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Shadows of a Lost Love
Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon
The wind howled over Skyhold’s battlements, carrying the sharp bite of mountain air and the distant clang of steel from the training grounds below. Aedan Trevelyan, Inquisitor of the reborn Inquisition, ascended the weathered stone steps, his boots scuffing softly against the ancient rock. His short red hair caught the fading light of the late afternoon, and his green eyes, framed by a scattering of freckles across pale skin, flickered with quiet observation. As a rogue, he moved with a fluid grace, his lean frame accustomed to slipping through shadows or striking from them. But here, in the open, he carried not the weight of stealth – only the weight of curiosity, heavy as the mantle of leadership he’d never wanted.
He paused at the top, his gaze settling on the lone figure leaning against the parapet. Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall, stood with his back to Aedan, his shoulder-length black hair stirring in the wind’s restless dance. His mage’s robes, patched and frayed at the hems, rippled faintly, the deep blue fabric catching the last glints of sunlight. One hand rested on the stone battlement, fingers splayed as if anchoring himself against the world’s pull. His other hand hung loose, but Aedan noted the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tilted slightly toward the sprawling grounds of Skyhold below, as though searching for something lost in the distance.
Aedan approached, his steps deliberate, and came to stand beside Hawke. For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched, heavy with the unspoken burdens each carried – burdens of war, of choices, of names etched in blood and fire across Thedas. Below, Commander Cullen’s voice barked orders, the rhythmic clash of practice swords mingling with the low murmur of recruits. A hawk wheeled overhead, its cry piercing the quiet, and Aedan wondered if the bird’s namesake felt as untethered as it looked.
“Were you aware we share a name?” Hawke’s voice broke the stillness, low and rough. He didn’t turn, his blue eyes fixed on the horizon where the Frostback Mountains were jagged against the sky.
Aedan’s lips quirked, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I was aware of that, yes. Could get confusing, I suppose. I’ll stick to calling you Hawke for now.”
Hawke hummed, a soft sound that might have been amusement or resignation. “It’s what I’m used to. Not many call me Aedan.” His voice lingered on the name, as if tasting its unfamiliarity on his tongue.
Aedan tilted his head, studying the man beside him. “Who were the ones that did?”
Hawke’s hand tightened on the battlement, knuckles whitening against the rough stone. His jaw clenched, a muscle flickering beneath the stubble that shadowed his face. “My brother,” he said at last, the words clipped. He paused, his chest rising with a slow, unsteady breath. “And Anders.”
The name hung between them, heavy as a storm cloud. Aedan’s brows lifted slightly, but he kept his tone light, probing. “Tell me about him.”
Hawke exhaled, a sound that was more sigh than breath, raw and ragged at the edges. He turned his head just enough for Aedan to catch the flicker of pain in his eyes, like a candle guttering in the wind. “What more is there to tell you that you don’t already know? The tales have spread far enough. The apostate who burned Kirkwall’s Chantry to ash. The mage who sparked a war.” His voice dripped with bitterness, but beneath it, something softer trembled – something Aedan couldn’t yet name.
“Plenty,” Aedan said, his voice gentle but firm. He leaned his hip against the battlement, crossing his arms. “What was he like? Not the legend. The man.”
Hawke’s gaze drifted back to the horizon, but his eyes were unfocused, lost in memory. “Complicated,” he murmured. “Not like what the bards and minstrels make it out to be. Anders… he wasn’t some firebrand preaching rebellion for glory. He was…” Hawke’s voice faltered, and he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “He was trying to save the world. He knew it couldn’t happen peacefully. He knew the cost.”
Aedan’s eyes narrowed, catching the shift in Hawke’s tone – defensive, almost protective. “You sound like you agreed with what he did.”
“Not at first.” Hawke’s words came sharp, but they softened as he continued, weariness seeping through like blood through a bandage. “I was furious. I felt betrayed. Used. I trusted him, and he lied to me. He planned it all behind my back – blowing up the Chantry, lighting the fuse for everything that followed. I told him…” Hawke’s voice cracked, and he looked down, his fingers digging into the stone. “I told him if I ever saw him again, I’d kill him. Then I walked away. Left him standing there in the ruins of everything we’d built. I never saw him again after that.”
Aedan said nothing, letting the weight of Hawke’s confession settle. The wind tugged at his cloak, and he felt the chill of it against his neck, but he kept his focus on Hawke, on the slump of his shoulders, the way his hands trembled faintly before he curled them into fists.
“And now?” Aedan asked softly.
Hawke let out a bitter laugh, short and hollow. “Now? Now I’m just… tired. Done. So much time has passed, Aedan. I’ve seen the world as it is now – Circles falling, mages hunted, templars gone mad. Kirkwall was a cage, and I didn’t see it then. I didn’t know how bad it was elsewhere. Anders did. He knew, and he didn’t tell me. If he had…” Hawke’s voice broke again, and he shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. “Maybe I would’ve understood. Maybe I wouldn’t have… Maybe it could’ve been different. Doesn’t matter now. He’s gone. Has been for years.”
The rawness in Hawke’s voice sent a pang through Aedan’s chest. He shifted, his boots scraping against the stone, and asked, quieter now, “Do you miss him?”
Hawke went still, his breath catching. For a long moment, he didn’t answer, and Aedan wondered if he’d pushed too far. The silence stretched, filled only by the distant shouts from the training grounds and the mournful cry of the hawk circling above. Hawke’s eyes glistened, though no tears fell, and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes. Every day.”
The pain in those words was a living thing, sharp and jagged, and Aedan felt it cut through the air between them. He turned slightly, facing Hawke more fully, his green eyes searching the mage’s face. “Do you still love him?”
Hawke’s breath hitched, and he closed his eyes, as if the question were a blade pressed to his heart. When he opened them again, they were raw, unguarded, the blue depths swimming with a love so fierce it seemed to burn. “I’ve tried to stop,” he said, his voice trembling. “Maker help me, I’ve tried. But it’s like trying to stop breathing. My feelings for him… they haven’t faded. Not even a little. I dream of him sometimes – his laugh, his hands, the way he’d look at me when he thought I wasn’t watching. I wake up, and it’s like losing him all over again.”
Aedan’s throat tightened, and he looked away, giving Hawke a moment to gather himself. The Inquisitor’s gaze drifted to the grounds below, where Cullen paced among the recruits, his golden hair catching the light as he corrected a soldier’s stance. The world moved on, oblivious to the quiet heartbreak unfolding above.
“I wish I could see him again,” Hawke continued, his voice softer now, almost a plea. “Just once. To tell him I’m sorry. To ask him to forgive me for what I said, for walking away. I don’t even know if he’s alive. Leliana’s tried – Maker knows she’s turned over every stone from here to Tevinter – but there’s nothing. He’s a ghost now, and I’m left chasing shadows.”
Aedan turned back to Hawke, his expression solemn. “If I hear anything, anything at all, I’ll let you know.”
Hawke nodded, a small, jerky motion, and his lips pressed into a thin line. “Thank you. I’d… appreciate that.”
They stood together in silence once more, the wind weaving between them, carrying the scent of pine and frost from the mountains. Aedan’s gaze lingered on Hawke’s profile – the sharp line of his jaw, the faint scar above his brow, the weight of a love that refused to die. He wondered what it cost Hawke to carry that love, to let it burn so brightly even after all these years, with no promise of closure or redemption.
Below, the training grounds grew quieter as the recruits dispersed, their laughter and chatter fading into the evening. The hawk cried once more, then vanished into the gathering dusk. Aedan pushed off the battlement, straightening. “I should check on the others,” he said, his voice gentle. “But… I’m glad we talked, Hawke.”
Hawke’s eyes met his, and again, for a moment, the mask of the Champion slipped, revealing the man beneath – raw, vulnerable, human. “So am I,” he said quietly.
Aedan nodded, then turned and descended the steps, his cloak trailing behind him. As he reached the courtyard, he glanced back, just once. Hawke still stood at the battlement, a solitary figure against the darkening sky, his hand resting on the stone as if it were the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
~*~ End ~*~