Chapter Text
Kirkwall, 9:34 Dragon
Waving at the barkeep as she passed, Marian Hawke trudged through the Hanged Man, covered in soot, dirt and blood. Corff, who tended the patrons of the Hanged Man called out to Marian that a bath was waiting for her in the suite occupied by Varric Tethras.
Good, my legs are stiff with dried mud and dragon’s blood, Marian thought crankily.
There would be a fresh set of clothes waiting for her too, likely at Varric’s directive. Her immediate concern was a bath, a beer and forgetting the fact that there had been a freaking dragon eating the miners. Hubert was going to have to find reliable workers again. But that was his problem. Marian’s was finding a drink to numb the memory of an angry dragon.
Marian let herself into Varric’s suite, beelining for the washroom where a steaming bath was waiting for her. Peeling herself out filthy armour and sweaty underclothes, she left it piled conspicuously in a corner and sank into the tub. The hot water soothed aching limbs and washed away the filth of the Bone Pit. Bodahn would fetch her belongings and return them to the estate. Her short, shaggy hair dripping water, Marian pulled on a threadbare, long-sleeve shirt, tucking the shirt tails into the dark suede trousers. Over the shirt, she buttoned a vest. Her grime encrusted boots were the only sign that she had been tromping through places where she probably shouldn’t have been. Now she could seek out a desperately needed beer.
Weaving through the tables, the patrons who were not slouched over drunk called out gruff greetings to the Champion of Kirkwall. At their regular table, which was within stumbling distance of the bar, but far enough away to be out of range when a scuffle inevitably broke out; Marian was surprised to find Isabela and Merrill sitting with Varric. The two women were very clean and did not look like they had just fought a dragon. She must have taken longer than she originally thought. Several empty mugs already decorated the tabletop and Varric grinned as Marian dropped into a vacant seat.
“So Hawke, a dragon?” Varric asked slyly. Marian ignored the quip, reaching forward to grab the closest mug of ale, taking a long gulp and grimacing slightly at the taste.
“After a dragon, Hubert might just give me the Bone Pit for free. It’s nothing but a pain in the arse.” Marian told Varric behind the rim of her mug.
Varric’s grin widened. “Just think Hawke, if you stop people dying, then you might actually make some money out of it.” The dwarf told her with false enthusiasm. Marian lowered her mug and stared at Varric, not amused: “I seem to recall a certain dwarf urging me to invest in this mine.”
“I did suggest we try and shoo the dragon away, killing it seemed like a terrible waste.” Merrill commented absently, concentrating on the card game that she was playing with Isabela. Varric patted the elf on the shoulder in false comfort.
Scoffing at Merrill’s comment, Marian stood and made her way to the bar. She needed something much stronger than the piss weak drink that the Hanged Man called ale. Waving down Corff to place her order when patrons were pouring in after a hard day’s work was easier said than done. It didn’t matter who you were – you waited until it was your turn. Marian liked it that way, but not when she was thirsty for a strong drink or three. It was easier to have Isabela do the job; the pirate had a knack with gaining the bartender’s attention. Corff passed by, acknowledging her place with a grunt when Marian waved him down. Thirsty as she was, it seemed like it was going to be a day and a half before the man would get to her.
Then finally, Corff began to meander his way over to serve her, just as a newcomer pushed his way to the front, leaning over the bar-top to give Corff a brazened wave. Marian noticed the finer make of the intruder’s armour; a visitor, who didn’t care enough to follow the established status quo.
Mouth set in a firm line, Marian pulled a dagger from her belt, slamming it into the wood just shy of the man’s hand. “I don’t care what back alley you crawled out of, get in line.” She hissed in warning.
He turned towards Marian with an amused smirk, allowing Marian to better examine the armour, trying to identify where this idiot had indeed come from. The armour was well cared for, if plain and a bit old, making his allegiances impossible to determine. The armour-style was familiar, yet Marian couldn’t place where she knew it from. From what Marian could see of the sword sheathed on his waist, it too was of finer make, the hilt wrapped with what looked like a soft, dyed leather. Whoever this person was, it seemed that he did not wish to make his allegiances know. Amateur, Marian judged. The Hanged Man wasn’t the place that one walked when they had considerable coin on hand. In fact, it was the place where one would be relieved of their coin.
For all these details, Marian noticed the man inside the armour afterwards. Merrill would have described him as handsome, fuckable – Isabela. Marian settled on nuisance. Regardless of what Marian and her friends would have labelled this man, this newcomer was trouble in the making. It wouldn’t be the first time that an errant-noble with a hero-complex tried to up his respectability by dealing with the ne’er do wells who liked to frequent the Hanged Man. Varric liked to describe such ilk as Hightown half-wits.
“There’s welcome and welcoming. Is that a typical greeting?” The half-wit asked with a Ferelden accent. Marian frowned at the unexpected revelation and ignored his question. “Is it a Free Marches thing or a Kirkwall thing?” The kook pressed with a pointed, but casual glance at the knife that was embedded perilously close to his hand that rested on the bar top.
Still ignoring the dunderhead who dared to get between Marian and a strong drink, she leaned around him and requested the strongest whiskey that Corff had on hand with two cups. She’d deal with the dolt next to her after she’d gotten her drink and gossip. Corff plunked a bottle of whiskey in front of her, charging her five silver. It was likely that it would be just as shitty as the ale on tap, but spirit would numb her memory of having to fight a dragon that had decided to make its home in a coalmine. Grudgingly, she pulled the silver from the purse on her belt.
Corff went to take the silver in Marian’s hand, only to have Marian snatch it away. “I scratched your back Corff, now you need to scratch mine.” She reminded the bartender in a sing-song voice. A sideways glanced revealed the man next to her was watching the exchange with keen interest. Marian needed to wrap the conversation up and get back to Varric and the others before she treated him to a knuckle sandwich. The dagger was all but forgotten now.
Corff scoffed, used to Marian’s games. “If you wanted to know yesterday Hawke, then you need to pay up.” He scolded, as if she were a naughty child. “I’m not asking for a comprehensive members list and a home address. I want word of a location.” Corff held his palm out, beckoning for Marian to pay up, but she refused to budge.
A new cult had popped up in Lowtown, calling themselves ‘The Followers of She’. Gangs liked to come and go in Kirkwall, Marian liked to help them leave. But this cult had an edge on the others, there was a bet on the likelihood that the leader was likely possessed by a demon of some sort. Marian intended to collect. So she tried a different tact.
Yanking the cork out of her whiskey, Marian haphazardly poured a generous serve into her cup. “Haven’t these cultists been making trouble for the Hanged Man? It’s busy tonight, but don’t tell me that business hasn’t slacked off with those cultists attacking everything that moves.” She asked nonchalantly before taking a long sip, relishing the burn of alcohol in her throat. The man was still listening in on the conversation and in a bid to distract him, Marian pushed the empty cup and whiskey towards him.
Her words did the trick. “They’ve been disappearing down an alleyway off the entry of the Alienage.” Corff relented with a grunt. Smiling sweetly, Marian dropped the silvers for the whiskey into his beefy hand and then slid another few silvers across the bar for his trouble. The bartender winked at Marian as he picked up the tip and realizing that Corff had played her once again, returned the wink with a rude gesture.
Next to her, the Ferelden chuckled. “An honesty day’s work?” He quipped. Snorting, Marian downed her drink in a decidedly unladylike fashion and poured herself another. She had hoped that he’d take the hint and piss off, but clearly that was too much to ask. “An honest day’s work was clearing out the dragon in the Bone Pit. That was taking out the trash.” She gulped her second drink and poured a third.
“So what’s a rich Ferelden doing socialising with the commonfolk in Lowtown? The Crown & Beggar is probably more your style. Maybe you should piss off there. I’ll even show you the way.” The offer blurted out of her mouth, spur of the moment before she could stop herself. Momentarily disgusted with herself, Marian polished off the whiskey in her cup.
“And miss being threatened bodily harmed by the Champion of Kirkwall herself? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Maker that voice was sinful was Marian’s first thought, the second: shit, not another one. With a grimace, she grabbed the whiskey bottle and drank straight from the bottle. It was one thing to be recognised in the street but having her ‘legendary feats’ cross the water was a whole other kettle of fish that Marian didn’t care to consider. Which meant the rich idiot next to her wanted something done.
No rest for the wicked, as they say.
“If you want something done, it’s going to cost you. I don’t do mercenary work. So if you want someone killed, that’s off the table.” Varric had helped her come up with that response. It was surprisingly effective in weeding out the unsavoury pleas from the genuine ones. Perhaps it was only the people who saw her every day that knew that the mantle of Champion was a burden more than an honour. When she didn’t receive an immediate answer, Marian sneered and turned on her heel, yanking her dagger out of the wood. She’d wasted enough of her night entertaining this idiot.
A gloved hand stopped her from storming off and finishing her whiskey in relative peace with her friends. He stepped closer to speak. “Three mages escaped the Gallows and sought refuge in Ferelden. Ferelden has been ordered to recover and return them. The King is concerned.” Well shit.
Marian looked at her unexpected companion, her initial suspicions on what type of woodwork this man had crawled out of being far off bat. That said, it wasn’t the Champion of Kirkwall’s problem that mages kept escaping, nor that Knight-Commander Meredith was probably trying to strongarm the Ferelden into ensuring their return. That was a Chantry problem and Marian was tiring of the Chantry’s endless problems. Maybe the King of Ferelden’s agent was so stupid after all. Meredith’s watchdogs would sniff out a Ferelden agent from a mile away in Hightown. Conveniently running into the Champion of Kirkwall was a lucky bonus.
Figuring she should at least hear the man out before telling Ferelden to piss off – again – Marian turned back to the bar. “Oi, Corff. Another bottle!” Marian called, fishing a fistful of silver out of her purse and letting it clatter messily on the bar top. Another bottle appeared almost instantaneously.
Drinks in tow, Marian made for an empty table where they could talk a little more freely. This wasn’t a conversation that she would be happy for Corff to overhear. The bartender’s palm was a bit too itchy for coin for her liking sometimes. When she didn’t hear the tell-tale clink of armour following her, Marian
Bottles and cup in hand, Marian headed towards an empty table where they could talk more freely. When she didn’t hear the clatter of armour following, she turned. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked pointedly, wriggling the full bottle for emphasis.
“Only if you keep that knife of yours far away.”
“That armour of yours isn’t exactly inconspicuous. Any good mercenary with a braincell will know that you’ve got coin and try to gut you.” It was a backhanded warning, one that seemed to be received loudly and clearly. Marian made a point to pass by Varric and Merrill. Isabela had disappeared somewhere.
Varric caught her gaze, raising a brow in silent question. Marian shook her head, making sure to take a seat where she was facing her friends. It wouldn’t be the first time Varric and Isabela stepped in on her behalf, nor would it be the last. Ignoring her unwanted guest and not caring enough to make pleasantries, Marian took a swig from the bottle before tipping more liquor into both their cups.
“Start at the beginning.”
* * * * * * * * * *
The whiskey bottle slid out from between her arm and hip, hitting the filthy floor with a surprisingly delicate tinkle, shattering on impact. Marian swore at the loss of her drink. Thoughts whirled in her mind, briefly settling on the solid evidence that Knight-Commander was off her chops. An opinion Marian had not-so-privately voiced earlier, much to the amusement of her dinner companion. But for the moment, there was a more pressing need: to prove a point though Marian had forgotten what that point was, because Meredith was barking mad.
Battle-calloused hands wrestled the second bottle out of her hand and she watched, almost distraught as her companion drained what little liquid was left before their lips had met in a rough, whiskey flavoured kiss. Stubble scratched her exposed skin as whiskey-wet kisses were trailed down her neck, the sharp pinch of teeth nipping her collarbone had Marian stifling a moan.
She had a point to prove, but her drink-addled mind had focused exclusively on the problem that Meredith was and she had questions damnit. Calloused fingers covered her mouth when she opened it to speak, his other hand pulling her backwards so Marian’s back was pressed against hard armour, the battered steel cooling heated skin. A hand cupped her breast through her vest.
Marian never was one to give up easily. “You said that Ferelden cannot go to war with Kirkwall” Her voice muffled, though she would not be deterred. “If the issue was pressed, we could, but–” The Ferelden’s comment was interrupted by Marian’s fingers running over well-worn leather pants and muscled thigh. “But…Ferelden cannot afford another war.” He finished. They stood in the corridor that bridged the accommodation area with the bar, the drunken racket coming from the bar all but drowned out their conversation.
Marian wasn’t sure how she was meant to be useful to Ferelden’s diplomatic issues, other than pointing out that Meredith was insane. The Ferelden was still trying to distract her with chapped lips planting light kisses along her jawline and moving up to her earlobe where he sucked lightly. Marian couldn’t help the escaped groan, but she still had questions.
“If Kirkwall wants these mages back so badly, why is it a state issue? The apostates escaped Chantry control. It’s just Ferelden’s bad luck that they decided to hide out in Kirkwall.” Her vest had been unbuttoned and shirt untucked, now questing fingers were inching up her side, fiddling with the fabric of her breast band. Wanting a clear answer, Marian twisted out of the Ferelden’s grasp, with a deftness that shouldn’t have existed considering the amount of whiskey she’d imbibed. Their places now reversed, tawny eyes met clear blue, their chests both heaving. This armour needs to come off, an errant thought flitted through Marian’s head.
“That’s what…the King said. Former templar you know? Not just a pretty face.”
“I wouldn’t know. Last time I fought for a Ferelden King; we got our arses handed to us by the darkspawn. Oh yeah and half the army deserting.” Marian mumbled trying to undo the knot that would enable her to remove the Ferelden’s breastplate.
Busy hands stilled at her comment. “You were at Ostagar?”
“It was a shit fight.” She still had nightmares of the advancing horde as Loghain’s armies sounded their retreat, leaving them all to their deaths.
“Yes it was.”
The pace suddenly slowed, their lips meeting again, less hurried this time but still with a fervour that Marian hadn’t experienced with another in a long time. Hands gripped her close, as if she would up and disappear. It was then that Marian remembered the point that she had been making before drunken teasing had moved to drunken daring, finding herself entangled with a Ferelden spy who clearly liked to live dangerously. Men really did have a one-track mind whenever there was alcohol involved. T
he ties on one side of the infuriating breast place had finally come loose and now she began on the other side. She hissed when the hard iron of a door handle pressed into the small of her back and a hand snuck past her to wriggle a key into the lock.
The lock clicked and she pushed the Ferelden away, cockily holding her hand out. “Pay up, you started this. And, you still haven’t answered my question.” There was no coin in her hand and the Ferelden was smirking at her.
“You’re still standing outside my room.”
“You still haven’t answered my question.” Marian shot back and pushed the door open with her fist. Ushering herself into a sparsely decorated room which was surprisingly clean. Still waiting for her answer, Marian renewed her efforts in getting that breastplate off.
Even with alcohol dulling common sense, Marian truly didn’t think there was much she could do to help Ferelden, even if she wanted too. Not only would the country have more resources at their disposal in order to deal with the Knight-Commander, including the King himself, Marian didn’t think that championing this issue would do her any favours. Not only was she the daughter of an escaped apostate from the very same Circle, but her own younger sister was currently housed in that same Circle. It was a recipe for disaster. Bethany still hadn’t spoken to Marian after all these years, but she would still put her sister’s safety above anything else. And that included Ferelden.
“Kirkwall is attempting an alliance with Ferelden. It is not opposed, but the pressure to return these apostates is not helping negotiations. I – it was suggested that the Champion would be able to placate the Knight-Commander on this particular issue.” Perhaps if Marian were sober, she would be more satisfied with the answer. “That’s a crock of shit and we both know it.” She sniped, finally getting the last ties free and yanking pieces of armour off, letting them clatter to the floor loudly.
“You remind me of someone I once knew.”
“I get told that a lot, usually before people try to kill me.” Marian pulled at his belt buckle, their hips meeting. Hands trailed up and over the hardened muscle of his chest, yanking his undershirt off as an afterthought. Large hands gripped her behind, hips grinding against hers and Marian let out a satisfied sigh.
“Sure it’s not your friendly, welcoming personality?” The Ferelden challenged.
Marian pushed him onto the lumpy bed, straddling the man beneath her. “I’m not leaving without my coin.” She told him with a roll of her hips. That damning smirk returned and Marian had the urge to wipe if off his handsome face. She rolled her hips against his again, the answering groan silencing any smart retort as their lips met once more.
* * * * * * * * * *
A sharp knock on the door caused Marian to let out a groan, as a parched mouth and pounding headache greeted her. Letting out a pained groan, she rolled over, fishing about for that blasted bottle of whiskey to help alleviate her suffering. Another gentle knock on the door made her groan again. Another day, another pressing matter that the Champion of Kirkwall had to attend too. The city was a melting point of strained tensions between templar and mage and human and elf. Somehow, Marian was meant to placate and navigate them all.
Being hungover on such a morning, Marian dreamed of telling whoever was knocking at her front door to go fuck themselves.
There was another persistent knock and Marian grumbled into her pillow. “Madam Hawke?” Marian groaned as Bodahn let himself into her room. The dwarf and his son Sandal had been permanent fixtures since the disastrous campaign into the Deep Roads. Despite her insistence that they didn’t have to pick up after her, Marian was grateful for their presence in the estate. Being alone in the estate terrified her, not that she would ever admit it.
“I apologise for waking you, but this came urgently from the Knight-Commander.” Marian groaned again. Champion of Kirkwall she may be, but Meredith Stannard; Knight-Commander was under the impression that Marian was at her beck and call. Bodahn handed her the letter and set a cup of water on the bedside table. Cursing the Knight-Commander, Marian tore at the envelope until the letter fell free. Blinking away blurry vision, she read the short note and cursed Meredith once more.
The King of Ferelden was visiting Kirkwall. Her presence was required at a welcoming feast that evening. So it seemed that the Ferelden agent hadn’t been as discrete as they thought they had been. Or word of their nightly escapades had reached Meredith. Knight-Commander Meredith didn’t trust Marian as far as she could spit. This was merely a confirmation that she had her own spies watching Marian’s movements. Headache or not, Marian had to get out of bed now.
So she cursed the Knight-Commander again for good measure.
Diplomatic affairs were not her cup of tea. Her idea of diplomacy was a fist to the face. Afterall, it was what had gotten her into this position into the first place.
Head swimming, Marian rolled out of bed. Marching in her underclothes out into the hallway, she called down to Bodahn that the Ferelden King was visiting and to prepare the house for visitors. She wouldn’t be surprised if Meredith had her babysitting their guests. Pulling on her clothes from the night before, Marian took the time to strap a sword to her belt and conceal a few knives on her person before heading to Darktown. She ignored the waiting Templar-messenger on her way out.
What better way to greet the King of Ferelden – who helped end the blight then by bringing along a former Grey Warden to his welcoming feast?
Aveline was going to lecture her for hours.
Meredith was going to be fuming.
Despite its location in the stinking bowels of Kirkwall, the clinic that Anders operated was busier than ever. Varric cooked Marian’s books so to speak, concealing the large amount of spare coin that Marian poured into the clinics operations and keeping food on Anders’ non-existent table.
When she told the healer-mage what she wanted of him, Anders took one look at Marian and pushed a headache tonic into her hands.
“No. I am not going anywhere near the Knight-Commander.” Anders was looking at Marian as if she had sprouted another head. Maybe she had. “You said you knew the King once. She’s hardly going to arrest you on the spot in front of him.”
“Wouldn’t she though? We’ve both seen that she has a chokehold on the city.”
“There’s a reason why I want you there and it’s not just old connections. Trust me.”
Anders hesitated, hands full of clean linens that needed to be folded and put away. The mage looked as if he were going to flee the very spot that was a known safe space from the iron grip of the Kirkwall templars. So Marian eliminated one option by taking the linen from the healer’s hands and began to fold the long sheets of fabric.
“Look, there’s apostates involved. Simply standing in the room will be an asset.” Anders swore under his breath. “And Ferelden is involved somehow. The King wouldn’t journey here for afternoon tea with the Knight-Commander.” Marian nodded slowly, waiting for Anders to give in. He was a sucker for a mage’s plight and being able to stand there and actively undermine Meredith without the threat of being arrested was likely too good an opportunity to pass up.
Marian saw the exact moment that the healer gave into that temptation. “Fine, but you have to keep the Templars away from me.” Marian stopped her folding to clap her friend on the back.
“Meet at the estate, we’ll have to arrive together. You’d think that a public decree would stop the templars from following you.” Marian handed the pile of folded linen and Anders accepted it with a shake of his head. “This isn’t going to end well; I can already feel it.”
Marian playfully punched the mage’s arm, “none of that – its like we’re not used having the odds against us.”
Anders ignored her jibe, shooing her towards the entrance of the clinic. “Go on, Hawke. I’ll meet you tonight.” With a final salute, Marian showed herself out. Now she had to go talk to an irate Guard-Captain and hope that she wouldn’t be committed for wanting to stir up a little bit of innocent trouble.
An hour later, when Marian waltzed into Guard-Captain Aveline’s office, she found her friend sitting at her desk, a letter opened in front of her. She could see the torn wax seal of the Templar order. The Guard-Captain had evidently received the Knight-Commander’s summons, same as Marian had.
The Guard-Captain of Kirkwall didn’t look up. “Hawke.”
Marian perched on the desk, leaning over trying to see what was in the letter that her friend held. Aveline snatched it away out of sight. “Guard-Captain” she greeted airily.
Deciding not to beat about the bush, Marian added: “Anders is my plus one for this happy gathering that we must attend this evening.” Aveline shook her head in disbelief.
“Hawke. Are you trying to provoke the Knight-Commander? No. Don’t answer that, I already know what your answer will be.” Aveline said, exasperated. Marian was grateful for the tonic that Anders had given her. It was likely that the headache would have increased ten-fold with the direction that the conversation was heading.
“King Alistair is here because three mages escaped the Kirkwall Circle and sought asylum in Ferelden. Meredith wants them back, but now the apostates fall under Ferelden jurisdiction and not the Chantry. The King refuses to deport them.” The summary was quick, recounting on the important pieces of information. Aveline would likely get the full story later, though it wouldn’t be too surprising if Aveline was already aware of the missing mages.
Aveline considered the new information, folding Meredith’s letter. “How does it feel to be the neutral party, Hawke? Fists aren’t going to be an option here.” Aveline deadpanned and Marian lightly punched the Guard-Captain.
“And just how exactly did you come across this information. You’ve always had to be dragged kicking and screaming into state matters.”
Marian opened her mouth and then closed it. Aveline did have a point there.
“I just have one of those faces that people trust, you know?”
“Forgive me if I find that hard to believe.” Aveline shot back. Marian shrugged offhandedly.
“Well…” Marian started and Aveline interrupted: “Some people have work to do.” Marian raised her brows and the Guard-Captain relented, for the moment at least.
“Ferelden had one of their agents find me in the Hanged Man.” We drank whiskey together.
“We spoke in length about the situation in Kirkwall.” We stuck our tongues in each other’s mouths. Marian looked down at her nails, bitten back to the quick nonchalantly.
“The King is concerned that this disagreement could end in war.” The bastard never paid up.
Aveline Vallen was a driven woman. Marian had watched her lose a husband to the taint and leave him behind, fleeing for her life. She had joined the city-guard and helped provide for Marian’s mother whilst she had been running around in Athenril’s smuggling operation with Bethany. All of this, with her mouth set in a grim, yet firm line. For Aveline to look troubled was serious business indeed. If a suitable compromise couldn’t be found and the worst came to pass, it would be the City Guard who would shoulder the burden of conflict.
“The Knight-Commander isn’t a fool; she wouldn’t let Kirkwall go to war over apostates.” Aveline said uncertainly. Marian was unsure if the Guard-Captain was stating a fact or trying to convince herself that Meredith was acting in Kirkwall’s best interests.
“I was under the impression that Ferelden would do what was necessary to keep the peace.” Marian attempted to reassure her friend. She added: “I wouldn’t hold that same candle to Meredith though.”
Aveline didn’t respond, obviously considering what the Guard-Captain of Kirkwall could possibly do to avoid unnecessary conflict with a country with the resources to besiege the city.
Marian attempted to lighten the situation. “Though Ferelden is also under the delusion that I’m capable of placating her because I’m the Champion of Kirkwall.” Aveline huffed at that.
“You’re too busy riling up the Knight-Commander to placate her.” She paused and looked at Marian with the too-familiar disproving glare. “That’s why you want Anders there.” She guessed accusatorily. Marian shrugged and tapped her nose, refusing to confirm nor deny her motivations with having a known and wanted apostate to attend a diplomatic function.
“Anders is coming to the estate first, thought I’d let you know in case you needed to change the patrol routes.”
Aveline nodded absently making a note on a spare piece of parchment. “We’ll talk later Hawke; I have to organise security.” Marian slid of the desk, patting her friend on the shoulder before taking her leave.
* * * * * * * * * *
As Marian approached the bottom of the Keep’s stairs, she froze.
Flames licked the stone streets and the choking scent of charred and burning flesh filled her nostrils. In the distance, she could hear desperate screams. Of their own accord, her hands went to her belt reaching for her sword. Clutching at empty air where her sword should have been, feeling only the flutter of her robe under her desperate hand, the panic doubled twofold. Marian turned on her heel, desperately searching for something, anything that she could use to the fight the Arishok. But it was in vain, she knew that. The Qunari were as thorough as they were brutal as they razed Kirkwall, purging the filth that rotted the city from the inside out in the name of the Qun. There would be nothing for her to use to defend herself.
She had come for her death.
Her heart pounded in her chest; her hands clenched into hard fists. Her breathing quickened as pained and desperate screams grew louder and louder. Without a sword – without a weapon, she couldn’t help anyone anymore than she could help herself. Kirkwall would have to submit to the Arishok’s will or they would all die. The tattoos that marked her as basalit-an burned on her left arm, a harsh reminder of what had – what was at stake. Now her breath came in short gasps, the flames licking closer; beginning to engulf her.
A bloodied hand rested on her shoulder, turning her around. Staring at the sight of it, Marian opened her mouth to scream for help – for someone, something to save them all.
“Listen to my voice Hawke, focus on it. Tell me what they serve at the Hanged Man.” Anders voice cut through the nightmare and everything was scattered. But the question kept being repeated: what does the Hanged Man serve?
“Shit. Shit ale.” The flames were receding, extinguishing around her as Anders asked her to repeat her answer. With the fires dying, so too did the scents of blood and burnt flesh. She repeated it now like a mantra, relying on the rhythm of the three words.
It was just her and Anders, far away from the Keep’s guarded entry that Marian hadn’t drawn unwanted attention. The mage had left hair loose, but combed out his face, wearing a finely stitched tunic and trousers, his boots cleaned and polished. In the dusky light, Anders was almost a stranger. Golden eyes peered at her in concern, as he urged Marian to take measured, deep breaths.
“I need a drink.” Marian finally croaked, as if she had just shouted herself hoarse. Anders gave a small smile as he patted her carefully on the shoulder, almost as if he knew that she didn’t want to be touched.
“Plenty to drink inside, Hawke.” The reminder of why they needed to go to the Keep in the first place was not pleasant at all. “Is it too late to turn around and go to the Hanged Man?” Exhaustion had set over her. Playing hospitable Champion of Kirkwall was absolutely the last thing she wanted to do right now, duty or not.
Anders gave a serious nod. “You dragged me here Hawke, you’re not getting out of it that easily.” It was a bad joke, but Marian rewarded Anders for his efforts with a small, but weak smile. It was tempting to turn on her heel and march straight to the Hanged Man and drink herself to oblivion, but she would have to persevere. She represented the people of Kirkwall in what little voice that was left under Meredith’s near authoritarian stewardship. Marian would push through it, but she didn’t have to do it on her own…
“Scout, I need Scout.” She announced to Anders. The Mabari had been left behind, much to the hound’s chagrin. Trying to compensate for leaving her dog behind, Marian had left Scout chewing on a chicken carcass in the foyer. The token was more to assuage her own guilt then to appease the hound, but it would keep Scout from incessantly barking.
“Do you want to give the Knight-Commander a heart attack?” Anders quizzed.
Marian shrugged. “Is that too much to ask?”
“All we can do is try.” Anders offered his arm to Marian and the two linked arms as they headed back to the Hawke Estate.
As the city trembled under Meredith’s thumb of oppression, she found herself being pulled every which way, stretching her too far and too thin. It made her too tired, made her see shadows where there was none. It was easier to drink whiskey than to eat a hearty meal when her stomach continuously rolled with nausea. She hadn’t spoken of this to anyone, yet she wondered if Anders saw this, if the mage-healer was waiting for her to ask for his help. She opened her mouth, to ask him if he knew what afflicted her, how to take away the invisible pain that inflicted her waking moments. The words couldn’t form, so she closed her mouth with a frown and hurried ahead to fetch her hound.
Anders was waiting for them in the foyer. Scout bounded ahead of her mistress, her fur shining. Marian had fitted a colourful, braided collar around the hound’s muscled neck and she galloped up to Anders, barking excitedly. Hawke too had added to her an assemble, picking up a longsword on her way out, which she strapped to her belt. She saw Anders glance at the weapon, expecting him to comment on the unnecessary addition only to turn his attention back to a whining Scout who was eager to be underway.
This time as they approached the Keep a second time, Hawke didn’t falter. Scout trotted up the steps beside her and Marian laced her fingers through Scout’s collar, feeling the comforting warmth of her fur. She didn’t see Anders’ frown. Inside the atrium, Aveline was waiting for them, pacing back and forth.
Marian came to a sudden stop, taking in the restored splendour and not bothering to hide the disgust that she felt at the obvious improvements. “Of course this would be the first thing that gets restored.” She snarled. Anders seemed to agree, but Aveline stopped her pacing to fix Marian with a stern glare.
“Hawke, you need to behave.” Aveline snipped, already on edge. Anders caught the Guard-Captain’s eye and shook his head. Marian shot the mage a thankful smile. Aveline considered the Champion of Kirkwall, yet didn’t push the issue further, which Marian was grateful for.
The detour to fetch Scout and a sword meant that Marian and Anders were late. The ornate, wooden doors were wide open and Marian could see that most, if not all of Kirkwall’s high society were milling about the restored keep.
A herald was waiting to announce the Champion of Kirkwall and her guest, not that anyone stopped to properly acknowledge Marian’s arrival. That was fine, Marian didn’t care much for their pompous snobbery either. Still she stepped forward with her head held high, blind to the pointed looks of disapproval and judging sneers. Scout pranced beside her mistress, tongue lolling in such a way that it could only be deliberate. Marian was sure no one noticed the tremble in her hands.
Aveline was waylaid by one of the guests on her re-entry, leaving Marian with one less ally when Knight-Commander Meredith approached Marian to greet her personally. The Knight-Commander was already scowling, despite the half-empty wine-goblet in her hand.
“How kind of you to join us, Champion.” Meredith drawled. Marian forced a pleasant smile.
“Of course Knight-Commander, I apologise for the delay.” Her response was pithy and pointed. Meredith frowned, her mouth thinning with displeasure when she recognized Anders who was standing beside her. Meredith took half a step closer, her hard gaze focused entirely on Anders. To his credit, the mage didn’t waver nor allowed Justice to shine through like he normally would have.
That hard gaze transferred to Marian. “Champion you try my patience by bringing the apostate here.” Marian bit back the urge to laugh. Of course Meredith would have recognised Anders, even with tailored, clean clothes and freshly washed hair. The woman was unlike a Mabari, able to sniff out a mage from a mile away.
Marian met Meredith’s stare. “Anders is my guest. Not only is he under my protection, but he is also a former acquaintance of King Alistair’s.” The haughty air wasn’t faked, though as Meredith visually swallowed her outrage, it was difficult to contain her glee at silencing the intolerant Knight-Commander.
Marian still had a point to push. “Anders here is irrelevant, we both know that the only reason I am here is because you need someone to pander to your whims. What do you want?” Meredith’s eyes narrowed and her frown deepened. Meredith went to respond but waited as a waiter carrying a tray of wine passed by. Marian snared glasses for herself and Anders. Not enough wine could possibly be served that would get her through the evening relatively unscathed.
“I am attempting to ally Ferelden and Kirkwall. We have fulfilled our side of the agreement, when it matters, Ferelden is regressing on theirs.” Marian had to give Meredith some credit, it wasn’t an outright lie, but the Knight-Commander wasn’t speaking the whole truth. Scout shifted under Marian’s hand and to calm her hound, Marian stroked velvety ears.
Marian took a deep draught of sweet wine from her goblet. “And what exactly do you think I can do that you haven’t already?” She asked, not bothering to hide the bitterness in her voice.
“You are Ferelden-born and loyal to Kirkwall. That position is a unique one to hold.”
It was a valid argument, but Marian wasn’t convinced. “And what do you want me to say? That it’s in Ferelden’s best interests to ally with Kirkwall, take it from the Ferelden refugee who killed a Qunari?” Beside her, Anders snorted softly into his wine. Meredith’s brows were furrowed together in clear displeasure.
Kirkwall was without a leader after Viscount Marlowe Dumar’s shocking death at the hands of the Arishok. With no heir, Dumar’s death had passed into the stewardship of the Templar Order – into Meredith’s hands. But it was Kirkwall’s seneschal who tended to city-state matters whilst everyone who mattered debated over a suitable candidate to step into the role of Viscount. Unfortunately for most people who were engaged in that debate, Marian’s position as the Champion of Kirkwall, combined with her links to the noble house of Amell, gave her a solid foothold in the chain of influence and power.
Those in the legislative and judiciary considered the Champion of Kirkwall as nothing more than a lackey under the Knight-Commander Meredith’s whim. A public figure whose only role was to placate the restless and unhappy people. Only the City Guard viewed differently. With the right support, perhaps things could have been different. But Kirkwall’s noble houses operated under their own sense of realism and greed. They would support the person that benefitted them the most. For some time now, it was the Knight-Commander and the Templar Order.
Marian deeply regretted having Aveline and Varric explain the unequal balance of power – where there was nothing to hold those that abused it accountable. Ignorance was bliss.
“I would expect the Champion of Kirkwall to do what was best for her home.” Meredith stated frostily. Dislike flashed in her eyes and Marian’s fingers itched towards her sword hilt. Anders shifted beside her but clear blue eyes had met Meredith’s cold ones and the two women stared, neither refusing to backdown.
“Ah yes, your majesty – I must present, the Champion of Kirkwall: Marian Hawke.” Bran’s voice cut through the tense silence. Scout whined with excitement at meeting new people, eager for a loving scratch behind the ears. With one final glance at the Knight-Commander, Marian turned her attention to the seneschal of Kirkwall and their esteemed guests.
Fuck me sideways.
Standing in the polished argent armour embellished with the Therin charge, stood the man who had never identified himself past being an agent for the Ferelden king. Whiskey eyes met hers, the corners crinkling with recognition and greeting. Marian stared. King Alistair Therin winked. At her.
Marian could still feel his calloused hands dragging over her skin. His hard chest heaving with pleasurable exertion. The soft moans that he pulled from her with well-placed kisses.
Its not regicide if I’d stabbed him when I didn’t know who he was.
News of the return of a Therin line to the Ferelden throne had rippled across the Waking Sea. Drawn portraits of his likeness had followed closely, but Marian had never seen one – nor had she particularly cared. Things changed in Kirkwall daily and Marian struggled just to keep up with those changes.
Anders cleared his throat, nudging Marian out of thoughts. She threw a quick bow, followed by a simpering “How do you do, your majesty?” Anders elbowed her in the side. It was plain to all that he was amused, ignoring Marian’s blatant slight. The king turned to his companion, who stood in tailored Ferelden finery.
“This is the ambassador for Ferelden, Arl Teagan Guerrin. He’s also my uncle, sort of.” Alistair introduced. Arl Teagan leaned conspiratorially towards the group. “I am his uncle, please call me Teagan.” Anders let out a light chuckle and Marian covered her snort of amusement by sipping a mouthful of wine.
Not forgetting her manners, Marian made to reintroduce Anders, but he beat her to the punch.
“I heard that you were a Grey Warden.” Anders commented with an innocent air, eyes glittering with mischief. The King’s pleasant smile morphed into a shit-eating grin. “That’s what the rumours say, where did you hear such a thing?” Alistair jested just as innocently. Anders waggled his brows in response. Marian looked first at the King and then Anders, bemused by the exchange.
“Funny things rumours, they’re like Grey Wardens, they get around.” Alistair added, his gaze drifting to Marian. She tapped her sword hilt pointedly, a smirk firmly in place.
Meredith was unable to hold in her derision any further, letting it out with a loud scoff. “As you can see your majesty, we do not allow apostates to run around unchecked in Kirkwall. The Champion is held accountable for any offensive actions.” Alistair inclined his head deferring to Meredith’s rank within the Templar Order.
“A solution that suits Kirkwall but not one that I am willing to introduce in Ferelden. My explanation earlier should suffice.” For the first time that Marian had seen, a stern seriousness took over the King of Ferelden. The dour expression that seemed to be permanently affixed on the Knight-Commander’s face turned into one of frustration and anger.
“If Ferelden takes this stance and declares their Circle of Magi open, every mage outside your kingdom will uprise. We should be taking steps to suppress rebellion – not encouraging it.” Meredith’s rebuttal was expected, the same point that she continuously pushed. Marian traded glances with Anders and they both simultaneously took a long gulp of wine. It was easier to drain their goblets than to comment.
Only a brave soul would dare to criticise a King. Even a king who was as laid back as Alistair Therin of Ferelden. Yet Meredith had done just that without batting an eyelid. The King of Ferelden stood his
ground: “I will not upset the fragile peace that the Ferelden Circle has found for the sake of three escaped apostates from Kirkwall.”
Arl Teagan was the one who shifted uncomfortably this time, likely fearing for future ramifications between Ferelden and Kirkwall. It was hard not to emphasise for the man who would be responsible for the continued good relations if there was profound disagreement.
Alistair wasn’t finished though. “Ferelden still hopes to forge an alliance with Kirkwall, Knight-Commander. I will not dictate my country to the Templar policy.” It was a reminder of the King of Ferelden’s upbringing within the Templar Order himself as well as an unspoken warning. Teagan shifted uncomfortably again. Marian snagged fresh glasses of wine and pressed one into the nervous ambassador’s hand.
Meredith wouldn’t back down. “We do not entertain ‘maybes’ your majesty. You will find that my answer will have to be ‘no’.” Meredith told him critically. “The King of Ferelden has a duty not only to the people he serves, but to the Maker as well. The people of Ferelden will not forget your failure when they choose their next King.” The chiming of bells signalling that the feast had begun was a welcome interruption. Meredith shook her head, before marching away in disgust.
Despite the harsh words, Alistair chuckled at the Knight-Commander’s retreating steps. “Don’t you just enjoy being emasculated before dinner? Really dampens your appetite. Shall we?”
Taking their seats, Marian found herself seated close to their esteemed guests due to her status as Champion and she watched as the dishes of choice were presented. Dressed crabs with buttered potatoes, baked fish steeped in herbs, thick bread to dip – both savoury and sweet – Kirkwall’s traditional cuisine. Ferelden dishes honouring their guests were also offered: roasted venison in blackberries, hearty lamb stew. Marian couldn’t keep up, gratefully drinking the rich and fruity wine which was poured freely into their glasses.
As the food was served, conversation struck up around Marian. Anders had immediately struck up a lively, if intense conversation with his neighbours. Marian was greeted by Ser Marlein Selbrech, who was very vocally opposed to Meredith’s installation as steward. The lesser gentlewoman was also a firm supporter of the Champion of Kirkwall. The two women exchanged quick words, where Selbrech implied that she had come across information that would undermine Meredith’s power.
After arranging a more appropriate location to continue their little chat, Selbrech excused herself, leaving Marian on her own, which was more than fine. Marian was content to drink her wine and sneak morsel of meat to Scout, who had situated herself underneath the table, heavy head resting on Marian’s knee.
Selbrech’s empty seat was filled when King Alistair sidled in. “I had hoped to speak with you further Champion. Brief conversation before dinner isn’t enough.”
Marian glanced at the king from out of the corner of her eye. Reaching for the wine, she topped up both their glasses. Then she picked up her unused knife, twirling it easily between her fingers. “I would like to suggest that next time you send an agent to gather information, you should try to blend in.” Her light-hearted comment garnered a low laugh from the king.
“I was told that you have a certain welcoming charm.” Marian snorted into her wine at Alistair’s comment. This wasn’t the place to talk about their prior meeting, who knew what Meredith’s eyes and ears were reporting. It was in both of their interests to change the subject.
The King leaned as close as propriety would allow. But they would not be overheard. “Ferelden could use someone like you. You will always be welcomed back, if you still call Ferelden your home.” Again, Marian got the impression that the conversation had changed to be specific to her.
Swallowing her bite of bread thickly, Marian finally turned to face the King of Ferelden. Clear blue eyes met those familiar tawny brown eyes. King or no, he was an easy man to talk too. In another life, where duties and politics didn’t exist, Marian could have easily pictured them as becoming firm friends. This wasn’t another life and the King of Ferelden was not simply friends with a common-born Ferelden refugee who had the title of Champion sprung upon her.
There was no reason for her to continue sitting amongst this nightmare of pomp and opulence. A glance down the table confirmed her thought, as Anders too looked ready to leave.
“Ferelden is my home, but Kirkwall is my prison.” Marian finally told the King. King Alistair Therin frowned at her candour. Standing, she held her hand out and he accepted it with a firm shake of hand. To satisfy the eyes that were on her, Marian bowed before moving to collect Anders with Scout close on her heels. Unbeknownst to Marian, tawny brown eyes followed her.
King Alistair Therin’s sudden arrival and departure spread quickly through Kirkwall. Accompanying the news was the gossip of the Knight-Commander’s fury at Hawke, for cheating the city of a much-needed alliance with Ferelden. The gossip came with added scrutiny, calling for a Viscount to be elected, for Ferelden’s departure had highlighted that the Templar Order could not adequately govern a merchant city-state. Meredith tightened her hold around the city, pursuing apostates without abandon as Meredith’s preaching turned to fanatical ranting, escalating the tensions between mages and templars. Whatever good Ferelden could have achieved for the troubled city had been lost.