This is a character study of Hawke, a look at how honestly fucked-up a real person would be if they did as much killing as you do in video games (okay, maybe not that realistic an examination, since it's not taking place in a mental hospital for the criminally insane). And how having so much power given to you as a result could ultimately lead you into the ultimate downward spiral.

warnings: angst, red Hawke

Marian hated Lothering. Perhaps because it was her fault that their family lived there. Her flaring temper that made it impossible to keep her magic hidden in the close quarters of Denerim. That temper kept the quiet farmers far away from her and allowed her to hone her skills in staff fighting and magic in the woods, chasing down spiders and bears without being bothered. Life was simple enough until the night her brother came running to their door and told them the Blight was going to be there soon.

Now there's blood everywhere. It covers her hands and face and clothes and pools at her feet. A whole world dyed crimson. Hawke's lips twist in a bitter grimace as she casts one final glance at her sister, or what was her sister. Bethany's face is crushed and bruised, chunks of meat and bone and so much blood.

"Why didn't you save her?" Hawke's mother chokes dry sobs as they follow the Witch into the Wilds, all through the journey to Kirkwall.

"Why didn't you save her?" Carver echoes, hissing it in her ear when their mother cries herself to sleep at night.

Hawke dreams about the blood. It hisses and murmurs to her and her sleep grows fitful. The sound of rushing blood in her dreams whispers and mimics Carver's voice and their mother's and Aveline's. The accusations ring through her mind as she trudges into the City on the good graces of some smuggler. Athenril has a calculating gaze, weighing the surviving Hawke siblings with her eyes as if to test their worthiness in a glance. They call it the City of Chains and it makes so much sense to her. Servitude, slavery, smuggling; what's the difference? She does what she has to do all day and twists in her sheets at night as the blood murmurs to her.

One year later she is gaunt, hard-eyed. But she is never cold; she is hot and fluid like blood.

She doesn't fully trust the dwarf, but she agrees to a wary sort of alliance. It's her only choice; disappearing to the Deep Roads to avoid the Templars. Maker knows she's seen enough blood that a bit more won't hurt. Smugglers kill, too. She will never wash her hands enough to rid them of all the blood, the blood she can hear thrumming in her ears every night. Blood seeping into her brain, covering her thoughts.

Bit by bit, the dwarf grows on her until she can manage a faint grimace or even a raspy chuckle at his jokes. One by one, people join them. The bawdy pirate, she could do without. The guardswoman is a stolid companion from before the blood and can be trusted more than the others. Hawke instantly hates her fellow mages; the abomination and the blood mage. Their cataclysmic magic jars her senses, makes the blood ache in her skull. It's all she can do not to murder them on the spot and they have done nothing to harm her. Yet. She seethes to be near them and their demons, who hiss just like the blood. Bethany didn't deserve to die. They deserve it more, but perhaps their horrifying powers are what keep them alive and out of Templar reach. Those reeling thoughts infuriate her further.

For half a day she ignores the letter from Athenril, still resenting her forced year of smuggling and her strange life in this crowded, hellish slum. City of Chains indeed. And she isn't going to help the bloody dwarf and his lyrium smuggling either, until Varric vouches for him. With an irritated snarl they go to the Alienage and after all of the bodies and so much blood runs down the street, it all boils down to the elf.

The elf with lyrium in his veins that sings to her. The song gets louder as she steps closer, the melody that weaves up and down and back and forth. A melody, not a hiss. For half a second her eyes close to absorb the song as he descends the steps, letting his liquid voice blend with the lyrium hum and drown out the blood's snarling voices. Hawke takes a shaky breath and stares at him and the becomes a chant as his skin lights up a fiery blue and she stares in shock at the wraithlike quality as he plunges it through a man's chest. The tang of blood fills her nostrils and the lyrium sings and for a moment she's drowning in potential power that washes over her like a monsoon from every angle.

"I am sorry for the deception," says the elf and then the spell breaks as his markings flare out and he shakes blood off his fingers as an afterthought. He doesn't reach for her hand in greeting and she doesn't reach for his, not wanting to slick her fingers in the hissing blood, or worse, feel the lyrium's melody so close. The combination would be too much. "My name is Fenris."

Of course she follows him, heart pounding with exhilaration at the lyrium melody as shades explode into sparks under the combined onslaught of her magic and his sword. When he storms outside she follows, leaving the others to loot the bodies as she approaches the mysterious elf with his beautiful singing skin. The pale hair shading his eyes shifts as he watches her approach the courtyard, rising from a feral crouch in the shadows to approach her.

"Mage," he hisses, staring her down. His hand clenches at his side as if he longs to grip her throat with it but somehow he resists, pulling up short. "What is it you seek?"

Hawke tosses her head and narrows her eyes at him. "Step a bit closer and find out," she smirks, very faintly, eyes flicking over him.

It elicits a shiver from him, whether for good or ill she can't tell. Hot eyes, full of blood and fury, glare back at her. The tips of his ears appear a shade pinker and his hands flex at his sides almost helplessly. "So you are just like every other mage, seeking power and destruction and the enslavement of others," he growls, a feral sound almost like an animal.

She folds her arms and grits her teeth. "I just helped you, you know," she snaps, temper flaring. Blood pounds in her ears and her heart hammers as his next step makes the song flare over her senses, engulfing her. "I didn't have to."

Fenris takes a step back and sighs. Her bubble breaks and the infectious power drains away. "I apologize. I did not mean to appear so ungrateful," he says. His eyes narrow a fraction on her face. "But you are dangerous. You possess great power, as you have demonstrated." He gestures back toward where the sizzling stench of semi-corporeal flesh pours through the broken door. Pursing his lips, he snarls, "What do you intend to do with it?"

"I told you," she snaps, her eyes flashing. Speaking through gritted teeth and digging her nails into her arms in an effort to control her magic, she says, "I don't bloody know."

"A fine excuse," he sneers, eyes raking over her with a flicker somewhere between threat assessment and sheer animal lust. Speaking through gritted teeth he tears a bag of coins from his belt and holds them toward her. "This is all I have. If you have need of me, I shall remain here." Hawke hates herself as she keeps her arms folded and eyes him until he shakes the pouch at her in a furious jingling. "Take it," he growls. "I will not be indebted by your charity."

"Too bad," she retorts, and the furious glare she gets in response is the last thing she sees before whirling away and storming to that Lowtown hovel. His sneer overwhelms her dreams that night, hissing promises and threats along with the blood, along with all the others she's failed.