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Chapter Text

The worst part is: she can remember everything.

Hawke sits trembling, her back pressed against a slight dimple in the rough stone wall. The crevice she’s hiding in can’t even be called a cave— the fissure in the rock is no more than an arm’s length wide, even though she’s barely a dozen paces from the entrance. A narrow band of sickly green light pulses high above, sending pale shadows wavering across the stone. If she stares, the lights almost look like faces.

She closes her eyes.

Please, let this be far enough. Rubble blocks any deeper exploration of the cracked cliff. But around the corner, outside her shelter and out of sight, something large and lumbering slowly heaves itself nearer.

Not here, she thinks to herself, don’t look here don’t come closer don’t—

Hawke crams her hand between her teeth, biting down on the first knuckle. She takes a slow, shuddering breath, certain it must hear her, smell her, it knows, it’s coming—

 A splash, farther off. The demon—she isn’t sure what kind—is leaving. She listens to it go, heart pounding like a war drum. Long minutes stretch by after the echoes of its passing fade away, and still she can’t move. She should be out there, fighting—she knows this. She’s faced templars and abominations and even an Andraste-forsaken dragon in that cursed bone-pit. She once scared off a gang of mercenaries with nothing but her barbed tongue. But one a throaty roar from behind a cliff and she’s spooked into hiding. Frustration grows, dimming the panic still coiled in her chest. It’s irrational. It’s stupid.

She can’t make it stop.

“I am in control,” she whispers. If she says it often enough, it might stop being a lie.

With agonizing slowness, Hawke drags herself to her feet, one white-knuckled hand clutching her ruined staff. The bottom third of the stave has snapped off, blade lodged somewhere in the curled-up husk that is all that remains of the Nightmare’s Spider demon, left miles behind her already.

She hadn’t expected to win that fight, not really. She’d thrown herself in with little enough regard for her own safety, recklessly diving under its engorged belly to shoot fireballs at the joints of its clattering legs. It almost crushed her as it collapsed to one side, twisting underneath itself to reach for her with groping pincers while a dozen wet, black eyes fixed her in an emotionless stare. The rest happened in a blur, to be honest—she knows she gouged out one of those horrible glistening eyes, and can recall the feel of her staff blade sinking into the unexpectedly soft skin under its abdomen. The acrid taste of the monster’s acid venom in the air still stings on her tongue. The rest is falling rocks and her own snarling rage. Instinct alone made her throw up a barrier at the end as the monster finally toppled, death-spasms sending great shudders through the stone underfoot, knocking her off her feet.

Her ward had faded by the time it finished dying. A creature stuffed fat on all the twisted fears its master had fed it.

The worst part is: she can remember everything. 

A half-choked sob escapes through her clenched jaw, muffled by the hand still clamped across her mouth. She sways on her feet, and they come:

             The sound of bandits outside of the caravan, laughing as they gut the last guard. The pain of an arrow piercing her lung, and the slow bubbling of blood behind every ragged breath. The smell of smoke, waking too late, the air already tainted with the char of singed flesh before the children’s screams even began. A single, trembling voice, in a dark room: “O Maker, hear my cry: Guide me through the blackest nights—“

“Not me,” Hawke whispers, digging her fingers into the unyielding stone to steady herself. “Not me.” She has to remind herself constantly. Not her pain, not really. Not her life.

She should have guessed. When they killed the wisps, the Inquisitor found her missing memories again.

When Hawke killed the Spider demon, she got the rest of everyone else’s.

Chapter Text

Deep breath. Unclench fingers. Step forward, once. Breathe again. She has it under control again, now. The abandoned memories churn inside her, begging to be heard, but she can resist. At least for a while, before her next breakdown. The important thing now is to just keep moving. She creeps out of the mouth of the crevice, wearily trudging forward through the twisting canyons. 

Ahead of her, she can see the distorted glow of a Fade rift, a shimmering patch of blue sky in this void of green shadows and red rocks.  Her heart—her real one, she is almost sure, not the hundred others now unwillingly held within her—aches at the sight. It is so close, now. When she finally clawed her way out from under the Spider demon’s corpse, her companions had long vanished through the rift at the Nightmare’s lair, and sealed the way out behind them. She’s not sure how long she’s been fighting her way towards this one—a week? Two? There is no day or night here. Time doesn’t seem to be real—she hasn’t needed to eat or drink but her body still throbs in pain every time she takes a step. Dreamers flicker in and out endlessly, and she can mark the passing of time only in how often she collapses in exhaustion. Each time, she has to ride out the waves of memories filled with terror and despair. She can’t guess at how long each episode lasts. She doesn’t want to.

But she’s close, now. She can feel it, tingling on her skin. The veil is weak here, and she can sense fragments of torn Fade essence slowly drifting in the rift’s pull. It tugs at her, too, an almost magnetic feeling, guiding her even when cliffs or floating inverted mountains block it from her view. 

She’s not the only one. The closer she gets, the more demons she sees—most are just wisps, gliding serenely in the rift’s current. Hawke makes sure to evade them as much as possible as she trudges through ankle-deep icy water, the tops of her boots rimed with frost.

But conflict is unavoidable. A shade rears up before her, and she has just enough time to slam up an ice wall, manacling its grasping claws mid-lunge. It screams in fury and pain as she summons enough strength to pummel it with a magically thrown boulder. Miraculously, it shatters under the blow, crumpling to a quickly-disintegrating heap in the puddle of slush that now remains. 

Hawke steps around it, rubbing the arm that grips the top section of her staff. It’s far better than nothing, but it will never be able to twist enough energy through itself for maximum spellpower again. Even here in the Fade, surrounded by magical force, using the broken tool sends a tingling numbness through her nerves, jarring her concentration.

Hawke chews her lip. Don’t think about it. She is almost to the rift. Ahead, it shudders, throbbing brighter for a moment before dimming. Once she makes it out, she can rest. Once she is back in the real world, not this twisting hellscape, then—anything. Anything but this.

            Mother told us to never play in the alleys, and we never listened. Mother told us to never speak to strange men. Mother never told us how the rope burns would sting when the saltwater touches them.

Hawke steps forward, once. Breathes. Steps again. 

__________

Two thousand breaths later, she can see it in full. A hazy window into the waking world, a warped image of treetops and sky. It’s like a view through the stained glass of a chantry window, perverted into some grotesque hue. In some ironic twist of fate, the closer she draws, the safer she’s actually become—all spirits around her are focused singularly on the tear in the veil now, drawn towards its sucking maw.

It shudders again, widening, and for just a moment it is like a door—pure and open, real streams of daylight pouring in and piercing through the unrelenting gloom. Immediately, the nearest host of demons are sucked through, and the shredded veil collapses back into place behind them. Hawke stumbles forward, unable to help herself now that it’s less than fifty yards away. Her legs are aching, and all feeling left her feet hours ago, but she’s close enough that all other cares are slipping away.

Maybe, once she is out, the voices will stop.

Thirty paces. A wraith takes an experimental swipe at her as it flows past, and she doesn’t even bother to fight it, ignoring the shallow scrapes it leaves on what’s left of her tattered mail. Twenty. She can’t even run, really, just stumble forward, steps heavy and determined. The rift opens, natural light dazzlingly bright. Ten steps more. Reaching, reaching, Hawke stretches forward. Her very bones are vibrating, a growing sensation spreading up her limbs, threatening to shake her apart. Five. She is so close. Her fingers are almost brushing the edge. She tenses herself to leap, and that is when the world explodes.

__________

Something is wrong. She’s lying crumpled on the ground, the echoes of the explosion still ringing in her ears. The prickly feeling of the veil is gone, but she’s still lying amidst crumbling rubble and brackish water. Slowly, dizzyingly, Hawke looks up.

Green. The sky is still green, peppered with gently drifting monoliths.

“No,” she whispers. No, no no. The voices circling in her head join in with their own plaintive wails. She’s still in the Fade. The rift is gone. What happened?

Dazedly, she glances around. She lies directly below where the rift was. Surrounding her, already fading, the corpses of a dozen demons are slowly sinking. Whatever killed them failed to do more than stun her. Whatever sealed the rift…

The implication hits her like a physical blow. “No,” she says again, “no, no, NO!” There are no words of her own left in her head, only a terrible scream as she frantically pulls with all her willpower at the substance of the Fade, trying to rip it open again, trying to find some crack or remnant she can force herself through.

There is nothing. She fires spell after spell into the void of the sky, and nothing catches. Somewhere, next to her and yet impossibly far, the Inquisitor has sealed yet another hole in the sky.

Hawke is on her knees again. She can’t remember falling. She closes her eyes, imagining, maybe her companions are close enough, maybe she’ll be able to hear them through the veil—

It is all the invitation the Fears locked inside her need.

            Help me, hurt me, save me, kill me. They screamed when she took them. Red stains on a blue dress. Arms weak, clawing at the wood, but the door never opens in time.

She is flooded with a hundred different pains. There is nothing she can do. Shaking, sobbing, she waits, curled on the ground. There is no point now. This was the closest rift, and it took her so long to get here. Her only chance at freedom, snatched from her again. This isn’t living.

            Let me die. Let me die. Let me die.

She can’t tell which voice is hers anymore.

__________

But finally, slowly, they fade again. Not me, she tries to whisper to what’s left of herself, but her tongue is too swollen in her mouth. When she tries to move it to shape words, she can taste blood.

Hawke doesn’t know how much time has passed. The husks of the demons killed when the veil caved back into place have long since disintegrated.  She lies, waiting. How long would it take a real body to decompose, here? She’s seen skeleton dreams here from more than four ages ago, pristine and gleaming when their physical counterparts have long crumbled to dust. What does it mean to be a body, in a world of spirits? Maybe if she waits long enough, she won’t have to find out.

Something is moving. She is only dimly aware of it, a giant rumbling beast at the edge of her vision. There’s no point in shifting position, there is nowhere around she could possibly hide. Curiosity, more than anything, makes her focus her bleary eyes on the hulking form. 

It studies her with intelligence in its many, glittering eyes. Purple sparks crackle across its skin, head tilted in consideration. It steps closer, the air around its massive fists humming with raw power.

Now, then. Hawke thinks. It is almost a relief. What happens to you if you let them take you here? she can’t help but wonder. Could she even become an abomination while her physical body was marooned her as well? Normally they came in via the mind. She supposed she was too weak to resist either way.

I’m sorry, Fenris. Before, she meant to die with his name on her lips; the closest she could get to one final kiss. Now, even words are too much effort. Her mouth is already numb, the coppery taste of blood mixing with the burns left by the Spider demon’s blood. Thoughts will have to be enough.

Hawke closes her eyes, and waits.

The demon laughs, deep and booming. She hears it begin to walk, steps crunching and splashing on the rough ground. They are fading.

She opens her eyes, this time in disbelief. It’s walking away. No, she thinks, not now. Not when I’ve finally decided to give up. But of course. Her last shreds of pride abandoned, she isn’t even worthy of the demon’s contempt anymore as it lumbers away.

Should have summoned a Despair demon. The thought flashes through her, absurd and petulant, and entirely her own. Some cross between a laugh and a sob tears its way from her chest, followed by another, until she is choking on them and crying, huddled on the ground.

It would be so easy, she thinks. It probably wouldn’t be more than an hour before another demon stumbled upon her, even without the magnetic pull of the rift to draw them in. But she has never done things the easy way. She finds a problem, and latches on until it is solved, like a war mabari. Stubbornness was always her downfall. She can almost hear Varric chastising her for it, even as the virtue pushes her to her feet once more. The Fears that flowed into her after the Nightmare’s demise are mercifully quiet now, reduced to a dull unceasing murmur now that they’ve shouted their fill, at least temporarily.

Hawke fingers the splintered end of her staff. A pity. She’d picked it off a body in Hightown years before, some Carta thug. She doesn’t remember why she killed him. Probably he tried to kill her first. Sighing, she looks down at herself. Soaking wet, battle-mage mail shredded. She pries off the worst of it, the weight only slowing her down at this point. Far to her left (east? Were there even such directions in this place?), another three week’s worth of walking away, something flickers blue in the sky. When she stares at it, her skin tingles.

Chapter Text

It’s only an hour after dawn when the scouts stumble across the body in the Exalted Plains, lying crumpled in a shady patch of undergrowth. At first, the hooded figures assume it’s dead. This wasn’t the first carcass they’d uncovered that day, nor would it be the last. The shorter of the pair pauses to nudge it with one steel-toed boot, lifting the corpse’s limp arm off of her face.

Both jump back in shock as a weak groan escapes her lips.

“Sweet Andraste!” the taller one gasps, kneeling down.

The dwarf is already untying her waterskin. “Can she talk?”

“I don’t think so.” The human carefully pries open one of the limp figure’s eyes. “She’s not unconscious, but she’s not fully responsive. Delirious. Maybe sunstroke?” He frowns, brushing dirt from her torn and muddied clothes. “Maker’s breath, she’s a mage. Why didn’t she heal herself?”

The dwarf cradles the woman’s head in her lap, slowly dribbling water between her cracked and bleeding lips. “I don’t know, but she’s in a bad way. We’ll have to get her back to a camp.”

“Which is closest?”

“Path of the Flame, I think.”

“I’ll carry her.” The man offers. “You go ahead. Tell Harding.”

The woman moans again as the main hefts her in his arms. Her limbs twitch convulsively, but still her eyes are heavy-lidded and unfocused. The dwarf nods sharply, and hurries forward.

__________

“We’ll have to knock her out. Her heart won’t stop racing, we can’t be sure why, but it isn’t good. She seems like she hasn’t slept in days. It’ll give her a chance to heal.”

Hawke has regained just enough consciousness to understand the implication of the words, if not every detail.

“No,” she tries to whisper through her parched throat, but no one seems to hear. When she tries to cry out, all that emerges is a fluttering whine of distress. Then something cool and hard is being pressed against her lips, and her mouth fills with some over-sweet, syrupy potion. She struggles not to swallow, but firm hands are tilting her head, forcing it down even as she tries to cough it away. “No!” she gasps again, or tries to. She lifts her arms to beat away the figures hunched over her, their arms curling and reaching, tugging away the last of her protective armor. But dark patches swim across her vision, and what shreds of control she’s been clinging to finally slip away.

__________

Harding doesn’t get back to camp for another half hour. When she arrives, she immediately starts peppering the healers with questions. “Scout Helga said her injuries were too severe to be an accident. Do you think it was bandits, or could the Venatori have something to do with this? I know at least two camps have been spotted, and who knows how many more are skulking about.”

“It’s hard to say. Some of her wounds are clearly recent, like the fractured arm. But… well. It’s probably best you just see for yourself.”

Harding steps briskly into the tent, eyes sweeping over the patient as they adjust to the dimmed light. Even though she has grown used to the macabre—a necessity in this line of work—her heart still twinges at the sight of the prone form. Dozens of half-healed scars criss-cross the woman’s arms and torso, fully exposed now that the healers have cut her ruined garments away. Even with most of the blood cleaned off, Lace Harding can see that while some are the clean cuts of a blade, others are jagged and rough. Already, the woman’s skin has started to pucker and scab over the worst of them, ugly red-black lumps of flesh. Several particularly nasty vertical slices trail down the woman’s forearm, vanishing into the thick bandaging at her fractured wrist.

But it is not until her eyes make it to the woman’s face that Harding’s blood runs freezes in her veins.

“Oh, no.” She whispers softly.

“Ser?” A young guard inquires tentatively.

Harding swallows. “Bring me a messenger bird. No, bring three of them. I need to talk to Leliana as soon as possible.”

The guard nods, but hesitates at the entrance. “Is it… do you know who she is?”

Harding swallows. She hadn’t met her for long, really, but any time spent roaming together through unfamiliar territory bonds you with your traveling companions. It was hard to reconcile the joking, steely-eyed woman who’d plunged fearlessly into the unknown with the shivering pile of scars and skin before her.

“Yeah,” she whispers softly. “It’s Hawke.”

The guard stares at her in astonishment. “The Champion? But—she died weeks ago! They held vigil and everything! Wouldn’t—Sister Nightingale would have told us if it was a ruse, wouldn’t she?” Doubt creeps into his voice on the last sentence. He was not at all sure she would tell them such a thing.

But Harding is shaking her head. “No. They knew she died. There was no surviving what she—I mean, poor Varric, he was so…”

The guard nods. “I’ll fetch the birds, Ser,” he promises, letting the canvas door flap shut.

Harding tenderly brushes a strand of hair out of the Champion’s face. Even though she’s been cleaned as thoroughly as the healers can manage out here, even without the bloodstains, Hawke looks more the shadow of herself than a real body.

“What happened to you?” Harding whispers to the still form, but she receives no answer other than the erratic twitching of Hawke’s eyes beneath her closed lids as she dreams.

__________

Hawke dreams.

But ‘dreams’ is not the right word for it. She thought being trapped within the Fade was the worst it could get—with literally no escape from the demons, both inner and outer, that relentlessly plagued her.

She didn’t realize how much having a body protected her until she had to confront them with only her mind. Before, she could use physical sensation to focus, pull her back to who she was. Dig her nails into her palm, find her hand or fingers with her teeth. Later, when things got bad, there was always her knife. Without that anchor, she is adrift: dragged relentlessly through terror after terror.

In one, a woman she loves is slowly dying, disease rattling her lungs away bit by bit. After only a few moments, she is torn free and thrown into another nightmare, where she holds the still and lifeless body of her (not mine) child. A few moments more, and now she’s trapped underground, dirt clogging her mouth and throat, slowly choking her under the crushing weight of earth.

Those are the good ones: the ones that are brief and fleeting. They end almost as soon as they begin, barely time to register the different permutations of pain. The worst are the ones that last for minutes, hours—the ones so strong and complete she can’t hold on to who she is anymore. She lives out the pain as though it were her own, as though it were the life she’d always had.

            He is standing in the battlefield, not an hour after the fight has ended. One hand is clamped across his mouth, as he sucks shallow breaths through the sleeve of his once-clean robe. The stench of death already hangs heavy in the air, as he shakily trudges his way through the field of corpses. This isn’t his first fight. He should be used to this. He repeats these facts to himself over and over, as he edges past the soldiers from both sides.

            A healer helps. That is their law—no matter who is hurt, now that the fighting is over, it is his job to care for them. His duty. With trembling hands, he closes pair after pair of eyelids, whispering passages of the Chant to the dead and himself as he walks among them. He can see the other apprentices doing the same around him, occasionally stopping to set bones and help the wounded back to camp.

            He hates it. He hates the bodies; he hates the others, who can stay so calm in the middle of so much ruin. He hates himself for his weakness.

            He lifts one boot to step over a tangle of abandoned shields when an arm flings out, snatching at the hem of his blood-stained robes with grime-covered fingers. Whimpering in fright and revulsion, he stumbles backwards, robes tearing out of the wounded man’s hand as he falls to his backside in the grass. The ground is warm and wet beneath him, and he shudders with nausea.

            There’s a gargling, croaking noise coming from the body, arm still stretched towards him. With horror, he recognizes it as a wet and wheezing laugh.

            “Boy,” the man spits. His hair is long and dark and tangles across his face, but the greasy strands are not thick enough to hide the wild dread in the man’s eyes. “You’re a healer. Fix me.”

            The healer fumbles to his feet, babbling as he hesitantly steps towards the man. “I—I’m in training, I should get one of the—the others to t-t-take a lo—“

            But the man’s hand has found the bottom of the mage’s robe again, and now drags him closer.

            “Fix it,” he growls again, spittle flying from his mouth to join the strands of saliva already coating his chin.

            The healer’s eyes travel down the length of the man’s body, terrified. Where the soldier’s legs should be, there is no more than ragged bloody stumps, ending just above the knee. He can’t look away. Flies already are beginning to coat the wound, swarming over the still-living flesh as the body slowly bleeds out. The man spasms with pain, and dozens of the buzzing insects swarm into the air. Suddenly they are around his face, crawling across the skin at the back of his neck, tickling the edge of his ear.

            Panic takes hold, and he runs. He lurches his way to the edge of the field before bending over to vomit onto the grass, sinking to his knees when his shaking legs give out. Long after his stomach has emptied, the painful retching finally ends. The coppery tang of blood won’t leave his tongue. He crawls, then shamefully walks away from this site of bloodshed. He knows the others will notice his departure.

            He knows when he returns to the camp, he will not see that soldier’s face among those saved.

Hawke dreams.

__________

The Inquisitor makes it to the camp in less than three days. Her party stumbles in during late morning, tired and dirty. Cassandra, Solas, and Dorian pause to unload their mounts, but Lavellan walks straight to where Harding waits.

“Where is she?” the Inquisitor asks, her expression both weary and worried.

“Still sleeping, while we try to work out what all is wrong. A lot of the… physical healing is going slowly. Her body was in a rough way when we found it. The healers don’t want to move too fast and over-stress any vital organs.”

“She was awake when you found her, though?”

“If you can call it that. She was delirious and unresponsive. I don’t think she knew who we were. I… I’m sorry. But we don’t know yet if she’s… all there.”

Lavellan nods slowly. “Solas? Dorian?” She turns to her companions. “See if there’s any way you can help?”
They nod, ducking into the tent. Cassandra walks to stand beside the inquisitor.

“Do you have any idea what might have happened?” The Seeker asks the dwarf. “How did she get here? Was there anyone found with her?”

Harding shakes her head. “Nothing. Not even footprints, or a trail to where she came from. We searched the area four times.”

Lavellan’s eyes close. “Could she really have been in the Fade this whole time? How could she have survived that?”

Cassandra places a hand onto her shoulder. “It is not your fault, Inquisitor. Do not dwell on what we do not yet know. Come now, let us see her.”

Inside the tent, there is silence. Dorian and Solas already kneel next to the padded blankets Hawke has been laid atop, eyes unfocused as they examine the patient with magical sense rather than touch. Even stoic Cassandra looks stricken at the sight of the gaunt, limp form.

Solas’ hand glows briefly, sparking green magic as he passes his palm across Hawke’s brow. “How long has she been asleep?”

“We dosed her with a sleeping draught shortly after we brought her in, and another yesterday morning while we finished healing the worst of her injuries.” The healer frowns. “In normal circumstances, I’d prefer for her to be awake by now, actually. But undoubtedly the Champion has a lot of recovering to do. We had to take things very slowly. A lot of her injuries had… internal components.”

Dorian shudders. “When will it be safe for her to wake?”

“Whatever is left of the medicine will have worn off by tonight. You should be able to question her then, if… well.”
If there’s anything left of her mind to answer. No one dares to voice the thought.

Lavellan frowns, biting her bottom lip. “I had hoped to be able to send word back sooner. I promised Varric a letter as soon as we got here.”

“Oh, believe me, he’s been kept up to date,” Harding comments as she steps into the doorway. “I believe I have five new messages from him since I went to bed last night. Anyway, since you’re here, and if you have to wait around for a while anyway, could I possible steal some of your time? A few issues have been cropping up. Venatori, we suspect.”

Lavellan closes her eyes, and when she opens them she is once more the Inquisitor. “Of course. Let us speak elsewhere. I don’t want to disturb her.”

As the group files out of the crowded tent, Solas catches their leader by the arm.

“A moment,” he requests, as the others depart.

“Yes?” she asks when they are the last in the tent.

“If you like, I could try to find the Champion. In the Fade, I mean. Even if she cannot wake or does not realize she is dreaming, perhaps I can at least determine if she is… fully capable, in terms of her mental abilities.”
To make sure she has any left.

Lavellan nods. “It will be a relief, just to know,” she tells him. She gives his arm a gentle squeeze in thanks, and departs.

Solas glances about, shrugging off his backpack before finally settling himself onto one of the empty bedrolls beside where Hawke lies. For long minutes, he simply rests with his eyes closed, slowly breathing and focusing on relaxing every muscle, from his bare feet up to his scalp. For most, sleep is a daily occurrence, but for him it is a well-practiced routine. In just a quarter of an hour, he feels his consciousness slip across the veil.

It is only another ten minutes before his eyes snap open and he shudders violently awake, gasping for air. Abandoning his belongings, he stumbles outside, nearly colliding with the startled healer.

“Wake her immediately.” He instructs the mage, voice grave.

“We can’t, she was only given her last tonic this morning. She won’t be awake until late tonight, at the least.”

“Solas? What’s wrong?” Lavellan hurries over, as he wipes beards of sweat from his skin. “Did you find—“

“She is alive. In spirit, as well as body. But she is trapped where I cannot follow.” He hesitates. “I do not know what exactly it is that plagues her. I can say it is much like the fears we battled on our way to the Nightmare. Except…”

“Except what, Solas?”

“Except there are thousands.”

The Inquisitor’s lips are pressed together in a tight line. “But she’s not there physically anymore. They can’t hurt her for real, right?”

His somber expression does not shift. “There are many ways to be hurt, Lethallan. I only hope she can forgive us for what we left her to. Back then, but also until she wakes now.”

Without another word, he turns, and walks out of the camp and away from the Inquisitor’s questioning stare.

Chapter Text

Waking up is a slow process. Hawke drags herself back into consciousness as though clawing her way up a waterfall, struggling to open her eyes. Her body wants to spring up, leap away from this horrible place of nightmares, but all she manages is a slight spasm. Her limbs are weak and trembling. She is alone.

Above, her eyes finally focus on stiff green canvas. The dim glow of morning permeates the air, and she realizes she’s not lying in mud after all, but rather a healer’s padded cot. Found, then. But by who? 

She should care, but she can’t. All she knows is she is finally awake; free of what seemed like an endless torrent of wailing memories. Slowly, she assesses her body. It’s not the first time she’s woken from confusing unconsciousness, and the routine is almost comforting.

No obvious horrible pain, besides the constant ache, but even that seems small compared to the agony that was her last few days in the fade. All limbs, present and accounted for. Bleeding? She didn’t think so, at least not any major blood loss. That, at least, meant some sort of healer influence.

Carefully, she bends her left arm, wincing at the effort of holding it a few inches above her face while she studies herself. There’s a heavy cast on her wrist, wrapped in graying bandages. She can’t feel a break, so a healer must have used magic to mend it and wrapped it while the bone re-grew. Mages. At least one.

Behind the bandage, thin white scars trace like spider webs up and down her arm, some reaching all the way to her shoulder. They are healed, the new flesh smooth and slightly raised from the rest of her skin. Hawke isn’t sure how long she’s been asleep, but it can’t possibly be longer than a few days—five at most. The cuts were also magically healed, then. She should be a scabby mess, or still bleeding otherwise. That the lines are so clean means she must have been found only hours after her arrival back to the waking world.

By who? she wonders again. Gritting her teeth against the stiffness in her joints, she carefully pulls the thin sheet away from her damp skin. She tilts her head up to examine the rest of her body, but as soon as she does a wave of dizziness overcomes her. Hawke clenches her jaw as she rides out the vertigo, clinging to consciousness with every shred of willpower she possesses. She will not sleep again. She considers whether or not it is wise to try sitting up once more, when the tent door is pulled open, and a slight form ducks inside. The young man’s eyes widen in shock as his gaze meets her own, and he gasps audibly.

“Champion! You’re awake!” He breathes, and the tightly coiled spring of tension and stress inside Hawke unwinds. The young man hurriedly backs out of the tent, but not before she spots the Inquisition heraldry that adorns his robes.

She is safe.

The man brings back an older elven woman not two minutes later, her eyes grave as she sweeps inside. Hawke doesn’t bother trying to greet her, but studies the lady as she calmly uncorks a skein of water and gently holds it to Hawke’s lips. She hadn’t realized how parched she was until the cool wetness hits her tongue, and it is all she can do to not guzzle down as much as possible. She restricts herself to small sips, holding each mouthful of water for a moment before swallowing, as the healer speaks.

 “You’re awake. We weren’t sure you would, once the medicine wore off last night and you were still unconscious. Are you able to speak?”

Hawke swallows a last sip, and sweeps her tongue around the inside of her lips, testing.

“Yes,” she finally manages, voice crackling like old parchment.

There’s no hiding the relief in the woman’s eyes. “And you are… fully yourself?”

“I’m not an abomination, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh no, we checked for that as soon as we realized who you were. But your… mind? Is intact?”

Hawke almost wants to laugh, a dark bubble of despondent amusement rising in her throat. She has seen enough horrors to fill three lifetimes. Her mind will never be a refuge again. But that is not what the healer is asking.

“Yes,” she replies heavily. “No brain damage, at least that I’m aware of.”

The woman nods. “I know you must still be weary, but the Inquisitor will wish to speak with you as soon as possible. But if you would prefer to rest more first, I am sure—“

“The Inquisitor? She’s here already?” Hawke interrupts. “How long was I asleep? And—where are we, exactly?”

“The Exalted Plains. Inquisitor Lavellan arrived yesterday morning, from the Emerald Graves. You were found three days before that.” She doesn’t ask it, but Hawke can hear the question in her tone, wondering how she managed to get here at all—and where Hawke was before this. But she doesn’t want to think about it any more times than she has to.

“I’ll talk to her.” Hawke says instead. “I’m done resting.”

The elf nods again, hurrying out of the tent while her nervous assistant helps Hawke prop herself up with pillows.

Lavellan strides into the tent. Her face and bearing are tense as she seats herself on an empty cot across from Hawke’s.

“Inquisitor,” Hawke greets her, as two mages and the Seeker file in behind.

“Champion. I have to admit, I did not expect to hear from you again.”

“I’ll try to send a message of warning the next time my suicide mission ends up being so one-sided,” Hakwe tries to joke back, but her voice cracks in the middle of the sentence, and even she can hear how frail she seems. Cursing inwardly, she plows ahead. “What happened once you left? How long have I been… away?”

There is the briefest of hesitations before the Herald of Andraste replies. “Two months.”

Two months. They’re waiting for her reaction. She nods slowly, not trusting herself to speak just yet.

“Is that how much time passed for you?” The apostate asks. “Or was the flow of time different there? Were you able to keep track at all?”

Lavellan turns slightly, shooting him a look of warning. Hawke remembers, now, the mage’s obsession with the Fade.

“I… I don’t know.” She admits. “I was pretty sure it was several weeks, at least. It felt like forever. Though, sometimes it seemed like hours had gone by, but I’d barely made any progress.” She shrugged. “There wasn’t any way to keep track without the sun.”

“And you did not sleep while there? Or need to eat or drink?”

“Solas!” The Inquisitor snaps. “There will be time for that later. We still don’t even know what happened yet.”

“My apologies. My questions were insensitive.” Solas inclines his head to both of the women, and Hawke is surprised to see how sincere he appears.

“And I guess that brings us to the point… what did happen?” The other mage finally asks, voice soft and full of concern. He’s the Tevinter one. Dorian, that was his name.  It’s the question everyone’s been dancing around, as though afraid of her response. Having it out in the open almost manages to ease some of the tension within the tent.

Hawke sighs, and licks her lips. “Fair. I assume you saw the start of it. I went for the Nightmare’s pet demon before it could attack us all. I was trying to cripple it, mostly, and I guess it worked better than expected.”

Cassandra snorts, and shakes her head. “Do not downplay your own achievements, Champion. That was no mere beast you faced. The fact that you not only survived, but were able to return to us—”

Hawke can already feel where this is going, and she doesn’t like it. “No. There was nothing miraculous about what happened back there. I survived—barely—by not being crushed when it fell, and it took me at least an hour to get out. You all were… long gone.” She swallows, trying to stop the falter in her voice before moving on. “I could see another fade rift. I walked to it. I…” she pauses again, this time unsure of how to continue. She is burdening the Inquisitor with enough, as it is. “I… could not go through it. I had to find another.”

Lavellan’s eyebrow quirks. “What was wrong with the one you found?”

Don’t tell her. She already wears the fate of the world across her shoulders. Don’t make her carry yours, too.

Solas’ eyes dart between her and the Inquisitor, his lips pursing into a thin, pale line, eyes stricken.

He’s guessed. She realizes, heart sinking.

“It doesn’t matter—” she tries to go on, breeze past this snare in the story, but the Inquisitor is no fool.

“No,” she snaps. “I don’t care what you’re trying to protect me from; I need to know the truth of what happened. If I am to fight Corypheus, I can’t be doubting the words I hear from those at my own side.”

Hawke glances back to Solas, hoping he’ll say what she can’t, but he is now staring at the floor, face closed and unreadable.

She digs a nail into her palm to steady herself, staring at the white crescent it leaves in her skin. Just say it. “The closest rift was… I’m not sure. Two weeks away? Maybe three. Maybe less. Not all of that was walking, I still had to… rest. I could feel where they were, though. It was like… everything was being pulled towards them. So that’s the way I went.” Stop stalling. “The first rift I came to closed before I could go through. I had to find my way to the next one, which was… further away.”

“Closed?” Dorian mused. “On its own? The only way we know rifts close is—oh, no.” Comprehension dawns in his eyes, and his head snaps towards the Inquisitor.

Hawke can’t help it anymore. She glances up, too.

Lavellans face is pale, her right hand pressed to her mouth. The left lays still in her lap, fingers curled like dried leaves. She stares at it, expression impassive.

“Of course,” she says, softly. “As though trapping you once wasn’t enough.” Her gaze flickers up, meeting Hawke’s. “You must blame me, of course.”

“I was dead.” Hawke’s words are brittle. “No one could ever have expected me to survive, let alone know where I was headed.”

She does not say, “no.” She knows, logically, it is not the Inquisitor’s fault. The fact that they ended up in the same break between two worlds at the same time the result of nothing more than her monumentally bad luck.

Knowing this does nothing to extinguish the bitter flame that burns in the pit of her stomach. If I’d made it through the rift, then, things would have been different. Things would never have gotten so bad. I wouldn’t have had to face the choices I did.

She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.

"This still does not cover how you did manage to escape,” Solas breaks in delicately. “You were able to sense another tear in the Veil?”

“I… yes. I walked until I found another, and then came through.”

He frowns. “I was convinced that passing through the Veil, without the assistance of the anchor, would prove fatal. It certainly is from this direction at least. But there was no Rift where you were found, was there?”

“It must have closed behind me. I don’t exactly remember much from after I came through.” Hawke shrugs, staring critically at her own arms as she stretches and flexes weak fingers.

“Some side effect of coming physically through the Veil?” Dorian muses.

“If that’s so, why didn’t it happen when we all went through at Adamant?” Lavellan points out.

“We don’t know the full effects of that anchor of yours, yet. Perhaps it kept held it open until you made the effort to close it yourself. That is rather fascinating, if true.” The Tevinter’s expression turns thoughtful.

 Hawke is tired, both in body and of the subject. “What happened once you left? I assume you stopped Erimond, since I don’t see a demon army sweeping across the land. Though to be fair, I have not actually left the tent yet.”

Lavellan nods. “We were able to apprehend him. Corypheus’ pet Archdemon left once we vanished, and Cullen’s troops managed to round up the rest of the Wardens with less bloodshed. Once it was obvious they’d been tricked, well… your Warden friend is in command, currently. He’s the only one of rank left, I suppose. He’s returned to Weisshaupt to let everyone know what happened.”

Hawke nods along, but she can’t quite focus on the Inquisitor’s words anymore. Corypheus is still alive and still a threat—that’s the important thing. The idea is exhausting.

It’s Dorian who seems to notice first. “We should let you rest some more. After your ordeal, I imagine—“

“No!” Hawke replies. Too quickly, too desperate. “I… no. I should… there are people I’ll need to talk to.”

“Of course,” Lavellan agrees. “Varric is already on his way, and—“

“Varric is coming?!” For the first time since waking, Hawke feels something akin to warmth flutter inside her chest.

“At this point, I don’t think there’s any keeping him away!” Scout Harding announces cheerfully, stepping inside the crowded tent with a pile of papers and mug of tea in hand. “Just got another letter from Leliana, actually. He left in such a rush Cullen had to send his fastest troop chasing after him with supplies for the journey. I told her it might be easier for him to just wait until we bring you back to Skyhold, but apparently he was already out the door before our Nightingale managed to sit down to pen a reply.”

Tears prick her eyes, and it’s all Hawke can do not to fall apart in front of them all. She was glad to see them, of course, being found by the Inquisition was probably the best possible outcome—but none of those assembled are really hers. She couldn’t possibly tell any of them, not like this.

“Where is he… when—?”

Harding doesn’t make her try to sort out the sentence. “If you all head out tomorrow morning as planned, you’ll probably run into him once we’re past the Emprise du Lion. Maybe two or three days, knowing how fast he’s probably riding.”

Hawke nods. “Are you writing to him? Can I…?”

"This one’s to Leliana actually. But really I’m here to bring you this—” Harding says, passing the mug of broth—not tea—into her hands. “You haven’t actually eaten in who knows how long, and magic can’t keep a body going forever. Now shoo, the rest of you. You can pester her later.”

She takes a sip of the warm soup as the others begin to file out.

"Wait,” she stops them, no longer able to contain the question that’s been burning at the back of her tongue since the Inquisitor walked in. “Do you know… did Varric.” She takes a deep breath, not trusting herself to look any of them in the face. “Did he tell Fenris? About… before?”

Lavellan bites her lip. “I’m sorry. I remember Varric wrote to him, then, but that’s all I know. But I’m sure we can send him a message as well.”

Hawke nods, and the tent empties one by one. Solas hesitates in the entryway for a moment, as though he wants to ask her something. But Harding glares, and he departs as well, a concerned frown wrinkling his brow.

“If you just give me a moment,” the Inquisition’s lead scout mutters, ruffling through her sheaf of papers. “Aha!” She pulls out a page that is only half filled, and tears off the blank section. “If you want to send along a message to Varric, I think I can grab Hector before he sends out the last bird.”

Hawke takes the paper and proffered quill, staring down at the page. Suddenly the blank space is overwhelming—intimidating in its emptiness, yet too small for everything she wants to tell him. Words are his domain, not hers. Finally, she simply scratches out a short message, frowning as her trembling hands cause her letters to wobble.

             Varric. It’s me. I got out.

She regards this for a moment, then adds:

            See you soon. –Hawke.

She folds the scrap of paper in half and hands it back to Harding, who hurries away.

Alone once more, Hawke picks up the cup of broth again. After so long not needing to eat, it makes her almost nauseous to feel her stomach filling. She manages half the mug before giving up, and decides to risk sitting up properly on her own. Her limbs are tired, but antsy—she can’t stop twitching, after so many days of forcing herself to walk, walk, walk through the Fade.

With slow deliberation, she manages to untangle her blankets and stand, leaning against a desk of supplies as she pulls on the loose tunic and breeches someone has thoughtfully left out for her. Talking business in smallclothes was the least of her concerns when lying in a sickbed, but if she’s going out, she should probably retain some level of decency. Besides, the thin sleeves hide the worst of the scars.

Her armor is nowhere to be seen, but considering the state it was in when she escaped, it was beyond salvaging. They did leave her belt, at least, and the weight of the worn leather and steel is comforting at her hips. She checks that her knife is still tucked inside, and slowly leaves the dim confines of the tent.

Chapter Text

The waking world, it turns out, does not want to allow her much to do. She manages to poke around camp under the watchful eyes of the healers, who don’t even bother to hide their stares as she inspects potion-making equipment (What possible use could the inquisition have for so many bees?) and peruses some of the documents left lying out. She makes a half-hearted attempt to wander a bit further from the camp, but barely makes it thirty paces before the scouts herd her back.

Still filled with restlessness, she grabs a kettle and handful of tea leaves from a supply chest and makes her way to the fire. Satisfied she’s not going to vanish, the members of the Inquisition finally leave her alone. She sits, and waits.

__________

They voices begin to whisper to her again as the sun starts to set.

The Inquisitor and her companions don’t return to camp until late evening, tired and covered in dust. Hawke sits in front of the fire, staring vacantly into the flames as she begins to drink her eighth cup of tea. She looks up as a long shadow falls across her lap, to see the Inquisitor’s apostate friend.

“May I sit with you?” Solas asks.

Hawke nods. “Would you like some tea?” She gestures to the kettle at her feet.

“No thank you, I… what is in that?” He stares into her cup with an expression of poorly concealed distaste.

“Tea.”

“It has… chunks in it.”

“That would be the Deep Mushrooms. And the Elfroot. They’re both stimulants.” She takes a sip, and grimaces. “It wasn’t strong enough on its own. Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Indeed. I have some questions, if you do not mind.” He hesitates, studying her carefully, and speaks again. “While you were unconscious, I attempted to find you within the Fade.”

Looking stricken, Hawke raises a hand to silence him. She stands, draining the last of her mug. “Not here,” she tells him. “Somewhere more private.”

The twitchy young apprentice healer gives her a worried look as she strides out of camp with the apostate, but Hawke glowers at him and he does not stop her. There are not many places to go on the flat plain, only sparse patches of vegetation and crumbling rubble dropped from the pillar-like cliffs. Within the limited shelter of a few twisted trees behind one of the worryingly somber statues, barely a hundred paces from the camp, she turns and waits for the other mage to speak.

“What happened?” he asks. “When I looked for you, you were surrounded by Fear wisps. I could not even get close enough to see you, just sense a dark presence, distorting the whole region of the Fade.”

Hawke drops down to sit on one of the rocks, rubbing her temples. “I had had hoped that once I was out of the Fade, they would stay behind,” she replies simply. “They didn’t.”

“But why do they follow you so closely? Were you plagued by spirits this heavily the whole time you were trapped beyond the Veil?”

“Is that what they look like to you? I suppose it’s different when I’m not there physically,” she muses. “No. They’re… inside me, now. A bonus side effect of killing Nightmare’s spider demon.”

“Inside you?”

“Not possession. They’re not spirits, I know that. They’re the memories that were stolen. They’re in my head, now.” Hawke shudders. “It’s not like normal remembering. I don’t just know everything. I hear them, whispering, all the time. If they get too strong, I live it.” She’s said too much. She never meant to share this; least of all with a strange mage she’s only met a handful of times. Frowning, she digs her nails into her thigh; seeking the temporary clarity the pain will bring her.

“The memories…? Ah. Like the ones regained by the Inquisitor. I never considered the possibility that they could be transferred to someone besides the owner. I suppose they had nowhere else to go once the spirit died.” His gaze is solemn. “I am sorry. I should have thought to search for you once we returned. You were prepared to sacrifice everything for us, and we did nothing to verify you were truly gone.”

“You couldn’t have known. I was sure I was going to die.”

            —dead, all of them, tiny bodies with broken wings scattered across the courtyard—

“Still. We have done you a disservice, when you gave everything. If there is anything I can do to help make up for it…”

For a wild moment, she considers telling Solas everything. Instead, she slowly shakes her head. “Is there any way to get rid of them? You’re the expert on the Fade, right? There has to be some way to get them out.” She doesn’t bother trying to hide the pleading note in her voice.

“I have never heard of this kind of phenomenon, but I will research it as best I can. In the meanwhile, there are perhaps wards I can set while you sleep, that might make it easier for you to resist the memories.”

"I think I’ve slept enough for a lifetime, for now. But thank you. I would appreciate that.”

Hawke stands, but does not move to follow Solas back to camp.

“One other thing. This is not something the inquisitor needs to know. She has enough to deal with. This is my problem to cope with.”

The elf’s hands fiddle with the jawbone necklace at his chest. “I am afraid it may already be too late for that. It was a detail of your condition that did not go unnoticed before you awoke,” he admits.

“Then it at least does not have to become her constant concern.” Hawke rubs her eyes with a sigh. “Go ahead. I need some time alone. I haven’t been allowed any privacy since… I woke up.”

His gaze on her is still troubled, but he nods his head, and leaves her. The sky is almost fully dark now, the campfires sending long shadows flickering across the distant tents. Hawke is filled with a jittery kind of nervous energy from all the tea and potions she’s been drinking, but her body still feels weary.

            She hears them when it’s darkest outside. The soft pad of feet on cobblestones, muttered laughter beneath her window.

Hawke takes a shuddering breath. They memories are less pressure on her now that she is awake and out of the Fade, but they more than make up for it every time her eyes droop shut, slamming back in force. Slowly, she removes her knife from the pouch at her hip, staring at the blade. It’s served her well, all these years, the red-wrapped handle as comfortable and familiar in her hand as any magic staff. Hawke pushes the thin sleeve of her tunic up to her shoulder, and quiets the memories the only way she knows how.

When she returns to camp, the cuts have already been healed. The recently bleeding slashes are no more than a few additional scars in her patchworked skin, unnoticeable by anyone but herself.

__________

She does not sleep that night. The combined stimuli of the caffeine, Elfroot, and mushrooms push her body into restlessness, and instead she pours over maps and reports in the privacy of the healer’s tent. She knows they assume she is resting, but she has had quite enough of the Fade, and there is so much she has missed. Orlais is still reeling after what happened at the Winter Palace; there was another of Corypheus’ minions uncovered and plans thwarted; more rifts being discovered daily even as the Inquisitor rushes to patch them. The mystery and threat of red lyrium seems only to have grown in her absence.

As dawn breaks, the camp begins to wake. Even with the welcome addition to some coffee that’s been scrounged up for the Inquisitor’s party and herself, after almost a full day awake she feels drained. It’s better than the alternative, she thinks grimly, forcing herself to eat a breakfast roll as they prepare to head out. She doesn’t even complain when they put her on a horse, although it’s been years since she regularly rode. There never was much room for mounts of any sort on the streets of Kirkwall, and you’d be half as likely to wake up to find it’d been stolen and sold to a Lowtown butcher in the night. It’s just her and the Inquisitor and her inner circle, now, the five of them covering as much ground as possible on their way around the Emprise du Lion and back to Skyhold.

The others don’t comment on her silence as they journey, or when she quietly slips away from their temporary campsite for an hour in the evening. If they suspected, they would stop her, she knows. She lies on her bedroll that night, but despite her exhaustion can’t seem to allow her body to commit to slumber. She’d hoped to make herself too tired to dream, but every time she closes her eyes the Nightmares are there waiting: haughty, harsh words in a language she does not speak; the crunch of broken glass beneath heavy boots; the chill that creep’s down a shepherd’s spine at the ragged howl of a lonely wolf. Images flicker across the inside of her eyelids, hallucinated snatches of lives that are not hers, but are not fully dreams.

She opens her eyes, until weariness drags them shut again.

She closes them, until the fear forces them open.

Chapter Text

The second day begins the same. She doesn’t know that she feels any more rested from her night of half-dozing restlessness, but at least she wasn’t overpowered and sucked away from herself again. No one can see the new pale lines that now adorn the tops of her thighs, cloaked beneath breeches and furs. The air is cooler here, a crispness that hints at a later bite of cold. The ground is hard, rimed with frost, even though they are only just beginning to ascend the foothills of the snowy peaks that tower beside them. It will take them another day to make it to the start of the pass through the Frostbacks, and several more to reach Skyhold itself.

She stares at the peaks ahead while they pack. She can feel Solas’ eyes studying her, brow undoubtedly furrowed. He probably could tell she didn’t sleep the previous night, tried to spy on her in the Fade or something only to find she wasn’t there. But he makes no mention of it, privately or before Lavellan.

They travel onward, the others with occasional good-natured banter, and she mostly in silence. Every now and then Dorian or Cassandra will ask her a question about her arcane knowledge or her time in Kirkwall, and she knows she manages to fumble out comprehendible replies, but almost as soon as she speaks them she can’t quite recall what the subject even was. It’s nearly sunset when they hear the approach of horses ahead, through a lull in conversation. Immediately, the party halts, automatically dropping into fighting stances and silently withdrawing their weapons.

Laboriously, Hawke dismounts too; grabbing the spare staff one of the mages lent her. The wooden shaft feels too narrow and knobby in her hands, and she silently curses herself for not testing it sooner, no matter how drained she felt. Now they might end up in a fight and she has no idea what her weapons responsiveness is like. Cassandra shoots her a stern look over her shoulder, stepping and angling to stand between Hawke and the approaching clatter of hooves. Hawke grimaces, but does not tell her to move. In this situation, she’s more of a liability than anything, she knows. Her weakness makes her angry, and it’s almost a relief to feel the familiar rage knock away the exhaustion.

Twenty yards ahead, the galloping horse rounds the corner, and slows. Inquisition heraldry shines bright red on its armored chestpiece, and the Inquisitor visibly relaxes as it trots forward.

“Hello?” she calls, as Hawke and her companions all sheathe their weapons. “Who’s—”

“Lavellan? Is that you?”

Hawke’s head snaps up at the familiar voice, staring at the short figure struggling to peer over the horse’s ears.

“Varric?!” Her voice is somewhere between panic and relief, and somehow she has pushed past Cassandra and is already almost halfway down the frost-covered path.

The dwarf is already dismounting, but his feet barely have time to hit the ground before she crashes into him, dropping to her knees and throwing her arms around his broad shoulders.

“You came,” she says, tears burning her eyes as he engulfs her in a massive hug. “Maker’s breath, how did you get to us so fast? Did you ride the whole time? You hate horses.” For the first time since she left the Fade, Hawke laughs; a silent shaking that all too quickly transitions into sobs. His thick arms squeeze tighter, crushing the air from her lungs. “Why aren’t you saying anything? You always say something.”

“Not this time,” Varric finally replies. “For once, I don’t know which words to pick.”

“Well if you don’t ease up, you might not get a chance to say any,” Hawke gasps. “Not all of us swing around 30-pound crossbows for fun; you’re going to crush me.”

His grip loosens, and she draws back to look at his face through bleary eyes. She can make out the tearstains on his cheeks as well, glistening tracks through a layer of travel dust.

“It’s not a good story unless the hero dies. Blast it, Hawke, do you know how many times I’ve written that tale? Don’t you dare ever make me live it again.”

“You know me,” Hawke says through a crooked smile, “I always find a way to mess things up. Even my own sacrificial plot.”

“After everything I did to keep you away from that Conclave, you owe it to me to survive.”

"I’ll try harder next time,” she promises, hugging him again. As Hawke pulls away she glances around, suddenly remembering the rest of the group. “I guess we should get moving again. We’ll have to set up camp soon,” she says as she wipes her eyes.

A shadow falls across the pair, and Hawke realizes Cassandra is hovering hesitantly a few paces away.

“I do not wish to interrupt,” she says, hands fiddling awkwardly with her gloves.

“You’re fine, Seeker.” Varric replies, readjusting his coat. “What do you need?”

“I had just assumed you were traveling with a full Inquisition party, from Leliana’s report. Did Cullen not send them?”

“Oh, he sent them. They just couldn’t keep up, and I didn’t see the point in waiting around. They’re probably only a day or so behind.”

Cassandra nods. “We’ll meet up with them tomorrow, then. And… I am glad for you both. It is good that you have each other again, after all this.” Flustered, the warrior turns, striding to where the others are peering at a map of the mountain pass.

Hawke watches her go, raising an eyebrow. “Well,” she comments, “you two are certainly on better terms than when I left. She doesn’t look nearly as murderous.”

“Only because she knows she’ll never get the next book if she kills me.”

“What?”

“Nevermind. Come on. The sooner we get back to Skyhold, the better.”

__________

Varric waits until they’ve set up their camp for the night before he demands the full account of what happened. Lavellan takes pity on Hawke and tells him the basics of her escape, while she grimly drains another mug of tea.

“Unfortunately, it was a rift we… were in the process of closing, and she couldn’t make it through in time.” Lavellan frowns, and Varric winces visibly at the admission. For his sake, Hawke hoped he wasn’t with them at the time. “So she found her way to a second rift, still open, and was able to pass through. She landed in the Exalted Plains, not far from…”

Varric’s eyes flick over to Hawke as the Inquisitor continues speaking. She keeps her expression as neutral as she can, clutching her tea to steady her hands. But he’s still staring at her, barely-detectable confusion growing in his expression.

He knows, she thinks to herself.He could always tell when she was lying. It is almost a relief, at first, but the heavy weight of his questioning stare makes her all too aware of the way her hands tremble as she presses the cup against her lips.

The Inquisitor’s just finished wrapping up what the scouts and healer had to say about her condition. Varric turns back to her, nodding, and grins.

“Thanks, and for keeping me updated on the way as well. Do you mind if… Hawke and I take a minute to talk? Privately?”

“Of course,” the elf replies, standing. She flashes a small smile at Hawke, and gives Varric’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she lightly steps away from the fire and towards where Dorian and Solas stand arguing about some obscure historical fact.

When Hawke turns back to Varric, his grin has vanished, replaced with concern. 

“Hawke. What aren’t you telling me?”

She closes her eyes. He’d notice sooner or later, anyway. Best have it be on her terms. “Not here,” she tells him. “I don’t… I don’t want anyone else to know. Not yet.”

He obediently follows her as she walks a dozen paces from the campfire, to the edge of the small clearing the Inquisitor’s party has set up camp within. The horses graze drowsily where they are tethered, still hungry after the hard day of riding despite the swiftly darkening sky.

She sits on one of the worn granite boulders that are scattered across the slopes, running her hands across stone smoothed by years of rain and wind. “Weary” has become more a constant state of being for her than an emotion.

She doesn’t know how to begin. Instead, she takes a deep breath, and pushes the long sleeves of her tunic up to her shoulders. The distant firelight illuminate the white slashing scars that twist their way across her skin; the shadows jumping in the flickering glow, making the pale raised lines seem to dance as she bares her lacerated flesh.

His breath catches as soon as he sees them, and he exhales in a long sigh.

“Oh, Hawke.”

He understood right away, of course. She’d been worried Dorian might catch on and tell the others—but then again, Tevinter was altogether a different case from Kirkwall. There, magic was all planned out formally, and if any assistance was required, there were always slaves to methodically exploit. She doubted he’d ever seen blood magic as she had—the desperate last act of a mage with nothing to cling to but the idea of freedom, mutilating their own bodies in a frantic attempt to escape. How many times had she and her companions had to cut down the failed attempts—the ones that gave too much of themselves, who rather than be captured let the demons bubble up through their flesh? At the time, she’d wondered how this sort of death could seem like an option at all—Maker knew she’d spent her whole life avoiding the Circle, but to willingly become an abomination was another matter entirely.

She knew better, now. Sometimes the choices you ended up with weren’t really choices at all.

“When did you start?” Varric asks softly, reaching out to take one of her calloused hands in his. “Somehow I don’t think this was a habit you picked up in Kirkwall.”

She lets her sleeves fall back into place as she replies. “No. I never even considered—not after Mother—“ Her voice breaks, and she has to take a deep, steadying breath before she can try again. “It was in the Fade,” she whispers, staring at where his hands engulf hers. “I couldn’t keep it up anymore, if too many of them came at me at once. I was so tired… each fight took me longer and longer to recover, and I could only hide for so long. Then one day, a couple of wraiths ambushed me and after a few spells I was just… dry. I couldn’t cast anything, not even to heal myself.” She can’t look at him as the words finally start to spill out. Now that her composure has cracked, the rest of her resolve is slowly crumbing with it. She can picture his gaze, too full of sorrow and caring when he should be condemning her.

“I’d never tried before, but… we fought so many of them. How could I not figure out the basics?” She lets out a single laugh, bitter and mirthless. “It was so easy. You don’t even notice the pain once you start. It’s just another means to an end.”

She pulls her hands free to rub at her eyes, pushing the heels of her palms against her brow until white sparks shoot behind her eyelids.

“It was fighting,” Varric tries to justify for her. “It’s not like you had a choice.”

“That doesn’t change what I did.”

“You had to get to the rift somehow.”

“No, Varric. You don’t understand. I didn’t come through a rift. Once I saw it, I knew I couldn’t make it; it was just too far. It was so high, and over an ocean…” She rests her elbows on her knees, hands still covering her face. “There was a demon. It offered me a deal.”

Chapter Text

She can’t remember how long she’s been in the Fade anymore and she does not want to try. Time blurs into two categories: when she is fighting, and when she is not. There are also, of course, the moments when the memories take over. She no longer counts those as any real sort of time—dwelling on them would shatter what remnants of sanity she’s managed to cling to so far.

For now, she is fighting. She is on the shores of a vast ocean stretching seemingly endlessly in both directions, the slightly blue glow of an unreachable rift pulsing high above its surface. She can’t make it there, and an assortment of demons with apparently the same trouble caught her unawares, as she recovered from another battle with the dark memories seething inside her skin. She manages to take down a wisp with a blast of raw power, too drained for real spells, even as the icy hands of a despair demon snatch towards her.

Her next spell fizzles. The weak static charge startles the demon into drawing back, but her mana is utterly spent. She doesn’t waste time considering or dreading what comes next—the cuts on her arms and torso open by reflex now as she draws, channeling the raw power through her own flesh as the demon writhes in agony beside her. Grimly, she pulls again; twisting the corrupted spirit until it finally shudders, and collapses. Even as it starts to dissolve she whips around, searching for the next opponent.

It is already almost upon her. The terror demon’s tendrils whip across the ground as it hauls itself up; stick-like limbs scrabbling at the rock as it draws closer to her. A whip-like vine slams into her legs before she can dodge, knocking her backwards onto the ground. Hawke struggles to regain her breath and prepares to draw on the power of her own blood once more. The part of her mind that isn’t filled with battle-craze frantically wonders if she’d even be able to tell she was using too much of her body’s energy, while her hands clench to prepare another attack she doesn’t get a chance to send.

The terror demon has gone completely still, as though frozen in place. Gangly limbs dangle a foot above her, claws still stretching in her direction. Hawke scrambles into a crouch, watching it warily even as she glances around for signs of further attack. She can’t see anything else, and when she returns her full focus to the horror she sees that it is slowly withering away. It can’t even regain enough control to cry in pain—its dozen eyes roll in agony; saliva still dripping from its gaping toothy maw as it slowly crumbles to dust.

Behind it, now revealed, a man stands casually, hands tucked indifferently across his chest.

No, Hawke reminds herself savagely. Not a man. She’s the only mortal in this Maker-forsaken realm.

“Demon,” she hisses at it, clutching her near-useless staff, still lying on the ground beside her. She might have regained enough mana to at least distract it for a moment—even though it appears to be something powerful enough to slay a terror demon with barely more than a twitch.

“Such a nasty term, I’ve always thought,” he—it—remarks. Its tone is mild as it saunters forward to where she kneels. It is tall, dark hair swept back from its face, teeth perfectly straight and white as it smiles down at her. It would almost have been better if they were jagged and pointed, some sign that it was the evil monster she knew it to be. Instead it is all broad shoulders and impeccably pressed doublet; even its long formal coat all crisp pleats and sharp lines.

But this is the Fade, and nothing can hide its true nature: danger rolls off the spirit in waves, a casual viciousness that could rip her into shreds if it decided it cared enough to bother.

“I prefer Spirit, if you’d be so kind.”

Warily, Hawke rises to her feet, staff still gripped firmly in her hand even as she tries to match its nonchalant posture. A game of wills, then—not might. She’d never been tempted into complacency by one before—although she’d never before had any real reason to.

“Spirit, then. Spirit of what?” Her eyes flick across it, searching for any clues. “A name, even?” It looks powerful enough to have designed some identity for itself, at least. Especially if it spends its time wandering around in human form—although this is probably an affectation just for her.

“You are fond of labels, then, aren’t you? Can’t one just simply be?” Its smile, if not its incisors, is sharp enough to cut glass.

“Not de—spirits. There’s always some… purpose.”

It gave a dramatically loud sigh, uncrossing its arms to examine its nails. It was almost fascinating, really. She was certain this was not the form of someone she’d ever met herself—at least, no one she’d met long enough to leave an impression. What game was it playing?

“If you insist, I suppose you might call me a spirit of Freedom.”

“Freedom.”

“Such skepticism! Autonomy. Independence. The unwillingness to be bound to any single thing. Take your pick. See? I’m not that bad.”

Pride? Or Desire, maybe, however unconventional it looks. She is weary of games. If it wants to kill her, it will. “Why did you save me?”

“I was curious. It’s been, what—a thousand years since mortals last walked here? You can’t blame me for being intrigued.” It turns slightly, offering her its arm as it begins to walk. She does not take it, but guardedly follows as it begins to stroll along the pebbly beach.

“So tell me, human. Why are you here? For some reason I doubt you’re attempting to enter the Black City on your own.”

“That’s not your concern.”

“You are being terribly rude to someone whose only crime was helping you.”

“I very much doubt that this has been your only crime.”

“You would be correct. So indulge me before I tire of such discourteous company.” It smiles that malicious smile again, and Hawke shivers at the aura of cruelty surrounding them both. She tries to think fast, come up with some explanation to both placate the demon and get information for herself, but all that rolls off her tongue is the truth.

“The power that opened the breach in the Veil pulled me and my companions through as well. They managed to escape. I didn’t.”

That gives it pause, and it walks in contemplative silence for a moment. Hawke follows, warily. The presence of the powerful demon seems to be holding other spirits at bay at least; she can see several wisps hovering not a hundred paces away, either unwilling or unable to draw nearer.

“Hmm. An interesting development. But I don’t understand why you don’t leave now, if you’re so loathe to stay.”

She stares into its face, searching for the mockery, but can’t find anything but slightly puzzled indifference. Not that it matters. She knows it probably offers her nothing but lies behind a flawless mask. Still. She has no options but to play along with its game, for now.

“I can’t. I can’t reach any of the rifts still open. There aren’t exactly any helpful doorways leading home.”

It raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow in surprise. “You planned to jump through a rift? A mortal?” It snorts in derision. “It’d kill you instantly. Even for us, it distorts our essence, and what emerges can hardly be considered the same being. I for one would not chose that as my method of departure. But you. Why not just open a portal?” It waves a hand vaguely at the air before them. “Although I have to say, however,” it continues, “I must admit I was not overly impressed with your style. For a blood mage, you have a rather sloppy hand. Some finesse would not be undue.”

“I am not a blood mage!” Hawke snaps, glowering as her hands reflexively tighten around her remnant of staff.

“Were you not using the power latent within your flesh to influence and rend your enemies?”

“I had no choice. I would never use it otherwise.”

“My dear, there is always a choice. You chose not to die. I, for the record, see no shame in that. But you had to learn from someone. What spirit did you call up, that left you with such careless skills? Or are you from Tevinter? You don’t sound it.”

If she were less tired, more herself, she might have enjoyed the witty back-and-forth with an adversary. But here it is a struggle just to stay upright, and she can’t make sense of how strangely affronted he—it—sounds at her lack of skill.

“No one,” she growls. “I’ve seen it done. It’s been simple enough. What do you mean, open a portal?”

“Well, if you’d never received a proper education, it’s no wonder you don’t know what you’re doing! I’m surprised you’ve managed not to kill yourself.” It sighs ruefully, throwing her a pitying expression.

“The portals,” she insists. “Can it be done?”

“Of course. If you chose to use blood magic again.”

She’s already shaking her head. “No. It took the ancient magisters over half the lyrium in the Imperium and hundreds of sacrifices to enter the Fade. Even the Wardens at Adamant had dozens giving up their lives by the time we got there. There’s no way I could compare alone.”

“Of course, to get in. Getting out is much simpler. Blood magic tears the Veil, although not as much as this—Breach, you called it?—I’ll grant you. Your kind do it all the time,” it says pointedly, “use blood magic to pull spirits physically into the mortal realm. It would be much simpler to cross over from this direction.”

Hawke stops walking as she understands, then, this game the demon is playing. She can see where it is headed already, and she hates herself for knowing she’ll play along. But she is so tired—and it is wrong. Death is never the choice. Fighting overwhelming odds and expecting to die, yes. Giving yourself to save others, yes. But never simply giving up. If she didn’t know that, she would have perished years ago.

"I wouldn’t know how.” Her lips form the words almost automatically as it turns to face her fully.

“You could learn.” Its expression is cool and amused, as it waits for her inevitable reply. It already knows it has won.

The faces of everyone she loves flicker across her mind, echoed by the overwhelming ache inside her that begs to just go home. To where things smell of more than iron and dust; where those she misses will take her back. To strong tan arms traced with pale blue lines, and a rough voice telling her that he will never let her leave again.

Until this moment, some deep part of her had still clung to the hope that this wasn’t really the end; that maybe they will come for her, like she did for all of them. She remembers all the times she burst in, just in time to save someone. She remembers all the times she was just moments too late.

But no. Her place was always the savior; the sacrifice.

There is no one who will save her but herself.

“Teach me,” she finally whispers, and its grin broadens, eyes glinting.

“For a price.”

__________

“Here.” Melivia halts, on a patch of ground that looks identical to the last three miles they’ve walked, in Hawke’s opinion.

She’d finally bartered a name from the demon—despite its intense reluctance, and the fact she is sure it is lying to her.

“Names are like chains,” it had hissed, lips curling in distaste. “They find one and call you it for centuries, use it to tie you to ideas and identity and deeds. I have had enough of them.”

Even though she is certain it made the moniker up, she clings to the small victory in the face of everything else gone wrong. She doesn’t know how long she’s spent rending her flesh apart just to build it back up under its tutelage. She hates the knowledge he’s imparted on her, hates how strong it makes her feel to be reliant on nothing but her own body. To no longer be dependent on her still dwindling reserves of mana, which never seem to replenish as fast or as much here the way they do in the physical world.

The first time she pushed too far, she blacked out, and was certain it would possess her. Instead, she fell back into the writhing clutches of the Nightmare’s memory hoard, riding wave after wave of chaos and pain. If nothing else, they seem to make the spirit loathe to steal her form, at least—her best guess is it wouldn’t be able to get rid of them either, and has no interest in sharing her mind. Regardless, when she came to, it was nowhere to be seen—after each of her fits Melivia takes longer to return, sauntering back into conversation as though it hadn’t left. She hates how fearful she’s grown that it will abandon her completely; decide to find some easier way across the Veil himself. Rationally, she knows it must be part of its game. Melivia is some sort of Desire demon, or maybe Pride, she’s sure of it. Whichever, it is as powerful as it is ancient. But even as her mind points out each subtle way it’s managed to gain her dependence, her stomach unclenches in relief every time it returns. The last time, it’d vanished for at least four days, and she’d lost the protection of its dangerous aura and had to fight her way through a hoard of spirits alone.

Now back at Melivia’s side, Hawke chews her lip against the whispering fears and glances skeptically at the area the spot the demon has chosen. More redish grey rock with green shadows, the air bitter and stagnant. Above, an inverted mountain covered in ruins drifts past.

The demon reaches forward, its fingers fluttering delicately at a patch of air she can’t distinguish. Even after all these days (weeks?) in its company, it has never once dropped the human guise it wears.

“This will do,” it concludes, satisfied. “Are you prepared? Do you understand all you will need to do?” Malivia has walked her through the steps already, and she nods, swallowing her doubt.

Just to go home. Nothing more, she tells herself. They will understand, they’ll forgive me; he’ll still want me to come home, even like this. After everything she has done to protect people, how could they find fault with her now? Once we’re through, I can kill it. I can make up for letting it use me now.

She nods. “I remember.”

Carefully, she turns towards the patch of air, closing her eyes and reaching for the Veil with her mind. The air tingles as she begins to sense it, a slight thinning of the fabric between the worlds. She corrects her position minutely to face it directly, and behind her Melivia smiles in satisfaction.

Eyes still closed, Hawke takes a deep breath, and pulls at herself. There is a single instant of sharp agony as the gashes reopen across her flesh, but it is almost immediately washed away by the following euphoric rush of power. She takes another breath, and reaches for more, drawing the energy from her veins in time with her heartbeat. She waits until she has enough that when she opens her eyes, the edges of her vision to swim with both the crackling, heavy atmosphere of magic; and fatigue. Only then does she extend and reach, slipping her fingers into the fabric of the Veil, slowly unweaving this small fragment of the barrier.

She hears Melivia’s breath catch in excitement behind her as she sends tendrils of power shooting through the crack between worlds, drawing it wider. Her fingers are already numb and trembling, the Veil absorbing more of her energy than she’d guessed. Grimly, she drags more from her body as she siphons it slowly into the rip, dropping to one knee before she can collapse totally.

It’s not going to be enough, she realizes, stomach dropping in incredulity and sudden hopelessness. Already she is too dizzy to drain herself of more, even as she wrenches the gash in the Veil open wider. It is almost the length of her torso, but still only a few hand spans wide. She forces herself to focus beyond the rippling, wavering gate to stare into the bright patch of yellowing grass beyond. The barest trace of warm breeze billows through the gap, dry and blessedly fragrant compared to this damp and clammy prison.

But the pain rams into her like an ox, and she falters as she gasps for air. She can’t sap any more of her own strength without risking losing one or more of her limbs permanently, if not killing her outright. Gradually, despite her struggles, the tear begins to close.

In a flash, Melivia snaps from where it hovered behind her in anticipation to her side, hands closing around her wrists in a claw-like grasp. Hawke feels it force its own charring, biting power into her skin and channel it back through the veil, ignoring her scream of torment as the inhuman magic surges through her flesh. She can feel the demon pulling more of her own power through, too; draining her last reserves of both mana and health in this final attempt to cross between the worlds. Its face flickers into blackened skin and back, a snarl stretching its lips inhumanly wide as it pulls her upright. Melivia’s grip on her wrist is vice-like and strange, as though its fingers have grown extra joints, and she dangles in the air before it as the demon grimly conducts more power through her to cut the barrier. She feels her heart stutter faintly once, twice; and the demon cuts all the way through.

She has time to register the soft white glow of real sunlight piercing the air just before it leaps forward, dragging her behind him. Her skin erupts as though pricked by a thousand pins as she is dragged through the Veil, and then, finally, they are through.

Hawke lands heavily on the ground, too exhausted to even roll into the impact. Struggling for breath, she swivels her eyes to where the spirit stands; basking in the freedom of the physical plane as the fracture in the Veil slowly sweeps shut behind it. It glances down, studying her ponderously. She stares back, waiting. All thoughts of overpowering it now that she’s out have fled with the last of her strength, so she waits for it to decide to either honor their bargain or destroy her once and for all. Melivia takes a step towards her, and in that moment she is certain it will kill her so she won’t ever be able to hunt it down, but a far-off shout interrupts the spirit. It swivels its head towards the noise, and appears to think better of causing a greater disturbance.

"A deal is a deal,” it finally hisses, and twists its body as it springs into the air, rocketing across the brown plain in a contortion of feathers and bone.

With a long groan, Hawke rolls onto her back. The ground below her is hard and now that the exhilarating amount of magic has been ripped away, the throbbing agony of her wounds presses at her mind. Struggling to maintain consciousness, she stares into the bright, empty blue of the sky above, and waits.

Chapter Text

“Well. Shit.”

Hawke doesn’t look at him as they sit at the edge of the clearing, the sky now completely dark, with only brief patches of stars visible through the rolling clouds. She knows she didn’t tell what happened very well—too much stumbling over words, too much going back to fill in details she missed and later remembered. It doesn’t matter. Varric’s the storyteller—he’ll see how it went like painting pictures in his mind despite her fumbling attempt at an explanation.

She sighs, tearing at a patch of browning grass, slowly stripping the blades apart with her fingernails.

“Yeah,” she replies.

“Did it say what it wanted to do here?”

“Never. I don’t even know what kind of demon it was for sure.”

It is Varric’s turn to sigh now. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad. There’s demons in the world already. Having you back is worth far more than another one coming through.”

Tears well up in her eyes. “Maybe,” she whispers. “I guess it’d depend on who you ask.”

Varric exhales in frustration, and grabs her shoulder, startling her into meeting his gaze. “Okay. What is going on?”

“I just told—“

“Not that. You know what I mean. You haven’t even asked me about Fenris since we met up. Did you think I wouldn’t notice something like that?” His eyes are full of concern. “Did something happen before you came here? I know you said he didn’t want you to come without him, but if there was more—”

“No!” Hawke rakes a finger through her hair, fighting tears. “I mean, yes, we argued, but nothing—it wasn’t—“ She rips out handfuls of grass, struggling to find words.

“Look, I know it’s not technically any of my business, but…”

“Just—look at me, Varric!” she finally bursts out. “You could tell, as soon as you saw, and he will too. I wouldn’t be able to hide what happened—I don’t want to hide it from him, but—“ Hawke draws her knees to her chest, taking a long, shuddering breath. “He’s going to hate me,” she says, voice muffled as she presses her face to her knees. “You know how he feels about magic, even still—it’s not something he’s ever going to accept as a good thing as opposed to some burden I was born with. All those times we argued back in Kirkwall, that mages can be responsible, that we don’t all fall to temptation. He was finally accepting that not all of us—“ She lets out another frustrated moan. “He was right, all along. I swore for so long that I’d never turn to blood magic, I’d never be that desperate, but I had my price just like anyone else.” She laughs, once—the sound hollow, ringing through the air like the low chime of a funeral bell.

“He’s not going to hate you,” Varric tells her tolerantly, gently resting a hand on her shoulder.

“He should,” she mutters bitterly into her knees. Her arms are still wrapped around her head and legs, hiding her face. “You should. I’ve done exactly what we always tried to stop.”

“That’s not—“

“Besides,” she continues over him, “He’s never going to look at me and not see this, now. He’ll always know that I turned to it. I’ll always know. Every time he sees me it’s going to be a reminder that I fell just like the rest of them. That none of us are safe.”

 Varric rubs her back. “I think,” he lectures, “you may as well wait until you see him again before deciding his opinions for him.”

 Hawke is silent, then, for several minutes. Varric sits patiently, until her the small, noiseless convulsions of her shoulders finally still. He knows how much she hates anyone seeing her vulnerable like this.

“But what if he leaves again,” Hawke finally whispers, so soft the dwarf can barely hear it. “It was—hard enough, before. But now…” She sighs, long and weary, and finally raises her head. Even in the dim glow of the distant fire and stars, he can see the redness of her eyes. “I don’t know. After all this. I don’t know that I could take that, too.”

They sit in silence for another minute, thinking.

“Well,” Varric finally slowly replies, “none of this can be solved right now. I’m sorry, I wish there was more I could say—beyond that I don’t think you should be so worried about his reaction. But I don’t think you’ll be satisfied with anything I can say until you hear it from him yourself.”

Hawke sighs again. “Yeah,” she agrees miserably. “It’s just… so much. All the time.” She closes her eyes. “I’m so tired.”

“How did he take it?” She asks suddenly. “The Inquisitor said you wrote to him, when…”

“I did, once we’d gotten back to Skyhold,” the dwarf answers. “And I’ve sent him more messages since. I mean—he’s not really very responsive at the best of times. I don’t know for sure that he even opened any of my letters past the first. Leliana’s people make sure they’re delivered, but… well.”

“Did… did anyone tell him he found me? I need to—I should write something, but they didn’t know where to send it, when I was… where they found me. Does he… know?”

“I told Leliana to make sure her people give him the news directly this time. I told him to come meet us at Skyhold. It’d probably be at least a three week journey, but we weren’t sure if you’d be in condition to travel much yourself. Once we’re there, you can send one too.”

She nods slowly. “He was helping refugees from Tevinter when I left, at the borders of the Free Marches. Is he still there?”

“The last I heard. When we get back we’ll be able to see if Leliana tracked him down yet.” He gives her shoulder a reassuring pat. “He’ll want to see you. Don’t doubt that. This’ll give you time to get yourself sorted out first.”

Hawke runs the back of one hand across her face. “I guess,” she agrees despondently.

“Let’s get back to camp,” the dwarf gently suggests. “Skyhold’s only four and a half days away if we hurry. There’ll be people there who can help you.”

Silently, Hawke follows him towards the glowing circle of the Inquisitor’s temporary camp. She does not agree. Some things can’t be mended, only suffered through.

It has been almost three days now since she slept, and she can feel her body protesting. The voices still whisper at her constantly, and she knows she can’t go another night without falling into them. Silently, she begins to set wards around the small tent the Inquisition has lent her. The air is growing too cold to sleep unsheltered this close to the mountains. When Solas joins her, adding his magic to hers, she does not protest—even when she can’t recognize the strange runes he casts alongside her own. They crackle with unfamiliar power, flaring briefly with green light before melting into the ground.

“Will it help?” is all she asks.

“I do not know for certain,” is his only reply.

__________

They don’t.

A cool, gravelly voice is talking to her.

“Hoc enim est proprium bonum.”

It is not a language Hawke speaks, but she is no longer Hawke: she is someone else, with the icy sinking of dread filling his stomach, and he can understand the words perfectly: this is for your own good.

            “I don’t know what you mean,” he tells them in the same tongue, as though his false incomprehension can stop what comes next. But cold hands grasp his wrists, pressing them into the even colder grip of iron shackles. He does not push back. He expected screaming, anger, a fight—not the weary resignation he hears in the man’s voice. There is no way to battle this as the man turns his back, speaking now to the vague forms gathered behind him.

            “This is how you would face this?” the prisoner challenges. “With your back turned? Do you think to keep me chained here until you get what you want?”

            There is no reply. It is not until he sees the figures stumble, and fall, and the red waves of agony overtake him that he finally understands in full what is happening.

            It is too late for surprise or panic. His scream is long and tortured as the thick bloody fog descends upon his mind, erasing any further thoughts.

__________

When Hawke wakes, it is long after dawn. She sits up, confused, her body sore from the long days of riding and her throat raw and painful. Despite finally giving into sleep, she does not feel rested. She struggles out of the last grasp of the Nightmares, biting hard on her clenched fist to clear the last wisps from her head. Her mind once more is almost blissfully clear—although she can feel them hovering at the edge of her consciousness, always waiting. At least her teeth were enough this time, she thinks. She does not want to have to resort to her knife. She does not want Varric to realize new scars keep showing up, even now.

She exits her tent, finding the clearing strangely empty. The other equipment has already been packed and stowed for their journey. Dorian sits by the embers of last night’s fore, unenthusiastically poking at them with a stick. He glances up at her as she approaches; his expression tired and worried.

"You were crying out in your sleep,” he answers in response to her questioning look. “We couldn’t wake you.”

She winces, but to his credit, the Tevinter mage does not look away from her as he speaks, meeting her gaze with eyes full of concern.

“Solas thought it would be best to just wait until you woke naturally, rather than for us to intervene. It was… difficult, for Varric. Inquisitor Lavellan took him to scout ahead. We’re to follow.”

Cassandra has already silently begun to dismantle Hawke’s tent and bedroll, as Solas leads their horses back to the center of the glen.

Grimly, she kicks a flare of life back into the dying embers of the campfire, dropping a generous handful of tea leaves into the waiting pot of water. She swallows the bitter drink along with her own shame as they prepare to depart.

__________

It only takes them a few hours to catch up to Varric and the Inquisitor. Hawke tries to give him a reassuring smile, but the troubled look doesn’t leave his face until Dorian finally manages to get him distracted telling a story of some escapade the Merchant’s Guild got themselves into. After that, he seems to make an effort to keep the group entertained—even Hawke finds herself chuckling along as he recounts one of their many misadventures in Kirkwall, albeit with significantly more enemies and witty one-liners than she recalls.

“That is not how you described it the first time,” Cassandra tells him, irritably.

“Haven’t you heard of artistic license, Seeker?”

“But I swear that you recounted to me the exact same mission, but it was in Lowtown, not at the Coast. And they were Carta thugs, not mercenaries.”

“Minor details! It’s the spirit of the story that matters, and that’s the same.”

The pair bicker on and off as the day wears on, steadily working their way up the long winding road into the Frostbacks. During a comfortable lull in the conversation, the Inquisitor twists around on her mount to look at the group.

“Cole,” she announces triumphantly.

Hawke stares at her, blankly. “Who?”

“One of us. He could help you, couldn’t he?” The last question seems to be aimed at Solas, or at least he is the first to respond.

"You mean, to have him take the fears away? Hmm.” He pauses, considering. “Perhaps. It would not do us harm to have him try.”

“What do you mean? Who’s Cole, a mage?”

Varric responds to her. “You met him when you were at Skyhold—though people have a tendency to forget talking to him. Lavellan and Chuckles are right, though—he might be able to help get rid of whatever mess the Nightmare demon left inside you,” Varric seems excited at the prospect, although Hawke is hesitant about placing her faith in someone she can’t remember meeting. Still—his mood seems much improved by having some sort of plan to help her recover, so she keeps her doubts to herself as they continue to travel.

They meet up with the band of Inquisition soldiers that were sent out with Varric in the early evening, as they reach the start of the pass through the towering peaks. The wind bites at the group fiercely now; all cloaks are drawn tight against its prying fingers of icy air. Although they’re now technically backtracking over ground they’d only just covered, the guards seem more than willing to head back to the shelter and warmth of Skyhold.

Despite her attempted rest the night before, Hawke finds herself still drained of all energy, and the stinging snow crystals that occasionally whip across her skin do not help. She struggles to keep her eyes open even as she drains another cup of tea mixed with crushed elfroot, sitting uselessly at the fire while camp is set up around her. Cassandra joins her, and although she says nothing, her steady glare keeps the Inquisition soldiers from approaching them with any questions other than direct Inquisition business—no matter how curious their glances at the Champion reveal they are.

That night, she once again sets wards around her tent, joined by Solas. He says nothing as she casts a silencing spell over the area, merely frowns, and adds yet another shimmering, unfamiliar spell of his own.

Chapter Text

After three days and three nights and half a day more, they finally arrive at Skyhold. The Inquisitor and her companions dismount as they pass through the great gate, the heavy portcullis raised before them as they’re recognized.

Lavellan strides inside without a second look, leaving her horse in the hands of one of the scouts. Hawke follows with the others, although more hesitantly. When she last left here, the Inquisitor had been hailed as the Herald of Andraste—a fate they learned to be false while trapped within the Fade. But this fact doesn’t seem to have changed anything she’s observed so far—everyone still defers immediately to The Inquisitor’s orders, rushing to unpack and carry her belongings before she even reaches for them herself.

They enter the main yard, and Lavellan halts. She opens her mouth to speak, but before any words leave her tongue, a man appears before them, out of nowhere. No—not a man. A boy. He is scarecrow-thin, tall and gangly in the way only adolescence marks its denizens. He is hard to focus on—Hawke finds her gaze sliding across him to the wall or folks milling in the distance, despite her struggle to pay attention. Blond hair sticks like straw from beneath his oversized hat, as he fills the Inquisitor’s startled silence with words of his own.

“Wondering, waiting, wanting to ask. You called for me. Why?”

Lavellan wastes no time, jumping straight to the problem at hand. “Cole, you remember Hawke—the one who was trapped in the Fade with us. When she killed Nightmare’s pet demon, it forced the rest of the stolen memories into her. Do you think… can you make her forget them? Like the way you help people?” At the Inquisitor’s hopeful tone, the lanky teen turns to study Hawke.

Somehow, she finds he is only a foot or so in front of her, when she could have sworn several paces separated them only moments before. Pale and watery blue eyes meet hers as she reaches out, and she stares into them as though transfixed, as his fingertips lightly brush against the skin of her temple.

With a doubled cry of alarm, the pair split apart almost instantly. Hawke stumbles back, clutching at the staff she hadn’t even realized she still carried unconsciously at her side. Cassandra catches her as Lavellan and Solas both dart anxiously to where Cole now stands, fifty paces away from the group after a mere moment. Even at this distance, Hawke can see he is shaking in some combination of terror and distress. Varric takes two alarmed steps towards the boy before faltering, and hurrying to Hawke’s side instead.

“He’s a demon,” she gasps accusingly. “You didn’t say—why is it here? What—?” she can’t seem to wrap her head around the situation fully.

            Everything finally seemed so safe and then it all came crumbling down; burning tumbling down, burning timbers pinning her legs as the building collapses around her. He tries to escape, but the door is stuck, and no one can hear his shouts over the pandemonium outside as smoke begins to fill his lungs. She scrambles along the frost-covered path, weeping as the small haven they’d built is once more destroyed, leaving them vulnerable and terrified.

She fights back the Fears, which once more are loud enough that they threaten to overtake her. She pushes them away, trying to focus on what her friend is saying to her.

“No, not a demon—he’s a spirit. But only barely. He’s basically human, really, or he’s trying to be—” Varric tries to reassure her, but Hawke stops paying attention as Cole finally speaks, voice trembling.

“Screaming, scratching, stuck inside her as they seethe, searching for release. They’re the worst fears, not forgotten but fragmented, ripped away and now have nothing left but to show her instead—the minds they reach towards too far, and they wouldn’t know how to go home anyway. So they make her listen, fighting to form her into who they once were.” His hands twitch at his side as he speaks, not looking at Hawke, but she can’t seem to turn away. “I can’t. I failed.”

“You can’t get them out?” Lavellan’s disappointed question is soft, but Hawke catches it and the spirit’s reply anyway.

“A person can’t move on from pain that isn’t theirs. That’s not forgetting, but stealing, slipping in and siphoning away the parts that make them people. Knowing the pain is past isn’t the same as not knowing the pain existed. They’re not hers, so she can’t let them go. There’s nowhere I could put them, except into myself—I can’t be like that, I won’t turn into him—“ His voice, now rising in desperation, catches on the end of his sentence; and for the briefest instant, Hawke forgets he’s not human.

He turns to her, and though he is still halfway across the courtyard, she can see his anguished expression as though he still stands directly in front of her.

“There is nothing I can do,” he tells her. “I’m sorry.”

And he is gone, like dandelion seeds scattered suddenly in a swift wind.

Varric’s expression is mournful as Hawke turns back to him.

“Look—the kid’s scared, but don’t worry. I’m sure once he calms down, there will be something he can—“

“No,” Hawke cuts him off. “You heard him. ‘Turn into him’? He meant Nightmare, didn’t he? We can’t afford that.” The words hang heavily in the air. The small delicate bubble of hope she’d allowed herself once more is shattered, the fragments a sharper pain inside her chest than she’d anticipated.

“Listen—“

“I said no, Varric. No point in two people being messed up from this. Spirits. Whatever.” Besides—she can’t shake her own terror at letting another demon into her head. Her skin is already marred by the marks the last one left on her soul, her mind forever tainted by the cruel magic she’d never desired to learn. Cole is not the only one she has known who prefers the term ‘spirit’, and to her the word stands as no assurance.

Varric is silent. She instantly feels bad for snapping at him, when she knows he just wants to help her But she can’t let him keep believing he can fix this for her. The Inquisition needs his attention and skills, now. She can’t take him away from that—she won’t let him leave it for her sake when she knows there’s probably only one thing that would ever help—something he would hate and fear almost as much as she does. Or at least used to.

“You should go talk to him,” she tells him instead. “Tell him it’s all right. I understand. It’s okay that he can’t help.” She’d seen his concern for the boy as they both fell; knows that it must hurt him to see both of them pained by this. “I don’t think I can myself right now.” Her scalp still tingles from their brief contact, the way the Fears lunged forward in her mind to claw towards another possible venue of escape before the spirit had ripped itself away just in time.

Varric looks torn, but she insists, and he hurries off as the Inquisitor heads back to her. Hawke pushes the thoughts back as the Inquisitor speaks.

“I’m sorry. I really thought he might… well.” Lavellan shakes her head, as if to clear it, and moves on. “Is there anything you need? One of the guards can make quarters ready for you, or…”

"Actually, I’d like to talk to your Spymaster if she’s available.”

“Of course. I can take you to her.”

“That’s all right. I remember the way. You should get back to your work.”

Lavellan hesitates. She looks torn between wanting to help more, and knowing she can’t afford the distraction. Hawke makes the decision for her.

“You don’t need to take care of me. You don’t have time. Thedas needs you. Don’t let… all this be a distraction.” Hawke looks her directly in the eye, unflinching. “Go to your duties.” She knows all too well how disastrous things can go when you let friendship blind you from what’s happening in the outside world. The scorched ruins of a city she can no longer bear to walk flash across her mind, just as painful to remember now as it was years ago.

The inquisitor nods, curtly.

“Farewell,” she replies, and before she can add more, Hawke turns towards Skyhold, climbing up the main steps before she can see where Lavellan goes.

__________

Hawke hesitates for a few moments on the stairwell of the rotunda, trying to clear her head before entering the top floor. For a wild moment, she considers fleeing instead, just taking off and leaving all this mess behind her.

But she knows she won’t. She can’t—the Fears would still plague her, no matter where she went. And despite what she told Varric, she does want to know. She needs to. Desperately. She takes a deep breath, and walks into the room at the top of the tower.

Leliana stands, arms braced against a table as she peers over the maps scattered across it. She looks up as Hawke approaches, flashing an unsurprised grin—undoubtedly she knew she was on her way to speak to her already.

“Champion. I am pleased you have rejoined us. I hardly dared to hope the reports were true, at first.”

“A surprise to everyone, I’m sure. Myself perhaps most of all.”

“I already have the reports from Scout Harding, of course, but if you have a moment, I would greatly appreciate a first-hand account of—“

“Later,” Hawke interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. That’s not why she came here. “Varric told me you sent a message to Fenris.”

“Oh,” the Spymaster blinks, adjusting to the shift in topic. “Of course. Yes, Varric asked us to keep an eye on him after Adamant, and we’ve tried to check in when we can. Once we found him again, one of my people took him a message—after we were sure it was you that was found, and that you were, well, really alive.”

“What did he say?” Hawke digs her fingernails into her palms, fighting tokeep her posture from betraying her anxiety.

“Ah,” for the first time Hawke has seen, the former bard looks uncomfortable. “We do not actually know where he is anymore, exactly. Once he got the message, he just walked away. My spy assumed he was heading back to where he had been staying, but when she got there, he was nowhere to be found. He must have just immediately left the town.” A crease of irritation appears on her forehead, presumably aimed at the less-than-diligent messenger. “I’m sorry. We are searching for him now, and I’m sure we will know soon—”

“There’s no need. Find the nearest port town. He’d have gotten on the first ship to leave, even if it wasn’t the fastest.” Hawke closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath. So. He is coming to Skyhold. And sometime within the next three weeks, he will be here, and then she will have to see.

Leliana blinks again. “I’ll send someone to check the harbor records right away.”

Hawke turns towards the stairs. She doesn’t need any confirmation. She knows. And she’s decided she doesn’t feel like talking much now, especially not about the sorts of things the Spymaster would want to know. She’d pick apart her story—the one she’d officially given the Inquisition—and immediately see all the places it didn’t line up. It is not in her nature to hide instead of fight, but there are things she’s not ready for everyone to find out just yet.

__________

The room they have given her this time is located above the inner yard of the fortress, on an outdoor walkway. When she peers into the other rooms nearby, one looks abandoned, and the other is still a mess of fallen timbers and rubble. She’s not certain if the Inquisitor gave these quarters to her intentionally, or if it was a chance assignment. Regardless, she won’t be bothering anyone during the night now, silencing wards or not.

To her surprise, her old pack sits on the small desk. They must have stored it somewhere and forgotten about it. There’s not much inside—a few changes of clothes, some small mementos from her time in Kirkwall, a now moth-eaten scarf. And one of Varric’s books, which she’d almost been finished with before she left. She can’t even imagine reading it now, the pages like stepping into her past life, before everything went so terribly wrong. Suddenly, the room seems too confining. She needs to walk, or wander, or anything. She exists, not bothering to lock the door.

Skyhold has changed much since her last stay. Areas that had once been only rubble are now a mess of half-finished repairs, and places where scaffolding once stood are now polished as though the keep had been in careful use for the last century. More people have flocked here now, too—not just recruits and refugees, but minor nobles and wealthy merchants now mingle in the great hall and yard. Hardly anyone takes notice of her, let alone recognize who she is. The few times she sees eyes widen in remembrance and surprise, she slips into another hallway or up a staircase, before they can try to greet her.

Sunset finds her on the battlements, perched atop one of the great stone slabs as she watches the people below go about their business. She hears footsteps approach long before she looks up, the dainty quick steps of slippered feet.

“Champion, it is so good to have you back with us,” Josephine greets her warmly, giving a tiny curtsey Hawke suspects is exactly appropriate for their relative stations.

Hawke inclines her head politely, and the diplomat continues, as she steps forward to lean against the battlement and gaze across the grounds as well.

“If there is anything we can do to make your stay more comfortable, you have only to ask. I’ve already arranged for tonight’s dinner to be sent to your quarters, if that is all right—I suspect you aren’t I the mood to dodge questions from our visiting dignitaries and the others who have heard of your return.”

“Oh!” Hawke is grateful, both for the foresight and for the fact that Josephine doesn’t seem to have a thousand questions for her like everyone else. “Yes, that will be fine, thank you.” Truth be told, she’d forgotten she would need to eat again entirely, another unshaken habit of her time spent trapped in the unchanging Fade.

“And I do mean anything. Feel free to send a message to me with any of our staff, or come to me directly, no matter the hour.” She gives Hawke’s shoulder a light pat, not familiar enough to be a hug, but still a brief suggestion of comfort. “The Inquisition owes you a great deal,” she continues seriously. “Your actions doubtless saved the Inquisitor and those who accompanied her at Adamant. We would be remiss not to offer you any resources we have, of course, but I hope you know it is more than a debt we seek to repay.” Far below them, soldiers have lined up for drill, filling the air with the clashing sound of blades. “You came to help us, at great risk to yourself, when we desperately needed aid. No one has forgotten. I hope you will make use of us as a friend, if there is anything you would see done.”  With that, she steps back from the walled edge, brushing minute traces of dust from her golden blouse.

“I believe Varric hoped to join you to dine,” she adds. “He is likely at your room, if you wish.” Her skirts swish gently as she briskly steps down the stairs, and Hawke sighs, swinging her legs around to stand on the walkway and head back.

Varric is indeed waiting in her room, with the promised dinner. Seeing her expression, he drops any plans of asking after her condition or schemes for making her well, and instead fills her in on the doings of their old companions. Isabela, against all odds, is still captaining her ship, and has neither been arrested nor mutinied against. Aveline and Donnic are still keeping Kirkwall running, or at least limping along as well as before. Carver is—well, Carver. And so on.

She knows she should write to them all herself, but it seems an exhausting task. Instead, she asks Varric to send along word that she is as well as can be expected, and will be back in touch with them soon. His casual disposition falters at her lie regarding her wellbeing, but he does not push her. He continues his stories as Hawke picks at the meat and bread in front of her. The food all seems too rich, too filling, after so long of being strangely empty yet never hungering. She does continue her near-constant consumption of tea, however.

It is well after dark when he departs, eyes flickering with unspoken concern as he hugs her once before leaving. After he goes, the room seems almost oppressive in its silence.

“I’m back,” she says out loud, experimentally. The words do not echo, but do nothing to fill the empty room.

“I survived. I’m alive,” she tries, testing the words on her tongue and in the air, and wonders if they will ever stop tasting like a lie.

Chapter Text

In the end, she cannot bring herself to attempt sleep that night. She spends a few hours tossing and turning restlessly in the bed, which feels too-soft on her wearied limbs, before dressing again and creeping into the night. This late, the Keep seems almost a different place entirely. The halls are empty and dark, illuminated only by the torches infrequently scattered along the walls. The only other people she sees are merry folk staggering drunkenly from the Tavern to their rooms, or tired sentries finally trudging to bed after a late shift. They are easy enough to avoid, as she roams. She walks through wings and rooms not yet renovated, the cold air slanting through gaps in the ceiling with the moonbeams, a world of shadows and bluish silver. Hawke descends a set of stairs and walks through rooms of unfamiliar artwork, portraits of places and people she can’t recognize.

Down there, in the dark cellar, she also finds a tiny library, seemingly abandoned. The desk is littered with old candles, the now-cool wax dribbled across each other and onto the wood. While many of the books look ancient, in tongues she can’t even recognize, others are more recent—histories of the surrounding countries, faded maps, scraps of dusty parchment with notes scribbled across them. Everything is covered in a layer of cobwebs, even the huge tome lying open on the desk, as though someone had paused mid-page to step out for a moment and never returned. She shivers, remembering the giant, bulbous spider whose parting “gift” haunts her still, but brushes the spiderwebs off one of the old heavy books on the shelf anyway. Curious, she removes it and opens the volume, letting the pages flip forward with one thumb. It’s in Tevine, and while she can’t read it, the illustrations are clear enough—as are the teachings of Melivia as they whisper in the back of her mind what each cruel diagram is used for.

She closes the book and puts it back on the shelf.

Her night wandering ends as light begins to slowly reach across the surrounding mountaintops. She heads through a solid-looking door in the yard, and after a long downward stair finds herself in Skyhold’s dungeon. A sleepy guard looks at her quizzically as she enters, but evidently he recognizes her, as he makes no move to stop her and offers a tired salute instead. There isn’t much to guard—there either aren’t any prisoners, or they are sleeping and out of sight. She doesn’t feel inclined to investigate and find out for sure.

Instead, she heads through another door on the opposite side of the room. Beyond are the half-intact remnants of another hall of cells, ending abruptly where the wall has fallen away and there stands nothing but open air. A spring that must flow from somewhere beneath the fortress bubbles out into the air, cresting into a waterfall that tumbles down to the cliffs far below with a roar. Hawke hadn’t known about this underground river, and she creeps closer to the edge, curious. Dawn has already begun to break, and the snow-capped peaks gleam with pale pink light in the distance. The view from this lower outcrop is just as impressive as the one from the battlements. An old wooden support beam juts out past the edge of the crumbling floor, hanging over the open air beside the thundering waterfall and above the plunging cliffs.

Cautiously, she steps onto the beam, testing her weight. The solid wood groans a little at the pressure, but does not move. She edges forward a bit, just past the stone lip of the floor. It still holds. In only three steps more, she is at the end, suspended over the yawning chasm below.

She looks down.

The ground is too far below to make out, just the craggy edges of boulders along the cliff faces, fading in and out of sight in the whirling blanket of wind-whipped snow. Her pulse involuntarily quickens, heartbeat pounding louder in her ears than even the rushing water beside her, momentarily drowning out the murmuring Fears. The drop would be dizzying if not for the fact that an instant of vertigo could easily send her tumbling over the edge. Her breath catches as a stray gust of wind throws droplets of water against her skin, the liquid as frigid as the ice below.

“Ser?!” a panicked voice asks behind her.

Slowly, careful not to lose her balance, she turns her head. The guard stands in the doorway, now wide awake and wide-eyed. She takes five cautious but quick steps backwards, hopping back to the stone floor and away from the edge.

“Just looking,” she tells him, and smiles. There is no pleasure in her eyes, but the young elf nods uncertainly, and steps aside as she walks back into the dungeon and heads for the stairs.

The hours pass. The halls of the Keep fill, and everywhere she goes she hears the sound of people. Every time a door opens or a piece of cutlery drops, her heart leaps and her hand twitches to a staff that isn’t there, waiting for attacks that never come.

And it wasn’t that she’d grown used to the solitude of the Fade, not exactly; even as she’d crept and battled her way through, the loneliness had worried at her heart like a famished wolf. But not for these strangers, these unfamiliar eyes and thin whispering mouths that follow her every movement.

Afternoon comes, and she shuts herself away, locked in the stuffy room lit by a fire that now boils her endless amounts of water for tea. For the first few hours, she stains her fingers and two dozen sheets of parchment trying to write letters. A letter. They are all the same, and none are sufficient:

            I miss you. I love you. You’ll hate me. I need you. Forgive me.

            I’m sorry.

            I’m sorry.

            I’m sorry.

She can’t tell him through such impersonal means, seal whatever fate awaits their relationship with a score of miles still between them. But there is nothing else she can think to say.

For the next few hours, she sits unmoving, staring into the fire. Around her, Skyhold’s halls fill, empty, fill.

__________

Varric comes again to dine with her. Hawke is glad for the distraction, just as she is glad he tried to give her space during the day. Words are his trade and his pleasure, but he doesn’t wring them from her in order to know what she wants. His eyes sweep briefly over the mess of crumpled pages that burry her desk, and he does not mention them.

They eat. They talk. Hawke can’t remember the conversations, and is vaguely aware she’s probably trailed off mid-sentence more than once, not recalling how she’d meant for it to end. She can feel his pity for her tingeing the air, even if he keeps it off of his face, but it still burns in her throat like bile. Hawke does not want pity. She has never wanted for others to doubt her strength.

When he departs that night, she knows she must sleep again, and face once more whoever’s pasts come to torment her tonight. Their muffled shouts a her mind have grown too loud to deny. Methodically, she undresses, carefully folding her clothes and belt into neat piles on the small chest that now contains her belongings. And then there is nothing to do, but lie down, and surrender.

__________

            “You hurt us. You have strayed from the path. You have hurt yourself.

            We will bring you home.”

            Hands bind her arms behind her back, her sight already obscured with a blindfold. She does not resist as the ropes cross over and around her—his chest.

            “I have failed you,” he hears his voice reply.

            “You must be punished,” he hears the voices respond, and they are sad—sorry it has come to this, as he is sorry.

            “You must learn.”

            The first blow lands across his shoulders, heavy enough to make even his muscular form stagger. The second strikes into his gut, driving the wind from his lungs as the third cracks sharply against the backs of his knees, driving him to the ground. He does not tense, does not resist, even as he knows he could lash out at them, snap his bonds and be free.

            They know it, too.

            “You deserve this,” they whisper, and he understands it is true. “We loved you. We made you. We gave you our strength.”

            He can feel blood dripping from his forehead, his back; as the lashes scour his skin. The cuts feel numb and tingly, some medicine or poison coating the weapons and working its way into his flesh. Already, his mind grows dull, until he can’t tell the chorus of voices apart from his own thoughts.

            “You left us. You hurt us. We’ll help you. We love you.”

            The blows stop, hands gently caressing his limbs, helping him to his feet. They trace across the slashes in his skin, bringing more blissful numbness and fog. The hands may or may not be attached to the voices that sing to him, but it does not matter. They belong to the voices, as does he.

            “You need only ever to ask,” they murmur from above, and he throws his head back, pleading.

            “Save me,” he begs them.

            Cold palms roughly grasp his horns, wrenching his neck forward and, to his shame, he cries out as he tumbles blindly into frigid seawater. He sinks like a stone, the weight of his body and his bonds dragging him beneath the surface. Blinded still, he cannot tell which way the air lies, and he struggles frantically as bubbles spew from his bloodied nose and mouth. The pool seems to have no bottom, nothing to anchor to or push off of. Icy water trickles into his throat, lungs burning as he can’t hold back his coughs and they too fill with liquid. His mind buzzes, time slowed down with drugs and panic, and while he can’t be under for more than a few minutes it feels like hours.

            Then the hands have him again, pulling him up, up, and out, into the blessed air.

            “Oh, my child,” they mourn as he chokes, vomiting up saltwater and blood. “Why did you go? We only wanted to save you.”

            Their touch is warm now to his shivering skin, holding up his chest as the last of the seawater leaves his lungs. “You used to be perfect, one of us, one of many. Now you are alone and you suffer. Come back to us. We love you. Come home.”

            A whip cracks, slicing the skin of his forearm. His blindfold is half-undone from his struggles, but even if he were to open his good eye, the room would be dark. There is no safety he can seek here, no word to end it all and bring relief. It is a trial and a test, and if he cannot pass, he does not deserve their kindness.

            “When you are alone, you can be hurt. When you are with us, there will be no ending between you and everyone else. Never room for doubt, or fear. How can one body die when all of us are linked?” He isn’t sure if the words are actually spoken aloud, or merely echo inside his skull.

            A kick lands at the small of his back, sending throbbing aches coursing up his limbs. Then again they are tender, holding him close, cupping his tear-stained face.

            “Help me,” he asks them again, and they sigh together in sorrow as they plunge him again into the freezing pool. Even as he falls, he hears them:

            “You were the heart of many, how can you bear the pain of being only one? We will save you. We will bring you home.”

            Once again, he is drowning. His thoughts twist between slow and muddied and frenzy-fast, but he is sure of one thing:

            He is loved.

__________

The sun is already beginning its afternoon descent by the time she opens her eyes and finally finds them her own. Her nightshirt sticks against her damp skin, and the sheets are tangled about her legs from her thrashing. She peels them away from her body, shivering as she tugs on a tunic and breeches. The fire had gone out sometime as she slept, and the chilly outside air seeps in through the hairline cracks of the door. She debates the effort of rebuilding the fire for tea, but the Fears have once more retreated enough to be manageable without.

She only meant to hurry through the main hall in order to get to the yard, but she holds back when she sees Varric, pouring over a map next to the rotunda doorway. His arms are folded tightly as he stares down at the table, face a mixture of anxiety, excitement, and regret.

“Varric?” She questions, and he starts, rubbing one huge hand over his face as she approaches.

“Sorry, Hawke. You startled me.”

“Busy morning?” she guesses.

“You don’t know the half of it,” he sighs, and she notices a shadow of guilt creep into his expression. “Something’s come up.”

“What? Guild business? Book troubles?”

“Worse. More red lyrium. And… Bianca paid me a visit.”

Hawke’s face is blank for a moment, a puzzled frown barely creasing her forehead. But after a second, it shifts quickly to shock and something between delight and reproach.

“Bianca’s a person? Is it—by the Maker, it’s a woman, isn’t it? I knew it!”

“Not so loud! I am telling you this in the strictest confidence, if anyone found out—“

But Hawke chatters away gleefully, albeit in more hushed tones. “I can’t believe she came here. She made Bianca—I mean, the pointy one—didn’t she?! She had to. And you’ve carried it with you all this time! You told me that old Carta friend of yours was the one who built it!” She accuses, pointing sternly at his chest—an effect entirely ruined by the silent laughter rocking her shoulders.

“I said hush! And Gerav—well, he did try to build something like a repeating crossbow, it just… never quite worked out. But it’s safer for everyone involved if the Merchant’s Guild and anyone else paying attention thinks the builder is long dead.” He gives her a pointed look. “Understood?”

Hawke sighs, but nods. “Fine. But someday I’m going to make you tell me everything.”

“You can try, Champion. But anyway. The rest of the news… was not exactly great.”

She lets out a slow breath, somber once more. “Red lyrium. Has the Inquisition found out more about it, then?”

“They’ve got an Arcanist working on it. But according to my “source,” Corypheus’ minions may be getting it from the same thaig where we discovered the Idol.”

Hawke winces. “That is not good.”

“Very,” he agrees. “If Valammar’s been discovered by them—who knows how many others might start finding their way.”

She nods slowly. “We can’t risk letting anyone just wander in.” She hears, also, what he is not telling her. “You’re going to have to go deal with it yourself.”

“The Inquisition should do what they can to seal it,” he agrees, but bites his lip in unease. “The Inquisitor asked me to bring her to it right away.”

And Hawke finally realizes: this is no longer her duty, her mess to solve and mend. And not only is it not her job—it is not something she can even help with. She is not the one in charge here, in any capacity. Not only does she not know most of what’s been happening during her absence; she came back weak, tired, and filled with a sickness no one knows how to cure. She would not be going on this adventure with him, and as much as she hated the Deep Roads and everything that came out of their last fated venture there—it stings, another tiny fishhook snagging inside her heart, reminding her of all she has lost. Everything in her past—or at least everything important—was built on the fact that she was the one who did things. She made the decisions. She determined what was necessary, and then she did it.

And now she is stuck in a stony fortress like a dying animal in an open cage—able to leave, but knowing it would make no difference to struggle.

She tries not to let it show. “You should go soon, then,” she tells him, neither smiling nor frowning. “It’ll take you days to get there, and if you can cut off Corypheus’ supply, it might greatly weaken his forces.”

Varric sighs heavily. “I know, but—there are other pressing things, too. It’s not—if you don’t…”

“Go,” she tells him firmly. “I’m going to be fine. Nothing’s going to be able to get to me past all these bricks. And I don’t just mean the guards.”

He gives half a smile at her joke, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It shouldn’t take long. We just have to close off the tunnels. Make sure no one else can get in and mess around.”

“It’ll be fine,” she reassures him again, trying to convince the both of them. “They need you. This is important.” She doesn’t let him try to contradict what is left unsaid—that she no longer is significant herself. Just another tool that was used until it broke; now to be stored somewhere out of sight and gather dust.

Instead, she sits across from him, pointing to the map. “Now tell me, how the hell are you going to get there? Kirkwall’s not exactly walking distance. More Deep Roads?” She keeps him talking about the route, his packing, Inquisitor Lavellan’s plans. Anything but herself. After they eat that night, and he prepares to head to bed, she promises to see him off in the morning to say goodbye.

Alone in her room again, she lays on top of her bed, not bothering to fix the still-tangled blankets. She stares above her at nothing at all, and thinks about far too much. She wonders just how many people she can manage to push away, despite the fact that no matter how much she hides, she can no longer feel alone the only place she truly wants to—in her own mind.

She does not sleep.

Chapter Text

With Varric away, Hawke throws herself into tactics for combating the night terrors. During the following days, she makes use of the Inquisition’s resources and equipment, crafting potion after potion. She concocts stimulants that keep her hyper-aware and twitching for three days straight, and sleeping draughts that knock her so far into unconsciousness she should not even be able to enter the Fade. She spends hours in the tiny cramped library, reading books written by Somniari that Dorian has taken to leaving next to her door with helpful notes about the translations. Otherwise, she works through piles of accounts of the Fade, borrowed from Solas. She pours over the pages while hyped up on energy tonics, and while struggling to keep her eyes open before she passes out, hoping that maybe some remnants of what she’s learned will stay with her this time.

Nothing works. She ends up either walking around in such vivid waking-dreams she nearly falls off the battlements, or passed out in bed for so long she awakens weak and shaking with hunger. Without Varric there to regulate her schedule with meals, she begins to drift nocturnal: ghosting through the Keep at night with no one to see her, and spending her days bedridden and thrashing in the grip of the Fears.

She startles herself one day by wandering into an unfinished room just to see movement from within—but when she shoots out a small fireball of alarm, it meets only her own startled visage reflected in a cracked mirror still hanging on the wall. Hawke stares at herself, almost unrecognizable—the weeks without real rest have left her face haggard, the dark circles beneath her eyes adding years, if not a decade, to her appearance. She still hasn’t gotten the hang of eating, and her clothes hang from her gaunt frame like billowing sheets left to dry in a breeze. She looks more like a wraith than a person, as though she could dissolve or float away at any time. She turns away, finding herself somehow ashamed. She avoids mirrors after that.

Despite her avoidance of daytime company, she makes a point of seeking out Leliana at least once a day. Every time, the Spymaster gives her the same answer: they have not yet heard from Fenris. They know the ship he left on—her people find his name in the dock records of the very one Hawke told them he’d go for—but as far as they know, the ship has not made port yet. It’s a reasonable time for travel on the coast of the Free Marches, but—well. Hawke throws herself into her research instead, reading texts so ancient she can barely understand the spelling to distract herself from the imagined storms and shipwrecks that assault her heart. If something were to happen to him, after all this, before she even has a chance to explain herself to him—she doesn’t want to consider it. It isn’t an option.

After more than an entire week of potions and trials and books, she gives up. It is as she suspected: the nightmares are growing worse. They drag her into the Fade no matter what precautions she’s taken, and with greater frequency. Each time she succumbs, it is harder to retain any sense of self during the onslaught, falling faster and harder into the illusionary lives.  And each time she wakes, it grows more difficult to remember who she is—that she is not the person who’s terror she just lived; that she has no reason to be afraid. Doesn’t she have enough demons of her own, rearing up at her from her past, without all these others?

Sometimes, also, she senses someone else in the Fade with her, as though they are trying to pull her back—but their grip is never strong enough. Sometimes, when she wakes she thinks she recalls a wolf, but can never place why.

After her latest attempt, she awakens trembling and feeble. Slowly, the remnants of dream shed from her like old skin, her hands and thoughts gradually becoming recognizable once more. She drains an entire pitcher of water as soon as she summons the strength to lift it to her lips, and glances around the chilly room. From the looks off the cold ashes in the fire, she’d slept for at least two days, maybe three. Shivering with both the chill and hunger, she rises to glance outside. The sky has grown almost fully dark, the last echoes of sunset still bouncing off the snow between the long mountain shadows. She knows she should find some food, regain her strength to try again. But she is out of potions and out of ideas.

She decides to get a drink instead.

Skyhold’s tavern is crowded, as always. The main—if not only—place for casual socialization, there is never a time when patrons aren’t staggering in or out. Almost as soon as she’s through the door, she regrets her decision. Everything here is bright and glaring, the people too boisterous and loud after her self-imposed solitude. But she’s already inside, so shaking her head to clear it, she heads to the bar and picks up a pint of ale. She doesn’t know if the barkeep recognizes her or is too polite to comment, and she’s past caring. She takes her drink to a table shoved into a corner, hoping that most of the others will be too inebriated to realize who she is. Unfortunately, as she sits she can see several guests already craning their necks, and the familiar whispering soon rises as people find excuses to walk past.

She stares blandly at the table, swallowing a mouthful of the alcohol. It burns sharp against the cuts in her mouth where she’s chewed at her lips and the insides of her cheeks, and she grimaces as she sets the mug back on the table. At the edges of her vision, she can see some already half-drunken men prodding at each other, daring themselves to come up to her. She sets her face into a scowl, hoping to discourage them before they work up the nerve.

Instead, a tankard slams heavily onto the table beside hers. She looks up, startled, and the huge Qunari mercenary plonks himself down in the chair next to her. She’s not sure how such a large man managed to sneak up without her notice—especially since she’s in a corner—but his appearance seems to have cowed the other men back into their seats. She’d forgotten he was missing an eye, and she can’t help but glance at the patch for a few moments. He’s giving her an odd look, and abruptly she realizes she’s still half-wearing the glare she was prepared to give the men.

She rearranges her face into something like a smile of greeting.

“Hey. Iron Bull, right?”

“Yup.” He doesn’t bother pretending to have doubts about who she is. “So. The Fade, huh?”

 “Yup.” Hawke takes another swig of ale. Even though she’s barely a third of the way through her first serving, her tongue and fingers are already slightly tingly.

The Iron Bull drops a loaf of bread and a knife onto the table, and cuts himself a slice before pushing it over to her. There is no pity or rebuke in the gesture, only casual insistence. She slightly resents that her weakness is so visible—but it doesn’t stop her from taking a piece anyway.

“You killed the big spider demon then, huh? Must’ve been one hell of a fight.”

Hawke realizes he’s impressed with her, and shrugs. “A lot of it was luck. I probably should be dead.”

“Don’t discount yourself. It’d be like… taking out a dragon, single-handed. While surrounded by crazy demons. Damn!” He takes an enormous gulp from his mug, pounding it back on the table while he coughs violently. She wrinkles her nose as the fumes from the cup reach her, strong enough to make her eyes water from a foot away.

He notices. “I’d offer you some in honor of the fight, but it’d probably kill you. Qunari recipe.” He cuts himself another slice of bread, and she takes the hint to do the same.

“Thanks anyway.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, watching the bard as her hands flutter across her lute. It’s too loud for Hawke to make out the words to the song, but despite the quick rhythm, the notes somehow make her sad—until a shout reaches them from the banister above.

“Bull! You’re never going to guess what I found.” The spiky-haired girl vaults herself over the railing, hanging on the edge for a moment before dropping and rolling to the floor. The stairs are only a dozen paces away, but she bounces to her feet as though she’s done this a dozen times. “Y’know that serving girl with the—oh. It’s you.”

Hawke meets the girl’s annoyed gaze, slightly baffled by her disappointed tone.

“Nevermind. Talk to you later, Bull.” She wanders away, wrinkling her nose, but not before Hawke catches her mumbled “—too friggin creepy—”.

She takes another long swig of ale, almost to the bottom of her glass.

“Sorry. Sera can be—”

Hawke waves off the rest of Bull’s apology. “I don’t need people to like me,” she tells him. “I should head out, though.”

"There’s no need—“

“It’s not that. People are giving me looks again; someone will probably try to talk to me soon. Guess you’re only good for half an hour of intimidation.”

“I could growl a bit. Maybe break a chair in half.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I should get back to my research anyway.” She drains the last of her drink, grimacing at both the taste and the thought of another day in the flickering light of the hidden library.

He shrugs, and she leaves the tavern, diligently managing to not catch anyone’s eye as she goes. She wasn’t lying to Bull, but she left out the other reason for her departure—whenever she looks at him, she feels like she can’t breathe, as though her lungs are filling up with water.

Dutifully, she heads to Leliana’s tower, taking the long way round via the battlements to avoid the gentry who gather in the main hall. As she enters the room, the message-crows caw and crak at her arrival, and the Spymaster looks up.

“Champion,” she greets her with a smile, but there is no pleasure in her face. On all Hawke’s previous visits, she’d always looked disappointed but optimistic about her spies’ abilities to locate Hawke’s lover. Dread sweeps through Hawke before the woman says anything more. She clasps her wrists behind her back to hide the trembling of her hands.

“What happened?” Hawke asks.

“Nothing has happened, really—not exactly. It’s just, well, the ship that Fenris was supposed to be on. It departed from Cumberland as planned, and stopped for supplies in a small town on the coast of the Free Marches before it left for Jader. Apparently it stayed in port an extra two days to wait out a storm. My people there say that when it left again, Fenris was not on board.”

Her heart feels as though it’s trapped inside her throat. “What does that even mean?”

“He was apparently seen… arguing with the captain after the first night. After he stormed away, he did not return to the ship.”

Hawke closes her eyes, and asks, “What else?”

“I’m afraid that’s all people remembered. The ship left yesterday.”

She fights the urge to shake the woman for information she knows she doesn’t have, taking a deep breath and digging her nails into her wrists instead.

“We will find him, Champion. I am sure of it.”

She doesn’t trust herself to speak. Hawke turns away from Leliana without reply, and leaves the tower room. She ignores Dorian’s friendly hello, and the worried-sounding question he tries to ask her as she flees the rotunda. She forces her way through the hall, eyes blurry, ignoring the dim protests as she brushes past people—protests that die out once they see who’s rushed past them.

Hawke hates them all for thinking they know her.

She makes it to the underground library before she breaks down. She bars the door and sits crumpled on the floor with her back to the bookshelf, weeping openly for the first time in weeks.

It isn’t fair, is all she can think.

She knows how petty this sounds; how childish. But it’s true. She has been struggling and fighting and running since the day they left Ferelden, and what she has to show for it are scars and painted faces of dead family members, because they’ve already started to fade in her mind. When she looks in the mirror, sometimes she sees Bethany’s eyes, staring out from a face Hawke can hardly recognize as her own. She has spent the last decade building her own family out of the broken shards of people as they fell into her orbit, and while they didn’t fit together well at first, time has ground away their rough edges like sand. But even that scattered in the end—try as they might to stay connected, she can feel the threads between them all stretching thinner. So much has been taken from her. She cannot bear the idea that the fragile life she’s managed to stitch together out of passion and arguments, bright red silk and apologies—that all this too might now be shattered.

He was never supposed to be the one who died.

She knows, realistically, that he is almost certainly alive. He has handled himself before in battles and escapades—almost everything she faced in Kirkwall, he was beside her, dealing with it as well. She had refused to let him come with her to help the Inquisitor because, she thinks, she always knew she was the one doomed to die. Ever since everything fell apart in Kirkwall, she has felt like a bomb, just waiting to detonate. As though somewhere inside her an hourglass slowly counted down the hours until she finally pays the price the world keeps demanding from her. Too much blood had already been spilled from those she loved—there was no way it could take him from her, too. She was determined not to let it happen again, that this time if something went wrong, it would finally be just her against everything else.

She was wrong, of course. If Fenris were here, he would point it out himself—you are good for more than dying, Hawke. She was completely prepared to sacrifice everything, and somehow survived, with so much evil plaguing her mind she half-wishes she hadn’t after all.

But he isn’t here, and she doesn’t know when he will be, and nothing feels fair. She can’t even concentrate on her own grief through all the babbling shadows trying to make themselves heard inside her head. Angrily, she tugs at her long shirtsleeves, tearing at the tight fabric she’s taken to wearing to ensure no one sees her scars who might recognize them.

No one would notice a few more, either. She hates herself for it as she pulls out her knife, but all she wants now is silence, and she knows no other way to find it.

Chapter Text

After she has run out of tears and her seething self-hatred is replaced by drained numbness, Hawke returns to her room. Dawn is breaking, and she can’t stand the idea of another day spent struggling through crumbling texts while knowing it won’t help, not anymore. She sits at her desk for a few minutes, staring at the pile of blank papers, still waiting to be turned into letters. Abruptly, she stands to straighten her belongings, but there are few of them, and it takes her only a few moments to re-fold and organize her clothes and trinkets. She clears away the old ashes and re-stokes the fire, even refilling the woodpile with fresh logs from the storage in the yard. For the first time since she’s arrived, she makes the bed.

Nothing is enough to distract her. She flips idly through the pile of letters and invitations and messages she’s been studiously ignoring since her arrival, merely kicking them to the edge of the room as they’re slid under her door each day.

There’s an old note from Varric, telling her he’s coming to dine with her. One from Josephine reiterating her promise to provide her with anything she needs. There are eleven messages from a dwarf named Dagna, written in tiny cramped (if neat) handwriting, each longer than the last. She skims the first, sees the phrase “questions about your time in the Fade”, and sets the whole pile aside. Next is a gilded card on creamy thick paper, inviting her to take tea one afternoon with Madame de Fer, the date in question for five nights ago. The other slurry of invitations and regards are mostly names she does not recognize, lesser nobles hoping to impress their friends or courts by mingling with Kirkwall’s Champion. These she tosses into the fire.

She is already tired. She has only been awake for half a day, and while she managed to quiet the Fears for a while, they have begun to bubble back as always. Even when she sleeps without the effects of potions, she lays unconscious for longer and longer stretches. They are winning. Soon, she suspects, she will not be able to wake up from them at all. She will be held in the Fade until her physical body begins to waste away and she can’t remember she was ever anything but pain and sorrow. She doesn’t know if she can believe in the Maker anymore, but what if she does die? What if even that doesn’t end it? When her soul passes through the Fade on her way to—wherever, if there even is anywhere to go—what if even then, they refuse to let her go? An eternity of torment.

She does not know what to do. Or rather—she knows what she will need to do, to stop them, and does not want to do it. But after everything she has been through, the tiny voice inside her that whispers “no” is thin and wavering. A tiny last resistance to the only option she sees left.

Instead, exhausted, she sinks into bed, and surrenders herself to sleep once more. Before she loses herself, a last thought flutters across her mind, moth-like: Perhaps I deserve this.

__________

            When she wakes, she is surrounded by flames, and her screaming only makes them burn brighter. She hears no sounds but the roar of the fire and the crackle of popping wood. Every door she touches chars into ash, her feet sinking through every floorboard as they crumble beneath her. Choking on smoke, she stumbles through the house, crying as she calls for her family.

            “Mama?”

            There are no replies. Tiny fingers scrabble clumsily with locks and latches, the metal handle glowing with heat. It burns her fingers, just as the fires burn her feet, but the flames do not catch on her skin. That should have been her first clue.

            When she finally stumbles into the night, everything is chaos. Beams of wood groan as they crack and fall, collapsing roofs quickly muffling the screaming beneath them. She can only watch in wide-eyed horror, uncomprehending, as she stands in the middle of the destruction. It feels like a dream, as she waits untouched by the blaze. If it weren’t for the smog still stinging her eyes and burning in her lungs, she wouldn’t believe it was real.

            She doesn’t understand why no one is coming.

            She doesn’t understand that the fire won’t hurt who made it.

            It is three days before they find her. The wafting pillar smoke was seen from miles away, and after no one heard word from the village—well. The Templars were summoned.

            She is curled in the ashes when they find her; some of the ruins still smoking. She waits by the charred timber skeleton that might once have been a wall of her room. When she tries to ask them about her family, they laugh and shake their heads. They do not mean to be cruel. They simply have been trained that she is no longer really a person, not anymore.

            “Can’t you see what you did?” they ask.

            “By the Maker, she managed to burn down the entire town herself? She can’t be older than five,” one remarks to his companion, as they haul her to her feet. She is too weak to walk, so the man in the shining silver sighs, and picks her up.

            As they leave, some part of him seems to remember he holds not just an abomination in the Maker’s eyes, but a child.

            “What’s your name,” he asks gruffly.

            “Viv,” she tells him.

            She does not know where they are going. Only that they have rescued her. And that, somehow, she will never see her family again, and it is all her fault.

            She doesn’t even know what it means to possess magic. But already she knows she will never cast a fire spell again.

__________

Hawke lays in bed for a long time after she opens her eyes, thinking. The fire has gone out, but the room is not yet cold, and light filters in below the doorframe. Morning, then, and less than a full day after she went to sleep. Not long compared to her other recent ‘nights’, but to sleep so much after only half a day awake... she sighs heavily.

She has put off duty in the face of selfishness since she returned, and it cannot go on forever. She has already let one demon into this world, and the weight of that decision bears down on her heavier each day. How many deaths has it brought, how many lives ruined so far? There is no way to tell, and that makes it worse. She has no idea where Melivia is or what havoc it is wrecking, but she accepts it as her fault. She can’t afford to let any other demons through.

If she waits until Fenris comes, she knows she will never be able to go through with it, no matter the risk otherwise. And if he does not come… well. This way, the pain of that loss won’t matter anymore anyway.

This is the right thing to do, she tells herself, ignoring the sick twist of dread within her stomach. She dresses, and spends long minutes sitting and staring at the trunk of her belongings resting at the foot of her bed. Finally, she reaches in and retrieves a tiny bottle, slipping it carefully into her pocket before she departs.

__________

The Commander is in his office on the battlements, sorting tiredly through a stack of reports, or maybe inventory, Hawke isn’t sure. She stands in the doorway unnoticed for a long while, steadying herself before finally stepping inside.

Cullen glances up as she approaches, and abruptly rises, all but saluting.

“Champion,” he greets her, nodding formally. “I’m sorry I haven’t sought you out sooner, it was poor of me. But one thing comes up after another around here, and, well…”

“You had more important things that needed your attention,” she finishes bluntly before he can blunder out more apology.

“I—well.” He clears his throat awkwardly. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Actually, yes.” Hawke pulls a chair from one corner of the room, settling into it in front of his desk. He copies her, sitting in his own chair directly opposite, steepling his fingers with his elbows resting on the desk while he waits for her to speak.

“You’re a Templar.” She does not phrase it as a question.

Cullen winces visibly. “No. Not any longer. I left the Order when I joined the Inquisition. My sole allegiance is here now.”

“But you had Templar training,” she insists. “You know all their techniques.”

“Well—yes. But that’s not relevant anymore.” He pauses, hesitating, but finally continues at her silence. “I stopped taking lyrium.”

Hawke’s eyebrows shoot up. She knows how lyrium affects non-mages, and how devastating those effects can be, even if she’s never experienced them first-hand. She considers this information for a moment while the commander waits, eyebrows drawn together in puzzlement at her question.

“But it takes a while to leave the system,” she eventually decides. “You could still use the skills for now.”

“I suppose so. I haven’t exactly been interested in trying at the moment. What is this about, Hawke?”

She takes a deep breath. No use waiting any longer. Just get to the point.

“I need you to cut me off from the Fade.”

His chair screeches loudly against the floorboards, flung violently backwards as he surges to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” he says politely, “I cannot possibly have heard you correctly. Did you just ask me to—“ He stops, not even able to finish the sentence as he stars at her incredulously.

She meets his gaze coolly. “You heard what I ask. I don’t pretend to be happy about this request. But it has become necessary.”

“Necess—!“ He strides out from behind the desk, pacing around the tiny room in agitation as she watches in silence. “You cannot possibly understand what you are asking for. You never lived in a Tower; you haven’t seen how it changes people. This isn’t something you can just do and then undo when you realize you don’t like it after all—which doesn’t even matter, because there’s no way I would agree to do that anyway!”

“Look,” she tells him patiently. If she allows herself to feel anything other than calm, she will feel everything. She will feel the cold panic at what she is asking for, the smothering guilt—but also, she knows, the bitter relief of a chance for escape. “Things…  happened. In the Fade. I can’t control myself reliably anymore. If things continue… well. I can’t allow myself to be a risk for possession, not with everything you all have to deal with. I’m a liability.”

He finally looks at her again, understanding softening his eyes.

“Is this about the nightmares?” he asks quietly. “I’m sorry—I know it’s a private matter, but it was in your medical reports. And—I know how difficult it can be to move past something like what you went through. Especially if that demon left even more inside your head. But you’re strong. You can work past all this. Maker’s breath, if you could save all of Kirkwall—numerous times, I might add—you can conquer your own past. Believe me. I understand how much things like that can haunt you.”

“Do you?” she asks faintly, rising to face him. “Do you really think you understand what it’s like for me?” Despite all her efforts to contain her emotions, she can feel the familiar hot rage slowly starting to swell inside her again.

“Before I transferred to Kirkwall, I was stationed at a Circle in Ferelden. The one that fell, or nearly did, anyway.” Cullen runs a hand through his hair, clearly pained by having to bring it up. “What I went through—“

“What you went through? I know what you went through. Do you want to see?”

Angrily, she grabs his wrist, clutching her fingers tightly around his skin.

“What—“ he jerks in surprise, but she does not let go.

Hawke takes a deep breath to center herself—and releases the Fear-memories clamoring inside her, letting them sweep across her mind unrestrained. There is a single instant of relief at finally being able to drop her mental guard, before the jumbled voices rise into their familiar wail and slam into her consciousness.

“You were the last one there,” she gasps, struggling to maintain her grip on reality as her vision swings dizzyingly double—the small cluttered office, but overlaying it, the stone room of the Tower. The ghostly floor is littered with corpses, and the air heavy with the scent of blood.

“You thought they were going to kill you, but they were already bored of killing. You were the last…”

She does not need to tell him—she can half-see him in front of her still, eyes wide in horror, transfixed by her words. But she can also see as he did in the Circle, as the laughing demon approaches, and she knows he can too, now. He is with her; back in the nightmare he hadn’t even known he’d lost a part of. She loses track of herself as the demon comes in, wearing the face of companions he knows have already perished. Together, they watch the gruesome deaths replayed, again and again. Sometimes, the demons wear the visage of his family. Sometime, they adopt his own. When he cries out in anguish as their torture begins in earnest, it is both of their voices that rise into the night, pleading for mercy.

__________

She doesn’t know how long it lasts. Not as long as if she had been truly sleeping. Slowly, Hawke regains herself, exhausted from the effort of staying conscious through the ordeal. Again, she shoves the fears to the back of her mind, re-erecting her mental walls against them.

She realizes she’s fallen to her knees before the former Templar, and can’t find the energy to stand again. He stands statue-rigid, breathing heavily as the waking dream fades from their minds.

Immediately, she feels guilty for what she has forced him into, pulling him back down into his darkest moments of terror. But she does not regret it. She needs what he can do, even if he does not want to give it to her. But she has always been good with people. Making them see her way, agree to help. An invaluable skill in the streets of Kirkwall. And now again.

“How did… when did you realize,” he finally whispers. He stares straight ahead still, empty gaze drifting above her. Despite his stillness, she can feel his hand trembling where she still loosely grips his wrist.

“Yours? Not until I came in here,” she replies, too tired to hide secrets anymore. “The others? I didn’t realize at first. Not all of them are from people I’ve met. Most aren’t. But when I’m near someone…” she exhales slowly, closing her eyes. “They get louder. As though they can tell. And then it’s too strong, I can’t stop from losing myself in them, every time I try to sleep. Every night. Once we got here, I started to suspect. And then I met Bull again, and after that—“ She stops herself, unwilling to reveal the secret horrors locked inside her. It feels wrong, just as it feels wrong to know them herself. Half the time she looks at someone’s face, she can see the dread that could so easily paint across it, and the murmuring stories she can’t unheard.

It doesn’t matter. “They’re getting stronger,” she whispers. “Some days, I won’t be able to wake up at all. If there’s any of me left after they finish taking my mind apart. And then what? They get control of my body? Or any demon that happens to wander by in the Fade, a host not even able to protest?”

“You wouldn’t,” Cullen replies, half-heartedly.

“I wouldn’t be able to stop it,” Hawke insists. “And even if I could? In the face of annihilation, unending torment? It would offer me an escape. And I would take it.”

“You’re stronger than that,” and Hawke doesn’t know if he’s telling her or telling himself.

“No,” she replies anyway, unable to keep the sorrow out of her voice. “I thought I was before, too. But now I know.” The image of Melivia’s mocking smile flashes across her memory, perfect teeth and cold, cruel eyes. Whatever limits she thought she could abide by, she knows them now for lies.

“I’m not safe. And while I’m like this, no one else is either. You swore yourself to the Inquisition, to protect it. And I am telling you now: I am a threat.” She has always, she reflects bitterly, been good with people.

Still kneeling, she reverses her grip on his hand, pressing his palm into her forehead. “It is your duty,” she whispers, and the words are for both of them; as she tries not to think about furious green eyes and her homesickness for a lover she doesn’t know the location of.

“I…” Cullen finally looks down at her, fear and confusion still battling in his gaze. “There has to be someone here who can help you. Who can find a cure.”

“You are the only one left. I haven’t been able to fix this, and the Inquisition has the best resources available. Healers tried. Dorian tried. Solas tried. You know as well as I do that what has happened cannot be reversed. It can only be dealt with.”

She does not break his gaze as she reaches into her pocket, pulling out the small blue bottle. She presses it into the palm of his other hand, hanging limply at his side, and feels his fingers tighten reflexively around it. A shiver runs through him, still able to sense the lyrium through the thin glass. She hadn’t known about his withdrawal before she came, but she shoves aside her guilt as unwilling desire spreads across his expression.

They are both tools, really, and she knows what happens to tools that are no longer useful.

“Please,” Hawke whispers. “Make me Tranquil.”

Chapter Text

“I…” Cullen wavers on the precipice; teetering on the edge of the decision Hawke has thrust him towards.

She closes her eyes, his palm still pressed against the center of her forehead. The seconds tick by unbearably slowly as she hardens herself against what must follow, trying to calm the racing of her heart. In her mind, she holds the image of Fenris’ face, before it can slip away with the rest of her emotions. She does not picture him with the angry, accusing expression that has been haunting her since she returned to the mortal realm, but one more tender—green eyes bright with softer emotions, the ones that took years for her to glimpse beyond his prickly walls.

But—“No,” Cullen says finally, pulling his hand away.

Hawke’s eyes fly open in shocked disbelief.

“I ca—I won’t do this,” he continues, voice growing with resolve, and lets the lyrium bottle slide from between his fingers and drop to the floor. It lands with a light tinkling sound, rolling across the floor until it bumps against the bookshelf. It does not break.

Hawke rises slowly to her feet, expression twisted with pain. She tries to find something to say, but her lips form a wordless, silent snarl instead.

“Whatever you’re facing—you’re stronger than this. You won’t fall.” He won’t stop looking at her, his amber eyes piercing through her, as though he’s peeling away all the barriers she hasn’t been able to drop since she returned.

“You could end this,” she finally manages. “You could erase all that, cut it away so it never comes back.” She wants to be angry, to scream at him, but the words tumble from her lips like begging as the black wave of despair once more rises inside her chest. “I can’t fight it on my own.”

He does not waver.

“I trust you.”

“Then you are a fool,” she spits, and strides from his office. She leaves the lyrium inside with him, a reminder that while he may think her strong, she also can be cruel. People here too often remember that she raised Kirkwall to glittering heights, and forget all the blood it took to bring it there. Even if she regrets this later, he at least will now be on guard around her, if no one else will.

Face like a stormcloud, she stalks furiously along the battlements. Even the soldiers turn aside from her dark gaze as she lets the cold winds lash away at her skin, slowly leaching away her rage before she does something foolish and strikes out at someone undeserving. All she wants is to hit something until it breaks, maybe even herself, but she is not a demon. Not yet.

__________

But something of her mood must remain in her expression when she goes to see Leliana hours later. The Spymaster takes one look at her and abandons whatever question she’d opened her mouth to ask. Instead, she slowly shakes her head. Hawke nods, and turns away. Fenris has still not been found.

As she spirals back down the stairwells of the rotunda, she pauses next to where Dorian lounges in his chair, reading. He glances up as she stops, surprised, but smiles. Even though she’s been back for over a week, she’s avoided talking to any of the Inquisitor’s party face to face, preferring to send them messages or notes if she needs to ask them something.

“Champion!” he declares. “To what do I owe the honor?”

“I wanted to ask you about demons.” In theory, she supposes, this should be a question for Solas. But the Inquisitor took him with her and Varric when they left for the Deep Roads.

“Demons, oh? And what about them?”

“One demon in particular,” she clarifies. “I need to know where it might be. But I don’t know what it would have been called. Or what kind of demon, technically. Called itself a ‘spirit of freedom’.”

He gives her an odd look. “And where did you hear of such a nonspecific demon that convinced you to track it down from afar?”

“Fought it back in Kirkwall,” Hawke says blithely, shrugging. “It got away. Don’t like to think about it out there, it had a nasty streak.”

“Do you remember anything else? I mean, ‘a demon I ran into in an alley once’ isn’t exactly much to go on.”

“I think it was a Desire or Pride demon. Said its name was Melivia, but I’m nearly positive it was lying.” She glances at him as she says its name, but he doesn’t appear to recognize it. “It’s spent time in Tevinter, or at least knew I wasn’t from there within a minute of watching me. And it knew an awful lot about blood magic,” Hawke adds darkly.

Dorian looks at her for a moment, as though considering saying something, and even with the long sleeves that hide the scars across her arms she feels somehow exposed. But eventually he shrugs. “Do you have any texts you’re looking for specifically?”

“Apostate,” she reminds him. “I never had access to circle libraries. Almost everything I knew I had to figure out myself, or picked up by watching people.”

“Ah. Of course. There’s a few compilations of notable demons you could start with, I suppose. Assuming it’d been active within the Imperium within the last century, you might find something that seems familiar. I should be able to send for them myself if Skyhold doesn’t have copies—which is likely, considering the state of their Tevine history sections.”

“Thank you,” she tells him, and she means it. This is not enough to fill the aching hole of defeat and loss the morning has left her with, but anything to fill the hours, to distract her with the impression of moving forward… She accepts another book he offers her on arcane history, figuring it’s as good a place to begin as any, and returns to her room.

__________

Cassandra is waiting at her door when she arrives, tight-lipped and impassive.

            Blood spurts from severed veins as his body slowly tumbles to the ground, slack limbs tangling with each other. She can’t help but stare, transfixed, as his head continues to roll across the ground—too far, unrecognizably far from his torso, this can’t be real. It—his--eyes wide and empty, mouth slightly parted in the shock that was his last expression. She can’t look away, even as the familiar features come to rest in the dirt, only dimly aware of the sound of hoofbeats and angry shouts still going on around her.

“Champion,” she greets Hawke flatly.

“Seeker.” Hawke opens her door, letting Cassandra follow her inside. The warrior does not look as though she will be easily brushed away after a few minutes of chatting. Hawke takes a seat on the edge of her bed, allowing the other woman the desk chair.

Cassandra does not take it. Instead, she stands in front of Hawke, arms crossed over her chest as she stares down at her.

“Cullen told me you came to speak with him,” she begins straightforwardly.

Ah. So that was what this was about.

“Then he also must have told you he refused my request.”

“As well he should have. What were you thinking?!”

“I was thinking exactly what I told him; that I’ve become a dangerous liability to your Inquisition,” Hawke snaps. “Which anyone can see—”

“That is not true!” the Seeker all but shouts, and Hawke realizes with a start that the woman is not concerned for her. She is furious.

“You cannot abandon us when we need help the most. The Inquisition may be growing, but Corypheus’ threat still towers over us. This is no time to run from your fears and leave us,” Cassandra is pacing around the room now, and Hawke sits on the bed and watches, silently. “I know you have been… unwell. And I am sorry for it. But that does not mean you can abandon your duty to your people. We need your skills.”

“Perhaps I tire of being needed so frequently, and for so much.”

Cassandra glares at her. “The Rite of Tranquility is reversible.” She speaks as though unwilling to share the information.

“It—what?” Despite her foul mood, Hawke feels her face go slack with astonishment.

“We did not know. Not until very recently. But it comes from an older ritual… one that was not permanent.” Cassandra’s fingers rub her temples as she admits the world-shattering news. “Whatever else this knowledge may mean for the future… I doubt many would leave you to a peaceful life when they find out this fact. I understand your wish for some kind of certainty in this world. But not this way. It would only bring you more pain, in the end.”

Hawke doesn’t know what to say. Confused emotions clamor inside her as she stares mutely into her palms.

“Reversible,” she whispers. “So many mages live in fear. And there’s been a cure, all this time.” She feels almost light-headed at the revelation. “Everything could have been so different.”

“Champion—“

“Do you know how much I hate to be called that?” Hawke asks her mildly. For the first time since seeing her, Cassandra falters, pausing mid-stride.

“Wha—“

“Champion.” Hawke says the word slowly, letting it roll across her tongue. “It sounds so nice at first. What an honor, for a lowly refuge to rise to such status. Not to mention an apostate—I know some people must have suspected, but I was getting rid of so many problems for them. Everyone just turned a blind eye. Like Aveline did.” A pang shoots through her at the memory of her grim and determined companion, and she sets it aside. “They praised me and hailed me and do you know what I did? I brought it to ruin.”

Cassandra is watching her now, startled into quietness. She has by no means dropped her simmering intensity, but some the righteous bluster has gone out of her at Hawke’s words.

“Kirkwall burned around me, and I could do nothing but watch. People tend to forget that when they name me ‘Champion’. How convenient for them. But do you know what I remember about Kirkwall?” She does not wait for an answer. Now that she has begun to speak, she finds the bitter river of words pouring out of her uncontrollably.

“I remember the storefronts collapsing, houses wreathed with smoke and flames. I remember everyone who tried to stop us, the ones we killed to get past. And everyone else who didn’t even know what was happening but died anyway, trapped in the crossfire or the rubble.” She can smell the fire still burning in her room, but now it just brings to her the scent of an entire city blackened with ash.

“And who’s to say those opposing us weren’t right? We—I—brought it upon everyone. Maybe trying to stop us was the noble thing to do, after all. One of them got too close to me, and do you know what I did? I snapped his neck.” She does not mention how she can hear the splinter of bones even now, see the fierce and terrified spark inside the soldier vanish almost instantly. He was too near for her to have time for a spell, sword flashing, and she had not paused at all before she killed him. Afterwards, remembering, she thought he couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Too young to know better than to rush in.

“He tried to stop us, because we were murderers, really, in the end. No matter how many fancy titles you put on it. Perhaps he is the one they should be calling ‘Champion’.” The memories are heavy inside her, so heavy. Even the fears quiet down as they rise unbidden, the scorched past she keeps buried like a thorn deep within her chest.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think the side we picked was wrong, in the end. What else could we have done at the time? No. I don’t regret that. But leading up to it…” She sighs.

“It was not your fault,” Cassandra offers. “Anders—“

“—was only one piece on the board,” Hawke finishes over the warrior. “Everyone jumps to lay the blame on him, but everything was so precarious, if he hadn’t set things off, something else would have. But I helped him. Maybe I didn’t know it at the time, but so much of what I did those years set him and everyone else in motion. Maybe if I’d said something different, pushed different people… who knows how it all could have turned out. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so disastrous, and all that death was pointless.” She wonders again at the new news about Tranquility, that the Right of Annulment might no longer be a threat to lord over them all. But it hurts so much wonder about the past, even now. She shakes her head. “But now they hunt him, and in the same breath name me ‘Champion’.”

“I… had not realized.” Cassandra has been standing over her still, but finally sinks into the open chair, slightly abashed. “Varric made it sound so different.”

Hawke shrugs. “It’s his job. He’s good at it. And his version is probably ninety percent of the reason I’m not being hunted down constantly. Well, besides by you. He wrote it because he can’t keep a story so good to himself, yes. But he also wanted to protect us.”

Cassandra has the decency to flush slightly at the comment.

“But anyway,” Hawke continues softly. “I’m not the same person who saved Kirkwall anymore. If you can say I ever ‘saved’ it at all. I’m sorry you had to find that out. There are reasons Varric didn’t want to tell you where I was.”

 “But you are,” Cassandra still insists. “You are the one who won those battles, who kept things from falling apart for as long as they did. The Qunari would probably have conquered the whole city if not for you. Just because you… have had a moment of doubt,” her tongue carefully side-steps the word ‘failure’, “does not mean there isn’t so much you can still do to help. Now. Here.”

Hawke looks up from her hands, forcing the warrior to meet her gaze. “I am not your Inquisitor,” she reminds her quietly. “It was never a position I was fit for.”

“Ch—Hawke. That is—“

“Do you even know my first name?”

Cassandra, derailed again by the interruption, blinks in bafflement. “I—well…”

“Everyone thinks they know me so well,” Hawke muses. “But what you have is a story. A story better than the truth, yes, but… fantasy. Champion Hawke, the savior of Kirkwall. Doomed to a legacy but never fully named.” She shakes her head abruptly. “It doesn’t matter. I left that girl in Lothering before the Blight. It’s best she stays there, and ‘Hawke’ deals with everything after. Maybe if people tell it enough times, it will be true. Varric certainly seems to think so.”

She has never known how to tell them, all these people who keep holding her up. Even before she left Kirkwall, she was already going mad. What good was she, anymore? They tell her she saved a city but she only remembers cinders and ruins. Every time she returns, she sees more footprints of the devastation they left behind. Gaps where houses once stood, their former occupants fled or buried. When the crumbling walls began to feel more like bars of a cage than anything else, she fled.

“Varric didn’t hide me from you because he thought you were going to hurt me,” she says bluntly at last. “He knows I could hold my own, formidable as you might be. No. He was afraid that I would say yes, and that it would kill me.”

There is silence in the small room for a long while.

“No one could have predicted what happened at the conclave.” The Seeker finally replies, her voice still raw from the pain of that loss.

Hawke closes her eyes, briefly. “You know that’s not what I meant. Fenris was never the only one to accuse me of looking for ways to die. And all of them were right. Should have been right. I never expected to survive when I stayed in the Fade. And if I’m being honest, until I did, I didn’t want to.” Hawke laughs, and it tastes like knives in her throat. “I’ve always been broken,” she tells the silent woman bitterly. “I just don’t care who sees anymore.”

“You were not so alone. You had your friends.”

The manic gleam in Hawke’s eyes wavers. “Yes,” she agrees softly. “There were people it was worth being strong for, then.”

“There still are,” Cassandra points out. “You have convinced yourself the world no longer needs you. Perhaps you are right, although I doubt it. But you have never been alone. There are many who care a great deal for you. Whatever embellishments Varric added to your history… you will never convince me that that was not true.”

She stands, and walks to the door. Hawke stares ahead still, watching the other woman’s shadow splay across her floorboards as she stands silhouetted against the evening light.

“They still need you, even if Thedas does not.” Cassandra finishes, and with a quiet click of the latch, Hawke is once more alone in the silent room.

__________

She tries to read Dorian’s book, but can’t focus on the pages. She leaves the oppressive chamber to wander the halls as true night settles in, belatedly remembering to eat something as she cuts through the kitchen. She does not see the point in sleeping yet, even though her body twitches with emotional exhaustion. She did not want to confront the feelings Cassandra and yanked up out of the depths of her heart. She did not want to feel anything at all, but even that option was refused to her.

“You were never alone,” oh yes. And she never would be again, as the fears mumble distractingly about the soldier on the battlements, and the burned farm he’d left behind, how he hated war but there was nowhere else left for him to go.

She turns her back to the towering outer walls, and drifts further into the keep. She walks, waits. Walks further. She’s always worn masks for people, of one kind or another. Be kind to the strangers so you can pretend their gratitude makes killing the other strangers worthwhile. Joke with the villains; laugh off their words so they never see how deep they cut. Be relentless. Make a decision and stick to it, so when the time comes, you can pretend you do not need the forgiveness they will never give you.

None of the masks seem to fit anymore. She can’t remember how to be kind, only how to hide herself when the darkness bubbles up, unbidden and unshakable. She does not want their pain. She stopped wanting her own so long ago. But she does not know what she would even be without it anymore.

Eventually, she returns to her room. She tries reading again, to assuage some of her guilt, but her mind keeps drifting to the elf she wouldn’t let save her. She had known he would die to protect her. But even he had resentfully recognized he couldn’t keep protecting her from herself.

She waits, sleeps. Eventually, she wakes.

__________

She does not go back to see if Dorian’s managed to acquire the books until another two days have passed. She gives herself the time to struggle through the last book, and to fix firmly what she plans to tell him about the demon or not. He is too smart not to pick up on any mistakes she might make about her story, and she is not ready for him to guess why she needs to hunt Melivia down.

She also spends the time grimly dodging Cassandra’s attempts to speak with her again, always managing to leave her room just minutes before the Seeker knocks. When the warrior stalks after her in the halls, she slips through the corridors and passages, the fortress’ layout memorized after so many nights of roving. Even when the Seeker should, by rights, catch up to her, doors somehow end up jamming and floorboards creaking in warning in time for her to escape to another room. It feels almost as though the ancient Keep is helping her, though the notion sends prickles of wariness along her skin. She isn’t exactly sure what more Cassandra has to say, except that she is undoubtedly making her eventual lecture worse with this avoidance. But she already regrets admitting as much of herself as she did, and knows further arguing will only make her bare more secrets that should stay buried.

When midmorning rolls past, she enters the main hall by way of the basements. Josephine is absorbed in conversation with some delegate in her office, and does not notice as she quietly walks past and into the Keep’s entryway.  Dorian is not an early riser, but by now he should be awake and back in his usual place in the rotunda. She makes it three steps into the hall before a fist closes around her forearm like iron.

“Hawke.” Cassandra growls her name, voice no weaker than her grip.

“Seeker,” Hawk replies, resisting the urge to struggle uselessly. “I was on my way to somewhere.”

“You will now be on your way to somewhere else,” she menaces, marching the mage down the room. “I have discussed some of the… issues you have been working through with the Inquisition’s arcanist. She wishes to meet you.”

“I thought I made it clear I didn’t want my personal business spread anymore than it already has,” Hawke replies in irritation.

“You made it the Inquisition’s business when you decided you felt you were enough of a threat to warrant Tranquility. So now we will look for more reasonable solutions.” She is relentless as she drags her towards the other end of the throne room. “Dagna has many questions for you.”

“Dagna? The one who keeps sending me letters?” She glances crossly around her, hoping that not many are witness to her ungainly chaperoning. “I don’t think I—”

She does not finish her sentence. Her whole body goes rigid with hyper-awareness as she looks down the hall, transfixed. Cassandra halts in surprise as she goes silent and stops walking, saying something to her irritably. Hawke does not listen, not even registering the words the Seeker is grumbling. In that moment, everything has frozen, and she can feel nothing except the stuttering beat of her own heart as she stares, not even breathing.

A cloaked figure has entered the hall. He walks guardedly, as though he expects to be attacked any minute. He stops uncertainly only a few paces past the great doors, reaching up one spiky-gloved to lower his hood in the dark interior.

She cannot see his face from this far away. She does not need to.

Chapter Text

“Fenris!” His name tears itself from her throat, the sound flying down the hall barely faster than her body. She does not notice the throbbing ache in her arm where she wrenched herself free of Cassandra’s grip; she does not remember even when she went from shock-still to movement. She only knows that it is inevitable: he is here, Fenris has come, and the only direction it is physically possible for her to move, is towards him.

He, on the other hand, is frozen: a statue in steel and leather, eyes wide and unblinking as though he does not dare trust the vision before him. One arm is still half-raised from where he threw back his hood, the other immobile halfway to his shoulder, as though he had begun to reach for his sword. He has come as though dressed for war, as though he is ready to tear down the Keep itself.

It is only seconds before she slams into him, but it has been months, it has been an eternity, it has been more lifetimes than she ever wanted to spend. Hawke flings her arms around his neck, and immediately bursts into tears.

Slowly, she feels his arms rise around her as she weeps, hesitantly pulling her against him, as though he still does not believe she is real. But the gentle pressure increases until she is crushed against the edges of his breastplate, the hand at her back clutching at her so tightly, it is as though he is afraid she will vanish if he does not cling hard enough. The fingers of his other hand tangle into her hair, the spikes of his gloves snagging lose strands as he carefully cradles the back of her head with one palm. As his arms encircle her, for the first time since she returned from the Fade, she finally feels like she is home.

She still can’t speak over the convulsive sobs wracking her body; eyes squeezed shut against their force. And when he slowly sinks to his knees on the Keep’s floor, she does not have the strength to remain standing either, crumpling into his tight embrace.

“Hawke,” he whispers, and her heart breaks at how his voice cracks on her name. Her face is still buried in his shoulder, but she can feel his hot tears through her hair, burning down his cheeks to splash onto her shoulder. “You were dead.”

He says it simply, voice quiet and rough with emotion.

He says it as if he were saying, “the whole world ended.”

She finally has enough breath to form words of her own. “I know,” She draws back to rest her forehead against his own. When she opens her eyes, his green ones are mere inches away from her own, and the only reaction she can see in them is relived disbelief. “I’m here, Fenris,” she whispers. “It’s okay.”

Something inside her clicks into place, then, something that she had not even known had fallen out of alignment. She had been so broken for so long, that this small sense of fixing seems miraculous; a hidden door inside her opening reserves of emotion she had not thought she still possessed. She has never been good at being strong for herself—she has always needed them to draw it out of her. It is not that her fear of his reaction, of what he will think of what she has done, evaporates now that they are together. It still lingers, heavy and waiting, and she knows it will have to be confronted soon. But it no longer matters. She loves him. A fact so simple and so undeniable that anything he might say, even if he thinks her a monster, will change it. And in this knowing, there is peace.

Even these scant inches are too much distance when they have spent so long apart. When he kisses her, it is tender and hesitant, as though he still is not convinced any of this is real. She responds just as gently, still clinging to his neck; not holding, but held. She can feel him trembling against her still, and is afraid to push him—this ghost of an elf, holding who he had for too long believed to be a corpse. The cold metal of his armor digs sharply into her breastbone, and one of her legs is twisted awkwardly beneath her, threatening to fall into tingling numbness; and she never wants to move again.

But it is far too short a time before the lingering sobs well up in her throat again, and she is forced to stop for a shuddering gasp of air. He presses his lips into her neck instead, burying his face in her hair as she embraces him.

“No more leaving,” he whispers, voice muffled. “We promised. Never again.”

“No,” she agrees, closing her eyes and stroking her fingers through his silver-white hair. “You were right. I’m sorry.”

She takes another deep breath while she holds him, trying to steady herself as she sniffs away the last of her tears. Past his shoulder, she can see people casting them side-long glances as they sit on the floor of the Keep. She’d forgotten they were in so public a space. She also does not care. Cassandra stands halfway up the hall now, as though she’d begun to approach and then changed her mind. Hawke can’t read the expression on her face.

“Your hair is longer,” she wonders out loud instead, as she rolls a lock of it between her fingers.

Fenris draws back, staring at her in incredulity. “You leave on a mission—one you knew I objected too—for six months,” he says slowly, “with the very people who had been hunting you down, and then spend two months dead. And now that you have returned, you’re commenting on my hair?”

Hawke laughs, a real one of joy instead of desperation, barely recognizing the sound as it drops from her lips. “I’m sorry! But it is. I like it.” She tugs at the strand twisted in her hand. “I love you,” she adds, belatedly. She does not need to say it—they are past the point where such declarations are necessary; they are simply fact. Hawke says it anyway, warmth flooding through her despite all their years together as his arms tighten reflexively at the words.

“How did you even get here?” she suddenly demands. “Leliana—the spymaster—has been trying to track you down for weeks! I had no idea where you were!”

“You’re angry with me for not being traceable?”

“That… is a fair point. But you got off the ship and then you vanished. They didn’t hear anything. I thought you’d talked back to the wrong person and gotten knifed in an ally.”

Fenris frowns. “The only argument I had was with the Captain, when he decided to stay in port an extra three days. And he was far too wet to retaliate.”

“Are—did you throw him into the harbor?!” Hawke laughs again—she’d forgotten how good it could feel, to make such a simple noise. “Leliana neglected to mention that part.” Her brow furrows. “But then how did you get the rest of the way here?”

“He found a better boat.”

Hawke looks up in astonishment at the dark woman who has sidled up next to them, wearing a relieved expression and an enormously elaborate hat.

“—Isabela!” she cries in delight, leaping to her feet to embrace the pirate. One arm is still clamped around Fenris, and he is dragged up and into the hug as well, standing awkwardly pressed against the two women. Isabela sighs loudly in mock protest, but squeezes Hawke back tightly.

“You came! I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this far inland!”

“Yeah, well, your broody lover there needed a ride. And I had to see for myself,” she says uncomfortably. “Can’t trust letters anymore.”

Hawke smiles sadly into her hair, which tickles at half of her face. “I know. Thank you. For bringing him, and for coming.”

“Just… don’t do that again,” Isabela mutters in reply. “Dying, I mean.”

“I don’t plan to. Not now.” She steps back a pace, looking her friend up and down. “I hear you’re an admiral now. Is that what the hat’s about?”

“Why? Don’t you like it? I think it’s dashing.”

“Do you really have to wear it even when you’re not on your ship?”

“Well, how else would everyone know I’m an admiral?”

“Judging from the past two weeks, no on in your presence is ever given the chance to forget,” Fenris replies dryly, wrapping one arm around Hawke’s waist as they stand. She leans into him, the comforting weight a reassuring and familiar safeguard at her back.

“So what did happen?”

The pirate shrugs. “Went in for supplies, and found your elf. Lucky for him, we don’t have to stick to shipping schedules, and I’ve sailed through far worse storms.”

“And the rest of the way?”

“Carriages. Wagons. Horses. Horrible things like that.” Isabela shakes her head apologetically. “I can’t stay long. I left my ship with the boys, and once they run out of things to drink, they’ll think about taking off on their own.”

“You left your ship to see me,” Hawke replies softly, touched.

Isabela glances away. “Yeah, well… it’s just a thing, in the end. You’re people.” she mumbles.

Hawke reaches forward to take the pirate’s hand in her own, squeezing gently. She knows better than to thank her again—Isabela was never one for words.

“How did you get into Skyhold, though?” Hawke frowns. “They checked me at the gate every time.”

“They tried.” Fenris’ mouth is a flat line, and Hawke’s eyes widen in realization.

“Please tell me you didn’t—“

“Don’t worry,” Isabela interrupts. “I distracted them before he could go all glowy and murderous.”

“’Distraction’ is one way to put it.” Leliana chimes as she walks up to the trio, shaking her head. “I don’t think he’s going to be able to walk for a week.”

“I did kiss him before I kneed him. And—hang on, haven’t we—oho. So this is the Spymaster you keep mentioning?” Isabela grins wickedly in recognition.

“Hello again, Isabela. And Fenris, I presume.” Leliana shakes her head in irritation, presumably with herself. ”Pirates. Of course. This explains why we found no record of your arrival in Jader.”

Hawke feels a brief moment of sympathy for whatever contacts will be on the receiving end of the spymaster’s lecture.

“Anyway—here’s Josie. She’ll see to anything you need for now.” Leliana slips away again, replaced by the Inquisition’s cheerful diplomat.

“You must be friends of the Champion!” she beams at the pair. “Welcome to Skyhold.”

“Josephine, this is Fenris.” Hawke introduces, sliding her fingers between his own where they still rest at her waist. “And Isabela.” She turns to the pirate again. “I know you said you’re leaving soon, but will you stay for dinner? Just for tonight?” She doesn’t need to ask if Fenris is staying—he still hasn’t let go of her since they reunited, and she does not mind at all.

“It’s a bit late to organize a banquet, but if you wish—“

“No, no,” Hawke stops the diplomat hastily, before the gleam of an enticing project can take over her eyes. “Nothing big. Please. There’s been enough attention, already. Just a normal meal.”

Understanding flickers her gaze instead. “Of course,” she replies smoothly. “You should join the rest of us here in the Main Hall, tonight. The Inquisitor is still away, and there won’t be too many foreign guests here.”

“Well, if you’re offering…” Isabela glances around the formidable stone interior. “I thought you said this place was in ruins when you got here? Certainly cleans up nice,” she notes appreciatively.

Hawke opens her mouth to warn her against taking too keen an interest in any of the various valuable items scattered through the Keep, and then closes it silently in futility. “Be good,” she warns instead, and Isabela only laughs in reply.

“Is there anything else any of you will be needing for now?”

“Perhaps… if there is someplace quieter…” Fenris inquires uncertainly, glancing down at Hawke. For all his reassuring relief, confusion and concern furrow his eyebrows now that he is certain she lives.

Hawke closes her eyes, exhaling slowly. For these blissful minutes, her surprise and contentment had banished back the fear-memories, their murmurs drowned out by the appearance of her adopted family. But, as ever, they push forward now, slipping through the chinks in her mental wall to whisper their dispiriting torments. She has to tell him. Now, or she’ll be too tempted to hide it, hold the secrets inside herself until they rip her apart from the soul outwards.

“Yes.” She tightens his grip on his hand, their fingers curling together. “We should talk.”

Josephine catches on swiftly, even if she does not know the entirety of what Hawke needs to tell him.

“Please,” she offers, “you may use my office. No one should be seeking me there for the next few hours.”

Hawke nods her thanks, and shoots Isabela an apologetic look, but the pirate only waves her forward.

“Go on, then. I’m having a look around.”

Ignoring the cold worry seeping back into her stomach, Hawke guides her lover across the hall and to the door.

She sits him in one of the chairs before the fire, and he unwillingly lets her untangle herself from his arms. She is too nervous to sit herself, instead pacing restlessly back and forth before him.

She takes a deep breath, holds it a moment, and then exhales in a rush, scowling as she walks. So much has happened, and she no longer knows which parts of it are the important ones. She doesn’t know where to begin.

“Hawke…” Fenris eventually breaks into her frustrated silence, but she shakes her head.

“No. It’s okay. I just… there are things I need to tell you. But where to even start…” She pushes her fingers through her hair, considering.

“The beginning?” he suggests wryly, and she nods in resignation.

“I guess I’ll have to. Well. I told you in my last letter, when we left for Adamant…”

The story takes a very long time to tell. She tries to pretend it’s not herself she’s talking about, but some stranger instead; detach the pain of the events from her own heart. Even though she’s already told much of it to Varric, she has to keep pausing to explain these people and places Fenris has never met or seen. He stays silent for the most part, letting the flood of words sweep her through the story, but the concern creasing his face only grows. When she gets to the part where she offers to face down Nightmare’s demon in the Fade, and Lavellan accepts—his hands clench into fits at his side, fingers digging into the plush fabric of the chair.

She can’t look at him directly for the rest of the account, her anxiety growing like a rabid dog in her chest despite her earlier peace at this decision. She struggles not to justify her actions, to explain to him why it needed to be her that stayed behind. He will not agree, but—there will be time for fighting later, if he decides. For now, she keeps talking, walking back and forth, back and forth in the small office. She recounts the invasion of the Fears into her mind after she vanquishes the demon, and fighting her way through the Fade to the rifts. She does not look at him as she admits she turned to blood magic to stay alive. She does not look at him as she tells him about her deal with Melivia, and her escape.

“It was going to kill me, when we came through—I thought I could get to it first, but I was too weak by the end of the spell. But there were people too close, and it fled instead. I don’t know how long I was there for, but that’s where the Inquisition found me. After that… well. They brought me here.” She turns on her heel, staring down at the floorboards. She’s memorized them by now—six more steps, and there’s the knot in the wood, which means only one step more before she has to turn again. “I haven’t found out how to get rid of the memories yet. Or found Melivia. But there’s some more books I can look at. About demons, I mean.” Now that she’s running out of things to say, she finds she can’t stop talking, too afraid of his reaction whenever she stops.  “I know… how you feel about magic. Blood magic. And you were right, I started using it and look, here I am, making deals with demons and unleashing them to do… whatever. But—I can’t change it.”

“Hawke,” Fenris says softly, voice low.

“I regret that I had to do it. But I—I don’t regret doing it, because there was nothing else I could do. Does that make sense? I didn’t before, for a while I wish I’d died there after all. It would have made things much simpler, really,” she babbles.

“Hawke,” he tries again.

“But now you’re here! And I don’t care. I mean, I do care. I care a lot, actually, but. If you can’t do this, knowing what I’ve done, if you want to leave—well, I’ll understand. I won’t like it, but, I can’t actually stop you—“

“Hawke!” He is on his feet now, seizing her shoulders and forcing her to stop both her pacing and her manic tirade. She doesn’t look him in the face, trying to hide the tears welling in her eyes. She doesn’t know what else to say, so close to losing him for good—again—after they’ve only just found each other.

“I am not leaving.”

Hawke stands rigid, heart pounding. The fire is too warm at her back, heat radiating into her as she waits for him to finish.

“I can’t pretend to be happy about what happened, but—“ he pauses, struggling for words. “It brought you back,” he finally says, helplessly. “I cursed magic so many times, for taking you away, and not being able to bring you home. But it did.” He keeps staring at her, and she finally looks up to meet his eyes. “You were dead. Losing you once was hard enough. I can’t…”

He abandons his search for what to say, instead grabbing the back of her neck to crush his lips against hers. His kiss is rough and insistent, and she can feel all the fear and longing and hopelessness he felt at her absence poured into it. She is no less fervent, hungry for his touch, finally knowing he is here and safe and hers. She throws her arms around his neck as he pushes her back against the wall, and finally, lets her doubts slip away, losing track of everything that isn’t his hands grasping her hair and holding her close.

Some unknowable amount of time later, she hears the door open, and a voice—“Champion? I just wanted to let you know, we are about—oh!”

The pair reluctantly part as the diplomat stutters an apology.

“It’s all right, Josephine,” Hawke tells her with a watery smile before the woman can hastily retreat. She can’t seem to keep from crying for more than ten minutes at a time today. “What did you want to tell us?”

“I just thought you might want to know we’re about to eat dinner, if you’re still interested in joining us. Your… friend is already waiting.”

Hawke wonders what Isabela’a managed to do that warrants a careful pause already.

“Thank you.”

They follow the woman back towards the main hall, fingers still entwined.

“The… memories of strangers. You still… hear them?” he asks carefully before they go through the door.

She nods. She doesn’t tell him how some of them are not strangers at all, it turns out. He has burdened himself with enough of her heartache for tonight. Later, she promises herself. She will tell him later.

The main wing of the keep is emptier now, save for the small gathering of folk at the long tables along the walls. Isabela has already settled herself at the head of one of them, waving brightly at the pair as they emerge behind Josephine. She has not bothered to remove her hat for the occasion, one high-booted foot kicked up onto the corner of the table.

Fenris hesitates slightly as the faces he doesn’t know turn towards them, his free hand twitching instinctively, ready to grab for the handle of the blade slung across his narrow shoulders. A pang shoots through her heart as always, whenever his old nervousness rears up; leaving him never feeling truly safe in a crowd, always expecting the inevitable attack. She squeezes the fingers nested between her own comfortingly to break him free of it, pulling him down the hall to a pair of empty seats saved next to Isabela. She hasn’t actually eaten with the Inquisition members since Adamant, but before that she’d joined them with Varric once or twice, and she allows the rusty memories to propel her feet.

Leliana and Cassandra are seated opposite them, the spymaster cheerfully listening to one of Isabela’s grand tales of sea-drenched battles and rival pirate confrontations. She peppers them all with questions, scrounging up the details of the journey she hadn’t been able to track. Fenris’ answers are distracted and vague, but Isabela makes up for it with copious bragging about her skills and wiles that got them there without anyone suspecting. Hawke spends more time gazing around them than listening, tearing a piece of bread into pieces absentmindedly. Further down the table, the Grey Warden whose name she can’t remember sits talking to several soldiers and Commander Cullen, whose gaze she avoids. The tall and graceful Lady Vivienne glides into the room, offering the Champion a frosty nod before seating herself at the matching table on the opposite wall. Hawke suspects it has something to do with the invitation she unwittingly snubbed, but the issue is a minor one to her now.

Fenris and Isabela seem ravenous after their long journey, wholeheartedly digging in to the meal and accepting glasses of the fine wines of Skyhold’s cellars. Hawke picks at her own food, more to be companionable than out of real hunger. But she can feel Fenris’ worried gaze trace along her skeletal figure, lingering on where her collarbones jut from her skin like dull blades. She tries to smile again as he notices her watching, and he softly squeezes his hand where it rests on her thigh. He can’t seem to stop touching her, assuring himself that she is real—he brushes his fingers against her arm between bites; pauses to sweep a fallen lock of hair from her face before she even notices it herself. Once, she catches Cassandra staring at them in fascination, eyes fixed upon his hand resting within her own. When the Seeker realizes she’s been noticed, she flushes scarlet, and hurriedly turns to engage Cullen in conversation over some small matter of supplies.

Dinner goes smoothly, all things considered. There are only two brief moments of tension:

The first is when Iron Bull swaggers into the room, his presence large enough to halt Isabela mid-sentence as she casts him a suspicious glare. Hawke doesn’t doubt he knows who she is, but he merely holds up his hands in acquiescence and backs away to seat himself at the other table instead. Hawke is belatedly thankful Dorian seemed to have some other matter occupying him for the evening, lacking the energy to deal with the kind of encounter that could turn out to be.

The second is when her companions finally realize Cassandra is the Seeker.

“You were the one hunting Hawke,” Fenris accuses bluntly.

“Yes,” the Seeker replies, unintimidated. “And as you can see, I meant her no harm. As I had insisted.”

“Hmm.” His scowl deepens, but Isabela’s mad cackle stops the discussion.

“So then… did he tell you everything about us?” she asks, raising an eyebrow suggestively.

“In some cases, more than I ever cared to know.” Cassandra mutters, but Isabela only laughs again in response.

Before long, Hawke feels sleepy and over-full with the rich food, despite how little she ate. Leliana and a third glass of wine have finally coaxed Fenris into an explanation of the work he was doing with Tevinter refuges before he came, and he speaks softly of the slavers he’d been helping to divert. Abandoning all decorum, Hawke leaves her chair to climb into his lap; curling up with her legs over the armrest and her head nestled below his chin. He pauses his explanation only briefly to absently kiss the top of her head before continuing. She closes her eyes, letting the low rumble of his words vibrate against her cheek, only half-listening to the story itself. It is not anything like sleeping, and it is the most restful experience she can imagine.

She sits contentedly for almost an hour, the conversation slowly winding down around them.

“Do you want to leave?” Fenris eventually asks her softly.

She doesn’t, not really. But the familiar bone-aching pull of weariness has settled into her skeleton, no matter how much she longs for their current moment to last forever. She exhales long in reply, unfolding herself from his lap. Isabela is deep in conversation with Leliana again, and merely waves them onward in response to Hawke’s questioning look. Slowly, she leads her lover to her room, bracing herself for this last revelation.

Hawke has never been vain. Beauty was never the game she played, although some might call her beautiful. She is too lean, too muscular—too marked. Before this, she was more likely to boast of her scars than hide them away. She’d worn the wounds openly, as a warning to others and as reminders to herself of all the battles she fought, and their consequences. But this is different. She had told him of the healed lacerations that were the last mark of the blood magic she’d used to survived and escape—but it was not the same as him seeing them, of waiting to see if these reminders prove unbearable.

She sits on the bed as Fenris closes the door behind them, finally removing his heavy breastplate and pauldrons now that the safety of walls hides him from the rest of the crowded keep. Biting down on her cheek, she carefully lifts off her own tunic, the cool night air settling against her skin. She looks the same way she feels: like shattered glass still resting in its frame; her illusion of composure held together only by the heavy pressure of support from those around her.

The scars criss-cross her skin, all fully healed now, white lines carving their way across her arms and torso. Some, too wide to heal well, are still pink and puckered. More run down her thighs and calves, mingling with bruises from more recent stumbles. She’s avoided looking at them since returning from the Fade, but can’t help herself now, gazing numbly at this external evidence of her overwhelming struggle. As if called by her acknowledgement, the familiar blackness wells up inside her; pain and rage and terror momentarily threatening to overwhelm her. Her heart feels like an abyss lying inside her chest and waiting to swallow her whole.

Slowly, Fenris seats himself next to her, his shoulder pressing against her back as he softly taking her hand in his again.

“A fine pair we make,” he comments wryly, gently turning her palm upward as he traces his fingers across the thin slashing lines. Tenderly, he lifts her arm, bending over slightly to softly kiss the skin of her wrist.

She closes her eyes, the warmth of his touch slowly seeping into the cold dread that still lingers in her stomach. He knows what it is to be marked, too. If he had not, she did not think she would have been able to let him see this at all. But his scars are different, at least the external ones—she knows better than to tell him she finds them beautiful. To him, they are only a reminder of his past, a thing he only longs to leave behind. But still they curve and swirl gracefully, transforming him into a work of art she never tires of staring at, even as she mourns his pain with him. But there is no façade of beauty to dampen hers. The welts are crooked and creased, echoing her pain; a mirror, rather than a mask.

“You could say that,” she replies quietly, leaning heavily into his chest. His lips brush against her jaw before finding hers, and she turns to him, falling into his embrace in a desperate attempt to leave the plagues of her mind behind. The touch of his hands pulls her back to the world of physicality; dragging her up from the clammy river of despairs. She shoves aside any thoughts but the feeling of him pulling her against him, seeing only the bright glow of lyrium as her fingers and mouth trail across his tattoos. They abandon words and the rest of the world, just for now, the only solace they desire found in the tangle of limbs and pressing themselves as close as is possible after so long being held apart.

He falls asleep quickly, finally succumbing to the exhaustion of his anxious voyage. She wonders briefly if his nights were as sleepless as her own while he thought her irretrievable, but for once it is hard to well up that particular sorrow, while his warm skin is still pressed against her side. He has never been one for cuddling—his markings grow too painful when touched for long—but one of his arms is thrown across her, and his lips still brush against the side of her neck, face half-buried under her hair. She can feel his soft breaths wisp across her skin, and the pulse of his slow, rhythmic heartbeat steadies her own.

She lingers longer in the waking realm, reluctant to surrender another night to misery, when things on this side of the veil have finally righted themselves.

Maybe not tonight, she thinks, eyes drifting closed despite her efforts. Maybe tonight, they won’t come.

__________

She is wrong.

            She stands in a line of people; not comrades, but rivals. Her shoulders are drawn up tense around her neck, and she does not look at any of their faces as they wait. She—he, did not come here for friendship.

            He came for another chance.

            The thin and wary band is walking now, being guided down a lush hallway of thick carpets and velvet draperies. Paintings adorn the walls, aristocratic faces glaring down at him in judgment with every step.

            It will be worth it, he tells himself.

            They halt before an intimidatingly large doorway; oak panels elaborately carved with flowering vines. A name is called, and one of the gathered elves is ushered through them.

            He waits, shoulders hunched, staring into the floor. It is a long time before another name has called, long enough to repeat his argument with himself three times over—losing and regaining his nerve as the minutes tick by intolerably slowly. There is a soft noise from behind the thick door, and he lifts his head, glancing at the walls around. Opposite him is a mirror, and the shock of the reflection tearing through him is not his own—it is hers, resurfaced.

Dreadful recognition briefly returns to her the memory that is her own, and all she has time to think in her desperation is no, not him, not this.

But despite clawing at the fabric of the nightmare, she sinks back beneath its surface, losing herself in the power of the recollection. 

            He stares into the mirror, the green of his eyes diluted by the gaudy gilt frame. But he looks back to the door as it swings open, and a cool, clear voice calls his name:

            “Leto.”

Chapter Text

            Hawke crashes from memory to memory; too many of the stolen pieces of Fenris’ forgotten life pulling at her at once. She tumbles between them, unable to hold onto herself; lost to the power of the fragments of his past.

Leto stands and steps forward as the man calls his name, face impassive despite the frantic fluttering of his heart against his ribs. He cannot afford to show weakness now; not when he has staked so much on this meeting. Slaves don’t get chances to win their freedom. This fact has been ground into him since his birth: his life will be a servitude, nothing more.

But now, this opportunity—he would call it a miracle, if he didn’t know better. He wouldn’t be able to gain his own freedom, no—but he might at least help his family escape. It would have to be enough. It was more than he’d ever dreamed he had a chance at, really.

The man at the door beckons him forward impatiently, and Leto silently follows behind him. He does not know what to expect. All he knows is that his master is seeking a bodyguard—an exceptional one, with the guarantee that the one selected would become even more exceptional. That guarantee, as well as the promise of a boon to whomever was selected. It is the latter prize he seeks, in truth. But he is not the only one: dozens of slaves leapt to compete for the position, elves and humans alike. Those offered the chance had each been examined and prodded, like cattle lined up for auction, and some where turned away right then, for no reasons Leto could discern.

Roughly thirty remained, almost half of who had already been escorted into the room. They must either still be within, or have left by another door, for none but the small steady stream of slaves and messengers have exited. Although he has worked in this manor for years, his duties have seldom taken him into this wing of the house, and never into this room in particular. Leto tries to quash his disquiet as he enters.

It is not a trap, he tells himself. It is an opportunity, and he ignores the tiny voice whispering in the back of his mind echoes what he has always been told: slaves do not deserve such prospects.

But he is through the doors now, and it is too late to consider fleeing anymore. The walls of the room are lined with shelves of hundreds of books, and his master, the Magister Danarius, is within. The mage sits on a plushy cushioned chair at the end of the room, surrounded by small tables of drinks and fruits. Practice and nervousness keep Leto from staring at them despite the hunger that claws at his belly. Instead, he meets the man’s eyes levelly, ignoring the scribe guiding him who now reads from a long scroll. Protocol dictates he should keep his gaze averted, but if he is going to sell his soul to the man, Leto wants to see him first. Not as he has before, in brief glimpses in the corridors or a languid voice calling orders from behind a door; but face to face.

“Leto,” the scribe is saying, and the sound of his name draws his attention back. “Basic labor, and guard duties. He was the one who caught the thief trying to steal break into your study a month ago.”

Danarius frowns slightly, gaze sweeping up and down Leto’s form. He fights to remain still; to stay expressionless beneath the powerful man’s look.

“I recall. The bastard almost got away with my research. He’s scrawnier than I remembered,” the Magister replies, as though Leto wasn’t there.

“The elves all are, Ser,” the scribe replies, shrugging.

Danarius sighs. “Laborer, eh? This position is for a bodyguard. An extraordinary one. You will need unparalleled strength and discipline to be considered. You can fight?”

“Yes, Master Danarius.” Leto does not trust himself to say more. He hasn’t had formal training beyond the basics for his guard duties, not really, but he’d always been able to hold his own in a brawl. And usually came out better looking than most who went in.

“Go on.” The magister gestures, a subtle flick of his wrist. One of the waiting human servants steps forward, a hulking bear of a man, chest broad as a table. He looks resigned, if untired, and with alarm Leto notes the man’s tunic is freshly stained with blood. He glances from the approaching human to the scribe incredulously. This is what they’re being sent in for? So these mages can watch them be beaten bloody, one by one?

The scribe shrugs, and answers his unasked question as though he’s had to repeat it every time:

“You want to be a bodyguard. Show us you can fight.”

There is little other option. The man is only five paces from him now, and Leto shifts into a fighting stance, knees bent and balanced on the balls of his feet. Despite the human brute’s muscular build, Leto is of an eye with him, tall and wiry rather than hulking.

He does not have much time to size up his opponent. With practiced ease, the man steps forward, lobbing a high round swing at his head. Even though he makes no effort to disguise the blow, Leto barely steps out of the way in time, twisting aside as the man’s fist whistles past his ear. The human lets his momentum carry him forward as he turns to swipe at Leto again, this time low and hard at the elf’s gut. Leto dodges backwards a second time, and the man has him moving now, backing in a circle away from his blows.

Leto grits his teeth in frustration. He can’t spend the whole bout running; he’d be laughed out of this fancy room, and be forced to return to his family with nothing but the bitter taste of disappointment. He pauses to throw a wild punch of his own, but the man knocks it effortlessly aside, bringing up a knee to slam the outside of Leto’s thigh as he does so. Leto staggers, and barely ducks away from the next strike towards his face, catching a glancing cuff across the ear instead. Even without the power of a full hit, the force is almost dizzying with the strength of the man’s strike.

If he keeps up this desperate attack, he is going to lose, Leto realizes. He forces his thoughts calm, backing away again. Forget the watchers. Forget the shame of losing. There is nothing now except him and his opponent, and the ever-shifting space between them. He dodges and turns and waits, clearing away everything, until he sees it: the rhythm.

The human steps, steps, swings; steps, counters, draws slightly back. He arcs one arm out again, a casually obvious blow to hide the swift movement of his other fist as he slams it directly towards Leto’s stomach. But Leto has the feel of it now; he can see the spaces between the man’s actions, and how to fit between them. He twists sideways; the lower fist driving past him, and easily deflects the decoy blow. As he turns aside the punch, he steps in past the burly fighter’s guard, using the momentum to jab an elbow into the man’s side as he passes and spins away. The fighter makes a noise of surprise, at least, if not pain. Sometimes nearly chest-to-chest, sometimes paces apart, the pair battle; weaving around each other’s movements, occasionally sacrificing a dodge in order to land a hit of their own. Leto is leaner, but quick; and while his swings aren’t as powerful, at least they are landing now.

This is more than a drunken brawl, or a riot. The human is not trying to kill Leto: he is trying to win. It is entirely different, Leto realizes with a thrill. This is more than a fight. It is a balance that he can feel, that he slides into naturally and effortlessly. It is a dance.

He doesn’t know how long they spar. Some energy has gripped him, called him to the movements and nothing more. But despite their equal range and height, this man has clearly been training almost his whole life, while Leto hadn’t even been able to eat since just before dawn. He slows, weakening, his evasions becoming narrower and his thrusts more frantic. Finally, the man manages to jam an elbow into his neck, and strike him a ringing clout on the temple that sends the elf staggering to his knees.

“Better,” the man grunts in satisfaction, as Leto falls.

Than what, Leto wants to ask, but the pounding of blood in his ears is too loud, even as he gasps for air.

“Lasted longer than the last few,” someone notes appreciatively, and slowly Leto recalls the world outside the fight.

 “All right, call him back with the others,” he hears the Magister saying over the slowly fading ringing in his ears.

Leto stands, swaying slightly, but refuses the scribe’s arm as he comes to lead him away again, like a sheep. He stares instead at Danarius, waiting for something more. But the man’s back is turned, listening to some report or other from one of his apprentices. Leto has no choice but to follow the small servant down the room and through another side door.

“At least you’re not bleeding as much as the last one, anyway,” the man sniffs. “Come back tomorrow morning, for the next part of the application.” He tears a strip of paper from one of the stacks of pages in his arms, handing it to Leto. The slave stares down at it, the slanting markings an incomprehensible mystery.

“This room again? Instead of my… duties?” he asks uncertainly.

“Yes, yes,” the man replies tersely. “Now, go.”

And with no further ceremony, Leto finds himself shoved out the door, and back into the narrow familiar confines of the servant’s corridors.

            The memories shift.

“I seek more than a bodyguard, in truth,” Danarius says loftily, his voice echoing through the room above the heads of his assembled slaves. More than half have returned for the second day, Leto among them. They listen in silence, heads bowed, avoiding each other’s eyes. Some, he recognizes from their work in the manor. He pretends he doesn’t, as do they.

“This fighting is not just to test your skills—but your resolve,” the Magister continues. “The one selected must have a will of iron, who can endure greater pain than you’ve ever imagined, and never flinch. You are the ones who have not been cowed away by a simple fight. What you will be put through, should you win, will be much worse.” He pauses, but all assembled are used to servitude. It would not be their place to complain—and it would only mark them as targets for the others to exploit. Satisfied, Danarius continues.

“The Trials you will now endure will sift out the weak from the mighty; the determined from the wavering. In the end, only one of you will have the honor of undergoing the procedure I have been perfecting. That lucky winner will be utterly unique, the kind of warrior the world has not seen for generations!” His face gleams in the morning light streaming through the windows, as he gestures towards the towering bookshelves around them. “I have worked for over a year to recover this process from the depths of time, and gone to lengths you can only imagine. And, now, it is time to test it. The remarkable one chosen will be more than my personal bodyguard—they will be prized above all others, always at my side. They will be my masterpiece.”

His voice slides through the air like a serpent, his words twisting themselves into Leto’s heart. The man means it as an honor, he knows, even if the words sound like shackles. But he cannot leave now; there will be no other chances for what he asks. He sets his resolve, not looking at the others. They each want something, too; but he yearns for this chance more than any of them. If nothing else, he knows this.

“Together,” the magister promises, eyes bright, “we will push the very boundaries of magic itself.” 

            The memories shift.

After only a week, the group is already smaller. They stand in an armory, the walls glittering with cold steel, as their escort eyes them critically.

“From now on, you will be fighting armed. Select your weapon.”

Most of those present hesitantly pace about the room, considering, though a few dart straight to their weapon of choice. Leto lingers along a row of blades, ranging from tiny throwing daggers to enormous mauls. His guard duties have equipped him with the basics of a short sword, but the row of options before him now is almost dizzying. Their bear-like guide saunters around the room, critiquing or approving of the slaves’ choices as he passes.

“You’ll want a pair of them, build like yours,” he informs Leto now, pointing to a pair of curving daggers hanging on the wall. “You wouldn’t be able to lift most of the others.”

Before Leto can open his mouth to reply, the man strolls away again. Leto glares at his retreating form, and then picks out the largest, heaviest broadsword he can find. As an act of rebellion, if it can count as that, it is tiny. But it still sends a small thrill through him, even as he prepares to relinquish the last scraps of what he can call life as his own forever. But the excitement of the contest so far has worn away at his apprehension; if he is doomed to life as a slave, then surly the hand-picked bodyguard of a powerful magister will be much more tolerable than that of a lowly laborer. He would surely gain new privileges, in such a position of honor.

Soon, he tells the hollow eyes of his mother that watch him from inside his mind. Soon.

His arms tremble slightly as he holds the blade out experimentally. But he has always been stronger than he looks. 

            The memories shift.

Leto stares into a basin of water, the liquid tinged pink when he dips his hands in, even though he has emptied and refilled it three times already. He doubts he will be able to ever see the water unclouded again. Calloused palms are slowly working a comb through the tangles of his dark hair, and as they flash in the corners of his vision he sees that they, too, are now stained with blood from touching him. The voice he can no longer remember asks if he’s sure he wants to go through with it; assures him they will be fine if he stops. They have always lived this way. He didn’t tell them what the magister made them do; the way it felt when his blade snuck through his opponent’s guard to bite into his chest. It wasn’t an easy slice. He had to throw his weight into the blow; felt the crunch of bone beneath it.

“I must,” he replies.

He does not say: it is already too late. Even if he quits now, he will always carry this red stain of death. There is nothing now but to accept it. He was wrong, that first day—winning is killing. The dance may be beautiful, but it is deadly.

But the position—and the procedure—will be a gift, whatever the cost to obtain it, he knows. He must prove himself worthy of it.

“Freedom will be worth it,” he tells her.

He hopes, for his family’s sake, it is true. 

            The memories shift, blur; similar enough that when they press on her all at once they are a chorus rather than a cacophony; a terrible and bloody song. Hawke watches the others competing in the Trials as they die before her, one by one.

            She does more than that—as Leto, she kills them.

Leto slashes out as a fighter approaches, another’s blood already staining the elf’s mace.

Leto smashes a man’s nose back into his skill with the hilt of his sword.

Leto cuts down a man with his blade, just before a dagger can sink between his own ribs.

Leto strangles a man with his bare hands as they grapple.

The horror and disgust within him magnifies with every memory, as he slowly realizes the real purpose of the Trials. This is not the way to find a bodyguard, no matter how unwavering you need them to be. But Danarius does not want a bodyguard for his experiment, not really. His magic is a better shield than a person ever would be. No—what he wanted was a beast. Someone he could point at those who displeased him, and watch as the bloodbath began. Someone to show off, as a testament to his skill as a mage, of course; but also someone who was wild and terrible, more animal than person. He didn’t want a man. He wanted a wolf on a leash.

The thought sickens him, but he cannot stop what he has begun. There is no quitting now; the only exist is death, and he is not ready to die. His mother and sister are still counting on him. He has to keep fighting, and more than that, he must find a way to stand out from the rest. He is not the strongest here, and despite his obvious skill so far, he knows others competing still outclass him as fighters.

To survive, he must win. And to win, he will need to become the monster that the magister wants. 

            The memories shift.

Leto stares at the heart, still warm in his hands, slick with blood. His sword lies discarded on the ground behind where he kneels, knocked away earlier in the fight. He had almost been killed. He should have been killed. But instead, he’d let the white-hot rage swell over him, ending their lethal choreography by grappling the axe from his foe and burying it in his chest. Even as his fellow slave lay dying, the pool of blood spreading beneath them both, he’d reached into the other elf’s chest to tear out the weakly beating organ. Numbly, he proffers it to Danarius. He barely feels the horror he has become used to over the past few weeks. He barely feels anything, anymore.

The Magister’s eyes are cool as he regards the trophy.

“You have done better than I expected,” he tells Leto now, the words slithering through the fog that surrounds the warrior’s thoughts. “You are not like the others. Your determination is… formidable.”

Leto does not feel formidable. He feels battered; tired and trembling and horrified at what he has done.

This is what you want, he reminds himself. This is the only way they can be free. He can see himself as the others in the room must see him; as they watch appraisingly from the sidelines—nothing more than a savage, an animal. It was what they expected him to be.

The Magister’s lips curl in disgusted delight as he looks down at him from his regal seat, studying the elf thoughtfully. Leto feels bile, rising in his throat. Silently, he swallows his nausea, and bows his head. 

            The memories shift. 

“There’s blood on your mouth,” Variana tells him when he comes home. Her eyes are wide as he wipes it away with the back of one hand, refusing to meet her gaze. The coppery taste sears on his tongue even after his fingers drop away, burning in his mouth like fire as sick dread flips inside his stomach. He still has not told them what the Trials demand. It is terrible enough that he must endure it, without dragging them along with as well.

“I am fine,” he tells her.

They both know he is lying. 

            The memories shift.

Sweat beads on his skin, dripping into his eyes as he stands holding his blade horizontally before him as he balances on his toes, but Leto does not wipe it away. He is used to the discomfort, used to many discomforts now—the aching in his legs, the strain of his arms and back. It is part of his training, along with the drills in battle tactics and swordplay. These, he picks up quickly. Learning to ignore pain has been harder. But he cannot risk losing the position now, would not be able to bear the looks on his family’s face if their independence was snatched away so soon after it had been granted. Slowly, he arcs the blade above his head as he turns, an agonizingly measured and graceful echo of an attack.

It has been three weeks since Danarius selected him for the position, above the few others who survived the Trials. Three weeks since his heavy burden lifted, and he said goodbye to his mother and sister, promising that their lives would be better now. His mother had looked frightened by the prospect, wide-eyed as she clutched the purse of gold that went along with their newfound freedom. Once the process was over, he could visit them again, he was certain. Even as Danarius’ bodyguard, he would be able to keep watch over them still, make sure they came to no harm.

There is peace in this thought. It is what carries him through the training when he otherwise thinks he would falter. After everything, all the horrors—he has succeeded. Whatever happens now, he will endure. He has won.

One of his guards motions to him, and Leto lets the tip of his blade fall to the floor, limbs shaking. He runs a hand across his head, the new smoothness of his scalp distracting. There were still days—even weeks—before his master would be ready to begin the lyrium branding, but his apprentices had wasted no time in measuring and preparing his body for the work.

“I don’t know how you do it,” the guard—Silus—tells him, shaking his head as he relieves the elf of the heavy blade. “I don’t think I could put up with it all, day after day.”

“I imagine I’m holding a platter of fancy cakes,” Leto replies dryly. “If I drop it, how ever would I eat them all?”

The guard barks out a laugh, surprised. “If that’s what it takes,” he replies.

Leto closes his eyes, exhausted. It will be enough, he thinks to himself. 

            The memories shift.

“What will it do?” Leto asks cautiously, watching an apprentice uncork the small blue vials. He does not expect an answer, not really. He has been walked through every step of the procedure, although he does not understand most of them, in the hopes that it will reduce the chances of him jerking in surprise as they work. But no one has been able to give him a clear answer on what exactly will happen once the branding is complete.

“Something interesting, certainly,” the apprentice enthuses, laying out an array of sharp tools Leto tries not to look at. “Magister Danarius never really says outright. But we’ve spent a fortune, perfecting this. You’ll be the very first!”

He seems unaware that the slave does not find this a comforting thought. More mages are scurrying in and out of the room, carrying sheets of notes and a baffling array of magical equipment. He waits; standing rigidly in the chamber, for nearly twenty minutes before Danarius himself walks through the door. Leto has barely glimpsed his master since the Trials ended; the Magister too busy finalizing the details of the procedure to bother with his subject, now that he’d been obtained.

“Good!” he declares when he sees the elf standing ready, while his assistants snap to attention. “Now let’s get you strapped in, there’s a good fellow.”

The wooden table he lies on is padded, barely, but the thick cords dig into his flesh as they firmly tie him down. Despite the ropes, he will have to keep from thrashing himself through the process. But once he is finally restrained, unable to leave or protest, the gathering of mages ignores him entirely. He has ceased to be a person to them. Now, he is just another thing; an object for their tests and whims. This, at least, has an almost comforting familiarity to it. He is used to being ignored.

But any trace of comfort dissolves instantly the moment the burning blue needle touches his skin.

Leto’s screams of agony echo through the chamber, bouncing back at him from the stone walls and enveloping his senses. But he does not flinch away. His awareness of the world mutates into an anguished red haze; he knows nothing but the searing pain of the lyrium as it flows into his skin, fusing with his flesh. Fire traces along his scalp and dimly, he hears cursing as his body involuntarily twitches, before hands firmly press against his forehead to hold him steady.

He must not move. He must not be defeated.

“Beautiful,” a voice whispers, and through the blinding throbbing he feels cool fingers trace across his collarbones. “You will be a work of art,” the Magister murmurs lovingly beneath Leto’s screams.

After that all he knows for an eternity is a white and excruciating pain, tinged with blue.

            The memories shift; and slowly, finally, fade.

Chapter Text

Hawke returns to herself slowly; the scattered fragments of her mind sifting out of the swirling mess of memories to click back into place; like a child’s puzzle. Gradually, she remembers the room, her own name, the strong arms wrapped around her—clutching her to his chest as she gasps for air. Her throat feels ragged and sore, her limbs still shaking.

Fenris holds her cradled in his lap, her face pressed against his shoulder, and she can feel the burn of tears on her face and neck. She doesn’t know which of them they belong to. He is saying something, whispering in a hoarse and panicked voice—

“Wake up, Hawke, please—come back—”

She takes one more shuddering inhale, curling her fingers against his chest, trying to regain the rest of herself.

"It’s okay,” she croaks out, finally. “I’m awake. I’m here.”

He stiffens as she replies, and gathers her tighter in his arms.

“You were screaming,” he tells her, traces of panic still in his voice. “I couldn’t—you wouldn’t wake up—”

His eyes, so much greener than she ever manages to remember, are terrified as he looks at her, and her heart breaks all over again.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, moving back an inch to wipe her eyes. “It’s—I have nightmares. I should have warned you. I didn’t realize they’d be so bad.”

But he is still looking at her with a painful and terrible expression. Neither is a stranger to night terrors; he’s held her through as many as she has him. He knows it wasn’t normal, was not the usual demons come to haunt her; and the cold, creeping fear that he knows she’s holding back from him settles across her like snow.

“You were calling my name,” he finally replies, confused.

“I’m sorry.”

“No—my… old name. Leto.”

She can’t look him in the face. It is too much; too many lives and memories and hurts to deal with all at once.

“I’m sorry,” she repeats, closing her eyes and resting her forehead against his neck.

“I don’t understand—”

“Please,” she interrupts, voice still raw. “Not now. I can’t. Please, just—” she breaks off, burring her face against his skin. His hands tighten around her, his concern only growing. She can feel it in the careful set of his limbs; the ginger way he holds her as he reluctantly lies back down, cupping her against his body. Hawke breathes in, deeply, trying to clear away the pain and doubled vision as flashes of his past press against her.

“The demon can’t reach you here,” he tells her instead, and she is bitterly grateful for his misunderstanding. “If anything so much as comes near you, it will die on my blade.”

She doesn’t tell him that it’s herself he should be afraid of. Not yet.

“Later,” she promises softly. Later. She cannot bear the explanation now, not when she looks at her own hands and still sees the blood that once stained his. She does not want him to know.  He has had more than his fair share of pain in this life already, and she does not want to be the one who brings him more.

Selfish, she curses at herself, and it is true in so many ways. She wraps her arms around his chest, clasping him to hide her still-trembling limbs. His skin will ache for the contact come morning, but he does not push her away, and she can’t bring herself to let go. It has been too long; it still does not feel real, and the tumult of Fear-shades swirling inside her make it hard to believe that he won’t melt away too—how could she ever have been allowed a moment of happiness, of peace? She does not deserve it, not after everything she’s done.

Fenris. She flings his name against the memories that try to pull her back into unconsciousness; pressing against her skin and whispering his other moniker. Fenris. This one. This is the one who is real. The one who had followed her, who had leapt into hell after her time and time again, who had fought with her even when they did not agree. I choose him, I choose this, she yells fiercely into the chaos raging inside her. I don’t care about the past.

She lies with him, her breathing gradually returning to normal, her face pillowed on his shoulder as they clutch each other, afraid to let go.

She does not sleep.

__________

Fenris, on the other hand, sinks back into reluctant exhaustion. She isn’t sure how much he was able to rest before her tortured nightmares woke him, but guilt courses through her regardless. He sleeps with the heavy deadness of true fatigue, the occasional tiny twitch of his skin his only movement. But pressed as close as she is, she can feel his chest minutely rise and fall beneath her with each light breath; his heartbeat soft and steady beneath her cheek. The echo of it reverberating through her bones is not quite enough to drown the unnatural whispers that curl between her thoughts like smoke.

It is well after dawn when she feels his breathing deepen; his slow rise back to wakefulness. Still half-shrouded in whatever Fade-wrought dream he’d emerged from, his fingers rise to curl into her hair, his eyes remaining closed as his thumb lightly strokes the skin of her neck.

“Hawke,” he mumbles sleepily, as though he still does not trust it to be her.

“I’m here,” she promises softly, pressing her lips against the bare patch between the bright lines that mark his shoulder. Her limbs throb from holding still for so long, but she does not want to move, not yet.

 But he eventually stretches himself into full awareness, and the line of morning’s light slowly marches its way up her chamber floor. Time is one element her magic has never been able to grasp.

They rise together, pulling on their clothes in silence, and Hawke avoids looking at herself as the fabric slides over her skin, once more hiding the evidence of her weakness in the face of temptation. She can feel his questions hovering between them, an unwelcome guest in the room. Against better judgment, she gives way to the panic rising in her chest, and avoids the topic of the night before.

“Isabela will be leaving soon,” she remarks instead, a false and terrifyingly convincing steadiness to her voice. “We should make sure we’re there to say goodbye.” As though the pirate would leave without a grandiose farewell anyway.

She feels him waver at the edge of pressing her for an explanation, but the storm of emotions the past day has brought have apparently taxed him as well, and he allows Hawke her secrets, for now. Instead, he fastens his armor around his limbs, the skin-tight shield he uses to keep the world at bay, and together they make their way to the main hall of the Keep.

__________

Despite all her proclamations the night before about how magnificent her ship was and how glad she would be to return to the sea, when the time comes, Isabela seems reluctant to leave.

“I could wait another couple days, probably,” she offers casually, calm demeanor betrayed by the anxiety in her furrowed brow. “My boys will wait around a while, yet. They know better than to make me mad.”

But Hawke shakes her head. “You hate it here. I can tell.” She can see the faint shiver in the woman’s stride; the goosebumps prickling up her sleeveless arms; the way she hunches warily inside the narrow battlement hallway. This was a land of stone and sky, but not the horizon she knew the pirate longed for. Even a single night indoors in such a place has her twitching, fingers restlessly fluttering from her hair to her knives to the gold chains at her throat. Hawke wonders if she’d found a room of her own the previous night, or more likely, managed to share with someone else for the evening.

“You could come with,” the pirate offers instead. “You don’t need to stay. It can’t be healthy this far up.”

Hawke has thought about leaving; considered it often, even before her friend and her lover finally arrived. She could slip away, nevermind the guards, and take her and the threat she posed far away from where she could ever hurt people again. But where could she flee? Kirkwall turned her out, she left Lothering locked in her heart years ago, and everywhere she could reach is embroiled by this war against the sky anyway. Besides….

“No,” she responds, shaking her head at both Isabela and the memory of a malevolent, patient smile of perfect white teeth. “I have things I still need to take care of here. I can’t go yet.” Even beyond the demon she’d unleashed—she can’t lessen the guilt of her part in releasing Corypheus himself. Was there anything that had gone wrong in the last seven years that wasn’t somehow her fault?

Isabela frowns, but shrugs, pulling her heavy cloak tighter around her otherwise bare shoulders. “Your choice, I guess. But… well. You’ll know where to find me.”

Hawke looks at her in confusion. “You mean with the Raiders?”

The pirate laughs. “Maybe later. I’ll be heading back towards shore, but I won’t be too far away. Not for a while at least. Just ask that Spymaster of yours for the details.”

“Are you implying that the Inquisition gave you a job?”

“So surprising?” She cocks one elegant eyebrow, grinning. “You know me. Always up for something new. Not here, though. Maker, I don’t know how you can stand living somewhere you can hardly see the stars through all these clouds.” With that, she swoops in to embrace Hawke tightly, flinging an arm out to pull Fenris in too. The elf sighs, even as he patiently withstands the hug.

“Don’t have too much fun without me. And you don’t go ripping out any more hearts than you need to.”

“Stay safe,” Hawke replies quietly over Fenris’ noncommittal grunt, squeezing the dark woman’s arm a final time before she re-dons her tasseled hat and climbs into the wagon, the Inquisition soldier driving it already seated in front. Isabela blows one last kiss out the window, and then she is through the gates and out of sight, the coach slowly shrinking as it crosses the great bridge.

Hawke leans into Fenris, fingers entwining around his as she watches their friend vanish into the cold mists of morning. No matter how many times she thinks she’s gotten used to goodbyes, her chest twists painfully with the absence, and as soon as the cart is well and truly gone, she turns to retreat back into the now-familiar—and somehow comforting—stony embrace of the Keep.

But the towering walls hold no such soothing familiarity for him, and his nervous gaze darts bird-like between the ramparts and the balconies, ever-alert for the threats he doesn’t know how to stop fleeing. Like Isabela, his hands twitch at his weapon, fingering the sharp armor of his gauntlets as they ascend the steps of the Keep.

“You should spar with someone,” Hawke suggests impulsively.

“What?” Fenris narrows his eyes at her apprehensively, pausing their assent.

“You’re all… jittery. You came here expecting a fight, and you didn’t get one. You’re not going to relax again until you do.”

“I am not—” he begins to argue, but she wraps her arms around his waist, stepping past his spiky shield and kissing him before he can object.

“Maybe I just miss seeing you in action. Indulge me.”

That, at least, halts his outright protesting, even if it does not entirely banish his scowl.

“The training yards?”

“Oh, no.” Hawke’s eyes shine gleefully as she cranes her neck, staring down the yard past the Tavern. “I know just who’s always up for some practice.”

__________

By some divine miracle, Cassandra agrees to the bout. Hawke perches on the stairs next to the Seeker’s training dummies, watching them eye each other as they stretch. Fenris’ sword is nearly as tall as he is, and despite everything she’s apparently heard about him, Cassandra seems to doubt his ability to wield the massive blade. But while Varric stretched the truth about many of their encounters—Hawke gave up counting the elaborations half a dozen pages into his Tale of the Champion—the elf’s abilities were not one of them. The pair circle each other leisurely, swords darting out and clashing together as the test the other’s speed and style.

“He’s pretty good, if he’s keeping up with the Seeker.” The Iron Bull, surprisingly soft-stepped despite his bulk, braces himself against the railing on the steps below her as she watches the pair exchange blows.

“Mm,” Hawke agrees, ignoring the imagined taste of saltwater on her tongue as he joins her. They watch in silence for a while as the warriors’ paces quicken, now sparring in earnest. Their weapons spring apart and together, Cassandra’s smaller blade darting around Fenris’ larger one as she tries to find an opening. But even with her shield to deflect his heavier blows, she can’t seem to slip close enough past his guard as he spins aside from her slashes to counter with strikes of his own.

“There’s something about his fighting style. It’s somehow familiar.”

Hawke’s eyes are fixed on the elf, trying not to remember the way the same thrusting cuts he makes now felt last night when they sunk into actual flesh.

“He was trained in Tevinter. Something tells me you haven’t spent much time there.”

“No, not that. It’s something in the way he moves. Almost like he’s dancing.”

“Oh.” After last night, the comparison startles her in its accuracy. “He lived with the Fog Warriors for a while, too, I suppose.”

“In Seheran? Damn.” Bull’s hand absentmindedly reaches up to brush across one of the jagged scars that line his flesh. “That’d explain it. No wonder he moves so gracefully. I’ve never seen anything like what those Fog Dancers do.”

Even with everything else he’d managed to notice about her the last time they met, it’s still a surprise to hear such a burly warrior make such meticulous observations. The perfect spy, Hawke reminds herself. Not that the Qunari have any particular interest in her now. Probably.

“Does it bother you?” she asks him suddenly. “About the Arishock.”

“I assume you mean the old one.”

“The one I killed, yes.”

The gigantic Qunari shakes his head, almost catching her with the edge of his overlarge horns before he remembers and tilts his neck away. “The Arishok handles the army; Ben-Hassrath are regulated by the Ariqun. Besides—if he challenged you to fight, it was because he knew there was a good chance you’d take him down. He wouldn’t have bothered, otherwise.”

“Oh,” Hawke replies softly. “He called me—basalit-an. I thought he knew he was going to win.” Her eyes still stare ahead, but are focused far into the past now. “It’s strange,” she murmurs, more to herself than Bull. “All the times we dealt with him. I almost thought—” she stops, catching herself before the thought can continue, and shakes her head. “Well. It happened. No point wondering now.”

Iron Bull shifts, gazing back at the tavern. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“You don’t want to be the one who tells him,” a wavering voice breaks in suddenly on her other side, and she nearly catapults herself over the edge of the stairway in surprise. Did no one in this Inquisition announce themselves before coming right up—

Her irritation is cut short as she turns to the figure, startled away by the light blue eyes that bore intently into hers beneath a tangled mop of pale hair and wide-brimmed hat. His face, somehow difficult to describe, stalls her for a moment before she remembers her encounter just after arriving at Skyhold. It’s the de—spirit. He stands several paces away, as though afraid of accidentally brushing against her again after their last encounter.How could she have forgotten he was here? Or had he left with the Inquisitor, when she went to Valammar? Hawke finds it strangely hard to remember.

“Damn, kid—“ Iron Bull swears as well, apparently just as surprised by his sudden appearance, but Cole’s attention is firmly fixed on Hawke for now.

“Afraid, faltering, though not your fault—what if he blames me for knowing? But it doesn’t have to be that way.”

A chill crawls up her spin as he echoes the painful thoughts that haven’t stopped circling her mind since she woke; somehow even sharper when they finally meet the air.

“What do you mean?” she asks after a beat of silence, her voice deceptively level despite the racing of her heart.

“An old name, unwilling to offer. He hated the other him, and you’re afraid he’d hate you too for bringing him back. But pressing and pulling, reaching whenever skin touches—his past doesn’t have to keep living inside you.” Cole watches her anxiously, despite her perfectly calm face. The warriors below are too intent on their duel to notice the meeting happening just above them, but she holds the mask like a shield, firm and rigid, as he speaks.

“Fragmented, but no longer forgotten. I could put them back.” 

Chapter Text

Cole’s eyes are the pale blue of lake ice, and his words—if warmly meant—send a chill through Hawke’s heart.

“No,” she whispers, unbelieving. “You couldn’t even touch me before.”

“If they have somewhere to go, I could move them,” the spirit insists. “Not all. Just the ones that pull and press; that feel the way back and won’t wait, wanting to go home. And no,” Cole adds sadly, answering her unvoiced question as it pushes to the front of her thoughts. “I didn’t know the ones who belong here either, not until you did. I would have told you if I did.”

“Uh… I’m gonna go do something over there while you guys sort out… whatever this is,” the Iron Bull mutters awkwardly as he backs down the stairs. “Magic, demons; whatever weird shit it is you’re talking about.”

Neither pay attention to the giant Qunari’s departure, too locked into each other to notice.

“And what if you did put them back? The memories?” Hawke finally asks, although it is not a decision, not really. “Would it be normal or would it be like this, like me?”

“I don’t know.”

“I can’t take that risk.” It doesn’t hurt to lose the option, when she’d never believed him anyway. She knew that. But still—her chest is tight, heartbeat rapid and fluttering as she gazes back down at the still-skirmishing warriors below. “I can’t do that to him.”

"He would want them, if he knew.”

“No,” Hawke corrects the spirit, “he would feel obligated to take them. And once he had them, he would wish he’d never had the chance. It’s too much. I won’t bring that on him.”

"But—”

“Stop looking—at me. Into me. Whatever. Look at him. Can you tell me, honestly, that he wants to know this? Right now?”

Cole hesitates, his eyes dancing across her lover.

“No. But only because he doesn’t know. He wouldn’t want them to keep hurting you in his place.”

“And sharing this pain won’t erase it from me. It would only make him feel worse, and I won’t do that to him. He’s already had enough.” She’d already had enough, before everyone else’s terrors were shoved inside her. But she already had to deal with this anyway, even if she hadn’t inherited his memories along with the rest. “He might not want me to protect him from it, but that doesn’t mean I can stop.”

“What about the rest of them?” Cole asks softly, echoing in words the hopeless pang in her chest. But she is already shaking her head.

“No,” she replies, more to herself than the spirit at this point. “They wouldn’t want them either. I doubt any of them even know they’re—missing. It would be a distraction to them, and the Inquisition can’t afford that. I won’t cripple the Herald’s forces just when she needs them the most. It would be irresponsible.”

Besides, whispers a tiny voice inside her—this time one of her own, though that makes hearing it no less painful—if she gave the other pains away, Fenris would guess what was wrong. He would know she had his, too. People so rarely looked past his tattooed muscles; they missed the bright spark of intelligence lurking behind his angry glower. He had come to her unable to read, but fluent in at least four languages, after all. It would not take much for him to guess if they others suddenly began to chat about her hoarded memories, not with the nightmare he’d already witnessed, where she’d called his former name. No. It would have to stay secret from everyone, especially him; at least until she worked out what to do.

“But you don’t want them either.” The scarecrow of a boy blinks at her in distress, interrupting her grim reverie.

“It’s not about wanting,” Hawke replies heavily. “It’s about duty. It’s what needs to be done, and I have to be the one to bear this burden.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. You’re not human.” The blunt phrase comes out more callous than she intends, as the fragile boy stares at his hands, opening and closing his fists as they stand in their bubble of calm above the busy courtyard. He looks more like a pile of rags she’d pull out of a trash heap back in Kirkwall than a teenager, and despite her declaration, she has to look away from his somber gaze.

“I used to be,” he says softly.

Hawke is tired. Of old hurts brought back to life, and of his questions, calling up new ones. In a different life, in a different place, she would have taken to him. She’d always found herself caring for broken things. But too much has touched her, and her bitter hardness is the only thing keeping her fragile shell from cracking now.

“I’ve had enough demons messing with my mind,” she tells him harshly. “I don’t need another.”

She does not look at his face, does not want to see the wave of sorrow and hurt wash over it. Instead, she gazes down at the elf below, his brow and arms glazed with perspiration despite the chill air.

Leto, the voices faintly murmur, and “Fenris,” she hisses back, defiant. They will not win. She will find a way to deal with them. Herself.

“I won’t hurt you. I’m not like the other one. I only want to help. He’d want to help you, too, if you told him.”

But Hawke has no more room in her heart for offers from demons, and no more words for the spirit next to her. Her eyes are fixed on the pair below, as Cassandra finally manages to land a solid hit to Fenris’ shoulder with her shield. The elf staggers, and before he can regain his balance, the tip of the Seeker’s sward darts to flick lightly against the edge of his breastplate, just below his throat. He lowers his own blade in acceptance of the defeat, both gasping for air after the lengthy sparing. His eyes flick reflexively to Hawke now that he doesn’t need to watch himself, and despite the grin fixed across her face, worry wavers at the edge of his expression, clouding the battle-exhilaration of a good fight. He furrows his brow in silent question as he looks at her, mouthing some distracted reply to Cassandra’s comment on their combat.

He doesn’t seem to notice the boy beside her, and Hawke lets Cole fade from her own awareness as she walks down the stairs to meet the pair.

“I’m going to lose a whole sovereign to Varric for that loss,” she tells Fenris as she approaches. Lightly, lightly; her words are merry, nothing like the stony burden of her heart. Cassandra doesn’t know her well enough to notice. Fenris always does.

“It was luck,” the Nevarran admits humbly. “It could have gone either way. Especially if he’d used his other abilities.”

“You are too modest,” Fenris replies, reaching one arm around Hawke’s waist to pull her against his side. She lets him. His straightforward shows of affection had startled her, at first, and his uncaring attitude about who saw. Her cheeks used to burn fiercely at his casually devoted comments back in Kirkwall, much to Varric’s and Isabela’s delight, but now it is a familiar and welcome shield from the world.

Or it used to be.

            Show me what you can do, Leto. 

The voices prickle at her awareness. She shifts, only slightly, her shoulder now brushing against his armor instead of his skin. Hawke stops concentrating on their amiable chatting, struggling to quiet her mind. Even pressed against him, she can keep the memories at bay—with effort. And not without cost. Distractedly, she realizes Cassandra is looking at her expectantly, and Hawke hastily arranges the last moments of conversation in her mind.

“I don’t know how much longer we’ll be staying at Skyhold,” she responds truthfully. “There’s a few more things I was hoping to sort out with Inquisition resources.” The coppery taste of blood ghosts across her tongue, and the memory of a claw-like grip on her arm. “Besides,” she adds, “Varric would kill me if we left without saying goodbye.”

Fenris almost imperceptivity flinches, and Hawke bites her tongue as she curses her poor word choice, and her automatic default to flippancy in the face of anything visibly emotional. But Cassandra at least seems unaffected.

“The Inquisitor’s party sent word this morning. They’ve begun the trip back to Skyhold; they should arrive within the week. And in the meanwhile,” she adds, turning again to Fenris, “If you wished to demonstrate any of your fighting techniques for our soldiers, I’m sure Cullen would be happy to accommodate you.”

“Would they listen to someone trained in Tevinter? It seems that’s who make up most of your opposition,” he replies dryly. “And an elf, at that.”

Cassandra shrugs. “They’ve already accepted a Dalish elf as their Inquisitor. Perhaps they would listen closer than you suppose.”

“Hmm.” He does not accept the proposal, but neither does he immediately reject it. Hawke squeezes his hand, briefly, and releases him.

“Well, I’m hungry just from watching you both,” Hawke chimes, throwing her cheerful façade into place. “There’s no rush. We’ll be here the week, at least.”

__________

That night, it again does not take Fenris long to fall into sound slumber. Hawke lies still, their limbs loosely entwined, as though he is reluctant to let her go even when unconscious.

But she can’t follow his restful path into the Fade—she won’t allow herself. The Nightmares that lurk along that route already sing to her, howling the secrets she never wanted to know. Anxiety sends her heart racing even as she lies paralyzed, resisting the surrender of her consciousness. She can hear his lost memories clamoring inside her now, struggling to pull her into their surge and steal away her identity. Knowing what nightmares await her is somehow almost worse than not knowing. She longs to let herself sink into exhaustion, fighting to stay awake is so much effort, but no true peace would await her if she did.

She can’t go on this way.

Every night she spends with him would be another relived horror, for the both of them. It could only increase the hold the Fear-memories have on her; she can feel them digging themselves deeper into her mind at such close contact. Even if she manages to keep from him the knowledge of what exactly plagues her, she won’t be able to hide the fact that it takes her longer and longer to escape them each time she succumbs. Every morning, he would have to wake, and be left wondering if she would follow, or if this was the time she was finally trapped for good. She won’t doom him to that life of anxiety and hopelessness.

She must find a way to be rid of the pull of the memories, or she must leave him. And that is no choice at all, really.

Slowly, quietly, Hawke slides herself out of his loose grip, her bare feet silently touching down on the cold floorboards. He does not stir, not as she carefully pulls on her dressing robe and grabs her beltpurse, not as she cautiously opens the door with only the slightest creaking of timbers. It takes her but a moment to slip through, and only a sliver of chill night air penetrates the chamber before she closes it behind her.

The cobblestones are cold against her still-bare feet, their chill seeping up through her skin and into her bones before she even makes it three paces. The night air smells like snow, and Hawke doubts that any season here ever truly penetrates the wintry grasp of the mountains. But it is not long before she is once more cloaked in the circling stone walls of the Keep, as without thinking she drifts down to her usual haunt, the tiny library. It is the work of a moment to light the candles with a handful of careful sparks—although more work than she would like to admit. Since returning, the only spells she’d cast were the wards around her bed and the lighting of her hearth.

And every failed spell attempting to cure this. Her normal magic wouldn’t work for her predicament. It wasn’t enough. She’d known this fact, and resisted the only alternatives she could think of—but circumstance once more forced her to the edge of a decision she didn’t want to make.

She’d lasted so long since returning to the real world. But she’d already fallen before, and so it was almost no effort at all now to pull down the thick tome from the shelf, and let the creamy pages flip open through the ominous diagrams. The words almost seem to swirl on the page, her own scraps of knowledge of Tevine supplemented both by the ceaselessly whispering memories of lives that weren’t hers, and the haughtier lectures from Melivia that echo unbidden in her ears as she stares at the pages. She doesn’t need the book, really, for this. This isn’t the sort of magic that comes from careful ritual, but from desolation and grasping intuition.

She hadn’t had to be trained in the Circle to hear about how blood magic diminished the user’s ability to enter the Fade. This side effect, however unintentional for most mages, would have to be her tool in this fight now. She half-hates herself for it—she’d sworn, after all, that she would only use it to leave the Fade, and then never again—but there weren’t any other options left. Besides. It was only herself she would be influencing, and only temporarily—it wasn’t like she was using someone else’s’ blood, or affecting anyone’s thoughts but her own. She wouldn’t be controlling another person. She wasn’t breaking her promise to her mother, her family, herself; not really, not yet.

Hawke could almost convince herself of it if she kept repeating the thought, even as she pulls out her knife, kneeling on the dusty floorboards of the dim room. She pushes up her sleeves, and before she can reconsider, the blade drags across her flesh, blood instantly welling up onto her skin. The now terribly familiar slashing of herself is almost enough, the sharp pain heightening her physical awareness and scattering the hushed voices in her mind. Hawke waivers. She could stop here, as she had so many times before, feeling just the edge of power within her grasp without truly reaching for it. But this clarity won’t last, not long enough, not past the point of healing. And she is so, so, tired.

Instead, she takes a deep breath, opens her mind, and pulls.

It’s almost too easy. In only moments, the euphoric rush of power overwhelms her senses, dizzying in its intensity. The air smells heavy and metallic, like lightning and iron and possibilities; doorways opening in her mind to spells that never would be achievable otherwise. The blood on her arms drips down onto the fabric pooled around her legs, and Hawke giddily realizes she should probably have taken the robe off first. But it’s too late now, the fabric is already stained, and she feels too full to care about it now. Already overflowing with normal mana, the excess magic crackles along her tongue and fingertips, a buzzing surplus of power just waiting to be used.

So she does. With another deep breath, she channels the power back into herself, wrapping her mind in the red mist and deadening herself to every other force. It is hard to remember her goal, the purpose of turning to this magic, when it sings to her every other way it could be used. But her weariness is just as strong, and her fear and desperation hold her grimly to her path despite the exhilaration.

Silence, she commands inwards, building internal barriers between the parts of herself. Rest. No one else. Nothing else. Only me. She can feel the numbness overtaking her, and it is a struggle to hold onto the power coursing through her.

Belatedly, she realizes the dangers this probably poses—she knew it was a risk to herself, but she hadn’t realized just how quickly the magic could take hold. But it’s too hard to care about such matters now, and too late to halt the half-formulated spell, so instead she draws the power again, adding another cut along the top of her legs. If she’s going to abandon her soul to this, it might as well be all the way. She will find an escape—there is no other option now. She pulls once more, and the magic crests over her like a wave, like drowning and sweet stillness, like relief.

She can’t seem to keep track of time, but it doesn’t feel like long before she stumbles back into her room, healed and giddy, her entrance much more noticeable than her careful exist before. Fenris shifts in alarm as she closes the door, kicking the ruined dressing gown underneath the bed as she climbs back next to him.

“What—“ he starts to ask blearily, as she flops into the blankets.

“It’s nothing,” she tells him. The room almost seems like it’s swaying, despite her stillness, and she has to fight back a giggle as he looks at her in confusion. It was good he didn’t wake up when she was gone. He would have worried, if he woke, without her there. He’s always so worried about her.

“I just went out for a minute. I’m back now. Go to sleep.”

Her voice sounds odd to even her own ears, softer, and fuzzy. But his eylids droop wearily down at her reassurance, and she tucks herself against him. It’s almost akin to drunkenness, this magic. She feels cloudy, like a thick mist lies between her and everything else, and as she closes her eyes the dim humming of power still thrums through her bones. The pulsing of the spell wrapping her like a blanket downs out the feel of his heartbeat, as she cradles her head next to his chest. He won’t have to worry now. She can rest.

Hawke closes her eyes. It is nothing like sleep. And it is utterly, blissfully, silent.

Chapter Text

It is not so much waking up as a gradual fading back to awareness; a remembering that, somewhere beyond this blissful red fog, lays a physical body with all the mess of the real world attached to it. Slowly, regretfully, Hawke lets down the wall to that side of herself.

Fenris is shaking her shoulder. Not roughly, but his hands are tense, fingers gripping her skin tightly enough to call her back from her cloudy reverie.

“Mmfm,” Hawke mumbles, rolling onto her stomach on the bed to bury her face back into the pillow. She can feel him wilt back into the covers next to her in relief, dropping his head with a sigh. Daylight suffuses the room in a buttery glow, softening the sharp lines of his features as she turns to smile at his profile.

“What?”

“I—it’s nothing. I just needed to be sure.” One of his hands pushes silvery strands of hair back from his brow, and his weight shifts the mattress as he sighs.

“Mmm?” His words sound clearer than the night before, but still muffled through the soft cottony barrier that block her mind from anything not her own.

His brow crinkles as he meets her gaze, although she can’t remember him turning his head.

“You didn’t wake up last time. I was worried.”

“Oh.”

She tries to think of something else to say to him, but the dull knife in her hands slips and clatters noisily against the table, and she fumbles to pick it up and set it back onto her plate. Her other hand clutches a half-buttered roll, and a wave of vertigo sweeps across her as her body realizes it is sitting, not lying down. Had she walked down to breakfast already? She frowns at the bread gripped in her fist.

The bearded warden is saying something across the table, and it interrupts the pleasant buzz of her thoughts. Hawke tries to pick up her fork and nearly drops it as well in an attempt to stab a piece of fruit. It’s funny—her hands had trembled before this, with the exhaustion. She doesn’t know why it’s suddenly harder to control.

Fingers brush against her wrist; the familiar quiet concern of her lover. He’s always so good about not letting other people know she’s not feeling well, when he’s the only one who can tell, Hawke thinks as she turns to grin at him. His fingertips are warm, and nothing claws its way through the clouds in her mind at his touch. Nothing at all.

She turns back to her plate, but the fruit is already gone. She looks at her hand, and there’s no roll there, either. She must have eaten it.

“—should be back soon. They sent word once they made it out of the Deep Roads, but there is apparently still much to be done in the Hinterlands. I would not be surprised if their party is delayed.” Cassandra’s reply to the conversation slowly permeates her fog, and Hawke finds herself nodding along. She doesn’t feel hungry, and Fenris’ plate is clear, too. She realizes his hand is still in hers, her fingers lax in his soft grip. Was it usually so hard to keep track of what her hands were doing? The thought is funny, for some reason, and she stifles a giggle in response to it. Then she wonders why, and grins anyway. She catches Fenris’ eye, but he only seems confused by her expression. No matter.

“I had a funny thought,” she explains to him as they walk down the great hall.

“What?” His eyes flicker over her as they pause, harsh afternoon sunlight broken into a hundred glittering shards by the great stained glass at the end of the room.

“You were just telling me that you thought it would be good for me to help train the Inquisition troops,” he prompts with a frown.

“Oh. Right. They could really use someone like you, you know.”

“You said that already.”

“Did I? Oh.” She does remember that, now. The room seems brighter than it should for the time of day, and her eyes water as she squints at the throne under the colored arc of glass. The hum in her ears seems more like a droning now, and her muffled heartbeat makes her aware of the small pounding pain of a headache hovering at the edge of her awareness.

He’s still watching her, tense and waiting. With considerable effort, she gathers her meandering thoughts, forcing her mind to focus on the conversation.

"Most of the soldiers here are also refuges. Many never even fought seriously before. Cullen’s been training them hard, but he’s only one man… I think you could do them a lot of good. And it’d give you something to do as well.” The heavy weight of guilt has settled into her stomach as she carefully enunciates the words. Why? It was true. He could help. His presence was more useful than hers was, at any rate. 

Fenris catches her hand in his, and she stares at the pale lines that trail up his fingers, fascinated by the way the swirling contours glow multicolored in the jagged light cascading through the window. His grip is loose, as though afraid she will shatter if he squeezes too tightly.

“We don’t have to stay,” he tells her, voice soft in the quiet of the great room, as she meets his gaze again. “We could go home.” The painted beams scatter across his features; the colorful radiance cutting across the already sharp planes of his face.

“I can’t,” she tells him, looking back down at his hands. “I have to finish my research.”

Or maybe she’d said, I need their resources. Or perhaps even, They still need me. Whichever words came out, the lie settles like an anchor into her chest; the heaviness in her stomach now more like nausea than anything else. She doesn’t remember her reply or how she ended up here, in a dim and empty hallway, one hand clamped over her mouth and her back pressed against the cold stones of the wall.

She lets herself slide down, until she is sitting on the floor with her knees drawn up against her chest. Waves of dizziness sweep through her, the vertigo only increasing her urge to vomit, but Hawke breathes deeply through her nose until the violent disorientation ebbs again. She can feel her hand shaking where it presses against her lips, and realizes the trembling has spread through all her limbs.

The corridor is still deserted; one of the dusty and cobweb-riddled hallways leading from one abandoned room to another in the depths of Skyhold’s cellar. No one is likely to find her here, and she closes her eyes and rests her forehead on her knees while she waits for the erratic hammering of her heart to slow. Now that the lurching of the room and her stomach has settled a bit, the dull pounding pain of a headache pushes to the front of her awareness.

Ice, she thinks, and reaches, pressing a palm against her forehead—but it’s too much, the magic slippery and twisting from her control. It spills over, racing from her fingers before it stutters to a halt, and her whole arm is suddenly rimed with the sheen of silver frost. The ice is heavy and crackling, sending a flurry of snowflakes tumbling over her torso as she inhales sharply at the sudden cold.

Okay, Hawke tells herself, somewhat giddily. Okay. The effects of the blood magic from the night before were clearly wearing off, the pain in her head now accompanied by the familiar and hated soft whisperings. She’d used too much at once, when she wasn’t used to it—that was all. The power had been so blissfully, achingly sweet; she hadn’t realized she’d gone so far. But now she knew. She would just have to be more careful with it.

The temptation to call up the power again right now, despite the effects, tugs at her. Her barriers replenished, the pain and the voices would recede again, giving her the time and space to think. But the nausea hasn’t fully abated, so Hawke resists. She hadn’t been careful enough today, can only guess at what she’d inadvertently let slip during all those moments of lost time—she can’t afford to raise suspicion. She’s already under enough scrutiny, not just from Fenris, but from the other members of the Inquisition as well.

With a last, shuddering breath, she forces herself to her feet, swaying only slightly. One hand trailing along the wall, she slowly makes her way back upstairs.

__________

The rest of the evening is a struggle, but Hawke can feel herself beginning to understand what she’d done with the blood magic as its effects on her wane. Blocking out the parts of her mind the memories were trapped in wasn’t as simple as she’d expected—they were too entwined with her now. Cutting them off had also cut off parts of herself. But Hawke can feel the edges of them now; the limitations of the spell—but also where she could, perhaps, push them further.

She nods her way through polite conversations; a seemingly endless cycle of excusing herself and drifting from room to room. She finally finds Fenris again on the battlements, watching the Commander run drills for the soldiers below. He isn’t helping them, not yet. But he is watching. Considering.

Hawke sits on the ground next to where he leans, not trusting her balance to the edge of the parapets. She opens a book on her lap—one of the ones borrowed from Dorian, what feels like an age ago—though her eyes are still swimming too much to read it. But it keeps anyone else from approaching her, and Fenris seems content to wait in silence, absently brushing his fingers through her hair now and then. Her mind drifts, until with a start she realizes it is nearly dark.  She thought she’d had the time-skipping under control, but now seemingly hours have passed—her joints are stiff and aching from the rapidly cooling stones beneath her. Stretching her protesting muscles, she stands and glances down into the yard again. The soldiers are beginning to scatter, trooping wearily into the Keep.

“We can ask for food to be sent to us,” Hawke suggests, turning to rest her face against Fenris’ shoulder, careful not to touch his bared skin. The metal and leather of his armor is cool, a small relief to the sharp pain of her headache. The thought of spending hours at a noisy table, pretending to keep track of conversations, is exhausting. The last remnants of rest from the night before have evaporated, and she still can’t hide the slight tremble of her limbs.

“You’re unwell.” He is frowning. It’s not a question.

“Just a headache,” she tells him, and his scowl deepens.

“You should see a healer.”

“They can’t do anything I couldn’t do myself,” Hawke points out.  “I’m fine. Really. I’m just… tired.”

He doesn’t bother fighting her on it—her aversion to healing is a familiar fight, one he is used to losing, despite his token protests. She’d always made a habit of waiting around in misery rather than suffer the inconvenience of help, she reflects wryly. And now that she’d finally accept some, there is none to be had.

The light fades swiftly now that the sun has set, but the flickering torches from the windows still glitter painfully in her eyes as they walk back, skirting the edges of the crowds. Hawke hesitates outside their door, forcing a cheerful smile to her face as she tells him, “You go ahead. I just need a bit of air. I’ll be in in a moment.”

It is nearly enough to break her heart when he nods trustingly, and she has to walk halfway back down the outdoor balcony before she can steady herself. She didn’t want to lie to him. But she had to. She had to protect him.

Less power, and for shorter periods. That would be the key. She’d have to replenish it through the day—sneaking away every few hours isn’t going to be easy, Hawke reflects, with a frown. But as risks go—she’s taken worse.

She is quicker this time, the knife from her belt scoring only two long lines into the skin of her arm. And she is much more cautious as she draws, feeling the power wrap her like the softest of silks—just enough for the night, she tells herself. Just a few hours of rest, for now. In the morning, she can do more. In the morning, maybe, she’ll think of other options.

In the darkness, she can almost pretend the two new scars aren’t there as she enters their room.

Chapter Text

Night passes slowly after Hawke’s second attempt with blood magic, reality never more than a shift of skin or a slight cascade of sheets away. It isn’t nearly as restful—but it also means she feels her lover stir beside her, and can drag herself out of the dark and deep and crack her eyes against the painful glow of morning.

Fenris stands at her desk, paging through the ever-growing stack of unanswered letters and missives.

“Who is Dagna?” he asks, frowning at one of the papers in his hand.

“What? Oh. I haven’t met her. The Inquisition’s Arcanist, or something.” Words form slowly on her tongue, trapped in a jumble in her throat as her brain struggles to grasp her slippery thoughts. They slide like fish across her mind; too quickly for her numbed body.

“Go ahead to breakfast,” she finally manages to suggest. “I need… to sleep. A little longer.”

Fenris says something in reply, but her eyes are already closed again.

She is still so tired.

__________

Hawke finds herself using blood magic again before midday, and twice more the next evening. The confusion is not nearly as bad in the smaller doses, and she no longer seems to be losing time, but the effects aren’t nearly as strong as her first attempt. It is more like a closed door than a wall now; she can hear the voices murmuring somewhere next to her awareness, but they no longer threaten to drag her down into them every time someone comes just a bit too close. It is still a struggle to maintain enough focus to finish a conversation, but at least she isn’t in danger of wasting away while trapped in the Fade anymore.

And when she can manage, she slips back into her secret basement library, to study the heavy tomes locked within. The old pile of scavenged and borrowed books about the Fade has been pushed to the floor next to her desk; the old Tevinter ones from Dorian she’d been struggling through were filled with more self-condemning lamentations about the country’s ancient mistake than any real information at this point. Instead, she turns her focus to a set of the decaying books that had rested here long before she unearthed them: the dark books on the more gruesome details of human anatomy, on the inner workings of every organ, on the most effective uses of blood magic.

Much of what Hawke knows already is based on intuition and reflex, or the specifics of what Melivia taught her. The magic comes naturally to her, to an extent, as has all magic she’s taken up—life as an apostate never left many chances for book learning. At first, it is a struggle to translate the technical terms used to what she knows only by feel, but desperation is a powerful motivator. The information she’d once found utterly repulsive now intrigues her—the tips for finer control, the subtle ways to shift and manipulate a spell so that the target might not even realize they’re being influenced. She’d seen what a human looked like on the wrong side before, of course—there was no way for anyone to avoid that for long in Kirkwall, violent refuge-turned-rescuer or not—but never in such detail, or with explanations of how it all actually works. It is fascinating.

It is also sickening. The Magisters seemed to have little concern for those who they “studied” to gain such knowledge, the splayed cadavers drawn in exquisite detail, right down to their slender, pointed ears. Even when Hawke thinks she has numbed herself to the horror lurking below the surface of the science, every now and then a notation in the text will send a chill through her heart—

            “By the feeding of nothing but the Specified Dyes for twelve days prior...”

            “To observe properly, open the tissue while the heart is still beating…”

            “The subject, if correctly restrained, may be kept intact for Observation for up to eight days...”

Even more overwhelming is the guilt that accompanies both her interest and her dread. How can she find this useful, when the obtaining of it caused so many so much harm? Not to mention all the nefarious ways the information has been exploited to cause intentional damage since the books were written. And, greatest of all, Hawke feels guilt for the knowledge that if things had gone differently, this could so easily have been Fenris’ fate. Even in this age, such experiments were undoubtedly the secret end of many slaves. But she needs the knowledge now, so she can keep herself functional, so she can stay with him at all. Didn’t that make it worth it—not the original gaining of it, but her using it now that it had already been done? She isn’t sure she knows the answer. Despite all her rationalization, she can only stomach the tomes for an hour or two each day, before her disgust drives her back.

Even so—she is learning, bit by bit, in her stolen hours of study. The texts don’t offer much on the effects of blood magic when turned on it’s own user, but her own careful notes are growing. Her current solution is workable, but far from perfect—there have to be a ways to improve it further, beyond what she’s already been able to manage. The fact that she’s progressed in the short week since she began using it is heartening, if little else about the situation is.

But the experiments do not always go well. Some leave her numb and shaking even more than usual; others dull her senses to unacceptable levels—for one terrifying hour, she lost her sight completely, and spent the rest of the evening panicking alone, convinced she’d caused herself permanent damage. Nothing is ever sure. Even though she can think of no other way, each trial is cut with an undercurrent of dread, even as it brings her swift and sweet relief.

The current evening is one of her better attempts. Hawke sits at the long dining table in the hall, absently cutting the small piles of food on her plate into smaller and smaller pieces while she listens to the conversations around her. Cassandra and Fenris are in a deep exchange—something about the rotation schedule for soldiers farther afield. He still hasn’t committed to helping the Inquisition in any formal way, but he has spent more time observing and asking about how it’s been run, hovering at the edge of outright assistance for now.

“…just massive.” Blackwall’s voice carries across the table; the soldiers sitting near him caught up in his story. “It was pitch black in the cave, but you could hear them, skittering around on all their creepy legs. We nearly made it to the other end, but Wilfred dropped his sword, and then they all came at us at once. We were a mess by the time we got out, I’ll never forget all those eyes, glittering in the dark…”

Hawke’s fingers are bone-white from where they clutch the edge of the table, fighting back the wave of dizziness that threatens her, darkness creeping in at the corners of her vision. Her chair scrapes awkwardly against the stone as she stands, clenching her fingers to hide the trembling, fingernails digging into her palm.

“Excuse me a moment,” she manages to mumble between sharp, shallow breaths, not meeting anyone’s eyes as they turn to look at her; feeling Fenris’ gaze follow her anyway. She tries to walk calmly towards the door, but the swimming of her vision combined with her already weakened limbs is almost too much. She stumbles before she is half-through the exit out of the hall. It doesn’t matter. She just needs to be out, get away from all of them, before they see her cracking open and spilling, for all to witness and disdain. The walls loom too close and too thick above her, threatening to press her down, just like the giant body of Nightmare’s demon; to finish suffocating her like how she should have died all those months ago. Hawke’s not even sure where she’s headed—her feet lead her blindly through the passages, her dizziness now joined by a violent nausea.

And somehow, there is now open sky above her, the cold air shocking her lungs and her mind into momentary clarity as she gasps for breath. She doesn’t remember stairs, but she is up on the battlements, away from the smothering embrace of stone. Her hands are still shaking, pale white crescents dug into the flesh of her palms as her fingers clench and unclench.

The clarifying air isn’t enough to shock her stomach into obedience, though—Hawke feels her gorge rising with an undeniability she knows better than to suppress, and she falls to her knees, retching over the edge of the parapets. Her stomach, barely anything more than empty for days now, refuses to give up any of the few bites of dinner she’d managed despite the gagging. Mercifully, her gut stops its battle against itself after only a few torturous and painful minutes.

She forces her breathing to even, deepen, as she closes her eyes and presses her face against the icy stones, still kneeling. It was just another effect of the magic. There had been dizziness and nausea the first time, too. It wasn’t the spiders, wasn’t the memories—her own this time, lunging forward with too many legs and soulless, obsidian eyes—

The door behind her bangs open again, the worried catch of breath all too familiar. She doesn’t need to turn around to know him as Fenris strides forward, all but snarling in worry.

“I knew you were sick—“

“No healers!” Hawke gasps, coughing at the lingering taste of bile in her throat. She pushes herself to her feet, meekly resisting his steadying grip, but she’s shuddering too hard to keep her balance on her own. Eyes closed, she braces herself against the stone edge of the walkway, closing her eyes against the last receding waves of queasiness.

“I’m fine.” She insists. Her panic is clearing, out in the open. Her own memories slowly settle again, to lurk with those left by the fear-wisps, a constant dim roar at the edge of her heart. She wonders, for a wild moment, if she could use blood magic to seal those away, too.

“This is your idea of fine?” Fenris takes a breath, ready to argue further, but—“Champion!” a voice interrupts from across the battlements, and both turn to see Cullen striding towards them.

“Commander,” Hawke greets him, hurriedly rubbing lingering tears from her eyes before he draws too near. She continues leaning against the stones, not trusting her legs to hide her weakness. Fenris’ expression has turned impassive. Cullen nods to the elf—Hawke wonders if, had things gone differently in Kirkwall, if the two might have been friends. They certainly used to agree about magic, before she’d come along to mess them both up.

“Hawke. I… wanted to talk to you, if you have a minute.” He clears his throat, awkwardly. “To apologize.”

Hawke opens her mouth, and closes it. This isn’t what she expected. 

“There’s no need,” she tells him. “Honestly.”

“No, really—I must. I should have much sooner, but—well.” He runs a hand through his hair, longer now than he’d kept it back in Kirkwall. “I am sorry, for how I behaved when you... came to see me. I didn’t take it well. I should have been more understanding.”

Fenris’ eyebrow quirks, and Hawke winces.  She’s not sure how much he knows about her time at Skyhold—but she’s certain he didn’t know about what she’d tried to do before he’d arrived. He’d have yelled at her a lot more if he did.

“It’s forgotten. Forgiven.” Hawke tells Cullen, fervently praying that he’ll leave without further fuss.

“Thank you. I’m glad, and I hope it won’t make things difficult between us. The Inquisition is still a small place, after all—and we appreciate everything you’re doing to help us, even now.”

Is that what they think she’s been up to? Digging up knowledge and research to help the Inquisition? So she’s not just a drain on their resources, but they don’t even realize how selfish she really is.

“And, ah, one last thing.” He hesitates, but plows forward. “My memories, from the tower—the ones you said the Nightmare left you with. I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention them to anyone else. It’s just—being in command, you know, the men look to me to follow, and… it’d just be better if they didn’t know. For now. And—I know it can’t be easy, holding onto all the pain other people have forgotten. If you ever need to talk to anyone about it, well, I’m here.”

“Thank you.” Her lips form the words automatically to fill the silence stretching in the air, even as her heart freezes inside her chest. The numbness seeps outward, and she can’t look at him, can’t face him. If she turns, then she can’t pretend the words haven’t been uttered; she can imagine that he won’t understand what they mean.

But her gaze flicks involuntarily to Fenris’, and then she can’t look away.

He pieces the fragments of information together quickly, far faster than her frenzied thoughts can find a way to combat. He stares at her, realization burning like terrible stars in his eyes.

“You have them,” he whispers, whole body gone rigid. “My memories. You know.”

Hawke can’t break his gaze, and though she opens her mouth to protest, the futile lies die on her tongue.

“Have I said something wrong?” The Commander asks anxiously, but neither hears him.  The world has shriveled until it is large enough to contain only each other, and the dark truth that rises between them like a tidal wave.

“Tell me.” It is not a question. Even as Fenris makes the demand, she can see the dread seeping into his expression. If the news had been good, she would not have tried so hard to hide it.

“No.” He flinches, both at her denial and her admission that she’s been holding on to this.

“You don’t want it,” she tries, pleading. “You put it behind you; you moved on. Let it stay dead.”

“Your nightmare.” His voice is flat, the beginnings of fury simmering underneath as the pieces fall into place. “You were calling my name. You knew.”

“I didn’t want to hurt you—“

“I don’t need your protection, Hawke! I wanted—I thought you would have supported me in this. Not assume I was too weak to face it!”

“Not weak. Never. But what would it fix? Danarius is dead. If even that revenge didn’t bring you peace, why would you think this might? After Varenia—”

“Do not,” he whispers savagely, “speak their names.” His fists clench, unclench, as he fights himself for control. “You said you had the memories of strangers. You could have mentioned this!”

“It wouldn’t have helped anything. They’re inside me. I’m the one who has to fight them every day.”

“Then give them to me. My past is not your burden to bear, whatever happened in it. If anyone must suffer them, it should be me!”

“It doesn’t work that way!” Fear and frustration bleed together, and it is so much easier to be angry. Anger is simple, smothering, and Hawke wields it like a both a shield and a blade. “I didn’t—it was only after you came that I knew it at all! And I can’t just give them to you, I can’t get them out of my head at all! That’s the problem!”

“And you were—what? Going to keep this a secret, forever? You think I couldn’t see how much this has cost you, every day? That I would not notice?”

“And you think telling you would have solved any of that?” she snaps.

“You cannot keep them from me! They are mine by right.”

“You wouldn’t want them!”

“You can’t know that for certain.”

“Is that what you think?” Hawke hisses. “I didn’t just learn what happened to you. I lived it. Knowing wouldn’t help you. It would only hurt even more. I didn’t want to be the one responsible for bring you that pain.”

“Is that what this is, to you? Another attempt to leave me behind while you go to confront everything dangerous?”

“No! But—“

“It doesn’t go just one way, Hawke! You cannot expect me to simply stand aside from danger and wait for you to deal with it all yourself!”

“I’m managing it fine—“

“You are not. How can you say that, when you came out here to be sick? When you haven’t stopped shaking in days? You don’t eat anymore! You look like a ghost, Hawke, barely more than a shadow. You deny you’re a mess, and you refuse everyone that tries to help you!”

“They can’t help me.”

“No. You won’t let them help you.”

Hawke can’t reply. After everything that’s already come out, the ruin she’s made of the two of them, she can’t bring herself to tell him the tattered fragments of secret that remain. The weeks of failed attempts to heal herself. The blood magic. That she knows, sooner or later, she may not wake up again at all. Despite herself, and the fury she has tried to blanket herself in, hot tears burn her eyes.

His fist slams against the wall at her silence. “Why won’t you tell me?”

“Maybe because the last time you remembered your past because of me, you left.” As soon as the poisonous words leave her lips, Hawke almost regrets them. Almost. Fenris recoils, as though slapped, a flicker of grief slackening the rage scrawled across his expression.

Hawke can’t stand it anymore—the fighting, his words, herself. She turns, staggering towards the door, savagely biting her tongue against the painful, constricting sobs welling up in her throat.

“Hawke,” he growls after her, but she slams the door into Skyhold behind her, cutting off his protest. “Hawke!”

She runs from his frustrated call, fleeing through the passages of Skyhold only she knows. She does not know what happened to Cullen once they had begun shouting, nor does she very much care. How could he have brought that up, when she wasn’t alone? Had he assumed that she had told Fenris everything? That there wouldn’t be some things she’d keep secret, even from him?

Perhaps, Hawke considers bleakly, that was how he thought love worked. Perhaps that was how it worked, for everyone else. Too many emotions, too many hurts are piling inside her chest; too heavy and raw to deal with. She shoves them aside, shutting down the parts of her that are screaming, fuming, weeping. All she knows that she needs to escape, now. It is too late to hide anymore, too late to keep experimenting.

If she is going to fix this—to protect both of them from the curse that Nightmare forced upon her—she will have to do it now, or she will never be able to bring herself to do it at all.

__________

It is almost too easy to break into Cassandra’s small office. In the end, she doesn’t even need the tiny silver lockpicks that were stuffed into a corner of her beltpurse, an old gift from Isabela—the door to the warrior’s room isn’t even locked. It is the work of moments for Hawke to snatch up the Seekers of Truth’s thick book, and steal away back into the cellars and her secret study.

She kneels, setting the book down on the floor as she rifles through the thick vellum folios. With the information on the Rite of Tranquility, she will have the missing pieces from her experiments. The places where the mind is connected to the Fade, where it draws on it for strength and magic. Combined with the knowledge gained from the books on anatomy and darker rituals, she will know where to find these places within herself—where to seal, and where to cut. She is not a Templar, it will not be as complete as it could have been—but this way, at least, no one will be able to make her undo it. She will hide those parts of herself so thoroughly, no spirit will ever be able to find them to bring them back.

It will not be reversible.

Calmly, she opens the other books, arranging them all carefully on the floor before her. She doesn’t feel afraid. She cannot afford to. But not feeling anything, at least, is a skill she has long practiced. It will only make him angrier, she knows, especially at first. But then, at least—it will be over. Despite the deadness slowly blossoming inside her, her hands tremble, still.

There isn’t any point in waiting.

Hawke pulls out her knife, and begins the spell.

Chapter Text

First, there is pain; sharp and straight, Hawke’s blood welling quick and fluid from the gashes along her arms.

Next, there is the familiar deep ache, the alarms in her body shouting so loudly that something is wrong; all of the other terrible voices are finally drowned into silence.

And then, as she reaches and soaks up the power within her blood, the sweet and blissful purr of the forbidden magic washes over her, consuming all other sensations. The feel of the cold stones beneath her knees; the crackling hum of magic in the air; the pain in her limbs. Aches she hadn’t realized existed and bruises she hadn’t noticed all drown away in the intoxicating hum of power and pleasure. Eyes closed, it is only Hawke, and a realm of possibilities unfurling like petals inside her. How had she ever thought plain lyrium could compare? With the magic steadily pooling under her fingers, she could shake the Earth hard enough to cause Skyhold itself to shudder, the stones to crack. She could coat the fortress in waves of glittering frost. She could burn herself up so brightly and so beautifully, everyone would forget what a monster she’d turned into after all.

But that wasn’t why she was here, not now. Gasping deep lungfuls of steadying air, Hawke braces herself, resharpening her focus. She is much better at directing the power now than even a week ago, letting only a small thread weave its way into her consciousness while she walls the rest back.

All the places where the Fear-nightmares live, she tells herself. Cage them. Bind them. Break them away.

It is not an easy feat. There are so many places they have infiltrated, leaking into her own memories; tainting her real past with their bleakness and pain. Hawke does her best to purge them away, sending blasts of energy to drive them back. She can feel the tips of her fingers beginning to grow cold from the blood she’s pulling away, and she fumbles a health potion to her lips, draining it in a single, long gulp.

Once she has cleared herself of the intrusive thoughts as best she can, she begins to build the walls, blocking them out. Unlike her last attempts, she does not keep the magic separate from herself—she lets it wriggle and twist into her, anchoring itself to her mind. It slides through her, filling up the aching spaces inside her like warm water. Even with all her practice, she struggles to maintain her focus through the comforting wrap, the world muffling as her thoughts grow sluggish. It is like a slow trudge through tar, and she isn’t even close to finishing. Hawke opens her eyes, fighting a wave of vertigo, fingers trailing along the pages of the Seeker’s book as she channels the power. She can hear herself saying something, chanting her directions for the spell aloud as she weaves it, but the words themselves might as well be being spoken by someone else. The buzzing energy is filling her, draining away the remnants of her physical strength, her hands white and numb and shaking as she presses them against the thick vellum. The ribbon of power winding through her mind is more like a rope now, thick and rough, the sandpaper blast of power sloughing away anything that it meets. It is more power than she has ever felt run through her before.

 It is too much power. The realization dawns slowly, not even panic able to surface on the rising tide of magic slowly overtaking her. Hawke knows she should be worried, and her concern grows uneasily in the pit of her stomach, but horror can’t seem to take hold inside her. It doesn’t even feel like magic anymore—it’s like a wild animal, finally unbound, wanting only to race and to wreck with no mind to whatever else might lay in its path. Stop it, stop this, she tries to tell herself, but it is too late. Her reins on the blood magic have twisted out from her grasp, the power feeding and circling on itself outside her control now, like a collapsing floodgate.

“No,” she tries to whisper, and electricity crackles across her tongue at the words. Frost crystallizes beneath her rubbery legs, only to melt a moment later as a wave of heat radiates from her skin. She can’t even seem to control her own limbs, her attempt to grab another health potion resulting only in a flailing arm and shattering glass. She should be afraid; she should be terrified—there’s no way a spell gone this wrong can’t kill her. The only emotion that manages to surface is annoyance that she got it wrong. Her vision swirls as she collapses fully to the floor, twitching and shivering violently in turn. How long? Is the only thing she can manage to wonder. How long before a demon finds me, and a way in?

But the door to her secret library bangs open, a tall figure striding in without bothering to knock or call. Hawke manages to turn her face towards him just in time to see Dorian, pushing the right sleeve of his robe up, his face tense with concentration. He is saying something, too, the phrases unintelligible through the roaring of her blood and magic.

The onslaught inside her slows, fighting both of them now, as he kneels down. His hands grasp her jerking shoulders, forcing her still on the floor, and purple magic flares against her skin. Gradually, laboriously, the power begins to recede, the other mage dragging it out from her flesh inch by painful inch. It is like needles being pulled slowly from inside her head, the pain simultaneously searing and icy. Her numb limbs grow warm, and swiftly begin to sting like poisonous spider bites as her circulation slowly stabilizes.

At first, Hawke can do nothing but lay where he holds her, gasping in great, shuddering breathes of air. But as the dark magic is pulled out from her, slowly the rest of herself comes flooding back to where it had been forced from—the sickening terror at what almost happened—what had been happening—rears up, and the first action her quavering body regains is shallow, frantic sobs. She tries to turn away from him to hide her tears, but she is too weak, only managing to feebly thrash under his grip.

He is still speaking, but his voice has transitioned from whatever spell he’d worked to a string of angry curses.

“—beyond idiotic, you were half a minute from collapsing into an abomination! Blood magic is not a toy, nor something that can just be guessed at haphazardly. Of all the—“

“Had to,” Hawke manages to mumble in reply. “Had to get them out. Tried…”

Dorian’s hands slide down her shoulders and over her arms, healing the cuts left there. He takes more care with them than she would, despite the scars already puckering her skin. His physical touch stings almost as much as the magic, the contact drawing up another familiar nightmare. It hadn’t even worked at all. They were still there, after all this. It is nearly too much to bear, and she closes her eyes, fighting the waves of grief that roll through her. It is not enough to be humiliated, and half-dead. She has failed. The thick veil between her and the world is tattered, but her dizzy confusion remains as Dorian frowns, trying to meet her eyes as she avoids his gaze.

“Where did you learn to speak Tevine?” he asks, and she belatedly realizes their conversation has not been in her own language.

“You,” is all Hawke can manage to reply, before exhaustion and the thick torrent of stolen memories pull her eyes shut.

She dreams, she thinks. But not for long. When Hawke struggles her way back into wakefulness she is still in the cellar, but Dorian is sitting her upright, the healing apparently done. Or at least, hers is—his hands are passing over his own arm now, still stained with blood and laced with nearly invisible scars, pale and thin against his dark complexion. He is tight-lipped, but giddy fatigue moves her mouth for her.

“I thought you weren’t a blood mage,” she tells him.

He looks at her, tugging his sleeve down again. “I’m not. I swore off all of the practice. Foolish, perhaps, but call it a personal aversion.”

“I know,” she replies, too tired to lie. “You didn’t want to change. But I did. It’s okay.”

He freezes for a fraction of a moment, before carefully picking her up from the blood-slippery flagstones. The world lurches unpleasantly at the movement, and she can’t stifle her groan of pain.

“It is not. It would not have worked, not like that. It is never worth it.”

“There’s nothing else left to do,” she whispers into his robes, head pressed against his chest. But then he is striding out through the door, and the motion sends her once more into unconsciousness.

The stairs wake her again. They are too painful to ignore, even as the Fears drag at her.

“Where are you taking me?” Hawke manages to ask, struggling to put brace her hand against the wall before he can carry her into the upper halls of Skyhold. But she is too frail, her body bird-bone light, and offers no real resistance to him as he climbs. “How did you know?“

“How did I find you? By the Maker, did you think any mage wouldn’t notice that large of a spell? When I felt your attempts at blood magic this past week I assumed you were at least being careful with it! Vishante kaffas, if I hadn’t been so distracted about Maevaris’ situation, I would have realized I should intervene even sooner. I should never have trusted you southerners to be smart about this sort of thing. It’s a wonder the mages here don’t all perish immediately,” Dorian snaps.

“I was careful,” she insists. Even her voice sounds weak.

“You were reckless, and foolish. If I had any sense I should have investigated immediately; your reputation obviously has some rather large gaps that I am going to have to see Varric about.” He does not stop his assent, the torchlight of the upper halls growing brighter above them. “And I am taking you to the healers. I’ve done what I can, but you will definitely need a more thorough examinati—“

“No!” Her jerk of protest this time is almost enough to dislodge Hawke from his arms, but he stumbles and manages to right himself instead. “No, I can’t—“

“You think I’m going to just let this go? What you were trying to do—what you did—was intentionally causing permanent damage—“

“Please—I don’t want them to know—“

They are in one of the main-level hallways now, and Dorian turns, heading towards the heart of the Keep. His voice echoes against the smooth grey stones as they walk. “Well, it’s too late for that, now, isn’t it.”

But as he rounds the corner, her limp body still dangling form his arms, another figure nearly collides with them from the opposite direction. Hawke only has time to register the sensation of dismay as Fenris gapes at them in surprise and alarm, but his expression melts into rage as Dorian apologizes, his accent clear and ringing through the hall.

“My mistake—didn’t see you there—“

“Magister,” Fenris hisses, his hand flying to the sword hilt strapped across his back.

Oh, fuck, is all Hawke has time to think, before his hand closes around her wrist, his grip tight and eyes wide with panic. She had forgotten they hadn’t met yet, and she hadn’t found a way to tell him the Inquisition had a former Altus as one of it’s leading members.

Dorian does not let go, struggling to hold on to Hawke as he takes a shocked step backwards. “Who are you?” He demands, and Hawke opens her mouth to cry out in protest even as Fenris lunges forward, his tattoos rippling like blue flame in the dim hall.

Dorian does drop her now, stumbling back as he raises his hands, flaring with purple sparks. She crumples to the floor between the pair, hissing in pain at the sudden movement and the jarring slam of her knees and wrists against the floor. Fenris halts, snarling wordlessly, but torn between attacking and helping Hawke. At his hesitation, Dorian’s magic flares, and Hawke manages to surge to her feet just in time to push him backward before the spell can fire.

“Stop!” she cries, grabbing Fenris’ sword arm and tugging it down. “This isn’t what you think!”

“What I think? You vanish, and when I find you, you’re injured and being carried off by some Tevinter mage! What could I possibly think?!”

“Fenris, wait—”

“Fenris?” Dorian interrupts, his defensive scowl shifting to an expression of surprise. “The elf slave?”

It is exactly the wrong thing to say. Fenris’ lyrium flares as his face twists in pain, and sudden anger flashes through Hawke, despite the fact that Dorian probably just saved her life. Before Fenris can lunge, she steps into him, grabbing onto the bare skin of his upper arms. The skin-to-skin contact produces a sickening rush of doubled vision, the hallway wavering into a bloody arena, but she slams the memories aside, along with the confusion and effects of the ritual still reeling nauseatingly through her own body.

His whole body is rigid-tense, staring past her with the wild look in his eyes that generally ends in death. He doesn’t talk about it; the way he reaches into them and tears up their hearts as though he can tear out his fear with it. Later, he always has some way to justify it; convince himself that the instinctive violence as self-defense was warranted. That he had considered anything at the time but grabbing on to them like he can take back everything that was ever done to him. How could he possibly expect her to do anything but hide his past from him, when this is his reaction?

Hawke takes the sword from his hand, letting it clatter to the floor.

“Dorian. Go,” she tells him, still staring at her lover, only inches away.

The mage makes an indignant noise. “You need—”

“Now.” She does not move to watch him leave, but she hears the swish of his robes as he turns back down the hall. Instead, she presses her palm against Fenris’ now empty one, curling her fingers around his as he tries to flinch away, dragging it up to cup against the side of her face. The lyrium burns cold against her skin.

“Fenris,” she says, softly.

Dread joins the anger in his gaze as he finally looks at her again, knowing that a wrong twitch or a loss of control of his glowing hand could kill her. His eyes close, and painstakingly slowly, the glow recedes. When it has faded to only a dim sheen, she stands on tiptoe to gently kiss his forehead, only possible for her to reach because of the way his shoulders slouch in weariness.

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “I’m fine.”

“Why,” he asks tiredly, not bothering to open his eyes, “does it seem that half the time you say that, you’re covered in blood?”

Hawke glances down at herself. Dorian’s healing may have fixed her cuts, but it has done nothing for the state of her robes.

“It’s taken care of,” she says, bleakly determined to make light of the situation. There will be time for despair over her failure later, out of sight. “It was just a spell. It… went a bit wrong, and Dorian helped me fix it.”

For the second time that night, she sees grim realization kindle in his eyes as they fly open, and there is a sickening lurch inside her chest that has nothing to do with the memories blossoming beneath her skin from his touch.

“Wait—” she starts, not even sure what she could possibly follow the demand with, but he doesn’t give her the chance to try.

“You were doing blood magic.” His voice is flat, his disbelief plain. “After everything that happened? Everything we saw?” He steps back, hand dropping to his side.

“You knew that! I told you. I had to learn it, to get out of the Fade.”

“I did not believe you would be foolish enough to continue using it!”

Hawke folds her arms tight across her chest. “I don’t have many options, all right? It’s not like I didn’t try anything—everything—else first!”

“And what? That makes it excusable? Don’t you remember what happened the last time a Hawke messed with blood magic? Because the consequences from that are now threatening to destroy the world!”

The comment stings, the particular guilt at her own part in the current destruction of Thedas rearing up inside her again.

“Nothing else was working!” she snaps instead.

“You want me to just stand here and watch you turn into one of them? There is always a justification for more power. You think you would just be able to stop once this was done?”

Hawke hisses between her teeth in frustration. “You don’t understand. You’re not even trying. Magic is a part of who I am, and yes, fine, I made a mistake this time! But that doesn’t mean I can ignore the danger and just hope everything else will turn out!” She hadn’t gotten it quite right. Hadn’t been prepared enough—it had been foolish to attempt the spell so suddenly, she knew that now. But she’d already learned so much, not just about blood magic but all other types too, from the weeks of research. But that didn’t mean she was going to turn into what he’d spent half his life running from. Didn’t it?

His next harsh retort calls her back to their present predicament.

“And once again, you didn’t even think to ask for help!”

“None of the mages here could help me. They tried. What do you want me to do, waste more of their time? While they run around fixing all the other problems I made?”

His eyes narrow as she clenches her fists, fingernails digging into her elbows. “They’re not the only mages you know. Or the only ones that have experience with blood magic.”

“I—” Hawke stops, the impact of his words hitting her like a bolt. “…Oh.” He was right. She hadn’t even thought to seek help from her old allies, beyond hiding from them what she’d become. She wasn’t the only one in their family to face the consequences of magic she’d chosen, or the only one who know about loss. She can almost hear Merrill’s gentle voice chastising her already.

"Of course you didn’t,” he replies, his voice low and heavy with disgust. “That’s how it always is, isn’t it? You against the world, with no room for the rest of us.” The light from the torches flickers against the walls, the shadows dancing and cutting harsh lines of light against his face. No daylight remains in the windows high above, and Hawke realizes she has no idea how much time had really passed during her failed ritual. “My memories. Blood magic. What else have you been hiding?”

Hawke is tired, so tired. There’s no point anymore. “The memories are killing me. Every time I go to sleep it takes longer to wake up. Sometime soon, I probably won’t.”

There is an awful silence. The torches sputter, the soft hiss of flame the only thing standing between them.

“So that’s why you didn’t ask for help. You were just waiting for it to happen. So you didn’t have to pretend to care you were keeping all this from me anymore.”

Despite all their earlier words, this hits her like a physical blow. “When did I give you the impression I didn’t care about you?! Why do you think I’ve been going to these lengths, if not to fucking fix it—”

His voice is a snarl, the wolf in his name baring its teeth in his words.

“When you chose them over me!” The sound slices like a knife between her ribs, visceral and sharp. He turns his face away as he continues, as though the quiet bitter words cut his throat as they leave it. “You chose to sacrifice yourself for them over your life here. You weren’t the only one who could have stayed.” He won’t meet her eyes, or can’t, and she’s not sure it matters which. “You wanted to die more than you wanted to come home.”

A hundred explanations bubble up in her throat just to die at her lips, reasons why the Wardens needed a leader, why it couldn’t have been any of the Inquisitor’s companions instead. The stories she can tell everyone else don’t matter here. He has always been able to tell when she is lying, even to herself.

The silence now is thick and oppressive rather than empty, her lack of a response all the damnation needed.

“I guess one of us is always running away,” Hawke finally replies, and although spoken softly, the words echo in the suddenly vast distance between them.

She does not storm off this time. Instead, she stands and watches as Fenris turns, silently, and walks away.

Once his shadowed form is no longer visible against the torchlight, she slowly crumples to the cold floor, all her weakness and pain flooding in to fill the void inside her their fight has left. His dropped sword still lies on the stones beside her. Back pressed to the chilled stones of the wall, Hawke lowers her face to her hands, and weeps.

Chapter Text

Hawke lies curled atop her bed, miserable and alone. She is not sure when she managed to stagger back to her tiny room, but the light of dawn now creeps slowly across her floor. She hadn’t bothered to close the door completely when she came back, and now a chill breeze intermittently circles the room. It smells like snow, and she shivers every time it picks up. It seems fitting, somehow.

Fenris has not come back to their chamber, at least not since she returned. She doesn’t know where he is. She would say she doesn’t care, but she does, so much so that it is a physical ache building behind her breastbone. The light moves across the floor, and begins tracing up one of the walls. Hawke does not movie.

It is midday when her waiting ends. The door creaks open, and a shadow stretches itself across her view. She does not turn, waiting.

Fenris clears his throat, uncomfortably. “I… brought this. I thought we could finish it.”

At this, she finally looks up. He stands awkwardly, a tattered book clutched in one hand, proffered towards her like a wilted flower. She can barely make out the words on the faded cover—Hard in Hightown. She’d forced a copy (three, actually) on him before she had left for Skyhold, all those months ago. She’d had a copy here, and made him write to her about the chapters as they read them simultaneously, despite the miles between them.

He coughs again. “We were only on chapter eight, before you… left. I haven’t read more.”

Minutely, she shifts on the bed, making room for him. He walks in apprehensively, settling himself down as though she is a wild animal who at any moment might decide to flee or attack instead. In many ways, he’s probably right.

His settles his back against the wall, and Hawke curls herself against his chest, head tucked under his chin and legs bent over his.

“Read to me?” Hawke asks softly, closing her eyes.

He opens the book on his lap, staring intently at the page for a minute before he begins. When he speaks, his voice is slow, tongue still tripping over some of the words.

“Donnen Brennokovic was running out of leads to chase. He had only two weeks until reteri--re, retirement. Just two weeks to find the man who'd murdered a magistrate and a Hightown nobleman--if Captain Hendallen didn't kick him from the ranks first…”

His voice rumbles inside his chest, vibrating against her ear as she reads. He is still wearing his armor, and it stabs her uncomfortable in the ribs as she sits. He did not say, “I’m sorry.” Neither of them is very good at those particular words. But it is as close to an apology as their tiny broken family can come, and it is enough.

__________

He read to her for the rest of the afternoon, the printed words filling up the small room and crowding out the bitterness. At some point, when it began to grow dark again, he left and returned with food. The smell was sickening, but Hawke ate anyway, none of it satisfying the hunger in her bones.

Now, they lay together on the bed, the night covering them dark and deep, a blanket to help them pretend the rest of the world is gone. Heavy clouds cover the sky, not even a scrap of starlight piercing the cold air. Hawke can feel the rise and fall of Fenris’ chest pressed against her back, steady and rhythmic, whereas her own feels stuttering and quick. She is curled around herself, a tight ball of sorrow, and one of his arms is thrown across her as though he can hold her together as long as they stay still. Neither of them tries to sleep. There is no point, for her, and not for him now that he knows. But they lay in silence, the poison of all the terrible things they’d said to each other finally seeping away.

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Hawke says miserably. His breath catches for a moment, listening to her soft confession. She can’t see him in the dark, could never say the words if she could have. “I knew it would hurt you. It would make it so much harder to deal with it.”

He is quiet for a while.

“It always hurts,” he says eventually. “But you didn’t have to do it on your own. That’s the point. ”

Silence fills the room for a few more minutes, until he speaks again.

“No more blood magic.” He does not phrase it as a request. “I can’t watch you turn into that.”

Hawke stares into the dark. “I know,” she tells him. “But it hurts.” She hadn’t gone more than half a day without using it since she’d started the process of walling herself away, and she hadn’t realized how much it had been doing for her. Not just with suppressing the memories, but the rest of it—the painful cringing of her joints, the bone-deep ache in her muscles, the bruising along her paper-thin skin. It was all back now, even if the world was clearer and her own memory had returned. All she wants is to call it back, just enough to ease the transition, erase her suffering. There is a pounding pain in her head that has nothing to do with the trapped fears.

Fenris does not say anything, and Hawke sighs. “I know. I’ll stop. I mean it.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she isn’t sure if he means about the pain, the demand, or the whole situation altogether.

She didn’t think she would have been able to bring herself to try again, anyway, if her longing for it had been any less. The near-overpowering of the ritual had shaken her, terrified her still, even almost a day later. Magic had never turned on her so completely; so utterly ignored and devoured her willpower. Sometimes it would fight back, yes, or become hard to control—but to feel herself lost in its channels, nothing but the roar of its passing surrounding her—for the first time in her life, Hawke understood the fear the drove the Chantry to try to lock them away.

Like she’d tried to lock herself away. To keep everyone safe from herself; to keep her shame a secret. Fenris’ thumb rubs across her wrist, her pulse thin and quick beneath his touch.

Sometimes, Hawke reflects, she thinks that their love is like a fistfight. In other, darker moments, she wonders if it is more like a forest fire.

They’ve both spent so long running from themselves, it’s hard to slow down enough to let someone in. She shows him she loves him by charring up anything that tries to hurt him, and he tells her he cares with an eye on her back and a hand on his sword. She says it when she burns down slaver warehouses, the smoke coiling into the sky her signal that she will never let anyone take him again.  He replies with a scrap of red fabric, and a mild declaration as they walk: I remain at your side. When he says it, he means, You helped me be free. He means, I will follow you, I will run for you, I will kill for you. He means: I could go, but I won’t. I will be here. I will stay.

She would burn down their city a second time to tell him she never meant for him to suffer. She only ever wanted to keep him safe.

It isn’t the leaving that matters, Hawke realizes, even if it hurts. They were both too wild to ever pretend at anything other than freedom for long. But they always returned. That was the part that was important—the coming back.

“Something inside me is broken,” she whispers into the dark, finally admitting it aloud. “I don’t want this. I don’t want to die. But I don’t know what else to do.”

His hand finds hers, closing over it in the dark. He draws their fist back over her shoulder to press the backs of her fingers to his lips, as though to call her back from the dark void inside her heart she can’t escape. “How could I ever hope to fix it?” The words curl like smoke into the night from her lips, hovering slight and fragile between them, his breath warm on the back of her neck as she waits.

“I know, I know,” he replies. And then: “You can’t.”

She had feared the answer, but to hear it aloud, and from him, is an unexpected dagger between her ribs. Fenris feels it, too, and squeezes her hand tighter in his.

“Things don’t always get better,” he tells her now. “But you survive them anyway.” He says it fiercely, as though that will make it true. As if his words, here in the dark, are more powerful than any spell, than any scattered fragments of spirit that might drag her away. They had been true for him, once, after all. “You’re Hawke,” he tells her. “You always win. You’ll beat this, too.”

“I wouldn’t exactly describe what happened to Kirkwall as winning,” she mutters, turning under his arm to face him. In the black of the room, all she can make out is slivers of silver light against his hair, tarnished darker by the shadows.

“We made it,” he points out. “Both of us. Maybe it’s not winning. But it is enough.”

Hawke thinks about nightmares that plague them both, the months of running, the hasty flights in the middle of the night after someone has stared at them a little too long in the bar. The way she hadn’t seen the rest of her family except for a few stolen moments, here and there—it was either too dangerous for them to still be associated with her, or they were on the run themselves.

She’d wanted them to have a normal life, at least for a while. To stay in her home and cook together and finally weed the garden and she was going to make him help her re-catalogue the entire library. She didn’t even want a garden, she’d never been able to keep plants alive for very long—but she wanted it with him. She’d found herself longing for all the stupid things she’d scoffed at, the future Leandra had always expected for her, the very one she’d spent years running away from.

And then they’d had so little time after they finally made up—it had always seemed like there would be tomorrow, next week, and then suddenly everything was on fire and half the city wanted her dead. And they ran, and now it was all too far in the past to hope to recapture. She’d hoped for lazy days in Kirkwall and what she got was long, tiring nights of travel and sleeping in abandoned barns.

It wasn’t winning, and it didn’t feel like enough.

Hawke reaches, twining her fingers behind his neck and pulling him against her. Her lips bump against the edge of his jaw, the corner of his mouth, before his catch hers in a long kiss. She tries to pour everything into her touch; all the sorrow and regret and wishes she can’t bring herself to say. The past too painful to reclaim, the uncertainty of their future. His hands slide up her sides, dragging across her back, and she shudders at the contact, pressing her body closer against him. Inside her, the memories churn at his touch, hazy flashes of vision and scatterings of words, almost physically present in the uncertainty of the dark.

She’d been able to ignore them, before, but it has been too long, now. Whatever healing Dorian had completed had undone whatever changes the blood magic had been catalyzing in her brain, and after weeks of near silence, the Fears are deafening. No matter how hard she pushes, they find a way to trickle back through.

“You’re very promising,” the dangerously quiet voice of the magister murmurs in her ear, as her fingers twist into Fenris’ hair, the tips of her fingers digging into his neck. She runs one hand down his spine, the scrape of her nails enough to wake the harsh blue glow of lyrium in its wake.

Fenris breaks apart from her, a ragged gasp escaping his lips.

“Don’t,” he tells her, voice low and raw.

“Don’t what,” Hawke whispers, her hand tracing the swirling design at his hip. “You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Varenia begs from somewhere beneath her breastbone.

“Don’t kiss me like you’re saying goodbye.”

There is nothing she can reply to that, and he crushes himself against her hungrily, rolling on top of her. The lyrium is almost blinding in the dimness, leaving glowing spots in her vision as her hands move across his shoulders, his neck, his stomach. They are almost enough to burn away the afterimage of a sword plunging into the belly of another man, one of his daggers tangled in the fabric of the tunic she’s not wearing.

Hawke doesn’t say anything at all, only rises to meet him, to surrender herself to something that for once is what she wants. This mix is too confusing, a mess of limbs and lives, echoing around inside her like endless clanging bells. Had this been how it was for him? For a dizzying moment, Hawke can almost understand why it was too much for him, that night.

“Fenris,” she breathes, and what she means is: I love you. I’m sorry. I love you. I’ll try. But then he is biting her lip, and her body arches under his hands, and for a few precious minutes, she is lost, lost, lost.

__________

They both lie awake this time, tangled into each other, unwilling to break the fragile silence of peace. But her weariness is too heavy to bear for long, exhaustion dragging her eyes shut despite her fear. But even that is dim, muffled by the weight of everything the day had brought—the fights, the failed spell, the confessions. She’s not even sure how long it’s been since she actually slept—one week? Two? Even without the lesser blood magic confounding her thoughts, it is hard to puzzle together the days, bits and pieces of them lost to her totally.

“I have to sleep,” she tells him, finally. It is hard to feel anything about this fact, her terror blanketed under the press of voices.

He shifts, muscles tensing with anxiety. “Would… would it be easier for you if I went elsewhere?” he asks, but his arms tighten despite his words, clutching her tighter.

“No,” she tells him. “Please. Stay with me. I…” Hawke swallows. “I don’t know how long it will last.”

 Her earlier confession hangs over them both in the dark, the looming fact that eventually, she might be trapped for too long to matter.  It hurts to ask, the selfishness of the request hanging guiltily inside her. But there was no way left to shield him from her pain.

“I’ll be here,” is all Fenris replies, but she can hear the thick burn of unshed tears in his voice as he gathers her closer.

But then her eyes are closing, against her will, and the only thing she hears before being pulled into the Fade is his whispered begging of “Come home,” his lips pressed against her forehead as she tumbles into nightmares.

Chapter Text

When Hawke opens her eyes, cold daylight is pouring into the sparse room through the half-open door. The first thing she notices is a burning thirst in her throat, and the second is that Fenris is no longer beside her. But no, he is—the quick flutterings of panic, so swift to spring up, settle back into nervous tension beneath her ribs. He sits at the desk now, head bowed. He does not turn, but she can see the dark circles beneath his eyes, weariness bringing out lines in his face she’d never seemed to notice before.

She sits up slowly, her head aching, and drinks half the pitcher of water set on the floor next to the bed. The metal is icy to the touch, as is the water.

“How long?” she eventually croaks out.

He does not look at her as he replies. “A day and a half.”

She closes her eyes against the pounding in her skull, and they sit in silence. His armor is on, and the water was refilled. He had left for a while, then. She is glad.

It is a long minute before she feels strong enough to stand and dress. She does not like it, this new weakness that haunts her body; that has stolen her limbs. A staff is not a broadsword, but it is heavy, when you spin it about—even if Anders always accused her of being more flashy about it than was strictly necessary.

And now her fingers tremble, and she struggles to clasp the fix of her belt, and pulling on her own boots leaves her almost breathless. The weeks of healing after the Arishok almost cleaved her in two are almost blissful in comparison.

“Were they mine?” he asks, quietly.

She does not want to answer, but the truce between them is too delicate to test. “Some,” she admits. She does not elaborate, and he does not ask her to. For now. Before the self-loathing can settle into his gaze, she rests a hand on his shoulder, kissing the top of his hair gently.

“Can you bring me some food?” she asks, although the thought of eating sends her stomach lurching uncomfortably. The craving coiled inside her like a snake is nothing close to wholesome. “I’m to tired to go myself.”

He nods, standing, and kisses her too deeply than is perhaps called for before a simple trip to the kitchens. But his lips are warm, as nothing else in this castle is, and even the sight of his cloak swirling away around the corner is enough to make the tense strings inside her vibrate with anxiety.

Instead of chasing after him, or giving in to the even stronger urge to run away, Hawke takes his place at the small table, pushing aside the scattered piles of mail and books and rubbish. Buried beneath the mess are a clean-enough quill and half a pot of ink, and selecting the least bent page of parchment, Hawke carefully begins to pen her letter.

            Dear Merrill, she writes, frowning absently with concentration.

            I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to get in touch. I hope you’re well, and the alienage and its people are fairing all right. I know you are doing all you can for them, but I hope you are caring for yourself as well.

            I was hoping you might have some advice for me…

Hawke is still writing when Fenris returns, the plate he’s carrying loaded with far too much food. He sets it on the table and waits for her to finish, sitting on the edge of the bed behind her as he begins to meticulously clean his sword.

He is almost done by the time she gives up, shoving the paper and ink away with an aggravated sigh. There is so much to be said, and so much she does not want to admit. Her penned questions seem clumsy and childish, the written account making her actions—which had been so clear to her while everything was happening—seem foolish and naive instead. She can’t tell anymore what is her own rationalization and what is fact, and she was too damned insistent on keeping quiet about everything to be able to get a second opinion now, in the aftermath.

She feels a hand on her shoulder; Fenris, sensing her frustration. “Let it be,” he tells her quietly. “Eat.”

She pushes the uncompleted draft of the letter to the side of the table, turning to the plate instead. The sight of so much food makes her stomach twist in repulsion, but she grimly picks up a roll. He’s brought mostly bread and dried fruit and some salted meat, at least, nothing overly flavorful or rich. She didn’t think she could have stomached any of it otherwise, the faint scent of the plate already calling up a hint of nausea.

“What are you going to do?” he asks while she chews, sitting back down behind her.

Hawke doesn’t look at him. “Wait, I guess, for now. I don’t know how long it will take for all of the effects of the blood magic to wear off. I think Dorian cleared most of it out of my system. But I—there will probably be withdrawal.” She puts more food in her mouth, grateful for an excuse for silence if not the sustenance.

“You need to see a healer.” It isn’t a question, or a request. He watchers her warily, and she raises her head to return his gaze with an equally measuring stare. She doesn’t know how far his tolerance extends anymore—or her own.

She chews for a long time before finally swallowing, then sighs. Almost a minute of silence passes before she speaks.

“When the Inquisition found me,” she begins carefully, “they brought me back to their camp. The healers didn’t know what was wrong with me. They gave me sleeping potions.” She drums the fingers of one hand against the desk, staring at the piece of dried apricot gripped between the fingers of her other hand. “They couldn’t have known what it meant for me, to have my mind forced back into the Fade. I didn’t either really. It was the first time I was… truly unconscious since I’d escaped. The memories were much, much worse than they had been while I was still physically trapped in the Fade.” She puts the fruit down, unable to force herself to keep eating through her lack of appetite. “I was asleep for nearly five days.”

It had been torture. There was no other word for it, being thrown back into the prison she had thought she’d finally escaped, only to discover it even more excruciating than she’d known. That first time had been, until she had relived Fenris’ memories, by far the worst. For at least two of those days she’d lost her sense of self entirely, unable to remember where or who she was amidst the raging chaos and despair that whirled inside her. It had taken everything to drag herself back, piece by piece, sorting out which memories were real and which were intruders. And when she woke, there was nothing else they seemed able to do for her.

She waits in silence while he digests the implications. “I’m sorry,” he finally offers. “I didn’t realize it was so bad, back then.”

“They thought they were helping.” She sighs again, and turns away from the desk, staring into the fire instead. “But I don’t think I could—I can’t go back to the hospital. I don’t think I could handle waking up on a cot like that again. I just—I can’t.”

He rises from the bed, and then bends to add another log to the small fire. She belatedly realizes she is shivering, and isn’t sure if it’s the cold, the memories, or a symptom of the slow ache of longing that has been slowly spreading through her bones.

“Not the Inquisition healers, then,” he accepts. “But you can’t do this alone. Who here could help? There has to be someone…”

“Dorian, maybe,” she says resignedly, watching the flames slowly crackle up the fresh wood. Fenris gives a low growl, and she is unpleasantly reminded of the wide variety of conversations she’s been determinedly avoiding having with him.

“Don’t, please,” she says softly. “I know it looked bad, when you found us. But he probably saved my life by coming when he did.”

“He is an Altus.” Fenris’ back is to her, still standing next to the fire place, but she can see his fists clench and unclench even if she can’t see his expression. “You know I can’t… seeing him…”

“Yes.” She puts her hands between her knees, pushing them together to try to stop the trembling. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I should have warned you sooner. I won’t talk to him, if it makes you feel better about things. I know… I can’t know, really, what it’s like for you. I can ask the other mages here instead. Solas has studied the Fade extensively, at least.”

Fenris hesitates, turning around again to study her face. “But you think he could help you?”

“I don’t know,” she tells him honestly. “But he knows about blood magic, and more than I thought he did, apparently. He might at least have an idea of how long it will take for me to… get past it.” Hawke stands, and steps to close the distance between them, taking his hands. “Dorian left Tevinter. He talks about the country as though he’s proud of it, yes, and I think part of him will always miss it—but his own family did terrible things to him, too. With blood magic. I’m not asking you to like him, or even be there while I talk to him. But I don’t know that anyone else here will have that kind of first-hand experience.”

Fenris looks from his face to where her fingers grasp his. She wonders if he can feel their slight shaking. “You should go,” he admits, clearly unhappy with it. “But I’m coming. No more doing things alone. Not again.”

It hurts. She knows it’s not fair to be upset that he distrusts her—there’s no way he can’t, after everything she’s hidden from him so far. But it still sends a pang of sorrow through her breast. The room feels suffocating, now, despite its chill. Instead of feeling better for having cleared the air, she feels like the conversation hangs suspended around them, words crowding away the fragile peace they’d built between themselves the previous night.

Longer ago than that, Hawke reminds herself. It was only one—albeit tormented, agonizing—stretch of unconsciousness for her, but a full day and a half had passed while he waited anxiously, not knowing when or if she would truly wake next.

“I hate this,” she whispers, leaning across the mere inches between them to press against his chest. “I feel so powerless.”

“You can’t fix everything yourself.” His voice is tired. Everything he has said today sounds tired, and so is she, and it’s probably her fault they’re now stuck in this terrible equilibrium. Their whole conversation has felt clinical; cold. Even when she’d been half-intoxicated by blood magic, at least things between them had felt warmer, more organic. “Please, Hawke. Let us help you. Let someone else take care of you for a change.”

“Yeah,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut against the sting of tears. “Fine.”

For all that the fire inside their room could not warm her, it’s not as cold as Hawke expects when they step outside onto the balcony overlooking Skyhold’s courtyard. It is well after midday now, and the while the slight breeze raises gooseflesh along her neck, the high sun is warm against her face. There are no clouds today, and she hadn’t really looked from her room since she was here the first time—before Adamant. The mountains seem to stretch impossibly far into the distance, their perpetual snowy tops blazing blindingly against the pale blue of the sky. She squints down instead, eyes watering. Skyhold’s denizens mill about as usual, a muffled thwacking echoing off the walls from Cassandra’s corner as the Seeker determinedly beats a practice dummy to a pulp.

“It’s pretty up here,” she comments absently, and Fenris snorts.

“If you like miles of nothing but ice.”

His reply is so sardonic the corner of her mouth twists into a smile, without her even forcing it. “That’s right. You must be even colder than I am up here. At least I grew up with Ferelden winters.”

She shakes her head abruptly, trying to chase away unbidden memories of Carver and Bethany screaming with laughter as they hurled snowballs into their father’s face. It must have been—Maker. Almost 20 years ago now. She can’t believe it’s been that long, although it feels so far distant to be almost different life entirely. She has a hard time reconciling the two distinct halves of her life, as though a wall exists between who she is now and the girl who’d lived in Lothering until the Blight struck. Sometimes, she pretends that girl is still there—living peacefully, her family still intact and whole. What was the saying Malcolm Hawke used to tell them, when she and her siblings pressed too hard about his own childhood, the one he’d always been reluctant to speak of? The past is a country you can never visit again.

A hand brushes her arm hesitantly, and she jolts back to the present. “Sorry,” she tells Fenris guiltily, as she sees his worried expression. “No magic involved that time. Just caught up in my own memories for once, I guess.” She swallows. “I know we have to go talk about my current sorry state of a body, and I will, but—can you just talk to me? First? Ever since you got here, it’s been just… back to business. Or me, trying to hide things. And that’s my fault. Completely.” Impulsively, she reaches up and caresses his cheek, angling his face down so she can kiss him. When they part, she rests her forehead against his, eyes closed.

“I missed you,” she says, simply. “Before you came, I don’t think I could have survived it, except I knew you would find me again. Even though I was terrified of what you’d think. But I’m so much better when you’re just… here. With me. And I’m sorry I messed that up so much.”

He exhales slowly, one arm wrapping around her waist. “It’s hard,” he tells her, voice laced with regret. “I don’t know how to feel anymore. You were using blood magic, and you hid my memories from me. My past. You know what that means to me. But…” he presses his face into her hair, her head cradled into his neck. “Living without you would be worse.”

Oh, Hawke thinks, and, dammit, she’s crying again. “Enough,” she pleads, pulling back and trying to smile at him through her watery vision. “I’m not used to this whole talking about our feelings thing. Can we walk for a minute? Outside? Tell me about how things went after I left. I know what you told Cassandra and them about helping refugees, but… tell me. Tell me something that isn’t about how messed up I am.”

He pulls back, trailing one hand down her arm to gently twine their fingers together.

“Do you remember Aidria?”

“The seamstress? The one who’s barn we were sleeping in?” Hawke takes a few steps, tugging him along, and begins to stiffly climb up the stairs to the battlements.

“Yes. Well, after you left, she started working with the other refuges—sewing old sheets or sacks, or whatever people had into extra clothes for their children. Most were too afraid to come out from the woods to the farm, so a few days a week, she asked me to watch Darren and Hannah for her.”

“You, babysitting nine-year-olds?” Hawke teases. “I have a hard time picturing that.”

He gives a low chuckle. “Yes, well, I didn’t exactly know any games. So I started teaching them swordfighting.”

“You didn’t!”

“It was fine, until Sam and Finn and Leanna started showing up too. Lea’s only six, but from the way she started whacking the boys with her stick, you could have mistaken her for a full Templar…”

They walk slowly as he tells her, softly, of ordinary things. Hawke stops to admire the view as a pretense for resting more often than she’d like to admit. The fears are humming to her, echoes clamoring at the back of her head as she clings resolutely to Fenris’ hand. But, despite the weary stiffness in her bones, and the ever-strengthening longing in her body for the magic she’s promised to abandon, for the first time since they left for the Western Approach, Hawke feels almost whole again.

Chapter Text

It is nearly evening by the time Hawke and her lover exit the battlements, reentering the fortress via the Spymaster’s balcony. Her hands and feet are numb from the ever-present wind that buffets uselessly against the stones, and the cold has seeped through her layers and into her bones, despite Fenris’ warm arm slung across her shoulders. They walk slowly, his brief relieved cheerfulness fading visibly from his face with every step they take farther into the rotunda.

“Here,” she tells him softly, as they exit the stairwell onto the second level. She raises the hand holding her own to her lips and presses a quick kiss to the back of his fingers before letting go. He stops, letting her cross the last few strides alone. As she steps forward she can still see him turn to the crammed bookshelf and hesitantly lift a hand to trace the spines, staring at the myriad of covers, a slight wrinkle of concentration creasing his forehead as he tries to read the faded titles. But she forces herself to look forward and focus on what she is here for, because Dorian has noticed her arrival, and he does not look pleased.

“I see you’ve survived, despite your best efforts,” he snaps, curtly.

“Can’t seem to break the habit,” Hawke shrugs.

“Are you here for your clearly long-overdue lecture on the dangers of playing with powerful magic you don’t understand?”

Hawke shakes her head. ”I’m here to say thank you. And to apologize.”

“Thank me for what, I can’t imagine. I checked with the Inquisition healers the night after your little experiment. And the next morning. And today.” He continues to glare at her as Hawke grimaces, watching as she drags the chair in the hallway across from his plush throne. “You don’t seem to value me saving your life very highly, it seems.”

“Alright,” Hawke begins, not bothering to flip the chair around, and plopping onto it backwards instead. “So, those Fade-memories I got trapped with after killing Nightmare’s spider demon. They got a lot worse.” She doubts he has forgotten hearing her scream and weep in her sleep when the Inquisition first plucked her out of the Exalted Plains. His slight wince at her words is confirmation. “And also, I didn’t get out through a rift. It was with blood magic.”

“The demon you’ve been trying to track down,” he murmurs. “That’s the one who taught you.” It isn’t a question.

“Yeah. In exchange for… helping it escape the Fade. That was the deal. We both got out.”

“And you thought it was a good idea to, what—keep up practicing what a malevolent spirit told you was a good plan? Blood magic can be a tool like any other, in moderation and practiced safely, but what you were doing—altering your own mind…” He trails off, the horror plain in his voice.

Hawke rests her elbows on the chair back in front of her, arms crossed. Even without touching him, she can sense the ticklings of the fear-memories trying to force their way into her thoughts. “It wasn’t my first choice. I tried everything else first. And for what it’s worth, I didn’t—I didn’t realize how… complicated it’d be. I thought just walling off a small part of myself might keep them away, or at least give me more time to figure something else out. I didn’t know how intricate that sort of magic could get.”

"Maker.” Dorian’s head drops into his hands, and he rubs his face wearily. “I don’t know what’s worse. Blood magic being taught to everyone within reach and used willy-nilly, or blood magic being taught to no one, so when one of you does try it, you underestimate it so spectacularly.”

“Can we skip over my many, many, failures for a moment? I promise you I’ve already considered them deeply myself. Multiple times.” She risks a quick glance over her shoulder at Fenris, who is resolutely staring at the books, though she doesn’t doubt he’s listening intently to their conversation. “I thought I knew what I was doing, but I didn’t. Not even close. You came in just before—well. I don’t know what would have happened, but, if you hadn’t stopped it…”

“Nothing good,” Dorian replies darkly.

“Yeah. Thank you, for that. And I was hoping you could tell me what the aftermath is going to be like. I’m going to stop with blood magic altogether, I swear, but I’d been using it for weeks… and I need to know what to expect without it.”

“A healer would be better equipped to tell you what you’re in for. I was kicked out of the Circle before I made it to those classes.”

“These Ferelden healers here don’t have first hand experience with blood magic,” she tells him frankly. “And also, I had a very bad experience with healers. I am not inclined to repeat it.”

They sit in silence for a minute, while he evaluates her. Why was everyone so insistent she see a goddamn doctor, anyway? It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been healing her own (and her sibling’s) cuts and bruises since she was ten.

As though he can hear her inner dismissal, Dorian gives a brief huff, and relents.

“Dizziness. Weakness. Fever. A loss of appetite, and other cravings; they will be replaced with a desire to use more blood magic instead. Usually a mage takes months between his first attempts, and years before he casts more than one spell a week. It’s the only safe way to build up a tolerance for it. You’re also going to have a much harder time casting spells normally, if you haven’t been working to maintain them in the meanwhile?” Hawke shakes her head, and he nods solemnly. “The spellcasting will come back, eventually. It’s impossible to say when, or how long it will take you to regain your full power again. Everything has a price.”

That was never something the half-crazed apostates escaped in Kirkwall never mentioned, Hawke thinks wryly. And almost immediately feels guilty for it, with her new perspective on blood magic. It was never as simple as she’d always assumed. It wasn’t just weakness on the part of the afflicted mage, but something so much bigger, and hungrier.

“Physically, your body will heal. I can’t say the same for your brain. It might be fine, or what you’ve done may have lasting effects. There are corporeal roots for anything within the mind, and they are never simple. They can’t regrow the same way flesh can. A healer could examine the damage to tell you more,” he finishes pointedly. “Or, if you won’t see them, Vivienne or Solas may be able to make a better guess than I have. Vivienne did serve as First Enchanter, and has experience with at least a few areas of medicine.”

“Any idea how long the physical symptoms will last?”

“How long ago did you start using it?”

Hawke spreads her hands, uncertain. “It was in the Fade. Time felt… different. I can’t really say how long I was there for at all. I stopped once I got out, for a little while… but after three weeks of nothing else working, there didn’t seem to be any other options.”

He shrugs, but his face is finally more sorrowful than irritated now, the sarcastic drawl evaporated from his voice. “I don’t know. It will probably get worse before it gets better, There are certain teas, and poultices that may help you. I can send for the recipes.”

“Thank you,” Hawke tells him. “I appreciate the help.” She stands, straightening her armor, and then stares him directly in the eyes. “And also,” she adds softly, “despite all your help, if you ever refer to Fenris as a slave again, I will personally stab you and push you off the battlements.” The mage almost seems about to laugh, but something in her expression halts him, and he has the grace to look abashed instead, paling slightly. “I don’t care if it was a slip of the tongue. This is not, and never will be, up for debate.”

With that, she turns, and drags the chair back towards the balcony. Wordlessly, Fenris retakes her hand, and they descend to the main floor of the Keep. 

Leliana is waiting for her in the entrance hall, as though she knew Hawke would step through the door at any moment. Upon reflection, Hawke admits she probably did.

“Wanted to make sure you got this as soon as possible,” the Spymaster says with a small upward quirk of the corner of her mouth.

Hawke looks down at the letter being offered to her, and her heart skips a beat as she recognizes the swirling, over-the-top handwriting spelling out her name on the front. “It’s from Varric,” she says, taking it eagerly, and brushing aside more Fade-whispers at the brief skin contact with the spymaster. Leliana must have known who it was from already, of course, but Fenris grunts in acknowledgement as she opens the envelope. The message is short, or at least, short for any correspondence from her wordy author of a companion.

            Hawke,

             Hope you’ve been coping in my absence. I would have sent word sooner, but these damned birds can’t seem to fly through rock, so I had to wait until we were finally out of the caves. The only time I’ve been more happy to see sunlight was when we left this damn thaig the first time. Corypheus’ minions were definitely here, but the good news is, I doubt they’ll be able to go back ever again. I’ll explain the rest once we get home.  

            Tickle the broody elf for me.

                                                                                                    -- Varric

Hawke turns the letter in her hands to check the date written on the thin parchment, then hands the missive to Fenris, who takes it gingerly. Leliana has slipped away already. While he reads, she tries to remember what day it even is anymore. The letter was written—two? Three? Days prior, so it would be another three days at least before they made it back to Skyhold. More, if they ran into problems in the Hinterlands that required the Inquisitor's attention—a prospect that seemed depressingly likely. Hakwe isn’t sure quite what to make of the letter—there was no mention in it of Bianca, by name or otherwise, just that Varric was relieved to be done with their business. Somehow, Hawke doesn’t think that’s a good sign.

Fenris narrows his eyes, and hands the paper back to her. “There will be no tickling,” he warns, while she folds the letter into her beltpurse.

“Hmm,” Hawke replies noncommittally. “Looks like they’re about to serve dinner. Let’s just grab something and run. I’m done talking to people for the day, I think.” Besides, she’s not sure who all has heard about her ordeal in Skyhold’s basement by now—she doubted Dorian would be yelling tales of her mistake to any passersby, but doubtless Leliana and Cassandra were both aware by now, and she had no intention enduring more confrontations with the Seeker just yet.

Instead, she pucks a laden tray from the hands of a serving maid about to set it on the table, leaving Fenris to mutter a hasty apology as she carries the plate of fruit and cheeses further into the fortress. “I didn’t think you meant ‘grab and run’ quite so literally,” he grumbles as he catches up with her admittedly slow shuffle, but his voice is relieved behind the complaint. Probably at the sign she’s at least showing an interest in food, although her stomach still twists at the very idea of eating. It’s more of a grim determination that sends slices of tart apple to her mouth as they climb the stairs to their room.

Stepping onto the balcony, a blast of icy air nearly forces the breath from Hawke’s lungs in a single woosh of surprise. All traces of warmth from earlier have vanished with the sun, and her body—only just really warmed back up again—feels as thought it has been instantly drenched in ice water. Hands already shaking—from the cold, or aftereffects of the blood magic?—she fumbles at the doorknob to their quarters, and all but stumbles inside.

“Chilly out,” she tries to joke lightheartedly, between chattering teeth, but Fenris’ good mood has already been replaced again by his now customary worry. He wordlessly rekindles the fire, a task she’d normally take herself, and the fact she doesn’t interrupt to set the logs magically and instantly ablaze no doubt validates he concerns. Instead, Hawke sets the pilfered tray onto the desk, and clumsily removes her belt and shoes. Settled in the chair, she kicks her feet towards the flames that are finally licking up the sides of the woods, exhaling in appreciation as the heat begins to soak through her socks. Hawke eats a slice of cheese, more of an attempt to mollify her lover again than for her own wellbeing.

The draft of her letter to Merrill still sits shoved to the edge of the desk. Hawke glances it over again, and decides to give up, unceremoniously shoving the pages into an envelope. The letter is messy and raw and more than a little unfinished, but, hell, that’s probably a better representation of her current state than anything else she could write. She addresses it to Kirkwall’s alienage, hoping that if Merrill has moved on, Leliana’s scouts will be able to track her down from there.

Hawke stands, intending to retrieve the water pitcher from where it still rests on the floor next to the bed, but instead is sent staggering by a sudden wave of vertigo. It is several long seconds before her sight and balance return through the blackened dizziness, and when it does, she realizes Fenris is supporting one of her arms, the other braced against the bedframe.

“Whoops,” she manages, gingerly lowering herself the rest of the way onto the mattress. “Guess those… side effects are coming sooner than I thought.”

“You’re feverish.” Fenris frowns, cupping her chin with one palm and staring into her face before she manages to pull away with a grimace.

“I’ll be fine.”

“We shouldn’t have spent so long outside. It probably sped up… whatever this is.”

Despite her best efforts, Hawke can’t hide the slight shivering in her limbs as he grips her wrists instead, inspecting the gooseflesh on her arms.

“You need to rest.”

“I don’t plan on sleeping quite yet, after all that, thank you.” He stands, and she tucks her hands under her thighs, out of his prying reach.

"I said rest. You don’t have to be sleeping to slow down for a damn minute.”

“I don’t think I understand or agree with that statement.”

Fenris grabs the pitcher of water, walking back to the fire and dumping the entire contents into the tea kettle.

“Hey,” Hawke protests, “I wanted some of that.”

“There’s ice chunks in it. Wait until it heats up at least.”

“At least put some tea in there, if you’re not going to let me do it myself.”

He obliges, and Hawke is about to try standing up again when another spell of dizziness washes over her. She leans back instead, nearly knocking her head against the wall, taking deep breaths until it passes.

“Okay,” she admits through gritted teeth. “That’s more than usual I guess.” Unlike the almost floating lightheadedness that accompanied the mental blockages she’d erected with blood magic, this faintness is heavy, and dark; closer instead to nausea, or a concussion.

“Lay down,” Fenris instructs. He supports her weight as she carefully lowers herself onto her back, unwilling to move too fast and trigger more vertigo. She hums gratefully as he arranges a pillow beneath her neck, but when he starts tugging at the blankets around her, her eyes snap open.

“What are you doing,” she inquires warily, as he folds one edge of the blankets over her body. He didn’t even bother to pull them from beneath her. But then he picks up the other side, and wraps it over her again, effectively cocooning her within.

“No. Stop that,” she demands.

“Lie still, Hawke.”

“I’m not an invalid.”

“You couldn’t even walk three steps. Just stop moving.”

“Nope.” She attempts to wrest her way free of the enveloping sheets, despite how much warmer it’s already made her feel. But Fenris sits on the edge of the bed, on top of the lose edge of covers, and she’s too constrained—not to mention weak—to yank it out from under him.

“Move your bony ass.”

“If you weren’t like this every time you got sick, I might take that personally.”

Hawke gives a final, futile thrash, then lies still, nearly panting despite the limited exertion. Her struggling movements have already brought her to the edge of another wave of dizziness, so instead she lies still, except for her tongue, which mercifully seems unimpeded. Fenris dutifully ignores her stream of annoyed chatter, calmly removing his boots and arranging them carefully against the wall, next to where is sword is propped up. The kettle begins to whistle, and as he stands to fill their cups, Hawke determinedly works one arm free of her wrappings.

She triumphantly extends it to take the cup herself, and almost immediately ruins the brief moment of autonomy by sloshing steaming liquid onto the pillow and her hair. She has to settle for holding the cup and drinking while Fenris steadies her hand with his own. Still, she drains the cup, the warm liquid finally banishing the last icy pangs from her chest. Her feet are still cold, though, and though she opens her mouth to complain about this fact, it turns into a squawk of indignation as Fenris takes her recently-independent arm and patently begins stuffing it back into the blankets.

“This is ridiculous,” she tells him, furious with how weak she’s become, that he can just pick up her limbs and place them where he wants. It’s like he doesn’t even notice her resisting as he wraps the blankets even tighter. “This is the worst thing that has ever happened to me in my entire life. And I am including the Deep Roads in that statement.”

“Are you hungry?” he asks instead, ignoring her.

“No. Hey, I said no. Wait, stop tha—”

Fenris stuffs a slice of cheese unceremoniously between her lips. It is the least romantic thing she has ever experienced, and she has no choice but to chew, glaring at him the entire time. Is it just her imagination, or does he look like he’s enjoying this a little too much? She swallows, and opens her lips to call him out on this, but before she can say anything her teeth are met with a piece of apple, and it’s eat or choke. She makes two more unsuccessful attempts before she simply purses her lips tightly together and eyes him evilly, hoping her glower conveys just how absurd the whole situation has become.

Fenris relents, and brings another mug of tea to her lips, which she drinks mostly through resignation and a desire not to get the pillow more damp than it already is. Hawke shuffles herself deeper into the blankets, so only her eyes and the tip of her nose peek out, preventing further attempts at trying to feed her.

“Do you want me to read to you?” Fenris asks.

Hawke glares at him a few moments longer, before replying sulkily, the answer half-muffled by the blankets. “Yes.”

He pulls out the copy of Hard in Hightown again, and stretches himself out next to her on the bed, propping the book up on his chest.

"They say you can buy anything in the Lowtown Bazaar,” he begins. “It's mostly true. On the right day, you can find vendors hawking—hah, Hawke-ing—spices from Seheron, the legacies of unknown dwarven Paragons, maps to hidden fortresses in the Donarks, and the crown jewel of Antiva…”

She’s not sure how long he reads for. After the first chapter, she begins to drift woozily between reality and Fade-memories, not truly sleeping, but less able to shove them to the back of her mind. Despite his nearness, it’s not just Fenris’ stolen memories now, perhaps a product of the recently dismantled barriers she’d created. More poke and prod her now, sniffing at her frail consciousness like wolves over a not-quite-dead carcass. Flashes of lands she's never traveled to; faces she's never met, but somehow knows. After a while, she realizes he is asking her a question, and when she tries to reply, it’s not in any language she recognizes. His cool fingers brush against her forehead, and she feels the mattress shift as his weight vanishes from beside her.

She tries to ask something herself, but the best she manages is a soft mumbling babble she’s grateful he probably can’t hear after all. When the mattress sinks down again, a damp cloth is placed on her forehead, cool and refreshing against the heat she didn’t realize was building in her face.

At this, she finally surrenders. She does not sleep, as she promised, but she stops struggling against Fenris’ patient administrations, until late in the night, he finally falls asleep beside her, one arm flung across her still-cocooned form.

Chapter Text

Time passes strangely; shadows reaching towards her across the room, then skipping back rapidly, just to creep closer again. Hawke is shivering, and someone is trying to stab her in the thigh. No, that’s wrong. Someone is trying to kiss her. No. She’s burning, caught in some trap, unable to escape—

Some of the fog lifts, long enough for her to remember more of herself. She’s in bed, still tangled in blankets, the weight of Fenris’ body pressed against her back. She’s sweating profusely, suddenly and overwhelmingly overheated despite the long-dead fire steadily cooling at the end of their bed.

“Fenris,” she tries to call, but all that emerges from her parched throat is a quiet croak. She licks her lips, but there is no moisture left on her tongue to ease the words out. One of her arms is folded against her chest, apparently from when she tried to claw her way out of the covers while drifting in the hazy caffeine-fueled void that isn’t quite sleep. But now the awkward posture twists the blankets even tighter, too tight for her to yank it the rest of the way out.

In lieu of trying to rouse him with her uncooperative voice, Hawke squeezes her eyes shut in brief regret, and then thrashes her legs sideways. The kick is more of a weakened flop, effectively, but it does the trick—Fenris rouses from a groggy murmur to alarmed wakefulness in a matter of seconds.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and Hawke tries again, rasping out the word:

“Water.”

In a flash, he is out of the bed, and moments later a cup is pressed to her lips, and his cool fingers against her forehead. The water still caries the faint warmth of the fire, some last pocket of heat residing within the blackened embers. Once she’s drained it, she coughs, but before she can even ask he’s already peeling the sweat-soaked blanket away from her skin. His lyrium markings flicker faintly, echoing the pale moonlight that slants into the room, the silver light dimmed by drifting clouds.

“Your fever is worse,” he tells her grimly.

But, irrationally, now that the cold night air is hitting her skin, she feels much better. More awake and less dizzy, anyway.

“I don’t think so,” she tells him. “It doesn’t feel like it. I feel…” she trails off, unsure. She feels jittery. Like there’s something pressing against her skin from the inside, shifting around as it seeks an exit. Like—oh. Oh.

Shit.

Hawke hurriedly swings her legs over the edge of the mattress, stumbling onto her trembling legs. No, not trembling. Vibrating. Fenris reflexively grabs her elbow to steady her, even as he makes an alarmed word of protest as she swings open the door and leans against the doorframe, staring into the dark. She has just enough time to notice that a black cloud has begun crawling along the face of the gibbous moon above before she feels the half-called spell inside her twitch again, the magic blooming inside her chest despite her efforts the quell it. Seeing no other option, Hawke spreads her fingers wide, releasing the fire or lightning or ice from her grasp to shoot into the empty air—

Except it doesn’t. Her fingertips tingle briefly, and the sensation in her chest moves downward, and suddenly instead of flowers of flame sparking from her hands, she is retching helplessly over the cobbles. Damn, a tiny rational piece of her mind comments sadly, as she vomits up the sparse dinner she’d choked down only hours before.

But the feeling is gone. No more stray magic crackling against her bones, seeking an escape. She’s fairly certain she didn’t throw up any electricity with the meager contents of her stomach, but the purging seemed to have released the pent-up power regardless. Now, Hawke just feels empty, and weak. That, at least, is something she’s used to, and also something of a relief. Still clutching the doorframe, she takes a few deep breaths, steadying herself. With faint surprise, she realizes that more than moonlight illuminates them. The sky to the east is tinged with the pale pink fingers of dawn.

“Side effect,” she mutters finally, as her lover helps her back into bed, this time with no insistence on covers. “I feel a lot better now, at least.”

His hand cups her forehead again, and his eyebrow quirks.

“No fever,” he admits. “I’ll get more water.”

“Thanks,” Hawke sighs, exhausted. She can’t remember the last time her magic sprang up, not just unintentionally, but despite her efforts to quell it. Her spells had been misfiring lately, coming out too strong or not nearly enough—but to have it bursting unbidden from her body…

The last times it had been like this had also been the first times, so long ago. She hadn’t understood what was happening, not really, but—he’d been there to explain it to her. When she didn’t recognize the signs—unprompted fevers or chills, the wild rushes of internal chaos—Malcom Hawke had. She could almost feel it now, her father scooping her up and wrapping his seemingly enormous hands around her chubby child-sized fingers, pointing them this way and that as his rough voice tried to explain how to sieze and shove and stop. To let it out when it was her choice, not it’s. Magic to her has been instinctual ever since, with no need to think about the technicalities of what she does, but suddenly all the careful lessons have been washed away.

She sits on the edge of the bed, wiping her mouth on the arm of her now soiled shirt. Fenris kisses the top of her head anyway, disgusting as she is, and departs.

When was the last time she thought about Malcolm as anything but a ghostly figure, haunting her past? When, for that matter, had she started thinking of him as Malcolm instead of Father?

Hawke doesn’t cry about her family—not anymore, she’s already cried so much, for all of them—but her eyes sting uncomfortably anyway.

She stands, grimacing, and strips off her shirt. Thoughts like these can wait. Forever, preferably. Her leggings follow, and she has to rummage around in a bag she hasn’t opened since she left for Adamant before she finds her crumpled maroon robe. It’s so wrinkled that it bulges oddly as she holds it up to inspect the garment, even after an attempt to shake it flat. It’s probably the only clean thing she has left now—laundry hasn’t exactly been at the top of her to-do list. Come to think of it, she hasn’t had a bath either since before she attempted the failed blood magic ritual. Her sense of days passing has been hazy at best. A rush of cold air fills the room, and Fenris is back, arm already extended with the pitcher of water. Hawke drinks gratefully, pretending not to notice the way Fenris’ eyes travel over the wide variety of scars now exposed on her skin, her smallclothes doing nothing to keep them out of sight. Her robe still lies on the desk where she had failed to press the creases away, and she wishes she’d put it on anyway. What must he think of her old wounds now, that he knows the full truth?

She puts down the jug and sits on the bed, pretending that she’s only wrapping the cotton sheet around herself because of the cold.

“I need a bath,” she tells him, and his eyes flick back to her face. “If you can find Josephine, she’ll send someone up with water.”

“I’ll find her.”

“And…” she swallows. “I need some privacy, too.”

There is a moment of silence. Both of them are accustomed to a certain amount of space; more than that, it is essential. Back in Kirkwall, if she’d needed to vanish for a few hours, he’d never mentioned her absences. More often, it was he who would spurn all company, sometimes taking days to return her visits or admit anyone in to his stolen mansion. It wasn’t always a pretty desire, but it was necessary, at times.

But the request carries more weight now. After all her promises at transparency, he seems reluctant to leave her for any stretch of time longer than a hand’s span of minutes, but habit seems to win out in his expression in the end.

“Of course. I’ll ask the Lady Diplomat to send you some food as well.”

Eating again has been the last thing on her mind, but she nods once sharply, accepting the bargain. With another swirl of his cloak against the golden beams of morning light, he departs.

Either whatever day of the week it is is a popular choice for bathing, or multiple fireplaces were usurped just for her, but water already heated is brought to her door with a polite knock barely after Hawke has managed to clear their belongings off the floor to make room for the metal washtub. The basin is carried in by two grimly determined if tiny serving girls, while more dump the buckets of steaming water into it. It only takes one polite refusal of the assortment of fancy soap and bath oils presented to her for all of them to bow and flee the room, leaving Hawke in slightly bewildered silence holding only a simple bar of soap. Wryly, she supposes that even with Dorian’s agreement not to share her condition with the general public, she must have some sort of reputation anyway as the Keep’s reclusive and ghostly guest.

Hawke drops the sheet covering her back onto the bed, followed swiftly by her smallclothes, and lowers into the water with a quiet sigh. The basin is only a few feet high and her knees are pressed almost to her chest, but the enveloping and faintly herb-scented bath feels about as extraordinary as any she’s ever had. As overheated as she’d been just an hour before, the warm water already is relaxing her weary muscles, although dirt and old blood already are beginning to tint it. She sighs, and curls her body to slip deeper into the cramped tub, closing her eyes.

__________

 Hours later, scrubbed raw and wandering the halls of Skyhold, Hawke is having a surprisingly difficult time finding Fenris. After her second circuit of the great entrance hall (not to mention a thorough sweep of all the corridors and cellars she could possibly imagine he’d be hiding in), she gives up, and climbs the stairs to Leliana’s tower. The Spymaster is tersely briefing some scouts as she climbs the stairs into the loft, but after a last few seconds of chiding, they scurry away again, apparently abashed. Leliana pushes her red hair out of her eyes and glances at Hawke, looking frazzled.

“Sorry,” Hawke tells her, “didn’t mean to disturb your business. I’m just looking for Fenris.”

“Oh,” the woman says, still distracted. “I think he was talking to Madame Vivienne not long ago. I’m sorry, I really must go deal with this—”

“I’ll be on my way. Thanks,” Hawke tells her, biting back the urge to drill all the details out of the woman. Was Corypheus on the move again? Had more red lyrium been found? Varric and the Inquisitor should be returning any day now, hopefully nothing went wrong for their party…

It’s not your business, Hawke forcibly reminds herself. Not her battle, not her responsibility, and, most of all, not her right to ask probing questions about sensitive information. Hawke traipses back down the staircase, finally wondering why in the Maker’s name Fenris would be speaking to Vivienne, of all people. Hadn’t she been a First Enchanter in Orlais? It wouldn’t be like Fenris to leave her just to go pick out fights with mages, except, that is actually very like him, if she’s being honest. She hasn’t had call before to enter the balcony where the woman seems to lounge away her days, but she hurries to the door.

Hawke enters tentatively. Fenris is reclining on small lavish couch, Vivienne seated across from him in an ornate, almost throne-like chair. A crisp breeze wafts through the open doors in front of them. The mage’s eyes track her as she approaches, and Fenris turns as well, trailing off mid sentence.

“Ah, Hawke!” he greets her, and she can’t stop from raising an eyebrow at his rare jovial tone. “Madame Vivienne tells me you two were never formally introduced.”

Hawke had indeed only met her in passing, a brief pointing out of names from Josephine when she had first arrived at Skyhold. Back then, she’d been mostly focused on staying out of the sightlines of noble visitors and anyone else who might want her dead.

“That’s right,” she smiles politely, and sits down on the sofa next to Fenris, keeping her confusion off her face. “A pleasure to finally meet you, then.” Hawke tries to keep her tone light and friendly, ignoring the prickling nervousness that suddenly washes over her. The lady across from her smiles, her teeth flashing as perfectly white as her low-cut tunic. Everything about her insists of elegance and power, and Hawke is uncomfortably aware of the state of her own robes, wrinkled and at least three years out of fashion, if well-made of quality fabrics. She doesn’t have dried blood under her fingernails anymore, at least, Hawke thinks, fervently grateful she took her time while bathing.

“Charmed, Champion,” Vivienne replies, her voice clear and lilting. “I had thought at first you did not wish to associate with me, after you declined my invitations, but Fenris’ explanation has made it quite clear you were in no state for company at the time. If I had understood your situation sooner, I would have made a greater effort to assist you.”

“Oh?” Hawke asks, guardedly, swallowing against the sudden taste of ash in her throat. How much had Fenris told this woman, exactly? He had hardly relaxed enough for more than casual conversation with strangers since he’d arrived—in fact, she’d never seen him this comfortable in the company of a mage before. At least, besides herself.

“Dorian has told me some of the details of your… condition. My pardon if he overstepped his bounds. However, part of my duties as the Court Enchanter in Val Royeaux included assisting in matters of health for the nobility, and he believed I might be able to aid you with some of what you’re dealing with now.”

Dorian had mentioned that talking to her might be helpful, although he had not said he would approach her himself. But it was already done, and at this point, Hawke was going to take whatever she could get—her episode this morning left her in no mood for repeat scares.

“Blood magic withdrawal,” Hawke says bluntly, watching Vivienne’s face, but her expression does not waver from her small sophisticated smile. “As well as random surges of other magic that are… difficult to control. Dorian mentioned there were some Tevinter remedies to combat these.”

“In the meanwhile, while he procures those, I might suggest this.” Vivenne reaches onto the small end table beside her and casually selects one of the bottles, handing it across to Hawke. “It won’t be fully effective—nothing is—but it will be better than nothing.”

Hawke takes the bottle, abandoning her attempt to match Vivienne’s polite mask and looking at the woman hard. This isn’t a tonic anyone would have on hand unprompted. Despite the nonchalant offer, Vivenne herself would have had to make this only once she found out, and not long after Dorian asked her, for it to be ready not even a day later. She can’t guess the woman’s game—unless she honestly is just being kind? She turns the bottle in her palm, the smell of smoke rising unbidden to her nostrils.

Fenris coughs delicately beside her, and Hawke gives up. She wasn’t able to read the lady when she entered, and that hasn’t changed.

“Thank you, Madame,” she says simply instead. Vivienne inclines her head in response, still unreadable.

“Vivienne and I had been discussing the Montsimmard Circle in Orlias,” Fenris says lightly, steering the subject away from Hawke’s fragile health. “Things seem to be handled quite differently up there.”

“Oh?” Hawke replies, finally sensing with dread the reason for Fenris’ upturn in mood.

“Indeed,” Vivienne agrees. “What happened in Kirkwall was a travesty. Both the way the mages were treated, and the rebellion’s response to it. But one mad templar does not represent the whole experience of all mages. The creation of the Circles was not only for protection of non-mages as well as those with magic, but education. While reforms clearly must happen, the concept is not as wholly evil as the rebels have been making it out.”

“Ah,” Hawke says, the situation suddenly clear. “You’re a chantry apologist.” No wonder she and Fenris had been getting along so well. He must have been delighted to finally meet a mage content with the system.

“A Loyalist. Back when such factions mattered,” Vivienne corrects.

“Well, I would hardly say the situation in Kirkwall was unique,” Hawke counters her former point. “The abuse of power by Templars has been going on far longer than that—and in other Circles, as well. For all the votes the College of Enchanters made for the fair treatment of mages, nothing changed in most Circles. Waiting forever would have done nothing to stop the Templar mistreatment. Even Grand Enchanter Fiona supported succession.”

“I did not say I condone the current or past treatment of mages by Templars. But I would hardly suggest reducing an entire Chantry to cinders is any less of a destruction,” Vivienne replies calmly, pausing briefly to take a sip from a silver cup on her table. “And there was retaliation against all mages for this one act, regardless of their views on separation. They were forced into the fallout from the attack whether they supported it or not.”

“You would rather the suffering have continued indefinitely?”

“I am saying, Champion, that there are better ways to achieve change than violence. But that much is beside the point, now. What matters from this moment onward is what we mages ask for going forward,” She says, uncrossing her legs and leaning forward slightly. “While I may not agree with the methods that led us here, it is clear that this must be the time for change. But totally free mages will never be accepted, not as long as they remain capable of such obliteration—even if only because they are young and untrained. Is it right to submit everyone else to a life filled with fear, just so that we few may have a few extra moments we deem ourselves unfairly denied?”

“She’s not saying that mages should go back to the Circles as they were, Hawke,” Fenris comments softly, gently taking a fist she hadn’t realized she’d been clenching. Her fingers relax between his, even as her mind murmurs needle-pricks of memories at the touch, but the tenseness does not leave her shoulders.

“Indeed.” Vivinne stands up, facing the window and staring past the balcony over the mountains. Hawke suddenly remembers the other name she’s heard whispered in the halls: the Lady of Iron. “The seclusion is necessary for education, until mages have full control of their powers. But once they are fully trained adults, there is no reason why they can’t have greater responsibility and freedom. There is the chance to reform the Circles as places that celebrate knowledge, rather than imprisonment. With time, people will forget the destruction rained upon them during this war, as our powers are used sparingly and for good instead. All they see of us now is chaos and destruction. We have a chance to change that, peacefully. Agreeing to go back into the Circles—even with these dramatic overhauls in politics—will generate enough relief that most of the Chantry will concede to whatever our wishes are, so long as we agree to go back. It is the best chance we have at claiming that future before the majority of us are annihilated.”

“A pretty thought,” Hawke says dryly, “and impossible. Agreeing to return to enslavement now would just lead to a tightening of the chains. They can pretend to listen to us all they want, but once we’re back under the thumb of the Templars, there would be nothing we could do to stop them. We’d be in exactly the same situation as before. What Anders did in Kirkwall may not have won us any love, but if he hadn’t acted then, someone else would have in time. This fight has been lurking in the shadows for years.”

“I do not expect you to change your mind on this matter,” Vivienne replies simply, rather than escalating the argument. “I am sure what you saw in Kirkwall has had a lasting impact. Just know that your experiences are not universal, nor are your opinions.” She turns back to them both, and smiles again, her expression beautiful and warm. “Politics, you will find, will have a more lasting role in these uncertain times than violence, once the current chaos of the Breach is over. In the end, it always does.”

Hawke stands, ready to leave. Her head is still reeling, both from the conversation and the growing weight of the memories behind her eyes. Not just Fenris’, she understands now.

“You’re right. I don’t agree,” she tells Madame de Fer. “But it was an interesting discussion regardless.” Though perhaps not for the reasons Vivienne might guess. At last, Hawke feels less outmatched in hidden knowledge now. Earlier memories of fear-dreams come back to her—burning villages and frightened, weeping toddlers. She wasn’t the only one with ‘lasting impacts’ clouding her judgment of the Circles.

Fenris stands to join her, bowing his head to Vivienne, clearly unsurprised Hawke hasn’t been taken any of the lady’s ideas.

“And, my dear,” Vivinne adds in a softer voice before they can move to leave, “I am sorry I cannot be of more assistance with your other ailments. Be sure I will let you know immediately if I or any of my colleagues find anything that can help.”

“I appreciate it, Madame.” Hawke nods to her as well, and Fenris takes her arm as they walk slowly out of the balcony and back towards the great hall.

Chapter Text

By the time they make it to the bottom of the rotunda, the pleasant mask has melted off Hawke’s face, replaced by a slight scowl. Fenris notes her creased brows with a familiar air of resignation.

“You’re angry with me,” he remarks, voice quiet and calm.

“I’m not angry. I’m… frustrated.” Hawke rubs at her temple with the hand not resting on his arm.

“Because I agreed with Vivienne’s views on the Chantry.”

“No,” Hawke hesitates, for a moment reluctant to continue, but their life has been so filled with lies lately that this tiny—if painful—truth seems like almost nothing to reveal. “Because you like her,” she admits.

Fenris halts in the middle of the great hall, his dark eyebrows arched high on his forehead in surprise. “What?”

“You got along with her. Instantly, even though she’s a mage. She agrees with you, yes, but back in Kirkwall, you’d never have just… sat around and chatted with any mage, regardless of their views on the chantry—“

He snorts a quiet half-laugh. “I seem to recall we had a fair amount of chats, even before you and I…”

“That’s what I’m saying—even that took three whole years. I mean, it’s not that I’m not thrilled you’re getting over this particular prejudice—”

Fenris’ grunt is more annoyed than laughter at that comment, but Hawke forges on anyway.

“—but I guess I’m just not used to seeing you so… relaxed with other mages, is all.”

Hawke hadn’t thought his eyebrows could go any higher, but realization slowly dawns in his eyes, shining with an amusement she hasn’t seen since—well. Not since she’d left him for Skyhold, all those months ago.

“Hawke… are you jealous?”

“Oh, quiet,” she huffs, glancing around the—thankfully mostly empty—room and tugging him back to motion. Hopefully nothing they had said would carry up to the balcony. “Not like that.”

“Hawke, the fact that I do now sit down and simply talk with anyone, even mages, is nothing if not your influence.”

She can hear the laughter bubbling under his words, and her face flushes. “I know! It’s good. I’m glad you’re talking instead of moodily killing on sight these days, believe me—“

“That’s unfair, I remember standing by quite unmurderously while you helped apostates flee a fair number of times.”

“Ok, you’re right, that was uncalled for. Fine. Maybe I am a little jealous.” She leads him out of the great front doors and onto the steps of the interior fortress.

Fenris sighs, and presses the back of her hand to his lips. “You have no reason to be,” he murmers against her skin, and she gives a noncommittal hum in reply.

“I know. I don’t doubt you at all. It’s just she was so… polished. Clean. Not only is she a First Enchanter, she practically runs half the politics at the court in Orlais as advisor to the Empress…” Hawke barks out a laugh. “And here I am, in a wrinkled house robe, probably with dried blood on it somewhere. It was just a harsh reminder of just how far I’ve fallen, I guess.”

“Hawke…” he begins, voice worried, but she shakes her head to silence him. “I’m sorry. It shouldn’t be bothering me. I guess I’m just… extra sensitive still.” She gives him a wry smile. “I’m babbling. Must be another side effect.”

He frowns, but lets the subject drop. “Where are we going, anyway?” he asks as she leads him down onto the muddy lawn. The slightly warm days combined with the chilly nights have turned large patches of what was once grass to squishy bare soil, churned up by the constant comings and goings of everyone who worked to keep the Inquisition running. Puddles reflect the bright blue afternoon sky here and there—it must have rained while she suffered her last unfortunately long sleep, Hawke reflects.

She squelches her way through the mud. “To the tavern.”

Fenris narrows his eyes. “I don’t think you’re in any condition to drink.”

“Not for alcohol,” she amends. “I’m just sick of castle food. It’s all either cooked extra fancy or, weirdly, raw and unseasoned. I guess in Orlais it’s considered high class to eat like “peasants” do, as though most people have access to their weird cheeses and exotic fruits, but not a damn cookfire. I don’t know. But after this morning, I’d kill for just a simple stew or something.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but his grip on her hand tightens as they approach the building. The door swings open and shut as people stroll out, returning to their post-lunch business.

“It’s fine,” she tells him softly. “I can handle it. I can’t stay hiding away forever.” The memory of the serving girl’s faces that morning flicks across her mind, their wide eyes and quick motions doing nothing to disguise the apprehension—fear?—behind their polite smiles. Behaving like a ghost hasn’t been doing her much good lately.

Even so—as they cross the threshold into the Herald’s Rest, the barrage of noise and energy hits her like a wave, and her steps falter. The fears bubble up beneath her skin again in the presence of so many, crowding her thoughts as the people crowd around the bar. Hawke gazes around, half looking for an escape, but a giant grey arm is waving at her from across the room—assuming she’s searching for an empty table, she guesses.

“Hey!” calls the Iron Bull through the din, his voice not loud, but deep enough to carry across the busy floor. “Come join us.”

Too late to turn and flee now. She raises her arm to wave back, and begins weaving her way over.

“Should we?” murmurs Fenris in her ear, following.

“Yeah. Bull’s a Ben-Hassrath. Or, he was? I’m not actually sure. Maybe don’t bring it up.”

“What—” she hears him start to ask, but then they emerge from the crowd to the back corner where Bull and a small party are crowded around a long table, two empty stools already dragged over to the least cluttered section of table.

“Good to see you out and about, Champion,” the qunari greets her. “And nice to meet you. I’m The Iron Bull.” He sticks out a hand for Fenris to shake, and the elf takes it while someone down the table calls out “He’s full of it, is what he is!”

There’s a smattering of laughter at that, and Bull pouts at them in mock outrage while Hawke and her somewhat taken aback lover settle themselves at the table.

“And for that remark, next round’s on you.” Bull turns to them, horns sweeping well over the head of the hooded dwarf seated next to them. “What’re you having?”

“Just stew for me,” Hawke replies. “Getting over a cold.”

Fenris, however, peers into Bull’s mug with interest. “What’s that you’re drinking?”

The large qunari laughs. “Nothing you’d want on an empty stomach. But here, Cabot’s got a new shipment in from Antiva, and he hasn’t broken out the good wine just yet. Skinner, go bully him into it.”

The elf who’d joked earlier stands up, rolling her eyes. “Whatever you say, boss.”

The hubbub of the table is so distracting that Hawke resists falling into the dark pit of memories the Fears have dredged up in her mind with surprising ease. Bull makes a round of introductions, the others at the table waving cheerily as each of their names are called, and by the time they get around the whole table, Skinner returns with a tankard of water for her and a wine goblet for Fenris, and a bowls for each of them. Fenris, somehow, seems more at ease in the crowd of strangers than she does, despite never having met any of them before.

“What’s this?” Hawke asks curiously as she takes a bite of stew, staring at a brown paper in the middle of the table, with some sort of whole vegetables piled atop it, each about as long as her finger.

“That would be our current entertainment,” Krem replies in satisfaction, picking up one of the bright red fruits and brandishing it at her.

“Peppers,” Bull clarifies. “Got a package sent from Seheron. Don’t see these every day in these countries!”

Fenris leans forward with interest, eying the pile. “Indeed. In fact, I never thought I’d see those again.”

“Are they… rare?” Hawke asks, curious. The rest of the table watches Krem expectantly, a mix of fascination and apprehension on their faces as he stares at the vegetable in his fingers, steeling himself to eat it.

“Just watch,” the dwarf—Rocky?—advises.

Krem closes his eyes, and pops the whole thing into his mouth at once. Almost immediately, he gives a high, wordless keen of pain, tears welling in his eyes to stream down his face as he chews. The rest of the table burst into cheers despite Hawke’s alarm, but even Fenris quirks his mouth into a smile as the man swallows and opens his mouth to prove the pepper is truly eaten, before taking an enormous swallow of ale and erupting into a coughing fit. Hawke frowns, chewing another bite of stew, and leans towards Fenris.

“What’s going on here?”

“They come from a plant in the Seheron jungles,” he explains. “They used to be cultivated as a food source, but you can find them all over. They’re extremely spicy. The Fog Warriors used to cook with them.”

Bull nods his head in appreciation. “You got it. Too cold for them to grow this far south.”

“The Fog Warriors?” a human Hawke can’t remember the name of asks curiously. “You had a run in with them once, right, Boss?”

“Yup,” Bull replies, absently scratching at a scar on his bare belly. “They came and went before we could do much of anything. Tough as hell, but they left every civilian in the market untouched. Pretty amazing.”

“I lived with them, for a time,” Fenris replies to the group's curious glances by way of explanation, and the Chargers around the table look suitably impressed. Hawke feels an irrational surge of pride as they appraise her lover, quickly followed by a surge of anxiety for him. He didn't talk about the Fog Warriors often—usually only when he was drunk and despondent.

“So they’re spicy? What’s the big deal?” Hawke asks hastily, changing the subject before anyone can ask Fenris questions about just how he came to spend time on Seheron—and why he left.

“Not just spicy,” Skinner protests, seizing another pepper from the table and thrusting it at a sullen man who hasn’t spoken a word since they sat down. “Here, Grim, it’s your turn.”

He takes it, and unceremoniously bites it in half. His face instantly darkens to a deep shade of red, nearly rivaling the rest of the pepper now clutched in his fist. A wordless moan escapes his lips and he shakes his head violently before chugging nearly an entire tankard, to the laughter of the rest of the Chargers. Krem, not yet seeming to have regained his speaking ability, claps him on the back solidly in camaraderie.

Hawke plucks one of the peppers off the wrapping and considers it thoughtfully. It’s just a vegetable. When she sniffs it, it just smells green, like any other plant. She’d chewed up raw elfweed more than once when there wasn’t time to brew health tonics. How bad could it be?

Fenris’ eyes widen as he glances at her, smile frozen in dawning horror, but her fingers are already moving towards her mouth and his cry of “—Wait!” comes just as her teeth chomp into it.

For a moment, Hawke thinks her magic has gone wrong again; that her mouth and throat are combusting in pillars of flame. Dread paralyzes her body, her mouth frozen mid-chew as the heat dissolves her tongue into a writhing mass of flesh, before sanity frantically takes hold again and she belatedly accepts that the seemingly harmless vegetable is the source of the intense pain. She starts coughing involuntarily as the heat trickles down her throat, no other recourse but to swallow the mouthful as fast as possible. The other half of the pepper is crushed in her hand, juices and seeds flowing down her fingers as she gives an involuntary whimper. Even the skin on her hand seems to burn at the contact.

Fenris is saying something she can’t hear over the screaming heat, and shoving her bowl of stew closer. Hawke spoons up mouthful after mouthful, gobbling it down if for no other reason than to dilute the raging torment that is her mouth. Even her lips feel like they’re numb with heat.

“That,” she finally says raggedly, emerging from her bowl to cheers from the whole group, “is not food.” Previously unnoticed tears are streaming down her face, and she has to blow her nose in a handkerchief Dalish hands her before she can see the rest of the table through her watery eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Fenris apologizes. “I should have warned you more thoroughly.” But he’s laughing too, the traitorous elf. She glowers at him while she fills her mouth yet again with relatively bland beef and soft carrot chunks, her entire body now uncomfortably warm in her thin robe.

“No, no,” Bull grins widely, “that’s exactly the expression I was hoping to see. You Fereldens have such bland fruits, I knew the reaction would be worth it, but I couldn’t get Sera to pick one up even on a dare. Hah!”

Hawke shoots him a glare for good measure as well.

“Here,” he amends, shoving a plate of sliced bread at her. “This helps.”

She stuffs two in her mouth at once, letting it soak up whatever evil pepper juices remain. Actually, as the heat slowly recedes and she can gulp down air without pain again, the feeling is… not all that bad. With a start, she realizes the steadily growing Fear-memories have been pushed almost completely back again, shoved away by her desperate pain. Her mind feels clearer than it has since she woke up, despite the crowd of people all around them. She sniffs once more, her sinuses burning, and looks around the table again.

Bull’s taking a turn now, doing much better than any of the rest of them had. His single eye is watering and his ashy skin has gone several shades purpler, but he finishes his mouthful with a grin.

“What about you, Fog Warrior?” The Skinner taunts, grinning wickedly. “They let you try one of these raw while you were visiting?”

Wordlessly, her lover reaches across the table, daintily selecting the largest pepper between two slender fingers. Hawke watches in horrified fascination as he places the entire thing onto his tongue and closes his mouth to chew, not once breaking eye contact with the elf who challenged him.

The table falls into a hushed awe as he eats, no trace of discomfort to be found in his sharply angled features. Finally, with a soft mmm of satisfaction, he swallows, and smiles. “As good as I remember,” he remarks, and reaches for another.

The table erupts into applause, the rest of the tavern patrons staring curiously at this loudest of uproars yet from the already raucous table. Hawke shakes her head mutely, watching in awe as he eats the second one.

“Like you said,” he tells her, grinning wickedly. “The food here is so unseasoned.”

The other Chargers try more peppers or abstain, while Hawke carefully refuses more. The beneficial effects the spicy food has had are interesting, and she certainly plans to meditate on it more later, but she can’t bring herself to try another now. Besides—frantically shoving everything within reach into her mouth has had the side effect of forcing her to eat more than she has in weeks. Perhaps even the whole time she’s been at Skyhold. Her stomach feels bloated and overfull, now that it’s capable of feeling anything that’s not searing heat.

“I’m going to get some air,” she tells Fenris. “I think I need to lie down now.”

He glances into his nearly empty goblet. “I’ll meet you by the door in a minute?”

“Perfect,” she tells him, and makes a quiet goodbye to Bull while everyone else watches Skinner solemnly slice off a small piece of pepper and place it into one nostril. The resulting wail of pain follows her as she slips out the back door of the tavern, sighing in pleasure as the cool air of early evening envelops her. True dusk is a ways away, but the sun is sinking into the surrounding towering peaks far earlier in the day than she is used to, compared to the low plains of Kirkwall, and the shadows are already stretching long across the muddy ground.

This isolated corner of the yard is empty, the only Inquisition members she can see are the guards walking far up on the battlements. Even Cassandra has finished her seemingly endless assault of the practice dummies. Hawke takes a moment to revel in the rare chance at solitude somewhere other than a dim room of the Keep, staring up at the stately billowing Inquisition banners in admiration. She inhales another deep breath of crisp air to settle her stomach, just as a gloved hand snakes around from behind and slaps across her nose and mouth in one fluid motion.

For a moment, she is too startled to react, and the arm yanks her backward into the shadow of the wooden walls. Abrupt realization that this is not a mistake courses through her, and she gives a muffled shout into the glove, biting down hard on the fingers pressed against her mouth. But the leather is thick, and the stranger’s other arm is now wrapping around her chest, pinning her arms down. Her attacker twists them both, pressing her face and body into the rough wooden planks of the tavern, his full weight leaning into her so she barely has room to struggle as well as blocking her from view of the battlements.

Hawke tries to yell again, but there is no one to hear her. She can make out the loud clamor of the tavern through the board pressed against the side of her face, but she can’t even see if there are guards above anymore, or if they’ve wandered along on their circuit, leaving her stranded.

“If you stay still, this can be quick and painless, eh?” A heavily accented Orlesian voice whispers against her ear. Hawke struggles harder, but even the adrenaline surging through her limbs can’t provide enough strength to her atrophied muscles. She snarls into his palm and reaches into herself, channeling her rage into a fire spell to blast the man off her, no matter the cost to the surrounding buildings. But—there is a faint smell of smoke, a vague tingling in her fingers, and nothing more

His fingers pinch her nose closed, cutting off the last of her air supply. “Shh,” the man whispers again, and she shudders in revulsion as his moist breath tickles the skin of her ear. He’s trying to suffocate her, she realizes. A quiet death, while she is alone and too weak to fight back. He’ll vanish as quietly as he came, and no one will know until they find her corpse, blue and swollen and beyond any chance of help.

She tries to cast spells again and again, unable to even to find her inner reserves of mana. Nothing happens. Her magic is dried up, abandoning her from her neglect and disuse. Her assailant doesn’t even seem to notice her futile attempts, as her lungs begin to scream for oxygen. Her terrified anger has only hastened the process, and she gasps in futility into the leather vacuum at her mouth, the fingers clamped too tightly for any air to squeeze through. Why couldn’t he have the decency to strangle her, so she could at least use her arms? Or carry a knife like any reasonable assassin?

The relentless heft of his body pressing against her back sends incontrollable shudders of horror spasming down her spine. She can tell the man is large, taller than she is; she even feel the individual buttons of his coat pressing against her spine.

In an act of desperation she bites down on her tongue, the copper taste of blood filling her mouth, but she’s too panicked to maintain the concentration to even call upon blood magic to save her. She can feel it sliding away with her composure, dancing spots now swirling in her vision, and now she has to fight the urge to inhale the thick slurry of blood and saliva swiftly filling her shuttered mouth.

Hawke twists frantically, surprising him with one last burst of energy, finally managing to free one arm from his grasp. She claws backwards at her assailant’s face, her fingers meeting something cool and hard, a smooth surface her nails scrabble against to no avail as he relentlessly pushes her harder against the wall, squeezing the least puff of air from her lungs.

Then—finally, her roving fingers catch on an edge, and she shoves them through the gap. The man gives a grunt of annoyance, which turns into a yelp of surprise as she stabs at his eye with her blunt nails. And then, miraculously, he gives a short wail of pain, his grip loosening enough for her to grab a frantic lungful of air, coughing blood onto his hand. The weight against her back vanishes as he stumbles backwards, and Hawke whirls around, gasping and pushing against the wall of the tavern for support. Her legs are shaking so hard she can barely keep standing.

“You bitch!” he growls, his mask now lying on the ground while he frantically rubs at his eye with a gloved hand. “What poison is this?”

Hawke doesn’t know what he’s talking about, but she snarls at him, for once no witty retort coming to mind, only noises of pure rage and adrenaline-fueled terror.

And now, he draws a dagger after all, advancing on her again with a look of grim determination in his one working eye. The other is swollen nearly shut, bright red with tears streaming down.

Had she managed to scratch him that badly? is somehow all she can seem to think, as she scrambles to regain control of her weakened legs to run. She’d never thought she’d run from a fight before. She’d faced swords and arrows and worse, even with her spells run dry, but none of them have left her as terrified of her own weakness as his thin stiletto does now. This was not the way she was meant to die. This wasn’t the blaze of glory she expected, and sometimes wished for. This was—dirty. Ignoble. Nothing like she’d imagined at all.

The man is still advancing, upper lip rising in a sneer. “I’ll pay you back for that you—”

There is a flash of blue, and a sickening tearing sound. The man’s single working eye widens; then rolls back into his head as his body crumples limply to the ground.

Fenris stands behind him, his lyrium tattoos glowing brighter than moonlight through his clothes, the man’s convulsing heart gushing blood down his clenched fist.

“Hawke!” he gasps hoarsely, his eyes wild, and he flings the bloody organ down onto her would-be assassin’s corpse and strides towards her.

“Fenris,” Hawke cries, the word coming out a choked sob, giving up her last attempts at controlling her shaking body. She nearly falls, but he is there, catching her, crushing him to his chest in an embrace that is nothing like the vile press of the dead man. There are other people around now, shouting something as they run towards the commotion.

“He—he tried to suffocate me,” she manages to gasp out between sobs. “I couldn’t use magic to fight him off. It was just g-gone. All my—my spells…”

His hand on her back tightens, clenching a fistful of robe. He growls wordlessly, and turns his head to stare at the body as though debating whether to try to kill the stranger a second time.

“Champion!” Josephine cries, skirts billowing as she runs towards them down the steps. Hawke sees Bull hovering nearby, holding back a distressed Cabot while the rest of the Chargers fan out around the yard, searching for any lingering companions or weapons the assassin might have brought. The ambassador draws up next to her and Fenris with a quiet gasp, eyes wide as she stares down at the body.

“Are you all right? What happened?” She demands.

“An assassin,” Hawke replies, trying to regain some composure. She reaches up to wipe her eyes but Fenris catches her wrist, staring hard at her hand.

“You touched his eye?” he asks.

“Yes. I must have scratched him or something. That’s why he let go.”

He frowns, ignoring Josephine’s confusion as he guides Hawke’s hand towards his mouth, his tongue delicately flicking out to taste her finger.

“Pepper,” he confirmes.

Hawke’s eyes widen, and she brings her own finger to her lips, tongue darting out to briefly lick her own skin. Almost immediately, her mouth starts burning again. “I crushed the rest of the one after I bit into it,” she recalls aloud. Her hand trembles unsupported in the air, and she wraps it around Fenris’ back instead, burying her face in his neck before she can start weeping again.

“Let’s go inside,” Josephine suggests hastily. “My office. Cullen and I have been there all afternoon; no one could be inside now.”

Hawke lets herself be ushered back into the Keep, her body slowly growing heavy and numb with exhaustion. More people have come to see what the upheaval was about, and stand gaping at the still-dripping heart lying on the dirt next to the corpse, whispering to each other. Hawke doesn’t look at any of them. But she sees how they also stare at Fenris’ blood-soaked arm, gleaming wet and bright red as a pepper in the sunset light as the giant doors of the Keep swing closed behind them.

Chapter Text

Hawke sits in the tall-backed chair, slumped so far down her hips barely remain on the seat cushion. Her eyes are closed, her head propped up on one hand from her bent elbow while Leliana and Cullen debate the best way to search and seal the fortress.

“We have too many visitors now, and we haven’t been screening them all as we should. We just don’t have the manpower for that. We must send all dignitaries we haven’t fully researched back home until this matter is sorted out,” the guard-captain grimily demands.

“We can’t possibly do that!” Josephine replies, aghast. “After we’ve worked so hard to convince them of our legitimacy? It would undo months of work—it would be irreparable!”

“Josephine is right,” Leliana agrees, frowning out the many-paneled window. Her voice is steady and calm, but her fists are clenched in barely-contained frustration. “We can’t afford to loose support, not now. But we cannot allow this to go unchallenged.”

“What do you propose to actually do, then?” Cullen demands. “That man could have killed any one of us! And we still don’t know if he was working alone.”

“Raise our security, for one,” Leliana begins. “Investigate everyone who comes to stay here and ensure their intentions are what they seem.”

“And when nobility refuse?” Josephine presses. “These people have an expectation of privacy.”

“Subtly, of course. We can frame it as a background check for our records.”

“That would take far too much time!” Cullen replies in exasperation. “And what if during the days it takes to confirm their goals, they poison half the Keep? We need to take a firm stance and stand our ground on this issue, now.”

Hawke tunes them out. She’d told them what happened three times; endured their repeated questioning for as many details as possible. The simple fact is, her encounter with the man was far too short for her to learn anything besides what she’s already told them. They’ve been going in panicked circles ever since.

Fenris is frowning in frustration. She knows he sides with Cullen on this; that to keep everyone unknown here will simply allow for more attacks. Not on her specifically—she’s worth less than nothing to the Inquisition as an asset at this point—but if the man had tried this sort of thing with the Inquisitor?

Well, Lavellan would probably have ripped him to shreds, Hawke forces herself to admit. Just like she herself would have done back in Kirkwall, before everything went wrong. She’s as weak and helpless as the mangled bodies she used to find in alleyways and sewers now, she supposes. It’s not a nice realization.

Fenris leans on the wall next to her chair, arms crossed. He has barely said a word since they entered, merely quickly rinsed the still-wet blood off his arm from a basin Josephine quickly proffered. Now, he waits, right hand still gleaming brighter than usual with the remaining water droplets. Her own hands are wet, too, repeatedly scrubbed to remove the last of the pepper oils. She doesn’t dare touch her face with them yet anyway—she can’t tell if the faint burning of her fingers is from residual juices or just raw from the rough cloth she’d worked over them for several minutes.

Fenris twitchs slightly at whatever Josephine’s last remark was. The words slipped past Hawke without soaking in, but they seem to have finally pushed him past his limit. He’s going to say something, Hawke thinks. She’s too tired to talk him out of it.

“Is that the best you can offer?” Fenris asks quietly, the three pausing their argument to stare at him. “Sending the rest home, or scolding the lot, like schoolchildren? That doesn’t matter. What matters is who sent him!” His voice has risen to a snarl on the last words, his gauntlets fisted tightly.

“I already have scouts trying to determine just that,” Leliana agrees. “However, there—“

“No,” Fenris interrupts. “There is no point in discussing this further until your Inquisitor returns. You won’t make a decision like this without her, will you.”

None of the advisors respond.

“We’ll take extra guards. Discreet ones, please. When you know who did this—and why—we’ll work out how to handle it.”

With that, he pushes himself off the wall, striding to Hawke’s chair in two long steps. She accepts his proffered hand, grimacing as she tenses her neck involuntarily as she stretches upward to stand.

“Of course the Champion should be resting,” Josephine agrees warmly, trying desperately to retain control of the situation. “If there is anything you need brought to you, just—“

]“No.” Fenris shakes his head, his voice ice cold with barely restrained fury. “Waiting on you has brought us, apparently, assassins. We’ll tell you our plans tomorrow, once you have more answers.” With that, her turns, Hawke half-stumbling alongside him even though his elbow supports most of her clinging weight.

“They couldn’t have expected that,” Hawke murmurs softly as they exit into the great hall, turning swiftly to the staircase that will take them to their room. “Out of everyone, I’m probably the least important person here.”

Fenris growls in disagreement. “We were on the run for years, Hawke. The people hunting us may have stopped when they thought you were dead. But the world knows you’re alive again, apparently. And so they come for us just as they did before.”

The bitterness in his tone cuts her deeper than he means it to, she knows. But the hurt is still there.

“They have done you enough of a disservice, leaving you to die. The least they could have done was to keep the fact you survived after all secret so that we might finally have a chance at peace.”

“Keep it a secret, here?” she asks, raising her eyebrows as she wearily climbs the last steps, clutching at his arm to stay upright, now. “I walked around the Keep as plain as anyone. It didn’t even occur to me to keep a low profile again after—everything.” She is slow at catching up to the second half of his sentence, and almost draws up short as it dawns on her. He thinks that they are going to leave here after this, return to the tiny and fragile life they were trying to build. As though a rumor of her death would be enough to keep them safe again, after all these years no other rumors had helped. As though the world could be ending and she will just be able to go back to ignoring it.

And—he thinks they’ll be leaving again, together. Alive. Her heart feels like a lump of raw iron, sharp angles digging into her flesh from the inside.

“Fenris,” she says quietly, as he half-carries her over the threshold of their room.

He does not answer, instead helping her settle onto the bed, sitting down himself at the end to help remove her boots with painstaking care. She lets him, watching thin strands of hair fall into his face as he stares down at his hands, unknotting the laces. He does not look at her.

“You know I can’t leave here,” she tells him. “Not like this.”

“You could,” he whispers. One boot is free. He sets it upright next to the bed. “You aren’t working on the mystery of Corypheus anymore. You won’t see the healers. You say the other Inquisition members here can help you, but half of them aren’t even in Skyhold—they’re busy dealing with all this.” He gestures, his arm sweeping out in a wide arc at the walls of their room, but Hawke knows he what he means—the steady destruction of the countries around them at the hands of the Elder One outside the Keep. “And now, someone is sending trained killers here for you. Why stay?” He drops his arm, returning to her feet. His fingers rhythmically tug the shoelace of her other boot looser.

“I can’t outrun this,” she tells him. He pulls off the shoe, and stands it next to the other, carefully parallel. When he leans back, his hands no longer have anything to do. His fingers flex and clasp, fidgeting. “Leaving won’t fix things. Won’t fix me. It would just mean that if something did happen, if I keep—not waking up, then there would be no one around at all to help instead.”

“You hardly let them help as is,” he points out.

Hawke does not reply. She did not mean the help would be for her. After a few moments of silence, his twitching fingers reach out towards her, grasping at the palm she offers in response. His grip is tight, nearly painful. He still won’t look directly at her, and although she thinks perhaps she should be hurt by this, she is not.

Somehow, through everything she’s told him, he has never really believed that she is dying. Not until she almost actually did, unplanned and sudden, with him just steps away. But her slow wasting—he thought it would be cured, that she would struggle and pull through, eventually. She can’t blame him, she supposes, when she’s come back from the dead once already. The words must have meant less to him, after that.

But this is not the same.

“I am dying, Fenris.”

She says it with the calm certainty of the terminally ill. How unfair, she reflects, that she is the one who must remain serene about it. She’s never been very good at taking things quietly, not when screaming and kicking is an option.

“But why do you have to wait here for it, if you’re so certain? We could leave. We could go—” He stops, unable to finish the sentence.

Go where? Hawke is too kind to ask him. The same word he can’t say has died on her lips all too many times in the past year. There is no “home”, not anymore. After fleeing Kirkwall, they never stayed in any one place longer than a year. Seldom more than a handful of months.

Hawke sits up, crossing her legs and pulling herself forward on the bed so that she sits next to him. She does not let go of his hand, bringing her other to hold it as well. His shoulders are shaking, she can see now that she is closer. The wildness has not left his eyes still, even though his tattoos remain nothing more than lines on his skin—she is so used to death she’d nearly managed to forget that he has killed a man today. He is not thinking of her death as an abstract, future event. If he had walked out of the Tavern a minute later, it would have been very presently, horribly, real. Has she become that used to the concept, that an attempt on her life only hours past already seems irrelevant?

“Hey,” she says softly, “It’s okay; I’m sorry. He didn’t win, Fenris. And now that we know to look out, no one else is going to hurt me either.”

He swallows—fighting back tears, Hawke realizes.

“If it’s what you really want, we’ll go,” she tells him. “I don’t want you to feel trapped here. We’ll pick somewhere new, where they won’t expect us to be.” If she’s so sure about her own oncoming death, what difference would it make, anyway? Here, surrounded by snow and wind and stone, or somewhere else—farther north, maybe. With green grass, and trees.

“I—” Fenris pauses, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know. But they know we’re here now, Hawke.”

She raises his hand to her mouth, brushing her lips across the backs of his fingers, uncaring of the fact that those same smooth fingernails had so very recently torn out the still-beating heart of her would-be assassin.

“Maybe it’s time to stop running, then,” she replies. “If we’re going to wait anywhere, why not where we know there’s people who will defend us? They might know where we are now, sure—which means they’ve got eyes on us. I don’t think we’d be able to lose them, this time, since I don’t plan to burn down Skyhold for cover.” She almost adds, and if they come at a bad time when I’m sleeping, you might be carrying my body around and unable to fight back or run. But she manages to bite her tongue.

He snorts. It’s not a laugh, but it’s better than sobs.

“We don’t have to decide right now.” Hawke reaches forward to put her hand on his cheek, turning his face so he’ll finally look at her. The lines around his eyes are more prominent then ever as he looks back, a weariness etched into his features she never remembers to add when she pictures him. It’s not just her who has suffered during their years of running and retreat. Her heart half-grieves to see him like this, age prematurely dulling the sharp angles of his face.

Fenris is not the only one who is tired. It is not even sunset yet, the light outside gold with just a flickering of the orange and pinks to come. But Hawke finds her body has once more returned to its seemingly perpetual state of near-exhaustion. She hadn’t slept last night, not truly, merely drifted in and out of near-delirium while he cared for her.

Hawke leans forward, kissing him gently. Then, she releases his hand, and tries not to grimace noticeably as she stands up. She longs to rub the soreness out of her throat, but doesn’t want to give him any more reminders of how close she came to being strangled. Instead, she walks over to the fireplace, adding logs to the smoldering embers. Someone has been by to clear out the formerly substantial ash pile, she notes.

She reaches into her beltpurse, pulling out the small glass bottle Vivienne had handed her just that afternoon. There is a tiny label taped to the front, which Hawke has to squint to read in the shadows of the room.

Mix six drops into one glass of water and drink before bed, it reads in tiny, elegant script. She unscrews the top and sniffs the potion experimentally, but she can’t recognize any of the smells. She never had been as diligent about potionmaking as she should have—despite all the ingredients she went out of her way to collect. Most of the time, she just handed them off to Anders or Merrill whenever she got back, or let them wilt, slowly, on the desk in her study.

“Do you want to take it now?” Fenris asks. He still sits on the bed, watching her.

“Not yet,” she tells him. “But… I’ll need to. Tonight.”

He nods, and gestures to where their copy of Hard in Hightown lies on the table. “More?”

“Not today,” she says, walking to the door. She opens it slightly, peering out. Directly in front is clear, but there are Inquisition soldiers at either end of the walkway, and she sees several more patrolling below. If she craned her neck, she bets she would see some on the ramparts as well, but she’s too sore to bother making the attempt. She backs away, but leaves the door cracked slightly so that a breeze trickles in. It’s not that cold, not with the sun still up—and she feels better being able to see if anyone’s coming. Only then does she settle down next to him on the bed, resting her head on his shoulder. “Tell me more about—how things were for you, first. After I left to come here. All I know from Leliana is that you got on a ship from Cumberland to Jader, but then vanished during a port stop in the Free Marches when you threw the Captain into the harbor. Then you showed up here with Isabela. What the hell happened?”

He grins, the smile more violent than mirthful. “The Captain and I disagreed about how long it was necessary to remain in the port. Luckily, I hadn’t left anything on board before our—disagreement.”

“But how did you find Isabela?”

Fenris settles back onto his hands, reclining a bit. “I didn’t have much money with me, and I wasn’t sure how much I’d need to book another passage. So I went to the cheapest tavern I could find to try to find a place to sleep.”

“And she was there too?”

“No. She was starting a fight in the brothel across the street when I happened to be walking past…”

It is a good distraction, for both of them. Over an hour later, she lays with her head in his lap, his long fingers gently combing her hair as he finally falls silent. The sun has set, although the sky is still purple with remnants of its light, only the brightest stars visible in the small wedge she can see through the still open door. A real chill sinks into the room now, competing with the fire for dominion of the room.

“Is it time?” Fenris asks quietly. She’s barely been able to keep her eyes open as he talks, shifting frequently to keep back from the grabbing pull of the memories that threaten to drag her under.

Hawke sighs. “I think I have to,” she admits. She is still full from their meal at the tavern, at least. Her body will hopefully be stronger going into it this time, even if Vivienne’s medicine doesn’t do anything to help. She probably won’t waste away quite yet, although the possibility lurks over them both like a crumbling roof.

He brings her the water, and she carefully squeezes six drops of the potion into the glass. They vanish into the clear liquid, leaving nothing but an oily sheen on its surface. Setting her jaw, she begins to drink, determined to drain the glass. She finds it’s actually not bad—the taste isn’t pleasant, exactly, but not overpowering.

“Could have been a lot worse,” she says, handing the empty vessel back to him. “I suppose Vivienne has lots of practice making things Orlesian nobility will deign to drink—oh.” Hawke closes her eyes, putting a hand to her forehead to steady herself against the sudden wave of dizziness.

“What’s wrong?” Fenris sits down next to her, steadying her shoulder.

“Nothing, it’s just—faster than I expected.” Hawke yawns, leaning into the pressure of his touch. Her skin tingles, a sharper vibration she would have expected, but the sensation quickly fades. With it, some of the nausea harboring in her stomach also abates. Experimentally, she holds out a hand, reaching for fire. Nothing happens. “No magic at all now. Guess it’s effective in some way, at least. I won’t set the bed on fire while I’m sleeping.”

Fenris doesn’t laugh, but she’s too tired to try another joke. Instead, she lets him pull back the blankets as she pulls off her shirt, that morning’s bath already feeling very far behind her. The memories and the medicinal drought both threaten to overwhelm her as she lays onto the pillow, but she stays afloat long enough for a murmured “I’ll be back; I love you” before she succumbs to the waiting darkness.

The medicine does not stop the dreams. She is almost getting the hang of the way she bounces between them, one horror after another, a testament to the countless unwilling hours of practice she’s had at it. Blood-soaked hands grasp at her in one, pulling her into a pit filled with nothing but arms and ravenous mouths, but she twists, and now she is falling into the salt spray of icy water instead, liquid filling her lungs as she drowns. But once her air-starved lungs begin to scream, the world shifts, and now she is on her knees on hard cobblestones, head ringing from the blow she’d just suffered, unable to make out the words of the screaming woman towering above her.           

And onward. She does her best to avoid the nightmares she recognizes as Fenris. She doesn’t trust her body not to cry out again as she sleeps, and besides that, she does not like the heavy burden of knowing what he does not. It is impossible to retain any sense of time while sleeping, and Hawke is convinced again and again she must finally be on the verge of waking only to fall into yet another terror. The part of her that remembers who—and what—she is has become almost numb to the monstrosities and torture she encounters, but unfortunately, the rest of her mind is still forced into the dread-soaked role of whoever the nightmare was torn from, and with it all their panic and revulsion.

Only after half an age do the fear-memories finally begin to grow less potent, the outlines of the dreams warped and cracking. Hawke is almost convinced that it is not because she is waking up, but because she is finally crossing the border of death, after however many days—weeks?—her body has been fighting off the Fade-memories. But, ever so slowly, she instead begins to register the sensation of blankets tangled around her; the dull ache in the muscles of her true body. Even knowing she is still alive, it feels like hours before she finally tears her mind fully free.

The effort is exhausting enough that she can’t do anything but continue to lay still, panting with exertion. Dragging herself out of the nightmares has cost her almost as much energy as she’d gained from sleeping.

“—I know, but it’s best not to touch her until she wakes. It think it makes it harder for her to… come out.”

“Shit, Fenris, I didn’t think things were this bad when I left. I knew she was struggling, but—”

“I know. She hid it from everyone.”

It is the voice, low and slightly raspy, more than the words spoken that breaks through her haze. With a struggle, Hawke rises to a sitting position, a cracked groan escaping her bone-dry throat instead of the word she’d tried to speak

Fenris is waiting, water in hand, and Hawke grabs the brimming pitcher before attempting to say anything more. Once her mouth no longer tastes like a giant spider has been lurking in it while she sleeps, she tries again, coughing.

“Varric?” she asks squinting into the dark room, heart stuttering. Is that his silhouette, against the soft glow from the fire? It’s certainly short enough—

“Heya, Hawke,” he responds softly, stepping closer and resting a hand on her leg over the blankets.

“I didn’t think you’d be back for another two days!” Hawke exclaims, smiling.

Varric’s careful smile falters, and Fenris looks away.

Oh, Hawke realizes, and clears her throat. “Well—I’m glad you’re back. How was—uh, the Deep Roads?” She glances at Fenris, not sure how much he and Varric have talked.            

“Bianca was the one who leaked the entrance to Valammar,” he replies heavily, and Hawke’s eyes widen. “It’s locked up now. For whatever small good that might do. But that’s not important. How are you feeling?”

It is important, she can tell that much from the weary set of his shoulders. His bloodshot eyes could either be from that or upon discovering the full extent of her own ailments, however.

“I’m f—coping,” she says, hastily biting back the lie of “fine” under Fenris’ stern glower. She really hadn’t intended for Varric—or anyone more, if she could help it—to see her like this, but with Dorian and Vivienne and who-else-knows in on it now—there wasn’t much she could do.

“I’ll bring food from the kitchen,” Fenris says, voice fatigued. Hawke hopes he’s slept at least some of the time she’s been enthralled in nightmares. One of them deserved true rest, at least. He kisses her forehead, and leaves, granting her and Varric the privacy of the room.

“What time is it?” Hawke asks carefully.

“An hour past sundown. You’ve been asleep for over two days, Hawke.”

She winces. “Oh.” That would explain the panic in their voices when she’d first begun to wake.

“Hawke, why didn’t you tell me that things were this bad? I knew you were having the nightmares, and about your deal in the Fade, but—blood magic?” Varric shakes his head. “I thought you’d stopped that after you got out.”

Hawke sighs. She should have known their reunion wouldn’t have ended with nothing but smiles. “I tried to do what I thought was best. I couldn’t see a lot of other options.”

“I just—I just wish you’d told me.” Varric grimaces, running his hands over his face. “I wouldn’t have left you here alone if I knew.”

“That’s why I didn’t tell people,” Hawke points out. “There are more important things going on, and the Inquisition can’t afford distract—”

“Dammit, Hawke, if this mission taught me anything, it’s that I’ve done more harm than good the last few years.” With a heavy sigh, he sits down on the edge of the bed, and Hawke shifts her legs over to allow him room. He looks more than tired, now that her eyes have adjusted. He looks… defeated. “I’ve spent my whole life avoiding problems and letting other people deal with them instead. And now it turns out I’m to blame for part of this mess. I should never have told Bianca where we went.”

“Hmm. Next thing you know you’ll be releasing ancient demons with the intent and power to destroy the world,” Hawke replies wryly, nudging him with her knee.

“Huh,” he snorts, looking over at her. “Some team we make.”

He reaches out, taking her hand where it lies on top of the covers. She instinctively flinches at the contact, bracing herself for another barrage of Fear-memories, but—there is nothing. Just the firm pressure of his skin, the thick calluses on his palm smooth against her own. Dwarves don’t dream, she remembers, as she grips him back, the relief of finally just touching someone without pain coursing through her. She must not have registered the difference before, when she’d just escaped. She’d only been out and awake for a couple of days then, when she hadn’t realized the pressures of the memories would only grow stronger.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “Guess Kirkwall just wasn’t enough. We had to burn down the whole world, next.”

He opens his mouth, but before he can reply, the door to her room opens with a sharp bang as it bounces against the stone wall. Startled, Hawke looks up, to where a slightly dazed-looking Fenris stands. It’s too soon for him to have made it to the kitchen and back already, and alarm surges through her as she notices the stranger behind him, clearly not a soldier—another assassin?

She is already reaching for the magic that won’t come, cursing Vivienne’s tonic as she scrabbles for any last willing traces of power, but—Fenris steps inside calmly, holding the door open as the man enters behind him. No, not a man—a woman. A dwarf, she finally realizes as Fenris shuts the door behind them both, and she throws back her hood.

“What’s wrong?” Hawke asks, at the same time Varric says, “Dagna?”

“She was at the base of the stairs, arguing with the guards,” Fenris says, still looking slightly bewildered. “She was trying to find you.”

“Who are you?” Hawke asks, squinting to get a better look at the woman. Fenris has hurried to the fire, adding more logs and lighting candles. There’s plenty of them leftover from Hawke’s nocturnal habits before he’d arrived at Skyhold.

“Hi! It’s nice to finally meet you, Champion. I mean, wow. I’m Dagna,” the woman says, the frank cheerfulness in her voice almost as startling to Hawke as her sudden appearance. “Well, Varric already told you that. I’m the Inquisition’s Arcanist. I study magic. And help craft things. With magic. Well, not exactly with magic, you’re the mage, not me, but I can enchant things to make them better.”

Hawke blinks in the surge of chatter, trying to corral her thoughts. “Dagna…” she says slowly, and suddenly remembers. “You wrote me all those letters.”

“Oh, well, yeah. You were in the Fade. Actually I still have some questions about that if you could give me a minute sometime to—“

“Hawke,” Fenris interrupts, sitting down in the desk chair and looking back over the rest of them, his brow furrowed in an expression she doesn’t know how to read. “She says she thinks she can stop the memories.”

Chapter Text

Hawke doesn’t move. She doesn’t even breathe.

“What?” she manages to ask, after a moment of silence.

“Well, I don’t know for sure, I mean, I only know what Cassandra told me, after you told her, and then Leliana came and talked to me yesterday, and, well, that’s not important. But, I think I might at least be able to help. No promises, though.”

“Help how, exactly?” Hawke asks carefully. She has already tried so much. If the dwarf thinks a simple amulet or enchanted charm is going to cure her—she’s tried every home remedy possible. She’s tried potions. She’s tried blood magic.

Dagna hesitates, glancing between them all in the cramped space. “It’s… kind of a lot to explain. Why don’t you come down to the Undercroft? Then I can show you.”

Twenty minutes later, properly dressed and with a plate of remnants from that night’s dinner resting untouched on her lap, Hawke sits rigidly in the undercroft, waiting. Fenris sits next to her on the bench he and Dagna had dragged to the front of the chamber for her, his shoulders hunched forward as though to protect himself from whatever they are about to be told. She knows his body language as well as her own, and his slouch is anything but relaxation, his muscles tense and twitching as they wait.

Varric has tagged along, although he does not sit, instead pacing back and forth next to the weapon-forging equipment. Several of the tools and tables are familiar to Hawke, a visitation from the ghost of a life she no longer lives. She knew Bodahn had headed to Orlais when he left Kirkwall with Sandal, and she is belatedly grateful that they both got out before everything went—quite literally—down in flames.

“Okay!” Dagna announces, reentering the Undercroft and practically skipping down the steps to them.

“Well?” Hawke asks, barely able to keep herself from shaking the woman to get the information out of her faster. Instead, she sucks in a deep breath, biting down on the inside of her lip. If Dagna is going to disappoint her—and Hawke doesn’t think it likely that there is any other outcome to this conversation—she wants to get it over with as fast as possible.

Why? So you can go back to waiting to die? she thinks grimly, unable to help herself before shoving the thought away.

“Right, sorry. So, first of all, let me make sure I have this right. When you were trapped in the Fade, you essentially became a conduit for all the lost memories—nightmares—that the demon you and the Inquisitor encountered had stolen.”

“Yes,” Hawke confirms.

“And when you woke up, they didn’t leave—they stayed tethered to your physical form somehow. I’m not sure how, exactly, and having never been to the Fade myself, it’d be hard to study for certain—but I think that something in them wanted to be remembered. Memories shouldn’t exist without a person to remember them. And when they were let lose again, with no way to find their real owners—they all sort of just latched on to you.”

“Okay,” Hawke says slowly. “I guess that could be it. All I know is that when I killed the spider-demon that Nightmare had been feeding the memories, I—got them all. Like the Inquisitor got her own before we made it to him.” She moves the plate of food—as unappetizing cold as it was still warm from the kitchen—onto a table near to her, shoving aside an assortment of tools and metal shards and turning her full attention to the Arcanist.

“Exactly!” Dagna agrees, beaming.

“But what does that mean,” Fenris asks, voice tight. “How can you get them to leave her, if they don’t—what are you saying here? They somehow don’t want to?”

“Well, okay. From what I understand, Solas tried to cut them off from the Fade. And so did you, with the um—blood magic.” She hesitates, as though she’s said something rude, and then forges on. “But, I was thinking, what if that’s not the way to go about it? Instead of treating them like they belong to other people, we should be treating them as though they do belong to you.”

“I don’t understand,” Hawke says, beginning to grow frustrated.

“What are you suggesting?” Varric agrees, pausing in his back-and-forth to frown at Danga, one hand rubbing his chin. “Hypnosis? Amnesia?”

“No, no. Nothing of the sort. If magic and psychology haven’t done anything yet, I don’t think they can help you now.”

Hawke lifts an eyebrow at that, allowing herself to feel a spark of interest at the proclamation. Maybe she has something more than an amulet in mind after all. Dagna smiles nervously at her, hands clasped together as she begins to pace back and forth in excitement.

“Instead, I think that we need to replace you as the attachment point these memories use to keep from drifting around the Fade. By nature, they want—need?—to have some sort of physical manifestation or energy source. Another demon might be able to take control them, but since none seem to be trying that from the Fade side of things, I don’t think that’s likely. And transferring them to another person would just give someone else the same problems you’re having. So, what we need to do is use an object.”

“Like what?” Varric asks. Hawke can’t speak, nor even breathe, her eyes fixed on Dagna as she waits for the answer.

The woman stops, turning to meet Hawkes eyes directly. “Have you ever heard of memory crystals?” she asks solemnly.

Hawke does not know what that means, but next to her, Fenris stiffens.

“What are they?” she asks, looking between the dwarf and her lover.

“They’re special jewels,” Varric says, leaning back against a workbench thoughtfully. “The Shaperate uses them to store memories—don’t ask me how.”

“Yes!” Dagna agrees, nodding enthusiastically. “I could tell you some of how they do it, but not the details. Not that you’d care about those anyway, I guess. They’re crafted by the Shaper of Memories in the three great thaigs. Using the crystals, you can create a record of important events—if you set them just right, they’ll copy the voices and words of whoever is speaking near them. They bring them out only for the most important of hearings and political decrees—even in Orzammar, they’re used sparingly. It’s very unusual for them to leave dwarven custody.”

“You’ve heard of them, too?” Hawke asks, taking Fenris’ hand and squeezing it tightly in her own.

“Heard of, yes, but never seen or heard one being used. There were some kept in Minrathous—Danarius used to brag about having heard one. He never said what was on it, at least not to me.”

How strange, Hawke reflects, to be able to hear him speak of such things without the once-familiar bitterness laced through his voice. Even in the midst of all her current troubles, she can’t help but notice the difference. Even after he’d killed his old tormentor, it had taken him years to throw off even a handful of the habits he’d learned while on the run.

“What are the chances we’d be able to find one, if they’re so rare?” Hawke says, frowning and forcing herself to focus. They sounded extremely expensive, and Minrathous was awfully far away—they would probably be too well-guarded to steal. “Would the Shaperate send them for you to use?”

Dagna bursts into giggles. “Hah! Send priceless objects to a casteless surfacer? Oh, I’d love to see their faces when they read that letter!” With a last snort, she continues. “Usually, they’re too well protected to even think about getting access to one. But believe it or not—the Inquisition actually found one over a month ago.”

“Truly?” Fenris asks, surprised. He leans forward as he listens to Dagna, his brow furrowed in apprehension as she speaks.

“Oh, don’t get too excited though, not yet. It was broken when we found it. I managed to put it back together, as best I could, but—it broke again. It’s not perfect. But we could try with what’s left of it, maybe get at least one of those pesky memories out of you—and if it does work, then we’ll know to look for more. If Corypheus had one in his possession, and handed off to some merchant—there has to be a supply of more we don’t know about. They’re using these things for communication, in a way I’ve never seen before.”

“Will it work for a memory, though? Not just an—I don’t know, an action? I’m not sure I understand how these dwarven crystals actually absorb the memory.” Hawke frowns, struggling to keep all the dizzying new information straight. “Wouldn’t it just—make a copy of those too?”

“Oh—I don’t know why I’m telling you about all this, here—let me just show you.” She turns to the large desk, her profile sharp against the mass of clouds and stars beyond the edge of the cavern. Hawke shivers just looking at the snowy peaks beyond, wondering what the great chamber could possibly have been used for when Skyhold was built.

Dagna undoes several locks, and finally heaves a large, canvas-wrapped shape onto the desk. When she unwraps it, a dark flickering blue light emanates from within. Hawke leans in, curious, but doesn’t stand up for a closer look. She doesn’t fully trust herself to control whatever fears are trapped within her if they really do react to the crystal.

But she feels nothing as the Arcanist uncovers the device fully. It’s a sot of wire cage, with the crystal suspended within it. Even from several feet away, Hawke can see the cracks that cross its surface, held in place with brass wires and pins. One deep fracture seems to have split the crystal fully in half across the middle.

“All right,” Dagna mutters, moving something silver and shiny in her hands closer to the crystal. The blue light ripples and shifts across it, like moonlight on water. Actually, the shade is much closer to lyrium itself, Hawke realizes. “Carefully now—just a bit clo—“

There is a buzz that Hawke feels in her teeth more than she hears, and a shifting cloud of green light erupts from the crystal, grey smoke twining between the sparking crackles of electricity that roll across its surface, vanishing a moment later. Fenris throws his arm in front of her chest in surprise, but she’s already surging to her feet, hand reaching for the knife at her hip since she can’t rely on her own power.

But Dagna doesn’t even step away from it, frowning into the distorted green mass. There are sounds coming from it, garbled phrases—she catches the words demon, and prepare, and then what sounds like three people talking at once beneath the buzzing drone.

“Damn!” The Arcanist curses, waving the silver thing—some sort of amplifier?—back and forth over the metal cage. “Still not quite right. I’m sorry, it was much clearer the first time I fixed it. But it should still work for new memories.”

“I didn’t realize it would have images, too,” Hawke says, slowly sinking back into her seat. Her heart is racing from the unexpected adrenaline, and it puts her uncomfortably in mind of her unexpected assault the day before. No—three days, she realizes. As she stares, it becomes clear that the cloud is shaped something like a man, though it flickers, and now it reflects a man and a woman instead. The light flickers again, and they merge into an amorphous mass.

“Didn’t I mention? It’s hard to explain,” Dagna is saying. “It has to do with the way crystals refract light, and since this one emits it as well as bends it, well—you don’t care about that. But they’re usually much clearer—I still need to work on aligning this one properly, I guess.” With a frown, she throws the canvas back over the cage and crystal, and the light and buzzing both vanish immediately. “I’ll keep tweaking it.”

Hawke rubs the hand not entwined with Fenris’ against her temple, thinking. “How would it work? I mean—how would you move the memories out of me and into the stone?”

“Well, that’s something I’m still working on. Actually, it’s part of why I wanted to talk to you. It would be very helpful if I could have some, um, samples to work with.”

“Samples?”

“Blood.” Dagna shrugs, looking a bit sheepish. “Something to attune the crystal fragments to you specifically in order for it to function as a conduit instead. I’m not sure if it’ll even work, but it’s the best thing I can think of for now.”

Hawke doesn’t look at Fenris, she just—glances. From the corner of her eye, barely a shift to her shoulders. He notices anyway, and grimaces, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Well. He’s not yelling or glowing, so he must consider it worth the risk, even if he doesn’t like the idea. And Varric isn't objecting, so he at least must trust her methods.

“Sure,” Hawke tells the Arcanist. “I guess it’s not like you could use it for blood magic anyway, being a dwarf. I mean—could you?”

Dagna, who had already been reaching into a drawer at the desk behind her, pauses and considers this question for enough time to make Hawke slightly more uncomfortable with the procedure than she otherwise would have been.

“I don’t think so,” Dagna finally says, which is not the comforting answer she’d expected in reply to her joke. “Not what you’d call magic, anyway.”

“Um,” Hawke blinks, saved from responding by Varric’s guffaw of laughter at Dagna’s measured reply. Then she takes the small bottle and long, sharp pin from the woman’s proffered hands, uncorking the vial with her teeth while fumbling to get her finger in place above the opening.

“How much?” Hawke asks, slightly muffled through the cork between her teeth.

“A few drops will be plenty.”

Hawke stabs into the flesh of her ring finger, flexing her hand so the bright read bead of liquid swells and falls to the bottom. As soon as it falls, she feels a rush of dizziness, her stomach twisting sharply as the copper tang scent of the blood hits her nose. Hawke bites her lip savagely, squeezing her fist to coax out a few more drops before the lightheadedness overwhelms her, something horrible and dark rising unbidden in her ribcage screaming use it use it use it USE IT USE IT—

With fumbling fingers, she grabs the cork from her teeth and jams it into the rim, trying not to gasp audibly. Dagna is chattering again as she carefully accepts the bottle Hawke all but thrusts at her. She and Varric don’t seem to have noticed, but Fenris takes her hand—the one she’d stabbed—as soon as it’s free, watching her worriedly.

She gives him a tiny nod. I’m all right, she tells herself, gripping his hand tighter to disguise it’s shaking. Just the withdrawal. She hadn’t seen her own blood since she’d stopped using blood magic, Hawke realizes. There had been plenty when Fenris killed the assassin—hell, she’d even touched it—but her body’s reaction is vastly different at the sight of her own. Whatever effects Vivienne’s potion had granted her afflicted mind and body must have worn off long ago, while she slept. But now that she’s no longer completely enthralled with what the Dagna has to say, she can feel the sickness seeping through her consciousness yet again.

“Is there anything else I should do? To help?” she asks instead.

“I’ll let you know once I see how this turns out,” Dagna replies, gesticulating with the vial. The sight of it—her blood within glass—gives Hawke uneasy feelings that are unrelated with any of her physical ailments. The bottle just looks all too much like a phylactery, and the imprisoned fate she’d hidden and run from for years. Half her childhood had been learning to fear exactly this.

“Although, actually, if you wouldn’t mind answering some of my questions about the Fade while you’re down here—” Dagna continues.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Fenris interrupts. “Hawke needs to eat. And rest.”

“Oh! Of course, I didn’t think. Well, I’ll be sure to keep you all updated—it should only take me a few days to at least get this working for a trial run. It won’t have enough space for much, but, hey! It’ll be something at least.”

The pure optimism that Dagna radiates is nearly overwhelming, so used Hawke has become to constant dismay. She has to admit it’s somewhat exhausting, after speaking with her for so long.

“I’ll come back later to tell you anything you want to know,” Hawke promises instead. After all, her secrets are all out at this point. There’s no reason to hold them back any longer.

Fenris squeezes her hand once more, taking most of her weight as they stand. She grips him back tightly, both to reassure him and to disguise the shaking of her limbs. She knows she needs to eat, to regain as much strength as possible before she needs to sleep again—but even the sight of the nearly untouched tray of food behind her sends her stomach into uncomfortable flips.

“Well?” Varric asks, quietly, as the three Kirkwall refugees climb the stairs out of the Undercroft and leave Dagna to her work. “Do you think it could work, Hawke?”

How in the world should she know? They’re the ones who’d heard of these crystals before. So, Hawke shrugs, more tired than excited.

“I don’t know,” she says as they climb. She’s sure they’re both going extra slow for her sake, and even though she needs it, it irks her to be the weak one. “I mean; it seems like such a long shot. First, the memory crystals need to work at all as a—what did she call it? A reattachment point? And even if they do, you both agreed that they’re extremely rare.” Hawke chews at her lip, contemplating. “I think it would take an awful lot of them to make even a dent, and—” she stops, seeing the stricken look on Fenris’ face at her words. She shouldn’t have mentioned the scale of things, not when he so clearly needs to cling to the idea that there is anything to be done for her. “But maybe it will all work,” Hawke finishes, lamely. “We’ll just have to wait and see what Dagna comes up with.” If her body will last until then, that is.

“Give her a chance,” Varric encourages. “She may seem crazy, but she knows what she’s doing. You should see what Josephine pays her to work here.”

They reach the top of the steps and enter the Great Hall again, and Hawke leans against the doorframe to catch her breath. The Inquisitor is back, sitting in the large, looming throne before them. Cullen stands next to her, saying something Hawke can’t hear, while another man stands before them both, fidgeting nervously.

Lavellan’s elbows rest on her knees, her hands dangling between her legs and her shoulders hunched. Hawke nearly does not recognize her, so different does she seem from the confidant woman who’d led her into Adamant, months ago. The Inquisitor’s face is weary, every line of her posture screaming exhaustion—but her eyes stay focused on the man before her, and she nods to whatever Cullen is murmuring.

“Were things that bad, in the Thaig?” Hawke asks, softly, and Varric sighs.

“The trip itself? No more than you’d expect. But the ramifications… yeah. We hit some trouble in the Hinterlands on our way back, too. The Templars and the Mages are still going at it, and since there haven’t been enforceable consequences for either, they’re getting bolder.”

Fenris follows Hawke’s gaze, taking in the woman on the throne, with whom the fate of their country might depend on. Hawke’s never forgotten the mess outside of Skyhold—it would be impossible to, with the constant guilt over her part in it—but it seems closer now, in a way it hadn’t before.

“Is she going to make it?” she asks Varric, still watching Lavellan.

“If anyone can, it’s her,” he answers, without hesitation. “But by the Maker, I don’t envy her for it. She’s not like us, Hawke,” he says, nudging her hip with his elbow. “She can’t afford to be.”

“Hm.” Hawke pushes herself off the wall, and begins to walk towards the staircase to her room, giving the people around the throne a wide berth.

“You think too much like a story, Dwarf,” Fenris tells him. “Real life doesn’t end the way it does in your books.”

“It might,” Varric argues behind her. “Wanna bet on it?”

Hawke looses track of their banter, lost in thought as she weaves her way through the Keep. Despite her doubts, her mind is racing, jumbling up all the pieces of what Dagna had told her and cramming them together again, looking for any misstep in the logic of her plan. Hawke doesn’t dare to believe her, not after she herself has failed again and again at anything but mitigating the effects of the Fear-memories. But some other emotion rises inside her again, one she doesn’t dare to name aloud. Mostly she feels tired, and the slowly rising tide of nausea and yearning the blood magic has carved into her. But beneath that, tiny and fragile, there is a spark of hope.

Chapter Text

Hawke doesn’t feel like returning to her small, stuffy quarters. She wishes she’d had the fortune to wake during daylight hours, instead of having only cold darkness as the backdrop to her furious pacing. Fenris and Varric still obediently follow her as she walks purposefully down hallways and up stairwells, refraining from commenting on her twisting, destinationless path. She is mostly oblivious to where she goes herself, her mind too full of everything she’s just learned to leave room for banalities such as the people or doors she’s passed.

Could Dagna really do it? Move whatever tether the Fade-memories had to her, and put them into an object instead? It seemed implausible. But she would have said that eerie crystals that could show you visions from centuries before were implausible, too, a few hours ago. For all the books she’d pored over after returning to Skyhold, none of the tomes had ever mentioned such an object—though none of the accounts were written by underground Dwarves, she realized. Their secrets were so removed from the day-to-day life she experienced; she’d never even noticed the absence among the authors.

But even if they could make this one crystal work, was there really a hope of acquiring more? Hawke quickens her pace, anxiety and something akin to mania sending her heart skittering fast inside her chest. She had told them, repeatedly, but she still had the helpless feeling that none of her companions really understood just how vast and overwhelming the Fears were. Thousands of them, or hundreds of thousands, each wailing and hammering away inside her head constantly. Impossible to ignore now that the last remaining walls of her blood magic experiments had finally crumbled. Even now, she can feel them twisting just below the surface of her skin, whispering their poisonous secrets into her mind whenever she passes someone in the stone corridors. Without realizing, they drive her unintentionally further from the crowds above as she tried to just think, winding her way deeper into the Keep.

Something else is tickling at the back of her mind. Something she should remember, but couldn’t quite seem to, like grasping at the fading wisps of a true dream upon waking. The kind of dream she hadn’t had in months…

“What is this place?” Fenris murmurs behind her, snapping her out of her reverie.

“Hm?” Hawke stopped, realizing with a start her wayward feet have taken her to the door of the tiny basement library she’d haunted for so long. “Oh, never mind this,” she mutters. She doesn’t want Fenris or Varric to get a closer look at the books she’d been working with. Come to think of it, she’s not sure if anyone had entered the room since Dorian rescued her from her ill-fated final act of blood magic. For all she knew, the remains of the spell were still there, slowly etching the stain of her failure into the stones.

Instead, she turns, and hastily makes her way up to the battlements instead. “Sorry,” she pants, winded already as they begin to climb the stairs. “I’ve just—it’s a lot to think about.”

“Hawke, if there’s anything I can do to help…” Varric offers, and she finds herself suddenly annoyed at how unfazed he is by the tall stone steps, while her comparatively longer legs already ache. All that running around with the Inquisitor must be doing him some good. Meanwhile, she’s been wasting away ever since her return, her muscles atrophying from disuse as well as neglecting to feed herself properly. First she couldn’t hold off a hired man with only a tiny knife, and now she’s being beaten in a one-sided footrace with a dwarf who claims to hate everything about the outdoors. Fenris, of course, strides behind them with ease.

It is several painful minutes before Hawke leans against the banister at the top of the stairs, trying to stifle her gasping breaths. When she pushes open the door, a chilly blast of midnight air swirls through the thin silk of her garments, draining the warmth from her as though she’d sunk into a pool of ice water. She’d forgotten how cold it was out here at night. Her head spins with the temperature drop and the climb, except then the dizziness overwhelms her, and Hawke is grimly reminded that no, it’s not the exercise or the wind. It’s her damn body turned against her.

Trying not to groan, she sinks to her knees before she manages to stumble over the side of the battlements. In an instant, she feels the warm iron grip of Fenris’ long fingers around her wrist, holding her steady.

“We shouldn’t have let her wander so long,” her lover is saying, berating himself. “She needs to rest.”

“Rest?” she hears Varric respond Hawke valiantly fights off the urge to faint. “But she’s only been awake for—”

He doesn’t finish the thought, and Hawke can only guess what look Fenris gave him to halt the writer mid-sentence.

“I don’t need to rest,” Hawke spits out from between her gritted teeth, eyes still squeezed shit. “I need to—to—” figure out what to do to help Dagna end this, was what she had been planning to say, but with a sudden wrenching sensation her stomach revolts, and instead she finds herself coughing up bile, the acrid liquid burning her throat and tongue. She spits the foul liquid onto the stones, shaking her head to clear away the last shreds of lightheadedness. “Gah!” Hawke mutters in disgust, too tired to even be ashamed anymore. At least it was dark, so the only witnesses to her display were her old friends—anyone who’d been to the depths of Kirkwall’s underbelly had seen far worse than this.

“We’re going back to the room. You need to eat, if nothing else.”

The urge to protest is almost habitual by this point, but Hawke bites back the words. Fenris’ face is haggard, now, and it damn near breaks her heart to see the expression so soon after the hopeful light of Dagna’s explanation. The Arcanist can only cure her if she survives long enough for her to figure it out. And at the rate things are going, Hawke realizes, there is a very likely chance that she won’t make it that far. Guilt washes over Hawke, to have caused his worry to come back so sharply. The restless energy humming through her limbs still tingles, despite the exhausted ache of her muscles.

Fenris tugs at her arm, the motion far gentler than his insistent words. She accepts the help, leaning her weight onto him as she slowly pushes herself back onto her feet. She catches a glimpse of Varric’s twisted, pitying expression before he turns his face into the shadow, and she abruptly wishes he hadn’t returned until after she could instead have greeted him with the good news of Dagna’s hope, instead of the harsh reality of her condition. He couldn’t possibly have expected her to be in worse shape on his return than when he’d last left her, with one foot practically still in the Fade.

She smiles crookedly at him. “Don’t worry about me,” she says. “I’ll be fine. I always am.” Absurdly, she has to resist the urge to giggle as Fenris raises an eyebrow at her words, and she steps forward with a swaggering stagger normally reserved for the kind of drunkenness it takes at least two hours and Isabela’s influence for her to achieve.

“What’s going on?” Varric mutters behind them. Fenris shifts his grip to her upper arm, corralling her in a more or less straight path around the battlements toward the stairwell that will take them closest to their room.

“I think it’s the withdrawal,” he replies. “One of the side effects on Vivienne’s list was sudden mood swings.”

‘Vivienne’? When did they progress to first name terms? Hawke thinks to herself, and scowls. Her face feels strange as she does so, almost as though her skin has gone numb, but it’s not nearly that cold. She lifts a hand to her cheek, prodding it, distracted.

“Sit,” Fenris commands, and she does so without thinking, reeling with a sudden start that there is no longer cold stone beneath her, but the warm blankets of her room. She lands heavily on the bed, blinking in confusion. The room is dim, and Fenris finally releases her hands as he turns to light the fire.

“Where’s Varric?” Hawke asks, feeling stupid and slow. “What—I don’t remember getting here.” The strange giddiness she remembers has passed, and now she feels only a rising panic in her chest. Was she losing time again? She hadn’t had that issue since she stopped walling off sections of her mind with blood magic. The swell of panic surges, and she twists her arms around in front of herself, checking for new scars. “Shit, did I try to cast something?”

The fire flickers brighter, and Fenris stands back up, running one silver-veined hand through his rumpled hair.

“No,” he says, and the exhaustion plain in his voice gives her pause. She drops her arms, studying his face hard in the flickers of firelight. The thin lines around his eyes and mouth are even more prominent than she remembers, the flickering light etching them deeper in to his skin. “Not that I could tell. But you haven’t been making much sense.”

“What did I say?” Hawke asks, baffled, but he does not answer, instead moving to hang the kettle over the flames.

“You should sleep,” she chides him instead. “My schedule can’t be good for you. I did hog the bed for more than my fare share.”

The look he gives her makes it clear that he’s still not sure she’s lucid. What had she told him? Or Varric, for that matter? With a start, she realizes she never even had time to tell him about the assassination attempt. Had the Inquisitor relayed the news? Or were the Deep Roads impenetrable enough that even Inquisition intel couldn’t reach them?

Another wave of dizziness rises and crests, and Hawke sways, clutching fistfuls of blanket to steady herself, eyes squeezed shut. When she manages to open them again, Fenris is waiting, a mug in his hand. She hadn’t even heard the water start to boil. Had it been that long?

“I’m not ready to go back yet,” Hawke says, eyeing the drink in his hand, her grip tightening in the sheets.

“It’s not the sleep tonic. It was by the door when we came back. From Madame de Fer.”

Back to the formal titles, Hawke can’t help herself from thinking, and cautiously releases her grasp and reaches out to take the mug. The full weight of it sets her arm trembling, hot liquid nearly sloshing over the edges until she steadies it with her other palm. “What does it do?” she asks, pretending nothing is wrong. Always pretending.

“This one’s to help you stay awake.” Fenris opens his mouth to say more, then closes it, raking one hand through his hair instead in aggravated silence.

For lack of anything better to do, Hawke takes a sip of the medicated tea. The taste is surprisingly pleasant, a strong mint flavor masking whatever else Vivienne had mixed with it. If you mainly treated Nobles who were used to tasting only luxury, your healing tonics must have to taste good, Hawke considers.

Fenris still looks conflicted, his hands fluttering from his hip to his hair to the mess of papers on her desk, like birds from branch to branch.

“What is it?” Hawke asks him softly.

“Do you think it could work?” His reply is immediate, his voice raw with unspoken emotion. “Dagna’s answer?”

Hawke stares into the cup and takes another drink, firelight glinting off the ripples in the surface of the tea. Her hands are still shaking, but the buzz of energy telling her body to move move move begins to seep away, draining from her extremities. Whatever restless magic had worked its way back into her system was clearly at least part of her sudden mania.

“I don’t know half of what she was explaining down there,” Hawke says. “Crystals, and focus points, and reattachment… I honestly could barely follow what Dagna meant. It’s not like any magic I’ve ever studied. I guess—it isn’t magic, if it’s Dwarven. But…” she swallows. Her mind has been racing since they left the Undercroft with this very question. “She seems confident. It’s worth a try.” She doesn’t bring up how many of the memories there are. Not now. If it’s possible to move some memories to the crystals, if they can even find more of them, unbroken… it’s useless to worry about a detail that far off, Hawke tells herself. Not when there’s a much larger dragon waiting to devour her before it’s ever a concern.

But Fenris must feel what she’s leaving unsaid as well. He drops to his knees, pressing one of her hands between his, bending his head so their sandwiched palms are pressed against his lips. She can taste blood on her teeth at his touch.

“I could help the Inquisition look for the crystals, if that’s what you wanted,” he begins, “but we don’t know if there will be more assassins. Vivienne has sent medicine, but…”

But Hawke is awake less and less, and every time she lets herself fall back into the memories, she risks not coming back out. She doesn’t know how many chances she has left. If he were away—perhaps, it’d be kinder, she thinks, her heart pounding. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to hear her screaming, only to watch her dwindle away, her wreck of a body so ravaged it lacks the energy even to wake. He could come back to a peaceful corpse, and grieve, and then—move on.

Her insides wrench. She imagines laying here, alone, slipping away forever without having said a final goodbye, or feeling his hand holding hers as she descends into the abyss.

“No,” she tells him, the dark burn of selfishness twisting inside her gut. “I want you here. With me.”

His grip tightens, and he gives a brief exhale—relief?—before dropping her hand and standing. “I’ll get food,” he says. “It’s nearly dawn. The kitchen staff will be up. Varric said he’d stop by in an hour or so as well.”

They still had a lot to talk about, Hawke remembered. Whatever happened at Valammar, and the assassination attempt...

“What’s that?” she hears Fenris mutter, and glances over to where he stands in front of the door, his hand only halfway to the handle. He halts, bending down to pick something up off the floor, and Hawke sees that it’s an envelope. They must have missed it on their way in, her in her fugue state, and he too busy guiding her.

“If it’s another message from Dagna asking for details on the Fade again, she’s going to have to wait until after breakfast,” Hawke jokes, but he shakes his head.

“There’s no return address, and it’s addressed just to ‘Hawke.’”

She frowns, and reaches a hand out, and he steps forward to pass the letter to her. It’s not an envelope, she sees when she takes it, but a single sheet of slightly yellow paper, rough, as though homemade. It’s been cleverly folded in a way that protects the contents—that particular style is almost familiar, actually…

Hawke inhales sharply, unfolding the paper in sudden recognition. A second small bundle tumbles into her lap as the page unfurls.

“It’s from Merrill,” she tells him, and his eyebrows rise. He asks something else, but her eyes are scanning the page now, too absorbed to hear him as she sits down on the bed to read it. The handwriting is small, the letters thin and spidery, but no less readable.

            Hawke,

            I am so glad to hear from you. Varric sent word—a second time, that is—and I could barely believe it. It felt too good to be true. I admit, I was waiting to hear from you as well, for a long while. I know you must be so busy there with the Inquisition and everything, how exciting! What’s Inquisitor Lavellen like? The Sabrae clan didn’t have many dealings with them, and I don’t think I would have met her anyway—but it’s surely something to hear everyone talking so reverently about a dalish elf, of all folk.

            Sorry, anyway. When I got your letter, I realized why you’d been silent. Ir abelas, Hawke. It is a great and terrible burden, to open a new doorway into your heart, let alone one for power to flow through. And when you made your deal with Melivia, it was not truly your choice, but a method of last resort. That is not how it should be, and I wish you had not needed to endure it so. You must remember, however, that the magic is still of you. It is not your demon lurking inside your chest, waiting to come out. You are still the one calling upon the Fade, and while as mages we act as but conduits for power, we are still a greater force than it. Everything in life rests in balance. In your struggles to control and contain the Fear-Memories, you have also begun to fight yourself and the power that is an inherent part of you. Mages must strive for control, yes, but do not think you have failed because you are not in complete domination. It is a dance, a gift. Until you allow magic to be a joyful thing inside you again, you will continue to fight it, and suffer. All magic—even blood magic—can be used to help and heal just as easily as it can be turned to harm.

            This, I think, is what the shemlen Circles truly don’t understand about magic. Not using it does not mean it is farther from you. You must work with it. Do not confine it harshly within yourself, but also do not let yourself be swept along in its course. You are neither a dam across the stream or a leaf tumbling along its surface. You are the riverbed through which it flows, always containing the water, but changing your shape to hold it if needed.

            Goodness—I’ve never sounded more like Marethari in my life. I suppose I really was listening to all her lessons, years and years ago. I hope it makes some sense. I’ve also included some herbs, that should help with reconnecting yourself to the Fade. I know that may be the last thing you want to do with all the Memories still inside you—but without your magic, how will you fight them off? I do wish I had an answer for those, but I’ve never heard of such a thing. I’m going to ask some of the others in the alienage, and see if there’s any books that mention it. You’d be amazed at how many texts survived the fires, and how many nobles were content to leave half their belongings just buried in the ash.

            Oh—and you furry friend says hello. He’s nudging at my knee now. I think he knows it’s you I’m writing to. I’ve been calling him “Enasal” to keep anyone from getting suspicious, and he does wonders for keeping pickpockets away, but he’s still the same old softie behind closed doors. He misses you, as do I. Almost out of paper now, but I’ll write again when I’ve made some more. Dareth shiral, ma falon.

                       With love,

                                  Merrill

As her eyes reach the end of the page, Hawke can feel her composure beginning to crack. Gone is the last of her frantic energy, and the brain-fogging fatigue of blood magic withdrawal. All the emotions she’d been so desperately holding at arm’s length hover just above her, threatening to crash down. There is no blame in Merrill’s letter, no anger or disappointment for what Hawke had done. Not even forgiveness—her friend had not even seen anything that needed it.

It is too much. Hawke picks up the bundle of herbs from her lap, pressing them to her nose and inhaling the sharp-sweet scent, trying to steady herself. But her breath comes back out out as a half-choked sob, and then another. Arms encircle her; Fenris’ weight settling down onto the bed beside her as she buries her face into his shoulder and, finally, gives in. Everything she’d tried so hard not to feel pours through her in a torrent—the tremendous guilt at all she’d done since defeating the Nightmare, the creeping dread of watching her death come ever closer, the shame of her frail body and out of control magic. Her despair that Fenris had to watch it all, sacrificing his own needs for hers. He says nothing, only holding her as she weeps, making a blubbering mess of tears and snot in the wool of his cloak. And, most terrible of all, she feels the same terrifying glimmer of hope, fluttering moth-like and warm amidst the flood of emotion, so fragile she can’t bear to let it into her heart with the rest.

Chapter Text

By this point, Hawke feels she is so used to weeping that she merely needs to go through the motions to slowly pieces her composure back together. Dawn has truly arrived, sending delicate tendrils of daylight creeping around the doorframe. The glow is soft and dreamlike, and for a moment she isn’t sure whether the revelations of the night are real or just another crack in her ever-crumbling reality.

But, no—Fenris had told her she was fading in and out of awareness. It was real; it had to be. It wasn’t reality that couldn’t be trusted, only her mind. And he is here, the bones beneath his chest sharp and hard where she presses against them, his skin cool against the flush of her cheek.

With a shuddering sigh, Hawke sits upright again, untangling herself from Fenris’ lanky arms as he gingerly releases her. She still clutches the letter in one fist, the rough paper a bit crumpled now, but still readable. With careful deliberation, Hawke smoothes it out as best she can, placing the bundle of herbs inside as she folds the paper into thirds. She’d never gotten the hang of folding notes the way Merrill could, all clever corners tucked into each other, near impossible to open without ripping unless the cleverer woman showed you the trick of it. Instead, Hawke gently reaches to place it next to her spot at the head of the bed, imagining the scent of the herbs soaking into the pillows so that when she must inevitably sleep, she won’t be quite so alone.

“Where’s that—potion? Tea?” she asks, unable to remember setting the mug down in her haste to open Merrill’s letter.

“Here,” Fenris says, automatically rising to fetch it from the table. He must have taken it while she was absorbed in the message. The draught has long grown cold, but Hawke gulps it down quickly, with only a short gasp for air between swallows as she drinks.

“Okay,” she manages once she’s finished, scrubbing at the dried tear-streaks on her face with her sleeve. “Okay. Enough of that.” She catches Fenris’ raised eyebrow through her fingers, but stands up anyway, a bit unsteadily. “I’m—better now. I’m not so confused anymore.”

“That’s… good,” he replies cautiously. “What do you need?”

Hawke resists the urge to grimace. Of course it’s about needs, not wants. “Breakfast, unfortunately,” she says. “Like you said. The kitchens will be open by now.”

“The kitchens are a long way back down and up again. Stay here, let me bring you something,” Fenris coaxes, “You’ve been pacing about all morning. Save your strength.”

“No,” Hawke shakes her head. “Merrill was right. It’s not just my magic I’ve been ignoring and pushing away—it’s everything. My body, my strength.” Hawke stares down at her palms, opening and closing her fingers. “I’ve been too absorbed in everything else to see the big picture. How can I expect to beat the Nightmares if I’m—like this? Falling apart all the time.” Her fists tighten, and the scars on her hands turn white with the pressure, like tiny lightning bolts across her skin.

“Hawke.” Fenris clasps her hands between his own, and she looks into his face, still deeply creased with exhaustion. “You are the strongest woman I know. You always have been.” He hesitates, for just a moment.

“But you don’t think I should walk all the way back down those stairs,” Hawke finishes wryly, and he squeezes her hands in agreement. “Luckily for me,” she replies, pulling away and turning towards the door, “I am also the most stubborn woman you know.” She hears his sigh as she pulls the handle and steps back out into the crisp morning air, the sunbeams hitting her skin with a surprising degree of warmth. But he follows; closing the door behind him firmly, and she can see the ghost of a smile on his lips as he nods to a guard at the end of the walkway, and they turn the corner to head back into the Keep.

 Her resolve weakens once she actually makes it to the breakfast tables in the great hall. Despite her insistence, her legs do feel heavy with fatigue, and the rich smells of cooked bacon and pottage made her stomach flip uncomfortably. She has to stand for a long minute in the doorframe, taking deep breaths to steady the rising nausea. “Maybe this wasn’t my best plan,” she admits, and Fenris gives a soft huff as she pushes herself away from the steadying wood and stone, and walks towards the table.

“Champion, it is good to see you joining us,” Josephine greets her warmly from one of the tables. Hawke doesn’t recognize the two women sitting across from the diplomat, but she gives the group a tight smile.

“Only grabbing something quick, I’m afraid,” she replies. She doesn’t think that Josephine is the sort who would try to trap her in conversation with whatever guests she’s entertaining—but she doesn’t want to stick around and risk it either. “We can’t linger this morning.”

“Of course,” Josephine smiles back, her eyes soft and kind. “Please, feel free to come talk to me any time you wish. My door is always open.”

Something to tell me, then, Hawke notes to herself. But in private, apparently, and seemingly not urgent. A problem for sometime after breakfast.

Fenris glides forward to the less offensively odorous platters, and Hawke follows: plates of toast, cheese, and a cauldron of soft white porridge cools above a now-extinguished hearth. The last ones seems the least amount of effort, with the job of chewing all but removed, so she scoops some into a bowl to steal away back to their quarters, snatching a spoon from a nearby table-setting. Few others were awake and ready to eat this early, Hawke notes. Those busy enough to rise with the dawn must have higher priority duties than nourishment, as neither Cullen nor the Inquisitor were to be seen. Only faint needle-pricks of memory push against her skin, faint whispers she can’t make out as a member of the kitchen staff hurries past with a platter of freshly cut fruits, and a lone soldier leans against the wall opposite them, idly picking at his nails.

“All right?” Fenris asks softly, brushing one hand against her elbow. She snaps to attention, realizing she’s been gazing aimlessly down the hall for half a minute or more.

Hawke smiles at him thinly. “Sorry. Just tired. Let’s go.” She clutches the bowl in front of her as she walks, trying to ignore the tremble in her legs. Not ready to face the stairs again after all, she leads her lover instead through a doorway and into the small courtyard beyond. She’s never thought of herself as inordinately fond of nature—she was certainly more at home on the streets of Kirkwall than the surrounding cliffs and beaches—but she doesn’t like the thought of shutting herself away inside again quite yet. She can’t remember how many dawns she’s slept through clear to sunset, but her skin is pale and sickly, almost translucent in the thin places above her knuckles. Maybe the daylight will remind her body to stay awake, just a little while longer.

This early, the courtyard is still empty, with only faint echoes of The Chant of Light reverberating from the small chapel across the garden. Hawke walks forward into the open air before easing herself onto a bench, inhaling deeply as she sits. The air smells green and cool, the sun still too low to yet reach them over the castle walls above, and droplets of dew cling to each nodding blade of grass. Fenris sits next to her, his arm just barely brushing her side, and somewhere inside her head she hears the echo of Danarius’ mocking laugh. She shoves it down, fixing her eyes on a snapped green leaf laying next to her boot, the branching pattern of the delicate veins reminding her of nothing so much as certain painful, beautiful tattoos.

“It’s quiet here,” Fenris remarks. “Peaceful.”

Hawke nods. “For now. Once the morning service is over, it’ll liven up again.”

“Did you spend much time here?” he asks. “Before I came?”

“Not really,” Hawke says, stirring the cooled top layer of porridge on her lap back to warmth. “I didn’t—I couldn’t be around people. Sometimes I’d walk through it at night. But it felt too open.” She tries and fails to suppress the shiver that runs like a snake down her spine, light and quick. There had been too many nights in the Fade spent trying to shove herself into the tiniest crevices she could manage, so that the larger demons couldn’t come for her. Too much paranoia, even still, from their days on the run; the terror of being spotted in the open by someone else from the shadows. Shoving these real memories back down for a change, Hawke finally scoops a spoonful of breakfast into her mouth, the soft grains and shreds of dry apple slightly sweet on her tongue. It is still an effort to swallow, as though her body has forgotten the purpose of her throat. Not to mention the lingering soreness from where the Orlesian assassin’s hands had gripped her.

“Hawke,” Fenris begins softly, and her fingers tighten on her second spoonful as she brings it to her mouth. Each time, the very way he says her name could be an entire sentence. His inflection, his posture, the tiniest quaver in just that single syllable—they are all something she has become so attuned that half the time she doesn’t need the rest of whatever sentence follows. Sometimes, just hearing him speak it, mumbled in the morning or murmured late at night, takes her home to the Kirkwall of before: to warm blankets and crackling fires and the comfort of sleeping in the same city as your family, who aren’t with you, but who you know are still out there, alive.

When he says it now, she can feel his fatigue, the ever-present despair looming behind the conversation. The tiny, tragic note of hope he can’t keep from creeping into the word.

“You can’t tell me if it will work, I know,” he says, his voice quiet and velvety. “I can’t pretend I understand the magic, or whatever it is Dagna can do with the memory crystals. There are no guarantees. But I need to know…” he trails off for a moment, lips moving as he struggles to word his request. Hawke swallows, and waits. The small, darting birds that live at this elevation have begun to cry their songs, the notes clear and harsh against the tonal drone emanating from the Chapel.

“Are you going to try?” Fenris asks. “Are you going to fight the nightmares, and help figure out how to remove the memories? Are you going to stay here, until Dagna can manage it, one way or another. Will you keep going…” he pauses again, tilting his head back to stare into the sky above them, an empty and reassuring blue. One of Leliana’s ravens circles slowly and silently, its wings filled with the warm air reflected up from the stones, and Fenris’ eyes track its flight.

“Or am I going to run again,” Hawke finishes for him quietly. Will she fight, or like all those times before—is she going to give in, and let the future drag her towards whatever final end it’s come up with this time.

She sits under the weight of his words, considering. Her own answer varies, by the day and even by the hour, and she can’t explain why. Sometimes she is calm, knowing that her death looms before her, a dark doorway at the end of a path she can’t stop walking. Other times, she wants to fling herself into it, for the weary and ceaseless journey to finally, truly end. He knows this. She has told him this, insisted to him that her death steadily approaches each time she closes her eyes. Until now, they have been waiting. Until now, there had been nothing to do but scrabble uselessly against the stone wall of the inevitable.

And yet. There were the rituals she’d tried, in that silent dark library, the blood magic and fade-tricks. There was the way she staggered out of the long darkness, with demon handprints branding her soul like irons. The way she’d sunk her knife into the Nightmare’s spider-demon anyway, despite the fact that it was huge and monstrous and inevitable. And before even that, there was Kirkwall, and her unending rage against the injustices that bound the city like chains. She had tried, so many times, to lie down. To give in, and wait for peace.

And yet every time it came to it, she stubbornly got back up at the last moment, tearing her way back to reality.

“Yes,” she says. “I will try, this time. I mean that.”

He exhales, a soft burst that leaves a hint of vapor in the cool air. “Then I need you to keep trying. Until one end or another, I will stay; I will help you however I can. But I can’t—” His voice breaks, and his gaze drops to his hands, curled in his lap. “It has to be both of us. I can’t wait, knowing that you might change your mind again. That one day you might just… give in, after everything.”

“I know,” she says. “It’s not fair to you.” It wasn’t fair to let him cling to this hope so fervently, either. But there had been so much to grieve already. What was the point in staying alive if he were already in mourning? She’s told him she would try, so now she had to grasp for that hope too. The thought is more terrifying than the prospect of dying, somehow.

“What do you need from me?” she asks him.

“To want it,” is his immediate response. “To want to be here more than you want to be dead, this time. To choose… this. Us.”

Oh, Hawke thinks, and then finds she has lost the ability to form words at all. Tears well heavily in her eyes, her throat tightening even further as she takes a short, shuddering gasp. Lost for anything else to do, absurdly, her hands rise and she shoves another spoonful of porridge into her mouth.

“You can’t promise me you’ll live,” Fenris says, and his words fall between the spaces in the birdsong, the Chapel silent now, at the end of its service. “But promise me you’ll fight for it.”

Hawke nods, short and sharp, unable to speak for both the sob welling inside her chest and the stupid food filling her tongue.

“Then that is enough.”

He lets her sit in the quiet, her breathing slowing and her chest finally unclenching enough to choke down the rest of her meal. As rays of light slant farther and farther down the stone wall, still not yet touching the ground of the garden, the courtyard begins to fill. A line of worshipers unhurriedly exits the Chapel, many pausing to chat among the paths lined with shrubs and tight, unopened buds. At their end, Mother Giselle emerges, beginning her slow, ponderous circuit of the garden. And like that, the space is transformed, no longer a private sanctuary but just another bustling part of the Keep.

When she glances at him, Fenris seems to feel the same tense edge that she does. There are too many faces here she does not recognize; all strangers who can’t be trusted. Especially not after what happened outside the tavern. Abandoning her empty bowl, Hawke stands, offering her hand down to Fenris. He takes it, and rises himself, and together they walk across the path to the stairs leading back upstairs.

Hawke is truly tired now, not least of all physically. Her muscles ache with the burn of exertion as well as the familiar dull throb she has grown used to since she cut herself off from blood magic. As they reach the final step she half-staggers forward to brace herself on the stone railing, taking more deep breaths of the morning air. It is not as invigorating as it had been before she ate, and her stomach gurgles uncomfortably. She grits her teeth, half-snarling, until the pressure subsides, and the familiar bout of nausea fades and passes.

“I think it may be time for more of that tea,” she says to Fenris, who hovers hesitantly behind her. He strides ahead to their door, now given a purpose, and she finds the kettle already hanging over embers as he carefully slots a fresh piece of firewood into the hearth by the time she enters and half collapses onto the bed.

Before he can ask yet again if she needs to rest, Hawke motions to the desk. “The book? It’s my turn. We’ve got a few chapters left still.” She scoots backwards so that her back rests against the wall behind the bed, her feet just barely dangling over the edge.

Fenris’ smile is genuine and uncomplicated, and she savors this, a small drop of genuine pleasure amidst the tide of emotion the pair has been riding since she last woke. He hands her the battered copy of Hard in Hightown, and settles himself next to her, leaning his head on her shoulder. Hawke cracks open the cover, riffling until she finds the page where they last left off. It seems so long ago—before Dagna’s revelation, or even the assassination attempt. How much can change so quickly, Hawke reflects, but only for a brief moment. She clears her throat, and begins:

            “In the Lowtown Bazaar, Donnen paused to pay a little elven girl to play courier for him before making the long climb back uphill to Hightown. A careful glance told him the scar-faced Ander and the tattooed Chasind were still tailing him…”

After a few minutes of reading, Fenris’ eyes close, and his breathing relaxes. Carefully, Hawke raises one arm to scratch her nose, and he shifts off her shoulder, repositioning himself so that his head in her lap, his legs and arms curled up almost to his chest.

            “Donnen bypassed the Captain's office and went looking for Jevlan. By now the kid ought to be rested up, and Donnen suspected he would need backup if his large, suspicious shadows decided to pick a fight…”

It is only another minute before the elf is out cold, the weight of his head solid and comforting where it rests atop her thigh, and Hawke releases a tiny breath of relief. He never would have agreed to slumber for his own sake, not while he was so determined to guard her every moment she spent awake. The memories are impossible to fully ignore with his presence so near, but she lets them lap at her like waves, simply trying to float atop them rather than let the weight of it drag her to drowning. She hears the clang of swords, and smells the sharp tang of hot blood as it spatters across her nose and lips.

She does not give in to their call to sleep. Carefully, softly, Hawke combs her fingers through Fenris’ hair, gently untangling the wind-ruffled knots. She doesn’t focus on the echo of voices, or the dream-like images swirling behind her vision. She concentrates instead on the warmth of his breath, and the reassuring rise and fall of his chest beneath her arm.

She tells herself: I choose this.