It was supposedly become my submission for the month but it turned out that I miss read it, it was for June 18, not July 18 T,T So... yeah, I cannot post it in the 31_days LJ comm. So uh, I post it here. Credits for the theme: senri in LJ.
[June 18] [Dragon Age II] The ghost of you
Title: The ghost of you
Day/Theme: June 18, try to praise the mutilated world
Series: Dragon Age II
Character/Pairing: Female Hawke/Anders, Varric POV
Rating: PG
I'm not calling you a ghost
so stop haunting me
And I love you so much,
I'm gonna let you,
Kill me.
Florence and the Machine – I'm not calling you a liar
The wind was blowing almost violently on the deck and the ship was slow in approaching the faraway Docks. The blood and grime from the last battles were still fresh on their bodies, bruises colored them like paint on a canvas. It was a badge of… something, Varric knew, but somehow he felt like peeling off those badges of heroism and buried them deep.
Tonight's battles would leave them more than only scars. Tonight's battle would etch itself in their mind, gnawing them with memories. Memories of blood, betrayal, desperation…
Varric turned to look at his best friend and leader… and hero. She was standing by the very front of the small ship, sturdy and unmoving. It seemed as if she was carved out of the hardest and most beautiful gem there was, her feature washed by the moonlight seemed distant. She hadn't talked to them anymore after Meredith's battle, in fact she was completely silent as she turned and walked away from the Gallows. She didn't even seem to notice how the Templars gave her room to walk away—some bowed before her. She was, again, the hero. The hero of someone else's city, of someone else's dreams.
She was never a hero for herself.
The ship swayed and Varric blinked. He thought he caught a glimpse… just a glimpse of her face.
His heart sank.
"I just want to warn you about that apostate mage, Hawke."
"I know what I'm doing, Varric."
"I certainly hope so."
She had loved him. Varric couldn't say anything truer than that. She was deeply in love with that man. Even Varric could see (which was one of the reasons why he stopped to object their relationship) that the days when they were together were the happiest days of her life—and his life. There was nothing wrong with him, he was tender and gentle and kind—even Varric could feel his kindness; that it was there somewhere. But that Vengeance… it was gnawing him like that idol gnawed Bartrand and Meredith. It gnawed him so slowly that it merged with him, with his fear and wrath. It consumed him so much… that it only leaved him with his love to her. His love was the only thing that kept him sane and himself, that kept him alive… It was the only thing that was purely him, untouched by the spirit at all.
He loved her, Varric knew… He loved her… so much that he would die in her hand.
And he did.
So much to his relief… and her grief.
She didn't say anything after she swiftly slid that knife into him in one quick thrust in the back. That one movement brought so much feelings, it brought sadness and regret, pity and grief, love and duty. Her face remained impassive but for all the things that had happened between them, Varric knew something inside her was broken and shattered and crushed. When she turned herself around from his slumping body, her eyes were hard and unreachable. She had gone to a place not even Varric dared to touch.
Why, Maker, why was she allowed to safe an entire city, but not her family? Why was she allowed to spare those Templars but not her own love?
This twisted, twisted world around her…
They had seen people turned into monsters, blood turned to power, stone turned to life. They had seen the darkest of human heart, be it vengeance, be it ambitions, be it obsessions, be it desperations, be it regret. She had injured herself with other's pain and suffering, other's fear and wrath, and withstood it for their sake.
Because she was their hero. The Champion.
The Champion who was clad in grime and blood, in bodies of the faithful and blood of the heathens.
The Dock was drawing near and Varric shifted, turning his gaze away from their leader. As they drew nearer, slowly, a voice broke through the silence of the ship, ignoring the heavy stench of lingering blood in the air.
"Praise the Maker and His bride Andraste… Blessed be the souls of the faithful that they ascend to his right hand…"
For once, no one interrupted Sebastian. Not even Isabella.
"Grant forgiveness to those who were lost, oh, Maker. May their souls rest by your throne in the Golden City…"
After all the slaughter and massacre… there was no victory.
"Blessed are the defenders of the faithful…"
Death is never justice.
Maker… Creator… Ancestor…
Please, grant her salvation.