A/N: Put two obsessed writers together, and interesting things always happen! The idea for this story popped up during random conversation, and within hours we had this tale plotted and the first chapter written. I swear, it is truly like magic! We are already in love with this story, and hope you enjoy it, too! Let us know what you think - you know how we love to hear from you!
CHAPTER ONE
"No, I forbid it," Leandra said imperiously. "You will not leave the house looking like that."
"Mother, I am of age," Hawke replied, as she buckled the last strap on her new leathers and smoothed her hands down over her hips. They fit her perfectly, and she couldn't wait to show Varric. "You can't tell me what to do anymore."
"I don't care how old you are, Ambrosia," Leandra said, trying to keep her voice calm, but Hawke could see the color blooming in her cheeks. "You are a Hawke. Nobility. What will the Reinhardts think if they see you dressed in... whatever that is."
"Don't call me that," said Hawke. "Why can't you call me Amber, like everyone else?"
Leandra ignored her daughter's complaint and pointed her finger up the grand staircase. "You will go upstairs and put on clothes that befit your station. Right this minute."
As if Leandra's finger had summoned her, Bethany appeared at the top of the stairway. As she descended, her mother smiled. Bethany certainly knew how to behave, and she always looked so proper, so beautiful. Her blue satin robes were impeccable, her dark hair coiffed in perfect curls that spilled artfully down her back. Bethany's carriage was that of a lady - her posture perfect, her elegant hand trailing lightly down the banister as she approached them.
"I won't," insisted Hawke, as she checked the straps of her daggers to make sure they were secure. Despite her mother's constant objections, Hawke had been training with her blades since her tenth birthday, when she'd received them as a gift from her beloved father.
"What won't she do now?" asked Bethany, eyeing her older sister's apparel with some distaste.
"She's going out, dressed like that," Leandra said as she took Bethany's hand. "Why she can't be more like..." Leandra quickly stopped her words and glanced back at Hawke.
"It's no secret," Hawke said. "Why can't I be more like Bethany, right?" Hawke shook her head, but there was a smile curving her lips. She wasn't jealous of her younger sister - she felt sorry for the coddled way Leandra treated her.
"What would your father think if he saw you dressed like this?" Leandra tried as a final appeal. She knew full well that her eldest daughter only ever cared what Malcolm thought. Her own efforts to control Hawke always came to nothing.
Approaching footsteps caused all three woman to turn their heads toward the vestibule. In walked Malcolm Hawke, dressed in his formal black robes, a long, silver staff at his back. "I think it's fine, if that's what Amber chooses to wear," he said, smiling at his daughter. She skipped across the floor and threw her arms around his neck.
"Hello, daddy dearest," Hawke said, and smacked him on the cheek with a loud kiss.
"Hello to you, daughter," he said as he wrapped her in his embrace. They hugged tightly for a moment before Hawke pulled away.
"I'm going to meet Varric," she told him. "Need anything from Lowtown while I'm out?"
"No time to sit and have a meal with your family?" Malcolm asked playfully.
"Tomorrow, I promise," she said as she moved to the door. "Don't wait up!"
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The stench of stale ale and poorly cooked stew were welcoming aromas to Hawke as she entered the Hanged Man. She felt more at home here than in her actual home; the grime and smoke so much more comfortable than the pristine walls and fancy furniture of the Hawke estate. While she loved her family, there was something to be said about the company of friends, who appreciated her for herself. None of them cared that her last name was Hawke, or that her mother was of the Amell line.
She spotted Varric sitting in his usual corner, chatting with the locals about some story he no doubt created that morning. Hawke loved listening to his tales of adventure; it was one of the reasons she adored hanging out with him. The dwarf always had something up his sleeve to keep the boredom away, and she had high hopes that tonight would be no different.
"And then, wait for it... Isabela came out of the shadows and completely distracts the man with her breasts! He never knew what hit him, poor bastard." Varric shook his head as if he could hardly believe it himself. "She nearly sliced off his leg. It was beautiful!"
Hawke smiled as she approached the table. Varric's telling of last night's adventure was more exuberant than she remembered the actual event had been. He noticed her approach and offered her a wide grin in return.
"Did you get to the part where I distracted the other thugs by kissing Isabela?" she asked.
"And here I was, saving that for the epic climax!" Varric said, faking his disappointment very cleverly. "Oh well, I guess storytime's over folks."
Isabela pouted. "The kiss was the best part of that tale," she said, winking at Hawke.
Hawke joined Varric and Isabela, once the eager listeners had begrudgingly departed, but not before they'd taken a long look at both Hawke and Isabela. Hawke was certain she knew what images those boys were conjuring in their minds, and she rolled her eyes. "Sorry Varric, maybe I should've left that for you to tell."
"I doubt they want to hear it, as much as see it," he responded with a chuckle, and gestured to Norah to bring over another drink. "I gotta say, the new threads look good on you, Rosebud. Bianca approves."
"I'm glad your crossbow appreciates a nice set of armor," Hawke joked, adjusting her gloves. "My mother, of course, wasn't too thrilled."
"Uh oh," Varric said, sensing a story.
Hawke nodded, before resting her head on Isabela's shoulder. "You know Mother, always trying to create the perfect noble daughter. One wearing finely crafted dwarven armor doesn't exactly fit that description."
"Isn't Sunshine enough for her?" Varric asked, referring to Bethany by the nickname he'd given her. Varric was fond of her entire family, even her mother, to Hawke's constant disbelief. The first time he'd met Hawke's younger sister, he'd said, Why look at you, like a glimpse of sunshine on a gloomy day.
"Apparently not," she sighed. "So, I'm hoping you have something for us to do tonight? I could use a distraction."
Varric shook his head. "Nope, sorry. But if you're bored, you could rescue your brother over there."
Hawke groaned before casting a glance in the direction Varric had nodded. "Not again," she said. It seemed every other night she was helping her brother out of a scrape.
Carver's mop of dark hair was easy to spot in the crowd of men huddled around a table in the far corner. From the looks of it, there was a very intense game of Serpents going on, and the expression on her brother's face made it obvious that he was not doing well. Next to him sat their uncle, Gamlen Amell, looking just as anxious as his nephew. She watched as he took a long sip of his drink, and then nervously ran a hand through his hair.
"How long has this been going on?" Hawke asked.
"Hours," Isabela told her. "And your brother has a filthier mouth on him than most of the men I've sailed with." She paused, and a wide smile spread over her face. "Doesn't mean I wouldn't mind a taste, though."
Hawke wrinkled her nose. "Really Isabela? That's my brother, and oh so gross."
Isabela laughed. "For you maybe," she said, eyeing the younger sibling. "Unfortunately, he always smells like a brewery."
"Gamlen's influence," Hawke said. "That uncle of mine is a thorn in the family's side. I'm amazed my father continues to support him, the way he goes through coin. Carver will end up just like him, if he isn't careful."
Norah arrived with her drink, and Hawke took a long, slow pull on the watery ale. She forced herself to look away from her brother, not wanting to see the outcome of his latest hand. As she scanned the rest of the crowd of the Hanged Man, the front door swung open, and Hawke watched curiously to see if it was someone she knew.
A tall man, dressed in odd robes, entered the room. The feathers on his shoulders caught her eye first, and then her gaze drifted to his face. Handsome enough, with his golden hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a dusting of stubble across his chin. She watched as he pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly uncomfortable in his surroundings. An apostate of some sort? Brave of him to walk around the city dressed like that. In Kirkwall, only her father and sister dared to flaunt their freedom, but they had the protection of her father's influence.
Who was this man?
The stranger began walking toward them, and Hawke took another sip of her drink, nerves suddenly flooding her belly. Isabela leaned forward on the table, displaying her enormous cleavage for his inspection.
"I'm supposed to meet a dwarf, you him?" asked the golden-haired man.
Varric laughed. "See any other dwarves here, my friend?"
"No," the man responded, his voice carrying a soft accent that Hawke couldn't place. "But then again, the air in here is making my eyes water."
"You'll soon get used to that." Varric rose from the table and made a slight bow. "If you two ladies will excuse me, and I use the term loosely for you Isabela, I have business to attend to."
"Varric," Isabela purred. "You're such a tease. Aren't you going to introduce us to your handsome new friend?"
Retrieving his crossbow from where she rested against the wall, Varric shook his head. "My room's right upstairs," he told the stranger. "It's much quieter and has fewer distractions."
Hawke had remained silent during the interaction, staring into the man's coppery eyes. They were soft, gentle, but there was also a hint of mystery in their depths. She was fascinated, and that surprised her. When his gaze met hers, she quickly turned her head, an embarrassed flush warming her cheeks.
Varric gestured for the mage to precede him up the stairs, and paused before he followed. "Don't even think about it, Rosebud," he offered as a warning to Hawke. "You don't want anything to do with him."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Varric," she said, hiding her expression behind her dark hair.
Isabela considered teasing Hawke about her sudden shyness, but a commotion near Carver's table stopped her. "Time to save that brother of yours, Amber," she said, as she stood and retrieved a hidden knife from her boot.
Hawke turned and saw three very large men standing over her brother and uncle. Glancing toward the stairs, she saw Varric had already shut the door to his room. It was up to her and Isabela to take care of this.
At least it was something to do.
"I saw you pull that serpent from your sleeve!" the largest of the men, Dante, was shouting directly into Carver's face.
"Calm down, serah," Gamlen slurred, as he tried to rise from his seat, but failed. His foot caught on the chair's leg and sent him tumbling to the wooden floor, where he lay gazing up at them stupidly.
Carver did manage to stand, and towered over his accuser, swaying slightly. "Are you calling me a cheater?" he asked belligerently.
As soon as Hawke and Isabela reached the table, the sour stench of whisky almost made her wretch. Why her mother was always berating her for not being a proper young lady, while her precious son could do no wrong, Hawke did not understand. Her brother's drinking and womanizing had earned him a reputation in Kirkwall - one Leandra conveniently ignored.
Hawke positioned herself between Carver and Dante. "What's going on?" she asked, putting a hard edge in her voice that wasn't normally there.
"What's it to ya?" Dante asked. He turned to face her, and placed a meaty hand on her shoulder.
"Hands off my sister!" Carver shouted, and threw a wild punch that landed on the side of the man's head.
The slide of daggers being drawn from their sheaths was suddenly the only sound in the bar. Dante had grabbed Carver by his shirt and was backing him into the wall, while the other two circled behind Hawke and Isabela. Carver's face went pale from the knife suddenly held to his throat, but Hawke could not aid her brother. Another of the card players, a sharp-faced, sandy-haired man, began to lunge at her with a wickedly curved blade.
Hawke had been so focused on Carver, that she barely dodged the man's attack. His blade caught her in the arm, and a considerable gash now bled onto her new gloves. "I just got these!" she huffed in frustration while defending herself against his drunken swings. It would've been easy to take the man down with her skill, but Hawke didn't want to seriously injure him - he was highly intoxicated, and obviously not thinking clearly. So, she waited for the perfect opportunity, and when he leaned in to strike, she swiftly side-stepped to the left and then kneed him in the groin - a convenient trick she'd learned from Isabela.
The man fell to his knees with a low grunt, all thoughts of attack obliterated from his mind, as blinding pain shot through his body. Hawke kicked his weapon across the floor when he dropped it, his hands flying to cover his precious jewels.
Carver and Dante were still tangled in the corner, exchanging angry words. She marveled at her brother's ability to still be a twit, even when his life was at stake. Hawke quietly approached the two, and bringing her blade around to the larger man's throat, she whispered in his ear. "If you would be so kind as to remove your blade from my brother's neck, I would appreciate it."
"Why, you bitch!" Dante shouted, and Hawke feared things might have just gone from bad to worse.
"Halt!" came a shout from the doorway, and Hawke recognized the voice instantly, relief flooding through her. It was Aveline, come to the rescue once again.
How many times had the guardswoman saved Carver from his own drunken debauchery? More times than Hawke cared to count. It was how they had met, in fact. Not long after Aveline had come to Kirkwall with her Templar husband Wesley, she'd taken a position with the city guard. As much trouble as Carver got into, it was no surprise that eventually Hawke had come to know Aveline by name, and they'd quickly developed an odd sort of friendship.
Within minutes, Aveline and her two companions had corralled the men against the wall, and in that calm way she had, was explaining to them why they would leave quietly right this minute, or spend the night in jail.
"Amber!" called Isabela. "You're bleeding, sweet thing."
Hawke glanced down at the long gash on her forearm and winced. She hated to ask Bethany for healing, and wondered idly if the potion stand was still open this late at night. Hawke glanced back at Isabela, and saw a short, but deep cut across her jaw. "So are you," Hawke told her, and reached out to wipe the blood from her friend's face.
This was the scene Varric walked into, followed by the tall stranger, who eyed them all curiously.
"Brother trouble again?" Varric asked as he surveyed the damage. "This one's gonna cost you, Rosebud."
She glanced around and saw several broken chairs, and a whole tray of mugs shattered on the floor. Before she could reach for her coinpurse, however, Carver staggered over to her, his hand filled with gold.
"That lot won't be needing this," he said with a crooked grin. He pushed it into Hawke's hands, causing her to cringe from the pain in her arm. Distracted by her brother, Hawke wasn't aware that the mage was now by her side.
"Let me see your wound," said Varric's odd companion. He took her arm in his warm hands, and the soothing wash of a healing spell soon dispelled the sting. She gazed up into his eyes, her lips forming a soft 'thank you', but before she could speak, he turned and walked toward the door.
Isabela called after him. "Hey! I'm bleeding, too!" But the mage kept walking and did not turn back.
"Varric?" Hawke asked, and her unspoken question was clearly understood by her friend.
"Listen Rosebud," he said seriously. "Don't ask. Just forget you ever saw him."
Hawke nodded slowly, even though she doubted she could follow his advice. A handsome, mysterious apostate in Kirkwall? Not an easy thing to ignore.