Warning: Spoiler warnings up to and including the Prologue and Act One.

Author's Note: Book One of the "Entr'actes" series, beginning six months after the expedition, and will eventually come to include both Hawke/Cullen and Hawke/Fenris.

My focus isn't rehashing actual game events, but concentrating on the moments between, which seems to be the only place my muse likes to play. Main title and chapter titles inspired by, and in some cases taken directly from, the Canticle of Transfigurations.

And finally, this piece was inspired by little Bran Stark.

To Find Our Rest

Chapter One: A Heavy Heart

Hawke

Sweet Maker, I hate this place.

For hours she'd been laying low, tucked in quiet as a Circle mouse near the north wharf of the Gallows. It was as close as she'd dared get during the waning daylight after she'd slipped off the day's last ferry unnoticed. There had been no fear in her then, not when the sun was still shining and she could keep her back to the cold stone of the fortress and ignore how the burnished statues of enslaved torment gleamed in the dying light.

Now, as twilight faded into full dark and the quarter moon was rising in the cloudless sky, Marian wondered – for the first time, why now just for the first time? – if her foolish endeavour would more hurt than help her cause. Perhaps she shouldn't have come alone, or perhaps she shouldn't have come at all.

A bit pointless that sort of musing, all things considered, but unless she suddenly fancied a swim, she was there for the night. She did not intend to spend it outside, alone.

The wharf had long since emptied by the time she moved from her hiding place with stiff limbs; the soft, swollen planks made no sound under her boots, with no one to be impressed with her slinking but herself. It was disconcerting, to see the docks so quiet. Her first memories of the place were drowned in the chaos and confusion of their arrival, and thinking back on it still sent her stomach to knotting.

Nearly two years later, the city guard no longer posted men on the Gallows wharf since the the flow of refugees had ebbed. Only a mere handful landed off every other boat or so now, and those were dealt with at the harbour-master's office in Lowtown. She had heard Aveline complain of it more than once. Not the refugees, though the captain-in-training had more than enough of those on her hands as it was, no, she was often heard grumbling at the lack of her own men on the docks. But Aveline couldn't fight the Knight Commander, promotions and paperwork be damned. The Gallows was the templars domain, absolute and always.

Tonight, however, Hawke was glad of it for a guardsman on the wharf would have proven problematic, a guardsman used to patrolling every shadow, never pacified by the safety of solitude and the strength of stone. But just as she'd been promised, she was the only soul on this side of the wall. The gate was shut tight, a great iron monster with black teeth sinking into the rough, white stone. The templars posted on the other side were properly distracted by the threats they conceived within: midnight trysts and unruly magelings, ever wary of the scent of demons on their dreams.

It was early now, but in a few hours time, those same templars, ever vigilant, would be struggling to keep their eyes open. At least, she hoped so, counted on it. For now, she stayed clear the circle of soft, dancing torchlight and continued on.

It was a rare night, near windless, and the black harbour waters were almost completely still, swallowing the life of the city into the murky depths, a mirror for all the lights of Kirkwall to shimmer in. The echo of a workday not yet finished on the Lowtown docks carried across the harbour, men and elves breaking their backs for a day's pay, enough to feed a mouth or two, maybe, but never enough to break away from the chains of labour and poverty.

Since the expedition, she had barely given a thought to coin, not like those men working the docks, whose lives were consumed by the desire for coppers and silvers to buy bread and bed. But still, that bleak, hard life was freedom, a twisted mockery though it may be.

Marian craned her neck to look up into the darkness, where the top of the wall was calling to her. Freedom. That was what the expedition cost her.

Oh, my sweet sister.

Once upon a time, a mother had bundled her three young children into a cart and paid precious silver for a man to take them to a ramshackle inn nestled amongst the trees beside a cold, vast lake. By moonlight, the mother had taken her daughters by hand, and her son had followed reluctantly behind as they'd approached the sandy shore. The tower seemed a lone sentinel upon its distant island. The windows had shone like stars against a black night that held none. Even ten years later, if Marian squeezed her eyes shut tight in the darkness beneath her sheets, alone in her bed, she could still see those strange stars, too big and too square to be allowed. Blinding, bright beacons that seemed to know her sister's name and her father's sin.

She avoided bed now when she could, lonely without Bethany.

Never had that long ago night been spoken of, the night a mother had shown her children the place where fear lived, a lonely prison frozen in time from which there was no escape. The youngest of them had clung to her mother's skirts, hidden her face as she quaked and begged to be taken home, but her brother and sister had looked on unblinking at the forbidding tower outlined against a starless sky. This was the fate they were saving their sister from, a cause worth any sacrifice. Firstborn daughter and only son, ever at odds, curled together on an innkeep's straw mattress that night; long after mother and sister had fallen into dreams, they'd sworn, fingers linked. Their sister's safety, above all else.

Unto dying breath... or, until one gets the other killed.

Hawke shut her eyes against the memory of Carver's piercing blue eyes, the tug of his hand in hers. She couldn't pretend he'd be forgiving. Aside from protecting Bethany, they'd never agreed on much. Not for the first time, she found herself glad to be spared his sharp tongue and bitter brooding. It made her miss him less, if only for a minute.

With her fingers brushing against the pockmarked stone of the Gallows curtain wall, Marian felt the child again, and missed her mother's hand, but Leandra Hawke would very much disapprove of this nonsense. Of any of this, Hawke planned never to breathe a word.

A deep breath, an inward curse. Had she really come all this way to balk at a few childhood memories?

Move now, Hawke, or you never will.

The creeping shadows along the wall embraced her, and the gentle ruffle of the banners over her head masked the scrape of her boots against the stone. The breeze picked up, sending water lapping against the stone pilings of the wharf. The salty air licked at her cheeks, lifting her hair to play about her face, breathing the strength of the Waking Sea into her limbs and her heart.

She knew that it was not too late to turn back. It would have been nothing to slink back to her hiding spot, conceal herself amongst the crates and netting, and wait for morning. She could toss the ferryman a sovereign or two for his silence and get home before Varric caught wind that she had spent the night out, alone. If not, there would be no end to the searching and prying as he ferreted out the truth of where she'd been.

But she had come so close now, her projected – and might it be added unproven – path into the Gallows mere steps away. Fenris had reluctantly helped her scout it out, and she had spent two weeks distracting the others and every templar in the near vicinity as he'd mapped out a way in, climbing to seemingly impossible places quicker than anything she'd ever seen. He was the only one she could have ever considered asking for help with such a delicate thing, the only one she could trust to be discreet and (mostly) unprejudiced, and even though he'd stewed gloomily over her motivation and hardheaded determination, he'd come through for her. Fenris might have hated mages, but even Hawke had seen him develop a bit of a soft spot for Bethany.

Everyone developed a soft spot for her father's sweet Beth.

Sighing, Hawke took a very thorough moment to check that her gear was secure before pulling her hood up to cover her dark hair. It was not the climb that troubled her, it's the noise she was bound to make during the arduous ascent. She knew she was putting her sister at risk just by being there after hours, but she had no other choice. Bethany, bitter and distant, had seen to that.

And really, sneaking into the Gallows was hardly the worst thing she'd ever done...

Cullen

Past midnight in the Gallows courtyard, and the Kirkwall night was deceptively quiet. It was what made this place almost bearable, that one small saving grace. The solitude provided by the walls, once the gate had set with the sun; under the moon, the fortress on its lonely island was almost as a proper Circle should be.

As Cullen walked the courtyard under the naked quarter moon, he thought that perhaps in another time, another life, he could even have grown fond of this place.

It was the waters of the harbour that swayed him so favourably, he'd realised that early on enough after his somewhat scandalous arrival. The pounding of grey waves that broke against the foundations of gleaming white stone had lulled him when all else fought to drive him away. During the day, when the screech of the gulls and the clamour of merchants and apprentices drowned out the sound of the sea, Ser Cullen would find himself on edge, separate from all else in this alien place. But by night, the noise and the dust, the unrest and animosity, it could all be put aside, almost forgotten, when the stars began to kindle and the day began to fade.

His nightly vigil in the courtyard was becoming something of a common sight. Accepted as part of routine. The templars on duty had taken to nodding at him as he passed. He knew he was still somewhat of an oddity to them, perhaps even a threat to some. The tales of the Ferelden Circle had reached far, were whispered among the recruits and apprentices of all the Circles of all the Free Cities long before he arrived. It may have been more fear than awe that tempered their curiosity, but he found that was all right with him. It made them keep their respectful distance.

There were more than enough threats in Kirkwall to occupy templar attentions without his past troubles to distract them. The city reeked of blood and demons long before his coming. Daily, he saw corruption amongst the nobles, hiding their vices within the walls of their old Tevinter estates. The competence of the city guard had proven itself wanting in both honour and discretion. Thieves of all standing dared peddle and ply in broad daylight, from the dirtiest Lowtown alley to the garden terraces of Hightown.

These days, this place – all of it, each waking moment, the struggle of every day life in the city of chains – made his head ache. It was only in the stillness of the Gallows nights that he could find his reprieve; a strange turn that he'd find his greatest rest when his charges were abed, their minds playing with fate's fire at the edges of the Fade. An abomination could be cut down, a mage's blood could be spilled across the sun-baked stone of this wretched city, but the noise and rabble and chaos of daylight – these were the things he could not fight. At times, these were the things he feared.

He passed in the shadow of the southward gatehouse through which all the daytime traffic trickled, yet his feet did not stop their somnolent march as they had before on so many a sleepless night. He cast his eyes down as he walked past the bronzed statues. He had seen them catch the moonlight too many times before, glinting with the torchlight until they almost seem to live, and move, and breath, and scream their ageless anguish. Such haunted thoughts did not aid his restlessness, and without an upward glance, he moved on.

Darkness was an ally to him, teacher and lover, dearer to him now that he had come to this high-walled city. When he stood his post each day, the sky was open above him, dizzying and bright, but by night, the blanket of stars had a way of sending his mind reeling home once more, to a lone tower at the heart of war-torn Ferelden, and every night, he found himself returning to gaze and remember. "The history of the world is recorded in those stars," the enchanters had said as they'd taught their young apprentices to interpret the stories set there in the heavens. Here, now, Cullen could hear the voices still lingering in his memory, so soft and faraway as to be carried off on a breath of wind. And on his harbour island, the wind never ceased.

At long last, he came to his rest beneath the arcade near the armourer's stall, awning lowered and fluttering gently, the shelves filled with naught but shadow. From there, he could not see the stairs that lead – in a rambling, eventual way – to the barracks and his bed, but perhaps that was for the best. It was a comforting thought, his small, waiting cell, but he was not yet ready to seek it out. That confining darkness held his dreams in abundance, and there was no shame in admitting that he was too cowardly to face them, if the confession was only to himself. Better to stave off sleep, to cross that boundary when exhaustion had taken its firm hold, one that dreams could not hope to break.

And so he settled himself into a watchman's stance, his feet planted wide; an old trick, long practised to perfection, to become a part of the stone. His were the eyes of the fortress, his breath its breath. There was no sound but the wind through the abandoned battlements, the ripple of the city's banners like the beating of night wings against the blackened sky.

Even then, the majesty of the Gallows was not lost on him, an ancient history of salt and blood soaked into each smooth, white flagstone, writ deep and unchangeable. So many ages the city had seen, and survived, and how high she had come to rise above. To that end, each breath he took seemed inconsequential, a sigh that stirred nothing in the silent embrace of nighttime; his was a shadow that would be overcome by the great bearing of others, and in that, he could find relief. Perhaps he would be lucky enough for history to pass him by; could that he become a faceless templar, a name scratched into a book to sit on a dusty shelf, a simple life of service to divine Andraste.

How little he knew then.

Beneath the arcade, he read the passage of the hours in the little scrap of sky he could see. When precisely the moment descended upon him, he was unsure, but as suddenly as it had eased over him, his peace was shattered. A soft scrape above, and a shower of loose mortar that was sent tumbling down the wall, bouncing off the armourer's collapsed awning to scatter across his quiet corner of the flagstone courtyard.

The disturbance, slight and quick as it was, echoed loud in his ears, and slowly, carefully, he glanced up from his slice of shadow only to see nothing amiss atop the wall. Still and steady, breath held, he waited – and his patience won out. The darkness above shifted; the intruder was subtle and cautious, but Cullen was aware now, and if he strained, he thought he could hear the faint crunch of more loose grit beneath sleek leather boots.

He watched as the shadow slipped along the top of the wall with a grace of stealth he could never have hope to achieve; it moved as night moves, so slowly and lightly that even the stars above would have taken no notice. The intruder had him at a disadvantage. He stood close to the arched support column of the arcade, hidden from moonlight that would catch and dance over the surface of his polished armour. A single movement would undo him.

An old trick, long practised...

His mouth had gone dry. He should have been sounding an alarm, and yet he waited; the intrigue rose slowly within him as the figure climbed down the wall, one careful, calculated stretch at a time. His eyes widened at each pause, each precise movement that flowed into the next. Light as a feather, sinuous as a serpent. And then, the shadow stopped, dropped, to perch catlike atop the massive bronze raptor that flanked the gate.

Thief, he thought, and his hand went to his blade – too quick, too clumsy. He was discovered, knew it even as his fingers closed about the hilt.

The creak of a bow drawn and anchored cut through the darkness around him.