A/N: Sorry for space between updates. Vacation month, work, and the novel I'm writing have all been conspiring to chew on my brain.
I'm gonna do this with each chapter showing Hawke's relationship with each companion through the views of Hawke and that companion. Hopefully this will move the Fenris romance forward while at the same time developing a Hawke who is more of a real person than a legend.
warnings: language, Varric as an unreliable narrator, non-canon-ish, lovable Carver, violence, Deep Roads claustrophobia, demonic influences, crazy Hawke
Hawke snarls and struggles to remove her staff's blade from its secure wedge between the shoulders of a dragonling as the last one falls dead. All of her heaving makes a squirt of blood shoot out to cover her robes and face, and the tiny beast utters a death-gurgle. Her curses increase in volume as Varric pokes through the corpses in search of dragon treasure. But the blade won't budge in spite of her best efforts. She considers using her vast array of telekinetics to yank it free, but she's not sure if she'll bend the blade or not without a visual cue.
"Oy," shouts Carver from across the cave, "I need a bandage. One of those little shits of a dragon bit my arm." She ignores him in favor of the staff.
A hand closes around the shaft of her weapon and Hawke startles backward. She forgot Fenris was with them, as he spent most of the battle behind her, chopping the tiny beasts into pieces before they could sneak up on her vulnerable back. His green eyes meet hers for a moment and, without a word, he yanks the blade out unharmed with only a wet squelching noise. When she takes it, speechless, she keeps her hand well away from his and his gaze intensifies for a fraction of a second. The notes of the lyrium song call to her and she jerks away before their hands can accidentally make contact. For a moment, as she continues to gape at him, he looks sad.
"Are you two honestly making eyes at one another over a dead dragon?" Carver yells. Hawke glances over him, aware of a hot surge of fury sweeping through her, as her brother gestures toward a thoroughly bitten forearm. "I'm injured, here."
Fenris scoops up the pack and saunters toward Carver, tossing it at the other swordsman's feet. She stares, startled, and watches as green eyes flash through white bangs at her. Then he moves with that liquid lyrium grace to help Varric and the song fades until it is little more than a hum.
For months she's hovered near that song, listening and never daring to reach for it. She tells herself it is because Fenris is too damaged, that such a gesture would terrify him beyond reason and be needlessly dangerous considering his temper. But whenever he looks at her across the table of the Hanged Man or as they traipse about the city gathering money running errands for fools, she's aware that he feels the same thing. The same urge to reach for the strange harmony only the two of them could produce, the urge to seek out the mutual safety of one another's power. It's in their blood.
Carver glowers at her as she approaches to tie off his bandage. "Took bloody long enough," he mutters sourly, extending his arm and the shoddily-wrapped bandage.
Withholding a sigh, Hawke sets to work correcting his abhorrent bandaging skills. "My staff got stuck, Carver," she answers, tucking the ends under neatly once the gauze is tight enough. "What did you expect me to do, leave it behind?" Her voice rasps and her eyes flash as she looks up at him, preparing to whirl away.
He catches her arm in one of his large, meaty hands. "Marian," he says, and she almost corrects him before remembering that they're still siblings. His voice lowers to a whisper, concern painting his boyish features. "Don't rush into it with the elf. Not now." Before she can protest he tightens his grip a second and gives her a solid shake. "You've barely slept since Lothering. You're no more ready for a relationship than I am to be a father."
She snorts and raises a brow. "Something you're not telling me, Carver?" she says, mimicking her father's quick wit. Often she is too preoccupied to consider her words, and keeps her conversation efficient and effective. Social skills are hard to develop when one must hide who they are at all times.
"Seriously," he shakes her arm again and his tone and eyes underscore his concern. "Mother's getting old. If you have another incident like Denerim-"
Hawke shoves her brother away, cutting him off before he can finish. "This isn't Denerim," she snaps, feeling a faint breeze of telekinetic currents dancing through her hair. Hard eyes narrow on his face, until her whole world revolves around hurting her brother. The words lash across the space between them. "And you're not Father."
"Void take you," Carver hisses, walking away. "I wish Bethany were here."
The audible mutter intended to cut her to the quick does its job and Hawke feels her stomach drop and her knees weaken in the face of his fury. For so long in Kirkwall, despite his assurances that he blames the Darkspawn, she's been certain that he blames her for his twin's death. The Carver-shaped demons of her dreams are not just shades, she thinks. Right?
Her nightmares grow worse, the hissing of demons filling her months. The sneering faces of her friends and family, the whispers of guilt and shame and the promises of power and love and vengeance. She's terrified. What if she's too weak to resist?
With his sword a comfortable weight on his back, Carver Hawke enters the Hanged Man with a confident swagger. He marches up the stairs and into the dwarf's suite, plopping down at the table in front of Varric and his mountain of paperwork.
"Junior," says Varric, setting down his quill and folding his hands patiently. "What can I do for you?"
"Stop writing about her," Carver says. He folds his arms. "This isn't about jealousy or rivalry or any of that bullshit. There are things you don't fully understand and it's none of your bloody business. So keep your nose out of it."
Intrigued, the dwarf raises a brow. "Family business, then?" he says, his thumbs twitching together in an effort to contain his eagerness. He seems oblivious to Carver's steadily increasing glare. Instead, he pulls a notebook out of his desk drawer and thumbs through it, pulling out his quill to make a notation. "I like the jealousy angle. I'll go with that."
"I don't think you understand," he seethes, standing up to tower over the shorter man. "I want you to stop writing about my sister. She's not- she's not like that." Helpless, he gestures toward Varric's pages. "I don't care what you say about me. But she's my sister. I've been protecting her since I was born."
Varric's eyes glitter with curiosity and he lowers his quill. "Have you read the stories?" he asks, brows raised. "Have you seen what sorts of things I've been writing?"
Carver nods, irritated. "They're completely made-up. And she's at our blighted uncle's house weeping into her pillow because she thinks that you don't like her and you're making up a proper hero because she's not the right sort." His eyes narrow further, turning to slits. "She's still a person, Varric." He thinks of all the times his sister has misinterpreted something and overreacted violently, how dangerous she's become in the years since learning to kill comfortably, with an easy mastery of magic. Only he knows what the price of all that is, stuck sharing the lower of their bunks in the hovel. Night after night, he falls asleep to the sound of her thrashing nightmares, waking up to realize she's left the room and peering through the door to make sure she's just pacing around the common room instead of snarling and setting the house on fire.
"I realize this, Carver," the dwarf says at last. He gestures to the recently-vacated seat. "I didn't mean for her to feel hurt by the stories. I'm creative. It's all helping to get her more work and more recognition, and if your name is recognizable and carries weight, then the Viscount will be more willing to help you get back your mother's old estate. Has Hawke ever considered that?" He spreads thick hands apart and shrugs. "Anyway, she has done a lot of great things. Her reputation is well-earned." Varric punctuates this last statement with a wink. "If mildly embellished."
"Maker, I hate you, dwarf," Carver mutters, sinking back into the chair and pinching the bridge of his nose.
The dwarf gives him a sympathetic smirk and motions a wench into the room. "Drinks?" he asks amicably.
"Of course."
Hawke looks her brother in the eye and refuses to bring him with her to the Deep Roads. She winces as he storms off, her heart pounding as she turns toward the members of the expedition. That moment of him storming away haunts her sleep. She offers to take night watches, staring up at the seething ceiling. Here in the dark the hiss worsens and she feels her muscles tighten with every whisper and murmur, every vision and hallucination.
Then Bartrand shuts the door and locks them in. She beats her fists against the stone and hurls lightning and fire and nothing helps. Fenris drags her away from the door, and she sees Aveline on one knee, holding Varric's shoulders in tight metal gloves and murmuring to him. Hawke can't hear the words over the howls and moans of the Fade rattling through her skull.
"Breathe," Fenris says, his voice deep and somber, his green eyes fixed on hers as he grips her shoulders and holds her at arm's length. "Just breathe, Hawke."
Gulping down oxygen, she blinks tears out of her eyes and nods. Shaking, she droops forward, her knees collapsing in on themselves. He keeps her upright, catching her weight against his chest with a grunt. She feels his head turn against her hair and after a moment one metal hand claps a few awkward pats against her back. A hush falls, the demon-whispers ceasing and the ringing quiet relaxes her. Hawke manages to collect her thoughts, now silent, and gets back on her feet. After a moment, Fenris leans back, pulling their chests apart.
"I think I saw a door behind the altar," Varric says into the silence. "We should at least check it out."
Relief. Relief, for a few minutes, when they find the door. And then monsters. Hawke kills and burns and slashes shades with her staff's blade until they find a chamber that might be suitable for camping. Fenris and Aveline move to scout the chamber while she and Varric remain on the top of the stairs. They kill a few shades and camp near the bottom, in a corner where they can see both exits. But she can hear whispering in the distance, growing closer as they near the bottom of the stairs, near the door there.
"It smells here," Fenris murmurs, his ears pricking forward as he stares toward the door they have yet to enter. Hawke glances at him and her stomach rolls in time to the hissing. His eyes catch hers as he turns back to the fire. After a bit of shuffling they arrange themselves so no one has their back to an exit. "We should not take chances," Fenris says by way of insistence.
"Maybe we should double up the watches," Aveline suggests. "I know there's only four of us, but that means half a night's sleep for each pair and two sets of eyes instead of one."
The four of them exchange glances and nod. Fenris and Hawke, Aveline and Varric. No one knows what time it is, but they all need to rest. She and Fenris go first while their companions layer up the bedrolls in pairs and doze off. Soon snores rise from the dwarf and warm their alcove, warding off the murmuring spirits. Fenris shifts up against a rock, watching the door out of the chamber, and she settles against the opposite one with her arms folded against the chill.
"We are still alive, Hawke," Fenris murmurs over Varric's snoring.
Startled, she looks up at him. "I know," she says, blinking. Repressing a shiver she asks, "What do you mean by that?"
He looks at her with those strange green eyes, so large and elven and beautiful. Then he shrugs, as if to negate his words even as he speaks them. "You are stronger than you think," he says. "Mage or not."
"You are a strange man," she whispers, meeting his gaze. The green pulls her in more than the melody of his lyrium skin. "But I... I want to tell you," she says, "I want to- I want- need, hunger-" she gasps and chokes, clawing at her throat. "Oh, Maker, the hunger," she says, jerking away from the stone at her back. Her eyes meet his across the dark and she sees the question there for a second and says, "I can feel their hunger, Fenris."
Fenris stares at her a moment and then past her, eyes narrowing. His tattoos light up and she whirls around to see strange stone monsters, creatures whose hunger feels like ticking in her stomach and ears and throat and eyes. Varric and Aveline fumble awake, and Hawke drops back alongside Varric as the warriors surge forward.
Their magic is powerful and ancient and the hunger keeps ticking like a clock. Trembles and twitches and that incessant clicking noise in her ears and it sounds like rocks and beetles and glass and hooves at once. Hawke screams and lets bolts of spirit energy rocket against the monsters and the ticking dies out one at a time until she can only hear the distant noise of it leading her on.
"Get your things," she whispers, staring into the lyrium light of the cave beyond. "I can hear them."
The others glance at each other and then at her, but no one speaks as they follow her into the cave. The hunger chitters and clicks and she grips them in the telekinetic clutches of her mind to throw the rocky creatures against the ground in pieces. Varric and Bianca shoot true, landing bolts in the red glowing spaces between stones, while Fenris and Aveline batter them to pieces with swords and shield. Monsters, horrible monsters feeding on the lyrium and corrupting it in their bellies. The hunger gnaws through her and she stumbles onward, flinging spells at the creatures. Each time she silences one chattering hungry hole, more spring up from each direction. Dizzy, she whirls her focus from one creature to the next, the purple-black hiss of spirit magic and the crushing snaps of arcane spells swirling around her.
"Stop," cries a voice, a clicking, rumbling noise of massive stones shifting slowly together. Hawke whirls, her mouth falling open and her stomach falling as she recognizes the demon. "I would not see these creatures harmed."
Varric and Aveline exchange nervous glances, while Fenris grips his sword warily, watching her and the monster at the same time.
Hawke shakes her head slightly, her mouth gaping apart. "You're feeding on their hunger," she whispers, horrified. A surge of pity wells for the twisted, chittering rock-creatures threaded throughout the cavern. She can feel their hunger, their need and desperation, the lyrium they consume driving them mad over the course of hours and days and centuries.
"I can help you to leave this place," the demon offers, and she hears a hiss of power in it. Whispers and clicks and murmurs and chatter. Promises and fears and desires, contorting in waves of light and sound that ripple through her very bones.
She grips her staff and flings a thick stream of crackling spirit energy at the demon. Within moments the clatter of those profane lyrium-eaters surrounds her and she spins her staff in a frenzy. When they fling spells she reaches for the Fade and wrenches them out, severing their connection for the single second that it takes for either Varric or Fenris to destroy them. Aveline stands surrounded, with Fenris carving a path to her side. Arrows hail down from Bianca, thick enough to dim the lyrium light of the cave. Hawke focuses her energies on defeating the demon, paralyzing it with crushing force and ripping at it with snapping bombs of power.
At last, winded, they stand alone in the cavern. The clicking ceases and Hawke sinks to the ground on her knees, wrapping her arms around her stomach and rocking forward. Her companions gather around her an instant later, checking her for injuries and murmuring concerns. At last Fenris scoops her off the rocky floor and carries her to a darkened corner where their group makes a second camp.
"We can take first watch this time, Hawke," Varric assures her. He pats her hand as Fenris sets her onto a bedroll. "Get some rest. If that thing was telling the truth, we're close to being out of here."
Fenris shifts his bedroll so that his body is between hers and the open area that Varric and Aveline will watch. She catches a flash of his green eyes through white hair as he turns to remove the metal pieces of his armor, but he keeps his leather jerkin and pants on as he slides into the bedding. For a moment he lies on his back, head turned to stare across the floor at her. Then he rolls to his side to face the same way as their companions on watch.
As Hawke drifts to sleep, she thinks of Varric's words and the answer she withheld. Of course the demon was telling the truth. Demons prefer to tell the truth. It makes their hunt more entertaining.
"I'm sorry, Mother," Carver says, the metal plates of his uniform shifting over his arms as he holds his mother's slender shoulders upright. She keeps weeping and weeping as though he's actually turned his sister in. "But this is the best way to protect her."
"How could you?" Leandra wails, sobbing against the insignia on his chest. He's certain she'll rust his armor before he even gets to the Gallows for his first day of training. "How could you betray your family like this?"
She's hysterical and Carver bites back a sigh. He wishes he could convince her to calm down, that he could explain his reasoning to her, but she refuses to listen. Part of him is glad Marian and her friends haven't returned from the Deep Roads yet, because then he would have two hysterical women sobbing on him and accusing him of betrayal and hostility, of plotting against their family. But another part is terrified because she isn't back and she ought to be. He's seen the rosters of supplies, spent countless hours helping Varric and Marian go over the numbers together in the flickering oil smoke of the dwarf's suite. Unless the mission had a number of casualties, there is simply no way the supplies would last this long, and he fears the worst.
"Mother, please, listen to me," he begs, stroking Leandra's gray hair. "I have to do this. I'll know every raid, every suspected apostate ahead of time. I'll be able to warn you if the Templars are coming for Marian and I'll be able to mislead them if need be. I'll learn how to withstand magical attacks and even drain a mage's mana. If things ever went bad... it could mean the difference between whether or not she becomes an abomination. If I can cut her out of the Fade before a demon takes root..." He shudders, refusing to remember his father's last moments.
The door bangs open and Leandra whirls to face it. Marian stands there, her gaunt figure framed in greasy light from the Lowtown sun. She looks underfed and overtired, but her eyes fall on Carver and her pale face turns grey green.
"Carver," she whispers, "How could you do this?"
He closes his eyes. She'll never understand. No amount of apology or explanation can ever make this right in either his sister or his mother's eyes. Bethany might understand, might even encourage him. Maker knows they whispered about it once, tossing the idea around. It was their plan to stay safe in Lothering, to allow their parents to grow old there, not having to run from place to place when the Templars got wind of them. But then the Blight came and his twin died and now he doesn't have the gentle understanding she always gave, the solemn capacity for reasoning.
"Marian," he begins, "I know how bad the nightmares were before the Deep Roads..."
Next up: Aveline and Hawke POVs as our trusty Guard Captain helps the Hawkes wrangle back their Hightown Estate. I always felt like that scene where Aveline comes to visit at the start of Act 2 indicated that she played some role in helping secure the Amell estate.