Title: It's Almost Easy

Rating: M

Summary: Alistair had to be married. Why not to the Viscountess of Kirkwall? FemHawke/Alistair

A/N: Thanks for Reading. Review please.


Chapter 4

Fenris came at her again, and their practice staves clashed violently. Her hands lined up exactly with his, their noses nearly touching. Her feet slid in the dirt as she tried to throw all her strength against him and find purchase, but he wasn't a rogue like her. He spent his days lugging around a thirty pound great sword as though it were a dagger. So when push came to shove, the wood threatening to crack and splinter under the immense amount of pressure they both were putting on the weapons, Hawke launched herself back and nearly stumbled to the ground.

Sweat trickled down her face, her hair plastered to her forehead. Guards were watching with some interest, bored on their patrols and latching onto any form of entertainment. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she righted herself, feeling the delicious tremble in her muscles. After all the anxiety of her wedding day, it was nice to relax and find her center. The moment she regained her footing, she charged at the elf waiting patiently with guarded eyes.

She slashed at him with the end of the stave, hoping to surprise him, but he knocked it away with his own without missing a beat. Years and years of fighting side by side, sprinkled with intermittent training sessions together, meant that little of her technique was a secret to him. He ducked her next attack and attempted to sweep her off her feet by slamming the end into the back of her legs, but she ignored the pain and wouldn't let it cripple her. Instead, she used her shoulder to shove him back. Fenris actually faltered.

"Hawke," he panted, "no hands. You're cheating. Again."

"I'm not," she feigned innocence, ramming the stave in the dirt. "That was…my shoulder." Clapping her hands, she took a fighting stance with her palms out. "Come on."

Accepting her challenge with a wolfish grin, he twisted and launched his own stave directly at her. In alarm, she dodged out of the way as it crashed into her weapon, bending it backwards before snapping it clean in half. "If that…had hit me—" she began, but he appeared in front of her instantly, and she threw up an arm to block off his attack.

Fighting in constant battles, they'd all gained new skills. Out from under his master's watchful eye and away from Aveline, Fenris had adapted to his lyrium markings rather than shying from them out of fear or shame. He could become nearly invisible in shadows, slide his arm right through a locked door, or incapacitate a man from the inside out. The uses were limitless but also annoying when she was trying to grab him about the waist. She locked arms with him, seeing the strain of their practice in the shine of his skin, his warm breath rapid against her cheek. Just when she thought she had an edge, forcing him to step back as he slid in the dusty earth, he flashed incorporeal and sent her to the ground.

She rolled and swore, but he was just close enough for her to hook a foot around his ankle and send him toppling as well. A grunt of surprise, and they were caught in another inert struggle, fighting lamely and sluggishly against one another. Finally Hawke gave a bark of laughter and gave up, letting him pin her.

"You're…fast," she admitted, breathing harshly. "The throwing…stick was a bit…much, though."

He grinned down at her, the light of the sun catching his hair with an ethereal shine. To see him happy, even filthy and tired, made her heart swell in her chest. The pressure on her wrists let up just a bit. "I wouldn't have…hit you…Hawke."

"I know. Here…let me up…" he immediately complied, sitting back on his haunches. Just as he did, she threw her arms around his waist and pinned him in turn. He expelled a breath of surprise as her weight landed on him, a human much more robust than an elf no matter the gender.

"I win," she declared, posed over him in much the same manner he had been to her.

He shook his head. "You always cheat…doesn't matter…never matters what the rules…are."

"It does matter," she argued. "I just never follow…them. You…choose to…do so, and don't…penalize me for it. So…I have an…an advantage."

"Twisting the logic," he said with some amusement. "Too much…time with Isabela."

"No matter," she dismissed, finally catching her breath. Thirst was rising in her throat. "Do you…do you submit?"

Fenris seemed to think about it. The day was still young. As sparring practices went, an hour wasn't a very long one. If her muscles weren't already shaking in protest, she would have gone on for a little while longer before succumbing to tricks. Hawke hadn't trained in a while, though, and her stamina was lacking. Finally he said, "I do."

"No phasing next time," she chided, backing off and swiping some hair out of her face. He sat up on his knees and rubbed absently at his arm.

"Are you…setting another rule?"

"Yes," she smiled. "It's not fair. You're…stronger than I am."

"You're quicker," he told her, frowning as he glanced at his arm. She followed his gaze and touched the back of his hand.

"Did I hurt you?"

Once upon a time he might have flinched at the gentle brush of fingers, but he hardly registered it now. Time had adapted him to her common physical affection. "No, my…markings are acting up. It is of no importance."

"That's your dominant arm," she noticed with some concern. "Is it only there?"

"No," he answered truthfully. "Don't worry about it, Hawke. I know myself, and this happens when I travel."

"Well, if they hurt," she said, "you should have said something. We shouldn't have sparred." Honestly, she felt at times a mother clucking disapprovingly over her children. Aveline and Fenris felt they had no limits and pushed themselves far too often. Hawke had always been uneasy when it came to his markings. The unknown potential locked within them frightened her, and she was afraid that one day he might just move past the breaking point.

Fenris stood gingerly and offered a hand. "I enjoyed it," he murmured warmly.

Still frowning, she let him pull her up but kept a hold on his fingers, squeezing them. "Me, too. Just don't hide things from me. Okay?"

He nodded his assent and stared pointedly at his gloved hand until she released him and stretched, bones cracking unpleasantly. The few guards that had been watching had turned into a sparse crowd staring intently. Hawke registered that she had perhaps been acting improper for a noble woman, but she hardly cared. Patting Fenris on the back, she went to the shaded area of the stables and took a long drink from the barrel of water nearby, using the pale for a cup.

As she handed it to Fenris, a slow clapping started. A slinking shape materialized out of the shadows as her vision adjusted to the dark. Zevran was propped in one of the windows, a lazy arm slung over his crooked knee. The slap of leather against leather ceased as he grinned roguishly at her. From where he was seated, it was obvious he had a clear view of their sparring session. "My, my, I haven't seen such utter disregard for social formalities since the Warden and I visited last spring."

"I don't care much for political images, Zevran," she said coolly.

"Ah, but that's the name of this game," he held up a finger. "Yet outsiders like you and me and Mahariel get away with our eccentricities. Strange, no?"

"Hardly," she sneered, crossing her arms. "You two are written off because you're elves. We'll see if I can get away with so much as cursing in front of the other women."

He laughed. "You'll be the talk of the courts, not that you aren't already. For all Mahariel's stoic respect for the rules, she does adore creating a little chaos now and then."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, my little queen, you are of mage blood, rather old as far as fertility goes, and you did kill the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall before surreptitiously stealing the crown and title of Viscountess," he explained. "The nobles think you're some secret mage usurper here to kill Alistair in his sleep and assume the title of ruler all by yourself. Very cloak and dagger. I approve. They usually have no imagination."

A silence came over Hawke, and Fenris glared. "That's insane," she said at last.

"Rumors, at the heart, usually are, my dear."

"And what do you mean 'create a little chaos?' Eamon was the one who suggested I marry Alistair."

Again he laughed, and she felt a coil of anger settle in her stomach at it. She must have shown the feeling in some way because Fenris lingered ever closer and Zevran held up a placating hand. "No, no, I don't mean to make fun of your ignorance. In fact, I find it quite enlightening to talk to someone who isn't at the heart of all this…" he gestured at the air, "intrigue."

"Explain," said Fenris.

"Do you truly think Eamon so devious? Of course it was Mahariel who suggested the entire affair. If left to Eamon, our inexperienced little king would have married the typical royal bride: a whiny young waif from a family with high fertility, easily silenced with expensive dresses and jewels." Raising an eyebrow and looking at her skeptically, he asked, "Surely you knew that some pull was necessary to make you queen?"

"Of course."

"Well, there you have it," he said, satisfied. "Ah, Mahariel was right. I feel much better now that I've told you. The guilt was crushing me, you see." By the playful tone of his voice, she knew he was lying. If there was a reason he had told her, it didn't show itself plainly.

At the start of it, she knew that someone somewhere had twisted and coerced and bribed until enough people approved to let her on the throne. Alistair might have been able to choose from anyone in the kingdom, whether they were willing or not, but he would never have married a woman the courts disapproved of. The entire affair would have been political suicide.

No doubt Eamon had been a part of the major push. Old men wanted grandchildren, even pseudo ones. Time was short for a Warden, that much Hawke knew. Wardens had thirty years after the ceremony, maybe less. With the war raging, the time for patient waiting in the hopes that love would bloom was over. Eamon obviously wasn't the one that suggested Hawke as a bride. Mahariel must have pulled strings and used her position to make sure that the Viscountess of Kirkwall, a major official with an endless love for mages, became the king's wife.

As for the rest, she knew her age tipped the odds of having a baby out of their favor. Her Amell blood made a mage child a possibility even if both parents had no aptitude for basic magic. So it made sense that it would take a hero—with endless cunning and influence—to convince a world of proper men and women that polluting the Theirin bloodline was not such a terrible sacrifice.

"This is all rather trivial at this point," she said. "You're just here to play with me, aren't you?"

Zevran's expression changed; he almost appeared sheepish. Hopping down from his perch, he crossed his arms and glanced outside. "Ah, I do admit that my dear warden has been busy all day. I'm…well, bored is such a tasteless way of putting it."

Behind her, Fenris gave a low growl of pure exasperation. No matter how much time he spent around people of authority—and authority Zevran did have—he had no taste for the game of prestige. Hawke, however, smiled. What stood before her was an intriguing foreigner of stature with a seductive allure about him. Alistair probably wouldn't be ready for their impromptu date for a while yet. She could entertain him. "I hear tales that you're an assassin, Zevran," she struck up the conversation again.

Slowly, he smiled, but there was nothing pleasant about it. All teeth and ferocity. "Why, my beautiful queen, where have you been putting your ear?"

"A Crow," she enunciated slowly. "I've run into a few of your kinsmen. No easy opponents in the lot."

Arching a brow, his guard melted slightly. "Are you trying to win my heart with flattery?" he teased. That he was changing the topic of conversation didn't elude her. His being an assassin was clearly a forbidden area.

"Would it work?"

He inched closer, eyes flickering to Fenris but for an instant. Hawke knew he wouldn't say anything, wouldn't interfere at all. Harmless flattery and charm was just a tool she used to get what she wanted. Using it in casual conversation, however, was fun, too. "So strange, you Ferelden women," he said thoughtfully. "I am constantly in awe. My heart is easily won. That is superficial. My loyalty, I'm afraid, comes at a much higher price."

Just as she was about to reply, perhaps in a sultry and suggestive tone of voice, she stopped short and caught the small and unassuming outline of an elf that moved with a stalking grace. Mahariel was headed right for them, and Hawke nodded past his shoulder. "It seems your lover has found you, Zevran."

The way his eyes simultaneously lit up and his body tensed was perhaps the strangest conflict of emotions she'd ever seen. He turned to glance out the window of the stables, bracing his leather gloves against the dark, grayish wood.

Fenris caught her upper arm. "Are you expected anywhere else?"

"No," she said, the buzz of his markings against her skin jolting her only slightly. Then she turned and thought about it. "Well, I suppose we might go and find out where Alistair is. We have date, and I want to take a bath."

Quickly, he took in her appearance and apparently noted nothing wrong. "There's no need."

"That's sweet," she patted his hand, and he let go with a startled expression. Clearly he'd forgotten that he'd been holding on. "My hair is wild, and I'm covered in sweat. You're used to seeing me like this."

"And you're all the more beautiful for it," piped Zevran, watching the two of them with an acute interest. "Tell her, bodyguard, how lovely she looks with her hair blowing in the wind, her lips and cheeks flushed, and her skin moist. These women don't understand that not all men adore the powdered ghosts bred to flaunt their vanity in court."

"Enough," Hawke frowned, but her heart beat fast in her chest at the lusty confidence in his eyes, the slow once-over that seemed to peel away her clothes and leave her shivering and naked without touching her at all. "Mahariel's clearly looking for you."

Mahariel stood in the grounds beyond the barn, a rather large painted dog at her heels. She spoke quickly and calmly with a guard, making sharp gestures with her hands. Nothing subtle about her at all. Zevran cast a glance over his shoulder and schooled his features into one of ease, but there was a fiery mischief burning in his golden eyes. "If she wants me, she'll find me. Never will I be called like the mutt at her heels."

Ah, she thought, so that is a steady heart you have there.

She'd run into plenty of men like Zevran. Too many hearts, too many beds, too little time. If she was honest, Varric fit the description himself. A heartbreaker, a charmer, a playboy, a Casanova, a skirt-chaser, a stud, a lady-killer. Also a wanderer, a nomad, a loner. And she'd seen the women who attempted to tame them: unique and unbreakable, willing to put up with their ways and scold them when they got home. Confidant and unbothered. The nature of their courting would be one built on power, and it was clear whom ruled who in Zevran and Mahariel's relationship. So Zevran kept his own version of control—that he wouldn't be summoned.

He would come and go on his own terms or not at all.

As a woman—naturally the submissive one in a relationship—she understood the need for that freedom, however small.

"We won't give away your hiding place," she winked, guiding Fenris toward the door. The light was blinding as they stepped from the shadows of the stable, the sun warm and welcome. Hawke squinted as Mahariel approached, her silver armor glistening.

"Fenris, Hawke," she dipped her head in a curt greeting, "have you seen Zevran?"

"He's in the stables," Fenris said immediately. "We're going back to the castle."

"You're such a snitch," Hawke grumbled half-heartedly.

Lips pulled back from his teeth, the elf added, "He's hiding in the dark like a child, waiting for you to fetch him."

To Hawke's surprise, Mahariel gave a twitch of a smile. "That sounds like him." With a short bow, she slipped away, armor clinking.

Fighting the urge to smack him, Hawke scowled instead. "Why did you do that?"

"What if it was important?" he countered quietly.

"That wasn't it at all," she said. "That was spite, and that's all it was. You don't like him."

As Fenris began to walk away, she followed. "No," he agreed, "I don't."

"Why?"

For a long while, he didn't answer, and Hawke sighed in exasperation. The inner workings of his mind had always been a big blank slate to her. She could read almost anyone but not him. Not when he didn't want her to. Normally it didn't affect their conversations. Fenris was not very verbose. When coupled with Hawke, who spoke freely and easily, he listened often and offered little. During the times he actually contributed and then shut down on a moment's notice, they were left swimming in an uncomfortable silence.

So Hawke trudged along after him, allowing him to lead the way to the castle, slightly miffed at his refusal to answer her. Once they were inside the portcullis and up to her room, she grabbed one of her maids by the sleeve and asked her to run a bath and locate the king. If Alistair was expecting her, let him know that she was bathing and would join him shortly. With a slow bow, the maid scurried off, and Hawke pulled her trunk out from under the bed while Fenris brooded in silence against he far wall.

"I should have brought more clothes," she thought aloud, rifling through the sad collection of tunics and cotton pants. After selecting an outfit that wouldn't chafe under the leathers, she sat down on the bed and stared pointedly at Fenris.

He appeared uncertain and then began to speak. "He is unfaithful," he murmured softly, and Hawke's eyes widened at the realization that he was answering her earlier question.

"That bothers you?" she asked, mildly surprised, and he glowered.

"Shouldn't it?"

Hawke shrugged. "I'm not sure. Sex is currency in politics. I'm sure he loves Mahariel, very much if my intuition is right, but if he can, say, stop an assassination by seducing a target…"

Fenris's frown only deepened. "That's not what I mean."

"You mean that you dislike that he drinks and whores himself around," she said kindly, "but I think that's part of his very nature. Mahariel, for whatever reason, seems to love him. If she's fine with it, then it's none of my business."

None of our business, she seemed to say.

Of course, Hawke's assurances wouldn't convince Fenris to suddenly embrace Zevran in brotherhood. To be honest, Hawke found the fact that he slept around slightly distasteful as well, but who was she to judge? The Viscountess who invited strangers to bed? The mercenary who tumbled in the woods with hired swords? The Queen who wrestled in the dirt with elves and flirted with assassins in dark stables?

"He is dangerous," Fenris concluded suddenly, and Hawke tore herself out of her reverie. "Dealings with him should be short."

"I'm not about to hire an assassin," she said. "I can take care of myself. And I have you here."

A bit of warmth back in his eyes. That tired affection. "Yes, I am here."

That was all she needed.


Fenris excused himself to other duties around the castle—what she had no idea—and Hawke sunk into the heat of the bath without a care. Fatigue bled into her very bones as she rested her head against an embroidered pillow at the head of the stone basin. Even her fingers were too heavy to move, and she dozed silently for quite a while.

When Marni came to shake her from her slumber she was nearly underwater, and all the bubbles had dispersed. "My lady, the king is waiting outside!" the young elf said frantically. "He says you have a date to keep."

"Oh, leave me alone for a minute, would you?" she grouched, slipping beneath the surface so that she couldn't hear Marni's voice. But the water was cold, and she resurfaced with a gasp. How long had she been asleep?

"Are you all right?" asked the maid.

"I'm fine," she coughed. "Where is he? Gather my clothes, and I'll get dressed." Disappearing out of the door, the maid left to fetch the garments.

Hawke stretched and curled her toes, feeling the ache from sitting on the cold stone for so long. Ten years ago, she could have sat there for two days without becoming the slightest bit sore. Maker, ten years ago she wouldn't have fallen asleep in the first place. A yellow bruise was coloring in at her hip, soon to be a dark purple. Swiping her hair out of her face, Hawke sighed. Thirty was too old to be sparring with spry young men. She was damaged to easily.

Finally she stood up, sopping wet and dripping. Marni entered and draped a towel around her shoulders. The queen stepped from the bath, languidly searching through the clothes for her panties and bra.

"Did you have a nice day?" Hawke asked the girl.

"I did," she answered earnestly. "I helped Bernard in the kitchen."

"Oh?" she tried to appear interested, even as she tiredly yanked on her trousers. "What's for dinner?"

"I'm, uh, not sure. I chopped potatoes."

"Hmm."

Food was the last thing on Hawke's mind, but her stomach gave a ravenous growl at the mention of potatoes. She'd eaten only two sweet rolls before training, and the calories and energy boost were both gone. Perhaps it explained why she was so exhausted.

Full dressed, she left the confines of the bathroom and shivered as the cooler air hit her skin. Alistair was standing near the door, less bulky without his armor on. Still an imposing figure. She smiled flightily at him and began to re-strap her gauntlets, carapace, and boots.

"You don't have to go out full-armed," he said. "I'm mean, well, we're just riding around. Aren't we?"

"Prep-ar-ation," she pronounced the word slowly, accenting each syllable. "Paranoia is another one of my fabulous qualities. I don't go anywhere without armor or a weapon. Preferably both. Last night was an exception."

Struck suddenly by a thought, she glanced at the chair where she'd laid her dress. It was gone. Her shoes were, too. So was the crown. Marni probably swept it all away.

"At least I'll have a guard," he said brightly, and she nodded.

"I'm sure a full compliment will follow us out." Adjusting the straps on her shoulders, she plucked the brush from the armoire and ran it through the wet strands of her hair. She heard a series of soft thuds as water dripped onto the leather. Pulling it back and tying it with a bit of tweed, she glanced briefly at herself in the mirror—an older warrior, fit for stealth or sneak—and joined him at the door.

"I've arranged for three guards," he confessed a bit sheepishly. "Eamon wouldn't let me go with less. Some date I am, eh?"

Already he was blundering, so she squeezed his upper arm in reassurance. "It's okay," she said. "It's too dangerous right now for us to prance about the grounds unprotected." Even if she could protect them both better than any trained guard. Well, he probably could, too.

Without ceremony, and without Hawke waving goodbye to Marni who was still in the bathroom draining the mess of cold water, they proceeded out the door and to the stables. How different to travel through the castle at Alistair's side! So many guards gave a short nod in greeting or an 'Evening, your majesties' as they passed. A few servants stopped what they were doing and ducked out of the way, as if they weren't fit to be seen in his presence.

At the stables (not the ones that she and Fenris spoke with Zevran in; those were near the training grounds and full of the guardsmen's horses) Hawke found her horse with relative ease. Gwen gave a soft whinny in greeting, nuzzling at Hawke's neck with deep affection. "Hey, girl," the rogue cooed gently, stroking the mare's nose.

Gwen was a blatant bribe from one of the nobles in Kirkwall for Hawke's favor. The mare was a skinny young foal with a fiercely unfriendly demeanor when she was received, and more than once Fenris suggested that Hawke sell the creature and get it over with. There was no place to ride a horse in Kirkwall, anyway. The mountains were too steep; the Keep didn't have a riding area. Too many rocks would chip and wear down Gwen's hooves. Yet Hawke refused to sell and persisted. Eventually, the horse developed some sort of love for her owner.

"You need brushed," said Hawke, running her hand over the black coat. The fur lacked its usual shine. "And some carrots."

Snorting into Hawke's shoulder, Gwen gave a sharp nibble on one of her carapace buckles. Alistair stood admiring her. "That's a fine horse," he said when she caught his eye.

"I love her," she said immediately, "even if she is a bit of a bitch sometimes."

Gwen stomped her foot and rammed her forehead into Hawke's chest, shoving her back so hard she stumbled. Alistair laughed, his hands steadying her.

"Maker, she's like a mabari," he grinned. "Understands everything you say."

The horse lifted her muzzle and gave a great shake of her head. "Too intelligent for her own good," murmured Hawke, sliding away from the cool pressure of his hands. "Where's your horse?"

"Over there," he inclined his head. "Teagan gave him to me. His name's Thomas." Hawke stood on her toes to see the horse, led from the stall by an elderly stableman. Thomas was very tall and robust, much bigger than Gwen ever could be. The legs were long and muscular, back long and flattened by the saddle. His main was trimmed short like most military horses, jet black against his neck. His body was a flat grey, the color of cold stone.

As Thomas was led closer, he dipped his head. Alistair rubbed at his ears, far less affectionate toward his own steed. Hawke went to fetch her saddle, fixing it firmly to Gwen's back. Thomas was already full-saddled, no doubt by the man holding him. The stir Gwen had caused when she was taken from Hawke probably frightened the rest of the stablemen. No one would have bothered her after such a dramatic scene.

"He's sort of old," Alistair confessed, as though it were a dirty secret. "Nearly seventeen years, but he's a sturdy horse."

"Ah, Gwen's a baby," Hawke said as she led the mare outside. "She's a mean one, but it's mostly because she's young." As she mounted, Gwen gave a rude buck at her words. Hawke smacked her back with the palm of her hand. "Knock it off."

Thomas was quiet and complacent as Alistair climbed seamlessly into the saddle, and Hawke was more than a little jealous. As much as she adored Gwen, she could do without the attitude at times. Once the both of them were seated, they began at a slow trot around, speaking about quaint topics: the weather, dog breeds, crop yield, and Hawke's activities for the day as the guards watched idly from their various positions. When the sun began to slip below the horizon (was it that late already?) Hawke challenged the king to a race, and they were off.

The only thing missing was her bow as she raced through the trees, feeling the heave of Gwen's lungs and the expansion of her chest, the thudding of her hooves against the ground a welcome and familiar sound. Cold air sent the horse's mane flying, Hawke ducking her head to avoid any burning on her cheeks. Beside her, she could see Thomas trying to pull ahead, his own rider bent low to gain speed.

All it took was a quick squeeze of her thighs to send Gwen flying toward the finish line. As the trees became more and more sparse, and Thomas slowed behind them, Hawke let up on the pressure and allowed Gwen to come to a full stop. The horse whinnied wildly, tossing her hair almost as if in celebration. "Come on, Alistair," Hawke grinned, exhilarated as Gwen trotted in circles, "don't let yourself get beat by a lady. Well, two ladies."

He laughed. "I'll tell you something: during the Blight, my manly pride was dashed on the rocks too many times for this to hurt."

"I'll bet," she winked. Gwen whipped her head back and forth a few more times before settling, and Hawke dismounted with ease, rubbing the mare's thick neck as she stared at the sunset.

Light pinks and yellows spilled over the horizon, bathing them both in an orange glow. They stood on the edge of a rocky outcropping, a plain of thick green grass stretched out before them. Alistair came up beside her, holding onto Thomas's reins as he stared out with her. Hawke was breathless, the high of physical exertion buzzing through her veins.

"How'd the meeting go?" she asked suddenly.

"Fine," he replied. "Greagoir is upset that so many mages have escaped. He almost threatened me in front of my guard. I thought Mahariel was going to cut his throat." He sounded nervous, as if it was a genuine concern of his.

"She was there?"

"Yeah," Alistair said. "Once your coronation is final, you can join us at the meetings, too."

And that's when it really begins, she sighed. All this was just the preliminary trials. No, when she began to meet the great opponents and proponents to the cause, the gentle happiness she knew would burst into a life of chaos. It would be dishonest to say that her heart didn't pick up speed at the very though. Strife was what kept her going when times were dark. To live without it would bore her to death. To have something to focus on other than her and Alistair's awkward marriage situation would be a blessing from the maker himself.

Hawke felt Gwen lay her muzzle against the queen's shoulder, her soft touch kind and comforting. She missed her group of friends suddenly, Isabela's soprano laugh, Varric's clever eyes, especially Anders's fire and pure determination. His absence was like a lost limb, tingling faintly to remind her that he was gone that she must mourn him. Of course, she loved him, and to feel agony at his loss was only natural. Even if she never let him know. Even if she tried to guard her heart so she wouldn't get hurt.

Sometimes people sink so deep into our skin that we can't get them out.


I actually printed this off and almost gave it to my editor for the newspaper at my school. I'm so upside down. _._

Thanks for reading. Review please.