Title: When All That Remains
Rating: M
Disclaimers: I do not own Dragon Age or Dragon Age 2. However, I do like to borrow their characters for awhile because face it, Bioware does make some good ones.
Author's Notes: This game gave me so many freakishly awesome story ideas, some of which I will write on in bits and pieces over time. However after going through the game a second time, this bit just jumped out at me. This story does contain spoilers for the game, so if you haven't played it, I suggest you do before reading this. Don't say I didn't warn you. Also, this story contains scenes of consensual sex between two women. If that gives you heartburn, I suggest antacids.
Spoilers: Dragon Age 2 (Take a wild guess what quest)
She is dead.
I stare at the fire, watching the flames dance about. I remember a dress she made for me when I was a little girl. It was blue ... the color of my eyes she said. It was a simple dress, made from materials she traded for in the main village, but I loved it. I used to prance in it for hours, spinning and twirling about like a princess.
She is dead.
The hours pass, then the days. We hold a service at the Chantry. Gamlen arranged it all, because I cannot bear to face the fact that she is gone forever. He walks around with a gaunt, haunted look on his face. He spent so much energy blaming his older sister for his problems. Now that she's gone, he doesn't know what to do. He can barely look at me – and I can't even blame him. He was right, you know. It is my fault Mother is dead.
Bethany is allowed to come to the funeral. I had to scream and fight and yell at the Templars to get that one concession. The Knight-Commander refused at first. I went to the Grand Cleric, calling in every last favor I had earned over the past four years in Kirkwall. Finally they let her attend, though she remains in the company of a full escort of Templars. I hate this. I cannot even see my own sister without permission.
I wish I had never come to Kirkwall. Surely the Blight was preferable to this.
She is dead.
The flames consume her prepared body. I insisted they wrap it for the pyre. I am grateful for that ... my mother's body has been desecrated, and I don't want to remember the horror of what I've seen. I would rather remember her as she used to be – the smells, the sounds, and the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled.
That doesn't happen, of course. I will never be able to forget what that monster did to her. I see her in my dreams, not as she used to be, but as he made her. Stitches and lines carved into her face, walking with that jilted, shuffling step of a living corpse. I cannot remember the last time I slept. But I take small comfort knowing Bethany won't have the nightmares I've endured.
She doesn't look at me during the service, nor at the pyre as my mother's remains are commended to the Maker. She stands there, weeping, as one of the Chantry sisters performs the ceremony.
You said you'd protect her.
I can still hear her voice screaming at me. I don't blame her. I did promise to protect Mother. I promised to protect Bethany too, and Carver.
I failed them all.
She returns to the Circle, and I to the mansion. Here I wait, staring, sitting in front of the fire for an absolution that will not come.
She is dead. And I am truly alone.
The days pass, and then the weeks.
Aveline comes to me first.
"I never thought I'd be the same after Wesley died." She reaches out and touches my arm. "Hawke, I know what you're going through."
But she doesn't. Wesley died in Ferelden, in the arms of the one who loved him. My mother died at the hands of a mad man, her face removed from her body and stitched to another woman's putrid corpse.
I do not speak to her. Eventually she leaves, and I am grateful. I would rather be alone right now.
It's not to be, however. Anders is next, and if there's anything I hate worse than Aveline's stilted attempt at condolences, it's the look on that Warden's face as he offers me his compassion.
"If you need someone to talk to," his dark eyes are filled with sadness and regret. "I'm here for you."
I do not want to talk to him. All I can think about is how many of those mages I've helped him free turned to blood magic as soon as they left the Circle. I ask him to leave. I don't want his platitudes. I am angry at him, at everyone.
Fenris tries to talk to me. But the second he mentions blood magic I kick him out.
Varric never makes it past the door. I tell Bodahn to send him back. It's just as well – he has his hands full with the care of his brother. The last thing he needs is another broken soul to contend with.
Sebastian comes a few days later. He tries to talk to me about my family and his own.
"I am truly sorry for your loss," his bright eyes meet mine. "I know what it is to lose the ones you love. If there's anything I can do..."
He can't do anything. No one can. I wallow in my own grief.
Another week passes, and Merrill comes. She's nervous and shaking and I can tell she's afraid I am going to yell at her.
It is easy to take my anger out on her. She has practiced blood magic. She has consorted with demons. I lash out at her, all but accusing her of risking the death of her clan, her family. She flees the room, sobbing.
It would be easy to follow her. She doesn't deserve my anger. Merrill is a good person. I know this. But my insides are churning. There is a beast inside of me clawing to break free. It wants to tear my world apart, bring down the sky around me until all that is left is chaos.
Isabela storms angrily into the room. "What the hell did you say to Merrill?"
"Go away." My voice is hoarse. Isabela – my on again, off again lover. I can see the fire in her eyes. She does not fear me. She will pull no punches, and as she nears me I can see the fury simmering below the surface.
"I want to know why Merrill is downstairs sobbing her pretty little eyes out." Isabela snaps angrily. "What did you say to her?"
"Go away." I repeat myself, as if she cannot hear what I have already said. My anger is all I have left, and I draw it around me like a blanket.
She grabs my shoulders, her fingernails digging into my skin, refusing to relinquish her hold. I stare daggers at her.
"Merrill is a blood mage." As if that should explain everything. Isabela shakes her head in disgust.
"And this somehow makes her responsible for your mother's death?" Isabela snaps. "Hawke, you know bloody damn well that Merrill would have died trying to save your mother. She nearly did die trying to save you."
She's right, of course. I lost control that day – I fought like a demon possessed, flinging myself repeatedly into harm's way in an attempt to get my mother's killer. If it hadn't been for Merrill – if it hadn't been for everyone, I would have died down there.
The guilt gnaws at my insides, but I shove it down. The pain is too much. My eyes water, and I can see Isabela's gaze soften. She releases her death grip on my shoulders and storms off. I can hear her speaking to Merrill downstairs. Telling her I am not myself. To come back in the morning, and I will apologize.
Yes. Come back in the morning. Perhaps the pain will be less.
For a moment I believe I am alone, but then she returns to my room, her dark eyes blazing with anger.
I glare at her. Why won't she leave me alone? All I want is to wallow in my grief.
She crosses the room, closing the gap between our bodies. Her eyes narrow as she studies me for a long moment. Then she reaches up, fingertips entwining in my closely cropped hair, and pulls me into a bruising kiss.
I fight her at first, fight this. I do not want to feel, but she is relentless, kissing and nipping and sucking, biting hard enough on my lower lip to draw blood.
I try to pull away, but she resists, forcing me closer. She is strong, though you would not realize it just to look at her. Most people see only the scanty attire, the tight bodice that does nothing to shield her ample assets. But beneath that exterior she is all muscle and sinew. Well-developed muscles give hint of definition beneath her soft skin, honed by the years of sailing and endless hours of dueling.
In battle, she is my equal, moving so quickly I can scarcely follow her. One moment delivering a devastating swipe meant to disembowel an opponent, the next she's behind me intercepting a would-be assassin.
Her hand slips between my legs, pushing inward and upward until she meets resistance.
I do nothing to stop her. Despite all that has happened, I know that her touch is the only thing anchoring me to this world.
"I will not let you do this, Hawke." Her voice is filled with a thicker emotion and I wonder for a moment if she really truly cares about me. She has never given me any indication that she desires anything beyond the simple pleasures of the flesh, but her voice tonight is filled with a hint of desperation.
"I will not let you shield yourself behind these walls, throwing away everyone who has ever meant anything to you." Her eyes were hard.
"Are you any better?" I retorted, the words coming freely before I could sensor them. "Drifting from port to port, from one bed to the next, never staying in one place long enough to make a real friend. What do you know?"
Her eyes narrow in anger. "I will not let you throw your life away. You are better than this, Hawke."
It was easy to rise to the challenge. "Who do you think you are? You have absolutely no right..."
Those lips cut me off again, and this time I responded in kind. She was brutal, and I could be too. The kiss is all teeth and tongue; I rake my fingernails across her back, finding purchase in her clothes. I pull hard, hearing the satisfying rip of the linen being torn in two.
She would kill me later for destroying these clothes, but for now we come together hungrily. Her kisses trail down my neck, marking me, and I feel myself arch into her touch.
I need this now, the pain. It is the only thing anchoring me to this world.
She shrugs out of the tattered remains of her clothes, using her dagger to relieve me of mine, and we meet again hungrily. I hiss at the contact of skin upon skin, whimpering as her hand forces it's way between our bodies none-too-gently, and I gasp at the pain of the intrusion.
Our coupling is hard and fast. She is not gentle, nor does she coddle me, and I find myself forced to confront the demons of my past. For the first time in weeks I felt something beyond that mind numbing emptiness that has been my existence.
I surrendered to the pleasure – to the pain – feeling her fingernails drag across my back as I scream her name into the night. Tears stream down my cheeks as it all comes crashing down around me and I am reduced to a whimpering, blubbering child.
Surprisingly enough, she remains, holding me as I let it all go. I mourn for a father long dead and for a brother whose life had been snuffed out far too soon. For a sister who now hates me and will forever be deprived of her freedom. I cry for the mother I will never see again.
My pirate queen doesn't speak, and when I finally manage to look up, it is to an uneasy expression. I can see the conflicting emotions swirling behind those murky depths.
She has never allowed herself to love, but this is as much out of her control as my mother's life was in mine.
And all that remains, after the sorrow, the tears, is that tiny spark of life.
That hope.
