Killer's Lair, Lowtown

Hawke shook her head, biting back tears. "No. No, no, no. You're going to be fine."

She glanced back at her assembled companions. "Merrill, heal her."

"Hawke-"

"Heal her!"

"H-Hawke," Merrill stammered, "she's... she's too far gone. No amount of healing magic will reverse this."

Merrill knew there was nothing she could do. Quentin, the notorious Kirkwall Killer, had dismembered his victims and pieced them back together with surgery and magic in a vain attempt to resurrect his long lost love. Leandra, Hawke's mother, had unfortunately held a resemblance to the sick mage's lost lover and was the final piece of the puzzle. It was blood magic if Merrill had ever seen it, and once blood magic was thrown into a situation, people usually ended up dead.

It pained Merrill to see Marian so devastated. Hawke was never sad. She was strong and beautiful and...

And as she watched Hawke hold her dying mother in her arms, as she watched her fight to hold back tears and desperately try to pretend everything was going to be fine, Merrill knew that Hawke would never be the same. She would never again be the beautiful, powerful, confident mage Merrill had first met all those years ago. What she was watching was the death of the Hawke she loved. It broke her heart to see.

"I-It's all right," Leandra croaked. She was gasping for breath, and Merrill could see the woman's strength was quickly slipping. Leandra reached up and traced Hawke's quivering jaw with trembling fingers that were not her own; Merrill could see the stitch marks along her wrist. "It's... all right, Marian. I'm off to see your father... and your sister."

"No," Hawke said, shaking her head. "I won't let you. I won't let you go."

"Take care of your brother… he'll need you… now more than ever…"

"Stop talking like that! Just stop…"

Leandra coughed and gasped, "Oh, my beautiful girl. I'm so proud of you. Don't... don't cry. I'm... so... proud..."

Her eyes fluttered, then closed, and the woman's ravaged, scarred hand fell limp. Marian stared at her with wide, disbelieving eyes, gently rocking back and forth and shaking her head. "No," she whispered. "Mother, no. Come back. Not you too."

Aveline bowed her head and said, "I'm sorry, Hawke. She's gone."

"No," Hawke gasped, tears streaming down her face. She touched her mother's cheek, as if trying to rouse her from sleep. "No, it's not... she's not..."

She broke down in tears, burying her face in her mother's neck and hugging her tightly. Merrill fidgeted, unsure how to comfort her. She glanced around at the others, looking for some clue as to what to do next. Varric was restraining Quentin, who had only been knocked unconscious by their battle, and Aveline was standing in stoic silence, occasionally glancing in Merrill's direction as if nudging her to do something.

Oh no, I'm no good at this, she thought. I can't say something. I'd probably end up making things worse.

But as she watched the heroic mage cling to her mother, weeping quietly, she knew she had to do something. She couldn't just let Hawke cry alone like this. But what could she do?

I don't even know how humans deal with death, she thought, panicking. They certainly don't treat it like the Dalish. Humans never do anything like the Dalish. What if I offend her? What if I only make her cry more?

She screwed her eyes shut and thought, Come on, Merrill, Hawke needs you. Do something.

She finally bowed her head and murmured the first words that came to mind. "Vir sulahn'nehn, vir dirthera, vir samahl la numin, vir lath sa'vunin."

It was an old elven prayer for the dead, one of the few things that remained of Dalish culture. Roughly translated, it said, we sing, rejoice; we tell the tale; we laugh and cry; we love one more day. It was far from what Hawke needed, but it was all Merrill could do.

She hesitated, then put a tentative hand on Hawke's shoulder. "I'm... I'm so sorry, ma vhenan."

If Hawke heard, she didn't respond. Merrill squeezed her shoulder reassuringly, then stepped back, wringing her hands. Varric, meanwhile, managed to successfully bind Quentin's arms behind his back. He scowled and swatted the man upside the head. "At least we've got this scumbag. That has to count for something."

"No!" the mage groaned, blinking slowly. "Is she gone? My love? No!"

Hawke definitely heard that. At the man's voice, her head snapped up, a dark scowl pulling at her features. Merrill could almost feel the animosity pouring off the mage and actually had to take a step back. She held out a hand and said, "Hawke, n-now don't do something-"

"Don't," Hawke snarled. She gently lowered her mother to the ground and straightened, scooping her staff into her hands as she rounded on the man. "Varric," she hissed. "Get him on his feet."

Varric narrowed his eyes, but did as he was told. He grabbed the man by the back of his neck and shoved him to a standing position, no easy task given the dwarf's diminutive size. Quentin staggered slightly, off-balance, and fixed Hawke with a fearful gaze. "You've already taken my love from me, apostate. What more do you want?"

Hawke's breath was coming in short, staggered gasps, tears still streaming down her cheeks. Her hands were clenched into tight, shaking fists and the amber-colored orb at the end of her staff was glowing with a sinister scarlet light. "You..." she managed to choke out, "hunted and killed women across Kirkwall for years. You kidnapped my mother and resurrected her as this... this... this monster!"

She drew closer to the blood mage. Dangerously close. Merrill found herself gripping her staff until her knuckles were white, and she noticed Aveline resting a hand on the hilt of her sword, just in case. Hawke's quivering frame was primed to explode and with a mage as powerful as she was, such an outburst could be dangerous – maybe even fatal.

"I did not take your love," Hawke snarled. A low rumble built on the air and a pressure began to build within the room. The air grew so thick Merrill found it almost difficult to breathe. The flickering light of the torches that lit the area drew seemed to draw back and shrink away as Hawke moved by, the tip of her staff shedding bloody red light over everything it passed.

"Hawke..." Varric said slowly. "Don't do anything stupid."

Hawke ignored him and drew even with Quentin, resting the bladed end of her staff in the dirt at his feet. "You killed my mother."

"She was not your mother," the Kirkwall Killer pleaded. "She was my love. I spent years searching for her and you stole her from me!"

"Stole her?" Hawke said. "Stole her?"

Merrill sensed something was wrong a second before Hawke erupted into motion. In the blink of an eye, the bladed end of Marian's staff came up. The next moment the blade was buried in Quentin's chest.

"Hawke!" Aveline shouted.

Marian grabbed Quentin by the throat and yanked him forward, impaling him further on the bladed end of her staff. "She was my mother! She wasn't yours to take!"

Quentin sputtered, blood leaking from the corners of his mouth. Hawke drew back her staff and stabbed again. Varric shouted, "Hawke! Stop it!"

He reached out a hand to stop her. Merrill was taking a step forward to do the same, as was Aveline. A second later, all three were blasted back off their feet by a telekinetic wave that sent them sprawling. A strange wind began buffeting them, sending Hawke's robes billowing out around her.

Quentin screamed as Hawke stabbed him a third time, driving the bladed staff into his chest with a ferocious scream. He flailed and managed to hit Hawke in the face, hard enough to send her staggering. He tried to limp away, clutching his bloody chest, but Hawke threw an arm out and the blood mage froze as a massive cloud of swirling black smoke sprang to life at his right. A man-sized, black-armored hand erupted from the cloud of smoke to grab him by the shoulder, giant clawed fingers digging deep into his flesh. A furious scowl contorted Hawke's face into a mask of hatred and as Merrill watched, the mage's eyes began to pulse with a deep scarlet light.

"Marian!" Merrill tried to shout over the maelstrom. She knew what would come next. "No, don't!"

Too late. Marian threw out her other arm and an identical demonic hand grabbed Quentin's other side. Merrill's hair was buffeted by the wind as she struggled to rise to her feet. She ran forward and desperately clutched at Hawke's arm. "Marian! You don't want to do this!"

Hawke wordlessly shoved her away, sending her sprawling onto her back. Merrill picked herself up and shouted, "Hawke!"

But Hawke was beyond words now. The set of her jaw and the clench of her fists told Merrill that she had made up her mind. Her eyes and hands both were now pulsing with light, Quentin was screaming, and Merrill was fighting to get up and somehow, somehow, stop what was coming.

But she couldn't move fast enough. Hawke tore her arms apart and the giant demonic hands followed. Quentin let out an agonized shriek as the spirit arms mirrored the motion, tearing apart his body. Merrill was forced to look away as she heard the nauseating sound of rending flesh and splattering blood. Varric cursed and Merrill heard several heavy, fleshy somethings bounce across the ground. Then there was only silence.

When she finally opened her eyes, she saw Varric staggering away, covered in blood. Aveline had drawn her sword and was crouched behind her shield, which was also spattered with scarlet blood. When the guard captain finally peeked around the edge of the shield, her eyes were wide and... afraid. Hawke was standing the middle of it all, staff lowered to the bloodstained ground. For all the power she had just demonstrated, she suddenly looked very small and afraid. The fiery red light that had consumed her eyes was gone now, replaced by their usual steel grey hue. Her staff fell from limp fingers, clattering into the bloodstained dirt as the smoldering illumination that still lit the orb at the top finally flickered, then faded away.

The magical windstorm died away, leaving them all in silence. Thick dust motes floated lazily through the air, making Merrill's eyes water and her nose itch. She carefully picked herself up, wary of any more violent outbursts from the mage. But she hurried forward when she saw Hawke stagger and almost fall to her knees. She was obviously very weak after such a display. Merrill rushed to Marian's side and put a hand on her shoulder. "Hawke? Are you all right?"

The mage didn't answer and staggered again, as if her legs would no longer hold her weight. Like Varric, she was covered with blood. Her loose ponytail of raven-black hair had come undone and her hair was wild and messy. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the gory mess that had been, until a few moments before, her mother's murderer.

Aveline sheathed her sword and stepped forward to study the aftermath of Hawke's outburst. Merrill took a glance and instantly regretted it; Quentin was lying in several pieces scattered about the room, literally torn apart by Hawke's hatred. Merrill had never seen a spell quite like the one Hawke had used. Innovations with the forces of magic were never good, and often involved demonic influence. Merrill prayed that wasn't the case here.

"Get her out of here," Aveline finally barked, pointing at Hawke. "Back to the estate. My guards will figure out what to do from here."

Merrill put an arm around the taller woman's waist and supported her as they struggled toward the exit. Hawke silently allowed herself to be led away, limping slightly. She was quivering, as if every muscle in her body was quaking in pain and shock. Merrill squeezed her gently, trying to reassure her. It had no effect.

Varric, meanwhile, wiped blood from his eyes and grunted, "You don't intend to arrest her, do you? All things considered, Quentin deserved whatever he got."

"Regardless," Aveline sighed, "the guard has a responsibility to report this. Hawke's part can be... embellished. If not eliminated entirely."

Varric grinned, though it looked weary and forced. "If it's embellishment you're looking for, send your people over to the Hanged Man. I'll give 'em all the embellishment they need."

"No thanks. I think I can handle it, Varric."

"Oh Maker," Hawke finally gasped, her voice quiet and frightened. "What have I done?"

Author's Note: Part One is finished. Hope you all enjoyed it. I was inspired by Leandra Hawke's death in DA2 (spoilers, obviously) as well as the various character reactions to the death. As the game continued, I started to feel really sorry for Hawke and I felt bad that we never got to see her properly react to or even mourn her lost loved ones. I really enjoyed writing this, so the next part will probably be up soon. It'll be shorter than my usual stories, but hopefully no less enjoyable.

As always, favorites/reviews are always appreciated. Happy reading!