Author's note: It's been a very very long time since I've written anything, but after playing Dragon Age 2, I felt I couldn't help myself. Every player forms a different Hawke with the decisions they make with him/her. I couldn't help but want to take a look at Kirkwall's events through Hawke's own eyes and thoughts, not just her actions and decisions. Personal feelings and relationships affect everyone's lives, and I think Hawke should be no different. This is the result. Those who have played the game will recognize quotes and my many manglings of quotes. I'll try to keep those to a minimum, using only ones I feel had a certain weight in the story. Marian Hawke is beginning to run away with me however, and while this fic will largely keep to the story arc of the game, I have a feeling she's going to push me a bit beyond it.
I apologize in advance for any errors. I've read and reread this over and over again, but I'm quite certain I missed something. Just let me know. I welcome any and all constructive criticism. Feel free to give me a head's up if you see something that could have been done/written/expressed better.
Disclaimer: Bioware owns everything. Including my imagination, apparently.
The Hightown market was bustling with people. There was a wide sampling of Kirkwall's population in this district. Barkers noisily advertised their wares to passersby. The nobles who made it their home strolled leisurely through the square, while their servants bustled to and fro with the day's chores. Even the residents of Lowtown could be seen. They sidled around the edge of the market, trying to stay out of the busiest sections on their way to the Chantry. During the day, the market square was full of noise and color and people.
Hawke rarely ever ventured up into this part of the city. The sideways glances people threw her way were almost too much to tolerate. She carried the grime of Lowtown with her, and her weapons were ugly and cruel. They valued function over form. No one who took sight of the warrior in her battered mercenary plate, with a well-used broadsword slung casually over her back, could doubt for a moment that she knew how to use it. That sort of notion made the nobles of Hightown nervous.
Hawke's booted feet rang out heavy steps as they walked away from the merchant's guild. It was better to have the disapproving eyes turned on her. At her side, Bethany did a fabulous job of looking meek. She had acquired the habit of walking with her staff in hand while in public. At least this way she could feign some recent injury that made a walking aid necessary. She had even gone so far as to wear chain mail over her tunic, and carry small, wicked looking knives. They were purely for show. Bethany was horribly clumsy when it came to knife work. More often than not, she wounded herself with them before anyone else. The irony of that wasn't lost on Hawke. Her sister could burn down half the mansions in Hightown with the wrong word.
The time in Kirkwall had changed them both. A year's service as a mercenary made Marian Hawke harder than any woman of her upbringing had any business being. The hardships of their refugee life were carried largely on her shoulders. Their mother was growing older and their good for nothing uncle was precisely that. After the death of her youngest brother in the frantic flight from Lothering, Marian had stepped forward. She was not only the self-appointed head of the family, but took Bethany's protection as her strict responsibility. While the two had been employed with the Red Iron, the Templars were never a worry. However, now they were on their own. The old fear of Templars discovering her apostate sister haunted Hawke daily.
She was doing everything she could to better their situation. She had heard rumblings about an expedition to the Deep Roads that a dwarven merchant was planning. They had just attempted to speak to the insufferable git. The two were resolutely, and rather rudely, turned away.
"We have to find something, Marian. We have to have something to hide behind: money, status, power, something. We've been in Kirkwall a year, and it's by the Maker's grace alone that the Templars haven't found us yet." Bethany worried her bottom lip as she walked.
"I almost hate to say this, but I think we'd best ask Uncle what he knows." Hawke really did hate to say it. Their Uncle Gamlen was one of the greasiest, most slippery bastards she'd ever met. Unfortunately, in their situation, it seemed that was precisely what they needed. The sisters had served their mercenary year, and were both ready to get out. The money in mercenary work was good, but they had never actually seen any of it. Meeran would've been very unpleasant if they had stuck around long enough to ask for a cut in profits. Not to mention more often than not their work offended Bethany's delicate sensibilities. Indentured servitude was a bitch.
"I think you're right. I didn't want to have to ask him for any more help. He'll be more difficult to live with than he is now, but I don't see any other options. We need coin and we need it fast." They dropped into silence. Bethany's staff thunked absentmindedly on the cobblestones. Years of long practice kept Hawke's booted steps in time with the rhythmic clunking.
A body collided with Hawke as she walked, a boy, it seemed. Street urchins were less common in Hightown, but they were still around if you knew where to look. He muttered a quick apology before darting back into the corners. Only then did Hawke's mind put two and two together. The only urchins that lurked in Hightown were pickpockets.
Her hand dropped immediately to her belt where, to her chagrin, her painfully light coin purse was completely gone. She whirled around and saw a flash of the boy's orange hair disappear into an alley.
With a muttered curse, Hawke gave chase, Bethany close on her heels. She fully expected to have lost the boy as she rounded the corner into the alley. Urchins were annoyingly slippery when they needed to be. No boy who thieved in Hightown was likely to linger when he'd just stolen from an angry woman carrying an enormous sword.
To her surprise, the boy was still in the short alley. Not only was he there, but he wasn't running. Hawke soon deduced why as she saw a dark shaft protruding from his shoulder. A quarrel was buried deep enough to pin the boy against the stones, yet clearly not a fatal wound. With a boy that small, Hawke mused that whoever could make that shot without hitting anything vital must have been one hell of a marksman.
The shooter in question strode into her line of vision, approaching the boy. A beautifully crafted crossbow half as large as the dwarf was slung lovingly on his back. Hawke slowed to a walk. Chasing down a street urchin for her coin purse was one thing. If this archer really wanted whatever that boy had, he was more than capable of taking it, and defending it. He didn't strike Hawke as much of a runner.
He also didn't strike her as the usual type of dwarf. He hit the boy with a nasty right hook and ripped his quarrel out of the urchin's shoulder. The wound there was bleeding profusely, but it would heal. A quick jerk of the head had the boy sprinting to the edge of the district. The dwarf turned and approached Hawke, her tiny coin purse held up openly in his palm. She stopped as he neared her.
He was obviously dwarven, but there were a few details of his appearance that didn't seem to match anything she had learned about dwarves. His face was covered in light stubble, rather than the full beards most dwarven men wore. His hair had been slicked back with a fair amount of care. Golden hoops swung from his ears, matching the ostentatious chain he wore around his neck. The dwarf was dressed sumptuously in red, delicate golden embroidery winding its way down the tunic's ridiculously low cut collar. Yet there was an air of practicality surrounding the vanity. A heavy belt cinched a ranger's duster closed around his waist. His boots and gloves, while handsome, were of high quality leather. The grooves in both sets of accessories spoke years of hard use and attentive care. The crowning glory was the crossbow. The proximity of it now proved Hawke's initial assessment correct. It was a magnificent weapon. The stock was a deep polished red wood. Delicate tooling and brass colored fittings gave the monstrous weapon an air of delicacy. The dwarf handled it with an ease that Hawke wished she could claim with her sword.
"Lose something, human?" His words broke into her thoughts. She cursed herself for drifting off at such a moment. He held her coin purse in his outstretched hand. Hawke took it cautiously. The recently used crossbow quarrel was spinning through his fingers like a windmill as he introduced himself.
"Varric Tethras at your service. I couldn't help overhearing your rather heated conversation with my brother. I think we could be of some assistance to each other." His voice was smooth and measured. There was a cocky lilt behind his words, as if everything he said was one word away from becoming the punch line of a joke.
Hawke raised an eyebrow at the dwarf. To call the conversation they had just come from "heated" was an understatement. Marian and Bethany had wanted in on the expedition. Bartrand was having none of it, despite their darkspawn fighting experience. He had used several colorful words to explain to them in great detail that nothing they said would influence his answer.
"Bartrand's your brother?" Hawke eyed Varric for a moment. The dwarf standing in front of her was as different from Bartrand as night and day. Not to mention Varric had a way of speaking that didn't make everyone within earshot want to kill him.
Varric chuckled. "Hard to believe, I know. He's a thick headed fool most days, and today is no exception. He doesn't see what he has right in front of him. The two of you are interested in going into the Deep Roads? I'm willing to help make that happen."
"You'll convince Bartrand to hire us on?" Bethany piped up from Hawke's side. The girl was so quiet, half the time Hawke forgot she was there.
Varric shook his head and Hawke felt her tiny hope flicker dangerously. "We don't need any more hirelings. We need a partner. Fifty sovereigns buys you in to the expedition with a full share of the profits."
Hawke didn't mean to let the mocking laugh past her lips, but there was little to help that now. "If we had that kind of coin, we wouldn't need this job."
"Now just hear me out. You need to think bigger. Fifty sovereigns is a lot of money, but compare it to the riches that wait in the Deep Roads. This could set you and your family up for life. Never having to worry about money again sounds pretty good?" Varric leaned towards her slightly as he spoke.
Hawke mulled it over a moment, "It sounds wonderful. But I don't see where the hell I'm going to get my hands on fifty sovereigns."
"This city is crawling with work if you know where to look. Folks like yourselves shouldn't have any problem making the money if you're pointed in the right direction. I'm even willing to help you do it. Neither one of us will make any profits if the expedition never gets under way. What do you say?"
A nagging question that had been buzzing around in the back of Hawke's mind finally forced its way to the front. "Wait, how do you even know who we are?"
Varric smirked mysteriously. "You've made quite the name for yourself over the past year or so, Hawke. You just have to be listening to the right stories. You're both more than capable, and I assure you so am I. Let's help each other on this one."
Hawke turned her eyes to Bethany in question. Bethany stared at Varric a moment before shrugging. In Bethany-code, that meant Hawke could do as she saw fit.
Hawke nodded and turned back to the dwarf, sticking out her hand. "Very well Varric, you have yourself a deal." He reached up and took it. Hawke was somehow not surprised to feel calluses and stone hard dwarf flesh under the leather of his glove.
"Perfect. How about a drink in the Hanged Man, my treat? I've a bit of information to fill you in on before we get started." Varric eased into an easy step to her right, and the trio wound their way out of Hightown.
Hawke strode into the Lowtown bar cautiously. She had been there a few times. Yet, knowing what she knew about the majority of its occupants, more often than not she gave it a wide distance. Varric led them up a back staircase to the inn's rooms.
It was obvious that this was where the dwarf spent most (if not all) of his time. A monstrous table centered the room with several chairs. The much too large bed just in the next room made Hawke wonder for a moment what exactly the dwarf used it for. She decided she'd rather not know. Varric sat at the head of the table, gesturing for the two women to sit.
"Here's the thing. Even if you had the coin to buy into a partnership now, there is one major hurdle we have to get over. We need a suitable entrance to the Deep Roads. Once we get down there, Bartrand can get us where we're going, but passable entrances are difficult to come by. Not to mention the recent blight will have most of the darkspawn closer to the surface than usual." Varric steepled his fingers and slid his elbows to rest on the table.
"We need a way in. Rumor has it there's a Grey Warden in the city. If we can find him, and talk to him, we can at least get the wheels turning. Bartrand's pulling his hair out over this. If we don't step in and fix it for him, it's a very real possibility none of us will be going anywhere."
Hawke mulled his words over for a moment, a shadow over her face. "I don't think anyone wants to go poking around Grey Wardens, Varric."
He snorted, "We're not going to ask him to do anything but get us in there, just to give us a direction, something, anything to work with."
Hawke sighed heavily. She wanted nothing to do with the stoic Wardens. The few she had met gave her the creeps. They were serious to a fault and terribly fatalistic. Even asking one how to get into the Deep Roads would likely bring on a lecture about how it was idiotic for civilians to even look underground. Hawke hated being lectured. "Alright, if we have to, we have to."
"Good. Fereldan woman by the name of Lirene runs a shop in Lowtown. My information says she can help point us in the right direction."
Hawke stood slowly, her broadsword brushing the back of the chair. "Then I suppose we don't have any time to waste."
Varric's only answer was a roguish grin.
Varric, Bethany, and Hawke set out from the Hanged Man. They wound their way around Lowtown, in search of Lirene's shop. Her tiny store was tucked away in a small dirty corner of the district. Hawke had been here before. It had been many months ago, just after her family had been allowed into the city. After a few visits, however, Hawke realized that she was much better off than the vast majority of the Fereldan refugees in Kirkwall. Those who came to Lirene for aid more often than not didn't even have a dingy roof with holes in it to fall asleep under at night. As depressing as her own family's situation was, Hawke's few visits to the shop made her grateful for what she had.
The shop was crowded today. Dirty bodies and whimpering children tucked themselves in the corners. Lirene barked instructions to her assistant even as she prioritized the visitors by importance of need. Hawke approached her slowly, not wanting to draw her ire early interrupting.
Hawke knew the shop keep in passing. A Fereldan by birth, Lirene was a woman hardened by circumstance. She lived the plight of the Fereldan refugee, even as she devoted all of her time and resources to the betterment of her destitute countrymen. She was hard, but fair, and not unkind. However, Hawke knew that if for some reason this Fereldan Warden was one of her charges, or even in her employ, she would be loath to give him up. If he wanted to stay hidden, Lirene would not betray that trust.
When Hawke reached the desk, Lirene gave her a cursory glance. "Back of the line's near the door. Priority's given to those who don't have food or lodging. I'll get to you when I can."
"Pardon me, serah," Hawke understood respect and patience would net results much faster than demands, "I only need a moment. I'm looking for someone. I've heard that you're the woman to speak with in regards to finding a Fereldan Grey Warden in Kirkwall."
Lirene's eyes cut darkly to Hawke's face as she bustled behind her counter. "Only Fereldan Grey Warden I know of is currently plopped on the throne. Besides, blight's over. What need could anyone have for a Warden?"
"The healer was one of them once, wasn't he? A Warden?" One of Lirene's young assistant's piped up from her side. The small girl couldn't have been older than fifteen, bright eyed and buoyant, anxious to please.
Lirene sighed and bit off a curse, throwing a dirty look that backed her assistant up a few steps. "Well he's not anymore, and busy enough without answering fool questions about it."
Hawke's brow furrowed slightly. "The Grey Warden is a healer?"
"He aids the refugees here without any thought for coin. He closes wounds, delivers children, and eradicates ailments. I'll not see his charity ended by losing him to the bloody Templars." Lirene drew herself up around her indignance. It was not a threatening stance, but it certainly was a resolute one.
"The healer is a mage?" Bethany asked gently from behind Hawke. "Please, mistress, know that we would not harm anyone for an accident of birth."
Lirene sighed and deflated slightly. "I suppose it's not really my secret to keep. He's certainly been free enough with his services. You'll find him in Darktown. The refugees know to look for the lit lantern. If you have a need, Anders will be there."
Hawke nodded. "Thank you. You've been a great help. I'll leave you to your duties." The three turned to go. On their way towards the door, Hawke spied the pitifully empty donation box in the corner. She didn't imagine many who had the means to donate anything would frequent this place. Hawke pulled a few silver pieces out of her coin purse and slid them through the slot, saying a prayer of thanks to the Maker that her meals never needed to be purchased with donations.
No two ways about it, Darktown reeked. It was very nearly literally the sewers of Kirkwall. The smell of shit and decay permeated everything. Yet it was packed to the gills with equally filthy people. Children darted to and fro, playing games, or attempting to catch the monstrous rats that dwelled there. Surly adults leered at Hawke's tiny group as they passed. It was not every day Hawke was on the receiving end of covetous stares. It made her uncomfortable.
The sewers seemed endless. Up and down several flights of derelict stairs they trudged. There was no sign of a lantern or a mage, or of anything, really, save destitute Fereldans. Hawke glanced down at her boots. The filth seemed to be slowly creeping its way up her sabatons. Perfect. Now I get to carry the smell with me back topside. Absolutely wonderful. Hawke's thoughts were taking a decidedly less than adventurous turn as she considered how the hell she was going to get the stench off her armor.
Varric seemed to be having much the same thoughts. "This is getting us nowhere," he groused. "Let's just ask someone." He broke away to approach a young man who was lounging in the grime. After a very quick exchange, the boy pointed them in what was hopefully the right direction. Varric handed him a silver piece. He clutched at it hungrily and darted back off into the shadows.
"That was easy," Varric sauntered back to Hawke's side. "And cheap." Hawke rolled her eyes and headed off down the alley the boy had pointed Varric to. After only a few moments of walking, the three could spot a warm orange glow flickering at the end of the alley.
"Huh," Varric huffed at her side. "Little shit wasn't lying. I should've given him two silvers."
Hawke spared a quick smile for the dwarf as she approached the door. Hanging beside it was a merrily flickering lantern. She hesitated for a moment, unsure. Hawke wasn't quite sure what the protocol was for entering a healer's residence. By sheer fortune, Bethany had been born with a gift for healing. Hawke had never needed to seek outside aid when it came to her injuries. As she mulled over her options, voices were discernable just beyond the flimsy wall. Judging by the number of them, it was safely assumed that the addition of another person would cause little stir. Gently pushing the door open, Hawke stepped into what seemed to be a tiny clinic.
The small space was not crowded. While a few people sat patiently in the corners, it was hardly packed the way Lirene's shop had been. It was quiet here. Everyone spoke in hushed tones as if they were sitting in a Chantry, rather than a rundown Darktown healer's outpost.
Hawke's eyes were drawn to the center of the room. A young boy was stretched across a crude table. His eyes were closed and his breathing seemed slow and labored. What could only be the boy's father hovered just to the side, worry written in every line of his face. But it was the man standing over the boy that most drew her attention.
He was leaned gently over the child, eyes closed, hands outstretched. His hands glowed with a cool blue light. It seemed as if he were holding pools of luminescent water that flowed slowly over his fingertips to rest on the boy. The azure light lit the sickly boy's face with a soft glow. The healer's brow creased for a moment as he seemed to struggle to lift his hands. They were trembling slightly, as if he were trying to life a terrible weight. The child's eyes snapped open and he sucked in a deep gasping breath, his chest beginning to rise off the table eerily. The magic that the healer had been struggling against seemed to implode back into his fingertips, and he stumbled, hands finding support on the rickety wall. The boy's father rushed to the table. On seeing that his son was indeed awake, he turned to the healer. Muttered 'thank you's were all Hawke could make out as he helped the visibly exhausted man stand a bit straighter and handed him a staff.
This must be Anders.
Hawke approached slowly. The mage was obviously drained. She was still several steps away from him when a shudder seemed to run down the man's spine. He whirled around to face her. Anger flashed across his tired face. Hawke was a bit concerned with the fact that an intimidating looking staff was clutched in one hand, and his other hand was stretched out towards her face.
"I have made this place a sanctum of healing and salvation. Why do you threaten it?" He crouched like a cornered cat. A cornered cat with some very impressive claws.
Hawke raised her empty hands towards him, palms out. "I'm simply here to talk. I promise I won't disrupt anything you do here. My companions and I are planning an expedition to the Deep Roads and we're searching for suitable entrances. Rumor has it you were a Warden. We've come seeking your help."
Anders' staff swung down level with the floor as he straightened. "I will be a happy man if I never think about the blighted Deep Roads again." The accusation in his eyes still hadn't lifted. "It's one of the many reasons I left the Wardens in the first place. Not to mention those bastards made me give away my cat."
Hawke threw a questioning glance at Varric. The dwarf had said nothing of the possibility this mage was just a little off balance.
"Although..."
Hawke drew her eyes back to Anders. He was standing straight now, a thoughtful look on his face. He eyed her appraisingly. "A favor for a favor? I have a Warden map of the depths in this area. I will give them to you. But first I need your aid with something."
A sigh escaped Hawke's lips and she nodded, simply glad there was a way to accomplish her goal and get the hell out of Lowtown. "Anything you need."
Ander's brow rose just slightly as he stared at her. Hawke immediately regretted the words she had spoken. "Anything? You do not ask my terms. What if I were to ask you for the Knight Commander's head on a spike?"
Her stomach fell to her feet like a rock. Clearly, Anders was more than a little off balance. "... Is that what you ask?" Hawke had a very difficult time keeping the look of sheer incredulity off her face.
For the first time in this entire exchange, a smile threatened at the corners of Anders' mouth. "You decide."
How do I always find a way to get myself into these messes?
Hawke had listened very attentively when Anders explained what exactly it was he needed to do. Breaking a mage out of the circle of Magi wasn't exactly what Hawke would have elected to do had she been given a choice. Still, she couldn't pretend she wasn't sympathetic. If something happened and Bethany were shipped to the Circle, who's to say Hawke wouldn't be recruiting help to break her out as well? It wasn't a difficult decision to make when the terms were laid out. However, as Hawke crept through the candlelight and shadows of the apparently deserted Chantry, the apprehension wouldn't leave her alone. This had disaster written all over it.
Varric and Bethany stuck close to her side. It was obvious they were almost as nervous as she was. Sparing a glance for Anders, Hawke realized determination wiped out whatever fear would have been in him. For a moment she was jealous. Her eyes swept the Chantry again as they stalked the shadows.
Anders veered towards the right hand staircase, and the four crept gingerly to the top. A man in flowing robes waited not far from them, faced away from the landing. Anders approached him slowly. Hawke followed at a respectful distance. She imagined they would appreciate any private conversation staying that way, but moving completely out of earshot would be idiotic.
"Anders I know you to well. I knew you would come." The mage they had come to rescue spoke slowly, emotionlessly. He hadn't even turned. Hawke's hands itched for her sword. Something wasn't right.
"Karl, what's wrong?" Anders' voice was almost pleading. "Why are you talking that way...?" Hawke knew before Karl had even fully turned around. She suspected Anders did as well.
Son of a bitch, can nothing EVER go right? Hawke's mind reeled as the man faced them. The Chantry's brand was still fresh and red on his forehead. His eyes were blank, as though he hardly saw them.
"No!" The anguish that seeped through Anders voice made Hawke wince sympathetically.
"I was like you, Anders, too rebellious. The Templars knew I had to be made an example of. You will understand too, once the Templars teach you to control yourself." The tranquil's glassy eyes slid up over their shoulders. "This is the apostate."
Hawke's hand flew to her back and her broadsword slid free of its sheath with a whispered hiss. She turned and saw the Templars closing in. I guess that's a no. Bloody fucking beautiful. How so many men, heavily armed in plate no less, had managed to sneak up on four people who were already twitchy was beyond Hawke. Now she was going to have to defend herself, and probably kill most of these men, in the Chantry of all places. Bloody fucking beautiful indeed.
"No!" Anders' cried out again. The anguish was still there, but this time it seemed almost literally underlined with rage. In fact it seemed as if the rage in his voice had its own voice, its own timbre.
Knowing it was stupid beyond reason, Hawke pulled her eyes away from the men advancing on her. She had intended only a glance over her shoulder to make sure that Anders was well. Yet her eyes rested on the mage as he crumpled to the floor, head in his hands. Maker, you can't do this to me now, mage! She turned and took a step back towards him, intending to drag him back to his feet. She didn't get very far.
Hawke felt the rumble more than she heard it. As she watched, Anders began trembling on the floor. Sharp tendrils of brilliant blue light burst into existence just under his skin. It looked as though he was threatening to rip apart. It wasn't an unfair assumption to make. No sooner had the sight stopped Hawke in her tracks, than a concussion ripped through the air. An explosion of light and azure fire seemed to tear through the mage, cool flames licking hungrily at his sides. Before she could even form a prayer to the Maker, Anders was on his feet. The flames seemed to recede into the mage as he stood, rage written across every feature, every minute movement. But it was his eyes that knocked the wind out of Hawke.
As he rose, they flashed momentarily to her face and knocked every ounce of sense she had away from her. The unassuming mild brown irises were gone, obliterated in a fierce blue glow that swirled in his eyes, giving movement to his fury. The pure expressiveness of the flashing blue, the unbridled power of righteous anger bored into her. Hawke felt as though her bones were aflame. Her stomach roiled and her muscles twitched under their sharp scrutiny. Anders could have struck her down in that moment and she wouldn't have had the will or the sense to move.
As quickly as it had begun, his eyes released her, staring behind her shoulders. Yes, right, Templars with big ugly swords. She shook her head to clear it and tore her eyes away from Anders to face them. A deep, booming voice washed over them, shaking them all.
"You will never take another mage as you took him!"
The blue glow behind her intensified to an almost blinding brightness. As Hawke shifted her long sword in her grip, she prayed to the Maker that Anders was still in enough control of himself to not obliterate everyone in the room with his fury.