The Chantry was just ahead, but Hawke bolted past it without a second thought. Past the Viscount's Keep, past the gardens. She fumbled with the door and didn't bother closing it behind her. She was out of breath, but couldn't stop, not even for a minute, because if she stopped, it would be too much.
It was late and the servants were abed and the fireplace dark and cool. Only moonlight lit the way through the family room. Hawke rushed to her chambers and looked around, pausing just a second to seize her staff. She was halfway back down the steps when Fenris came in through the door she'd left wide open. She came to a sudden stop.
"Where are you going?" he asked. It was gently spoken, but it took the wind out of her.
"I - I don't know," she croaked, taking a shaking step down. She'd tracked blood and mud inside the house. She inhaled and tightened her grip on the staff. "I'm going to kill every single blood mage in Kirkwall."
She resumed her descent down the stairs, but it was difficult to keep going. She'd said she needed to go to the Chantry, and fifteen minutes ago, she had. She wanted to knock down a statue of Andraste because fuck this. Then the urge to destroy things had gotten bigger. And now it was suddenly gone, alongside everything else she had in her.
Fenris caught her halfway through the room and held her in place by her shoulders. He shook his head slowly. Hawke bent her head and closed her eyes. The sobs came quickly then and her staff fell from her hands. She quavered, sank down to her knees, and he with her, arms tightly around her shoulders. Her voice heaved between sobs as she struggled to inhale.
Fenris didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say. She was all that remained.
The ashes sat at the foot of the statue of Andraste. Many people had gathered, most of whom Hawke didn't know and didn't care to know. 'We knew her as a girl' meant nothing. They didn't know a damn thing about Mother now, and how she had more strength, intelligence, and beauty than their small minds could comprehend. They dabbed their eyes and murmured their pity but all they knew now was that she was ashes. She and the pieces of several other women. The Templars had never found the rest of their bodies.
Sebastian led the Chant. Hawke bleated some small sounds in some attempt to follow, but they did not match. Except to sit and stand as Elthina dictated, she did not move. She had become another statue in the Chantry, stained with mud and grief and blood.
Aveline had cried. It wasn't obvious; just a slow trickle down her face during the procession, and then she was done. Hawke couldn't cry. She was out of tears. For days, she couldn't steady her hand to write the letter to Carver. Now she couldn't lift it.
Aveline fielded the condolences. Hawke made no response to anyone who touched her shoulder or tried to embrace her.
Some lingered, trying to be meaningful, but even they all left. Gamlen hadn't even been here.
The bench creaked in the silence as Aveline sat beside Hawke. The incense was renewed quietly by a sister. The morning moved on and the sun illuminated Andraste and her flames and the urn of ashes at her feet. They could burn a dragon's weight in incense, but it would still stink of Darktown dirt and the acrid scent of blood magic.
Several times, Hawke's jaw twitched, but she couldn't find any words. Aveline understood. She waited patiently in silence.
"I don't know what to do," Hawke said at last. "She's just… gone." She inhaled deeply, trying to clear her nose.
When Father had died, they still had each other. Mother, Carver, Bethany. With Bethany had died, they had the Blight and survival to keep them on their toes. Then Carver had barely preserved his life with the Grey Wardens, but he may as well have been dead with the duty he'd taken up. Now it seemed the grief of each hunched her shoulders at last.
"It will take time," Aveline said, composed and untiring, weathering Hawke's grief as she had weathered her own. "Sometimes it will seem better. Sometimes it won't."
Mother had been the only reason Hawke cared for Kirkwall. There was no reason to stay now. But there was no purpose in leaving. Her gaze turned to her hands. Mud under her fingernails. She was nothing like her father. He had protected them, always. She just spread their bloody corpses like lily petals in wind.