Chapter 1

Thunder roared. Lightning cracked the sky. The clouds hovered ominously over Kirkwall. Its residents fell back into their homes seeking shelter for the evening.

Kirkwall had not seen such rain in years. This was only day one of the storm that had settled into the creaky, seaside city. Children hid under their pillows and mothers set soup upon stoves. Runny noses plagued the masses. Only those with reckless intentions or whose wages were paid by the city dared set foot outside. Guards miserably patrolled the streets, walking quickly in the open and pausing under overhangs to keep dry.

The storm had initially hit Ferelden, and it hit hard. It moved toward the Free Marches and with it brought darkness, dankness, and despair. Perhaps it was the perfect day for a funeral. Perhaps the worst, depending on one's feelings toward the cliché.

Hawke had unwillingly planned this day for some time, and couldn't wish it over any sooner.

He woke with a brick of torpor tied around his ankles and it dragged along everywhere he went. He moved as gracefully as Blackmarsh sludge, trying his damnedest to move furniture, clean plates and make his home somewhat more hospitable than the weather. He cursed Bodhan's expedition for keeping him from the funeral and for keeping that useful boy of his away while Hawke did all the work.

Bethany had arrived early with a glowering templar in tow. "Busy yourself with some mead will you?" she insisted. Hawke could feel the templar's glare beneath his steel helm. After a few silent moments, the templar scoffed and turned to find the kitchen; obviously he would rather drink than deal with Bethany's attitude. Hawke understood that sentiment on a fundamental level, regardless of how grateful he was to see Bethany.

"What are you wearing?" chastised the elder brother.

"It's a funeral," replied Bethany, gesturing to her freshly pressed outfit.

Her outfit reminded Hawke of something the Orlesian nobles would wear at their soirees. A black set of robes with ruffled shoulders and velvet red cloak, both of which highlighted her pale face, midnight hair and ruby lips.

Hawke shook his head as he dragged himself up the stairs and into his suite.

"Don't give me that," insisted Bethany who immediately reached for his closet doors. "You're just sour because you look like a Lowtown drifter."

Hawke watched her dig through his clothes. At first he reached a hand out to stop her, jaw falling in preparation to exchange some curses. But he realized she was right. He looked down at his ragged tunic – the same one he'd worn the day before after slicing up a few looters on the coast. The blood smatter stained the drawstrings that held his shirt together.

As he stared in shock at the sorry state of his own garb, Hawke was hit in the face with a large piece of fabric. It didn't matter what it was; Bethany would inevitably insist he wear it. It would be easier to do her bidding than to argue. As Bethany left the room and Hawke changed into his finery, he felt a twinge of sympathy for the templar downstairs and hoped for his sake he was already drunk.

Hawke's uniform consisted of a black jacket and some fine pants with bronze trim. It had been a gift from the Comte de Something-or-Other, and he had never taken the liberty of trying it on. After all, these garments were impractical for battle. Still, he studied his reflection in his standing mirror and said, "Not bad, Garrett. Not bad."

Hawke gave his short, scruffy, auburn hair a tussle before turning to leave. He left the room and peered over the balcony with his amber eyes.

"Where is the casket?" called Bethany from below.

Hawke shrugged. "Running late, I guess."

"You aren't worried?" she answered. She tilted her head downward in thought for a moment before returning her gaze to her brother and asked, "Did you decide on the open casket? Did you ever give Mother's body to Anders?"

Hawke wrinkled his nose. Anders. That prick.

Firstly, it was the day of his mother's funeral, so he was already in a foul mood. True, the funeral had been delayed quite a while, but Leandra had never been given a proper service. Neither had Carver for that matter. Better late than never, right? It was the least the surviving Hawkes could do for their mother and brother. At least they had one of the bodies, thought Hawke.

Besides, it seemed the right time. Kirkwall had finally started to settle down. The qunari had been gone for years now, and Knight Commander Meredith was finally put down. True, that nosy Seeker was still prying into Varric's business day and night; the same Seeker who pulled Knight Captain Cullen away from his duties as well. While Hawke was decidedly not a fan of Cullen at first, he felt that the surly templar had made the right decision in the end. If anybody was fit to mend the Circle, it would have been Cullen. Hawke silently cursed the Seeker under his breath. What was so important anyway that she needed Varric or Cullen to –

"Brother!"

"Yes!" bellowed Hawke. "I…I gave Anders the body."

Hawke was, of course, referring to same Anders who blew up the Chantry. True, Hawke had never been outwardly religious. But growing up in Lothering, he practically lived at the Chantry. Hawke was always getting himself into trouble, whether it was shooting peas at cattle or stealing little things from the market. The Chantry sisters would make him return the items and work for the merchants, or shovel cow dung as penance. Perhaps Hawke didn't care for his own personality, but his upbringing with the Chantry made him at least feel like he tried to do the right thing for people.

Anders had befriended Hawke, even courted Hawke to some degree, before leveraging his trust to procure the ingredients needed to destroy the Chantry. Anders knew Hawke would never agree, and in the end, Hawke had almost killed Anders for his betrayal.

It had taken a considerable amount of effort to return to Anders with Leandra's body. But he had to. Anders was the only one whose magic could help mend his mother. She was so maimed and destroyed by her maleficarum captor. Cuts and slices and gashes everywhere. She had been decaying for too long. Hawke only wanted her to look pretty for the funeral, beautiful like the noblewoman she was in life.

Bethany gave Hawke a sympathetic look. Hawke only shook his head. A sinking feeling was beginning to settle in his guts at the thought of seeing Anders again. He already felt like a fool for approaching him in the first place. What would it be like when Anders showed up at the funeral? What would his companions think?

Certain he had made a grave mistake, a knock came from the door. The guests had begun to arrive. Bethany and Hawke greeted Aveline and Donnic, both of whom had developed a strong, loving marriage. By the time Gamlen had arrived, Hawke had opened a bottle of stout and his uncle was quick to follow suit. He was half way through that bottle when Isabela showed up, and two bottles in by the time Varric and Merrill appeared.

"Hello Hawke!" chirped Merrill, who immediately turned her attention to Isabela. Hawke and Varric hung near the door, watching the tiny elf bounce up to the tall, busty pirate.

Hawke smirked. "Are they still a thing?"

Varric snorted and gave a smirk of his own. "Weren't you and Fenris also Isabela's 'things' at one point?"

"Well, not at the same time or anything," Hawke teased. "And correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't she kept Merrill around longer than one evening?"

"That's true," chuckled the dwarf, clad in his usual red tunic. "I think this is the longest Isbela has committed to anything that doesn't have sails."

The two friends exchanged some laughter before another knock came from the door. It creaked open on its own. Looking over his shoulder, Hawke recognized the silvery hair and emerald eyes instantly.

Varric cleared his throat. "Well…speaking of romance…"

"Shut up!" hissed Hawke, stifling a laugh and giving Varric a playful punch.

Varric made up some excuse about fancy wines and cheese and politely excused himself to the kitchen, making small talk with their friends along the way.

Hawke greeted Fenris after he had closed the door. "That's some intense rain."

Fenris was dripping wet. There were a few wrinkles on his nose and his brows were arched. Hawke had long accepted that Fenris's state of glowering was his default expression. However, once Hawke began to speak to him, Fenris's expression softened.

"It's…good to see you," said Fenris a little awkwardly.

Hawke gave him a big, awkward smile right back, and Fenris chuckled.

"Yes well…" He took a look around the room, observing the guests. "It seems everyone has arrived."

"Yes, everyone," lied Hawke.

"Where is the casket?" Fenris inquired.

Hawke felt his cheeks flush red. How could he tell Fenris that Anders had not only handled his mother's corpse, but that he was subsequently invited to the funeral? Hawke knew he needed to change the subject.

"What's up with the twigs?"

"The…twigs?" Fenris blinked.

"Are we not going to address the gift-wrapped bundle of twigs in your hand?"

Fenris looked down. His expression of eyes widening and jaw dropping amused Hawke. "Ah…this…these were…" The handsome elf held up the bouquet – or what was left of it. Now, it was just a bunch of thin sticks with little petals stuck onto them. It was, however, wrapped in beautiful Royal Sea Silk. "These were once flowers, until the storm destroyed them."

"Where did you find flowers in such pristine condition? They're beautiful," snorted Hawke.

"Well they're for your mother, not for you," insisted Fenris. "Or, they were, I should say."

"That's incredibly rude, and sweet."

"This…" Fenris reached into his side-pouch and pulled out a single, red rose. It was clearly cut short to fit into the pouch, and only a couple petals had fallen off of its beautiful, lush bloom. "…this is for you."

Hawke stared in awe at the rose. He was quite certain he was the same shade as the flower. He didn't know what to do at first. He had never been given flowers. He hesitantly reached out and took it, staring stupidly at its lovely blossom.

"Thank you, Fenris," he said, staring into the elf's sparkling eyes. "I…what do I do with it?"

Fenris rolled his shoulder, armor clinking beneath his motions. "To be honest I'm not entirely certain," he admitted. "I assume one would place it in a vase?"

"But you've cut it too short," Hawke pointed out.

"So put it in a tumbler, I don't know!" shouted Fenris. "Why must you make this so difficult?"

"You mean flirting?"

Fenris narrow his eyes. "Yes!"

"Because we're both idiots."

Hawke had Fenris there. Fenris gave Hawke a look that was equal parts affection and annoyance. Such was the nature of their relationship.

Hawke gave a lilting, little laugh and a quick glance around the room before he leaned forward. Fenris, clearly caught off guard, could not find the wherewithal to move but gladly parted his lips. The elf's eyes closed as Hawke neared him. And then –

The door opened. A panting, sopping wet Anders stood in the entryway with the doors open. Rain soaked the carpet as lightning cracked outside. Completely out of breath, Anders wheezed, "The casket it gone! Carta thugs!"

The room was dead silent. Every single eye in Hawke's estate was pinned on Anders. Only Hawke had seen him since the ordeal. As far as everyone else was aware, Anders had escaped Kirkwall when Hawke demanded he do so, lest he have his throat slit by Hawke's own daggers.

After a burst of thunder had died down, Varric's voice in the back of the hall could be heard saying, "Well, shit."

Fenris, eyes now wide and ablaze with anger, turned his gaze from Anders to Garrett. He furrowed his brow and his nose began to wrinkle so deeply that Hawke thought it may stick that way forever. Fenris's lips parted again, not for a kiss, but to show his teeth. He opened his mouth and growled.

"HAWKE…!"