The moment she awoke that morning, Hawke knew it was going to be a terrible day. Everything hurt. It wasn't the familiar soreness she felt after a long day of fighting. No, this was worse. Her skin burned where it met the fabric of her sheets, and there was a dull but persistent throbbing in the joints of her hands and feet.
She swallowed. That was a mistake. Her throat felt parched, though all the moisture in her mouth grated like sand.
She gingerly peeked a hand out from beneath her covers. Then a wrist. Then her—nope. It was freezing out there. She felt safer in the little oven she made for herself. So she burrowed deeper into her pile of blankets. But wait…she had a meeting with the Viscount scheduled for that morning.
"Balls…" she croaked and winced at the sound of her voice.
It took much longer than usual, but eventually she managed to hoist herself up and don her armour despite how much the leather pieces seemed to chafe against her skin. She took a quick peek at her reflection and grimaced at how flushed she looked, with bloodshot, glassy eyes and everything. She reached out for her staff, but her fingers slipped and sent it clattering on ground. It rolled back and forth a little, as if mocking her.
"Maker, what is wrong with me?" she groaned, rubbing her eyes when black spots appeared in her vision. "Am I sick? It can't be. I never get sick."
Hawke made her way out of her room and stood on the landing overlooking the now somehow ridiculously long flight of stairs. She debated calling for Orana to assist her but then thought that if she needed help now, she might as well have stayed in bed. Nope, she was going to get through this day now or not at all.
She took a step down, and her foot met air.
"Ah, balls…"
Fenris noticed something was wrong with Hawke when they parted ways the evening before, she into her manor and he toward the other end of Hightown. Her eyes looked glazed over, and she radiated an unnaturally warm presence that worried him a little. But she maintained her usual cheery disposition; so he allowed his concern to fade into the back of his mind.
He still thought it wise to check up on her the next morning though. And although he really should've been surprised when he passed through the foyer and found Hawke teetering precariously over the top stair, he was—in all honesty—unfazed. He managed to rush up the stairs, taking two, three steps at a time and catch her before she fell into a crumpled heap at the bottom.
She was burning.
Fenris called for Bodahn and sent him off to find Anders. Orana, upon hearing the commotion outside the kitchen, peeked out hesistantly, but when she saw the sad state her mistress was in, she sprang into action, gathering a bowl of water and some linens and following Fenris up the stairs. Together they managed to lay Hawke comfortably in bed and strip her of the armor she had so carefully equipped earlier.
Shortly after Hawke was tucked in under her covers, Orana darted out of the room to retrieve more things.
Meanwhile Hawke was having a field day with all the moving and the loud voices ringing in her head. It was only after the noise died around her that she managed to peel one crusty eyelid open. Fenris was sitting beside her on the bed, his luminous green eyes wide and worried.
"Am I dying?" she whispered. It hurt to speak.
The elf snorted, relieved to find her still conscious, "No, Hawke, you're just sick."
"But I never get sick," she pouted, "Everything hurts. Everywhere burns. This is the absolute worst."
Fenris shook his head at her petulance but then was suddenly struck with an idea. With slow, even breaths, he let the lyrium on the tips of his fingers flare and drew them gently down the arm nearest to him. Hawke's eyes sprang wide open at the contact, and he froze, unsure, "Does…does it help?"
Hawke blinked a few times but then smiled gently at him, "It's better. Thank you."