G is for Guilt

-n.
sweet, delicious, self-inflicted comeuppance


There is a space inside her full of jagged little mouths. It's been there for days. She moves, they bite. She thinks, they bite. She breathes, they bite, and tear, and rend. The Void spilled open inside her. She's certain of that. The only respite is in the fight, the rush and roar of blood in her ears, the brief thrum of satisfaction when a dagger sinks into its mark.

"Hawke, behind you!"

She pivots in place at Varric's shout, and sees the emissary waving its clawed hands, the jaundiced glow of its detonation spell between them. Shit. Shit on a stick. She got carried away slicing through the rear ranks of hurlocks, spent all her energy in the bargain, now they're too spread out and she has no retreat.

She tries to duck and cover, but the emissary has finished casting and the force of the blast sends her flying. The world is devoid of sound. Blows to the head have been kinder. Her teeth feel soft. If she were to close her eyes, she'd see stars. Why can't she catch her breath?

As if underwater, she glimpses Varric at the end of the hallway, Bianca hoisted for another volley. Anders, pale in the hungry flare of spirit magic, scatters a line of hurlocks with searing flame. Dane, black with darkspawn gore, falls in mid mabari charge as if he slammed into an invisible wall.

There's something wrong with how long it takes him to hit the ground, with the angle of the ceiling, the height of the emissary. She's aware of tightening her grip on her daggers without being able to feel her palms. Distorted sounds reach her.

Varric: "Damn you, Hawke!"

The mouths grab and tear. Damn straight damn her.

"Don't you dare!"

Oh, Anders. Too late.

Is she in Lothering? The cool scent of mint lingers in her nostrils, clean and fresh like honey-infused tea on a long summer afternoon. Carver likes his with a drop of bitters, an affectation he picked up from a wandering bard, and Bethany always uses a splash of rosewater to turn hers into potable dessert.

Bethany— The mouths feast.

"You're awake." Anders looks down at her, his expression unreadable. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I could put on a ruffled dress and flirt with an Orlesian." It takes effort to enunciate properly, and even more effort to attempt standing up. They've pulled her away from the carnage and stuck a bedroll under her head. "How's Dane? Where's Varric?"

His grip on her shoulders is firm, though he eases her into a sitting position gently. "Careful. He went scouting ahead and your hound followed."

"Shouldn't you be doing that? What with being a Grey Warden and all."

"Ex Warden," he says more sharply than she expected. "The darkspawn are dead, and my skills are better utilized here. Here, drink."

She needs help handling Merrill's elfroot potion, and is glad for his warm strong fingers guiding her hands. Slowly, in the wake of several messy, stilted gulps, precision of motion returns. A vague mint aftertaste lingers. Quietly, she says, "That was stupid."

"Yes, it was."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?"

His question stings like a slap, unexpected but deserved. "I overextended and I shouldn't have."

"Tell you what, Hawke," says Anders with an intensity she only heard him use when defending Karl at the Chantry. "If you want to burn on an unwarranted pyre of self-pity, I won't stop you. Just do it after we reach the surface, and after you've thought about what your mother, and everyone else, will do with you gone."

Her first impulse is to punch him. Her second impulse is to punch him. Her third, and the one she acts on, is to shut her lids tight against renegade tears. A furious blush sears its way across her cheeks, and the Void mouths gibber and bite without end. Except he's right, isn't he? Either be devoured, or survive. It's always been like this; it just took a Blight, templars and Bethany wracked with blight sickness—maybe even dying—to admit it.

She'll never know how she manages to summon a calm she doesn't feel, look him in the eye and say, "It won't. Happen. Again."