Hawke got out of bed like nothing had happened.

She got ready for a day of selling vegetables at the market and didn't think of Shiva's final moments. She didn't think about the sigh of relief that rang out, staining the Fade like ink. She didn't think about the icy shards that fell backwards off the cliff, swept away in the Lifestream's currents to disperse and grow into new, free spirits. She didn't think about what she had unleashed.

She didn't think about it so hard she gave herself a headache before she'd even finished her morning shower.

Shiva's look of terrible relief and triumph stared back at her from the water cascading from the spout. It reminded her so starkly of Anders, in the moment he blew up the Chantry. A moment she took great pains to never think about at all. He had been so proud of himself. So resolved to this terrible thing for mage freedom, and all its consequences.

It reminded her of herself. She'd felt that flood of relief, terror, and triumph as she struck down Knight Commander Meredith later the same night, spilling Templar blood across the steps of the Gallows.

The resemblance was probably intentional. Spirits were always doing stuff like that.

The water ran cold. Shiva was dead and so was Anders. What did it matter?

She stood under the spray for a moment longer before she shook herself and went back to not thinking about it.

Aerith was already waiting for her by the time she made it to the stall. It was a cold and wet day, with oily puddles filling the potholes.

"You're late, missy!" Aerith sang out. "Wait, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," Hawke said, plastering her customer service smile across her face. "Come on, we've got a market to conquer."

Aerith gave her a sceptical look but didn't call her out.

They had become a staple at the Saturday market and people were happy to see them. The crop wouldn't last much longer, but they had no lack of business. The two threw themselves into it and the cash box filled up.

It was approaching noon when Hawke noticed Aerith was acting oddly. Her head was slightly bowed and she kept looking over her shoulder. Her voice lowered as she spoke to customers, less of the over-the-top friendliness of her usual salesman act.

It took her a good few minutes before she caught sight of what Aerith had already picked up on. A Turk was watching them. One Hawke hadn't seen around before. Aerith must have, many times, to have noticed him so quickly. He lingered in the eaves of another stall nearby, being just visible enough to be intentional. He had dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and a black tilak on his forehead.

They kept working through lunch, and late into the afternoon.

The Turk remained. He didn't carry himself with Reno's scrappy persona or Rude's tendency to loom. He looked confident in his authority, understated, and setting off a dozen alarms in Hawke's mind.

Eventually he approached and spoke quietly with Aerith. They weren't close enough for Hawke to eavesdrop, Aerith kept her head down and her voice low. Her body language didn't say she was nervous. It said this was normal. Everything about the interaction screamed illegal mage and a Templar who had decided today he would be lenient.

Hawke weighed and bagged produce on autopilot. Aerith said something with a shake of her head and the man laughed quietly in reply. Hawke wanted to go deck him. She wanted to set the stall on fire and disappear in the chaos. She wanted to tell him to stop wasting their time and just arrest them already.

She took a deep breath and did none of those things. When he walked past she kept her head down.

He was long gone by the time they finished for the day, having melted back into the crowds.

"Alright?" Hawke asked quietly.

"Mm-hm," Aerith replied, tight lipped. "Are you?"

Of course."

Aerith snorted, which was probably deserved.

They packed up and said their goodbyes in the growing gloom.

Aerith walked away with her staff loose in one hand and a money box in the other, every inch the defiant mage. Hawke watched her go and all her thoughts of the Mage-Templar War slammed back into her from where she'd left them that morning. She sighed, dragged a hand down her face, and set off back home.

She hadn't even been that involved in the war after it's explosive start in Kirkwall. The Circle Mages who took up the banner of freedom didn't want the association of the Champion, let alone the man who had blown up a Chantry. Hers and Anders' decades of skill and experience didn't matter, only her willingness to fund them.

She braced herself against a cold rain sliding off the plate. She pulled her fur hood up over her head, but couldn't stop the water running down her bare arms into the insides of her gloves.

They'd killed Anders in the end. A dagger in the back, from some coward who hid in the crowds of rebel mages. If the others had known who it was, they covered for them. She wished it had been a Templar. At least then she could have been righteously furious over it. In the end, all she felt was cold.

She had built his pyre in silence and walked away from the lot of them. The rebellion had already been faltering. The thousands of Circle mages floundered in a world they had no idea how to adapt to, they bled their allies dry, pandered to the Chantry, and stole from the impoverished. When desperation finally squeezed them too tight, they sold themselves into Tevinter's slavery, in the name of Freedom.

By the time the Inquisition swooped in, bought out Tevinter and leashed the Mages anew, it wasn't a war anymore. It wasn't even a rebellion: just scared men and women looking for someone to tell them what to do again.

And who could blame them? They didn't ask for Hawke and Anders to start a war on their behalf. Maybe they were happier locked up in their towers then starving through a Ferelden winter with no shelter or survival skills.

She climbed the stairs to her apartment, haunted every step of the way. She unlocked it and stood on the threshold, looking into the cold and dark room. Water dripped off the edge of her hood. She braced herself for a long night of trying not to think about the Mage war, before going to bed and trying not to dream about it, in a Fade no longer empty of prowling spirits.

She turned around and went to the pub.


Hawke woke on a couch.

She cracked an eye open, very gently, and met with the thick grain of mustard yellow upholstery smooshed against her face. She wasn't sure where the rest of her was just yet. She only knew it was a couch because of a hangover based sixth sense. She wiggled her fingers and toes. All clothed and accounted for. Excellent.

Her head wasn't even swimming and her stomach felt fine too. Maybe she'd gotten away with it. She risked turning her head and opening her eyes a little more. So far so good.

This was Reno's apartment. Dimly lit, thick curtains held back any unwelcome sunlight. She'd never seen it before but the signs were all there: a row of fresh suits hanging in dry cleaner bags, clusters of old take out containers on most flat surfaces, and a pervading stench of cigarettes that had sunk into the carpet and spat in the face of the best efforts of the cleaners. An expensive place, treated cheaply. Her sense of self preservation was waking up far quicker than she was and told her she shouldn't be here. It was one thing to share drinks with the jackboot but you didn't follow it home.

She pushed herself up, maybe she could leave he noticed- her hangover slammed into her.

"Ngrf," she groaned. She squeezed her eyes shut and braced her temples, sinking back onto the couch. The brick lodged in her head rolled around, bumping into all the walls. Oh, last night was a mistake. Whatever she did, she shouldn't have. It wasn't worth it.

Ah, regret. Aged like a fine wine. Her specialty.

Behind her someone kicked open a door far too loudly, grumbling all the way. Reno came into her line of sight, wearing a crumpled and stained suit and staggering his way to the clean ones. He looked about as disastrous as she felt.

He stopped and blinked dumbly at the sight of her.

She blinked back.

He looked around her, obviously weighing up the risk of her incongruous presence in his house. She wondered if she was sober enough to attempt going into stealth while he was staring at her.

Then he shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and continued along his previous trajectory.

"I'm never playing darts with you again, yo," he said, grabbing a suit and then disappearing back behind the couch somewhere. "Where do you even hide your Materia?"

She carefully parsed this new information. "In my bra."

"I knew it."

She looked down at herself. There were shallow cuts and fragments of broken glass in the thick cloth of her gloves. At least half a pint's worth of beer stained her trousers, and big blocky bruises trailed up her arm. The forensic evidence of a bar fight. Damn.

"Wait." She narrowed her eyes, reclaiming details through the syrupy haze of her memory. "Did you make a pass at me?"

Reno reappeared, looking barely any better for having changed. He gave a lopsided frown.

"Is that why I have a black eye?"

There was a dark sheen around his left eye. She pointed and laughed.

"You're so lucky I was drunk," he grumbled. "I'd have kicked your ass."

She snorted. "You're lucky I was drunk."

"Or what?"

"I'd have kicked your ass and nicked your mag rod. Would've fenced it before sunrise."

"The hell you would." He collapsed next onto the couch with a yawn, jostling her. He picked up a half empty beer bottle from the carpet and took a sip.

She winced at the sight, at the sensation churning in her stomach, at the universe as a whole. "I'm getting too old for this." Was this what used up blotting paper felt like?

"I'm not." He pointed at her with the bottle. "No moping on my couch, yo. If you're gonna feel sorry for yourself you can get out."

She huffed a sigh. "Yeah, yeah."

She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. She rubbed her forehead and slid a sneaky healing spell into her temples, easing the pressure a little. She sighed again. At least she hadn't entered the Fade. Small mercies. She scowled at nothing.

"What did I just say?" Reno snapped.

A smile curled across her face. She tilted her head. "Was it something about breakfast?"

It wasn't but they pretended it was. They walked down to a nearby food truck for overpriced coffee and underwhelming bagels. It was far too bright outside, on account of being above plate. They complained about it extensively.

There was no time for regret around Reno. Whatever the subject matter, he didn't care and was viciously opposed to any attempts to try and make him. She felt no obligation to be a functioning human around him, and that was quite nice.

They stood on the sidewalk, cradling their hot drinks. The news played on a large flatscreen overhead, a group of anti-Shinra activists got caught trying to ice the engine blocks of freight trains. Footage of their arrest played out behind a politely disapproving reporter.

Reno shook his head and knocked the ash off his morning cigarette.

"Why make life worse for yourself?" he muttered.

Hawke gave a wan grin. "There's an easy way and a hard way, is there?"

"You know it."

They watch the footage in silence. The rebels looked well equipped, but not early enough for the overwhelming force Shinra brought down on them.

"Amateurs," Reno said.

"Should have distracted the dogs first," Hawke replied, returning her attention to her bagel.

"Na, they should have gone during the day. The crowds would've distracted the guards."

"MPs will still fire into a crowd."

"Yeah, but they're not gonna hit you, are they?"

Hawke looked at him. He took a drag of smoke.

"You're a bad person, Reno."

"So are you. Like you're not breaking bones to get out of protection rackets."

She shrugged. "They started it."

"You're just mad I get paid better."

"Winning side usually does," she replied.

He gave her a sidelong look. She balled up her rubbish and tossed it into a bin.

They returned their attention to the screen, neither really watching it.

"Condor rebellions?" he asked lightly.

"No, I fought for the rights of oppressed wizards." She crossed her arms. "Buy me another coffee."

He rolled his eyes.


Hawke kept herself busy over the next few weeks with mercenary work. She had graduated from the Athenril school of smuggling and gotten her post grad degree at the Isabela institute of getting away with it: she sidled easily into a reputation for being reliable, professional, and disinterested.

She guarded smugglers and emptied out monster nests, hunted down missing people, and did some dead boring hired muscle gigs. She received some offers she couldn't refuse from a couple of warring local gangs, both of which she refused. Aerith nagged her for more magical training, and she came up with a plethora of excuses for why she couldn't just now.

Shinra raised the fare prices after the train attack and closed down two of the smaller stations. People complained but all attempts at protesting were promptly quashed.

Hawke slept lightly and managed to knock herself back out of the Fade before she fully entered most nights. She caught sight of her heavily pregnant neighbour one morning, stalking up the stairs with lots of heavy breathing and clutching at the small of her back. Hawke looked at her third trimester belly and knew, in the face of all logic, that the child would be a mage.

Which was impossible. There was no magic in Gaia's unenhanced human population. Or there hadn't been, back when it's Lifestream was empty of spirits.

She moved out the next day.

Her phone vibrated with a message from Genesis that night. She was sitting on a stained mattress, leaning against the bare cinder block wall of her new, tiny apartment. The entirety of her worldly possessions sat on the floor in a corner. The lightbulb blew when she turned it on, so she opened the curtain and sat in the dark of the slums' lights.

She hadn't heard from Genesis since they shattered Shiva. Maybe she could just not open the message.

What if he needed healing again? The war was over but he was still SOLDIERing about, he or Angeal could be injured. She flipped the phone open.

'When the war of the beasts brings about the world's end,

The goddess descends from the sky,

Wings of light and dark spread afar,

She guides us to bliss, her gift everlasting.'

She contemplated the poetry, sucking her teeth. It was pretty verse, but she had no clue what it was supposed to mean. If it was a cry for help it was craftily hidden.

'That's beautiful,' she texted back, hoping for clues.

'It's Loveless.'

She'd heard of that one. Wasn't there a street named after it?

'I thought it was longer.''

'Of course, that's just the first stanza,' he replied,

'Where's the rest of it?' she asked. Who recited half a poem? Strange man.

The 'typing' symbol flashed on and off a few times. She pulled her knees up to her chest and pulled her cheap blanket tight around herself. The last of the summer heat had abandoned them entirely, and the window didn't close fully. A draft sighed in through the gaps.

The screen glowed in the dark. 'Haven't you heard it before?'

She pulled a face. 'I'm new here.' It wasn't her fault, she'd been busy.

The phone rang.

"Oh." She blinked and accepted the call. "Hello."

His voice came through the speakers, bringing a little life to the dark room, as he launched into a recital with no preamble. She leaned back against the wall and let it flow over her. It was lyrical and mysterious, recited with a steady, building rythme. She had no idea what it was supposed to mean but he said it like it meant a great deal to him, like a Chantry sister reaching out for the Maker Himself with each line of the Chant of light.

He fell silent. She held her breath. It hadn't reached its crescendo yet, the final notes were left hanging.

"The final stanza," he said quietly, "has been lost to history."

"What!" she exclaimed. "You don't know how it ends?"

"Nobody does. The world has been left in suspense for the story's conclusion for centuries. Who won the duel, were the lovers reunited, was the world saved? None can say."

She furrowed her brow at the ceiling. Was that what it was about? "Surely we can say with some surety the world was saved. It's still here."

"Only if you assume it to be an historical text. Perhaps its allegory. Or myth."

Not like the Chant of Light then. "Or a tall tale."

He harrumphed. She smiled into the phone.

"Reminds me of the Hunt of the Fell Wolf," she said. "Although that one has a definitive ending."

"I'm not familiar."

She closed her eyes, leaned her head back against the wall and recited the epic. It flowed from whichever pocket of her mind it had lodged itself into, stilted in places and improvising a line or two where memory left her hanging. She wasn't a natural storyteller, she didn't have Varric's gift for diction and suspense, but she could put on a passable performance when pressed. The rhythm of the tale was uncomplicated and made for pleasant telling.

"As night passed into day, the two, did tales of valor spin,

And to this very day, each claims that he alone did win," she finished, after the heroes triumphed.

Outside the city lights glinted up at her.

Genesis was more impressed than she thought was deserved. Any bard would have turned their nose up at her performance. He peppered her with questions, who the two hunters were, what of the wolf's role, and was it all a metaphor?

"You can interpret it that way if you want," she replied, burrowing into the blanket. "You could say it's a metaphor for the stolen recognition of elven accomplishments, or how no one person can save the day. But it is about two real people who fought a big dog monster that one time." She gave a lopsided smile. "It's a very Ferelden sort of tale."

"Fascinating," he replied, with an open curiosity she'd never heard from him before. "Is this an important story to you?"

"Not especially. I probably heard it in a tavern somewhere. It's the kind of thing bards love."

There was a pause. "Just the once? You know it by heart after hearing it somewhere, once?"

"It's not very long," she said with a shrug. "The Chant of Light fills multiple door stoppers and people memorise that all the time."

He gave a suspicious hum. She stretched her legs out, letting her feet dangle off the edge of the bed.

"Yours is an oral culture, isn't it?"

A slow grin stretched across her face. "There's a joke in there somewhere, but I assume that's not what you're asking."

"Information is handed down by storytelling traditions," he said, blissfully ignoring her, "shared aloud and committed to memory, instead of by writing them down."

She blinked. It hadn't actually occurred to her the extent to which it wasn't like that here. But of course it wasn't, nobody told stories in the same way, Varric would be out of a job here. There were no bards. There were no drinking songs. There weren't even any buskers. Nobody seemed to remember anything, Aerith was forever surprised at the depth of details she had memorised.

"I... suppose," she said, feeling self conscious about it. "We do write things down too."

"How common is literacy?"

"Probably rarer than here," she conceded. Her shoulders drooped. "People don't really sing or share stories and poems here, do they? Outside of TV."

"Alas, no," he said gently. "We're a performative culture, but not in the literal sense."

She sighed and rested her chin in her hand. She hadn't even noticed how much she missed it. Void take them all, she was homesick. What a disgrace.

"Wutai is more poetic than the other continents," he said, after the silence had stretched out long enough to be maudlin. "I saw this decorating the walls of a tea house:

I look beyond,

flowers are not,

nor tinted leaves,

On the sea beach,

A solitary cottage stands,

In the waning light,

Of an autumn eve."

She sighed in appreciation. He had a good voice for it, the words rolled over her and filled her with an acute longing for something, she didn't know what. The Wounded Coast after a storm? Her humble childhood home in Lothering, on the edge of the river, windswept and stony? A resentful knot of tension deep inside her loosened.

She committed it to her memory, uncaring for how gauche it was to go around remembering poems.

"It was in kanji of course, I had a copy commissioned," he said.

She asked what that meant. The conversation drifted to Wutai's linguistic traditions, winding, thoughtful, and increasingly sleepy. She lay down and curled up around the phone, yawning and nodding, and eventually drifting off to a deep and peaceful sleep.


A/N: Thanks for reading! Reviews and concrit are all welcome.

Next time: Da Chao, for real this time.