The Murder of Sigrun Hawke's Mother (and What Came After)
The blood lust left me slowly. I gazed about the stinking foundry, demonic body parts and entrails abounded. The sickly sweet smell of dead abominations filled my nostrils and made me retch. As my mind cleared, I could see Hawke on her knees in the dusty floor, cradling the butchered remains of her mother. The dark magic faded, and the corpse lay still in Sigrun's arms.
Sigrun seemed stunned. Her blonde hair was dark with sweat and blood. Her pale grey eyes were dark-her pupils so dilated, she seemed drugged. In monotone she asked Varric to find the city guard and someone who could be paid to remove the bodies to a place of burning. The dwarf returned quickly, accompanied by a guard and a man from the tavern. She gave a description of DuPuis to the guard. To the employee from the Hanged Man, she paid out coin and asked that her mother be taken to the nearest site for cremation.
When he returned with the cart, we followed the body. It was a grim, blood soaked procession, but one not particularly rare in this hell-hole of a city. I wondered if Varrick or Anders would suggest sending for Gamlen but neither did. A pyre was readied, and with little ceremony, Sigrun set it alight and stood silent as it burned.
The sun was beginning to rise as we trudged up the stairs toward our homes. One by one, we left Sigrun as we reached our abodes. I was the last to leave her side. I did so without speaking and entered the house. Battle sore and weary, I shoudl have been able to slumber. But I could not do so. Something deep inside me was nagging, and I could not sleep. Giving in to the irresistible, insistent demand, I dressed and walked to Hawke's home. Bodhan allowed me inside without protest. Unusual, for the old dwarf was rather protective of his mistress.
"Where is she?" I asked.
"Upstairs, messer, " he replied.
I climbed the stairs to her room. Her room with it's clean lines and simple order. Her room that smelled as she did, of soap and a light scent of citrus. Her room that reminded me of what I had thrown away. Sigrun sat on the edge of the bed, readied for sleep. She looked at me, her eyes hollow and empty. Now that I was here, I was unsure. This woman was the reason I was in turmoil. For my own peace of mind, I should have stayed away. Yet, I was here. I had to be here. But I knew not what to do. "Hawke, I don't know what to say..."I began.
"Was it my fault?" She asked, uncertain in tone, almost childlike.
"You are seeking absolution. I am not the one who can give it to you," I responded. I turned to leave her.
"Fenris, wait," She whispered.
I turned back. Sigrun took a step toward me-held out her hand-pleading-her eyes begging for what she could not demand. Without a word, I took her into my arms. For a moment, she stood silent and straight, but then a soft, wailing moan rose from inside her, a keening sound that grew more pain-filled with each breath. She sagged in my arms. Were it not for the agonized sounds, I would have thought she fainted. As gently as I could, I dragged us both to a chair.
I held her on my lap and stroked her back as she sobbed. I murmured inconsequential words in languages I thought I'd forgotten. I brushed hair away from her face. Until that time, I did not think that Sigrun allowed pain or sadness to touch her. She was always so strong. So sure. So certain. In all the horrors we had dealt with, all the blood, all the death, I had not seen her crushed or broken.
Yet now, she was utterly and completely helpless in my arms. Crying, not only for her mother, but for everything she had lost. Home, father, siblings, country. Crying for the dead, for the missing, for the past.
It occurred to me for the first time that my own amnesia was, in some dark way, a blessing. I could not count my own losses, true, but because I did not remember them, they could not wound me thus.
I held Sigrun, arms and back aching, I held her close. Minutes, hours, I held Sigrun until the tears stopped and I realized that she had fallen asleep. I managed to get her to the bed and lay her down. I debated. The wisest thing was to leave. But I would not leave her vulnerable and alone in that terrible time. I could pretend-to her if not myself-that I stayed for friendship's sake...but I knew otherwise. I could no more have left her there that I could fail to breathe. I stretched out beside her to watch her sleep. I myself, fell to slumber.
When I woke, she was up and dressed. I felt sheepish-I had vowed never to be in her bed again. Yet, here I was-in a manner of speaking. Sigrun, ususally quick to take advantage of a humorous situation, did not. I hastened to my feet.
She was herself again. Sigrun the victorious. Sigrun, the battle maiden of old. Her emotional armor in place, her vulnerabilities tucked away. And yet, she reached out to touch my face and stopped. A wistful look passed briefly over her features. Then she smiled. "You should not have been so kind to me, my love." She said. "You give me hope that some day you will return to me."
Damn her! Damn her! I should have shouted some irredeemably insulting remark. I should have cut her with words sharper than my sword. But I did not. I could not. Sigrun knew me too well. She certainly loved me too much. And, Maker help me, I was beginning to understand how much I loved her.