![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lassarina posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
rose_in_winterCharacters: Fenris, Mage Female Hawke, Sebastian Vael (Fenris/f!Hawke/Sebastian)
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Fic Wordcount: 117,000
Chapter Wordcount:
Notes: Canon-divergent, ignoring most of Act 3. A thousand thanks tosenmut's Discord server for cheering and brainstorming and reactions and encouragement.
Beta: breadedsinner and MikWrites_InSpace
Summary: After the duel with the Arishok, Ariane Hawke looks around at the wreckage of her life in Kirkwall and asks herself: what is left for me here? As tensions increase between the Circle and the Templars, she turns to helping Sebastian retake Starkhaven. Meanwhile, she is trying to figure out how to love Fenris when he hates mages, and also definitely not looking at Sebastian's gorgeous eyes. Definitely not. Neither is Fenris. Sebastian is not looking back.
Definitely.
Canon divergence in which almost all of act 3 goes in the bin, and three damaged people try to find a way to live with each other and themselves, and maybe heal a bit.
Chapter index here.
The grey walls of the city loomed before them. Hawke was eager to fall into her own bed for at least a month--maybe, preferably, with company--but first, she needed to return the relic to de Telvignon. And set Varric to finding out where a Circle mage had gotten the money to assassinate her. And figure out how to get the Antivan Crows to fuck off.
Trivial, really. Just another day in the life of Ariane Hawke, doing the impossible twice before breakfast.
They parted ways when they reached Hightown, Sebastian heading to the Chantry and Hawke and Fenris taking the horses to the livery stable she'd rented from. They hadn't spoken again of....them, of what they could be to each other, perhaps because it was too new and fragile or because it felt mildly ridiculous to try to navigate the complexities of two noble houses and the lurking threat of a Tevinter magister when you were shivering at a campfire, gnawing on hardtack and cheese. The longer the conversation waited, the more Hawke started to fear it. She wondered if she'd dreamed that night in the cavern--if she'd dreamed most of the trip. She checked her saddlebags, as she'd found herself doing several times a day. The reliquary that Clarice had given her was still there. So was the pair of contracts.
Some of it must have been real.
Seeing the contracts, she lifted her gaze to the looming towers of the Gallows. Somewhere in there was a Starkhaven Circle mage who'd signed her name to a death warrant for Hawke. It beggared belief that Grace had the money to pay for the Crows herself, which meant someone was using her--something they'd all three agreed on when they discussed it--but Hawke had no idea who, or why. If Meredith wanted her dead, all she had to do was send a team of templars. Hawke couldn't think of a single reason why Orsino would want her assassinated, which meant someone outside the Gallows, and at that point the list became entirely too long to hold in her own head.
"Not today, Hawke," Fenris said, following the direction of her gaze. "You're in no condition to face down the Knight-Commander."
"I know," she said reluctantly, "but I hate having this hanging over my head."
He said nothing; there was nothing to say. Hawke sighed. "I'll send a letter to Carver," she said, and Fenris nodded.
They returned the horses to the stable without incident. Fenris accompanied her back to her home, but they parted at the door; she assumed he was going back to his own residence.
Once she had bathed and eaten, she sat at the writing desk and stared at the massive heap of correspondence that had accrued in the time she'd been away. Bodahn had done his best to sort it into neat stacks by origin, and left a note atop each stack to tell her what it was. There were letters from people she actually cared about (the thinnest stack by far), a much-too-tall stack of over-scented envelopes from assorted noble families or government officials in Kirkwall, and then an even larger stack of letters addressed to "The Champion of Kirkwall." Hawke's stomach churned just looking at them. Where was she supposed to find the resources, never mind the time, to handle all of this? She didn't even have a real position to justify this many people turning to her for help (or, she was honest enough to admit, to serve their greed or ambition). Unbidden, her mind presented her with an image of an office hung with banners bearing the Starkhaven crest, and a pair of desks piled even higher than this. Sebastian sat at the other. She shook her head fiercely to dislodge the idea; she had no promise that anything between them would work out, or that they would succeed in reclaiming Starkhaven, or that even if both of those things were true, that Sebastian would want her help with ruling.
It still made her nearly sick to contemplate.
She shook her head again, and opened a drawer for clean parchment and pen. Her first letter was to Carver, asking him to come visit when next he had free time. This was not a conversation she wanted to have anywhere that Meredith's spies might be lurking; confiding in Carver was dangerous enough. The next was to de Telvignon, requesting an audience at his convenience. Might as well be polite when she was going to disappoint him. She made a list of things she wanted to discuss with Varric, and a list of questions for Isabela's contact, and set them aside. Her last note, which she did not put in the pile for Bodahn to send, was to Lady Merinfort, confirming that she had completed de Telvignon's request. She would wait to see how much of an ass he wanted to be before she sent it, just in case she had to change her wording.
She left the letters for Bodahn to deliver and paced around the living room twice before she admitted defeat and headed for the Hanged Man. She was tired from the journey, but unable to sit still. It was mid-afternoon, so the streets of Hightown were busy. She found herself searching the faces of those she passed, wondering if Isabela and Clarice had beaten her here. It was possible, if they'd gone by boat. She reminded herself firmly that Isabela had made her own choices, and it wasn't Hawke's responsibility or problem what she did with them anymore.
If only she believed herself on that point.
She cut through to Lowtown, automatically sidestepping a cutpurse who had designs on her, and stopped off at the smithy to sell the Antivan daggers. She kept an eye out as she haggled, noting who was paying too much attention to the value of the blades, and when her business was concluded, she lingered a few minutes longer, examining the longswords in stock. The woman and one of the men who'd been watching her took the hint and went off to find easier prey. The burly, scarred Antivan man made worse life choices.
Hawke thanked the smith and set off for the less crowded of the two massive stone staircases that led to the Hanged Man; easier by far to handle trouble when she had room to maneuver. The Antivan unfolded himself from the barrel he'd been leaning against and followed her, too obviously. Hawke saw one of the off-duty guardsmen the smith kept to dissuade anyone who thought his strongbox was easy pickings peel off and start following them. Lowtown was rough around the edges, but the merchants here had an interest in their customers not being robbed mere steps from the table. Besides, she recognized the guard; one of Aveline's better lieutenants.
She'd have to show some restraint.
The would-be thief followed her down to the bottom of the stairs, where she knew there was an alleyway coming up on her right. She picked up her pace and heard his footfalls accelerate behind her, then abruptly leapt back and spun around to the left, ducking as she did so. His attempt at tackling her went wide, and her boot on his ass sent him crashing into the wall on the far side of the alley, head first. He shuddered and shook his head, then groaned. A bad choice for him, given that he likely had a concussion.
Still, she shaped the energy of a rock fist into a subtle glove on her left hand as she skirted the alley. The thief groaned and looked around, then tried to charge her again, but he went wide enough to his right that she didn't even have to dodge.
The trailing guardsman caught up to them, and nodded to Hawke as he hauled the thief to his feet. Hawke checked for any unanticipated company, and let the spell she was holding fade. The guardsman took the thief off for questioning, and Hawke continued on her way. The Hanged Man wasn't far.
"Hawke! You're back!" Varric held out his arms in an expansive welcoming gesture, and Merrill twisted on her chair, her face lighting with a smile. Hawke waved as she detoured to the bar for a drink. Winecup in hand, she joined her friends at Varric's usual table.
"What've I missed?" she asked Varric.
He shrugged. "Murder, commerce, politics. The usual." At her raised eyebrow, he grinned. "Nothing you need to worry about, at least not as the Champion."
That did not, she noted, preclude her needing to care as Lady Amell, but she nodded and sipped her wine.
"Did you have a pleasant journey?" Merrill asked her.
"Yes and no." Hawke sighed. "The request was to retrieve a kidnapped daughter and stolen relic for a visiting Orlesian nobleman."
Varric leaned forward, scenting a story.
"Turns out the wayward daughter ran off with a Rivaini pirate queen and took the relic with her." Hawke sighed.
"A Rivaini pirate?" Merrill asked. "Do you think she knows where to find Isabela?" When Hawke raised an eyebrow, Merrill winced in chagrin. "Oh. You did mean Isabela, then."
Varric swore creatively. "I'd figured out she'd gone to Orlais, but nothing more than that," he said. He eyed her, his gaze sharper than she preferred. "And?"
"I have the relic. The daughter is a woman grown." Hawke pushed her wine away; it was the usual swill at the Hanged Man, and she'd gotten accustomed to the better wine Fenris had piled in his cellar. "She'll make her own choices. Isabela gave me a name and address for someone who might be able to help me figure out who paid the Antivan Crows for my head."
The background din stayed at the same volume, but in the small space of Varric's table, you could have heard a drop of water strike the wood.
"This is gonna be a two-drink story at least," Varric said, signaling Nora.
"Are you all right?" Merrill asked. "Are Fenris and Sebastian all right?"
"We're all well now," Hawke said. She knew Varric caught the distinction in her answer.
She didn't tell the whole story--she absolutely did not need her own incompetence at relationships finding its way into the next Hard in Hightown and while Varric had many good qualities, close-mouthed (or close-penned) was not one of them. But she did tell them about Isabela, and about the Crows, and the name on the contract.
Varric whistled, long and low, when she was done. "Where did a Circle mage get the money or contacts for that?" he asked his now-empty ale.
"I don't know," Hawke said, "but I've sent a letter to Carver, asking him to come visit."
Varric raised an eyebrow. "This might be above Junior's pay grade, you know," he said.
"Yes," Hawke said, "but there are an extremely limited number of templars I could even think about trusting with this."
"Could someone else have put her name? She might not be involved at all," Merrill pointed out.
Hawke shrugged. "She hates me enough that she would if she had the money," she said. "But you're right. I'll see what I can find out." She glanced sideways at Varric.
"Oh, Varric, you're so well connected, I'm sure you know someone who knows something," Varric intoned.
Hawke gave him a playful shove, which did not move him at all, and he laughed, but quickly sobered. "Take care, Hawke," he said. "I don't know of any way to cancel a contract from the Crows."
"Well," Hawke said philosophically, "it'll be nice to have a competent enemy." Varric obliged her with a laugh he didn't mean.
She rose, leaving her still-mostly-full cup on the table. "I'm sure there are things I need to settle at home," she said. "Take care."
"You should take care too, you know," Merrill said, and Hawke found a smile for her somewhere.
"I will," she promised, and wasn't lying.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Rating: NC-17
Contains: Canon-typical violence, explicit sex
Fic Wordcount: 117,000
Chapter Wordcount:
Notes: Canon-divergent, ignoring most of Act 3. A thousand thanks to
senmut's Discord server for cheering and brainstorming and reactions and encouragement.Beta: breadedsinner and MikWrites_InSpace
Summary: After the duel with the Arishok, Ariane Hawke looks around at the wreckage of her life in Kirkwall and asks herself: what is left for me here? As tensions increase between the Circle and the Templars, she turns to helping Sebastian retake Starkhaven. Meanwhile, she is trying to figure out how to love Fenris when he hates mages, and also definitely not looking at Sebastian's gorgeous eyes. Definitely not. Neither is Fenris. Sebastian is not looking back.
Definitely.
Canon divergence in which almost all of act 3 goes in the bin, and three damaged people try to find a way to live with each other and themselves, and maybe heal a bit.
Chapter index here.
The grey walls of the city loomed before them. Hawke was eager to fall into her own bed for at least a month--maybe, preferably, with company--but first, she needed to return the relic to de Telvignon. And set Varric to finding out where a Circle mage had gotten the money to assassinate her. And figure out how to get the Antivan Crows to fuck off.
Trivial, really. Just another day in the life of Ariane Hawke, doing the impossible twice before breakfast.
They parted ways when they reached Hightown, Sebastian heading to the Chantry and Hawke and Fenris taking the horses to the livery stable she'd rented from. They hadn't spoken again of....them, of what they could be to each other, perhaps because it was too new and fragile or because it felt mildly ridiculous to try to navigate the complexities of two noble houses and the lurking threat of a Tevinter magister when you were shivering at a campfire, gnawing on hardtack and cheese. The longer the conversation waited, the more Hawke started to fear it. She wondered if she'd dreamed that night in the cavern--if she'd dreamed most of the trip. She checked her saddlebags, as she'd found herself doing several times a day. The reliquary that Clarice had given her was still there. So was the pair of contracts.
Some of it must have been real.
Seeing the contracts, she lifted her gaze to the looming towers of the Gallows. Somewhere in there was a Starkhaven Circle mage who'd signed her name to a death warrant for Hawke. It beggared belief that Grace had the money to pay for the Crows herself, which meant someone was using her--something they'd all three agreed on when they discussed it--but Hawke had no idea who, or why. If Meredith wanted her dead, all she had to do was send a team of templars. Hawke couldn't think of a single reason why Orsino would want her assassinated, which meant someone outside the Gallows, and at that point the list became entirely too long to hold in her own head.
"Not today, Hawke," Fenris said, following the direction of her gaze. "You're in no condition to face down the Knight-Commander."
"I know," she said reluctantly, "but I hate having this hanging over my head."
He said nothing; there was nothing to say. Hawke sighed. "I'll send a letter to Carver," she said, and Fenris nodded.
They returned the horses to the stable without incident. Fenris accompanied her back to her home, but they parted at the door; she assumed he was going back to his own residence.
Once she had bathed and eaten, she sat at the writing desk and stared at the massive heap of correspondence that had accrued in the time she'd been away. Bodahn had done his best to sort it into neat stacks by origin, and left a note atop each stack to tell her what it was. There were letters from people she actually cared about (the thinnest stack by far), a much-too-tall stack of over-scented envelopes from assorted noble families or government officials in Kirkwall, and then an even larger stack of letters addressed to "The Champion of Kirkwall." Hawke's stomach churned just looking at them. Where was she supposed to find the resources, never mind the time, to handle all of this? She didn't even have a real position to justify this many people turning to her for help (or, she was honest enough to admit, to serve their greed or ambition). Unbidden, her mind presented her with an image of an office hung with banners bearing the Starkhaven crest, and a pair of desks piled even higher than this. Sebastian sat at the other. She shook her head fiercely to dislodge the idea; she had no promise that anything between them would work out, or that they would succeed in reclaiming Starkhaven, or that even if both of those things were true, that Sebastian would want her help with ruling.
It still made her nearly sick to contemplate.
She shook her head again, and opened a drawer for clean parchment and pen. Her first letter was to Carver, asking him to come visit when next he had free time. This was not a conversation she wanted to have anywhere that Meredith's spies might be lurking; confiding in Carver was dangerous enough. The next was to de Telvignon, requesting an audience at his convenience. Might as well be polite when she was going to disappoint him. She made a list of things she wanted to discuss with Varric, and a list of questions for Isabela's contact, and set them aside. Her last note, which she did not put in the pile for Bodahn to send, was to Lady Merinfort, confirming that she had completed de Telvignon's request. She would wait to see how much of an ass he wanted to be before she sent it, just in case she had to change her wording.
She left the letters for Bodahn to deliver and paced around the living room twice before she admitted defeat and headed for the Hanged Man. She was tired from the journey, but unable to sit still. It was mid-afternoon, so the streets of Hightown were busy. She found herself searching the faces of those she passed, wondering if Isabela and Clarice had beaten her here. It was possible, if they'd gone by boat. She reminded herself firmly that Isabela had made her own choices, and it wasn't Hawke's responsibility or problem what she did with them anymore.
If only she believed herself on that point.
She cut through to Lowtown, automatically sidestepping a cutpurse who had designs on her, and stopped off at the smithy to sell the Antivan daggers. She kept an eye out as she haggled, noting who was paying too much attention to the value of the blades, and when her business was concluded, she lingered a few minutes longer, examining the longswords in stock. The woman and one of the men who'd been watching her took the hint and went off to find easier prey. The burly, scarred Antivan man made worse life choices.
Hawke thanked the smith and set off for the less crowded of the two massive stone staircases that led to the Hanged Man; easier by far to handle trouble when she had room to maneuver. The Antivan unfolded himself from the barrel he'd been leaning against and followed her, too obviously. Hawke saw one of the off-duty guardsmen the smith kept to dissuade anyone who thought his strongbox was easy pickings peel off and start following them. Lowtown was rough around the edges, but the merchants here had an interest in their customers not being robbed mere steps from the table. Besides, she recognized the guard; one of Aveline's better lieutenants.
She'd have to show some restraint.
The would-be thief followed her down to the bottom of the stairs, where she knew there was an alleyway coming up on her right. She picked up her pace and heard his footfalls accelerate behind her, then abruptly leapt back and spun around to the left, ducking as she did so. His attempt at tackling her went wide, and her boot on his ass sent him crashing into the wall on the far side of the alley, head first. He shuddered and shook his head, then groaned. A bad choice for him, given that he likely had a concussion.
Still, she shaped the energy of a rock fist into a subtle glove on her left hand as she skirted the alley. The thief groaned and looked around, then tried to charge her again, but he went wide enough to his right that she didn't even have to dodge.
The trailing guardsman caught up to them, and nodded to Hawke as he hauled the thief to his feet. Hawke checked for any unanticipated company, and let the spell she was holding fade. The guardsman took the thief off for questioning, and Hawke continued on her way. The Hanged Man wasn't far.
"Hawke! You're back!" Varric held out his arms in an expansive welcoming gesture, and Merrill twisted on her chair, her face lighting with a smile. Hawke waved as she detoured to the bar for a drink. Winecup in hand, she joined her friends at Varric's usual table.
"What've I missed?" she asked Varric.
He shrugged. "Murder, commerce, politics. The usual." At her raised eyebrow, he grinned. "Nothing you need to worry about, at least not as the Champion."
That did not, she noted, preclude her needing to care as Lady Amell, but she nodded and sipped her wine.
"Did you have a pleasant journey?" Merrill asked her.
"Yes and no." Hawke sighed. "The request was to retrieve a kidnapped daughter and stolen relic for a visiting Orlesian nobleman."
Varric leaned forward, scenting a story.
"Turns out the wayward daughter ran off with a Rivaini pirate queen and took the relic with her." Hawke sighed.
"A Rivaini pirate?" Merrill asked. "Do you think she knows where to find Isabela?" When Hawke raised an eyebrow, Merrill winced in chagrin. "Oh. You did mean Isabela, then."
Varric swore creatively. "I'd figured out she'd gone to Orlais, but nothing more than that," he said. He eyed her, his gaze sharper than she preferred. "And?"
"I have the relic. The daughter is a woman grown." Hawke pushed her wine away; it was the usual swill at the Hanged Man, and she'd gotten accustomed to the better wine Fenris had piled in his cellar. "She'll make her own choices. Isabela gave me a name and address for someone who might be able to help me figure out who paid the Antivan Crows for my head."
The background din stayed at the same volume, but in the small space of Varric's table, you could have heard a drop of water strike the wood.
"This is gonna be a two-drink story at least," Varric said, signaling Nora.
"Are you all right?" Merrill asked. "Are Fenris and Sebastian all right?"
"We're all well now," Hawke said. She knew Varric caught the distinction in her answer.
She didn't tell the whole story--she absolutely did not need her own incompetence at relationships finding its way into the next Hard in Hightown and while Varric had many good qualities, close-mouthed (or close-penned) was not one of them. But she did tell them about Isabela, and about the Crows, and the name on the contract.
Varric whistled, long and low, when she was done. "Where did a Circle mage get the money or contacts for that?" he asked his now-empty ale.
"I don't know," Hawke said, "but I've sent a letter to Carver, asking him to come visit."
Varric raised an eyebrow. "This might be above Junior's pay grade, you know," he said.
"Yes," Hawke said, "but there are an extremely limited number of templars I could even think about trusting with this."
"Could someone else have put her name? She might not be involved at all," Merrill pointed out.
Hawke shrugged. "She hates me enough that she would if she had the money," she said. "But you're right. I'll see what I can find out." She glanced sideways at Varric.
"Oh, Varric, you're so well connected, I'm sure you know someone who knows something," Varric intoned.
Hawke gave him a playful shove, which did not move him at all, and he laughed, but quickly sobered. "Take care, Hawke," he said. "I don't know of any way to cancel a contract from the Crows."
"Well," Hawke said philosophically, "it'll be nice to have a competent enemy." Varric obliged her with a laugh he didn't mean.
She rose, leaving her still-mostly-full cup on the table. "I'm sure there are things I need to settle at home," she said. "Take care."
"You should take care too, you know," Merrill said, and Hawke found a smile for her somewhere.
"I will," she promised, and wasn't lying.
Chapter Twenty-Four