Bethany, Ketojan, Carver.
Hawke was sitting on the steps in front of Uncle Gamlin's hovel, a little box on her lap. They all had their little boxes, the frivolous and silly things that they could never bear to leave behind. They had traveled from Lothering, survived the blight, crossed the sea, and taken their lumps in the year of servitude. Bethany's and Carver's boxes had outlived even the people who could name every object in them and why they had gotten their spot.
Hawke's box, in comparison, was spartan, consisting of only three things - the ribbon her father had given her on her tenth birthday, a deep red now faded in places to pale rose, a long braid of black hair held in a pale blue ribbon, and a shorter braid of the purest white tangled in a length of thin chain. Hawke added the newest member, a thin, very short lock of black hair matching Bethany's, held together with the leather strapping from Carver's sheath, "Sweet dreams, baby brother," she murmured, near silent, "Take Bethany my love."
She settled the lid carefully back onto the box and let her fingers curl around the edges, holding it closed and close, that most fragile of things that would probably outlive her, too. She wondered, momentarily, if anyone would be able to name all of the items in her box, when she was gone.
Mother was blessedly silent, now. She'd wailed, then wept, then sat silent and staring for several hours before she'd dropped into a restless sleep. She should probably take the opportunity to join the others at the Hanging Man, where they were raising toasts and telling stories and painting Carver in a better light than he himself probably would have, but she couldn't bear to move, just yet.
She sat, instead, listening to the sounds of the city, people haggling in the marketplace, children laughing and screaming, someone playing a lute, the breeze blowing in from the water. It might have been a comforting sound, once. Now, she listened with a resigned fury. Children should not be laughing, the sun should not be shining. She hated Kirkwall, in the moment, wanted to watch it burn. It was laughing at her. This city. It would kill everyone she loved, it would crush all her happiness, and it would wake up the next day with the sound of children laughing and the warmth of the summer sun.
Get out, before it kills you, too. A passing thought, and then Hawke was standing up, stretching her back, and painting her charming grin back onto her features. There were still things to do.