A/N: So while on the DA kink!meme, I ran across a prompt that suggested a Hawke that was... not all there (simply put, a bit psycho) due to a past experience involving Bethany. This isn't that prompt, but it drove home a thought that I had a few weeks ago, and I sort of want to try to write it. The basis of the Hawke is the default F!Mage Hawke, who focuses in healing and primal magic.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the following characters, locations, etc etc. Bioware owns those. I own the ideas of the plot.

Synopsis: Marian Hawke is strong. She has to be, raised as an apostate mage, losing almost everything she dearly loves. Yet as the years go by, something starts to tether, until the culmination of Kirkwall's worries finally causes her to snap. Crazy!F!Hawke

A/N2: The pairing I picture is Fenris, simply because I love the drama that being a mage in a relationship with that elf fuels. If there's enough interest, I could make this a set of drabbles with Hawke's reactions to certain situations, but I went ahead and did the MAIN situation which is SPOILER-IFIC Anders blowing up the Chantry END SPOILER-IFIC.

The Last Straw

Hawke stared, mouth agape, as the Chantry exploded into a blaze of red light and a tsunami of rubble. What had just happened? It seemed like an entirely normal day, one where mage and templar were at each other's throats, one where she'd been called upon to be the mediator as usual. She'd been glad to give her services, if they had only just listened to her!

And now here she was, staring at the ruins of the chantry, bits of flaming rubble and body parts falling around them. What had seriously just happened?

"There can be no peace."

She turned to the male apostate of their rag-tag group, staring at him almost uncomprehendingly. "Anders... W-What did you...?"

He stared at her, melancholy but resolute. "While the Chantry was here, there was always the perverse notion that there could be neutral ground. Now, I'm forcing everyone to choose a side. Otherwise, there can be no peace."

"The Chantry... Elthina... Maker, no!"

"Blondie, how the hell could you do something like this?"

"I knew the abomination was no ally!"

"Anders, this is worse than blood magic!"

The cries and anger of her friends swam around in her ears, beginning to run together into a mess of incoherent nonsense. The Chantry destroyed, Meredith attacking, mages in trouble, swords drawn, red sky, red ground, red rain, red swords, red, red, red!

Hawke began laughing. At first it was just a quiet chuckle here and there, before she looked around. Her eyes brightened with an inner madness and she held her hands to her face as she threw her head back and began laughing in earnest, silencing all in her vicinity with an effiecency not many had.

Carver blanched, his fears for his sister finally being realized. It seemed she'd finally gone off the deep end, if her cracked laughter was anything to go by. Everyone was frozen in place, watching and listening to the mage they had come to call their leader. He felt some pain in his heart, knowing what the outcome of this could possibly mean if his sister went too far...

Her laughter finally trickled away, her hands falling from her face as she grinned up into the sky. "Kirkwall, dear Kirkwall, so adamant in your attempts to damn yourself." Her voice was sing-song, as if she were entertaining a child. "Bathed in red, dark red, bright red, oozing red, just as it should be."

Carver couldn't stop himself from running over to his elder sister, gathering her in his arms. Her tone of voice, her demeanor, it all frightened him, the possibility of possession frightened him, but she was still his sister. The sister he had been jealous of growing up, the sister he had blamed for his twin's death, the sister he had slowly come to love as he had matured into his own way of life. She had protected him for so long, now maybe he could return some of the favor.

Her eyes found his own, and Carver frowned at the detachment he saw in the usually bright blue irises. "Little brother. Little brother, let's play. We may come home drenched in red, but Mother won't be mad. She's just as red as we will be!"

"Sister, snap out of it!" Carver snapped, fear making his voice sharper than he'd meant for it to be.

Marian simply grinned mischeviously at him before twisting out of his embrace, pulling her staff from her back and blasting a nearby Templar with lightning. His screams as he sizzled in his armor seemed to entertain his sister as she giggled with what was almost child-ish delight.

"Fight back, you fools!" Meredith screamed at her templars, before glaring at Orsino and Anders. "This is not the end of this, mages." With that she turned and was headed towards the docks.

Carver had no time to think of his sister as his fellow Templars drew their swords. Did they really expect him to turn on his sister? It seemed a few did, ignoring him for the threat of his sister's friends. He found he had almost no sympathy for the templars he cut down, even though he knew them, trained with them. Is this how his sister felt protecting her loved ones?

His sister's laughter rebounded off the walls of Lowtown, childish and frightening. She was taking pleasure in the anarchy, in the madness, reveling in the killing.

"Paint the walls, paint the ground red. A matching color to match the sky. Everything must match, Mother and Bethany and Father would be so disappointed if it didn't." Carver heard her murmer to herself almost dreamily. Oh Maker, where had his sister gone?

All the templars lay dead or dying, and Marian found her grin would not slip from her face, even when she was once again approached by her worried brother. Oh, silly, silly Carver. No need to worry, I'm alright. Practicing my painting skills, who knew painting and killing could be wonderfully mixed?

"Sister...?"

"Yes, little brother? What shall we do next? The templars are dead, but there are others to kill. Must protect the ones who did no wrong, don't we?"

Carver frowned, his eyes turning a little misty.

"No need to cry, little brother. Big sister's just fine. Big sister's here, unlike Mother or Father or Bethany. Big sister won't be soaked in red, won't lay down as these templars did."

"Marian!"

Hawke turned her gaze to her lover, and she smiled brightly as he ran up to her. "Fenris, my Fenris, why do you look so worried?"

"Marian, I swear that damned apostate will pay! He won't get far! I'll-!"

"Won't lay a finger on his hairy, big-headed, cat-loving, Chantry-'splodin' self." Marian cut through Fenris' tirade, a dangerous edge under her childish tone. Fenris immediately went silent, staring at the woman he loved helplessly.

Instead, Hawke turned to the apostate mage who had taken a seat on a nearby crate.

"Justice is served, Justice is stained, Justice is pleased." Hawke murmered as she leaned on Anders' shoulders. "Blowing up the helpless by-standers, mage and templar and priestess alike, Elthina's head probably in Hightown, her torso in the Gallows, her robes with the Maker. Is Justice happy? Happy Justice, yes, of course. But what of the cat-loving mage? What of the mage who left out warm milk for the kitty, kitty-cats?"

Anders couldn't stand it anymore, pulled himself away from Hawke and staring at her warily. Her grin would not fall from her lips.

"I'm sorry, Hawke, alright? I didn't... I didn't know it would do... do this to you..."

"Do what? I'm perfectly fine, as you see! Unlike Elthina, she must be by her Maker's side. Hopefully whole, as that would be no way to live eternity! Imagine being limbless, headless, why, she'd be a laughingstock! But oh, she wouldn't be the only one! There're probably grandmothers and grandfathers and fathers and mothers and sisters and brothers and children of all ages! Child murderer that you are, you started the revolution! So let us continue it lest I paint you red!"

Anders recoiled, taking a defensive posture, before he thought better of it, nodding silently. Hawke, satiated for the moment, turned on her heel and strode through the muck and gore heedless of where her feet fell. She began humming a little tune as she went, kicking out at a templar's decapitated head as if it were a ball, grinning when it thudded against the Lowtown wall.

His friends, perhaps former friends now, watched her go before turning to stare at him, glares, questions, poker faces, the works. Oh Maker, what had he done...

A/N: If you'd like to see more of this Marian Hawke, let me know in a review and I'll work either on continuing this chapter or starting a new chapter. You can always request a scene that you'd like written, though it doesn't necessarily HAVE to be this Hawke. If you'd like a Hawke with a different LI, class or such, just let me know that as well.