Hawke

They all saw it – they must have as it was almost entirely unmistakeable. It must have loomed over them like thick and dangerous storm clouds, taunting, in the distance.

But there.

Fenris saw it. He knew he saw it; the changes in her movements and her confidence and her faith in her beliefs. She was a mage, that was true, but she had never given him any reason to doubt her specifically (even if he did not trust in her decisions entirely, she had his loyalty and he could respect her attempts, however misguided he felt they were). It was hard to doubt her.

Hawke.

But since Carver's death (no, not passing, he was dead and that was that), Hawke's shoulder had a chip. She was angry, likely at the world and at herself. Witty remarks used evermore to deflect any questions on her wellbeing.

"How are you holding up, Hawke?" Quiet, sincere questions from Varric in an aside.

"Well, the sky's still blue, so that's a start." Would be her reply.

An answer, but not an answer and though it may seem to quench questions to some, it did little for Fenris. Yet, there was nothing he could do or say on the subject as he could not even begin to understand what she was going through.

Now, she'd lost a sister and a brother to the Blight. He half expected her to go off on some glorious mission to join the Wardens, if not to attempt to rid the world of the darkspawn filth in her silent rage. A silly thought, perhaps, but now, Hawke was all but alone in this city. An apostate and her mother, perhaps now with money, but Fenris could see that this meant nothing.

"...my family is here. If it weren't for them, I'd be well away from Kirkwall. It's suffocating." She had told him once, in private and he could see it in those eyes of hers that it was true.

"They need me here, though, and I will not abandon Mother. I will not abandon Carver, though the wretch seems to think less of me every day. They're...all I have left. Uncle Gamlen is hardly much of a family, with how quickly he'd sell us out to save his own hide...but he's here too." And she would stay – she would risk her life for them.

"I've already lost Bethany! I can't lose you too, Carver!" There had been a weakness in her voice that day that no one among them had heard before.

Hawke had always been a strong woman and with a bitter note, Fenris knew that in Tevinter, she would have been swept up quickly amongst the masses of magisters for her sheer natural talent in the arcane. She was unshakeable in the face of danger.

"What the hell is that thing?! On second thought, I'd rather not know. Let's just stab it and get it over with. It's starting to look at me funny and I'm not sure I like that."

Except when she'd lost Carver.

She'd spoken little on the way out of the Deep Roads, allowing Varric to take the reins and lead. But she never faltered in their mission. Quiet as she may have been, Hawke never attempted to fall on her metaphoric blade in grief. She stood tall, solemn and quiet, but in instances when Varric could not lead, she did. Without a word, they all followed and they knew that somehow she would get them out.

"They took Bethany. They took Carver. They will not take anyone else from me."

She was there for them. To be strong, even when all she wanted to do was crumble. It did her no justice, this obvious guilt she must have felt inside. Fenris wasn't sure why he found it so alluring – to watch her struggle as she did. In ways, it made him feel like a monster, which was ironic in itself because she was the one who was supposed to be led astray so much easier than he.

But she wasn't.

She drew her line in the sand and she toed it, never crossing it.

She never crossed that line. Never shook, even though he could see in faint twitches that perhaps she wanted to.

She wanted to scream, cry, swear, curse everyone to the Void and back. But it would do nothing and Marian knew it. So, she could suffer in her grief and guilt, or pick herself together the only way she knew how.

"Honestly, Fenris, the way you stare at me sometimes." Her voice tsked as the elf regained himself and his scowl.

Bright eyes peered at him, and he could not read them anymore, but there was a smile on her face and she looked amused and he was glad they were alone in his 'borrowed' mansion.

"Keep it up and people will start talking."

"They're all ready talking." He replied sourly.

"Well, then they'll start talking more." She replied easily, leaning back in her seat with a seemingly content sigh.

"Let them talk. We're doing nothing."

"I can still think of a few things, to be quite honest."

"I'm sure you could." His response was dry, but he watched her with the very faintest of smiles.

Then he steeled himself once more.

Hawke watched himself and allowed her grin to grow.

"Varric is right. You are a sour pickle. You brood more than at least half of Thedas."

"I do not brood."

"And I'm the Queen of Fereldan."

"You certainly act like it sometimes."

"Aaaah, thank you for the compliment, kind Ser."

"It wasn't one."

She blissfully ignored him and he was glad that she seemed a little like herself. Though he doubted she would ever be herself again. And he'd never even known her true self. He never would, he imagined.

But...

He was okay with what he had. She was fine the way she was.

So long as she didn't turn into an abomination.