A/N: So I kinda thought of this idea when I was playing through DAI and all I could think of was how tired and un "Hawke" my Hawke was. Then it kinda took off it from there...I'm not super sure how I feel about it but I hope you all like it! (oh and I hate the name - any ideas would be greatly appreciated!)
Thud. Thud. Varric, standing there, a smirk on his face. Thud. Thud. The other woman – an elf, so much like Merril…..Merril. Who's in Kirkwall, trying to clean up her mess. Thud. Thud. Her footsteps feel too heavy, too loud. Thud. Thud.
"Hello." Her voice – is that still her voice? She sounds so tired, so old.
"Hi! I am Inquisitor Lavellan."
The other woman – Lavellan – smiles slightly as she sticks out her hand. There's a pause in words, so brief that anyone unfamiliar with strains of leadership might miss it. The position is new, Hawke can tell, unfamiliar to her in a way that Hawke can so painfully relate too.
"So, Varric says you have information that can help us." Lavellan leans against the railing, her dark hair falling past her shoulders, obscuring her face.
It bothers Hawke. She knows it shouldn't, the Inquisitor isn't somewhere to be feared, and she isn't an enemy that she has to plan an attack against, someone whom she has to evaluate before she can trust. Varric trusts her, and that should be enough.
"I do, about Corypheus….we ran into him a while back. In an old Gray Warden Prison." Panic. The barrier behind them. The darkness ahead. The blood on the walls. The screams of the demons. Demons. No, not demons. Father. His voice, oh how good it is to hear his voice again. But no. No! Father always said blood magic was wrong. Blood magic was bad. How…how could he – what is down here that made Father do this? What demon has he enslaved?
"Corypheus was dead. I saw him die. I…I don't know if it was some sort of Tevinter magic but he was dead I swear it!" The screams. Lairus. The rotting flesh on his face. The cloudiness of his eyes. The stumbles as he forces his body forward through sheer will. The madness when he talks. No, not the madness, the desperation that laces his every word, his every step. It is not sheer will but sheer terror that keeps him going. What is down here?
"I believe you." Lavellan's voice, soft and gentle, breaks through. "We'll find a way to stop Corypheus, don't worry."
"I have a theory. I was investigating something with a Gray Warden friend. He's been out of contact however, ever since mentioning something about corruption in the Order." Hawke takes a deep breath, looks down at the stone beneath her feet. Solid. Real.
"That's a good start. Perhaps Corypheus has something to do with whatever is happening in the Order." Lavellan tilts her head to side, brushes her hair out her face. Good. She's clever, smart, a natural leader, all the things Hawke always needed to be but never was.
"Good idea. My contact is in Crestwood, meet me there." Hawke thinks briefly about smiling, doing something reassuring and friendly, but she quickly dismisses it. Since when has she ever been good at reassurance anyways?
"All right. My people will scout the area and I'll be there as soon as possible." Lavellan smiles, her pink lip gloss a shiny reflection of the light around her. It's a sharp contrast to the blood red lipstick of Hawke's. Lavellan's is bright and soft while Hawke's is harsh and unyielding.
Lavellan walks – no, glides is more like it – past Varric. She pauses and sends the dwarf a soft smile, squeezing his shoulder gently before slipping up the stairs and into the tower. Her feet seem to barely touch the ground, a sharp contrast to the thudding of Hawke's own descent. It bothers Hawke in the same way that her hair bothered Hawke when she leaned against the railing.
"I missed you." Varric's voice breaks through the silence. It's comforting in the way that Hawke always imagined home would be – a warm, soft place in which the rest of the world seemed to just fade away.
"I…I missed you too." She whispers, her voice carrying across the ramparts. It's soft in all the way she isn't, and she shakes her head angrily when the thought crosses her mind.
"You shouldn't have left me behind." His voice is hard now, the little cracks of hurt seeping through and staining his words. He still sounds like home.
"You heard what I said about Fenris. The same is true for you, if – if not -" Her voice cracks, cutting off any words that may have followed. She blinks rapidly, feeling the tears welling up in eyes. She looks down at the courtyard below, sees Lavellan's blue cape – a sharp contrast to the dark red of her companion. "Varric…please."
For a moment there's nothing but silence. Hawke focuses on Lavellan – she's standing awfully close to that man – who…actually seems relatively familiar but from where? She wracks her mind trying to think when –
Varric sighs, and then there's something warm against her side. Hawke starts to tense when she smells the familiar aroma of pine oil and warm ale. Varric. She relaxes against the shorter body, dropping her head on top of Varric's.
"Yeah, okay" He turns towards her, his face resting on her stomach – his hair tickling the bottom of her breasts. "Okay, Hawke."
The path is covered in puddles, but then again, when isn't Crestwood covered in puddles? She leaves the horse behind in the local village and travels the remaining distance on foot. It's obvious Crestwood was once a beautiful place, long ago. The trees grow untamed through the ruins of houses, farms, anything that crosses its path. There's something tragically comforting about it all, something about the sheer brokenness of the whole area that calms something in Hawke's soul. She doesn't know if that's good or not. She doesn't know if she cares.
The cave where he's hiding is above a ruined Townsend. Unlike the ones before there are no trees, no vines crawling over the remnants of human life. There is a sickly green glow that covers the entire area, and in the distance she can see the still unfamiliar shape of a rift in the distance. How fitting, she thinks almost bitterly, that this is where he chooses to hide.
Her footsteps echo through the cave, her shadow dancing in front of her like a harbinger. She hears the dripping of water throughout the cave, and she jumps when pinpricks of cold shoot through her head. She can see the door in the near distance – the skull with a red smear of blood across its eyes. It's disturbingly familiar, and she traces her nose, remembering how it felt to smear that paint across her face, how it had come to symbolize who she was. What she was. What she's done.
Darkness. Darkness in the old man's veins. She can see it, see the blackness that is lurking just below his skin. Deep breath. In and out. Just ignore the noise. Noise? Voices. No, a voice. Sister. Sister. Sister? Carver. Just Carver. No. Not just Carver. This will be Carver. Doomed to die underground gasping for breath, alone. No. No. Not her baby brother. Not Carver. They cannot have him. They cannot –
"Where you just planning on standing in front door forever?" A voice – Carver? No, not Carver – someone else – Alistair? Alistair. "Hawke? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." She takes a deep breath, turns around. "I suppose the real question is how you are? I haven't heard from you in forever."
"Ah, yes. I…I apologize about that. Things got a bit….tricky here, as you can." Alistair shoots her a sheepish grin, rubbing his head nervously.
"I can see that." And she can. It's obvious something is bothering him, there's a weariness that hangs around his face like an angry cloud, something that seems to tug at his very mind. "Well, how is she?"
"She?" Alistair looks momentarily confused before he suddenly brightens, his entire deposition changing in a matter of moments. He natters on about anniversary plans, the argument over who the mabari went with (Eventually she won when she pointed out that bringing food for two would be difficult) and how there was this cute lake cottage they wanted to retire too.
She smiles a little at his words, a small bubble of not quite happiness but almost there settling near her heart. She was always good at that, making others happy, it was herself that she couldn't quite figure out.
"Well, that's really it for me. How about yourself?" Alistair leans against the door, his head tilted slightly.
"Oh, there's….not much." Hawke shrugs, rolls her eyes at Alistair's suspicious look. "Ah, well, nothing more than normal. Investigating red lyrium, trying not to get caught up in the violence between the mages and the Templars, things of that nature."
"Yes, well…." Alistair trails off, shaking his head. "It's just a messed up situation Hawke, don't blame yourself."
She opens her mouth, to say what she doesn't really know. What is there to say? Instead she just nods a few times, jerky little things that probably tell Alistair more than she ever would want too.
"I'm….I'm going to wait at the entrance of the cave for Varric and the Inquisitor – it might be a while, she seems like the sort to try and help everyone she sees." Hawke knows she sounds a little bitter, a little angry, all things that she has no right to feel about someone she just met.
She settles down on a rock right in front of the cave, a large flat one that she can comfortably cross her legs on while balancing her staff on her knees. The rain feels nice, tiny pricks of ice that remind her that she's alive, tiny little pricks of pain that tell her that she's still alive. That she's still here. She feels her hair plastering itself to her skull, the dark red strands clinging to her cheeks like blood.
Blood. There's blood everywhere. Darkspawn blood, Warden Blood, blood so old that she can't – won't – comprehend what it means. Blood on the walls. Blood on the floor. Janka's blood. Carver's blood. Her blood. The bridge is covered in blood, paved in it. The bridge. Whoever, whatever, is down here, it's there. Past the archway. Across the bridge. The blood sticks to her boots. To her skin. Her hair, so red that she doesn't notice the blood until she tries to move it out of face. It's everywhere. Everywhere.
"Hawke!" Alistair's voice breaks through her head, shatters her thoughts. He shoots her a small smile, a bittersweet one. "Looks like you were right about your friend."
Confused, she looks around for a moment, her brain still not fully caught up. When she finally realizes what's happened she laughs, a rough, raw sound that seems bitter and out of place with the shining sun.
Lavellan comes shortly after the sun is once again in the sky, her blue cloak shed in favor of her Dalish robes. Hawke sees them before they see her, watches them with a sense of anticipation that she can't dispel. Lavellan sees her first out of her companions, and Hawke notices that her hair is damp, tendrils of her black hair having already escaped her messy bun. She was clearly somewhere very wet – the lake perhaps?
"Hawke!" Lavellan is friendly, a smile crossing her face. "It is good to see you again, sorry we are a little late….we ran into a bit of trouble with the rift in the lake."
"No worries. My contact is inside." She sends Varric a small smile, nods her head at Lavellan and leads them in.
Lavellan goes first, and Hawke feels a twinge of nostalgia, of envy, when she sees how quickly, how readily, her companions follow her. Varric shoots her a small smile, squeezes her hand gently as he scoots on by. She knows she should go first, that she should make introductions. Yet something, she doesn't know what, holds her in place. She watches the backs of the others as they go in, the darkness swallowing them up. She bites her lip, resists the urge to scream, to warn them – of what? Alistair? Don't be ridiculous, it's not like – damn she needs to get in there. Come on Hawke, move! Then, she hears a voice, familiar and warm and…. tinged with unease? Varric – Varric is in there and Alistair probably doesn't remember him and if he doesn't remember him then she really needs to get in there before something bad happens.
Thud. Thud. Thud. The noise of her boots echo off the walls of the cave as she runs. Thud. Thud. The blood from her boots tacky against the stone. Thud. Thud. Corpyheus, what is Corpyheus? He can't possibly - doesn't matter, doesn't matter. Anything is killable. He's the only way out. Way out. Where is the way out?!
Hawke gasps, falling to her knees before the door. Her breathing is heavy and rushed, and she presses her head to her knees, breathing in once, twice, done. She gets to her feet, shakes her shoulders. She can do this. She can do this. Varric's voice, seeping out from the under the door. She needs to do this.
She pushes the door open and steps inside.
"Well, it's settled then. We'll meet at the Western Approach, in front of the Tevinter outpost." Alistair shoots the Inquisitor a grin "You know….you remind me of someone very special to me – though I doubt she'd see the similarities. Never sees the best of herself, my love."
"You mean – the Hero of Fereldan? Oh! That is….very nice of you to say, I – she – I mean…." Lavellan's cheeks turn a faint red, and she looks down slightly embarrassed as her lips curl into a bright smile. "She's an amazing person. What she did, not just stopping the Blight but with everything else…I hope to be as a good person as she."
"You will be." The grin on Alistair's face has softened now to a gentle smile "When I first met her I had this feeling. I couldn't quite explain it at the time but somehow I just knew that she was going to do great things for the world. I have that same feeling about you."
"Thank you…Alistair." Lavellan gives the room one last look over before turning back around to her companions. "And you as well Hawke. There's no way we would have ever known about this if it wasn't for you."
"If Corypheus is behind this then it's just as much my problem as yours." Her tone is short. It's unfair, and she can see Varric's confused face from behind Lavellan. She shouldn't be angry at what Alistair said but she is. She did what she could for Kirkwall, did she not? She helped the mages but condoned violence – was that not enough? What did this Inquisitor have that she did not?
If Lavellan senses anything she's polite enough to not say it, choosing instead to corral the arguing Seeker and Mage – Tevinter? – Out the door. Varric hesitates, looking at her with an unreadable expression on his face. She resolutely does not look back at him, however, and she hears his sigh before he too leaves the room.
"Well, you ready to go?" Alistair throws her a brief grin over his shoulder as he grabs his things. "It's a quite a ways to the Western Approach and the nearest place we are going to get a horse would be the Emerald Graves."
"Well then we better get walking than." She sighs, and the tension in her shoulders bleeds out. "It will be nice to have company again, even if it is for a rather depressing task."
There's a strange look on Alistair's face, but it disappears almost as quickly as it appears. He grins at her, a look that she remembers all too well from that night in Kirkwall. On the surface, boyish and carefree, relaxed. Dig deeper, however, and you see the scars beneath it, the wounds that have scarred over, leaving memories that will never fade away.
If Crestwood was always wet than the Western Approach is always hot. No, hot wasn't the right word. Blistering winds, sand that burned like the hottest flame, the roar of dragons that echoed above her head. That was the Western Approach. Hawke pulled her scarf tighter around her mouth, her hood already covered in sand. Her boots sink into the stuff, making her movements slower and more sluggish as she leads her horse through the desert. She can see the outpost in the distance – a hazy image obscured by endless mirages. She covers her nose and breathes in deeply. Sand still gets in.
"Damn, why are we always trekking out the middle of nowhere? Just once I'd like to have an adventure somewhere convenient, like Amaranthine or somewhere like that?" Alistair's voice is distorted due to the current wind surge that's whipping Hawke's cloak around like a mabari with a chew toy.
"Didn't you go to Orzammar? And Denerim?" Hawke laughs, and for once, it sounds genuine and real. "Not to mention your beloved wife also had an adventure of her in Amaranthine!"
"Yes….but we didn't stay there!" Alistair is laughing as well, his eyes the only thing visible beneath his hood. "In Orzammar we ended up trekking through forgotten Deep Roads paths and getting thrown into a death maze. As for Denerim – well, we got arrested and thrown into Fort Draken!"
Hawke snorts, shaking her head. "Trust me. Adventures in the city are just as bad as those in the middle of nowhere. Are you forgetting Kirkwall?"
"Ah but think of how little time it took you to get around." His voice is full of laughter, and it soothes the jagged part of Hawke named Kirkwall. "Look, I do believe that's our dear Inquisitor – excellent!"
He's right. The Inquisitor – wrapped up in her own cloak and scarf combination, has managed to somehow get to the outpost before them. There is a large pile of dead wildlife around them, and Hawke notices Varric looking through the pelts for any that are worth selling. Lavellan looks way too happy for someone who is in the middle of nowhere. And wearing shoes. Hawke remembers how Merrill kicked and screamed the first time Varric tried to give her a pair. And yet Lavellan seems quite happy to have pulled her boots on over her robes. Perhaps it was just a Merrill thing. Like the twine. Merrill. Twine. Varric. Varric. Home. Gone.
The outpost looms in front of them, its architecture as ancient and terrifying as anything that comes out of the Emporium. The Emporium. The Emporium. The crest on his torn robe. On him. His voice, ragged and dark and something out of a nightmare. Roads. Empty. The Deep Roads. Always empty. Empty. He's rambling. His hands grotesque and crooked. Golden City. Golden Light. Darkness. Darkness? Corruption. No. Lies. They must be lies. They must – something warm? Warm? There is no warmth here. Why is there –
"Hawke? Are you all right?" Varric's voice cuts through Hawke's thoughts, jerking her back to reality. She gasps for air, her scarf pressing into her mouth, covering her tongue. She pulls it off her face, scrambling to hook her fingers underneath the fabric. Sand fills her mouth, causing her to cough, but she can breathe.
"I'm fine. I'll cover you. Go on in." She turns away from them, from Varric. The landscape is desolate and barren, harsh and unyielding. It's more comforting than she'd like to admit.
She hears their footsteps recede into the outpost, the noise echoing across the silence. She hears the fighting, smells the familiar tang of magic in the air. She breathes it in deeply, smells the forest aura that is Lavellan, the sharp, strong smell of cologne that is her mage companion. And then, then there's something else. A tempting, sweet smell that cloaks all the others. It smells of power, riches and everything one could ever want. It smells like cave on the shores of Kirkwall where she found the mages from Starkhaven. It smells like the seals her father created. It smells like blood magic.
Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud. Hawke's boots slap the ground as she runs, a constant noise against the sudden silence. She sprints up the stairs, going faster, faster, faster – blood. Blood everywhere. Covering the floor, the stairs, and the people. Lavellan, her under armor shiny with it. Bianca, coated in it. Dripping off the Seeker. Staining the Tevinter's cream robes. Alistair – his blond hair now a rusty red, the symbol on his chest – the symbol – the Wardens. She looks around. Dead. All of them. But, not….not killed in battle, not all of them. Throats slit. Blood magic. They….they were doing blood magic.
"Hawke…they thought they were doing the right thing." Alistair's voice sounds like a lost boy, one that's simply trying to get home.
"Everyone has a story they tell themselves to justify bad decisions... and it never matters. In the end, you are always alone in your actions." Hawke spits out the words like they are poison. "The Wardens are out of control!"
"Hawke – let's deal with this later, yeah?" Lavellan sighs, her hands on her hips. She looks exhausted, with dark circles under her eyes. "Look, you and Alistair follow Erimond, we'll….we'll figure out how to keep anyone else from using this outpost again."
"Fine. But we will be discussing this later." She snaps, feeling the anger in her festering. She turns to walk away. She doesn't want to look. Doesn't want to see their faces. "This isn't over."
Thud. Thud. Her boots slip on the bloodied stone. Thud.
They travel in silence. They find Erimond, Adament, with all the Gray Wardens holed up inside, in silence. They enter Skyhold in silence. She knows he wants to say something, to make things right. Because that's the kind of man he is, Alistair. But she's not that kind of woman. Not anymore.
"Alistair! Hawke!" Lavellan's standing at the entrance to Skyhold's, her thin frame tiny against the backdrop of the keep. "Thank you for going after Erimond…I know it must have been difficult."
"It was no problem at all, Lady Inquisitor." Alistair shoots her a smile and a little bow. "The Gray Wardens have created this mess, a Gray Warden should get them out."
"Be that as it may….you didn't have too." As she's talking Lavellan pulls something out of her cloak, a thick envelope. "Remember how you gave Leliana the information about the Hero? She sent you a letter with explicit orders for no one, including Leliana, to read it."
"My lady….there is no way for me to properly thank you….normally letters would take.." Alistair's whispers are interrupted by a wave of Lavellan's hand, a shy smile on her face.
"There are no thanks needed, Alistair. It is a gift, one I give willingly. Now go off and read that letter, I know you're dying too!" She giggles, pressing her hand to her mouth. "Hawke…do you have a moment?"
"Of course, is there anything you need to know?" Hawke smiles, and she knows it looks thin, worn out against the stones of Skyhold.
"Are you doing all right?" Lavellan tucks a strand her loose hair behind her ear. The blue cloak has been wrapped around her shoulders so that it's more resembling a large scarf, and her hair is down, tumbling down her back. She looks so young, so innocent, and so free. Hawke wonders if she ever looked like that. She supposes it doesn't really matter anymore.
"I'm fine, thank you for asking Inquisitor." She wills her voice to sound warm and confident, instead of the tired apathy that it is usually laced with. "If you don't mind I think I'm going to walk around Skyhold a bit, clear my head."
"Oh, no, not at all! Just…you know, you can talk to me if you need to." Lavellan looks like she's thinking of squeezing Hawke's shoulder, or worse yet, hugging her. But she seems to think better of it, choosing instead to settle on a comforting smile and quick wave.
Hawke doesn't walk around Skyhold. Instead she settles down between two columns of higher rampart, near where she met the Inquisitor for the first time. She likes the ramparts, they allow her to watch everything that is happening in the key, to keep watch on those around her. She sits there for an hour just watching the winding down of Skyhold. She watches as the soldiers retire to their barracks, too wound up for the march to Adamant to do much more than just lie in bed and pray for sleep. She watches as the Chargers all sit outside the tavern and nurse their drinks, giving each other a hard time. She misses that.
Then, she sees it. The door closest to her perch – but yet, still far enough away that she can easily strike before one notices her – opens. And out comes the Commander and Lavellan. She briefly thinks about moving, but she quickly throws that idea out the window when she realizes that they are now too close for her to sneak away. Not that it's not already awkward. Dear Maker, they bad at this, worse than Aveline and Donnic.
"I just….I think of you. More than I should. Rather, all the time. And I need to know if you feel the same way." Lavellan's voice is firm, but her eyes betray her nervousness, they dart to the ground and refuse to look back up.
"Maker I…of course I feel the same way. It's just, you're the Inquisitor and I'm…me. I just don't know." Cullen is as awkward as he was in Kirkwall, but Hawke can tell that he wants this. Wants Lavellan.
"I'm still standing here aren't I?" Her hand looks tiny against the dark red of Cullen's shoulder. Her smile, so soft and warm, it reminds Hawke of Bethany's. Bethany! No, no, no, no. Not Bethany. Not Bethany. No! Me instead! Be me instead! Please take me in -
"What?!" Cullen's voice, angry and frustrated, breaks her out of her thoughts. She gasps for air once more, her fingers wrapped around her throat in some misinformed attempt to get more air. She leans back against the stones of the ramparts. One breath. Two breaths. Done.
"Cullen I – oomph" A surprised exhale, a soft thud of a body hitting stone. Tense. On high alert. Danger. A sigh. A moan? Hawke whips her head around to look down at the ramparts.
Lavellan is pressed against the rampart wall, her legs wrapped around Cullen's waist, pulling him impossibly closer. Her hands scramble for purchase against the layers of his armor, so small against the dark red contrast. His hands, large and calloused from years of holding a sword seem to engulf her face, tilting her head for better access to her mouth.
She lets out another moan, breaks the kiss to tilt her head, to pant as he sucks on her neck, licks his way up to her ear and suckles on it like it's a lollipop. An obscene noise rips from Lavellan's throat, and Hawke feels her cheeks turn red, ducking her head back between the rampart columns. She wants to back away and yet where would she go? The only way down is past them, and she knows revealing herself at this point will be more awkward than staying put.
"By the Maker…." Cullen's voice sounds completely wrecked, and it sends shivers down Hawke's spine. She hears the rustling of fabric and a soft, feminine gasp. Then there's a deep groan – Cullen, she can tell – and she can't help herself and she peeks out again.
At first, she sees nothing different than when she had last peeked out. Lavellan, between the wall and Cullen, the Commander's body pressing her against the stone. But then she hears Lavellan let out another groan, her fingers tugging on Cullen's sandy hair, her head tossed back against the rampart. She follows Cullen's gaze down to between the two of them, and she lets out a gasp that she quickly muffles. Three of his fingers, buried deep within Lavellan, his thumb pushing up against her, rubbing in a circular motion. He licks his lips, rotates his wrist experimentally and is reward with Lavellan arching into his hand, desperate for more.
Hawke watches, mesmerized, as Lavellan pulls him in to her and devours his mouth, distracting him with her tongue as her hands scramble below his belt. She watches as Lavellan shoves her hand in his pants and lets out a filthy groan when she pulls him out. They both break the kiss, gasping for air as they lean their foreheads together. A few minutes pass with them simply staring at one another, her small hand tight around him, his large hand tucked into her.
"I….I think that we should maybe talk?" Lavellan's cheeks are stained red, and Hawke finds it both adorable and annoying that the thing she is shy about is talking to Cullen and not his fingers inside her. "In a good way of course, I mean I really like you – did I already say that? – and I'd like to see where this goes?"
"Ah, me….me too. I mean, I very much like you and would like to see where this goes." Cullen ducks his head bashfully, and as if he is noticing it for the first time, makes a slightly apologetic noise and goes to withdraw his fingers.
"No, wait!" Lavellan tightens her legs around his waist, pulls him impossibly closer, her hand and his dick now pressed up against her. "I was thinking maybe we could talk….after all of this? I mean, obviously we'd finish this inside but still – oh by the Gods, Cullen!"
He rubs his thumb against her, this time more aggressively, pressing downwards for a moment before drawing his hand away. The sudden and brief silence shocks Hawke back to herself, and she lets out a soft gasp at the sudden pool of heat between her legs. Legs. Legs, wrapped around his head, pulling him, that tongue, closer. He suckles on her like a pup suckling from its mother's tit. Throws her head back. A filthy groan rips from her throat. She grinds up against his face, feels him pull her closer, encourage it. His thumb, pushing against her breast, rubbing against it. She gasps, so close, so fucking close. No. Not like this. Not now. Pushes him back. Grabs him by his shoulders and yanks him up so they are face to face. Smirks. Flips them over so she's on top. Brackets his hips with her knees. Slowly, achingly, sinks down on his dick. Throws her head back, her wild red hair rippling down her back. Leans down and mouths at his chest. Smirks at his responding groan. Slowly rises up onto her knees, slams herself back down. Repeat. Clench. Repeat. The table is shaking. She leans over him, her breasts hanging in his face. He leans up, catches one in his mouth. Sucks. She screams his name.
This time, it's Lavellan that knocks Hawke out of it. Or, rather, it's her slamming the door to Cullen's office. Hawke gasps for breath, pushing herself up to standing so she can lean over the ramparts, suck in fresh air like a drowning woman. She's sweaty, she can feel it, between her legs, on her chest. She gasps for air and tries to clear her mind. Tries to forget.
"Hawke?" Varric's voice, warm and concerned. He looks her over, once, twice, and one last time. She doesn't know what he sees but she hopes he can't tell where her mind took her this time, what twists and turns it's made. Whatever he sees makes him nod once, a sadden expression momentarily crossing his face. He sighs, shakes his head once. "Come on Hawke, let's go have a drink."
Adamant is a complete fucking mess. There are bodies everywhere. Bodies of those with throats slit, of those who were killed to further this idea of blood magic, this desperate plan to rid the world of Blight's forever. Hawke resigns herself to killing her way through the mess, tells herself that it's either the deluded Wardens or the soldiers of the Inquisition. That makes it easier. For every Warden she kills, it's one more man or woman who still lives. It's what she tells herself anyways. Then she hears it. A roaring noise that she hasn't heard since the Bone Pit. A wave of hot hair ripples across Adamant. A dragon is here.
Thud. Thud. She runs up the stairs towards the dragon, Lavellan, Clarel, Alistair. Towards Varric. Thud. Her feet are light against the stone, little bolts of lightning dancing off her arms and hitting stray pieces of metal. Thud. Thud. Too late. They're gone. A group of Wardens, says they're friendly, that Clarel has come to her senses. That the Inquisitor and her companions have run after Clarel and Erimond. Thud. Thud. Bolting up the stairs, she watches, horrified, as Clarel is swallowed by the dragon. Awed, as the Warden still lives. Humbled, as she blasts the dragon out of the sky. But humbled only for a moment. Then she's panicking, the ground beneath her feet is cracking, burning away. Then they're all running, running but getting nowhere, feeling the ground beneath waste away until all that's left is air. Desperately waving her arms around as she falls. Nothing. Nothing but darkness. Nothing but –
A flash of light. A blink of an eye. And then, there's ground beneath her feet? No. Not ground, the ground is above her. Above her head. The Fade then. Ah, she sees it now. They're in the Fade. Lavellan brought them here, accidently of course. A moment a panic. Much like the one she is having now. One breath. Two breaths. Done.
"Everyone okay? Hawke? Alistair?" Lavellan seems too calm for a situation such as this one, rounding up her companions and evaluating the situation. "I'm assuming that we're going to need to head towards that rift over there. Anyone have any other ideas?"
There's silence, punctured only a witty comment about desire demons from the Tevinte – no, from Dorian, about the first time he was in the Fade. So off they went. And from there, everything went downhill.
"The Wardens killed the Divine?!" Her own voice, so unfamiliar to her. She sounds angry and belligerent, accursing and righteous. "They are out of control!"
"They were under Corypheus' control! You know that Hawke!" Alistair snaps at her, his eyes worn, with dark circles under his eyes.
"That's not an excuse! They need to be checked! Look what they've done – the chaos they've caused!" She screams back, pushing herself into Alistair's face. There's a sudden anger within, a sudden desire to just lash out at everyone around her.
"So what? The only bad decisions that are okay are the ones you make? You started the mage rebellion, you blew up a Chantry, destroyed your city!" Alistair finally cracks, waving his arms around regularly "You're being a hypocrite Hawke!"
"Guys! Stop! Not….not now, okay?" Lavellan, her face drawn and taunt due to the sudden influx of memories, shoves her way between the two of them, her hands on their shoulders. "Once we get out of here we can figure this whole thing out."
"Yeah…yeah, you're right. Let's go." Alistair sighs, and Hawke shakes her head in agreement. The once overwhelming anger is gone, and to her horror she starts to realize its left nothing behind.
"Maker that is one big spider!" She hears Varric's voice on her left, and she turns – to respond, to just look at him, she doesn't know. She lets her barrier down for a moment and suddenly, there are spiders everywhere. Crawling up her shoes. Her legs. Her arms. In her hair. On her face. She screams, and screams as she collapses to her knees. Covers her face and screams louder. She feels them crawl on top of her. Over her. On her. On her. She feels him on her. He mouths at her breast, sucks at her pulse point. They're in the bush somewhere outside Kirkwall, they tumbled into it the second they could. The second the others were out of sight. The second the prison was out of sight. She pushes him down on the ground, runs her hands down his chest, mouths at his nipples until they're pert. She mounts him quickly, impales herself on his dick. His hands scramble to grab her hips, grip her so tight she's knows she'll have bruises tomorrow. This is the first time. First time they've done this without the flimsy pretense of alcohol standing in their way. She grinds down particularly hard and feels him bite down on her nipple in response. She gasps out his name. Pushes her breast closer to his mouth. His name. His –
"Ah!" She screams, lighting shooting through her body. She twitches on the floor – the floor? – Where is she? The Fade. That's right. The Fade. Corpyheus. Corypheus. "What…what happened?"
"Are you okay? I'm so sorry but it was the only way to wake you up." Lavellan helps her to her feet, and Hawke notices the gashes running down her arms.
"Wake me up?" Her head hurts. The last thing she really remembers was – spiders? There were spiders but then there was –
"It appears the Nightmare was able to induce hallucinations. He hit you and Alistair pretty hard." Lavellan sighs out, and Hawke notices Alistair being helped to his feet. "Come on, we should go."
They run like men processed, leaping of rocks and puddles as the rift gets every closer. And then, like in every horror story Carver ever read to her, the giant spider reappeared. Over the rift. No, not over. Wrong word choice. Blocking. Blocking the rift. Hawke knows she should panic, knows she should be completely freaked out. But instead she feels this sense of calm. A feeling a peace spreads throughout her, warming her from the inside out.
"I'll cover you. This is my problem, go!" She looks at them all. Lavellan, the new necklace – made from a trinket – on her neck. Alistair, the chain that his wedding ring hangs on peeking out from underneath his armor. Cassandra, the Seeker, a woman who's faith may not ever fully recover. Dorian, a man trying to right the wrongs of his country. And Varric. Varric, who has been with her since the beginning, and who would have been with her until the end. He had found her when she was nothing, and had stayed with her until she was nothing once more.
"Alistair. Shut up." She offers him a weary smile, steps closer and gives his shoulder a tight squeeze. "I'm sorry for all the things I said. But you need to go through that portal. She's waiting for you."
Lavellan looks between the two of them, and she blinks her eyes rapidly – Hawke can see the tears building up – and nods. "Hawke…."
"It'll be all right. Just….tell Varric goodbye for me would you?" She closes her eyes and curses her cowardice. Be brave Hawke. One last time. "Actually, would you tell him one more thing?"
"Of course." Lavellan smile is sad now, and despite her earlier feelings towards the Inquisitor Hawke feels guilty about putting that sad smile on her face.
"Tell him….tell it wasn't ever wrong. And that – and that – I love him all right? I love him and I'm so sorry I was a coward and never told him." She closes her eyes, feels the tears dripping down her face, and feels them soaking her shirt. "Promise me you'll take care of him. Please."
"I promise." Lavellan's voice cracks a bit, and Hawke is suddenly hit with a lithe body as the elf hugs her tightly "I'm sorry I ever thought mean thoughts about you, about what you said. You're an amazing person Hawke, I'm so sorry that I won't get to know you better."
Hawke goes to say something snarky, something mean, something to make Lavellan take back all the things she just said about her. Something so that Lavellan and all the others will hurt less with her gone. So he will hurt less with her gone. But she can't. She nods her head jerkily, squeezes Lavellan once before stepping back. She turns around and steels herself. There's no noise in the Fade. For once, her feet are silent.
One breath. Two breath. Done. She draws her staff of her back when she hears his voice.
"Hawke!" She pauses, turns her head a little towards the Gray Warden. Just enough so he knows she's listening. "I got that feeling about you too. I just….never quite knew how to tell you in a way that you'd believe it."
"Thanks Alistair…." She whispers, turns around and gives him one last wave. "Buy that lakeside cottage, yeah?"
She doesn't hear his answer, she's too far gone in her own head. She draws her staff, charges her magic. She rips the Nightmare's limbs apart, feels the burning blue fire in her eyes. Eyes. His eyes. Golden brown, staring at her from on the ground. He traces her cheek bone, her lips. Kisses the marks he's left on her chest, it's the first time for those too. I love you, she thinks, bending down to press a kiss against his lips. To run her fingers through his chest hair. I wish I was brave enough to tell you. I wish –