She carries many titles.
The Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall.
Slayer of the Mighty Arishok.
Banisher of the Qunari Invaders.
The Shield of Kirkwall and the Pillar of the Templar Order.
Enforcer of the Chantry Law.
And the last, a whispered one: kinslayer.
The title bestowed upon her when Bethany was born, the one she chose to cast away—sister.
She had done it to end the madness of it all, restore Meredith to her senses—but blood of kin scarcely appeased the mad and she urged for more. Her own life.
Mayhap she deserved the death, flawed as she were, but defeat has not been in her portfolio before and her sword could not help pushing back. Despite her guilt and all that is just, she prevailed.
Pursued by shame.
Named for the Queen of Ferelden, mother of King Cailan, she had seen him fall. The mother whose eyes she had inherited, murdered. Brother vanquished near home she had left in ashes and flame. At last, her sister, slain by her own hand. The sword was still in her scabbard.
There was a reason she kept to the battlements and out of sight—she had dulled her senses to many emotions, but not the fear.
She had failed a nation, a city, a family.
He watched her in secret while she thought and read the threads in her mind.
Skin black as tar, roughened samite. Sweat and seasalt in her hair. She awaits by the reed.
He shakes his head—that is a knot he cannot untangle.
The doll is broken, battered. Bleeding out, blade burrowed, buried. Bethany with breast abloom.
"Who goes there?" Hawke calls out, feeling a shiver of someone's presence on her skin. A warrior's senses would not be dulled by foolish reminiscence.
She spies an odd boy, straw-haired and pale, bloodshot eyes from beneath a hat two sizes too large. A corpse to her mind, yet oddly animate.
He speaks, voice eerie and even, "I'm Cole; I'm here to help."
"Help?" she barks, hands on the hilt of her sword. He seems unafraid—the first in a line of few.
"You kept the sword, but it is clean. The edge that consumes is inside." he says.
Her eyes dart towards the sword at her hip—was that a riddle? If so, what did it mean?
"One soul, or a dozen, what do they weigh on the scales of city," he continues. "Intention rests heavier."
Was that a judgement, a justification? Does intention truly outweigh the pain it leaves in its wake? Could the needles and pins poking and jabbing at her conscience be dulled by the result of her actions? She had liberated the city, preserved lives—in the end, but not before.
"That didn't help," she says sternly. "Good will does not repay the debts of blood."
Briefly, he stands startled as only a boy of such peculiar looks can. Then he waves his hand.
"I will try again. Now forget."
N/A: This was one of those playthroughs where I decided to venture out of my comfort zone and play as something else than a "diplomatic spirit healer mage Hawke that falls in love with Sebastian Vael".
Rowan Hawke was harsh, ruthless and brutal and sacrificed even her own sister to restore order to Kirkwall. It ended up being one of my favourite playthroughs. Not because of the "kill everyone" path of decisions I made, but because of the psychology of the character and the consequences of her actions. In Dragon Age: Inquisition she lacked her usual brutality and bluntness as if she were just tired of the world and its problems, of herself, and just couldn't keep up the attitude anymore. I really liked that development.