Chapter one
Hawke

Why, oh why did his little brother have to be a warden? Why couldn't he have been a mercenary, or a trader, or even Maker forbid, a damned Templar. No, he guessed a Templar probably would have been just as bad. Maker bless Aveline for getting Carver away from that mess.

Garret Hawke sighed, wincing as he rolled over in the double bed the inn had so graciously comped him. There were times when he hated being the Champion of Kirkwall, but when it got him free drinks and a warm bed for the night, he'd smile and sign any book they thrust at him. Especially since hero-ing didn't pay all that well, and the Amell fortune; his fortune had been frozen because surprise, surprise he was an apostate.

He thought of the mess at Weisshaupt and hoped beyond hope that the Hero of Fereldon was up for the challenge, or even that she got there in time. He knew he should have stayed, he was the bearer of bad news, but people were yelling, baby griffons were crying, and he'd honestly just stepped from the fade days before. No, he didn't need excuses. They could do this without him, it was time he returned home.

He glanced at his staff leaning against the wall across the room. He didn't strictly need it use his magic, but after everything that just went down maybe leaving it that far out of reach was unwise. He should really get it. But even as the thought formed the ache that was his entire body protested the idea. "I wonder." He held out his hand to the staff but the second his mana boiled up he laughed at his own foolishness. "Maker's balls." He dropped his hand when he remembered he'd already tried that before. The memory made him laugh deep in his throat.

"Wine mage, make yourself useful." Hawke glanced over his shoulder, as a gauntleted hand brushed at a stray lock of his black hair that had fallen over his forehead. The cold sharp points made him shiver. Garret looked toward the stairs that lead down to the basement. Maker, it was so far, and he was so comfortable.

"What? You think I can conjure wine like it was lightning? If I could do that Fenris, I'd spend a lot less time sober."

"Figures magic couldn't be used for something useful."

Hawke glanced up seeing the bottle Fenris had opened before he arrived. Fenris had apparently already enjoyed it, but there had to be some left right? "Wait! I have an idea." Hawke hoisted himself up onto his elbow and held out his hand. Pulling forth his mana, he concentrated on the bottle, willing it to come to him. The bottle rattled on the spot. Fenris arched a dark brow and Hawke channelled more mana into his will. This was going to work, this was….. The bottle exploded, red wine raining down over the pair. Fenris turned his emerald gaze back to Hawke. Hawke gave him a sheepish smile. "Oops." What Fenris did next surprised him, and filled him with glee all at once. He laughed, his deep chuckle quiet and raspy, like he wasn't used to the sensation.

"Festis bei umo canavarum, Hawke," Fenris mutters with a shake of his head. Hawke allowed himself to chuckle as Fenris dragged himself up off the ground to go retrieve more wine. 'You will be the death of me, Hawke.' Hawke sincerely hoped not.

He missed Fenris. It had of course been his own choice to leave, but that hadn't made it any easier. Yet it had to be done. Fenris would have gotten himself killed for Hawke, and he sure wasn't about to let him. He could have however handled it better than he had. A folded letter on the pillow where Fenris was supposed to wake and find his lover. He could almost imagine Fenris's dark eyebrows pulling down into a sharp V, white hair falling forward to shield green eyes, as he read the carefully worded letter. He imagined his frustration at the fact that Hawke would leave him a note even when he knew that Fenris wasn't the world's most confident reader. The glow of his lyrium scars lighting the small room that had been theirs, as he scrunched up the letter in a fit of rage. Only to smooth it back out the second he realised what he'd done so he could read it again.

His anger would only be shadowed by that of Carver, who would have no doubt insisted on coming even though he was on the run from the very order Hawke had set off to help. He almost felt a little sorry for Aveline and her husband Donnic, having to deal with his moody men. Hawke was more than convinced that it was his charm alone that stopped them all from killing one another some days.

Varric had been his saving grace while he was on the run, Hawke couldn't contact Aveline or his brother for fear Fenris would use it to track him. He would contact Fenris, but he figured that might only be fuel for the fire. What would he say anyways?

My dearest Fenris,

I'm sorry for leaving in the middle of the night like you were some drunken one night stand. It was nothing personal, and I do love you so very much, but I honestly thought I was going to die and we'd never have to have this conversation. Oh did I mention that I was a coward, you probably already guess that. Anywho, if I happen to hear that you have been with anyone in my absence, I might actually have to turn them into a frog. Just saying.

Truly sorry.

Your lover,

Garret Hawke.

No, that would not have been a good idea at all. Makers breath could he take anything seriously? Still, he owed Varric more than a few drinks for passing the letters he did write along. He'd used his contacts, the kind Hawke was pretty sure he didn't want to know about, to send the letters on a bit of a journey before they reached their targets. He knew Fenris would find out about Skyhold, and he also knew it was only a matter of time before he came storming through their gate. He pitied the inquisitor, and Varric, who would have the immense task of talking him down. Maybe Hawke should return to Skyhold as well, because if anyone deserved Fenris's anger it was him. He was well equipped to deal with it. After all, if anybody else kissed him just to get him to shut up, he might rip out their heart on reflex.

Hawke rolled over again, his armour was very uncomfortable, but like fetching his staff, taking it off required so much effort. He was all out of effort to give at the moment, but it needed to be done. He sighed as he sat up, working the straps and buckles that held it in place. His under armour was little more than a linen shirt and light leather breeches. He got to his feet and tossed a fireball into the fireplace, the warm glow filling the room immediately. As he streached, he mulled his next course of action over in his mind, seeing there was really only one it didn't take all that long. To Skyhold, after all there was still that little Corypheus matter to attend to. surly they could use his help.

In a somewhat limping shamble, he made it to the door and looked to his staff. He grabbed it and summoned the last of his Mana to cast a quick healing spell over himself. It wasn't a magnificent one. After all he was better at hurting things, but it did the trick. He straightened and rolled his shoulders turning to lean the staff against the wall again. "I think I need a drink." His staff didn't object, in fact, it didn't respond at all. Thank the maker it hadn't, maybe they'd continue the conversation after he had a bit more to drink.

"Champion! Champion have you heard?" Hawke blinked open his eyes to the sound of some mad man screaming at him at this ungodly hour. He lifted his head and wiped his mouth. His head felt like it was going to fall off of his shoulders. He blinked a few times at the overly bright room. Where was he exactly? His world spun slightly and he almost fell off of his… stool. Oh, he was still at the bar, right. He scrubbed at his eyes and looked around. There were maybe two other people who seemed to have passed out around him, so it was a little less shameful. What happened last night, did someone drug him? He recalled laughing, a man, old, burly. "Champion of Kirkwall, I'm from Kirkwall! We never met, but I was there, saw it all. You, my friend, are a hero, tonight you drink for free. Hawke, drinks are on me."

Oh right, so that's what happened. He never could turn down a drink someone brought him, he always felt rude. A voice brought him back to the present and he tried to focus on the… Inquisition soldier standing in front of him, huh?

"What can I do for you, my good man?" By the Maker was his voice always so loud and annoying. He should really try to work on that. The boy that stood in front of him was bright eyed and had to be half his age. Lean, unassuming, a spy, or maybe a scout.

"I was told you were in town Serah. I thought I'd share the good news. The elder one is dead, and the hole in the sky is closed, the Inquisitor did it, she actually did it!"

Hawke tried to smile, but the boy's voice hurt far too much. He was sure the look on his face resembled what a smile should look like. "Excellent! Fantastic, we should celebrate!" the thought made his stomach lurch. "You should celebrate, my treat, I'm just going to celebrate here, like this." He let his head fall to the bar and closed his eyes. Yes, he liked celebrating. There was a firm tap on his shoulder and the spy/scout laughed and stomped off. Well, Hawke assumed he stomped because every step made his brain thump. "Tell the barman the Champion sent you, they'll hook you up." Hawke sighed as the door swung closed. Well, what was he going to do now?