Hawke should have known from the very beginning that everything would go wrong. That she would fail yet another loved one. The way the bodies kept piling up in her past, she knew it would never end.
Bethany had been the first blood – and once upon a time, Hawke would have bristled at anyone attempting to place the blame upon her shoulders. There was no way that she could have controlled it. That wasn't her fault – it was the Blight. The darkspawn – her sister's very sudden rash courage.
It couldn't have been her fault entirely, she had once told herself. There was the Blight and the darkspawn and the civil war and Father...Father not being there when they all needed him.
Perhaps, however, even his death was her fault. Perhaps she was secretly blamed for that too. Now that she was older and wiser, she would not dare argue it. Only steel herself into silence and listen to the accusations and wonder what she could have done differently.
But Bethany...Bethany should not have died. That was all too certain. Her life was ripped way too soon and Hawke could remember the bravery her sister held as she went up against that creature. Then the blood and the sounds haunted her.
"Greif?! Do not speak to me of grief! This is your fault! How could you have let her charge off like that?! You're little sister...my little girl..." Mother's words would always be there, reminding her in those dark nights of her first set in stone failure.
They would always ring true, even so many years later.
"I never meant it, Darling..." Lies.
If it was never felt, it would have never have been said. Hawke felt some resentment over this responsibility she had been forced into – Carver had felt the same. She could tell from his steely looks, even when he said nothing.
It was never just Mother who placed the blame upon the eldest sibling.
Had Father been alive, none of these deaths would have occurred. He never would have let Bethany do what she did and she would not have died. Father would have made Carver stay home and so very far away from those Deep Roads and had gone himself.
Father would never have lost himself to the Blight.
Father would have been able to protect Mother. To sense the blood magic and the darkness and Mother would never have gone to investigate those lilies and she would have been more careful and Father would have known and Mother would be alive and not some dead patchwork doll of a crazed necromancer.
But Father was dead. Malcolm Hawke was just a memory. A spirit, perhaps, in the Fade, shaking his head at his eldest daughters failings.
Why was she the one who had to take responsibility?
Why? Why did they have to die?
Why did she have to fail in such a simple task of protecting them?!
She had failed.
Her family was gone and all she could do was build up walls around herself to not let her friends see how this ate her up inside.
The snide remarks and witty comments came faster, deflection in the face of questions asking about her well-being.
"Hawke...how are you holding up...?" Varric, ever so well-meaning would ask and he'd know and she'd know and they all knew that the answer he'd get was not the one he wanted.
But it was expected.
"Blood's not comin' out my ears yet, so I suppose I'm still alive." Which was a start to nothing.
Making light of her issues was a speciality. No one talked about her family anymore – not without her initiating the conversations. Which never happened if she could help it.
It was easier to try and ignore her failures, but how could she?
Wherever the dead go after their souls passed through the Fade, Hawke hoped she never followed. She didn't deserve such a kindness to see those faces again. Not after everything she'd done and not done.
But, the apparent Maker had a sense of humour and had no wish for Hawke to die so easily anyway.
Years go on and scuffles happen and Qunari attacks happen and duels to the death happen and Maker's breath blood magic happens too!
Templars, Mages, Assassins, Dragons, Wyverns...
By all odds, Hawke should have died so long ago and it was a running joke amongst her rabble.
The damned Maker had a real sick sense of fucking humour.
"I can't tell you what you want to hear, Hawke." Fenris had told her after Mother died.
It was simple, honest, and Hawke appreciated that. He would never lie to her. Never lull her into some false sense of confidence that she could not have played any hands in these events. They both knew she could have done better, and he allowed her to feel what she felt, if only in a brief hope that it would help.
It wouldn't, but Fenris tried and that in itself was comforting.
Even so, those words themselves were exactly what she wanted to hear. To give her the justification to hate herself, whether he entirely realised it or not. How could he? Perhaps to some extent, he'd understood what she was feeling, but never in entirety. He didn't remember his family – or any loss beyond what his own two hands and his sword had done.
Besides if he'd told her "it's going to be okay" she probably would have tried to throttle him for the empty meaning in those words.
It could never be okay. There would be no comfort. The ends would always be loose and Hawke briefly wondered if she'd ever die at all.
"You will be the death of me." He'd told her once, brisk, rough, heated.
"Careful," She replied. "Mother said that once and look what happened. It's a bit of a curse, I think."
She had been grinning as she said it and she could see the flash in his eyes because though he expected a remark, that sort of remark was not it. Hawke, however, could not help herself to it. Humour in her own losses and mistakes – where would she be without it? In a corner somewhere rocking back and forth, probably.
"Your glibness..." He began, watching her still "does you no credit, whatsoever."
"Well, now it's written in stone. When we have a son, I'm definitely naming him Fenris Jr. If only in hopes that he gains your brilliant cheery demeanour."
Fenris stared at her then, and she was sure his face was set in a permanent scowl. Obviously, the implication that they would even have their relationship go that far had thrown him off. Hawke was ever so faintly amused.
"That...was not funny."
"Really? I thought it was hilarious."
"You're about as funny as the Blight."
"Good to know my sense of humour is killer then. Maybe that's what got Bethany and Carver. I always wondered why people covered their ears when I spoke. Problem to the Blight, Solved! Marian Hawke only needs to shut up for ten minutes at a time!" She gestured wildly then, laughing.
One look at Fenris though, told her he was not falling for this and he was not amused by her attempts at humour.
Not that she blamed him, but it was her only defense. Her only means of dealing with her hurt. Her only means of telling him how she felt without actually telling him because that would be admitting weakness and the Hawke mage refused to be weak.
Hell, she was apparently practically immortal, after all.
It was never water or words that rolled from Hawke's back when she spoke. It was blood, she decided. Likely the blood of poor virgins too, she noted dryly and with a faint snort.
"You need to stop." Four words from him and they almost took away her breath, but they still didn't and she couldn't help herself.
"What? And ruin my reputation for being the most snarky and intelligent and witty mage in all of Kirkwall?!"
"Hawke." Right.
Enough was enough then.
Her expression sobered immediately and she dared not tear her eyes from his. There was softness there; a softness that had been there so much more as of late. He knew, they both knew, and it was okay, but not really okay.
"I cannot tell you..."
"It's never going to be okay, Fenris." She interrupted him, all playfulness gone.
"I'm not okay." It was simple, hard, but simple.
He sighed, grabbing her wrist firmly, but not roughly. He could be rough, and yes she liked it, but he knew what she needed. He tugged her close.
"I know."
Acceptance.
There was nothing she could do to fix any of what had happened. Her family was gone, but she still had Fenris.
Her friends.
"I will not fail again." Conviction.
Promise.
She would not let anyone else die due to her own incompetence.