Bethany dies, and Hawke blames herself.
She is the the oldest, she is the stronger mage. She had plenty of time. A stonefist spell would've been more than enough. A ball of lightning or even a pure spirit bolt. That would've been enough. Then Mother wouldn't cry so much. No awful creature would've reached down and snuffed out the sunshine in their lives. A young girl with wide eyes scanning the grimoires kept hidden in a chest of blankets, because she wants to be a good mage like her big sis. A young girl with small hands handing Sister Leliana a bouquet of Andraste's Grace to thank her for sharing stories of Orlais to a backwater apostate who could only dream of laying eyes on such splendors like the Winter Palace herself.
Like Hawke, she wanted to heal, to help with some soothing magic and a big smile. Just without the bad jokes.
Bethany always complained about Hawke's jokes, but she always laughed at them. It started with a "most unladylike" snort, too loud and boorish for a small shy girl with bangs constantly fluttering in her face. Then a giggle, barely covered with the left hand while the right hand grabbed at her stomach in a failed attempt to suppress her laughter. Bethany never wanted to give Hawke the satisfaction of a good laugh.
But she always did, because she was so giving. And then she would glance over and roll her eyes. She wanted to to help Hawke, to help her family.
And now she is gone.
Carver dies, and Hawke blames herself.
She should've listened to her mother. It was sensible that Carver should stay behind. It was more than sensible. She should've shut Carver down, made him stay. The one time she should've pulled the "because I'm older and I say so" card, she chooses not to. For what, his feelings? She's pulled it over much less. Like shutting him up when he starts pushing her buttons. He knows the combo. "Templars, Mages, Father," repeat. What does it matter if she dies in the Deep Roads? Carver will figure things out. He can take care of Mother. Hawke argues with him all the time, but deep down, she knows his heart is in the right place. He'll figure it out.
Mother says "make him stay," but Carver protests. Of course he does. He always does. But he's right. He was a "lone blade in a house full of mages". Dad never really spent time with Carver. At all. A boy needs his father, and Carver needs to feel important. He needs to feel part of something. He needs to feel less like a victim of Hawke's circumstances. He is, isn't he? The templars chasing them are Hawke's fault.
That's why she needs to do this.
Why he needs to do this.
She brings him along. He feels better. Until four days before they re-emerge from the surface. One is missing, another Hawke claimed by Blight. She squints as she emerges from the blackened bowels of the Earth. She stares at her hands. No mottled skin, no black blisters, no pallid skin. Not like her brother's. She rubs her fingers together. They are shaking and cold. Like her brother's. Before he asked her to make it better. And to take care of Mother. Hawke promises she will. She makes everything better. Her lips begin to quake. She trips and slams her foot into a rock. If the tears come, at least she can point and laugh at the bleeding
Leandra dies, and Hawke blames herself.
"You make me so proud."
Those are her mother's last words. Why is she so damn proud? Really, NOW?! The only thing she got right was finding some old dwarven junk that people liked enough to play ridiculous amounts of money before. Was an estate bought with dwarven junk really enough to make her proud?!
Because she sure wasn't happy about Bethany and Carver. Her children. Hawke's siblings. They are dead. And Hawke blames herself. Mother blamed her too. Now no one will. She needs someone to blame her. Any one. No one was around who would happily knock her down a peg besides her family. This is...was...her family. Now all that remains is an old woman who clicks her tongue every time Hawke scares away another suitor with detailed descriptions of what the insides of a giant spider smell like. Who will get mad at her for wearing "that ghastly thing" out to the Hightown market? Anders?! Nothing is more ghastly than constantly molting shoulders.
"Take care of Mother for me."
Those were Carver's last words. Now she looks at this assembly of flesh and blood with a pastiche of her mother's face and vacant eyes that long left this world. Hawke makes everything better. She always saves the day. Except when she doesn't. Another Hawke lost to foul magic. Every Hawke has fallen to foul magic. Magic caused the Blight. Magic took away everything from her. Her homeland, her family, the whole of Thedas almost five times over.
Anders leans next to her. "I'm sorry I couldn't save her, love."
Hawke whispers back, "It's not your fault."
It is hers.
Kirkwall is burning, and Hawke blames herself.
At least this time, some people will agree with her.
Everyone blames Anders though.
She doesn't. Not really. He was always troubled. Everyone called him crazy, deranged, dangerous. But she never knew anyone as gentle and patient as he was. He was patient with his surliest patients, gentle with the frightened mages he helped smuggle from the Gallows. Gentle and patient with her. And he felt deeply. About everything. Yes, he hated templars. And he hated their sympathizers and enablers. But he also hated himself. He hated what he did to his spirit friend. He hated when he lost control and almost killed an innocent little girl. He hated the injustice that he passively accepted for seven years, letting it fester and standing silent in the face of oppression. He hated that his involvement with Hawke put her in danger.
But he loved his friends. He loved his work. And he loved her.
And she loved him.
And he still lied to her, and she still played along. She should've suspected something. He was acting different lately. He was giving away meaningful possessions. He wasn't coming home for days on end. He wasn't sleeping, he wasn't eating. And she never thought to check on him more, never thought to force him to tell the truth. She should've known. She should've said something to the Grand Cleric. But she didn't. And now hundreds are dead. Every mage will be executed. And it's her fault.
She has to stop this.
Magic flies wildly through crowded streets. Templars block the way. One rushes at her, sword dripping with the blood of mages and their sympathizers, eyes screaming for more. She tries to cast a spell, and her mind reaches, but she strains to bring the magic forward. Sparks sputter from her hand but she can't pull anything from the Fade.
"Blessed are those who stand before the corrupt..."
The templar charges forward, steel racing for her gut, She lunges out of the way, a small nick on the purple cloth. A well placed bolt puts the Templar down. She looks down at her stomach. Just a cut. Just a little blood. She ignores the blood. It isn't worth the cost. None of this is. She glares at Anders. He looks away. The others pretend not to notice.
By the docks, another mage succumbs to demons, a redhead girl, no older than 15. She is now a pulsing mass of twisted flesh and fear paired with a demon feeding off nightmares of Templars and Tranquility. Six templars stand ready. They leave Hawke alone, for now. They will come for her next, if they survive.
They grab a boat and sail across the harbor to the Gallows; she can hear the screams, blood, fire and steel. More fighting. The fighting will never end. Hawke sits and lets someone else steer the boat. Let someone else lead.
She is tired, but she cannot rest.
By the end of the battle, the First Enchanter and Knight Commander are dead. The Knight Captain lets her leave the city safely. He would not kill the Champion after he turned on his own Knight Commander. She wishes he would. Hawke must leave during this reprieve, before more lives are lost. Armies are marching towards Kirkwall and every Circle in Thedas. Now the Circles will burn. Thedas will burn.
And Hawke blames herself.
"Did you think you ever mattered?..."
"You couldn't even save your city..."
"Anders is going to die, just like your family..."
Hawke makes a quip about how this Nightmare is getting pretty tiresome. No one laughs. Not even Varric. Everyone is on edge. They are in the Fade. Physically present. This is how the Blight began. It began when the unworthy first trespassed here. What foul magic will her presence unleash this time on the innocents of Thedas?
She prefers the Fade in dreams. She even prefers the demons in her dreams. At least those demons take familiar forms and familiar fears without being able to kill her physical form, and only while she sleeps.
If she even slept anymore.
She is tired, but she cannot rest.
Corypheus threatens to destroy Thedas. And Hawke blames herself. He was dead. She remembers. Blighted blood dripping from the form of a corrupted magister and seeping into the stones. Three Wardens lie dead, the ones who tried to steal her blood. Larius, no longer crouched and cowering, stands tall, and thanks her "for his freedom..." She let him walk away. And now the Divine is dead. All that remains is a spirit in her shape that guides them through the Fade. She never really believed in the Chantry, in the Chant, even the Maker. But she wanted to believe in a miracle.
"You tore Kirkwall apart..."
He said it in anger. He doesn't mean it. Hawke can tell. But he's right. She did tear Kirkwall apart. She started the mage rebellion. She doesn't have a good retort. Really, we need a world without Wardens? She didn't mean it. The Wardens did make grave errors, but Wardens are still needed.
But her...does Thedas still need the Champion? Did they ever need her?
A lithe brown elf with a glowing green scar snaps at them to stop fighting, to save this argument for later. They fight their way past the Nightmare and to the Rift. Varric and two others rush ahead, but the Nightmare rises and blocks the way. They won't all make it. They can't. Someone needs to distract them. The Wardens need someone to rebuild the Order. The Inquisition needs their leader.
And Hawke needs to make sure they get out alive.
"Go, I'll cover you"
The elf hesitates. The Warden insists the sacrifice should be his. She cuts him off. The elf starts to speak.
"Hawke..."
She ignores them.
"Say goodbye to Varric for me..."
Hawke rushes forward, stabbing at the tentacles with the sharpened metal bottom of her stave. It'll take more than a lightning bolt to distract the demon. The Warden and the Inquisitor sprint towards the rift. Hawke slashes at the Nightmare again. It screeches in anguish, and Hawke backs up, away from the Rift. She feels yellow elven eyes staring back at her.
Hawke screams at the elf,
"GO!"'
Hawke lunges forward with an upward slash. The remorseful elven eyes disappear. A swirling in the greenish "clouds" reduces to a pinprick and disappears. The rift slam shut.
Hawke doubles back, two gashes in her side, blood running in streams down her legs. Some belongs to the Nightmare. Most of it is hers.
She tries to focus, she can bend this world to her will, she just needs to focus...
She gathers every ounce of mana, her fingers crackle and pop as white hot lightning arcs around her. She gathers more magic, more mana, every ounce she can gather from this place. She directs it straight into the tattered mandibles of the Nightmare.
The screech of pain that echoes from the flailing creature shakes the Fade. A ball of searing hot lightning scorches the fleshy face. Blood streams from what remains of burned black eye sockets. It teeters to the right and falls, spindly legs scrabbling for some support that the Nightmare can stand from. It falls, and the ground rumbles. One final screech, and all that remains is a bulbous mass of burnt flesh and twitching legs.
Hawke slumps to the ground, her ponytail completely undone, wet black hair plastered to her cheeks and her forehead. Her hands shake as she reaches to push the sticky strands out of her face. She touches her left side and feels nothing but warmth and dampness. She could try and heal herself, but there is no point. There is nothing left. No one left to save. Nothing left to fix. Nothing remains but a dead demon and a broken stave.
She lets herself fall completely to the ground and closes her eyes.
She dreams first of a blonde man with soft hands hugging her against his chest and his feather pauldrons tickling her nose.
She dreams of a tavern heavy with smoke and scums and a game of Wicked Grace with missing cards stuck inside a thigh high boot and a dwarf with three serpents and a bullshit story.
Then she dreams of a farmstead in Ferelden. Wild-grass and buttercups tickle at her ankles. Outside, there's a pair of seven year old twins. There is a boy with matted hair and torn trousers swinging big sticks at enemy fence posts. There is a girl with big eyes peeking through long bangs picking flowers to make crowns. Her mother stands at the doorway, calling them indoors. Her father rises from the table, goes to the doorway and implores his wife to sit with a joke and a wink. She face softens slightly and she goes back inside. The twins rush past her and clamber indoors. Her father steps outside, walks towards Hawke and cups her shoulder. She looks up at his matching blue eyes and scruffy black beard. He gives her a tight hug and a soft kiss on her hair.
"You make me so proud."
Now, she can rest.