The south wind comes up hard through Lothering in the winter, icy fingers clawing at the boards, piling up drifts even taller than a man. It's the second time in a handful of hours that Hawke's heard Carver's careful footsteps on the roof, shoveling it clean, making sure the flue can vent the fire Bethany is so careful in tending. If it were summer, time would still have little meaning, but here in the dead of winter it's even more difficult to care if it is night or day. The whole world rests with Malcolm Hawke at its apex, waking when he wakes, snatching a few moments sleep when his rest is peaceful. Hawke knows she is not the only one to sit guard and watch her father's chest rise and fall, afraid for some trick of the firelight that might conceal the moment when it stops. As if being there will somehow make the difference.

He stirs, shifting, and opens his eyes - blessedly clear this time, not marred with pain or confusion. Hawke leans forward, a cup of water at his lips before he can ask for it, her other hand against his brow. Hot, but not as hot as before - Bethany's last potion has done some good, though it can only soothe the symptoms of the sickness that has him in its grasp. No cure. No cure, and he hadn't told them all this time. It was almost as if he'd planned it all, collapsing just as the worst of the winter snows swept in, so that even reaching the neighboring houses was no easy matter.

"Were you Fade walking?" Hawke tries to keep her tone light, and nearly succeeds.

"No, not this time." It hangs in the air, not yet. And when he does, he won't be coming back. What will happen, after? Where will he go, and what if he's in danger there?

Of course they'd all argued over what to do, quietly, where Mother couldn't hear. Bethany was ready to give herself to the Circle if they'd send someone back to help him, and Carver had pushed for Denerim as the only place they had any chance of reaching. All the while, Hawke had been madly wishing for impossible things: for speed and time and that she'd seen through the lie sooner. Ready to travel to the ends of Thedas and beyond, to seek out the ashes of Andraste herself if that was what it took to save him.

The reason Father had kept his silence, to keep them all from doing the stupid, desperate things he knew they would. Even when he'd fallen there had been no words, only a few red droplets on the snow, the sound of his staff hitting the hard ground and Bethany's panicked cry.

"Where's your mother?"

"Resting with Bethy. Do you need her?" Hawke's heart pounds, even though her voice is calm. He'll ask for Mother at the end, she's sure of that. He's already spoken to Bethany and Carver in private and Hawke has stood outside the door each time, just in case, though she doesn't know what she's expecting or what she will do when it comes.

"It's all right. Let her sleep." He licks his lips weakly, and Hawke gives him another sip of water, though even that seems enough to exhaust him.

She should have known sooner, should have noticed that he'd been shortening his walks, and taking naps in the latter half of the day. He had been the one to teach her to pay attention, to always pay attention - why hadn't she seen it from the start?

Bethany had thrown every bit of magic she had into Father when they'd gotten him back to the house, a mad roar of chaos with Hawke shouting and Carver shouting back and Mother with her hands against his slack, gray face, her voice rising higher and higher into a panicked scream when he wouldn't open his eyes. Only Bethany had been silent and still, working methodically through each healing spell she knew, everything he'd ever taught her. Using up all the power she had, until she was down on her knees with a hand against the floor and gasping for breath.

They'd always kept a few lyrium potions hidden beneath the second stair, for emergencies or the ever-present possibility of a Templar raid. No one had protested when Bethany downed them all, one after the other, though in the end Hawke could only hold her sister as she sobbed, pressing her face into Hawke's shoulder to stifle the sounds. As if her silence had fooled anyone, the whole house steeped in misery. Hawke had listened to their mother crying over Father while he slept, and Carver weeping quietly in the kitchen when he thought no one else was awake.

A few tears slip free now and then, and it hurts to keep them down but Hawke is ruthless, forcing everything to where it can be ignored and forgotten. She demands stillness from her hands when she notices she's drawn her blades, spinning them in tight, frustrated circles and when she can't bear it anymore she escapes to the attic rooms, pacing back and forth, keeping each step silent and watching her breath cloud in air until she's so cold her fingers refuse to bend. Hawke needs to be steel and silence - this is just the beginning. It's only going to get harder, though she can't let herself finish that thought, can't start planning for the after without her mind going blank in horror.

"Please don't be angry with me, pup."

As if she could deny him anything, especially now, with his voice wavering with each word. Her father, who taught her how to fight and why, and the love she feels for him tightens around her throat. The room is hot but the chill wind's hooked right around her ribs and is pulling so hard.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

He always has before, the things no one else needs to know about. The two of them sneaking off to pester a stubborn Templar patrol into giving up and going home, or handling some request from the Collective that would only upset Mother if she knew. No matter how dangerous or foolhardy, he's never kept the worst from her. They've always been a team, until now.

"If I was a mage…" Hawke looks down at her hands, clenching them into tight fists. It isn't the first time she has wished for it, to see the world like he does, to know what he knows. Maybe this time she could have done something, even though Bethany is as strong a healer as anyone could be, even those mages her Father knew in the Gallows. If she knew, though - if Hawke was a mage she might know, and her father shakes his head slightly, though all his movements are slight now.

"Wouldn't matter, dearheart. You can't solve every problem." A ghost of his usual smile, still amused and never bitter, even when he is powerless. "Not every problem is a problem."

"I can't tell the difference."

"I know. Taught you that myself. 'm sorry."

"No. No no no." An admonition that turns into a plea, and Hawke forces herself to stop. She realizes they're having the conversation he's had already, with Bethy and Carver and Mother. The one she's been avoiding, as if refusing to listen might be enough to make him stay.

The wind roars again, hard enough to rattle a few of the boards, as if its determined to tear the house down around them. With two mages it had always been easy to keep things cozy, though now Bethany uses all she's got to keep things warm in this room, sparing just a little for the kitchen. None of them will stray far from his bed, preferring to sleep in the chairs around the table downstairs for what little rest they get.

The sound of ice skittering across the roof, and then a curse, just over the wind, that suggests Carver had nearly followed it down. Hawke snorts, and her father lets out a laugh, though it swiftly turns into a cough that goes on and on until Hawke is bracing him, one hand at his back and her arm spattered with his blood and every time his body shakes it goes through her like a knife. He feels so fragile, bones and sinew shifting beneath her hands like something poorly constructed. Hawke remembers when she was a child, her small hand in his, and he was tall and strong and invincible. She forces herself to breathe steady, until he's breathing too, though the sound is still ragged and wet as she eases him back to the pillows. His eyes are glassy, not quite focused, as if already looking to a place she can't see, and she brushes a few strands of hair away from his face to bring his gaze back to her, while she can.

"You should rest, Father. Keep your strength up." The words only tremble a little, but he smiles, and Hawke has to look away from the apology there.

"So proud of you, pup. No father ever had a braver daughter."

"No daughter ever had father half as mad." Hawke says, and they share the same grin, fierce and brilliant, echoing back through a lifetime's worth of adventures, memories that are piercing a little deeper with every breath she takes.

"Take care of them. Protect them. They need you."

"I will, Father. I swear it."

"Of course you will. You're a Hawke."

Soon to be the only Hawke. Half of Lothering already calls her nothing else, and she bows her head, the sob slashing at her before she can get hold of it, strangle it down. She can't be him, she's not smart enough or strong enough and she cannot bear the thought of failing. Hawke's hands clutch the edge of the blanket, and she promised herself she wouldn't do this but here she is, begging for the impossible.

"Don't go, Father. Please don't go. Don't go."

The floorboards creak behind her, and Hawke turns, expecting to see Carver there, brushing the snow off his coat, perhaps hoping she'll finish up the task. Instead, the figure shifts a little, leaning into the light. Just enough to reveal fair hair and a stranger's face. Hawke is on her feet, the knife in her hand instantly, ready to attack a moment later. There is no glint of armor, he's no kind of proper Templar, and her second thought is for her mother, for Bethany, that he would have to go through them to get to her, and she can't hear Carver on the roof, and Karolis isn't barking.

"Who the hell are-"

Recognition hits her before she can finish the sentence, though it still doesn't make any sense. He's let his hair grow out a bit, and seems a little taller than the last time they met, but it's Feynriel, even so. Standing in her home in Lothering, before the Blight, before Kirkwall was anything but a place well past the edge of the world she knew, and the whole world tilts oddly beneath her feet.

"Wait. Just… just wait."

Hawke holds up her open hand, grateful when he doesn't move, fighting a dizzying sweep of vertigo as the present crashes in to the past and the world shuffles itself into a sensible pattern, fighting to make sense of it all. Hawke turns back, her father still on the bed, still dying, though it no longer seems quite as real, the whole scene frozen in place. The winds have stopped roaring outside, and she strains to listen, but there is no sound at all. The same muted emptiness that felt as if everything was pressing in on her, as unnerving as it had been the last time she'd stood in the Fade.

Oh.

Very slowly, Hawke looks once more at her unexpected visitor. Feynriel looks different in Tevinter robes. Older, and more elegant. Dangerous. Hawke remembers what Marethari said about dream walkers, and exactly what he's capable of. He seems to follow the train of her thoughts, eyes widening in surprise.

"You're afraid of me."

Hawke weighs her options, and the obvious answer that if he's had time to reconsider all she'd done, if he's strong now and come back for revenge then she's completely buggered.

"I did send you to the Circle. I wouldn't exactly be my best friend."

"If you hadn't been there, I'd be a slave now and not an apprentice. If I was lucky." He smiles a little. "You were trying to protect me. It's not exactly common."

"I can imagine." In a perfect world, there would have been an option other than Tevinter, but whatever else they might be the bastards sure do know their magic, and there had been nothing but to let him go and hope for the best. Still, Hawke had worried, and it's a relief to see he is much as she remembers. If anything, gaining further control of his power has only made him more careful, even gentle, entirely aware of what he can do with little more than a thought.

Hawke lets go of the knife, not surprised when it disappears before it hits the floor. "So… I didn't know the Fade had wrong turns."

Now that she knows it's a dream, she can't help but study the walls, the little details of what had once been her home, amazed that she can remember so much. The large chip in the door frame, where Carver had enthusiastically underestimated his broadsword's reach. The scorch marks on the floor, from all of Bethany's slight missteps, while Father had taught her to light the stove from a distance.

Father.

Hawke doesn't turn around again, doesn't need to see that memory stretched before her. It hadn't been long after that conversation, after all, that he'd called for their mother, and Hawke had sat in the hall on the floor, pressed against the wall and willing every draft to chill her to the bone, pretending the numbness did any good at all.

Feynriel looks embarrassed, glancing down. "I was practicing. I got a bit… turned around, and I was instructed that I could always seek out a familiar face, to help me get my bearings. I didn't… it felt wrong to look for my mother, so I…" It's clear how much he's seen, that this is not at all what he'd expected from her dreams. Hawke's been there with him at his most vulnerable, though. It's only right to return the favor. "This was your home, wasn't it?"

"In Ferelden, yes." Hawke feels for a moment absurdly like the lady of the house, caught off guard by unexpected company. "If I'd known you were coming, I'd have tided up. It looks a little better most days, without the dying father and all."

Inappropriate humor is as good a tribute to Malcolm Hawke as anything could be, keeping his memory alive every time she can make someone snicker at something they know they really shouldn't, and Feynriel doesn't disappoint, looking mortified the moment he chuckles. Maker, but Father would have loved to meet him. It still seems so wrong, that there is a world without him to marvel at it.

"If you want, I could take you somewhere else. Anywhere you wanted to go."

"A better dream?" Hawke smiles at his awkward kindness. He truly is his mother's child. "I'd like that."