Who: The Inquisitor, Champion of Kirkwall, and Queen of the Eastern Seas What: Trevelyan is bearer of potentially awful news When: Tonight Where: The beginnings of The Hanged Man Rating/Warnings: Language, mentions of death Status: Complete!
Balls. Hawke hated nothing more than the stirrings of an ominous discussion. Last time something foreboding came to his attention, his mother was gruesomely murdered by a madman who paralleled a necromancing blood mage in Kirkwall, so by the grace of Andraste’s twat and all of its lovely components, could they avoid the looming threat of murder, please? But it was Thedas, and there was always some kind of danger hovering over their heads - and in the most recent dream developments that was also a very bloody literal description.
Much thanks to Corypenis, there was a magical arsehole ripped into the sky.
Blood, his blood, released that hideous thing from its seals and unleashed it to the rest of the world. Not only did he have an accidental helping hand in the mage rebellions (it was a long time coming, really), one could say Garrett was, down the line, directly responsible for that tainted creature irrevocably fucking things up.
It was an odd sense of guilt the deepest crevices of his trolling mind obsessed over. Which is why he’d, quietly, helped Isabela prepare a line of their featured cocktails - creatively named and designed to honor their Thedosian brethren, and it’d give Trevelyan an opportunity to taste these poisons and get a tour of The Hanged Man. It was a joint project between him and his wife to bring to life something important from their dreams, and it was coming together in its rustic, medieval charm. The microbrewery was a nice touch, and the main ale concocted was endearingly called Rat Droppings.
Couldn’t run The Hanged Man without it.
“What do you think about mugging Trevelyan and taking all his cash if we don’t like what he says, love?” Hawke was joking. Joking. Honestly. Mostly. He leaned against the wooden slab of a bar top in jeans and a deliciously fitted shirt. The Champion had the physique of a burly warrior, maybe even with the ability to do a bench press with an armored templar if he felt challenged enough.
Or drunk enough.
“At the very least, he’ll probably feel guilty enough to wash dishes and scrub the floors here for a bit,” Bela responded, with a grin, yet she wasn’t feeling as quippy and carefree as her cheery tone would suggest. Hawke was worried and so was she - because she’d been there for the death of his mother; not like she’d ever forget the way her stomach lurched and icy needles pricked her skin, an almost paralysing effect at seeing that headless corpse.
Surely whatever Trevelyan wanted to say, it couldn’t be as awful as that? But it was Thedas they were talking about, and there was no way to even try to understand or predict the sheer magnitude of the shit of that place. Literally, it rained from the skies - right from the bumhole that had been ripped open.
Still, she’d keep it together. Patting her hubby’s chest, using the hand adorned with the black pearl wedding ring, she left it there to press right above his heartbeat. “It’ll be alright no matter what, we’ve already faced the worst of everything.”
They were joined by the Inquisitor then, who arrived at the Hanged Man feeling just a tad guilty. Part of even being the Inquisitor in the first place was making decisions that really didn’t mean anything would be fixed because of them - very rarely was there a clear-cut, right or wrong. But he was closer to Hawke here than he was in Thedas, and he felt like a ‘heads-up’ was owed - even if he couldn’t be certain how things would play out for the Champion of Kirkwall. When it came to the Fade, if anyone could manage to survive and find a way out - it would be Hawke anyway. Trevelyan had played the ‘what if’ game, quite a bit - in the end, the one who had come out of the Fade and was relaying information about Adamant got caught up in the Wardens civil war; it was presumed they perished in the conflict. They were as good as dead, but maybe, just maybe...there was a chance Hawke was still alive, and things had worked out.
He slid up to the bar, choosing a stool. “This place really is incredible - you two should be proud of yourselves.”
“Never fear, we stroke our egos constantly on how well this place is turning out,” Hawke smirked, massaging the regal wonder that was his beard. “Then we tend to get carried away and stroke each other, but.” Fine, fine, he’d behave. Taking Bela’s ringed hand, he gave a kiss to her knuckles before stretching his arm out in a gesture to the display before the Inquisitor - cold glasses of tastefully potent drinks!
He could guess which one inspired the cocktail with the mustache straw.
There was also a pint of amber-colored ale with a thin layer of froth atop. Rat’s Droppings, which was crisply refreshing. They’d also be helping Trevelyan consume it all so, no pressure. “Bela’s the true genius behind these. The Inquisit Me is delightful, and we promise to make sure we get you home safely.”
Shall they drink a bit before whatever news came crashing down on them like a sad pair of floppy tits? Hawke thought it’d be a grand idea.
Stroking each other. Well, that was sweet. Trevelyan laughed, and an eyebrow lifted at the sight of that gloriously mustached beverage. “Nice touch,” he stated, and Isabela’s grin widened, showing off those polished shark-like chompers of hers. However, Max didn’t think he could pull off the ‘stache the same way Dorian did, at least not without downing a few first, so he began with the Inquisit Me anyway - it looked good. Frozen and grandioise, like an alcoholic slushee - with a punch, because apparently Everclear was in it.
“We make our own limoncello right here,” Isabela added. “And the ale too, I think we’ve finally perfected the Rat Droppings in particular.”
She slid the pint toward her, wanting to fortify herself with the crisp taste, a little spicy and sweet - like a medieval ale should be. Like the peasants drank, but fuck yes to that, they celebrated all walks of life in this establishment.
“I’m glad I’ll have a designated driver because...I’m probably going to get smashed,” Max warned. Which meant when the time to spill the beans about the Fade came, he might start blubbering and sobbing too, no big deal.
“Drink it up, mate,” Garrett advised, selecting the Hair-on-Your-Chest. It was dedicated to none other than Serah Varric Tethras, the weaver of embellished tales, and he thought his dwarven friend would approve greatly of the mix they’d made to honor him. Perhaps one day he’d stroll in for a drink, but Hawke couldn’t guarantee he wouldn’t embrace that bold-nosed man and hold him tightly into his arms.
Platonically, of course. Sticking things up each other’s discharge pipe would simply ruin the beauty of their friendship. It’d get weird.
This drink tasted strangely of apple pie with a dangerous bite - he’d said once it’d pair well with vanilla ice cream, was that strange? “We’re all ears here. I honestly don’t think anything could ever be as terrible as my mother’s pre-determined fate.”
No quips or jest there; bring Leandra into the conversation, his tone would get grim and sour. It was the one time he dipped his toes into the more corrupt side of blood magic, the empowering thrall of controlling someone by the life force coursing through their veins - puppeting them and bending their will to his. It was a slippery slope for most after that, but he was determined to remain grounded. He couldn’t - and wouldn’t - leave his siblings alone, nor Bela, or anyone else (his infant goddaughter too, of course) for that matter by going down to the path to becoming an abomination.
That’d really ruin all his holiday plans, for one.
Isabela dragged a stool over behind the bar, sitting there and making herself comfortable, tucking one knee over the other. She was dressed casually, in jeans and a black tanktop wherein her assets spilled over, but hair that same raven shade was swept beneath the red handkerchief she had started wearing as an armband when her and Hawke became more ‘serious’ in Kirkwall. It was a nice touch of colour, in addition to the golden plunder - earrings and a choker - that had also arrived from their shitty dreamworld.
“Yep, we’re all ears,” she concurred, lifting her brows as she sipped from the mug of ale. “Well. More than ears, but.” Bela usually let her tits speak for themselves.
Max took a few big gulps of his drink - not wanting to go slow, nope, not with this. He had to find a way to explain everything, and these were some pretty big damn spoilers. “Varric brings you in for the purposes of helping with the Inquisition,” he started. “Because of your Grey Warden connections, and insight when it comes to Corypheus. We travel to the Western Approach and discover that the Wardens have been manipulated by blood magic - their ringleader there, a Venatori magister from Tevinter, has been forcing them to perform rituals which would bind Warden mages to demons. For the purposes of creating an army. There’s a fight, and he takes off - we believe he’s headed toward the Adamant Fortress, so we go.”
The Venatori were nasty, nasty, nasty - and this was just reminding Max of how much. They’d scattered after Corypheus was defeated, but he wasn’t naive enough to think their presence would be gone for good.
Grey Warden Connections. Stroud, perhaps? An old friend of Anders (rest the bastard’s soul, despite his actions) he’d contacted to investigate the red lyrium phenomenon, considering it had helped escalate Knight-Commander Meredith’s psychosis to an irreversible level - and was a key element in making sure their lives in Kirkwall went down the foulest shithole imagineable. Part of Hawke was still reeling from it all - those years spent in the Free Marches was a whirlwind of change and chaos, love and loss, all because he was always at the wrong place at the wrong time helping the right or even wrong people.
“That…” Uh. His face contorted to something of disbelief, because binding Warden mages to demons? That sounded like gruesome work, but in the eyes of someone with a villainous name like Corypenis Corypheus, disturbingly effective for world conquering. “Alright, then, so off we go, and I suppose whatever happens there is the reason why you might be tossing up your entire stomach later?”
Mossy eyes cut to Bela with a quirked brow, a silent translation of what do you think so far?
Both of Isabela’s hands were wrapped around her frosty mug, and she was listening to this tale with a similar look of disbelief. Mostly because fucking figures that Corytits Corypheus would be the villain-of-the-week wrecking everything. “The Wardens are a mess, why hasn’t someone started a new organisation to fight Darkspawn, honestly?” she asked rhetorically, and that may have answered Hawke’s silent inquiry about what she thought. Sure, they were the only thing that kept Thedas from being torn apart - but they really fucking sucked, to put it bluntly.
“Anyway,” Bela motioned for Trevelyan to continue. “Adamant Fortress, you go there, things happen.”
“There’s yet another battle in the courtyard, but a dragon attacks and the walkway gives - so we’re basically plummeting to our deaths,” Max reluctantly went on. “I open a tear to the Fade to save us but to get out of the Fade, we have to locate the rift that corresponds to where it was opened in the fortress. A lot of battling with demons, so many demons, and Fearlings, and the spirit of Divine Justinia sacrifices herself to help pave the way to the exit but there’s a Nightmare demon left that has to be fought so we can make a break for it and get away. Someone had to stay behind. It was - “
Isabela shushed him for a moment - zzzzziiip it, because what. What was happening. “Wait, wait a bloody minute. Are you saying Hawke gets left in the Fade?”
“He, you,” well, Trevelyan was talking to Hawke, “...insisted on staying to fight the demon. He wanted Stroud to live to help build the Wardens back up and felt like Corypheus was his responsibility anyway which isn’t true, but there was just...no way to handle that.”
“You idiot!” Isabela punched her own husband in the arm - it probably didn’t hurt, but still. “And you! I’m going to leap across this bar and stab you, Inquisitor.”
“Ow! Isabela!” Honestly. How rude. Hawke rubbed his arm, because let’s face it - she didn’t hit like a toddler whether she admitted it or not, the mad woman. But the way Trevelyan had continued the tale, the tone of his voice, the entire situation, well. Was he surprised by the news?
Not entirely. And while he hadn’t said the words himself, the Champion knew what it all meant. Left in the Fade to play martyr on his own accord, to tone for the idiotic mistake of being tricked into releasing Corypheus from his prison, and he’d fought and the conclusion was a natural assumption: what met him was death.
What a buzzkill.
He took the pirate by the elbow, gently. “Bela doesn’t mean it,” he promised, freeing his other hand from the drink to massage the bridge of his nose. Maker, he felt a bloody headache come his way. “Knowing my luck I was slain by a massive fearling spider with drippy fangs. Bollocks to my luck. Bollocks.”
“Like fuck I don’t mean it! How could anyone just leave you there??” Bela exclaimed angrily, but despite her irrational outbursts (and punching) knew that it wasn’t like Trevelyan did it on purpose. He said someone had to stay behind, and what it boiled down to was that she was devastated it had been her partner who volunteered. The very love of her life, even. Now he was gone - and Maker’s arse, she really hoped she didn’t have to dream of that.
Trevelyan didn’t like it much either - in fact, he hated it. It was one of the most difficult things he’d ever had to watch, to do. He remembered Hawke’s final words - safe harbors, Isabela - and he swallowed a lump in his throat, something that felt uncomfortable and made his stomach turn. “I don’t believe it’s truly the end though,” he made sure to amend. “I think...maybe it was you all along. Who was meant to go into the Fade and survive.” Because let’s face it, Stroud wouldn’t have lasted five seconds against any spider.
Balls again. Balls, all the fucking hairy, sweaty balls. “It won’t happen here though, will it?” Isabela demanded. “You haven’t got that mark for one thing, and for another, you’re not just going to rip open an asshole and stuff us all in it, are you?”
Well, no, Trevelyan hadn’t exactly planned on that.
It all sounded very poetic, didn’t it, like Hawke was some kind of fabled chosen one but that wasn’t it. It was all how the dominos fell, the way every decision made up until that very moment was decided upon. Because Corypheus and what he was trying to do to their world was bigger than them, bigger than all of them, and if stopping him meant staying behind would help save the one who did have the mark on his hand to help stop all this - then it was an obvious choice.
As for how that’d all translate here, they’d have to wait and see.
“Maybe I’ll pop out and it’ll be all part of an elaborate joke,” he shrugged. Perhaps he was the calmest one of the three, and he’d tried to transfer some of that by splaying his fingers across Bela’s knee like he was holding her back from swinging a fist into Trevelyan’s kicked-puppy face. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned here is this: what can happen will likely happen, and the concept of some kind of magical mark gobbling up your hand that also serves as a key to close holes in the sky seems like something this place would love to bestow on us.”
All possibilities should never be ruled out. Not here. He’d seen parallels manifest here in the worst possible ways, so why not have the heavens shit out abominations and arcane horrors?
Perhaps it was naive of him, but Max still believed - he believed that Hawke could survive the Fade, that he could change things from within it, that he’d get out at some point. Maybe not the same as he once was (an experience like that would surely change a person, physically and mentally) but still intact. Despite that, however, he certainly didn’t want anything similar to happen in this waking world.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he sighed, downing the rest of that brain-freeze inducing drink (perhaps it would help numb the sense of guilt creeping all along his skin) and moving along to another. Nug’s Mother, in honor of Leliana - one of his most stalwart advisers. The sweet and sour of the drink also acted as a good numbing agent. “That the mark will appear on my hand, I mean.”
He flexed his fingers, palm flipped over as he studied it - bare for now, but one day. One day that would change.
“I lose an arm because of it. And by the time it all ends, I’m just...so tired of the politics and the interference and everything else. The world is in danger yet again though, feels like it always is - “ He smiled wryly at Hawke. “You must have felt similarly.”
Isabela was calmer, at least, her hand clasping Garrett’s. She held on tightly, like if she let go he’d fall into the Fade right the fuck now. “No happy endings for any of us, it seems. Here though? Different story. We’ll stand with you, if the sky starts farting demons. Even if my heroic husband ended up in an otherworldly hellhole,” the pirate glowered.
Hawke himself selected the bubbly sweet Kitten’s Blood, which was the very definition of that particular elve’s essence. His grip on Bela only tightened, however, because while they’d run from Kirkwall together, he knew one day they’d be forced to be separated in those blasted dreams - a mutual understanding that was to come. He’d hoped by the time he was hurled into the Fade that he’d at least get to see her one last time.
“Similar, perhaps, but with both arms,” he joked, yet the humor was brief. Soon the concern was expressed by the furrow of his brows. “I wish I could tell you all your limbs would be in tact, but a friend of mine lost a hand thanks to all this too. He’s fashioning an impressive prosthetic nowadays. I can ask him where he went if you’d like. Preparation never hurt.”
As for his own fate, they’d have to wait and see. Bela spoke the truth though, whatever happened, they’d all band together and help eliminate the threat. Orange County’s own Inquisition.
Honestly, the thought of losing a limb was terrifying - having to relearn how to do basically everything, because of balance and bodily coordination being thrown off, that seemed daunting. He’d probably need help with every task at first, even just things like stepping out of the bathtub or combing his hair. Max hoped it didn’t happen, but Hawke was correct - preparation never hurt, and if someone had lost their hand in this weird world then the odds were looking kind of grim for his left arm disappearing as well.
“At least it wasn’t a particularly bloody end to my forearm?” Trevelyan pulled a face - because, yeah, comforting. He’d try to look on the bright side. “But alright...I may as well start doing research on prosthetics now. My dream self doesn’t have one - probably because technology isn’t quite as advanced in Thedas yet.”
The Qunari were able to develop some pretty amazing things, also the dwarves, and perhaps if every social ill hadn’t been blamed on magic there could be a combination of magic and science, but. It had not been the case.
He’d consult the other piratey figure in his life, none other than the infamous Captain Hook himself - if there was anything who could provide insight on what it was like to be dismembered, it’d be him. It was a grim reality to know that serious strides needed to be made to that, but he’d be there for Trevelyan in whatever capacity needed. All of them were in it together, and Thedas was all their baggage - from the Blight, to Kirkwall, and to the tear of the Veil.
“Goody, something to dreadfully look forward to,” Garrett heaved a sigh, draping an arm around his wife’s shoulder to pull in. “You know, we agreed that if we didn’t like the news you’d either compensate us for the drinks or we’d mug you until you were pantless, but then you tossed in the arm loss thing. You poor bastard.”
There were several more to drink and it meant they’d drink them all until there wasn’t one left. Sure, they might be passed out on the floor of The Hanged Man but after news like that? Trevelyan’s arm, Hawke’s sacrificial tango with the Fade, the Breach in the horizon - it was required.
“You can still go pantsless if you like,” Isabela cheekily joked, leaning against Hawke’s side. She hadn’t really leaped across the bar to stab the poor fellow - sounded like he’d have a rough go of it coming up here. “Though if you finish the rest of these drinks, you’ll be pantsless anyway no matter what - I predict it.”
She, personally, had moved on from Rat Droppings to King Alistair - because Maker, it was sweet and decadent, and she needed something comforting. Ice cream sort of fit the bill at the moment - boozy ice cream.
“Cheers to that, I guess?” Trevelyan cracked a grin. “And...I’ll definitely find a way to repay you you somehow.” For the fine sampling of cocktails, and because he felt awful being the bearer of bad news. It was the least he could do.
But hell, getting completely hammered in the name of forgetting about the perils of their world? That was welcome, blessings that these two were - the Champion of Kirkwall and his pirate Captain bride - for providing the masses with a way to honor their Thedosian friends and get wasted.
“You heard the woman, go pantsless,” he countered with a grin of his own, Hawke’s oh so charming dimples in view. No need to repay back anything, it was merely him being the trolling shit he was - getting friends plastered in the face of terrible news was what good friends did.
Though perhaps this time they should all just call a cab after this. There was no bloody way any of them could get behind the wheel after all these boozy delicacies were poured down the hatch.