After her mother died, Hawke spent most of her time in the courtyard training.
It was an old coping mechanism, one she took up when she was a girl. Back when her biggest fears were play yard bullies, she'd pull her hair up in a ponytail and practice in the barn they used to keep, knocking at scarecrows and bales of hay with a broom. When she'd gotten old enough to know to never answer a door to a man wearing steel plate with covered eyes and a sword carving on his chest, she'd even started dressing the scarecrows up for her sparring lessons. Sometimes, they wore buckets over their heads. Sometimes, she painted a black line on their chest to represent a sword. Sometimes, she imagined the could fight back.
They never did. But the Templar who caught Bethany playing in the forest when Hawke was twelve did. Right until Hawke buried a dagger in his throat. Her father helped her bury the man under a tree later that night, the dagger still in place.
"I killed him," she had cried when they'd covered the Templar's body with dirt. "I killed him and Bethany saw and he screamed-"
"Alyssa," her father had grabbed her shoulder. "Did you regret it?"
She did not, because the Templar had taken one look at her baby sister and drawn his sword, no questions asked. Ready to strike down a child. For making flower petals dance. "I...but I killed him."
Hawke would never forget the look in her father's eyes as he grabbed her shoulder that night, under that willow tree. "You saved her. What matters is you saved her."
After that, Hawke stopped dressing up her practice dummies. She stopped using the broom too. The pair of twin daggers her father had gifted her after that night were much better weapons. Weapons to save her family time and time again.
Now, looking at the dummies in front of her, Hawke was wondering what good those daggers did. They could not save her father from disease. Nor Carver from that ogre. They'd done nothing against the Blight that snaked through Bethany's veins. And while they'd been quick to slit the throat of the man who killed her mother, they did nothing to stop her from dying on the floor as she watched.
What good were her daggers if there was nothing left to protect except herself?
"Hawke."
Hawke sighed, placing her daggers back in their sheaths. It was late, late enough that all the torches had to be lit to traverse the manor inside. Perfect time for other ghosts to come calling. "Fenris."
"I see you've been making quick work of your training companions." Hawke looked up at her dummies. He was right, they were rather beaten, and given all the cuts over their body, she would have to stitch them together to keep them from falling apart. "I believe they need medical attention."
"Are you suggesting I call Anders to perform healing magic on fabric and straw?"
"More that you give them, and yourself a long rest." Hawke didn't look at him and she heard him let out a sigh. "Hawke, how long have you been out here?"
"An hour."
"You're lying."
And that she was. She'd been outside for no less than four. Enough for Orana to check on her three times. She turned, finally taking in Fenris for the first time since he entered. He was in full armor as usual, and when she looked at his eyes, she hated to see the pity in them. She didn't need his pity. She didn't need anyone's.
"Does it matter?" She said at last.
"It does to me."
"And why is that?"
Fenris looked at her for a long moment. Like he did before they'd made that stupid mistake (he wasn't ready, she should have known, she should have known ) and hadn't been the same since. Like he did when they were Hawke and Fenris, fellow warriors, instead of Hawke and Fenris, lovers for only a night. Like they hadn't been able to look at each other the same since then.
"Because I'm your friend, Hawke." Hawke hoped her surprise didn't show on her face. Fenris looked terribly awkward, a slight blush to his cheeks, but he still kept his gaze on her. "Regardless what happens. Between us or otherwise."
Hawke stared at him for a long moment. She felt terribly tired all of the sudden, the training catching up with her. Or perhaps that was the lethargy that always came with comforting her insecurities head on. "Alright. I'll stop. For now. But I'll need something else to occupy my time; I'm not tired at the moment." Another lie, though obvious to see through. Fenris knew she had nightmares.
Fenris just smiled at her. The wicked grin she had grown far too attached to. "Danarius still has a cellar full of wine. I was thinking we could drink some. Burn some items he likely treasured."
"Ruining a slaver's day. Now that something I can get behind." She walked over towards Fenris, then past him, heading towards the manor itself. "I have to change first, however. Armor isn't suited to drinking. I'll meet you back here." She reached for the door of the manor then stopped, he hand pressed against the wood. "And Fenris?"
"Yes?"
"Thank you. Sincerely."
And with that she entered the door, leaving Fenris and the broken dummies behind her.