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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.

Chapter Text

Starting to panic, Hawke picked up a request from the Chantry board, asking for help tracking down and killing the Flint Mercenary Group on the basis that they’d been instrumental in the deaths of the royal family of Starkhaven.

The group at the docks were a risk - Hawke casting in the street, watching over his shoulder for a patrol that would signal his doom, but when he trekked up to the Wounded Coast, he found someone already there.

Aedan Cousland was a handsome man, in armour that once would have been expensive. He’d maintained it well, but it had seen more than its fair share of battle since fleeing his family home in the middle of the night. His blue eyes and blonde hair whispered of his Ferelden heritage almost as much as the war dog at his side.

Standing next to him was, quite possibly, the most attractive elf Hawke had ever seen. White hair, black leather armour and wielding a greatsword almost as big as him, his skin seemed to be tattooed with white markings similar to Merrill’s face markings. It wasn’t until Garrett took half a step forwards towards Aedan, and the elf reacted by glowing white-blue, that Hawke tasted the ozone and static in the air that warned of lyrium.

Lyrium. That was lyrium in the elf’s veins. It was all Hawke could do not to stare.

“Who are you?”

And of course Cousland had no idea who he was. Garrett tore his eyes from the frowning, wary elf, and met his fellow countrymen’s gaze.

“Garrett Hawke,” he said with his best smile. “And you must be Aedan Cousland.”

Their dogs growled at each other, hackles raised. Aedan whistled, and his mabari whined and backed down. Hawke stooped, just a little, to settle his hand on Pumpkin’s head, reassuringly.

“I’ve heard of you.” The man said slowly. “The other Ferelden.”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“That’s me,” he said, as cheerfully as he could, “The less impressive one. I’d hoped to pick up the Flint bounty, but I guess I’m too late here.”

“You are,” Aedan said, flatly. “I have also handled those hiding near Sundermount and that Dalish tribe.”

Hawke hoped that meant the Mercenaries had been hiding near the Dalish, and not that Cousland had killed the elves. It seemed unlikely, if there were only two of them and a dog. Then again, there were six dead bodies bleeding onto the sand of the bay.

“Well good news - I killed the ones at the docks, so I think that’s the lot of them.”

Aedan’s eyes swept across Hawke and his rag-tag bunch of friends. On that day, he’d brought Merrill, Carver and Varric along, unable to extract either Anders or Aveline from their work. Varric’s crossbow was rather impressive, but beyond that, they probably didn’t quite match up to an elf with lyrium veins. And Maker, how was the elf not dead, or raving? He just stood there silently watching, alert. Like a bodyguard, almost.

“You killed them?”

Hawke’s smile was a little sharper.

“Is that so surprising?”

Cousland’s eyes locked onto the staff at Hawke’s back, designed to look like a polearm. Hawke could wield it as one, to a limited degree. But he wasn’t built like Cousland himself, all shoulders and muscle.

“No, I suppose not. If I claim the bounty, I will owe you a portion of it, serah.”

Hawke blinked. He hadn’t expected that - had assumed this was a lost cause.

“That’s surprisingly fair. No offence to you, Messere - I’ve just got rather used to being cheated in Kirkwall.”

Messere. The man was a noble, after all. Temporarily displaced, but one all the same.

“Ah that’s just our way of saying hello.” Varric said. “If it’s easiest, Aedan, bring me the portion. It’ll end up in my pocket anyway.”

Cousland frowned at the familiarity from the dwarf, but as far as Hawke understood it the Tethras’ family standing within the Merchant Guild wasn’t too far off nobility. The man’s eyes flicked back to Hawke.

“What did you just say about being cheated?” He said blandly.

Hawke grinned.

“Varric only robs me when we play Wicked Grace,” he said. “I’m trying to find fifty sovereigns to join his brother’s expedition to the Deep Roads.”

“Ah,” Aedan said, before shaking his head. “Foolishness, if you ask me. Did you not flee Ferelden because of the darkspawn like everyone else?”

Hawke wanted to ask the man what had led him to Kirkwall, but then again, he could see how Orlais had never been an option for a man whose father had fought in the war of independence. The Marches was the next closest option, and it had put a sea between himself and the Howes.

“I lost a sister to the darkspawn,” Hawke said, “I wouldn’t enter those Roads if they didn’t offer me the best chance of making my fortune here in the city.”

Aedan’s lips tightened. He’d lost his parents to treachery, but he understood loss.

“I’ll bring you the portion of the bounty, Master Tethras,” he said, nodding to Varric. “If you would excuse me. Fenris?”

With that, he walked past them, the elf trailing in his wake. Hawke was pretty sure the elf had responded to the name, not the dog.

Hawke waited until the man was far enough away before glancing at Varric.

“Do we reckon Lord Cousland stooped to checking their pockets?”

He had, the bastard. The only thing Hawke got from the trek out of the city was a few more cuts of herbs for Anders and the start of a hole in the boot of his shoe. And the memory of piercing green eyes and the faintest hint of lyrium.

His mother caught his sleeve as he headed back out the next morning, to find something - anything - to do to make up the last few sovereigns.

“Listen to me,” she said, her heart heavy on her sleeve, “If you insist on this foolish expedition, don’t take Carver. I can’t - I can’t lose you both. I can’t lose them both.”

Bethany hung heavy in the air between them, the accusations that Leandra had levelled at her oldest son in the aftermath. She’d apologised since, but as much as she claimed she hadn’t meant it, that it had been the grief, Hawke knew there had been some truth in her words. Bethany had been her only daughter, her youngest. Garrett should have protected her. He should have done more.

“It’s fine,” Hawke said with a shaky smile, “Doesn’t look like we’ll be going anyway, I’ve not pulled the money together and it leaves at the end of the week.”

His mother tried not to look relieved, but then fear crept across her face.

“What does that mean, Garrett?” She asked, hand holding his in a tight grip. “Will you - will you be safe?”

He didn’t point out that he’d never be safe - that in Kirkwall, where she insisted they stayed, he was in constant danger in a way he hadn’t in the Bannorn. Garrett Hawke made himself smile and kissed his mother’s cheek.

“You know me,” he said, “I’ll be fine. The petition is with the Viscount, right?”

He’d soured relations with his Uncle further by digging up the family will, revealing that Leandra had been left everything. She’d written straight to the Viscount with the evidence, hoping it would be enough for Dumar to act - to reinstate her title and lands. If it worked, they’d be on the up. But they still needed money, and their best chance of that was the Deep Roads. It wasn’t as if anyone would take on Ferelden’s as apprentices, or that they had any real marketable skills beyond the brother’s ability to kill things.

Leandra let him go, and Hawke headed to The Hanged Man, where Varric had two sovereigns waiting for him from Cousland. Garrett stared at the money. The man hadn’t stiffed him. He closed his fist around the money.

“Just a little more.” He said, with as much cheer as he could muster. “I’ll be ready, Varric.”

Varric hesitated, for just a moment.

“Look, Hawke. I know it’s a lot. And I know it’s been tough, trying to make the cash. There’s an ex-business partner of Bartrand by the name of Dougal. He’s been sniffing about, making overtures. If you met with him, he might lend you what you need.”

Hawke frowned.

“At what price?”

“Knowing Dougal? Probably your kidney and a cut of the profits.”

“Well, as long as he pays a proper surgeon and Anders can nurse me back to health.” Hawke joked.

He spent the day checking the Chantry board and hunting down leads, turning up nothing. And that night, without his mother knowing, he went to find Dougal.

Fifty sovereigns, for the promise of a hundred. That was doable. And it meant that the thirty-six or so that he’d managed to claw together could stay under the loose floorboard, only their mother knowing it was there - a contingency, for if the brothers didn’t make it back.

Hawke shook on the deal, and wished Dougal didn’t seem like more of a thug than the smugglers he’d worked for.