He wishes she were his.
Most distinctly, she has long black hair that streams down to her waist. And the beautiful coal black that seems like an extension of her hair, they seem cruel in his dreams. He knows she disapproves of mages and sympathizes with Fenris, but he can't put her out of his mind.
Dehlian Hawke has only loved one man in her whole life, he suspects. Cunning and resourceful most of the time, he suspects there is just too much air of perfection around her love life. And so he hopes. He hates that he feels happy when she is rejected by the person she loves. He can't look at her for a week after that.
But she keeps on, like she doesn't care. Her sarcastic responses always seem like a defense to some, but he can see that underneath her facade of playfulness is a bitter resentment of the world. He knows because that is his heart as well. One night he is walking through town on a whim and he sees her in dark town. She does not belong, but when he hair covers her face she blends into the scenery as if she were a piece of jewelry for the taking.
She is crying. He has never seen her cry. When he moves to comfort her she seems shocked and apalled, like he has invaded her solitude.
He realizes she can't really go anywhere else without seeing the tower, where her sister is. Or the ecist of Kirkwall, that distinctly reminds her of her brother's death. She can't go home or her mother will see her, and she cannot cry in High Town or Low Town where Aveline, or god forbid Fenris, might see her. She looks at him with ferocious intent and he feels the normally hidden bitterness. His heart pounds as she presses him against the wall. He realizes her outfit is a magelike gown, a disguise, and it too is black.
Black. . . and mysterious, just like her. She pulls off the look and he can't help but want her more.
"Tell no one, Grey Warden," she says as if he has gravely wounded her. Her breath is hot on his face, and he feels utter wholeness at being so close. She swoops off as a rogue truly would, and he falls to the ground. Grey Warden, though, made him feel so distant. He knows then he will love Dehlian Hawke forever.
Dehlian Hawke is alone.
A mother who knows she is a mage, and almost blames her for not trading herself for Bethany. A mother who knows her secrets and loves her, yet cannot help but place the blame on her daughter. A rogue, a rogue, a rogue. Dehlian Hawke traces the grounds of Kirkwall in the night on occasion, garbed in mage wear so elegant no circle mage could afford. She looks like a ghost, and she is true to herself. No one knows who she really is except her sister- who was taken.
She feels a pang in her heart, a hope for understanding, and knows she will never have it. Fenris' rejection breaks her heart once again. She simply sits in a chair, sighs, and sets a painting on fire.
"I love you!"
Anders declared to her. This was not the first time he had, but now he genuinely believed in it. Fenris was with the party, but he had pulled Hawke aside to make this declaration. "Truly, I do, and I above all-" he stated.
"I can understand you!"
The words wring with longing as she reaches out to Anders, brushes a piece of hair away from his face, and then retracts her hand.
"Not so long as you hold another in your body," because Dehlian Hawke is secretly a mage. Because Dehlian Hawke wants love and affection, but how can someone who would trade their body for change be the one for her? They cannot. She hides herself for this world of ungrateful and pathetic mages. She despises them. . . and pities them. She cannot decide what she does more.
Fenris watched as Anders' tries weakly to protest, and then Hawke leaves.
"Again?" the elf responds as the mage spends moments alone afterwards. Anders smiles.
"If I was you, I'd be happy. . ." he said with a tinge of bitterness. "Instead you throw it all away," Anders couldn't help but hate the elf. Fenris felt the same. And at those words Fenris felt both guilt and anger.
"Do not speak to me as if you know, mage," he highlights the word mage to emphasize his point. "What seperates us . . .it's not the same as you. True, it is still my own fault. . .but you chose this for yourself. Lie in the bed you made," he growled. Anders laughed.
"Are you telling me not to approach the woman you rejected?"
Fenris thought and then, after a careful moment, replied.
"Yes," he stated simply, and walked away.
And all Anders could do was laugh at himself yet again.
Afterall, he had done it to himself.