It would be wrong to say Cullen woke before dawn. Waking implied sleeping after all, and there had been none of that. Dawn found Cullen alone, however. He'd not been presumptuous enough to move himself into the Knight-Commander's quarters, so he was still in his old room, sitting on his old stool, before his old armor stand. A mug of tea, long since grown tepid, rested on the table at his elbow. He'd eaten the plate of food someone sent because he knew he needed strength, though he hadn't been hungry. He could get by on very little sleep—he knew that well enough. Food was another matter altogether.
He was polishing his armor. Carefully. Meticulously. With the soft rag in his hand and his breastplate in his lap, he could almost pretend today was any other day. He knew it wasn't. His chest was tight with emotion he'd been suppressing for days, for weeks. It had been easy enough in the early days. When there was so much work to be done, who had time for grief? Now when he walked the streets, no one begged him for aid in saving loved ones. There were no more loved ones to save. So he polished his armor. He couldn't bring anyone back from the dead, couldn't undo any of the horror that had been done, but by the Maker, he could look the part when he stood to speak blessings over the dead. He owed them that much. He owed them all that much.
Later, he would have to be strong. Alone in his room, polishing his breastplate until it gleamed, Cullen allowed himself to grieve. For the Grand Cleric, for the mothers and sisters and brothers in the faith who'd been taken with her. For the people in their homes when the stones fell. For the people in the streets. The children are crying, ser. Can't you hear them crying? They're crying for me. Ser, can't you hear them? He grieved his own fallen brethren and their dead charges, men and women caught in Meredith and Orsino's lethal struggle. He grieved for innocence. What little innocence Kirkwall had ever had was gone now, irrevocably, irretrievably. Cullen knew what that loss of innocence felt like, and he wept for it.
By the time Ser Hugh arrived to tell him it was time, Cullen's face was once again stoic. The redness around his eyes might have only been from sleeplessness and the ever-present dust in the air. It wasn't. But it might have been.
#
The sun blazed above, but as Amelle hurried through Hightown, away from her home, she felt cold and hollow down to her bones. She hurt — ached — and for a moment she couldn't even remember the last time she'd felt this way, but then she remembered, and the force of the memory, the wave of emotions that crashed over her, was enough to cause a check in her step, a hitch in her breathing. Amelle stopped, clapping a hand over her mouth as the earlier hollowness grew suddenly tight, as if something inside was squeezing her, squeezing harder and harder until she could barely breathe. Cupcake whined softly, nudging her hand with his nose and licking hesitantly.
She hadn't felt this empty, this cold, this at loose ends since Mother's death.
"I'm okay," she breathed, leaning against a nearby wall and bending forward, bracing her hands against her thighs. "I'm okay." In all honesty she wasn't sure whether she was telling Cupcake or telling herself.
With a deep breath she closed her eyes, but all Amelle saw behind her lids was her sister, pale and blood-spattered, staring dully at a too-hot fire. She remembered all too clearly how… how empty her sister had seemed after Mother died. Amelle remembered too well the loneliness she'd felt, and how absurd it had seemed at the time — how could she feel lonely when her sister was just in the next room? But Kiara had withdrawn so far inside herself, had walled herself off from everything — she'd had to build up that bloody fire just so she could feel something.
Amelle shivered; she could almost feel the heat of that blaze herself.
Cupcake whined again and Amelle shook her head, but didn't dare open her eyes. She didn't want to open her eyes and see Hightown and sunshine and the slow but steady flow of people all making their way to… what remained of the chantry to mourn, to grieve all who'd been lost. Opening her eyes then would only tell Amelle the morning's events had happened.
She felt empty. Nauseated. Hollow. Cold.
If you really wanted to keep me safe, you'd stop being my bloody sister.
"Oh, Maker," she whispered. Amelle felt her gorge rise and she fought back against the sensation. "I didn't— I can't believe I… shit." Tears burned anew at her eyes and Amelle straightened, swiping at the moisture with her sleeve. Cupcake still sat in front of her, dark eyes watching attentively, his head cocked with concern. She took another deep breath. Then another.
Breathe, rabbit. Breathe. You'll be all right, just breathe.
It was perhaps not luck, but Amelle's tears were not unique to her that day. Indeed, she noticed as she pushed away from the wall, piecing herself back together and trying desperately to school her expression into something far more neutral and far less revealing, that others were just as red-eyed as she, their faces just as blotchy, their shoulders just as hunched with grief and pain. No one noticed her distress, and she was strangely glad of it.
Cupcake pushed to his feet and was once again by Amelle's side as she continued on to the memorial site. She let her hand rest atop his massive head as she walked, the warm fur beneath her fingertips a balm of sorts. She could not forget the words she and Kiara had flung at each other, and in the openness of Hightown she felt strangely exposed, lonelier.
The truth's coming out now; don't try to sugar-coat it with noble intentions — you'd rather I not be any visible part of your life.
Another wave of nausea clenched at her stomach. Amelle gritted her teeth and pushed down the sensation, forcing herself to walk. One foot in front of the other.
I didn't mean it, kit. I didn't mean it. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. I'll be good, Kiri. I'll be better. I'll try harder, Kiri.
The crowds grew thicker the closer she got to the site. Killer sniffed at the air, then nosed her hand and let out a soft woof before leading her deeper into the throng. Amelle caught the glint of sunlight against plate armor in her peripheral vision and her breath froze in her chest, her steps stuttering to a stop. Countless templars ringed the memorial site.
You'd have died or been carted to the Circle fifty times before your fifteenth birthday if not for me.
Killer mouthed the fingers of one hand, making a noise that sounded strangely impatient.
No, they weren't just templars, were they? Amelle looked again — templars stood shoulder to shoulder with members of the Kirkwall city guard, all of them looking somber in polished plate. Toward the front of the guard she spied Aveline, red hair and armor shining in the sun. Not far from her stood former Knight-Captain Cullen — the acting Knight-Commander now. He was less soot-smeared when she'd last seen in him The Blooming Rose, but his face was pale, his countenance creased and heavy with grief. How many of his brethren, his friends, had perished in the chantry, she wondered. How many had died? She thought, suddenly, of Ianna's babe, Adan, who would grow up without a father through no fault of his own.
People had lost family members and friends, and she and Kiara had spent the morning fighting. How many people here would have given their last breath just to have the opportunity to have another morning with their loved ones? How many of them were even now regretting what had turned out to be the last words they'd ever speak to a mother or sister or father or brother?
How would she feel if the last words she ever got a chance to say to Kiara were, If you really wanted to keep me safe, you'd stop being my bloody sister.
An almost-painful nip at her fingertips yanked Amelle from her reverie, and she looked down to find Cupcake watching her, then tipping his head at a path the crowd. She thought she saw a flash of snow-white hair somewhere in the midst of it all, and though the last thing in the world Amelle wanted right then was company, she nodded at the mabari.
"I'm right behind you."
#
Fenris recognized the hound first. Mabari were not a common sight in Kirkwall, and more often than not seeing one in Hightown heralded the arrival of one or the other of the Hawke sisters. On this occasion he had expected to find the both of them together—and, indeed, he'd been looking for them—but it was only Amelle walking with Killer, one of her hands resting on the mabari's large head. As Fenris watched, the hound looked up to her and then once again pressed himself close to her side.
Though the square was growing increasingly crowded, it took very little effort for him to reach Amelle's side. Crowds tightly packed but a moment before suddenly found space for him to pass. "Amelle," he said, when he was near enough for her to hear. Still, he was forced to repeat her name three times before she looked up, and even when her eyes met his, it took a moment before recognition and comprehension dawned. Her eyes were red-rimmed with tears, and her face pale. He supposed that described the majority of this crowd, but something about Amelle's countenance alarmed him. His fingers twitched at his side, as though they wished to reach out and grasp her elbow. Instead, he closed them into a fist.
"Fenris," she said, as if surprised to see him. "Kiara's…" she drifted to silence, then shook her head. "Sorry. Are you… Kiara's not here. Yet."
Something was wrong — Amelle looked more than troubled, she looked nearly ill, and that was a look he'd never seen on the Champion's younger sister. Amelle Hawke hadn't been sick a single day in the seven years he'd known her. Fenris frowned, looking more carefully at her, but Amelle did not meet his eyes. That too was unlike her. "She is… coming, then?" he finally asked.
"Yes. Probably." She grimaced. "I think so. Sebastian said… he said they'd… Is anyone else here? I saw Aveline."
"She and Donnic are with the rest of the guard. It is my understanding Varric and Isabela will be along — I don't expect they'll be much longer."
"What about Merrill?"
"I have not seen her." Nor had he made an effort to look for her.
"Varric's probably bringing her," she replied quietly, looking out into the mass of people around them. Her eyes were strangely unfocused, as if she wasn't really seeing any of the faces in front of her. This time Fenris did touch her elbow, and Amelle gave such a start that he let his hand fall back limply to his side.
"Are you… unwell?"
A number of emotions flashed across Amelle's face, and Fenris was certain he missed most of them, but he saw her sadness clearly enough — more than that, he caught something that looked a great deal like pain. "I'm… well enough," she said, glancing briefly at the sober collection of city guard and templars everywhere. She fell to silence again, the hand upon the hound's head sliding back to its neck and curling into a slow fist.
"Amelle."
"You… don't suppose they have an axe to grind, do you?" Then she added, in a much softer tone Fenris wasn't sure was meant for his ears, "Maybe I shouldn't have come."
Fenris was about to tell her such a thought was madness, that today was not a day for blame — and even if it were, the one truly to blame was far from reach at the moment — but a day to mourn the dead. There was no room for condemnation this day. He had, in fact, opened his mouth to say those very words, but as fate would have it, he didn't get the chance.
"Elf," though he sounded somewhat more subdued, it was certainly Varric's voice, "you make one heck of a beacon. Hey, Little—ugh, sorry. Amelle. Cupcake."
Without shifting so much as an inch from Amelle's side, Cupcake snuffled a greeting. Varric gave the mabari a dutiful scratch behind the ears. "Where's big sis?"
Again, Fenris witnessed the brief, strange play of emotions on Amelle's face and wondered at the root of them. "Coming. With Sebastian," Amelle replied shortly. "Where's Isabela?"
"Drunk," Varric answered on a sigh. "Really, really drunk." He waved his hand in an inclusive gesture. "All this emotion. She… well. She's drunk."
"I'm fine," growled a voice. Fenris turned, and was met by a grim-faced—and yes, obviously drunk—Isabela. The pirate scowled down at Varric. "I told you. I'm fine." She blinked several times at Amelle. "Are there two of you, kitten?"
"Only one," Amelle said, with a lightness that belied the darkness in her eyes.
"That's what I thought," Isabela remarked. "Where's your bloody sister? I only came because I knew she'd give me one of her bloody looks if I didn't show my bloody face."
"She's coming," Amelle repeated, a muscle jumping as she clenched her teeth.
"I suppose Choir Boy's slowing her down?" Varric asked. "How's he holding up, anyway? I'm assuming there's been no repeat of… well. No one man Exalted Marches going down in the Hawke Estate?"
This made Amelle glance up at him, and a pale smile ghosted across her lips. "None at Sebastian's insistence," she said. Varric looked so confused Fenris knew at once the dwarf had no idea what kind of risks Amelle had taken. "And he's doing a great deal better, I think. Not fully healed, not by a long shot, but I'm starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel."
"Still not sure it's the safest place for him," Varric said. "You know, what with the sweeping threats and all."
Cupcake gave a low bark, as if to say none of my people get hurt on my watch.
"He is going to stay with me for a time," Fenris stated.
Amelle blinked at him. Varric raised his eyebrows. Isabela swayed on her feet, putting a hand on Varric's shoulder to keep herself upright. He was fairly certain the latter had nothing whatsoever to do with his statement and everything to do with the pirate's current state of inebriation.
"In your… mansion full of corpses?" Amelle asked feebly. "I'm not sure that's… sanitary."
Fenris scowled. "Not all the rooms have… corpses. He has been improving. I thought a removal from your home might… help. Sebastian seemed to agree when I spoke with him about it yesterday. I believe he intends to come with me after…" Fenris glanced around, taking in the square and its crowds and the ring of armored guards and templars. "After this."
"Consulting with the resident healer might have been appropriate," Amelle retorted sharply. "Since he's still a patient in her care, and all."
"His constant presence weighs on Hawke," Fenris replied, shaking his head. "Such sustained contact can help neither of them in the long run. Not while things are so… unstable between them."
"Right," Amelle said, "Hawke."
There was certainly no disregarding the bitterness in her tone, but Fenris was kept from asking about it by the sudden shift in Amelle's expression. When Fenris followed the line of her gaze, he saw Hawke and Sebastian not moving through the crowd to join them, but standing near Aveline, and the templar Knight-Commander. "And there she is," Amelle said softly.
Whatever reason Hawke had for choosing such a… visible location, even Fenris could see she certainly didn't look precisely comfortable there. Indeed, the only time he'd seen her look worse was directly after her mother's death. Casting a surreptitious glance at Amelle, he saw some of the same strain playing around the mage's eyes, and he found himself abruptly certain there was more going on than distress over the day's events. He couldn't have said how he knew, but once he'd noticed them, the signs were obvious.
Fenris looked to Varric, to see if the dwarf was noticing the same things he was noticing, but Varric was thoroughly engaged in keeping Isabela upright.
Perhaps now wasn't the time to ask, but he would find time—time and an appropriate moment—to do so later.
#
The walk through Hightown from the Hawke estate to what remained of the chantry and its wreckage was a slow, quiet, painful process. If Sebastian attempted anything faster than a slow shuffle, his body fought him, every step a reminder of what the recent days had wrought.
Hawke seemed not to mind the slow pace; she was lost in her own thoughts, utterly silent as they passed house after house, the structures gradually showing more signs of damage the closer they got to the site. Only the oldest, most stubborn families in Hightown remained; an alarming number had fled, leaving behind abandoned homes, most of which had already been picked over by enterprising looters.
If he were to be truly honest with himself, though, he was almost thankful for the slow pace, for it allowed him time to think about what he'd walked in on. And what he'd almost walked in on.
He imagined Hawke was thankful for it too. She seemed… better now. Almost. True to her word she'd eaten breakfast, downing a phial of elfroot potion and chasing it with a cup of dark, strong tea to combat her headache. She'd insisted those measures had worked, and maybe they had, but Sebastian couldn't help but notice how wan she looked, how ragged. Her red hair made her skin look even more pale, made shadows beneath her reddened eyes look like bruises — it was worse in the daylight, Sebastian thought. Firelight was warmer, more forgiving, but the harsh light of day hid nothing.
As they reached the outermost edges of the assembled crowd, Sebastian looked above the heads, his eyes scanning the area for a flash of white hair, or a glimpse of a blue headscarf. Unsurprisingly, it was Fenris' hair Sebastian's eyes were drawn to first — after a second or two he saw Amelle and both Varric and Isabela were already there.
"I've found them," he murmured to Hawke, jerking his chin in the direction he'd just spied their friends. "Just over there."
A shadow passed over her brow and she pushed herself on tiptoes — Hawke was not a short woman, but there were more than a few bodies taller than she wedged into the area — to peer out into the crowd. He knew without asking whom she was looking for.
"Amelle is with Fenris and the others," he told Hawke. Her wince told him she'd just caught sight of her sister.
"I see her."
"Did you perhaps think she wouldn't come after all?"
"Less think, more hope," she replied under her breath, and on any other day — any other day before the world shifted — the words would have been imbued with dry wit and graced with a smile as charming as it was self-deprecating.
"It will be fine, Hawke."
She sent him a dubious look. "You were there. You saw. I don't think fine has anything to do with any of this." Her face tightened with worry as she looked up whether the chantry tower used to stand, and after a too-long silence, shook her head, whispering, "This is all my fault. I don't belong here."
"Remember what I said," he insisted. "Everyone deserves closure, Hawke. Everyone deserves to mourn. You lost, too. We all lost. And we both know whose fault this was."
She masked her skepticism somewhat, but he still saw it lurking behind her eyes. Resolute, she began making her way through the crowd. Sebastian followed at her heels, carrying himself carefully. They were forced to move slowly—even the Champion couldn't make the sea of people part by presence alone. Hawke looked back every few steps. He hoped it was concern for him, but he feared she simply didn't trust him out of her sight.
They'd made a little progress—a little, not a lot—when a hand dropped on Sebastian's shoulder—the shoulder on his wounded side—and he very nearly fainted at the sudden pain. He gasped, and Hawke whirled, hands already balling into fists, as though she'd attack anyone who'd encroached too far into his personal space.
"Maker's bloody balls, Cullen! Can't you see he's injured?"
The hand abruptly jerked away, but Sebastian wasn't certain if it was an improvement. Blinking rapidly, he focused on the way the sunlight gleamed in Hawke's hair. "I'm fine," he said, though no one had asked. Even to his own ears he did not sound anything close to fine.
"Forgive me, Brother Sebastian," Cullen apologized, his eyes wide. Sebastian supposed it was only natural, but every person he met seemed to look more exhausted than the last. "I was only so relieved to see you. I had no idea you—anyone—had…"
The templar's voice faded before he could speak the word they were all thinking: survived. Sebastian moved his shoulder slightly. The pain was still present, but less sharp. Hawke's eyes narrowed. "I'll go get Amelle."
Cullen's already pale face went ashen. "Maker, Hawke. Not here."
"I'm fine," Sebastian repeated. "It was only the surprise. Hawke. It's not… you mustn't put your sister in such a position. Not… in present company."
The templar looked momentarily affronted, and then shook his head. "I thought I might ask you to… to give the blessing, Brother. Otherwise it falls to me, and—"
"I am no longer a Brother," Sebastian reminded the templar. Pain stole the intended gentleness from his tone, leaving only tension. Hawke took half a step closer, her eyes scanning him. When he glanced down, his white shirt was still pristine. "I am… not certain it would be appropriate."
Cullen's brow furrowed. "Surely you're a better choice than the acting Knight-Commander? You, at least, will be recognized. You've been associated with Kirkwall's chantry longer than I have, Br—Sebastian."
The templar was right, of course.
"No," Hawke protested. "He's injured."
Sebastian bowed his head. "Speaking a prayer will hardly tax my injury, Hawke. And I—"
"Need the closure," she whispered. He nodded. "Fine. I'll come with you."
"Perhaps you should be with Ame—" Sebastian began, but she silenced him with a muttered, "I am coming with you. Let's not argue about it."
Sebastian exchanged a glance with the acting Knight-Commander. For all their attempt at subtlety, Hawke noticed and said, "Unless you fear a… a repetition of the circumstances under which we last met, Knight-Commander?"
Cullen sighed. "No, indeed. Perhaps it's best you be seen with me, for all that. And Aveline will be there."
One thing Sebastian noticed: the crowds certainly parted for a templar Knight-Commander. Even if he was only acting.
#
Kiara's head hurt.
Even after the tea and the elfroot potion, her temples still pounded, pressure still pulsed against her forehead, against the back of her skull. The sunshine that had put her into such a foul mood when she first woke now made the inside of her skull throb with pain.
Through the haze of her headache, she saw her failings reflected in the faces around her. She saw families broken, missing a father or a mother or, Maker help her, a child. She heard it, too. Then, it had been screams amid acrid smoke and ash. Now it was softer sobs, muffled with varying measures of success. Her failure loomed around her: failure to see, to question, to act before Anders had gone even half as far as he had.
She'd been their Champion, and she'd let them all down. She was used to dealing with the consequences of her actions — indeed, it was something drilled into all the Hawke children from a young age. But Papa had never taught her how to deal with the consequences that arose when she did nothing at all.
And then Amelle had mentioned Carver. Another life lost, not because she'd failed to act, but lost before she could act. Amelle had mentioned Carver and Kiara realized she was standing alone in the room with the very last shred of family she had left in the world — aside from Gamlen at least, whom she decidedly did not count — and she found herself seized with such a sudden and boundless terror she could scarce contain it. She found herself wondering what if something happened to Amelle? Something could happen, some ill could befall her… and if Kiara had learned anything over the last seven years, she'd learned it could happen whether she did something, or whether she did nothing at all. She'd only ever wanted was to keep her family safe, and one by one she'd failed them. It only made sense Amelle would be next.
Amelle had mentioned Carver, and fear, intense and irrational, had wormed its way so deeply inside Kiara could barely think. A world without her sister. A world without family. A world in which she'd failed every single person she ever loved or cared about.
That fear had been so blinding that even now Kiara had difficulty remembering exactly how her bow had come into her hands. But it had, and she was so utterly aghast the very idea of facing her sister now made her stomach lurch with nausea. She'd seen it clearly enough when she spied Amelle through the sea of people. By her sister's expression she knew she was the last person in Thedas Amelle wanted to see. And Amelle was just another in a long list of people Kiara wasn't sure she could face.
Problem was, as Kiara followed Cullen and Sebastian through the crowd, it was beginning to look like she was going to have little choice but to face them all, and all at once.
#
Cullen didn't realize how much he'd been praying for the Champion's return until he spied Kiara Hawke across the crowded courtyard and realized the woman he'd known—the true Champion of Kirkwall—was still missing in action. This version of Hawke wore leathers at least, but her bow was not slung on her back and there was something so… so wretchedly broken about her. Looking at her too closely made him ill. He'd spotted her sister already, safe enough within a knot of Hawke's companions, though it had surprised him not to see the Hawkes together. Just as well. Today was a day of healing broken things, and mourning, and by the Maker, the people of Kirkwall were going to start by forgiving their Champion. Perhaps it was just as well she did not arrive with a mage at her side.
Then again.
He did not see who threw the stone, but they had good aim; it bounced off Hawke's shoulder. She winced, but did not retaliate. Indeed, there was no spark of defiance in her. She merely bowed her bare head, her coppery hair gleaming in the sun, and waited like a martyr. He had visions of the scene he'd broken up in the marketplace, Hawke bloody and under attack, and he clenched one hand around the hilt of his sword.
Cullen was having none of it. None of any of it.
"You ought to be ashamed of yourself," he said, his voice carrying as only a soldier's voice could. Conversations fell into silence, until only the sounds of shuffling feet and the occasional soft sob stirred the air.
Hawke's eyes darted toward him, as though she suspected the words were meant for her. He could hardly correct her, but that she thought herself in any way deserving of them was no small part of the problem. Beside him, Brother Sebastian's sharp gaze was scanning the crowd, and his jaw was clenched hard. It seemed so strange to see all the defiance in him and none in Hawke, like the world had been shifted upside down.
Perhaps it had. But Cullen wasn't having any of that, either. Not today.
"Today is a day of mourning," he continued. "A day of grief. All of us have lost loved ones, friends, family. All of us have wept."
The children are crying, ser. Can't you hear them crying?
"Today is for honoring those who fell. Today is for lighting candles and telling stories. Today is for remembering."
Hawke's chin tilted up, just a little. Her shoulders straightened. Not entirely, but enough. Her pale eyes swam with tears. Cullen swallowed past the hard knot of emotion in his own throat. Ahh, he thought. Champion. There you are.
"Today is not about blame," he insisted, looking away from the Champion, casting his gaze out over the assembled crowd. He recognized so many faces, and was aware of too many missing ones. He had a list of names. He'd written it out himself, painstakingly. Every name. Everyone reported missing, assumed dead. There were so many names. So many. The children are crying, ser. Can't you hear them crying? Those names were Meribel, Dora, Theo. The baby was Mikken. Their mother's name was Tamma. Tamma, with her hands bloody from clawing at immovable stone. Tamma with her tears and her disbelief. Tamma had taken her own life, a week after the explosion, as soon as anyone left her alone. Her name was on Cullen's list, too, though he thought he might be the only one left to mourn her. He only knew the children's names because the one time he'd visited Tamma in the Rose she'd been curled in a corner, repeating them over and over and over.
He should have known. He should have known what she would do, in that first moment she was left alone.
"Today is not about throwing stones. Today is not about violence. Violence has brought us pain enough; we do not need to add to it."
The sun was shining. The birds were singing. Cullen had a list of names. Tamma. Meribel, Dora, Theo, Mikken. Behind him stood a gaping hole, a wound cut deep in the heart of the city. Before him, the sea of people whose hearts and lives had been pierced just as deeply by the loss. He'd dreaded feeling nervous, having to have so many eyes upon him, but instead he only felt like one of them. Perhaps for the first time. His was the voice, perhaps, but they all might have spoken the same words in his place.
"We are all here for the same purpose: to grieve for what was lost. To grieve for that which was stolen. To grieve for Kirkwall."
No one threw another stone.
#
I don't know what I was expecting, Amelle thought as she watched her sister accompany the acting Knight-Commander and Sebastian to the front of the assembly. But, no, that wasn't true — she knew what to expect when she and Kiara fought. Though arguably the worst in recent memory, this certainly hadn't been the first argument between them. Usually after a short while apart, they approached each other, however warily, and… attempted to heal the breach between them.
But now, as Amelle watched Kiara walk further away from her to stand up with Aveline, with Sebastian, with the templar Knight-Commander, she felt a cold knot settle in her gut. No, this wasn't right. It wasn't right at all. And though she was loath to admit it, betrayal twinged faintly beneath her breast. Amelle wrapped her arms around herself, feeling suddenly uncomfortable, suddenly cold. Suddenly as if she ought not to have come at all, as if she had no business being here at all. Cupcake snuffled her leg and pressed more firmly against her.
What made it worse was that Kiara was standing with acting Knight-Commander Cullen. Granted, he'd stood up to Meredith, and he'd been more than fair — nearly kind, really, or at least concerned enough to warn her to be discreet when he'd come across her in the Rose. But he wasn't family. And no matter how badly they'd argued, Amelle… wanted her sister by her side. Particularly now, put face to face with such a stark reminder of loss. And though her rational mind rejected the idea, part of her could not help but feel as though Kiara maybe didn't want to be by her side any longer.
Foolish little mageling. The truth is out now, and big sister's made her choice; surely you see that much. A dark, traitorous thought whispered through her mind. Amelle scowled and shook her head. No. This is Kiara. She wouldn't.
But the taunting, prodding whispers had only just begun. Well, if the problem isn't her, it's probably you. You were the one working to heal so many, and it was such thankless work, too. And still they all prefer Kiara. You mended their bones and healed their cuts and saved their children, and still they want their Champion. Face it, no matter what you do, or how hard you work, how much you risk for them, it will never be enough. You will always be the Lesser Sister. You'll always be just a mage. It won't matter what you can do for them, because that is all you are and that is all they'll see. Kiara's decided you're just not worth the trouble anymore. And can you truly blame her?
Then a lone cry shot up from the crowd and a rock pelted her sister and Amelle, despite her bitterness, despite her anger, despite what she knew was a demon trying to whisper poison into her mind, felt the sudden warmth of energy flowing down to her hands, summoned nearly before she'd thought of it. They'd fought, they weren't speaking, Kiara had drawn a sodding bow on her, but all of that aside, no one hurt her sister without consequences. She narrowed her eyes to try and seek out the aspiring marksman, but the sudden — and surprisingly tight — grip on her arm yanked Amelle out of her anger. Fenris was standing close, one hand clapped over her wrist, the warning clear in his eyes.
"Do not," was all the elf said. He was watching her closely — too closely — and his eyes darted down to her hands meaningfully. "Do not," he said again. "Not here, and not now, Amelle." His brows lowered into a scowl. "You are not so foolish as this."
It would have been easy to direct her peevishness onto Fenris — and indeed, she started to, jerking her arm away and sending him a glare, but very few people ever glared at Fenris with any true measure of success, and Amelle did not find herself in the lucky minority. The elf merely met her gaze and returned it steadily. His eyes held no anger — only concern — and she realized, however perversely, she wanted Fenris to be angry; after several seconds Amelle was the first to look away, biting back a particularly vehement curse.
"It is not the time, Amelle," he said, his voice low and brooking no argument.
"So I ought to let her get stoned to death?" Amelle hissed back, frustration tightening her throat and making tears prickle anew at her eyes. But Fenris only jerked his chin at Kiara, Sebastian, and Knight-Commander Cullen, standing before the crowd. Cullen's voice carried with surprising clarity as he dressed down any who would do violence on this day.
Frustration warred with shame, and heat rushed to Amelle's cheeks as she looked down and then crossed her arms, hiding her hands against her body. Now we see why — of course they prefer their Champion. You'll only ever be Little Hawke, not worth half so much as she. You won't meet your sister's eyes, but you'd not hesitate to strike down a complete stranger in retaliation? On a day such as this one? Pathetic. No wonder they prefer Kiara. Never mind how many of their lives you saved, how many burns you healed, how much bleeding you stopped. You will never live up to that. You will never be her equal. Never. Never. Unless…
A soft voice at her side startled her almost enough to make the magic sing in her veins again, but a swift glance revealed Merrill, looking frazzled and confused, her braids askew. "Am I too late? Did I miss it? It's only I kept getting lost and there are so very many people. I was looking for Varric, and then I thought, oh Merrill, but he's the shortest and once I started looking for Fenris' hair I saw you instead. I'm so sorry, Amelle, they threw that stone at your sister. It's just so strange to see them mad at her. But it's very good you didn't do anything foolish; there are so many templars around."
Something about the incongruity of this—the Knight-Commander pleading for peace, Merrill chattering in her ear, her wrist still aching from Fenris' grip, Kiara almost looking like herself again—sent the last of Amelle's anger, her desire to retaliate, dissipating into nothing. She was left with a strange hollow feeling, an aching void desperate to be filled. Only she wasn't certain what was going to sweep in to fill the emptiness, and it frightened her. She could feel the tickling of the demon's whisper, reminding her of all she was and all she wasn't, of all Kiara was, and all she was perceived to be. Little Hawke. Lesser Sister.
Merrill's fingertips brushed the back of Amelle's hand, startling her again. "Are you okay, Amelle? You look like you've been crying." Then Merrill ducked her head, saying, "Oh, Creators. Everyone's been crying. Of course."
Amelle was saved the necessity of answering by the sound of Sebastian's voice taking over for Cullen.
"Oh," Merrill said. "Is that Sebastian? He's so much less… shiny without his armor, isn't he? And so thin."
"Silence, mag—elf," Fenris growled.
Owl-eyed, Merrill blinked at Fenris and then at Amelle, but she did stop speaking. For a moment she looked so stung, so tragic, so alone, Amelle reached out and wrapped her fingers around her hand. Merrill squeezed back. The silent whispers continued to prod at her, but Amelle set her jaw and pushed back hard at the unpleasant tickling inside her skull, choosing instead to focus intently on Knight-Commander Cullen's voice as he read the names of the lost.
#
In truth, given half a chance, Fenris would have confronted the coward who'd thrown a stone at Hawke. It was a craven gesture, made even more so by the sheer size — and thus the anonymity — of the crowd. But he caught the soft glow of Amelle's gathering magic and that alone chased any and all thoughts of confrontation from his mind. The climate in Kirkwall was too unpredictable, and Amelle a lone apostate surrounded by templars. It didn't matter that Fenris agreed with her sentiment and the motivation behind her reaction, but any show of magic at that time, at that place, would have been dire indeed.
But when he'd closed his hand around her wrist, Fenris was unprepared both of the warmth of her skin and the strange tingle of magic emanating from her. He felt the distant call of the lyrium in his skin in answer, but before he could make anything of it, she'd jerked her hand away and turned her eyes — though not her attention, Fenris suspected — back to the Knight-Captain and Sebastian. But Amelle's expression darkened, and the longer he watched, the more he grew confident something was very wrong indeed. The color at her cheeks was mottled and the way the muscles jumped in her jaw, she was very clearly clenching her teeth.
Concern evolving into alarm, he'd nearly pulled her away then and there. Better to remove her from the memorial and find out for himself what made her features so pinched with pain and flushed with what he strongly suspected was anger, and what could possibly have induced her to nearly reveal her magic in front of so many hostile eyes. Many were sad this day, but whatever was troubling Amelle Hawke was not mere sadness. Or even affront on her sister's behalf. A stone was only a stone, in the end, and Hawke protected by powerful allies.
But then Merrill appeared at her elbow and Fenris found himself unwillingly beholden to her for providing Amelle the very distraction she required. A few moments of Merrill's chatter did a great deal to bring Amelle's color back to normal, though her features remained pinched and nothing but time would ease the redness of her eyes.
Fenris raised his eyes to scan the crowd once again, this time to be certain no templars seemed unsettled—or overly curious—about Amelle and her overly warm skin. A few seemed to meet his gaze, but no one moved toward them. Most were listening as carefully as the crowd to the Knight-Commander's words.
Still, Fenris felt a prickle of tension between his shoulder blades, and he didn't think it was the presence of so many templars and guards. It was something stranger, less easy to define, and he thought it had a great deal to do with how unwell Amelle seemed. He rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel the sense of unease, but the gesture was utterly ineffectual. It was a feeling he remembered well; in the past, when he'd felt such pressure, it had always been an indication to run. From Danarius. From his hunters. Even now, Fenris had to convince himself it was better to stay than to draw attention by running.
#
Though his first instinct had been to refuse the acting Knight-Commander's request, as soon as Sebastian lifted his voice in the familiar cadence of prayer, he was glad he had not. And although he found it troubling how difficult it was to find breath and voice enough to make his voice carry—he, who'd often led the Chant, who'd been praised for his fine voice—he was soothed by the sense of peace that settled on him as he prayed.
It was peace tinged with sorrow, of course. Everything was tinged with sorrow, these days. He hadn't been entirely certain about how he'd feel—and save for his foray into the clinic to help Amelle, this was his first time away from the Hawke estate since…
He could scarce bring himself to look upon the empty expanse of sky where once the familiar facade of his home had risen. This time the ache in his chest was not all the result of the wound there. It was all gone now, all empty. It was too enormous to bear. The weight of it was so heavy. Too heavy. Everyone. Everyone he'd known, everyone he'd cared for, everyone he'd eaten meals with or cleaned floors with or laughed with. The cooks who'd baked the bread he loved so well. The garden he'd spent so much time in. Elthina. Oh, Maker be merciful, everyone. He could not bear to think of Elthina, even now. Instead, he remembered the sound of voices raised in the Chant, and he strove to match that memory, to make that memory proud.
But his voice trembled. A moment later, Hawke stepped closer to him, until the back of her hand brushed the back of his hand. She didn't look up at him. Nothing about her posture changed. But the backs of her fingers brushed the backs of his fingers, and a moment later he heard her voice—soft and timid and never on any kind of key—join his. He didn't think anyone else could hear it, but no one else had to. It was enough. It was enough to help him go on. His voice did not tremble again.
#
For seven years, Kiara had been weaving herself into the fabric of Kirkwall. One couldn't live in a place, become a part of a place, adopt a place without caring. And for all her laughter, for all her quips and smirks, Kiara cared. She'd helped every damned person who'd ever bothered to ask—no matter how great or small the task—and in the process, she'd come to care. Not just about big things—templars, mages, viscounts, qunari—but about the little ones as well. She cared about the plight of the refugees, certainly, but she also cared about the individuals. Most of what she'd done to earn the title Champion had been done because she couldn't stand to see a person struggling, hurting, despairing when she had the power to help.
She couldn't help with this. She couldn't help in the face of such overwhelming struggle, hurt, despair.
As Sebastian's voice fell into silence, Cullen's rose once again.
Names.
Kiara closed her eyes, unable to stop the sudden spill of tears down her cheeks. She knew too many of the names. And she knew too few of them. Some had faces vividly attached. Ser Paxley, with his bushy mustache. Guillaume de Launcet. The elf Elren, whose daughter Lia she'd once saved from Kelder Vanard. Kiara felt a pang of surprise and grief when Cullen read out the name of Ser Keran's sister, Macha. But the grief swiftly became numbness. Too many names. Too many faces. Even Cullen's strident voice soon grew hoarse, and she knew there were still so many.
Aside from Cullen's voice and the occasional cry of a gull, Kirkwall was silent. So silent every gasp, every whispered oath carried as clearly as Sebastian's prayer, or the litany of names itself. Every name elicited some reaction.
Nobles, elves, refugees — so many had found refuge at the chantry. Had they she not been locked in a pissing contest with Meredith and Orsino at the time, Kiara knew she could have been inside. Sebastian, certainly. And though she'd never gone on her own, Kiara knew her sister loved the sound of so many voices joining and blending as one in prayer or song. Many times, when they'd be rushing through the chantry courtyard on one job or another, Kiara had felt Amelle's hand on her wrist, slowing their steps to a stop, just so she could close her eyes and tip her head up to listen, a content but strangely secretive smile at her lips, as if to say, I might not be invited to the party, but I can still enjoy it.
If her sister had paused to listen in the chantry courtyard then, she'd have been just as dead.
Those moments melded into one memory for Kiara and the clarity of them all hit her so hard that she drew in a sudden, involuntary breath. Scanning the crowd, she searched for her sister's face, but when she found it, a host of other memories crashed over her, wiping away the image of a content, smiling Amelle, and replacing it with the young woman she saw now. This other Amelle's cheeks were hot with anger, her mouth pressed into a thin, hard line, her jaw tight — Amelle, for the Maker's sake, if you keep grinding your teeth that way you'll have none left in your head to speak of, Mother always said — her eyes looking anywhere but at Kiara. From somewhere in the recesses of her memory, she heard Carver's voice, whining at Papa to make Amelle stop looking at him.
Look at me, Amelle. Rabbit, look at me. Papa, make Amelle look at me.
But she didn't.
Cullen's voice fell silent, his long list of names ended. Silence fell over the square. Kiara didn't see who started it, but from somewhere within the crowd a voice rose, singing. It took her a moment to recognize the hymn, but when she did, she smiled through the sudden pang of pain. It was a song of peace, and it was one of Elthina's favorites; the Grand Cleric had led the congregation in the same hymn at every service Kiara had ever attended. More voices joined the first. Beside her, Sebastian raised his head, tears running unchecked down his cheeks. He, too, began to sing.
Soon, the entire square was singing. When the first hymn ended, another began, and then a third. Gradually people began to break away from the square, departing in twos and threes with their voices still raised in song, until it seemed all of Kirkwall echoed with music.
