Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Everyone knows the story of the Champion of Kirkwall - Aedan Cousland, who fled the massacre of his family by Rendon Howe and settled himself in the city during the Blight. Who pulled himself up from friendless refugee to noble, to hero. A family man, dedicated to the Chantry, who killed the Arishok and tried to keep the peace in the subsequent years as tension threatened to pull the city apart.

But fewer people have heard the story of the Protector of Lowtown. Another Ferelden refugee, in the shadow of Cousland, who risked his life and freedom to stand before the Qunari during their invasion, who worked with the Mage Underground to protect innocents caught in Meredith’s growing paranoia and tyranny.

Their paths crossed, many times. But as Cousland’s star rose, Hawke’s did not. And when Anders attacked the Chantry, they found themselves on opposite sides. What happened then, changed the course of history.

“Look, Hawke, I’m not going to lie. You were my second choice of partner - but I think this can work.”

Garrett Hawke raised an eyebrow at the blonde dwarf. Second choice. He reckoned he knew who had been first.

There were three Fereldens making a name for themselves in Lowtown and around Kirkwall - two of them Hawkes. Carver stood behind him right then, glowering. The third was, apparently, the second son of Bryce Cousland, who had, briefly, been called a traitor before the truth of Rendon Howe’s betrayal had come to light thanks to the Hero of Ferelden. It wasn’t entirely clear what Cousland was planning to do, with his family vindicated and a path available to him back to Ferelden, but clearly that plan didn’t include funding a trip into the Deep Roads.

“By all accounts, I’m more handsome than Cousland,” he said with a grin, “And probably a safer bet. Our family’s noble roots are here - somewhere.”

Varric grinned.

“Oh yeah, I heard about that. Gamlen Amell, right? Lost all your money gambling and up at the Rose?”

Hawke’s own smile faltered, just a little.

“It’s good to know our Uncle’s stupidity is well known.” He said, as Carver muttered a curse. “And yes, that’s the one. Our mother is trying to have her title reinstated, but it’ll take time.”

“And money,” Varric said, “And reputation. All of which the expedition into the Deep Roads will help with.”

Hawke couldn’t argue with that.

It had been a hard eighteen months. The Blight had forced Hawke and his family from their home in Lothering, claiming the life of his sister in the process. The journey to Kirkwall had been long and desperate, even with the interference of the Witch of the Wilds, and at its end there had been no home waiting for them, no warm welcome even. Garrett and Carver had submitted to a year of working with Athenril and her smugglers to get their mother and themselves into the city. And now that their contract was up, the limited protection Garrett had had from the Templars was gone. Worse, Gamlen was muttering about how the dangers of housing an apostate, and the money they could make from turning him in.

Hawke needed the Deep Roads to work out, more than anything.

He considered, briefly, selling the amulet Flemeth had given him in the Korcari Wilds, before figuring the few sovereigns it would fetch were not worth the wrath of a mage so powerful she could shapeshift into a dragon. Dutifully, he picked up Aveline and took a trip up Sundermount, gaining a new friend in the form of a blood mage in the process. Garrett wasn’t entirely comfortable with her willingly opening her palm to summon a demon, but Carver kept shooting her faintly stunned glances that suggested he liked her.

They met a woman in The Hanged Man, not long after, at the centre of a bar brawl. When she turned to Garrett, it took a fair bit of effort to keep his eyes on her face, and not on her cleavage.

Varric pointed Hawke in the direction of a woman in Hightown who was worried about her Templar brother, and an Orlesian merchant who had been whining about the workers in his mines, only for Garrett to find another Ferelden looking for work had got there before him.

“What’s his deal, anyway?” Garrett moaned over a drink later that night, “Surely he can just sod off home now. His brother can pay for his travel.”

“Rumour has it,” Varric said, “He’s head over heels for Sofia, the youngest Marie-Luc daughter. I think he’s been scrambling money to put himself together enough to ask her father for her hand. He might be a Cousland, but if he shows up smelling like a Lowtown sewer…”

Hawke sighed. He’d spent enough time in and around Hightown to know exactly how the nobility managed to sneer and judge.

“How did they even meet?” He asked, curious.

Varric smirked.

“He was chasing that dog of his through the market and nearly ran into her. The stuff of romance.”

“Urgh,” Hawke said, pulling a face, “Could he be any more of a stereotype?”

“You have the same bloody dog, Hawke.”

The next rumour Varric found did pan out - right until the Chantry Sister’s kindness towards a Qunari mage was revealed to be a trap. Garrett had been avoiding anything to do with the Qunari since their sudden appearance in the city. He remembered the savage that had killed a whole family back in Lothering, Bethany crying that night at the loss of her friend. He hadn’t needed the visceral, visual reminder of how they treated mages to know he should have nothing to do with them. Still, he survived the trap and managed to stare down a Templar without giving himself away. And he did get paid, at least.

He found himself working with a different Templar, not long after - both of them looking for a half-blood elf who’d started having dreams. Whether Thrask knew he was an apostate or not turned out to not matter when Hawke found evidence that his own daughter was one. Carver, cynical, pushed for them to use it as blackmail against the man to keep Hawke safe, but Garrett handed the letter over, hoping kindness would work as well. It did, and Feynriel ended up among the Dalish, out of the hands of slavers.

Back at The Hanged Man, Varric said they needed the help of a Warden to find a good entrance to the Deep Roads. Hawke found one, thanks to Lirene in the Emporium who kept tabs on Ferelden refugees, and shortly after Garrett found himself standing in a makeshift clinic in Darktown facing a handsome - if weary-looking - apostate.

I have made this place a sanctuary of healing…

Hawke was smitten from the start. His own skills were far more destructive, but his father had been a healer, and he had a healthy respect for those who put protection and restoration first. And if he flirted from the first possible moment, he did his best to ignore his brother’s groan of frustration.

“You couldn’t pick a better target, could you?” Carver bitched later that night. “He’s an abomination!”

“Don’t act like you weren’t watching the blood mage with doe-eyes only yesterday, Carver.” Hawke shot back as they crossed Lowtown, away from the mess in the Chantry.

Their cramped, shared room was particularly awkward that night.

Thrask sent word, through Varric, that there was a situation out on the coast. Garrett invited Anders along instead of Merrill, mostly to irritate his brother. But down in the caves, fighting blood mages, he was glad of the healer’s presence. Whilst he wasn’t willing to kill Thrask for the mages, he was happy to try and get them out of there - even if he was sceptical that the blood magic had all been Decimus. He was an apostate, and if he ever found himself so trapped, he hoped he would be shown mercy. From what he’d seen of the Gallows, he wasn’t sure he would be.

Ser Karras had to die, and Hawke didn’t think it was much of a loss. Carver, though, sulked the whole way home.

When Hawke wandered down to Anders’ clinic, the man thanked him for being a friend. Hawke smiled.

“Just a friend?”

It was too soon after Karl, he knew, but it made the healer turn slightly pink, and that was good. Hawke brought Anders elfroot and spindleweed from the coast, and gathered whatever resources he could around the city. Anders, in turn, promised to head into the Deep Roads alongside him, to keep him safe.

Athenril reached out, asking for help, and Garrett discovered that he and his brother had been replaced with kids. In the aftermath, the elven smuggler was dead and the kid in question had taken off with the goods. Carver rolled his eyes.

“We’re not making money this way, brother. And we’re running out of time.”

That night, Hawke counted their savings. They were still a long way off the fifty sovereigns - so much so he wondered if the hiding space was safe enough from their light-fingered Uncle. He was sure they’d had more.

He didn’t sleep well that night, and he couldn’t blame the Fade for once.

Chapter Text

Starting to panic, Hawke picked up a request from the Chantry board, asking for help tracking down and killing the Flint Mercenary Group on the basis that they’d been instrumental in the deaths of the royal family of Starkhaven.

The group at the docks were a risk - Hawke casting in the street, watching over his shoulder for a patrol that would signal his doom, but when he trekked up to the Wounded Coast, he found someone already there.

Aedan Cousland was a handsome man, in armour that once would have been expensive. He’d maintained it well, but it had seen more than its fair share of battle since fleeing his family home in the middle of the night. His blue eyes and blonde hair whispered of his Ferelden heritage almost as much as the war dog at his side.

Standing next to him was, quite possibly, the most attractive elf Hawke had ever seen. White hair, black leather armour and wielding a greatsword almost as big as him, his skin seemed to be tattooed with white markings similar to Merrill’s face markings. It wasn’t until Garrett took half a step forwards towards Aedan, and the elf reacted by glowing white-blue, that Hawke tasted the ozone and static in the air that warned of lyrium.

Lyrium. That was lyrium in the elf’s veins. It was all Hawke could do not to stare.

“Who are you?”

And of course Cousland had no idea who he was. Garrett tore his eyes from the frowning, wary elf, and met his fellow countrymen’s gaze.

“Garrett Hawke,” he said with his best smile. “And you must be Aedan Cousland.”

Their dogs growled at each other, hackles raised. Aedan whistled, and his mabari whined and backed down. Hawke stooped, just a little, to settle his hand on Pumpkin’s head, reassuringly.

“I’ve heard of you.” The man said slowly. “The other Ferelden.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“That’s me,” he said, as cheerfully as he could, “The less impressive one. I’d hoped to pick up the Flint bounty, but I guess I’m too late here.”

“You are,” Aedan said, flatly. “I have also handled those hiding near Sundermount and that Dalish tribe.”

Hawke hoped that meant the Mercenaries had been hiding near the Dalish, and not that Cousland had killed the elves. It seemed unlikely, if there were only two of them and a dog. Then again, there were six dead bodies bleeding onto the sand of the bay.

“Well good news - I killed the ones at the docks, so I think that’s the lot of them.”

Aedan’s eyes swept across Hawke and his rag-tag bunch of friends. On that day, he’d brought Merrill, Carver and Varric along, unable to extract either Anders or Aveline from their work. Varric’s crossbow was rather impressive, but beyond that, they probably didn’t quite match up to an elf with lyrium veins. And Maker, how was the elf not dead, or raving? He just stood there silently watching, alert. Like a bodyguard, almost.

“You killed them?”

Hawke’s smile was a little sharper.

“Is that so surprising?”

Cousland’s eyes locked onto the staff at Hawke’s back, designed to look like a polearm. Hawke could wield it as one, to a limited degree. But he wasn’t built like Cousland himself, all shoulders and muscle.

“No, I suppose not. If I claim the bounty, I will owe you a portion of it, serah.”

Hawke blinked. He hadn’t expected that - had assumed this was a lost cause.

“That’s surprisingly fair. No offence to you, Messere - I’ve just got rather used to being cheated in Kirkwall.”

Messere. The man was a noble, after all. Temporarily displaced, but one all the same.

“Ah that’s just our way of saying hello.” Varric said. “If it’s easiest, Aedan, bring me the portion. It’ll end up in my pocket anyway.”

Cousland frowned at the familiarity from the dwarf, but as far as Hawke understood it the Tethras’ family standing within the Merchant Guild wasn’t too far off nobility. The man’s eyes flicked back to Hawke.

“What did you just say about being cheated?” He said blandly.

Hawke grinned.

“Varric only robs me when we play Wicked Grace,” he said. “I’m trying to find fifty sovereigns to join his brother’s expedition to the Deep Roads.”

“Ah,” Aedan said, before shaking his head. “Foolishness, if you ask me. Did you not flee Ferelden because of the darkspawn like everyone else?”

Hawke wanted to ask the man what had led him to Kirkwall, but then again, he could see how Orlais had never been an option for a man whose father had fought in the war of independence. The Marches was the next closest option, and it had put a sea between himself and the Howes.

“I lost a sister to the darkspawn,” Hawke said, “I wouldn’t enter those Roads if they didn’t offer me the best chance of making my fortune here in the city.”

Aedan’s lips tightened. He’d lost his parents to treachery, but he understood loss.

“I’ll bring you the portion of the bounty, Master Tethras,” he said, nodding to Varric. “If you would excuse me. Fenris?”

With that, he walked past them, the elf trailing in his wake. Hawke was pretty sure the elf had responded to the name, not the dog.

Hawke waited until the man was far enough away before glancing at Varric.

“Do we reckon Lord Cousland stooped to checking their pockets?”

He had, the bastard. The only thing Hawke got from the trek out of the city was a few more cuts of herbs for Anders and the start of a hole in the boot of his shoe. And the memory of piercing green eyes and the faintest hint of lyrium.

His mother caught his sleeve as he headed back out the next morning, to find something - anything - to do to make up the last few sovereigns.

“Listen to me,” she said, her heart heavy on her sleeve, “If you insist on this foolish expedition, don’t take Carver. I can’t - I can’t lose you both. I can’t lose them both.”

Bethany hung heavy in the air between them, the accusations that Leandra had levelled at her oldest son in the aftermath. She’d apologised since, but as much as she claimed she hadn’t meant it, that it had been the grief, Hawke knew there had been some truth in her words. Bethany had been her only daughter, her youngest. Garrett should have protected her. He should have done more.

“It’s fine,” Hawke said with a shaky smile, “Doesn’t look like we’ll be going anyway, I’ve not pulled the money together and it leaves at the end of the week.”

His mother tried not to look relieved, but then fear crept across her face.

“What does that mean, Garrett?” She asked, hand holding his in a tight grip. “Will you - will you be safe?”

He didn’t point out that he’d never be safe - that in Kirkwall, where she insisted they stayed, he was in constant danger in a way he hadn’t in the Bannorn. Garrett Hawke made himself smile and kissed his mother’s cheek.

“You know me,” he said, “I’ll be fine. The petition is with the Viscount, right?”

He’d soured relations with his Uncle further by digging up the family will, revealing that Leandra had been left everything. She’d written straight to the Viscount with the evidence, hoping it would be enough for Dumar to act - to reinstate her title and lands. If it worked, they’d be on the up. But they still needed money, and their best chance of that was the Deep Roads. It wasn’t as if anyone would take on Ferelden’s as apprentices, or that they had any real marketable skills beyond the brother’s ability to kill things.

Leandra let him go, and Hawke headed to The Hanged Man, where Varric had two sovereigns waiting for him from Cousland. Garrett stared at the money. The man hadn’t stiffed him. He closed his fist around the money.

“Just a little more.” He said, with as much cheer as he could muster. “I’ll be ready, Varric.”

Varric hesitated, for just a moment.

“Look, Hawke. I know it’s a lot. And I know it’s been tough, trying to make the cash. There’s an ex-business partner of Bartrand by the name of Dougal. He’s been sniffing about, making overtures. If you met with him, he might lend you what you need.”

Hawke frowned.

“At what price?”

“Knowing Dougal? Probably your kidney and a cut of the profits.”

“Well, as long as he pays a proper surgeon and Anders can nurse me back to health.” Hawke joked.

He spent the day checking the Chantry board and hunting down leads, turning up nothing. And that night, without his mother knowing, he went to find Dougal.

Fifty sovereigns, for the promise of a hundred. That was doable. And it meant that the thirty-six or so that he’d managed to claw together could stay under the loose floorboard, only their mother knowing it was there - a contingency, for if the brothers didn’t make it back.

Hawke shook on the deal, and wished Dougal didn’t seem like more of a thug than the smugglers he’d worked for.

Chapter Text

Lyrium was an expensive mineral, even in its most processed, least dangerous form. Hawke had looked at the strange red idol and wondered how much it was worth. More, he suspected, than in his wildest dreams.

Clearly Bartrand had the same idea, because the moment Varric tossed it to him as the first of many treasures hopefully within the strange abandoned thaig, he betrayed them.

Now they had no idol, very limited supplies, and no way out.

They’d wasted time, hammering at the door like Bartrand would change his mind, until Isabela, refusing to believe she was going to die down in the tunnels, pushed them to move on. That night, Hawke had huddled under a blanket alongside the Raider whilst Anders kept watch, relying on his Warden stamina to keep them safe.

In the dark, Isabela whispered.

“What will you do if we don’t find anything else?”

Hawke didn’t want to think about it.

He thought, instead, of possible positives. He’d bowed to his mother’s pleading and insisted Carver stayed at home. That meant that whatever happened down here, she had someone to rely on. Carver could take the savings under the floorboards and do well enough for himself, perhaps as a mercenary. He’d always been a little miffed that Garrett had guided them to Athenril over the Red Hand. His reasons had been sound - a smuggler was more used to caution and stealth, which meant Garrett’s magic was far less likely to be revealed - but Carver had been in the army. He liked being a warrior. Maybe Aveline would relent and let him into the guard, now that she was Captain.

So. Carver could still thrive. His mother wouldn’t be alone. He hadn’t brought Pumpkin.

Even so, as they travelled through the thaig, Hawke felt the reality of their situation ever more keenly. They were running out of water, for one thing, and they’d seen nothing of value since the idol.

By the time they faced the profane, Hawke had given up on treasure and was entirely focused on getting them to the surface. If it hadn’t been for Anders' warning, he would have accepted the hunger demon’s offer.

“Look,” Varric said as they walked away in the aftermath, “At least we know there is a key and a passage up, now.”

“Demons lie.” Hawke growled.

Whether the demon had been lying about the way out, it hadn’t been lying about the rock wraith. Hawke dipped into his exhausted mana supplies and concentrated on the stone and rock that made up the creature’s body. The weight of the construct collapsed down as he twisted the forces around the wraith.

Bianca wasn’t much use against a creature made of corrupted magic and stone, but one of Isabela’s grenades punched a hole in it that Hawke was able to seize advantage of. A gout of flame met fragile thaumaturgy.

In the rubble, they found the key the Hunger Demon had tried to promise them. It was Varric who spotted the door.

“We have a way out!”

They found themselves back in the Deep Roads, and Anders huffed a sigh of relief as he spotted Warden markings on a nearby pillar.

“Andraste’s knickerweasels, we’ve done it.”

With the Warden guiding them, it took them a few hours to reach the surface. When they broke out of the cave system and into the dying light of the afternoon, Hawke grabbed the healer and kissed his cheek. And then to cover for it, he kissed Isabela. Varric stayed out of grabbing distance.

They were still a day’s travel to the city, thanks to the distance out to the Deep Road passages. Hawke, who had the most experience it seemed camping outdoors in shitty circumstances, insisted they detoured to find one of the nearby streams, and carefully foraged a selection of mushrooms and root plants that could be dinner. Varric brought down a hare, and Isabela collected wood for a fire. When they stopped, just before sundown, they set up camp together. They didn’t have a pan, or something to cook in, but Hawke found a relatively flat rock that could sit upon the fire and slowly heat up. With his own magic, it was soon at a temperature to roast the hare.

That night, Hawke offered to take watch, to allow Anders to sleep after days taking the brunt of guarding their backs. It had made sense when he could sense darkspawn, but now they were out of the Deep Roads it was less urgent.

He spent most of the night wondering what the fuck he was going to say to his mother and brother when he returned to Kirkwall.

We had a fortune, but Bartrand stole it.
There was nothing else, it had to have been picked clean in a previous Blight.
I’m sorry, I’ll find a way.

He had to do something. He was the oldest, the one responsible. He’d sunk everything into this trip with the two dwarves, and owed a hundred sovereigns to another. The idea of it made him feel faintly sick. Gamlen might have ruined the family fortune, but Hawke’s bad decisions were the millstone around his neck.

He didn’t blame Varric. The dwarf had been as blind-sided by Bartrand’s betrayal as the rest of them. But fuck, was he in trouble now.

Nothing was a slight exaggeration. He’d picked a couple of things from darkspawn corpses that might tally up to a few sovereigns, but certainly nothing close to what he needed.

What was the bounty for apostates in Kirkwall these days? Ten sovereigns? It had gone up in the wake of the Starkhaven Circle fire and the number of mages who’d escaped Kinloch Hold in the chaos there. Not, Hawke thought, that any Ferelden mage but himself would ever have been so stupid to head north to Kirkwall of all places.

Ten sovereigns, and maybe another ten from the odds and ends he’d found. It wasn’t enough. It was nowhere near enough. At least, he thought darkly, he’d probably be safe from Dougal’s ire in the Circle.

He was still chewing it over when they finally entered Kirkwall the next day. Anders squeezed his hand and muttered about checking in at the clinic. Isabela and Varric looked at him as they stood in Lowtown, and then Isabela disappeared, leaving just him and Varric standing in the street.

“Shit, Hawke, I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” Hawke said instinctively, before managing a wry smile. “And hey, we got out, right? Better than dying down there.”

It was. Now he just needed to focus on not dying in Kirkwall. In not taking his family down with him.

“Come see me tomorrow.” Varric said. “We’ll work something out. I - I’m going to go find out if anyone has seen Bartrand.”

“Don’t kill him without me, Varric.” Hawke said as cheerily as he could.

The first thing Hawke saw when he stepped into Gamlen’s hovel was his brother in uniform. A Templar uniform.

The brothers stared at each other, both speechless, for very different reasons.

Carver broke the silence.

“You’re not dead.”

“Well observed,” Hawke said dryly, “Bartrand had a pretty good go at it, but…”

“Bartrand?” Carver repeated, scowling. “What did the dwarf do?”

Pumpkin looked up from where she’d been sleeping before the fire and barked at the sight of Garrett.

“He sealed us in a vault whilst he ran off with the treasure,” Hawke said, trying, and failing, to sound light about it. The world seemed to be spinning a little. His brother, his little brother, was standing there in Templar uniform. “And you seem ready to top him off on the brotherly betrayal front.”

Carver flinched.

“I - It’s not … You only ever think about yourself, don’t you?”

Hawke closed his eyes. He was not in the mood for this, even though it was his tongue that had started it. His hand reached out and found the wall, steadying himself.

“Then what is it?” He said. “Explain it to me. Before I throw up on your shoes.”

“We thought you were dead.” Carver said, chin raised in defiance. “Bartrand returned, and that other one - Bodahn, with the weird son - said you were gone. Mother almost lost her mind. I had to do something, brother.”

Hawke swallowed. He moved from the wall and sank into the one rickety chair at the small table. Pumpkin moved to nudge at his knees, demanding attention. Carver had done what Garrett had hoped he’d done - he’d taken the initiative to find a way forward. Except he’d gone to the Templars to do it.

He managed a bitter laugh.

“Unfortunate, perhaps, that I survived after all.”

“I won’t turn you in,” Carver said, stubbornly, “And I’m only a recruit. It’s years of training, yet. But I wanted to make a difference, to do something -” He paused and shuffled his feet. “Father trusted a Templar. And magic… it’s not like he taught us. Not here in Kirkwall.”

Hawke wanted to argue that, but he was too tired. He was so tired.

Which was when Leandra walked into the hovel. She spotted Carver first.

“Oh, Carver, look how smart -”

She cut off as she spotted her eldest son, all but collapsed on the chair, a haunted stare in his eyes. And then she started to cry.

Chapter Text

The Viscount denied Leandra’s petition.

Hawke, drinking with Varric, thought it was the Knight-Commander’s influence. It was well known that Leandra Amell had fled to Ferelden with an escaped apostate from the Circle. A woman like that wouldn’t forgive easily, and she had a lot of influence over Dumar. Everyone knew it, even if few dared speak of it. It was probably the reason she’d taken on Carver as well - a final act of vengeance, taking in the son of a man who’d evaded the Order for eighteen years.

Not that Garrett could say a damn word about Carver, right then. The small amount of weekly wages he sent to their mother was the difference between them going hungry and having food on the table.

It had gone from bad to worse in the last three months since the news that they wouldn’t be regaining their lineage.

Gamlen, upon hearing the news that Garrett was back, more penniless than he’d begun, had threatened to hand Hawke over to Knight-Commander Meredith himself. It was only the point Garrett made that it would jeopardise Carver’s position in the Order that stopped Gamlen pocketing the money and being rid of a troublesome nephew.

He still kicked him out. And when Leandra wouldn’t stop crying, he’d kicked her out too.

Hawke had found them a place in Lowtown, near the Foundry District. During the day, it stank of tanning leather and at night it stank of the sewers beneath their feet. He’d used the last of the savings he’d held to put down two months of rent, the rest having been frittered away on tavern rooms whilst they’d scrambled to reorient themselves.

In Hightown, Aedan Cousland got engaged to Sofia Marie-Luc and was the talk of the town. Worse, the Viscount’s office found themselves with a manor on their hands. Gamlen had sold the deed legally to an unscrupulous bastard, but Dumar could not ignore the evidence of slavery Garrett had delivered to him. The manor had been reclaimed by the state - and was now in Cousland’s hands. If he was staying in Kirkwall, after all, he needed somewhere to live with his new wife. The teryn of Highever was covering the refurbishment of Hawke’s ancestral home, but it would not be the Hawkes who lived in it.

Aveline had briefly taken in Pumpkin, but it had only ever been temporary. A fortnight after Hawke moved into the new place with his mother, he took a trip up to Hightown with the dog.

It hurt to knock on the door of the Cousland estate. The heraldry over the door was still Amell’s.

The lyrium elf opened the door, scowling.

“I remember you. What do you want?”

Hawke blinked, momentarily thrown.

“Ah, Fenris, right? Could I speak with Messere Cousland?”

The elf sniffed, and called back into the house.

“Aedan! You have a visitor.”

Not a servant then, not with that attitude. And presumably not a lover, considering the story that Cousland was madly in love with the Marie-Luc girl. A friend?

Cousland appeared, dressed down for once, and with what appeared to be a fleck of paint on his cheek. Whatever renovations were happening, apparently he was getting stuck in. Fenris stalked away without looking back.

“Oh. Garrett Hawke. How can I help you? Varric passed on the bounty did he not?”

Hawke let out a soft exhale, bracing himself.

“I ah - I’ve fallen on hard times. Well, harder times. I wondered if you were in the market for another thoroughbred mabari.” His voice nearly faltered. “I can’t afford to feed her.”

As if on cue, Aedan’s hound appeared at the door, between his master’s legs. The two dogs eyed each other, warily. Pumpkin did look quite a bit skinnier than Cousland’s sleek hound. What a difference a few months could make.

Hawke walked away not long after with enough sovereigns to cover rent for another month, and a promise that Pumpkin would be well looked after. He could hear her begin to whine as the door shut between them. And if he cried that night, in his room, he made sure his mother could not hear.

It should have gotten better from there. But it hadn’t, and now Hawke was slumped on the bed in Varric’s suite, waiting for the dwarf to return, head still ringing from the beating he’d just taken.

Dougal had found him.

In some ways, he was lucky to be alive. Dougal had shown up, not long after Hawke had returned from the Deep Roads. He hadn’t been happy to discover his investment had been for nought, and that Hawke couldn’t even return what he’d borrowed. It was the fact that Bartrand had stuffed Varric too that stopped the dwarf gutting Hawke right then and there. But Hawke had to pay up, every week, for the whole year, until he’d paid off his debt to Dougal.

Which should have been fine, until Hawke couldn’t meet that debt, either. His mother had needed a new shift, and his boots had finally given up entirely, and Carver’s wages had been docked for a minor infringement and suddenly, there was nothing left. For two weeks.

Dougal hadn’t taken it well, and Hawke’s body had taken the brunt of that anger. He’d just about managed to stagger into The Hanged Man before Isabela caught sight of him.

“Shit, Hawke! Hold on, I’ve got you.”

Hawke didn’t know where she was now. Varric had gone to get Anders, and Isabela had strapped on her daggers and gone… somewhere. He was just struggling to stay conscious, even as one of the barmaids tried to clean the blood from his face, muttering that the stains wouldn’t come out of Varric’s sheets.

Then there were healing hands, and the familiar shiver of magic running through him. Hawke shuddered as skin reformed and bruises faded. Each painful breath became easier and easier.

He managed to open his eyes - previously swollen shut - and found Anders sitting on the bed next to him, looking pale and worried.

“Hey handsome,” Hawke croaked, “You’re a much better sight than Dougal.”

“Dougal,” Varric growled from somewhere in the room, “Is a dead dwarf once Rivaini and I are done with him.”

Anders helped Hawke sit up, and Hawke leant against him, head on the man’s shoulder. Shit, that had been bad. He was grateful that he couldn’t remember most of it. When he mumbled something to that effect, Anders’ hand went to the back of his head.

“You had a concussion,” he said, his voice tight with worry, “I’ve done what I can but we’ll need to monitor you for a bit.”

Against his shoulder, Hawke managed a small smile.

“There’s no one I’d rather have watching me sleep.”

Anders gave a small laugh.

“If you’re well enough to flirt, Hawke, you can tell me what the fuck you were thinking not telling me Dougal was hounding you.” Varric said, coming to stand at the foot of his own bed. “You said you had it in hand.”

Hawke winced.

He’d been hiding as much of the truth as he could from his friends, desperate to not come across as leeching on their own generosity. It wasn’t as if they were all flush with cash. Isabela never seemed short, but only because she stole without regard. Anders literally lived in the back of his clinic and relied on donations and support himself. Merrill lived in the alienage, Aveline in the barracks, and Varric was in the middle of a very ugly fight with the Merchant Guild about his traitorous brother. They knew he’d moved out of his Uncle’s after a miserable fight, but he’d downplayed almost everything else. Most of them didn’t even know about Pumpkin.

“I did have it in hand,” he said, stubbornly. “I was paying him two sovereigns a week until I cleared the debt.”

Varric stared at him, something close to fury on his face.

“Shit, Hawke. That was as much my debt as yours, in the circumstances -”

“Varric, how many times do I have to tell you you’re not responsible for your brother being an arsehole?” Hawke challenged back.

“I sent you to Dougal!” Varric argued. “I told you he could be trusted. He’s a dead dwarf, Hawke. He should never have touched you, let alone tried to extort you.”

“Oh he’s dead alright,” Isabela said, strolling into Varric’s suite. There was a shallow cut over her ribs and another on her thigh, but she looked as furious as Varric did. “Him and a few of his friends. I think your debt’s in the clear, Hawke.”

Hawke closed his eyes, fighting back tears. His friends were the only bloody good thing about Kirkwall. Anders wrapped an arm around Hawke’s waist, holding him close.

“You don’t have to do this alone, Hawke.” The healer said gently as he gestured Isbaela over with his other hand for healing. “Let us help.”

Hawke swallowed, the lump heavy in his throat.

“Shit,” he muttered thickly, “Gonna make me cry.”

“You can cry, Hawke.” Isabela said, “It’s not been a great few months, hmm?”

Hawke laughed, despite himself. That, he thought, was an understatement.

Chapter Text

Aveline regarded Hawke over the desk, looking stressed.

“So you’re the one cleaning up the streets at night?”

Hawke winced and glanced at the door to her office. At least it was shut.

“I thought you’d be happy.”

Aveline sighed and hung her head, still gripping the edge of the desk.

“I’m not - Maker, Hawke. It’s been a relief, yes. My patrols can make it through Lowtown and the Hightown without getting jumped, people are safer, crime is down - but you can’t be taking that risk. You’re a citizen and -”

She cut off before she said apostate out loud. Hawke pulled a face all the same.

“Look,” he said, “Some mysterious benefactor pays me whenever I clear another lot of them out. I’m as careful as I can be, in the circumstances, but it’s pretty good money and I’m doing some good. I just - can’t risk the ones near the docks.”

So he’d come to provide her with the information he had on The Undercuts, and their supposed leader - a dwarf nicknamed Kanky. And instead of thanking him, she was giving him a lecture.

Two years had passed since the failed expedition into the Deep Roads, and things were more stable, if not much better. Nowhere wanted to hire Ferelden refugees, at least, not fairly, and so Hawke bounced between odd jobs, temporary offers and risky work. Sometimes, he dipped his toe into the shady underworld of Kirkwall, but people remembered what had happened with Athenril and didn’t trust him. Sometimes, he finished up a job and was stiffed of the money, or was run off empty handed, or threatened with arrest. Sometimes he went home with a fistful of cash and managed to squirrel away a few coins for a rainy day - a small fund that always shrank away to nothing.

Leandra took in seamstress work. Carver continued to send money when he could. Templar training was going well, and he was on the threshold of becoming a fully-fledged member of the Order. Hawke knew that meant that the day was coming when he’d ingest lyrium for the first time, and the ties the Order had on him became bindings. But it was the decision Carver had made, and he did not regret it - not like Garrett did.

They were surviving. It wasn’t easy, and Hawke picked up any number of strange requests, bounties and mercenary work he could to supplement the inconsistent income streams, but they were secure enough. Or at least, as secure as anyone in Lowtown really was - which meant one bad month away from slipping through the cracks into Darktown.

Hawke knew, without even wanting to, that Aedan Cousland had a young daughter, now. That most of Hightown had shown up for the wedding. That the former Amell estate was now unapologetically an extension of the Teyrnir of Highever. Fergus Cousland had even been to visit, establishing stronger ties between Kirkwall and north Ferelden. There were rumours that the Teyrn was looking to the city for a new wife, now that several years had passed since the brutal murder of Oriana and their son. Until Fergus’ own line was secured, his younger brother remained his heir - and powerful, in both realms.

At least Pumpkin seemed happy, the few times in Hightown he’d spotted her.

“I’ll look into the gang, Hawke.” Aveline said. “Would you do me a favour? I have a package here, would you mind passing it on to Guardsman Donnic?”

Which was how Hawke found himself temporarily distracted from where he’d find the money for rent by the state of Aveline’s love life.

“Honestly,” he said, later that night in The Hanged Man with Varric and Isabela, after Donnic had stormed off and Aveline slunk away, “I’ve never seen someone so bloody useless. A goat? Really?”

Isabela looked like a cat who’d gotten the cream.

“I don’t know, it’s kind of cute.” She said. “Do you reckon it would work on Anders, Garrett?”

Hawke rolled his eyes.

“I don’t think Anders would appreciate a goat in his clinic, Bela.” He said, ignoring her actual point, “Goat shit probably isn’t that hygienic for healing.”

The next day on the Coast, Hawke was pleased to turn out the pockets of several unfortunate bandits and find enough money to last him the week. Isabela was more delighted to reveal the depths of Aveline’s crush to Donnic. Somehow, it didn’t end up with the two women killing each other - probably because Donnic showed up at Aveline’s office and kissed her with all the passion their awkward, stilted flirting had lacked. Garrett grinned, outside the door, and flicked a half-sovereign to Varric. For once, he didn’t mind losing a bet. Aveline deserved a little happiness.

Anders came to Hawke a couple of weeks later.

“I got word,” he said quietly, aware of Leandra in the room, “Some work to help a friend of a friend after that Starkhaven incident a couple of years ago.”

Hawke gathered his staff, kissed his mother on the cheek, and promised he’d be back when he could. She frowned, knowing he was up to something more dangerous, but didn’t push. He had longstanding agreements, at that point, with Solivitus and Martin both for resources, which sent him out beyond the walls of the city. And she knew that he tried to keep the streets safe, that he didn’t let slavers move in on the city if he could help it. Sometimes, the things Garrett did were just risky. Nothing she could say or do could stop him.

The friend was one of the Starkhaven Mages - no longer at large herself, but worried about a friend who’d been captured by bounty hunters.

“And how do you know about this?” Hawke asked as they wandered to The Hanged Man.

Anders looked up and down the street, at the hustle and bustle around them.

“I’ve been working with a sympathetic group for a little while now.”

“Really?” Hawke said, before offering a smile. “How do I get involved?”

Anders seemed to hesitate.

“You - want to?”

Hawke snagged Anders’ hand as they reached the door of The Hanged Man, and tugged him round to the alley out back, where it was a little more private.

“Anders,” he said, looking at the man. “You know who I am. Why would I not want to help?”

The healer smiled weakly.

“Most wouldn’t. Most would just want to keep their head down, to not draw attention. You have more to lose than most, afterall.”

“Right,” Hawke said slowly, “And I’d be a coward if I didn’t help others, considering.” Then he grinned. “Besides, everyone should have the right to slum it out in Lowtown, scrabbling in the dirt for something better.”

Anders gave a small laugh.

“You really are something else, Hawke.”

Hawke was aware of the distance between them, the privacy of the alleyway. He winked, and then let his eyes linger, briefly, on Anders’ lips.

“I try.”

Unfortunately there was a mage to rescue, and limited daylight. Inside the tavern, Varric and Isabela were keen to help - or at least, keen to get out of the city. The heat was oppressive, and Lowtown stank like rot.

The Wounded Coast was much more pleasant - if only for the breeze. They found the cave the bounty hunters were using to hold the apostate and Varric disarmed the traps on the path easily enough.

The hunters themselves clearly didn’t expect much in the way of opposition, and it didn’t take too long for all five of them to be dead, and the apostate freed. The woman had little, and Garrett split the coin the hunters had five ways, including her. Isabela pocketed a ring that she thought might polish up well. Varric disarmed the rest of the traps and suggested they take them too. Someone in Lowtown would pay for them to protect their stock from thieves. All in all, it wasn’t a bad day's work - and they’d done some good too.

Anders left them at the tavern to head back to the clinic, and Hawke watched him go wistfully before following Varric and Isabela inside. The dwarf brought him a drink.

“So, you and Blondie, eh?”

"Nothing's happened, Varric.” Hawke said, sighing. He should have known this talk was coming, especially after Isabela’s goat comment.

“Right, I’m just imagining all the lingering looks and pouting.” Varric said with a smirk. “I mean, I get it I guess. If you like the barely-fed tortured look.”

“He must,” Hawke said, gesturing at himself. No one looked entirely healthy in Lowtown. But, he had to admit, he did look healthier than Anders. He made a mental note to try and slip the man some food when he had the coin.

“Just be careful, hmm?” Varric said, sipping at his drink. “You know what he is, and that can’t be good for long-term happiness.”

Hawke wondered which bit of an apostate abomination Warden living in Darktown Varric was specifically trying to warn him about. Probably not the Warden bit. Even now, a few years out from the Blight, Grey Wardens got wary respect.

“Let’s be realistic, Varric.” Hawke said. “I don’t think I’ve ever been able to think of long-term happiness in my life.”

Not since Lothering. Not since his father had died. Hawke never mentioned it to his mother but he didn’t see much of a future for himself. In Kirkwall, it was only a matter of time until he was caught.

The question wasn’t long-term happiness, but whether he wanted to risk heartbreak - for either of them.