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This fic is dedicated to my wonderful friend, Raven Sinead. She is going through a rough ride at the moment and frankly it sucks that I cannot physically comfort her. So, I figured I could substitute my own unique brand and show her that there is always a bright side. You're a bright star in a dark sky, my friend. ~Miranda

Disclaimer: I do not own Dragon Age: Origins or the iconic characters that were whisked to life by the brilliant writers/designers that make up my favorite developer, Bioware. I also do not own the lyrics or idea to the song "Fix You," created by the band Coldplay. Just using a few lines from the lyrics as the basis for this story.

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And the tears come streaming down your face
When you lose something you can't replace
When you love someone, but it goes to waste
Could it be worse?

Craaaack! Snap. Blood dripped down to the ground below, tainting the earth with the essence of all life. Scarred hands clenched, the torn flesh of the knuckles screaming with pain, ten times worse than the loudest shriek. The sharp agony was a welcome relief from the turmoil swirling in the young rogue's heart. It felt as if her chest cavity was open to the elements, her vital heart gushing out her emotions like a torrent of blood. Like Bethany's blood. Memories flashed, sharper than the daggers she cherished, passed down from her father. She imagined those sharp aquamarine eyes staring sharply at her, heavy with the disappointment only a broken heart could bring. Malcolm would have never let his little girl venture into the Deep Roads; he was wise beyond his years. Obviously the only thing Claire had inherited was the blue of his eyes.

Her own matching set closed tightly as the images assaulted her, roiling in her mind as well as her stomach, burning her from the inside. Jumbled colors and muffled sounds flashed into clarity; a forgotten dream turned frightening nightmare. A multitude of Darkspawn, the cacophony of their hellish screams and calls, echoing around in the tomb of the dwarves'….magic exploding and zipping everywhere, the acrid smell of burning flesh suffocating the air around them…charcoaled bodies steaming on the ground whilst huge gaping maws hung open, blown from their hinges…the thud as large humanoid corpses crashed to the ground, never to lay a hand on a wicked blade ever again, or harm an innocent…if only she had known.

Trembling hands dug into a mat of greasy obsidian hair, unwashed for near a week. Teeth gnashed, taking a sensitive lip hostage. Blood pooled into Claire's mouth, tasting heavily of copper. Blood…washing the floor…the walls…Bethany. Broken, dirt-caked fingernails raked across her scalp, irritating the already bloodied flesh. The rogue's entire body seemed to ache, the pain and guilt and utter loneliness crushing her under its might. The remaining Hawke child tried desperately to block out the thoughts from her mind, only for them to pop unbidden, forcing the repulsion for herself to rise from her throat, overflowing into the very air. Air Bethany no longer breathes. A sharp tug behind the navel; pain explodes in her chest, the shards unable to be patched up. Victory shouts assail the group as the wave of Darkspawn is vanquished….speed is hastened, swords heavy with congealed, black blood… a sagging body suddenly flopping onto her shoulder; her sister looks awfully pale all of a sudden…dark, wet curls covering the small incision marring the smooth caramel of Bethany's neck, concealing the seemingly inconsequential cut…a single drip of obsidian blood trickling down, coursing down the neck unseen…

"AHHHHHH!" The cry manifested itself out of the strained throat, sore from disuse. Blinded by her pain, Claire lashed herself at the dull gray wall of the alley she had found herself in after walking aimlessly away from the dingy little abode her uncle had gambled himself into. The hand, already weary from abuse, cracked with a loud pop. Hawke exclaimed in pain, clutching her damaged limb to her chest, holding her bleeding heart in. Tears burned a trail down feverish cheeks, heartened by the heightened emotions emanating from the distressed woman. In the recesses of her fractured mind, Claire wondered at the strange absence of civilians, even at this time of night. At the very least, undesirables should be prowling, on the loose for easy prey. She did not know if it was her elevated status now or the sight of her that warded the danger, but the rogue could not bring herself to care overly much. Her well-being ceased to exist when her sister departed. Surprise and concern flooded her system at the unexpected weight of her sister, collapsed on her shoulder…gently lowering the woman, listening to a wracking cough start up from the fragile lungs; her concern worsens…hands roam the body, trying to discern the problem; dark shadows fringe once caramelized irises, paling the orbs to a sickly white color….all the while that smell, that god-awful smell, lingering in the air like a cloud of ominous tidings, flowing with the wind…

Dark strands fly as the rogue furiously shakes her head, tousling the hair in her frustration. Time seems to ebb as the once proud Hawke falls to her knees, her weakness finally seeping through. Both hands were crossed over her heart now, trying and failing to keep the little muscle from jumping out of her chest. Nausea bubbled in her firm abdomen, taut muscles clenching and unclenching with the willpower needed to keep her sickness at bay. Her breath siphoned out in harsh pants, hyperventilation a growing worry. The drab tunic she had encased her body in was slick with sweat and crumpled where her hands were currently holding on for dear life. Virtually lifeless orbs peered up at her, weary and barely keeping hold of the fading light…whispered words, escaping with the roughness of a newly made blade upon a whetstone…promises made, promises broken…blood the color of scarlet coughed up from full lungs, staining both Bethany's mage words and her own cheaply fashioned armor…the wound that started it all coming into view; the horrible realization snapping across her conscience like an arrow, searing into her brain…one last breath, a kiss to a cold brow…a head slowly dropping, as did her now weak hand, falling loosely from her grasp as her strength, well-known, failed her…pain exploded her awareness as the image imprinted itself onto her ailing mind, replaying over and over and OVER-

The floodgates opened, unwilling to stay shut a moment longer. Claire's mouth opened into a silent scream, retching and purging, her stomach demanding the remnants of what little she had forced herself to eat depart the premises. Her arms braced her body as again and again she expelled the physical evidence of her guilt. They had been unable to take the body, for fear of infecting the healthy. The risk…outweighed the morality. Sympathetic glances and tentative brushes went unheard, as did soothing words that tasted like ash in her mouth. Like a good little rogue, she was forced to burn her sister's corpse, the smell of flesh changed by Darkspawn laced in the pitch black smoke that was the end product. All the planning for the expedition, all the love…reduced to a pile of burning ashes not even close to resembling the previous form. This is what family ended up, what the Blight had destroyed. What she had ruined….

The retching continued for long moments before mercifully stopping; her stomach ached with emptiness. Blue eyes were brimming with tears long spilt, cascading down the broken face like a horrific premonition; a tragic beauty. The pile of liquid guilt lay before her, the smell of sick nothing to the ashes of a young mage. The good died young; evil prospered. Was the Maker so cruel…? That he spared her own worthless existence, yet taking her father, brother and. now, sister? Merciful creator, how would she survive this? What she was doing…it was not even close. Hawke was in a sea of nothing, drowning more and more each minute. Claire remembered the look in her mother's eyes as she recited the dirge of the Deep Roads. Gray cracked, shattering into a million pieces. An easy smile morphed to a permanent frown; wrinkles were added to the equation. A hard light glossed over orbs dulled by the harsh lesson life had taught. Blame was the foremost emotion, scalding the tongue and engulfing the ear. A heart shreds further, darkness encroaching closer. Until…she…slips.

Death…death was the only option worth taking. After what she had done, dragging her sister into one of the most dangerous places in Ferelden, letting her get infected. She could have stopped it; she should have stopped it. Instead, she disregarded hermother and led her sister to her inevitable doom. Warm, wet….tears mingling with blood… sharpened steel catching the light, a shield against the night, predecessor to death itself…white closes as the beloved dagger takes away the one glimmer of joy left in the rogue's dismal existence…limp, weightless, lifeless…flames licking the dark tunnel as the weight was shed, melding with the air...when Bethany died, it was not only her heart that stopped. Her mother and Hawke died that day, too.

A lighthearted whistle rent the air, cheerful and lazy and completely at odds with the sad structures surrounding the woman who produced the sounds. The pirate ruffian turned smuggler tread without care, sweat cooling on her dark skin; the repercussions of her earlier tryst(s) at the Blooming Rose. The frequent customer had gotten the veteran interloper treatment; it was a lot better than it sounded. Those Rose workers sure had a big vocabulary for such an…establishment. Well…at least some of them did. Regardless, the Rivaini born and bred was a happy woman indeed. Stretching her muscles (they ached deliciously) and tossing raven strands over her shoulders, Isabela headed to the Hanged Man. Her bed called to her for a different purpose than earlier. After recent events, she needed a good romp. The brilliant smirk faded some, a crease forming between lush eyebrows. What happened down in the recesses of the Deep Roads had been horrible…Hawke had not been the same since.

"I'm sorry about Bethany, Hawke, but we gotta go. Those Darkspawn won't be kept at bay forever, and we need to head to the surface." Varric's sensible words crashed down on the small little party left to be forgotten. Isabela averted her eyes from the utterly broken woman before them, blue eyes vacant and staring unseeing into the flames that were steadily consuming her sister. The pirate was surprised to feel regret and sympathy encompass her; it was not a feeling she was overly used to. Although she had not known the Hawke siblings long and had only been acquainted to Bethany for short snippets, she had actually liked the girl. The girl was sweet and reminded the woman of Merrill, just a lot less naïve. It was…unsettling seeing Hawke in such pain. Hawke had already proven to be a natural born leader; strong, true and selfless. Things that Isabela usually detested, but had come to like in the rogue. "NO! I-I can't leave her…not like this. What am I going to tell mother…? She still blames me for Carver's death. Now, I've killed Bethany. I'm a murderer…" Varric and Isabela gaped at Claire, shocked by her words. "Hawke, come on now…this-it isn't your fault. You did not know; none of us did. Bethany…she was a good lass. She will join your father and Carver; be happier than here." A beat paused, until the rogue finally peeled her eyes from the flames, setting off with nary a look. "Let's go. I am-eager to be rid of this foul place". The last image Isabela had was of dark smoke and a lone staff lying beside the burning pile…

The smuggler shook her head, wishing away unwanted memories. She already had to fend off their other companions. Everyone was worried about Hawke; all missions, intel and even contact had ceased following their return from the Deep Roads. When the Rivaini had tried to speak to Claire the day after, Gamlen greeted her at the door. He had informed her of Leandra's outburst towards Claire, putting all blame towards her eldest for the tragic conclusion of their expedition. Claire…was shattered. The one other time she had paid a house visit, she was not even answered. It was a terrible thing and senseless, but…things happen and life goes on. Hawke would get better before long and her mother would, in time, forgive.

A noise sailed on the wind, reaching the contemplative woman as she was walking. Isabela went ramrod straight before deciding to investigate. Someone could be hurt; besides, she was a skilled duelist. She could be on the defense in the blink of an eye. Swift feet carried her down a side street; a little alcove that looked to have housed many a shady deal in its lifespan. The whimpers grew more pronounced, unmistakably female. Wary, Isabela slunk around, her boots making no sound as she glided closer and closer to the disembodied voice. A shadow of a bent over woman splattered the wall behind; the woman crouched into position, unsheathing her daggers. She inwardly counted to three as she inched closer, her back pressed tight against the wall. On one, she peeked around the corner...only to be shocked at the image that greeted her. With a tortured gasp, she leapt forward, embracing the cowed Warden in her arms. The woman did not resist, burying her face in the smuggler's ample bosom. Wetness coated Isabela's white top, blood from the damaged hands intermixing and leaving stains all along her attire.

"Oh Hawke…what have you done?" Her voice trembled faintly, overcome with emotion at seeing the infallible woman so downtrodden. "I-I can't do it anymore, 'Bela…I have nothing left. Father's dead, Carver's dead, and now…I've lost Bethany as well. Mother…she hates me…I will never be forgiven; I'll never forgive myself." Isabela swallowed the lump forming in her throat; her normally mischievous eyes had a misty sheen glossing over them. Isabela was not moved easily, and she was completely out of her element trying to comfort the distraught woman. Usually she would drop Hawke off with Merrill or Aveline; they were far better suited to this sort of thing than she. But…she could not bear just handing Hawke off like unwanted trash. Claire deserved better than that, especially after what she'd been through. So, steeling her resolve, the smuggler gently tugged Hawke unsteadily to her feet. Keeping one arm wrapped tight around the shaking waist of her companion, she gestured to the Hanged Man, which was fairly close. "Come now, Hawke. Let's get you away from here. You can stay the night with me."

The rogue nodded her head slightly, following after the woman she had grown accustomed to during the Deep Roads expedition. Hawke followed the Rivaini born, leaning heavily against her lithe, warm body. The warmth radiating from her skin warded off the chill that had not left her body since she watched her sister burn. A few minutes later they were standing in the boisterous main room of the Hanged Man. Isabela did her best to block Hawke from view; she did not look too great at the moment. Luckily for them, the patrons were either too drunk or too oblivious to notice the women walking by, and they made it safely to the hall leading towards Isabela's room. About a third of the way there, however, they happened upon Varric, who was standing just to the inside of his room. His sympathetic gaze caught the two women standing almost guiltily in front of him. The look drifted to the haggard look on Hawke's face, and her hands; Isabela had hastily wrapped them in her bandana, but the blood had begun to seep through. "Hawke…" Varric's voice was uncharacteristically somber and soft. "Sleep well, alright? And get those hands looked at." He turned to go back, before hesitating for a brief moment. Tentatively he reached a burly hand out, touching Claire on her shoulder. "Take all the time that you need, Hawke, but remember; we all care about you. We are all here, for you." The earnestness posed at her proved too much for the sensitive emotions roiling on the surface; Hawke broke down.

Isabela nodded her thanks at Varric, before ushering the woman away to her headquarters. Upon reaching the door, Isabela fumbled in her pocket for a small silver key, letting herself and the emotionally drained rogue inside. She immediately led Hawke to her small bed, urging her to sit. Hawke did so without additional prompting. "Let's get those wounds looked at, savvy?" The former pirate rummaged around in her small little pack she carried with her. An intense look of concentration crossed her face, before it brightened with victory. "Ah!," she said as she lifted a tube of ointment made from elfroot. A clean piece of cloth was grabbed as well. Isabela sauntered over, sitting down in front of Hawke and kneeling. Normally Claire would have blushed at the woman's close proximity, but she was in no state for that. Tenderly, Isabela took the bloody hands between her own, unwrapping the wet bandana. Hawke whimpered softly as the bandana pulled at damaged skin; Isabela soothed her, paying attention to her facial movements. A small basin of water was gathered from the bedside. The swashbuckler instructed Hawke to bathe her hands, clearing them of blood and warding off infection.

Hawke did as she was asked, hissing as sharp pain lanced through the torn skin. Isabela rubbed some cool ointment on the skin, careful to not hurt the woman more. After her hands were inspected and clear of anything that could infect the wounds, the hands were wrapped with the soft cloth securely. Isabela placed a small kiss on each hand, lips caressing gently. The tenderness she was lavished with brought tears to Hawke's eyes once again; coming from 'Bela, it was a sure rarity and meant a lot. The ex-pirate stood, putting the used supplies away in the trash bin in the corner. "Come on; let me get you some fresh clothes. They might not fit well, but at least it will be clean." She shuffled around the small chest containing her clothes, clucking her tongue in disapproval until she found a simple blue pirate shirt and cotton breeches. Isabela turned her back, giving Hawke privacy to change. Hawke changed slowly, wincing when she brushed the back of her hands against her dirty shirt. When she was decent, she made a small sound to signify she was ready. Isabela turned around, eyes widening when she saw Claire clad in her shirt. She…looked rather good, to be honest. Isabela shook her head, admonishing herself. Quit it, fool! Hawke is weak and vulnerable right now; the hell you'll take advantage of her! When she gets better that's one thing, but tonight is not the night for stray thoughts.

The woman shucked her boots off, climbing into bed beside her bedmate for the night. She placed her hands behind her head, lounging like a lazy Mabari. When Hawke made no move to lie down, the darker skinned duelist reached over and plucked her down, keeping her on the cool sheets. "Rest, Hawke. You need to recuperate and let those hands of yours heal." Hawke hung her head, shame and embarrassment clouding her face. "I-I can't. I have been having nightmares…since Bethany died." Amber looked onto forlorn blue, feeling her heart constrict for the first time in ages. Feeling shy for the first time in years, she opened her arms slowly. Hawke just stared at her, a question burning deep from her orbs. "Well, get in. Offer only lasts so long before, you know, it expires." Hawke scrambled to Isabela, feeling strong arms encircle her protectively. Sighing softly, Hawke snuggled in closer, her ear lying over the ample chest. She could hear the comforting beat of the heart beneath, beating strong and lively. "You better feel special; I do not…cuddle…with just anyone, now." Hawke managed a small smile at the light words, feeling her heart do something it had not done in a long time.

"'Bela…thank you. Thank you for caring about me…" The woman blushed lightly, scowling at her haywire emotions. "You-you are welcome, Hawke. Just…just get better. We need you back; we need our leader back." The rogue nodded imperceptibly, settling down further until their bodies melded into one. As she felt Isabela's breathing deepen in sleep, an epiphany hit her. Everyone in their little group had lost something important, something that altered them. Varric had been betrayed by his brother, vowing to make the sniveling coward pay for his treachery. Merrill, sweet little elf that she was, had been persecuted for just trying to help out her family, even though it was a little unorthodox. Fenris had his memories ripped away as well as his freedom, playing fiddle to a cruel master who threw unspeakable actions against the elf. Aveline had lost her husband when she lost Carver; she more than anyone would understand the pain that ripped through her innards at the mere thought of it. Anders had been forced into a life of obedience by the templars, then thrust into the circle of the Wardens. He had seen many atrocities in his time, warping him and the spirit that had taken hold inside his body. It had turned him into a bitter, bitter man. Then, there was 'Bela…her own mother had traded her for a mere sum, giving her to a man she had no wish to be tied to. The young, virginal version had been forced to please the man in a variety of ways, until she finally had him slain by an Antivan Crow.

The point was, life was a cruel mistress. The Maker did his best, but he could not control everything. Bad things happened to good people; there was no way around it. Tragedy seemed to stalk her life, but it was not her alone that suffered. She buried herself against the lightly snoring body underneath her, a small smile filtering onto her face. Yes, Bethany's loss heart; it would hurt for a long time. But, eventually like the others, she would move on and the pain would dwindle less and less until it was only a memory. Bethany was gone, but she had been imprinted in the young rogue's mind. Hawke would make amends with her mother and buy the Amell estate, just like the sisters planned. She would make her sister proud and live out her life helping mages like Bethany; she had always wanted freedom from persecution. Claire vowed to make that happen, no matter the cost. I love you, Bethy. I will move on, but never forget. Never forget…

Lights will guide you home
And ignite your bones
And I will try to fix you