Chapter Text
Everyone knows the story of the Champion of Kirkwall - Aedan Cousland, who fled the massacre of his family by Rendon Howe and settled himself in the city during the Blight. Who pulled himself up from friendless refugee to noble, to hero. A family man, dedicated to the Chantry, who killed the Arishok and tried to keep the peace in the subsequent years as tension threatened to pull the city apart.
But fewer people have heard the story of the Protector of Lowtown. Another Ferelden refugee, in the shadow of Cousland, who risked his life and freedom to stand before the Qunari during their invasion, who worked with the Mage Underground to protect innocents caught in Meredith’s growing paranoia and tyranny.
Their paths crossed, many times. But as Cousland’s star rose, Hawke’s did not. And when Anders attacked the Chantry, they found themselves on opposite sides. What happened then, changed the course of history.
“Look, Hawke, I’m not going to lie. You were my second choice of partner - but I think this can work.”
Garrett Hawke raised an eyebrow at the blonde dwarf. Second choice. He reckoned he knew who had been first.
There were three Fereldens making a name for themselves in Lowtown and around Kirkwall - two of them Hawkes. Carver stood behind him right then, glowering. The third was, apparently, the second son of Bryce Cousland, who had, briefly, been called a traitor before the truth of Rendon Howe’s betrayal had come to light thanks to the Hero of Ferelden. It wasn’t entirely clear what Cousland was planning to do, with his family vindicated and a path available to him back to Ferelden, but clearly that plan didn’t include funding a trip into the Deep Roads.
“By all accounts, I’m more handsome than Cousland,” he said with a grin, “And probably a safer bet. Our family’s noble roots are here - somewhere.”
Varric grinned.
“Oh yeah, I heard about that. Gamlen Amell, right? Lost all your money gambling and up at the Rose?”
Hawke’s own smile faltered, just a little.
“It’s good to know our Uncle’s stupidity is well known.” He said, as Carver muttered a curse. “And yes, that’s the one. Our mother is trying to have her title reinstated, but it’ll take time.”
“And money,” Varric said, “And reputation. All of which the expedition into the Deep Roads will help with.”
Hawke couldn’t argue with that.
It had been a hard eighteen months. The Blight had forced Hawke and his family from their home in Lothering, claiming the life of his sister in the process. The journey to Kirkwall had been long and desperate, even with the interference of the Witch of the Wilds, and at its end there had been no home waiting for them, no warm welcome even. Garrett and Carver had submitted to a year of working with Athenril and her smugglers to get their mother and themselves into the city. And now that their contract was up, the limited protection Garrett had had from the Templars was gone. Worse, Gamlen was muttering about how the dangers of housing an apostate, and the money they could make from turning him in.
Hawke needed the Deep Roads to work out, more than anything.
He considered, briefly, selling the amulet Flemeth had given him in the Korcari Wilds, before figuring the few sovereigns it would fetch were not worth the wrath of a mage so powerful she could shapeshift into a dragon. Dutifully, he picked up Aveline and took a trip up Sundermount, gaining a new friend in the form of a blood mage in the process. Garrett wasn’t entirely comfortable with her willingly opening her palm to summon a demon, but Carver kept shooting her faintly stunned glances that suggested he liked her.
They met a woman in The Hanged Man, not long after, at the centre of a bar brawl. When she turned to Garrett, it took a fair bit of effort to keep his eyes on her face, and not on her cleavage.
Varric pointed Hawke in the direction of a woman in Hightown who was worried about her Templar brother, and an Orlesian merchant who had been whining about the workers in his mines, only for Garrett to find another Ferelden looking for work had got there before him.
“What’s his deal, anyway?” Garrett moaned over a drink later that night, “Surely he can just sod off home now. His brother can pay for his travel.”
“Rumour has it,” Varric said, “He’s head over heels for Sofia, the youngest Marie-Luc daughter. I think he’s been scrambling money to put himself together enough to ask her father for her hand. He might be a Cousland, but if he shows up smelling like a Lowtown sewer…”
Hawke sighed. He’d spent enough time in and around Hightown to know exactly how the nobility managed to sneer and judge.
“How did they even meet?” He asked, curious.
Varric smirked.
“He was chasing that dog of his through the market and nearly ran into her. The stuff of romance.”
“Urgh,” Hawke said, pulling a face, “Could he be any more of a stereotype?”
“You have the same bloody dog, Hawke.”
The next rumour Varric found did pan out - right until the Chantry Sister’s kindness towards a Qunari mage was revealed to be a trap. Garrett had been avoiding anything to do with the Qunari since their sudden appearance in the city. He remembered the savage that had killed a whole family back in Lothering, Bethany crying that night at the loss of her friend. He hadn’t needed the visceral, visual reminder of how they treated mages to know he should have nothing to do with them. Still, he survived the trap and managed to stare down a Templar without giving himself away. And he did get paid, at least.
He found himself working with a different Templar, not long after - both of them looking for a half-blood elf who’d started having dreams. Whether Thrask knew he was an apostate or not turned out to not matter when Hawke found evidence that his own daughter was one. Carver, cynical, pushed for them to use it as blackmail against the man to keep Hawke safe, but Garrett handed the letter over, hoping kindness would work as well. It did, and Feynriel ended up among the Dalish, out of the hands of slavers.
Back at The Hanged Man, Varric said they needed the help of a Warden to find a good entrance to the Deep Roads. Hawke found one, thanks to Lirene in the Emporium who kept tabs on Ferelden refugees, and shortly after Garrett found himself standing in a makeshift clinic in Darktown facing a handsome - if weary-looking - apostate.
I have made this place a sanctuary of healing…
Hawke was smitten from the start. His own skills were far more destructive, but his father had been a healer, and he had a healthy respect for those who put protection and restoration first. And if he flirted from the first possible moment, he did his best to ignore his brother’s groan of frustration.
“You couldn’t pick a better target, could you?” Carver bitched later that night. “He’s an abomination!”
“Don’t act like you weren’t watching the blood mage with doe-eyes only yesterday, Carver.” Hawke shot back as they crossed Lowtown, away from the mess in the Chantry.
Their cramped, shared room was particularly awkward that night.
Thrask sent word, through Varric, that there was a situation out on the coast. Garrett invited Anders along instead of Merrill, mostly to irritate his brother. But down in the caves, fighting blood mages, he was glad of the healer’s presence. Whilst he wasn’t willing to kill Thrask for the mages, he was happy to try and get them out of there - even if he was sceptical that the blood magic had all been Decimus. He was an apostate, and if he ever found himself so trapped, he hoped he would be shown mercy. From what he’d seen of the Gallows, he wasn’t sure he would be.
Ser Karras had to die, and Hawke didn’t think it was much of a loss. Carver, though, sulked the whole way home.
When Hawke wandered down to Anders’ clinic, the man thanked him for being a friend. Hawke smiled.
“Just a friend?”
It was too soon after Karl, he knew, but it made the healer turn slightly pink, and that was good. Hawke brought Anders elfroot and spindleweed from the coast, and gathered whatever resources he could around the city. Anders, in turn, promised to head into the Deep Roads alongside him, to keep him safe.
Athenril reached out, asking for help, and Garrett discovered that he and his brother had been replaced with kids. In the aftermath, the elven smuggler was dead and the kid in question had taken off with the goods. Carver rolled his eyes.
“We’re not making money this way, brother. And we’re running out of time.”
That night, Hawke counted their savings. They were still a long way off the fifty sovereigns - so much so he wondered if the hiding space was safe enough from their light-fingered Uncle. He was sure they’d had more.
He didn’t sleep well that night, and he couldn’t blame the Fade for once.