49- To Arms (Part I)

"But I have my life, I'm living it. It's twisted, exhausting, uncertain, and full of guilt, but nonetheless, there's something there."
― Banana Yoshimoto

Why him, not me? she wondered during the bleakest stretches of their trek back to Skyhold. That any of them had returned at all, that they emerged from the strange realm to tell the tale fairly unharmed was miraculous.

All of it had been eerie—dreamlike and nightmarish at once, there being no clear dichotomy between beauty and horror at first, as they wandered through the carcasses of another time, other lives, cluttered minds. There the water did not slake her thirst, nor the fire warm her skin, nothing did as it was told, shifting, treacherous… Or was it they who were alien? Their senses not native to that world, unfamiliar, hence, unwelcome? Even the sun glowed cold and bleary-eyed, a reflection, shimmering over the surface. It wasn't until they had forged ahead that the etherealness of the world that enveloped them began to tighten into something dark, ominous and ugly.

"Did you think you mattered, Hawke? Did you think anything you ever did mattered? You couldn't even save your city…How could you expect to strike down a god?" the Nightmare had taunted her.

She saw them then, in her mind's eye: Carver. Leandra. Bethany, lost to the Grey Wardens.

Now, Stroud's been added to the list. He'll find himself in good company, if there's such a thing as an afterlife, she thought grimly. Why I keep surviving, I don't know, she frowned, her boots trudging through the fluffy snow that still dusted the mountain trail. It is as if others step into the path of what is intended for me.

It's a curse.

"Fenris," the voice had said indifferently, "is going to die just like your family. And everyone you ever cared for…"

"Well, that's going to grow tiresome quickly!" she'd quipped tersely, ramming a dagger into the midsection of some hideously elongated screeching shade.

She had remained calm during it all. That was an old instinct, a singular defiance that overcame any weakness; when incensed, she became particularly focused.

You're going to taste my dagger down to the hilt for violating my mind, she'd thought, her hatred as sharp as the blade she wielded.

She'd pushed Fenris out of her thoughts. The Nightmare's words had meant nothing.

We all die someday, she shrugged.

But she had offered to stay behind too quickly, trying to outbid Stroud.

Why him? she'd asked Evelyn afterwards.

"Because he would not rest until he'd found an opportunity to redeem the name of the Wardens. His sacrifice bears fruit for the Order," Evelyn had explained. "It gives his life meaning, it symbolizes all the good the Wardens once aspired to…and perhaps will, again. You—your sacrifice would have meant nothing but grief to your loved ones."

Stroud was an honorable man. More honorable than she ever was, she concluded dourly. I wish I could simply blame this one on Clarel, she thought angrily. Things never should have gotten so out of control.

The final mile up to Skyhold was a relief and their stiff upper lips came undone: complaints of aches and exhaustion and hunger, cold, wet, and thirst acceptable only because they had an end in sight. They marched forward. She'd stayed back from the group for a bit longer, allowing the Inquisitor and her entourage to go ahead. Hawke had been toying with the idea of slipping away again, disappearing into Orlais and making her way north to Weisshaupt. It would definitely piss off the Nevarran, who insisted in a formal debriefing, if she simply vanished.

But she couldn't. Not when she'd cockily promised Varric she would return.

It hadn't been until she wandered out of the War Room that she realized the somber faces around her could have just as well been uttering "Hawke" rather than "Stroud."

Too close this time, she gathered.

Her impression was seconded when she saw the familiar ginger-haired figure push past the doors of the War Room and position himself in front of her with an angry, stern expression.

"Come here. You and I have to have a little talk," he beckoned her with a finger as their group was dismissed after the debriefing.

There were only two people on that earth from whom Hawke would patiently suffer a talking down-to. One had been her mother, Maker keep her soul, and the other was the dwarf, who had no problem cutting through her elaborate spools of bullshit. She braced herself, because from what she could tell, she was in for it. Varric crossed his arms and examined her with a glare so deflating, she didn't know what to do with herself.

He pointed at a bench.

"Sit," he ordered curtly.

Oh, great.

That meant he wanted a face-to-face, for them to be on equal footing. She fell back on the bench, ready for the scathing reprimand she sensed was brewing. She was so sure about being in trouble with the dwarf that she didn't understand at first why all of a sudden two arms had flung themselves tightly around her neck. Next thing she knew, her chin was resting over his shoulder and he was squeezing her.

"Don't you ever pull a stunt like that again. Ever."

She would have ordinarily made a silly joke, something along the lines of, "Don't worry—I won't, since you're suffocating me right now," or something as flippant. But she found her defenses easily crumbling, deeply touched by his gesture, and raised her arms to embrace him tightly as well.

"It's all right." He pat her head gently.

Somewhere in between being hugged and hugging back, she had started sobbing.

I would have gone. I would have done it in a heartbeat if Evelyn had ordered me to.

But, Maker, I'd much rather be here. Thank goodness I am here still. I may not deserve it, but thank goodness, my friend.