AN: Ok, so i know DA2 is not out yet, but the forums have just been too rich with info to let this idea of mine to go unwritten. It is admittedly a huge 'what if' but an idea I can't help but want (Nate was my very favorite new character from Awakening). So without further ado - here's the fic. Enjoy - and as always feel free to provide constructive criticism!

Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Dragon Age idea or franchise (hence the reason I write fanfiction :P)

All of this walking reminds me of the year I spent in Kirkwall."

It's a simple phrase, one that comes to his lips almost without conscious thought. A comment spoken for the sake of talking, to beat back the oppressive silence that had settled around the camp one evening. It receives more attention than Nathaniel expects, more than he wants.

"Kirkwall, the city in the Free Marches?"

From across the fire, the Warden Commander perks up, his blue eyes piercing. As a Cousland it came as no surprise that he had heard of it, every child of nobility had benefited from private tutors. Still, Nate can't help but feel surprised all the same; he himself was never much of a student.

"The very same." A smile comes unbidden to his lips, "It was quite the place to be."

"Yeah?" Beside him, Sigrun looks up from the armor she was attempting to repair, "That's saying something, coming from you. What happened exactly?"

"I ran into someone quite…interesting."

There was fire everywhere, and in every direction that he looked people were running, screaming in fright from some unseen evil that had fallen around the city. Pushing his way through the crowds, moving towards the center of the city, he was suddenly confronted by all manner of nightmarish creatures. Darkpawn, he knew their name though his own experience with them had been minimal. There had been rumors about a Blight going on in Ferelden, but he knew not why such gouls would appear in this city, so far away from where they had gathered en masse.

Withdrawing the bow from his back, Nathaniel fired at the swarming mass that seemed to pulsate with a shared heartbeat. Not, he amended, that he thought such demonic beings had a heart, but there was an unsettling sense that somehow they were acting as one.

Firing several arrows in quick succession, Nathaniel allowed none to pass him alive. There was little hope for the civilians caught in the city center, but he would do what he could for the people here. The minutes seemed to blur together shortly thereafter in a wash of violence that even Nathaniel himself did not fully care for.

And then they are running from him, stumbling over one another in a haste to save themselves. It is not an image he will ever forget, for in that moment he feels almost invincible, proud of his noble heritage and skill in arms.

He realized too late that it is not he who they ran from, but one of their own.

It was the smell that prompted him to turn, but he was too slow, and the blow caught in the shoulder, splintering the delicate bones as he was sent crashing backwards into an abandoned merchant stall. Coughing in the explosion of wood, it is agony to breath but he forces himself to take one more and then another.

Staggering to his feet, he cast aside his broken bow in favor of the short sword at his belt. One of his arms hung uselessly at his side, but there was little he could do, the Ogre stood between him and the still fleeing peasants of Kirkwall.

He was the only defense left, and he would not run.

Groaning, he steeled himself against the pain in his shoulder and chest and tried to ignore the thick rivulets of blood that seeped through his armor. Strange how it took only a few moments to change ones fortunes.

However, before Nathaniel could begin what he believed to be his final battle, a strong hand grasped his upper arm, pulling him backwards as a rough voice ordered him to comply.

"What in the name of the Maker are you doing just standing there? Move!"

A flash of black was all he saw before something tackled the Ogre, forcing it back several paces. Great silvery arcs seem to fill the air as the creature howled in fury and pain, all the while combatting a figure that even Nathaniel could not clearly see.

Their skill was apparent, the whirling exchange of sword and steel the mark of a master. Never before had the Howe seen such control, and as the figure continued to dance around the Ogre, it became increasingly clear just how one-sided the fight was going to be.

Someone beside him sighed in annoyance.

"I had wondered what the commotion was all about."

Nathaniel looked beside him to find the young woman who had just spoken, her hands clasped around the traditional staff of one who was trained in the magical arts. Despite her gentle countenance he couldn't help but feel a chill pass through him, magic had always made him uncomfortable. That the woman beside him was clearly not of the Circle of Magi seemed only to make him more on edge.

"Are you alright?" Dark eyes looked up at him, assessing for a moment before turning back to the fighting with a sigh, "No, of course you're not. I'm being foolish again. Maker, I should just keep my mouth shut."

Lips quirking into a small smile despite his initial edge, Nathaniel nodded towards the figure that was finishing off the Ogre. Impossible to see in the dark of the evening, it was only when the combat had stopped that it became clear the mysterious warrior bore no injury.

"Your brother is remarkably skilled."

"Brother?" The woman seemed surprised for a moment before her expression turned into one of amusement, "Ah, you are mistaken, ser. The warrior there is my sister."

Head jerking in surprise, Nathaniel looked up in time to meet the steel eyed expression of the woman warrior. Lips pressed in a distasteful grimace, the nameless woman wiped the blood from her cheek before turning to look at her sister.

But there was something between them, a bond perhaps, that lingered and Nathaniel was unable to leave her side despite his own insignificant presence in their conversation.

"Remind me again why you couldn't help out with the Ogre."

Her voice was rough, almost masculine as she spoke to her sister. But the accent was familiar, and Nathaniel recognized it as one of Fereleden origin.

The younger woman, the mage, sighed, "I was running low on lyrium; you know…that addictive substance I need to actually perform magic."

Pale eyes caught his own and held, assessing what they saw. Fathomlessly deep, Nathaniel couldn't shake the sense that he was looking into the abyss, as if her gaze alone could strip him down to all but his most basic components.

"You could have spared a little to help him, Bethany."

The mage, Bethany, shrugged, "And what if you had needed it instead? I only have enough for one minor healing spell."

There seemed no helping the bickering between sisters, and Nathaniel knew well enough to remain silent when siblings went at it. Even now he could remember the way his brother Thomas had fought with him leaving their poor sister Delilah stuck in the middle. Thinking of them now left him surprisingly nostalgic.

"Well I suppose we can bring him along?"

Nathaniel returned to the present just as the sisters were once more choosing him as their topic of discussion.

"Suppose?" The warrior snorted softly, "Did you look at his shoulder? I didn't realize it was an option to just leave him like that."

"You know what I mean, Marian." Bethany turned to look around the abandoned square, before focusing on Nathaniel and raising her hand, casting a healing spell that washed his arm in pale blue light. Cool washed over the burning but didn't entirely remove the stinging pain that came with all the broken bones.

"Come on, we have to get going."

Turning to go, the two women had almost disappeared around the corner before Nathaniel had the wherewithal to call out to them, breaking the silence he had kept for so long.

It was the warrior, Marian who stopped to look at him, her pale eyes dark the longer she stared. A bond, it lay there between them, fledging and new thought it was, it compelled them towards one another for reasons almost entirely outside their comprehending. But it had to be acted upon, and so the offer was made. The barest flick of her hand, the most noncommittal shrug, but the words were spoken, impossible to take back.

"Aren't you coming along?"

Nathaniel didn't respond, merely drew up beside her in silent acceptance.

"Well then," the smile on her lips was fleeting, replaced almost immediately by her now familiar somber expression, "Let's go, we have things to do."

"Ooh, a female warrior, huh?" From his sprawled place by the fire, Oghren seems to somehow (magically) sober up enough to give Nathaniel a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. "Bet she was a looker, all curvy and soft with an ample-"

Irritated, the dark haired Howe cuts him off, "She was a soldier, built to fight and kill."

"Doesn't mean she wasn't hot. Sometimes it's the ones that are deadly that are the most attractive" The dwarf shoots back, grinning lasciviously as he notes Nathaniel's less than skillful sidestep of the question.

"Take my ex-wife Branka for example…"

But Nathaniel is already lost in another memory, and he only barely hears as the dwarf rambles on.

Nathaniel had been living with the sisters for several months, helping when they asked, doing as they did to repay the debt he owed them. They had come to know one another, he and the two sisters. Bethany was the younger of the two and for the most part acted as such, more carefree and vivacious despite their sometimes grim circumstances. Pretty and very feminine, with a generously curving figure she was everything Nathaniel knew he should find attractive. And yet, the young mage had become more a sister to him, reminding him of Delilah the more he learned about her.

It was for this reason that he often found himself running errands in her stead. This evening was no different, and Nathaniel returned to their small abode just as pelting Kirkwall rain threatened to turn into a storm, not an altogether foreign occurrence for this time of year.

Pulling the oiled cloak from his shoulders Nathaniel entered the main hall with little ceremony, tossing it on a nearby chair, heedless of its antique beauty. The house they lived in was filled with old, often priceless artifacts, a detail that was often lost on its current inhabitants.

"Marian?"

Nathaniel walked through the main hall to find her leaning against the wall, her shoulders tense. Strange, but Nathaniel couldn't remember a time when he had seen the warrior without her armor.

Had she always been so slight a figure?

Clothed as she was now in a simple grey tunic and leggings, she appealed to him at a level he had never considered before, had refused to consider since their meeting several months earlier. And it had worked, until now.

He cursed under his breath.

"Nathaniel."

It wasn't a question, but neither was it the order he had come to expect from her. Unhurried and even, despite the tension in her body, Marian sounded just as she always did, Master of the Battlefield. For a moment Nathaniel allowed himself to believe everything was ok, that it didn't feel like the ground was shifting beneath his feet.

And that was when she turned around, changing everything that lay between them forever.

Pale eyes so usually filled with fury were glassy with emotions much more desperate Staggering as he read the pain on her face, Nate could barely recognize her, and as he raised a hand in greeting he half expected to be told that the real Marian was somewhere else.

"What's happened?"

She struggled to look nonchalant, failing miserable as her face appeared too pale and drawn in the dim candlelight. "Bethany got into a bit of trouble."

Her hands were clenched at her side, bellying the grave understatement that accompanied her words.

"Marian?"

Unable to stand it, she turned from him, short hair fluttering softly against her neck. But she was shaking, and even with the boyish cut of her hair Nate can't help but see her as soft and feminine. Not that he would ever tell her. Still, he couldn't stop his hands from coming to the tops of her shoulder, easing them with his warmth. She'd thrown him for a loop, and the revelation that Kirkwall's up and coming hero was actually human was a most humbling and unexpected discovery.

"Marian."

He pulled against her gently, and found the resistance he had come to expect from her. She had always been a stubborn woman, but this time there was nothing she could say to move him. And when at last he drew her to him, he knew that no matter the future he would not be able to so quickly give up the woman he had coaxed from her shell.

"Hey, Nate…you still there?"

Looking up, the archer's head clears of the memories, reminding him once more of his place by the fireside. But even though he remembers where he is, nothing can quite help him shake the sense of loss that settles so heavily around him. Beside him, Sigrun smiles knowingly and winks, setting down her armor so that she can give him a good jab in the side.

"You're not telling us something."

But he says nothing, knowing that there are some memories best left private. And though he laughs as he pretends to forget her, he knows there is no removing her image in her mind.

Her pale eyes and mocking smirk, her soft lips and tender touch, he remembers the last time he had seen her, sleeping beside him. She had said nothing to him when he had told her of his need to return home, but there had been little need for words between them then.

"You seem quite taken by that woman, Nathaniel." Their Commander watches him with the eyes of a man who knows, has experienced, the sort of depth that few can match. "This warrior woman, just who is she?"

A goddess of the hunt, a beacon for the people of Kirkwall, the one woman who had made him surrender to something greater than them both. She hadn't said anything as they had walked towards the port; content to merely keep him company. But when he had turned to say goodbye, he was confronted instead by a gift he had never expected.

She smirked at him, eyes dancing, as she pressed it into his palm.

"Don't take too long, Nate. I won't wait forever."

He touches the ring beneath the fabric of his tunic and can't help but smile.

No, he won't take much longer. And when this is over he'll return to her.

"Nathaniel, what was her name?"

In the dim light of the campfire it is as if she is there, sitting beside him, the distance no longer an issue. Silent and observant, he catches the smirk on her lips and the glimmer in her pale eyes. And though he knows it nothing more than a figment of his imagination, it is only when he feels the warmth of her hand in his own that he finally manages to answer his waiting companions.

"Hawke, they call her Hawke."

And though they don't know it yet, she will change their world forever.