Hawke knows he's gone before she touches him. It's easy enough to see, even in the low light. Aveline is saying something about danger and perhaps Sebastian says 'Grand Cleric' but Varric is silent because maybe he already knows what she knows, that they've come all this way for nothing. Saemus kneels like a penitent above them, head bowed, and Hawke hears Aveline call to him as she darts up the stairs - maybe she thinks Hawke is rushing to make sure he's safe - but there's just no breath in her body to say otherwise. No space where even her heart ought to be beating, all of her full with the knowledge that the Viscount's son is dead. Hawke stops, a few steps away, a calm that isn't calm - and she kneels down, her voice not even a whisper for a boy who can no longer hear her.

"I'm sorry, Saemus."

One more for the pyre, one more name for the list of all those she's failed. The dread that sunk into her - chained weights and the cold sea to drown in - the moment the Arishok had said Saemus was not among them, Hawke can feel it dragging on her now, heavier than ever and slowly changing shape. Twisting into a dark and dangerous bird that chokes her, scrabbling cold talons in her flesh as it tries to crawl out of her throat, as Saemus slumps away from her hand to the floor. Gone, gone before she'd ever arrived and yet it still feels as if she'd killed him, that last brush of her hand enough to sever him forever from this world.

He would have made a difference. A desperately needed link to counter the threat Hawke knows damn well no one else in the city has even tried to understand, that she certainly doesn't understand. A thoughtful, sensitive boy - a man who'd just started down a path that, no matter where it went or why, could only do good for Kirkwall, for all of Thedas. His future so bright that for a moment it eclipses even this, and she can still see Saemus the scholar and politician, an old man - perhaps Viscount, perhaps not - here in Kirkwall or on some distant shore, surrounded by treatises and books and all the foundations of the better world he had helped create. A kinder world and not this mad ruin. Not this pointless, cruel waste, all that hope and all that potential left crumpled on the floor of a house of peace.

And for what? For what?

The footsteps are loud against the marble floor, but she doesn't bother looking up. Saemus' hair has fallen front of his eyes - too long, and shaggy, and she has to keep herself from pushing it out of the way. Hawke had teased him about it, the last time they'd met, that he'd never make Viscount looking so unkempt. Obviously he'd had other things on his mind.

"Serah Hawke, look at what you have done."

The voice echoes up from below, full of smug triumph and theatrics, and the only reason Petrice isn't dead in the next moment is that Hawke can't move and because it doesn't matter. If she does not die now she will die in a few moments time. Dead already, Petrice just hasn't realized it yet, and that at least will be a sweet moment.

Maybe Hawke speaks, she can hear her own voice, loud and steady, though she's paying no real attention to the words. The renegade Mother's army of zealots steps out into the light, and Hawke listens to the familiar, comforting sound of Bianca being loaded, hears Sebastian call out a warning, offering surrender even as he raises his bow and even Hawke's inevitable revenge seems too little, nothing to be done to make this right. The absurdity of Saemus, careful and thoughtful and so thorough in his convictions, martyred mainly by fools with weapons they can barely wield properly. They are not without number, and with a few Templars among them, though that mostly means Hawke loses sight of Petrice as they rush the dias, which means she may live for yet a full minute more. She feels some small pity for whoever will end up scrubbing the Chantry steps in the morning.

Hawke can still see Saemus' body from the corner of her eye, barely paying attention to the man who comes at her with a righteous cry and a clumsy stroke of his sword, the momentum sending him past her even as his hand rises to where she's already slit his throat. He goes down with a gurgle as Aveline bounces another off her shield, attempting to keep a few of them alive for questioning, though Hawke cannot imagine a use for anything they have to say.

Oh Maker, the Viscount doesn't know. He is still in the Keep, still waiting for her to bring his son home.

The riot of battle tapers off into the groans of the wounded and the dying, and there is the Grand Cleric with Petrice behind, as content as a girl skipping down the stairs on Feast Day, and as she speaks Hawke begins to scan the room for weapons, her own knives too sharp and well-maintained to offer much but a clean, quick death - there ought to be something among the incompetents' blades more worthy for this kind of execution. Petrice surely deserves the extra consideration.

Such bitter, vicious hate is a dangerous line of thought, and Hawke knows it, but she wraps herself in it anyway, a white-hot fury that burns even her sorrow to ash. A moment of sorely needed respite and to the Void with the rest. High ideals that did not save her mother. Principles that led Saemus to his death.

Aveline does most of the talking, her position as guard-captain carrying no small weight here, and had it been under any other circumstances Hawke would have to laugh, at how quickly Petrice's charade crumbles to nothing beneath the Grand Cleric's scrutiny - she doesn't even think Elthina is trying all that hard. All the more horrifying, that such a flimsy, pathetic scheme could cost Saemus his life.

You could have killed her. The first moment you met her, and you knew what she was and you could have ended it then.

Instead, Hawke had saved her life. Because it was what she did. Because most of the time, it was the right thing to do.

The Grand Cleric is walking away with some mention of courts and justice, and Hawke bends down to pull a serviceably dull sword from a slack hand. She cannot entertain even the smallest possibility of mercy from some unknown ally, that Petrice might be spirited away to Val Royeaux or some other haven, for some 'punishment' when so many will not even see a crime - she dies now, with all that Hawke can do to make her feel the true measure of what she's ruined.

"Hawke, what are you-" Sebastian notices, and for a moment she thinks he is going to step between them, protect a murderer for the sake of Chantry law and she respects him for his devotion even as she's planning the three moves it will take to get around him and tear Petrice apart. A fine archer, but there's no stopping her, not in this. "Hawke, no. You can't just-"

The hiss of the Qunari arrow in the air, the solid thud of it finding a home in Petrice's chest stops the argument before it can begin. Hawke can only feel the slightest, bleak satisfaction as the disgraced Mother slumps to her knees, the second arrow surely killing her well before she hits the ground. The Qunari soldier looks at them from across the hall. Amazing how they can all radiate such a crippling sense of pride and certainty and disgust, when Hawke cannot even see his face.

"We protect those of the Qun. We do not abandon our own."

It feels as if he's put another arrow through her, with that. Elthina is the one to deliver the deathblow, though, pausing at the top of the stairs, her voice as ancient as the stones.

"Please, send for Viscount Dumar."

Bianca is infinitely kind and obliging, always giving Varric something to check or adjust or simply admire when he'd rather not be thinking. The courtyard is quiet, a few loose groups of mostly women in Chantry robes stare confusedly into the darkness, awakened by the riot in their midst and now murmuring to each other, bits of rumor and supposition, though it seems Elthina's put a lock down on any real information. Varric is fairly sure that only he and Aveline and Sebastian are aware of exactly what's happened.

And Hawke. All conversation had stopped when the Viscount had appeared at the gates, and Hawke had gone to him and bowed deeply. If he hadn't known why he'd been summoned to the Chantry at so late an hour, Varric thought he'd figured it out then. They'd entered the hall with no further ceremony, and not a single word spoken. It's been a quarter of an hour since, and there's been no sound from inside, not that Varric expects much. Hawke had been so distant, from the first moment they'd found Saemus' body, her only words to Petrice or the Grand Cleric simple, cold statements of fact, and she hadn't looked at any of them.

"You know we're up to our necks in dog shit." Aveline says grimly, eyes fixed toward the gates of the Chantry and out, as if she can see the docks beyond, preparing for the worst. Whatever might happen, it's quite clear they've lost their last chance at anything resembling a peaceful resolution.

"You Fereldens and your poetry."

"I don't like this." Sebastian says flatly. "Hawke isn't thinking clearly. This is going to turn ugly."

"Save your sermon for the home team, Choirboy. It's already ugly."

It seems Sebastian's upset by something Hawke had done or nearly done to Petrice, though Varric couldn't spare a thought for the Chantry sister except that being a Qunari pincushion seemed too little a punishment for the amount of pain she'd put the city through - and Hawke. Mostly Hawke. Saemus hadn't gone out of his way to make things easy for anyone, a young man's eagerness to prove he could make his own decisions without considering all the consequences - that he might not even know all the consequences - but he'd been smart and Hawke had liked him and… she doesn't need this. Not now. Varric's all for the dramatic climax, with all enemies poised to attack and the forces of good left staggered on the ropes, but he'd like a little more certainty there will be enough of his hero left for the thrilling conclusion.

At last, the door opens, Hawke walking out of the Chantry alone, and everything Varric needs to know is in the set of her shoulders. The look in her eyes, the same as when she'd held her mother's body. A sort of stunned yet patient awe, as if certain there must be some rational explanation for so much senseless pain, a method in the madness and she must simply be willing to wait for it.

"How fares the Viscount?" Aveline asks gently, not as much a question as a way to break the silence.

"What Viscount?" Hawke says. A few of the Chantry are listening in, Varric can hear the murmurs fade to silence, and he is glad to see Aveline shift in front of Hawke, protecting her from prying eyes. Sebastian steps up, his expression slightly too dour to simply be thoughtful.

"I should go to him."

"Sebastian, I can guarantee you the last person he wants to see right now is anyone from the Chantry."

They stare at each other for a long moment, and Sebastian finally turns away, his frown still firmly in place - but though he moves closer to the doors, he does not go inside. At the Chantry gate, a guardsman appears, obviously looking for the captain and after a glance in Varric's direction Aveline steps away, leaving him alone to tend to Hawke. No real surprise when she drops down low to the ground, knees tucked up to her chest and balanced on the balls of her feet, one of those poses she can make look effortless. It is Hawke's usual method for contemplating tough decisions, though at the moment she is simply radiating hurt, still with that fragile, baffled look on her face. Curled up, as if trying to present as small a target to the world as possible.

"Hey, Hawke. Why don't you come back with me to the Hanged Man tonight?" No drinks, just a chance to let her talk to him if she wants, or at least to sleep somewhere with a bit of noise and life, not that silent tomb of a house she's been left to rattle around in. It won't be the first time Varric's given his bed over for a better cause - and he wants to keep an eye on her, at least until morning. She won't ask for what she needs, but it's hardly his the first time for that, either.

"I did this."

"You know you didn't."

She won't lift her head, or look at him. "I knew what Petrice was, Varric. I could have stopped this. I could have let her die years ago, and none of this would have happened. I saved her." He can see the brittle edge of her smile, like a pane of glass suddenly snapped in two. "I should have known. The dog didn't even like her."

"Hawke…"

"You should have seen the Viscount, when he realized what they'd done. She destroyed him, Varric. All Dumar tried to do was keep this city together, and Petrice broke him, and no one cares."

Varric hates the sound of lost faith as much as anything, even worse when it's happening to one of his protagonists.

"Come on." He tries to keep his voice light. "Let's get out of here. It's late, and there's nothing more-"

Hawke's eyes lift up, focusing on a point over his shoulder, and Varric turns just in time to see Knight-Captain Cullen looking back at them. It should not be a surprise to see the him in the Chantry, though for some reason he seems oddly off-balance, almost out of his element. Blinking blearily, as if he'd been dragged from his bed to be flung into this fray, trying to catch up even as he forces himself forward. Hawke respects him, Varric knows that. Rule-bound and narrow-minded but never cruel, and he has fulfilled the only essential duty in her eyes - keeping Bethany safe. He is a Templar, though, and responsible for her captivity in the first place, and the matter of Ser Alrik did no one any favors, no matter who knew what about the man's vile behavior. It is simply a bad time to be anyone Hawke does not wish to see, a definite edge in her voice as she stands, only leaden sorrow blunting the words from what would surely be a snarl.

"The Viscount's son is dead. Surely the Knight-Commander can make the time in her schedule for that."

A few heads in the courtyard turn in her direction, a new spill of murmurs rising up as more Templars appear, and Varric is glad to see Aveline moving their way, if only for the silent support. Doubtful, though, that it will come to blows. Up close, the Knight-Captain looks even worse, heavy shadows under his eyes, a certain grim set of his jaw that suggests he is perpetually three days away from anything like a decent night's sleep. Thrown into the middle of this, and likely not the first time he has been sent to deal with what Meredith deems too unsavory, or not valuable enough for her time. A moment more, and Aveline is standing behind Hawke, and Varric has to give Choirboy some credit, Sebastian drawing up to her opposite side, at least presenting the appearance of a united front.

"Tell me you didn't know." Hawke says quietly, staring at Cullen, unblinking.

"Serah Hawke-"

"Petrice had Templars with her when she murdered Saemus." Her voice is practically a whisper, aware of the need for secrecy but still shredded at the edges with fury. "Tell me that the Knight-Commander didn't know."

No answer. Varric can see it on his face, the Knight-Captain many things but a good liar definitely not one of them. He didn't know about this - but he doesn't know if Meredith did. Hawke shuts her eyes for a moment, nodding as if she'd expected the answer all along, and he can all but watch the anger drain out of her, replaced with weary resignation. Hawke takes a deep breath, and when she opens her eyes to look at him again it seems she is actually seeing him, not the Templar but a man who may be as sick of all this as she is.

"You look like they dug you up before they dumped you in that armor."

"Polite as ever, Serah." Cullen replies, but there's a thin, weary smile between them, even if it gutters like a poorly-lit flame, gone as soon as it arrives. Varric watches the Knight-Captain steel himself, and knows none of them are going to like it. "We need to talk about what happened here."

The tone of his voice - it's not a question, and Hawke loses more color than Varric knew she had to give, her face blank and pale, mouth set in a thin line. It's Aveline who finally speaks, her voice low but full of outrage.

"What do you mean 'what happened'?"

"He's right, Aveline." Hawke says - and her tone is dull, and distant. "Petrice wanted to use this to start a holy war. The Viscount's position isn't strong as it is, and the Chantry can't - the city can't afford to deal with what she's done, and stay intact. If they'd even believe it. It was… it will have to be one woman's madness. Or… even less than that. It has to be buried, for the good of Kirkwall."

"Hawke." Aveline says, though if it's full of warning or worry Varric can't quite tell. Hawke ignores her, still looking at the Knight-Captain.

"If I agree to this, you do not blame the Qunari for what happened to Petrice. I don't care what you have to say, but none of this falls on them. All Saemus wanted was an understanding. A world where we might find some accord without slaughtering each other every step of the way, and they've given us parley and we've given them death. The Qunari stay out of this - I owe him that much."

On the word 'owe,' her voice cracks, and it's clear the Knight-Captain did not expect this sort of response, had come prepared to dig in and argue with Hawke until she relented. He looks almost apologetic now, very nearly concerned. He knows what's been going on at the Gallows. He had been the one to tell Hawke her sister did not want to see her after their mother's death. An awkward position to be put in, for whatever it is they are, enemies who are not quite enemies, allies who never quite manage to be on the same side.

"Agreed." He finally says, and then, with real hesitation, "Hawke, are you-"

"Just tell me what you need me to say, and I'll say it. You have my support, or my silence. Whatever you need." Hawke and Aveline share a long look, but the guard captain finally relents, though the promise of some later discussion surely passed in the silence between them. Cullen nods, though does not look as relieved as he ought to be, for having all he'd come for handed over without a fight.

"I will need to speak with the Grand Cleric and the Viscount, before there is an official statement made. I would appreciate if you…" Cullen trails off, the near-chiding tone and the obligatory reminder for lawful behavior crumbling before he can finish. "I am sorry, Hawke. If I had known about such a senseless… Whatever his path, Saemus Dumar did not deserve this. It should never have happened."

"… and now the Knight-Captain's offering his condolences. This must be the end of days." The slightest spark of her usual humor, but when Hawke turns it's as if every movement hurts, like she's aged twenty years in an hour's time. "Come find me if you need me."

"I don't think more will come of it this evening. Maker's blessing be-" He stops, as Hawke simply stares at him. Well, that would probably be what has Choirboy so twitchy, concerned that Hawke's about to go on a little Exalted March of her own, right up the asses of the well deserving. Sebastian ought to know better, if he'd been around longer than the last few months, he would have seen - Hawke doesn't have it in her for that kind of concentrated venom, even when it costs her, even when it would be easier and far more satisfying to hate in quantity.

It's still too much to ask for, that they might make it out without any further incident. It seems easy enough, nothing left to say or do and all real responsibility toppled over onto the Knight-Captain's shoulders, though Hawke glances back once at the closed doors of the Chantry and the look in her eyes - maybe a drink wouldn't be such a bad idea. Sebastian has hung back, to speak with the Knight-Captain and if Varric were a little more curious he'd want to know what they were talking about, but Hawke needs him more, walking between him and Aveline, head down, staring at nothing. Her home is closer, maybe it would be better to just go there and take the spare room for the night, keep this down to as little a distance and as few people as possible. He leans back slightly, just about to try and get Aveline's attention when a rough voice sounds out, carrying over the collective murmurs.

"Well, at least you can say nothing of value was lost."

It is Ser Karras, who has never forgiven Hawke for lying about the Starkhaven apostates, and for making him look like the ass that he quite obviously is. Never given up on his own holy mandate of ensuring the title of Templar is synonymous with insufferable prick - and perhaps planning on taking up where Ser Alrik left off.

He is also a man who has never engaged Hawke in a battle of anything but wit and word, to speak so loudly, just as she passes by - and without his helmet on.

Varric knows what's coming and he still almost misses it, as Hawke lunges forward in one swift, brutal motion, catching Karras in the throat so hard and so fast the Templar only rocks back a little on his feet, as if she'd nudged him, before dropping to the ground like a dead weight. It's really a thing to see, such a large man in all that armor curled up in a little ball, making all sorts of odd noises as he twitches and tries to breathe, and only because Hawke pulled the punch that would have killed him outright.

A shout, possibly the Knight-Captain or maybe Choirboy but it's drowned out by the creak of the Chantry doors opening, and Varric makes what might be his biggest mistake of the night, glancing back toward the hall rather than keeping his eyes on Hawke.

"Sorry, Varric," she says, a toneless murmur, "I'll have to see you later."

"Hawke, wait. Wait."

It's Aveline's 'I-Am-Your-Captain' voice but she's not Hawke's captain, and knows it. She's Hawke's friend and maybe even family but what she's not is Isabela, and the pirate's the only person who has any chance of catching Hawke when she does not wish to be caught. Varric turns just in time to see Aveline reaching out, though she must know she's only grasping for shadows. If Hawke has to move at all to dodge her hand Varric can't see it, doesn't see more than the edge of her armor gleaming as she moves past the last of the Chantry's lamps, and then the darkness catches her up and Hawke is gone.