Evelyn didn't know how long she'd remained crouched on the ground cradling the grotesque body in her arms. None of the others had moved or spoken, and she was grateful to them for the silence, because her mind was a clean, quiet space and she wanted to keep it that way. If she let sound and color in, she'd have to think about what had happened, and she wasn't ready for that.

Instead, she began making an orderly list in her head of what needed to be done. "Varric, go back to that … room and find out the names of the other women he did this to."

"Right."

Slowly, not letting go of the last vestiges of her mother, Hawke got to her feet, Aveline's steadying hands helping her retain her balance. The body was remarkably light in Hawke's arms. Her mother had never been a very substantial woman, she thought, but there had been more to her than this. Evelyn swallowed hard, her throat swollen and aching. She couldn't give way yet; there was too much to do. Later, she promised herself. Later, with Bethany, then she could cry.

She moved like a mindless golem back through the tunnels of the blood mage's lair, only vaguely aware of someone holding a torch up so she could see. Aveline assisted again as Hawke carefully moved her precious burden through the trap door into the foundry, but Hawke couldn't accept help carrying her mother, not even from her oldest friend.

Hawke blinked as she emerged from the foundry, her eyes watering as the light outside stung them. It had been morning when they went inside; was it really only late afternoon now? Her legs moved as if of their own volition, step by step through Lowtown. She didn't pay any attention to the stares of the people she passed or their shocked questions.

Lowtown, she thought. There was something important she needed to do in Lowtown. Hawke racked her brain, her thoughts moving sluggishly.

"Aveline?"

"Yes, Hawke."

"Go get my uncle, please. Tell him … tell him gently. Bring him to the Chantry."

"The Chantry?"

"For … services." That was what you did with a dead person, wasn't it? You took them to the Chantry, where they were given a pyre and seen off on their way to the Maker.

"Of course," Aveline said.

As she moved up the steps from Lowtown into Hightown, Sebastian came running down them toward her. "Hawke! Oh, Hawke, I'm so sorry," he said. "Here, let me help you." He reached for the body's legs.

She shook her head mutely.

The prince nodded, his hand falling. "Of course. I'll … go on ahead to the Chantry, Hawke, is that all right?"

She nodded. It would be easier if they were expecting the body.

Merrill was the next to appear, her eyes wide and sad.

Hawke looked away from the tender concern on the elf's face. "Merrill, can you go to my house and tell Bodahn and Orana and Sandal what happened? Bring them to the Chantry?"

"As you wish, lethallan."

How far was the damned Chantry, anyway? Her arms were burning, the weight no longer light. It occurred to her that she had left her sword behind, stuck through that dead mage's chest cavity. She couldn't go back for it. Maybe whoever Aveline detailed to go clean up that Maker-forsaken place would retrieve it for her.

Reaching the Chantry steps at last, Hawke paused at the bottom, taking deep breaths. It was almost over. In a few moments she could relinquish this burden, let someone else take it over. She just needed to make it up the stairs.

Slowly, her leg muscles screaming, she took the first step.

Fenris followed Hawke up the steps, but not too closely. Her unseeing eyes, her unaccustomed silence, her dogged insistence on carrying that monster's creation herself made him feel useless, and he fought the feeling by stationing himself between her and the bystanders who watched and questioned, glaring at them until they turned away and went about their business. The stained blade he carried, which he had wrenched from the wall when it became clear Hawke had forgotten it, went a long way toward fending off unwanted curiosity.

He knew this was something she had to do. More, whatever right he could have claimed to help her now had been lost when he fled her bedroom in the dark of night to escape his own demons, demons he hadn't been strong enough to face. That he thought she was better off without him didn't matter—she needed someone today, someone who would watch out for her, and Fenris had ruined any chance that she might let him be for her what she was for all of them.

Hawke laid the body tenderly on the pyre. Her arms felt empty without it. She stepped back, allowing the priestesses to anoint the body with the sacred oil in preparation for its final journey to the Maker. It didn't occur to her to wonder how space had been cleared in the normally bustling Chantry; she was just grateful to be able to turn the burden over to those whose job it was to care for it.

Gamlen stepped up next to her. "What did that bastard do to her?"

"See for yourself, Uncle."

"Where were you? Why weren't you with her?"

She shook her head, too drained to argue. "I don't know. I should have been. I'm sorry."

"Hmph. I suppose you did the best you could, at that, girl," Gamlen said. "Leandra was always stubborn, couldn't tell her anything she didn't want to hear."

"Thank you for watching out for her, Uncle." Gamlen had at least made an effort to spend time with her mother once a week, Hawke thought, which was more than she had done. If she had, would her mother still be alive?

"I assume you killed him."

"I did."

"Good."

They stood side-by-side, watching as the priestesses lit their torches, taking their places around the pyre. Leandra's body was in the second most elaborate pyre chamber; Saemus Dumar's remains were in the first, waiting for the grand ceremony that would be conducted tomorrow before all of Kirkwall. Hawke didn't mind. Leandra had a lot of acquaintances in Kirkwall, but no one had been particularly close to her. Orana was the closest; the little elf stood weeping behind Hawke, trying to muffle her tears in a handkerchief. Sandal stood next to her, his bright blue eyes dim with unhappiness, and Bodahn, the wrinkles in his face more apparent than they had been yesterday, patted Orana on the arm in an attempt to comfort her.

Sebastian moved around the priestesses, overseeing the final preparations. Aveline and Varric and Fenris stood solidly behind Hawke, with Isabela, Anders, and Merrill farther back, in the shadows, none of them entirely comfortable being in the Chantry. Bethany was the only one missing, but the Templars would never let her out of the Gallows for a funeral. Hawke would go there next. Part of her longed for the comfort of her sister's presence; part of her dreaded having to break the news to Bethany.

"Hawke, I understand there are … parts of more than one woman here?" Sebastian asked, wincing as he said it. "Do you know the other women's names?"

Varric handed over the list he had made.

"They should all—all be commended to the Maker," Hawke said.

Sebastian nodded. "Their souls will be at rest."

Privately, Hawke wasn't at all certain the women's souls would be able to rest after what had been done to their bodies, but she would make the gesture on the women's behalf.

A priestess took her place in front of the pyre, taking the list from Sebastian. "We are assembled today to see these souls safely to the Maker. Holy Andraste, we commend Ninette de Carrac, Mharen Darani, Alessa Robillard, Beatrice deCroix, Jane Templeton, Devere Suliaris, and Leandra Hawke to your care. Guide them to the Maker's side and do not let them linger in the Fade."

The priestesses sang the Canticle of Andraste as they circled the body, touching their torches to places on the pyre. The fire leaped up, the flames licking at the brittle, ancient wedding gown. Hawke suddenly wished she knew the name of the mage's dead wife—surely her soul deserved to go to the Maker as well. The smoke rose from the pyre, sweet-smelling from the oil, and Hawke imagined her mother flying up with it, up to where her father and Carver waited for her. For a brief moment, she envied her mother, approaching the secure embrace of family, her earthly troubles behind her.

Next to her, Gamlen snuffled, tears coursing down his face. Gamlen had seen his whole family pass, as well, and had stood it better than could have been expected, Hawke thought. She resolved to try to maintain ties with her uncle; they were all each other had left, really.

The flames were obscuring her mother's face now, and Hawke turned away, not wanting to see the last of her mother consumed. She put a hand on Gamlen's shoulder, and he covered it with his own. After a moment, she took her hand away and left the Chantry, leaving Gamlen there, flanked by the servants, to wait for the end. Her people followed her out, the weight of their concern heavy on her shoulders. She needed to be away from that scrutiny, even if just for a moment.

"Going to the Gallows?" Aveline asked.

"Yes."

"I'll come with you."

"No, Aveline, thank you. I need to do this on my own."

"But, Hawke …"

"Go back to Donnic, Aveline. This … I have to talk to Bethany by myself." Hawke looked at the circle of concerned faces. She appreciated them, but she also felt pressured by them to conform to their expectations of how she should feel and act. She thought of her sister. Bethany would understand, she was sure. "All of you, thank you for being here. But … I need some time to myself for now."

"All right, Hawke," Aveline said. "As you wish." She squeezed Hawke's shoulder before moving down the steps of the Chantry.

Anders and Merrill turned, also, after sad, helpless glances at Hawke.

"Sweet thing," Isabela murmured affectionately. She threw her arms around Hawke, who stood frozen in surprise, awkwardly patting Isabela's back. Hiding her face, the pirate turned and ran down the steps.

"I could go along, for … entertainment," Varric offered.

"Thanks, Varric, but no."

"Hanged Man later?"

She shook her head, looking down into his dear face. "Come by tomorrow afternoon, though, will you? I think I'll be needing a laugh about then."

"I will do my humble best." With a last glance, he, too, headed down the stairs.

Hawke looked around for Fenris, but he was nowhere to be seen. His absence, and the fact that he'd left without speaking to her, stung, but there was relief in it, as well. If he'd stopped to say something, she might have asked him to come with her, and she wasn't about to admit how much she wanted him to. Her heart heavy, she trudged down the steps, turning toward the Gallows.

Fenris emerged from the shadows, relieved she hadn't noticed him. He had no intention of leaving her alone and undefended on the way to the Gallows, no matter what she said she wanted, but he knew better than to argue with her. If she specifically desired him to go, he didn't want to hear that, either. She had been there for him, for all of them, whenever she was needed; he would be there for her today, even if that wasn't what she said she wanted.

He followed her at a discreet distance, still carrying her blade.

"Serah Hawke, I am so sorry to hear your sad news," Knight-Captain Cullen said, when she had finished her explanation of why she needed to see her sister. "It is disheartening, after all the efforts we go to in an attempt to keep Kirkwall safe, to hear that blood mages still threaten our population."

If only he knew, she thought. Kirkwall seemed to be swarming with apostates, most of whom seemed to have little compunction about turning to demons or blood magic at the first sign of trouble. "I appreciate your sympathy," she said. "Can I see my sister? I don't want her hearing of this from someone else."

He nodded. "I believe we can make an exception in this case. I will have your sister meet you in our dining hall—you will have privacy, since the meal is completed, but you won't be so alone that someone might think you were plotting an escape."

Hawke resisted the urge to roll her eyes. If she were plotting an escape, she could do it far better than this. "Thank you, serah."

Cullen despatched a messenger to find Bethany, and escorted her to the dining hall himself. "My condolences again, Serah Hawke. When you are finished, Ser Hugh will see you out." He motioned to a helmeted figure standing by the door.

The Knight-Captain left the room, and Hawke waited, pacing impatiently. She couldn't wait to see her sister, to hold Bethany and finally let loose the iron band that was squeezing her chest. Servants were moving about the tables, cleaning them off and resetting them for breakfast, and Hawke nearly ran into one as she paced. The servant gave her a look of wide-eyed alarm and scuttled away. Hawke supposed she did cut a frightening figure, her armor scorched, dented, and splattered with blood and the inky residue of shades. Would Bethany be similarly frightened by her? Perhaps she should have stopped to change.

"Sister?" Bethany's tentative voice from the doorway startled her, and she spun around.

"Bethany!"

"What— Why are you here? Is there something … Mother?" Bethany's hand flew to her mouth as Hawke nodded.

"I'm sorry, Bethany."

"What happened?"

Slowly, Evelyn told her, leaving out as many of the gruesome details as she could and still have the story make sense. Bethany remembered the bag of women's body parts they had found in that foundry years ago.

"Poor Mother! She must have been so frightened."

Evelyn shivered. She had been trying not to think of what her mother's last moments must have been like as that dreadful mage performed his ritual on her. She couldn't meet Bethany's eyes—what if her sister blamed her, too? Why shouldn't she? It had been Evelyn's responsibility to care for both of them, and now Bethany was locked in the Tower alone and their mother was dead.

"At least you were there to save her soul, at the end," Bethany whispered. "That's what counts; that's what we'll have to cling to. You say the ceremony has already been conducted?" Evelyn nodded. "Then she's with the Maker now, with Father and Carver."

She should be grateful her sister wasn't angry, glad that Bethany wasn't crumpling up in a heap, proud that her fragile sister was bearing up so well. Instead, Evelyn was confused and a little resentful that her sister was taking this so much better than she was. She had counted on Bethany to weep with her, to share her grief so that she could let go. But Bethany had made no move to embrace her. Perhaps that was a rule, Evelyn thought. Maybe mages weren't allowed to touch other people. Still, she felt empty. Whatever relief she had expected wasn't to be found here.

"Will you be all right, Sister? That big estate must seem so empty now."

"Yes, I imagine it will." Evelyn hadn't thought about going home, how dark and quiet and abandoned the house would be, even with the servants. "What of you? Will you have someone to talk to here?"

"Oh, yes." Bethany blushed a little. "I can't tell you about him—he might lose his position if our relationship were known—but he is most sympathetic, and I'm sure will be a comfort to me. And you? Do you have someone? That elf, Fenris, did you and he ever ...?"

"No." Evelyn cut that line of questioning right off. If she thought of Fenris now, she really would give way, and the thought of weeping here, under the eyes of the Templars and with this stranger who had once been her sister, made her feel nauseous. "I … must go. They told me I couldn't stay long," she lied.

"Of course. Evelyn … take care of yourself."

"You, too, Bethany." Evelyn watched as her sister left the room, then turned to the Templar at the door. "I'm ready to go."

"Yes, Serah." Ser Hugh led her to the door of the Gallows, watching to be sure she left.

Fenris waited in the shadows as Hawke emerged from the Gallows, his heart constricting at the perplexed, bereft expression on her face. The meeting with her sister hadn't gone as she had expected, that much was clear, and she appeared somewhat dazed.

Every bit of her body language—the slump of her shoulders, her halting walk, the way her arms dangled limply at her sides—spoke of her exhaustion. He wondered how she was still on her feet. Fenris was tired, as well, after everything they had been through, and Hawke's experiences had been far more emotionally draining than his. She should take better care of herself, he thought, but he knew she wouldn't. She needed someone to step in and care for her now, but who would that be? Without her sister or her mother, she had no one to look after her.

He slung her blade over his shoulder. While she had been in the Gallows, he had cleaned it thoroughly, removing every last vestige of the blood mage's fluids from it. He may not have been able to do much else, but he could watch over her and be certain she made it safely back home.

It felt as though it had taken her hours to reach Hightown. It was late, probably close to midnight, if Hawke had to guess, and despite the other houses around it, her own loomed over her, still and cold. It was amazing, she thought, how she could go days without seeing her mother and not notice it, but now that she knew her mother wasn't there, she felt the absence like a physical pain. She crossed the courtyard slowly, each step an unwilling movement closer to having to resume her real life, knowing her mother wasn't in it any longer.

"Evelyn, I came as soon as I could get away. Are you just returning home?" Seneschal Bran hurried toward her.

"Just now, yes. I haven't been home since … this morning."

"I can see that," he said, glancing at her filthy armor. She was sure she looked a mess, her hair straggling across her face and blood and dirt streaking it. "Would you like me to come in with you? I could assist you with informing the servants and …"

"No. Thank you. The servants were at the ceremony earlier; they already know. I … It's kind of you to offer."

"Should you require anything, I am but a messenger away," Bran said, taking her hand.

Evelyn was surprised at the vehemence of her desire to snatch her hand away. She hadn't thought of him all day; he didn't seem to belong, somehow, not the way the others did. With a sudden burst of clarity, she realized that being alone in truth was better than being alone in her head with a man who didn't understand her. "Bran, I'm sorry."

"You needn't be; you have had a horrifying day. You are distraught."

She didn't feel distraught. She didn't feel anything, in fact. "You're a very good man. But right now I don't think I'm in any condition to be … involved with someone. I hope you can understand."

"Perhaps you will feel differently tomorrow." The sentence ended on a slight up-note, making it almost but not quite a question, and Evelyn shook her head firmly.

"I'm sorry." She hesitated, then said, "Good luck to you."

"And to you." He bowed formally, turning to cross the courtyard.

Evelyn watched him until he was out of sight, feeling only a mild relief as she watched him go. Suddenly she shivered—spring might be on its way, but it wasn't here yet, and she was chilled. She didn't want to go inside and be warm and settle back into her comfortable life any more than she wanted to stay out here and be cold and continue to exist in this emotionless limbo. Leaning her head against the door, she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath. She reached for the doorknob and let herself inside.

Fenris stood watching Hawke's door. He had seen her tremble as she leaned against the door, seen the small pause before she stepped inside, and he could only imagine how she must be feeling, alone there with only memories to speak to her. Orana would be crying, Bodahn and Sandal solicitously staying out of Hawke's way. None of the rest of the team would come by, respecting Hawke's request to leave her alone. But she didn't need to be left alone; that was all too clear. She needed someone to come in and talk to her, take her mind off what had occurred long enough so that she could fall asleep. In her current mood, she would lie awake, tossing and turning and torturing herself, he was certain of it.

He cursed himself again for having burnt that bridge so thoroughly. He had no right to go to her now, much as he longed to do so. Bran might have had a right, but she had sent Bran away. The Seneschal hadn't looked happy as he left, and Fenris didn't feel badly about that at all. Not one bit. But it still left him out here, and her in there …

"Fasta vas!" What kind of coward was he, standing out here and leaving her to suffer? He may not be the lover he had wished to be, but he loved her, and tonight she needed someone who loved her.

Pushing himself away from the wall, he crossed the courtyard with firm steps, opening her door before he could reconsider.

Hawke sat perched on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped in front of her. She'd managed to get her armor off, leaving it in a pile outside to be cleaned, or burned, or thrown into the harbor, but she hadn't had the energy to do anything more. Her hair hung around her face in dirty hanks, and she was still wearing the sweat-soaked undertunic and leggings she had worn since … well, she couldn't quite remember how long ago she'd put them on. She knew she should get up, or call for a bath, or simply lie down and try to sleep, but she couldn't summon the will to do so.

When the door opened and closed again, she wasn't surprised. Some part of her had known—hoped—he would come, despite everything she'd said. She didn't turn her head, listening to the soft footfalls on the carpet.

He stopped halfway across the room. "I do not know what to say … but I am here."

Hawke felt the tension begin to drain from her body, the iron band easing a little. "This was my fault. She was my responsibility, and I failed her."

"If you are looking for forgiveness, you must look within yourself. You are the only one who can absolve you of this guilt." He pulled a chair over, sitting down across from her. "For what it's worth, your mother was a grown woman, responsible for herself."

She shook her head. "I've always been the one. When the twins were born, I was six. My father brought me into the room, showed them to me, lying on the bed together. 'These are your family,' he said, 'protect them.' He gave me my first sword that day, a wooden practice sword. On his deathbed, he reminded me of that promise, and told me I had to look out for my mother now that he couldn't anymore. I lost Carver to the ogre; I lost Bethany to the Circle; I lost my mother to …" She could only imagine what Fenris would say about the blood mage, and she couldn't listen to that diatribe. "Please, don't say anything about mages. Not tonight."

"Of course not. Shall I tell you that your mother is in a better place?"

Hawke raised her head, looking into his green eyes for the first time. "Do you believe that?"

"It is what they say; perhaps it is better to believe that than to believe nothing. I don't know, Hawke. It could be true."

He had called her by her name … before. She found herself wishing he would do so again. Who would call her Evelyn now? Gamlen, she supposed. Otherwise, she was in danger of forgetting her name entirely. She shivered again, although the room was warm.

Fenris stood up, and Hawke felt a momentary panic. Was he leaving? What would she do if he left?

He went to the door, but didn't open it. "I took the liberty of asking Bodahn to bring in the tub and some water. A bath will help. Also," now he did open the door, reaching for something from outside, "I retrieved your sword and cleaned it for you." He placed the sword on the brackets above the fireplace.

Her chin quivered, her eyes stinging. She wanted to thank him, but her throat was swollen with all the tears she hadn't shed, and she could only nod. She watched quietly as Bodahn and Sandal brought in the tub and the buckets of hot water. The two dwarves glanced at her sympathetically, but didn't say anything, for which she was grateful.

When they had left, Fenris came back to her, bending over and looking into her face. "Come," he said. "While the water is still hot."

She got up from the bed, walking woodenly toward the tub. Her legs felt like jelly, weak and wobbly.

"Do you require assistance?" Fenris asked.

Shameful though it was to admit, Hawke wasn't sure she could lift her arms to take off the tunic, much less summon the energy to remove the rest of her clothes. She looked at Fenris, mute pleading in her eyes.

Fenris hated seeing her in this state. It was worse than he had expected; he was extremely glad he had come. No one else could have gotten her this far—she would have stiffened her back and pretended to be fine and sent them away. He found it surprisingly easy not to think of her naked body as he helped her strip her clothing off. Beautiful as she was, this was not the moment for carnal thoughts. He finished by removing the pins from her hair, taking down what hadn't already fallen from her bun. He took her hand, helping her into the tub.

Hawke huddled in the water, shaking harder now. She couldn't have washed her own hair if she'd wanted to. Fortunately, Fenris seemed perfectly willing to do so, deftly soaping and rinsing as though he did it all the time. It was a new side of him, one she would have cherished if she'd discovered it under other circumstances. Tonight, she could only be numbly thankful that he had come, relieving her of the necessity for thought or action.

At last he seemed to think she was clean, producing one of her nightgowns from somewhere and helping her put it on. She was still shivering. Her throat ached, her eyes burned, the last of her defenses against what she had seen and done that day crumbling. And for the first time all day, she was with someone who wasn't making demands of her, had no expectations of her, and didn't need her strength to lean on. It was the last thing she needed to be able to let go of the rigid control she'd held her mind in. She saw her mother's face on that grotesque body, and she couldn't hold her sorrow back any longer.

"Oh, Maker! Mother," she sobbed, feeling the sweet relief of her dry eyes flooding. Dimly through the haze of her tears Hawke was aware of Fenris drawing her close, of the familiar scent of leather and lyrium. Her arms stole around him, clinging, as she pressed her head against his shoulder and wept.

It could have been minutes or hours that they stood there; she didn't know and didn't particularly care. She dried her eyes and blew her nose with a handkerchief he handed to her. "I'm all right now," she said, her voice cracked from the intensity of her sobbing.

"You are not," he said. "You need a good night's sleep."

Fear filled her. If he left her alone, she'd never be able to sleep, tired as she was. Too many images in her head, too many voices.

"Not to worry," he said, responding to her anxious look. "I intend to stay and be certain that you get one. Come, Hawke."

Passively, she allowed him to lead her to the bed, tucking the covers up around her. "Fenris?"

"Yes?"

"Will you … sometimes … call me Evelyn?"

Fenris looked at her, startled.

"If you don't, there's only Gamlen. And that's not right."

He chuckled. "Very well. Evelyn."

Hawke sighed with relief, sinking back against the pillows. But it was too quiet, her thoughts a cacophony. "Talk to me," she said, blinking against more tears that burned her eyes.

Fenris didn't know what to say; his small stock of platitudes had been used up already. Casting about, he saw a book lying on her desk. "Perhaps I could read to you, instead," he said, lifting it up to check the title. The Adventures of the Black Fox. It seemed light enough to distract her without bringing up disturbing topics.

"Yes, please," Hawke said, snuggling down under the blankets. She was warmer now, and clean, and sleepy, and she had Fenris's beloved deep voice to fall asleep to. Tomorrow would be soon enough to pick up the guilt and the sorrow and the longing for things she didn't have anymore. For tonight, she would sleep, safe in the knowledge that someone else could take care of things for a while.

Turning the book so it caught the candlelight better, Fenris continued reading, even after he heard the light, small snore that indicated Hawke had fallen asleep. He intended to be here all night, to ensure no demons haunted her sleep and no visitors, well-meaning or otherwise, disturbed her. Tomorrow they would be friends, and nothing more, as good sense and concern for her safety dictated. Tonight he could pretend to be free to be the man she needed.