Chapter Text
Hawke grumbles low in the back of his throat as he drifts to awareness, a soreness radiating through his joints most prominent in toned back muscles sticky with sweat. Fur brushes his skin as he stretches out his limbs, frowning at the heat clinging to his skin as he recalled a faint chill rolling over the water the previous night, enough to get him seeking warmth, not recoiling away from it. The salty breeze of the open seas is absent, too, and when he rubs the sleep from his droopy brown eyes, he reaches out beside him only to be met with open air.
Frown deepening, Hawke sits with a low grunt and squints through the darkness. It's much darker than it should be; he remembered a sky full of stars and a distant lantern burning on the deck. As his eyes adjust, he realizes he's lying on an old, stained mattress with a bear pelt draped over his half-naked body. Bit thicker around the midsection than he remembered being last night; and a lot more alone.
Pushing the pelt aside, he sees he's clad in nothing but a faded and torn pair of red gingham leggings. Recognition dawns rapidly—the garment, the bed, the tiny room around him. Rushing to his feet, he gazes out the window at his bedside. Lothering has never looked better despite its destruction ten years ago.
It feels like something straight out of a book, a scene someone's probably written before, and he goes through all the steps; feeling his hair, far shorter than it used to be—will be?—his face, missing a few creases, his body… well, it's seen better days. He catches his reflection in the window and fingers the black fringe of hair hanging limply in front of his face. Did he really used to cut it like this? Maker, no wonder his bed was empty.
Still massively hot, though, he thinks, before shaking himself out of it. Not the time. This didn't feel like the Fade at all, and he'd like to think he's gotten pretty familiar with it in all his… twenty-five, give or take ten years of life.
He turns at the sound of the door creaking open. Candlelight streams in, illuminating a pale face with golden-brown eyes and feathery raven hair pulled loosely over one shoulder. Hawke's eyes widen, struggling to comprehend what he's seeing. Lothering is one thing—a shithole, really. Returning to it in all its muddy glory didn't matter much to him. Not like Kirkwall was much better, but…
Seeing his sister's face again is an entirely different story.
For a moment, all he can see is the blood pooling around her battered, broken body as she's tossed carelessly aside in the harsh claws of an ogre. Then the image fades, coalescing into her now, bright and alive and standing in the doorway to his bedroom. She's said something, but he hadn't heard a word of it.
"Bethany," he gasps, crossing the room in an instant to gather her into his arms. She's just as he remembers, and guilt floods him for letting her memory fade, unable to recall the exact details of her face or the sound of her voice.
Overcome with joy and old grief alike, it doesn't immediately occur to him that his tight embrace is incredibly out of nowhere. Her body stiffens for a moment before settling, and her free hand lightly pats his back, the hesitation in her movements revealing her confusion.
"Uh, good to see you too, Nuadha," she awkwardly drawls. He pulls back before it can get any weirder. Bethany watches him for a moment, her amber eyes narrowed before she apparently declares him innocent enough and steps past him into the room. Locating an old wooden dresser, she sets down her candlestick and leans back against the bureau. "I'm glad you're awake. I wanted to talk to you…"
He vaguely remembers this, and it puts things into perspective, reminding him exactly what period in time this is. The shift still has him reeling. If this isn't the Fade—and he can't imagine it being some demonic spell, those never feel quite right—then… this is about a week before the destruction of Lothering. Weeks before the death of… and several years before… He glances at his bed again, his heart aching. Too much to think about.
And he can't possibly sleep a wink knowing what he does now.
"I think we should leave tonight," he says, seeing surprise flicker in his sister's eyes. Though hard to focus, enough of her words had filtered into his brain to decide this was the proper response—she was worried. What with the destruction of Ostagar their brother had only narrowly avoided, and Lothering flooding with refugees, she did what many people, especially his family, did: she ran to him for a solution, for guidance.
"Right now? Are you sure that's wise?" Bethany inquires.
"Lothering is a sitting duck for the darkspawn to pluck right into their gaping maws. We're not going to be able to outrun them without a head start," he explains, observing the way her attention doesn't stray, absorbing his every word as gospel. That's something he enjoyed, and dearly missed, about his siblings: they listened to him, respected him. It would help to keep them safe. "Let's just say… I've had some worrying dreams tonight. Some very worrying, motivating dreams."
A flash of realization widens her eyes, and she nods slowly. "What should we do?"
"Let mother and Carver sleep until the morning. Cast some muffle spells and get to packing; and not your whole bedroom, just your staff, food, coin, a light blanket or two. Do the same for Carver. I'll pack for myself and mother. We'll leave after breakfast."
Before she has the chance to leave, Hawke stops her with a, "And get some rest if you can. It's a long way to Kirkwall."
Turning from her spot by the doorway, she frowns, meeting his eye to say, "Kirkwall? There's a lot of Templars in Kirkwall, Nuadha."
"Those skirts of theirs would trip them long before they could threaten either of us, Beth. We have family in Kirkwall, remember? Our uncle Gamlen could get us a place to stay."
Understanding lights in her eyes, and he can't stand to crush that slight hint of hopefulness by informing her their uncle wasn't nobility, but a drunken gambler in the slums. It wouldn't matter; give it two years, maybe even less, and Hawke would make Bethany nobility. Or die trying. She deserved a nice, easy life, for as long as Kirkwall remained safe for her.
Packing is quick. Unfortunately, he hadn't been very good at saving money back in the day; too much caught his eye, and it was tragic to know he couldn't take most of those things with him. Instead, he prepared for the inevitability of being back in Lowtown, where previously he had nothing but his staff, some looted coin, and the clothes on his back.
Moving throughout the house, he discovers Bethany has finished packing and gone to sleep as he asked. In the twins' room, shared for a lack of space in their home, they sleep on opposite ends with dividers for privacy.
Hawke watches them sleep for a moment, feeling his eyes grow heavy before moving on. It was nice to see them together again. Like a dream, yet better than his actual dreams of his family, which had grown troubling over the years.
So, a lot better than a dream, then.
Throughout their trip to Kirkwall, Hawke finds a moment to sneak off everytime they make camp for the night. Finding spots that are hard to miss, he digs the bladed end of his staff—more like a fancy polearm to an outside observer—into the dirt, where the soil is hard and dry. Messages, scattered like bird seed along the trail.
"Who's 'Wesley'?"
The sound of his brother's voice startles him, nearly ruining the lettering he's been working on. Whipping around, he finds both his siblings watching him from nearby. Their camp is just around the corner, though it still gives him horrid anxiety to think they'd left their mother alone. Darkspawn hadn't been as plentiful as last time, though only marginally; Hawke still had to think critically and drill into his siblings' heads that they'd better not try to be heroes. If they saw an ogre? Run.
"The man of my dreams," Hawke responds, casually leaning on his staff as he watches Carver stare at him flatly. "Really. I've been having manic visions of him for weeks spelling of his imminent demise."
Thick brows lower over bright blue eyes. "You're pulling my leg, right? That's not a thing," Carver says.
"Oh, forgive me, dear brother, I forgot you were the expert on the arcanum," Hawke sardonically retorts, grinning when he sees Bethany try not to laugh to avoid annoying her twin brother.
Around then, they hear their mother calling for them, urging them to be more discreet lest they attract darkspawn to their camp. They really only have time to eat and get about four hours of sleep before Hawke gets them back on the road again, so to speak.
As the ogre stomps into the clearing, Hawke shouts orders to his siblings that they rush to obey. With Leandra safely behind their defensive wall and Bethany on the outskirts with spells prepared, Hawke's anticipatory dread tempers. Danger kept him focused in a way little else did; senses heightened to a fine point, he commands Carver's sword swings and Bethany's spells like puppets in a play, keeping everyone clear of large claws and sharp horns. Time slows.
Ice shoots up a monstrous body, halting its massive footfalls for a three-person assault to the death. Sweat drips down Hawke's back, sticking his black shirt to his frame. He isn't as physically attuned to combat as he once was, yet the spells he used to know spring to his fingertips as if they'd always been there.
As the darkspawn begin to overwhelm them, Hawke interposes himself between them and his family, while Carver does the same from another angle. Though panic starts to set in, he holds himself together, counting the seconds to the shriek of a dragon overhead.
Despite the racing of his pulse and his constant need to check on Bethany, Carver, and his mother, Hawke forces a smile. It's all jokes on his part, even as he takes a headcount over and over, watching for signs of darkspawn corruption, fearing it could skip Wesley and strike one of them instead.
He can scarcely believe it. All four of them remain alive and well. His heart rate refuses to slow, and he can't take his eyes off them. That moment, a decade prior, replays in his mind, superimposed over the sight of Bethany standing nearby, staff held defensively in front of her, flecks of blood not her own drying on her skirt.
Dizziness causes him to miss the way the old woman goes silent, staring at him with a quirked lip and sharp eyes. As soon as his gaze returns to her, she tilts her head curiously.
"Such an opportunity. It'll be interesting to see what you do with it," she says.
"I beg your pardon?" he says, forcing confusion onto his face despite the way her words skyrocket his blood pressure. He knew exactly what she meant, and her knowing look expressed the very same, yet she doesn't answer him. She turns to make her exit, just as he remembered.
"Tell Gamlen I'm here with his sister's inheritance money."
"And you are?" the guard asks, staring him down with a flat look of irritation, arms folded across his chest.
"Aeden Cousland," Hawke lies without batting an eye. The guard rubs his temple, plainly disbelieving, but sends someone off anyway, leaving Hawke to return to his family. They'd gathered in a tightly knit circle not far away, eagerly awaiting whatever news he had for them. If only he had something better for them. But, despite his greed-baiting, he was fairly certain they'd have to wait a few days regardless.
As expected, several days pass with no news. It's been years since he'd had so many sleepless nights, too on edge to rest properly on cold stone floors. He hasn't dreamed in days, constantly snapping to alertness to examine his surroundings and the trio gathered around him, as if this were all a dream. As if he'd wake one day to find himself without them again.
He still doesn't know what's happened. Every time he tries to think on it, he stops abruptly, worried that maybe if he digs too deep, everything will break. He'll be back on the ship, his entire family dead or estranged, his easygoing life stripped away, everyone he loves branded a fugitive.
Should he really be looking a gift horse in the mouth like that?
One day, as he traversed the bustling lanes of the refugee market to procure food for his family, a familiar voice halted him in his tracks.
"You."
His pulse quickened as he turned, spotting a woman with fiery red hair, her expression unreadable as she marched purposefully towards him. Uncertainty gnawed at Hawke's gut, a tangled knot of apprehension and curiosity hidden beneath a veneer of joviality.
"Me," Hawke responds with a bright smile.
"You're the one they call Hawke, aren't you?"
"Don't tell me my reputation proceeds me already!" Hawke declares with a look of mock surprise, hand theatrically placed over his heart. He knew well the weight of his name among the refugees, many of whom hailed from Lothering. Hard not to have a reputation in such a quaint village. "If it's an autograph you want, you'll have to get in line," he adds, gesturing to the lack of a line.
"You left those messages," she accuses, her gaze boring into him with a blazing intensity. "Didn't you? How did you know?"
Hawke feigned ignorance, adopting an air of mock mysticism. "Oh, well I'm afraid I don't know much at all. You see, I go into these trances sometimes, start speaking in tongues and scrawling prophetic messages on the walls in blood—"
Annoyance flickered across Aveline's features, her patience wearing thin as she raised a hand to silence him. "Enough," she snaps, her voice cutting through his jest like a whip. "I should have known you were nothing but a lunatic, but still… I have trouble believing this to be some sort of coincidence, that you could have known my dear Wesley would fall to the Blight."
Hawke's brow twitches. "Pardon?"
As he met Aveline's gaze, he saw the sorrow etched in her eyes, the red rings marking sleepless nights and unspoken grief. He barely heard Aveline's next few words, the air around him growing heavy as the weight of his situation sank in.
Wesley was dead. He failed. There was no third chance, no opportunity to set things right. He failed, and the consequences were devastating.
As Aveline turned to leave, Hawke's gaze lingered on her retreating form, a pang of regret tightening his chest. Turning to where his family gathered not far away, he saw them whole and alive, their presence a bittersweet reminder of what was at stake.
"Can't win them all," he mutters to himself, his words offering little comfort in the face of his failure.
Once again, Hawke found himself embroiled in a less-than-legal smuggling endeavor, driven by the need to secure a better life for his family within the walls of the city. The second, or perhaps third, shittiest part of the city, but he knew they wouldn't be in this grimy hovel for long.
Gamlen's shack, a dilapidated excuse for shelter, barely fit its four extra occupants.
Hawke takes it upon himself to fashion beds for everyone, suppressing the urge to rebuff Carver when he insists on helping. Following directions from someone like Hawke, who scoffed at law and order, was one of Carver's strong suits. So long as they weren't getting at each other's throats in the process.
Wasn't much of a bonding activity, though. Hawke's resentment stubbornly lingered, a silent barrier between them that felt insurmountable. Worse, he couldn't even properly articulate his grievances when none of them had happened yet.
"We can't stay here forever," Bethany groans one night, weariness evident in her voice. She perched atop her bunk in the room the three siblings shared, while Leandra had moved into Gamlen's room.
"Really? And just when I was starting to love the smell of stale piss and rotten cheese," Hawke quips.
"Let's do something about it," Carver proposed, turning to Hawke, who sprawled luxuriously on the top bunk nearby. "What about that expedition we heard about?"
But before Hawke could respond, Bethany interjected. "You heard the dwarf," she reminds them. "They're not looking for anymore men."
"A trip like that sounds awfully expensive," Hawke muses, toying with the blade he kept strapped to his belt, going through the various tricks Isabela taught him ages ago. "No, what he needs is a business partner."
Carver raised a skeptical eyebrow. "And where are we going to get that kind of coin?"
"We're resourceful people," Hawke says, his gestures animated as he recounted their options. "And Kirkwall is bursting with opportunity. You just have to be willing to do the work no one else wants to do."
With a deft motion, Hawke secured his blade back into its sheath. Pulling his raven hair over his shoulder, he started unravelling the braid before hopping onto the floor with his siblings.
"We'll head over to The Hanged Man in the morning," he says.
Carver frowns, while Bethany raises a brow, fixing Hawke with a pointed look. "We're all a bit young for day drinking, Nuadha," she chides.
Hawke laughs, running his fingers through his hair. It's grown to his shoulder over the past year, enough to style properly.
"And someone's a bit young to be getting spotted at the Blooming Rose," Hawke retorts, a mischievous glint dancing in his eyes as he directs a smug glance Carver's way.
His resulting defensiveness pulls them away from the topic at hand, long enough to tuck in for a restless sleep. Yet despite his weariness, tomorrow's uncertainties loom large in Hawke's mind. While he's had a good track record so far, every second allows for another misstep, another Wesley. And he can't afford for his mistakes to keep piling up.
Once upon a time Hawke would have regarded Varric as his best friend, someone he could trust with anything, despite his loose lips and penchant for novelizing Hawke's daily life. Varric was someone he could go to for just about anything, someone who looked out for people in ways Hawke couldn't.
Stepping inside The Hanged Man, Hawke strides upstairs with a sense of entitlement unnoticed by its patrons, even as his siblings followed with less confidence. Throwing open the first door he sses as though he owned the suite contained within, he spies the dwarf of his dreams speaking to someone he doesn't recognize by the fire.
Their conversation doesn't carry and Hawke doesn't much care to eavesdrop, though the sight of Hawke sends them into a scurry to leave as soon as possible. As they pass by, Hawke makes eye contact and smiles winningly, receiving nothing in return.
"Seems I'm popular today," Varric quips from his seat by the hearth. "Have we met?"
"Not yet, but you're about to know me very well," Hawke replies with a hint of suggestive charm, for flavor. "Lucky you! I'm in high demand these days."
A dry chuckle escaped Varric's lips. "I'm sure you are," he says. "Barging in here like that, I suppose you already know who you're talking to."
Casting a glance to his siblings, Hawke pulls up a chair beside Varric, a confident grin playing at his lips. "Varric Tethras, surface dwarf, member of the Merchant's Guild, renowned author, marksman, and quite handsome, too," he recites, his tone teasing.
"So you want something, then," Varric surmised, a knowing glint in his eyes. Grinning victoriously, Hawke leans forward.
"As a businessman, I'm sure you realize this little expedition of your brother's isn't going to work without some outside assistance," Hawke begins. "You need funding, and I happen to be very skilled at convincing people to fork over their coin. I can get you fifty sovereigns if you can secure our spots on the expedition."
A brow raises, Varric's honey-brown eyes momentarily flickering to Hawke's siblings. "I'd say your friends there don't look fully briefed on your plan."
Hawke doesn't bother looking, perfectly able to imagine the jolt he'd just sent through both. "They're my siblings. I like to keep them on their toes," he says, realizing full well the effect his words will have. "It's in the older brother handbook somewhere."
It works. The quirk of amusement on Varric's lips, the keen look in his eye. This is going even better than the first time.
"Well, you're in luck," Varric says. "Someone like you is just what I've been looking for. If you've got the skill to back up all this bravado, that is."
"Accompany me and find out," Hawke suggests.
This earns him a humored scoff, a smile playing at the corners of Varric's lips as he shakes his head. "I feel like I should already know who you are," the dwarf says. Hawke's heart skips a beat at the implication, before Varric adds, "It's not often I'm kept in the dark."
"Seems I haven't made enough noise, then," Hawke quips. Should I make my exploits louder, do you think?"
"Well, I could guess. I've been hearing of a man called Hawke. A… sneaky Ferelden refugee, smuggler, and warrior-for-hire. Sound about right?"
Varric's words are punctuated by the sound of Carver's scoff and the muttered word "warrior" directed sarcastically at his sister. Unphased, Hawke meets Varric's inquiry with a lilt of his brow.
"'Sneaky'?" he echoes. "I much prefer 'sly'. Or 'mysteriously alluring'. 'Enigmatic', even. Much more romantic that way," he says with a wink.
Letting go of a humored huff, Varric nods towards the twins. "How about you introduce me to the sunshine twins back there, and we'll get to business?"