Author's notes: based on a kinkmeme prompt (see below), will eventually be tying in a second one as well.
The future tasted of ashes, or perhaps that was the ale Hawke mused, staring into the mug as if the foam might somehow step up in place of tea leaves and dispense wisdom on what in the name of the Black City he was supposed to do now. The noise of the tavern's crowd flowed around him unheeded, he might as well have been submerged in the mug's contents (working on it; the night was still young). Kirkwall was in flames, and with it the new life he'd worked to build for himself and his family; with it the "merry band of misfits" who'd become one another's adopted family, who'd kept him going as he'd lost every person bound to him by blood. And with it- no. That loss was not going to be dwelt on without the benefits of something stronger than ale; this ale anyway.
Hawke scowled at the memories; and at the nagging itch of nearly a week's worth of stubble and whatever bloody stuff now rinsed through it and his hair that had seen it lighten from near-black to some form of sandy brown. It still felt like it belonged to someone else; maybe it did.
"It lasts for weeks and it's very easy to make" Merrill had said when she'd produced the powder after the one and only stop they'd made just outside Kirkwall, there had been no time to return to the estate as they'd fled the ruins of the Gallows. Varric had called in every favour he had to sell their old lives to supply their new careers as fugitives. Including, apparently, hair dye.
"Isabela showed me" she'd had added hurriedly, after Hawke had raised an eyebrow remembering the last dye-related experiment. The dog's coat had returned to normal; eventually. "We were out shopping and she said it would be fun, and that it could look very 'distinctive' if you put just some streaks in the right places. Although I think it would look distinctive anyway because she has such beautiful hair, and yours is a lovely colour too but this might be a good time to look, well, less like you…For a while."
/I hope your Creator's listening Merrill; keep you safe. And him./
Two days after that they'd parted, well into the emptiness of the Marches north of Kirkwall. They had their reasons for wanting to stay, every one of them simply added to Hawke's list for wanting to be somewhere else. Several days had brought him to the imaginatively named Stonehill, some distance east of the Kirkwall-Starkhaven border and hopefully large enough to provide some halfway accurate rumours, and for one more traveler to pass unnoticed. He'd sifted through the assertions that everyone from the Tevinter Imperium to the Qunari were invading, or that Knight-Commander Meredith was about to lead a new Exalted March against the both of them. Eventually he'd managed to determine that Sebastian Vael had returned to Starkhaven, and that news of Meredith and Orsino's deaths had crossed borders likely before the bodies in the courtyard had even begun to cool. As had the rebellion. From the sounds of things he'd only beaten the army reinforcements heading to this region of the border by a couple of days and there was talk of Templars being assigned to all units, with or without mages. More worryingly, both the coastal road and Starkhaven's port of Havenshore were closed.
So how's that plan to slip through Starkhaven where nobody knows you and head for Fereldan by sea working out Hawke? Maybe you should have taken Isabela up on her offer of a job, or at least a lift.
Except you couldn't cut him loose that easily, could you?
You've got your war Anders. I hope it's everything you wanted.
The twist of that pain like a knife between the ribs sent Hawke moving towards the bar for that something stronger; absently noting as he did the still-strange lightness of a lack of armour or weaponry. Sometime nobility and Champion of Kirkwall and drinking without a blade to hand felt unusual. Given the mood across the Marches it had seemed worth the risk; with this many troops on the move they'd likely being viewing anyone carrying a sword and looking like they knew how to use it as an enemy or a potential recruit; neither appealed. The last ten years of his life had been all about picking sides, taking stands, saving people; putting into practice all those ethics your parents taught you. Except before any of those they'd taught him another, simpler lesson: to survive, you had to know when to let everything go and run. It was just a question of where.
He was on the point of raising a hand to signal the barkeep when the screams started up from the street outside; screams cutting through another sound- that peculiar roaring groan of newly summoned abominations. Andraste's arse, could a man not drown his sorrows in peace for one night? Hawke shoved his way to the tavern's entrance cracking the door open to peer into the late twilight. Perhaps a couple of hundred feet down the street towards the 'town gates' something- a cart, or a carriage?- blocked the road surrounded by a tangle of screaming horses, men, monsters and, blood mages. Of course there were.
And no-one to know if you decided to be just another citizen cowering under a table hoping to be spared. Any chance that's an option?
Since I appear to be running practically unarmed down the street towards the screaming, probably not.
Despite how incredibly stupid that is?
Well it's been a week since I've done something that stupid; I like to keep in practice. Any more questions?
Where's your runed armour and shiny sword Champion?
I gave them to a dwarf and he sold them; although in fairness I did ask him to.
And what happens if these mages are…old acquaintances?
Please Maker; please don't ask me to make that choice again.
Hawke's eyes took in the details instinctively as he ran. Three- no four- abominations ranged across the street, clawing at doors, windows, creating terror in nearby buildings before returning to tear at the carriage sprawled drunkenly on one broken axle. One horse lay silent, the other thrashed in the traces. Three mages, the white glow of shields flickering around them. The men still standing, while clearly skilled, seemed torn between dealing with the more dangerous threat of blood mages and the more immediate threat of abominations trying to rip open the carriage. They'd probably never faced the sight of their friends sprawled in agony across the cobbles from a heroic if foolish head-on charge, smothered within a red mist, tendrils winding between mages and bodies. Never had to realise that your death would quite literally feed your enemies' strength. Hawke's sudden arrival sliding across the cobbles to hamstring the nearest abomination didn't seem to have done anything for anyone's nerves.
"Archers! Both of you! And you!" Hawke's voice rose above the chaos as he snatched a sword from the startled hand of the third man identified, a bow still slung across one shoulder. "Focused fire, left hand mage; fire and keep moving. Watch for the white flicker, the shield's weakest then. The rest of you" Hawke spun round to bury the sword in the chest of the abomination his arrival trick had sent briefly to one knee "keep the monsters busy, work together to draw them off the carriage; they go down hard but they go down" A couple of men nearest stepped in to finish the kill; one down, three to go. "What about-" someone shouted, Hawke was already moving, grabbing the reins and slashing harness free from the remaining live horse. "I'll take care of the rest of your mage problem; they can't cast if they're dead" Hawke's grin in the dark was feral; at least for a brief time everything could be very simple.
A bit of luck and a lot of heaving on the broken reins sent the panicked animal careening down the street towards the mages. Hawke felt a twinge of guilt for its likely fate but the distraction it caused as it staggered through the trails of blood and power, and a well-timed shot of opportunity from an archer bought him the time and protection to reach and dispatch the centre mage. One to g- what felt like dragon jaws sank into his leg, staggering him as he turned to face the final mage who chuckled, eyes red in madness, nothing human left. Hawke limped closer, awkwardly avoiding by inches the second coil of red that lashed out at him, ignoring the pain as blood pulsed sluggishly down his leg; ignoring the spell that built in sparks between the mage's hands until he was close enough to- there. The dagger thrown at close range didn't penetrate the shield but it was followed shortly after by Hawke's full weight crashing against it, sending them both down. He felt the shield drop as the mage's concentration wavered, even as the teeth went forth and multiplied, ripping up and down his leg, black spots starting to flicker across his vision as the blood ran faster. The mage snarled as his hand came up to cast whatever spell he'd drawn Hawke's blood into; too late. "Throat's quicker" Hawke rasped, dragging his sword around to slash a line across the mage's that even blood magic couldn't heal. Teeth mauled his leg in one final spasm then faded as the spell scattered to red mist.
So this is what taking on blood mages without any sort of healing feels like. Not recommended. Hawke thought, dragging himself to one knee via a sword to check the status of his exhaustively planned strategy. It looked like they might actually have been winning but it was hard to be sure as the spots in his vision grew to flashes and blackness swallowed everything.
A sense of movement and what felt like an ogre pounding inside his skull drew Hawke's returning awareness to the fact that he wasn't dead. The world resolved itself into the roof of some sort of wagon. Hawke blinked "Wha-"
"Good you're awake" a woman's voice came from nearby. Turning his head with a wince Hawke looked across two other pallets crammed across the wagon's floor. Opposite him by the open back sat a dark haired young woman whose expensive clothing seemed entirely at odds with the wagon and the upturned wooden crate she was using as a seat. "You've been unconscious since last night and I would be most put out at your death after all the effort we have put into saving one another's lives."
Last night; saving; oh yes. "That was your carriage" Hawke said, remembering just in time to let the Fereldan accent, softened from the years in Kirkwall thicken somewhat. It sounded strange to his ears, and hopefully to anyone else seeking former Champions.
"Yes. I am Lady Flora Harriman, and my men and myself are grateful for your, timely arrival, and your apparent experience in fighting such creatures."
"Glad I could help Milady, and I'm in your debt for saving my life" Hawke sat up gingerly, the dull ache in his leg eclipsed by the headache and the fact that he felt like a half-drowned kitten; his mouth was as dry as a chalk pit. He was also being transported to an unknown destination by a noblewoman, some of whose immediate family he may have helped to kill, and who was watching him with a look that suggested she was making Plans. Smart men learned to be wary of such a look.
Hawke thought he recognised one of the men asleep (or diligently faking) on the wagon's floor as one of the archers he'd been yelling at. "How many did you lose?" She frowned "Three, no doubt it would have been much higher. Rodain's leg may take some time to heal from the horse, and according to the healer you should consider yourself lucky not to have been dead by the time they found you; there is quite the dent in the healing supplies." She smiled slightly "At least we were able to be rid of that carriage, we'll make better time this way and I hate the bloody things, they're always so cramped." Oh yes; definitely wary.
Lady Harriman offered him a water flask; it tasted of heaven "What is your name?"
"Matthias Hale, Milady" Hawke hoped he wouldn't be meeting the sergeant's ghost anytime soon to hear his opinion on borrowing names without permission. She waved away the honourific "Please, we'll be here all day. You are Fereldan?" "I was." "And a soldier?" "For a time." She nodded "Well Serah Hale, while grateful I did not go to all this effort merely out of a sense of charity. You may have noticed there is a war on, Starkhaven is going to need men of your skills" she huffed in mock annoyance "and I suppose I should give His Grace the first right of refusal."
The wariness was ringing an alarm bell in the back of his head "His…Grace?"
"Sebastian Vael, the Prince of Starkhaven. We'll being arriving in about three days I expect" she tossed him a wrapped bundle from at her feet and another smaller flask "so I suggest you rest well and heal fast."
Hawke caught the items without thought, most of his concentration taken up on not letting his face reveal his very serious consideration of simply taking a dive out of the back of the wagon, though he doubted he'd make it fifty yards. Starkhaven and Sebastian Vael. One of these days Hawke, you need to learn to hide under a table.
Original prompt: Hawke is on the run for sparing Anders, as well as siding with the mages. Desperate for food/shelter/work, Hawke signs him/herself into the service of a ruler. The problem? Hawke works for Prince Sebastian Vael. So Hawke has to wear a disguise to keep him/herself from getting caught. But eventually, the sh*t hits the fan and he finds out.
And I have plans for where things will go after that...heh heh heh.