AN: Recommended listening: Peter Vronsky's Reprise from the Never Let Me Go OST (watch?v=yFFrScRdsFY).

Part Two

—

And a woman I used to know
Who loved one man from her youth,
Against the strength of the fates
Fighting in somber pride,
Never spoke of this thing,
But hearing his name by chance,
A light would pass over her face.
—Those Who Love, Sara Teasdale

—

The world ends.

After that comes chaos, and fire, and a look of such betrayal on Fenris's face that Hawke nearly cedes her whole purpose to ease him of it. If Orana were not—but she is, and Hawke will not let her come to harm when she can still offer some sort of protection, so despite the glare Fenris gives her even through the daze of his concussion, she kisses him hard enough they'll both remember and steps back to solid ground.

Carver will protect him. Carver, idiot oaf, tall as a tree and stretching Fenris's stomach wound even with stooped shoulders. She meets his eyes, blue as the Warden's uniform he wears—just long enough for promise to pass between them—and then he eases Fenris to the safety of Isabela's ship, ignoring the way the white head swivels with every step to find Hawke on the docks again.

So much blood beneath the hand pressed to his stomach. Blood in his hair, too, and in dark stripes down his neck and again she falters because he is hurt, he is hurt and she is hurting him more with leaving and he will not understand, not at first—

Enough! She cannot wait. "And Isabela," she calls, finding the glint of a hard smile through the smoke-thick winds. Isabela knows: Wycome, and a different sort of oath, and then Toby stands proudly beside her and Isabela's first mate draws up the gangplank and there is no turning back, not now, not any longer. Fenris watches her without moving, Carver's hand around his arm, his own silver gauntlet clutched to his stomach, every line of his body tense as iron as she straightens, as she leaves him behind against his will.

"Don't worry!" Hawke says, laughing, and grips her staff tighter to hide its tremble. "I'm coming back!"

Fenris's eyes, burning green in the dark, a thousand things unsaid between them—

Hawke turns and runs.

—

Despite the upheaval in the streets she moves fast and quiet, avoiding the mobs when she can, cutting through narrow back alleys and unused lanes in Lowtown until she reaches the stairs to the upper district. The dog stays close on her heels, her urgency bleeding into him; only once does she look back at the top of the stairway, where she can see the bay and the Gallows burning beyond it against the night, faint fires still flickering in the upper levels where the templars have not reached. Meredith, ash—the Circle routed—Cullen barely persuaded to allow her friends their freedom, and even that as easily changed with a single word.

There can be no peace!

Hawke stumbles, swears aloud, slams a mailed fist against the shadow-dim Hightown wall. Damn Anders. Damn him, and damn Meredith, and damn her for her own blindness. "Ask one simple question," she mutters, easing into the markets, adjusting her grip on her staff. "Aren't these explosives, Anders? Why do I need to talk to the Grand Cleric, Anders? How's the voice in your head doing, Anders? Would anyone mind secretly following Anders around for a few minutes just in case he decides to do something stupid to the Chantry—"

Toby lets out a low, sudden growl, and Hawke throws herself to her knees behind a fire-scorched market stall. Running footsteps—then six or seven thugs with torches and naked blades hurry across the square for the stairs to Lowtown. The moment the last torchlight dies away from the wall she is moving again, up the far stairs and into the dimmer path that will take her—

"Come out, Champion!"

"Coward! You've ruined us all!"

Hawke drags in a breath, shoving her hair from her eyes. Not too many, not yet—only five or six clustered at her front door across the square, but two with torches and one with a long kitchen knife. She doesn't recognize their faces, but that means little now; then one of them throws a rock, and the sound of breaking glass is enough to send her striding forward. "Can I help you?" she calls, her voice sharp through the low sputtering of flame.

For all their bravado they cow quickly enough before the Champion, sparks spraying from the place where she grips her staff, enough grief and anger in her voice that Toby snarls again. The leader whirls to her, says, shaking, "You did this—" then, in yielding, "Champion, you allowed this to happen!"

"I did," she says, and thinks again of Anders—and sorrow strikes her like a blow, rocking her back on her feet. She hadn't seen it. Hadn't understood, not like she'd thought, and in the end she'd struck him across the face and shouted for him to get out of her sight, as lost to rage as if a demon had whispered at her back. She hadn't understood—she hadn't—

She swallows, lifts her chin. "I did. And I've just spent the last four hours trying to—" To, what? To kill a madwoman with a lyrium sword, to keep a Circle of frightened mages from burning the rest of the city to the ground, to keep their templars from a slaughter born of fear. "To restore what order I can. Templars and the Guard will be in these streets in minutes. I suggest you're not here when they arrive."

The leader swells. "Is that a threat?"

"No," Hawke says, abruptly weary beyond measure. She steps forward and they flinch, the one lifting her knife in open fear, but by the time she reaches them her staff has become a walking aid in truth, Hawke leaning hard enough on it that her knuckles have gone white. "No," she says again, and looks from one to the other. "It's a request. From one citizen of Kirkwall to another, because this city's been my home for ten years now and there's been enough death in the last few hours to fill a field of pyres."

"The Chantry…"

"Is gone. And the Circle is in revolt. The Divine will have templars here in a matter of days, if they're not on their way already, and anyone with even the remotest connection to me or my friends will be questioned." She leans her temple against her staff, sighing. "Including odd meetings at my home on the night the Chantry fell."

They flinch again, lingering anger giving way to unease. Hawke steps through them, puts one hand on her door, caught for an instant between the total strangeness of the familiar sight and the bloody trail she's left in her wake; then she says without turning, "I'm asking you one last time. Please, for the sake of your families: go home."

She does not wait for their answer. Her hand twists on the latch and then she is inside, home herself, and Orana is there in the foyer with her hands over her mouth and her cheeks white, and almost the instant Hawke has locked the door behind her Orana is in her arms, trembling like a tree in high winter, the trade tongue and Tevinter alike spilling in a jumble between them. "I'm sorry," Hawke says, over and over, until it is not only for Orana but for Elthina and for Anders and Sebastian and even for Meredith, because no night should have ever ended as this one has, no life stripped away so harshly, no splintering of friendship without a word of understanding.

She cannot make sense of it. It is all so close—she can only place regret, and there is no time for anything more.

But three years of living in the Champion's home has made Orana ready for some things, and in a matter of moments she is off to collect supplies and what few mementos she can carry. Hawke does the same; there is an empty, well-oiled rucksack by the door, and a pouch with emergency funds in the vase beside it, and after a brief stop in the study for the Book of Shartan and her mother's letters she moves to the kitchens. Enough food for three days, maybe four if she's careful—and a waterskin, hastily filled at the back pump, and then Hawke hurries to the door.

Orana is already there, her own bag over her shoulder and a small covered basket on one arm, her shawl pulled tightly over her chest. Her cheeks are still white, but she meets Hawke's eyes without fear. "I'm ready, Mistress."

A sudden rush of gratitude swells in Hawke's chest sudden enough to steal her breath. When she can speak again, she says, "We're coming back here, Orana. You and I, we're coming back. I promise."

Orana smiles. She says, "I know."

—

The crowd is gone from her door by the time they emerge into the night. The air still reeks of smoke strongly enough that Orana coughs and pulls a corner of the shawl over her mouth; Toby stays close, watchful and silent, as Hawke leads them carefully through the streets. "The docks, if we can," she whispers to Orana in the narrow alley leading to the Lowtown stairs, both of them pressed flat against the dingy, ash-stained wall as three armored templars hurry past. "Isabela's ship's waiting there to get us out of the city. Until it calms again, anyway."

"And messere Fenris?"

"He's with her. He—" she touches her head without looking as they move again, hurrying down the stairs and into the lower city, and Orana makes a soft sound of understanding. "Clear. Let's move."

But they are only halfway through Lowtown when Orana grips her arm, pointing to their right. "Mistress—the gates!"

No. The enormous gates to the hexes, meant to quell any insurrection of the slaves—closing, one by one, rusted-iron hinges shrieking over the crackling of distant flames, scraping over stone where age has worn them crooked in their frames. Hawke glances over her shoulder—the way already shut behind them, and she hadn't even noticed, and if they're trapped here Orana will—

A shout. "You there! Stop!"

"Run," Hawke breathes, and they do.

Never before has she been so grateful for Gamlen's dubious aid. Three years' knowledge of Lowtown's workings thanks to him, of dodging templars and gangs alike, of fetching her uncle from another disreputable institution when he had been too drunk to walk himself, and in a matter of minutes they have lost themselves in the narrow, crooked alleys of the eastern districts. Lost their pursuers, anyway, though she still isn't sure if they were guard or templar or thug—but their uniform makes little difference in this chaos, and regardless of the threat she must get Orana off the streets.

"Can you bear the alienage?" Hawke asks, glancing around a corner long enough to clear it, and turns back in time to see Orana nod in resolution.

"I've never—but if you think I should, I will."

"Merrill will be there." Her mind races. "It's only for a few days—just until the city quiets, until you'll be safe in the estate alone. If you can—if you're willing—I know it'll be difficult but here you'd be one more elf among many, and if they're closing the hexes I don't think I can—"

"Mistress," Orana says, her hand closing gently around Hawke's forearm. "I will go."

"Orana." Another regret, like a knife in her heart. "I'm sorry."

Orana shakes her head, smiling, and moves her grip to Hawke's hand, adds her other hand as well. "I am not. I chose to stay. I would stay with you now if I could. But I know messere Fenris is waiting, and…I think he will need you more than I."

Tears prick at the back of her eyes, but this is neither the time nor the place, and when the way is clear Hawke leads them to the mouth of the alienage. The gates are still open here, though more than one suspicious face peers at them from shuttered windows, and they hurry to Merrill's home without stopping. Another precious handful of minutes to explain, to embrace Merrill one last time—

Then she kneels in the shadow of the vhenadahl, takes Toby's face in both hands. "You know what I'm going to say."

He whines, licks her chin.

"Merrill can't be on her guard all the time. I've got to know that there's someone else here to keep them both safe. Someone I can trust."

Toby whines again, a high thready thing that cuts at her, and Hawke leans forward until her face is buried in his neck, until she can hide the unsteady gasps in his thick, coarse fur. "We've been through it all, haven't we?" she asks him, her fingers twisted into his collar, her eyes hot and tight. "From the very beginning."

She swallows and presses a kiss to his neck, then to the side of his greying, whiskered muzzle. "Do this last thing for me, pup. Keep them safe."

He licks her chin again, and then when she stands he stands with her, and moves to Merrill's side in her doorway, and sits at her feet. No betrayal in his eyes, only something fierce and true—and how many will she leave behind tonight? How many times must she order someone she loves to stay back, or watch someone she had considered a friend turn away from her in total anger—

Anders, she thinks, swallowed in grief. Anders, and Sebastian, and Fenris, and now even her dog—

"I'll see you again!" she shouts, gripping her staff, lifting it in salute.

She will come back.

—

Gamlen's door is shut and barred, and no one answers her shout. Hawke blows out a breath and shoves a quick, scribbled noted beneath his door. "You always did like reading my mail!" she calls through it, not waiting for an answer, and spends a precious moment to pray he has made it out of the city as well. From there it is only steps to the long, narrow stairway leading down into the night's shadows, into the docks, her staff tapping on every third stone stair like a call. Gamlen, fool uncle. You'd better hope Charade's willing to take care of you—

The scalding sound of ancient metal shrills through salt-sea air as she reaches the end of the stairway, and Hawke's heart leaps to her throat. No source that she can see—but there's a ladder to her left as she emerges from the archway, leant against an old, crumbling building, and she clambers up it one-handed, still gripping her staff, ignoring the sway and creak of the hand-tied joists. She still can't quite see from here, but Hawke has run roofs before and homes are built tightly in Kirkwall, and soon enough she makes her way to the end of a lane with one taller shop built to cap it. She takes its sloped wall at speed, the pointed toes of her boots digging into the grey, gritty mortar, her hand outstretched for the careless tiles tumbling down its gable—and then she is up, hair flying, caught in the smoky winds carried to her by the sea.

The Gallows still burns. Quieter now than it did, though fires still flicker orange here and there to break the blackness of the night; the bay itself is dark and still, no storm to churn it save what they have made themselves, save the dozen yellow-bobbing lamps that mark the skiffs making their curious way to the wargrounds.

Hawke blinks, her eyes tearing from a breeze with heavier smoke. Two of the ships in the harbor nearest her are glowing, smoldering wrecks, sailors and civilians alike swarming its sides with buckets of seawater, and in the distance—at the mouth of the bay—

"They've raised the chains," she says aloud, and the wind whips her words away.

She can barely see them from here save what glints with the occasional torch, the massive bronze statues fixed high on the cliffs creaking with strain as the chains rise from their feet. Water sluices from them in heavy sheets, the roiling ripples spreading outward like an aged mirror, flashing silver in long stripes save where the lone, small shadow arrows away from her, towards the rising chains, dauntless and without fear.

The Call. The Siren's Call, chasing freedom—

"Go," Hawke breathes, her eyes stinging, her hair caught in the tossing winds, the tip of her staff digging into the tiles at her feet. It is a race to the very end, made worse by the knowing of who stands aboard, by the thought of Fenris watching back for her, somewhere, waiting, still waiting for her to come—and then with a great scrape of iron on wood and a lurching that makes her clutch her staff they are through, uncatchable now with the wind behind them and Isabela at the wheel to guide her. The sails burst open, white wings in the dark, and the chains creak into place with a great groan that strikes the cliffsides and doubles again, and again, the sound of their escape, of her own abrupt heartache.

She watches until she cannot see them any longer, until the cliffs have swallowed them into the safety of darkness, until they are away and Fenris is safe.

She is grateful for that.

And now—

And now, Hawke thinks, slithering down the house's face, dropping the last feet with a jolt that makes her stomach lurch. Wycome. The Gull's Nest, on foot—nine days. Ten, maybe, if she must keep out of sight of the roads.

In minutes she is through Kirkwall's eastern gate, her head low and in shadow, the two unconscious guards hidden away behind a stack of crates. Only one more refugee from a city thrown to turmoil, only one more traveling Hawke, her pack on her shoulder, her father's staff in her hand: leaving her home one last time to follow after her heart.