Maker, what had happened? This wasn't right, this wasn't how it should be.
She was riding on horseback, fast and hard, unrelenting. She didn't let the poor beast slow for even a second. He sat behind her on the saddle, his arms latched tightly around her waist, her hair whipping around her face in the wake of a cold and bitter wind. She couldn't think of anything but what Varric had just said.
'Hawke, there isn't much time.' It meant two things. It meant it was all about to erupt, to spiral out of control, if it hadn't already. And it meant she had to get him out, take him away before it was too late. She hadn't wasted a moment, she was going as fast as she could, riding as fast as she ever had, even faster than when she was a child, riding wild horses bareback through the fields outside Lothering. She hadn't been burdened by sense then, she had the naiveté all children did, she didn't know how dangerous it was, how reckless. She tried to evoke that feeling now to fuel her speed even more, but her panic wouldn't let her. The time had been too different, too carefree, before blights and refugees and mages and templars and Kirkwall.
The dwarf's grim tone still rang through her head, pulling at her grief and guilt, as if she could have done something different, somehow changed things. There was an order to it, a way she knew she could have fixed it if she had ever known the context, or had all the right pieces…
This one had been different, and it unnerved Hawke. It had felt like the others in its authenticity, however devastating, but it didn't feel like a memory or like it had already happened. It felt like something that was yet to come.
She knew it was her mind playing tricks on her. Her psyche was trying to tell her something, to help work out her emotions. But it had been crafty with this one, clever. She couldn't piece together its meaning as she sat alone on the bed holding her knees tightly to her chin. The emotions of the dream still lingered heavily, and her inability to shake it had added even more to the mix, so she now also felt paranoid and nervous. The estate was quiet, but she felt if a pin dropped it could send her over the edge. She'd heard stories of a powerful mixture of herbs that could make someone feel this way. People took it for sport or hobby, to pass the time, to entertain. Had she been drugged? Or was that the paranoia? Or was that what they wanted her to think?
Every night since the heist, Hawke had woken after one of these unsettling dreams, and every night it felt just as real as ever. Some seemed so real, she would feel like she was waking into the dream, instead of from it. She hadn't wanted to admit it, but it was starting to scare her. If these… hallucinations… continued at their current escalation, she felt like she could start to lose her grasp on reality.
She knew what would help. She leapt out of bed, her anxiety permitting her to ignore the need to add any clothing to the short tunic she'd worn to sleep in. She needed to talk to Fenris, tell him about this one, a dream that felt like premonition instead of memory. It had been a week since she'd come clean with him about the strange dreams and he had been helping her sort through their meanings. She would occasionally leave out some of the details, things she thought he might find particularly disturbing or things she felt guilty for apparently having stored away in her subconscious, but he knew enough that he would be able to help with her unease.
Even though it wasn't his allotted time, she knew she would find him in the cellar. She descended the stairs toward the large wooden door which she found slightly ajar, the light from the candles dancing across the stones in a thin line. She pushed the heavy door open a crack to peak inside, but didn't see Merrill sitting at her desk, a relatively odd sight despite the late hour. She pushed through the rest of the way and stepped in, revealing a slumbering Merrill sprawled out on the lounge, her thin, ink stained fingers hanging over the edge of the cushions. Her feet rested across Fenris's lap, the sleeping man cradling a bottle of wine in one hand, the other resting gently on one of the mage's bare feet.
Though she felt like this should stir some kind of jealousy in her, she couldn't muster it. It was sweet, really, especially considering how at odds the two had always been. She couldn't bring herself to wake them, so she returned back the way she came, instead dragging her poor hound up the stairs from the foyer and into her bed. After recounting the entire tale to the beast, who tilted his head endearingly every few words as he stared back at her, she curled up next to him and fell asleep.
The following morning, Hawke woke early and went to the cellar to accompany Merrill for a while, peeking at her notes, though futile, as she had no idea how the woman could make sense of the things she'd written. Over the last week Hawke had received tidbits of information from her, but the mage kept insisting that in order to have context and not give her potentially inaccurate information, she'd need to complete the entire translation before announcing her findings with any certainty. This was causing Hawke quite a bit of anxiety, and after being informed that it was not helpful to hover over the elf and inquire as to her progress roughly every ten minutes, Hawke let Anders relieve her watch duty and instead took a trip down to Merrill's home in the alienage to check the status of the map book.
Hawke hadn't used the book herself yet, but Merrill had always kept her up to date on the locations of the marks, even transferring them onto larger, modern maps so they could note any patterns or major changes week to week. There had never been any notable movements and the vast majority of the marks never strayed more than a few dozen miles. Though the ancient book was magical in origin and required a ritual to be activated, Hawke knew that once it had been been attuned to specific blood, it required no more magic in order to be updated again after that. She felt fairly certain she should be able to work it herself without incident.
Entering the elf's home felt odd at first, Hawke had never been there alone. It was dark and musty, having been unoccupied for more than three weeks. It was as if everything there had existed in a moment decades ago and had been preserved, untouched, now on display for posterity. Two half drank glasses of wine sat on the table, more than a dozen cowls hung on hooks or the backs of chairs or in an odd pile by the fireplace, and a handful of sheets were strewn haphazardly in an ineffective attempt to cloak the Eluvian. There were papers everywhere, half common, half elvish notes scribbled on parchment of all sizes and supplemented with rough sketches and diagrams. And books. Books opened, books stacked, books toppled, books marked, books balanced precariously on shelves, in corners, under the bed, on the bed. Most, if not all, were remnants of their research into the Belhim'irsa.
Hawke made her way through the dimly lit room and to the large table where Merrill had spent most of her time studying. She lit a candle, only needing to pass it back and forth a few times before she found what she was looking for. The closed map book sat atop the table, conspicuous by the narrow hole in the center that ran the depth of the book. It was this opening that accepted the blood of the target, magically filtering the substance onto the pages to reveal the whereabouts of the one meant to be tracked. Hawke was reminded of how dangerous this book could be in the wrong hands, and made a mental note to decide whether to protect or destroy it at at a later date.
Next to the book sat a half empty vial of blood, the only they had left. It was this blood-filled potion that when combined with the Prophet Malefica's power, had almost killed Hawke. A shudder ran down her spine at the memory of it, the strange vacancy of the unconsciousness she had experienced that night. It was washed away however by a warm reminder of what that experience had brought her - a realization that she was in love with Fenris, and all the contentment and comfort she'd experienced since.
She pulled out the chair and sat down, wanting to be careful to not use too much of the concoction, or Maker forbid, spill it. She carefully uncapped and poured a tiny amount of the blood into the opening, capping the vial back up tightly, then waiting a few moments as the liquid disappeared into the pages. She opened the book, starting at the first page and flipping through slowly. It was somewhat difficult to determine locations on the various pages, as Thedas had been a much different place when this book was created Ages ago. Though the mountains, rivers and seas were steadfast and could provide rough approximations of locations, Hawke was grateful to whoever had ahold of it over the last few decades or centuries, as they had added some markings to indicate the locations of present day borders and major cities.
The bloody flecks were unsurprising to Hawke as she casually flipped through - the quantity and positions all similar to ones she'd seen previously. Until she got to the map of Kirkwall.
Hawke threw open the door to her estate, map book in tow. Sebastian and Varric were playing cards across from each other at a table in the foyer, and looked up in surprise as she rushed through the door.
"A mark!" Hawke exclaimed and they returned her look of panic with confusion. She looked around for the others, knowing they should have all arrived by now, as they'd planned to meet before their daily training session. Aveline entered from the dining room looking worried, Legion following close behind, padding past her and toward his panicked master. Fenris appeared at the top of the stairs, looking concernedly down at Hawke as she waved the book at them.
"In Kirkwall - there's a mark," she said, and she was relieved to see their looks turn to appropriate shock.
"Are you sure?" Varric asked, reaching out and taking the book from her, flipping the pages quickly as Sebastian looked over his shoulder. Fenris came down the steps as Anders appeared from the cellar, followed closely by Merrill, both looking confused by the commotion.
"Well Maker's balls," Varric sighed, "She's right."
Merrill saw what was in Varric's hands and marched over, tearing the book from his grasp.
"What are you doing?" she asked, then looked to Hawke as Varric recoiled, "Why did you check it without me?"
"I asked you if I should go, you told me I could!" Hawke replied defensively, confused by the source of the mage's ire.
"I did?" Merrill asked, genuinely perplexed. To be fair, Hawke had known the elf wasn't entirely paying attention at the time, but she had needed something to do, something to make her feel like they were making progress. And now she was glad she had, as it appeared someone had decided to visit while they had all been mucking about in the wine cellar.
"Maker, Merrill does it matter? Someone is here, in Kirkwall, right now," Hawke said, astounded that she seemed to have to explain the reasoning for her reaction. Merrill said nothing for a few moments, her look slowly descending from outrage into pained worry.
"I… I didn't want you to find out," she said, then added almost to herself, "Not like this, certainly, but not at all, really."
At first Hawke looked around, confused at who Merrill was directing her statement at. Eventually however, the mage looked up, meeting Hawke's eyes with her own - large, round and guilty.
"Find out what…?" Hawke asked nervously, checking to confirm that the others were as baffled as she. They all looked just as lost, save Anders who seemed equal parts concerned and suspicious.
"It's you," Merrill said, "That mark is you."
Hawke heard nothing of what her companions said in the next few moments as the idea churned itself slowly through her mind. Is that what Merrill really meant to say? How in the Void could that possibly be true? It couldn't be, it made no sense. Right? They'd checked this book dozens of times, why would Hawke show as a mark now?
Then she realized, Merrill had checked the book dozens of times. Hawke received reports or the copies of the modern maps the marks were transposed onto, but she'd never flipped through the actual pages herself. When they'd first checked the map, they'd had it open to the page Kirkwall lay on, but the scale was such that her mark would have easily overlapped with the one of the Belhim'irsa that lay at Slaver's Reach.
She forced herself to start listening again.
" - bloody possible?" Varric exclaimed, mid-sentence.
"Whatever was in that vial the prophet used, it somehow made you part of all this. I don't fully understand how," Merrill explained.
"So all these markings, some could be people like Hawke who have survived an attack using a potion made from the Belhim'irsa's blood?" Aveline asked.
"No," Merrill replied simply.
"Why?" Hawke asked.
"Because no one else would have survived," she said candidly, "The fact that you did is an anomaly, even with how powerful Anders is and the potency of Fenris's blood. I never thought you'd actually survive it."
"Fasta vaas, Merrill," Fenris cursed, "Why didn't you tell us?"
"Because," she exclaimed, throwing her hand out to indicate Hawke, "Look at her!"
Hawke was suddenly intently aware of six pairs of eyes on her face, reading her pained, panicked expression for what it was - pained, and very very panicked.
"I don't need to be coddled," Hawke said sternly.
"I wasn't," Merrill said, shaking her head, "I didn't mean it that way. I didn't want to cause you undue pain."
"What does this mean?" Anders asked quietly. Hawke was unable to read his expression.
"I don't know," Merrill implored, "I was hoping the text would shed more light on it, but I haven't uncovered anything beyond what we already know, that the potion somehow magically barred her soul from her body."
"Uh… what?" Varric asked flatly.
"Did we know that?" Aveline asked, looking to Sebastian and Varric for validation.
"Sort of," Hawke clarified wistfully, "Merrill and I spent some time trying to find out more about the power the potion had."
"There's no way to be completely certain of what happened," Merrill explained, "But the ritual we used to save her binds a soul to a body, though it was heavily modified to suit our needs."
"So… what, the potion sent her soul off into the Void for a while and when it came back, it had somehow connected her blood to all these demons and maleficar?" Varric asked incredulously.
"What we did… it's unique," Merrill said, "We delved into something uncharted, and… I'm sorry, but I just don't have more answers."
The tension in the room was palpable, awkward. Aveline and Sebastian exchanged a worried look, Varric rubbed his temples with one hand. Anders had crossed his arms and was looking distant and thoughtful, as if trying to piece together the implications. Fenris was seething, just teetering on the edge of boiling.
Hawke wasn't sure how she expected them to react, she didn't know how to herself. She didn't know what to make of the information, how to fathom what it may mean that her own blood was connected to all these people who had done such terrible things.
"I'm sorry Hawke," Merrill said, shaking her head, "I didn't want you to find out this way."
Fenris stepped toward Merrill, and Hawke reacted on instinct by stepping between them, a hand lightly around his arm in an attempt to calm him.
"How can you keep things like this from us at this point, mage?" Fenris growled over Hawke's shoulder, though he sounded more personally offended than defensive of Hawke.
"Honestly, I don't think it will have any consequences, it's just a side effect," Merrill implored.
"Linked by blood to dozens of maleficarum doesn't sound potentially hazardous?" Anders asked, the anger in his voice quiet, but absolute.
Hawke wavered, she hadn't thought of that. What kind of power might they have over her if they were to realize what she was? The beast they'd killed at Slaver's Reach could sense what had happened to her, it knew she had been all but dead, and had mentioned more than once that she seemed an enigma. Fenris noticed her unease and pulled himself away from the sizable glare he had leveled at Merrill to look her concernedly in the eye. He took her arms in either hand gently, holding her closer.
"You ok love?" he asked breathily as the others continued the argument around them. She nodded slowly, then looked up to meet his gaze. Instead of swinging across his forehead and eyes, he had his hair swept up and smoothed back against the top of his head. He'd been wearing it like that more and more lately. Why was she choosing now to wonder why?
She knew there was nothing she could do, no way to get more answers until the translation was complete. All she could hope was that Merrill would finish soon and that it might shed more light on the repercussions of what they'd done. At least the nauseating, condemned feeling she'd always had about the ritual was now validated. For whatever comfort that held, which was none.