She was seated on the edge of the bed, her head in her hands, when Fenris came. She did not acknowledge his presence, even as he moved to close the bedroom door. With a start, he realized the last time he had been in this room, he had made love to the woman before him, and left her without so much as a word. It had been several tense months since that night, and though he loved her – Maker, did he love her – he was still confused about what had happened between them, and what the future held.
So much love and pain in this room.
"I do not know what to say, but I am here," he said quietly. For how much she acknowledged his presence, it was almost like speaking to an empty room. Finally, she looked up at him. Her green eyes were free of tears, but the utter defeat in her expression was worse than tears could ever be. Without her usual mage robes and staff, she seemed almost . . . ordinary. It was not a word Fenris would have ever thought he would use to describe the indomitable Intensity Hawke.
After a long silence, Hawke spoke. "I should have gotten there sooner. This is all my fault."
"You want me to tell you it was not." Fenris came to stand before her. Hawke stared at her knees.
"You were right, you know," she said, and to anyone else she would have seemed calm and collected. But not to Fenris – he knew better. "In the slavers' cave."
"I –"
"'What does magic touch that doesn't spoil?'" she interrupted, her voice quavering, but only just.
"Hawke –"
"I can call fire to rain down from the heavens!" she said, furrowing her brow as she stared down at her hands. "I can freeze a hurlock in its tracks, heal my friends' most grievous injuries … I have so much power within me, this cursed, cursed power." Hawke glanced up. "And yet . . . what good is magic, Fenris? What good is the power I have when it cannot help when I need it most? It is worthless," she spat, rubbing her hands on the bedspread as though to scrub the magic from them. "All this time, I thought I was showing you that not all magic is a burden, a thing to be dreaded. But you were right all along."
"This is not about you, Hawke," Fenris said sharply. Her head snapped up to stare at him, though her expression held more shock than anger. He nearly took a step back, but held his ground. "I cannot give you the assurance you seek. That must come from you, and you alone."
"Why did you come here?" Hawke demanded, her anger welling up.
"To be here," Fenris said, sitting beside her on the bed. "For you."
"I thought you said it's not about me," Hawke said snidely, but her tone had calmed. When she spoke again, it was in an almost timid whisper, most unlike her normally commanding voice. "Thank you, Fenris."