Silence.
Had the estate ever been so quiet? From the time it was first owned by the Amells, fallen to slavers, even returned to its rightful owners, Hawke doubted it had ever been this still. Even when it was just him and his mother. There was always some friend here, Sandal and Bodhan's chatter, light conversation with Orana. Tonight, however, they had let Hawke alone.
Even Gamlen had already left to tell Carver the news. No doubt the templar recruit would put the blame on his older brother.
Mother. Hawke looked down at his hands. Empty now, but so used to wielding a staff. Hands that were so ready to call on the power of fire or ice as Hawke needed them. Dangerous.
Magic that could not save his mother.
Magic is to serve man…
The familiar verse rang in his head.
And never rule over him.
Beside the mantle in the parlor sat a vase of white lilies. Hawke hadn't noticed them before. He'd been too busy running around Kirkwall, drinking with Varric and playfully flirting with Isabela over endless games of Wicked Grace. Never noticed the flowers. Now, he could almost smell them from across the room.
Tears formed in Hawke's eyes. Ghyslain, Ser Emeric. They had warned him.
Why had he waited until nightfall to look for Mother? If he had just gotten to her sooner...if he had just noticed, just remembered…
With a shout, Hawke flung out his arm, unleashing a blast of energy at the vase. It shattered at once, sending water droplets and glass shards sailing through the air. The flowers, those repugnant flowers, fell on the floor in a heap.
He didn't want to look at them anymore. Or ever again.
Hawke uneasily lurched out of his armchair. His legs felt stiff as he moved; his arms were leaden while he gathered the white blooms. Only after he hurled the flowers into the fire did he notice he his trembling hands.
The lilies were slow to burn as the moisture sizzled away. When the flames finally licked the white petals, a thick, sickly-sweet aroma oozed from them.
To Hawke, it only smelled like blood.
He strode towards the door. The need to leave, to get out of this house was too great. Varric, he decided. He could spend the night listening to Varric spin tales. The mage pushed open the door, and stared out into the darkened streets of Hightown. And stopped, heart beating somewhere in his throat.
He'd thought he owned these streets, this city. Once, Kirkwall had been his to conquer. Now, he couldn't make himself step past the threshold of his door.
Hawke slammed the door shut, turning back inside the mansion. Every footfall to his bedroom was heavier than the last. He sat on the edge of his bed, head bowed.
A sound from downstairs. The door opening and closing. Hawke looked at his staff, leaned against the wall near his bed. Dully, he knew that he should grab it. Prepare for a fight.
He couldn't make himself reach out for the familiar weapon. Couldn't make himself move at all.
"I do not know what to say, but I am here," came a deep voice, one that sent shivers through Hawke.
Fenris. Something told Hawke that he should have been surprised to see the fierce warrior here. Instead, he felt nothing. "Just say something. Anything."
The elf stood in front of Hawke, looking down at him."They say death is only a journey. Does that help?"
"How is that supposed to help the grieving?" Hawke spat, uncharacteristically venomous.
"It doesn't, but you asked me to say something." Fenris took a seat at Hawke's side. "To be honest, I have never seen the point of filling these moments with empty talk."
Fenris's presence beside him was not soothing, but it was there. Something to push back against the emptiness of the estate.
"Perhaps you were right." Hawke looked down at his hands again. "Magic took Mother away from me. And I…" his voice broke. "Could do nothing to save her."
Fenris stiffened beside him. Startled, maybe, at the mage's words. Hawke had never taken his side when they discussed magic. It was a tool, Hawke tried to tell him once. No different from a knife. Easy to cut yourself with if you weren't careful. When Fenris had interrupted to say Hawke was never careful, he only laughed and delivered some quip.
"Look at me, Hawke," Fenris said. Hawke raised his head, his amber eyes meeting Fenris's olivine green.
"You are a good man, Hawke." The elf's voice was calm, even. "I'll admit, I did not expect that when I first met you. But you have surprised me in many ways since then. Do not forget that."
"Fenris, I…" Hawke wasn't sure what to say. It was a rare time when he was at a loss for words. Despite everything, with Fenris so close it was impossible not to remember the one night they had spent together-or that the elf had left him. Whatever was between them now was something Hawke couldn't easily define.
And yet, Fenris was here.
"Will you...stay with me tonight?" Hawke asked.
Fenris's eyebrows shot up into his hairline. "What?"
Before he could refuse, or try to leave, Hawke spoke again. "Please." His voice was thin, a whisper. "I won't even touch you if you don't want me to. But please. Don't leave me alone tonight."
Fenris's expression softened. "Very well." He lightly touched Hawke's cheek. "Tonight, I am yours."
That night Fenris slept at Hawke's side. It felt as though years had passed since Fenris had been so close to him, but it only been a matter of weeks. In bed, Hawke followed the contours of his lithe form. Without his armor - the full plate, the spiked gloves - he looked much smaller, almost vulnerable as he lay curled on one side.
Hours passed, but Hawke did not sleep. When he closed his eyes, all he could see was blood and body parts and...not Mother. Even as he recounted the night in his head, he could not bring himself to imagine her face.
The mistakes of the night piled upon him.
Fenris rolled to his other side, and opened his eyes. A flicker of alarm and confusion crossed his face, then faded once he remembered where he was. "Get some rest," he murmured.
"I can't," Hawke said.
Fenris slid his hand across the silk sheets. Close enough to touch. "I am here, Hawke."
Hawke rested his own hand on top of Fenris's, and closed his eyes.
There is blood. A trail of it blooms in front of Hawke's eyes. He follows, running until he is left breathless. But the path continues. It leads him past his little sister, impaled on an ogre's horns. Finally, it ends at Mother's face. Only her face. Lips moving soundlessly, eyes clouding over.
Hawke awoke with a harsh gasp, awash in sweat. The sheets tangled around him, and in a moment of panic, he struggled to unwind himself from them. He sat up in bed, breathing hard.
"Hawke?" Fenris's voice came from beside him; the mage's fight with his bedclothes had woken him as well.
Hawke wanted to say that it was just a nightmare, that he was all right. But Fenris's presence in his bed forced him to remember - with a sickening jolt - that the nightmare was real. There would be no waking up.
Bethany. Mother. Those he loved that he could not save. The numbness Hawke had felt hours ago dissipated. Sorrow and anger rushed up inside him, like a river threatening to break its banks. Hawke buried his head in his hands, and sobbed.
He felt Fenris's arms encircle him. The mage returned the embrace, dimly aware of the slight, apprehensive touch of Fenris's ungloved hands on his back. Yet, Hawke was conscious of the rise and fall of his shoulders as he wept, the convulsions in his chest that made him feel like he was dying. The rueful thought that he wasn't, that he would see another day.
Fenris only held him, saying nothing. Hawke breathed in his scent - familiar, yet foreign.
He did not know when the tears ceased and he at last slept. But he did remember Fenris's arms, and his companion's wordless comfort.
For the second time in his life, Hawke awoke to Fenris putting on his armor, preparing to leave. He had not expected Fenris to come to him last night, any more than he could have predicted that Fenris would stay the night with him. Even so, disappointment was clear on Hawke's face. Nothing had changed between them since Fenris had first left him. Only now, Hawke was the wounded one, the one aching for reprieve. For understanding.
"Hawke," Fenris said, turning suddenly to face him. There was a look in his eyes, one that Hawke recognized. There was something he was struggling to say. "Perhaps I...have not been fair to you these past weeks." He looked at his now gloved hand, and the lyrium markings etched upon it. "But I am here, whenever you need me."
Hawke only nodded. "Thank you, Fenris." And then, he was alone once more.
As the light of a new day broke over Kirkwall, the man who would become its Champion could only wonder if he might forgive himself for the deaths of his sister and mother one day. If the ache in his chest would ever heal.
And, as he thought of Fenris's arms, if the magic-scarred warrior would be a part of whatever lay ahead of them.
But as the sun rose higher, there was no time to wonder. Dangerous as it was for an apostate to visit the Gallows, Hawke had to see his younger brother. Begin making funeral arrangements. Perhaps see Aveline; she had been at Hawke's side while they searched for Leandra. Keep busy. Keep going. Pretend that it didn't hurt.
And know, quietly, that he wasn't alone.