Topography: "spoken dialogue," "flashback dialogue," 'thoughts,' emphasis
A/N: Slightly AU treveldor/fenhawke ficcy inspired by danaducy's lovely screenshot of D (visit my AO3 account for the link). Set after the events of 'Pointed Questions,' dedicated to Xenrae for much kindness and encouragement – much appreciated ;) Also, if you're rereading this fic and find yourself doing a double-take at m!Tre's name, that's because it has in fact changed. I'll spare y'all my list of nit-picky reasons for this, except to say that the character has evolved somewhat and I think this suits him better. It's a slight change, though, so hopefully it's not too jarring.
~ That Four-Letter Word~
To claim that the Champion of Kirkwall was notthe Inquisitor's favourite man in Thedas would be an understatement equivalent to the disaster that was the Breach. Hawke was an unrepentant apostate, a criminal, and a shining example of the boorishness that Lady Vivienne routinely ascribed to the 'dog lords' of the south. Lysander had questioned the Fereldan's sanity on a number of occasions, but never more so than he did at that precise moment.
"S'pose I…cough…deserved that…cough," Hawke chocked where he knelt, managing to ring out a chuckle in-between wheezing for breath.
From what Lysander had been able to gather, an elven man accompanied by one of the large hounds that'd earned the Fereldans their moniker had come marching into the courtyard. He'd claimed to know the Champion of Kirkwall and, according to the stuttering account of the white-faced recruit who'd directed him, walked up to Hawke where he stood conversing with the Commander, tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned 'round, proceeded to thrust an arm through his chest.
Lysander might have thought the recruit mad as well had he not arrived to see the assailant's hand protruding from Hawke's back, awash in a glow not unlike what shone from his own. The limb had since retracted, though the strange iridescence remained. Unlike the Anchor, however, it's spread was not limited to the stranger's palm. Like a network of shimmering rivers on a map, it traversed the entirety of his form, visible even through his heavy cloak and whatever he'd donned underneath.
Disturbed, Lysander began to shore up his mana, intending to stun the intruder with a well-aimed bolt from the blue. As if the situation were not sufficiently bizarre, however, he felt his effort blocked...by his own bloody Military Advisor!
Aghast, he rounded on the former templar. "Explain yourself!" he demanded.
"My apologies, Inquisitor," Cullen placated, hands raised, palms up, "but I fear the situation lends itself to misinterpretation and—"
"You bastard!" the elf roared, flinging back the hood that covered his face. Lysander blinked. He'd seen many a comely face in his life, not least since taking up the mantle of Herald, but what he saw before him now was not what he'd expected. The voice was deep, low, resonant – that of a warrior – but the face, belonged to a courtesan. Eyes of startling green burned with emerald fire as the stranger glowered down at the mage at his feet, a tangle of snow-white hair tumbling about features almost too delicate for the riot of emotion that shaped them.
"Wolf, I—" Hawke gasped, but the elf was not finished.
"You left me behind!" The deep voice cracked as a tremor of anguish shot through the tone. His breathing sharpened to gasps, limbs starting to tremble. "You left me, Wreath!" he repeated, volume lowered if not the vehemence. The glowing web about the elf's body faded to nothing as he collapsed to his knees, burying that striking visage in the crook of the Fereldan's shoulder.
As Lysander looked on, Hawke's arms wrapped around the slighter man, drawing him close. In the weeks since their introduction, he'd come to believe the Champion incapable of speaking without snarls and scoffs, turning the sudden gentleness of his tone all but dissonant to the Inquisitor's ears. "I'm sorry," Hawke murmured, voice hoarse from more than a physical ache. "I'm sorry…cough…Please, my love…cough, cough…Please don't weep. I'm so sorry..."
"Love?"
Lysander glanced 'round as the resident necromancer spoke up from the vicinity of his shoulder. He'd been so absorbed in the two men's exchange that he hadn't noticed the Altus mage's arrival. Dorian, for his part, stood riveted and the Inquisitor found himself intrigued in turn by what he saw. Dorian Pavus, embodiment of worldly ennui, seemed…awed. His ever-animated features were placid, younger than his years in that moment. As Lysander studied him, he realised that even his breathing had stilled.
Filing the Tevinter's reaction away to be mulled over later, Lysander's attention returned to the scene between Fereldan and elf. A low baying rang out as the tapered-eared interloper's companion butted the top of its head against Hawke's side and without loosening his hold on the elf, the Champion wrapped an arm around the beast's muscled neck and hauled it into their embrace.
"He-e-ey, Spike's here!" Varric enthused from behind them.
Word must have spread about a disturbance in the courtyard, because the dwarf's crossbow was in his hands, in the process of being disarmed. Shouldering his weapon, Varric made to rush toward Hawke and…'Spike?' only to falter as he moved past Dorian. He froze mid-stride, smile slowly morphing into a grimace as his gaze climbed the length of the Tevinter mage's frame.
"Ooh shit."