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Chapter Text

Hawke stumbled on the roots of a fir tree and finally lost his footing entirely, collapsing to the ground.

For the longest time, he just lay there, letting the cold sink into his bones. He’d been on the move for so long that he wasn’t sure he could ever get back up. From Ostagar to the Frostback Basin, trying to find somewhere safe, somewhere the blight hadn’t reached.

The palm of his hands pressed into the compacted dirt beneath him and pushed, straining. Carver’s voice echoed in his mind.

Don’t die, idiot. Mother will never forgive you.

Well, he and Carver had arrived back in Lothering to find the farm house abandoned and the village blighted. Wherever his mother and Bethany were now, it wasn’t there - and it wasn’t here. The South had been overrun, the Korcari Wilds little more than a darkspawn breeding ground. Redcliffe had different problems, the undead walking out of the lake and the Castle. Together, they’d pushed on, talking of Jader - of Orzammar, if necessary, skirting Lake Calenhad and hoping to head North. Until the ambush. Until the taint started to crawl up Carver’s jaw from one unlucky claw gouge. Until Hawke took his daggers to his brother’s ribs and wandered into the mountains to die.

No. That hadn’t been the plan, had it? He’d been trying to find a route to Orlais. Dying wasn’t the plan. Mother would never forgive him.

Maker, he’d meant to be protecting Carver. His little brother.

A bird somewhere nearby let out a soft tweet. Hawke managed to turn his head. A white and pebble coloured creature eyed him from a rock. For a moment, Hawke’s mouth salivated at the idea of game, of a hot meal.

His arms gave out and he crashed back down to the floor, startling the bird and biting through his own lip. Hawke mumbled a curse, spitting out blood. Then he closed his eyes. A moment, he just needed a moment…

He didn’t hear the footsteps, or the muttered voices. He didn’t feel hands turning him over, or being picked up like a small child. He didn’t know anything for a long time.

The first thing he became aware of was warmth. The second was rope binding his wrists and ankles.

Hawke opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. He was in some kind of shelter, with a fire roaring in a sunken pit not too far from his own position. Smoke rose up through a small hole in the mud ceiling. Hawke was tied up, but he was lying on a pile of deliciously warm furs and blankets, with several more thrown over him. There was the taste of elfroot and something else in his mouth which suggested someone had tried to fix the damage he’d done to his own face. He wriggled, just a little, trying to reach his hands down towards his thigh. He’d taken a wound from a fucking skeleton of all things whilst trying to fight their way back out of Redcliffe. That too, had been treated, after days and days of rationing poultices and medicinal herbs. The skin still felt too warm, but not burning. Good, that was good.

A woman pushed open the flap of animal pelt that seemed to serve as a door and regarded him, frowning slightly.

“You’re awake. Strong, for a Lowlander.”

Hawke didn’t like the idea of trying to converse with his saviour - captor? - whilst lying on his side. He managed to lever himself up through his elbow, breathing through the flare of pain in his leg.

“What can I say?” He said, “I’m too stubborn to die.”

The woman stepped further into the hut, and Hawke realised her hands were full with several flasks and vials that looked like medical supplies. Lowlander, she’d called him. And the way she was dressed - all furs and padding. Avvar. The bloody Avvar had found him.

Cailin had made a deal, hadn’t he? No raids, or conflict, and support against the Blight. Did that stand with him dead? With fuck knows what happening elsewhere in Ferleden? Maker, Hawke hoped so.

“Stay still.” The woman ordered, “And stay quiet. You’ll undo my good work.”

Hawke could feel what felt like stitches in his lip stretching. She probably wasn’t wrong. He watched as she set the supplies down and moved closer. With a surprising amount of strength, she helped him into a sitting position and then grabbed his face, tilting his chin up to inspect the damage to his lip and chin.

When she let go, she eyed him warily.

“You were a soldier?” She asked.

Hawke nodded, figuring the yes-no question was deliberate in the circumstances. She grunted, and started soaking a rag with one of the tinctures. As she held it to Hawke’s chin, the questions kept coming. Had he fought the darkspawn? Had the wound in his thigh been from them? Had he been alone?

Eventually, the questions stopped and she pulled back the blankets. Hawke suddenly realised he wasn’t wearing trousers, and panicked a little, hands scrabbling to stop her from pulling away the layers of protection, and she laughed at his reaction.

“Fool lowlander,” she said, “Who do you think dressed your wound?”

And well, she had a point, but still. She couldn’t have been much older than he was.

Despite the situation, Hawke mumbled.

“Hawke. My name is Hawke.”

The woman tilted her head, regarding him.

“Hmm. A good name - although Clan Grey Eagle looks elsewhere for its birds. What was your father’s name?”

Hawke blinked, then decided it wasn’t worth correcting.

“Malcolm.” He said.

“Well then, Hawk Malcolmsen, it is good that the ptarmigan led our warriors to you. A good omen, and a good meeting - for you. Once we are sure that your injuries are not a danger to the Clan, you will be taken before Thane Owyne Maul-Breaker. He will decide what to do with you.”

“What… to do with me?” Hawke asked. “Isn’t there a truce?”

The woman, who hadn’t given her own name, Hawke realised belatedly, snorted.

“The Avvar are not one clan. Your King made agreements with those lower in the basin. The blight has not reached here, yet. Korth protect us, you have not brought it with you.” She laughed suddenly. “That would be a bad omen indeed. No - the ptarmigan would not have led us so astray.”

“The… ptarmigan?”

“The bird.” She said patiently, as if explaining to a child. “Noblest of birds. Without it, our warriors would have run you through and left you bleeding on the path. A risk not worth taking.”

Hawke swallowed at the idea.

“I uh - changed my mind, my name is ptarmigan.”

The healer chuckled.

“Clever, aren’t you? Handsome too - especially when that lip scars over. It would be good if the Thane lets you stay. There hasn’t been any new blood recently.”

Hawke tried to not panic flash across his face. Stay? New blood? Well, he considered bleakly, if Ferelden was being swallowed by the blight, being in the Frostbacks might be the safest place he could be.

“I… I only know a little of your people.” He said, as politely as he could. “I couldn’t intrude…”

She took that moment to pull down the last of the blankets to get access to his leg, and Hawke flinched.

“It is not a matter of intrusion,” she said, matter of factly, “It is whether Kori accepts your presence. And believe me - you will know, if she does not. It will be the last thing you do know.”

Hawke opened his mouth, and then closed it again, hissing between his teeth as she prodded at the wound in his leg. Kori? Who was Kori? Wasn’t the Thane called Owyne? He racked his mind for everything he knew about the Avvar, which wasn’t much. Barbarian tribes who worshiped the sky and the mountains, who didn’t see themselves as Ferelden. The stories told were all of heroic warriors and great beasts.

“Who is Kori?” He asked, wincing a little. He suspected it was a rather insulting question.

Her hands stilled and she looked at him suspiciously.

“Our Hold-Beast.”

Right. He knew what that was - a little. A totem of their gods, or something similar. His fate was going to be put in the hands of a wild animal. Shit, perhaps dying at Ostagar would have been a better option.

“Is she a mabari?” He asked weakly.

She chuckled again.

“There wasn’t enough colour in your face even before I told you, Hawk Malcolmsen. You know very well she isn’t one of your tame hunting dogs.”

Hawke pulled a face, feeling the stitches tug.

“Wolf?” He guessed. There had to be wolves nearby. Or a bear. Neither sounded a great way to die.

The healer squeezed his knee, smiling.

“Be strong, Lowlander. You walked very far, in dire circumstances, to reach Clan Grey Eagle. You have fought many enemies, made many sacrifices. The spirits told Stigr, our Auger. Kori will choose well, I am sure.”

Spirits? That was more his father - and Bethany’s - area of expertise.

“Wouldn’t it be better to put me before this Hold-Beast before you waste all your medical supplies and care on me?” He asked, shifting slightly. “Not that I’m that keen to be eaten, you know, but…”

“It is not a fair hearing, if you are too weak to hold yourself upright.” The healer said. “Come. Take heart - and I shall fetch you some dinner. You must regain some strength.”

Hawke sighed and watched her leave, fingers already moving, picking at the knots. Food sounded like a good idea. But he didn’t plan on waiting around to face judgement before a Thane and a wild beast.

Chapter Text

Hawke couldn’t stop himself from staring at the sky.

Nine days before, the ground had trembled beneath Grey Eagle Hold, and their Auger had fallen unconscious as the spirits that watched over the clan had twisted and warped in demons with no warning. Above their heads, the sky had turned a sickly green - a great open wound into the Land of Dreams - or the Fade, as Lowlanders called it. The rifts had followed after, gashes in reality that bled shades and terrors.

Five of the Avvar Clans were gathered in the Basin, on their Augers’ urging - the biggest meeting since the Blight. The spirits were panicked, in disarray, unable to hold form and virtue near the tears. Kori - growing old and grey - had retreated to her cave to pick at the bones of her latest kill. Every omen the Clan spotted pointed in only one direction: death and madness. The Avvar needed to know, needed to understand what the fool Lowlanders had done to the Lady of the Skies. For it was not their magic that had done this, that much was certain.

Thane Owyne Maul-Breaker stepped up next to Hawke as they entered Ice Wolf Hold. The old man had become a friend over the years, even permitting Hawke to marry - temporarily, in the way of the Avvar - one of his three daughters. Their seven years together had been cut short after the sweating sickness had swept through the Hold, but they’d given him a grandson before Dagrun had passed. The young boy was back home, looked after by his aunt as Hawke was often out of the Hold, hunting and trading with the other Clans.

“Old Stigr used to say the day was coming we’d be glad of Lowlander blood.” Owyne said, looking up at the sky. “Whatever they have done - you are well-placed to find out.”

Hawke sniffed, less certain. Ten years, give or take, since he’d left Ferelden behind, and he was no mage. His skills lay in hunting and survival - animal husbandry and war, not magic. And this had to be a thing of magic. For the first time in a long while, Hawke wondered what had become of his sister. Of where she’d ended up, and whether she had survived the Blight. He could have done with her level-headedness, her knowledge then.

The four representatives of the Grey Eagle Clan, himself included, strode through the Hold to the Hall of Heroes. The Thane of Ice Wolf Hold stood on the steps, alongside his Auger and two strongest warriors.

“Hail, Thane Owyne Maul-Breaker, and companions.” He intoned. “You are the last to arrive at this meeting of Clans. Come - we should begin before Movran and Korth cause any more trouble than they already have.”

Something flickered across Owyne’s face.

“Trouble, Gunnvaldr?” He asked.

Gunnvaldr rolled his eyes to the sky.
“A fool and his hot-headed son, no more. But they answered the call, and they are honoured guests. I am oath-bound to hear them, as much as I will hear the others. Come, come. The spirits are restless.”

Inside, the Skald of Ice Wolf Hold announced their names to the assembled clansmen, already gathered around the table and eating. The words seemed to flow into poetry, praising the meeting of five Clans to face the wound in the sky. Hawke sat down next to Owyne, squeezing onto the bench next to a woman he recognised as the Thane of Stone-Bear Hold.

“Svarah Sun-Hair,” he said with a grin, “A pleasure, as always.”

She smiled a little at his distinctly un-Avvar greeting. Ten years among the Clans, and he still clung to a few idiosyncrasies.

“Hawke Wyvern-Rider,” she said, raising a goblet at him. “Finally, a legend-mark attached to your name, hmm? And one that makes most hunters give pause.”

Hawke’s grin widened, and he leant across the table a little to snag at the gurgut meat.

“The Master of the Hunt assures me that my screams could not be heard over the Wyvern’s cries.”

The Thane of Stone-Bear Hold shook her head, only a little amused.

“To bring down a Wyvern single-handed is no small feat. You minimise what should be told proudly. Ideally by a Skald of some talent - not this half-bearded whelp.”

The Skald of Ice Wolf Hold had passed on that winter, and his apprentice was clearly still finding his feet as master. Still, he wasn’t that bad. Hawke had distant memories of far worse bards in the tavern of Lothering.

The feast was delicious, and by the end of it Hawke was full and rather ready for bed after the long journey up the mountain. But they had come together for a purpose, and with their fast broken and their plates shared, that purpose seemed to weigh heavy on them all - even inside, where the breach could not be seen.

Plates were cleared, and the eldest of the Augers - the representative from Cunning Fox Hold - rose to his feet. Silence fell as he began to talk of what had happened, nine days prior.

It had been the same everywhere, it seemed, as every Auger corroborated the same thing - a sudden tearing of the Veil, the spirits injured and twisted into demons, the Lady of the Skies bleeding above their heads. Hold-Beasts, wary and insular, and the strange rifts in the Basin that could not be healed by magic or steel. Then the scouts came forwards and offered news from the Lowlands - mostly rumour, but some corroboration of fact from Clans further north. Hawke sat forwards, just a little, as a man barely old enough to grow a beard began to talk.

There had been rumours of war between the Circle Mages and the Templar Order for months, and a few apostates turned away from the mountain passes had confirmed the truth of it. Hawke had explained to Owyne, as best he could, about the two factions - but he didn’t know what had caused the rebellion, or why the Templars had left the Chantry.

It seemed that a gathering of these groups in a place called Haven had been the epicenter of some great, awful magic that had torn the hole in the sky. Most of the attendees were dead - including the Divine. It was an insult to those who had gone in peace, and a disaster for the world. Outside the Basin and the Frostbacks, Thedas would be in uproar.

A hand slammed down on the table.

“It is an insult to the Sky Mother.” The Hand of Korth growled. “These Lowlanders strike at the sky and wound our goddess. It shall not stand.”

Hawke knew he should keep quiet. He was, in theory, one of those Lowlanders. But the words on his tongue were stilled by the elder Auger from Cunning Fox.

“This was not planned. The spirits were taken unawares, and the magic required for such devastation would have been beyond most.” He said, voice trembling a little with age. “An accident, I suspect. The question is - how?”

“The question,” Svarah said, frowning, “Is what caused the wound to stop spreading? I watched it from our Hold. It grew and grew for two days. And then it stopped - and has not grown again. Did they stabilise it somehow? Cauterise it? Or is this a false reprieve before infection spreads?”

The young scout cleared their throat.

“There is gossip of an elf.” He said. “Rumour places him at the epicenter, a survivor of the blast - and that he has the magic to stop the rifts.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. An elf? The Avvar had little contact with elves - the Dalish tended to avoid the mountains, and the Avvar avoided Ferelden settlements - but that sounded impossible.

“Where is this Haven?” He asked. “Can we get close enough to it to find out more?”

“North,” Owyne said without looking at him, “A strange place. An isolated village that drove away all attempts to trade until the Blight. And then the pilgrims came. There is an ancient Temple there, dedicated to their prophet.”

“Then I will go there,” The Hand of Korth declared, loudly, “And I will seek vengeance on those who have split the sky.”

“Or,” Hawke said, rolling his eyes, “The Lowlander could go there and seek answers. An alliance, perhaps, with this elf. If he can stop the rifts -”

The Hand of Korth stood up, abruptly, glaring at Hawke.

“Bad enough,” he growled, “That the mutt thinks he has a place here to speak. That he is welcome in these halls. But to think of friendship with the one who harmed the Lady?”

“We have no evidence of that -” Owyne began, but Movran cut across him.

“Sit down boy, you disgrace yourself.”

Svarah drummed her fingers on the table before her as a jumble of voices rose up, Thanes and everyone chipping in to argue on who had the right of it. She glanced at Hawke who shrugged. They needed more information, but they wouldn’t get it sitting here in their Holds.

“The Lady of the Skies can decide.” Gunnvaldr roared over the din, bringing it to silence. “A trail, for both men.” He paused for a moment, looking between the two.

Korth glared at Hawke across the table, but Hawke gave a slow, confident smile. Climbing. He was very, very good at that.

He stood up, and faced the taller, broader man.

“May the Lady of the Skies decide the approach.”

May he climb true.

Chapter Text

The cliff face was taller and more treacherous than Hawke was used to. He stared up at it from the bottom, assessing for handholds and weak spots, the routes that would only lead him halfway up and leave him with nowhere to go. He wiggled his fingers in his half-gloves, testing circulation. It was too soon after a feast for climbing, really, but climb he would - for his own honour, and the honour of the Clan. And because Korth was a raving idiot.

Two eagles circled overhead, which he took to be a good omen. The sky was clear of clouds, but that tear in the Veil still pulsed and roiled. They were close to the epicenter, and high in the mountains. Hawke thought he might be able to climb high enough to touch it. He was glad Korth had invoked the Lady of the Skies - he would not have fancied fighting the man. But here, Hawke had the advantage. Owyne hadn’t brought him along for his handsome face - he was the best climber in the Hold, and it had always been going to come down to this, a Challenge to decide the way forwards.

Hawke checked the pitons in his pouch and tested the weight of the rope secured around his waist and legs. It would slow down his descent if he fell, but he was confident that he wouldn’t. All the same, the slope of the cliff jutted out at the mid-way point, and it would take strength and skill, along with speed, not to lose his grip.

Gunnvaldr settled himself in the chair before the gathered crowd, taking pride of place as Thane of the Hold. Hawke breathed out, readying himself. Across from him, Korth slapped himself in the chest to get the blood flowing. A steady drumbeat began, and Hawke offered a prayer to the Lady of the Skies to guide him. Then the horn sounded and he ran forwards, practically launching himself at the cliff face.

His fingers found grip, and he kicked up, powering up the wall. Already he was ahead, but even one slip would send him plummeting back to the ground. His stomach lurched, just a little, and he mentally cursed finishing the tankard of mead back inside the Hall. Hawke pulled, muscles in his shoulders and back straining, and scrambled up and up, not once looking down. His lungs burned at the sharp, sudden intensity of the climb. Beside him, he was dimly aware that he was outpacing Korth, that he was flying up the wall in comparison. The sound of drums grew louder and louder as he pushed on.

He could see the top of the cliff - could see victory. Then he heard the bellow of fury and knew his opponent had slipped. He didn’t dare look around to see. He was so damn high, he’d only fall himself.

Hawke heaved himself over the lip of the cliff and rolled onto his back, panting, staring up at the torn sky. He’d won. The Clans would follow his suggestion. Which, he realised a moment later - meant that he was leaving. He would be returning to the world he’d left behind ten years ago, the world that had left him with his brother’s blood on his hands and nothing to live for. As he sucked air into his lungs to combat the speed of his climb, he knew he would miss this. Not the climbing - although he doubted he’d have the opportunity to do so in Ferelden settlements - but the people, the way of life. At least Haven was still in the mountains, and would still be cold.

By the time he made it back down the mountain, Korth was raging about cheating Lowlanders as if Hawke had made him slip. Hawke gave a slow grin as he drained a tankard of mead thrust into his hands.

“Well then,” he said, “You can’t be too upset about the Lowlander leaving the Holds, hmm?”

The Hand of Korth - a stupid name for a stupid man - pointed a finger right at Hawke’s face.

“I will find you in those Lowlands, Outsider, and I will kill you. I will tan your miserable hide and use it to decorate my Hold, this I swear before the gods.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. The Avvar took oaths seriously, and that… That was almost a declaration of war. An insult of the highest order on Hawke as an individual, but also on the Thane who’d sheltered him and taken him in. Indeed, Owyne looked furious. Movran, the man’s father, didn’t look much happier.

“Never should have wedded his bloody mother,” he muttered, before raising his voice, “Son - do not disgrace yourself further. If you must do something, go hunt our actual enemies. The demons who spill from the rifts, or the bastards at Swift-Fennec. Either way - leave, before Thane Gunnvaldr decides to have you gutted for the insults you offer here.”

The Hand of Korth swayed, then spat at Hawke’s feet and stalked off. Hawke sighed and looked about him.

“Another drink?”

An uneasy chuckle started among a few of the gathered Avvar, but Gunnvaldr was still frowning. He stood up, and his Skald offered him two tankards. The Thane approached Hawke, handing him one of the drinks. Silence descended upon the crowd.

“You won the Challenge, Lowlander.” He said. “The Clans gathered here will support you in entering Haven. Find this elf, understand what he has done - whether he is friend or foe. May Sigfost guide your steps, and may Imhar inspire your tongue.”

They knocked tankards together and Hawke drank deeply. The wise and the clever - they were good gods, for him. Better gods than the Maker had ever been.

“I will make the Clans proud,” He said, meeting Gunnvaldr’s eyes. “I will find out what they did to our Lady of the Skies, and find a way to heal what has been hurt. I will report back as soon as I can.”

“Leave today,” Gunnvaldr urged, “With the blessing of the Augers and the spirits. Take one of our horses to speed your journey. The pick of the stables is yours.”

Svarah Sun-Hair spoke.

“You may take one of our Eagles, well taught and swift of wing. May they lead you home.”

Every Thane offered something, and soon Hawke had new daggers to accompany the axes his own Thane bequeathed him, a spare horse, a bow and a dwarven bangle from Orzammar - the latter of tangible value for trade, if necessary.

Hawke took the time to gather his own limited things, strapped the weapons to his body and accepted, gratefully, a collection of additional blankets and food from the Hold. With his pack full to bursting, and the saddlebags similarly full, Hawke took a moment to adjust the stirrups on the first of his mounts, checking the leading ropes between the two animals. Svarah brought out an eagle, long talons wrapped around her hand.

“This is Mundi.” She said, “She flies true.”

Hawke nodded and coaxed the eagle onto his own forearm. The bird eyed him, too intelligent by far. Then it took flight, circling the assembled Avvar. Hawke had no concerns that it would not follow.

There was a murmur in the crowd, and people drew back as a bear moved to the front. Saldis was the Ice Wolf Hold-Beast, a veteran of a hundred battles. The scarred and grizzled creature drew to a stop before Hawke. It sniffed at the air around him, then settled down on the ground, as if to watch proceedings.

“It’s an honour,” Hawke said, entirely seriously to the bear. He looked at the waiting line of Augers and gave a small smile. “I think it is time.”

Cunning Fox inclined their head, and in the space between the shamans several wispy, incorporeal figures appeared. Their voices seemed to echo through the Hold.

Be strong.
Be swift.
Be clever.
Be cautious.
Be brave.

The spirits faded, and Thane Gunnvaldr rose from his throne. Hawke closed the gap between them and knelt before the man, who dipped his fingers into a mixture of mud, blood and honey, smearing it on Hawke’s forehead.

“You may not have been born among us, Lowlander, but your heart is Avvar. You straddle two worlds, and one calls you home. Nothing is permanent: not the rushing river, or the mountain snows, or the hardest of times. We await your word of what has happened - and your return, if the Lady of the Skies wills it.”

Hawke put his fist to his heart.

“The Skalds will sing of my journey to our children’s children.” He said.

He rose to his feet, and turned at last to Thane Owyne, who’d taken him in and accepted him in those early days. The man smiled, and clasped his hand.

“Return to us, Hawke.” He said. “Safe travels.”

“Tell Runi to behave,” Hawke said with a grin, “And keep him away from knives. He’s my son, that much is clear, and he’ll lose a finger if he’s not careful.”

Owyne laughed, well aware of his own grandson’s knack for trouble. Then Hawke took up the reins of his horse and led them out of the Hold, in the opposite direction to where Korth had gone.

He did not look back. It was not the Avvar way. He kept his eyes on the path at his feet and thought of Haven.

Chapter Text

Hawke slipped out of the tree line and past the ramshackle collection of buildings towards the Chantry, on alert for guards.

He’d reached Haven four days ago, only to find the village full to bursting with all sorts of people, and banners flying over the palisades he did not recognise. He had not continued his approach, instead diverting around the hustle and bustle and keeping on up the mountain paths, towards the breach. What he had found had not eased his mind.

A ruin of a temple, signs of spirits twisted against their nature, charred corpses - and a strange red mineral that might have been lyrium, if lyrium had an aura of evil. He’d counted four separate bad omens on his way back down the mountain.

Watching had not offered much in the way of answers. Hawke could see no sign of an elf that seemed to stand out - just a few servants and scouts, slipping in and out of the trees. Soldiers trained outside the palisades, and Hawke, hidden in the bushes, managed to get close enough to see that their Commander was a handsome blonde Ferelden. Whoever he was, he clearly had military experience, and he stalked up and down before the recruits like a caged wolf, hand on the hilt of his sword. Hawke itched to see him fight - he thought he would enjoy that.

Further out from the walls, Hawke found an abandoned shack and a journal that might have once belonged to a healer, but the entries cut off before the sky had torn open. He slipped through the trees, back to where he’d set up camp on the other side of the frozen lake, and made plans to enter the village at night.

The first crossing over the palisade wall, Hawke found a string of cabins mostly full to bursting with sleeping people. Dormitories, of sorts, he supposed. There were too many people in a place this small, and most of them looked poorly prepared for the cold. There were tents outside the palisades, but more and more people arrived every day. Whatever was happening here, they were running out of space.

The second time, he’d made his way through the outer rung of houses and discovered more tents - including one where a red-headed woman seemed to be reading by candlelight. Hawke had slipped back, over the wall before he was caught, making a note to approach the Chantry from a roundabout route the next evening.

He was confident in his approach, the third time. He’d even let Mundi circle over ahead, on the hunt as well. Hawke was sure he’d be able to get into the Chantry, poke around, and return without being seen - even Chantry sisters had to sleep. He remained confident right until he heard the crunch of snow behind him.

Hawke turned, and just about dodged aside as a knife aimed at his guts. He didn’t see, in the dim light, the foot sneaking around to trip him up. He grunted, shocked, as he hit the ground. He was good at this, at sneaking and hunting - had never been caught on raids, or when he’d abducted his wife from within his own Hold. Twisting to try and roll, he was all the more surprised when the red-headed woman from the night before knelt on his chest, a knife at his throat. Hawke went very, very still.

“Easy there,” he said, teeth gritted a little, ribs winded. “I mean no harm, on the honour of my gods.”

“Gods?” The woman repeated, before narrowing her eyes. “Ah, Avvar. Perhaps we should have expected visitors from the Basin, in the circumstances.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow and tried to shift his hips under the woman’s weight. She pressed her elbow, harder, into his ribs as a warning, the dagger still tight to his throat.

“Stay down, Avvar.”

He licked dry lips and stilled again. She was good. He hadn’t heard her stalking him until the last, and he was beginning to suspect that was because she’d allowed it. She wanted answers from him.

“I’m impressed - you would make a good Avvar.”

The woman gave a small, thin smile, but she did not lower her blade.

“I enjoy luxuries too much for a life like yours, barbarian. Why are you here?”

When she spoke, Hawke stumbled on the Orlesian accent. It tangled in a memory, from long ago, snagging in his mind. An Orlesian redhead…

It didn’t matter. Not when he might die before he puzzled it out.

There was no point in lying, or being coy about why he was in Haven.

“The Clans sent me to understand the wound done to the Lady of the Skies. We heard rumours of an elf, but I have seen no evidence of them. I wondered if he was being held prisoner.”

The woman frowned.

“And so you sneak around our camp at night? Why not approach more openly? If you’ve been watching, you know we are welcoming.”

Did he know that? They certainly seemed to be collecting people, and no one yet had seemingly been turned away. But there were Clans, back in the Basin, he would not trust a bit who had full Holds and health.

Hawke could feel the very tip of the dagger piercing his skin, leaving a trickle of blood down his throat. He could picture Owyne, back at the Hold, disapproving. How had he gotten caught?

“It has been a long time since I was around Lowlanders. I wished to understand more before I rode in.”

Partially true - if he’d found evidence of this elf, or that these people were on the right side, he would have approached. If he had found that these people had done harm to the gods, he would have put his blades to good use - after sending Mundi back to Svarah with a note warning of what he’d found.

She nodded, considering him. Hawke’s own axes were still strapped to his back - now, unhelpfully, digging into his shoulders where he was pressed to the snowy ground. He could perhaps reach one of the daggers at his belt, but he’d only succeed in giving her cause to slit his throat. So he went for his other option.

“You know,” he said with his best smile, “I do like a woman who could kill me - but usually there’s less clothing involved.”

Her smile was sharp, and the dagger pushed a little further into his flesh.

“A pity,” she said quietly, “That burly men have never been to my taste. You might be handsome, under all that warpaint.”

So - a refusal, but no anger, no demand that he stop. There really was something about her. Strange, as he’d never been to Orlais. Even when he left the basin to trade, he never went that far. You could take the Lowlander out of Ferelden…

Above their heads, out the corner of his eye, Hawke saw a flutter of wings. He kept his attention focused on the woman who might be about to bury a knife in his throat. Well - bury it further. He told himself that if she wanted him dead, he’d be a corpse in the snow by now. It wasn’t much comfort.

“I’ve been told so,” he said, able to feel that bloody steel in his skin, “I’ve also been told that I needed a few more scars, so thank you for your efforts in that regard.”

Then he gave a short, sharp whistle, and the woman looked up and round, as if looking for another Avvar in the dark. Instead, Mundi dived down, talons aiming at the woman’s face. At the same time, Hawke grabbed her forearm and pulled with all his strength to knock her off-balance.

The woman gave a small cry, and in a test of sheer power, Hawke was always going to win. The two of them rolled as Mundi streaked off between the trees, talons bloody. Hawke wound up on top.

He didn’t hang about. That cry might have alerted anyone in the area, and he had no ill-will towards the woman. If anything, he was impressed. But that didn’t mean he wanted to be captured.

“Sorry,” he said as he jumped up, “I’ll make a better impression in the morning.”

The woman spat out snow, but Hawke didn’t stay to hear her response. He ran, back through the trees, gloved hand at his throat, checking the wound. Not serious - but he did not want to leave a trail of blood back to his camp. He kept the pressure up as he slowed and ducked into the brush, heart racing, ears straining for the sound that he’d been followed.

There were torches, back the way he’d come. Someone had heard the commotion and come to investigate, and if they had light, chances were even an idiot could follow his tracks. Mundi gave a cry and burst through the trees, away from his position, and the torches swung in that direction. Hawke moved through the brush, more cautiously, keeping low. Getting out, it seemed, would be harder than getting in. He prayed to Sigfost and his wisdom that he could stay out of trouble long enough to make a politer entrance in a few hours - and that the red-headed woman wasn’t too important to the operation.