Title: The Grey Path
Author: The Phoenix King
Game: Dragon Age: Origins
Summary: Humanity's last hope isn't even human. Called upon to walk a path of blood, valour and duty, Sagramor Tabris must raise an army, rise to power and find his inner strength if he is to save Ferelden from the Blight.
Overall Rating: M/R
Pairings: Tabris/Leliana, Tabris/Lady Hawke
Disclaimer: Dragon Age characters, settings, and all in-game dialogue property of Bioware.

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Chapter Thirteen: Hawkes and Doves - Part Two

The Skinner had made his opening strike well. The northern gate had been taken, the militia archers atop the village’s wooden watchtowers had been either slain or were helplessly pinned down by his own bowmen, and the thin shieldwall of templars and militiamen was buckling fast. These triumphs had not been bloodless; a least a dozen men had perished in the clash, and he had no idea how his flanking force was coping, but so long as the Wardens were taken and Lothering was destroyed, Bloch didn’t care how many men he might lose. “Break them!” Bloch yelled, shoving more bandits into the fight. “Lothering dies tonight! You hear that, you bunch of dung farmers? I have come for you!”

One of the militiamen managed to outflank the bandit’s formation, charging at Bloch with a heavy spear, eyes wide with terror. With a contemptuous snarl, the Skinner evaded the lunge entirely, taking off the man’s head with a single blow from his longsword. “Their food is yours! Their women are yours! Their coin is yours! The Wardens are yours! Now go and get it!” he extorted his men, growling angrily as one of the brigands collapsed at his feet. “Get up, you cur, or I’ll use the knife on you. Move!”

The brigand declined to respond, mostly due to the goose-fletched arrow stuck in his throat. Cursing, the Skinner brought up his shield, feeling it shudder as another shaft struck home. “Watch the right!” he cursed. A quick glance told him who he was up against, and his ruined eye throbbed angrily in response. “The Hawke bitch is here! Cut her down! Kill them all!”

******************************

In the years to come, the stories of the Champion of Kirkwall would echo across the length and breadth of Thedas, each heroic exploit growing greater in the telling. Yet few would ever relate the events of her return to Lothering and the Skinner’s rampage, her heroism that day overshadowed by the dark times that would follow as the grip of the Blight worsened upon Ferelden. Hawke would have far greater exploits to commemorate in any event; the tremendous battles she fought, the great quests she undertook, the empire she would forge through sheer force of will to stand as an outpost of sanity in a world gone mad. There would be better tales of Marian Hawke to tell than a fight against a bandit chieftain; the defense of Fort Westgarde, her duel against the Arishok, the Raptor Crusade, the Wolfsiege, slaying the high dragon of the Bone Pit, all these and many more. For her part, Hawke was reluctant to speak about the black days following Ostagar, or the losses she would endure thanks to the treachery of Loghain and the savagery of the darkspawn.

Yet for students of history, hunters of inspiration or seekers of truth, the Third Battle of Lothering still held insights, for it was the first time the Warden and the Champion would fight side by side.

It would not be the last.

The mages struck first. Hardened killers dissolved into panic as Bethany’s fire washed over them, and a pack of routiers wielding halberds barely had time to scream before Morrigan ripped the very air from their lungs, golden eyes bright with a savage glee. In the wake of their spells came Ragnar and Derfel, the sheer weight of their charge knocking foes aside as they leapt for the nearest crossbowmen. Then the warriors charged under the cover of Leliana’s arrows; Sten, his mere appearance striking fear into the hearts of the bandits and spurring terrified screams from the populace; Alistair, his lingering sorrow thrust aside as he loosed his deadly craft against those who would prey upon the innocent; Carver, fighting like a man possessed, the old need to prove himself allowing him to carry on through exhaustion and despair.

And then, of course, there were Sagramor and Hawke at the head of the pack, like they always were. It was an image all the stories of that battle would revolve around; two future legends standing side by side against a host of villainy; two determined warriors, proud and defiant, their actions the fulcrum on which the Dragon Age would turn. They were a whirlwind of steel cutting down all those who opposed them, and the brigands could no more halt their charge than they could turn back a hurricane or an avalanche or a great summer storm.

Together, their greatswords tore through the enemy. Hawke’s blade was named Lemartes, a gift from her father Malcolm. Ever reticent on the subject of his past, the elder Hawke neglected to tell his daughter the sword’s origins when he bequeathed it to her, mentioning only that it was a gift from an old friend. Marian loved the blade, cared for it as her most treasured personal possession, and it would serve her well until the day that would make her a legend. After Ostagar and the frantic escape from the darkspawn, its edge had been dulled from use, but that didn’t matter. She was howling for blood as she cut the brigands down; her grief over the loss of the King, her anger at Loghain for abandoning them, her fury at the darkspawn for taking so many of her comrades and now at the bandits for threatening her home and family, it all found an outlet upon the Skinner’s men. The battle-rage of Luthias the Dwarfson was in her now, and none dared bar the way.

Sagramor’s blade had no name. Whatever history it once had was lost when Rafen Andras tore it from the dead hands of an Orlesian chevalier during the Occupation. Since then, it had been the heirloom of the Tabris family, the only truly precious thing they possessed; a means of defending their people. The elf was a grim, silent spectre as he entered the fight, his fury cold, goaded on by the shameful feeling that every death that day was on his head. The Warden was less skilled with a blade than Hawke, lacking her more extensive training and combat experience, but he fought on with equal determination, his comrades no less fierce in countenance.

The tide had turned. The Skinner and his brigands, on the cusp of victory minutes before, were suddenly put on the defensive. The militia began to rally, bolstered by villagers and refugees eager to avenge their losses, their cheers upon seeing Hawke returned dying fearfully as they witnessed Bethany’s sorcery in action. When one of the bandits turned to flee, the Skinner put his infamous knife to work, brandishing the bloody blade in warning to any others who might consider running, and that dramatic example was enough to make the rest hold their ground. Hawke noticed it too. “Warden, look after my siblings,” she commanded, cutting her way towards the bandit lord. “Bloch! Face me!”

The Skinner accepted her furious challenge, battering aside bandits and defenders alike to meet her. Sagramor moved to assist the warrior woman, but was immediately intercepted by a trio of bandits and held at bay with their long spears. At his side, Carver struggled against a tattooed brigand wielding a pair of long knives; mindful of Hawke’s request, Sagramor moved to aid him, Orlesian-forged steel coming down through the bandit’s skull like a lightning bolt, then swiftly wrenched it free to deal with the spearmen. They were in the thick of it now, the bandits fighting hard against the Warden’s company, more frightened of their brutal captain than they were of the vengeful defenders. While Alistair kept the enemy from reaching her, Bethany lobbed more fireballs over the palisade, repaying the bandit archers in kind for their incendiary bombardment. Leliana joined the melee now, longsword like quicksilver in her hands and the Chant of Light on her lips, joining Morrigan as she strafed the bandit lines with arcs of lightning.

And in the midst of the chaos, Hawke and Bloch clashed, pressing hard against their locked swords. “How’s the eye, Bloch?” Hawke asked with a sneer.

“Yet another insult I’ll pay this shit-heap back for,” the bandit spat, remaining eye staring murderously at the swordswoman. With an almighty roar, he threw his weight against her, longsword barely missing her increasingly scored and battered breastplate. “You shouldn’t have taken it from me, whore.”

“Starting to think you’re right,” responded Hawke, greatsword impacting his shield with a harsh clang. “I should have taken your head!”

Again, they clashed, sending bandits and Templars alike scattering to avoid being caught between them. Hawke was clearly an expert with the greatsword, adept at turning the blade’s immense weight to her favour, grasping the hilt loosely as she used the momentum of each swing to build upon the next, raining down blows on the Skinner. The bandit lord endured the onslaught behind his steel shield before savagely counterattacking, feinting with a thrust towards her face, then driving the blade towards her midsection. Hawke darted back, slowed by fatigue, and Bloch’s shield pounded into her chest, putting her on her back. Screaming his vengeance, Bloch stabbed downwards. Hawke’s right foot came up, kicking away the blade as her left struck his kneecap, causing him to stagger, and she rose to her feet, her next slash cutting deep into the rim of his shield, wrenching it away from his body.

“Bitch,” Bloch spat, lunging again. Hawke deflected the blow, trapping his sword beneath her own and shoulderchecking him into his fellows. Undeterred, the Skinner pressed the attack, finding the breath for insults. “How fares your sweet sister, Hawke? Don’t worry, I promise to take very good care of her once I’ve pissed on your corpse.”

Lemartes rang against his shield like a bell, and the Skinner gave a wicked smile. “And your mother? Has she gotten over losing your dear daddy yet? I know how to treat widows, especially ones as well-preserved as her. I’ll have that Marcher bitch on her back soon enough.”

Hawke was silent now. Words were a waste of effort, and the Skinner’s own had touched something dark and cruel inside her, a sensation Sagramor knew all too well. It happened in a flash. Backpedalling to gain some space to strike, Hawke stumbled over one of the many corpses littering the path. Seizing his chance, Bloch stabbed at her, screaming in triumph, but Hawke recovered with even greater speed, her greatsword deflecting the enemy’s lunge even as she headbutted the Skinner in the face. The bandit reeled away, blood gushing from his nose, and Lemartes came up in a wide diagonal slash, taking out his other eye.

Screaming like a tormented animal, Bloch lashed out desperately, cursing and slashing at the warrior woman. With a cold smile Sagramor would never forget, Hawke stepped away, angling Lemartes so that his next blind lunge took him right onto the greatsword’s full measure, the bloody steel emerging from the back of the bandit’s neck. “For Lothering! In Cailan’s name!” she roared, ripping the blade free and taking off his head.

That tore it for the remaining bandits. To kill Wardens for Loghain’s promised reward was fine in theory, but it was a far different matter when their intended targets were before them, blades wet with bandit blood and eager for more. With more than two-thirds of their number dead and the Skinner’s threats no longer keeping them in line, the brigands began to flee, a few at first, until in the space of a few moments, the entire warband had disintegrated. Panicking bandits fled for the hills, many discarding their weapons in hopes of outgaining the pursuing militiamen, but the defenders were merciless in victory, cutting down the brigands where they stood and pursuing the survivors northwards.

Sagramor and Hawke let them go. “Everyone alright?” the elf asked, seeing that none of his companions bore any obvious major wounds. “Hawke? How about you and your siblings?”

“We’re good,” Marian replied, sheathing her greatsword and vainly trying to make herself presentable for the arrival of her mother. “It’s all right, Mother, we’re all safe.”

“Oh, Maker be praised,” Leandra sighed, wiping away tears of relief. “Thank you for protecting my children, Grey Warden.”

“Well, they certainly pulled their weight, my lady. Marian killed their leader, not I,” Sagramor remarked humbly. At Leandra’s side, Hawke gave a pleased smile. “It was an honour to fight beside them. And that includes Bethany.”

“Thank you… I think,” the newly-revealed apostate said, still eyeing Sten warily.

Noticing Bethany’s discomfort, Hawke motioned her closer, giving Knight-Captain Bryant a stern glare as he approached. “Oh, don’t start, Bryant. Not today,” the soldier warned.

“I have my duty,” Bryant reminded her, his fellow Templars and more than a few of the villagers moving to aid him. “How long have you hidden your sorcery from us, Bethany? How long have you lied to the people of Lothering?”

“When we spoke earlier, you were kind enough to recognize that Lothering faced greater problems than apostates, Knight-Captain,” said Sagramor, moving to stand alongside Hawke. “The Skinner is dead, but little has changed.”

“Bethany means no harm to any of you,” Hawke stated bluntly, shielding the younger woman behind her. “She wouldn’t have helped defend the village otherwise.”

Whatever objection the Templar had was drowned out by the tramp of a hundred marching feet and the resentful growls of villagers and refugees alike as they moved towards the Wardens, clothes blackened with fire-soot, eyes fearful, their hands clasped tight around woodsman’s axes, pitchforks, anything that could be employed as a weapon. “It’s them! It’s the Wardens!” one of the villagers shouted, prompting the entire mob to lash out, spitting curses at the elf and his compatriots, even as the last of the fires were brought under control.

“Someone get around them!” came a woman’s desperate scream. “Make sure they can’t escape!"

The elven Warden groaned in dismay, recognizing the ill mood of the crowd. The people of Lothering were angry, fearful, left adrift by the loss of the King and their abandonment by Loghain, and the losses they had suffered at the Skinner’s hands had pushed them to the breaking point. It did not matter that the Wardens had helped stave off the attack; the mob needed a target to rage against, and compared to the unstoppable darkspawn horde or the distant Loghain, the Wardens were a convenient outlet. Leliana realized it too, her beautiful features contorting in horror. “Please, good folk, be at peace,” the Orlesian woman beseeched the growing mob. “The Wardens are not to blame for any of this!”

“To the Void with that!” a voice from the crowd retorted. “The Skinner came for the Wardens, we all heard it! Everything that’s happened here is on their heads!”

“And that murdering beast is with them!” screamed another. “Kill it now, in the Maker’s name!”

“You should step away now, Sister,” a greying farmer in the front row urged her, extending a hand. “That bounty on their heads will fill a lot of empty bellies ‘round here, and none of us want to see you get hurt. Please, come over here, where it’s safe.”

“Is that what this is all about? Loghain’s bounty?” Hawke demanded, staring coldly at the crowd. “The Wardens helped defend this place when Loghain abandoned it, and you’d be willing to turn them in for, what, coin?”

“Lothering needs that money more than ever, Hawke,” the farmer responded. “We’d be more than happy to split it with you. Just… stay out of our way.”

“So you can give in to fear? So you can repay the struggle of better men by handing them over to a regicide? So you can forget you’re men of Ferelden, and cast your honour to the winds?!” snapped Hawke. “It was the Skinner who set fire to your homes, and Loghain who brought about our defeat at Ostagar. The Wardens were not responsible for any of this, and scapegoating them will not help matters. These people, all these people, stood in defense of this place when too many of you did not. When Loghain did not.  He betrayed our King, and now you would go to him, cup in hand and sacrifice the only people who fight to protect this land from the darkspawn? They are not the enemy!”

“Says the woman who has a witch for a sister!” a nearby linen merchant crowed, his courage faltering as Hawke’s hard blue eyes turned upon him. At her sister’s side, Bethany gave a small whimper, shrinking away from the disgust of the crowd. A growing chorus extorted the Templars to arrest her, and Sagramor could feel the tension begin to boil over. Damn you all, don’t make us do this!

And then Lemartes scraped free of her scabbard, and every voice fell silent. Her face grim beneath the bloodmark, her armour rent almost beyond repair, her blade still marred by enemy gore, Hawke was like some dread spectre of the battlefield, and they trembled before her. “I remember when my family first came to Lothering. We were welcomed here, given a chance to prove our worth and earn a place in this community by good people worthy of respect. Whatever happened to those people, the men who would pitch in to help their neighbours in times of trouble and endure all this world could throw at them? When were they replaced with frightened rabbits who’d sell out others for money, or the vague hope of being safe again? You’re Fereldens, not some spineless Orlesian courtiers. Start acting like it.”

Silence greeted her. Spitting in disgust, Hawke sheathed her blade. “These people are under my protection. You want them? Come to the Landing if you have the courage. Or try for them now, but I will not sacrifice them on the altar of your terror. Let’s go, everyone.”

Taking the hint, the group followed Hawke’s lead as she passed through the scorched northern gate, Sagramor taking the rear in case the mob’s anger overwhelmed their reason once more. Every eye followed the band as they left the smouldering village. None would follow. None dared.

*********************************

Hawke’s Landing was no mere peasant’s dwelling, but instead a cozy, multi-room timber hall in its own right, complete with a stout tower on the east wing that gave them a commanding view of the area and a carved wooden eagle statue protruding from the front gable. Set on the banks of a gentle stream, the steading was over an hour’s walk distant from the village proper, as the Hawkes led Sagramor’s company along dirt paths to the red painted stone field marker that showed where their land began. Their isolation had not protected them from Loghain’s foraging parties, regrettably, and Sagramor immediately noticed how downcast Marian looked as she witnessed the damages the soldiers had wrought; the ransacked barn, the trampled fields of wheat, the shattered apiaries plundered of their precious honey. Even without the threat of the darkspawn looming over them, the Hawkes would be in poor straits indeed.

Even so, they were quick to make the Wardens and company welcome, and a filling stew was prepared from their hoarded supplies. “Thankfully, they didn’t get everything,” Leandra Hawke explained, ladling out bowls for their guests as they crammed together by the main hearth. “I managed to move some of our stores into your father’s safe room where they couldn’t find it.”

“Did they hurt you?” Marian asked in a panic, rising to embrace her mother, Derfel whimpering at the sudden fear of his mistress.

“No, I’m fine, darling. Loghain’s men seemed to be in a hurry; they just took what they could and left.”

At the other end of the dining room, Sten made to leave, waving aside the offered stew. “I shall take first watch, Warden. This location is hardly defensible should we come under determined attack.”

“Very well then, Sten. I’ll take second watch,” said the elf.

“Are you certain you don’t want any supper, uhh, Ser Qunari?” Leandra asked cautiously, well-aware of how uncomfortable Bethany seemed around him.

“There is no need. I will endure,” answered Sten, stepping out without further comment.

As the Qunari left, Bethany let out a sigh of relief. “Maker, does that creature ever worry me.”

“Don’t be afraid,” Alistair reassured her. “Sten’s with us, and we’re not going to let him hurt anyone. Isn’t that right, Sagramor?”

“Precisely. You’re in no danger from us, Bethany. I swear it.”

“So what’s your plan now?” Marian inquired between spoonfuls. “Will you be staying to protect Lothering?”

“I wish we could,” sighed the elf.

“What do you mean?” Carver demanded, rising out of his chair to stare the Wardens down. “That’s what you people do, isn’t it? Protect people from the darkspawn?”

“Carver, calm down-” urged Marian.

“No, I won’t calm down, sister! This is our home, in case you’ve forgotten. We can’t just let the darkspawn take it!”

“We can’t save Lothering, Carver,” Marian admitted. “We’d need an army for that, and thanks to Loghain, we don’t have one. The village barely fought off the Skinner’s forces; the darkspawn will hit us with a hundred times their number.”

“So, that’s your plan then, sister? Give up? We all just walk away and accept there’s nothing we can do to stop them?”

“We are going to stop the darkspawn, Carver,” interjected Sagramor before the argument could escalate. “And my companions and I are going to do our best to save as many people as possible. But we can’t do it here. Your sister is right; we’d need an army to turn back the darkspawn now, and that’s exactly what we mean to build. We have treaties in our care that will bring allies to aid us against the Blight, but it will take time to gather them.”

“How long, if I may ask?” Leandra inquired.

The elf sighed mournfully. “I do not know, my lady. The treaties are binding in times of Blight, but it will take time to locate and gather these allies.”

“So even if you do manage to build an army to help you…” Bethany trailed off.

“The darkspawn may have already advanced to Lothering, yes,” finished Sagramor. “Which is all the more reason for you and everyone else in the village to put as much distance between you and the horde as possible. We’ll move as fast as we can to assemble this host, but we cannot guarantee your safety here.”

For the next few moments, the Warden’s words hung in the close air of the dining room, each of the Hawkes lost in their worries and musing on what was to come. “What do you need then?” asked Marian, breaking the silence.

“Any supplies you could spare would be welcome, though we can make do if it’s too much of a burden. Otherwise, a night’s shelter would be very much appreciated. We’d be more than willing to pay for either.”

“Well, I must see what we have in terms of supplies, Grey Warden,” Leandra offered. “But the night’s rest is yours, as recompense for protecting my children.”

“Thank you, my lady. Is there anything else we can do for you?”

“Saving Ferelden would do nicely,” the family matriarch answered. ”We’ll do what we can to help.”

*****************************

Second watch found Sagramor sitting atop the Landing’s tower, whetstone restoring his sword’s edge, the conical roof sheltering him from the night’s drizzle. In the storechambers at the base of the tower, the elf could hear Leandra and Carver divvying up their family’s limited provisions to bolster the Wardens’ own stores, and every now and then, he caught a glimpse of Alistair and Sten carrying out sacks of goods to join the rest of their supplies in the Hawkes’ barn. Thanks to their generosity, Sagramor’s company had enough supplies to sustain them as far as Denerim if necessary, greatly expanding their options.

Ragnar stood watch with the elf, chin resting on the platform’s railing as he peered into the night, and Sagramor smiled, scratching the hound behind the ears. “You were a very good dog today, Ragnar. Well done,” he said, Ragnar giving a happy bark in response. “Wish I had a nice, juicy bone to give you for all your hard work.”

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” came Marian’s voice, and Sagramor turned to see the beautiful warrior emerge up the narrow staircase. Disdaining rest, she was still clad in her battered and blood-splattered half-plate, though her face was freshly-scrubbed of blood and grime, letting her striking, hard beauty shine through once more. “Sounds like you’re well on the way to spoiling him rotten.”

“He just deserves a reward for a job well done, that’s all,” Sagramor explained. “Are you sure you don’t want to change out of your armour? Looks like it could do with some repairs, and you’ll be safe enough without it now that we’re here.”

“Why, Grey Warden, I had no idea you were this anxious to get me out of my clothes,” Hawke teased.

Sagramor went red with embarrassment. “That’s not- I didn’t mean-“ he began, his protests wilting away at Hawke’s smile. “Very funny.”

“I try. But after everything that’s happened today, it’s better to be uncomfortable than unprepared. Do you mind if I take this watch with you?”

“Not at all,” said the elf, offering her a chair. “Thank you again for all your help, Hawke. Are you sure you’ll be able to get by without those supplies?”

“It’s no bother,” Marian assured him, accepting the seat. Only now did Sagramor notice how exhausted she looked, her own flight from Ostagar, the exertions of battle and the tragedy of the army’s loss catching up to her. “We’ve made do with a lot less before. Fleeing from a life we’ve made is something we’ve had far too much practice with, you see. At least this time, it’s not solely because of the Chantry and a self-righteous mob. I should thank you, by the way. Most people would have joined in condemning Bethany once they knew she was a mage. I’m happy to see most of you didn’t.”

“Why should I hate mages? I know what it’s like to be mistreated for being different, and no mage has ever called me a knife-ear before, which is more than many “ordinary” folk can say. There’s no need to thank for.  As for Sten, well, he’ll just have to learn to live with it. We have a treaty for the Circle, after all, so he’ll be working with more mages before this is done.”

“Answer me truthfully, Sagramor,” said Marian. “This plan of yours, will it work?”

“Honestly? It’s our only real option. Now that Loghain’s turned the kingdom against us, the treaties are our only hope of getting reliable allies. They might not be enough to wholly replace the army at Ostagar, but it’s a start.”

“And all the while, you’ll have that son of a bitch who calls himself the Regent on your tail,” Marian snarled darkly, her choler provoked at the mention of Loghain. “You’ll have to put him down eventually.”

“We will, I promise. He betrayed too many good people back at Ostagar; not just the King and the Wardens, but honourable warriors like yourself. I saw how well your comrades fought from the Tower of Ishal. They deserved a better end than that.”

“As did your Order. I saw them fight, Sagramor. No man could have asked any more of them or deny their necessity, let alone that whoreson,” Hawke spat. “I admired him, remember? We all did. We all trusted that the Hero of River Dane would do right by us and his King, and there wasn’t a man in the King’s Own who didn’t believe in him, yet he screwed us over all the same. If I ever get my hands on the bastard, I’ll carve their names into his skull.”

“Loghain will get his, Hawke. I promise it,” Sagramor assured her.

Hawke seemed to accept that, looking southwards towards Lothering and uttering a melancholy sigh. “Maker, I’m going to miss this place.”

“You have a fine steading here.”

“Father’s work,” the dark-haired woman admitted wistfully, removing her gauntlets to run a bare hand over the tower’s oaken beams. “He made a bit of a gamble spending so much time and effort building this place. You see, we'd been chased from our home so often by Templars looking for him or Bethany that it seemed a waste of effort making something so grand, knowing we’d probably have to abandon it. The Landing was a bit of a dream for him, a real home where we wouldn’t have to flee again, and he could train Bethany to control her powers in peace. We’ve lived in Lothering for the past ten years. That’s the longest we’ve ever called a place home, and now we’ll have to leave it too. I’m just glad Father never lived to see it; it’d break his heart.”

“Maker’s breath, I’m sorry,” Sagramor apologized. “Didn’t mean to bring up old wounds.”

“It’s alright. It’s been three years now. Fever,” Hawke explained, brushing away some stray tears. “He was a good man and a wonderful father. Even on his deathbed, he did all he could to make sure we were safe and secure. I… I just hope I’ve done him proud.”

“I wonder the same, Hawke,” Sagramor reflected, drawing the warrior’s stare. “My mother taught me two important lessons before she died; how to fight, and to always be a good man, no matter what the world might inflict on me. Maker knows the second is more difficult than the first, but I try.”

“She sounds like an amazing woman. I would have liked to have met her.”

“I think she would have liked you all too, if only to show the rest of the Alienage that not all humans were the enemy.”

“That’s us,” Hawke remarked, giving a wry smile. “Shining paragons of humanity.”

Next to the barn, Sagramor spied Leliana and Bethany conversing quietly, the former Chantry Sister giving the apostate girl a warm, reassuring hug. “Perhaps you should join us, Hawke. You’re an excellent warrior, even more skilled than I am, and we definitely need people like you to help us against the darkspawn. We need to go to Redcliffe at some point; your family could find refuge there while you join our mission.”

“And Bethany and Carver?” Hawke asked, eyeing him guardedly.

“They’d be free to join us as they wished, but the choice would be up to them. It would be a commitment, though. Alistair and I are the only Wardens in our company, but the others have sworn to aid us regardless. It would be no different for you or your siblings.”

“Are you sure we’d be the right fit for your little group?”

“Listen, I have a Chasind apostate, a Qunari murderer and a Chantry Sister who can snipe a man from a hundred yards away with me. You and your siblings will fit in just fine.”

Hawke gave a small chuckle. “I really had no idea Sister Leliana was handy in a fight. Or looked that damned good in leather,” she admitted, idly stroking a faint scar on her left palm. Sagramor blushed at her comment, having noticed that as well about the red-haired archer. “I’m sorry, Sagramor. Your mission is a worthy one, but… I can’t. I’m responsible for my family now that Father’s gone, and I can’t put them in danger like that.”

“They’d be safe enough to Redcliffe,” the elf consoled her. “And your skills could turn the course of a fight, just like they did today. Please, Hawke, we need your help.”

“I know you do, Sagramor, and if circumstances were different, I’d leap to your aid. But my family means everything to me, and with King Cailan dead and the army destroyed, there’s only one oath that has power over me now. I have to do what’s right for them, Grey Warden. No matter the cost.”

An uncomfortable silence followed this confession, broken only by Hawke’s frustrated words. “You must think me such a coward, Sagramor.”

“No,” the Warden answered firmly. “I won’t say I’m not disappointed, but I’m not going to force you at swordpoint either. In the end, Hawke, I am sworn to this mission, but you have a choice in the matter. I understand where you’re coming from. Believe me, I do.” Truthfully, he was very disappointed. Hawke was a skilled warrior and seemed a very reliable sort, likely far more than someone like Sten would be. Still, it was obvious that she had made her decision, and no amount of cajoling would change her mind. He was also acutely aware of how much his disappointment stemmed from his selfish, taboo attraction to the human woman, and tried to set such thoughts aside.

“Was it hard, then? Leaving your family?” she asked, genuinely curious.

Sagramor nodded. “It was, but I had little choice in the matter. If I stayed in the Alienage, I would have endangered them. This way, at least, I can do some good in the world and for my people. If I may ask, what will you do after we leave here?”

“Mother’s been talking about finding refuge in Kirkwall, up in the Free Marches,” Hawke explained. “She was a noblewoman from that city, and her side of the family, the Amells, has an estate there. She eloped to live with my father, but she says her brother would be willing to take us in.”

“She must have truly loved your father to give that up,” said Sagramor, visibly impressed.

“She did. Once my family is safe in Kirkwall, I will do what I can to stand against the Blight, I promise you. The Amells are apparently a powerful noble family; perhaps I could convince them to send their forces to aid your cause?”

“That would be welcome, though you’ve done a great deal to help us as it is. I have no right to demand anything more from you.”

“Ferelden’s my home too, Warden,” Hawke assured him. “I have to look after my family now, but I will return to aid her. On my honour, I swear it.”

Sagramor gave a relieved smile. “Then I look forward to fighting alongside you once more. I won’t lie, we’ll need the help. If you can rally support against the Blight from outside Ferelden, that could turn the tide for us.”

“It’s good to know I’m wanted,” Hawke quipped, grinning bashfully. Her left hand came up, and Sagramor jerked upright in surprise as she caressed his gaunt cheek, blood thundering in his ears at her gentle touch. “Just… be safe, Sagramor. Too many good people have been lost to the darkspawn already. I wouldn’t want to lose you as well.”

“So I can save Ferelden?” the Warden asked, swallowing nervously.

“Amongst other reasons,” whispered Hawke. Sagramor gasped in surprise as her scarlet lips embraced his own in an intense kiss, so dumbstruck for the sudden contact that it took him a moment to respond. The kiss ended, and Hawke held him close, their foreheads touching comfortingly. “Thank you, Warden.”

“For what?” Sagramor asked, still shocked by the intensity of the kiss.

“For trying to protect my family. For doing what you could for Lothering, even if the village doesn’t appreciate it. For holding true to your oath, when men like Loghain discarded theirs. For being a good man when it’s too easy not to be.”

“That’s just who I try to be, Hawke. There’s no need to, umm, reward me.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “Yes, because a woman can only express her attraction to a man if she feels she owes him. She could never have any desires of her own to act on.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean-”

“I know, I know. Listen, Sagramor, we survived when so many others did not. We… we live. We feel. And in a world this dark, we deserve a little light in our lives, don’t you agree?”

Sagramor responded by kissing her again, embracing the warmth that was offered, the fact that she was human be damned. Huffing, Ragnar padded down the tower’s steps as his master and the warrior woman held each other close, maintaining their watch in the comfort of each other’s arms. They said little, simply indulging in a moment’s affection, their doubts banished for a time. It was not much, but it was a light the pair could look upon in troubled times, and for both Hawke and the Warden, it was enough.

******************************

At the break of dawn, Sagramor Tabris led his company away from Hawke’s Landing, offering one last friendly wave to the family standing atop the tower. “Everyone ready for the road?” he asked, making sure his own backpack was sitting comfortably on his shoulders.

“We are, at long last, Warden,” Morrigan answered for the company. “Shall we finally proceed?”

“Indeed, the darkspawn await,” Sten reminded them impatiently. “What is to be our destination?”

“Let’s head back onto the Imperial Highway for now,” ordered the elf, setting the pace. “Once we reach the nearest crossroads, we can decide where to head.”

“Do you think they'll make it?” came Alistair’s quiet inquiry. “The Hawkes, I mean?”

“The Maker will not forsake them in their hour of need,” Leliana reassured him. “Lothering may fall, but by His grace, its people will reach a safe haven, the Hawkes included.”

“Even the apostate girl?” Morrigan questioned archly.

“Yes, Morrigan, even her.”

“Let’s get going,” Sagramor interjected. “The sooner we invoke these treaties, the better chance they’ll have at surviving. The Hawkes, and the rest of Ferelden, are counting on us, and I don’t mean to let them down.”

With that, the little company marched on the path to the Imperial Highway. Sagramor gave a final glance at Hawke’s Landing, praying that Marian and her family would be alright. Within minutes, the steading’s occupants had faded into the distance… and into a legend of their own.