She finds one in a barrel in a dank, deep part of Darktown; tattered and frayed at the edges, it's former bright colors have dulled with dust and mold and maker-knows how much time spent in the thick chokedamp that's spread across this area of Kirkwall like the fog of Denerim.
It's messily made, she notes. The knots, clumsily tied, the loop made for a wrist too small, and so the material has been stretched as if pulled and pushed to fit over a larger hand to the wrist. It's a simple, cheap gift, made for a child that has most likely grown; perhaps made by a child itself.
She places it in her bag, in a separate pocket than the rest of junk items to sell, and ignores the stares and comments of her companions — the sarcastic, witty statements of Isabela; the want of an explanation, the ties to a story, from Varric; and Fenris, whose eyes follow her throughout her silence.
Soon, they forget, or drop the subject, she can never tell with them; and further after, she forgets, stuck in the midst of the loss of her brother, trapped by the stark grief that adds more lines to her mother's beautiful face. She spends three years setting up a home with too many rooms; a home that is not truly a home but a place that towers and intimidates; the mansion in Hightown, that of the Amells.
Her mother feels — something. Hawke cannot tell if it is happiness or contentment or resignation, that her mother is now stuck with one child (instead of three) who is more like her father than her noble-blooded mother. The eldest is lined up at the doors of noble men like being sold at auction, at her mother's behest, to settle the older woman's heart and dreams that she had once given up when she met her father.
But Hawke is not one to do such for long — she is not made of the delicate things these men crave; soon she is once again out at night, tearing apart gangs with magic and spells, solving another's problems and avoiding the eyes of those who would lock her away. Trouble finds her, as always, except in the more official sense: the Arishok and the Viscount demand her attention, the mages brew trouble and the templars cut in using the only way they know how — by slicing away her patience with each swing of their swords.
She becomes closer to the former elven slave, drawn by his moss green eyes and the markings that glow with lyrium; by the way his lips can sometimes smirk and scowl and snarl in hate; and then the way they can smile — a gentle lift of a corner, the softening of lines and muscles and the baring of teeth in a quick white flash. Like a moth to a flame, she is pulled to him, inch by inch, by his convictions, though they are polar opposites of her own, and by the way he says her name: tortured and unsure and sometimes unsettled in its anger. His voice twists her heart to pieces as if he has reached into her chest and run clawed gauntlets against the muscle.
He protects her in battle, with his war cries and his sword and his instinct; he watches her when he thinks she cannot see — but of course she does, she always has, because she herself has been watching him just as often. And she calls on him the most when there are things to be done.
When she finds the second bracelet, again he is there with her, to absorb the way her fingers trace the weathered patterns, similar to the first. It's different, however — a single shade of red rather than multiple colors, the loop larger, the weave much more steady, but the edges just as tattered.
She puts it away in the same pocket, and says nothing, and he does not ask though his eyes trail after her as if tied by a rope to her waist.
Hadriana comes, then, with Tevinter slavers at her side like hunting dogs. Like the scent of the blood magic she uses, the woman is a sign of worse things that will be upon them, and the reminder tears at both Fenris and Hawke long after the elf kills the magister-to-be. At the same time, the rope between them tightens at their legs, and they are soon entangled in an embrace much older than anything in Thedas. They mimic the fire of the factories in Lowtown with their kisses and the sizzle of each other's touch upon their skin, and soon after they sleep, locked together, untroubled.
While they rest, he remembers. He remembers everything.
In a start, he wakes: shaking and mourning while past images and words and feelings disappear like smoke lifted up to the sky. He watches her from the fireplace while she sleeps, peaceful and content in a way he hasn't seen her before — and the fear and self-hatred come again, stronger than ever in the face of her confusion when she opens her eyes.
He runs, like a coward, and she blames herself for a long time; and then blames him — and when the blame stops to take a breath, her mother is taken, destroyed, her head and mind and soul forced into a body pieced together to fit the hope of a madman with magic.
Her mother dies, the last of Hawke's family, and it is here that he cannot stay away. He sits at her side in silence, the both of them staring into the fire that had cast shadows on their lovemaking months before. They should talk, she knows this, but in the face of her grief the words choke her like a hand around her throat, squeezing. It is in this quiet moment that she sees the red weave — frayed at the edges, familiar as it is wound firmly around his wrist.
It is in this moment that she feels hope.
She is forced to fight a duel with the Arishok that almost kills her but does end the life of her combatant, for she is the only one who is found honorable enough to battle for the freedom of this city. Bleeding, gasping for air and being held together by bandages and magic and the arms of the elf, she faces the Knight-Commander's sneer with eyes that do not give.
The Templar names her Champion, and the nobles cheer Hawke's new title as Hawke herself stares at the severed head of the Viscount, knowing that this is not the end of anything at all.
In three years, the tension between mage and templar and citizen ebbs and flows like the waves that lap at the Gallow's docks, and Hawke finds herself knee-deep in the dirty, salty water and does her best to keep her feet as the force grows stronger. But she is battered and bruised, and with each wave that flows over her thighs, the more she struggles. She concentrates on the little things around her: the return of Isabela, not sheepish at all but loyal enough to come back; how Anders slips further and further into the ocean, pushed and pulled by forces neither of them can save him from; the way Varric worries about everything and everyone in their group; Merrill, who is stuck staring into a reflection that Hawke knows stares back in full sentience.
And Fenris, who has contacted a sister that he isn't sure about, that he doesn't remember, and who could very well be a trap. He asks for her help, and her eyes trace the old threads that have grown sorrier with time. She says yes, and his gaze meets hers with hope and fear just below the green. Thank you, Hawke, they say, while her own answer, you'rewelcomeandI would do anything for you.
In the Hanged Man, their favorite bar, they find the truth of what they suspected: it is a trap, and his former master has sprung it. Gloating, the Magister taunts and waves a manicured hand as if this would have Fenris heel like the wolf he is named for. There is blood under his fingernails, staining the edges of his cuticles and the rims of his fingers like dirt. Scars interrupt the lines of his palms.
She sees him tense beside her, and realizes, in anger and horror and pain, that the gesture is exactly as it seems.
Hawke strikes first, and in response Danarius summons the dead to do his bidding. The taste of blood heavily coats the air — choking, cloying in its scent of copper, but it is not enough to save the Magister.
Fenris' hand grasps his former master's heart, claws digging through muscle and bone, his skin sweating and markings glowing blue. His face is all hard angles and anger, and the lips that quirk so interestingly are now snarling so fiercely that she should feel frightened by proximity.
She doesn't, even while the elf's grasp twists, his hand leaving the Magister's chest and there — in his palm, the bloody muscle that keeps a being alive, dripping red along metal gauntlets that tighten their grip, staining the bracelet wrapped around the wrist. The organ bursts, like an old fruit, and it is done.
He is free.
And she knows that she loves him.
She finds the third while they are on the run from everyone, while they are blamed for the decision for destruction made by Anders, by a man who had lost himself in the pain and sadness that had followed him all his life. It is in a small, broken barrel much like the first.
It is green.
She ties it around her wrist to match his and meets his eyes, and then his lips. His fingers gently link between hers as words unspoken flow between them, and in time, they disappear from eyes and ears like smoke, never to be seen again.
Their story, and memory, remains: told by a dwarf with a penchant for tales.