AN: I don't own DAII. But I do own headcanons. ;)
A Many Feathered Thing
Hawke remembers feeling it not long after getting off the boat in Kirkwall.
She and Carver had been out on a night run for Athenril; in those early days, the assignments had been tedious or dangerous or a mix of both, more often than not leaving Carver frustrated and Hawke determined to make the year pass as quickly as she could. If memory served—as it usually did; her father always told her that she had a mind as strong and sharp as a steel trap—they were making their way through the streets of Hightown, the nighttime bringing a respite from the heat as well as the bustling crowds in the market.
Carver, all muscle and brute strength and no tact, had blundered his way through their meeting with the contact—a rich and seedy nobleman who had cast his gaze too long at his older sister. Before his flash-fire temper could get the better of him and ruin Athenril's deal, Hawke had stepped forward and used her honeyed words to smooth down the nobleman's ruffled feathers, salvaging the situation through luck and smiles and the façade of bravado that she had dragged into place after their flight from Lothering. When at last the deal had been affirmed and a delivery time for the smuggled merchandise agreed upon, Carver had pushed past her into the blessedly cool night air, his ego stinging from once again being protected and sheltered by his sister. Sensing his anger and embarrassment, Hawke had trailed along after him, the sea breeze sweeping up from the docks and gently ruffling her hair; she watched the stubborn set of her baby bother's shoulders as he marched ahead of her, and allowed her mask to crack, just a little.
She wondered if Bethany would have been as angry and impossible as Carver was being now, or if she would shoulder, along with Hawke, the burden of being strong and impervious in the face of leaving so much behind only to arrive in a city that offered them so little. Hawke fought to keep her breathing steady and soft, not wanting her brother to hear or see his sister's moment of weakness. After all, dear uncle Gamlen had all but made clear his feelings concerning their current living situation, and Mother was trying so hard to regain her noble woman's composure, and her bull-headed brother approached all things in life with bitterness and as something to be beaten into submission; someone had to be the strong and stalwart pillar through the storm in which they now found themselves.
She passed a shop window, and if Hawke saw the silver streaks glittering on her cheeks, she chose to not acknowledge their presence. Instead, she took a deep steadying breath through her nose, and with it caught the salt smell of the sea and of a hearth-fire being lit close by and of the lingering smoke of incense, hanging like a specter in the air of the Lowtown Bazaar.
Hawke was no stranger to hardship, although the past few months had certainly been some of the most difficult times of her life; but as she continued to put one foot in front of the other, as she continued to breathe in the sights and smells of the city around her, she felt the first few stirrings of that peculiar and fragile thing that alights in the heart as a song bird might alight on an outstretched finger.
Hope.
Hawke remembers feeling it again, returning home from the Wounded Coast, some months later.
Aveline had been persuaded to come out that day, rather than remain in the stuffy offices of the Viscount's Keep. Varric chatted amiably beside her, Bianca secure and gleaming on his back. Fenris walked alongside Hawke, his footsteps leaving barely a whisper of a trace in the sand, a counterpoint to her own defined boot prints.
He was a tough nut to crack, that one. He was respectful and a strong ally to have on the battlefield, no doubt about it; it certainly didn't hurt matters that he was very easy on the eyes or that Hawke loved his rich voice.
She recalled the night before: during a bout of Wicked Grace in the Hanged Man, she had turned her silver tongue against Isabela's in witty repartee, and she had been startled to hear an amused snort from her right elbow; she had been even more surprised to see a faint upturn of Fenris's lips. Catching his mossy gaze had set her already rosy cheeks aflame, but instead of looking away, the elf had held both her eyes and the smirk on his mouth. Curious, that he allowed himself to follow a mage, let alone play Wicked Grace with her and the rest of her merry band of misfits—
She glanced to her left, where the elf padded beside her along the twisting path. He caught her eyes with his; brows and lips alike quirked up at the edges in something not quite a smirk. But it was not a scowl, either, the thing that most often shaped his features (then).
Once again, Hawke felt the soft stop-stutter of her heart in her chest, recognizing the fragile, flitting thing for what it was.
The night she came home to find Fenris in her house—her mother was blessedly gone—she felt the fragile hope within her bloom to something stronger and brighter as he pushed her against the stone wall and slanted his mouth over hers. She let herself hope that Sandal or Bodahn or her mother or Orana wouldn't choose now of all times to appear, that her family would heal from Carver's decision to join the Templars, that Fenris was finally starting to heal from his past now that he had killed one of his tormentors—
Hawke allowed herself to hope that her growing affections for her dark and fierce companion were returned and shared as she pulled him up the stairs to her room, as his hands trailed paths of fire along her flushed skin, as he pressed his face into her neck, her name a supplication on his lips and his lyrium brands burning white-hot against her closed eyelids before he turned away to catch his breath.
She allowed herself to hope that she was dreaming as he rose from her bed, strapping and buckling on his armor once more, the fire crackling with a cheerfulness that did not match the feeling taking root in her chest. The light flickered off of his silver hair—hair she now knew to be soft when she had threaded her fingers through it— burnishing it into quicksilver. His eyes burned darkly into hers as he met her gaze, regretful and sorrowful, before he turned away and closed the door, taking the warmth in the room with him. Hawke's words –pleas, more like—to get him to stay hung sharp and brittle in the air, in her heart, unanswered.
Hawke felt the little bird of hope inside her chest falter once, and then break clean in two.
Hawke remembers that after that night hope seemed to be in short supply; despite the hole that had opened inside her at Fenris' leaving –foolish, foolish for hoping that he could share and return her feelings— Hawke rose each day and slipped on her mask, putting on a strong face for her friends, for her city.
For Fenris, once she had given him his space and he was once again at her side as they battled through spiders, shades, and slavers alike.
Losing her mother had crushed her even more; even across the city she could swear she felt Carver's anger and grief, his mighty older sister unable to protect the woman who gave them life. Now it was just the two of them, the two remaining Hawkes circling each other across an expanse of grief and pain and broken promises.
It cheered her some, on account of her traitorous heart, to see that Fenris still wore her red ribbon on his wrist. It cheered her more to see the way he would slide in front of her in battle, deflecting a blow meant for her with his flashing greatsword, his lyrium tattoos shining brilliantly as he danced around her, quick and ephemeral as a ghost. She allowed herself to hope, as he began to return to the games of Wicked Grace, as he began to banter with their friends as they walked through Hightown or along the trails up the Sundermount, that with time their friendship would be bound once again by shared experiences, if not something more.
After healing from the battle with the mighty Arishok—where his Qunari blades had caught her in the arm, in the side, in the leg—Hawke had felt the stirring wings of that fragile thing once again alight in her chest as she had stepped into the sunlight slanting into her study, catching Fenris with a book in his hand and look in his eye that was filled with something suspiciously more than friendship.
Fenris looked dispassionately at Danarius, lying still and silent and dead at his feet, and Hawke hoped that now at last he would be able to find peace.
She hoped that the conflicts with Meredith and Orsino could be smoothed over before the tensions of Kirkwall spilled over the high stone walls into the Waking Sea, washing away anything in its path.
She hoped that Merrill would forgive herself for her debacle with the ill-fated eluvian; she hoped even more that her naive friend would learn from her mistake.
She hoped that she wouldn't come to regret helping Anders, especially when he had asked her to distract the Grand Cleric that day in the Chantry.
Hawke hoped that at the end of the day familial ties would prove stronger than the lines drawn between Templar and Mage, and that Carver's blood would not be spilled to stain her hands another shade darker.
She remembers the hope that had exploded violently in her chest, sitting before the fire in Fenris' dilapidated mansion, as he had said, in his rich gravelly voice—Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you. She had wanted to cry as he towered over her in the chair, his arms on either side of her head, his voice low – If there is a future to be had, I will walk into it gladly by your side – her glib comment forgotten as she rose up to meet him, pressing close to his warmth hungrily only after she was sure he wouldn't push her away.
After that night they had been nigh inseparable, even when he had been faced with defending the lives of people who had hated him and hurt him (magic doesn't spoil everything, Fenris), if only to stay by her side against Meredith.
By then, Hawke's hope had become a hot, bright, burning phoenix inside her, risen from the ashes of pain to shine as bright at the lyrium tracing across her lover's skin. As the last breath slipped from the Knight-Commander's lips, as they ran from the burning city she had come to call home, Hawke allowed her spirit to soar even as she knew Kirkwall –and the whole of Thedas—would never be the same again.
And now, she smiles as she steps into the watery light of the late-winter sun, drawing her cloak around her against the chill zephyrs. They are somewhere west of Kirkwall, not quite anywhere of note on any of their maps.
But they have each other, and they are safe, and even though some nights Hawke aches for her friends and Wicked Grace and Varric's stories and Isabela's flirtatious winks and Aveline's quiet support— even Carver's (mostly) good-natured condescension—she is content to have Fenris by her side as they wait until Kirkwall can once again welcome her Champion with open arms.
Pulling her thick cloak even tighter around her frame— poor Fenris must be freezing without her—she makes her way back to where he waits for her, her staff secure against her back, a twin to his red ribbon wrapped around the worn grip. She sees him ahead, dappled with the light pushing through the trees in the clearing; his eyes snap up to meet hers, and he smiles. Reaching his side, she nudges her way into his arms, his chin coming to rest against the top of her head, his arms resting around her waist.
A particularly nasty breeze cuts though the still air; the leaves sigh as they move against one another, and Hawke feels Fenris shiver violently against her. She smiles.
Though the wind is cold, she detects a subtle change that is there all the same: the icy air holds promises hushed by the winter snows, promises that echo louder with each passing day. Like the small, flitting thing she had felt so long ago in Kirkwall, Hawke recognizes the small, gentle shift in the air for what it is.
It is the hope of a future of freedom for her and Fenris (and their children, Maker willing); the hope of rebuilding Kirkwall into something more, something of which to be proud.
Hope flits through the clear morning air, singing through the beams of light glinting off of trees about to bud. It carries with it the promise of spring.