Garrett Hawke, the proud descendant of Houses Hawke and Amell, the infamous ex-Champion of Kirkwall and one of the most powerful force mages in the Free Marches, stumbled down the stairs of the rundown inn at Estwatch harbour and collapsed at an empty table. It was not very clean, but Hawke was beyond noticing. Taking a few breaths he called for ale.

Maker, what a mess. What an unprecedented, unholy, unpredictable mess he was in.

Considering this whole week, Hawke was not in the happiest of places right now. The explosion of the Chantry, killing Anders, killing Orsino… Fighting crazy Meredith with her crazy bronze statues, and then being shown the door, so to speak, of the city he had saved from the Qunari and poisons, and assassins, and blood mages, and what not. All his operations were based out of Kirkwall, large sums were invested there. And he had actually made a home there, a messy, shadowy home all for himself and a couple of servants, and all that was gone now.

But looking back, getting kicked out of Kirkwall had still been alright. Stressful and annoying, and he had been raging like a rabid mabari, but he knew he would get over it — after all, his whole life before settling in Lothering had mostly been spent on the road. He would have calmed down and sorted it all out.

On Isabela's ship, the Wavedancer, he had found a small resemblance of peace and finally let Anders' betrayal sink in. It was a fucked up situation, and Hawke could only hope that killing that self-righteous sewer rat and slightly tweaking the whole story would maybe, just maybe result in something the least bit constructive.

But now, to find out that the git had screwed him over not once, but twice, and not only him or Kirkwall, or mages in general, but that his negligence had hurt Isabela, his fickle, thieving, lying pirate queen…

Hawke gulped down half of the mug contents the moment the old lady innkeeper put it on his table. He almost choked on the ale, then wiped the foam in the sleeve of his robes and forced himself to take a deep breath. Usually it helped, but right now it seemed as helpful as spitting on a raging fire.

Of course, the rebel had been wrapped up in his glorious cause — so terribly wrapped up that in the last few weeks he had been virtually nowhere to be found. Of course, who would remember their appointments with shallow sluts when mages are being so severely mistreated?

Well, there she was now, smashing things in their room upstairs and creatively cursing all men in Thedas, apostate mages with knowledge of door locking glyphs in particular.

Hawke slumped on the table and desperately wished for his crate of moonshine bottles left back in Kirkwall. Ale just wouldn't cut it.

Although — nothing would. This was not something he could shrug off or walk away from. His feisty queen of blades was with child.

Blast and damnation. He couldn't think of a worse time or of worse potential parents. That is, if the child was his, which he wasn't sure of. As far as Isabela was concerned, he could never be sure of anything. That was simply the way things were between them and had been since the very beginning — pear-shaped.

It wasn't a relationship one could be proud of. Hawke wasn't. Nevertheless, Isabela was the only person who kept his head above the quicksand of bureaucracy that was Bone Pit ledgers, household accountancy, Merchant Guild meeting minutes dutifully ignored by Varric, Kirkwall politics and the boring duties of a Champion. Isabela was fun and she didn't need any looking after.

The three long years of her self-induced exile had tasted like cardboard.

When she had returned, well… He knew she valued her freedom and had been hurt in the past, and maybe loved the sea more than she loved (?) him, so he decided his feelings were his own business and simply enjoyed whatever she was willing to share with him.

And what must she be thinking now? That he did this intentionally, to tie her down? Was she hoping that he could somehow... solve this problem? He was no healer, but he did know his potions.

Hawke groaned and raised his head off the table. His mug was still half full, but the ale was too bitter.

Pushing back the bench, he stood up and walked out into the gathering darkness of early autumn. He urgently needed to pull himself together. He couldn't afford to continue pondering his sad relationship with the Rivaini, not when his remaining band of misfits would soon be back and definitely not when she was possibly plotting something desperate and stupid.

Hawke walked to the back of the inn where his friends wouldn't notice him and sat down on an overturned bucket behind some red-berried shrub. The backyard smelled nicer than the common room, and an added benefit was that from here he could keep an eye on Isabela's window.

Garrett had never expected to have kids, had never thought about it. He was an apostate, a smuggler and a fighter. For all he knew, he could be dead tomorrow — especially now, with the Kirkwall Chantry bent on vengeance and without the protection of his Champion status. He already was a dead man walking.

And what sort of a mother could Isabela possibly be, when her own had sold her into marriage for a goat? She had no idea what family meant, no patience, no temperance, no roof above her head to call her own. Andraste's knickers, she was a pirate! With a tendency to run off when things got difficult or complicated. How in the Void could either of them care for a child?!

So potion it is, right? They would continue on their merry way, have adventures, make coin and travel the world. Maybe exonerate the name of Hawke, or build an armada of tall ships and make the ocean tremble from shore to shore. It would be the same as in Kirkwall, only without Kirkwall. It could be a jolly good life, so long as it lasted.

Hawke seriously considered the idea. It was the only sensible solution, and Isabela would probably agree. They were not ready for this. Probably, they never would, but that was alright with Hawke. There was no place for a child in their lives. It was too dangerous, and their relationship was… Let's just say that it was held together by very fragile threads.

Alright, so what would he need? Hawke remembered discussing one particular potion with Solivitus once. Hawke sighed and started counting on his fingers. There was a variety of herbs he had listed somewhere in his journal — he could probably cross-check those with Merrill — a deathroot base, a small bit of lyrium… And then Solivitus had mentioned some spell.

Hawke frowned.

Vague images had suddenly started forming in his mind, like words appearing in a book where none had been before. He knew he had never seen that spell, had never performed it, but its torrents of energy were becoming familiar, new sensations were slowly gnawing through him. A pretty clear idea was forming in his head, insinuating itself in his nerves and muscles, soon to become as instinctive as a mind blast.

It felt strange, to learn a spell by simply thinking about it, but soon Hawke was sure that he would be able to cast it at will. That is, if he agreed to a simple little deal and–

Oh, blast and damnation, of course! The Fell Grimoire. Hawke cursed. He might have sworn to never use blood magic, but he had read the book. He had the knowledge, and a standing offer of possession.

Hawke jumped up and started pacing, blasting the damn shrubbery in the process.

He was so totally fucked. They both were.

If there was blood magic involved in that spell, there was no way he was doing it. What's more, there was no way he was letting Isabela find someone else to do it for her, not even Merrill. To rip the Veil as an unborn child dies at your hand… Damn, the stakes were high. The promise of power was intoxicating, it was staggering. No wonder Solivitus said this potion was used only by half-crazed hedge witches. As far as sex magic was concerned, prevention worked so much better than dealing with the consequences.

Hawke cursed again. Damn Anders and his patent methods! If the guy couldn't be relied upon to be around the following year, he could have at least incorporated some warning spell for when the treatment starts to wear off.

So what about non-magic alternatives? Wise women surely must know some solutions apart from falling down the stair or poisoning themselves to the brink of death.

Hawke vaguely remembered a girl in Lothering. She had been an orphan going to get married soon. Then, the young man had died, drowned in the river. After the man's family had kicked the girl out, she had apparently gone to a Chasind witch to remedy her impatience. Mother had said she died three days later. Bled to death.

Looking at Isabela's window, Hawke knew he would never forgive himself if something like that happened to his favourite pirate. To just imagine her dead or dying in a pool of blood, no mischievous flame in her eyes, no warmth in her velvety skin…

So this was it. There was no way out, no solution. They were both in over their heads — two of the least appropriate persons to ever raise a child, with a weird and largely dysfunctional relationship between them, a pirate and an apostate on the run. Hawke gulped.

The Maker definitely had a sick sense of humour.

Isabela's room was silent. Hawke removed the locking glyph, desperately hoping that she was still there. Maybe she had been furious enough to try and escape through the window while he was downstairs. Maybe Merrill had returned from their band's supply purchasing expedition around the town and brought herself straight to Isabela's room with that fancy teleportation trick of hers. Or maybe the pirate was seething there in silence, ready to smash his stupid brains in with a chamber pot.

He cautiously opened the door and peeked inside. "Isabela?"

His dark-haired Rivaini was sitting on the bed, head hung low. She was absent-mindedly playing with the broken chain of a surprisingly informative fertility amulet, and silent tears were running down her brown cheeks. Hawke felt a lump in his throat. He should have taken better care of her, brought Anders back from the Void itself, when she had needed him. His own carelessness had caused this, and now he was going to make her deal with his moral indigestion too.

"I can't do this Hawke," she whispered. "I just can't."

He sat down on the bed and gathered her in his arms. At times like these he was acutely aware how young she was under all her bravado, and how strong she was still.

"We're both in this together, Isabela," he murmured, slowly caressing her back.

"You don't even know if it's yours. I… got carried away some time ago," she sniffed. "I'm not sure when exactly that damn treatment wore off."

Hawke swallowed and glanced away from her.

"I know how you are," he said. "And I'm still behind you."

"You shouldn't be. I should have never returned with that book, and you should have never taken me back after those three years. Would've saved yourself a bunch of trouble."

"I can't afford breaking Merrill's heart, she'll summon something terrible to gut me," Hawke replied with a weak smile. He brushed his fingers through Isabela's thick, dark hair in an attempt to distract her from her self-loathing.

"Look. The way I see it," he continued, "if the kid turns out ginger and/or a mage, then it's mine. Statistically, it should. If not… Well, it's still yours. Same as Merrill came with some mirror obsession, and Varric came with a shitty brother. It doesn't matter, Isabela. Regardless of anything else that we have, we're friends and we're in this together. I know I can get you through this if you let me."

Isabela tore away from him and started pacing the room.

"So you won't get me out of this?"

Hawke hung his head and thought he felt a slight tremor in the Veil even at that one thought from Isabela. The promise of power was dizzying, and this time there was no Anders here to disapprovingly stare in his back. He had to take a steadying breath.

"I will, Seabird. I will," he said. "But not in the way you think. I'm sorry, but I can't do that."

"Well, I can't be a mother!" she shouted. "I just can't! Look at me! Can you see me cuddling with a baby? With a snotty kid at the helm of my ship, or in a pub fight? Worrying about some stomach bug while watching your back, picking locks and negotiating with Coterie? That is not possible! That is not me! I don't want it, and if you won't help me, I'll just find someone who will!"

"Isabela, don't you dare!" Hawke jumped up and advanced on her with a furious glint in his eyes. "I'm not saying this is my sweetest dream come true, but there it is, and we must work with what we have."

"It's a misunderstanding, is what it is!"

"It's a child!" He punched the wall near Isabela's head. "If you're so eager to get rid of it, then leave it with me when it's born, then go on your merry way and drink and fuck your life away! I've seen enough blood magic, I will not allow you to do this!"

"What does a simple potion have to do with- Aargh! You think I will suddenly regret it and years later come back to play family with you? Hawke, this is serious! This will destroy my life! I'm not mother material!"

"Well, this isn't just about you!" Hawke shouted back at her. "You have always done as you will, and I've never asked you anything. But this is where I draw the line, and if you want that spell so badly that you bolt on me again, then you're on your own, Isabela!"

"Again?!" she spat and jabbed a finger in his chest. "I came back! I risked my damned life for you!"

"You BOLTED on me! Forgiven or unforgiven, nothing will ever change that one simple fact! You thought I couldn't handle you, or you thought I couldn't handle Castillon, so you just stole the book and ran!"

"I told you I didn't want–"

"You spit in my face, is what you did! You destroy my trust and leave me in crippling doubt of my own judgment, and then you disappear for weeks! You come back for one day, and then you disappear again, for three fucking YEARS! Now when I wake up in the morning and you're gone, I am half-expecting to never see you again. It's driving me mad, but I can live with it because that's my own problem, and because I know that you can take care of yourself. But this — if you run again, to some seer hag or a Chasind witch; if you blatantly disregard my authority as a mage when I tell you NOT to attempt that spell, then I just don't know what I'm doing here with you anymore..."

Isabela stared at him with an open mouth, while Hawke bit down on his tongue, already regretting every other word he said. It was too much, too strong, too emotional.

The Rivaini had turned away from him and stiffly walked to the window. She hugged herself and just stared at the darkness outside.

"You're better than this," Hawke said. "Whatever's in your past, we can get over it one small step at a time. Right now I'm only asking you for the next seven or so months of your life, if I understood correctly how that amulet works. After that I will not hold you down. We may not be the perfect parents, but somehow we will make it work. So please have some faith in me this time."

"You're holding me down right now," Isabela spat. "Pompous ass. And if you won't explain that blood magic bit, then fine, stuff it."

Hawke sat down on the bed and dropped his head in his hands.

"I'm not saying you're stupid, Seabird. It's just… It's magic. There is a huge potential for power, and you would be handing it over to some unscrupulous wildling or a half-learned hag. The results could be disastrous. And I'm not doing it myself. It's just wrong."

For a moment Isabela looked ready to throw something at him, to object, to fight, to jump through the second-floor window, but then she sagged, as if feeling a trap fall shut behind her. Hawke desperately tried to think of anything else to add to reassure her, but it seemed that he had already said all that there was.

"Fine," Isabela finally said with a defeated sigh. "Be it your way. I'll do it, because you leave me no choice. But after that you better figure out how to take care of the kid, because I won't."

"Thanks." Hawke exhaled and removed the locking glyph from the door.

He didn't think Isabela wanted his company at the moment. Something had just died between them, impaled on the broken shards of the promise he had given her many years ago, the first and the last time they had ever talked about love.

Hawke knew he was right, however. He knew he could live without Isabela — the last few years had been a pretty solid, if not sad and boring proof of that — but he could not have lived with himself if he had let her make any other decision. He just couldn't. So in the end it was his ease of conscience against her freedom of choice. Against any possible future they could have had together, sailing off in the sunset — a sort of happily ever after. Maybe it would have happened in thirty years' time, judging from the progress they had made in the last seven, but still.

Hawke sighed and started to slowly walk down the stairs to the common room, to drink some more of the bitter ale, to put on his trusty mask of the nonchalant smuggler and to wait for his friends. He desperately hoped that someday Isabela would find it in her to forgive him.

Either way, Seabird was right, he had to stop and think what to do after Kirkwall.

He still had his friends and contacts, and he was still the same Garrett Hawke, the sole owner of the Bone Pit mine, the man behind the Coterie's lyrium trade with Tevinter. His schemes would need some adjustments now that he could no longer control them from Kirkwall, but it could be done. Even if he was going to be a father, he'd think of something. Gods, he was going to be a father!

He HAD to think of something.

A/N: I know this is a pretty controversial issue and I'm sorry if by interpreting abortion as blood magic I have hurt any feelings. Let's say this is just Garret's opinion that hopefully makes sense in that particular situation story-wise :/