The foul underground air was almost a blessing. It seemed like the smell of death had burned itself a place in her memory – hot and acrid despite the chilling bite of winter. Hawke breathed in the filth and grime with bitter desperation. What she wouldn't give to erase the last few days from her mind.

She made her way through the dank passageway, urging her pace to increase. Her footsteps were light, her eyes glazed and distant as she followed each and every step by memory. Voices accompanied her, unbidden, flashes of color and recollections of happier times that weaved their way in between the horrors recently carved into her subconscious. She shoved them all away as she squinted her eyes in the darkness, reaching for the small wooden ladder. She climbed the first two legs and lifted her hand to feel for the latch of the hidden door. When her fingers brushed against the rough metal the thud of several footsteps sounded overhead, and she froze.

The passing seconds felt like an eternity, sitting there alone in the dark, waiting for silence. The floor shifted and creaked with every step. She tried to count them, tried to focus on the feel of the wood or the ache in her neck – anything to distract from the deafening sound of the blackness around her. It forced its way into her head, echoing more whispers of doubt and reason. Maker only knows what the templars would do if they caught her here. She could hardly believe – nor come close to understanding – what exactly she was doing.

Seeking the truth, Hawke reminded herself.

She closed her eyes and breathed in slowly. But her mind was betraying its own thoughts. She knew the truth. Deep down she knew exactly what she would find, and what he would say. Anders had no grasp of shame. …If he had anything left at all.

She swallowed the bitter, angry lump in her throat as she battled against her wavering determination. Every moment she lingered was another guarantee that her logic and sense would win out in the end. And for reasons beyond her imagining, for once, she did not want it to. The echoes in her mind grew louder, turning to screams of rage and betrayal. And she harnessed it. Brows furrowed, she lifted her gaze above her, and her grip tightened around the cold iron handle.

Amidst the darkness of the tower hall, she peaked out from beneath a seemingly plain square of stone floor. The way was clear. Prepared though she was, he was sure to be heavily guarded.

Renewed purpose fueled her into action.

Right.

Left.

Right at the end of the corridor.

Her agile steps came to a halt as she pressed against the wall and peaked around the granite corner. She eyed the guard with intense scrutiny. Night watch never expects to see a lot of action. That, and the weight in his steps revealed that this templar lacked focus – a tired mind far from their duties.

Of course, she realized with a pang in her chest, they would all be tired.

Reaching around her back, she quietly lifted the leather flap of her satchel. Sleeping powder would not alert any nearby templars like a burst of her magic would surely have done. The poor fool never saw it coming.

A flash of smoke, a strangled cough, and Hawke was sprinting forward. With great care and effort, she caught the swaying mass of armor – relieved to find it was a woman inside – and lowered it to the ground. Breathing heavy, controlled breaths, her eyes darted once in both directions of the hallway before she continued onward. The cells on the main floor were not far…

Damn. Four guards?

…She thought there'd be more.

She worked her bottom lip between her teeth as she studied them and peered back down the hall. Tentatively, she reached back into her satchel once more. Their ranks had grown so thin after… what happened. Cullen must have trusted – or prayed – that no one would pull a foolish stunt like this. That thought only brought more shame and disquiet to her already disquieted soul.

She would never forgive him for this.

Deciding to err on the side of caution, she threw three grenades this time – two sleeping and one paralysis. Prepared though she was, she would not be able to catch four templars before they hit the ground. When the final guard fell to his knees, the nimble mage took to a sprint, her petite frame soundless as the night itself.

Skidding to a halt beside the one furthest away from her, she reached around his waist to find the key strapped to his belt and made great haste in double-checking her surroundings before turning her attention to the barred iron door. The gasp of surprise did nothing to distract her.

"Hawke? Wh-"

"Not another word, Anders." Although she was whispering, she was sure he could hear the threat and contempt in her voice, seeing him recoil in her peripherals.

The squeal of the open cell made her cringe, but she shut it quickly and leaned down to hastily fasten the key back to the fallen templar. She stood and grabbed the large pale hand of her fellow mage and yanked him back down the hallway.

Three…

Two…

One more step.

There was a hollow tap against the well-blended square of tiles, and she bent forward to open it when she heard a shout in the distance.

She turned her intense gaze to the man at her left. He knew the drill.

Five unconscious templars and an empty cell. She had been careful, but the mystery would take little brainpower to solve. Fortunately for her, Anders was infamous for his puzzling circle escapes. The templars would surely come for answers though…

They made it back in a matter of minutes. Hoisting herself up out of the underground tunnel, her eyes swept over the empty dirt roads of Darktown with growing awareness. When the adrenaline began to fade, her suspended reality too came slowly crashing in around her with every passing second. The soft click of the trap door sounded behind her, and when Anders spoke, something inside her snapped.

"So where are we going-"

Before he could finish, Hawke rushed forward, gripping the edge of his coat and slamming him back against the stone wall. "Not we, Anders." Before he could react the tip of her hidden dagger was pressed hard into his neck, piercing the skin when he swallowed the thick lump in his throat. "Just you."

He stared down at her and opened his mouth to speak, but the pressure at his neck silenced him.

"One hundred and four." Her voice was low and menacing. "Twenty eight still missing. Fifty-three bodies pulled from the rubble... Fifty-one strewn across the gallows." She pressed deeper. "Templars, mages, children… I should gut you just like you wanted me to."

The blade punctured his flesh and he grimaced against the pain. "So why didn't you?"

"Why didn't I?" she shouted. She stared up at him and let out a bitter chuckle. "Because it would've been too easy." Her gaze grew hard. "Even tranquility would have been too merciful."

His eyes searched hers. "You knew full well they were going to kill me."

Her eyes narrowed. "Indeed, this would have been much easier if I'd just arrived to find an empty cell!"

His hands gripped her forearms suddenly, and he pulled her to him, ignoring the blade at his throat and crushing his lips onto hers.

Her eyes squeezed shut, for the briefest of moments, before she shoved him hard and wrenched away from him. She slapped him, and tears sprang to life in her wild, defiant eyes. But she did not allow them to fall.

She turned away from him then, and immediately his hand went to his throat. She could feel the shift in the atmosphere from his healing magic, willing her own gathering mana to disperse. The small blade shook lightly in her white-knuckle grip, her eyes blinded by rage.

"Hawke-"

"Go!" She turned to meet his gaze, a storm of emotions in her eyes. "I never want to see you again."

He opened his mouth to protest again, to fight – something he didn't know how not to do – but she tore her eyes from his before he could. If he had, she just might have killed him.

Wordlessly, she made her way back towards the stairs leading to her Hightown cellar. She did not spare him another glance. It was just as she feared – he knew what he had done. He knew, and he did not care.

She just needed to know…why.

Her footsteps slowed, and she drew in a shuddering breath before placing a hand over her lips. She let her anger get the better of her. She was too careless – got too carried away… It was too much to hope that they could just talk it out and…what, he'd apologize and everything would be okay? Was there even anything left in him apart from Justice and hatred? More importantly…

…Would he do it again?

The fleeting sound of his disappearing footsteps resounded like a terrible thunder in her ears. All those people… And he didn't even hesitate. She turned around suddenly and was met only with the flickering darkness of Darktown's lonely streets.

Maker's breath, what had she done?

Disgust filled her like bile in her throat. Her muscles trembled as she reached her cellar, and she leaned against the wooden door for support. With a shaken breath she slid to the ground, running her fingers into her hair and raking them over her scalp.

She could still catch him. Maybe she could go back, find the Templars… No.

Or perhaps Varric and the others… No, that would take too long.

Maybe if she left now she could confront him on her own, and…

No.

It was done. There was no going back now. Anders' fate was in his own hands. She half assured herself he would get caught on his way out of the city, or that he would freeze to death before he reached Sundermount. She breathed deeply and stood, trying hard to force a calmness into her lungs and heart. But nothing helped the ache, or the weight now crushing her shoulders.

"It is done," she whispered, and made her way back through the darkness of her home and up the stairs. With a heavy sigh, she opened her bedroom door.

"Out for some air?"

Hawke spun around with frantic eyes.

"I don't blame you. Maker knows we've had our work cut out for us. …I'm sorry I couldn't stop by sooner."

"Aveline…" Hawke sighed, forcing a smile and attempting to regain a fragment of her composure. "Don't apologize. We both know how much this city needs its guard-captain right now."

"And its Champion." Aveline returned the gesture, eyes staring into hers. She leaned against the edge of Hawke's desk. "I stopped by during patrol to check in on you. Orana let me in, seemed concerned herself that she didn't know where you were…"

Hawke simply nodded and turned to the notes on her desk. "I'm sorry to have kept you."

"I understand Bodhan and his boy have moved on from here."

"They have."

Hawke could feel the gaze piercing the side of her head. Her heart was pounding, and her fingers were shaking. She reached out to sift through the scattered paperwork, eyes skimming over the blotched lines of ink, distant and unfocused. After searching for nothing, she came upon an excerpt from Anders' manifesto, and she dropped the pages suddenly. She jumped when she felt the weight of an armored hand rest atop hers.

"Hawke." She squeezed gently. "Are you doing all right?"

She attempted to smile, ready to shrug off the concern. But when she turned, all she could do was notice the ash, blood, and grime that coated her friend's armor. …The Captain of the Guard. She met Aveline's eyes, and vaguely wondered if they were all that was left holding this city together. The pain that finished tearing its way through her heart was unbearable. "Nothing will be the same after this," she found herself saying, her voice barely above a whisper.

It wasn't a question. It wasn't a statement that demanded a response. Her words had more meanings then she could count; but Aveline's gaze locked with hers, and an understanding passed between them. No, she realized, as the weight finally settled in around her – nothing would ever be the same after this.
And no, she wasn't all right.

Hawke drew in a shallow breath and swallowed the lump in her throat. Wordlessly, she moved over to the window, eyes staring out at nothing. The snow was falling steadily now, blanketing Kirkwall in a cold silence. It fell over the rubble, over the broken bricks and charred stone, and covered it all up in a rather beautiful shade of white. Aveline walked the few paces to stand beside her.

"…Can I confide something in you, Guard Captain?"

"Anything," she said.

A sad smile graced Hawke's lips. "I actually wanted to be Viscount."

Aveline's turned to face her fully. "The templars wanted you to be Viscount, Hawke. That alone speaks my own opinion louder than I ever could."

Her gaze remained anchored outside. "Cullen didn't force the issue. We both knew it needn't be said why."

"And still you've done more for them as a mage with a conscience than you could have ever done as a Viscount with a title." She put her hand on Hawke's shoulder. "Ten years. Doing more than anyone else to make this a better city – fighting against greed, power, and corruption-"

"And it will never be good enough." Her voice was quiet, but her words were silencing. She turned to finally meet Aveline's eyes; but she had no response. Hawke sighed and stared back out into the streets. The guilt and distress that had been gnawing away at her insides had subsided somewhat, slowly replaced by an emptiness she couldn't begin to understand.

She messed up. Too much this time. She was always too late to save the ones she loved; and now so many people had been lost, all to a plot hatched right under her nose. And she allowed herself to be blinded.

There was no escaping what was to come.

Her gaze fell to her hands, and she could only imagine cold iron clasped around her wrists, could see the shackles binding her to the stones of this Maker-forsaken void that was her life. She was one with Kirkwall. 'The city of chains.'

In that moment, she knew she would die here.

Aveline's hand gently tightened on her shoulder.

"Listen Hawke. Whatever part of myself I left behind at Ostagar, I never imagined I would have to find it again. I don't know what it is we're up against this time, but it isn't darkspawn." She turned her to force eye contact between them. "Apostate or not, you are my friend; and a damn good example of a human being. And you are not alone," she assured her. "Remember that."

Hawke nodded, distant and meek – focusing her attention back outside her window. "We should both get some rest," she said."

Aveline removed her hand and sighed. "I'll be by tomorrow. …Good night, Hawke."
She quietly shut the bedroom door behind her.

Several moments of silence followed, Hawke standing motionless. A shaken breath passed through her parted lips as she stared out her window. The small cloud of moisture fogged the glass, and she shivered before leaning against the wall for support. The sun was peaking just above the horizon.

…Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad, being Tranquil. If she turned herself in, took the blame for everything… Maybe they'd consider giving her a lighter sentence.
Maybe then she'd finally get a descent night's sleep for once.

Her eyes drifted around her room, as if attempting to find a memory – some shred of hope or happiness to grasp on to… Sebastian and Fenris were gone, and now Anders… Isabella was sure to follow soon. What remained of Kirkwall…
When her gaze landed on her desk again, she stared at the scattered pieces of parchment, at the scrawled pleas and requests. For a long time she stared at them – flashes of guilt, anger, and apathy warring silently in her mind.

'It will never be good enough.'

The building screams caught in her throat. Tears began to shine in her eyes.

Was there even anything left for her?

Wordlessly, she sat at her desk and reached for a clean piece of parchment. She dipped her pen into the half-empty inkbottle, and began to write. The letter was addressed to Orana – enclosed in an envelope with her deed to the estate. A choked sob broke through her defenses, and she inhaled and exhaled deeply, fighting to control her breathing as she stamped the liquid wax with her seal.

Everything hurt.

And she was tired of hurting.

Let the templars come. At the very least, she had one more honest gift to give to someone who truly deserved it. The young elf would find it here, on her desk, after she was gone. They would be here soon; and she would not fight back.

She was tired of fighting.

Let Kirkwall take her sooner, rather than later.

Let them come.

Her bedroom door creaked open behind her, and Hawke turned around with empty, tear-stained eyes.

But she wasn't expecting to see him again.

His robes were tattered, his breathing frantic as he watched her, eyes searching hers as she stared back at him in mild disbelief. The only movement came from the rise and fall of his shoulders, and a moment passed in silence before he found his voice.

"…Why?" he called out, wavering slightly.

Hawke pushed herself up from her desk, but did not respond. She was too tired to think. Too tired to feel anything anymore.

"Tell me why," he pleaded. "The templars will know you helped me escape… They'll make you tranquil!" He stepped towards her. "Why did you do it?"

"It doesn't matter anymore." Her voice was hollow. Any fight in her was gone. "I expect they'll be here any moment now. So I suggest you leave, while you still have the chance."

Her unchanging stare seemed to spur the fire in him that refused to die out. "You can't just stay here and let them take you." His tone was low and serious. "I won't let you take the punishment for my crimes."

"And I won't let you stop me." Her eyes narrowed as she stared him down, unmoving. "Please. Do not stop me."

His eyes searched hers before widening slightly. A fleeting emotion flickered in his gaze before it dropped to the ground. When he looked up again, Hawke thought she had never seen him so sad. Beneath his breath he muttered something she couldn't quite discern.

"Wh-"

"I'm sorry Hawke…"

And she felt the crackling sensation of magic before meeting the cold, welcoming darkness.