Author's Note: One year and one day (and one pen-name change) later, we find ourselves at the end of this tale. My sincere apologies for taking so long to finish this conclusion. This chapter was four months in the writing.

To Find Our Rest

Chapter Ten: Worthy of Pride and Pain

Hawke

It took three very long, very lonely days before Hawke worked up the courage to venture beyond Lowtown. Her seclusion had been a bit of a concession on her part, the waving of a white flag before her mother's sighing and her uncle's sullen glaring.

Once, she'd had a bullheaded brother and a sweet-faced sister at her back, reinforcements against such blatant emotional treachery. Now, she stood alone and she was hopelessly outmatched.

Still, it would not do to focus entirely on the negative. Her gear had not been in such good condition since before her ill-fated jaunt into the Deep Roads. The correspondence that had been piling up since her arrival in Kirkwall was neatly taken care of. And to add to the intrigue (and her own personal enjoyment), she had quietly watched her mother's hopes dashed as the days passed without some guilty suitor coming to call. Without so much as a single word, Marian accepted the small victory, and left the rest well enough alone.

Her chosen solitude became a strange sort of blessing, giving her the time with her thoughts she'd desperately needed. Gamlen's hovel wasn't home, not exactly, and her welcome there was a precarious one and always had been, but in no uncertain terms did she feel more at peace there than she did then. She was rested, she was recovering. Lowtown had never felt as safe to her.

Not that a single one of her companions had been content to leave her wallowing there, Maker forbid. Over the course of her confinement, each in turn had come to pay her a visit; Anders and Merrill the first day with well-meant gifts and probing questions, Varric and Aveline the second day with promises of work and ale and tavern stories.

It hadn't truly occurred to her that something was amiss until the night before, when Isabela had stormed in at an ungodly hour. She'd poked Hawke square in the chest, demanding to know what had happened and why she was so damned keen on hiding from it.

It was then that Hawke, after escorting the still raging pirate out the door, got the sneaking suspicion that her friends had finally banded together to fight a common cause, and that cause was her silence – and, were that the case, there was probably a good deal of silver riding on the result.

The only one who kept his distance was Fenris. She knew better than to expect him. The wolf was not one for scratching at doors. He would wait for her to come to him. She owed him her thanks and moreover, an explanation, but that for the moment would keep. Pressing matters, such as they were, had a way of demanding attention.

And so it was that come the morning, Hawke knotted up her hair, put a smile on her face, and told her mother she had an errand to attend. Before Leandra could even open her mouth in reply, Hawke was already walking her sorry hide back out into the sunlight, headed for the Gallows.

The rusted groan of the door closing behind her – and the final scrape as she forced it properly shut with the toe of her boot – had rarely sounded so sweet.

It was a lovely morning, even for Kirkwall. The sun was shining bright and hot, and a stiff wind was carrying the sulphur of the foundries out over the mountains, away from the city and her lungs. She stretched, and skipped down the steps – and made it all of twenty paces before Varric and Isabela descended upon her, up to no good by the look of the smiles they gave her in greeting.

"Hawke, I've missed you," Isabela said. Her arm threaded around Marian's like a clinging vine, who had fortunately – or unfortunately – spent far too much time with the pirate to be fooled by such a sisterly greeting.

"You saw me last night," Hawke said. She tried to free her arm, but Isabela was far more adept at landing a catch than she was at escaping, and the struggle was in vain.

"Yes, about that," Isabela said, and from wherever she conjured her sheepish blush, Marian did not want to know. "You must apologize to your mother for me. Does she always go to bed that early?"

"It was well past midnight, Isabela," Marian said.

"So that's where you went off to?" Varric noted, strolling confidently behind them, a dwarf who had enough of the city in his pocket as to be at ease wherever he went. The chaos of travelling with Hawke always seemed to balance that out nicely. As she glanced over her shoulder, he gave her a grin and a wink. "Hey, Rivaini, what happened to that poor blighted bastard that disappeared with you?"

Hawke looked at Isabela and raised an eyebrow.

"You know I don't kiss and tell," Isabela said, lying through her teeth.

"Please tell me you didn't leave some poor wretch on my doorstep while you shouted at me and offended my mother."

Isabela's rolled her eyes. "I did nothing of the sort – well, I suppose I did do the shouting bit, didn't I? Anyway, the answer is no, I sent him on his merry way long before we reached your district."

Hawke frowned, wondering absently by Isabela's vague allusions if she'd ridden him, robbed him, or duelled him. Judging by the sly, seductive grin on her friend's face, perhaps it was all three.

Isabela's moods and desires were as changeable as the winds. If the pirate had any code of honour, any sense of loyalty, Hawke could never truly discern. In this black and white city of templar and mage, ever and always Isabela was distinctly grey.

"Now, if you don't mind, is there something I can help the two of you with?" Hawke asked, skipping lightly over questionable wet-spots that dotted the pavement here and there. Varric stepped smoothly around them, never missing a beat, and Isabela trudged through them regardless.

"Can't a dwarf enquire after the well-being of his muse?" Varric asked. "Really, Hawke, if you're going to move to Hightown, you're going to have to work on your courtesies."

"Maybe I won't move to Hightown," she said, nonchalant. "Maybe I'll stay below the hill. I do so enjoy being your neighbour."

Varric laughed. "No need for threats, my friend." He lifted his hands before him in mock-pacification. "Now, speaking of Hightown, I've got some business to take care of on your behalf. Will you be joining me? Buyers like to see your pretty face, makes for a better image when I tell them the story of how you attained your ill-gotten gains."

"No, thank you, I'm off to the herbalist," Hawke said, and even the whitest of lies was sour on her tongue. She looked to Isabela. "Will you be joining me?"

"The Gallows? No, thank you," Isabela said. "My, I do so love it when you give me a choice, Hawke. I could get used to this." She was laughing as she walked away, headed for the market.

Varric lingered only a moment longer. "Drinks at the Hanged Man later?"

Hawke smiled. "I wouldn't miss it."

"Says the woman who spent the last three days hiding under her bed," Varric said, and shook his head. "Hardly big damn hero stuff, Hawke."

"I'm sorry, Varric. I will try. Shall I bring you the head of a genlock to make up for it?"

"That's sweet, Hawke, but Norah would have me killed in my sleep if I tried to mount it on the wall," he said, and with one last grin he turned and walked away. She watched after him until she lost sight of his duster in crowd, and her last glimpse was of Bianca's polished stock glinting in the sunlight.

Then, she was alone amidst the crowd of strangers.

Sighing, she tipped her face up to the sky and sun and Chantry spires. Even in the depths of Lowtown, sometimes she would find beauty and light, those strange comforts of home that were always so fleeting with their graces.

It wasn't so very long ago that she'd gotten lost more often than not on these labyrinthine streets, as hopeless as Merrill her first few days in Kirkwall. Now, she'd learned her way, walked each and every byway, climbed every narrow flight of stairs – she'd even set foot in a few of the darker places Lowtown had to offer, the snug, twisted corridors and dead-end alleys that the more law-abiding residents of the district would scarcely be able to find.

She knew that she was not destined to stay in Lowtown – no matter her idle threats to Varric, she would not allow her mother to wallow and rot below the hill while the seat of the Amells was still theirs for the claiming.

But this place, with its stone streets washed of colour and the clinging smell of sulphur, it was a part of her now. In her blood.

She could find her way to the docks with her eyes closed.

Cullen

Cullen had never realized before how little time he had spent looking up at the reaching heights of the Gallows.

There were many things that had escaped his notice, it seemed, a testament to his distraction and his rooted existence. For instance, there was a section of the southwest tower that was weather-damaged and crumbling. A pair of sparrows roosted in the rubble. He saw them often now, brown specks against the stark white stone, the whole of their days spent darting and diving among statues crusted with salt and streaked by grime.

Most of those towers and walkways had been closed off centuries ago, some gates shut so long they had rusted into place. Neither templar nor mage had set foot on those upper floors for time out of mind – though to say only ghosts walked those walls was a lie, one known only to him.

Shadows, too, had ascended those dangerous heights.

Towers were meant to be climbed. Once, he'd done so dutifully and without question. Steep and winding to the high-windowed Harrowing Chamber, where the dust never settled and even the flagstones smelled of lyrium and blood.

In Kirkwall, the Harrowing Chamber was a dungeon, dark and damp, and every stone smelled of the sea.

His mind wondered at such idle curiosities now, where before there had been little but the cause of his calling. Before – well, before, there had been little need to.

Now, his eyes went up. He had never grown accustomed to the boxed-in feeling he got when he stood in the courtyard and stared up at the sky, so vast above him and so painfully blue. It left him dizzy and empty. He'd spent so many years patrolling Kinloch's wide, curving halls, stone above his head and stone beneath his feet. A single spindled tower, ancient and strong, a shadow black and formidable against the lesser darkness of the night.

There had been warmth there, once. Safety. It was the only sense of home he had ever known. He'd come to understand his purpose there, the honour – and the tragedy – of his calling. A prison to some, a sanctuary to others. There had been an undeniable order to the existence of all those who lived within the tower's sturdy walls.

And then – and then the blood had run down the steps as water and the fires scorched the stones, and his world was reduced to the glow of violet light. Agony and torment. His memories spilled like ink, and her, always her, there had always been ink on her fingers. Until –

Until there wasn't anymore, until it was blood and ash and leather, and "hold on, Cullen, hold on, oh Maker's blood, Wynne, help me –"

Madness. Madness and magic and death, a twisted legacy to leave.

It was the end of their tale, there in that tower, the lake but a shadow of a memory, and all those steps leading down into the darkness where his brothers had fallen in haunted rooms, one by one, until he was all that remained.

He'd been spared, saved, and for what?

Broken, confused, and so, so angry, he'd left Kinloch Hold rather than fight alongside his fellows against the Blight. He had not the strength left, nor the will.

At Greagoir's behest, he travelled to Amaranthine, a cold and close-kept city on the sea, where the twilit streets had echoed with the dangerous rumours of the war to the south. A small ship and a swift wind had carried him north to Kirkwall, where a new posting awaited, and a new commander.

Meredith. Better suited, Greagoir had said, to Cullen's ardent convictions.

He missed that old man, sometimes.

A little more than a year had passed since he'd first laid eyes on the Gallows, a pale, daunting silhouette against the craggy harbour cliffs. The city of Kirkwall had loomed high over the sea, the chantry upon its hill a gleaming beacon in the rising sun. The sight had overwhelmed him, stolen his breath. Never in all his days had he felt so insignificant, so small, as he had then.

It was only a single moment, all those dawns ago. The city had brought him many and more memories since that sunrise, few of them pleasant.

To be a templar in Kirkwall was not to stand idle watch over mages at their study, meting out their fate and their justice as divine duty demanded. To be a templar in Kirkwall was to stand against the darkness that was slowly spreading across Thedas.

At least, that was the theory. The three days that had passed since his last nighttime vigil had done much to colour his thinking. As much as it pained him to admit, he had seen with his own eyes how complacent his men had grown, ever assured of their right as supreme protectors of the chantry and sentries of the Circle.

To be a templar in Kirkwall was to be blinded by the brand upon the breastplate, to see naught but the light while things unseen crept about in the shadow that lingered between the day and the night. To be a templar in Kirkwall was to be made the fool.

It was troubling, and the days since his awakening had shown little promise.

Still, there was much he could do. Perhaps his time in Kirkwall would have lasting purpose.

It was to his regret, however, that Cullen's renewed outlook upon his life and calling came to little consequence in the days that followed his unsettling revelations.

He had neither friend nor follower in the order, none that he could take into confidence. There were those he respected, surely, and those he knew respected him in kind.

Yet even during his short time in Kirkwall, he'd learned one invaluable truth: trust was a rare and utterly precious thing, and as he watched Hawke walk across the sunny courtyard toward him, blessedly alone, he realized he'd lived far too long without it.

She'd entered the Gallows through the southern gatehouse, innocuous and ordinary and it was strange how that itself was what caught his attention, as if it were surprising somehow that Marian Hawke would do something so expected as walk through the main gate in the sunlight of a morning when there were walls to be scaled and shadows to be courted.

Cullen knew at a glance that he was her mark, though she stopped to browse the armourer's wares, and even took a moment to stare up at the great bronze raptor guarding the gate, an ally evermore in all her shadowed games.

The sight of her, neck craned in curious contemplation, brought back the vivid memory of her descent by faint moonlight, arrow at the ready upon first sight of him, and their uneasy truce, all in darkness and silence.

When she finally did approach him, it was with a subtle sway to her hips and a conspiratorial crook to the corner of her mouth. "A fine morning, don't you think, Knight-Captain?" she asked, casual, innocent, and pretending for all the world that she had not done what she'd done – and gotten away clean.

"I have scarce seen finer, Serah Hawke," he said, and could not keep the smile from his own face, small allowance though it was. There was a glint in her eye that could be neither denied nor contained. And so catching her game, he said, "It's not often one sees you wandering alone."

"Not often, no, though it happens." She glanced around then, eyes darting from gloomy corners to sunny steps, as if even that slight admittance would bring intrigue and danger down upon her head, she without blade or bolt of her honoured companions to aid and protect her. When she finally turned her gaze back to him, it was with a true and proper smile. "I hope there has been no trouble on my account," she said, her voice kept low.

"I'm certain I don't know what you mean," he said easily, trying his best to look both reassuring and unassuming, but he feared this was not so much his strength as it was hers. Still, even with his own furtive look around, it was easy to see that not a soul in the courtyard paid them any mind at all. It was business as usual, the merchants calling and the mages lingering in the sun, all under the watchful eyes of his men.

And there it was again, and he wondered briefly if she thought on it too, that damning tell, the true vigilance of his men.

"There has been no trouble here, serah," he said again, and smiled despite himself when she let loose a sigh of relief.

"Serah," she said, and chewed her lip a moment in thought. He did his best not to stare, but he was not so versed in grace and stealth as she. "And here I'd thought us past such formalities," she said. "Are we not, Cullen?"

By daylight, his name from her lips was unexpected, and the heat it brought to his cheeks most unwelcome. His brain stumbled for a response, earning him a raised eyebrow and another quirk to the corner of her mouth.

"I have known stranger things these past few days," was all he could manage, and oh, but he loathed his clumsy tongue more with each surpassing word.

Hawke laughed, turning a head or two in their direction, though she herself seemed to heed it little. By the Maker, but she was pretty when she laughed, the weight of burden gone from her shoulders, and the care and worry completely disappeared from her face – even if only for a moment.

"Tell me," she said, her smile lingering, "how fares my sweet sister?"

Cullen watched her a moment, taken aback by the forward manner of her query. In all the months that had passed since he had taken young Bethany Hawke from the Lowtown slums, Hawke had never once asked after her sister when she had found herself face-to-face with the templar who'd done her such a merciful wrong.

And yet –

"Do you see her often, Ser?"

A simple question, asked in hope and darkness and hushed tones, and he too prideful and too cowardly to answer. He had brushed it off, ignored it, ignored her, and would have hurried away if not for her stopping him to give him naught but honesty and gratitude.

What heartlessness it would be to deny her now, when asked so kindly in the bright sunshine.

"Your sister does well," Cullen said, fumbling for truths to sate her desire for them. "Her skill is unsurpassed by her peers, and I hear she shows even greater promise for improvement. The First Enchanter is quite taken with her."

The wrong thing to say. "Taken with her how, precisely?" asked Hawke, her dark eyes narrowing.

"I only meant –" He cleared his throat, cursing his tongue once more. "I only meant that it's rare a mage as adept as your sister joins the Circle at such a young age. She was trained well."

Hawke smiled at him again but it was a weak and haunted thing. "My father trained her. I merely watched over her."

"You and your brother, as I understand it," Cullen said, as gently as was possible. It was not his place, it had never been his place, and before he had met her, it had never crossed his mind to grieve a broken family, or to console those who mourned the fate of a captured apostate. "Now she is ours to train and to watch. It is our – my duty as a templar to take this burden from you."

"I know your duty well enough, Templar," she said, a sudden sharpness to her tongue, and even she seemed surprised by it, for what came next was contrite, and infinitely softer. "Just – just know that she was no burden to me, and I pray to Andraste that you will come to find the same."

"I will remember," he said, nodding his respect while he idly wondered just how often he'd come into her prayers.

She seemed to be content with that, and her smiles came a little easier, and lasted a little longer. As did her curiosity, set free to flutter about, which naturally brought on more questions, but he found he didn't mind as long as she kept smiling as she did.

"You can save the platitudes for your patrons," she said, forgiving. "Tell me truly, Cullen, how is she?"

He exhaled loudly, buying himself time to think. For true, what did he know of Bethany Hawke, but for what the mere sight of her told him, day in and day out. She was quiet, and calm, and apart from all else in the stone fortress. The memory of collecting her came to him, the cloying stench of sulphur on his tongue returned, the resignation in her eyes when her sister barged in the door, weathered and weary and too late to save anyone.

"She is solitary," he said, a careful choice but an honest one all the same. "Yet for all the time she spends alone, she does not seem lonely. I will admit, that she is your sister keeps the others at a distance."

Hawke was not happy at all to hear this. "What do you mean?" she asked in a wary tone that suggested she did not really want to know the answer.

"The rumours of your deeds across the city and beyond reach even the mages here." He gave her an indulgent smile, and found himself enjoying how torn by pride she seemed. "Your sister's arrival caused quite the scandal among the apprentices."

"Much to the frustration of the Knight-Commander, I'd imagine," she said wryly, shaking her head. "I do apologize. It's not my intention to cause a fuss."

"I'm sure it never is," he said lightly, though his sudden courage was lost to him when she returned his teasing with a wink and a cheeky grin. He was all but stammering when he worked up the nerve to say, "I do hope that there are a few tales that will yet go untold."

Her grin slipped away as a flush rose to her cheeks. "I should hope that it will be more than a few, Ser," she said vaguely, and her eyes skipped away, "but you have no cause to worry. I will not give you away, I promise. I would not want to cause you any further trouble."

"No, not trouble," he said, realizing their conversation had come full circle, and so he added, "Perhaps the world could do with a bit of shaking up now and again." He was unable – or unwilling – to control his own impertinence, but her soft, breathy laugh became reward in its own right.

"Be careful, Cullen, or I might kiss you one day," she said, and while he sputtered and blushed, she gave him a respectful bow of her head, one that hinted at a more proper bearing rarely seen in her. "Maker guide your gaze," she said, and with one final slip of a smile, she turned and left the Gallows.

If he'd had a farewell prepared, he could not have spared it for she left him near to speechless. A parting prayer from she whom had left all this doubt and sobering clarity in his mind. It was a stark reminder that an Amell was not to be taken lightly.

Or at all, really, if he knew what was good for him.

Still, even after Hawke had disappeared and the day had moved sluggishly on, Cullen found himself watching the gatehouse, and the great statues that had stood as silent sentinels though the ages. His eyes moved upward, caught by the ripple of a banner in the otherwise still, hot afternoon, perhaps, or by the gleam of the sun on the burnished spikes atop the ramparts.

The walls, formidable. Heights no breathing soul of that fortress had ever walked.

No shadows moved. The light of day had stolen them all away.

Perhaps it was foolishness, or bravery brought on by the strength of sun and stone and the smile of a woman, but for the first time since his arrival in Kirkwall, Cullen did not dread the coming of the night.

Now he knew the shadow that crept along at the edge of the light, and stood vigilant where men of honour and duty did not.

He had seen with his own eyes the bonds of family and friendship that protected where plate and blade could not.

And perhaps – perhaps, with courage and steel and vigilance, there would be a chance to save it all, yet.

Perhaps.

Author's Note II: One last very special thank you to all who have read, and especially those who took the time to review and keep me encouraged. My muse has already begun my next DAII fic (not a part of this series, sadly). Keep an eye out for it, or add me to your author alerts (fair warning: I write for other fandoms as well).