Watch As They Pull Me Down

by SK_Morello

Summary:

“Shit, you look young.”

“We’re nineteen next month,” Bethany said, letting go of Garrett’s hand. “And we can fight. We came all the way from Lothering, through the darkspawn.”

The elf raised an eyebrow, then looked at him.

“Can you talk, or does your sister not let you get a word in edgeways?”

 

Garrett Hawke was never meant to be the eldest son, the one responsible for keeping his family safe. That was Carver - until it suddenly wasn’t.

AU where Garrett and Bethany are the twins, and Carver dies fleeing Lothering, forcing a much younger, much more naive Garrett to step up and try to be the hero Kirkwall needs, with very mixed results.

Notes:

It's me, again, back with another AU - this time, where Garrett and Bethany are the twins, and Carver the older brother. Hawke goes through so much awful shit, and he handles it all, and I got to thinking whether a younger, less prepared version of himself would do as well. Answer... no. So that's this story!

Main pairing yet to be decided, but likely to be Hawke/Fenris because of who I am as a person. Warning for some dubious consent stuff with Hawke/Athenril as a pairing. In theory, Hawke is consenting but there's a serious power imbalance and it does get nasty. I'll flag any other warnings as we go.

Standard warnings for character death because Dragon Age II.

Chapter 1: Fleeing Lothering

Garrett Hawke was woken by his twin sister Bethany in the middle of the night.

“Carver’s back. We need to go.”

He blinked, struggling to claw his way from the Fade back to reality. The outskirts of Lothering, their farm house, the room he shared with his sister. And voices - raised - in the main room of the house.

“He’s back? So the rumours were true?”

Bethany looked pale as she grabbed her staff and the ever present quick-escape satchel she kept under the bed. Hawke practically fell out of bed to find his clothes and his own emergency supplies. They were meant for the possible discovery that one of them - or both of them - were apostates. They’d been in Lothering for ten years, the longest the Hawke family had ever managed, but there had been a time in their lives when running was a frequent occurrence. Especially when he and Bethany had come into their magic not six weeks apart.

Carver stuck his head in, eyeing both of them.

“Move it,” he growled, “The Darkspawn are almost here. You shouldn’t have waited.”

Garrett pulled his shirt over his head and then glared at him.
“Mother wouldn’t let us go without you.” He said.

“And I’ve told her she was a fool.” Carver said shortly. The five years between them felt like a lifetime as he regarded them. “It may already be too late to escape.”

The younger Hawke didn’t argue as he grabbed his overcoat and staff. Both of them carried staffs adapted from common farm tools. At first glance, most people would not be able to tell the difference. Safer, that way. Their father had always impressed on them the importance of staying quiet, of not seeking attention. Bethany had taken to the lessons better than Garrett had. He was, to quote his older brother, a sarcastic little fucker.

In the living room, their mother was busy throwing sand over the remains of the smouldering hearth whilst Sabre barked and whined at the door. Garrett sniffed, more awake now, and realised he could smell burning. He crossed to the front door and let Sabre out. There, down the hill in the dark was an orange glow.

“Shit is that -”

“Lothering.” Carver grunted. “Mother, we need to go - now. Leave the bloody fire, we’re not coming back.”

Bethany appeared at her twin’s side, pale in the night.
“Oh Maker, all those people.”

“Most have fled,” Garrett said, trying to stay quiet, “They weren’t waiting for family returning from Ostagar.”

There was a clip around his ear and Carver was standing there, glowering. Of course he’d heard. Their mother slipped out the door, eyes red from tears.

“I didn’t escape that trap to die here.” Carver growled. “Or to listen to your tongue, Garrett. Get moving.”

They moved in the dark, the twins huddling together as Carver pushed them to run and walk in bursts. Bethany kept looking back over her shoulder, squinting into the dark like she could see the darkspawn catching up with them.

“We can’t outrun them,” she whispered, “They don’t sleep, right? What happens when we need to stop?”

Garrett didn’t know. He didn’t really want to think about it. He’d known their mother’s insistence on waiting one more day, just one more day for Carver to return was a bad idea. But how could he have pushed her to run when it was her oldest son they’d have been abandoning? When she had only just started to come out of her shell after the death of their father?

Dawn rose and they kept moving. The first darkspawn found them not long after, Sabre offering a warning growl moments before they burst from the undergrowth, and Carver put his maul through its head as Bethany screamed in panic.

Carver’s eyes found Garrett’s and he said.
“Eyes sharp. There will be more.”

There was a cluster not long later and Garrett remembered his father’s words as he reached into the Fade and pulled back fire. Never in violence, always in self-defence. To protect those you care about. Their mother was defenceless as he burned the creature, heart in his mouth. Carver stepped back, two more dead by his hand. Garrett realised he was shaking. He’d never actually fought anyone before using magic. His fists, yes. But it wasn’t like he could punch the darkspawn.

Ice erupted next to him and Bethany clutched her staff in a death grip as she killed the final blighted creature threatening them.

They ran. And when their mother finally stumbled, it was Garrett who helped her to feet and turned to Carver.

“We need to stop. Mother can’t keep this up.”

“I’m fine,” their mother lied, but there was a tension in her voice, “We have to keep going.”

Carver looked up and down the road, as Bethany chipped in.

“Where are we even going? Where can we run to that isn’t overrun?”

Carver gritted his teeth.
“North,” he said, “We just need to stay ahead of the Blight.”

Garrett swallowed his retort that they’d run out of north eventually - and that historically, the Blight kept spreading.

“We can go to Kirkwall. My family still has estates there.”

The twins swung to stare at their mother. Their mother, the noble woman who’d run away from the Free Marches to marry a Ferelden apostate.

“There are a lot of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother.” Bethany said.

Hawke shuddered.
“Yeah, not a fan. Bad call.”

“Not your call to make.” Carver said, shooting his brother a look. “It’s no more dangerous than Ferelden. The only place the two of you might be even slightly safe would be Tevinter and that’s not going to happen. Come on. We can’t stop.”

As if to prove his point there was a warning growl of oncoming darkspawn and Garrett slung his staff off his back to fight once again.

When they came to a curve in the road ahead, they found a man and a woman in leather armour fighting a dozen darkspawn off. Carver didn’t hesitate - just hefted his maul and charged forwards. Sabre charged after him, a mabari wardog at heart despite the years spent in peace at the farm. Bethany raised her staff and ice crackled, but Garrett had spotted the man’s shield, the style of his armour and hissed.

“Templar!”

It was too late - and Carver needed help. Cursing, Garrett set the nearest darkspawn on fire.

The Templar looked up as the ice and fire hit the cluster of darkspawn, and one of them took advantage to sink its teeth into his neck. The younger Hawke brother swore again as the red-headed woman gave a cry and started to fight with a ferocity that put Carver to shame. She ripped the offending darkspawn off of the Templar and put her sword through it, snarling. Garrett concentrated and tried to summon a fireball. Not exactly a skill he’d had to practise, back on the farm. The rush of fire filled the air and two more darkspawn burned. Huh. He was quite good at this.

Then it was over and it was just their luck the Templar was still standing.

“Stay back, apostates.”

The man was bleeding badly as the woman tried to staunch the flow of blood. His eyes were hard and staring at the two of them. Bethany hesitated, but Garrett moved on instinct, putting himself bodily between the man and his sister. He met the Templar’s eyes with raised chin, heart hammering in his chest. He couldn’t Smite both of them, could he?

“Should we have left you to die?” Carver growled.

The woman turned, and Hawke recognised some of her armour as Ferelden. She must have been at Ostagar. With Carver. He stayed quiet, Bethany’s hand clutched in his as a warning that his tongue might not be the best option right then.

“They saved us, Wesley.” The woman said hesitantly. “The Maker would understand.”

The younger Hawke brother snorted, quietly. The Maker. What the fuck did the Maker care what happened? He’d sent the Blight as punishment after all. The Templar’s eyes hadn’t left his and he glowered at Garrett’s reaction.

But when he spoke, the woman’s words seemed to have reached him.
“The north road is overrun. If you had hoped to make it that way, you are too late.”

“Then we’re trapped,” Bethany said shakily as their mother offered a prayer out to Andraste to guide them. “The wilds and the horde are to the south.”

“We’ll take our chances.” Carver said, before eyeing the two strangers. “Come with us, if you want. Or not. I don’t really care.”

The Templar, Wesley, braced himself and rolled his injured shoulder. The woman - his wife? - took his shield without a word. As Garrett walked past, still holding Bethany’s hand, Wesley growled.

“I’ll be watching you.”

“Probably better to be watching for the darkspawn.” Garrett responded.

Carver called out without looking back over his shoulder. Sabre was walking at his feet, alert to danger.
“Shut it, brother.”

Bethany’s shoulders hunched a little. Gritting his teeth, Garrett nudged her ahead so it was his back exposed to the Templar as they walked. He tried to ignore the sensation of the man’s eyes on the back of his neck.

The next band of Darkspawn came running down the road to meet them and between the now six of them including Sabre the blighted creatures died without much struggle. The bigger concern, Garrett realised, was that he was starting to feel tired. He’d never have to fight like this before. How much mana did he and Bethany have left? How exhausted was Carver, having seemingly travelled through the night to reach them? How much longer could their injured companion keep going?

They crested the top of a hill and the biggest monster Garrett had ever seen came crashing up to meet them, aiming straight at their mother.

Carver was there in an instant, maul raised to meet it, but the ogre had momentum and size on its side. Garrett tried to get a barrier up between his brother and the darkspawn, but it smashed straight through and kept going. Everything seemed to slow down around Garrett as he watched his brother crumple in its grip, maul dropping to the floor as the older Hawke was thrown bodily across the plateau.

Reality reasserted itself as Bethany screamed Carver’s name and ice seemed to form in the air, hanging like crystals before stabbing down at the ogre. Garrett blinked rapidly, trying to shake the afterimage of Carver collapsing from his vision as he reached for fire. Heat flared, roiling off his own skin. The ogre snarled and thrashed as it burned, but neither twin stopped casting. It toppled over slowly, downed under the twin’s desperate assault.

Sabre was standing over her fallen master, snarling and attacking a darkspawn that had gotten too close. The red-headed woman who’d introduced herself as Aveline put her sword through the thing and Sabre hunched over Carver, keening.

Their mother stood frozen before the dead ogre, staring into nothing.

More darkspawn were coming. Garrett hurried over to Carver’s limp form. This couldn’t be happening.

Carver had always been so solid, so present. Some of Garrett’s earliest memories were his brother, in easier times, before their father had died. Before Garrett and Bethany had manifested their magic, and they were just the Hawke siblings. Before Carver had been forced to be the man of the house, before he’d promised their dying father to protect the twins. Before the weight of that promise had led him to Ostagar.

His brother was so small, Garrett thought as he stared down at Carver’s broken body.

“More darkspawn,” Aveline said, sounding grim. “Stand up, Garrett. Don’t let them take you too.”

She didn’t know him, but her tone brooked no disagreement. Stumbling, Garrett got to his feet and turned to face the approaching horde.

Maker, there was no way they could fight that many. Sabre snapped and growled and ran forwards. Something in the back of Garrett’s mind whispered that he was the head of the family now. Second-born, by not much at all. He could hear Bethany crying.

Then there was a screeching, piercing cry and Garrett Hawke looked up to see the dragon.

Chapter 2: Entering Kirkwall

“You’ve got two choices, as far as I see it.” Uncle Gamlen said with a sneer. “Take the deal, or walk over to the good Lieutenant of the guard over there and hand yourselves in as apostates, and I’ll find the money for your mother.”

The now-eldest Hawke stared at his uncle, mind reeling.

It had cost them everything to get to the docks at the Gallows, both financially and emotionally. They’d had to leave Carver and Ser Wesley where they fell on the outskirts of the Korcari Wilds, bodies broken by the Darkspawn. Aveline had ended her husband’s life herself when the taint had become obvious, her hands shaking with the weight of it as she’d driven in the blade between his ribs. Sabre had refused to budge from his master's side and they’d left the dog in the care of the Witch. His mother’s weeping as they fled the plateau in the wake of Flemeth’s intervention still haunted Garrett when he tried to sleep at night. Flemeth had promised to burn them, but there was no guarantee she would have held to her word. She’d done more than enough for them at Hawke’s desperate urging.

The last of their coin had gone on the ship passage, and Aveline had bribed the city guard with a chantry ring of some value to get a message to Gamlen. Only for the twin’s Uncle to turn out to be a drunken reprobate who’d gambled away the family fortune.

The only thing holding Garrett Hawke in that courtyard, underneath the harrowing statues of slaves and the shadow of the Templar Order, was his mother.

She’d blamed him for Carver. Had cried that she hadn’t wanted a hero, she’d wanted her son - and why hadn’t Garrett’s barrier held, why hadn’t he been able to save him. What good was his magic if it couldn’t do this? Garrett hadn’t known what to say. It was always Carver who had saved him, after all. Carver, who’d taught him how to throw a punch when it was clear that Garrett’s smart mouth would get him in trouble. Carver, who’d taken the time to show him how to fight with a polearm when it was obvious Hawke would need to hide a staff in plain sight for the rest of his life.

The polearms he and Bethany now carried thanks to Flemeth’s magic twisting their humble farm implements into something less likely to raise suspicions in a city. What kind of peasant ran with their tools to an urban environment, after all?

He’d mentioned, in those bleak moments after realising that they were standing in the Gallows Courtyard with no way into the city, that they could try their luck elsewhere. That there were other cities in the Free Marches. His mother had started to cry again, after weeks of numb silence and hollow eyes. Bethany had swallowed and whispered.

“She won’t make it, brother.”

He was so tired. His hand shook as he ran them through his matted, overgrown hair. For the first time in his life, he had an actual beard rather than awkward patchy wisps. Two months on the road to be denied at the end.

“I’ll speak to her,” he muttered, shoulders slumping, “But Bethany …”

“- Is right here and able to speak for herself.” Interrupted his sister, shooting him a glare. “I won’t let you take this burden on alone.”

“Yes, yes, she’s expecting both of you. Down by the market stalls, looking for a knife-ear in dark green leathers. Make the deal, and she’ll get you into the city.”

Athenril. A smuggler who was willing to take a shot on two Ferelden refugees. A year of indentured servitude to a criminal enterprise in exchange for access to the city. And somehow it was still the better option than the other. The Gallows towered over them, a shadow that lingered over the twins threateningly. Their Uncle had hardly lowered his voice as he’d thrown the word apostates at them. How easy it would have been for someone to overhear - it would have been over in a heartbeat. They’d seen a mage dragged into the tower by Templars only the day before. The woman had been pregnant.

Bethany’s hand found his as they walked past the city guards. They’d always been close - how could they not? They were twin apostates. Garrett had found himself on that first night fleeing the wilds riddled with guilt for the relief he felt that it hadn’t been Bethany taken by the ogre. Carver hadn’t deserved to die - hadn’t deserved to survive Ostagar and then fall unmarked and unknown as just another casualty of the Blight. But Bethany’s death would have broken the remaining Hawke brother. He’d do anything to keep her safe - including selling himself to a smuggling ring. Just for a year, he reminded himself. And it wasn’t slavery. Not really.

Aveline was talking to the Lieutenant. She’d mentioned trying to join the guard as a way into the city that didn’t leave her in debt to the Hawke family. It might be useful to have a friend in the guard, once they were inside.

The smuggler eyed them over as they approached.

“Shit, you look young.”

“We’re nineteen next month,” Bethany said, letting go of Garrett’s hand. “And we can fight. We came all the way from Lothering, through the darkspawn.”

The elf raised an eyebrow, then looked at him.

“Can you talk, or does your sister not let you get a word in edgeways?”

Garrett snorted.
“I was going to try and convince you to take just me on, but she’s determined to see her own way into the city.”

“Hmm. Your Uncle promised me two apostates. It’s both of you or nothing.”

She dropped her voice, but Garrett still felt Bethany tense next to him. He glanced up and down the narrow street, but no one was nearby to overhear.

“He mentioned that did he? I hope he can keep his mouth shut once we’re in the city or this is going to be a very short business arrangement.”

Athenril smiled thinly.
“Don’t worry, kid. Gamlen is a fool, but a harmless one. And I can keep the Templars looking the other way as long as you’re smart about it. Can you fight with that polearm you’re carrying?”

“A little,” He said, “Older brother taught me a bit. Enough to survive.”

“Healing?”

“Not really our thing.” Bethany chipped in. “But our dad used to make all sorts of potions and poultices. We can keep the group supplied.”

It had been one of their father’s biggest disappointments in training them to discover that his own talents for creation magic hadn’t passed down. He’d joked that the magic in their mother’s line clearly ran to the elemental, but he’d been despondent however much he tried to hide it. Garrett could just about heal bruises, Bethany a little more, but their father had been a healer. People from all over the Lothering area had come to him for the poultices and stitches that worked better than they should have done. No one had ever worked it out, or if they had, they’d kept silent. The town had mourned his passing, but not as much as the twins.

Athenril was considering them, clearly trying to decide whether they were worth the effort. A question burned at Garrett and he couldn’t stop himself from asking, despite the risk.

“What do you smuggle? It’s not slaves, is it?”

The first boat they’d tried to pay for passage across the Waking Sea had felt wrong to both twins, and suspiciously cheap in the Captain’s fees. It had been Aveline though who’d spotted the manacles not shoved entirely out of sight. And they hadn’t wanted to take Leandra. When the ship had sailed out later that night, it was replaced by a similar one promising passage to Rivain for half the price of the others.

The smuggler glowered.
“What kind of prick do you think I am?”

“The kind who associates with our uncle?” Garrett responded and that glower became a snort of amusement.

“No, not slaves. Black market stuff, mostly, some lyrium. Never people. On my honour - which I do have.”

Garrett nodded.
“Fine. We agree.”

“Not so fast,” Atheneril said, raising a hand, “It’s a lot of money to get the three of you in, and I’m only being compensated for two. There’s a dwarf who owes me money in the square. Get him to settle his bill without drawing Templar attention and I figure you’re worth it. Understood?”

Through gritted teeth, Garrett nodded and went to turn away when Athenril spoke again.

“Oh, and kid? Question me again and I’ll use you for skinning practice. I didn’t say shit about selling bits of shem to questionable sources.”

Despite himself, he froze. Then he walked away without looking back, her laughter following him back up the street to the square.

It wasn’t hard to threaten the dwarf, considering the burning in his own blood about the situation. He looked like he could hold himself in a fight at the best of times, but towering over the merchant he channelled as much of Carver as he could into his attitude. It worked. Bethany collected the payment with a beatific smile and a smooth apology for her brother’s attitude, and even got a stammered polite response from the merchant. Impressive.

“Try not to look quite so furious.” Bethany whispered, as they walked away, “We need her on our side.”

That was easy enough for her to say. But Garrett made himself slow his pace and focus on his breathing. If nothing else, he didn’t need a fire starting spontaneously to draw the Templars' eyes.

Bethany handed over the pouch and Athenerill bounced it in her palm, checking the weight before peering in and drawing out a sovereign. Garrett watched her bite it for authenticity, wondering if they could have just taken the purse and bribed the guards themselves. But it didn't seem wise to have a smuggling outfit on their tail from the start - especially if their leader knew they were apostates. She could ruin their lives so easily, even without resorting to physical threats. Garrett closed his eyes for a moment, breathing out. He was so tired.

When he opened his eyes, Athenril was regarding him.
“Well done - quick and efficient. I liked the stick followed by the honey. Although I think you've got more honey in you kid than you’re pretending.”

Garrett blinked. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to respond to that. She grinned at his lack of response.
“Quick learner too. You could be an excellent investment.”

He tried not to shiver under her gaze. Maker, he wished Carver was there. He wouldn’t tolerate this. He wouldn’t roll over and let Gamlen sell them into servitude.

But he wasn’t, and now Hawke had to step up and be the head of the family. And that meant getting his family into Kirkwall, at any cost. He swallowed.

“Did I see your red-headed friend chatting to the guards?” the elf asked, changing the topic so sharply Hawke jerked a little.

“She wants to join. She was an officer in the Ferelden army.”

Antherill looked back down the corridor towards the main plaza, considering.
“Well that will be useful. An inside contact.”

Garrett winced.
“She’s very… straight-laced. I don’t think she’d agree to help.”

He tried to phrase it in a way that couldn’t be taken as contradicting the smuggler. She shot him a look that suggested he’d only half-succeeded.

“Oh, she doesn’t need to agree. You’re going to do everything I ask, aren’t you? I’m sure she’ll tell you the guard routes if you ask her nicely.”

Bethany was eyeing him worriedly. But he made himself nod, like there was nothing he’d rather be doing in the world.

“Good. In that case, go running back to your mother and tell her the good news. I’ll have the bribes in place before sundown. And I expect both of you to report to The Broken Oxcart at the docks at sunrise. Understood?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Anthenril chuckled.
“Such a good boy.” She said, before patting him on the cheek and strolling out towards the plaza like she owned the whole damn world.

Chapter 3: A Smuggler's Life

Hawke lounged by the wind-sheared tree on the edge of the cliff, watching.

He really didn’t like this plan. A subsidiary of the Carta, that was pretending to all and intents purposes to not be the Carta, had been wrestling in on Athenril’s smuggling routes for the last weeks. In theory, their little outfit wasn’t big enough to take on the dwarven crime empire. In theory, the Carta left small fry like them alone. But in the last eight months, Atheneril’s crew had moved from being unworthy of attention to a thorn in the Carta’s side. The addition of two human apostates had been a very successful gamble on the elven rogue’s part. But that kind of growth got you noticed. And that notice had come with more challenges to their territory, to their suppliers - to their routes.

This group had Carta links for sure. A subtle testing of Athenril’s mettle where both sides could claim ignorance afterwards.

It was, also, testing Hawke’s mettle because Bethany was currently in the cave with several other members of the gang, trying to harry the enemy group onto the cliffs. They’d entered from another cave mouth and had several smoke bombs and poison grenades that would force the panicked not-Carta smugglers out to the fresh air. Bethany was there as back up, should anyone try to flee in the wrong direction. She shouldn’t need to get involved. But Hawke hated having her out of sight on missions.

Two more months. Two more months of this and they could walk away.

A bird call from a hedge close to the cave entrance alerted Hawke to the fact that there was movement, finally. He pushed away from the weathered tree and readied his staff. No need to be cautious, here. There wouldn’t be any survivors.

The first smuggler staggered out of the cave, coughing, and an arrow took him in the throat.

Hawke went to move forwards when there was another, sharper bird call from further down the path. Behind them. Hawke whirled, and moments later the trap sprang.

A dozen men charged over the dune, rushing up to meet Anthenril’s gang at the same time another handful of men advanced out of the cave mouth. At least, Hawke realised, the ones in the cave were struggling with the poison gas in the systems. But the ones closest to him seemed clear-eyed, clear-lunged and ready to kill.

His mind raced as he threw the barrier over Athenril with casual ease. Eight months of fighting had ingrained some things as instinct. Regardless of how the other smugglers had discovered their plans and countered-trapped them, they must not have known about the other cave entrance, or they wouldn’t have let themselves be caught in the gas. Which meant Bethany was probably safe. Probably. Certainly safer than he was.

Fire flared and men died screaming. But then Hawke felt the tug of static and yelled as he flung himself to the side.

“They’ve got an apostate!”

The lightning bolt cracked down where he’d been standing. Hawke scrambled to his feet and spotted the woman hanging back, eyes on him. He pulled magic through the Fade and concentrated on a new trick he’d been learning. The sand of the Wounded Coast crawled up his body and solidified into a form of armour that should dampen the impact of any magic that she was able to fling at him. He still shouldn’t take a direct hit, but anything less than that would be far less dangerous. Dodging backwards from a smuggler’s blade, he brought his staff round and smashed it into the dwarf’s skull, breaking through skin and bone. The dwarf dropped, dead.

It was chaos, but the poison gas had taken the edge off of the ambush. It didn’t take long for those at the cave mouth to turn and join the fray further down the path. Hawke flung another fireball out and the scrubland burned, along with a poor unfortunate soul who hadn’t gotten out of the way in time. Static built up again and Hawke dropped to the floor and rolled as more lightning crackled over his head. Then it cut off, too sharply. Hawke managed to right himself and found Antheril standing over the corpse of the enemy mage. She blew him a kiss across the battlefield and Hawke let out a laugh before falling right back into combat.

Finally, the last dwarf lay dying and Hawke looked around. Two of their number dead, another three hurt. Bad, but not as bad as it could have been. Instinctively, he let the rock armour fall back to sand and pool at his feet before he hurried down the path, towards the second cave entrance.

Athenril stepped in front of him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” She asked, reaching up and brushing sand out of his hair.

She knew, of course, but she liked to turn him around until he didn’t know what was up or down.

“Bethany.”

“She’ll be fine. Safer in the cave than out here. Honestly, you’re such a loyal Ferelden dog.”

She sounded amused. Hawke tried to side-step her and her eyes narrowed. One of her knives, still bloodied, appeared pressed to his collarbone. No longer amused.

“Stand down, dog. I need you here. What if there are more? Would you leave me without my favourite apostate?”

Hawke gritted his teeth, but didn’t move. He’d never truly given her a reason to use those knives on him, and he wasn’t about to start now. Eight months. He’d made it eight months.

“My favourite apostate might be dying in that cave, Athenril. They knew we were coming.”

Athenril glowered.
“Yes, about that. One of our crew is a traitor. So how about you stop worrying about your perfectly capable little sister and start worrying about finding who it was before I get angry.”

Hawke blinked. Our crew. He wasn’t going to mention that slip. They might have reached a rather indelicate understanding about the tension between them, but Hawke was as much hers to command as the others. More so, considering, and not because of the months still left on his indenture. He let himself be led back to the others.

How was he meant to find the traitor? Hawke was her enforcer, yes, but his skills were mostly around burning things and looking surprisingly tough for a mage.

It probably wasn’t someone in Athenril’s tightest circle, he figured, or the enemy would have had antidotes to the poisons. And it probably wasn’t one of the dead, for obvious reasons. Was there anyone who wasn’t here, who should have been? Or anyone who had been picked to come who had wanted out? Anyone who in the heat of battle had seemingly not been too concerned about the fight?

“Garrett!”

Hawke turned and Bethany was running towards them, eyes wide. Athenril gave him a knowing smirk that said, see, I told you she was fine. Hawke crossed the gap and pulled Bethany into his arms.

“I came as fast as I could. Stefran tried to kill Jana just before she launched the poison and I barely stopped him in time. Maker, what happened out here?”

“A trap,” Hawke said, holding her a little bit tighter. “Stefran tried to kill Jana?”

Stefran’s brother, Naffi, froze where he’d been going through the Carta dead, going pale. Hawke caught Athenril’s eye and cast without hesitation, trapping the man in a prison. He barely had to move to do it. It was one of the spells she liked him knowing, and used often for intimidation. Or assassination. Much easier to slide the knife in if the victim wasn’t able to twitch a muscle.

“Well well,” Athenril purred, approaching the paralysed man, “You and your brother thought you’d get a better cut under the Carta, huh?”

Hawke held the spell without a word until she was done. Bethany didn’t watch. For a smuggler, she still held some more gentle sensibilities. Her brother didn’t. He watched every cut of Athenril’s knife.

Back down on the beach, the group set up tents for the night. Bethany cleaned the wounds of the three injured men whilst Hawke did one final sweep of the area to ensure nothing nasty lay in wait for them. Athenril glowered into the fire until he was done and gave her one small nod to say it was safe.

“I want double guards on every watch.” She said out loud to the assembled group. “And no drinking. I want us sober and ready in case of another attack.” No one argued.

Hawke took first watch, sitting in silence next to three others all on edge. When he crawled into the tent he shared with their leader at the end of his stint, he found her awake. Not entirely unsurprising. Athenril slept little, even when not reflecting on betrayal in the ranks.

She looked at him, cold eyes full of heat for once.

“All quiet?”

He nodded, peeling himself out of his armour and watched the heat in her gaze shift slightly. She was just in her undershirt, and Hawke could see the lithe outline of her body, even in the dark. He crawled across to her and she kissed him, cupping his chin in her slender hand, fingers running across his stubble from the two days out of the city. Then she pushed his head down between her thighs.

She was still in charge, even here. When they’d first tumbled into bed after a dangerous row four months ago, Athenril had made it clear that his contract didn’t extend to this. That he could get up and walk away whenever he wanted. And then she’d called him dog and pulled at his hair and Hawke had been lost, regardless of whether it was right, or sensible, or good for him. She’d laughed at his naivety, his enthusiasm, his inexperience, and moulded him into what she wanted. Hawke assumed he wanted it too. At least, it felt good and she seemed less inclined to stick daggers in him when he was sharing her bed.

In the aftermath, Hawke curled against her slender body as she smirked.

“Your Uncle should have sold you to The Blooming Rose,” she said, still idly playing with his hair, “You’re a natural.”

Hawke stilled at the joke.
“I would have killed him for doing that to Bethany.”

She reached down and pinched, hard, at the skin on his ribs, aiming to hurt.
“Bethany this, Bethany that. What about what you want? Would you have wanted to be a whore, Hawke?”

He bit his lip and didn’t answer. No, he didn’t want to be a whore, but he would have done anything to get them into Kirkwall in the aftermath of Carver’s death. Anything that wasn’t the Circle.

She tugged at his hair, pulling his head up. Clearly, she wanted a response. Hawke gave one of his best charming smiles.

“Only if you were one of my regulars.”

Athenril rolled her eyes, but she kissed him gently on the forehead, pleased all the same.

“Idiot shem.” She said fondly. She didn’t call him boy anymore. He was dog, or shem, mostly. Hawke replayed her words in his head and caught what he’d missed the first time. Ah. They weren’t actually talking about him being a whore.

“What I want,” he said, sitting up to look at her, “is for Bethany and I to be safe.”

Her face darkened. They were back at their now familiar argument.
“You cannot be safe, dog, not in Kirkwall. If you leave my service there will be no one to organise accidents like the one that befell Ser Vylen.”

Ser Vylen. A Templar that had gotten suspicious of the twins and had been unfortunately killed by muggers on a Darktown street two months ago. No witnesses. A tragic accident.

“I don’t want this life for Bethany, either.” Hawke argued, retreading familiar ground. “She deserves better.”

“Then I’ll let her go, and you stay here with me.”

Hawke really wasn’t about to mention to Athenril that Bethany had made it very clear that he wasn’t staying either. She disliked the hold the elf had on him. She disliked the work. She disliked the person her brother was becoming. And who was he to deny her anything?

“We’re leaving, Athenril. Nothing you say will change that.”

Her eyes glittered in the dark and she pushed away from him.
“You can find somewhere else to sleep.”

Notes:

...I definitely have an AU half-written where Hawke does end up in the Rose. I'm not sure if it will ever see the light of day :')

Chapter 4: Ambitious Plans

“Should we be worried about our growing reputations?” Bethany muttered as they walked away from the dwarf.

Hawke swallowed and shot his sister a look.

“Perhaps,” he said, “But I don’t see what we can do about it. What did you think of his offer?”

Bethany adjusted the neckerchief at her throat as they walked.

“It is not a small amount of money,” she said, “But it’s doable. If it’s doable whilst staying unnoticed however…”

They were a fortnight out of Athenril’s employ, and already they felt the squeeze of the Templar’s fist on the city. In the smuggling ring, they’d spent more time out of Lowtown than in it. They’d gotten used to moving at night, at wielding their polearms as weapons, not staffs. But now they were without her protection - and were unlikely to get it again, after the threats she’d uttered in Bethany’s face when she’d put her foot down and insisted that Garrett was walking away with her.

He didn’t blame her - he hadn’t wanted to stay anymore than she did. But Athenril had killed off one Templar for them, and bribed a couple of others to look away at strategic moments. Now those payments had stopped, and more than one Templar had started digging about, wondering what had changed.

Hawke sighed.

“Right, well. We invite the dwarf up Sundermount to do Flemeth’s little amulet jaunt, then what - ask around for work?”

“The Chantry board will have something, I’m sure.” Bethany said. “And I want to investigate the old Amell Estate. Gamlen’s evasion about the will stinks.”

It definitely did. Hawke pushed hair that was getting too long off his face.

“Do you think Aveline will help?” He asked. “That’s a nice crossbow the dwarf wields, but we really could do with a heavy plate of armour between us and any slavers.”

“We can ask,” Bethany asked doubtfully, “But maybe we should keep an eye out for more allies. Maker, I don’t miss Athenril’s gang at all, but it was useful having someone else watching your back.”

Hawke grunted in agreement, and they swung left at the market, heading for the Viscount’s Keep.

Their first ally turned out to be a Dalish elf who seemed at odds with her clan and entirely too innocent to be slitting the palm of her hand to summon a demon. Bethany had tensed at the knife, but it had been Garrett who went wide-eyed as the barrier before them dissolved into nothing.

“That’s not - you didn’t -”

“Don’t worry,” the elf said with a smile, “It won’t hurt you. I know what I’m doing.”

Garrett doubted that, but he couldn’t argue with the result. Still, he made sure Merrill stayed ahead of him as they approached the elven graveyard.

Flemeth was every bit as intimidating and awe-inspiring as he had been back in the wilds, and still entirely disinclined to take Hawke’s request to learn to shapeshift as anything other than poor flattery. Still, they had paid their debts to the witch, and hopefully wouldn’t ever have need of her again.

“She seemed to like you, Garrett.” Bethany said as they wound their way back down the mountain. “Although, I didn’t like what she was saying about change and the world.”

“It is only when you fall that you learn how to fly,” Hawke muttered, wincing a little, “And she still wouldn’t bloody teach me how to be a dragon. How am I meant to fly as a human?”

A letter back at Uncle Gamlen’s led them to a second elf, who was angry and as deadly as Merrill was sweet and naive. Garrett’s eyes widened at the sight of all that lyrium under the elf’s skin. Maker, that had to be agony. The idea that Fenris had been a slave - that his former Master was in the city, sending hunters after him - he was quick to offer support. Bethany hissed at him in warning that perhaps a Tevinter warrior might not be too pleased to have two mages as back-up, and the elf caught the end of her sentence.

He glowered at Garrett, and he wanted to shrink back, but he kept his ground.

“Mages. How do I know you’re not in league with Danarius?”

“You don’t,” Hawke admitted, “But we just killed a dozen Vints for you, and you can’t go alone. Why not take a chance?”

Fenris scowled, eyeing both twins.

“I will kill you both if you betray me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Hawke replied faintly.

Danarius was gone by the time they swept the manor, leaving corpses and demons. Some of the corpses looked very, very old. Hawke didn’t know if they were, or if something had been done to them using blood magic. He wondered if he’d be stupid to ask Merrill.

A couple of days later he went back to the manor to find the elf.

“I know we don’t have much in common,” he said, as Fenris glowered at him at the back door, “But how would you feel about helping us clear my family estates of slavers?”

Unsurprisingly, Fenris was up for it. Bethany handed the key over to Varric, down in the Darktown sewers and let him lead the way, checking for traps the whole time. Hawke brought up the rear, tense. His magical affinities weren’t hugely helpful, here. Not unless he wanted to burn the place to the ground. He and Bethany shared a talent for force magic, but that too was probably a little too dangerous. He’d be able to smack slavers into the walls, but anything more might challenge the foundations.

Still, he got a barrier up over Varric when the first slavers reacted to their presence, and managed to send a small, controlled gout of flame at one of them. The man screamed, horribly, and Bethany’s ice magic followed Garrett’s, dampening the flames but ensuring the man did not survive.

Cautiously, they crept through the manor, killing slavers as they went. In one room, they found manacles attached to the wall and the overwhelming stench of human bodily fluids. Garrett’s stomach twisted in knots.

“I will kill them,” he said shakily, hands clutched over his staff, “I will kill every last one of these fuckers.”

Fenris grunted in approval and stalked out the room, lyrium glowing faintly. Perhaps they did have some common ground, after all.

Upstairs, they found a man in Tevinter style robes who had to be the leader. The man took one look at Fenris and paled.

“You - !”

The warrior seemed to step in and out of the Fade, fist clenching around the man’s heart. A row of spikes in the floor that he should have triggered went up, belatedly. Varric hurried to disarm the trap as Hawke trapped the man in a cage. Not that Fenris needed it.

Bethany went exploring in the vault as Garrett and Fenris checked the final few rooms. It was odd to think that this should have been their home - their estate. Could it be theirs again?

“Garrett, I’ve found it,” Bethany said, returning with a grim look on her face. In her hands she held a set of papers. They were trembling slightly. “Grandfather left it all to mother. A small stipend to Uncle Gamlen - he stole it all.”

Hawke blinked and stared at her. Then he took the papers and skimmed through them, reading, the anger growing in the pit of his stomach.

“Stole it, and lost it.” He said, before giving a brittle, fragile laugh. “And then he sold us to Athenril.”

Bethany’s hands covered his own gently.

“We’ll take this to the Viscount,” she said, “After mother has seen it. And we’ll make Gamlen squirm.”

Hawke nodded, and let her take the papers back. He looked at Varric and Fenris. The elf was frowning.

“Sold?” He asked, and Garrett flinched, immediately regretting his words.

“Not like that,” he said hurriedly, “We had to work for a smuggler for a year to pay the debt of getting into the city. We had a choice - just not much of one.”

One that would have led him and Bethany to the Gallows if they hadn’t agreed. But he didn’t think Fenris would necessarily see the problem, there. Varric sighed and shouldered Bianca.

“Nothing like a little family drama,” he said, “Come on broody - let’s go get a drink and wait for the inevitable update.”

Fenris’ frown deepened for a moment, regarding Hawke, before he nodded.

“You’re buying, dwarf.”

“Of course I am,” Varric said, “By my reckoning, you’re more broke than these two.”

“Trying to be less broke, Varric.” Garrett said as they headed for the door, “Fifty sovereigns. We’ve managed to save up a whole eight so far!”

Back at Uncle Gamlen’s hovel, they walked back in just in time to hear their uncle baldly suggest to his sister that they should pay more upkeep, now that most of their money wasn’t tied to Athenril.

“I think we’ve paid more than enough, actually,” Bethany said coldly, waving the documents in Gamlen’s face. “Or at least mother has.”

Leandra’s hands grabbed the paperwork before Gamlen could, reading the pages.

“Oh Gamlen, how could you!”

“Because he’s a lying, cheating, thieving scumbag, mother.” Garrett said dryly.

“You weren’t here!” Gamlen protested, “You’d run off with your dog lord and -”

The temperature in the room dropped a degree or two, rapidly, as Bethany’s hand tightened on her staff.

“That’s our father you’re talking about.” She said, her tone far more calm than the fog of her breath implied. “He was a better man than you.”

She didn’t get angry easily, but she loved their father.

“You didn’t even come back for the funeral!”

“The twins were a month old!” Leandra said, tears welling up in her eyes, “I could barely get out of bed!”

“You don’t need to answer to him, he’s not worth it.” Garrett said, putting an arm around her and pulling her in for a hug. Leandra seemed to crumple against him, mumbling her father’s name under her breath. They hadn’t been written out of the will. For all his fury, the grandfather they had never known hadn’t hated them. Sure, he hadn’t lived long enough to discover his youngest grandchildren had taken after their father, but still.

Gamlen drew himself up, glaring at Garrett.

“This is the bloody thanks I get.” He growled. “I got you into the city! I gave you a home! I’ve fed and bloody clothed you! You ungrateful little brat, I should have handed you over to the Templars the moment you arrived in the city. They’d give you something to whine about.”

Against Hawke’s chest, Leandra gave a shuddering sob. Hawke tightened his grip on his mother and glared at his Uncle.

“Careful, Gamlen. Don’t make me do something my mother will regret.”

He wouldn’t regret it for a damn moment. Neither, looking at her face, would Bethany.

Leandra pulled away from him, shaking her head.

“No, Garrett, don’t - I don’t care about the money. It’s enough to know father didn’t hate me, didn’t hate you. It’s enough.”

Hawke bit his tongue, still glaring at his Uncle, who’d gone pale. His eyes were wide, staring at his nephew. His nephew, the mage. Who’d spent a year under Athenril’s thumb, learning a dozen different ways to kill a man who’d crossed her. At him - not Bethany. Never Bethany.

Maker, he could take the man’s hatred and fear if it kept his ire away from his sister.

“Mother says it’s enough,” he said, as blandly as he could, “So how about it, Uncle? Is it enough? Or do we have a problem?”

A Templar shaped threat hung between them. Then Gamlen cursed and spat on the floor near Hawke’s feet.

“I need a drink.” He muttered. “I won’t hand you over. For your mother.”

Then he was gone, and Hawke rather wanted a drink of his own.

Chapter 5: Fifty Sovereigns

Notes:

TW for some of this - Hawke realises that his relationship with Athenril wasn't exactly wholesome and starts to reframe some of it. So, dub-con and abusive relationship warnings, along with some victim blaming, mostly internalised.

Isabela smirked at him across the table and took another sip of her beer.

“So let me get this straight,” she said, “You desperately need to scrape together fifty sovereigns to join this expedition of Varric’s, and your ex has offered you the loan and you’re not planning to take her up on it? Just how bad was the sex?”

Hawke buried his face in his own drink.

Three months he’d been free of Athenril. In that time, he’d turned twenty, cobbled together a rag-tag group of friends and somehow avoided being dragged off to the Gallows despite finding himself in a life-and-death fight alongside the Knight-Captain of the Templars. And fighting Templars in the Chantry. And lying to Templars on the Wounded Coast to protect apostates from Starkhaven.

It was, he had to admit, a small miracle in many ways, that he was still a free man to be worrying about such things as money.

But fifty sovereigns? That wasn’t a small sum.

He’d considered going to Athenril the moment Varric had mentioned the need to invest in the expedition to the Deep Roads. But Bethany wouldn’t have it, had insisted they could stand on their own two feet without her. And they had - but the money still wasn’t where it needed to be. They were running out of time.

She’d written to him, a note slipped into his pocket down when he’d been visiting Anders’ clinic in the wake of a rage demon burn that wouldn’t heal without attention.

Dog, I hear you need money. Come crawling back, and I’ll give you your loan. Your sister doesn’t need to know.

He had burnt the note, but it had burned itself into his mind. Isabela was watching him, amused, over the top of her drink, waiting for a response.

“It’s complicated.”

“Sex shouldn’t be complicated.” Isabela said with a shrug. “What’s the problem, Hawke?”

Hawke swallowed and considered what he should say. He liked Isabela, but something about her put him on edge when she flirted with him. Or when she poked and prodded at his love life.

“I don’t want to know what her conditions are for the loan.”

Isabela sat back a little, folding her arms under her breasts. Hawke, only human, let his gaze wander before looking away.

“Shall we go pay her a visit?” She said. “It sounds like you might need back-up. And I know you’ve not told Sunshine about this.”

Hawke didn’t really want Isabela to meet Athenril in any circumstances, let alone those that might lead to him really, truly, whoring himself to her. But he also didn’t want to go alone. Sighing, he finished his tankard and nodded.

“Come on then. Let’s get it over with.”

“You want Varric in on this too?”

Hawke shook his head and stood up. No, he didn’t want the dwarf to see him play nice with the woman who’d effectively owned him for a year.

Walking through Lowtown, they both kept an eye out for possible thugs. Hawke and his friends had taken down the main gang that had been operating in the streets, but there were always opportunists.

“Have I told you how my husband died, Hawke?”

Hawke nearly tripped over his own feet.
“You were married?”

Isabela chuckled.
“Pick your jaw up, sweet thing. Yes, I was married - sold off at nineteen to a man from Antiva. It happens.”

Hawke glanced at her, wondering where this story was going.

“Nineteen? Shit.”

Isabela tilted her head at him.
“You were nineteen, Hawke, when you went to Athenril’s bed.”

That was different. It hadn’t been marriage. But he knew that wasn’t the point she was making.

They started to walk up the stairs to the hightown markets.
“It was all very dull, of course. He wanted me to be a proper lady. And then I found out he was planning to lend me out to a friend.”

Hawke stilled.
“What did you do?”

“I had him killed.” Isabela said shortly, turning to face him. “No one gets to use you like that, Hawke. No matter who they were to you before.”

“We’re… we’re not talking about your husband, are we?” Hawke said weakly.

In the darkness, Isabela reached out and ruffled his hair.

“Clever lad.”

They neared the neighbourhood in The Red Lantern District where Athenril could be found some nights, coordinating the movement of goods. Indeed, under the torch light of the ally, he could see shadows moving. For a moment, he reconsidered this idea.

He knew what she wanted. And he knew he couldn’t give it to her. Perhaps he should just turn around and leave it be. He’d find the sovereigns elsewhere.

Then one of the silhouettes stepped into the light and Hawke swallowed as Athenril regarded him with a smirk.

“So. Here you are. I wondered when you’d come begging. Shouldn't you be on your knees?”

Hawke flinched and he could feel Isabela tense, just a little, behind him.
“Athenril. I got your note.”

“Hmm,” the elf rogue said, inspecting her long slender fingers, “Who’s your friend? Have you found yourself a new mistress already? I thought dogs were meant to be loyal, but it seems you roll over for anyone.”

Isabela didn’t say a word, which was unlike her. She was clearly letting him take the lead, although that was the last thing he wanted right then. Hawke made himself speak.

“The loan,” he said bluntly, “What are the terms?”

Athenril’s eyes flashed, and Hawke half expected a knife at his throat. She certainly wouldn’t have tolerated the disrespect before.

“The Carta would like to negotiate with me about exactly who runs this city. I’d feel a lot safer at that meeting with my favourite apostate at my side.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow. That didn’t sound too bad. Well, it sounded like a trap, but he’d expected worse. He’d expected months of answering to her again - it was suspicious, to say the least.

“Is that it?”

“And a night. I was hurt when you left without saying goodbye properly.”

A night. He could do that. Except…

He didn’t want to. In the three months since the twins had walked away, free, he hadn’t missed her once. Yes, the sex had been good, but he’d slept with one eye open the whole damn time. He hadn’t minded her being in charge, had liked it even, but the way she talked about him now made his skin crawl. She really didn’t see him as a person, he realised with a twist in his gut. He’d been a pliant body she could mould into what she wanted.

“I’ll support you against the Carta,” he said, “But I won’t sleep with you. And once the meeting with the Carta is over I never want to see you again.”

She took half a step forwards towards him, and Hawke stood his ground, heart in his mouth.

“I should have taught you manners, boy. You should be crawling on your knees, begging me to take you back.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

“I’ve crawled enough for you in my life.”

“You ungrateful little shit.” She growled. “I’d cut out your tongue if it wasn’t your best feature.”

A glint of steel in the torchlight and Hawke reached for the Fade on instinct, preparing to protect himself from those knives. But suddenly, Isabela was behind Athenril, her own blade pressed to the slender elf’s throat.

“Don’t move,” The Raider said, “Now, I’m all about people enjoying themselves in bed, but I don’t like this one bit. So, let’s negotiate how you’re going to make this up to my friend.”

Athenril was very still. Hawke’s heart hammered in his chest, the Fade still there at his fingertips if he needed it. And he would need it, if any of those shadows in the ally way dared to intervene. If Athenril called Isabela’s bluff. If it was a bluff. It was, he realised shakily, entirely possible Isabela would kill the smuggler.

“Your new mistress has claws.” Anthril said, glaring at Hawke. “Call her off, and I’ll let you both walk away.”

“I’m pretty damn sure I can’t make Isabela do anything she doesn’t want to do.” Hawke said. “And she’s not - we’re not - we’re friends. I think.”

Isabela let out a low chuckle and pressed her dagger a little closer to Athenril’s skin.
“You’re not calling the shots here, sweetheart. Let’s start negotiations at fifty sovereigns, an apology, and a deep, sincere promise to stay far away from the Hawke twins for the rest of your miserable life.”

Despite the situation, Hawke was utterly grateful that Isabela thought to include Bethany. What good would it do him if Athenril simply took revenge for this humiliation out on his sister?

The elf’s teeth were gritted as she spat out.

“You’re not getting shit from me.”

“Aww come on,” Isabela cooed in her ear, “Varric told me you were a smart businesswoman. You can’t enjoy your little smuggling empire if you’re dead now, can you? Oh! Do you have a boat? I’d love a boat. Maybe I can take your place. I’ll be kinder to your men. They’ll love me.”

“Just give me your word you’ll stay away from me and Bethany,” Hawke said, “I’ll find the money elsewhere.”

Athenril glared at him, then she said stiffly.
“You have my word. Now get the fuck out of here.”

Hawke caught Isabela’s eye and gave a small nod, mouth dry. The knife against Athenril’s throat disappeared and Hawke tensed, waiting for the elven rogue to attack. She didn’t. Isabela moved, coming to stand beside Hawke as he stared at the woman who’d controlled his life for a year, who’d delighted in making him dance for her pleasure. Then he very carefully, very deliberately, turned his back and walked away. He couldn’t look back - couldn’t give her the satisfaction. Isabela knew her craft. He had to trust her to keep him safe.

He kept waiting for the blade between his ribs until they were back at the hightown markets all the same.

“You good, Hawke?”

No. No he was not good. But when he spoke, he tried to keep his voice light.

“That went as well as I’d expected.”

Isabela laughed.
“I’ll say. Catch.”

Hakwe turned and fumbled the coin purse she threw at him. He stared down at it, nonplussed, before looking up at her.

“You robbed her.”

“She deserved it for what she did to you.” Isabela said before looking at him uncharacteristically serious. “I mean it, Hawke. Are you okay?”

He swallowed and looked back down at the coin purse in his hands. Even if it didn’t make up the difference to fifty sovereigns, it would come close. His hands were shaking.

“I - I thought I liked it. I thought I liked her.”

It wasn’t what he meant to say. He closed his fist over the coin purse and tucked it away without looking back at Isabela.

“Hey,” she said, into the aching silence, “Fair warning, I’m going to hug you, okay?”

He looked up, frowning, only to suddenly find her pulling him into her arms. Oh. He was taller, but she’d manage to angle it somehow so he could rest his head on her shoulder. He closed his eyes, breathing out shakily, as she said.

“Sometimes, we can only recognise something isn’t good for us afterwards. And she wasn’t good for you, Hawke.”

That much was obvious, now. Maker, he’d been an idiot. He pulled away slowly and made himself breathe out.

“I should listen to Bethany more.”

Isabela laughed.
“She’s your sister. She’s meant to disapprove of your romantic entanglements.”

He didn’t think the word romantic applied here. But he conceded the point.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, still not quite able to look at her, “I - uh. Can we not tell the others about this?”

“I only discuss the fun sexy stuff.” Isabela said, and Hawke could picture her grin as she said it despite still staring at the flagstones between them. “Come on. Let’s get you home before your sister starts to worry.”

They were half-way down the steps to Lowtown when she spoke again.
“Oh - and if you ever want to explore some of that stuff you thought you liked with her in a way more fun environment, you know where I am.”

Hawke groaned, despite himself.
“I think I’ve gone off sex for a while.”

“Said no twenty-year old man in history.” Isabela snorted. “Give it time.”

Chapter 6: The Deep Roads

Hawke stared at the stone door that Bartrand had just closed on them with dawning horror that they were trapped.

They’d passed so many of those dwarven doors on their journey, the sturdy stone and metal impossible to shift even for Fenris. All four of them together wouldn’t be able to push it open.

Betrayed, for an idol of strange red lyrium that had made his skin crawl to touch.

A small voice that sounded suspiciously like his mother’s whispered in his ears.

I told you. I told you this was too dangerous.

She’d begged him not to take Bethany, and after she’d started to cry in the square, Bartrand muttering something behind him about foolish humans, he’d acquiesced to her pleas. Bethany had been furious, of course, but thank the Maker she wasn’t there now.

He didn’t think he’d cope if she was trapped too.

Bethany would be okay, without him, wouldn’t she? She was the quieter, more cautious twin. She’d be safe, without him dragging her into every fight in Kirkwall looking for coin. She could look after mother, find a way to get them out of Gamlen’s house before he grew too sour at housing an apostate. Their mother was petitioning the Viscount about the family title and estate. They’d be okay. They didn’t need him.

Varric kicked the door with a ferocity Hawke hadn’t thought the dwarf possessed. Hawke briefly considered whether dropping a fireball on it with enough heat might melt the stone. Magma was a thing, after all.

“Varric,” came Anders’ voice from somewhere behind them, “No offence, but your brother is a massive arsehole.”

Hawke snorted, despite the situation.
“Rather the understatement, Anders. If we get out of here, Varric, I’m going to murder him.”

“You and me both, kiddo.” Varric muttered, before kicking the door again, more half-heartedly this time.

Fenris was suspiciously silent. Hakwe turned to see the elf standing there, golden skin a little paler than usual. But he held himself with that same composure he always did. Not for the first time, Hawke found himself wondering what shit he’d seen in his life to not even flinch at the very real possibility of dying down in the fucking Deep Roads of all places.

“Come on,” Hawke muttered, “Let’s find a way out.”

They were in a vault. There was no way out, no corridor or side passage. It became all too obvious, all too quickly, how trapped they were.

Hawke was reaching for the Fade before he consciously knew what he was doing, mind racing through all the spells and manipulations he could think of to try and break down the door. The world around him seemed to warp as he pushed force magic at the stone, willing it to move, straining as hard as if he were physically pushing at it. The ground trembled beneath his feet. He kept pushing, dragging everything he could from the Fade. More power than he’d ever dared hold in his life coursed through him, finding the cracks in the stonework and obliterating them. The stone altar the idol had been resting on shattered.

He was vaguely aware of voices rising, but it all seemed very far away.

There was a flare of blue light and Hawke was thrown, bodily across the vault, hitting the wall with a crunch.

“Shit, don’t kill him!”

Hawke’s vision swam as he tried to force air through his winded lungs. When the world stopped spinning, Fenris was standing a little way off, still glowing faintly. Anders was kneeling before Hawke, looking worried.

“Garrett, you with us?”

Hawke pressed a hand to his temples. A headache was forming, pulsing under his fingers.

“Urgh, what happened?”

Fenris spoke, his voice leashed with tight anger.

“You would not listen to reason.”

Anders shot the elf a furious look, then pressed his own hand to the top of Hawke’s head. Hawke felt the faint tingle of healing magic as the former Grey Warden checked he wasn’t seriously hurt from whatever Fenris had done to him.

“You were drawing too much power from the Fade,” The other mage said, brown eyes angry, “I don’t know what you were thinking, but it nearly brought the ceiling down on us before Fenris blasted you. Not that he should have done that either, he could have killed you.”

Hawke swallowed and looked at the elf. They didn’t exactly get on. If Aveline could have gotten the time away from the Guard, he would have been Hawke’s first pick for a front-line warrior. But she was Captain now, and her time was scarce. Too scarce for spending weeks exploring the Deep Roads. So Hawke had asked the ex-slave with a grudge along, knowing that his skill with that greatsword would be more than worth the pain of his arguing with Anders at every possible moment. Still, he wouldn’t have said that the elf’s dislike for him was so great as to nearly kill him.

“I was trying to force the door open.”

The elf regarded him, and the last of the blue-white light around him flickered and died.

“You would have buried us alive down here before it even budged.”

Anders offered Hawke a hand and he took it, shakily. He felt wrung out and weak, body battered from both the forces of his own magic and what Fenris had done to him. He stumbled, just a little, his feet not quite steady beneath him.

“I was trying to do something about this situation,” he growled, “Do you want to die down here?”

“Not because of your magic, no.” The elf responded flatly.

Varric’s voice came from across the vault.
“Hey, if the three of you are done posturing, I’ve got something you should see.”

Hawke looked up and round. The dwarf was standing in the opposite corner to them, prodding the wall. The wall that now had a resoundingly large crack in the stonework.

Leaning on Anders for support, Hawke limped closer, staring at the fissure. He’d done that. Yes, Fenris was right, he could have killed them all, let alone burn himself out of magic permanently, but he’d forced a hairline fault in the stone to widen and split.

Varric looked at him.
“You’ve looked perkier, Hawke. If you’ve got another of those in you, we might be able to get out. I think I can see a corridor on the other side. Just uh - aim a bit more, this time.”

Hawke did not in fact have another of those in him. Nor did he have any lyrium potions on him. Bodahn had been in charge of all their supplies day to day, and the grim reality was that the group had limited resources on their person. Why would they, when the camp was always close by? Hawke had used his last lyrium potion against the dragon earlier the day before. He had two healing potions, a waterskin and a stale set of rations. That was it. He doubted the others would be in better shape.

“I’m going to need a long sleep and a decent meal before I can do anything like that again.” He said, before shooting a glance at Anders. “Going to guess that force magic isn’t in your wheelhouse.”

The Grey Warden’s mouth thinned.
“Spirit Healers don’t tend to go around learning how to smash things with telekinesis. I’ve got a lyrium potion, but it won’t get you back to the levels needed for something like this.”

Hawke looked up at the ceiling and the spiderweb cracks he’d put in that, too. It looked sturdy enough. He could rest up. But hours spent sleeping here would be hours longer added to their escape time when they didn’t have enough resources already.

Not that it would matter how much water they did or did not have if they couldn’t get out of the vault.

Fenris shifted where he was standing slightly further back.
“If you are careful, you can use my markings.”

“Your markings?” Hawke asked, dumbly.

The blue-white light flickered under Fenris’ skin and he removed a gauntlet, offering out a slender hand. The brands ran down the back and palm, whorling around his fingers. Hawke’s mind wondered if the markings were as intricate in other places the elf wasn’t keen to show. He jerked his gaze up to the elf’s face.

“My master would make use of the lyrium in my skin to power his spells.” The elf said in that carefully tight way he had that suggested he was moments from violence. “With contact, you can do the same.”

Behind Hawke, Anders made a choking noise.
“Fenris that’s - ”

“I do not want to die here,” Fenris said, cutting across the other mage, “If you can force the crack to open without bringing the ceiling down, it is worth it.”

Hawke wasn’t sure what he’d missed, what it was that had Anders looking quite so horrified at Fenris’ suggestion. But he also couldn’t see another way. He grabbed Fenris’ hand and reached for the Fade again.

The first time Hawke had drank a lyrium potion whilst working for Athenril, the buzz had crackled under his skin like static build-up. This was like standing in the eye of a storm. The trickle of the Fade became a torrent, crashing through Hawke as he clung to focusing on the crack that could be their way out, and not the whole room. He was less controlling the magic and more clinging on desperately. Maker, if this was the power Fenris’ veins offered, no wonder his master wanted him back so badly.

Hawke heard the elf snarl in pain, and realised from somewhere far away that for Fenris, that was as much as a scream of agony. The crack in the wall fissured and split and Hawke dropped the elf’s hand, severing the connection as fast as he could.

The dying echo of magic in his veins throbbed, and Hawke staggered with the sudden loss of power. His hand found the wall and he braced himself, panting for air. The world seemed alive and sharp in a way that it hadn’t before. For a moment, Hawke could see a dozen new colours in the stone, ancient threads of stone that faded as he blinked back tears. He wanted to feel that again. He wanted to stand in that storm and bask in it until it drove him insane.

He turned his head and found Anders gathering an unconscious Fenris into his arms. There was blood dripping from the elf’s nose. He looked so very small cradled against the mages’ chest.

That was what Anders had tried to protest about. Hawke had hurt him - hurt him badly. Cursing, Hawke tried to move closer, but Anders just jerked his head at the open cleft Hawke had rent into the stone.

“Move it, Hawke. He’ll be fine.”

That wasn’t the point. Hawke had hurt him, and if Anders was going to carry him, both their front-line warrior and their healer would be out of action. Varric though was already darting through the hole in the wall, Bianca ready to fire if any darkspawn appeared.

They didn’t, thank the Maker. Slowly, the group headed down the corridor, not knowing which direction was the right one to take.

Anders moved slowly, careful not to jostle the unconscious elf in his arms. Hawke was barely faster, now that the lyrium was gone from his system. Everything ached from the over exertion. Only Varric seemed fully alert as they stumbled through the corridors, alert to the threat of darkspawn - or possibly crossing paths with Bartrand again.

Fenris didn’t stir, and after what felt like hours, Varric called a halt, muttering that they were all half-dead on their feet. They had no camping gear, no blankets, no way to start a campfire. Hawke didn’t care as he sank to the floor, so tired he probably could have slept through a darkspawn horde. He was dimly aware of Anders offering to sit up on watch, making a half-hearted joke about Grey Warden stamina and darkspawn sense being useful for once, before he was spiralling away into unconsciousness.

Chapter 7: Bethany

Notes:

I'm on holiday next weekend, so double chapters time!

Hawke sat in Varric’s suite in The Hanged Man, numb.

There was a plate of food and a full tankard of ale in front of him, but he’d touched neither. Someone - probably Merrill - had set a blanket around his shoulders.

They’d taken Bethany. Whilst Hawke had been in The Deep Roads, Knight-Captain Cullen had arrested her as an apostate and taken her to the Gallows.

She was meant to be safer, back in Kirkwall. As Hawke had fought his way through darkspawn, demons and rock wraiths, he’d comforted himself knowing she wasn’t there. That she wasn’t going to die, down in the dark.

To come back to this? To find his mother weeping, hollow-eyed and broken all over again? He couldn’t bear it.

He stood up, looking about him, helpless. Across the table, Merrill stared at him, her large green eyes wide with unspoken pity.

“I - I should go - I need to speak to Cullen.”

He was sure the Knight-Captain hadn’t known about Bethany. Had he gone to the house to arrest Hawke, finally, and found the wrong twin at home? Or had Bethany slipped up somehow? Their mother had been so sure she’d been careful. So how had Cullen known to take her?

“Sit down.” Fenris said from where he was standing by the door, lounging against the wall with his arms crossed, “You’re not going anywhere, Hawke.”

“I have to -”

“No. Varric and Isabela will have word soon. If you go out there, you’ll just get yourself caught.”

Hawke turned on him, temper flaring.

“Like you care. We’re mages. Don’t you want us all locked up and leashed to the Templars?”

He was squaring up to the elf before he could stop and think that doing so was a spectacularly bad idea. Things were tense enough between them with what had transpired in the Deep Roads.

The elf just looked at him and Hawke wanted to punch him, to do something to get him to show a flicker of emotion beyond sneering distrust.

“Sit down, Hawke. I won’t tell you again.”

Hawke sat down, heavily, suddenly exhausted and tired of the posturing. How many times had he threatened to leave, only for Fenris to stop him? Too many. Merrill tried to reach across the table to hold his hand, and he pulled away.

A knock at the door next to Fenris and Hawke looked up and round sharply, hoping for Varric or Isabela to come swaggering back through with news. Instead, a harried looking Anders stepped in.

“I came as soon as I heard.” He said, and he looked tired and haggard enough that Hawke didn’t think he’d had time to rest since they’d arrived back in Kirkwall mere hours before. “I’m so sorry, Hawke.”

Hawke couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the apology, the sincerity of it, the pain in Anders' voice at losing another good person to the Circle. Something inside him broke and he was suddenly crying, great heaving sobs wracking him.

They had his sister. They had the other half of his soul.

Anders practically pulled the younger man into his arms and Hawke crumpled against his shoulder, unable to stop the flood of emotions crashing through him. He’d lost Carver fleeing Lothering, had had the ground ripped from under his feet by the ogre’s fist crushing Carver’s chest and lungs. He’d been fighting ever since to try and protect his family, to pull them out of poverty and fear, only to lose Bethany all the same. She was alive, yes, but the Gallows was a prison like no other in Thedas. He would never be able to visit, for fear of his own capture. He would never forgive himself for this.

The words were leaving him before he could stop them.

“I should h-hand myself over. I have to b-be there for her, I have to -”

If Fenris had been infuriatingly calm in the face of Hawke’s anger, Anders was hot-blooded temper in the face of his desperation.

“No,” the other mage growled, and for a moment blue veins flickered over his face before he got Justice under control, “No, Hawke. That helps no one.”

Hawke pulled away, glaring at him, struggling to get his breathing under control. A few of the candles in the room flickered.

“She’s my sister, Anders. What if they hurt her? What if they -”

He cut off before he could say the word Tranquil, thinking of Karl in the Chantry. Anders heard it anyway and flinched.

From the door, Fenris spoke.

“Your sister is strong, Hawke. She will be fine.”

“You don’t know that,” Hawke snarled, glaring at him. “You don’t understand, Fenris.”

The door to the suite opened again and Varric stepped in, looking round at them all and then spotting the untouched food and drink on the table.

“Damn it, Broody, Daisy, you were meant to get him to look after himself, not let him work up into a frenzy.”

Merrill stared despondent at the now very cold, congealing food. Fenris didn’t blink.

“Varric,” Hawke said, turning to him, “What have you found out? What’s happening? Is she - Is she okay?”

Okay being a relative term when the reality was she was a prisoner of the Gallows. Okay being not dead, or tranquil.

The dwarf looked stressed. They’d only been back a few hours before Hawke had staggered into The Hanged Man in a state of sheer panic. He had enough shit on his plate to deal with without this, but Hawke hadn’t known where else to turn. And as much as Bartrand’s betrayal would still be hurting the dwarf, everyone loved Bethany. Even Fenris quite liked her. Or at least, he had made it clear she was his favourite of the four apostates in the group. Not that she’d had much competition against a blood mage, an abomination and her idiot brother.

“I spoke with the Knight-Captain.” Varric said, sitting down. “Eat, Hawke. I’m pretty damn sure you’ve not eaten anything all day.”

Hawke couldn’t have eaten even if he wanted to. His stomach was a mess of anxiety and guilt, both hollow and faintly nauseous at the same time. He pushed the plate towards Anders, who never seemed to have enough food. Varric’s frown deepened.

“Tell me, please.”

The dwarf sighed and laid Bianca against the leg of the table.

“He confirmed an anonymous tip-off came directly to Meredith’s office three nights ago. He would have buried it if it had come to him, which suggests whoever it was knew he was already looking the other way when it came to everyone’s favourite twins.”

Well. At least Cullen wasn’t the reason for Bethany’s incarceration, even if he had been the one to carry out the order. If he had been, Hawke would have killed him.

“I need to speak to him.”

“You’re not going anywhere near the Gallows.” Varric said, as Anders echoed his sentiment. “I’ll arrange for a meeting when it’s safe, and not before. Andraste’s tits, kid, you want to get caught too?”

Hawke set his jaw, stubbornly.
“If it will keep her safe -”

“No,” Varric said, almost as sharply as Anders had. “Listen to me, Hawke. I know you’re all team Anders when it comes to mage freedom, and that you’re more thick-skulled than a bronto, but the last thing you should do if you want to keep her safe is join her in the Gallows.”

Fenris had snorted at the description of Hawke and Hawke glared at him, mostly so he didn’t have to look at Varric. The dwarf was right, and he knew it, even as much as he hated it. His sister was practical, gentle, quiet, where he was stubborn, prickly and sharp. She was ice, where he was fire. And in the face of the Circle, she would survive and he would find himself with a sunburst brand on his forehead, cut off from the Fade permanently. And what good would that do her? How much more hurt would that cause?

Merrill spoke into the painful silence.

“Can we help her escape?”

“Not easily,” Anders said with a sigh. Hawke watched as Varric reached across the table and picked up Hawke’s untouched tankard, taking it for himself. “Standard practice for adult apostates to be harrowed as soon as possible - three days have passed, she’ll have a phylactery and everything by now.”

Hawke didn’t want to think about his sister’s blood in one of those damn vials.
“The Mage Underground - ”

“Will help, if she escapes.” Anders said, looking at Hawke. “But they cannot snatch people from the Gallows itself. She needs to take that risk.”

His tone seemed doubtful that she would. Varric cleared his throat.

“The Knight-Captain said she seemed relieved to have been caught, Hawke. I’m not saying the Circle is where she should be, but I think she was tired of hiding. Kirkwall was taking its toll on her.”

Hawke closed his eyes, shoulders slumping.
“We should never have come here,” he said, “We should have kept running.”

“It’s not all been bad,” Merrill said gently, “You met us.”

Hawke cracked one eye open to look at her. She seemed so bloody genuine. Varric lowered his tankard and sighed.

“Look, kid. It hurts. I get that. At least your sibling didn’t just try to kill you and your friends. The money from the Deep Roads - we can set up bribes to keep her safe.”

Anders snorted and started to mutter something about corruption in the Circles before cutting himself off, glancing at Hawke as if he’d said too much. Hawke wanted to question him on every horrible, awful thing he’d ever witnessed in Ferelden. He wanted to close his eyes and ears and pretend that he didn’t know half of them anyway. He wanted Sebastian’s blind faith that the system worked, that no mages were ever harmed who did not deserve it. He wanted to burn the Gallows to the ground.

He let out another ragged breath and suddenly wished he had taken the ale. Being blind drunk sounded like a good idea, right then.

Fenris spoke from by the door.
“So who was the anonymous tip?”

Hawke’s mouth ran dry and he looked at Varric, who shrugged.
“Working on that one still. I’ll know soon enough - there’s only so many people who knew Bethany was an apostate.”

Their small circle of friends, and a smaller circle of associates. Hawke’s hand shook at the idea that someone he knew had betrayed them.

“Your Uncle has a loud mouth and a habit of visiting the Rose.” Anders said darkly. “I don’t imagine he said anything on purpose but…”

Hawke winced. It was possible. He hated it, but it was possible. Templars went in and out of the Rose all the time - all it would have taken was one too many drinks and a loose tongue, trying to impress someone. But then…

“I’d have been implicated too.” Hawke said, before bitterly adding. “Besides, he likes Bethany. He would have been bitching about me, if anything.”

They’d clashed, often - and that had only gotten worse once Hawke had broken into the Amell Estate to find the will. If it had been vindictive, on his Uncle’s part, it would have been him in the Gallows. And if it had been accidental? It was still more likely to have been him. Gamlen liked to moan even more than he liked gambling, and Hawke gave him plenty of material to work with.

The door swung open, and Isabela was standing there. She looked furious.

“I know who snitched,” she growled, walking over to Hawke and slamming a slip of paper down in front of him, “Found this waiting for you in the house, where only you would look.”

Hawke looked down, and read the words. Then read them again. And again.

What’s a dog to do without a sister to protect? You will beg for death before this is through.

He looked up at Isabela as Varric craned his neck to get a look at the note.

“I am going to kill her.”

Isabela’s eyes glittered.
“Oh sweet thing, we are going to destroy her.”

Chapter 8: Knight-Captain Cullen

Brother,

I hope this letter finds you well

It didn’t, and he’d already read it half a dozen times since it had arrived that morning. The letter was stilted and cautious, saying more in the silences and omissions than it did on the page. Still, Hawke had been lucky to get a letter at all. Apprentices were not permitted to write to their families, to discourage possible homesickness in a mages' formative years. The only reason Hawke had got a letter at all was that the Templars had harrowed her as soon as she’d arrived, and she was now, formally, an Enchanter.

My time in the Circle has been bearable.

Bearable. Not good, or gentle, or better than expected. Bearable. The word jumped out of the page at him, a knife sliding between his ribs. Bethany deserved more than bearable.

There's one creep named Ser Alrik who likes harassing mages, but I'll steer clear of him!

Ser Alrik. The same name had signed the letter they’d found on the Templars into the Chantry in the aftermath of the trap set for Anders. Hawke had already set Varric to discovering everything he could about the man. If he even looked at Bethany wrongly, he would die. Hawke would have burned down the whole Gallows to protect her.

His letter back to her sat unfinished beyond the opening lines.

Bethany,
I’m so sorry. This isn’t fair. It’s all my fault.

She didn’t know that he’d pissed off Athenril, that he’d brought this upon her by refusing to play her games any longer. He should have accepted her deal. One night. It would have just been one night. He didn’t know if her knowing would make it worse. Would she be disappointed that he’d even considered it, or angry that he was to blame?

Growling in frustration, he forced himself to write another few lines. He’d loved reading, as a child, but writing down his thoughts had always been a struggle. And now? When he had to be so careful of what he did and did not say, when he wanted to pour his heart out on the page? It was a problem he couldn’t untangle.

I can’t believe you would have been safer with me in the Deep Roads. Bartrand almost killed us and yet I’m -

That was too close to writing something incriminating.

- wishing you had been there. Or that I had been with you. I wouldn’t have let them take you, Beth.

If he’d been there when Cullen had knocked, he was pretty sure both he and the Knight-Captain would be dead. And where would that have left Bethany? Would they have punished her for her brother’s crimes?

He pushed the thought - and the parchment - away and stood up to find another drink. He was sitting in Varric’s suite in the Hanged Man, avoiding going home. The dwarf was writing his own letters across the table, far more fluidly and with less grumbling.

“Want a drink?”

The dwarf glanced up and looked at Hawke.
“When did you last eat?” Then he shook his head. “Andraste’s tits, I’m turning into your mother.”

Hawke snorted and didn’t point out that his own mother was neither eating, nor talking to him. Instead, he headed for the door just in time for there to be a knock and for Knight-Captain Cullen to stick his head round.

The two men stared at each other. Somewhere behind Hawke, Varric muttered.
“Well, shit.”

“H-Hawke,” Cullen stammered, stepping into the room properly and closing the door behind him. “I did not expect you to be here.”

“Not here to drag me to the Gallows then?” Hawke snapped before he could consider quite how foolish, how dangerous, his words were.

Cullen actually flinched and Hawke made himself breathe. The last thing he needed now was for the candles to gut out, or flare, and give the Knight-Captain reason to think he wasn’t trustworthy.

“I was not responsible for what happened to your sister, Garrett - just the one sent to carry out the order.”

A sneer flickered onto Hawke’s face for a heartbeat. How many times had this man been ordered to cut down a desperate, scared apostate, ordered to rip apart families, ordered to hold a mage down as their magic was severed?

“Garrett,” came Varric’s voice, heavy with warning. “Why don't you sit your ass down and talk this through like an adult.”

Hawke swallowed. Varric took a lot of his shit in his stride - but apparently squaring up to the Knight-Captain in his chambers was a line he shouldn’t cross. Gritting his teeth, he practically fell into the chair he’d vacated only moments before. He definitely wasn’t hungry any more. The alcohol should probably wait too.

Cullen looked hesitant, but after a short nod from Varric, he stepped away from the door and sat down opposite Hawke, clearing his throat.

“Your sister is adapting well to the change in circumstances,” He said, meeting Hawke’s glare with his own steady gaze, “She has already made friends, and shown to be both trust-worthy and amenable. The First-Enchanter has put her in charge of some of the apprentices' lessons, considering her experience learning to control herself as an apostate.”

“I’m so proud,” Hawke said sarcastically.

Varric shot him a look, and then turned to Cullen.

“We all liked Sunshine, Knight-Captain. We want to keep her safe.”

Cullen raised a hand, looking faintly pained.
“I don’t take bribes, Varric, if that’s about to be your next sentence. But I will watch over her. Make sure she comes to no harm. I owe her brother that much.”

Varric raised an eyebrow at the idea of a Templar not taking bribes.
“Well - if money in someone else’s palm would make that easier, let us know.”

Ser Alrik. The name came to Hawke unbidden from Bethany’s letter - from the incident in the Chantry with Karl. Maker, how much money would Hawke pay to keep the man away from his sister? Could he dare name him to the Knight-Captain?

Hawke hesitated for a moment before glancing at Varric.
“Would… would you give us a moment, Varric? I promise not to kill the man.”

Varric’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded, muttered something about being kicked out his own rooms and left for the main floor of the tavern. Cullen paled, just a little, which was impressive considering the man didn’t exactly have much colour to him to begin with.

“If you’re going to threaten me, Hawke…”

“Cullen,” Hawke said, his heartbeat in his mouth, “Have I ever told you about my brother, Carver?”

Cullen blinked. Clearly, this wasn’t going where he thought it would. It wasn’t going where Hawke thought it would either, but the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them and now he had to try and explain the mess in his head and the painful, awful, blinding hurt in his heart since they’d taken Bethany.

“I was not aware you have a brother.”

“Had a brother.” Hawke corrected, looking down at his hands and realising he’d spilt ink on his fingers earlier that day. “He was older - non-magical. We didn’t get on much, especially after I - well. I don’t know if he resented me, or if I was just that much of a mouthy prick.”

The look that crossed Cullen’s face suggested firmly that it was the latter. Hawke ploughed on, conscious of Varric waiting outside, kicked out his own rooms for this conversation.

“He died during our escape from the Blight, trying to save our mother from an ogre. And suddenly I was the one mother looked to, the one trying to look after Bethany, the one who had to fix everything.”

He let out a shuddering breath and looked up from his hands to stare at Cullen.

“I don’t think I need to tell you how that’s going. But I need you to know - I need you to understand that I will do anything to protect Bethany. Any amount of gold, any awful, illegal thing, any Templar I need to fuck, any -

He meant it. The Templar-Commander herself could have demanded his head on a platter and Hawke would have knelt for the blade gladly to keep Bethany safe. He’d smuggle them lyrium, somehow, or be their bloodhound, hunting down blood mages. He’d let them hurt him, if they just didn’t hurt her.

“You’ve made your point,” Cullen said hurriedly, eyes widening. “Maker, Hawke, please - this isn’t necessary.”

“I know what can happen in the Circle, Cullen,” Hawke said, hating that he was pleading with this man, but knowing he would do so much worse than plead if he needed to, “I know Bethany is sensible - that she will keep her head down, and won’t try to escape. She’s not like me. But what - what if it’s not enough?”

His voice cracked.

Their distant cousin had died in the Ferelden Circle - although at the hands of the Templars or the Blood Mages was not clear. Anders had horror stories aplenty about his time in the Circle, and could point to the Templars hounding him even when he’d been with the Wardens. Karl, whose only crime was trying to escape. Bethany, calling Ser Alrik a creep in her letter. The whispers all over Kirkwall of what went on behind those walls.

“Bethany is a careful, clever woman.” Cullen said, trying to sound encouraging. “I do not believe she had anything to fear from the Circle. Ser Thrask and I will keep an eye.”

It wasn’t enough - and it was all Hawke would get. He nodded miserably, and then sighed.

“I should let Varric back in.”

“Before you do - how are you holding up?”

The question was asked gently, as if by a friend, but that was the Knight-Captain of the Gallows sat across from him. There wasn’t an honest answer Hawke could give that wouldn’t come back to haunt him.

“I will be fine,” he said, not looking at the man, “As long as I stay out of the Circle too.”

He was under no illusions that he’d adapt as well as Bethany. And with the trail of dead Templars in his not so recent history, he doubted he’d be given a chance.

Hawke stuck his head out and spotted Varric before Cullen could continue the conversation.

When the dwarf wandered back in he searched both of their faces questioningly. Cullen still looked a little pale.

“You good there Captain, Hawke didn’t threaten your balls too much?”

“I didn’t threaten him!” Hawke protested.

“He didn’t threaten me,” confirmed Cullen, “Although I perhaps would have been more comfortable if he had.”

Varric sat back down and shuffled some of his letters about, seemingly thinking.

“There is currently a petition from the twins’ mother, Leandra, with the Viscount to reinstate their title. With the gold discovered in the Deep Roads, the Hawke family could well be on the rise in Kirkwall. How much easier is a noble's life in the Circle?”

Cullen swallowed.
“Technically? None at all. Any claim Bethany had to her lands and titles would have been stripped upon entry to the Circle. But having a family of position outside the Circle? It has been known to influence things inside.”

Hawke glanced at Varric.
“So we need to get that petition through the Viscount’s office.”

Cullen cleared his throat.
“There is a complication here. Hawke - I suspected your sister may be a mage from the moment I knew the truth about you. If I made the leap to your sister - others will make the leap to you. If you want to stay out of the Circle, you can’t do anything that may court attention.”

“Including supporting your sister from the outside.” Varric concluded, frowning. “And any activity in public that might draw the eye.”

Cullen nodded as Hawke’s heart sank somewhere into his boots.
“So - what? I just do nothing?”

The Knight-Captain stood up, as if making to leave.
“If you want to keep your sister safe, and you want to remain free, you will do nothing. No letters, no protests, no demands. And certainly no wandering about the Gallows arguing with the Knight-Captain that mages should be free.”

Hawke winced. He had done that. But the idea of essentially cutting Bethany off? Of abandoning her to the Circle? It was unthinkable.

It was a reality he was having to face. Maker, he was going to kill Atheneril for this.