"Hawke." His viridian eyes bore into what was once crystal, and is now dull.
Lifeless. No. his mind rebels against the thought, the one inescapable thought, the truth that is written in the stiff slope of her shoulders, the clasping of her arms in front of her chest.
"This is what you wanted, is it not?" She, Hawke, Marian, does not look at him, eyes casting listlessly against his chest with a half lidded expression of… There is no expression, only the clear white, blank shield. There is neither light, nor laughter in her eyes (they are not blue, not as they once were, it was only yesterday when he last saw her, how could they not be anything other than blue-) only cold stone.
"Hawke-" He inhales sharply, a knife puncturing itself in his chest, all at once he cannot breath, cannot think, only stagger forward (his body does not want to move, is frozen, because this cannot be true, he will wake up and she will be his Hawke and his life will not have shifted him into darkness-). In one sudden motion he pulls her forward, one hand resting on the nape of her collarbone, the other brushing her cheek, caressing it, trying to draw any semblance of warmth but there is nothing, nothing… One fingers crosses the path from her lips to her nose, circling the crimson yellow sun so raggedly emblazoned on her forehead.
"Who has done this to you?" His lips move without his brain registering the words. It wouldn't matter if he did. Nothing matters.
"The Templars did. They caught me unawares. You were not there." She tilts her head to the side, raven hair falling so it hides the tattoo. Fen closes his eyes. The sun burns under his eyelids. Conjures up the picture of her face (he's beginning to forget her smile, the sound of her laughter, but these are things he must keep, for they are vital to her spirit. These are things he cannot forget, for he has forgotten too much already.)
"Marian," He breathes, breath broken, moving his hand to the back of her neck, pressing his fingers lightly against her pale skin, "You must fight this. You must." His voice cracks, eyes threatening to fill with the water dripping form his heart. He loses himself, for a half a heartbeat, resting his head on her collarbone, trembling as if he is a leave, ready to be blown away by the smallest of winds.
She does not flinch. Does not smile lopsidedly. Does not frown, or drive him away. She is still, unmoving, completely complacent, and he knows with his gut, knows with his heart that threatens to burst from his chest that this is not Marian Hawke. She was always moving, always doing something, always helping, laughing, fighting.
He does not realize how much he needed her until now, as his heart does not break but shatterin his chest, his eyes wide not with fright but loss, and now he remembers what it is to mourn, remembers clearly and sharply as loss cuts through his being, engulfing him in rage…and melancholy.
(Breaking means that he could be whole, but not this, he can never be whole again, he will only drown in this abyss that pulls him under)
Marian was light and air, the sun on his skin, illuminating everything with her natural tendency to radiate, even in darkness, she can fight this, Hawke, fight-
"You wanted this. Why does you look this way? Is this not pleasing?" His fingers brush her lightly, with much hesitation, a half wild growl slipping from his throat. Her warmth is gone like the fire blown away from a candle and he is left alone to turn to ash.
…
..
.
He is a wolf and he will howl his pain and rip the throats of the men who did this (spill their blood, make them scream to feel a fraction of the pain that will haunt his flesh with ghostly touches).
He will maim and kill the men who dared steal her.
Only then will he find oblivion.