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#ch: carver hawke
honeysofte · 4 months
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i’m proud to call you brother. that’s gone unsaid too long.
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nightwardenminthara · 4 months
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WIP Whenever
I was tagged by @idolsgf and @shivunin, thank y'all!! i tag @sinquisition and @transprincecaspian and @foxboyclit here is some Grant Hawke spiraling post Act 2 c:
It’s an old letter. From a few months back, there hadn’t been any response yet to the ones Grant had sent since. Sometimes that was the way of it. His letters piling up in Ansburg while Carver was off doing Maker knows what. He did his best not to worry, it’s what he’d want Carver to do for him as well. Worry never got him anywhere but deep in his cups.
He swirls the brandy, a vintage gifted from Aveline. Usually Grant would save it for company but an exceptionally lonely night deserved something better than cheap ale from Lowtown that tasted like piss. The parchment is well worn, folded and unfolded into his inner breast pocket. He spent too much time idly touching the paper, coveting it as if he were back living at Gamlen’s and it was a note for gold.
Another swirl of the brandy and a long sip, it burns his throat on the way down. No one is here to see it so he ventures holding the letter to his face, inhaling the smell of paper and ink for any lingering scent of Carver. There is none, of course, and it just leaves him feeling dumb.
He places it on the table and drains the rest of his glass. His eyes close and he tries to conjure his brother’s image in the darkness. Every day it seems to get harder to see Mother… Bethany... Father. But Carver is still here. Even in the absence of letters, he has to believe it. An image of dark hair and blue eyes.
He grips the glass and clings to the image, paper crumpling in his other hand as he clenches it tight. Where are you? Are you safe? Are you somewhere in the Deep Roads again?
Abruptly the vision in his eyes changes from Carver before him to Carver, sick and dying. Anders desperate pleas to the Wardens as Hawke held his brother. Another image: Bethany torn apart by an ogre. And another: Mother, horribly malformed and raised like an undead. Father, that once strong and impenetrable figure, pale and sickly on his deathbed.
Yet more images flood, Feynriel made Tranquil, the mages he’d sent to the Gallows that had never appeared again, the cries of a mother separated from her child in Lowtown as he watched silently while the Templars took the boy away.
He balls his hand into a fist, the letter crumbling with it. The burn of the brandy echoes in him, he feels it all over — the pit of his stomach, deep in his chest — and finally it spills into his hands in a fervent flame. The parchment stands no chance in the destruction. It burns into ash and tears threaten to sting his eyes.
Grant shouts through gritted teeth, a fiery frustration. The flame doesn’t stop, he wants to fling it from himself.
What have you done? He hears it in Carver’s voice. Accusatory and angry. His mind supplies Carver’s indignant anger at Grant’s hesitation to bring him on the expedition. Would he still be safe in Kirkwall if he hadn’t?
Grant shouts again and unclenches his grip. All he can do is destroy. Force magic erupts from his hand and sends the empty glass of brandy flying and shattering on the floor.
What have I done?
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dreadfutures · 3 months
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The Brave Guide, Ch 68 - The More the Merrier
In which Ixchel's experience collecting elfroot for the damn Requisition Officer finally pays off.
We're getting Mahariel baked, y'all.
(Also, I wrote a Dalish song.)
“Hal really did believe in people—in what people could be, especially when they worked together. Like Tamlen! Hal always saw the best in him, no matter how many times Marethari said he was unreliable and a troublemaker.” Merrill’s throat sounded tight, constricted with tears, but she plowed on. “He was kind, and encouraging, and he always knew exactly what everyone needed to do on a hunt or when we were traveling, and he made everyone better just by being around. When he left—we lost that. We lost so much after he left.”
“And he lost you.”
Ixchel rubbed at her eyes with the back of her dirt-streaked hands, and Merrill sniffled in agreement behind her.
“I found Hawke, at least,” Merrill said, “and Carver… I could trust them, like I wished I could trust my clan…”
“I just don’t know what anyone in the world can do to earn Hal’s trust again,” Ixchel said.
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theluckywizard · 6 months
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In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 52: The Road to Crestwood
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Summary: Rose and her companions journey the rest of the way to Crestwood. On the way they encounter evidence of widespread lawlessness and Rose gets to know the man behind the Champion better.
Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke. Excerpt Below:
Cassandra and I gamely take the room with one double bed at the inn, knowing that neither of us snore. Sera had offered to share with Vivienne which prompted a clipped little exchange that entertained anyone near. “And be forced to bask in whatever that odor of yours is? I don’t think so,” says the enchantress. “I was joking you prissy bint. You’d snuff me with a pillow probably.” “On that we can both agree.” Truthfully, I’m grateful for the privacy of solid walls for a change as Cassandra and I haven’t been able to discuss the latest installment of Swords and Shields she loaned me and I have so many questions. Our room is cramped, lit by oil lamps on either side of the bed. We crawl under the quilt, threadbare at the edges of the patchwork and then draw up the fur over our feet. I hand her her well-worn copy, my smirk unmanageable. “The plot certainly thickened in this one,” I remark. “If by ‘plot thickened’ you mean they finally—“ she starts. “—did the deed?” I finish. “Yes,” she says, flushing. “I had been waiting for that for years!” “Well, I’m glad I’ve been able to binge it all in one go!” “What I never understood about this issue…That part when the guardsman—“ Cassandra clears her throat. “When the knight-captain and the guardsman—“ She can’t bring herself to say it. “When he uses his tongue on her?” I finish, having fewer scruples than Cassandra on such matters. “I just find it unlikely that she would react in that way!” “It does seem a bit far fetched.” “You have seen the mouths on some of these men!” “I know!” “It is probably overstated. For dramatic effect.” “It’s Varric. Almost certainly.”
Read the rest here Start from the beginning
And since this chapter features a whole bunch of my custom Hawke I'll throw some of my DA2 screencaps of him for good measure 😏 My husband calls him "fuckboy Hawke" LMAO. Give him longer hair tied in a tiny baby ponytail and that's the current look in my fic.
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Bethany and Carver both survive in this worldstate
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discodeviant · 1 year
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Forgive Me, Father...
Billy/Jason | Mature | <1k words Religious Themes
Listen. Listen. This ship was a joke. Was. Is no longer, I'm afraid. I laughed so hard when I thought of this because it seemed so fucking absurd, and the idea was initially much more shy-innocent-Jason-esque, but that's not Jason, so... enjoy :))
Made for @billyhargrovebingo!
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Billy was unimpressed.
He looked like it, anyway, when he followed Jason into the old restaurant he and the basketball team had reclaimed since its abandonment. It was embarrassing, the mess they could make in less than a week, and Jason suddenly wished he'd cleaned up a little.
"So this is where you juniors hang out, huh?" Billy stretched into his back, walking through scattered tables and dusty chairs, to a mini fridge in the corner where he found a can of beer. Jason watched, still close to the door in case he had to run away, but he knew he wouldn't. Not when this chance was right in front of him; not when it may never happen again. "You sure we won't have any surprise guests?"
"Yeah. We only meet on Tuesdays," Jason said, and Billy nodded. "Besides, no one else has the key."
"Ah... team captain privileges, right?" The beer can popped open and made Jason flinch, which Billy snickered at before sitting on the mattress that lay on the floor. Jason sat on the chair in front of the little TV stand, right where Billy could see him, and waited.
For anything.
This was wrong, and he knew it was. He surprised himself earlier by accepting the proposition, and he only did because Billy had eyes like a hawk. He'd seen Jason watching him from the bleachers with the kind of face that only meant one thing, and only a guy like Billy would have seen it. Jason didn't know he was making it, eyes wide and following the curve of Billy's side into his leg, mouth dropped open just enough to pretend he was anticipating the basket. How many days, weeks, months Jason had been giving himself away, he didn't know; Billy must have.
Billy must have known everything.
Sure, they were only a year apart, but something came with being a senior that was more than a boost of authority in the halls. It was electric. It was unnerving. It was the sense of expectancy that made Jason sweat even while he sat perfectly still, staring at the black screen ahead of him, hands in the pockets of his Hawkins High Tigers jacket, too intimidated to look over and see Billy leering at him. Maybe all of those things were just Billy; Jason wasn't afraid of other seniors.
Nor was he really afraid of Billy, even after hearing that he beat some kids up once upon a time, because Billy never hurt him. Billy hardly looked his way at all, and Jason had been wishing he would for longer than he was able to admit. So he wasn't afraid of Billy, but he was afraid of the tickle in his gut every time he thought, maybe, Billy had looked at him instead of past him. He was afraid of what his parents would think if they knew of the dreams he had and who was in them. He was afraid of the afterlife, suddenly, because he surely wouldn't see Heaven if Billy Hargrove had anything to do with it.
"You seem tense, Jason." His voice was buttery-smooth like the sunset over an untouched shore. "We don't have to do this... think it'd be kind of a shame, though. You were so eager."
"No." Jason clenched his jaw. "I want to." Finally, he looked Billy in the eye, and every wall, every guard, every piece of armor was gone.
"Need me to hold your hand? Tell you how to do it?" Billy asked, and Jason scowled, swallowed hard, but didn't have an answer that would make him sound stronger than he felt. The low chuckle gave him goosebumps. "I gotta be honest, man, the jacket's a turn off."
It was on the floor a few seconds later, and Billy sipped at his beer. "What about you?" Jason asked him.
"What about me?"
"Aren't you gonna take yours off?"
Billy chuckled. "You're cute, Carver." Pointing with his chin: "Shoes."
Shirt.
Pants.
Wristwatch.
Billy still looked unimpressed, and Jason's face hadn't changed from the embarrassed look of anger that tightened his lips and turned down his eyebrows. Sitting in his briefs in front of a senior, a guy, Billy-fucking-Hargrove, who lay back on one elbow with the most cynical smirk Jason had ever seen. Billy beckoned him forward with an index finger, so he stood from the chair and walked the few feet to the mattress. "Sit down, come on. I don't bite."
And no, Billy didn't bite, but Jason's adrenaline prepared him for it anyway in case he changed his mind. Cold, Jason leaned into soft leather that found its way over his shoulders and pulled him into warmth. An even colder hand from the beer touched his knee and stayed in place when Billy asked if he believed in God.
Yes, Jason tried to tell him, but nothing came out, and maybe that was for the best. Maybe he didn't. Not anymore. Not when the epitome of man was next to and draped around him, whispering to him, touching him, letting him touch, letting him exist without the threat of divine judgement. His eyes fluttered closed and back open over and over, Billy's hand and lips and teeth making him shiver everywhere. He couldn't sit still. He couldn't be quiet.
He couldn't help looking into Billy's eyes and whispering, "God, forgive me, oh, God, oh, fuck, ohGodohGodohGo--"
Those eyes knew everything. They saw everything, from the center of the universe to Jason's deep-seated yearning; and, oh, did he revere them. Crystalline blue even in the dim sunset through boarded windows, pupils blown out from the sight of a man turned putty in Billy's hands. A man who feared God once, and then loved Him, and now didn't know one from the other: right from wrong, Heaven from Hell, God Himself from Billy Hargrove.
Billy's hand from his mouth.
It was over just as quickly as it began, in a flash of blinding white that burned in tandem with the pleasure tearing through Jason’s body. Was this the end, he wondered, or was it only the beginning?
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bluebeetle · 11 months
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Ashes of Yesterday - Chapter 1
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Summary: Male Hawke/Anders, Merrill/Carver Hawke; Red Mage Hawke and very anders positive/pro-mage. 
Sebastian has captured Hawke after taking the Starkhaven throne, hoping to lure out Anders to bring them both to trial for their crimes. Being held captive on a ship heading towards Starkhaven isn't exactly a vacation for Hawke, but it gives both Sebastian and him time to reflect on their past friendship before it all came crashing down.
A fic exploring a religious pro-mage Anders romance mage Hawke and his tentative relationship with Sebastian, along with a hearty helping of headcanons and flashbacks.
Ch 1 (here - 7.5k words)  | Ch 2 |  Ch 3 | Ch 4
Now.
    Waking was a struggle. 
Pain, sharp and sudden, spread like a blight along his muscles. In contrast, Hawke was sinking into something soft, comfortable–so unlike the bedrolls and shabby tavern beds he had gotten used to sharing with Anders. The world around him was rocking; a mother cradling her child, nearly lulling Hawke back into a deep sleep.
He forced his eyes open. The air smelled of salt and damp wood. He was in a cell, if the barred window on the door to his side told him anything. The unused manacles on the wall across from him weren’t subtle either. Despite that fact, he was laying in a bed nicer than any he had slept in since Kirkwall.
Hawke sat up, ignoring the protest of his muscles. He hissed in pain as his shoulder protested from the strain. He was naked from the waist up, his robes, staff, and bag gone. There were bandages around his chest and shoulder, clean and tightly bound. Expertly done, even–he knew enough from his time at Anders’ clinic to tell.
Where was he? What had happened? He moved his arm up, only to abort the motion when pain blossomed in his shoulder. Hawke’s memories came back to him in a rush—
  Then.
     Running—
They had been running for years. 
Running for the last few days, too. Little time for rest. The horses were coming. Coming for both Hawke and Anders–both fugitives after what they had done in Kirkwall.
And it was ‘they’ because Hawke had stoked the flames as well, goading Meredith with his venomous words, helping Anders with his plans despite the lies; despite knowing his love was keeping secrets from him. But he believed in Anders and Justice wholeheartedly, believed they would do what needed to be done for mages. That hadn’t stopped it from hurting, knowing they didn’t trust him to tell him what they were planning. But he had followed them anyway–Hawke had charisma, had intimidation, but he was not the type to plan, to conspire.
Plus, it was so easy to blame them both for Kirkwall when they were both apostates, wasn’t it? Couldn’t let the Champion be a hero, after all, when he had so blatantly refused to be trapped in a Circle his entire life.
But yes, they were running—running from soldiers. Starkhaven soldiers. With a cavalry.
Hawke had always known Sebastian’s threat would catch up to them. The man was determined, full of a fire that Hawke had once respected–even if the fire had been wrapped up in a layer of confusion and indecision for most of Hawke’s time in Kirkwall.
Sebastian had more resources than anyone else Hawke knew. A prince was a dangerous enemy to have—but Hawke could never do what Sebastian had asked. Never. He was too selfish for that, willing to let the world burn around him if it meant keeping the man he loved alive. 
Sure, Hawke cared deeply about the plight of mages, of elves; he wanted nothing more than to be free of the Chantry’s chains, to bring Thedas into a future where the elves, dwarves, humans, mages, and even the Qunari all lived together without hatred or fear. He believed in Anders’ cause, in Justice. 
But he was still a man, and a very selfish one despite it all. Even with his friends urging him to execute Anders—including Anders himself, telling him it was just—he couldn’t find the strength to do it; to even think it. Not if it meant living without Anders. He had lost too many people he loved too soon. Hawke wasn’t losing Anders until his Calling came for him, until the Maker himself decided the Warden’s time was over.
So, despite the words of Aveline and Fenris; despite Sebastian’s cries for vengeance; despite the smouldering heat all around him, he hadn’t dared kill Anders, hadn’t dared imagine a world where his lover died by his own hands.
And now Sebastian’s threat of ‘true justice' had come back to bite him in the ass, years later. But it was a price Hawke was willing to pay, to be with his love a little longer.
An arrow grazed Hawke’s cheek, pulling him out of his mind and sharply into the present. Archers—perhaps one of them was Sebastian himself, but Hawke didn’t dare look too closely at his assailants. He needed to focus, needed to keep Anders safe and alive. His father’s ring burned a hole into his skin, secured on a cord tucked under his robes–the matching ring once belonging to his mother still in Kirkwall, with Carver. He needed to live, to live just a little longer to finally get the nerve to ask the one question that had been on his mind since he had become Champion—
Another arrow flew too close, nearly snagging his cloak. Right—Hawke needed to keep his head out of the clouds. There was no point in thinking of the future whilst at risk of having none at all. As powerful as Anders and his magic was, they were only human–they couldn’t outrun an army, outrun a mounted cavalry. 
“Anders!” Hawke yelled over the pounding pulse in his ears. “Go with the hounds!” Nightshade had stayed with Carver in Kirkwall, too old to come on the run with them, but it hadn’t stopped Hawke from insisting on adopting more Mabari hounds, for both companionship and protection. Anders had grumbled about preferring cats, but relented. “I’ll divert them from our camp!”
“Are you crazy?!” Anders shouted back, voice carried by the coastal winds. His fireball hit an archer square in the chest, knocking the woman off her horse, dead. “We can’t split up!”
“It won’t be for long, I swear,” Hawke promised, throwing up an arcane barrier around himself as another hail of arrows came down. “I’ll take the long way back, we’ll make it out of here together, alive .”
He pulled Anders into the barrier. “I promise you I will be fine,” he murmured, lips against Anders’ own. He wished they could have stayed like that forever, just the two of them, locked in love–but the cracking of his barrier snapped Hawke back to reality. Right; Danger–they could kiss, and more, later. “Go,” he breathed.
Hesitation was written all over Anders' features. Despite the worry in his warm brown eyes, he slowly nodded. “Alright. I’ll hold you to that promise, love,” he said. After another moment’s hesitation, he sprinted from Hawke’s weakening barrier towards the woods, their hounds on his heels. 
Justice and Anders were one now,  body, mind, and soul. There was no one else to stop Anders from agreeing, to give better judgement–and Hawke felt bad at how relieved he was for that.
He turned, ignoring the burning of his muscles. A few large ice spells were all it took to get most of their pursuers after him–marking him as the bigger danger, as the more obvious target whilst Anders focused on disappearing into the trees.
His barrier shattered like glass, unable to be sustained against the onslaught from the archers–not with his mana waning and his physical stamina drying up. He barely noticed the first arrow pierce his flesh, straight through his shoulder, until the wound began to burn.
Hawke gasped, pain overriding his senses as he stumbled. Another arrow made its home in his calf, soon joined by a twin. Unable to support his own weight, he tumbled into a heap in the damp forest dirt, a twisting pile of bloodied limbs and cloth. He could hear the sound of the ocean in the distance, nearly drowned out by the thundering of hoofbeats closing in.
Hawke kept his father’s staff clenched in shaking hands, unwilling to lose what little remained of his family now. Andraste’s golden visage stared back at him; her expression unwavering in the face of his suffering.
Hawke hissed, teeth clenched as he snapped the shaft off the arrow embedded in his shoulder. He summoned what healing magic he could—which, apparently, was nothing. Shit. Were the arrows poisoned? The burning seemed endless, worsening as it made its way through his veins. He swore; of course they couldn’t be normal arrows, not with the hatred he was sure Sebastian harboured for them both.
He forced himself up. His limbs shook like a newborn foal. He couldn’t bring himself to stand, his right calf too injured. He knelt, his weight on his good leg. The horses came to a trot around him, cutting off any chance of escape. Hawke met eyes with their Commander–wishing desperately he could kill by glaring alone.
Hawke was about to die, he knew. This was the end. He prayed Anders had made it out alive; that’s all that mattered to him. Though–Hawke knew that if he died here, Anders would likely go out in a blaze of glory trying to kill Sebastian, with the full powers of whatever was left of Justice behind him. 
Hawke couldn’t help but smile at the thought, as amused by it as much as he was pained.
  Now.
    He had blacked out after that—though he was unsure if it was the poison, the blood loss, or the hit of a pommel to his temples that had done him in. Judging by the headache he had–probably the last one. Depended on the poison.
Still, Hawke hadn’t expected to wake up at all–and especially not in a comfortable bed instead of half dead in a ditch.
Why was he alive?
Hawke sighed, rubbing at his face. He felt like he had slept both too long and not enough. 
Anders… Where was Anders? Safe, he hoped. And probably planning on finding him—shit. That was it, wasn't it?
Hawke checked over his wounds. No infection luckily–but still healing, fragile enough to tear open from simple movements. Again, his magic refused to be called to his fingers. He frowned, eyebrows knitted in thought.
Magebane, then. Likely given more through his open wounds whilst he slept. He had no idea if the nausea making its home in his stomach was from nerves or the poison. Hawke had never been affected by it before, but Anders spoke of it with distaste. Hawke supposed his only light was that the dosage was small, enough to drain his mana and cause fatigue, minor sickness, but nothing severe. Nothing like Anders had been put through before.
Hawke balled up the woolen blankets in his fists. He wasn’t stupid—he knew why he was alive, why he was tucked away like a secret.
Sebastian was trying to get to Anders, and having failed that—was going to use Hawke as bait.
Maker damn him.
     Hawke looked older, Sebastian’s first thought was. Far older than the few years that had passed. The stress from Kirkwall and life on the run hadn’t been kind on the apostate, it seemed. Sebastian wished he could have found solace in that.
He waltzed into the cramped cabin with long, regal strides, head held high, his armour polished and the crown of Starkhaven resting heavy on his head. “Stay outside, don’t lock the door,” he ordered his guards. “If I shout or it’s too quiet, come in.”
He turned back to Hawke. The man was awake, and had been for long enough for the guards to alert their prince of the fact, sitting up despite his wounds and the poison coursing through his blood. “You’re likely already aware you have no magic to rely on now, maleficar,” he said, tone cold and biting, the words like ash on his tongue. “Do not even think of attacking me. I have much to say to you, and you will listen.”
Hawke glared at him. Sebastian was reminded of the ice spells the man had been so fond of in battle. The prince returned the look.
Hawke’s hair was greying at his temples now, stark against his dark hair, which was far longer and wilder than it ever had been in Kirkwall. Gone were the braids, always delicately done despite his calloused, large hands. Instead his hair was pulled back into a simple half ponytail reminiscent of his precious Anders. Hawke’s beard was thicker, and his dark skin lacked the streak of red (blood? War paint? Sebastian had no idea; he had only been told it was “a Ferelden thing”) over his nose he so often had. The crow’s feet around his eyes were more pronounced, calling attention to his unnaturally golden eyes.
Between all that and the dark cloak he had been wearing over his armour when they found him, Hawke looked every part of the fugitive maleficar he was. Even more than he had in Kirkwall–and yet he still dared to carry that staff he had cherished so much after becoming Champion, the one with the icon of Andraste herself on it. It made Sebastian feel sick. Hawke had probably used it to laugh at him, to laugh at the Templars and the Chantry while he went along with his abomination lover’s plans.
Sebastian nails dug into his hand. He gritted his teeth as he took a seat across from the bed, on a small stool the herbalist had dragged in the day before to care for the mage’s wounds. It wouldn’t do if Hawke died of infection before a proper trial, after all; before Sebastian had a chance to talk to him. A chance to ease his own mind.
“Hawke,” Sebastian said, swirling his words around in his mouth. So many things to say to the man he had once called a friend, and yet face to face, he found himself struggling to voice them. His mouth dry, his thoughts addled; he almost wanted to accuse Hawke of turning to blood magic in order to confuse and control Sebastian, if it were not for the assurance magebane stopped that possibility. It didn’t only drain mana—which would not necessarily stop a blood mage—but also weakened connection to the fade.
“Sebastian,” Hawke replied, voice husky with exhaustion. “I suppose you’re king now, aren’t you? Finally got the sign from the Maker you wanted, after all.” 
“No. Starkhaven does not use that title. Prince is our highest honour. But yes—I have reclaimed my throne,” Sebastian said. It hadn’t been easy—it had taken most of the years since Kirkwall to achieve, but he had done it, he had retaken his family's throne. His cousin was cast out as a pretender, alive only because Sebastian’s righteous fury was not for that fool. 
The support of Starkhaven’s guards and what remained of their Templars had been instrumental, and they had formed his armies. Normally the Free Marches relied on a combined army, and relied on each other to continue their autonomy as city states, separate from the likes of Tevinter and Orlais. But that wasn’t what Sebastian needed to hunt down the maleficarum that started the Circle crisis; he needed an army he could trust, one he had full power over.
There would be no combined Free Marcher army to stop him from annexing Kirkwall with his own; the other leaders had left the city to burn, too focused on their own problems with the Mage-Templar war. Sebastian, however, had clarity they lacked–knew Kirkwall could not be allowed to continue as it had, to be torn down and controlled by maleficarum or deranged templars; not with all it stood for in the minds of the citizens of Thedas since the Kirkwall Rebellion.
Support from the Starkhaven Chantry had been a boon in his efforts to retake Kirkwall. On top of Sebastian’s history as a Brother, they too had hoped to see Anders and Hawke be brought to justice; to ensure Kirkwall did not fall to the control of dangerous mages and those who would allow it like Guard-Captain Aveline and Knight-Captain Carver Hawke. Rumours whispered that there was still no true Viscount, and that Knight-Commander Cullen had since left his post and returned to Ferelden. It seemed inevitable that Kirkwall—an incredibly important trading port—would fall into the wrong hands. 
With Ser Cullen gone, Ser Carver would most likely ascend to Knight-Commander, with how few Templars there were left in Kirkwall. There were few left in Thedas overall, seemingly every day more and more were dying; were abandoning the Chantry and their oaths to continue the bloody war with the mages with no oversight.
Sebastian had not known Ser Carver well. They had spoken, yes, but rarely; the elder Hawke had come to the Chantry more often. Still, Sebastian did not trust the man with the title of Knight-Commander. While it was commendable Carver had stayed in the order, hadn’t abandoned it like so many of his brothers- and sisters-in-arms, it was clear the man was just as undevoted to his oaths as the rest of them. 
After all, the man had known about three dangerous apostates for years–and never once turned them in, regardless of if one was his older brother. He had proven he was unable to do his duty as a Templar, long before turning against his superior. It was hard to be surprised though–the man had been raised by a blood mage. 
Carver Hawke was just a wolf in Templar armour. He may not have been born with the magic that cursed his siblings, but he carried its taint in his veins all the same. It was a wonder Kirkwall hadn’t been drowned in blood already. 
So no–Sebastian did not trust Aveline and Ser Carver to keep the peace. Not when they had aided multiple apostates and maleficarum; not when Ser Carver had made it very clear he did not want his brother to die for his crimes; not when either was so easily led astray from their duties, from the path the Maker laid. He had no idea if the rumours of Carver turning on Knight-Commander Meredith for ordering his brother’s death were true—but Sebastian believed them regardless.
The prince wondered what the other mages, the ones who rallied behind Hawke’s name, would think if they knew the truth. Would be they be appalled the man they looked up to was the son of a blood mage—a fact that only a few were privy to (Sebastian among them because Hawke had asked him to accompany him to the Vinmark Mountains for reasons Sebastian had never been too sure of)—and the lover of a demon-possessed mage? Or would they see no problem with that, having long since abandoned all good judgement, abandoned the teachings of the Maker and Andraste, in the name of power?
“And I suppose you’ve kept me alive in order to lure Anders out,” Hawke continued, unaware of the thoughts racing in Sebastian’s head.
“You were never as stupid as you let people think, were you, Hawke?” Sebastian replied, voice mirthless. “Yes. I told you, when you choose to let that monster live, when you revealed you had helped him kill all those innocent people, that I would come back, that I would show your precious Anders what true justice was. And I keep my promises.”
Hawke turned away from him, staring off at the wall like he could see the ocean beyond it. “He won’t come. He has some sense.”
“Unlikely,” Sebastian scoffed. “He’ll come for you. He was utterly obsessed with you, for years, and I doubt that’s changed now that you ruined your entire life for him. The fact that you were fine with that used to make me worry, you know, until I realised you were no different than him.”
Hawke laughed, but there was no life behind it. “Well, I am very good at letting people put me on a pedestal and then toppling it over for them,” he said, pantomiming the action.
“I trusted you, once, maleficar,” Sebastian hissed. “And then you killed someone I cared very deeply about, destroyed my home, let innocents die for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing,” Hawke hissed back, turning to face Sebastian, voice dark. “Surely you’ve noticed that the Circles have dissolved, that Knight-Commander Meredith is dead, or have you been that focused on your throne and your vengeance?” 
“I’ve kept an eye on things,” Sebastian defended, “probably more than you’ve been able to on the run. And all I’ve seen is the anarchy and death you two have caused.” 
“Freedom cannot be without cost if those withholding it refuse to give it willingly,” Hawke replied, tone even, practised like he was reciting the words by heart.
“So the ends justify the means to you?” asked Sebastian.
“Yes, I suppose for now they must,” Hawke said, refusing to break eye contact with Sebastian. “We tried to do things peacefully, you know. For years. It didn’t work. And you act as though you never thought the same, when it came to reclaiming your throne...”
“I merely took back what was rightfully mine, nothing more,” Sebastian murmured, tapping his leg brace. His armour was an intimidation tactic more than for worry of being assaulted. Hawke looked like a wilting waif, ready to crumple at the slightest sneeze. Blood loss and exhaustion on top of poisoning were a deadly triad. “Tell me, have you turned to blood magic too?” 
Hawke’s expression morphed into a glower, anger bubbling up at Sebastian’s words. “No, I would never—” 
“Really? You’re dedicated to a mage who is possessed by a demon. You were friends with a blood mage—you’re the son of a blood mage,” Sebastian pointed out. “Are you truly going to tell me you’re somehow better than them, more moral?”
Something snapped inside Hawke. “Leave my father out of this, you bastard! He had no choice, you know he didn’t!” snarled Hawke. The mage lunged—to grab Sebastian, attack him; he wasn’t sure. It didn’t matter, though. No rough hands, calloused from clutching a staff like a spear, ever graced Sebastian’s skin, his armour. Hawke merely toppled onto the ground, groaning in pain. His bandages were ruby red and wet with fresh blood.
Sebastian stood. He stared down at Hawke, feeling an odd mix of hatred and pity. “I think this is enough for now,” he said. “I will return later. You’ll be fed twice a day, and yes—there’ll be magebane in the food. If you refuse to eat, my guards will make you.”
Hawke said nothing, still staring at the ground with distaste. 
“Look at me,” Sebastian commanded.  Hawke did nothing. "Look at me!" Sebastian snapped, his anger seeping through. Slowly, Hawke lifted his head, and glared up at him from the cabin’s wooden floor. Sebastian didn't flinch at the hatred in his witch-yellow eyes.
“I’ll have the herbalist tend to your wounds shortly, when you’ve calmed down,” Sebastian continued, regarding Hawke as though he was nothing more than a petulant child. 
“Awfully kind of you, your majesty, to treat a poor maleficar like me with such hospitality and honesty,” Hawke drawled, nails clawing into rough wood. 
“I am a man of faith, Hawke,” Sebastian reminded him. “Of morals and righteousness. I follow the teachings of the Chant of Light, of Andraste and the Maker. Lying is a sin; mercy and honesty are virtues. I have standards, unlike you and your ilk. Even when it comes to dealing with monsters. You will not suffer unnecessarily under my watch, only what is your due. I take no joy in seeing men be tortured, regardless of their crimes.”
“How kind of you. You see yourself as Hessarian then, Blade of Mercy and all?” Hawke sneered. He was struggling to push himself up onto the bed. Sebastian was reminded of a newborn foal. He also knew what Hawke was doing—trying to get under his skin. The ploy was easy to see through after years of knowing the mage. Sebastian wouldn’t let him; he had matured since the last time they spoke–since they had met. 
“Will you be as merciful to Anders?” Hawke finished, arms braced on the bed, his legs still useless underneath him.
Sebastian disregarded Hawke, continuing, voice low, “When we have Anders as well, you will both be taken to Val Royeaux to face justice, where you two will no doubt be executed publicly for your crimes. Or if it proves too risky to move you, we may host the trial and execution instead in Starkhaven.”
“I bet you’re excited for that, aren’t you?” asked Hawke.
“I am,” Sebastian replied, tone tinged with the rage he was still fighting to keep leashed. “I will not be satisfied until I see Anders dead for what he's done. Only then will people like Grand Cleric Elthina be able to rest easy at the side of the Maker.”
“We’ll make sure to put on a show for you then at the execution,” Hawke said, the smirk on his face looking forced.
Sebastian did not deign to give that a response either. “I will return. I have much I wish to say to you,” he said instead, turning on his heel to leave. 
He felt Hawke’s golden gaze burning into his skull as he left.
  Then.
    There was a man, praying in front of the statue of Andraste, that seemed familiar. Sebastian couldn’t place why. He made his way over—steps slow and purposely audible on the tiles of the Kirkwall Chantry’s floor—both to itch his own curiosity and to aid a follower, if needed. 
The man lifted his head at his approach, familiar golden eyes (no, brown, just a light brown–gold was a colour associated with witches, with magic) meeting Sebastian’s own. “Ah, serah Hawke, I almost didn’t recognize you without your armour and entourage,” Sebastian said, bowing his head politely.
The Hawke in front of him had a much different air than the confident mercenary had carried. He was surprisingly well kept for a refugee (or so Sebastian had assumed him to be, he certainly sounded Ferelden). His dark fringe was braided away from his face–though some rogue strands had managed to escape near his hairline, unnoticed by Hawke. Briefly, Sebastian wondered if Hawke had someone style his hair or if he did the delicate, fine braids himself. It was a funny thought–Hawke seemed built to be intimidating, the spitting image of the ‘dog lords of Ferelden’ Hightown’s residents spoke of with disdain. The war paint (?) slashed along his nose (that he currently was not wearing) had only added to his image of a southern barbarian. 
Otherwise, Hawke was dressed down; clad in a simple belted tunic and breeches, worn boots. Gone was the odd-looking polearm, his jacket, his light armour. He wore a red scarf that covered the wicked looking scar Sebastian remembered being on the cusp of his throat–and the red tattoos that swirled around it. Hawke no longer looked the type who’d kill an entire mercenary group for one man—now, he was as humble a servant of the Maker as anyone else. If it weren't for his accent or prominent Southern nose, Sebastian would think he was a Rivaini visitor, just passing through. 
“It’s because I shaved, isn’t it?” Hawke laughed, touching his very-much-not-shaved face. He stood up straight, knees popping. Sebastian gave him a sympathetic wince. “I’m sorry if I bothered you, Brother.”
“Sebastian is fine, with what you’ve done for me,” replied Sebastian, hands clasped in front of him. “And not at all, you’re always welcome here, especially if it’s to pray.” He hesitated for a moment, before saying, “Do you want to sit, talk? I can accept confessions as well.” Technically, he had not retaken his vows, but Elthina continued to encourage him to carry out his duties to the Chantry while he was still undecided on what to do next.
“Well, if you’re offering… Just plain old talking would be nice,” he murmured, running a hand through his hair. It looked newly washed; Sebastian couldn’t help but wonder how often refugees like Hawke got to bathe. He certainly had heard many complaints about Fereldens in Lowtown—including their hygiene.
Hawke led Sebastian up to the pews. They sat down, side by side, Hawke’s eyes still on the grand statue of Andraste towering above them. She regarded them with blank eyes. 
A silence drifted between them, but it was comfortable; acquaintances merely waiting for the right topic to come.
“Do you…” Hawke began, fiddling with his hands. He seemed far less confident than the warrior Sebastian had met a few weeks ago. The lack of a weapon or people to use it on may have played a part in the difference. Some people were just more comfortable in the types of situations that made most queasy, whilst struggling with the mundane. Sebastian understood, in a way. “Do you think She hated mages? Or that the Maker does? I mean, with all they did to her… I… sorry, heavy topic—forget I said anything.” Hawke put his hands up, looking ready to bolt. 
Sebastian tilted his head. He flashed Hawke a reassuring smile, feeling like he was corralling a skittish sheep. “No, it’s quite alright,” Sebastian murmured. “It’s a reasonable enough question.” He paused, trying to find the right words. “I don’t think the Maker or His Bride hate any of His beloved creations. He is infallible after all; He would not make a mistake, continue to create what He hates. He only wishes for us to be better. Certainly, magic can be a curse, but it is one that is just to test us, nothing more. And in some ways, magic can be a blessing, when it is allowed to serve man.”
“Even though He turned his back on us?” Hawke asked, still not looking at Sebastian. Sebastian didn’t mind; the gaze of Andraste was more important. “...do you really think magic is a curse?” Hawke’s hands tightened, shaking ever so slightly.
“Yes. Even then. He turned his gaze away from us because He believes we can do better, and that one day we will redeem ourselves and prove we are worthy of His attention once more. If He truly hated us, He would have destroyed us long ago, especially after what we did to His Bride,” Sebastian replied, hands folded neatly in his lap. He mulled over his thoughts to find the right words for Hawke’s second question.
A lot could be said of magic, after all, but the way Hawke’s voice sounded, how it wavered, his hesitance… it all told Sebastian to tread lightly. Perhaps one of Hawke’s siblings had been a mage? Hawke’s worries were common amongst those whose family members had been given to the Circle—to wonder if they did the right thing in turning the mage over; to fear it was divine retribution for their family’s sins; to stress about the safety and soul of their loved one. 
“Magic is a curse in that it attracts demons and spirits to the dreams of mages,” Sebastian began, watching Hawke closely. The man’s hands twitched, but he nodded, allowing Sebastian to continue. “It is dangerous, like a sword built into the very being of the wielder. But, like a sword, it can be used for good–for serving others, for protecting them, and unlike a sword, for healing. Not all mages are maleficarum, after all. With the teachings from the Chantry while in the Circle, magic can serve man and become more of a blessing than a curse. It is a gift from the Maker–one that comes with a high price; one that can be abused.”
When Hawke didn’t speak, Sebastian decided to fill the silence. “So, to answer your question: no, I do not think that the Maker hates mages, for He was the one to create them. Even after what mages did to His Bride, to His Golden City–even after they brought the Blight upon us. He merely wants mages to use their powers for the good of His other creations, but so many do not. And His Bride knew that too. It is why She does not condemn magic outright, just mages' allowance to rule and reign down terror the very way the Imperium did during Her time. This is why the Circles are so important. They allow for mages to learn to control their powers, and then use their gifts for others.”  
Hawke nodded slowly, slumping back in his seat, tension Sebastian had barely noticed leaving his limbs. Hawke leaned forward, chewing the inside of his cheek as he rested his elbows on his knees. He continued to toy with his calloused fingers, seemingly lost in thought. “I… thank you,” he said finally, voice soft. “You’ve given me a lot to think about, Sebastian.” It wasn’t agreeance or understanding, but it was something. Sebastian was just glad his words had not made things worse–the topic of mages was a difficult one to trapeze. 
“Of course, Hawke. It’s why I am here, to help those who seek to follow the Chant of Light,” Sebastian said, smiling warmly. 
“Until you return to Starkhaven’s throne?” Hawke prompted, turning finally to meet Sebastian’s eyes. Sebastian suppressed a flinch. The lustre of Hawke’s irises were hard to ignore so close. Sebastian reminded himself once more that Hawke’s eyes were light brown, not a witch’s gold; that the candlelight of the Chantry was just washing them out. They had to be brown. Had to be, because no halfway competent Templar would have ignored such an obvious sign of a magical lineage like that.  
Or, a small voice whispered in Sebastian’s brain, Hawke’s golden eyes were what made the Order realise that he had a mage sibling. Having a strong enough magical bloodline to produce gold or yellow coloured eyes without a single actual mage in the family was unheard of. Did Hawke blame himself for his sibling being brought to the Circle, then? Did he see whatever fate befell the mage as his own doing, despite being without magic himself? After all, the golden eyes only spoke of lineage, not the curse—or gift—of magic.
No. Sebastian knew better than to speculate about things that were not his place to pry into. (Knowing this didn’t stop his traitorous mind from speculating anyways.)
“Perhaps. I…” murmured Sebastian, belatedly remembering Hawke had asked him about Starkhaven. The man’s eyes were too distracting, so he stared at Andraste instead. “I can’t help but wonder if I even should. But that’s something I still have time to consider. I am hoping the Maker will give me a sign for when it is right to do so, if ever,” Sebastian sighed, standing up. He had bared enough of his soul to this man, as kind as he seemed–especially for a mercenary. “There’s no need for you to burden yourself with my problems.”
“Ha,” Hawke snorted, a dry smirk playing on his lips. “You have no idea, Sebastian—that’s kind of what I do for a living, burden myself with other people’s problems and get ‘em solved. But I won’t press you about anything you don’t wish to talk about, nor take up more of your time. I best get back to my family before Mother becomes convinced I got stabbed in an alleyway somewhere in Lowtown.”
“Ah, that would be most unfortunate,” Sebastian said, wondering just what kind of life this man led. He seemed well spoken, though he did occasionally slip to a more casual drawl. It was hard to pin Hawke down; refugees could come from all walks of life.
“Indeed it would be,” Hawke agreed, stretching his arms. Sebastian heard his joints pop and crack. “Hopefully I’ll see you around. I suspect I’ll come up to pray more often now that I have more free time.”
“I would like that, serah Hawke,” Sebastian said, regarding the man with a soft smile.
Hawke smiled back, far more sincere than the vulture-like grin the man had given him when coming for the reward for Sebastian’s posting. “Thank you again,” he said with a nod, moving to leave through the grand doors to Hightown.
  (And, true to his word, Hawke had returned to talk, to pray, numerous times during their time together in Kirkwall. Slowly, he moved from ‘fellow follower of Andraste’ to ‘friend’ in Sebastian’s mind. 
Hawke wasn’t the only one, of course–he had met the man’s mother on occasion as well, and then there was his little brother… Sebastian Vael only met Carver Hawke a few times–but it was their second meeting that had stuck in Sebastian’s mind, for some odd reason…)
  Sebastian tended to candles at the feet of Andraste, silent as he carried out his duties. He enjoyed the warmth on his hands. Winter would be settling in soon…
The sound of plate metal behind him did not distract him; the Templars were often in the Chantry to aid followers, to keep them and the clergy safe. It was a surprise, however, when the Templar behind him cleared his throat—wanting his attention. 
Sebastian frowned, but he would not ignore a sword of the Chantry. He turned to meet eyes with the young man behind him. The Templar looked like a recruit, barely into adulthood now, but with world-weary eyes that spoke of hard times. A Ferelden refugee, likely. A number of them had taken up work in the Templars and Guards, as they were the most reputable places willing to hire Fereldens—though not the easiest to join.
The boy’s hair was dark, short and messy, with dark blue eyes and pale skin with the faintest speckling of freckles.  Something about him tickled the back of Sebastian’s mind, like they had met before. Perhaps they had—Sebastian tried to memorise many of the faces he met in Kirkwall, but only so many had stuck.
“Brother Sebastian Vael, yes?” the Templar asked, fiddling with his gauntlets. 
“Aye,” replied Sebastian. 
“I was… Have you seen Garrett Hawke recently? I know he comes up here rather often, surprisingly,” the man replied, sounding almost… frustrated?
Sebastian felt on edge. He did not know Hawke that well, certainly, but he knew the man’s work was one that netted enemies—deadly ones. Or, at least the bounty work did.  He still had no idea what exactly it was the man did for work, and hadn’t dare pry despite his curiosity. It wouldn’t be right of him to do so, not when he was there to help. And help couldn’t be forced on another who was unwilling to accept it—or so Elthina told him. She had used Sebastian in his youth as an example, but Sebastian did not think it was an apt description of him. He had changed, after all–he had been helped by Elthina despite his initial refusal.
Still, for a Templar to be digging… Was Hawke dangerous? Then again, he had thought perhaps Hawke’s potential sibling was a Circle Mage, hadn’t he? Maybe something had happened to them, then. “May I ask why? Is he in trouble?” Sebastian asked, keeping his tone neutral.
“Ah, no, it’s not Templar business,” the Templar assured him. He put his hands up in a defensive gesture. “He’s… my older brother. My name’s Carver Hawke.”
Oh. Ah. Sebastian vaguely remembered him now, the boy with the greatsword who had been looming over Hawke protectively when they had first met. (He had admittedly thought Hawke to be a Ferelden given name, not a surname. Apparently his Hawke was named Garrett, going back through the conversation. What an embarrassing mistake.)
“Ah, Hawke has mentioned you in passing,” Sebastian said. It was true enough–he had gleaned that Hawke had at least two siblings, and his father had passed away before the Blight, from what little the man had spoken of his family. “Though he did not mention you were a Templar of the Chantry.”
“It’s, uh, a new thing,” Carver muttered. “I was just… have you seen him? He’s been avoiding me.”
“He’s been up once, briefly, but we did not speak. He merely came to pray. He seemed… upset, but I assumed that was due to his recent trip to the Deep Roads. I can’t imagine that place to be pleasant, especially being there for so long,” Sebastian said, turning back to finishing his task with the candles. They needed to stay lit. “If you got into a fight, don’t blame yourself. I know it’s hardly my place, but I suspect he is still recovering from whatever horrors he saw underground. Give him time.”
“Am I that obvious?” Carver sighed, his armour clinking as he relaxed his shoulders.  “I fear that our fight goes deeper than that, but thank you, Brother Vael. Maybe your advice is good either way.”
"I know a bit about siblings," Sebastian hummed. “You’re welcome.”
“And thank you,” Carver continued. “For talking to him… mother says he seems a lot happier now that he has someone to talk to at the Chantry. We had Ser Bryant in Lothering, but he was a Templar and didn’t always have time–plus our Father was always scared that–” he paused, silently working his mouth for a moment, “—that… Brother would decide he wanted to learn more about… about sword fighting from him than the Chant. But our father was pretty devout, I mean–we all were, I guess, but Garrett and Father the most. Used to annoy the hell outta me when Gar would correct me when I got the chant wrong,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose at the memory. “Bethany always thought it was funny.”
Bethany? A mage younger sister, then, maybe? (And here Sebastian was, speculating yet again. How sad).
Carver’s voice was laced with sorrow as he kept speaking, “Father was happy to accompany us to the Chantry every week. Garrett stopped after he died, though. And then the Blight and well…” Carver shrugged. “Just. You’re his friend, keep him safe. He can be a real idiot. I know it pisses me off enough.” 
Friend? He wasn’t so sure about that, but… perhaps they were friends. 
With his piece said, Carver turned to leave. “Maker watch over you,” Sebastian called after him. He finished relighting the candles, rolling Carver’s speech around in his head. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, what to make of the Hawke family as a whole.
He briefly wondered if his brothers would have ever shown the same concern for him–but quickly discarded the thought.
It was bad to speak ill of the dead.
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leggywillow · 9 months
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Failed Attempts at Simpler Lives, Ch. 26 (Dragon Age) - AO3
Chapters: 26 out of ???
Pairings: Carver Hawke/Female Warden
Work Summary: The story chronicles the Hawke siblings going through the Legacy DLC, with the addition of the Warden
Chapter Summary: It's sappy romantic times, y'all
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nithrissa · 6 months
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The Bard and The Champion Ch 12 - Rewritten
Eloise was starting to get used to waking up beside the human oven more commonly known as Garrett Hawke. More often than not he was spending the night in her quarters, or his tent, and on the nights that they were apart she missed the warmth of his arms wrapped securely around her. It had been about a month and a half since they had returned from Adamant and in that time they had trekked to Emprise du Lion and the Exalted Plains and had finally arrived back at Skyhold in order to prepare for the ball Empress Celene was throwing at the Winter Palace.
As she laid beside her lover the all too familiar feeling of having someone close but not having them entirely weighed heavily on her mind, and she found herself fearful that he too would be ripped away from her unceremoniously. These thoughts swam through her mind as she lay awake next to Garrett in the early morning chill that surrounded, but did not penetrate her little cocoon of body heat. She inwardly berated herself for getting too close to him. This is why you don’t mix work and play, she reminded herself, you knew that you would wind up getting attached. As defeatist as her thoughts were, they were not without reason; Everyone she ever cared about had been taken away from her in one way or another. Emile, Maman and Papa, Samrel, Matéo...Even Leliana, while not physically separated from her, had changed with her role as Spymaster. 
She glanced up at Garrett’s peaceful face as he slept beside her, one arm beneath his down pillow and one gently resting on her hip. His sharp golden eyes were softened in his slumber, no longer piercing her with their gaze, but instead surrendering to her completely. The freckles on his nose were in direct contrast to the small lines around his eyes, giving him a boyish demeanour that fit his personality perfectly. Her breath hitched in her throat as she felt unbidden tears welling her eyes. She quickly blinked them away, embarrassed that she would become so emotional over nothing at all. 
As much as she wished to stay in bed with Garrett forever, she had to meet with Josephine for her final dress fitting for the Winter Palace. She stealthily slid from the bed, leaving Garrett undisturbed in his slumber and dressed herself for the day. Before she slipped out the door she spared him one more glance and blew him a kiss for no one’s benefit but her own. 
Josephine had been working nonstop lately, as this trip to the Winter Palace was a huge event that required a lot of planning. Now that the peace talks were merely days away, she was under constant strain to make sure that everything and everyone was ready. 
Elosie entered Josephine’s office, which was usually kept perfectly in order, but now looked as if Sera had let a herd of nugs loose within its walls. There were papers haphazardly strewn across every open surface, as well as swaths of fabrics along the backs of chairs and hung from shelves. Josephine was prodding an exasperated looking Cullen and studying his frame, much to his annoyance. Carver Hawke, Josephine’s personal bodyguard since the messy business with the assassination attempt, was leaning against her desk trying to stifle a laugh behind a gloved hand. 
Josephine turned to her as she entered the room. “Eloise, I am so glad someone is punctual.” She said as she gave Cullen a sideways glance. 
Cullen rolled his eyes behind her back and groaned, “Josephine, I am much too busy for one fitting let alone ten. This is foolishness.” He moved behind a changing screen that had been brought into the room.
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wardencouslands · 3 years
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“Shall I give them a taste of my blade?”
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pvedamerons · 5 years
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[ carver ] lawful good / songs about dogs and tractors / scarves and overalls / rural noun simple adjective / templar / warrior / lawful dumbass / too many emotions too little time / everyone’s little brother / eyebrows for days / bisexual panic / little man syndrome but over 6 ft tall / yes i have a condition it’s called caring too much
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galedekarios · 6 years
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dragon age + aesthetic: carver hawke
“they can have their burden. and i'll keep mine.”
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honeysofte · 1 year
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hawke brothers looking out for each other: 2/?
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nightwardenminthara · 3 months
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grant would do the most awkward wintersend gift giving the first year in kirkwall pre-companions.
everything sucks and bethany is dead……. family dinner that is not the same and leaden with grief, free marcher food is so fish focused greatly missing simple fereldan food
plundered earrings for leandra… nothing for gamlen and then getting carver absolutely wasted on looted liquor bc what else can he offer him
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astarionn · 3 years
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theluckywizard · 4 months
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In the Shattering of Things, Ch. 62: Vertigo
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Summary: Rose navigates the fall out of her handling of Crestwood's mayor, her intensifying liaison with Hawke, a surprise that comes from Skyhold and meets yet another legendary warrior.
Fic Summary: Lady Rose Trevelyan's idle, aristocratic life blinks out in a haze of irrelevance when the breach destroys the Conclave. She may be soft and coddled when she joins the Inquisition, but there's a fierceness inside her she's yet to fully recognize. Armed with only a few relevant skills and the mark that makes her a legend, she is thrust onto a path delivering hope where it’s long been scorched away and finds comfort in the grumpy, handsome stick in the mud charged with her protection and training. As she stumbles her way across southern Thedas, she begins to realize she's tangled at the center of machinations she barely understands, and she's not alone in that. Enter Hawke.
Excerpt below the cut 👇
When Hawke returns, he motions for me alone to follow. We walk silently together ducking protrusions and stalactites and shimming through narrow passages, the lightness of yesterday, the brightness between us cast in the shade of today’s revelations. The doorway we push through is marked with a whitewashed skull with a red streak across its eyes, the old smuggling ring’s stamp.
“It’s us,” he says. A man rises from a makeshift table covered in scribbled and crumpled notes, his features overtaken by the kind of beard one doesn’t choose to have. His armor is nondescript, his Warden credentials hidden away for safety’s sake.
Alistair Theirin. 
Another legend. 
Perhaps this time I can keep it together. He looks about my age, with dark blonde hair and a noble brow, but his overgrown beard and generally haggard appearance make him look worn beyond his years.
“Maker, man, you look like shit,” says Hawke with a grin.
“Cave chic,” he answers, yanking Hawke in for a firm handshake that quickly escalates into a bear hug. Alistair’s hazel eyes land on me next, nearly as bright and mischievous as Hawke’s and then jump to investigate my hands. At this point it feels like my blush is merely part of my uniform.
“You must be looking for this,” I say, holding up the anchor.
“Maker’s breath ,” he says. “I’ve always maintained there’s too much bizarre shit in the world.”
“That’s me. Bizarre shit,” I laugh. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Rose, Alistair. Alistair, Rose,” says Hawke. “We’re good with first names here, right?”
“Of course we are, Garrett ,” says Alistair pleasantly and I suppress my smile. He comes forward to shake my hand. “I’m glad you’re here. I wish it was someplace less— moldy. And you’ll have to forgive my looks. The combined effect of fugitive life, cave life and a missing wife is pretty potent. If I’d known you were coming I might have broken out the fancy soap.”
“I’m just happy we found you before the Wardens did,” I answer.
“As am I, my lady Inquisitor,” says Alistair.
“Well. Here we all are,” says Hawke. “I’m as eager as Rose is to hear what you have to say about the Wardens. I haven’t heard from Carver. Last letter I received was from the Anderfels. I asked Aveline to try and track him down to convince him to stay far from Orlais, but I’m assuming he told her to fuck right off.”
“As far as I know Carver is back in the Marches,” says Alistair, “But that was months ago. Who knows how far this nonsense has spread.”
“Then we can’t waste time,” says Hawke.
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aworldofyou · 3 years
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      I always had this internal theory in terms of Marian Hawke that rather than being just one of the three personalities, that she is meant to be all three at once. There is not one person after all, who is only one role of a personality all hours of the day. Whether its diplomatic, humorous, or aggressive, but a mix of all. She shows her family one side, the humorous, one making everyone smile when they struggle, gentle when loved ones actually need it in dire times, and aggressive when that line is crossed.
      This is always somewhat how I’ve played Marian with that psychological heavy focus on humorous because that is canon - but also balancing the other two in when the human mind reacts as such.
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