Chapter Text
“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning.” - T.S. Eliot
**
The wind bit and tore at their soakedclothing. Skin shrank from the chill, lips purpled and teeth slightly chattering –from the rain or the unrest, Inquisitor Lavellan wasn’t certain.
“Your men need to hold that position, Bull.”
“…They do that, they’re dead.”
The conflict was clear. If Bull chose one or the other, he was a betrayer. He either lost his home and all his culture, or he lost his men that trusted him so truly and unyielding. Lavellan glanced upwards at the towering mass of a Qunari. For once, he was so unbelievably small in comparison to what faced them.
Gatt was pacing back and forth in irritation, his eyes narrowed at the lack of response from Hissrad. That damn horned-idiot was going to toss all of their hard earned respect and work by the wayside for that badly patched mercenary group he’d thrown together on a passing fancy? Oh, his blood was boiling.
Iron Bull turned to Lavellan, unspoken pleas written upon his tongue. It was too much of a burden. He couldn’t choose. He wouldn’t.
The Dalish elf let out a heavy groan, his ribcage tight as he tried to sort through all the logical solutions deft and void of emotional downfalls. The ghastly wails of the Storm Coast filled his pointed-ears as he attempted a semblance of leadership. He’d drank and ventured with the Chargers. These were good men and women. Their hearts fought harder than their weapons. Their lives were given from loyalty, not greed.
“W-wait!”
The sudden exclamation jerked the three men from their terse reverie. Lavellan looked downwards to find Varric Tethras approaching him in a fashion much more urgent and frantic than he’d remember ever seeing from the dwarf.
“What is it, Varric?” The Inquisitor breathed, fingers rubbing the crease between his brows.
The storyteller swallowed thickly, his blond hair pasting to his temples as he stared up at their leader in quiet urging. “You can’t let the Chargers die.”
“This is ridiculous!” Spat Gatt, his hands clenched into balls at his side now. Patience was wearing thin with this one. Lavellan made a quick mental note of that. He’d need to be watched.
“Continue, Varric.”
The dwarf glanced outwards to the adjacent cliff the Chargers had claimed moments earlier. The Venatori were stalking their direction, the mages in command uttering angrily in Tevene. The mercenary troupe held fast to their weapons, their eyes searching their commanders for orders. Fear kept them restless, dedication kept them steadfast.
“You can’t do it. You can’t. They’re good people. There aren’t enough of those in Thedas anymore, you know. Not to mention–” Varric’s eyes squinted towards one Charger in particular. The white hair and dark skin glistened and stood-out harshly against the lush environment. “ –if you value the stability of a most trusted adviser to the allied mages, you will not let them fall.”
Lavellan stared hard upon the dwarf’s face, eyes searching for his meaning.
“Boss,” Bull muttered, his good eye filled to the brim with too many emotions to fathom in the passing of a moment.
Varric’s brows knit together as he waited, “Inquisitor, please!” He owed that much to his very best of friends. He could not bear to see those shoulders slumped with loss again. He’d had more than his fair share of sorrow in such a short life – as many had. But he was different. He’d risen to the call of Thedas far too many times for his own happiness to be thrown away so nonchalantly. He’d helped oversee the rise of the mages and their downfall of the templar hold and order. He’d helped many find work and peace in a city of chains and oppression. He’d found place and foundation amongst peers that had scrutinized and degraded his Ferelden heritage. He’d answered the cries of his friends and stood strong to face their adversities with them. Never had he asked for anything in return. That’s the sort of person he was. For once, he’d found someone that had brought him a happiness of heart he had never once demanded for himself. Varric would be damned to hell if he watched that slip away because of political move.
The Inquisitor grit his teeth.
“Hurry!” Gatt growled, his impatience evident.
“Don’t do this. Don’t. Do. This.”
“Inquisitor!”
–
“With the mages as our allies and not properly sanctioned, we must have order and proper training. Fiona is a valuable asset but unfortunately, their numbers are far too great for her to properly adhere to them all, as it should be. After all, even I have lieutenants to whom I can defer,” Cullen offered, his face grim (as usual).
“And where are we to find such a teacher? War is not kind to many mages. They will think they are being tricked,” Leliana sighed.
“Can you blame them? Too many lives have been butchered for the name-sake of the Chantry and ‘order’,” Josephine rebuked, her features illuminated by the flicker of her candle.
Cullen stiffened at this. Another argument was about to unfold inside the War room yet again. “And the Order was without cause through all of this?”
“Stop,” Lavellan grumbled, his blue eyes serious and just a little too red from lack of sleep.
“Inquisitor–”
“Arguing gets us no where. I must go and meet with Varric’s visitor concerning Corypheus. Put this on a shelf until I come back. Perhaps I will have more answers by then.”
The advisers nodded, the air still tense as the elf slipped past the heavy-wooden door.
–
The staff glittered brightly against his dark armor. The tall man threw Lavellan an awkward, impish example of a grin (as if he had all the secrets that he just wanted to illuminate but utterly refused to speak out of sheer torture). “Halla got your tongue, Inquisitor?”
Lavellan broke free of his hesitation, his eyes focused upon Varric and his visitor once more. “S-sorry. I have heard stories, Champion, but to actually see first-hand that the Champion of Kirkwall is, indeed, a mage is something new within itself.”
Garrett gave a light laugh, his elbow prodding Varric’s shoulder playfully, “Seeing my staff first-hand usually elicits that type of reaction, huh?”
Varric snorted, attempting to drink his alcohol in quiet. Of course, Hawke would have none of it.
“Certainly you have questions about that plate-headed bastard Corypheus, Inquisitor. Please tell me you do. Because if not, I’ve wasted a long trip here. Trust me when I say, I’ve had my fill of walking. You know, that’s all I bloody did in Kirkwall. Hawke this, Hawke that – they had us running all over the place.”
The Inquisitor laughed a bit, pleased at the relaxed air such a highly regarded figure exuded. “Don’t I know that feeling?”
Hawke was leaning over the ramparts, his hand reaching to scratch at his beard. His eyes flitted over the layout of Skyhold, golden orbs taking in more than he would ever let on. In all his experience, the worst thing one could do would be to appear competent. That was when the enemy expected the onslaught that was to follow. Ignorance is bliss, after all. As he soaked in the green gardens and happy pilgrims, his body tensed as he made a sudden realization, “So Varric’s letters are not lying.”
“Hey!” Varric shot back.
“Sorry! I didn’t really think it was a bunch of bullshit, but I know my trusty dwarf. Besides, seeing is believing.” Garrett nodded towards the courtyard, “Mages. I’ve seen nothing but mages. So the Inquisition has truly allied.”
Lavellan nodded, “Indeed.”
“Got a lot of flack for that one, didn’t ya?” The Champion mused, his face drawn with understanding at such a decision.
“You have no idea.”
The Ferelden shook his head, “oh, no, trust me, I do.” He grew introspective a moment before continuing, “I rather miss interacting with other mages. This one merchant in the Gallows of Kirkwall was always bustling about concerning magic and herbs. You know–”
That was when it dawned upon the Dalish. Of course, how simple a solution!
“Forgive me, Champion, but I do understand that you fled Kirkwall in fear of an Exalted March that never came.”
“What of it?”
“You have not been back since?”
“You know, I really don’t know why I don’t go back. I suppose it’s because so much has changed and there seems to be so much that needs to be done. I can’t sit back idly. Busy hands and all that.”
The Inquisitor gave a nod of recognition, index finger hooked under his chin in contemplation. It was certainly a sticky situation he currently found himself in. He already had plenty of individuals pledging themselves to the Inquisition as it was. Not to mention all the agents that he had acquired spread throughout Orlais and Ferelden. It seemed too much to ask of someone who had already shouldered far too heavy a burden. However, Thedas’ fate hung in the balance this time. Corypheus threatened all. And unfortunately to Hawke’s terrible luck, that directly involved him. And the man knew as much. Lavellan could see it written behind heavily-lidded eyes and worries creased into his forehead. He spoke nothing of trials and tribulations, but if ever tragedy was marked upon a soul, it was Garrett Hawke.
A soft chuckle reverberated through the elf’s ears, bringing him back to the forefront of the matter, “You’re wanting to ask something else, Inquisitor? Certainly it cannot be that hard to put into words,” Garrett mused, his eyes still holding the courtyard and the mages going about their lives rather happily (as much as the End of the World would allow). It was a truly touching experience. Anders would have loved to see such a state. Thankfully, the healer was put safely away from prying eyes and dangerous tempers somewhere on the road. He received letters from time to time. He would write to him once he was of time and liberty to do so. Such a radical change would not have been possible without his last effort to correct the suffering.
Lavellan sighed, “It seems I am found out.”
Varric laughed heartily, “Hawke’s good at that: sayin’ shit that you can’t. Gets us in trouble more than I care to admit.”
“You love it,” Hawke shot back.
The dwarf merely shrugged his shoulders in response, the grin hidden behind the rim of his drink.
“Aye, Ser Hawke. It seems that I have the unfortunate task of asking entirely too much of you once again.”
The Champion finally pushed himself from the stone wall, his black hair fluttering in the wind as he turned to face the newest hero of Thedas. He crossed his muscular arms, his white-smile flashing in response, “About time. Let’s hear it!”
–
“You cannot be serious!”
Josephine stood with her pen hesitant over the parchment, her soft eyes glittering at the current prospect. So it was to be of this nature, then?
Leliana smirked wickedly, her mischievous eyes glinting at the idea of it all, “It seems this has been arranged and agreed upon by the Inquisitor, Commander. I do believe we should support the new addition to our War Table.”
Cullen’s copper eyes were locked with amber across the large Oak table. The ornery pull that flickered back at him had him muted. “C'mon Commander, certainly we can work together for the greater good. Or am I forgetting our history together? I do recall you needing my assistance from time to time. And lest we forget our final encounter in Kirkwall. Were we not of the same side?”
Rutherford outwardly groaned, shoulders slumping in acceptance. He’d never hear the bloody end of it all. “Fine, fine! I cannot continue to divide myself between the army and the mages any longer.”
“You oversaw the mages? Woof, brutal.”
“Hawke!” The Inquisitor warned, their own humor masked by a need to keep peace amongst his newly appointed adviser and his previous three.
Garrett waved him off in good nature, understanding all too well the air that came with his sarcastic tendencies, “Let us prepare a force for Corypheus to truly fear, no?”
Cullen glanced at the Champion’s outstretched hand, his arms tight with hesitance.
Leliana and Josephine waited with baited breath, their own acceptance over the matter already spoken into the air prior.
Lavellan gazed at Cullen quietly. One thing he knew well as a Dalish was pride. He knew of what an awful taste it left in one’s mouth if it was to be swallowed and set aside. But Cullen was a noble man with an even more noble heart. He would do what was best.
With a sigh, he grabbed Hawke’s hand and gave it a firm shake, “Welcome aboard, Adviser. May we triumph.”
The newly appointed mage adviser smirked, “Was there ever any other option?”
–
“These will be your quarters, Ser Hawke,” Josephine offered warmly, her accent heavy upon the quiet of the room he found himself standing in the center of. It overlooked the garden. The mantras of the faithful rang from below, enveloping his ear lobes like a buzzing bee.
“Sounds like a bee-hive down there.”
Montilyet sighed, clearly aware that he was not of the Chantry and of no mind to be near such a setting, “Unfortunately, it is the best accommodations we could spare on so short a notice. I will write to Val Royeaux for better furnishings and masons to better assist with preparing another room. It will be within the main mage tower. Until then, please accept this room.”
Garrett clasped a hand onto her ruffled shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, “Don’t go getting upset. I was teasing. This will be fine. Take your time with everything.”
Josephine gave him an awkward albeit genuine smile of relief, “Very well, Champion. Please come see me if you are in need of anything. I do hope your stay with us is as pleasant as one can afford in the middle of a war.”
As she made to leave, she was brought to a stop when he spoke again: “The small things, Ambassador. That is how you find pleasantries in the middle of war. If you spend too much of your time searching for something large to pull your attentions, you will never notice the everyday luxuries you had. Laughter is the best one, if I do say so myself.”
Ah, of course he would say that. Conceding to his valid point, she nodded, “Champion.” With a slight curtsy, she left finally.
Hawke glanced around the quaint room with an eager expression. There was much to be done. He had left nothing behind in Kirkwall that he did not know was in more than capable hands. His friends and brother were not of the victim-sort. They’d be fine a little longer. He could not have them fight at his side again. Even if he could not cash in on the peace, he’d let them enjoy theirs a little longer. It was the least he could do.
Setting his staff into a corner, he stretched with a loud groan of approval before he plopped heavily down upon his new bed. Flinging himself backwards to glance at the ceiling, he closed his eyes in anticipation of a quick sleep. The journey to Skyhold had been a long one, after all.
GrrrrrAUUUUGHHHHHHHHRRRRR.
His eyes snapped open, a hand falling to rest over his stomach. “Oh, man. Can’t go fooling you, can I?” He murmured as he sat upwards once more. The smell of the cooking ram meat wafted upwards through the floorboards from the kitchens.
Just a quick bite.
–
“Another mage? Excellent.”
Lavellan flicked through the book he found himself engrossed in. He uncrossed his achy legs as he spared a glance at Solas. The apostate paced about the rotunda, the hem of his tunic swaying with each footstep he took. “I knew you’d approve.”
Solas gave a rare, small smile, his eyes crinkled in delight, “It was only a matter of time before the Inquisition was in dire need of such an advantageous move. And the Champion of Kirkwall, no less.”
The younger male nodded, “He is quite qualified, would you not agree?”
“His participation will be of the utmost important in our battles to come.”
“Inquisitor! I am in need of your assistance.”
The Dalish glanced at Solas in confusion at the sudden introduction of another voice. Both elves tilted their heads upwards to find Dorian lazily leaning over the railing. Lavellan couldn’t help the timid smile that touched upon his mouth at this, “Of course, great scion of House Pavus.”
Dorian smirked, “Well, do hurry.”
The Inquisitor gave a shrug at Solas. The mage flit his fingers in dismissal and watched with a sigh as the young male darted up the stairs. With his mind full of thoughts beyond those of the mortal plane, Solas returned once again to his studies. So the Champion of Kirkwall, the Reclaimer of the Mage Rebellion joins the Inquisition…what a turn in the tides.
–
“Keep your shields high! Surely you know enough of combat now to know such a thing!” Cullen bellowed, his battle-worn eyes stern upon the soldiers as they sparred. They had come a long way since Haven. But this was still not good enough. Not nearly close. If another assault occurred, the defenses would only last so long. They would depend upon the soldiers to divert the aggressions while the mages focused upon Corypheus and possible healing measures. If the demons did not corrupt them first.
“If the mages are to stand a chance, you must hold your position!” He added, pausing only to glance over a new message delivered by one of Leliana’s men.
“Oh, so that’s how it is, huh? Fragile little flowers and all that is what the mages are?”
“Maker’s breath.”
“You know, Growler,” Hawke breathed, taking a step next to Cullen, “You give the mages far too little credit. And tell your men when they perform well. Certainly even you can admit that a word of praise in the belly of drained focus helps the cause along.”
“The day I take orders from you, Champion, is the day I find myself in the hangman’s noose.”
Garrett chortled in laughter at such an image, “Relax, would you? We’re working together, remember? I thought it best that I stand back and watch your regimen for your men before approaching the techniques to instill upon the mages. Both sides must be uniformed if we are to prevail, correct?”
Cullen stared at him hard before speaking again, “When did you get so serious?”
The Champion waved his hands in front of him quickly, his head shaking to concrete the matter, “Oh, no, no, no. Nothing like that. I’ve just been around here and there. You of all people know that unflinching rigidity is not something that always works.”
He had a point. The former templar gazed upon his worn men, their arms shaking from the weight of their blades and a long morning’s training. “Enough. Go to the barracks and rest.”
Hawke beamed proudly.
“This isn’t because you said something, Champion.”
“Oh?”
“No. If I hadn’t called it off for the day, I’d be stuck listening to you ramble on and on in my ears for the rest of the day.”
With that blunt remark, Cullen sauntered off after his troops.
Garrett laughed a bit, shaking his head as he made his way to the mage tower. Now that the training ring was free of the soldiers, the mages could properly begin their own training.
–
Bull stood next to the pub, his large arms folded in observation when the Inquisitor found him.
“Bull.”
“Boss! Good to see ya.”
“Likewise.”
“I see there’s a new face. Another one of those advisers, huh? From what I’ve gathered, it’s the Champion. The one that killed the Arishok while the Qunari were hold up in Kirkwall.”
“You’re well-informed for only a morning to gather information.”
“Ben-Hassareth.”
“Of course.”
“So what’s he to do here?”
“He is the adviser on all things magic. He will serve to train the mage refugees and recruits. With the help of Fiona, of course. He will also serve as a fourth opinion inside the War Room…also, could you keep this out of your reports to the Qun?”
Iron Bull gazed at the Dalish for a moment before returning his focus to the mages currently training, “We’ll see. A solid decision, Boss.”
“I aim to please.”
The Qunari snorted, rolling his good eye, “I hear lots of stories regarding this Ferelden. Most of them coming from Varric’s own mouth.”
“He’s quite a figure, for certain. Perhaps you should speak to him later.”
“I had intended to. Varric wanted to play a game of Wicked Grace with the Chargers and the Champion as a way to introduce him to Skyhold. You in? The Chargers have been askin’ about ya, anyway.”
Lavellan cocked a brow, “You’re wanting all my coin, aren’t you?”
“Just a side benefit of it all, Boss.”
“Of course.”
Bull gave a dip of his chin as Krem and a few of the other Chargers came to stand next to their captain. “How was that sweep of Haven with the rest of Cullen’s troops, Krem-brulee?”
Krem gave a disgusted face, his brows furrowed as he shook his head, “We just got back, Chief. Must you start with that nonsense already?”
Iron Bull continued to stare at the man a long moment before the younger male sighed, “Anyway, there were some lingering demons but most of what we found was rubble.”
Dalish spoke up at this, her eyes on the mages in the distance far off, “What’s this, then?”
“The new adviser,” Lavellan offered, his eyes following Hawke’s instructions and movements closely. In all honesty, he’d never seen mages fight in this manner.
“Use your staff’s blade! It’s not there for decoration!” Garrett called out as he dodged a spiral of fire that had been hurled his direction. “If the enemy is too far upon you, you must ward him backwards with simple combat techniques. Just because you are gifted with magic does not make it your only ability. Do not rely solely upon it. You must be quick!”
Hawke held up his hand to bring the onslaught to a stop. His pulse was quickened and his features glistened with the beginnings of sweat as he brought his own staff’s blade flush into the dirt. “We must use an example.”
The opposing mages were doubled over, holding onto their knees as they attempted to catch their breath.
Bull’s eye brightened at this, “Oh, oh. He’s lookin’ for a fight! My kinda guy already! Boss, boss, boss–”
“–No, Bull. The mages need to learn.”
“But he just said he needs an example for them.”
“They’ll be too busy watching your big arse fling around that battle axe instead of genuinely paying attention.”
The Charger captain sighed, lip wibbling outwards in a pout.
Hawke glanced around fervently, his eyes still searching.
“Chief, certainly you could afford to inform us whenever there’s a new missive sent out that directly involves us,” a raspy voice grumbled, agitation clear even without registering the face.
“Listen here, Sparkles–” Bull tried, his index finger pointing at the approaching elf.
Lavellan stole a glance at the elf. He’d met him a while back when Bull had first introduced the Chargers to him upon their arrival to Skyhold. He hadn’t spoken much. Instead, he’d sat quiet. He spoke only when spoken to, mostly. Although, he always seemed to have a mouthful whenever Dalish was going on about her 'bow’. She claimed not to be a mage but the staff and distrust inside the other elf’s face whenever he spoke to her said otherwise. He was unusual as far as elves were concerned. He was not of Dalish decent, and yet he bore markings through his skin. Far from the tattoos that covered the Inquisitor’s own face, he found that this elf bore markings down into the very depths of his skin; almost like bone. His hair was an unnatural white. It stood bright against his darker skin and piercing green eyes. He was languid and lanky, his muscles toned from plenty of fighting (among other histories). He brandished a two-handed weapon that nearly stood taller than he did. He wore no shoes save for wraps upon his feet. His armor was made of black leather, the shoulders spiked and unapproachable. Much like his apparent personality. His metal gloves spiked into make-shift claws, gathering into his gauntlets. He often spoke in Tevene. This the Inquisitor only knew from his associations with Dorian Pavus. The man also knew of some Qunlat, as he often added a quick jab at Bull in his native tongue whenever he spoke idiocies.
The Inquisitor knew little of him. And the other elf had settled on that notion being perfectly fine. He spoke to few and socialized with even fewer. Lavellan knew the Chargers referred to him as 'Sparkles’. But he had heard, when Bull was certain no one else was listening, that his name happened to be Fenris.
“You!”
The bickering elf and his captain ceased all topic of conversation at the interjection. Lavellan looked at Hawke. The adviser was pointing their direction.
“Me, he picked me!” Bull exclaimed, excitement evident.
Hawke laughed at this, shaking his head, “No offense, big guy. Last time I tangled with one of you, I nearly died. Let me shake off a bit of the rust and we can have at it, alright?”
Bull frowned.
“No, no, you! Right there.”
Lavellan knew he wasn’t the subject. Glancing down the line, he found Krem and Fenris glaring at one another.
“He means you, Tevinter.”
“Pretty sure it’s not me.”
“Yes, it is!”
Garrett let out a groan, his face expectant, “C'mon! You!”
Krem pointed at his own chest, but the Champion shook his head, “No, next to you.”
Bull laughed loudly, “That means you, Sparkles. Get up there. Make papa proud.”
Fenris’ eyes narrowed upon those of the burly mage calling out to him. Green locked with amber irises, his jaw set in refusal. He’d be damned if he got anywhere near that damn mage. He’d be damned to hell.