Previously: Hawke and Fenris celebrated his return in typical style. His support, and a very timely gift, bolstered Hawke's resolve, at least enough to get her to the Hanged Man, where her whole mad story was told once more.
And in the present, Orsino's resentment briefly crests, and falls — though it will rise again, in time.
Note: This chapter contains unreality, psychological horror, and graphic violence/injuries.
Onward…
Once again, the tale is told. A little easier than before, if only because each telling adds to the distance between Hawke, and what happened to her. The blessing of repetition: a few more tellings, and her voice won't quaver at all when she describes her mother's earrings tumbling out of Andric's pouch. It sounds like a story now, something to be neatly trapped inside a fine leather cover, and stored on a high shelf.
Once upon a time, on a very cold and very quiet night, I dreamed the sea came to Kirkwall, and when I woke, it wasn't a dream at all.
"You could have told us," Varric says. They've all been silent for some time, their faces thoughtful in the lamps' ruddy glow, and he's the first to break the quiet. "Not saying you should have, I'm — damn. I don't know what I'm saying. But, Hawke…" He reaches out for her hand, but pulls back at the last moment. "You know that, right?"
Hawke stares at her half-empty bowl, greyish-pink stew clotted around a slice of bread. She nods without meeting his gaze. Yes, she could have, and maybe things would have been vastly different. She probably wouldn't be walking around with a hole in her hand and a head full of echoes, to start with. But she remembers seeing the pale hand creep from beneath the table, the wet sucking noises it made as it moved across the floor. The claws at her hem, the eel's tail twisting, rasping against stone. A week ago, she'd been in pieces, and a single doubting word would have shattered her.
She could have told them — but how?
"Well, you're all up to date." Disgusted by the rasp of her tongue against the roof of her mouth, she reaches for her wine. These deep reds Isabela and Fenris favor are too dry for her, especially when what she really wants is a jug of Marcher whisky and an empty room to drink it in. Maker, she'd even take Antivan brandy, just to still her trembling hands. And when did they start doing that? How sneaky of them, to start when she was distracted.
She drains the glass in two swallows, and barely has she set it down than Isabela is refilling it. Tempting as it is to toss this one back as quickly as the first, she makes herself sip, tasting blackberry and melon in every corner of her mouth.
"So." Varric shoves his own half-eaten meal away. "My appetite's gone. What's next?"
"More wine." Isabela saunters for the door, cracking her neck as she goes. "Whisky, too, if Corff's got any hidden away. Seems like the night for it."
Hawke presses the heels of her hands into her eyes. Gratitude. It's gratitude she's feeling, so overwhelming it leaves her breathless. "Have I mentioned lately how much I love you, Bela?" Have I mentioned how much I love all of you?
"Always bears repeating!" Isabela calls over her shoulder.
As Isabela's footsteps clatter down the stairs and she calls out to Corff, Merrill stretches out across the entire couch, and Anders starts scribbling madly in his notebook again. Varric throws another log on the fire, muttering to himself about the bastards running the local firewood racket, and Fenris begins to stroke her back.
"Should we invite our darling guard-captain to join our planning committee?" Varric asks, once the fire is dealt with. Hawke peels her hands away from her eyes to arch an eyebrow in his direction. He claps a bit of sawdust from his hand and shrugs, offering her the usual droll smile. "What?"
"You're all taking this very well," she says. "I dropped all of this on you — and yes, I know, it's old news for some," she adds, when Fenris draws breath to speak, "but straight to business? Without — I don't know, some gibbering or protesting?"
"Would you prefer us to gibber?" Merrill draws her knees up to her chest. "I could, if you like. I'm sorry I didn't before, if that's what you wanted."
"No, I don't — I —" Hawke sighs, and props her elbows on the table so her hands are at the right level to hold up her head. "Old news or not, you're being remarkably well-adjusted about this." And it's making me feel more than a little inferior, seeing as how I've done plenty of gibbering and protesting lately.
"Shocking as it may be to some, we do occasionally have mature and rational reactions," says Varric.
"Very occasionally," say Anders and Fenris at the same time, then give each other matching betrayed looks. Hawke covers her mouth and avoids Merrill's gaze, while Varric becomes extremely interested in a bit of dust on his mantle.
Once she's sure she won't start cackling in anyone's face, Hawke says, "I'm not sure there is a mature and rational reaction to all of this. Not that I'm complaining, it's nice to just say everything and not…" She waves in no particular direction, then tucks her hands under her legs when they start trembling again.
"Sure there is." Varric sinks back into his seat, smile still in place. "Find the weirdness, stop the weirdness, wait a few months, and it'll be something we all joke about while you're losing at Wicked Grace."
Now it's everyone else's turn to look away and badly hide their laughs. Hawke glares at Varric, who remains remarkably unmoved. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." Varric hunts under a pile of paper, and digs out a handful of tightly-rolled parchment, along with another bag of lemon sugars. Hawke appropriates the candies while he sorts through the various bits, which turn out to be various water- and wine-stained maps of the city. "We're weirdness experts, after all."
"Varric did pose a good question." Fenris winds an arm around her waist and steals a few candies of his own. "Should we involve Aveline? Sebastian has returned from Starkhaven, if we should wish to ask for his help."
What a lovely word, we. Hawke crunches through a few more candies, stung by an unexpected guilt: she knew Sebastian was due back soon, but she hasn't thought of him at all these past two weeks, and might have gone on not thinking of the poor man if Fenris hadn't mentioned him. Judging by the dry resignation rolling off of Fenris, he's quite aware of it.
Well, she can't be blamed for that. She likes Sebastian just fine, and if she asked for his help, he would give it, unstintingly, as he always has. But the unlovely truth of the matter is, for all his kindness, for all his friendship to Fenris, she trusts him far less than the friends gathered here at the Hanged Man tonight.
On a more practical note, Meredith may tolerate Hawke running about with Aveline, especially if it's on an errand she assigned them. If Hawke goes scampering about with the not-so-wayward-anymore Prince of Starkhaven too often, Meredith would see a challenge that could not be ignored.
"Aveline's spread thin enough," she says. "Not to mention she's fairly aware already of what's going on." Seeing me set fire to the blood mage who'd just enthralled her guard and hexed my dog sent a clear message, I'm sure. "I say we warn her — and Sebastian — to expect some extra nastiness, of the evil blood mage variety, but leave it at that."
"Plausible deniability?" Anders looks up long enough from his scribbling to catch Hawke's nod.
"A warning may not be enough." Fenris toys with his glass, but doesn't drink. Hawke watches the lamplight refract through the dark wine to cast mottled shadows on his hand. "Safer, I think, to bring in everyone, if only for the numbers."
Hawke thinks back to the mist-shrouded figures behind Aurelia, and fights down a shudder. How many had there been? "That's a fair point," she says. "But with Meredith's smalls all bunched up her — I'd like to do whatever we end up doing quietly, if possible."
The back of her throat sours when Fenris goes still against her. She'd bet every coin in the family coffers he's thinking back to their argument, same as she is, and what a sticking point her decision there had been. This isn't the same, at all, but —
"Well, I suppose it can't hurt to tell them the abridged version," she says. "But all the same, I'd like to keep Meredith's eye away from us."
"As if it's ever far," says Anders to his notebook. Hawke cranes her neck to see what he's drawing, and catches sight of what looks like a honeycomb before Isabela slides back into the room, laden with bottles.
"You can always play it off as a friendly visit." Varric taps the topmost map on his pile, then shakes his head and pushes it away. "The prince returned to Kirkwall after a long absence, the gracious noblewoman greeting him…"
That's met with a round of groans from everyone in the room, at which point Varric holds up his hands in mock surrender and turns back to his maps. Isabela pours the wine — mulled and steaming-hot this time. The dishes are cleared to one end of the table, the rest of the space given over to the maps. Hawke holds her glass tight to her chest, content to simply breathe in the spices and absorb the warmth, but Varric holds out a quill, already dipped in ink.
"Right." She sets her glass aside and sits up straight, missing Fenris' warmth at her side instantly. "Let's start with the graffiti, again. I saw the first one here, by Old Harlan's stall."
An hour later, Hawke sets the quill aside. "So," she says, more to the maps than her friends. "That tells us very little."
Besides marking every bit of graffiti, they've noted every flooded passage and tunnel into, out of, and through Darktown — which is rather more than Hawke expected, even after such a miserable winter. And of course Danzig's old hideout is thigh-deep in water, as of yesterday, which makes the one helpful bit of information she got out of Silvie utterly useless.
All they've accomplished, then, is a waste Varric's good ink. Hawke's sure she has smudges all over her face, but everyone is too busy frowning at the map to point it out.
"It tells us this is a horrible city, and we're fools for living here." Isabela twirls a lock of hair between her fingers. "Wait, I remembered something." She points to the Hanged Man. "I'm going to die of boredom here in about five minutes, if we don't do something fun."
Varric raps her knuckles with a spoon. "Keep your hair on, Rivaini. Go fleece some poor bastard downstairs if it'll make you feel better."
"What I think we should do," says Isabela, nursing her totally unbruised knuckles, "is just tell sweet old Meredith we've heard about some awful, truly terrible blood mages in Darktown, and let her sort it out. Since she's so keen on hunting them down to begin with."
"Oh, and she'll just leave everyone else in Darktown alone while she's at it?" Anders slaps his notebook closed. "I'll make sure to wave as she passes by my clinic."
The thought had occurred to Hawke, though she isn't sure if she pities Meredith or Aurelia in that scenario. It would, however, be fascinating to watch. "As hilarious as that would be, I'd rather not disrupt Darktown too much."
"Besides," says Anders. There's a note in his voice like a dog whistle that has everyone sitting up straight and holding their breath. "She'd just tell Hawke to go clean up the mess anyways. It's what she's best at."
Fenris half-turns, but before he and Anders can do more than glare, Hawke bursts out laughing. Fake as paste diamonds, but it cuts clean through the tension before any nastiness takes hold. "Right you are," she says, aiming her laughter and the matching knife-blade of a smile at Anders. "So let's be proactive, and get it done before she has a reason to concern herself, shall we?"
Anders draws himself up to make a retort, but Hawke turns back to the maps before he gets a word out.
"I have to say, this?" Isabela points between Hawke, Fenris, and Anders. "Not my idea of fun. If I wanted drama, I could go to the theater."
"We're so much cheaper," Fenris shoots back, deadpan. Isabela winks at him, he rolls his eyes, and Hawke thinks longingly of snatching the spoon from Merrill's hand and stabbing herself in the head with it. Still, there's a part of her that glows, bright as the fire in the grate, at the sniping. It's sharp enough to cut, but there's no real malice in it, even in Anders' contributions. Maker, how she missed them all, how she missed her life.
As if on cue, a heavy set of footsteps climbs the stairs. Smooth as silk, Varric slides the maps into a pile, and Anders drops his notebook on top. A whistle precedes the owner of the footsteps, who turns out to be Corff, bearing a covered tray and a pleased smile.
"Forgot I had this down below." He sets the tray on the table, without giving the curled edges of the maps a single look. "Been sitting for four days now, should be just about perfect."
A thick wave of spices fills the air when he lifts the cover. Hawke's mouth waters, and her stomach clenches: there's just a pile of black, rotting flowers on the tray, pollen dusting the maps and the carved table. She clamps her hand around Fenris' wrist and squeezes.
"Oh, lovely," Isabela coos. "Treacle cake? You, Corff, are a hero among men."
Blinking alone doesn't banish the image of the flowers. Hawke shudders, breathing through her mouth as unobtrusively as she can, and manages to get a smile slapped on her face when Corff turns to her.
"And where on earth did you get this?" she asks. Her back prickles, something hisses in her ears. Fenris hasn't moved, but she feels the taut muscles of his leg against hers. "I didn't see this on the menu."
"Oh, that's 'cause we don't usually make things this fancy," Corff replies, with either an admirable straight face or an impressive lack of self-awareness. "It's from the baker's down the street. They put the cakes up once, twice a week, and send us what doesn't sell. Just remembered I had that one, popped it out of the tin, and brought it here. Call it a welcome-back present."
Now her smile warms into something genuine. Cake like this has to sit for a few days before you eat it, and since four days ago she didn't even know she'd be back at the Hanged Man, it's safe to assume it's just a cake.
Maker save me if I start getting paranoid about cake, she thinks, letting go of Fenris' wrist, and taking the knife Corff holds out to her. "Well, if it's a present, then I get first slice." Merrill and Isabela make protesting noises, but Hawke ignores them. She cuts herself a fat slice, and forces herself to take a bite before her mind can conjure the flowers again.
Dark and rich, just as it should be. She closes her eyes in real pleasure, hearing Merrill and Isabela fall upon the cake, laughing and fighting over who gets the next slice. "Thank you, Corff," she says, eyes still closed. "Clearly, it's much appreciated."
He says something she can't quite make out over the last of the hissing, then his plodding footsteps go out the door and back down the stairs.
"Hawke?" Fenris asks.
"Just a bit of an echo." She meets his gaze. "Sorry. Nothing to worry about, except — well, except not getting any cake." Merrill grins as she licks her fingers clean. "Have at it."
"Speaking of echoes," says Varric, breaking his slice into tiny pieces, then smashing them flat with the back of his spoon. "You hearing it right now? The sea's voice, or whatever it is?"
Hawke stops with another bite of cake halfway to her mouth. Unless the sea made itself known, its constant surges and whispers were just one more kind of background noise. In the city, one learns to ignore drunk yells and the crier if one wants to get any sleep, just as one ignores the howling and rustling on a farm if one wants to stay sane. The sea's voice is no different.
But she hasn't heard it since before Fenris' return, and while she could chalk that up to being so focused on him, the absence — or her realization of absence — is jarring.
"Not at the moment." All she hears are the noises from downstairs, the sounds of eating, the crackling fire, and the dying hiss in her ears. "It comes and goes. Maybe it's taking a night off." She sets the cake down. Its taste lingers too long in her mouth; too much butter, perhaps, or too many spices. No one else seems to be having any issue, so she starts to hand her share to an eager Varric when a log pops, and the cake tumbles out of her hands.
"Clumsy me," she murmurs, her voice slow and far-away. "Sorry about —"
Merrill stands up, gripping the table with both hands.
"Daisy?" Varric blinks, then rubs his belly. "You all right there?"
Downstairs, a glass breaks. Someone shouts. Corff hollers. The low mutter of conversations stutter, pick up again, but with fresh sounds beneath them: weeping, and a fist beating against a table.
The hissing isn't dying. It's only beginning.
Hawke shoves her chair back and tries to rise, but her legs tangle under her. She falls to the floor, already panting, but she can't breathe, the air gone thick as syrup. Varric collapses against the table, sweating and groaning, and Merrill simply crumples, her legs folding under her almost gracefully.
A heavy weight falls against her legs. Hawke manages to turn her head far enough to see Fenris, teeth bared, one hand fisted in her dress. She grabs his hand and squeezes, choking on her own saliva as she tries not to vomit.
The green, the green, eating away at her vision. Screams shudder up the stairs, glass breaks, Anders cries out, and she can barely lift her head, let alone stand.
"She's here," she whispers, squeezing Fenris' hand hard enough to bruise. He stares at her, eyes bleary, before sinking to the floor with a groan. "Fenris — please, no —"
Get up, you idiot, she snarls at herself. You know what this is. Get up, get up and be useful for once in your life.
She lets go of Fenris, though she loses a handful of her dress when he won't let go of her. "I'll be back," she whispers, but he doesn't react, just writhes, slowly, agonizingly, on the floor.
Her chair is close enough to grasp; hand over hand she hauls herself to her feet, and staggers toward the door, gulping what air she can and leaning on the table until she can lunge forward and catch the doorframe.
"Hawke —" She turns, almost losing her footing, and sees Anders reaching for her with tears on his face. He strains for her, and she fears he'll beg her to wait, but when his mouth opens, she hears him whisper one word, barely more than a breath.
"Go," he says.
Hawke half-throws herself down the stairs, clutching at the bannister and reeling with every inch. It's worse this time, so much worse, because she knows what to expect, knows how much more pain Aurelia can inflict — but she makes it to the main room, and from there she has to crawl.
The room is a mass of moans and wracked bodies. The wood floor weeps under her hands and knees, dark water oozing up through the cracks. Sweat sours the air; somewhere to Hawke's left someone makes a sound like a mad dog barking, and behind her a man keeps screaming the word bite over and over. The noise rules over all, rancid fat bubbling as it sticks to her skin, a greasy sheen in her nose and her mouth. The door is miles away.
Stay down, like a good girl, yes?
Hawke barks a laugh. Oh, if only darling Aurelia could see her now, crawling on a dirty floor, drool on her clothes. It would make her bloody year.
She heaves herself onto the closest bench, her whole body crying out to rest, to just lie down and suffer until this ends or she dies, but she stands, knees buckling and takes one step toward the door, and then another.
"Not again," she hisses, biting her tongue until she tastes blood. One step, and another. More blood, and another step. "Not here. Not them. Not again."
She bursts into the cold, clear night with a low cry. Five figures, four in dark red, one in pale green, are striding away from the Hanged Man, light-footed and silent as deer. Hawke spits to the side, and stumbles forward, straight through an icy puddle, hobbling along in Aurelia's wake while the noise presses in from all sides.
Somehow, she finds the breath to shout. "Aurelia!"
The figure in pale green slows, then turns. Golden hair, golden eyes, the sweet, kittenish smile. Hawke keeps plodding ahead, dizzy and feverish and so, so ill, but it's worth it to watch Aurelia's smile slip a notch as she sees Hawke approach.
"Rhyssa." The reproach in her voice, the disappointment. "We talked about this. I warned you, and you didn't stay down. Now look what you made me do."
Hawke freezes. All she can see are her friends writhing on the floor, choking, weeping, sick and hurting and it's all her fault, it's all her —
"Eat shit," she snarls. "It's all on you, you filthy thief. All you."
Aurelia's face twists. "Figured it out, did you?" She waves the two figures away, stepping around a puddle as she walks toward Hawke. One hand stays fisted at her chest — around the egg, the poor silent egg. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Even a fool has her day."
Closer, Hawke thinks. Come closer, I'll give you a surprise. Her mana is sluggish, muddy, but it will come when she calls. It has to. It must.
"Did you know, Rhyssa, what happened to Silvie?" She's an arms'-length away, close enough to touch. With a slim hand, she reaches out and smoothes the sweaty hair from Hawke's forehead. Hawke nearly crumples at the touch — at this distance, the noise feels like it's eating her from the inside out. "Poor thing. She was trying to come back to me, but she ran into a few templars on patrol." Aurelia clicks her tongue, shakes her head. "They didn't even try to take her in. Burned her on the spot. All because you chased her out."
"Don't —" Hawke pants. "Don't act like you c-care."
Aurelia strokes Hawke's cheek. "I don't," she says. "But you do. You care so much you dragged your sorry little self out here to shout at me in the streets. Do you know what it's doing to you, inside, to stand here like this? I could tell y—"
Hawke punches her in the throat.
Truth be told, it's barely a slap; Hawke's hand refuses to fully close, and there's no real force behind the blow. A desperate move, a child beating her fists against the floor — it would have been more effective to burn her, but in the moment, this is far more satisfying. A hot taste floods her mouth, savage and wild and so pleased with the brief fear lighting Aurelia's eyes as she stumbles, then sprawls on her arse in the muddy street.
She lands hard on the cobblestones, and lets go of the pearl.
The noise vanishes, quick enough the absence nearly makes Hawke vomit. Green still stains her vision, but she can breathe again, the teeth at her heart and lungs are gone. Before Aurelia can snatch at the pearl again, and before the red-robed men can reach her, Hawke throws herself on top of Aurelia, praying her friends are free as she does.
She lands with one elbow jammed into Aurelia's belly. Aurelia screeches, already clawing at Hawke's face and neck, hard enough to draw blood. Hawke grabs her shoulder with one hand, digging her thumb into the soft space below Aurelia's collarbone and holding on white-knuckled while she snatches at the silk around her throat. If she can get the egg, it ends, now, and Kirkwall will stay standing.
Aurelia is still screeching, a fury of hair and nails and teeth, but the chain is at Hawke's fingers, ice-cold and thin enough to break one-handed. Hawke scrabbles, misses, and scrabbles again — and two rough hands close about her throat.
The lackey tosses her aside as if she weighs nothing. She lands on a pile of broken wooden crates, shoulder-first, the breath knocked out of her and her vision going grey. By the time it clears, Aurelia is on her feet again, golden hair in a wild corona about her head, her pupils so wide her eyes are black.
"You piece of shit." The air around Aurelia starts to crackle. A sickly yellow light ripples beneath her skin. "You should have died in the dirt in Ferelden."
Hawke laughs. "Tell me something I don't know." She heaves herself upright. The sea's voice is back, crashing against her skull, but it doesn't matter. She has no time to listen, only to burn.
"Well." The light within Aurelia fades. "At least I can rectify one mistake. Grab her."
The two red-robed men fall on Hawke, backing her against the wall until she's trapped between them. One grabs her by the throat again, the other by the arm, tight enough to bruise, almost tight enough to suffocate. She kicks at the closest leg, wheezing, but Aurelia slaps her, smiling close-lipped.
"Let's make you useful." Aurelia balls her hand into a fist, then opens it. The sickly light glows in the lines of her palm. "For once in your life."
Hawke doesn't blink. Her mana is so slow, creeping along her nerves, but it's answering. She'll have fire enough for all of them, in a moment or two. Maker, let her have that long.
The door of the Hanged Man booms open just as Aurelia presses her hand to Hawke's forehead. Anders shouts. A wave of his magic — dry herbs, sunlight, a hundred kind spring days — shatters Aurelia's spell before it can take hold. She leaps back, clutching her hand to her chest, and Hawke uses the lackeys' momentary surprise to burst free of their grip.
It seems some prayers are answered. There, in a shouting, furious mob, come the Hanged Man's patrons. Some of them stagger on their feet, listing like they're drunk, but there's no mistaking their anger. Or that they're armed, broken bottles and snapped-off table legs, all of them focused on the five mages standing around Hawke.
And there, at the forefront — Fenris. Hawke has time to mark him and breathe one sigh of pure relief before he vanishes, air snapping to fill the empty space he leaves behind. He reappears at her side, sword unleashed, eyes boring into Aurelia's, who simply laughs.
"Salve, rattus!" she yells. "You make an appearance at last! I was wondering when —"
Fenris disappears again, and slams back into the world with his hand inside Aurelia's throat.
"My lady!" cries one of the lackeys. Hawke's startled for a second too long at the genuine grief in the man's voice, though that fades when he rounds on her, his scarred face blotchy with rage.
She ducks in time to miss the bolt of flame he throws at her, rolling onto her bruised shoulder with a hiss and coming up on his other side, half-turned away, dagger in hand. The crowd has fallen on the other three lackeys, bellowing its satisfaction — Hawke knows in her heart it wouldn't matter who was outside, and she's glad, so bloody glad, that the people dying are the ones who deserve it for once — but the fourth stays fixed on her, summoning another blast of flame.
Hawke dives forward, feeling the rush of heat overhead, and drives her dagger into the meat of his thigh. The impact throws him to the ground, and she clings to the dagger, letting his momentum tear him open from hip to knee.
A last flame shears past her face, but she dodges it easily while she pulls her blade free, and backs away. He clutches at the wound, moaning while blood spurts between his fingers, eyes locked on her with enough hate to boil the air about them. Hawke whirls away, searching for familiar faces in the crowd.
Not ten feet away is Fenris, his hand still buried within Aurelia's throat while she scratches at his arms and spits like an angry cat. Hawke covers the space between them in three steps, slipping in a dark puddle and only catching herself at the last minute.
"The pearl," she gasps. Maker, the reek of it all, the dying screams. Maker let her never get used to it. "We need to get the —"
"Take it," snarls Fenris, "while I break the bitch's spine."
Aurelia makes a clogged noise in the back of her mouth. Blood soaks her robe, spots her hair; nothing remains of the smirking woman from moments ago. Her tongue flaps uselessly against her teeth. Fenris tightens his grip — and that's bone scraping against his gauntlets.
Hawke lunges forward, scrabbling in the folds of silk while Fenris inexorably chokes out Aurelia's life, but she can't feel the chain, the pearl is silent — but it falls into her palm, without fanfare, nonetheless.
She catches Aurelia's eye by chance as her hand closes around the pearl. And Aurelia winks, a tiny bloody teardrop rolling down her cheek.
Hawke shoves herself between Fenris and Aurelia the instant before an explosion throws them to the ground. Her back screams, something snaps in her shoulder — and Aurelia slobbers a laugh, above the moans of the crowd.
In spite of the agony in her back, Hawke rolls herself off Fenris. Somehow she still has her dagger, but the time for that has passed. Her mana floods her veins, hot and sticky-sweet, ready to call down fire till every piece of Aurelia is scoured from the world.
But she freezes, and the spell winks from existence as Aurelia stretches and smoothes down the front of her robe. Her throat is a dark hole gleaming with blood and white bone, but as Hawke watches, flesh knits over the wound. She hears the whisper as it heals, over her own pained breathing.
Aurelia wipes the blood away from her nose and mouth with the back of her hand. She studies the stain, then licks her hand clean, eyes closed in what might be pleasure.
Fire. Hawke needs fire now, a thousand years' worth — but Aurelia just sighs, pats her hair back into place, and wags a finger in Hawke's direction.
"I'm going to have to think about what to do with you next, Rhyssa," she says. Her voice is broken, and Hawke is viciously, childishly glad — may it never heal, may her tongue rot in her throat. "I'm going to have to think long and hard about that." Her eyes flick to Fenris, as he puts himself between Aurelia and Hawke. "And you, too, rattus."
Without another word she wraps her arms around her chest and vanishes into smoke.
Fenris drops to one knee, swiping absently at a cut on his forehead. Hawke reaches out, not quite touching him, wincing as her shoulder locks up. Isabela calls their names, but Hawke can't bring herself to answer.
"Are you all right?" she asks, sensing the crowd getting to its feet and shuffling back toward the Hanged Man, ignoring them as they cast their eyes in her direction. "Fenris?"
"I f—"
"No," she says, before he can finish. "You didn't. We didn't."
"She lives, Hawke." His face, when he turns to her, is a cold, tragic mask. She wants to touch him, so badly, but she knows he can't yet bear it. "She lives."
Hawke nods. Anders appears at the edge of her sight, along with Merrill and Isabela. Varric is nearby, going by the unmistakable noise of a crossbow being holstered. "Love, look at me. Please."
When he does, Hawke smiles. Her shoulder aches, she's bruised and scratched and she knows her throat will be swollen by morning, but she smiles. And when Fenris starts to ask why, she holds up a shred of green silk, tangled with a few strands of golden hair.
