Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Meredith was winning.

The Templar sword cut through Hawke’s barrier and it was only his staff coming up to meet it that stopped him being cut in two. The blade still buried itself deep into his hip. Hawke cried out, pain erupting and halfway across the courtyard he heard Fenris yell his name.

He staggered back, taking in the scene, and it hit him that they couldn’t win. Meredith had managed to bring the fucking Gallows statues to life, and Hawke and his friends had been fighting for hours. Some of the Templars had followed Cullen and his brother’s lead in taking a stand, but not enough of them. Orsino had already been cut down and Sebastian had fucking left them when Hawke had refused to kill Anders.

Anders, who lay dead on the ground, Justice unable to save him from Meredith’s fury and that fucking sword.

Blood dripped down Hawke’s side as he frantically raised his barrier again and went to pull fire from the Fade to finish off the Templar advancing on him. Nothing happened - there was nothing left. He was so tired he couldn't manage another spell. Pain throbbed from his side, disrupting any chance he had of reaching the Veil, and without Anders…

It struck him like a hammer blow to the chest, the absolute certainty that after everything, he’d led his friends to their deaths. That it would mean nothing - that Meredith would step over their corpses and kill every mage in the Gallows. That after so long trying to keep her in check, he had failed.

Despair swallowed him. He had fought so hard, for so long. As he sank to his knees, he spotted one of the statues swat at Fenris, sending the elf flying. The sound that left his throat was more animal than human.

At the edges of thought, a voice whispered.

I can lend you my strength.

Hawke knew he shouldn’t listen to it. He knew what it meant. He saw a flicker of teeth and purple eyes - too many eyes. The veil was weak here even before this battle had begun, even before Meredith’s sword started to shred at it. Now it hung in tatters in his mind. And through those rips and tears he could see claws and silver-scaled hide. He sensed lightning.

There were two hundred innocent mages inside the Circle. They - and his friends - didn’t deserve to die for his mistakes. A flicker, and Hawke managed to drag sparks from the Fade with the last of his strength, setting the Templar standing over him on fire. The man screamed. Hawke doubled over, exhausted. He had nothing left to give. Blood dripped from between his fingers. His vision was starting to flicker.

The Champion of Kirkwall cannot die here. They need you.

They needed Hawke - not an abomination. He tried to shut the voice out, to deny it, but he couldn’t argue when it whispered to him that Kirkwall deserved better than Meredith’s iron rule, that the mages in the Gallows would be slaughtered for his failure. That the good Templars who'd turned on Meredith would all be wiped out, leaving just the abusers and the cowards.

Fenris was back on his feet, but without his sword. Cullen shoved one of his own men back using his shield and turned to Meredith who was crackling with red lyrium. That was on him too. He’d helped fund the exhibition that brought it back to the surface. If he’d known what it would cause, he never would have gone.

What had Merrill done, back among her clan? How had she tied Audacity to her? Could he do the same now?

She made a deal.

Hawke swallowed.

And if I make a deal? Will you help stop Meredith?

Laughter filled his head, a sound that sent electricity crackling down his spine. Maker, what was he doing?

I will do so much more than that, Champion.

Hawke hesitated, just long enough to see Isabela stagger, a Templar arrow through her shoulder.

Do it. Show me what I need to do.

Your heart is mine, Champion.

His blood, already weeping between his fingers, was enough to seal the deal before Hawke could even reconsider. The demon slipped through the veil and Hawke watched as his hands moved of their accord, his staff moving, and the blood started to wrap up and around his forearms. What had Anders said before, about Justice? Trapped in your own body. Well. It was better than everybody dying. He felt the bite of the demon’s teeth inside his skull as it guided Hawke’s hands, Hawke’s magic.

He couldn’t look away as blood rose across the courtyard, leaking out of corpses. He was vaguely aware of Fenris and Aveline turning to look at Merrill at first, the known blood mage in their midst, before the blood came to him.

Meredith, eyes burning with unholy fire, roared in fury as Hawke finally revealed himself as the blood mage she knew he had been all along. He didn’t have control of his mouth to tell her that she had driven him to this. That until tonight, he’d abhorred this. That he still did. This magic had killed his mother, had tortured Fenris endlessly; had been used against him over and over in his attempts to keep Kirkwall safe. It was the last resort of a man too broken by circumstance to keep fighting in any other way. That he would rather be this than lose everyone he still cared about.

He knew it would have the same result, but at least this way they would live. They would hate him, but they would live.

Meredith’s Templars started to haemorrhage, blood erupting from wounds in their skin that weren’t there moments before. Hawke could sense the demon grinning, its tongue tasting the air for the blood as it spilt. Its claws curled around his throat, caressing his flesh even as it tore at his enemies. Hawke couldn’t help the shudder that rose up in him, but it didn’t translate into physical movement. He was utterly at the demon’s mercy - and he’d asked for this. He’d accepted this. This was his choice: to straddle that line between human and abomination in exchange for power, knowing that one day, he wouldn’t be human anymore.

The Knight-Commander pulled more power through her sword, and another statue on the Gallows twitched and jerked to life. Hawke’s staff slammed into the ground without his guidance. The statue shattered, force magic enhanced as if he’d been ingesting lyrium all day. Hawke had been a strong mage. With blood magic, he was more than a match for the woman’s sword.

Meredith turned herself into red lyrium, reaching desperately for more power in the face of Hawke and his demon. And then it was done - and Hawke staggered, back in control of himself. He sank to his knees, gasping, as silence reigned out across the Gallows.

I am here, Champion. Always here.

He was not an idiot - he had to run, to get away. Whatever accord he may have had with Cullen and his brother was burned to ash, and he can’t bring himself to look at Fenris, to look at Varric, to look to those who thought better of him.

His hip was no longer bleeding, the wound an ugly scar and he didn’t even know how that happened, but if he wasn’t hurt, he had a better chance of getting away. With gritted teeth, he managed to push himself to his feet and turned towards the docks.

No one tried to stop him.

He made it all the way home, through the streets of Lowtown and through the Hightown markets. Kirkwall was in chaos, fires burning from Anders’ actions. People were passing buckets through the streets to contain the blazes in some places, on the edge of rioting in others. He saw several dead mages on his journey, a couple of Templar corpses and a handful of others that seemed to have had the misfortune of looking like apostates to the wrong eye. He passed several of Aveline’s guards trying to keep order. Several stalls were burned and broken up, and Hawke had to slip into the shadows more than once to avoid being noticed. But he made it, and entered an empty home.

He was partway through shoving his belongings into a bag, planning to slip out of the southern gate and make his way to the Wounded Coast when he heard the door to the manor crash open and Fenris’ voice call out his name, full of open fury and hurt.

Hawke froze, despite himself. And then the elf was there, in the doorway to the bedroom and Maker, Hawke couldn’t do this. He couldn’t face him. He couldn’t look him in the eye and beg for his life.

Fenris crossed the threshold and grabbed Hawke by his shirt, slamming him hard into the wall. His lyrium veins flared and for a wild moment Hawke expected to feel the entirely too physical sensation of a fist crushing his heart.

“How long?” He snarled, one hand on Hawke’s shoulder, the other at his throat. “How long have you lied to me?”

Does the pretty little elf think to threaten us?

The voice of the demon rung in Hawke’s skull, but Hawke shut it out, fast. Fenris wasn’t Meredith. He didn’t want him dead. And Maker, if Fenris wanted Hawke dead now, Hawke would deserve it. He heard the demon growl in dissatisfaction and made himself speak.

“Fen -”

“Don’t call me that,” Fenris growled, and Hawke has never heard him so angry. Not after Hadriana, not after Danarius. “Not now. How dare you.”

Hawke didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. He closed his eyes.

“We were losing.”

“Then we should have lost.” The elf snapped, his gauntleted hands tightening, hard, around Hawke’s throat. “We should have died rather than you sink to this.”

“I couldn’t - not you. Not the others.” Hawke whispered, barely able to speak for the pressure on his windpipe, and Fenris paled, trembling with fury.

“You really are no better than them. You fucking coward.”

He let go, suddenly, and Hawke anticipated the blow before it came, the elf’s fist connecting with his jaw and dropping him to the floor. He deserved worse.

We could strip the skin from his bones for such an insult.

You will not harm him.

Fenris was standing over him, bruised and bloodied from the fight, chest heaving. Hawke managed to push himself up, head ringing from the blow.

“I… I deserved that.” He said, touching his cheekbone.

“I should kill you.” Fenris snarled. “I should …”

He trailed off, clearly lost. And how could he not be? For years, they’d fought at each other's side. For months, they’d shared a bed. Only hours ago, Fenris had kissed him and promised he would follow where Hawke led. Just not here. Not to this.

For a moment, silence fell beyond their shaky breathing. The demon whispered inside Hawke’s mind.

He abandons you so easily. His love was always conditional.

Fenris clenched his fists, and Hawke waited for the flash of lyrium that would mean his death.

“G-get out.” He said shakily. “Go, Hawke. If I see you again, I will kill you.”

Hawke went. He didn’t look back.

Chapter Text

He made it to one of the cave systems in the Wounded Coast before collapsing, physically and mentally exhausted beyond all reason. The Fade welcomed him.

As did his new friend - a half-dozen purple eyes, sharp teeth for rending, silver hide and bigger than the biggest foe Hawke had ever faced. It stared down at him with a grin that showed too many teeth.

My little bird.

Hawke gritted his teeth. If he looked closely at the thing, there was an afterimage of himself. Around him, the Fade shifted from the caves on the Wounded Coast to the back streets of Kirkwall.

“My name,” he said, “is Hawke.”

If it was possible, the demon’s smile grew wider.

A little bird fluttering its little wings, trying to find a way out of the cage of its own making.

Hawke closed his eyes, and hoped the thing would be gone when he opened them again. No such luck. The demon was just watching him with amusement.

“What’s your name then?” He asked. “Or should I just call you Unwelcome?”

Oh you welcomed me, little bird. But I was once integrity. I watched over this city for centuries. I watched over you as you fought battle after battle for a thankless city. As you tried to do the right thing. As you slowly gave up pieces of yourself to hold the city together.

“So, what, it’s my fault you’re a demon?”

That’s all demons were, after all - corrupted spirits. A good thing twisted to a bad one. Justice twisting into Vengeance. Integrity into …

Corruption comes for us all.

Well, that was a name, of sorts. Certainly better than integrity. Hawke didn’t think he could have swallowed that one. And he was corrupted, now, wasn’t he? Had been all along. He’d tried to shield Isabela from the Qunari. He’d let Anders go. And now he was consorting with demons.

“Right. So. Corruption. Hi. I fucking hate you.”

The demon's laughter did something to Hawke’s skin, a crackle of electricity that was neither entirely pleasant or entirely painful. It forced a shiver out of Hawke that he couldn't control.

You will love me, in the end. You will welcome me with open arms.

Hawke doubted it. He tried to remember what Merrill said, about pacting with a demon. But it wasn’t the same, not really. Audacity had been trapped within the ancient temple on Sundermount - and had died, ultimately, at their hands. Even when Merrill had worked with the demon, there had been a level of protection in how it was sealed away. There was no such seal on Corruption, and he was not sure Corruption would give him honest answers. Maker, he’d not so much stepped into the bear trap as forced it to close around his throat. He turned and walked aimlessly down the alley in this Fade version of Kirkwall, only to turn the corner to find Corruption there, watching him.

“Do you control this space, or am I summoning you somehow?”

Both. The Fade is my domain, as much as the physical world is yours. But you have tied us together closer than those Qunari knots in rope.

He considered this.
“Does that mean other demons won’t try and get me?”

You are mine, little bird. Mine and mine alone.

Hawke already hated the nickname. He tried to think. There was something else in the creature’s words.

“So. If you can … seize control in the physical, can I do that here? Can I get you to leave me alone?”

Hawke didn’t want to think about what Corruption had done in the courtyard of the Gallows. He was grateful - somewhat - for the fact that they had won, but he hated how it was done. What he had to lose. What he would continue to lose. But if he could try to wrestle some kind of control from the demon, he might be able to not lose himself entirely. Merrill had withstood Audacity for years. Anders had withstood Justice until - well, actually. Bad example. Merrill. Maker, was there a way to get word to Merrill? Or did she hate him too, now? A hypocrite for all the times he’d argued with her about blood magic.

I will always be here. But if you’d like to pretend otherwise, I will not stop you, tonight.

The demon faded from view and Hawke swore with relief.

When he woke, Hawke was face down on the floor of a cave, very cold, very uncomfortable, and too close to the entrance. He could be seen easily by anyone approaching. Groaning, he managed to stagger to his feet and move further into the darkness. He tried, on instinct, to reach into the Fade to summon fire to light his way and was startled when his attempts pulled back nothing. Fire was his affinity, the school of magic that came to him as easy as breathing. His awakening as a child had involved a nightmare that set his bedsheets aflame. Hawke hadn’t had to concentrate on the Fade to pull fire from between the threads since he was first learning.

He remembered, vaguely, that blood magic made it harder to touch the Fade for other schools of magic. With what he’d done at the Gallows, it was no wonder he couldn’t just reach into the Fade like he had before. That hadn’t been a small spell - it had been Magister levels of blood magic. Worse, perhaps. How many corpses had he used, along with his own blood? Maker, he hadn’t so much as dipped his toe in as taken a swan dive into the forbidden school.

He stopped dead in the cave and concentrated. The wisps of fire he managed to summon were little more than sparks and smoke. Well, shit. He couldn't go any further without light. He’d fought spiders and slavers in these tunnels before and he’d be stumbling around in the dark. A broken ankle would be deadly without Anders’ healing skills.

Cursing, Hawke settled himself back on the ground, squinting back at the dawn light starting to rise at the cave mouth. It crept steadily closer as he sat and watched.

He was hungry, but he knew he didn’t pack enough rations to simply indulge. It wasn’t as if he’d been in his right mind as he’d thrown his shit together, back at the manor. He needed a plan. It was clear he couldn’t stay in Kirkwall, but moving through the Free Marches wasn’t going to be easy. Rumours of what the Champion had become would spread fast, and he was highly recognisable. He could lose the war paint, and perhaps find a way to shave the beard, but all it would take was one person to recognise him and it would all come undone. He might be able to cross the Waking Sea, or get north to Antiva, but the idea of fleeing that far felt wrong. Despite what he has done, he felt a loyalty to Kirkwall. He wanted to help. And Maker, Kirkwall needed help more than ever.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sudden realisation that there was light in the cave and footsteps and he turned his head to see a half-dozen slavers approaching him.

“Well, look here - not often someone offers themselves up so easily.”

He scrambled to his feet, hands going to his staff.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Wait, Trav, this one looks familiar.” Said a woman holding a torch, squinting at him. “He looks like the bloody Champion.”

Well, that might intimidate them enough to get them to back off. Except he was alone, and clearly tired and there was blood on his clothing so they were more likely to think he was easy prey.

“Nah can’t be,” said another one, “What would he be doing here?”

Hawke took half a step back, towards the mouth of the cave. If they jumped him, he couldn’t reach the Fade well enough to stop them. Unless…

Need my help?

No, he bloody didn’t. Not again, not so soon. The one who’d spoken first - Trav, clearly some kind of leader, looked at him consideringly.

“You know, Joan, you could be right. Now what is the Champion doing hiding in our little hideout like a wounded animal?”

“Not wounded,” Hawke said, trying to sound calm, “Just needed a place to nap for a bit, I’ll be on my way.”

Normally, he wouldn't let slavers live. Normally, he’d have back-up. And his fucking magic.

I will not allow us to be taken.

And shit, that was not good. Hawke had seen enough abominations in the final acts of self-defence to know what that probably meant, and he really didn’t want to become a complete monster. He had already put one foot very firmly over that line. Trav and his band had taken a step forward towards him.

“Why don’t you surrender nicely, Champion?” Trav asked, a nasty looking grin on his face. “We promise to treat you well. Just a little bit of magebane and some manacles. They’ll pay very handsomely for you in Tevinter.”

Hawke almost laughed at the idea of magebane now.

Bleed - cede control, little bird. You know you must.

Hawke ignored the voice and reached for the Fade. But he was too busy watching the slavers every move, too aware of the hammering of his own heartbeat, too distracted by the claws he could feel running down the vertebrae of his spine. There was nothing there for him to cast. It would come back eventually, but his hands were still soaked in the blood from the Gallows and it would take time to wash that stain from his soul. Until then, he could only rely on blood magic. A neat little cycle of destruction.

“I’m warning you.” He said. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Oh I think I do.”

The slavers moved and Hawke cursed, dropping his staff and going for the knife Isabela had always insisted he and Anders carry as back-up. She’d never meant for it to be used for this - just a last line of self-defence when mana was gone and staffs were the wrong kind of close-quarters. How easy it was, Hawke thought, to make a bad situation worse.

He set the blade to his forearm and cut, not knowing how much or how deep. Pain blossomed, blood welled up, and one of the slavers realised what was about to happen and yelled a warning.

“Blood mage!”

Hawke shuddered involuntarily as Corruption reached through the Fade where magic should have been and dragged its claws through the blood, relishing the spill of it. For a moment, all Hawke could see was crimson, then he was hammering on the walls of his own body as the demon took control. Shit, if this was going to continue - if he was a blood mage, now, he needed to learn how to do it without the demon guiding him.

Trav died first, clutching at his throat as a wound ripped open flesh, muscle, trachea. So much more blood than Hawke offered and Corruption revelled in it, turning one of the slavers on the others, controlling the blood in their limbs like a puppet master. Hawke tried to growl a denial, to push back, but the sound was swallowed by Corruption’s laughter.

Then it was all over. Hawke was on his knees, retching, surrounded by the dead for the second time in as many hours. On his forearm, a silver scar was the only sign of what he had done. Trav’s upturned face looked at him, accusatory, which felt a little rich from a dead slaver. Hawke closed his eyes and tried to regain control of his breathing. It felt weird, like it was not his rib cage expanding and falling. Like there was something else there, inside his skin. A crackle of electricity seemed to fill his lungs.

You can’t escape this. This is who you are, now.

Chapter Text

A scant fortnight later, and there were six new scars on Hawke’s arm.

He’d discovered that the slavers had a fairly decent operation set up at the back of the cave system - in so much that there were several cots, some supplies and three terrified prisoners. He’d let them go and only after they had scattered had he considered that they could lead anyone back to him.

The Templars came first, taking Hawke almost by surprise as he slept. In his sleep-weary, panicked state, blood magic was his only option, and wrestling Corruption back in the aftermath had been physically painful, the sensation of claws and teeth ripping into Hawke’s skin as real as any blade. He probably should have considered himself lucky that the Order hadn’t come in numbers, still reeling with the aftermath of Anders’ attack on the Chantry. No, Vengeance’s attack on the Chantry. Hawke had enough understanding of these things now to know that the charming Grey Warden he’d known years ago was gone, subsumed by his demon. He’d count himself lucky if he lasted half as long as Anders had.

Three separate groups of bounty hunters and mercenaries had appeared in fairly quick succession after that. Two had been looking for him - wanted, they informed him, across Thedas for blood magic, murder and assisting in the destruction of Kirkwall’s Chantry. Which he had, really. He’d distracted the Grand Cleric whilst Anders had planted his bombs. Another stain of corruption, allowing the demon to dig its claws into his soul. The others had been looking for the slavers, and Hawke didn’t mind killing them so much when it became clear they’d been looking to partner with them, not stop them. Each time, Hawke had reached for the Fade, to find his control wavering, his mana drained. Each time, the wound he made in his flesh was nothing to the blood that spilled from the corpses. Each time, the Fade felt a little further away in the aftermath.

The final group had been city guards, who were unlucky in that Hawke had just finished setting up a line of traps to alert him if anyone penetrated deep into the cave. His heart had sunk as he’d seen them. It turned out that the group had been on patrol nearby and had noticed signs of life at the entrance to the cave. They’d been expecting slavers, but they weren’t about to back down from the Champion. Hawke had begged them to reconsider before opening his veins. He left one alive to carry a message back to Aveline and Cullen - simple in its contents if not its request: Don’t waste your men looking for me.

He knew both would likely ignore the message, and Corruption mocked him for his weakness. Cullen had hardly been a friend - an ally of necessity and moral lines that Hawke had then obliterated. His whole duty was to protect Kirkwall from mages like Hawke. If he had to march the whole Order to the Wounded Coast, he would. And Aveline would not be able to ignore the law and Chantry doctrine that said he should die as a maleficar. So he’d packed his bag, grabbed as much as he could carry from the cave and gone to find a new shelter. The spiders were no match for him, now - and he didn’t feel too guilty augmenting his fire spells with blood against the eight-legged beasts.

His new hideout wasn’t as spacious as the one he’d left - but it was further up the coast, against the cliffs which made it both harder to reach and easier for him to dispose of any bodies. That night, he managed to move one of the cots over and the rest of the supplies, including the remaining traps which he set back up to alert him to anyone approaching.

But the next morning when Hawke woke, there was a stack of things sitting on the floor of the cave that he didn’t bring with him and a note in a familiar hand.

Hawke,

Merrill says you can’t be fully possessed or you wouldn’t have known to run. And you would have been all monstrous-looking like Grace at the end. Maker, that feels like a long time ago, now. She says it’s probably a pact, like hers - but worse, because Audacity was bound.

The Wounded Coast probably isn’t the best hiding spot, but at least it made you easy to track down. Don’t be an idiot about this - stay away from the city. The bounty on your head would make Isabela consider it. More Templars arrived the day before last and they're looking for you. There’s rumours of an Exalted March but half the city seems to think you did the only thing you could do in the circumstances. It’s messy here, and it's only going to get worse.

Leave any correspondence in the hollow tree down on the beach, you know the one. I’ll check it when I can. Try not to die. Or worse.

V.

P.S. Fenris has disappeared. Pretty sure he’s not coming to kill you, but be on the lookout.

He blinked, staring at both the letter and the not insubstantial pile of things before him. He’d slept through one of his friends sneaking in, dismantling his traps, dumping a bunch of stuff and leaving again - seemingly taking the time to set his traps back up.

Corruption’s voice whispered to him.

We are vulnerable when you sleep.

They were, but there was shit all Hawke could do about that. They’d be more vulnerable if he didn’t sleep - him, especially. Perhaps that was Corruption’s aim, to seize control entirely when Hawke was too tired to fight him anymore. Gritting his teeth, Hawke slipped the letter into his pocket and started to investigate what Varric had brought him. He was relieved to see a grooming kit among the bits and pieces. Then he spotted the two books and his hands stilled against their covers.

He recognised them as volumes Merrill had on her shelves in the alienage. When he picked up the first one, he realised it was a treatise on blood magic. The other was a collection of Dalish folklore. He almost cried for the kindness of the gesture.

Among the supplies was more food, some tinder, another change of clothes, writing equipment and another blanket. It barely mattered, because the important thing was that not all of his friends had abandoned him to this. He held onto that knowledge desperately, warmer than any fire. In his head, Corruption sniffed dismissively.

They will abandon you soon enough, little bird. Soon, it will just be you and me.

Hawke ignored it and sat on the bed with a little breakfast from Varric’s supplies, starting to read the volume on blood magic.

It didn't take him long, but he learned a lot - not just about his own situation, but about the theory and application of blood magic. He scribbled notes in the margin of the text, assuming Merrill wouldn’t be needing it back with Audacity dead.

He confirmed his suspicion that the pact he’d made with Corruption would be a constant struggle for his soul until he finally slipped and became fully possessed. He learned that his wounds each time had healed because of the lives he’d taken - the life essence of other living things sustaining him through a spell simply called Grave Robber in the book. He knew that the blood magic was weakening his connection to the Fade, but he was reassured to read that if he stopped, his old affinities would return.

Curious, he took a moment to reach into the Fade. This time rather than sparks on his fingers he could pull fire to dance around his hands. It buoyed his spirit for a heartbeat before Corruption spoke.

And how do you plan to kill Templars with that?

The demon was right, of course. Compared to what he could manage before, it was a pitiful display. But it was a start. And if he could stay out of trouble, could keep his head down, in a few more days it would be stronger still. He just needed to break the cycle.

He kept reading.

He already knew that he could use other’s blood - had done so every time he fought because corpses had more of the stuff to give than he did and Corruption had been leading the attack. But the power he could wield when he bled others was so much stronger that it kept him trapped in that spiral of needing to use blood magic over the Fade. Merrill had only ever used her own blood - and only a little at a time - and she’d been able to summon storms and earthquakes with seemingly little problem. By contrast, Danarius in the Hanged Man had summoned demons and torn wounds through Hawke’s skin without ever considering baser forms of magic. Hawke swore to himself that if he could just get a week of peace to regain some kind of equilibrium, he’d never use the blood of others again.

He could almost hear Fenris’ snort of disbelief, his furious eyes telling him that it didn’t matter - that it was a line Hawke would sweep away when it suited him. And Maker, Varric’s letter had said Fenris had disappeared. Hawke’s stomach twisted itself in knots. Where was he?

Hawke shoved that thought away. Fenris was his past now. If they ever met again, it could only end with the elf’s fist crushing his heart.

Corruption, there was something to focus on. The chuckle in his head echoed around the cave, ringing in his ears.

My little bird, do you think you can stop me bleeding others? That you can fight without me?

Hawke wasn’t sure, but he was going to try.

Then you will need to practise, won’t you?

That stopped him cold. He’d just been thinking about how long until he could touch the Fade without concern, planning to lay low and let his affinities find him again. But if he did that, the moment he was trapped and desperate, Corruption held all the cards; like he had every time Hawke had had to use his new talents. And that was more likely to lead to the end of everything for Hawke - because if he was truly lost, truly in danger, Corruption would take him by force. Which, he begrudgingly acknowledged, meant he had to know what he was doing with blood magic. Which meant he had to accept what he was. A maleficar.

The cycle was endless, and there was no good answer. If he refused this, he risked becoming a full abomination. If he embraced it, he was surrendering - and could end up as an abomination anyway. It was not so much a bind as a noose.

Corruption was laughing again. Hawke gritted his teeth and started to read the section in the tome about blood manipulation and spells. At the very least, he needed to be prepared.

Chapter Text

The first carta dwarf was a surprise, the fourth an irritation - even if they gave him the opportunity to practice controlling the Fade and smaller, less demanding blood spells.

He left a message in the tree trunk for Varric, asking him what was going on and why the Carta wanted the blood of the Hawke. Was it some confusion about blood magic? A bounty gone wrong?

Varric’s response, a week later, was short and not as helpful as Hawke would have liked.

Some kind of cult in the Vinmark Mountains, an old hideout. Not on any maps that I can find, no history. Very suspicious. They’re after your brother too, so it’s blood, not blood magic. Need a hand?

Probably, but Hakwe wouldn’t risk it. He’d not had to resort to Corruption’s aid for weeks now, but that didn’t mean he was safe to be around. He packed up his few bits and set off without much of a plan.

He was deep into the main route over the mountains, near Sundermount, when the ambush sprung around him. Corruption whispered angrily about how much easier this would be if he stopped denying him, but Hawke managed well enough to kill three of the dwarves and subdue the fourth. He was used to fighting Carta, knew their tactics and these were sloppy, almost as if they were pushing through hurts Hawke couldn’t see. One though, managed to get an arrow in his shoulder, and the blood welling up was tempting beyond reason. Hawke could feel Corruption’s tongue lapping at the blood through the Veil. The demon snarled and roared when he knocked back one of his two remaining healing potions and didn't succumb.

The surviving dwarf was more than eager to lead him to their hideout, but he made little sense, babbling about blood and the whispers. There was a lot of Carta dead - most looking like they had put up a fight against someone. The dwarf seemed uncertain at that, scared. He looked at Hawke like he might be some kind of saviour, and Hawke wished he wouldn’t.

Deep in the hideout, he heard a fight up ahead and hesitated. He hadn’t been expecting others to be here. Slowly, cautiously, he approached.

He crossed a threshold, and a gate slammed down behind him. Whirling, he saw the dwarf who escorted him grinning, that insane fervour in his eyes. He was holding what remained of the gate mechanism in his hands. Then there was an ominous rumble and half the corridor back the way they’d come crashed down, taking out the dwarf and the passage alike. Hawke had a heartbeat to realise he was trapped before Corruption screamed a warning in his skull, tearing through the veil to protect them both.

Templars.

Hawke turned back, trying to tell himself that he gave that command to his body, that the demon hadn’t seized control entirely, and saw his brother drive a maul through the skull of a Bronto.

The shock nearly undid him. Corruption surged, using the moment to push his way through, but Hawke hung on through gritted teeth. He could almost feel them shifting and elongating inside his mouth. He could taste blood and there was a crackle in the air around him. No, he thought desperately, not here, not like this. The static seemed to withdraw, but he could feel Corruption’s claws tearing at him as if it was physically trying to claw through Hawke’s flesh to freedom. Cursing, he swung his staff round and called fire. Fire, not blood. The electricity dissipated.

The Bronto took the full force of the fireball, as two other Templars finished off a Carta dwarf whose clothes were now on fire. At the back of the room a Circle Mage was holding up a barrier across Carver as he stepped back from the fight. Then all three men were turning to Hawke, weapons drawn to the new threat.

Hawke felt the Smite crash into his desperate hold on the Fade, wrenching it away, and he was left utterly vulnerable before the Templar Order.

Corruption’s breath played across his neck, an electric charge, its voice even again now it knew that Hawke had no option but to listen to him.

Sing for me, little bird. They will show you no mercy.

Hawke gritted his teeth. Templars wouldn’t - but that was Carver, standing there.
“Hello, brother.”

Carver stared at Hawke like he was seeing a ghost.

“You - Fuck, Garrett, what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Ser?” One of the Templars said, voice wavering with uncertainty. “He’s a blood mage, Ser.”

“Trying very hard not to be, thought that would be obvious from the fireball.” Hawke said weakly, his eyes still locked to his brother’s face, hoping he’ll understand. “Please, Carver. Can we talk?”

“Bit bloody late for that, isn’t it?” Carver said, a flare of anger lashing between them.

“We were losing,” Hawke argued, “You would be dead if I hadn’t -”

“There’s always a reason. There’s always an excuse.” Carver growled, taking half a step forwards as Hawke practically pressed himself into the metal gate behind him. “You told me you’d never resort to that. Our mother -”

He cut off, short, the pain in his voice silencing him. Hawke closed his eyes, breathing out shakily even as Corruption screamed at him that he was leaving himself vulnerable to the Templars’ blades.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “This isn’t - I didn’t want this to happen.”

It was not enough. It would never be enough. Carver snorted and the sound was enough to make Hawke open his eyes and look at his brother.

“Why are you here?” Carver asked, “I’m guessing the Carta sent assassins after you, as well?”

“Several,” Hawke said, “I wanted to know why.”

Carver regarded him for a moment.
“Knight-Commander Cullen thought I’d be best placed to investigate, considering their nonsense about the blood of the Hawke. But it looks like our only route out just came down behind you.”

It wasn’t accusatory, but Hawke shifted his weight, just a little, and one of the Templars flinched.

“Cullen’s Knight-Commander now, is he?” Hawke managed, “Good luck to him. I hear there’s a blood mage problem.”

It was a truly awful joke. Carver looked hurt, rather than angry, and that was so much worse that Hawke rushed on, riding over him in an attempt to do better, to be better.

“I - I know your Order demands my death, and honestly, I’m not entirely sure I don’t disagree, but let me help.”

The brothers regarded each other across the distance, Carver’s eyes lingered for a moment on the scars on Hawke’s left forearm.

“You said you were trying not to use blood magic.” He said, suspiciously.

Hawke sighed.
“It’s - a cycle. The more I use it the more reliant I am on it. And if I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m more reliant on - on -”

“On your demon.” Carver said flatly. Hawke winced and nodded.

“Corruption,” he said, before giving a brittle laugh. “Apparently it’s been watching me for years.”

Carver was frowning more than ever.
“Corruption? How long? I know you killed Templars, brother.”

“Pretty sure you did too, that night.” Hawke snapped back, and Maker, that was the wrong choice because all of a sudden he felt the warning edge of lyrium in the air. Corruption seemed to brace itself, and Hawke’s skin felt like something was pushing at it from the inside.

“Only one of us left that fight a monster, Garrett.”

Let me kill him. He insults us.

Hawke swallowed, trying to push back in his mind against the sheer bulk of that presence.
“Carver - I don’t want to fight you. I don’t want to be your enemy. Don’t do this.”

He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop Corruption if the Templars attacked. Sweat dripped down the back of his neck. His brother looked genuinely torn for a moment before sighing and gesturing for his men to lower their weapons.

“No blood magic, you hear me? And you follow my orders.”

One of the Templars was protesting - as was the Mage. Carver glared both of them down and Hawke let out a raggedy breath.

“Thank you.” He mumbled.

His brother turned that glare back on him.
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear you. I don’t want to think about you.”

And, well, Hawke really couldn’t blame him. To have been in his shadow for so long, and for Hawke to turn out to be no better than a monster. Hawke wondered what it had been like, in the weeks since the fight at the Gallows. How much had Carver had to justify never turning his brother in? How often had he replayed their lives, looking for the signs that Hawke was no good from the start? How much had he wished that Hawke had been the one to die in Ferelden, not Bethany?

They made camp, and when Carver rebuffed Hawke’s offer of help he set himself up a little further away in the room, not speaking. Corruption whispered that they would kill him the moment he tried to sleep. The demon offered no comfort - and only one solution.

When Hawke offered, quietly, to take the first watch, his brother snapped at him that no one would trust him with that. So he stayed awake in his corner until he was so tired he couldn't keep his eyes open. They didn’t offer him a tent, or food, or an extra blanket. He huddled on the floor, trying to tell himself that it would be okay. That his brother wouldn’t kill him in cold blood.

He slept in snatches, but every sound in the dark camp brought him back to alertness, heart hammering as he opened his eyes, expecting to see a Templar sword or a maul coming down at his skull. The few moments he did spend asleep, Corruption was waiting for him in the Fade. The demon regarded him with its purple eyes and whispered of danger, of Templars and Hawke’s weaknesses.

When he woke the final time, the mage was pulling out supplies as the final watch. She eyed him for a moment, then hurried over and handed him a portion of rations. The Templars were all still asleep in their tents. She didn’t speak at first, but when he took the offered stack, she grabbed his forearm and inspected it, counting his scars.

“Eleven spells,” she whispered, low, “Or are there more we can’t see?”

“Hip,” Hawke whispered back, “The one that started it all.”

She regarded him, lips pursed.
“I would be dead, if you hadn’t stopped her. I can’t hate you, Champion.”

But she was scared of him, Hawke could see it in her pale face and the tremble of her fingers. Maker, she was trapped in a Carta hideout with three Templars, and she feared him.

He ate his rations and kept his eyes on the ground as the Templars came out of their tents to start the day.

Chapter Text

Of course their father turned out to be a blood mage.

Carver was glaring at Hawke with enough anger that Hawke didn’t dare make a comment. But the reality was he didn’t feel any better for the knowledge. There was a sense of inevitability now that hadn’t been there before, a deep rooted understanding that his path would always lead here in the end. That his father, trapped and desperate and with no options, had also sunk to this. Corruption seemed smug. The demon wasn’t talking, but there was a sense of amusement running through Hawke that wasn’t his emotion.

Larius - tainted, half-mad, and their only way out of the mess, explained that Malcolm Hawke’s blood had been necessary. It didn’t carry the taint of darkspawn. Clean blood had been needed to bind away the darkspawn from the first blight, this Corypheus that whispered in the darkness.

Hawke swallowed.
“I could re-seal it.” He said softly as he and Carver stared at the first seal, the staff Larius offered in Carver’s hands. Hawke wasn’t trusted with it. “I could -”

“No,” Carver snapped, “No blood magic.”

“This is different,” Hawke tried to argue, “I don’t offer lightly but there is supposedly a darkspawn creature so dangerous the Wardens chose to lock it away on the other side of these seals.”

Carver turned to him, furious.
“And if you hadn’t already tied yourself to a demon, would you even be offering?”

Hawke shut up. No. No he wouldn’t be offering. Besides, Corruption was digging its claws into the side of Hawke’s ribs in warning. He didn’t like the idea of resealing the wards. And if Hawke shed blood - if he tried to redo the bindings - Corruption would step in. And that would be bad for everyone involved.

Curious, Hawke tried to nudge at Corruption, to understand why he didn’t want the darkspawn sealed. The fact that the demon didn’t want him to use blood magic was suspicious. Was it just that the possibility of a new blight centred in the Free Marches would give plenty of opportunity in the future? Or was there something else there? Corruption’s eyes glared at him from the Fade, making him feel dizzy, but Hawke couldn’t get a sense of what the demon was thinking.

“You’re talking to it, aren’t you?” Carver demanded. “The demon.”

“It’s always pushing me to use blood magic, but this time it doesn’t want me to.” Hawke said. “That should give us pause for thought, Carver.”

“I don’t care what the fucking thing wants.” Carver growled. “Stop talking to it. Don’t make me kill you, brother.”

And well, how could Hawke argue with that? If Carver turned on him, Corruption would win. He gestured at the seal.

“Guess it’s you spilling blood then, Carver. Can’t imagine you’d trust me with a knife in the circumstances.”

Hawke had had to give up his knives the night before, in camp. They barely wanted him to hold onto his staff, but he’d managed to argue that taking that from him left him utterly defenceless and more reliant on blood magic. Carver didn’t look happy, but he sighed and went to stand on the platform, Malcolm Hawke’s staff in hand as he dragged a knife across his palm.

The Circle Mage - Mari - healed his hand after, and Hawke looked away. Larius was watching him with those wild, crazed eyes.

They broke every seal, and along the way they followed the voice of Malcolm Hawke explaining why he’d done what he’d done. Their mother, pregnant with Garrett and waiting for his return. Of how he prayed that his children would be magic-less. Hawke would have laughed if he didn’t think it would end with a Templar sword in his gut.

Corruption trailed a claw down the back of Hawke’s neck.

He didn’t take advantage of the power offered to him. He was weak.

Hawke gritted his teeth and thought back.

He was better than me.

Corruption’s sneer fought to play itself over Hawke’s face and Hawke covered his mouth with his own hand to hide it from Carver.

Down in the depths of the prison, they faced Janeka and her Wardens who believed they could use the Darkspawn sealed below. It was, admittedly, a curious take and Hawke could understand the Warden wanting to use any tool she could against the Blight. He could also understand exactly how dumb the plan to unleash an ancient darkspawn on the world was. But Larius had been the one to force their father to help the Wardens, threatening their mother, and Carver couldn’t tolerate that. Hawke didn’t offer an opinion. He didn’t dare, his position too precarious. He simply helped cut down the half-mad Warden Commander and called it a mercy.

Corypheus, it turned out, couldn’t be used. From the first wave of magic, Janeka was slammed backwards into the wall and they were suddenly fighting regardless of intentions.

Hawke threw a barrier over his brother and dug deep. He could feel Corruption hissing, static playing out over his skin at the sight of a blighted Tevinter Magister who’d stormed the Golden City centuries ago.

This is not a fight you can win, little bird.

Well, they’d see about that.

The problem, Hawke realised rapidly, was that Carver and his Templar friends were used to fighting scared apostates. At best, they had some experience fighting martial soldiers like themselves, and abominations. And Mari, the Circle Mage, seemed to have little to no combat experience - unsurprising, considering Meredith’s regime. None of them were prepared for darkspawn, let alone a Magister from before the first blight. Maker, he missed his friends. He needed Fenris up front, and Anders at the rear keeping everyone alive. He needed Varric and Isabela flanking. Aveline holding the line. Merrill controlling the battlefield.

Mari died first, a blast of magic taking her in the side. Janeka had struggled up from being smashed into the wall but had gone down again, barely breathing. Mari had been trying to reach the Warden to heal her. Her face looked surprised in death. Her blood sang to him.

You need me, Hawke.

The fact Corruption called him Hawke was a very bad sign. It meant the demon was serious, and there was every chance it would decide to try and seize control. Hawke dropped a fireball on the blighted Magister and backed up.

Corruption was right. Hawke was already exhausted, wavering on the edge of being utterly empty. With Mari dead, they didn’t have a healer, and the Templars couldn’t seem to get a smite down on the Darkspawn. Once again, they were losing - and this time, rather than his friends and hundreds of mages, it was a fucking blight on the line. Hawke watched as a spire of blighted rock spiralled up from nowhere and pierced one of the Templars through the gut, punching straight through armour and flesh with ease.

Hawke had run from the blight, years ago. He couldn’t be responsible for another. Gritting his teeth, he reached out, tentatively, to Mari’s body, to the bleeding, dying Templar.

He couldn’t let Corruption take control, this time. But Carver had taken his weapons and Hawke needed blood. Mari was already dead, her blood pooled on the flagstones. He felt the life leave the Templar and wanted to be sick. The line he swore he wouldn't cross again at the Wounded Coast dissolved in the face of reality. He could save everyone else. He could stop the Darkspawn here, now, before it was too late.

Hawke knew there would always be a reason to keep coming back to this.

Corypheus turned to him, corrupted, shattered face turning to a sneer. Carver brought down the Maul as Hawke used the blood to hold the Magister down, paralysing him in place. There was no way his brother failed to see the blood pulsing and wrapping its way around the darkspawn like bindings.

Corruption laughed and Hawke swore he could feel a pressure building under his skin like lightning ready to burst.

He will kill you for this. You know he will.

Hawke would face that once he’d ensured the blight wasn’t about to start again in the Free Marches. Through gritted teeth he strained against Corypheus’ will, fighting with everything he had to keep the Magister pinned as the remaining warriors piled in.

The Magister moved. The spell shattered.

You are weak, little bird. Give me control.

It was both a demand and an arrogant crow of victory. Hawke cursed, knowing there wasn’t another way, and let the demon guide him. That sensation under his skin thickened and pulsed and lightning tore through the veil as Corruption seized his opportunity.

“Demon,” Corypheus said, his eyes fixed on Hawke, addressing them for the first time rather than calling to the empty skies for Dumat to hear him. “You think to stop me?”

Hawke’s mouth moved and Corruption spoke, the words crackling and snapping with power.

“You are nothing but a slave to a long dead god.”

Corypheus’ eyes widened and Corruption’s claws tore their way through Hawke’s fingers. Inside, Hawke snarled at the pain, but the sound echoed nowhere, lost inside his own lungs. The demon dragged more blood from the dead and this time, the bindings wrapped around Corypheus and broke bone. The Magister screamed.

Then it was over, Carver’s maul shattering the darkspawn’s skull as Hawke clawed at the inside of a prison of his own making, desperate to get back in control before the demon turned on his brother.

The others were dead, or dying. Carver staggered back from the corpse of Corypheus and stared at Hawke, chest heaving from the battle. But he held that maul steady.

“Maker - you…” He took an unsteady step forward and Hawke wasn’t above begging Corruption, pleading with the demon for mercy. But Hawke’s body wasn’t his to command. Desperate, he fought to talk, to explain, to beg.

The words that left his mouth weren’t his.
“You should be grateful I saved your life. Again.”

Carver flinched, but he glared at Hawke.
“Let my brother go, you bastard.”

Corruption laughed and the sound echoed across the walls.
“Such brave talk from a man who never learned to stand on his own two feet. Always following someone about, whether that was at Ostagar or your own brother. Or an insane Knight-Commander.”

Something flickered across Carver’s face and Hawke tried to wrench back control one last time. But then his brother was charging at him, maul raised and Hawke could only scream one desperate note as Corruption chuckled, drawing the blood back to him.

It formed a dagger, and Corruption moved with more finesse and speed than Hawke naturally possessed. They ducked, dodging aside the maul as it came down and brought the dagger up and through Carver’s throat.

Corruption pulled back, leaving Hawke reeling with the sudden emptiness as Carver slumped into his arms, bleeding out. Laughter rang in Hawke’s ears.

Chapter Text

Hawke wasn’t sure how he made it out of Corypheus’ prison. He was covered in his brother’s blood.

Janeka had survived. She’d been there, tugging him away from Carver’s corpse, barking orders as if he were a Warden. Hawke couldn’t remember where she’d gone. Had he killed her too? No. He had a pack on his back, and his father’s strange staff in his hands, and she must have set his feet on the path to the surface as he surely couldn’t have found it alone. But she hadn’t lingered over the maleficar - over the kinslayer.

He staggered, the world tilting as Corruption reached out towards the sun, basking in its thin heat after the cold days down in the dark. Hawke sank to his knees and threw up. When he looked at his hands, his fingernails were broken and black from where Corruption's claws had started to form physically from his flesh.

He’d killed Carver. He’d killed Carver. He’d killed Carver.

He would have killed you.

Hawke wanted to scream, but Corruption’s claws felt like they clamped over his throat and jaw, pinning the sound inside. Shuddering, Hawke closed his eyes.

He didn’t deserve to die.

Corruption’s scoff of amusement echoed through Hawke’s skull.

Such a foolish notion. Does the worm deserve to be eaten by the bird?

He was my brother.

If his last protest had Corruption scoffing, that one had him snarling. Snarling - with all the rage and hurt that Carver’s defection to the Templars had caused him, six years ago. A mocking echo of his own thoughts.

He betrayed you first.

And yes, Hawke had considered Carver’s decision to join the Order a betrayal of his magical siblings. But the demon was twisting it, manipulating it - corrupting it. Hawke gritted his teeth. He’d never once wanted Carver dead, for all their differences. For all their arguments and clashes, for the snide comments and awkward silences. None of it added up to hatred. None of it added up to murder. His brother had been an ass, but he’d been family.

Hawke tried to stand, but his body wouldn’t respond. For a heartbeat, panic set in that Corruption was still in control - but no, he’d pulled back, below, to ensure that it was Hawke alone that had carried the momentum through Carver’s throat. This was on him. Tears tracked down his face.

If he died here - if he dragged himself to one of the tallest buildings and jumped - would Corruption seize control entirely? How much danger could a full abomination be in a wasteland?

Corruption chuckled.
Shall we find out? You don’t need to hurt yourself, little bird. Just give in.

Meredith’s sister had killed seventy people. Hawke’s count was close to that already if you included the Gallows. He was a monster, fully possessed or not. He’d killed his brother.

Groaning, he managed to stand back up and stumbled down the mountain side, heading south. He had to get away.

Time slipped in a discordant haze. Hawke kept moving, following the mountain path with a singular focus. One foot in front of the other, keep moving. Don’t stop. One foot in front of the other, keep moving.

Dusk settled over the mountains, and Hawke stumbled on in the dark, unwilling to stop. He’d caved to Corruption and the desperation of yet another unwinnable fight. And in doing so, he’d given more of himself over to the demon. His fingers were still bruised and bloodied. Next time, how much of him would come back? And the time after that?

You know, Corruption purred in his ear, I find myself enjoying this almost as much as I would enjoy your world in the flesh.

Hawke stopped dead in the road, breath catching in his throat. What did the demon mean by that?

Laughter caressed his spine.

I am Corruption, little bird. How corrupt do you think I can make you before I claim your form? The people of Kirkwall named you Champion. What do you think they will name you before I am through?

Hawke shuddered and started to move again.

The demon had taken so much already. How much more could it take? How much more could he stand before he stopped fighting?

He tried not to think of the answers to that. He still had friends he cared about, deeply. He still wanted to see Kirkwall whole. And there was Fenris. Fenris, who could be anywhere.

Hawke’s broken nails dug into his own palms as he walked.

Darkness surrounded him. Hawke rubbed at his face, shivering a little. He had a few things in his pack, including a blanket, and he made himself stop when he found a sparse, half-dead tree to shelter underneath. The wind still whipped through the mountain pass, chilling him, but he couldn’t go on. Exhaustion gnawed at his bones - and that was dangerous. If he kept pushing past this point, Corruption would seize the advantage. He had to sleep, to rest, to try and recover. Groaning, Hawke dropped his pack, fumbled for the blanket and pulled it around himself.

He slept like the dead, despite everything.

It was well into the morning by the time he woke, and he ate a third of his rations even though he knew it wasn’t enough food. He needed to hunt, or to find a settlement but there were very few in the Marches outside the main cities. Farmsteads and trading posts dotted the landscape, but he was still too high in the mountains for such things.

Perhaps he’d find Wardens. Or Dalish.

Hawke walked, the blanket still around his shoulders for warmth. Corruption stayed quiet, even when Hawke raised a hand and tried to summon sparks from the Fade to keep his fingers warm. There was nothing. Maker, he’d undone all his weeks and months of hard work fighting Corypheus. He tried to tell himself it was worth it, that he’d saved the world from another Blight - but if he and Carver hadn’t been lured down there in the first place, none of it would have come to pass.

It was growing dark again when Hawke realised he could see a small campfire up ahead. He paused, blinking, wondering if mirages could happen in wastelands, as well as deserts. It wasn’t exactly warm, but he was tired, hungry and thirsty. Maybe it wasn’t all about the heat.

Corruption stirred, and Hawke got the impression of stretching like a cat.

Well isn’t this interesting. Shall we go closer?

Hawke wanted to turn around and walk in the other direction - but he couldn’t. There was only one path down the mountain as far as he had been able to tell.

He moved closer, cautiously, eyes squinting in the gloom. There, a little way off the road, was a man in the robes of a Warden. He looked to be greying, and he hunched over the fire, the flames casting odd shadows on his face.

A memory of Larius, eyes unseeing and skin sallow with taint. The Calling - Wardens who’d left the Order to find death in the Deep Roads. Was that why this man was here, alone? Had he heard of tunnels in the Mountains and come to find an end among the darkspawn he must be able to sense below his feet?

Hawke stayed low, off the path, watching. Corruption whispered to him in the dark.

Look at his pack, at his clothes. He’s going to die anyway, we could speed him on his way.

Without thinking, Hawke let the blanket around his shoulders drop away, one hand going to the dagger he’d reclaimed from his brother’s body. A dagger of steel, not blood - but it would function just the same. Then he hesitated.

A Warden. A man who had done him no harm - who had sworn to fight darkspawn until his last dying breath. This was different from the slavers and the bounty hunters. Maker, it was different even from Aveline’s guards. But there was hunger in Hawke’s gut, and the wind was picking up. He wouldn’t make it back to Kirkwall without something. And why would the Warden share willingly, in the circumstances? An apostate staggering out of the dark, covered in blood, hardly screamed ally. Even if the Wardens clearly had looser stances on blood magic than Hawke had ever realised.

Corruption spoke again.

It’s just one more life, little bird.

One more life, and Hawke had already taken Carver’s. His hands shook as he gripped the hilt of his dagger. One cut, and he could kill the man swiftly. It would be kinder than what the darkspawn would do, in the end. Wouldn’t it?

Hawke knew he was losing. That this was another line. There was a litany of dead in his life - starting with Ser Wesley, all the way back in the Korcari Wilds, and ending with his brother. But never had he murdered someone in cold blood for their food and blankets.

The dagger cut through his palm, and blood dripped onto the path.

He’d done this twice without Corruption - both times on the Carta dwarves that had come to kill him. His blood, and his blood alone would suffice. Across the distance, Hawke watched as if from a much greater distance as the Warden suddenly thrashed, blood welling up from a dozen wounds Hawke inflicted on him. He tried to go for his own staff, and Hawke made a second, deeper cut. Blood bubbled from the Warden’s mouth, and he collapsed down, twitching. Hawke clenched his fist and felt the life drain from the man, essence rushing back to heal the cuts on his hand. A life snuffed out as if it were nothing.

Inside his head, Corruption murmured his approval.

Good. Give me another piece of yourself, another line, another moral. I will make a demon of you yet.

Hawke let the words wash over him without blinking. Then he rose to his feet, found his blanket and stumbled down the hill towards the dead man. The fire was inviting, and Hawke swore he could smell something cooking over those flames.

He would do it again, he knew. And again, and again, until it was second nature. Until not a single part of him flinched. Until he was as corrupt as the bandits and slavers he’d once taken pleasure from stopping.

Kirkwall would need a new Champion to stop him.

Chapter Text

His cave on the Kirkwall coast was much as he had left it, even if he was a changed man. A corrupted man.

There were two notes in the hollow of the tree, both from Varric.

Carver has left the Gallows on a mission to find the culprits, be safe.

And a second one, more recent.

Are you alive?

Hawke left a note of his own.

I am, Carver isn’t. Carta are all dead, along with a few Wardens. Don’t come near, I’m starting to lose myself.

In his head, Corruption laughed.

Starting?

Hawke gritted his teeth and tried to push the demon back. There was every risk Varric would approach the cave again, and Hawke didn’t want to risk his friend’s life. Would Corruption attack instinctively, seeing a link to who Hawke had been as a threat to his grip on him? Or would it simply see Varric as another opportunity to break Hawke further? Murdering Carver had been one thing - killing Varric would be another entirely.

He took the time to wash, as best he could, in the bay, enjoying the warmth on his skin. Hawke stripped naked and soaked his clothes before catching crabs for dinner, turning over rocks to find the smaller, tastier species. He’d missed seafood whilst trekking through the mountains, and as glad as he’d been for the Fennec that had crossed his path, he wanted something different. Hawke got a sharp, sudden longing for the food back in Kirkwall. The idea that he’d never get a chance to eat Rivaini banana bread or Orlesian fruit marchepane again seemed to make them that much sweeter in his memory. It was such a silly, petty thing to miss, in the circumstances.

That night, Hawke managed to call enough fire to his hands to start a campfire. As the crab meat roasted, he stretched out his damp clothes to dry. Everything was flecked with blood, and Hawke knew that most of it was not his own. It didn't matter how much he tried, he’d never be able to get rid of the stains. He wondered, dimly, if there was magic for that kind of thing. If the Circles taught a more mundane form of magic, or if the Templars insisted that the mages did laundry. He thought of Orsino bent over a washboard and snorted, before remembering the elf was dead, run through by Meredith during the battle of the Gallows.

Bloodied, salt and sweat stiff clothing was likely to be all he had, until the day it fell apart. Eventually, he’d just be a half-naked, half-starved madman huddling in a cave, waiting to die. It was an ignoble end to the Champion of Kirkwall.

Corruption stirred.

We can do better than this. So much better.

Hawke thought of Tevinter, of Danarius - of the lap of luxury that blood mages lived in whilst murdering slaves. It was a far cry from a cave on the Wounded Coast.

There are travellers, and less innocent men who walk these paths. It would not be so difficult to thrive, even here.

He swallowed, sorely tempted for a heartbeat. A couple of threats to the helpless, and he would have coin, food, and comforts. But he knew it wouldn’t be a couple of threats. He couldn’t afford survivors - the ones he’d freed from the slavers had led the Templars right to him. Corruption was suggesting murder and banditry. But hadn’t he already started on that path? The Warden had been an act of desperation - of cold and starvation - but he’d still been a corpse by the time Hawke was through.

A few sovereigns, a change of clothes and a shave, and it was possible Hawke would be able to walk through the markets of Lowtown as a different man. And from there…

Hawke shoved the thought away, quickly. He would not, could not, return to Kirkwall. It was too dangerous, and he could not afford to become a full abomination somewhere so populated. And he would, if he were spotted - if the Templars discovered him. This was better, he told himself firmly. Away from people, he couldn’t hurt anyone.

Away from people, he was dreadfully, awfully lonely.

He’d always been the kind of man who enjoyed good company, and a good drink. His friends had been his world, slotting into the gaps in his life caused by the slow shattering of his family. Aveline had been first, of course, a bond forged in blood, but Varric and Isabela had been the family Hawke had lost. And Fenris…

Hawke fell asleep, heartsick and homesick, and fell into the Fade.

He stood in the ruins of the Hawke manor, unsure whether the ashes were a reflection of the real world, or if it was his mind trying to project symbolism on what he’d done. Corruption eyed him, teeth sharp.

You know, it purred, I have chased away a good dozen desire demons these last few nights.

Hawke winced. He’d fallen asleep thinking of Fenris. Of course desire demons wanted to get close to him.

You crave companionship. A friend to drink with, to commiserate with, to laugh with.

“You don’t know humans all that well really, do you?” Hawke answered testily. “We’re social creatures. Every person I’ve met recently has died. Most at my hands.”

Corruption tilted its head, regarding him. Hawke felt a tingle of electricity over his skin and shivered. Even that touch was more than he’d experienced in what - days? He tried to think, to work out when he’d last felt the brush of skin on skin. A squeeze of his hand, or shoulder, an elbow as people jostled, a shove. A fist.

The mage, he realised with a sickening twist, down in the prison. She’d grabbed his arm to count his scars. And before that?

Fenris, back at the manor, leaving Hawke’s jaw and cheekbone aching, their kiss only hours before tainted by what he’d done.

Four months had passed since that night. Maker, no wonder he was lonely. Not a single friendly face, and just Varric’s occasional note for company. Still shivering from the static on his skin, Hawke looked away from Corruption.

You want more than a friend.

Hawke breathed out shakily. No, he was not about to bloody talk about this with the demon in his mind. He tried to change the subject.

“I want you gone.” He said, aware of how sulky and snappish he sounded, like a petulant child. A thought occurred to him. “I killed the demon in the Fade that wanted to possess Feynriel. Can I kill you?”

Corruption gave a low rumbling chuckle.

You can’t. And no one is coming to challenge me here for your soul. You made sure of that when you invited me in.

Right, yes. He wondered if Corruption would be able to stop him writing to Varric, begging for someone to help him, as they’d helped Feynriel. But Merrill hadn’t known the ritual the Keeper used, and Maretheri was dead, along with her clan. And no one from the Circle would agree to risk themselves for him. Hawke closed his eyes. Alone. He was alone with a demon of his own making.

The static crawling up his arms seemed to focus, and Hawke got the distinct sensation that Corruption was caressing him. His eyes snapped open.

The demon smiled, still standing a little distance away.

I wonder, little bird, how far you would fall to feel something?

Hawke tried to suppress his reaction, glaring at the creature before him. This couldn’t be happening. Corruption wasn’t seriously suggesting…

The electricity felt like hands - claws - ghosting over his skin. Yes, yes it was.

“Don’t,” Hawke said, as steadily as he could.

Corruption’s laughter made Hawke’s skin cruel.

You want it. You held out for so long for the elf, and he abandoned you so quickly. I can feel the ache in you, calling to desire.

Hawke gritted his teeth. The crackle of electricity ghosted lower, over his chest. It took effort to not let out a whimper. Four months. The static wasn’t the same as the lyrium in Fenris’ skin, but it was similar - sharper, more of an edge. It would hurt, leave him raw. And what Corruption was suggesting was abhorrent, another way for it to break Hawke, leave him more vulnerable to its whims. None of that seemed to matter to his body though, which was growing more and more interested in proceedings. The spark of electricity travelled lower.

He had to wake up, to get away. Not, he realised with a half-wild thought, that waking up would be an escape. It would be less acute, but Corruption would still be there. He was trapped.

The lick of static crawled across Hawke’s hip bones and found the place that Fenris loved to bite and bruise, leaving marks for days. And Hawke’s resolve broke like a dam bursting.

The sound that left him tailed off into agonised shame, but it had been a sound. Corruption grinned and waved a hand, almost lazily, and the lightning spiked, feeling like claws down Hawke’s spine. Hawke’s knees gave way, cursing. Of course Corruption knew what he liked - how long had the demon been watching? Had it seen the way he’d let a nameless smuggler take him in an alleyway, down at the docks, or the time he’d begged a whore at the Rose to make it hurt? His body was fully interested, now, and even his protests had quietened. Panting a little, Hawke shoved his hand down the front of his trousers, closing around his hard cock.

Corruption purred in his ear, ratcheting up the lightning racing across Hawke’s skin, its claws burying into Hawke’s hair, tightening painfully.

Mine, my little bird.

Hawke whined, a flare of hatred rolling through him even as his body shuddered at the words, at the intent. A small protesting voice was loud enough to remind him not to submit entirely, not to agree, in case this was a trap to possess him fully. But that didn’t seem to be Corruption’s plan as the demon dragged a claw down Hawke’s chest, tearing at his skin. Static and magic surged, pooling in his abdomen and lower down, and Hawke couldn’t help the noise that tore from his throat as he thrust into his own hand. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears building, but he could still see an outline of purple electricity behind his eyelids.

Corruption was overwhelming, its presence and essence pressing against Hawke’s flesh, sparking sweet agony through him. The demon’s pleased laughter echoed in his ears as he watched Hawke pleasure himself, still whispering.

Oh Hawke, you are such fun to toy with.

A bloody claw teased against Hawke’s lips before pushing into his mouth, deep into his throat, and Hawke choked, thrashing in Corruption’s grip before the world went white.

He woke, gasping, stomach sticky with his own spend, shame heavy on the heels on the crest of pleasure. Groaning, Hawke slumped down, trying to compose himself in the dark.

It took him a while to realise that Corruption had called him Hawke, at the end.

Chapter Text

The ship wrecked late at night, in the kind of storm that the Waking Sea was infamous for.

Hawke heard the splintering crunch of wood hitting the rocks and looked towards the cave mouth, squinting into the dark. Corruption stirred.

An opportunity.

It was - in many ways. It was also a danger. Cautiously, Hawke abandoned his blankets and crept out of the cave, into the driving rain.

Lightning cracked down, and just outside Hawke’s little bay, he could see a trading vessel beached upon the rocks. It wouldn’t take long for the ship to tear apart. Hawke squinted against the dark and the rain to try and spot any sign of a lifeboat approaching the shore.

Hawke could not swim - or at least, he couldn’t swim well enough to risk those waves. There had been little call for it as a skill, back in Ferelden, and whilst Isabela had spent several days in the coast, encouraging them all into the waters in happier times, there was a difference between lazy floating and trying to swim through a storm. But there would be a lot of salvage from the ship that would wash up on the shore, and Hawke could get the pick of it before swarms arrived from Kirkwall.

Corruption though, wasn’t thinking of sodden crates and an easy supply of firewood. He was thinking of desperate sailors, dying in the dark. Of their weapons, coin and clothes.

Hawke, reluctantly, admitted to himself that he needed new boots. He tried to tell himself - tell Corruption - that he would not kill for them. The demon only laughed.

And if they land on the beach, and look for shelter?

Hawke gritted his teeth. If they came near his cave… He couldn’t risk them finding him. The tales they could carry back to Kirkwall of a strange hermit would ring alarm bells among the Templars and the Guard.

There - a boat, rowing away from the ship. And not a moment too soon, as there was an almighty crack as the ship broke in two, the back half collapsing into the water. Hawke pushed damp hair out of his eyes and watched the the smaller boat move towards the bay. A flash of lightning lit the scene up well enough that he could see five men onboard - and at least one body already on the beach, unmoving.

We can burn the boat, paralyse them, let them drown. No one will suspect a thing.

Hawke shivered, and it had nothing to do with the cold. Corruption ran static down his spine, forcing a reaction out of him. No. No he would not do that.

Since returning from the Vinmark Mountains, he’d killed a camp of bandits, further up the coast and taken everything they had for his own. But that was different. These were just normal men, who’d been trying to make a living.

He refused to move, to head down to the ebay. Through the Fade, he could feel Corruption frowning.

They might be smugglers.

Smugglers, Hawke told himself firmly, didn’t necessarily deserve to die. Yes, in Kirkwall, smugglers didn’t always limit themselves to goods - more than a few dabbled in slavery and humans - but this wasn’t a slaving ship. He ignored Corruption’s wheedling and made himself stay hidden.

The lifeboat made it ashore, and Hawke tensed, watching as the sailors staggered up the shore. He prayed they would head towards the shape on the horizon that was Kirkwall.

Corruption growled in frustration, making Hawke flinch, as the sailors conferred for a moment, and then started away, towards the city. In his head, the demon lashed out, and Hawke, already crouched in the brush to stay out of sight, gave a hiss of pain and clutched at his skull. The sound was lost in the wind and storm, and Hawke shuddered on the ground, Corruption’s thwarted anger turned on him, lightning sharp. It felt like his head was splitting in two under the pressure.

You know it would be easier to follow, little bird - you shouldn’t deny me.

Hawke let out a small sob and tried to push up, panting from the pain. Corruption hurting him, punishing him, was a relatively new development - the stick to the carrot of that static charge in the Fade that Hawke hated himself for craving. He knew what the demon was doing, knew that he was not so much being nudged, as pushed, into doing what Corruption wanted until he stopped resisting entirely. Until he’d do anything for the demon, including letting himself become fully possessed.

He was coming up on eight months since he’d fled Kirkwall, and he wasn’t sure he had another eight months in him. But he had to. He had to keep fighting.

Some nights, Hawke wanted to drag himself to the Gallows and give the Templars an opportunity to end him, even if it would mean dozens dead. And that would be when Corruption was gentle in the Fade, when he eased off and allowed Hawke to feel hope - along with other things - until the desire faded. Demons wanted to be in the physical world, wanted to pass through the Veil, but Corruption was clever enough to know it didn’t want to do so only to be cut down by the Order. It wanted Hawke’s body, but it would wait until the best opportunity to seize it.

The pain eased, and Hawke stood on trembling legs to look down, over the beach. Another corpse had washed up, and the first of what looked to be a supply crate. Breathing out shakily, Hawke started to move down the cliff face to the bay.

The storm wasn’t showing any sign of easing, and the waves surged up and down the beach, white foam even in the darkness. Hawke crept towards the first body, alert for anyone else arriving at the bay.

He rolled the body over, ignoring the glazed look on the sailor’s face, the pallor of his skin.

A belt pouch with a good dozen sovereigns, a sailor’s knife, and a bracelet that would be worth something if only Hawke could sell it were good pickings, but the man was too slight to make his clothes useful.

Moving to the other body, Hawke realised with a sharp drop in his stomach that the man wasn’t dead. The sailor stirred, coughing, as Hawke moved closer. Then his eyes opened and spotted Hawke.

Corruption whispered, but he didn’t need to. Hawke knew what had to happen.

You cannot let him live.

The sailors who hadn’t seen him were one thing, this man - with his eyes already locked on Hawke’s - was another thing entirely.

The man probably thought he was a scavenger, and despite only just starting to recover, he fumbled for the cutlass at his hip.

“D-don’t -”

He was weak enough that Hawke could just drive a knife through his throat - but that would be obvious, and lead to searches in the area. The guard were likely to arrive not long after any early scavengers, and they would look into a murder, even if they just chased away the poor and desperate. Equally, obvious signs of magic - of fire at least - would raise questions. It left him with very little option. Hawke drew his knife and dragged steel through skin.

Corruption smiled approvingly as the man died, drowning in blood, not water. Hawke scuffed the sand to hide the splatter of blood.

Well, he thought, dispassionately, he could probably steal this man’s boots. He looked to be about the right size.

The boots, the shirt, and his coin pouch joined Hawke’s small haul before he headed to the two supply crates bobbing in the surf. One, slightly bashed in and starting to sink into the sand, held what appeared to be furs from Ferelden. In Kirkwall, they’d be cut to size and used to line gloves and boots for the winter cold. Hawke grabbed the whole crate and dragged it to shore. He could see which were salvageable and use them himself when the temperature started to drop.

The second was less useful - in that the sea water had already soaked into the wheels of hard cheese. Hawke wondered, dimly, if that would add to the flavour, before deciding it wasn’t worth the risk of eating some rancid. He gathered his finds and picked his way back across the beach, only pausing at the edge to turn and gather a small force spell to his hands, blasting the sand to obscure his footprints.

More would wash up, he knew, but the sky was starting to lighten a little, the storm easing as it rolled on up the coast. Soon, scavengers from Darktown would descend, and he wanted to be hidden up in his cave until long after they were gone.

He skirted the traps he’d laid out, ducked into the cave mouth and walked towards the back, where a campfire smouldered. Dropping the crate and the goods, he snuffed out the last of the glowing embers. He couldn’t risk smoke. Heading back towards the entrance, Hawke pulled at some of the brush which he’d previously worked loose and dragged it a little closer to the mouth of the cave, obscuring it. From down on the beach, it would be difficult to see more than a crack in the rockface. He hoped it would be enough to stay hidden.

For a moment, he considered slipping back out, and going foraging further down the coast - but staying out for a whole day was more risky, and there was no guarantee he’d be able to sneak back. If enough salvage washed up, the guards could be present for a couple of days, and whilst it would be miserable, he’d be safer in the cave.

He did, at least, have enough time to slip out to the hollow of the tree, to see if Varric had any notes for him. They’d been becoming less and less frequent, but they were the only lifeline he had to Kirkwall and his old life. He missed updates from Isabela and Merrill. The Rivaini had taken to the seas again, further up the coast, and Merrill had turned her attention to helping the elves of the alienage. Hawke was grateful that she remained free, considering the fight at the Gallows. Cullen must have assumed her own blood magic was Hawke’s.

There were two notes waiting for him in the tree, inside the wax-sealed pouch they used to stop the rain from destroying messages. The first was from Merrill, asking whether Hawke had ever seen a tome with a strange Tevinter-esque design on the front, complete with a rough sketch of what appeared to be a snake eating its own tail. Hawke didn’t recognise it, and he tucked it away to respond once the wreck was cleared.

The second made his blood run cold.

Sebastian has reclaimed the throne of Starkhaven and is gathering an army. He’s claimed, publicly, that he will find you one way or another, and bring you to justice. That Kirkwall must be brought back under Chantry control. It might be time to move on, Hawke.

In the Fade, Corruption licked its lips, sending a warning static over Hawke’s skin.

Let him come. We will make him bleed.

Chapter Text

Hawke did not run. He left a note to Merrill, suggesting that if she could talk to Cullen, he might know if there was anything in the Gallows library. And then he emphasised, very clearly, that she should absolutely not go anywhere near the Knight-Commander without back-up and could not under any circumstances mention him.

He left a shorter note to Varric.

I won’t run. He abandoned us, and perhaps if he hadn’t, things would have been different. I won’t let him have Kirkwall.

Varric didn’t write back. Hawke wondered if it had been the final straw.

It took a few weeks for it to happen, and it felt like the world around Hawke held its breath. And then he woke up one morning to find people fleeing the city.

He watched from his cave, hidden from the path, as refugees poured out of the eastern gate, heading for Ostwick. If Sebastian had brought an army, it would come from the north, having crossed the Vinmark Mountains.

Would Aveline close the gates and force a siege? Would Cullen order them opened, demand the Chantry took precedence, in the circumstances? Hawke turned to the bay, to stare at the Gallows out past the docks. The Knight-Commander was not his ally, not now, but would he hand the city over to the Prince of Starkhaven in search of a common enemy?

Hawke itched to know. He itched to sneak into the city, to find out what was happening.

Corruption stalked in his mind like a caged wolf. Hawke was surprised that the demon wanted to be slow, to be cautious. Then again, it probably had more to lose if Hawke was caught, or trapped somewhere in the city.

A cave is not a good place to be when we’re being hunted.

The demon eyed him, considering. It wasn’t often Hawke initiated conversation.

What would you suggest, little bird?

Hawke licked dry lips.

There are tunnels into Darktown. Places to hide, and a dozen routes back out the city.

Which was how Hawke found himself standing in Anders abandoned clinic, tears tracking down his face at the wreckage around him.

He didn’t know if Templars had raided the place in the aftermath, or if the mob had gotten there. The door was forced open and hung battered on its frame, the lantern kicked over and leaking oil onto the floor. The few bedframes were trashed, the mattresses slashed and burned. All the vials and flasks stored out back were smashed, Anders’ desk overturned, paper strewn about and stamped into the dirt. There was a lingering smell of piss.

Anders was gone. He’d been gone, even before Meredith ran him through, but Hawke hadn’t let it hit him until that moment. It had been too much. It was still too much.

Bunkered down in the ruins of Anders’ clinic, Hawke heard the stream of people flooding out of the city through the sewers. He caught whispers of what was happening above their head, the panic setting in throughout the city. He didn’t know what was rumour and what was true, but it was more than he’d had, up on the coast.

Sebastian was in the city. There had been no resistance. And it was only going to be a matter of time before the Starkhaven soldiers were looking for him.

Hawke debated, briefly, with Corruption about making himself known. But that would bring the Templar Order down on him too, and in far greater numbers. He couldn’t risk it. Instead he stayed down in the sewers, staying out of sight. Enough people were fleeing the city that he was able to scavenge a decent meal from what was left behind. He slept that night in the back of Anders’ clinic, hoping the crunch of glass might alert him in case anyone dared approach.

In the Fade, Corruption brought Hawke off with the crackle of lightning over his skin and a reptilian tongue, whispering of what they’d do to the Prince of Starkhaven as Hawke whimpered and thrashed. Hawke tried, control hanging by a hair, to push back - to protest that he just wanted to protect Kirkwall, but he couldn’t deny that he wanted the man to hurt. That whatever difficult friendship they’d cultivated over the years had been burned to ashes when Sebastian walked away, swearing revenge rather than aid when Hawke had needed every friend he had.

He couldn’t blame Sebastian for his sorry state, not entirely - but he had stood aside as the Gallows burned; had decided the answer to needless death was the death of two hundred innocent mages. Hawke hated him for that, almost as much as he hated himself for resorting to blood magic to save them.

It took three days for the Starkhaven soldiers to start sweeping through Darktown, looking for him. It took another day for Hawke to spot the gleaming white amour of the Prince of Starkhaven from his hiding place.

Prince Sebastian Vael strode through the mud and shit, eyes locked on the clinic. Of course, Hawke realised, shrinking a little further into the shadows, he’d taken Sebastian down here several times. He’d hoped then that seeing the good Anders was doing - the conditions of the desperate, their reliance on one lone apostate - might sway him somehow. The fact the Chantry Brother had never betrayed Anders to the Templars suggested Hawke had been partially successful, which just made the reality of the situation now hurt all that little more. Hidden just out of sight, Hawke drew his knife and readied himself.

“You know,” he said, as his blood dripped to the floor, “You could have just stayed away.”

Eight soldiers, and Hawke knew he needed more blood than he could offer himself - that he couldn’t rely on traditional magic with a man like Sebastian on the opposite side. Even before Corruption, nine alone would have been suicide - now it was a sure way to be a fully fledged abomination. And then it wouldn’t just be the people of Darktown in danger from him.

Sebastian reacted as two of his men dropped to the floor, blood blooming from wounds that hadn’t been there before. Hawke pulled on the blood, feeling the beat of it in his own veins. It wrapped its way around the Prince, holding him paralysed whilst Corruption turned their attention to the remaining soldiers.

“H-Hawke,” Sebastian said, “What have you become?”

Hawke felt the weight of that accusation pierce through him as much as any arrow, and wanted to scream. He’d become a monster, and he knew it, although he still couldn’t see any other option. When he spoke, Corruption guided his tongue.

I am what this city has driven me to.

Sebastian’s honour guard surged forwards, as the Prince began to speak in prayer, and Hawke felt Corruption flinch back, hissing at the words. When Hawke focused the blood against the closest warrior, hoping to turn him like a puppet against his allies, the spell seemed to slip, snatching at air not the soldier’s mind. Corruption snarled in anger.

The Litany of Adralla - kill him, Hawke. Kill him, kill him, kill him.

Whatever Sebastian was doing, the chant of Corruption in his head was fuel to the fire. Hawke growled, backing up, and opened another cut over his arm, letting the blood well.

No puppetry, then, no domination. Hawke reached through the soldier’s body and heated his blood, and the man collapsed to the floor, twitching. But already the others were coming on, and Sebastian was struggling against his bonds of blood, the prayer of the Chantry weakening Hawke’s hold. He had to be quick, and brutal. Another wound, his hands slick with his own blood, and Hawke struck at the next two before they could reach him. Both started to bleed from their eyes, noses and mouths - even their ears. Hawke gathered it all to him and struck at those still standing, leaving the Prince alone and trapped.

Hawke looked down at his left arm, at the blood dripping onto the floor. Corruption had calmed a little with every death, and Sebastian, whilst still praying, had realised that the Litany wasn’t having the desired effect.

“It works,” he muttered, looking up at the Prince, “On abominations. I am not quite one yet. And blood magic seeking to dominate, to control. I don’t want to control you, Sebastian. I want you dead.”

Sebastian, his white armour no longer quite so clean, splattered with the blood of his comrades, struggled against the hold Hawke had on him.

“You - you are a monster, Garrett Hawke. Were you one even then, when the abomination killed Elthina? You admitted to helping - to aiding him! How long did you hide the truth?”

Anger flared through Hawke, though the slowly numbing ache in his arm that told him he’d lost too much blood, that this had drained him more than he should have dared. If other soldiers appeared, or the Templars… He wouldn’t survive.

“Stop talking,” he growled, finally reaching Sebastian, dagger in hand. “This - this was what I had to do, Sebastian. You weren't there. You didn’t see the Gallows statues come to life, that fucking sword, Anders being cut down … I saved what I could, even as it destroyed me.”

In his head, Corruption’s tongue ran down his forearm, licking at the blood, a purple imprint against reality. Too close to the physical world. Hawke hung onto his sense of self, onto the shreds of who he was.

His control over the blood holding Sebastian finally slipped, and the Prince of Starkhaven moved, going for the daggers he carried in back-up. Hawke was faster, his knife already in hand. The blade met the underside of Sebastian’s jaw, shoving up through the roof of his mouth. The fresh offering of power trickled down Hawke’s hands.

He’d wanted to draw it out, what a pity. Or was that Corruption talking? Hawke couldn’t tell anymore. They were so close, so intertwined that Hawke could taste lightning on his tongue.

Hawke watched as Sebastian choked on his own blood, struggling for one last breath. It was Carver, all over again - but this time Hawke didn’t turn away. This time, Hawke wanted it as much as Corruption.

The last thing Sebastian saw was the smile of the Champion of Kirkwall, who’d sold his soul to defend the city.

Corruption purred inside Hawke’s mind.

Make a statement, or your enemies will keep coming.

Without arguing, Hawke dragged the man’s body into the clinic, and set about doing precisely that.

He became aware, dimly, of having an audience as he strapped Sebastian’s naked corpse to one of the stronger looking bedframes. When he looked around, several of Darktown’s inhabitants that hadn’t fled were watching wide-eyed. Hawke continued with his bloody work, shoving Sebastian’s belt buckle into his mouth as a final touch before stepping shakily back.

His voice was hoarse as he spoke, staring at the ruin of his friend’s body.

“He wanted justice. There is no justice in Kirkwall,” he let out a barking, strained laugh, “He died at the Gallows.”

He wondered, briefly, if Vengeance watched over him. If the demon that had twisted and warped inside his friend was in the Fade, aware of what Hawke had done here.

When he turned to walk away, the assembled crowd drew back. Hawke dripped blood into the tunnels as he went.

Chapter Text

The Knight-Commander couldn’t let it stand, of course.

Templars flooded into Darktown, with the remains of the Starkhaven guards as back-up. Hawke watched from the shadows before retreating. But instead of slipping away, out of the city and back to the coast, he entered the ancient Tevinter tunnels.

Years ago, Hawke had spared the life of a blood mage who’d tried to kill him, and she’d repented her actions. He wasn’t sure what had ended up happening to her in the Gallows, but she’d written to him about copies of blood magic texts scattered around Kirkwall. He’d done his best to clear them up, killing the demons that emerged to protect the profane offerings. But the Qunari had demanded attention, and by the time he’d tried to return to finish the job, someone had interfered. The last copy had been missing, and Hawke had never found the path through the tunnels to the original tome.

But now he had Corruption.

In the Fade, Corruption talked of the long centuries, watching Kirkwall as the Magisters of the Ancient Imperium created rivers of blood to fuel their rituals. The thousands of dead every year, entire civilisations worth of people just disappearing into the tunnels Hawke now found himself in and never returning. One morning, he found a room that led to a charnel house, just like The Bone Pit outside of the city. A rage demon formed from the bones, howling its fury. Corruption shattered it, lightning forming in a way that Hawke had never had the affinity for. In the aftermath, Hawke had to force the panic down, keeping a grip on himself. The Veil was so thin in the room that Corruption could bring its own magic to bear.

The demon laughed and dragged a claw down Hawke’s spine, and Hawke could feel it against his skin, not just the echo from the Fade. He fled from the room and vomited, a dozen steps back into the corridor.

No wonder, Hawke thought as he wandered aimlessly, that the Gallows saw more blood magic and possessions than most Circles. That Kirkwall had had a reputation, even before Knight-Commander Meredith’s grip tipped from severe to cruel. Whatever the Imperium had been up to, down here, it had irrevocably led to a damaged Veil, and demons reached up from the depths to whisper temptation to the people above.

Hawke found markings on the walls that suggested the Templars were patrolling and exploring the maze of tunnels, trying to find him. He took time to wipe the marks away in some places, to twist them in others. Once, he smeared blood from his palm over the lines. He heard the shout of alarm echo through the passageways as he kept moving.

Around one corner, he found several dead Templars and the remains of a despair demon - the husk, the cloak, the lingering cold.

When he stumbled upon the first traps, Hawke knew he was on the right track.

Corruption stirred in his mind.

Be careful, little bird. Something ancient awaits within.

Hawke hesitated on the threshold, watching the flames lick up the walls, searching for the arrow slots that would threaten his throat.

Older than Corypheus?

Older still. It fled under the earth long ago.

Hawke licked dry lips.

Should I walk away?

He wanted the grimoire that Idunna swore would be beyond. But if Corruption urged caution, he would listen. The demon had its own motives, but it gained little from Hawke dying. Putting him in danger to force possession, yes, absolutely - but dying meant a return to the Fade, and waiting for another desperate mage to offer up their soul. Not, Hawke thought bitterly, that it would have to wait long. Not with what the Imperium had done to Kirkwall. Not with the city built up over the blood and corpses of hundreds of thousands of slaves, their deaths forgotten and unmourned.

I am old, little bird. We can face this forgotten one, together. Tread carefully.

The phrase forgotten one stirred a memory of Merrill, but Hawke couldn’t pull at that thread, couldn’t remember what it meant and why.

Corruption was powerful, Hawke knew that much. He’d faced demons, including Pride demons, all his life, and he’d never known anything like the monster he’d pacted with. If he’d had any time to think it through, back at the Gallows, Hawke would have suspected the power of the creature. There had been no others clamouring for him, nothing base or low in the hierarchy pushing through as there had been in the streets of Kirkwall. Corruption had watched, and waited, and dangled a lifeline when Hawke couldn’t do anything but take it. No time for second thoughts, or refusal.

For the first time in a while, Hawke felt hate for the demon. It seemed to laugh, the sound echoing in his skull.

You don’t hate me, Hawke. You hate yourself.

And well, two things could be true at once. Gritting his teeth, Hawke stepped forwards, into the trapped corridor.

Skeletons rose as he walked, and one shambled straight through the tripwire ahead. Hawke dropped to the floor as crossbow bolts fired over his head. Maker, he missed Varric and Isabela. Perhaps he should have enslaved Sebastian and forced his body to walk through the corridor, soaking up all the traps and hurts before finally letting him die. The idea was so vicious, Hawke had to shake his head, trying to work out if it had been his thought or Corruption’s. It was no comfort to realise it had been his own.

The Fade was hard to grasp, so soon after what he’d done to the Prince of Starkhaven, but the Veil was so thin Hawke could blunt force something that should have been finesse. Force magic came to his hands and slammed into the skeletons, breaking them apart. An Arcane Horror died the same way as he kept moving through the halls.

Beyond, he found a small room with a pedestal in the middle, with an ancient looking book sitting on top of it. He took a cautious step forwards, waiting for the next trap.

A desire demon shimmered into existence between him and the book. The creature gave a vulpine, alluring smile.

“Well, aren’t you more interesting than that Imperium toady.”

Tarohne. She’d wanted to bring back the Imperium in the city. Hawke remembered being disgusted by her, by what she wanted - and not just because of Fenris’ trembling fury at his back. All of it, the corruption, the blood magic, the slaves…

He was a different man now. He gave a thin smile back at the demon.

“I’m here for the book.”

“Of course you are,” the creature purred, “Everyone comes here for the book, but not everyone is willing to pay the price.”

Corruption stirred in Hawke’s mind, and the desire demon’s eyes flicked past Hawke, to behind him, as if she could see the pride demon.

“Pretty sure I’m already spoken for.” Hawke said, his voice a little hoarse, because of course that would be the demon’s price, it was the only price her kind ever cared about. He was dimly aware of static building under his skin, of Corruption doing something in the Fade, reaching through the Veil…

The demon shifted form, and Hawke made a broken, panicked sound in the back of his throat as Fenris stood before him, entirely naked. He closed his eyes rapidly. No, it wasn’t the elf. And he couldn’t…

Around him, he heard Corruption’s voice.

His soul is mine, but I would share his body this once. He craves it.

“No,” Hawke blurted out, taking half a step back, away from the desire demon. His mind raced back to what Corruption had said before - that they would face the demon together, not kill it. He’d heard one thing and assumed another.

Come now, little bird. Don’t you want the tome, after all this time?

He did - and more than that, he wanted the bloody elf standing before him. But this was a line he could not, would not cross. He gritted his teeth.

“A different face,” he managed, “Not that one.”

The desire demon tilted its head, and Fenris regarded him with those green eyes.

“Oh, you want him so badly,” she whispered, and the voice was Fenris’, low and gravelly and doing things to Hawke’s body even as Corruption teased lightning in his blood. This was not the Fade, the touch was less a lightning bolt and more of caress, but it was enough. With the Veil in shreds around him, it was enough. Hawke choked out a desperate sound, trying to cling to his defiance.

Claws ghosted at him.

Don’t you want to touch him?

A gauntleted hand touched Hawke’s face, and his resolve snapped.

The first kiss tasted like magic and the Fade. The second like blood as the demon wearing Fenris’ face bit down, hard, on Hawke’s lip - a mocking, violent version of the way Fenris would tease. Hawke didn’t care. It was close enough to the real thing and he could pretend; he would let this demon break him for the shadows of what he’d had.

Corruption chased lightning down Hawke’s arms as the desire demon shoved him to the floor, onto his knees. Hawke could smell the storm of Corruption’s magic, and the faintest hint of leather and lyrium, an echo of the reality of Fenris. He shuddered as not-Fenris closed a hand over his throat, squeezing.

“You will be such good fun, Champion.” The demon growled.

They were not gentle. Hawke didn’t want them to be. He begged for it to hurt even as Corruption burned lightning into his flesh, as desire left him bleeding and marked. He needed it to hurt to punish him for even thinking of Fenris like this, for letting this happen, for losing yet another battle for his soul.

How much more did he have to give? How long before Corruption simply took what was left and Hawke was trapped permanently within himself?

In the aftermath, Hawke managed to sit up, trembling. Desire was gone, satiated, leaving just the aftershocks of Corruption playing across his skin. The Fell Grimoire sat untouched on the pedestal.

Hawke’s legs didn’t want to take his weight as he limped towards it, blood sticky on his thighs. His hand closed over the book.

The tome dissolved in smoke and all Hawke could hear was Corruption’s echoing laughter in his ears before he let out a sob.

Chapter Text

Back on the coast, Hawke fell apart.

He lost time, uncertain whether it was Corruption in charge, or just a fugue state until he woke up covered in blood that was not his own, and a Templar corpse for company.

Corruption stirred, his voice mocking.

I’m protecting you, little bird. When you cannot protect yourself.

Hawke dragged the corpse to the cliffs and threw it over before returning to his cave to stew.

He was in control when he heard Varric’s voice at the entrance, several days later.

“Hawke? Andraste’s tits…”

His voice was scratchy from limited use as he screwed his eyes shut tight. No. Varric couldn’t be here. He couldn’t.

He couldn’t lose someone else.

“Go away.”

Footsteps, coming closer. Varric would be able to disarm every single trap Hawke had - and walk right into the belly of the beast.

In his head, Corruption took interest.

The dwarf. The last one that cares.

That wasn’t true. Merrill stayed away, but she sent word with Varric when she could. And Isabela… Isabela had disappeared to the seas. Care might have been too strong a term, but Hawke hoped, prayed, she didn’t loathe him.

Please don’t hurt him. Please.

Hmm, if he keeps that crossbow lowered, perhaps we can talk.

Hawke swallowed. There was no guarantee of safety there, no promise. And he knew better than to fall for that. He’d learned the hard way to see through the demon's words, to what wasn’t said.

“Shit, you look awful.”

Hawke opened his eyes and found Varric standing fifteen paces away, Bianca in his hands. A bad start.

“Feel it,” Hawke managed, before licking dry, cracked lips, “Lower Bianca, Varric. Please. You’ll make it mad.”

Varric raised an eyebrow, but did as he was told. He looked uncertain - afraid. Older too, as if the last few months had taken its toll. Hawke supposed it must have done, in a very different way.

“It being your new friend, I suppose?”

Despite the situation, Hawke laughed. Friend. Corruption was anything but. Hawke hugged himself a little tighter, fingers digging into his skin.

“Something like that. What… what are you doing here?”

Varric, sensibly, didn’t take a step closer. The gap between them was both fifteen paces, an abyss, and nothing. If Corruption wanted the dwarf dead, he’d be dead. Hawke made himself breathe.

“You should know… after what you did. To Sebastian - and Maker’s Balls, Hawke, that gave me nightmares - you need to leave. The Chantry has sent Seekers to hunt you down, and Fenris has -”

“Fenris?” Hawke asked, head snapping up. “What? Where is he? Is he here?”

“He met the Seekers at the dock this morning.” Varric said. “He’s going to help them. Please - you need to leave, whilst you can.”

Corruption growled, low, in Hawke’s mind.

He betrays you.

Hawke tried to push him away, teeth gritted. No. He’d betrayed Fenris - had become the very thing he loathed. If the Gallows hadn’t made that clear, what he’d done to Sebastian was unforgivable.

But the idea that Fenris would work with Templars - and Seekers, at that - hurt. Hawke’s grip on his own arms was tight enough to draw blood. He could feel it, starting to well-up under his fingernails. He couldn’t care less about Seekers coming for him. Perhaps they would be able to end him. That was their job, wasn’t it? To step in where Templars failed? But the possibility of Fenris being involved…

“He… he would hunt me?”

Varric swallowed, visibly nervous.

“They’ve sent the Right Hand of the Divine, Hawke. They’ll question me soon enough and if you’re here…”

Varric, willing or not, would lead them right to him. Hawke made himself let go of his arms. Corruption hissed a suggestion that the dwarf could not lead them to the cave if he was dead, but Hawke managed to deny the grab of power the demon lunged for when he didn't respond. For a moment, he warred silently with the demon, until the lightning building under his skin became too much to ignore.

He hissed, curling in on himself, pain sparking across his ribs and chest, catching at his breath.

I won’t let you hurt him, damn you.

You think you could stop me?

Could he? If Corruption really, truly pushed, could Hawke withstand him?

Yes, he thought stubbornly, he could. If he couldn’t, Corruption would have taken him by now. That thought was almost comforting. He made himself breathe and with great effort, shoved the pain to one side. The demon would not hurt Varric - would not hurt Fenris. Corruption snarled, and then fell silent. The storm eased, just a little. Enough that Hawke could think beyond blind denial.

When he looked back up, Varric had raised Bianca.

“Please don’t,” he managed, “It’s me. I’m still me. Mostly.”

Varric didn’t hurry to respond.

“No offence, Hawke, but we fought enough abominations in our time that I’m going to take a couple of precautions.”

“If you shoot, Corruption will take over.” Hawke said, “Maybe the Seekers take me down before I reach Kirkwall, but they’ll be too late for you. Don’t do this, please. I’ve already killed too many people I care about.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Varric lowered the crossbow.

“You killed Carver as well, didn’t you?”

Hawke flinched at the memory - at all the blood.

“Corruption did. I couldn’t - I couldn’t stop it.”

“That’s its name?” Varric asked. “Corruption? It chose well, I think. You’re… You’ve changed, Hawke. Fuck, I can barely even recognise you. The man I knew… couldn’t have done what you did. Not at the Gallows, not to Sebastian.”

Hawke closed his eyes for a moment, swaying a little.

“I know,” he said, “I fucked up.”

Varric snorted.

“Well, you’re still you enough to recognize it, I guess. Will you leave?”

Corruption growled, but Hawke ignored him.

“If Fenris is looking for me…” He began before shuddering. “I will run. Corruption isn’t happy, but I won’t hurt him. I can’t hurt him.”

The dwarf nodded and finally lowered the crossbow entirely, fumbling for the strap of the bag over his shoulder. He let it fall a few paces ahead of him.

“In there,” he said, “Another change of clothes, as best I could do at short notice. Some food, and some sovereigns. Get yourself out of Kirkwall. Wycome, Tantervale, across the Waking Sea - it doesn’t matter. Just go, and don’t come back. And don’t be an idiot - Sundermount isn’t far enough. Ostwick isn’t far enough.”

Hawke stared at the bag. He had a little here that he could take with him, but that bag offered a lifeline. Depending on how much Varric had gathered, he could start again, somewhere else. He’d dragged himself from nothing, in Kirkwall. He could do it again. And if he could stay out of trouble…

Corruption laughed, and the hope in Hawke’s chest died. It wouldn’t be anything like before. How hard would it have been, running with Athenril’s crew with a demon in his mind? How impossible to hide?

“Thank you, Varric.” He said, hollowly, “You’ve… been a better friend than I deserve.”

“My advice, Hawke?” Varric said. “Go back to the ancient thaig and then keep going. You can’t hurt anyone, down in those Deep Roads. There isn’t even a Legion of the Dead to stumble upon.”

Hawke swallowed, and nodded. The idea had occurred to him, but Corruption had always pulled his mind away, convincing him to stay top-side. What good was a human host somewhere with no one else to corrupt?

“If… If you see Fenris, will you tell him I’m sorry?” Hawke asked, quietly. He knew he had no right to ask it - that Fenris deserved better than him, but he couldn’t stop seeing the desire demon underneath Kirkwall, couldn’t stop remembering the creature's claws digging into his skin. Despite everything, Hawke still loved him - wanted to tell him that. But those words were stuck in his throat and the best he could offer was apologies that meant nothing, because he was too far gone to crawl back.

Not that Fenris would take him back, if he did.

Varric sighed.

“I will, Hawke. Shit, he might kill me for it, but I will.”

Varric had been a better friend than Hawke had ever deserved. Hawke scrubbed at his face, wincing a little as Corruption extended a claw and reminded him he was there, waiting. The longer this took, the more chance the demon would stop behaving and strike.

“You should go,” Hawke said bluntly, “Before…”

“Right,” Varric said, looking pained. “I guess this is goodbye.”

Hawke managed a bitter smile.

“It should have been goodbye months ago, Varric. Thank you… Thank you for trying to stick it out.”

“The Deep Roads, Hawke. Consider it. Shit, the Wardens might take you, if you asked.”

Corruption didn’t like that idea, at all. Hawke shivered at the static pooling in his limbs. He rapidly reassured the creature that he wasn’t taking the suggestion seriously, even as he opened his mouth to say the opposite.

“I’ll consider it,” he lied, with enough conviction that Varric nodded, semi-convinced. Then the dwarf started to retreat, not turning his back until he came to the corner. Hawke listened to his footsteps hurry away and closed his eyes, forcing back tears.

Alone again.

He had to go. He had to run. If he could reach Ostwick, he should be able to get on a ship going… somewhere. South, ideally. Ferelden was big enough to get lost in. He could slip into the Wilds, or the Basin, or the Brecilian Forest. The kind of places no one would ever find him. Not even Seekers of the Truth.

Corruption whispered in his mind.

They all abandon you, in the end.

Hawke stubbornly ignored him. Varric wasn’t abandoning him. He should have done - he should have just let the Seekers find him in the caves and end this. But whether he was shielding Fenris from what Hawke had become, or trying to save Hawke from himself, it hardly mattered. It had the same result.

Varric’s satchel offered a change of clothes, a heavy coin purse and more rations than Hawke had stored.

He gathered the few things he had that would travel well, and had value - the blankets, his fur-lined cloak, spare clothes and knives. Hawke took the time to shave, to try and look slightly less like a hermit driven from his cave. The staff his father had used, down in the Warden prison, went on his back.

On the two books Merrill had gifted him, all those months ago, he left a note with the last scraps of paper and ink that he had.

I don’t know what the stories say about me, any more. But I swear - this wasn’t ever what I wanted. I just wanted to protect Kirkwall. I just wanted to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves.

He didn’t see the spiky-handed amendment that Corruption added.

I will protect your Champion now.

Chapter Text

Hawke left Redcliffe days before the Mage Rebellion arrived.

Crossing the Waking Sea, over a year ago, he’d managed to cling to his sanity and self-control long enough to fall in with a less than reputable mercenary group known as Dwyne’s Hammers. Dwyne was a casteless dwarf who’d left Orzammar and didn’t care for morality beyond his next payday, and for three months, Hawke had been able to suppress Corruption enough that the majority dwarven group didn’t realise what he was. Oh, they knew about the blood magic, but that was fine. That was useful. As long as he targeted their enemies and didn’t get any clever ideas.

He appeased Corruption by charming his way into the bed of a merchant’s wife and ruining their marriage, just because the man had tried to stiff him in at the market. He stole when he had no need to, and killed a vigilante in one of the alleyways who’d tried to confront the Hammers as boisterous troublemakers. At The Pearl, he cheated at cards and emptied pockets, until someone mistook him for one of Sanga’s workers. He took the coin, and let the man humiliate him in bed whilst Corruption watched from behind Hawke’s eyelids, approving as Hawke begged for mercy that would not come.

Afterwards, Sanga offered him a permanent position, if he wanted it. Apparently, no one else sang as sweetly for those customers who desired something darker.

He would have taken her up on it, at least temporarily, but Dwyne spotted a wanted poster on the Chantry Board for the Champion and started eyeing up Hawke a little too suspiciously. Corruption suggested killing him and seizing control of the group, but Hawke slipped away in the night with his earnings, and a good deal more than that, and made his way south, along the Imperial Highway.

Besides, the Seekers had docked at Amaranthine, according to rumour, and it was long past time for Hawke to disappear again.

Dwyne caught up with him outside South Reach, and Corruption got his way in the end. Dwarves might have been resistant to magic, but blood magic was a different game. Hawke dragged the corpses off the highway and cut every purse before slipping away, following the edge of the Brecelian Forest for a week before returning to the roads.

When hunger kept him awake that first night, Corruption wondered what roast dwarf tasted like, and Hawke found another line he would not, could not cross. It was good, he thought bleakly, that there were still some.

He worked a few days on a smallholding somewhere to the east of where Lothering had once been, before Corruption’s whispered suggestion to kill the family and take everything of value had grown too loud to ignore. Hawke resisted, and fled before he could lose the battle, eventually collapsing from exhaustion in the Bannorn. When he slipped into the Fade, Corruption played the scene out over and over, as if he’d done it all the same, each time escalating the violence and suffering until Hawke stood in the family barn, soaked in blood.

It took time, in the morning, to be able to differentiate between what was real and what was not. He kept looking at his hands and expecting to find them stained red.

Hawke took the road south, to Ostagar. Amongst the ruins, he found the bones of soldiers and Wardens whose bodies had never been claimed. Thieves and scavengers had picked the fields clean of anything of value and left the dead. Near the Tower of Ishal, Hawke thought he could see Corruption walking alongside him.

Corruption stalked his days, and controlled his nights, but they reached an uneasy equilibrium over the months. With Fenris and the few people Hawke cared about across the Waking Sea, the demon had less to hold over him, less to break him with. And whilst Hawke had abandoned pretty much every principle he had, he held to the only one that mattered. No matter what Corruption tried, whether it was the agony of pain or pleasure, whether it was trickery or blunt force, Hawke would not give himself up. The demon’s half-presence in the waking world would remain a half-presence, even where the Veil was thin.

Sometimes though, when he was awake, Hawke would raise his hand and wonder why he did not have claws, why lightning did not flow beneath his skin. And then he’d have to piece himself together, remember who he was, and what he was not, with Corruption hissing in his ear, snarling at how close it’d come to seizing control.

Those nights in the Fade were always the worst, and Hawke would wake in the aftermath, his body aching from wounds that did not translate into the physical world, unable to stop sobbing. And always, Corruption would dangle an end before him - the promise that if he just gave in, it wouldn't hurt any more. That really, he was the cause of his own suffering, and if he just let go, if he just let it happen, then it would all be over.

By the time he headed back north, Orlais was in crisis and the Chantry on the verge of collapse. He heard every whisper, every rumour as he drank by himself in taverns, trying to avoid notice. Corruption listened too, and argued that if the Circles fell, there might be things of value to take from the ruins. Hawke pushed back, doubting that the Templars would walk away entirely from the vaults of knowledge. It would not be peaceful, he argued, and the further away he was from Templars the better.

Two months later, he watched the smoke rising from Kinloch Hold in the distance and turned back south, unwilling to get closer. It was testament to the chaos that Corruption did not argue, did not punish him for resisting.

Around Hawke, the world seemed to be falling apart.

Redcliffe was, for a little while, a sanctuary. Hawke stayed at the inn, burning through the last of Dwyne’s coin, and gambled to replenish what he could. But slowly, the pot was running out and if he wasn’t careful, Hawke would be back scrounging in a cave or resorting to banditry. He considered whether he could return to Denerim, to The Pearl, but it wasn’t a risk worth taking. Someone, eventually, would push too hard and bring Corruption tearing through Hawke’s body unwillingly, and then the whole city could be in danger.

“Did you hear?” Bella said, putting a tankard in front of him. “Arl Teagen is inviting the rebel mages to seek refuge in Redcliffe. Apparently there’s going to be peace talks in the mountains. Some place called Haven.”

Hawke managed to school his face into neutrality. In his mind, Corruption hissed in warning - as if Hawke didn’t know that two hundred mages descending on his location was a recipe for disaster.

The only way it could be worse was if it were Templars - and Hawke was under no illusion that if Grand Enchanter Fiona was bringing the rebels to Redcliffe, the Order would follow. The village would be under siege as surely as it had been from the undead during the Blight.

He left the next morning, but didn’t make it very far before he spotted the first signs of the Order - and of violence.

On the outskirts of the Witchwood, he found scorchmarks on the ground. Corruption stirred, growling a warning. Hawke could feel the Fade in tatters around him, even as he spotted the tell-tale splatter of blood. He hurried to slip away, and practically ran into two Templars coming up the highway in the opposition direction.

They took one look at him, at the staff on his back, and Hawke felt the lyrium crush against his skin, tearing the Fade from his grasp.

The Smite staggered him, and Corruption roared in fury, surging forwards. Hawke clung on to control of his own body by his finger tips, going for the knife at his belt.

“Apostate!”

Hawke wanted to laugh. It had been so long since he’d faced the Order, and he was so far from Kirkwall that these two thought he was just an apostate.

Corruption howled.

Kill them, kill them, kill them -

I will, if you would shut up.

He talked to the demon more, now - although backchat usually led to him screaming for mercy. Surprisingly though, Corruption did fall silent. The two Templars charged at Hawke, swords drawn, and Hawke drew his knife, slicing through the skin on his thigh as he did so. He’d learnt that legs, hips and stomach scars were easier to hide from a suspicious public - and that trousers were easy enough to repair or replace. The blade was so sharp it barely registered as pain, but Hawke could feel the shift of power inside him, that hungry urge for more. Blood dripped from the blade.

The Templar on the left hesitated, and Hawke struck, blood calling to blood.

He had a few patterns, now, that kept him alive. It was vital he moved fast, to source blood that wasn’t his own or he’d be left drained within a few spells. Wounds ripped across the Templar’s body, contributing to his reserves of power. Blood stolen was always more powerful than blood given. Hawke siphoned a little to stem the flow of blood from his own thigh, and then dodged aside as the second Templar reached him.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d used traditional magic.

The Templars had been anticipating a scared, isolated apostate. They did not anticipate a well-honed blood mage. A Smite was useless, in the circumstances, as he wasn’t touching the Fade. They could hold to reality all they wanted, force the will on the world - blood was stronger. All that lyrium in their veins amounted to very little before a true maleficar like Hawke, one that knew their craft. Perhaps, if they tried to target Corruption, they had a chance, but Hawke wasn’t going to let that happen.

Hawke drained the first, and used all that blood to burn the second from the inside out. The screams of the dying man made Corruption giggle, the sound echoed on Hawke’s lips.

He left their bloody corpses on the highway where they fell, licking blood from his fingers as he walked, unaware that he was doing so until Corruption’s contented rumbles clued him in.

Retreating to the Gulley, beyond the Witchwood, Hawke cleared out a cave that was being used by bandits, whilst he figured out his next move. When the bandits came back, he killed them too, dragging the bodies to the river and dumping them in, before taking stock of what they’d recovered from targets on the road.

It was clear he couldn’t stay. But when he exited the cave the next day, the highway was practically swarming with mages, and he could taste the Fade on his tongue, suggesting battles with Templars had already taken place. He retreated once again, to wait it out. In a week or two, they’d all be concentrated in the village, and the Templars would be watching for those approaching - not those slipping away.

The Wilds, he decided, as Corruption growled in disagreement. Perhaps he could see if Flemeth had returned to her old haunt, see whether she still saw promise in a blood mage who was more demon than human.

Corruption definitely didn’t like that idea. Lightning crackled down Hawke’s spine, leaving him gasping.

I will not share you with the old witch, little bird.

It did not matter in the end, what Corruption wanted, how much he punished Hawke for even the thought of the Witch of the Wilds. The roads were still dangerous, a couple of weeks later, when Hawke felt the Fade shift and tremble and the Veil tear open from where he’d been trapping Fennec.

It felt like something inside himself breaking, a dam bursting - and then Corruption was pushing through, strongly enough that Hawke could see his skin start to warp and harden, silvery hide in the daylight. And then he was fighting with everything he had not to lose himself as the world went mad.

Chapter Text

Corruption blinked through human eyes and grinned.

It had won. Whether this was temporary, or permanent, the strange tear in the Veil had disturbed the balance. The physical world was being flooded with magic and energy, calling spirits and demons alike through. And in that moment, when its host had been overwhelmed, Corruption had struck.

It stared at its hands, marvelling at his soft flesh and strange dark hair, and the dozens of silver scars marring that otherwise perfect barrier. It didn’t seem possible that such a fragile form could hold a demon.

Inside Corruption’s mind, it could sense its host’s rising desperate panic.

No, not like this - please -

Corruption licked its lips and discovered one set of very dull teeth.

Easy, little bird. I like this - I like you. I won’t let harm come to you.

Little bird sobbed and thrashed, trying to escape. Corruption considered for a moment, before reaching for the Fade. Fire sparked from its fingers - but more importantly, it could feel its host react, almost trying to pull the magic back, away from Corruption’s grip. Interesting. Was this what it had felt like for Hawke, all those years?

To have fought so long for this. For control. Corruption had had it in snatches, especially at the beginning when its host had given up bits of himself for power, for blood. But now Hawke’s body was more than its playground, it was both a limitation and a release.

Let me go you bastard, I -

All those years you held me back, little bird. You thought this day would never come.

Little bird was weeping, desperate and terrified. If they were in the Fade, Corruption would have licked the sweat from his skin, tasting his agony, but here in the physical that sounded faintly disgusting. And all the senses were wrong anyway, all jumbled up and awry.

Please, you can’t, it never works, you’ll kill us both.

Corruption looked down again at its body, how small it was. Little bird, indeed. It felt strangely full, like it might burst through at any moment. How impossible. How … soft.

You fear you cannot contain me. That I will twist as my brethren do.

His host seemed to be panting with exertion, and Corruption could picture him flinging himself against the walls of the prison, battering at them with his tiny hands. Powerless. Desperate. Corruption smiled at the image.

It always happens in the end.

Corruption lifted its eyes to the shredded tear in the Veil, the Fade leaking through. Perhaps not, anymore. It silenced Hawke with disdain, relegating that panicked, terrified voice to a whimpering nothingness. Let the Champion lose himself in the Fade, his soul trapped forever. Corruption had plans.

The first of those plans was to get closer to that rip in the sky.

That was easy enough. Corruption moved at night, the Fade alive along its skin, aware of the pulse and pull of magic. It studied a rift, down by the river bank, watching as demons without hosts tore through into the physical and warped into monsters. Terror screeched at it, whining and panicked, and Corruption sent a warning bolt of lightning at the twisted form. The demons fell back, and Corruption moved on, skirting the water and heading west, towards the mountains.

On the third day, Corruption felt the world shudder, and the slow creep of the breach across the sky slowed and stilled. It hissed, furious.

Not long after that, on the banks of Lake Calenhad, a half-dozen figures in a familiar uniform approached. It took Corruption a moment of sifting Hawke’s memories to remember it. Blue and silver - not the Templar Order, but the Grey Wardens.

But these Wardens smelt wrong. Corruption could taste it in the air. It recognised its own kind. These empty vessels, enthralled to their betters - it didn’t get the sense that there was anything left of the hosts. Not like little bird, who still fought so sweetly.

“Ah,” said their leader, coming to a halt on the road, “Yes. You’ll do. You’ll do very well indeed.”

Corruption sensed rage, burning deep within the host’s form. The Warden's eyes were blank, but in the light the demon could see the glow of the Fade.

“Well for what, kin?”

“Corypheus would speak with you. He looks for allies in this place.”

That name meant something to its host, if the sudden flurry of resistance told Corruption anything. Little bird battered at the walls of his prison, snarling. Of course. The blighted Magister, down in the Warden prison. The one they’d freed - and killed. The one that had led to the brother dying, that sweet, sweet moment where little bird had broken that little bit more and Corruption’s grip had tightened.

“Allies?” Corruption repeated. “I killed him, before.”

Its blood magic, its control over Hawke, had been the turning point.

The Warden smiled - in so much that the demon riding its body drew back its lips into a rictus imitation of the human act.

“You did not. And your host's brother freed him from that ancient prison. You carry the key, even now. Come. Talk. He has an offer you will enjoy, I think.”

The Blighted Magister wasn’t far, a little off the Highway. He looked slightly different from Corruption - and Hawke’s - memories. Another reaction from his host, struggling against his bonds, revealed a flash of panic, of horror.

Corypheus’ exposed ribs were laced with red lyrium. Corruption could feel it, the wrongness of the song that pulsed through the reddened form. It liked lyrium, liked the call of the song, like an echo of the Fade. It did not like the red stuff. It growled, the sound strange from a human throat.

“Oh Champion,” the Magister said, regarding Corruption. “How far you have fallen. From rat, to flea.”

Corruption folded its arms, recognising a very human gesture of defiance.

“A flea,” it said, “That beat you once. You speak with Corruption, not my host. My brethren said you wish for allies.”

“Corruption,” Corypheus mused, before throwing back his head and laughing. “Yes, yes! That is perfect. A fitting end to one who thought to defy me. I would take his body for my own, if I could.”

“You cannot.” Corruption growled. “He is mine. I quite like this form. As ugly and soft as it is. And we’ve had such fun getting to know each other over the years.”

Inside his mind, little bird pushed hard for control. He might as well have been trying to stop the tide.

“You may have him,” Corypheus said dismissively, “I have no need for him. But you, demon. You I could use - to find space for in my glorious future.”

“Glorious future?” Corruption asked, before looking up at the sky. “That was you. You attempted to bring down the Veil.”

“I will succeed,” Corypheus responded, a flare of anger in his tone, “I once breached the Fade in the name of another, to serve the Old Gods. Now I will return under no name but my own.”

The Black City. Corruption knew it well. It licked its lips, considering.

“And what,” it asked, “Do you wish of me?”

It could sense the power of this creature. No mere mage, not any more. Perhaps he never had been, but a thousand years of slumber, of contact with the blight… Corypheus was powerful. He would make an excellent stepping stone in Corruption’s path. From Champion to Magister. A pity, Corruption thought, that the body was so ugly. So twisted and warped. Hawke’s body was such a better option.

He had an orb that he held instead of a staff. It felt as old as the Magister.

“I aim to restore the Imperium of old,” Corypheus intoned, self-important, “I have the pieces in play. Supporters, slaves - those who beg on their knees for a place in my new world. I killed the Divine, and had the ritual ready - but a rattus interfered. An insignificant speck that stumbled where it should not go.”

All of which was interesting, but not an answer to Corruption’s question.

“You would have me kill this elf? Does it live?”

“The elf is nothing. Nothing. I will ground him into the dust. No - I need someone to oversee operations in the Hinterlands. A lyrium mine, corrupted. It would suit you well, demon.”

Corruption eyed the red lyrium seemingly woven into the Magister’s bones.

“Explain it to me,” it said, indulgently. It knew the Magister would rant, and that it could pick out the important bits. The red lyrium was corrupted. That explained the discordant call, the edge of horror that surrounded it.

The plan was delicious. The Templar Order had broken from the Chantry and as such, was struggling for lyrium. Corypheus, through someone called Samson - a name that brought images and memories forth from Hawke’s mind - had introduced the Order to the red alternative. A slow burning corruption that would seep through the Order and bend them into monsters, enslaved to Corypheus. Already it had begun, and the demand for more was growing. There was an operation in Emprise du Lion, but Corypheus and his Carta agents were expanding shipments accordingly. The Magister had brought in a group to help with the mining and to keep the ancient thaig in the Hinterlands a secret, but the leader had seemingly died at the conclave, delivering a shipment.

Corruption loved the idea of bringing the Order to its knees, of breaking open their fragile bodies and growing red crystals of lyrium from their blood. It could follow orders, for a little while, for such a thing. To witness such degradation of a proud faction that had sworn itself to the killing of maleficars and demons. To the killing of Corruption, and its lovely host.

It could work out how to turn it to his advantage later. At worst, it could follow this mad Magister for a while, see how his plans unfolded. There would be a way to get the breach to keep growing, to tear the Veil so completely that the world was no longer inhospitable to demons. There would be a way to dispose of the Magister, or possess him, at a later date. Corruption had been patient, with its little bird. It could be patient with its next target.

Perhaps it could keep little bird as a pet. Its host had been such a fun toy, after all. His body could still have its uses, once Corruption had something better.

It purred a little at the thought.

“We have a deal, Magister. I will get this lyrium to the Order and ensure the Carta is loyal.”

“Good. I will introduce you to another of your kind who is working with me. An envy demon, emulating the Lord Seeker. Between the two of you, the Templar Order will be mine.”

Corruption smiled, and the movement was inhuman across its host's features.

“A Seeker hmm? They pursued us, once. Do you have plans for them too?”

Corypheus laughed.

“Their destruction has already begun. They just don’t know it yet.”

Corruption’s smile grew wider. In his head, little bird wept.