Justice had struck back. It seemed impossible that the destruction of fifty minds would go unanswered - especially with so many Qunari and Templar patrols around, still searching for Hawke.

So, wait for Justice to meter out some level of vengeance. Descend on the scene with Hawke leading, killing any Qunari that might have come to investigate - and hope it was enough to draw the Arishok out. Zevran and Leliana would be on the roofs, ready to take an opening. If it failed - if the Arishok remained in hiding - they’d retreat and rethink. The worst case scenario, a lot more Qunari would be dead.

No one was happy about Hawke being the lead, and Fenris didn’t even know yet. He hadn’t returned during the conversation. But there was only one person, apart from perhaps Anders himself, that might make the Arishok throw caution to the wind.

The heat of the basement had been sweltering, and Hawke hoped to take a moment outside, somewhere relatively safe. The safehouses weren’t cells - not by any bloody stretch - but Hawke craved the breeze, needed to feel the air around him.

He hadn’t thought that Fenris might not have gone too far.

The elf was squatting at the edge of the roof, looking out over the streets. On watch, Hawke realised, with a gut wrenching twist. Even hurt, even furious, he’d chosen to stay close to protect Hawke.

“Fenris…”

The elf had to have heard him scramble up the ladder. He hadn’t exactly been trying to be quiet. But he didn’t turn around.

For a moment, Hawke considered heading back down to the basement - now empty of his friends - and just letting the elf brood. But then he moved closer and sat down beside him.

“I’m sorry.”

The elf merely grunted, and Hawke breathed out, before trying again.

“I should have told you.”

Finally, Fenris looked at him, tilting his head, eyes flashing.

“It should never have been an option.”

Hawke swallowed and looked out over Kirkwall.

“So many people have died, Fenris.” He said quietly, “And so many more are at risk. I thought… if I could end it, it would have been worth it.”

Fenris looked away again, over the empty street. Curfew had begun a little while ago, and no one moved below. He scowled down at the boarded up shops and abandoned market stalls.

“And if I had volunteered?” He asked, “Would you have let me go?”

Hawke’s chest tightened, painfully, at the idea of Fenris submitting to the Arishok. His hand went, instinctively, to touch the elf, before he managed to stop himself. Fenris did not appreciate unwanted physical touch, and Maker, Hawke didn’t know if he’d be allowed right then. He lowered his hand.

“That’s not - it’s not … Shit, Fen. No, alright? I would have moved the fucking Fade to stop that from happening.”

And that… probably wasn’t something he should admit to an elf with more magical hang-ups than the Templar Order. Even so, Fenris looked more frustrated than anything else.

“But you expected me to accept it.” He said slowly, his voice almost a growl as he fought to keep quiet. “You expected me to let them take you.”

Hawke flinched and dropped his gaze.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, “I just didn’t know what else to do. I hate this, Fenris. It feels like my fault, and …”

Fenris had reached out, slamming his hand over Hawke’s mouth, and Hawke realised his voice had been rising - that they were out in the open air. He clamped his mouth shut, breathing through his nose. Despite himself, he leant into the elf’s hand, relieved for even that little bit of contact.

Slowly, Fenris drew his hand away and then, after glancing up and down the street, pointed to the ladder. Hawke nodded miserably and followed the elf back down into the basement.

The moment he was inside, the hastily installed latch drawn across, Fenris turned to him and crowded Hawke against the wall.

“Did you attack the city?” He asked, growling.

Hawke winched, knowing what Fenris was getting at. He shook his head.

“No, but -”

Fenris leant one elbow against the wall near Hawke’s head.

“Did you know the relic was fake?” He asked. “That Meredith would capitulate, rather than fight? That they’d planned this for months?”

“Alright,” Hawke snapped back, frayed and tried, “You’ve made your point. I’m an idiot, and a fool, and …”

The words caught in his throat when Fenris leant in and kissed him to shut him up. Hawke choked for a moment, and then chased the kiss, desperation rising inside him. Fenris had a grip on the front of his shirt, the material clutched in his fist, his leg between Hawke’s thighs and Maker, it had been so damn long.

When Fenris pulled away, his eyes seemed to burn.

“Do not insult me, Hawke, by insulting yourself. By blaming yourself for this.”

Hawke didn’t know what to say, couldn’t bring himself to speak in case he kept digging when all he wanted was Fenris on his mouth again.

“Please,” he whispered, “I’m so - I’m so tired, Fenris. Can’t we just…”

He trailed off helplessly, and something softened in Fenris’ furious gaze. He reached out and ran his fingers down the scar on Hawke’s face, the edge of his eyepatch.

“Come here,” he said, more gently than Hawke deserved, “I’ve got you.”

Hawke practically stumbled into Fenris’ arms, relief crashing through him. He buried his head against the elf’s shoulder, inhaling the smell of lyrium and leather. Fenris’ hands roamed gently down Hawke’s back, avoiding the few remaining half-healed scars, until he reached Hawke’s backside. Then he bent his knees, just a little, and lifted Hawke up, prompting him to wrap his legs around the elf’s hips. Maker, it was unbelievable that the elf could do that with such ease. Hawke felt the rush of blood to his cock at the simple display of strength. He buried his head a little deeper against Fenris’ shoulder.

The bed in the basement was little more than straw, the blankets old and thin. It could have been a bed in a palace in that moment as Fenris lay Hawke down, kissing him gently, hands already going to pull up his shirt.

In the few moments they’d been able to snatch together since continuing their relationship, practicality had nearly always won out. Clothes remained on, weapons nearby, half a mind on the door, or the window, or the escape route. Not this time. Fenris stripped Hawke naked, finding every new scar and hurt that he could and layering kisses upon his skin, turning him onto his stomach to get access to the vast expanse on Hawke’s back.

Hawke wasn’t sure when he started crying, was only aware of it because Fenris paused in his ministrations to check that he was okay, that he didn’t want to stop.

“F-Fenris, if you stop now, I will set you on fire.”

The elf snorted, and dipped his head back, licking a line up one of the whip scars that ran across Hawke’s ribs, making him writhe. At the same time, he ran a hand up the inside of Hawke’s thighs, nails scraping against the skin.

A pillow went under Hawke’s hips, angling him up, and Fenris set to work opening him open as Hawke used his forearm to swallow the desperate, broken sounds he was making. Fenris whispered a near constant stream of gentle, encouraging words, telling him he was safe, that he was incredible, that he was the bravest damn man Fenris had ever known.

When Fenris pushed in, Hawke had to remember how to breathe, how to hold his grip on the edges of his magic. Then one of Fenris’ hands buried into his hair, the other coming to rest near Hawke’s shoulder as he started to move.

Hawke shook apart, untouched apart from the friction of the pillow and his own stomach, and Fenris groaned, pulling his hips up to change the angle and taking and taking and taking until he too spilled over with a grunt. Hawke collapsed back down onto the bed, body shaking, as Fenris kissed his way down his spine.

“I love you, Hawke.” He said quietly, his voice husky.

Hawke closed his eyes, tears threatening to start again. He did not deserve this elf. Fenris seemed to sense the negative, guilt-ridden thought and bit down, gently, on Hawke’s shoulder.

“I love you, Fenris.” Hawke whispered.

There was no water in the basement, so Fenris sacrificed Hawke’s smalls and a waterskin to clean up the mess before finding his leggings and Hawke’s trousers. When he settled back down, pulling Hawke into his arms, he kissed the man’s forehead before muttering.

“Sleep. I’ve got you.”

Hawke tightened his grip on the elf, kissed his cheek, and then succumbed to sleep, the Fade rushing up to greet him like an old friend.

Chapter Text

The explosion was big enough that Lowtown rocked with it, the basement door rattling as the shockwave threatened the city.

Hawke woke, heart in his mouth, blind panic clawing at his throat. Fenris rolled from the bed, lyrium surging. In the blue-white light of the elf’s veins, Hawke saw the door hold - that they were alone, and whatever had happened, it wasn’t the Qunari coming for him. He forced himself to breathe, air rushing into his lungs too fast, too sharp, too -

Fenris’ hand found his and squeezed hard.

“I’m here,” he said quietly, eyes still fixed on the door. “Breathe, Hawke.”

It felt like his heart was trying to burst from his chest, but Hawke closed his eyes and with gritted teeth, hand gripped so hard around Fenris’ that he could feel the lyrium under the elf’s skin, he pulled himself together. Whatever had happened, he was safe - or at least as safe as he could be. Which wasn’t a particularly helpful trail of thought, in the circumstances.

Still fighting for breath, Hawke stumbled to the basement door, half-dressed and without his staff. Foolish, foolish.

Sticking his head out, Hawke smelt something strange in the air - acrid smoke and something…

“Gaatlok.” He said, mouth dry. “Oh shit.”

He shut the door again, looking around wildly. Clothes. He had to find out what was happening. Fenris shoved his shirt at him, already in his leggings. Hawke threw the shirt over his head and found the hodge-podge of scrap armour and cast-offs they’d been able to pull together in the wake of his escape from the Keep. Staff in hand, he hurried back outside to find Fenris already climbing up the ladder to the roof.

Down at the docks, one of the Qunari dreadnaughts was a twisted shell of smouldering metal, fire and smoke billowing even on the water. A second seemed to have torn itself apart entirely, part of the hull now among the ruins of one of the warehouses. A third seemed to be firing at the docks themselves, cannon fire obviously through the flashes in the smoke. Hawke thought his ears might still be ringing from the explosion.

It could only be one thing.

“Anders,” Hawke whispered, “This… This was Justice. It has to be.”

Which meant he had to get down there. There was no way the Arishok and the Qunari would sit idly by as the abomination destroyed their ships. If Anders was still alive - with an explosion that size, it was possible he’d been caught in the blast.

Fenris cursed softly in tevene.

“You’re not ready.”

Hawke managed a weak laugh.

“I don’t think I’m ever going to be ready, Fen.” He said, before hurrying back towards the ladder. How long would it take for the Qunari to marshall, to march down and take back control of the docks?

They’d agreed a meeting point the day before, although it was now a little too close to the action for Hawke’s liking. Still, they should beat the Qunari there. And at least this way, Fenris didn’t exactly have time to argue against the plan any more than he already had.

Hawke adjusted his eyepatch as Fenris ducked back into the basement to grab his greatsword. Maker, he wasn’t ready. He could stand on his feet, but he hadn’t fought since the escape. He didn’t know if he could adjust to the limited vision, if the injuries half-healed across his body would stay closed. He clenched his fist, wincing a little at the sensitive beds of his nails. It didn’t matter. The fight was here, whether he was ready or not.

The others were already waiting at the meeting point - and Hawke was surprised to find Leliana and Zevran with them. Pumpkin leapt up at Hawke, demanding ear scratches. It was such a small, mundane thing, and it made his heart skip a beat.

Varric looked as if he hadn’t slept at all.

“Andraste’s tits,” he said, “I know we wanted Justice to make his presence known but…”

Hawke felt a little as if he were on the verge of hysterics - of utterly losing it, finally. All those months of hiding, picking off patrols, making a nuisance of himself - in all that time, he’d never managed anything quite so damaging as taking out two dreadnaughts. Shit, this was it. The Qunari wouldn’t let this lie. If they didn’t manage to kill the Arishok now, what would he do? Would he raze Lowtown first, or head for the Gallows? Either way, the war was here - finally, out in the open. And they had no back-up, no Starkhaven allies or Templar backing.

Fenris hand gripped Hawke’s shoulder, steadying him. Hawke glanced at Leliana.

“Are you joining us, then?”

The Orlesian woman nodded, her eyes tight. She had a bow on her back and two daggers at her hips.

“It would seem Anders had forced our hand.” She said, “We must end this, Hawke.”

Hawke nodded, and then looked at his friends. So few of them left.

“Come on,” he said, unable to find the words for a rousing speech, no longer the kind of man who could make a flippant joke, “Kirkwall needs us.”

Aveline and Donnic actually saluted. Then they were all heading down towards the docks, keeping an eye for Templars or Qunari. At least, Hawke thought numbly, the fact half the docks were on fire would mean the Order had to come through the tunnels, and not across the bay. Although the idea of fighting the Qunari with his back to those flames - and the remaining dreadnought - wasn’t exactly comfortable.

There were more people in the street now - Lowtowners dazed by the explosion and some looking scared. But Hawke spotted more than one citizen with an improvised weapon in hand, parents hustling children out of sight even as they clutched at broom handles and kitchen knives. Smoke hung heavy in the air.

A whisper started, and it made Hawke’s feet grow heavy.

Hawke. He’s here. He’s alive.

Varric eyed him sharply. Hawke shook his head, just a fraction, begging the dwarf with his eyes not to speak, not to drag the people of Lowtown into the fight. But what right did he have to ask them not to get involved - not to fight for their city, their families?

When the dwarf spoke, his voice carried, even as his tone sounded even, casual - as if they were headed out on a stroll, not a last, desperate attempt to save the city.

“It’s a good morning to end the Qunari occupation,” he said, “Protect your homes, citizens - protect your neighbours. They will not win.”

Someone actually cheered. Hawke gripped his staff a little tighter. He should say something. Anything.

But his silence seemed to go down just as well. Several citizens even started following them, a small trickle that became larger and larger as they reached the stairs down to the docks. A mob, Hawke realised with a sickening twist - a mob at his command. He paused, eyes stinging slightly from the smoke.

“They cannot win.” He said, finally, “This has gone on long enough.”

Below them, down the steps and almost at the gates of the old compound, a handful of Qunari early on the scene seemed to be fighting several Kirkwallian citizens. Hawke spotted a flash of blue and a jet of ice erupted near one of the Qunari. Justice - still alive, still fighting. The others had to be Darktown residents, tired of clinging to the margins. They were being slaughtered.

Hawke clutched his staff and called to the Fade, sending a wave of force magic down the steps, towards the Qunari, sending them flying. And then there was a roar from the citizens of Lowtown that had followed him, and they were running down the steps, weapons raised. Aveline and Donnic were at the front of the charge.

Next to him, Fenris touched Hawke’s elbow. There had been no time. Hawke wished they could have had a dozen evenings like the night before, and a dozen more on top of that. Instead, he got the gentle squeeze of Fenris’ fingers through the gauntlet, and then the elf was drawing his weapon and following the mob down, towards the Qunari patrol.

Hawke didn’t have to do much. Not with Leliana and Varric standing beside him, bows ready. Not with Zevran, and Merrill. Not with nearly a hundred supporters ready to kill any Qunari they came across. The patrol never stood a chance. Hawke hurried down the stairs, eyes searching for Anders. He had to be here. That ice spell…

Justice stepped from the smouldering, smoking ruins of a warehouse, eyes shining blue, skin rippling with the Fade. There was blood all over his robes, but he seemed not to notice. Several of the citizens screamed in panic and almost turned weapons on him when a Qunari warhorn blasted over the docks and Hawke looked back up and round to find the Arishok at the head of a whole damn legion.

The fight for Kirkwall was finally here.

Hawke took a step forward, looking up at the Qunari leader. Somehow, he managed a grin.

“Arishok. Thanks for coming - it makes it so much easier to kill you.”

Chapter Text

They were outnumbered two to one, and every Qunari was a trained warrior.

Hawke felt the shift in the Fade that warned of a Saarebas moments before lightning cracked down around him. He dodged aside, yelling a warning, and hurled fire in the rough direction of the chained and collared mage. Nearby, Hawke heard Justice rumble in fury about slavery. But the bolts of lightning had done its work, leaving the smoking bodies of those who’d followed Hawke to the docks, willing to die for their freedom. Four dead, just like that. Hawke snarled and brought his staff round, sending a wave of force magic at the nearest Qunari warriors, sending them staggering back.

Zevran was suddenly there, dancing between the Karashok, blades flashing. Two of them dropped as Aveline charged in, weight behind her shield as she brought another crashing to the floor. And then Hawke was dragged back into the fight, a barrier sliding up between him and the Sten that was pressing the advantage.

Across the docks, the Arishok barked an order in qunlat, and the only words Hawke understood were Bas Saarebas. And then, in Trade.

“Hawke is mine.”

Several of the Qunari around him backed off, moving instead towards Anders, still entirely under Justice’s control. Hawke could smell ozone and the Fade this close to the abomination. A spear, thrown from a distance, nearly caught Merrill by surprise, and Hawke felt his stomach twist.

They were targeting his mage allies - the bas saarebas.

A good dozen Qunari charged towards Justice and Hawke tried to intervene, to lay a fire mine down in their path, but too many of Kirkwall’s citizens rushed to meet them. It was a killing field. Justice roared his displeasure at such unnecessary death.

Then Hawke looked round, just in time to see the Arishok striding before him, his blades drawn and ready for blood.

For a heartbeat, Hawke simply stood there, momentarily frozen. The last time he’d seen the Arishok he’d been on his knees, still reeling from his capture. The man’s hands had sealed the collar around his throat as he’d struggled. Hawke could almost feel the damn thing again.

There would be no capture this time - just his lifeless body crumpled at the Qunari leader’s feet, the rebellion snuffed out. Hawke gritted his teeth and sent a bolt of magic towards the man. He watched, heart sinking, as he turned it aside on his blades. Trained, as all Qunari would be, to fight mages.

Hawke heard Justice snarling behind him.

This cannot stand - Kirkwall must be free.

He readied his stance, gripped his staff and reached for the Fade again.

The Arishok charged, moving faster than Hawke would have thought possible for a creature of his size. The leader’s blades flashed, and Hawke threw himself aside, using Force magic to try and knock the Qunari off-balance. The Arishok adjusted, rapidly, and turned back. Hawke called on the fire in his blood and sent a gout of flame at his attacker. The man dodged, just, and thrust at Hawke’s ribs. Hawke scuttled back, uttering a prayer of thanks to the old lady who’d healed the worst of his wounds. He’d be dead already without her.

A roar of unadulterated anger from Justice, followed by a sound of pain. Shit, Hawke had to win. He had to save his friends.

They exchanged attacks, Hawke backing up and up with every strike and thrust, his staff used more as a polearm than a conduit for magic. He managed to get off a blast of telekinetic force, but the Arishok recovered quickly before Hawke could take advantage. Already, tiredness was threatening Hawke’s body - his mana draining, his physical strength nowhere near where it needed to be. If the fight dragged on, he would die. Cursing, Hawke went on the counter attack, hurling bolts of fire at the Arishok.

One landed on the man’s chest, meeting Vitaar and grey skin. The Arishok bellowed in fury and pain. But the strange paint-based alchemy the Qunari used absorbed some of the fire, turning a scorching gut wound into a glancing blow. Hawke danced back, panting.

It took Hawke a moment to realise that Justice’s ranting had cut off, that he hadn’t caught sight of magic that wasn’t his own since the duel had begun. Shit, shit, shit. He didn’t dare look around, to see what was happening.

A crossbow bolt - thank the Maker for Varric - glanced off the Arishok’s pauldrons, and the Qunari let out a low growl of frustration as he stalked towards Hawke.

Breathing hard, Hawke swung his staff forwards, a fist of magic coalescing before him and striking at the Arishok. It barely slowed him down. Behind Hawke, he was running out of dry land - a few paces away, the harbour waters beckoned.

He launched another mote of fire at the Arishok and tried to dart right, away from the water, and the Arishok’s dagger thrust forward to meet him. It didn’t take the sight of the blade for Hawke to know he’d misjudged it.

He twisted, trying to avoid the blade, but it tore through his side and Hawke cried out, stumbling. Fuck, that hurt. He didn’t need to look down to know it was bad.

One hand instinctively went to his side and met wet, warm blood. And then the Arishok was bearing down on him, the other blade aiming for his chest.

Hawke got the barrier up, just in time, turning the blade aside even as he struggled to breathe through the pain. He was out of time, and out of luck - he needed to end this, now.

Fire hadn’t worked, the Vitaar absorbing the worst of the elements. And force magic had seemed mostly an irritant. But he had to try.

Pulling everything he could to him, Hawke clung to the Fade even as his barrier threatened to blink out entirely. The Arishok darted forwards, blade looking to impale Hawke, and Hawke managed, somehow, to unleash the magic building up in him, twisting the forces in both of their bodies to slow their movements to a crawl.

He had heartbeats - but slowed heartbeats. The blade was edging forwards, and Hawke turned aside, letting the dagger go past him. Then he brought the blade of his own staff up, into the Arishok’s ribs, aiming for the space between the Vitaar. At the same time, he let the magic drop. The gravity sapping at his limbs dissolved, and the sudden change in resistance drove his staff deep - deeper than he could have managed alone.

The Arishok grunted in surprise, momentum driving himself forwards onto the blade. The staff ripped from Hawke’s hands entirely. Hawke himself managed to take two shaky steps back before sinking to his knees, hands going to his torn-open side. Maker, he was so tired, a bone-deep ache that told him that he’d put too much of himself into that last piece of magic. The battle around him seemed distant now. The only thing he could hear was the blood pounding in his ears, the hammering of his own heart as his body bled out between his fingers.

He watched, not quite able to believe it, as the Arishok pitched forwards and fell to the floor, Hawke’s staff still buried between his ribs.

For a moment, nothing happened. The battle raged on around them. And then one by one, the Qunari started to throw down their weapons and raise their hands in surrender. Their leader - and the other representatives of the Triumvarte - were dead. It was over. Somehow, despite everything, Kirkwall had won. Hawke had won.

“Hawke!”

Hawke blinked, and tried to look up and round, to find the source of that desperate, urgent call. Then Fenris was there, kneeling down beside him, face marked with panic. There was blood on his gauntlets and his greatsword was missing.

He tried to speak, to say it was okay, but words wouldn’t come out. His vision was spinning slightly. Varric came into view, holding something out in his hands.

“Drink, Hawke. Quickly.”

One of their last healing potions. Hawke tried to shake his head, to argue that Anders would need it, or Merrill - and shit, what had happened to them, why had they stopped fighting - but then the flask was being pressed against his lips and he swallowed automatically, instinctively. He almost choked all the same, Fenris too eager to tip the flask up, his hand cradling the back of Hawke’s head.

Another replaced it, which was when Hawke knew it was bad. He slumped forwards when it was done, practically falling into Fenris’ waiting arms.

“You did it,” the elf said hoarsely, “You did it, Hawke.”

Hawke closed his eyes, the world still threatening to fall into oblivion. At what cost? His side still burned in agony.

“Does anyone have any more healing potions?”

That was Varric, a rising panic in his voice. And there - Zevran, offering one over. It tasted different to the ones Hawke and the others had made. Stronger, fresher ingredients.

Three healing potions, and no Anders. Hawke wanted to weep, but he didn’t have the strength.

A different voice cut through the hubbub, and Hawke wondered, briefly, if the Maker had a sense of humour.

The Knight-Commander had arrived.

Chapter Text

The Knight-Commander had arrived with a full retinue of Templars, including Carver.

His brother took one look at Hawke on his knees, covered in blood and broke ranks, hurrying over.

“Garrett, shit, hold on, we’ll get you to a healer.”

Hawke swallowed and looked over at where Anders had been fighting the last he’d seen. There was an impressive amount of dead Qunari - and a small, crumpled figure in a robe. Hawke thought he might be sick. His side burned.

“Templar Carver, get back in line.” Meredith growled. “Your brother is a wanted man, and an apostate.”

“Carver’s brother,” came Varric’s reply, “Just killed the damn Arishok and saved the city. You can’t be serious, Knight-Commander.”

But of course she was. Fenris’ arms tightened around Hawke protectively.

“You will not touch him.”

A hubbub of voices started, jeers and shouts of agreement. Maker, the citizens who’d survived the fight. They sounded as if they’d turn on the Templars next. Struggling to stay conscious, Hawke pulled away from Fenris and made himself sit up, raising his head.

Carver was still on his knees before him, pale with worry. Varric stood physically between Hawke and the rest of the Templars, a wounded Pumpkin growling at his side. Aveline and Donnic hovered to the left, hands on weapons. And Merrill…

Merrill was leaning heavily on Zevran, hurt but alive. Her staff was nowhere to be seen, and her gaze looked unfocused, but Hawke’s heart nearly soared out his chest at the sight of her.

Hawke’s gaze settled on Meredith. She did not look away. He wondered how he looked, to her - the Arishok dead, and he covered in blood. Did he look injured, or just like a blood mage?

“Knight-Commander,” he managed, barely able to even raise his voice, “It’s over. I told you before - we were on the same side.”

And she had handed him straight over to the Qunari without hesitation. And now the Arishok was dead. Would she continue to cling to the idea that he was a threat to save face? Or could she finally see the truth?

It was Leliana who stepped forwards and cleared her throat.

“Knight-Commander - your stance on working with the Qunari to try and limit the harm they could cause was commendable.” She said, her own daggers still drawn. “It ensured the safety of both the Circle mages and the hostages, including the Grand Cleric. But Hawke also did what he saw as right, and it worked.”

She paused and gestured to the nearest Qunari, still standing entirely still and with their hands raised.

“You there. Why do you surrender?”

The Qunari frowned, eyes darting to another, who answered in fluent Trade.

“The Arishok was charged with finding the relic. Without him, we are discharged from this duty. We would leave Kirkwall and return to Par Vollen for new orders.”

Leliana inclined her head in thanks to the warrior and looked back at Meredith.

“In the circumstances,” she said, “I extend the protection of the Divine over Hawke and his friends. He has done Thedas a great service in continuing to fight, and he has championed Kirkwall at its darkest hour.”

Meredith’s lips thinned and she glared at Leliana.

“He was foolish and rash, and near-caused as many deaths as he saved. Let alone his continued -”

Several citizens booed. Actually booed. Hawke swayed a little, closing his eyes. Fenris and Carver were both there, supporting him in a heartbeat.

“Could we maybe carry this on at another date?” He managed weakly. “I might still be dying. Perhaps Meredith will be so lucky.”

“Not funny,” Fenris growled.

Varric looked between Leliana and Meredith.

“We’re taking Hawke to The Sleepy Nug.” He said. “Once you’ve worked out if he’s a hero or a villain, Meredith, you can come ask - nicely - for an audience.”

Meredith’s hand stubbornly went to her sword.

“You’re not taking him anywhere, dwarf.”

“Knight-Commander,” Leliana said, her tone changing to one icily cold. “Would you defy the will of the Left Hand of the Divine?”

Hawke didn’t hear the Knight-Commander’s response, because his body finally, finally, gave up holding on. One moment he was upright, watching the Knight-Commander’s fury build, and the next…

Nothing. Pain. A sense of being carried. Then nothing again for the longest time.

He came round in a bed, lying on his side - a proper, honest to goodness bed, rather than a pallet on the floor, or something improvised out of blankets and straw. It had been weeks since he’d had even that much of a luxury. There was a fire crackling across the room, and the warmth of it seemed to sink into Hawke’s bones, easing some of the ache. Under the blankets, his hand found the bandages wrapped around his torso and wondered whether Varric had been able to find their new friend again.

For a little while, he drifted in and out of sleep, body still wrung-out from months of hurt. How long had it been since he’d just been able to sleep, to rest for as long as he needed?

The door to the room opened quietly and Hawke moved his head, just a little to try and see who had come in. And then there was an excited bark and Pumpkin was skittering across the wooden floor to come bounding up onto the bed, licking at his face.

“Shit,” Carver’s voice hissed, “Pumpkin, no! Down girl!”

Hawke gave a quiet wheeze of laughter and reached for the dog. The last he saw her, she’d been hurt. He looked worriedly for the wounds and found two half-healed, neatly stitched injuries on her flank. She didn’t look at all fazed as she breathed heavily on his face.

“That’s my girl,” Hawke said, blinking back tears, “Oh I’m glad to see you too, Pumpy. I thought for sure we weren’t going to make it.”

Carver gave a small strangled noise from where he stood by the door. Hawke looked up at him, trying to push himself up on his elbow, wincing slightly at the movement.

“He’s awake, everyone.” Carver called into the adjoining corridor, before hurrying forwards. “Stop it, Garrett. Here, let me…”

He wasn’t wearing Templar armour, Hawke realised. He let his brother stack the pillows up and wrangle him into a more upright position, Pumpkin still trying to bury her nose in his armpit.

The gang practically all fell into the room, followed by Leliana and Zevran, who hung back, just a little. Hawke watched the door for a heartbeat, hoping, praying, that despite everything, Anders was about to walk through.

He didn’t, and Hawke made himself look at the friends who’d made it, reminded himself that Anders had been lost since the start. They all looked as tired and as worn as Hawke felt.

“How long was I out?”

“Two days,” Varric said, “Scared the shit out of us, if I’m honest.”

“You almost drained your mana entirely,” Merrill said from where she was standing beside Aveline, her arm in a sling, and a dressing over her temple, “If Carver hadn’t been able to source a couple of lyrium potions…”

“And stamina potions.” Aveline said. “But mostly, we just had to wait it out.”

Hawke looked at his brother, who looked faintly abashed.

“Sounds like I owe you,” he said cautiously, unsure of how they stood after so long. The rebellion hadn’t been easy on them - after years of estrangement.

Carver waved a hand.

“Kirkwall owed you.” He said. “It was the least I could do after Meredith refused healing.”

Leliana made a small noise of annoyance.

“I could, at least, stop her from arresting you.” She said, “The people of the city have declared you its Champion, which has also helped - as has the crowd outside guarding you from any Templar interference. The story of your fight with the Arishok is all over the city. You are a hero, no?”

Hawke swallowed. A crowd, protecting him? It seemed impossible.

“How do you feel?” Donnic asked. “Any obvious pain, or issues?”

Hawke shook his head. He hurt, yes, but in an entirely reasonable way. The kind of way that rest and time would heal. Pumpkin gave a bark of approval and tried to find her way under the blankets.

“I feel like I could sleep for a year,” Hawke said, “But I’m alright. What - what happened with the Qunari?”

“They took off in the last remaining dreadnought.” Varric said, “Not a single one left in the city. You could almost fool yourself into thinking they were never here.”

Hawke closed his eyes, wishing he could do just that - that the last six months hadn’t happened, that his aches and pains came from one too many drinks, or fights along the coast. Bandits and slavers, not Qunari.

“Hawke?”

He opened his eyes to find Fenris standing there alone, the door shutting quietly behind Aveline. He wasn’t sure if he’d fallen asleep, or if they’d just understood that he wasn’t ready for much more than a few short exchanges.

The elf was out of his usual armour, instead wearing a sleeveless linen tunic. One of his arms had a bandage around the bicep, and there was bruising around his left eye.

Hawke managed a small smile and patted the bed - on the side where Pumpkin wasn’t.

“I’m here,” he said quietly, “And whilst I’d like to sleep - I’m not going anywhere.”

Fenris kicked off his elven sandals and crawled onto the bed next to him, cautious of his side where the Arishok had run him through.

“Sleep,” the elf said, kissing Hawke’s temple, “I’ll be here. I’ll always be here.”

Hawke closed his eyes and settled back, sleep taking him under once again.

Chapter Text

Llomerryn was the warmest place Hawke had ever been.

He’d adopted the Rivaini fashions the moment he’d stepped on shore, not least because he would have sweated right through his shirt. The cropped open waistcoat revealed more than a few of his scars, including the big one where the Arishok’s blade had ripped him open. Considering why he was in the city, Hawke didn’t mind revealing what had been done to him. It wasn’t as if he could hide the eyepatch, after all.

Kirkwall had sent quite the delegation to the Rivaini city in preparation for the Qunari reaffirming their commitment to the Llomerryn Accord, and the public disavowal of what the Arishok had done in the Marches. They’d stopped short of naming him Tal Vashoth - perhaps because they’d known it wouldn’t be believed. He’d had the backing of several prominent members of the priesthood and Ben Hassrath, even if the leaders themselves hadn’t been involved. There was only so much blind-eye Par Vollen could claim, in the circumstances. Better to say it had gone too far than to deny it happened.

Hawke hadn’t travelled with the main delegation - had refused to spend that much time on a boat with a contingent of Templars led by the Knight-Commander. They were still far, far from being on good terms.

He was known here. People in the street called out his name, and more than one citizen tried to flirt with him - at least until Fenris appeared at his shoulder, glaring them down. Hawke quite liked the place, the people, the sun. The tavern they were all staying in had more than a few similarities to the rebuilt Hanged Man. They even had a suite to themselves to hide away from the Kirkwall dignitaries and the Qunari alike.

The first time Hawke had seen the Qunari at the docks, he’d almost stumbled over his own feet, suddenly dizzy. At least he hadn’t seen any Saarebas.

Isabela met them in the tavern, very much not an official invite. There were enough people in the Kirkwall delegation who would arrest her if they could, but there was no way she wasn’t going to join them in her homeland. She introduced Hawke to a banana liquor that he was now rather partial to, and the best street food. In the nine months since Hawke had sent her away, he’d missed her terribly. She still wasn’t settled back in Kirkwall, the guilt of her theft keeping her away. But the first time she’d seen him, once the Qunari were vanquished she’d touched his eyepatch and managed a smile.

Now which of us looks like a pirate.

Varric and Aveline had stayed behind in the city, the dwarf involved in the rebuilding and Aveline helping to keep order. It hadn’t been a smooth transition from conquered to free city again, and if it hadn’t been for Sebastian in Starkhaven, the city might have starved before it could find its feet. The rest of Hawke’s friends - including the Prince of Starkhaven - were in the city. He’d even spotted Leliana among the Chantry delegates.

His friends, though, weren’t invited to the ceremony. Or at least, would not be part of the agreement. He had to go alone to face the new Arishok.

Hawke woke early and got dressed, strapping his staff unapologetically to his back. There had been some discussion about that among the Kirkwall delegation, but he would not go weaponless before the Qunari. By the time he was fumbling with the eyepatch, Fenris was awake enough to help and sent him off with a searing, burning kiss.

“You defied them before,” the elf said quietly, “This is nothing.”

It was nothing, and everything at the same time.

Grand Cleric Elthina was waiting for him, alongside Leliana, just outside the spot where the Accord had been signed in the Storm Age. Llomerryn was an odd choice of location, considering it was now little more than a Raider port, but tradition was important. Both women looked more than a little uncomfortable in their heavy Chantry rows, but only Elthina’s lips were pursed to a thin line at their surroundings - or Hawke’s choice of clothes.

“Champion.” She said, eyeing him over, “You have embraced local custom, it seems.”

Hawke gave a grin.

“I’m neither drunk, nor covered in gold.” He said. “I thought I was being quite restrained.”

Leliana smirked, just a little, at the Grand Cleric’s side. She adjusted her collar, almost surreptitiously, and Hawke remembered the mark that Fenris had left on his throat the night before. Shit, no wonder Elthina looked disapproving.

“Come,” Leliana said, “Knight-Commander Meredith and Seneschal Bran are waiting for us on the dias.”

Hawke followed the two women.

Up a small flight of steps to a raised platform, Meredith was standing in full Templar gear, no concession to the heat. She glared at him without a word. Bran was sweating in a Kirkwall doublet. He looked almost wistfully at Hawke’s clothing choice.

“Knight-Commander,” Hawke said, inclining his head, just a little. “Seneschal.”

“Hawke,” Bran said. “So good of you to join us.”

Meredith glared, then turned away. Hawke went to pull a face at both of them, to poke and prod in the way that was instinctive, when the Qunari delegation arrived.

Around them, the gathering crowd started to coalesce, and Hawke tore his eyes away from the Qunari to scan the faces. There, at the back, he saw Sebastian, Fenris and a partially disguised Isabela standing alongside Merrill. He hoped their presence gave him strength.

The new Arishok stepped forwards, and Hawke was relieved to see that he didn’t look much like the old thanks to a lack of horns. That tickled a memory, somewhere. Hadn’t the Qunari who’d helped the Hero of Ferelden been hornless? It meant something, for the Qunari. He didn’t know what.

Grand Cleric Elthina stepped forwards to meet them. Hawke made himself breathe in and out as evenly as he could. They were here to reaffirm peace - to ensure diplomatic ties. They even had the Tome of Koslun, the real one, as a gift for the Qunari. The Arishok, supposedly, had his own gifts to give. There would be no fighting here, no vengeance.

Hawke touched the eyepatch involuntarily before moving his hand back down and curling his hand into a fist at his side. No fighting, no vengeance. That meant him, too.

Somehow, he made it through the ceremony, the speeches and nonsense. And then the fucking Tome of Koslun was in his hands and he was stepping up, towards the new Arishok.

His hands shook, despite himself. He’d been here before. There had been checks - the priesthood had got their hands on the Tome already and confirmed that it was genuine, and this was merely a symbolic gesture, but all the same, every instinct in Hawke screamed to run before the fight kicked off again. Swallowing, he made himself look up and meet the Arishok’s eyes.

His voice, somehow, was steady.

“The Tome of Koslun, returned to the Qunari people. As it should have been.”

The Arishok reached out and took the book. But when he spoke, it was off-script.

“You are Ferelden. I recognise that accent.”

Hawke blinked. It was the same hornless Qunari, it had to be. He wished he could see Leliana’s face to confirm it. He nodded.

“I fled Lothering, during the Blight. I remember you.”

This Qunari had been there, in a cage, after murdering a local family. Bethany had known the daughter well. And Ailsa Maheriel had conscripted him into the fight. She’d taken Leliana too. Hawke tried to remember his name. Sten? Not a name, but a title. And now he wore a new one.

The Qunari’s eyes narrowed, just a little, at the reminder of who he had been then. Those eyes moved from Hawke’s face to the staff at his back. For a moment, everything seemed to hang by a thread.

“You are a dangerous man, Champion. You will not be forgotten among the Qunari.”

Hawke managed the kind of smile that was all teeth and sharpness.

“I would hope not, considering.”

He hoped his bloodied, battered body and what he’d managed to do regardless would haunt their fucking dreams every time they thought of invading the South. How much it had to burn, to know they’d been defeated by a Saarebas.

The Arishok gave the smallest of nods, then turned, the Tome of Koslun in his hands. Hawke stepped back a pace before turning and heading back to the Kirkwall delegation. The tension lessened with every step. The look Leliana gave him wasn’t entirely comforting - but it had been the Qunari who’d spoken out first, who’d nearly steered them into dangerous waters. Meredith was glaring at him, of course, but that was to be expected. When this was all said and done, she’d still be waiting for him to slip, for the opportunity to humble him.

He managed a smile at her too.

Hawke barely heard the rest of the ceremony, and the moment it was over he hurried off the dias and pushed his way through the throng to find his friends.

“That’s more than enough Qunari for one lifetime,” he said, “And enough Templars, too. Shall we go home? I’d quite like to get drunk somewhere where I risk only half my belongings, not everything down to my smalls.”

Isabela gave a laugh.

“And I thought you were embracing Rivaini culture, considering your get-up.” She said, “It’s a good look on you, Hawke. Need a bit more gold but…”

“Hands off, Izzy.” Fenris growled. Her hand had indeed been fiddling with Hawke’s waistcoat and starting to drift towards his chest.

“Aww, can’t I convince you both to let loose, for just a little bit?” She asked with a grin.

Hawke swallowed at the idea of letting loose in Rivain. It was almost tempting. Almost.

“Let’s come back another time, hmm? When the Knight-Commander isn’t here looking for an excuse to Smite me where I stand.”

“Probably shouldn’t go back to Kirkwall then,” Merrill pointed out, reasonably fairly. “Can we stay a bit longer, Hawke? Isabela wanted to introduce me to a couple of her friends.”

Hawke tried not to think about what kind of friends Isabela wanted to introduce Merrill to. Sebastian, in his gleaming white armour and with a half-dozen retainers standing to one side, went very pink.

“Two days,” Hawke said eventually, before turning to Fenris with a smile. “How about it? Any interest in meeting Isabela’s friends?”

“None,” Fenris replied dryly, “But I liked the idea of you losing everything down to your smalls.”

Right, well. That was that then. A couple more days in Rivain wouldn’t hurt.