A/N: My take on the aftermath of the extremely emotional quest, All That Remains. I would have loved to see a little more emotion from Hawke, so here you go.
I awoke
Only to find my lungs empty
And through the night
So it seems I'm not breathing
And now my dreams are nothing like they were meant to be
And I'm breaking down
I think I'm breaking down
- City and Colour
The Night Takes Sides
She told them all to go, but Anders followed her. Aveline and Varric looked worried, but also slightly relieved, when she quickly dismissed them. No one knew how to react, how to handle any of this. It was too monstrous to be real, but it was. And he knew that she would need someone. So he followed her through the moonlit streets, up to Hightown. On a normal night she would have realized that she was being tailed—nothing fooled her keen rogue senses—but tonight had been anything but normal.
He waited a few minutes after she went inside her estate. She might be angry that he had followed her, even though she shouldn't be alone. As he leaned against the estate exterior, he surveyed Hightown. It was quiet, blissfully unaware of the gruesome revelation that had been made barely a half-hour earlier. Tomorrow, Aveline would make an announcement that a dangerous killer in Kirkwall had been dealt with, but not before he had claimed the lives of many women—Leandra Hawke included. And by midday Hightown would be abuzz with gossip and speculation. It made him bristle just thinking about it.
He decided he had waited long enough, and slipped inside the Hawke Estate without a sound. Just before he walked into the main room, he heard Gamlen's angry voice:
"So you're to blame! If you'd been quicker or stronger, you could've … she could be …"
His anger flared, and the world began to darken. How dare Gamlen blame her for this? They had run as fast as they could—he could barely keep up with her—and her blighted uncle had been the one to insist that Leandra was in no danger… No, he had to calm himself. He couldn't go storming into the room and attack Gamlen in a fit of rage. The man was grieving, and he needed someone to blame. But blame that bastard Quentin, not her.
Gamlen's voice lost its edge, so hopefully her uncle realized how incredibly cruel he had been to his niece. Anders took a few deep breaths, clenched his fists, regaining control. He backed up into the shadows as Gamlen left the den and made to exit the estate. After Gamlen had left, he had waited a few more moments before heading for her bedroom. He didn't want her to know that he had overheard what was obviously meant to be a private conversation. And he really had no idea what he was doing. What did he do? What did he say?
It doesn't matter. You just have to get up there, show her you're there for her. Go on.
Bodahn greeted him pleasantly, hardly surprised that he had appeared inside the estate once again without being shown in. The dwarf nodded towards the staircase, and Anders gave him a small, reassuring smile. Why, he didn't know. Maybe he felt sorry for all the poor dwarf was going to have to deal with in the following days.
He ascended the stairs, feeling a growing sense of panic. He had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do—what she needed him to do—and he was terrified of doing more damage. Just before he entered her room, he removed his staff and leaned it against the wall. He didn't want to remind her that he was linked in some way to the man who had just devastated her life. They were both mages—completely different men with completely different values—but mages nonetheless. The sight of a mage's staff might … make her see him in a different light.
Ironic. He had tried to push her away at first … and now he was terrified of losing everything he had resisted, tried to convince himself he didn't want.
She was sitting on the edge of her bed, staring into the fireplace. She didn't look up when he took a tentative step into her room; any other day she would have heard him at the front door. Her face was blank, emotionless—and that worried him. So he took a deep breath, and walked towards her.
"I know nothing I say will change it. I'm just …" Just what, exactly? Sorry that some maniac blood mage murdered her mother and desecrated her corpse? "I'm sorry." A tired, unoriginal summation of everything. But it was the best he had. "You were lucky to have her as long as you did. When the pain fades, that's what will really matter."
Did he really believe that? He had been taken from his family as an adolescent, so at least he had memories of them, unlike many mages in the Circle. It had always angered him that he'd been forced into the Circle before he was able to experience the intimate family life that he deserved. But was that any worse than having that close, familial bond, and then losing a mother in the most spectacularly horrific way imaginable?
She looked at him for a few seconds, silent, and his breath caught in his throat, fearing he had said something wrong. But before he could open his mouth to apologize, she hung her head.
"I didn't try hard enough to save her," she whispered.
No, no, please don't think that. He clenched his fists again as he recalled Gamlen's vicious words. They couldn't have done anything more. Of course, it was logical to feel guilty. She had to grieve, had to lay the blame somewhere, and she was too damn noble to hold anyone but herself accountable. Her time in Kirkwall had turned her into a martyr.
"She wouldn't want you to blame yourself." He knew that she wouldn't believe it, but it was true. Leandra had said, with her dying breaths, how proud she was of her daughter. There was no anger or condemnation, only sadly peaceful acceptance.
"You don't know my mother." She was trying to be humorous, but he could hear the bitterness in her voice.
"No. And I'm sorry I never will." He took a deep breath, and sat beside her on the bed. "I'm here for you. Whatever you need."
She didn't say anything; just glanced briefly at him and then went back to staring at the fire. He could see the flames reflected in her eyes. Suddenly, her shoulders began to shake, and then her whole body was quivering. It took him a second to realize that she was crying, hard, but without any sound. Her pain gripped his heart, and he immediately wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into his chest.
"Why can't I?" she sobbed. He could hear the lump in her throat. "Why can't I protect anyone?"
He could see where she was coming from: her brother, whom he had never met, killed as they fled Lothering; her younger sister, tainted by the Blight; and now her mother, murdered, while they had been sorting out more bloody Qunari problems, courtesy of that zealot Ser Varnell. He didn't know how to comfort her in this situation without sounding unfeeling and detached. I'm sorry and It's not your fault were far too overused. So he held her close, kissed her hair and forehead.
Everyone always seemed to want something from Kirkwall's newest noble. Whether it was the Viscount, the Arishok, Hubert and his damned mine, or just random citizens, there was always someone clamouring for aid, and she felt compelled to oblige them. And as he felt his anger burn against those who demanded her help, he realized that he was no better. Help me free Karl, help me stop Ser Alrik's misuse of the Rite of Tranquillity. Help me, help me, help me. He was just like everyone else.
But she wasn't done speaking. "What if next time—" She took a shuddering breath, trying to stop any tears from escaping her eyes. "What if next time it's you I can't save? You and Uncle Gamlen … you're all I have left."
He froze up, completely caught off guard. She was concerned about him? Worried that she wouldn't be able to protect him? Despite all that they had been through, all that she had said, he still found it hard to believe that she cared that deeply for him. He was still expecting her to wake up one morning and realize that she had gone to bed with a monster. And then he had to remind himself that it was incredibly disrespectful of him to doubt her feelings—to assume that he loved her more than she loved him.
"Nothing is going to happen to me," he murmured into her hair, "or anyone else. I promise."
Her hands clutched tightly at his shirt, but she didn't say anything. She seemed to be focused on minimizing her sobbing, trying to compose herself, to transform back into the clever, sarcastic woman whom everyone was familiar with. It couldn't be healthy, bottling all that pain and anguish up, and showing only a small fraction of what she was truly feeling. Nothing he said would stop her from putting on this façade—she was too damn stubborn to listen, even if it was for her own good. So, while he knew she would be furious with him if she found out about this, he let a small surge of magic well up in his fingertips.
If she felt the influence of his faint spell while he gently rubbed her back, she didn't say anything. Warmth flowed out from his hands, enveloping her in a wispy shield. The trembling of her body lessened, and her tense muscles began to relax. Finally, her hands fell away from his robes, and she went limp in his arms. He laid her down on the bed and wrapped the sheets around her, and then wiped away the damp under her eyes with his thumb.
He slowly stripped down to his undershirt, laying everything neatly at the foot of the bed. He took care as he slipped under the covers, even though she wouldn't wake for at least six hours from the magic-induced sleep. It would be a long day tomorrow and she desperately deserved the rest. He slid closer to her, and moulded his body to hers. His heart still fluttered whenever he was this close to her, even after the weeks they had been together.
He watched the slow rise and fall of her chest as she slept, listened to the rhythmic sound of her breathing. She made him feel at ease, completely unperturbed. And he would be there for her, until she could smile again. Until she felt the way he did around her, and beyond.