Chapter Text
Hawke arrived at Skyhold dirt-streaked and exhausted. She was in no condition to meet the illustrious Inquisitor and the steadily growing Inquisition, but they’d asked for her specifically. They had to know what they were getting.
She hung around the front gates, futilely wiping at the grime coating her face. From where she was standing, she could glimpse inside, where the guards were purposely ignoring her. She certainly didn’t look like anyone that mattered.
Her staff was sort of hidden, tucked between her back and her pack, empty now save for a tattered blanket and her armour. She’d finally started wearing ‘real armour’, as Fenris put it, after her run in with the Arishok. Staff versus sword was fine, but one on one hadn’t been the smartest move. Everybody else had told her not to, but Fenris saved his breath and pointed out all the Arishok’s weak spots instead.
Even with his tips, the Qunari landed some hard blows that cut right through her robe. Which wasn’t entirely surprising, but Fenris was still pissed. While she was recovering, he threw a pile of enchanted armour on her bed and insisted that she wear that from now on. End of discussion.
He’d been all surly about it, but it was the first gift he’d ever gotten her. And she looked bad ass wearing it.
Now she was back in a heavy fur cloak and a robe, and he’d kill her if he saw her in it, but it was a lot less conspicuous traveling in a dirty robe than clanking armour.
Maybe too inconspicuous, since nobody was even glancing her way.
What had Varric’s letter said? Was she supposed to announce herself or keep her arrival a secret? Was there somebody waiting for her at the gates? She couldn’t remember and the letter was long gone. She was impressed she even found the place. Sure, “giant fortress in the mountains” sounds easy enough to find, but in reality the mountain range was way bigger than one crumbling fortress.
Crumbling or no, Hawke was impressed. The old Hawke estate in Kirkwall was nothing to scoff at, but she’d always had delusions of grandeur and a secret hideout in the mountains was really doing it for her. So she was chomping at the bit to check the place out, and more importantly rest up before facing whatever hell the Inquisition had planned for her.
Soon enough she got bored waiting for someone to welcome her in, so she followed a supply caravan through the gates, and nobody stopped her. She decided to chock that up to her own good luck instead of miserable security.
She wouldn’t say the grounds were sprawling, but there was a fair amount of space, for everything from vendors to combat training. The Inquisition looked like a real impressive operation. She was getting jealous just looking at the ramparts up high, the sparring dolls on the ground, the horse stables. It was a fair bit more than she ever got.
But she could be green with envy layer. For now she was supposed to introduce herself to the Inquisitor, AKA the Herald of Andraste. It was a hefty title, but Varric said she was a Qunari, so surely she wasn’t Andrastian? Hawke groaned at the thought, but the other probable option of her following the Qun wouldn’t be any better.
With trepidation on her mind, Hawke set about finding a tavern first. Settle her nerves, rest her feet, avoid responsibility. Though if she’d really wanted the last one, she shouldn’t have come to Skyhold at all.
At this point, Hawke had the ability to sniff out the nearest tavern like Grey Wardens sensed darkspawn. She followed the heavy scent of hops and strains of music to an oak door.
She swung it open and rammed right into a wall.
She jumped back and craned her neck up to get a better look at what she’d walked into.
It turned out to be a “who”.
A giant. She knew he wasn’t, but the last time she’d been this close to a Qunari this wide was the Arishok, and that’s all she’d been able to think then, too.
His thick horns stuck straight out from the side of his head. His grizzled, gray face was interrupted by an eyepatch. His broad chest strained against nothing but a leather strap connected to the massive cuff protecting one shoulder.
“Andraste’s tits, did your mother procreate with a brick wall?” Hawke asked, because apparently the first thing on her to-do list at Skyhold was get her face beat in.
Before she could decide whether to sling her staff off her back or run away as fast as she could, the Qunari threw his head back and laughed, deep and booming. Hawke stayed tense, ready to dodge. She’d started some of her most devastating fights laughing.
She had her hand wrapped around the head of her staff by the time he said, “Let me buy you a drink.”
She breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Yes.”
The inside of the tavern was cozy, lit with the warm yellow glow of torches and a hearth. He asked what she wanted and she said whatever. She made a beeline for the fireplace, nearly sticking her stiff fingers straight into the flames. She’d forgotten how cold she was until her appendages started defrosting.
The Qunari returned with two tankards of ale and set them on the nearby table. Hawke dropped her pack and staff onto the floor and sunk into a chair with a groan.
“Make yourself at home,” the Qunari chuckled. She was surprised the chair didn’t creak under his weight as he sat down across from her.
She should probably be a bit more concerned she was going to offend this giant man, but she’d already insulted his mother. She’d couldn’t possibly do any worse.
“Like I get that a remote fortress is good for security, but at what cost?” She dragged the tankard to her and took a big gulp. She coughed past a burning throat. “Maker help me, when I said ‘whatever’ I didn’t mean liquid fire.”
“Qunari speciality,” he explained with a grin. “I get it brought in just for me.”
“Special is right.” Hawke chugged back some more.
“So what brings you here? Not just to drink our spirits, I assume.”
“Varric.” She hiked her feet up on the chair next to him. “You know him?”
“Of course! Almost as good a fighter as he is a wordsmith.”
She nodded, looking around for him. A tavern was as likely a spot as any find him. But she didn’t spot his furry chest among the patrons. “He thought I’d be able to help you guys with Corypheus. Can’t imagine why, he already got away from me once.”
One thick brow rose. “You’ve encountered Corypheus before?”
She gulped down the rest of the bright liquor and slammed the empty tankard back on the table. “Ah, that’s better.”
Warmth bled through her like fire. She could feel her toes squished inside her boots for the first time in three days. Being comfortable in a tavern made her miss Fenris though, in a more concentrated way than she’d missed him since she left. They’d spent a lot of time in taverns over the years. The empty space at her side where he should be felt like a gaping cavern.
The Qunari was still waiting for an explanation.
“Oh, yeah.” She stuck out a hand. “I’m Hawke.”
His sausage-thick fingers had enclosed hers by the time the name clicked. “Hawke? Varric’s Hawke? The Hawke?”
“The one and only.” Except for Carver, but he wasn’t Champion of anything but getting his ass kicked. Shit, for all she knew he was dead by now, a casualty in this Templar-Mage war. She hadn’t seen him in ages. She’d have to ask Varric for news.
The Qunari slapped the table hard. She held her breath, waiting for it to collapse under the pressure. But it stood firm and he grinned at her. “Another round on me, then.”
“Oi, you giving out free drinks now, Bull?” A blonde elf skipped down the stairs from the level above.
“Oh, Bull—Iron Bull.” Hawke should’ve recognized him earlier. “Varric’s mentioned you in his letters.”
He laid a hand across his immense chest. “I’m flattered.”
“What about me?” The elf hopped onto the table next to Hawke, feet swinging in the air.
Hawke looked her over. A reckless smile, wide-set eyes sparkling with more mischievousness than should be possible for such a small frame. “That’s easy. Sera.”
Her grin grew. “Yeah! So, uh, who’re you, then?”
“She’s Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall,” Iron Bull said like Sera should’ve known instantly, even though he didn’t realize until she’d told him.
“No shit! Well, get her a drink.” She ducked her head closer to Hawke, wriggling her eyebrows. “I have so many questions.”
She could feel herself settling in, ready to spend the afternoon here, drinking and telling tales to rival Varric, but that’s not what she’d travelled across the continent for. That’s not what she’d abandoned Fenris with Anders for.
She pushed away from the table. “And I promise you’ll get them later, but for now I really should be finding the Inquisitor.”
Sera pouted. “Oh, sure. Sod off before you spill any of Varric’s secrets. Just tell me what his deal is with Bianca, please.”
Hawke laughed. “Your guess is as good as mine. He writes up my whole damn life, heroic and otherwise, and I can’t get a peep out of him about that crossbow.”
At one point, the truth of Bianca had been one of her life’s great mysteries. Sera’s curiosity brought back memories of the Kirkwall gang staying late in the Hanged Man, tossing theory after theory at Varric, each more ridiculous than the last. That had been a long time ago.
“Regret, regret darkens her days. She hides herself behind a nod and a wink, a quick joke and false bravado, but every decision made is a decision lamented.”
“What the fuck?” Her chair knocked to the ground as she stood. She spun in a full circle looking for who’d spoken, only finding him leaning against the hearth. The thin, pale boy with a wide-brimmed hat certainly hadn’t been there a moment ago.
She reached for her staff on the ground.
“Fighting and running, running and fighting. Finally she’s settled, but is it enough for him?”
“Who the fuck is that?”
“Ah, don’t mind Cole,” Iron Bull said. “He announces everybody’s darkest secrets.” He sent him a one-eyed glare. “Though we’ve all told him not to.”
Hawke tried to shake off her unease. This weird boy could’ve revealed worse secrets. Everyone had regrets, right? Everybody was running from something. Everybody had worries.
Beneath the shadow of Cole’s hat, she saw him opening his mouth again. She pointed her staff at him. “That’s quite enough.”
At least the boy had unsettled her enough to really want to leave this tavern. She kept her eye on Cole as she backed toward the exit
“Eh, he’s not even the weirdest we got,” Sera said. “We got a walking, talking egg around here somewhere.”
An egg? “Varric would’ve mentioned that.”
Iron Bull snorted, but didn’t explain Sera’s riddles. “You could try the library. For the Inquisitor.”
She got directions and then set out, drawing her cloak tighter as the icy wind returned to her skin.
A grand set of stairs rose on her left. Well, not grand exactly. Just big, leading up to what looked like a very important part of the castle.
Hawke wiped a sleeve over her face, hopefully ridding it of dirt, and combed her fingers through greasy hair. Then she finally accepted that nothing was going to make her look presentable and climbed the stairs to the main hall.
Fancy looking people flitted around, chatting in corners and coming in and out of doors lining the hall. At the far end stood an honest-to-Maker throne, set on a dais.
It took every shred of her negligible willpower not to throw herself onto it.
Instead she took a deep breath and followed Bull’s instructions to a nearby door. She found herself inside a tower covered with geometric murals. For a castle still in an obvious state of disrepair, painting the walls seemed like it should be at the bottom of the list, but Hawke had to admit that they added a distinctive decorative flair to the windowless room.
“Ah, a fellow Mage.”
She jerked her attention to the speaker, standing next to a ladder.
“Egg,” she said, then kicked herself. And cursed Sera. But this elf was egg-white, and his round bald head shone in the torchlight.
“Excellent to meet you!” Hawke covered quickly. Varric mentioned this one in passing; the Fade expert. “Solas, I presume?”
The skin around his eyes crinkled, but nothing about his expression suggested happiness. Perhaps her save hadn’t been as suave as she hoped. “Yes. And you must be Hawke. Tell me, what do you think of my murals?”
She took a closer look, nodding approvingly. “You’re very talented.”
His face barely changed, but she discerned a frown somehow. “Is that all?”
“Uh, well, the castle is kind of riddled with holes and there’s a never-ending list of things to improve upon, so I’d kind of rank painting pretty pictures at the end, but...”
That didn’t seem to be what he wanted her to say either.
“Um, anyway, great to meet you, I was just heading to the library.”
She made a beeline for a door, any door, as he said, “We have much to discuss, Hawke.”
“Sure!” She was already racing up the spiral stone staircase. If cutting through the egg’s tower was the only way to the library, it must not see much traffic.
Though ‘library’ may have been a stretch. Sure, the upper tower was lined with bookshelves, but it wasn’t exactly a room. A railing ran around the center, showing off the floor below. She could still see the murals. And Solas.
He nodded politely. Perfectly pleasant.
She backed away from the railing until he was out of view.
She shook off the creeps he gave her and returned to the mission at hand: finding the Inquisitor, who would hopefully be able to direct her to a bath. Or a lunch. Dinner? What time was it?
Downing that Qunari-level alcohol on an empty stomach may have not been the smartest move she’d ever made.
She found a wall to lean against. She probably should’ve asked someone to fetch the Inquisitor—send a page running all around Skyhold like an idiot instead of her. But what didn’t Hawke do like an idiot?
“Um, hello?” A dapper-looking man came out of from the reading nook next to her. His shining brown hair was styled in a stylish pomp. His armour was barely more than a dozen strategically placed leather belts covering his brown skin, save for one shoulder, daringly bared.
And of course, “Moustache.”
“Dirt,” he replied, unbothered. “If we’re naming things on faces.”
“For the love of-” Hawke furiously scrubbed her sleeve over her chin. “I thought I got it all.”
“Not even close,” the man said.
She groaned, dropping her hands. “Then I’m not even going to bother.”
“Fair enough. Just don’t touch my books, then.”
“You got it.” She scanned the area, then decided the guy could probably help her. “Is the Inquisitor around?”
An amused twitch overtook his lips. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“Hawke. Apparently nobody’s expecting me? I swear I was invited here.”
“The Champion?” He lifted a brow. “Yes, I’d wager Cassandra has been after Varric to bring you here since the Breach opened.”
“That would be correct. I just didn’t feel like it.” There was more to it, but in another sense, not really. It boiled down to the fact that she’d spent years cleaning up Kirkwall’s messes; she wasn’t interested dealing with the world’s.
And she and Fenris had settled down, sort of. They found an abandoned cabin in the Ferelden mountains and claimed it as their own. Hawke adopted a few Mabari, who Fenris sneered at in her presence, but she’d found him kneeled in front of them, explaining the best ways to kill a man several times, and his clothes were always covered in their fur.
No one knew where they were except Varric and they were happy, damnit. Finally.
But then Anders showed up a few months ago, somehow, against all logic. He needed a place to stay and for some reason an inn wouldn’t do, so he’d tracked Hawke down. Tried to drag her into the mage revolution and she’d said no. They were doing fine without her, and he’d started the blighted thing. It wasn’t her fault that not all mages were so grateful to him for being freed from the Circle’s tyranny.
And Varric’s letters kept coming. ‘This Breach sure is a problem’ ‘Looks I’m getting back into the saving the world game’ ‘Might have a new book by the end of this’. Keeping her apprised of the situation. Hinting they could use some help, but never asking outright.
Until Corypheus popped up like an angry boil.
“I still don’t,” Hawke admitted. “But honour, duty, blah blah blah.” She rolled her eyes. “Ugh, just kill me already, am I right?”
The man tilted his head. “Varric’s description of you seems to differ from reality.”
“I was not consulted on those books.”
“Why consult when I can create?” A voice from behind Hawke lit a grin to her face. She spun around to find Varric with a book in his hand, hair slicked back in a ponytail, his signature ‘V’ cutting deeper in his chest than ever.
She rushed over to him and grabbed him in a hug. “Maker, you’re getting old.”
“Better old than stinking.” Varric pulled away. “Ancestors, Hawke, take a bath.”
She rolled her eyes. “Sorry, a month or two trekking through the wilderness didn’t leave much time for soap.”
“I bet Broody found the time.”
Hawke pulled a face.
He lifted a brow. “No Broody?” He whistled. “No wonder you forgot about bathing.”
She slapped his shoulder.
“Sorry to interrupt,” the moustached man said. “I trust you found the book, Varric?”
Varric passed him the book and nodded between them. “So you two have met?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t have the chance to introduce myself.” He spread his arms. “Dorian of house Pavus. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Champion.”
“Hawke,” she corrected absently. She took a moment to examine him more closely. ‘Of house Pavus’ was so pompous, but he didn’t sound Orlesian. A suspicious feeling grew in her gut. “Don’t tell me you’re Tevinter.”
“Afraid so.” He cast a worried look to Varric before looking back to her. “Ah, your…” He paused, running through the options. Boyfriend? Partner? Husband? It seemed he didn’t know and wasn’t willing to guess. “Broody?”
She crossed her arms. “Fenris.”
“Yes, he hails from the Tevinter Imperium, does he not?”
“Yup.”
“My apologies,” he said, though he couldn’t have had anything to do with Fenris’ enslavement specifically. “I assure you that I do not condone the magisters’ behaviour. I left for many reasons, slavery being one of them.”
“Good to know. I’ve killed magisters before, and I’ll do it again.”
Dorian let out a laugh that spoke more of nerves than humour. “Yes, this is closer to your description in Varric’s books.”
“I was bound to get something right,” Varric cut in. He laid a hand on Hawke’s elbow. “Why don’t we find you a bath, eh?”
She took her glare off Dorian. “I’ve been trying to announce myself to the Inquisitor, but I’m having the damnedest time finding her.”
Dorian lifted a finger. “I would try the undercroft. She found some unique metal on our last quest and was planning to seek Dagna for insight.”
She sighed. “Fine, I’ll try there. Thank you, Dorian.”
He smiled winningly before Varric led her back to the stairs. As they were descending, Dorian called, “Though I feel the need to point out that I myself am not a magister.”
Hawke waved a hand to indicate that she heard, but didn’t turn around. “Maker’s balls,” she muttered. “You’ve got a Tevinter, Qunari, an egg and me. The Inquisition must be desperate.”
“There’re giant green holes in the sky, Hawke. That’d light a fire under anyone’s ass.”
She grumbled an agreement as they passed through the room where she’d met Solas. Thankfully the elf seemed to have better things to do than hang around a tower and ask people opinions on his artwork, because he wasn’t there.
“Still,” Hawke said as they entered the main hall. “Tevinter? Next you’ll be telling me you’ve got Orlesians here.”
He scratched the back of his neck. “Haha, well-”
“Excuse me.” A bald woman with rich, dark skin stopped Hawke. She didn’t recognize her as any queen, but she certainly held herself like royalty. Then Hawke took in the elegant make of the dress and pegged her for just any old Orlesian. Hawke cut a withering glance at Varric. “May I help you? If you explain how you arrived here, I could offer you a hot meal.”
“I walked. Hiked, I guess.” Hawke shrugged, confused, but she’d been asked weirder questions. “I’ve actually been looking for the Inquisitor.”
Her face creased in confusion. “What matter could you have with the Inquisitor?”
That’s when Hawke realized this woman thought Hawke was a vagrant who’d somehow wondered into their mountain fortress. No wonder she looked puzzled.
Varric must have come to the same conclusion, because he burst out laughing.
Hawke stuck out her hand, fingernails coated in dirt. “Marian Hawke. Pleasure.”
The woman looked from Varric back to Hawke, confusion not lifting even as she said, “The Champion of Kirkwall?”
“That’s her,” Varric said. “Hawke, allow me to introduce Vivienne, First Enchanter of Montsimmard and Enchantress to the High Court.”
He hadn’t mentioned her in his letters. Besides Solas, the Inquisitor and the advisors, he’d only talked at any length about Iron Bull and Sera. She was starting to think he’d only told her about his drinking buddies. Figures.
Vivienne finally took Hawke’s hand, a gracious smile replacing any disbelief. “Welcome to Skyhold, Champion. I apologize, I wasn’t aware we were expecting you.”
Which made Hawke more and more certain that she probably shouldn’t go around introducing herself like this.
“I take no offense, I wish only to offer my aid to the Inquisition,” Hawke said.
Her mother’s etiquette lessons had gone greatly unused over the years, but in front of certain fancy-sounding people, they popped out. She’d met King Alistair a few years ago and when she’d curtsied Fenris nearly choked holding back laughter.
“We welcome your aid,” the First Enchantress said. “I believe I saw the Inquisitor go to the undercroft recently.” She nodded at Varric. “You can guide her there?”
He agreed and Hawke smiled at her. “Thank you ever so much.”
That might have been more mocking of forced politeness than actual manners, but Vivienne didn’t seem to notice.
Hawke waved at Varric to lead her to the Inquisitor.