Champion
Bodies littered the Keep. Nobles, guardsmen, servants, looters. Rich and poor. It didn't matter if they wore velvet or wool or steel. They all bled the same.
They'd carved their way here through fire and screams. And even now, Hawke couldn't tell which part hurt the most.
Perhaps it was Isabela's absence. That she'd known more and kept quiet. Maybe she did it out of fear, or guilt. Or she'd been paralysed by the burden of too many bad choices. Hid it for years behind a smile.
None of that was good. But Hawke could understand.
She hated that she understood the Arishok, too.
He hadn't come to conquer. He was stranded here, shackled by the rules of his own doctrine. Left to witness corruption and chaos, and the injustice of justice, all building up until the rot had festered so much that violence was his only answer.
She didn't agree. Hawke would never excuse bloodshed. But she understood.
What she didn't understand, was Aveline. That even now, she kept clinging to the law. Judging the Elves for avenging their sister that no one else gave a damn about. Hawke had broken laws for less. Aveline had looked the other way before. And now she acted like the law were sacred? Regardless of the way it had failed those Elves?
Hawke wished the world was simple. Right and wrong. Good and evil. Heroes and villains.
She knew Isabela didn't see herself as good. Hawke knew she didn't see herself as such. The Arishok likely didn't even believe in good or evil, but only in order.
But what did Aveline think of herself? And what did people justify in the name of good?
And now another city Hawke had called home was burning.
This time, it wasn't darkspawn, but people. Qunari, opportunists. Every bastard who saw this chaos as a chance to profit.
She used to think monsters were the worst the world had to offer. But monsters didn't know better.
People did.
And now Hawke had to navigate through the dead.
She took a deep breath, and stepped forward.
She'd grown so used to the screaming outside that the silence nearly startled her. Blood pooled on the floor, separate puddles combining into one. It felt like walking through a tomb.
The silence wasn't peace. It pressed against her ears and made her heart beat too loudly. It was the kind of suffocating silence that warned about worse to come.
They couldn't avoid the blood and traced bloody bootprints as they climbed the stairs and continued forward. If there was one mercy, it was that the deaths had been quick. Slid throats, mostly. Bloody, but a quick end. Pragmatic. The Qunari weren't cruel just for cruelty's sake.
A body slumped against the wall.
Blood had seeped into the fibres of the coat, but it looked like it had been a rusty orange. It matched the hair.
For a world-shattering second, Hawke stopped breathing.
Her daggers trembled in her grip as she stepped closer. The face was turned away, and there was so much blood, but she had to see.
Don't look, her mind wanted to shout. You don't want to see. You already know.
The face was turned away. She could fool herself, but she needed certainty. She stepped aside to get a better look, and –
It wasn't him.
Different nose. Too young. Thinner, more gangly. A noble's son, too young to be called a man.
She swayed, first from relief. Then from guilt.
Unsteadily, she stepped back. "Fuck."
Varric shot her a quizzical look. She shook her head, not trusting herself to give a full answer. The ground still felt like it was moving.
It wasn't Bran.
But for a heartbeat, she had believed it was.
She hadn't seen him since the ball. They hadn't spoken since she made a fool of herself. She'd tried to buy comfort with her body, and had lashed out when he denied her. She had never even apologised for it.
That was all. Why her hands were shaking.
Just regret, and shame.
She forced her thoughts down, and tightened her grip on the daggers at her side.
Diplomacy and Tact.
Stupid names. Varric's fault, mostly. She'd called them her most lacking qualities. He'd called them her party tricks.
Easy laughs, once.
She had never imagined drawing them here, inside the Keep. The place was for polished walls and empty pleasantries. Spilt punch rather than spilt blood. Here, further in the Keep, she was usually wearing skirts of silk and velvet.
But the real her was clad in leather and steel. Her breath hadn't calmed since she saw that not-Bran on the floor. If the city wanted her to fix its messes, she was glad she could do it as herself.
The murmur of voices escaped from the doors ahead. It was left ajar. Hawke recognised the low growl of the Arishok, but most of the sound was the scared hum of the Kirkwall's own.
Fenris had explained that the Qunari would gather everyone of import in the same place. Those who bent the knee would live. Those who didn't…
Well, Hawke always had a problem with ultimatums.
She adjusted her grip, no longer trembling. Let them see what would happen if she played by her own rules.
The nobles were huddled together like sheep, desperate not to be noticed. Some turned at the sound of their boots against the stones. No one dared to call her out on the wrong choice of clothes.
The Arishok stood at the top of the stairs. He was massive, blocking the throne from view with his sheer breadth.
They arrived just in time to see him throw something. It hit the stone with a wet, awful smack, and rolled towards the feet of the crowd.
The Viscount's head.
But the black crown dislodged by the motion and kept rolling, drawing a bloody path on the stone until it landed at someone's feet.
The soft ring reverberated through the hall. A collective cry rising from the crowd drowned the sound. More than one sobbed. Others retched.
Hawke didn't flinch. Not even when a Qunari killed a rioting noble.
She had seen worse today. Had seen worse in Ferelden.
But her mouth dried. If the Arishok tossed one head down the stairs, he could just as easily toss another. He certainly wouldn't hesitate to kill more city officials.
Her eyes swept the crowd, searching for red hair.
There.
He was pale, but still standing. His usual mask of neutrality was cracking. He turned, and their eyes locked. His mask slipped. Recognition, first. Relief, second. It shifted again. Perhaps fear?
Not of her. For her.
Hawke exhaled and granted him the smallest of nods. He seemed safe, for the time being. She still had a chance to say her apology.
But she had to deal with the Arishok first. She took a step forward, and the entire crowd rippled back to look at them.
"Hawke," the Arishok said. "You are basalit-an. Few in this city command such respect."
For once, she didn't flinch away from the praise. For once, she could ignore those small voices in her head doubting every decision. She supposed she was worthy of respect. And she had gotten it by nothing else but be herself.
And they were said just in time for Isabela to return the relic. "Took a detour," she stated casually. "Fighting, chaos, a moral crisis. You got in my head. I hate it. It's awful."
"I'm proud of you, Isabela," Hawke replied, but it was only met by a scoff.
She had always known there was no peaceful ending to this crisis. Not after half her city was destroyed or when a peaceful ending was offered. She wouldn't let the Arishok take Isabela back to Par Vollen.
"You said you protect your own," Hawke said, stepping forward. "Well, Arishok, I protect my own," Hawke said.
Behind her, Isabela protested, but the Arishok ignored it, eyes only for Hawke. "Only you are worthy. If you object, duty demands that we fight."
Hawke tested the daggers in her hand. Comfortable, natural grip. A true extension of her arms. Eager to be wielded.
"Alright," she said, never feeling more certain of herself. "This is a ballroom. Let's dance."
With a hush rippling over the crowd, the duel started.
The Arishok drew his weapons. Twin, like hers. Just thrice as long. And he had strength. Reach.
But he didn't have her nimbleness. His weapons would be slower to swing. Due to his bulk, he would be slower to turn. The only thing she could do, was take it as an advantage.
Her eyes swept over the crowd one last time. Her friends stood behind her, looking serious, but encouraging. All except Isabela, who looked furious for fighting her battle.
The nobles just looked horrified. Surprised, perhaps, that she chose a friend over physical danger. Surprised by her stupidity, who was to tell.
Bran looked ashen. Perhaps he was already mourning her. He always had been so damn good at underestimating her.
But no, that wasn't quite right, she thought. He had seen her fight. Once, after that duel, she had given him a rose. This time, she could give him her apology. She flashed a small smile, just for him. He didn't return all. All he did was stare in worry.
His concern was warming. But it also hurt.
All was forgotten as she faced the Arishok, and took a deep breath. Silence closed in around her.
She didn't hear the nobles, but she heard everything of her opponent. The scrape of his boot on the stone. The soft chimes of his earrings. The creak of leather as he raised his weapons.
He charged.
It was as Hawke had expected. He was straight to the point, no theatrics. Quick, forceful and direct. She slipped away and rolled behind a pillar. He needed time to adjust his momentum. She used it.
As he readied another charge, she baited him. A faint to the left, but a quick dart to the right.
He swung wide.
She studied his patterns. The rhyme and rhythm of his moves.
She wasn't afraid, or furious. She was just reacting to his moves, following like the kind of dance she was supposed to perform here.
It had something poetic. Varric undoubtedly had better words to describe it. Estranged Kirkwall noble. Ferelden refugee. A worthy rival. She wasn't meant to curtsy. She was meant to cut through the bullshit. Something like that.
She moved like lightning. Fast and unpredictable. He was the thunder, roaring and intimidating, behind her but always a step too slow.
She spun just out of reach. A pivot to his blind side. A slash of Diplomacy at his thigh. Enough to draw blood, but not enough to impede him.
Another roll. A stab of Tact in his hip. Enough to draw a growl from him.
One of his blades grazed her side. Enough to make her hiss.
The rhythm accelerated, now both had drawn blood.
He tried to grab her, but she was faster.
Step forward. Cut. Duck low.
Roll in. Slash. Slide away.
Repeat.
Until there was an opening. He overcorrected himself, and needed a second extra to adjust. Hawke knew she had enough time, but only just, if she moved now.
She leapt, and lunged.
Her blades struck true. Diplomacy to the side of his neck. Weapons were the only words they needed.
Tact between his ribs. Who said she was too blunt for politics?
Here was the proof of her skill.
The Arishok stumbled back, and collapsed onto the stairs. He let out a final, heavy exhale as he sank onto the stone. His giant frame went still, unmoving. But his eyes still looked at Hawke, dark and glassy, but with recognition.
He knew she had bested him.
Hawke didn't move. The bloodied daggers hang at her side, dripping down, her chest rising and falling with latent agitation. Hawke's mind was silent, not quiet but an overwhelming, pressing kind of silence.
She barely registered the roar of the crowd as it erupted around her. The surviving Qunari left. Bloodshed was over, and the threat was gone.
She had won.
But she just stood there, one hand clutching her side. Her fingers were red. It shouldn't hurt more than it did.
Someone approached. Familiar fingers peeled her hand away, and pressed their own against the wound. The warm sensation of magic hummed against her ribs. She didn't hear the words he said, but the dull ache of her wound dissolved.
"That was poetry, Hawke," said another voice. "Angry, stabby poetry."
Varric.
"Knew you'd show the city your worth," he added, but she didn't quite see him.
Isabela followed, her voice as heated as it was admiring. "I hate you. I owe you my life and a drink. That's two things too many."
Hawke's mouth twitched. Or at least, she thought it did. Perhaps it was the last tremor of the duel slipping away.
"You're a damn good fighter," someone said. Aveline? Fenris? The words barely landed.
Around her, the nobles cheered. "The city has been saved!" they cried.
As if it was that simple.
Boots rang against the stairs. The clang of heavy armour. Hawke looked up to see Meredith enter, scanning the room. Someone told her what had happened, and her gaze landed on Hawke.
"It seems the city has a new champion."
But despite Meredith's words, her tone was bone-dry and cold. No pride or praise.
Hawke didn't respond. Not because she didn't want to, but because the words didn't come. The very idea of speaking felt foreign.
Varric glanced at Hawke, and back to Meredith. "Careful, Knight-Commander. You might start making people think you endorse her."
"And why wouldn't I?" Meredith responded icily. "She showed initiative. But you would all do well not to mistake one victory for power."
Varric smiled faintly. Even Hawke could see it was wry. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing."
Meredith's nose twisted as if she smelled something unpleasant, but kept her icy demeanour. She looked out over the crowd, addressing them all. "The Viscount is dead. Many of us have suffered losses. Let us focus on restoring the city and its order. Champions may win battles. But cities need leaders."
She let the word hang there for emphasis.
Anders scoffed under his breath. "And she thinks she'll be the one."
Varric raised something in his hand. Circular and dark. "I should return this," he said, tossing it from one hand to the other. The Viscount's crown, Hawke realised. "Didn't want anyone to step on it."
He walked over to an elderly woman who cradled the Viscount's head in her lacy scarf. He placed the crown atop the bundle, a last gesture of dignity.
Hawke heard Aveline's voice shouting orders to the guardsmen around to help gather the bodies and treat them with respect. Nobles around them stirred, and started to move out of the hall.
Hawke took a step forward, wanting to help, but her legs gave out. She sank down onto a stair. Her body had finally given up pretending to be fine.
Someone approached. A guard maybe, or a servant. They asked her to move.
She looked up with hollow eyes.
"No," was all she said. She sounded surprisingly commanding.
The person turned away without argument.
They were replaced by Varric, who sat beside her. He told a joke, not really requiring an answer. Hawke smiled. She appreciated him for just being him, and knowing what she needed.
After a moment of silence, he gave her shoulder an encouraging nudge. "Take your time, Hawke."
She didn't answer. She wasn't sure how long she sat there.
It could've been minutes. Or hours. The noise in the hall grew quieter, more like a gentle hum. The blood on her fingers dried. Her breath had fallen into a slow, deep rhythm.
Someone else approached. She didn't look up until he sat down beside her.
Bran.
He didn't speak. All Hawke heard was the faint rustling of clothes and creak of boots as he lowered himself beside her, carefully, as if trying not to spook a wild animal.
He left a deliberate gap between them.
Hawke stared forward. But she noticed the Arishok's corpse was gone. The others were cleared out, too. But the blood and smell weren't that easy to clean up.
"You thought he'd kill me," she said flatly, only turning to look at him after she'd spoken.
Bran hesitated before answering. "I had confidence in your skills."
She granted him a tired smile. "Liar."
"Well, it was a very large Qunari. Perhaps I was worried."
Hawke snorted. "Yeah, I saw that on your face. But you've seen me duel. I told you never to underestimate me, Seneschal."
He shook his head. "I will never do it again. You were… impressive."
"Balls, I was, wasn't I?" She looked down at her hands, caked with reddish brown. "So was the spray of blood as I pulled back my daggers. Did you see that?"
"Large Qunari means lots of blood."
"Yeah." For the first time, Hawke wished her hands were clean. And before she could retrieve her own handkerchief, Bran handed her one, surprisingly crisp and clean.
She took it. "Maker, so considerate."
"Am I?" he asked, looking up with his neutral expression. "This isn't the first time I handed you a handkerchief, Hawke."
She grinned, and when this handkerchief was dirty, she pulled out her own. Well, it still had his embroidered initials on it. "Doesn't make it less considerate. But now I have two. Told you I'd fight a duel with it."
"Ah, but this duel wasn't in my honour."
She shrugged. "I did it for the city. You're a city official. I think it counts."
"No," he said, his tone a pitch lower again. "You did it for your friend."
"And you think that was stupid?"
"Yes," he replied without skipping a beat. "And loyal, and reckless. But mostly stupid."
She grinned. "I suppose that describes me well."
Silence stretched between them as Hawke cleared most of the dried blood between her fingers. I was still caked to her fingernails, but she would need to scrub to get it fully clean.
"You don't have to stay," she said to Bran. "I know you hate the sight of blood. And now the stench of it is in the air."
He looked up, and shrugged. The movement was as casual as she'd seen him make. "I know."
She scoffed, but she couldn't deny a certain warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. They sat in silence again. Quiet, close, but not quite touching.
"Bran," she started. "About that last ball… I shouldn't have done what I did. It was wrong."
He looked at her. "You were grieving."
"Yeah, and you were being decent. I tried to take advantage of that."
His eyes scanned the details of her face. Hawke thought she must look terrible, but she didn't see that in his expression. "You did," he said, not denying it. "But you stopped. That matters."
She glanced back at her fingers before looking up again. "Well. Consider this my formal apology. Or do you require the paperwork?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Apology accepted. No documentation required."
She raised her brows. "Wow. A joke, Bran? And a denial of paperwork?
"I'm off-duty," he replied, just a bit exhausted.
"So that's why you're not running around coordinating the cleanup?"
He looked out over the hall. "I did, before. Then I saw you sitting here. I thought you might need company."
Hawke didn't speak. This silence was softer than the last. And after a few heartbeats, she shifted, leaning against him.
He stiffened, straightening his back with surprise. He hadn't prepared for her touch. But he didn't pull away, and Hawke took that as permission to lean her head on his shoulder.
"If you're here for my benefit, I thought to make use of it," she reasoned quietly. "I promise I won't assault you, this time."
He swallowed before he answered. She could feel the motion through his body. "I didn't think you would."
She smiled. "I don't know about you, but I'm fucking tired," she muttered. "My feet hurt. My spine feels like the Arishok stepped on it. Meredith just titled me with something she'll be trying to use. Parts of the city are still on fire. People I couldn't save are dead. And I have no idea what tomorrow demands of me."
Bran inhaled deeply. The rise and fall of his breath shifted her cheek. With a small, deliberate adjustment, he angled his shoulder and nudged her. It wasn't rough, but just enough to guide her into a better spot. Her head settled in the crook of his neck, steadier now. Warm. Comfortable.
"That… makes two of us," he admitted quietly.
"Really?" Hawke asked drowsily. "You're getting called Champion now, too? Did you also stab a giant in the chest and have him bleed all over your shiny new armour?"
He smiled. She couldn't see it, but she felt in his chest, and heard it in his tone. "Minus that, perhaps."
"Yeah," she muttered, letting her eyes flutter close. "That's what I thought."
She'd gone still. Asleep. He didn't need to look to know. The shift in her breathing was enough. Slow, even. The tension melted from her body, her weight resting fully against him. It was somewhere between awkward and… tolerable.
She had fought the Arishok.
She could have died.
He told himself that the fear he'd felt was rational. The Viscount had been killed right before his eyes, a man who had stood beside him for sixteen years. Bran had been certain he would be next.
But it had been a different sort of panic when she accepted that duel.
He was being foolish, he told himself. She had won, she was alive and asleep.
He adjusted his arm slightly to better steady her against him. For balance. That was all.
He sighed. The city would need leadership, and soon. And judging from what had happened, Meredith wouldn't hesitate to claim it.
Bran hadn't always agreed with the Viscount – late Viscount, he corrected – but he had trusted Marlowe's intention. The man always had the city's best interest at heart, however misguided some of his ideas. He had valued different perspectives, even if he didn't always take them. Meredith on the other hand… Bran wasn't even certain if she saw a city to rule, or threats to be extinguished.
Bran was no ruler. It wasn't something he had ever wanted, or had studied for. But he understood order. He knew how to keep a system from collapsing, at least on paper.
And if he could not lead the city, he would still do his best to serve it.
He only wished he knew what Meredith's intent was with her newly crowned Champion.
A voice shook him from his thoughts. "Looks cosy."
Bran startled. Hawke shifted against him, and for a moment he thought she'd wake, but she slumped back against him. But one of her hands was on his leg now. He didn't move it.
Varric stood in front of them.
"She fell asleep," Bran said, as if that explained everything.
"Uh-huh." Varric regarded them with a neutral sort of curiosity. "Hawke often has trouble sleeping. Says something that's she out cold like this."
"She was exhausted."
"Sure," Varric said, his eyes drifting to Bran's arm around her. "So you're just steadying her, huh?"
Bran resisted the urge to move. "She was slipping."
Varric's eyebrows rose. "Right. Just gravity, then."
Annoyance surged through Bran's chest. Of all things, he did not need an interrogation from a concerned friend. Not when all he'd done was Hawke offer the comfort she so direly needed. He almost nudged her awake just to escape the situation, but decided against it. He wouldn't let himself be bullied away.
Varric spoke up again. "Hawke's reckless. Stubborn. And hurt. She doesn't know when to stop."
Bran looked up. "And you want me to stop her?"
Varric tilted his head. "That's for you to figure out. Should she?"
Bran opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.
"I know," Varric said. "About you two. What happened."
Bran tore his gaze away, clenching his jaw. He wouldn't deny it. "That was many months ago."
"Well, I notice things, Bran. You should know this about me."
Bran kept his expression neutral.
Varric smirked. "I knew since that one time when we were all in your office. And she told me. Word for word."
Bran blinked, uncertain how to respond. The idea of Hawke talking about him was strange. He had never told anyone. And talking about it now felt foreign. "Really," Bran said with an exhale. "Then you must also know she was… Persistent. Practically begged."
Varric's brows shot up further. "Really? That's your takeaway?"
Bran didn't flinch. "It's the truth."
"It's deflection," Varric replied, just a hint of annoyance in his voice. "You're both adults. Own your part. Don't dump it on her while she's asleep."
Bran sighed, and looked away. He knew it was the truth.
Varric sighed as well. "Do you know what she told me?"
Bran wasn't sure if he wanted to hear.
"She said she felt nothing for you."
Bran felt a pang of something in his chest. Guilt? Disappointment, perhaps? It didn't matter.
"She never claimed she did," he reasoned. "Neither did I."
Varric gave a dry scoff. "If you know Hawke at all, you know that she feels everything. She meets someone and instantly has feelings and opinions. Friendly, angry, stabby. They can change, sure. But never, ever, does Hawke feel nothing."
"So… What are you implying?" Bran asked sceptically. "That she lied to you?"
"To me?" Varric shook his head. "No. But she is great at lying to herself. And if you ask me…" He let his eyes roam over their position. "You might be, too."
Bran's mouth drew into a straight line.
"Look," Varric said, softer now. "I don't care what you two do. You're both adults. All I ask…" He stepped closer to them. "She lived through agony. It doesn't seem to be over yet. Just… Don't add to it."
"I wasn't planning to," Bran said, so quick it almost felt ingenuine. "I do care about her wellbeing," he added. That was the truth. "She's important to this city." That was also true.
Varric kept looking at him, and gave a quiet snort. "You're a hard man to like. Luckily for you, I have a high tolerance. It takes something egregiously bad for me to not like them."
Bran raised his brows. "I don't expect to be liked. Nor do I need it."
"Perfect. That makes me like you more." Varric grinned. "And since we're new friends now… If you ever need a contact or a favour, something off the books… I notice things. I know people. You can know them too, if you ask."
Bran tightened his jaw. "Why? What do you expect in return?"
Varric shrugged. "Nothing. I do believe you're watching her back." He gestured to Hawke's sleeping form. "And I care about this city. We both know Meredith's going to be a problem. I believe we are on the same side."
He swallowed. "I also care about this city."
Varric clapped his hands together, and readied himself to turn around. "Perfect."
Bran couldn't get up to follow. "Where are you going?" he called.
"Home," Varric simply said.
"Can't you take her?" Bran asked.
Varric tilted his head, looking from Bran to Hawke. A smile formed on his lips. "Sure. Just wake her."
Bran hesitated, and glanced at the woman sleeping against him. Her hair was messy, a strand stuck to her cheek. She mumbled something and moved the fingers on his leg. It was hard to believe it was the same woman who had just duelled the Arishok and won.
When he looked ahead, he saw Varric already halfway down the hall. "I'm sure you'll figure something out, Bran," he called over his shoulder.
Bran didn't respond. He glanced back at Hawke. His arm still hadn't moved. He wasn't sure if he should.
And when he looked up again, Varric was gone.
He sighed. "Wonderful."
He didn't move.
Note: Yeey, we finally have a Champion! And unresolved feelings!
The next chapter will be called "Rose"!
