Chapter Text
The beginning was a blur if he were to be honest. A great, big, green blur. Faintly he remembered making some quippy remarks in the beginning and telling anyone that would listen that he most certainly was not anyone any sort of divine would send – he was fairly certain you had to believe in a divine, any divine, before that sort of thing happened. Perhaps an odd sentiment coming from an elven mage, but there he was – the sceptic, believing only what he could see and prove.
As it turned out, deities were a bit hard pressed to prove their existence. And they thought the living had pride – at least they bled and pissed and spat all over the place. Voila, proof.
The tone become decidedly sombre rather quickly however and he quickly learned that what was needed was not his sarcastic remarks. He had never encountered a situation before that could not benefit from some levity and though he was certain the whole “world coming to an end” bit would stand to have a few more jokes, it very quickly became apparent that it was not his place to joke about it.
That luxury was afforded to Varric predominantly, and then also to Sera once she came about. From what he had read of Varric’s tales and heard from the legends, the Champion of Kirkwall was also a rather sardonic character. He wondered if she had simply never been required to be serious or if she just hadn’t cared when people looked at her disapprovingly. He was willing to wager it was the latter option. But it’s a bit different when you live in a city falling to chaos with a fancy town home versus when you live in an active refugee camp where most people were afforded tents and cots at best, and the rest slept on the floor.
Plus it probably felt a bit different when you were facing corrupt, crazy politicians versus an evil immortal magister bent on destroying the world as you knew it. Had there been any doubt of his intentions before, they were long gone after what happened at Redcliffe.
Actually now that he thought about it, that was probably the biggest difference between him and the other who had apparently been considered for this Inquisitor title and the trials they faced. The history books would likely tell tales of the personal sacrifices that Hawke had made but for his, that would largely be silent. So overwhelming was his role in this madness. Even his own jovial spirit had quieted from the weight of it all and instead he saved his jokes and his joy for the quieter times.
Gods did he ever hope they were finally at quieter times. Sitting on the ledge of the stairs, one leg drawn up to his chest and the other dangling down as he looked down upon the activity of the main square a part of him believed they had. The other part however could not see the milling about of the healers and the surgeons, the soldiers and the workers, without remembering with all too much clarity the sound of screaming and the smell of burning bodies. He had believed then too that they had finally come upon a time of quiet and peace. Then came the journey of fire and ice.
If he were honest though there was something different about this place, the place Solas had allowed him to lead the people to, whispered conversations during patrol to navigate the way. How many nights had the two elven mages taken patrol in an attempt to conceal the fact that it was not the one with the glowing hand who magically knew the location of this place? He could almost still feel the burn of the icy air as he memorised every detail of the path Solas had laid out, so afraid of forgetting that he sometimes went a full day without rest. How he had not collapsed through the journey he didn’t know and didn’t dare think on too deeply. It had felt as though a force beyond himself had given him the energy to keep going, to keep pushing, despite the fact that his body was still healing and his mind still reeling.
He shook his head, catching sight of his lithe frame as he bent his head and ran his marked hand through his dirty blonde locks, shining bright gold in the sunlight. Hazel eyes betrayed him as they shut, leaving him engulfed in the thoughts that plagued him for just a split moment, before he let out a strangled frustrated grunt and pushed himself to standing abruptly. That had been enough to catch the attention of a few onlookers, not the least of which Scout Harding and his Knight-Enchanter trainer Commander Helaine.
Like leaves on the wind a memory crossed his mind where someone had muttered that he must be happy he was being trained by another elf. He remembered blinking at the comment though for the life of him he couldn’t remember who had said it; even then he had to take a moment to remember that ah yes, he was an elf. An elf surrounded by humans and being hailed as the Herald of Andraste, saviour to them all, but an elf still.
Flashing the two a hint of a smile and giving a quick bow, he turned on his heel and retreated back into the keep. His trainer would certainly be wringing the emotions that sometimes overwhelmed him later, but that would come then. Today, however, was his day of rest. Which he absolutely loathed. Rest meant thinking and thinking wasn’t exactly…helpful. At least not when there wasn’t an immediate concern consuming his thoughts. Newly arrived to Skyhold and with people still settling in, the only real concern was when the rest of the furniture would arrive so they could stop sitting on the crumbling furniture still found within the walls.
Perhaps he would continue to clear out the watch tower. Yes, that would help. He had picked the mages to form an alliance with – it had been the first choice he felt had truly been up to him and he had following his instincts on a whim though who truly knew if it had been a wise idea in the end – but he appreciated the work of the templars that followed him and aided the Inquisition. As a result, he was dedicated to giving them their own tower so that they might have their own place in a castle otherwise overrun with mages.
The fact that he was essentially sticking the templars in a tower while they were surrounded by mages wasn’t entirely lost on him. Truly he just hoped that it wouldn’t get recorded in the history books as a slight. “And then the elven mage stuck the templars into a tower to give them a taste of their own medicine.” Pah! That was the last thing he needed.
At first people had fussed over him lifting the fallen beams and rocks – actually fussed! It was like they had forgotten he had just nearly killed himself fending off an evil magister and his pet archdemon just to give them a chance at living – and then lived.
He had survived a literal avalanche. He could move some damned rocks.
Either way they seemed to leave well enough alone one day after he had taken off his shirt under the sun to help clear debris. It could have been the facts that the finally noticed how sculpted his body had become over time – he most certainly had not looked like this at the start – or the growing number of scars that littered his body telling the tales of the battles he had lived through that finally shut them up. Frankly though he didn’t care to find out. All that mattered was that they finally let him be.
Eventually he retired to his room for the night, dirt and sweat clinging to his half naked form as he strode through the main hall of the castle, the brilliant blue shirt he had started off wearing crumpled in his hand. Some people whispered as he went by, others simply gawked. Now though he was too tired from hauling lumber and rocks to care, the burning thoughts but embers in his mind. Splashing some water on himself as he stood on the balcony, he rubbed the dirt from his face and hair.
Bracing his hands on either side of the bucket he looked down at his rippling reflection as his hair dropped water into the bucket. How strange he looked to himself. He had never been one to really stare at himself in the mirror but now he couldn’t help but do so. This was the person they hailed as Inquisitor, as saviour? This man with a deceptively thin body and sharp, angular cheekbones with a slightly squared jaw? The non-descript blonde hair and hazel eyes with sweeping elvish marks over his cheeks? Over these last few months – was it just months? – his body had hardened and his facial features become more angular, his cheeks thinner. Between the constant fighting and the not very constant food that had been bound to happen. But staring at himself in the light of the full moon, the water distorting his reflection every now and then as water dripped into the bucket…was this seriously who everyone looked to for answers?
Pushing himself back up he shook out his hair and looked back to the snow laden mountains. It was cold, bitterly so, but for a moment he relished it. The bite of the cold brought him to the here and now, reminded him of who he needed to be. Turning his gaze to the fire inside his room however he allowed himself to melt a bit, the coy grin he had worn without much end before all this returning to his lips. Perhaps it was time to let the snow melt a bit. With that thought he strode back into the room, leaving the bucket to freeze outside as he closed the doors and let the warmth of his fire soothe his tired body.