Chapter Text
The Spoiled Princess was a rundown sort of tavern on the banks of Lake Calenhad.
With the docks to Kinloch Hold no longer busy, and just a small number of people willing to pass so close to the Circle during the rebellion, it was a surprise it managed to remain open at all. Garrett Hawke stepped inside and took in the empty common room, wondering if it was simply deserted.
“Hello?”
Swearing from outback, and a few moments later a woman stuck her head out, squinting at him suspiciously.
“If you want the ferryman, he’s retired.”
“No,” Hawke said, “I want a room.”
The woman sniffed then moved out of the kitchen.
“Three silvers,” she said, “Money up front. Can only offer stew for dinner. There ain’t much trade this way, these days.”
“That’s fine.” Garrett replied, sitting himself down at one of the tables, faintly aware of the dust on the surface. “Just need a rest stop before I carry on south.”
The woman paused, looking at him. Looking at the staff.
“You ain’t one of those -”
“No,” Garrett lied, “Just travelling through.”
The woman eyed him, then shrugged.
“I ain’t got no problem with mages.” She said, before barking a laugh. “Can’t do, what with them being so close for years. But I do have a problem with the murder and the chaos.”
“On that,” Hawke said dryly, “We are agreed.”
She poured him a pint that tasted watered-down, and left him to it whilst she went to serve up a portion of extra stew. Hawke set his pack down on the floor and rolled his ankle, wincing at the click and grind of bone. It had never been the same since that night.
Three years ago, he’d fled Kirkwall in the aftermath of Anders’ attack on the Chantry with little more thought than escaping out from under the thumb of the Templars in the city. The world had changed since then. He had changed since then.
He’d hobbled into Denerim, alone and with just enough coin to scrape by, determined to start again somewhere big enough to just be one more citizen. He didn’t want to be Champion - he didn’t even want to be Garrett Hawke. His first - and only - priority had been burying himself deep enough in the city that he was just another face in the crowd. He picked up work for the Blackstone Irregulars and passed himself off as Wesley Vallen if he ever had to introduce himself. No one looked twice at him, even as depictions of his face began to appear on Chantry boards. No one expected the Champion of Kirkwall to walk with a limp and have nothing in his pockets.
Between odd jobs for all manner of strange and shady people in Denerim, he’d made enough coin to fund a small hovel not far from the alienage. And slowly, as the whispers of Kirkwall faded to nothing, the threat of an Exalted March fizzling away, Hawke found a version of himself that he could live with. A life not too dissimilar to the one he’d had in the first few months of Kirkwall. And he had friends, of sorts. People he could drink with, who stiffed him at cards, and didn’t ask too many questions. It was enough. Or at least, he told himself it was enough. Getting closer to people was a risk he was rather unwilling to take after Kirkwall. A simple life where he could fade from memory - it had to be enough.
Until the White Spire, and the rumours of rebellion among the mages. In the aftermath of Meredith’s failed annulment, the College of Enchanters had ruled against such drastic action - but now, a few years on, things were different. Hawke listened in the taverns as stories began to circulate about a series of murders, about the possibility that Tranquility could be reversed. He thought of Bethany, in Montsimmard, and hoped she was not caught up in it all. By the time word reached Denerim of Andoral’s Reach and the annulment in Rivain, Hawke’s fears began to grow.
He hadn’t tried to reach her since fleeing Kirkwall, knowing that he was as unpopular among the mages as he was the Templars. In the aftermath of that night, Hawke had heard every possible argument and discussion about the Champion of Kirkwall and whether he’d been a hero, a villain or just a useful puppet for the Order. And whilst interest in him and his story had waned among the general population, he wasn’t under any illusion how he was viewed by those tied to the Circles. The Chantry blamed him for Anders, the Templars saw him as a rebellious maleficar, and the Mages saw him as a cowardly traitor. Bethany would not thank him if he tried to establish contact in Orlais.
All the same, when the rebellion had been declared, and the Templars walked away from the Nevarran Accord to handle the mage problem on their own terms, Hawke had written to Varric, across the sea. The dwarf had written back, suggesting that his contacts had spotted a woman matching Bethany’s description among the rebels heading to Redcliffe.
Hawke had considered, briefly, heading south to meet her. It had been nearly six years since he’d seen her at all, and much, much longer since he’d spent any reasonable time with his twin. But if mages in general would dislike him, he suspected the rebels would loathe him. He had, after all, helped the Order strangle the Mage Underground in Kirkwall - even if he’d baulked at the final order to exterminate them entirely. And at least Bethany was safe enough, surrounded by like-minded people. Sure, the Templars were hunting them, but Redcliffe offered security.
He’d talked himself out of acting when Varric’s next letter reached him. Not about Bethany - but about him.
The Right Hand of the Divine had landed in Kirkwall and started asking questions. It was only the fact that she’d questioned Cullen up at the half-empty Gallows first that meant Varric had time to dash off the few lines of warning. And then nothing, for over a fortnight, as Garrett waited with baited breath for a Seeker to kick down the door of his home.
When word came again, it came a circuitous route, rather than through formal channels. Whatever had happened, Varric had snuck a note to someone and it ended up in Hawke’s hands - a little late, but still valuable.
Being escorted to meet the Divine at the peace talks. Stay low - I’ll say hi to Bethany if I can.
Hawke had asked around that night, trying not to sound too eager, and discovered that the Divine was pushing for peace talks between both sides at the rediscovered Temple of Sacred Ashes, just outside Haven in the Frostbacks. Whilst it wasn’t guaranteed to be going ahead, the new leader of the Seekers seemed far more inclined to reconciliation than his predecessor. By rumours reckoning, Hawke had just under a fortnight to get to Haven and see what was happening.
That had been eleven days ago. He’d packed up what little he had and hit the road the next morning, leaning on his staff as a crutch when his foot ached.
He owed Varric enough to risk capture at the Conclave, and the possibility his sister might be there spurred him on further. Neither of Varric’s warnings had suggested why the Right Hand of the Divine was looking for him now, but it didn’t matter. She’d practically abducted Varric, and the last people who’d done that had ended up dead. Hawke didn’t plan to stroll up to the Peace Talks and attack an old woman - or her agents - but he did want to know what was happening, and why. The fact they’d been asking questions about him after so long concerned him, especially when the Chantry had bigger concerns than one missing apostate.
On stretches of the Imperial Highway used to foot traffic, he’d offered money for rides in the back of wagons, or on horses. When he’d turned south, towards Lake Calenhad, there were less people. No one wanted to get too close to Kinloch Hold.
The Circle stood abandoned, but its shadow was long - especially after what had happened during the Blight. More than one person Hawke had spoken with since leaving Denerim muttered about blood magic and demons, and there had been refugees heading north, away from Redcliffe.
If Hawke followed the road in the other direction, he would eventually come to Lothering. Perhaps on the journey back - if there was one - he could make the detour. As it was, he was already behind schedule. The talks had begun, and he was still days away from reaching the Hinterlands, let alone the Frostbacks.
He hoped he wasn’t going to be too late. That Varric was safe, and Bethany well. Sighing, he knocked back the rest of his ale and thanked the woman who brought him stew. A night’s rest in a tavern was something he could ill afford, but found was necessary. Not for the first time, he cursed his stubborn refusal to get his ankle seen to in those early days in Denerim, too worried about being noticed.
He was back on the road, early the next morning, when the sky ripped open.