Thank you, reviewers! I was worried that it might be crazy to try to do this, but you have reassured me that it's worthwhile. :-)
While I have many things worked out in my head, in later chapters I am going to leave it up to readers to kind of nudge Hawke into various decisions throughout the story, rather like in-game. I should also mention that I chose a Hawke who sided with the mages, so she will be attacked by Templars on the regular. If I were writing this as an actual game, a Hawke who sided with the Templars would be attacked by mages on the regular.
Warnings: language, violence, new characters appearing
Hawke stares at this Cassandra Pentaghast, trying to decide what her game is as she pleads for help with the desperate situation. Of course a Nevarran would be worried about Tevinter; they only have the Silent Plains to separate them. Then again, if Nevarra falls, the Free Marches and Rivain would be separated from Orlais and Ferelden and the rest of Thedas would have no chance. Not without 'help' from the Qunari, at any rate.
For two years she's enjoyed the relative freedom of being a fugitive, camping in mountains and forests with Fenris, pretending that they could one day settle down and have children, as if her name could be forgotten or his face not recognized. Now, staring at the Seeker and the Divine's Left Hand, she knows that she can no more escape her fate than her lover can remove the lyrium from his skin. She catches Fenris' eye; he still holds both swords in his hands and stares at her with a ferocity she hasn't seen in the past two years. He wants to do this as much as she does. Well, two years of relative peace is about the best she can hope for, being the Champion of Kirkwall.
With a resigned sigh, Hawke nods at the other woman. "I get it," she says, pushing her hand back through her hair. It's gotten longer in the last few years and she knows she'll have to cut it when they get back to camp. Her eyes flick over to Sister Nightingale, the Divine's Left Hand and she passes the redhead back her bow. "Leliana, you go ahead of us. You probably travel faster alone anyway. Tell the Divine we're coming and keep us informed when we get to the city."
Leliana nods, taking the bow, and jogs back down the path without a word. She disappears seconds later into the brush and Hawke purses her lips, glad for the bard's efficiency.
Her attention turns to the remaining intruder, the unfamiliar face among the others. Keeping her tone even, she commands, "Seeker, go back to your men and let them know. We'll meet at dawn on the Wounded Coast."
"Thank you, Champion," Pentaghast says, lowering her head. "I am deeply indebted to you, as are we all."
Hawke catches a familiar glimmer in her eyes, that combination of trust and admiration and worthiness that set her companions in Kirkwall apart from the rest of the riffraff. She realizes with a start that the Seeker respects her and nods stiffly in return, still not sure what to make of the other woman just yet. At her nod, Fenris relinquishes the ornate longsword to its owner, sparing a brief sneer. Like Leliana, she leaves without another word, but at a more sedate pace. Still, Cassandra will be useful, and having Chantry protection for the journey is a practical matter if nothing else.
"Right," she says. Her eyes fall on Varric last of all, studying the swollen knuckle-marks on his jaw with a scowl. At this point he knows her well enough not to mistake the anger's direction, even to discern her joke. "You got quite a whallop, there. Are you getting soft on me?"
The dwarf chuckles and slings his crossbow across his back, spreading his hands a moment later. "You got me, Hawke. It only took two of them to take me down," he admits. His eyes meet hers for a moment and she detects that serious spark that means he's talking business or about to relay bad news. Since there's not a lot of profit in helping priests (at least on this side of the mortal coil), she has a feeling that it's the latter.
"You're not coming," she states, keeping the words dry and bereft of the confusing whirl of emotions she feels. It makes sense; Varric is almost ten years older than she is and after their adventures together, he's pushing forty. Not that old, but old enough to prefer comforts to combat and ale to adrenaline. Still, she can't help but to wish for the reassuring twang of Bianca behind her and the deep, smooth chuckle that follows his millions of jokes. And to think how much fodder Orlais would give him, with all the prissy nobles and political intrigue, makes her even more disappointed. How can she enjoy Val Royeaux without him there to lighten the stuffy, ornamental atmosphere?
Fenris gives the dwarf a long stare, pensive as he sheathes his massive blade in an easy, graceful motion. "You shall be missed, Dwarf," he rumbles, the first thing he's said since the Chantry women came to their attention. He nods once, green eyes softening with brotherly fondness, and Hawke's gut clenches. Are they really saying goodbye to Varric?
"I'm gonna miss you guys, too." Varric, to his credit, remains stoic for a very long moment. Then he starts bawling and so does she, and she punches his arm as she skids to her knees to hug him and sob all over his chest hair because he's sobbing all over her head-hair. She feels a strong hand grip her shoulder and opens her eyes to see Fenris pat the dwarf's back in a rather more brisk fashion before pulling away before it can become an actual group hug.*
"I'm never... sniff...telling anyone...snrrk... we both cried like babies," Varric promises, and she knows the story will be turned into a heroic glitter in her eye that she has to brush away as he waves to her from Kirkwall while she flies off into the sunset.
"Alright, let's head for the Coast and get drunk," she sniffles, pulling back and wiping her eyes. She stares at him and bursts out laughing. "I've gotten your chest-hair all soggy."
"I need a drink, as well," Fenris mutters, a few feet behind her to the left. Hawke looks up to see him leaning against a tree with a faint smirk, holding up Varric's flask. His eyes fix on the pair of them, still all teary and snotty, and she's really glad that he fell in love with her in between bouts of watching her family members dying and almost dying herself, so he's already seen her in much worse condition.
"Hey, how did you?" Varric yelps, patting his hips and scowling at the elf in mock anger. "You used your magical fisting to steal my flask in a moment of vulnerability!" He pauses and grins, just like his old self, that merchant glitter in his eye. "I'm proud of you."
"You have gone soft, indeed, Dwarf," Fenris chuckles, taking a swig before he tosses them the flask.
Hawke is surprised when Cassandra meets her without a large contingent of armed men, dressed in Seeker's armor with a pack almost identical to the ones she and Fenris wear, though in better condition. She raises an eyebrow, exchanges glances with Fenris, and approaches the woman with a confident toss of her aching head and unshorn hair.
"You've come alone?" she asks, not bothering to lower the eyebrow.
"I expected you would want a guide in the journey," Pentaghast says, a faint frown forming between her eyes as she glances between Hawke and Fenris. "Why would you need an army to protect you? You're the mighty Champion; your strength is legendary." She shrugs as if this is obvious.
Withholding a sigh, Hawke struggles for an adequate reply when a shout rises from down the beach, drawing everyone's attention. She sees a young man running like hell, not that she can blame him, because he's being pursued by a band of lyrium-addled Templars. Their armor hangs askew and battered, their eyes fogged with power and rage that hangs over their warped bodies in a sickly yellow mist. Everything they've got has gone into the quest for lyrium and mages, it seems, because they are thin and corded as if they've eaten nothing but lyrium and blood in months.
The brunette man gets closer and she sees he's wrapped several belts with pouches around a jacket worn over a long tunic, but sure enough, he carries a staff on his back. Not just any staff, but Orsino's old staff. She'd recognize that thing anywhere, with the three tapering dragons curling up and together at the top. Merrill used it in their battle against Meredith, and her hexes were particularly effective.
Just as the man- elf, now that she can see him- turns and pulls the staff off his back to face the raving mass of Templars, Cassandra pulls out her sword and shield, stepping between the mage and the Templars. "Halt!" she shouts. "You have no authority under the laws of the Andrastean Chantry."
"Seeker," they murmur, their voices growing thicker with fury and excitement. They sound like rabid wolves or hyenas, clustering closer in a cackling swarm. Weapons and armor clatter as they approach, voices glittering with hate, resentment, insanity and evil. "Seeker, Seeker."
"I was wondering when the fun would begin," Fenris says, and she can hear that battle-ready grin in his voice as both of them draw their weapons in unison. At least she can work off her hangover the old-fashioned way.
As the elf mage backs up between her and Fenris, she notices the glitter of a small gold hoop near the top of his pointed ear and the crackling sensation of magic building around him. Sure enough, as she leaps on the nearest Templar, a wave of dispelling magic floods the cluster of men, tearing away their precious lyrium-altered sense and bringing them crashing down into a mad rage, but without that added strength.
Faces point toward the mage but Cassandra whistles sharply to catch their attention, her shield throwing a wide arc to fling them away as they cluster around her. Fenris moves his back to the Seeker's, guarding her flank with the long strikes of his greatsword as her shield moves between them to keep his open side protected. This leaves Hawke a fantastic array of nicks in armor and unprotected backs, striking with practiced precision as she dances from one man to the next. Men get rooted in their tracks by glyphs and bolts of spirit energy whiz past to help finish the men off.
When one of the largest men turns on her with a sword as big as Fenris' and kicks her in the chest, a much larger bolt sear over her head to burn through his armor. Her eyes dart to the mage, dancing away from the Templars and occasionally flinging them away with a psychic blast, and he catches her gaze with an ironic salute. She darts between the huge Templar's legs and stabs him in the back of the neck with a single thrust of her blades before taking a running leap onto the nameless mage's pursuers.
The battle ends soon after, the last of the Templars gasping against her blades and sliding off with a final clatter. All eyes turn to the elven mage, who puts his staff on his back with a sigh. He has a furrowed brow that makes him look older than the rest of his face suggests, with mournful gray eyes that command her attention. He looks harrowed, the way dark hair falls around his eyes and ears in disarray in spite of the braid behind his head, the way his belts hold the jacket together just a bit off-center and how his boots look worn.
"You're the Champion of Kirkwall," says the unknown mage, staring at her with a curious frown.
"My friends call me Hawke," she replies, an automatic correction. That Champion title has begun to wear on her, the novelty having disappeared about a month after every noble in Hightown began addressing her as Champion instead of Serah Hawke. She likes her name; she's proud of it, and moreover, she is tired of all the weighty implications of might and inspiration and responsibility that her title carries.
The elf mage blinks and collects himself. "I'm sorry. My name is Aiden," he says, bowing his shoulders forward in what is more of a slump than an formal greeting. He has a Fereldan accent, soft and pleasant and a reminder of home. "I am- I was-" he gestures bitterly at himself "-a Circle Mage. But now there is no Circle to go to, so I guess I'm just a mage."
"So have you turned to blood magic to escape the Templars yet?" Fenris asks through tight teeth. He would bring this up.
Aiden's eyes narrow on the other elf's face. "Not every mage is an unholy murderer. Some of us actually liked studying magic safely with books and practice rooms and libraries."
Hawke raises her eyebrows. "Were you from the Circle in Kirkwall, then?" she asks him.
"Ostwick," he answers, not giving any further details.
"Have you traveled this far on your own?" she asks.
Aiden shrugs and she's reminded of Fenris, the first time she met him. Stubborn and not very talkative about certain things. Not that she'd ever compare this frazzled-looking mage scholar to her brooding, handsome warrior. "More or less," he answers. His eyes meet hers for a second and slide away. "Sometimes you can catch a caravan for a bit before you're noticed." He sighs.
Hawke inclines her head slightly, daring a glance at Fenris. His mouth is pressed together in an irritable line and she's sure she'll here more about this mage later, but for now she means to focus on this newest problem, er, person.
"You mentioned earlier that you liked being in the Circle?" she asks him, one hand on her hip. It confuses her to imagine anyone enjoying the Circle after her time in Kirkwall and listening to Anders' myriad of rants against the Circle. Hell, she'd been glad to hand her little sister to the Grey Wardens, knowing that in doing so Bethany would be protected from the Templars.
The brunette mage glowers at her. "Not every mage was thrilled by the uprising you started, Champion," he sneers. He sighs and seems to control himself a bit more. "Not that we weren't grateful you stood up for us against Meredith. That was... a hell of a lot more than most people would have done."
"Meredith was a madwoman," Cassandra speaks up, breaking her silence. "She is an example of the corruption that the Seekers fear in the Templars, what we seek to prevent in the name of Andraste and the Divine."
Fenris snorts. "Orsino was no better, in the end."
Aiden scowls at Pentaghast. "The Seekers didn't do a very good job in Kirkwall, did they?" he asks, that bitter, biting tone returning to his voice.
Hawke fights down a sigh as Aiden's eyes meet hers again, flickering with a bit of an apology. "Well, we're going to Val Royeaux to speak to the Divine," she announces, saying the words more grandly than she means to. "Not that we're sure she won't have me executed on sight," she mutters as an afterthought.
The mage chuckles and sobers in an instant, as if remembering he's supposed to act gloomy. "I'm trying to get there, too. I don't want to flee to Tevinter and become a Magister, but I don't want to get murdered by Templars, either," he says. His eyes meet hers and she already knows what's coming, but in case she didn't get the hint, he adds, "If you don't mind having a mage along, I'll travel with you to Val Royeaux."
For a moment Hawke ponders her options. Mages are targets, Templar-magnets these days, but then again, she'll need help from a skilled mage and this one performed well when the time came to step away from the books. In fact, their little group worked very well together, coordinating the battle with little effort and so effective that not one had any injuries. It almost felt like the old days in Kirkwall, the way she and her companions worked together to finish off enemies.
"Very well, Aiden. You're welcome to travel with us," she says.
He gives her another of those slumping bows, then lifts his head to meet her eye. "Thank you, Champ- I mean, Hawke."
"Well, let's get moving," she says, glancing around her new band of misfits. She tries not to think of what Varric would say about all of this, but she could swear she hears an echo of his laughter, can imagine him saying 'Well, Hawke, you sure know how to gather crazy people for your adventures.'
The others gather their things, and after the group finishes looting the bodies (which have a disgusting number of lyrium potions on them) they set off down the Coast to make their way toward Orlais. The morning sun rises into noon and the day passes without further incident until they make camp for the night.
Hawke crouches by the stream near camp, washing her face, when she hears a rustle in the bushes and turns, drawing a dagger. Fenris emerges with an easy gait, pushing some leaves out of his hair. "I never understood why the Dalish enjoyed this traipsing around in the dirt," he mutters. He used to say that often when they left Kirkwall to do something outside the city, but she hasn't heard it in the two years they've spent camping and running around.
She gives him a half smile as he sits down next to her, flipping her blade onto her back and settling back on her heels. "How are the others doing?" she asks him, nodding back in the direction of camp.
"They are fine," he answers, waving them off with a hand. Green eyes focus on her face. "I came here to speak with you."
"About the mage," she sighs. He nods and she continues. "You know we're going to need all the help we can get, Fenris. He's Circle-trained and more than that, he supports the Circle. He isn't off summoning demons or cutting his wrists to dance naked in the moonlight. And I'm not worried that he's going to blow up the Chantry, either."
Fenris sets his mouth in a grim line. "I still do not trust him," he comments. "Especially not the way he kept looking at you."
"Are you jealous?" Hawke asks with a surprised bark of laughter. She smirks and shifts to lean forward so her hands land on either side of his hips, bracing her weight against the ground. Their noses are close, almost touching and he stares in her eyes as one hand lifts to brush along her cheek. That old red scrap of cloth he wears around his wrist flashes under the moonlight. Her voice lowers to something more seductive and purring as she says, "Do I have to prove that you have no reason to be jealous?"
His eyes flash and a grin forms around his lips. "I am jealous if it involves you proving yourself," he answers. He lunges forward to seize her by the waist, dragging her into his lap and kissing her.
Beside them, the moonlit creek babbles on without a care for the lovers tangling on its shore.
Two days later, they enter the Planasene Forest. Like almost every forest in Thedas, this one seems rife with hostile wildlife, from wolves to giant spiders to bandits. They get only a half-mile into the woods when they spot a cluster of well-equipped bandits attacking a dwarf with a messy black beard and wild brown eyes. She watches as the dwarf pulls two daggers off his back and sets to dodging the bandits with a skill that almost rivals her own. Almost.
Before anyone can say anything, Fenris yanks the sword off his back and sprints at the bandits, giving no one any choice in the matter. She has her weapons out a second later, joining the fray as well, certain she knows why he leapt to the strange dwarf rogue's defense. Something about him reminds both of them of Varric, though she'll be damned if she can put her finger on it. Certainly not his looks, because the dwarf has much crazier, angrier eyes than Varric and nowhere near the style, wearing a battered leather chest piece and fingerless gloves that expose his tattooed forearms. Maybe it's just because he's a crazy dwarf, and she has an empty space in her heart in the shape of a crazy dwarf that needs filling.
The bandits yelp as a greatsword cleaves through them, and another one drops, singed by a bolt of Aiden's spirit magic. Hawke flips into their midst, ducking and weaving with the help of the new dwarf to backstab the bandits, her knives finding purchase in the gaps of the enemies' armor. She hears Cassandra's sharp whistle and backflips away as men cluster around the Seeker. A man flies back, battered by Pentaghast's lethal shield, his jaw broken, and Hawke finishes him off. For a few seconds the sound of clanging weapons and dying shouts and sizzling magic fills the air, and as Hawke rushes the last man, he drops to the ground and she sees the dwarf standing behind him with a smirk and bloody daggers.
"Thanks," says the dwarf in a gravelly voice. His brown eyes twinkle as he wipes the blood off on his pants and sheathes his weapons. He sticks out a blocky hand toward her. "Name's Brogan. These sons of bitches-" he prods the nearest corpse with the toe of his boot "-thought they'd get the bounty on my head. Guess they thought wrong," he laughs.
"Hawke," she answers, shaking the dwarf's hand. She glances at the group of bandits, there must be eighteen in all. "Why were these men after you?" she asks, puzzled. This dwarf doesn't have the wealthy glitter to his clothing that she's come to associate with the Merchant's Guild, which she understands from Varric is the primary reason for bounties on surface dwarves.
Brogan smirks. "I may have stepped on some toes in Kirkwall," he answers with a blithe shrug.
"Are they Coterie?" she asks, the first name that pops into her head. That damn thieves' guild has given her more trouble over the years than she'd care to admit. Almost as an afterthought she adds, "I'm always happy to thin their ranks."
The dwarf throws his head back and laughs. She hears her other companions shift around behind her, feels their eyes on her back. "Wish it was just the Coterie," he answers. Her interest in this dwarf piques, and she raises both eyebrows in response to his suggestion. How many guilds of thieves can one dwarf piss off, after all? Of course, with their involvement in the lyrium smuggling trade, she imagines that it's possible for someone to incur the wrath of Carta, Coterie, and Templars with one botched shipment.
"Are you a lyrium smuggler?" Cassandra asks in her lofty tone. Hawke bites back a sigh. Like her companions in Kirkwall, this new group seems hellbent on voicing their opinions at every opportunity.
"Does a bear shit in the woods?" Brogan snorts. Hawke decides in that instant that criminal or no, she likes this dwarf.
"Speaking of the wood, why are you on your own out here?" she asks him. "I thought dwarves hated the forest."
Brogan shrugs again. "Those sheltered Orzammar dwarves, maybe," he answers. "I've been hiding out here for a few months now. The forest makes for good cover and those bumbling city-slicker sods stumble into every trap I lay out." He grins then. "Or maybe I'm just that good."
"If you are that good," Hawke comments, "Maybe you should come with us to Val Royeaux. I could always use more armed lunatics at my back."
He gives her a toothy grin and she notices that one of his incisors is gold. "If it's armed lunatics you're looking for, Hawke, then I'm your man," Brogan announces, pointing to his chest with a thumb. "I should warn you, though, those fancy Orlesians probably won't like me much."
Hawke smirks at him and says, "I'm counting on it."
*This is why I chose Fenris as the love interest. I can picture all three of the others getting a little gushy and group-hug-y and I wanted to avoid that.