Tea

The shoes on her feet hurt. Every step was a shock from heel to toe. For once, it was welcoming. A distraction.

She hardly noticed the Keep as she moved through it. A handful of servants were still cleaning away the remnants of the ball, sweeping spilt punch and gathering empty glasses left in unexpected places. A few looked up as she passed, but she didn't acknowledge them.

She walked quickly, but didn't run. She just kept moving, faster than she should, faster than she knew how to stop.

The Keep door loomed ahead. A guard opened them before she could reach for the handle, and she stepped into the night.

The city smelled of damp stone and woodfire smoke. It had been raining earlier and the air was still thick and heavy, the steps still slippery. More pain erupted in her feet as she fought to maintain her balance. The square was quiet, but not empty. A few nobles were still making their way home, murmuring and laughing in the dark. A drunkard was singing off-key on the steps, but not loud enough to warrant a guard's attention. Somewhere, a dog barked. Too high-pitched for a Mabari.

She barely noticed it.

She just wanted to be home.

But as she neared the bottom of the stairs, she paused as an unwelcome sensation called for attention.

Something warm, wet between her legs. A slow, faint trickle.

Hawke exhaled sharply, her feet hesitating for just a second. It was too early for her period. She wasn't all that regular, but her last one ended... what? One week ago? Two? So it couldn't...

Her fingers trembled at her side.

Maker, she was an idiot.

Her stomach twisted with unease. Her breath came too shallow, too quick. She hadn't thought. Hadn't considered. She had just wanted –

Her fingers balled into fists.

She picked up her pace, descending the last few steps into the square.

She couldn't. She wouldn't. She refused –

But there was a way to fix this. A way to stop it before anything could potentially develop.

Anders.

He had herbs. A tea. He brewed it for her before, after they escaped the Deep Roads.

She needed to get to Darktown.

She made a sharp turn, going to her right, and passed the brothel. Fucking Blooming Rose. It was one of the busier places at night. Scents of perfume, of ale, and cheap wine. She walked faster, shoulders huddled tight against the night air. Her arms were bare. A lot of her chest was showing.

Somewhere, voices drifted towards her, jeering. A man's voice, slurred, laughed too loud.

"Nice dress, sweetheart."

"How much silver to spread to your legs?"

Hawke didn't look. Didn't stop. The words barely even registered.

She just kept walking. And walking.

When she finally reached Darktown, her breath was shallow. She was cold. When had she gotten this cold? She pulled a scarf tighter around herself. She hadn't been carrying one. Had someone draped it over her shoulders? Had she stolen it?

She didn't know.

Anders' clinic was just down the stairs. The lantern outside was out, but that had never stopped her before. She knocked three times.

It was met by silence.

She knocked again, harder.

A shuffling sound. A thud. Followed by cursing.

The door swung open. Anders stood in the frame, dishevelled and blinking the sleep from his eyes. His cheeks were perhaps a little scuffer than usual.

"What in the sweet name of–" he started, but paused as his eye fell on her. "Hawke?"

She didn't reply. She just pushed past him, barely registering the warmth of the room after the bitter chill of Darktown's chasms.

The room was dark beside a small ball of magical illumination floating around Anders. It was musty, the air heavy with herbs, alcohol, and something metallic. Blood or rust, it was always one of the two in Darktown.

Behind her, Anders shut the door. "Do you..." he started. He cleared her throat, trying to get rid of the thick rasp of sleep. "Do you want to tell me why you're knocking–?"

He stopped mid-sentence as she dropped onto an empty cot, the motion making the scarf around her shoulders slip.

She yanked it back up immediately. "Don't," she snapped. "It's not what you think."

"I – what?" Anders started, the haze from sleep still lingering.

"I need help," she said flatly.

"You need help," he repeated, rubbing his face and trying to catch up. "Yes. Of course." His eyes landed back on her, seeing the skirts rather than her normal breeches. "Just... What are you wearing?"

He said it mostly in a tone of wonder, not in reprimand or mock. And still, her patience snapped, entirely too hot and irrational.

"It's not a fucking invitation!"

The words cut sharp, instinctual, biting before she could stop them.

They made Anders frown, taken aback.

Balls. He had been asleep minutes ago. Of course, he was still trying to make sense of the situation. Besides, the first thing he said was that he would help her. And she just made it sound like an accusation.

"There was a ball," she said in an icy voice, the only way she could keep her emotions in check. "I lost a bet. Isabela, remember?"

Why was she saying all of this? He didn't need to know. Was she really trying to explain everything?

"I... Yes, I remember." The haze in his eyes cleared, the sleep finally cleared. "Hawke. Do you have a weapon? Did you just walk here? From the Keep?"

Hawke's hand shot to her thigh, expecting the familiar bump of her toolkit.

There was nothing. Her mouth dried.

Gone.

She must have left it in his office.

Stupid. Stupid.

Her fingers twitched, reaching for something to mask her mistake. She was never without a weapon. Never.

It was almost too easy to conjure a grin. Years of practice had made it an instinct. She let the scarf drop again, and held up the dagger-shaped pendant between thumb and forefinger.

Anders took a step forward, bending slightly to look. "That's not a weapon."

"And yet, I made it here." She let the pendant fall back against her chest.

His gaze darted lower, just for a second, before he turned away, rubbing his hands over his face.

"What happened?"

Hawke stared at him and opened her mouth. Say something. The words were there, locked behind her tongue, burning at the back of her throat.

And yet she was unable to speak.

Anders just looked at her, all expectant, and Maker, he had the same amber eyes as –

She tore her gaze away.

Anders took a step closer. "Was it..." His voice dropped to something gentler. "Was it something bad?"

Was it? She didn't know. She couldn't say.

Her mouth was so dry.

Her fingers curled against her thigh, pressing hard into fabric. She hated it, hated that it was just flimsy silk, or whatever it was, and not armour, not leather, not protection.

But feeling her nails biting into her skin grounding.

How could she ever voice it? This guilt, gnawing, biting, clawing, closing off her throat. How could she have been so careless, so selfish, so indulgent? She hadn't deserved any of it, just as she didn't deserve Anders' concern.

Anders.

Anders.

He wasn't at fault. She shouldn't –

But he had seen it. The way her emotions simmered just below the surface, held together by nothing but sheer will.

"Rose..." he started softly.

"Don't call me that!"

The words burst from her mouth in hot, irrational panic before she could stop them. She barely recognised the sound of her own voice.

Rose made her think of him. And that was... Confusing, and unresolved, and horrifying, and embarrassing.

Anders lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Alright. Hawke then."

He sat down beside her on the cot. She tensed, but he didn't reach out to her. "Whatever happened, you're safe here. If you want, you can spend the night."

"No!" Her reaction was immediate, visceral. She jerked back when he reached out to try to console her. "Don't - don't touch me."

Anders pulled his hand back. He looked like someone trying to calm a wounded animal, that bit back and scratched because it was frightened and didn't know what else to do. Hawke hated who she was in that analogy.

She forced herself to breathe, to loosen that lump in her throat. She didn't look at Anders.

"I... I need tea," she stated, surprisingly steady. "Witherstalk. If you have any. Do – do you remember?"

Anders paused. "Hawke..." She could hear him swallow and saw his hand twitch, like he wanted to reach for her again, but stopped himself. "Did someone..." He swallowed again, slower this time. "Did someone force themselves on you?"

"Fuck no!" The sheer force of the words tore through her body, making her snap to her feet. The fight was back, just like that.

Anders leaned back, startled.

"I wanted this, Anders." Her voice was raw, too raw, her the words kept spilling out. "I started this. I didn't think. Consequences. I was stupid–"

She cut herself off. Her own voice was grating in her ears. She dropped into another cot, grabbing the sides of her head as if that would stop it.

Shut up. Shut up.

Anders blinked at her. He exhaled slowly, his expression softening to concern. "Alright," he said carefully, rising to his feet. "I must still have some that's fresh enough."

Hawke nodded. She didn't dare speak.

She was so tired.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. She was an ass. She was rude. Insolent. Anders really was just helping her. Why did she always make everything so difficult?

"I'm sorry."

It came out easier than she had expected. But Anders earned it, even if it had taken her every last ounce of strength.

"I didn't mean..." She shook her head, trying to shake the words out. Her breath hitched. She refused to let it turn into a sob.

Anders turned around. "I know," he said softly. "Don't worry about it."

He turned back again, continuing to his cabinets. Glass clinked as he rummaged through, the scent of dried herbs filling the air.

Hawke remained on the cot, her hands between her knees. The walls pressed too close, the air too heavy with the scent of medicinal herbs.

A flicker of movement caught her eye.

She blinked. Something small and scruffy crept forward. A cat, thin with patchy black fur. The little thing moved cautiously, low to the ground, nails clicking softly against the stone floor. It stopped to sniff a discarded cloth.

Hawke cleared her throat. "You have a cat?"

Anders glanced over his shoulders, smiling tiredly. "Sort of."

The cat looked up, eyes bright blue.

Hawke frowned. "What's its name?"

Anders tore a strip of dried meat from his storage and tossed it to the floor. The cat sniffed it, before taking a piece to chew on.

"She doesn't have a name yet."

Hawke frowned. "Why not?"

Anders took a moment. "I have a rule," he said finally. "I can only name them if they're alive a week after I found them."

The words were so simple, so matter-of-fact, that they took a moment to land. She didn't ask how many had come before. She didn't want to know the number, no matter how small or large.

She swallowed hard.

The cat kept chewing, ears twitching with each bite. It was small. No longer a kitten, but not yet fully grown either.

"How long does this one have?" Hawke asked.

"It's been five days now," Anders said. He tried to sound cheerful, but there was no real humour behind it. "A record."

Both of them watched as the cat sat down and licked a paw, utterly unconcerned by the world around it. Something about it made Hawke want to laugh or scream or sink into the cot and never move again.

"You wouldn't say, but she's a fierce little thing," Anders mused. "Remind me of you."

Hawke might've protested if the cat hadn't moved. It crept forward to nudge Anders' knee, curling its tail around his leg. He reached down, fingers barely grazing the fur between its ears –

A hiss, followed by a swipe. Anders only barely pulled his hand back in time. The cat spun around and bolted, her tail puffed high as she darted between the cots.

Anders huffed and straightened himself. "Told you," he said, pulling up his sleeve to reveal three red, parallel lines on his forearm. A day old, likely. "We'll get there. For now, I'll respect her need for privacy." He rubbed his chin, thoughtful. "Maybe I can call her Talon? No, that's more for a bird. Miss Claws-a-Lot? She's too scrappy for a Ser. But she can earn it."

He glanced at Hawke, likely waiting for some sarcastic remark.

But she said nothing. She kept staring at the far wall, jaw tight, nails biting into her thighs.

"Hawke?" Anders asked.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. If she let herself dwell on the little, furry thing, she was going to cry.

And she was not going to cry over a cat.

"You said you had the witherstalk?" she asked instead, her voice tight.

Anders studied her, and turned back to his cabinets. He held up a small leather satchel.

"Do you want me to brew it?" he offered.

"No... Thanks. I'd rather do that at home."

Anders nodded, and turned to grab his coat and boots.

"If you think I'm going to let you walk back home by yourself, think again," he said before she could protest. "I don't want to hear it. You don't have any weapons, and you look like the first set of stairs will floor you. I won't take no for an answer."

Hawke opened her mouth, but for once, she found no fight within herself. Maybe having Anders along wouldn't be such a bad thing.

He handed her a spare coat to wear over her dress, and with barely a word between them, he escorted her back. It was quiet now. Too late to be late, and too early for early. Just that hollow stretch of time when even Kirkwall was mostly quiet.

Hawke reached for the front door, and froze.

"Shit."

Anders, halfway through a yawn, gave her a look.

"I don't have my key." She grimaced. "Or my lockpicks."

Anders didn't ask where they were. But Hawke knew. Both were on his desk.

Just for the sake of it, she tried the handle.

It turned.

She blinked.

Behind her, Anders scoffed. "You know, if Varric wrote this, no one would believe him. But both of us know reality doesn't care about probability. Or plausibility? Possibility. Some P word."

He yawned again, open-mouthed. Hawke was too tired even to copy it.

This wasn't right, the door being unlocked. It couldn't have been Orana. She always fretted three times to ensure everything was perfect and in order. That left her mother. Either she had forgotten, or left it open on purpose.

As if she knew.

Her mouth twitched with irritation.

"I guess today is my lucky day, after all," she said without much heat, stepping over the threshold.

Anders leaned against the frame, hand in front of his mouth now. "You know how to brew the tea, right? The water needs to be boiling. Not just hot, boiling. Let it steep until the water turns–"

"Crimson," Hawke cut in tiredly. "Yeah, I know. I've had it before. You know I–" She exhaled sharply, shutting her eyes for a moment. There was no need to drag their previous entanglement from the grave. "Thank you, Anders."

Anders hesitated, looking like he wanted nothing more than to push past her and brew it himself. But he knew when Hawke had her mind set on something, not much could sway her.

"Anytime."

He stepped back, and Hawke closed the door behind him.

Inside, the house was silent. Empty.

She kicked the painful heels from her feet and silently stepped to the kitchen. The stone was cold against her bare feet, but the bite of it was soothing against the soreness.

The kitchen was dark and desolate. She tiptoed to the heart, crouching before it. The embers had died out. She took a breath, added some kindling, and grabbed the tinderbox.

There, alone in the dark, she struck the flint.

Nothing happened.

She'd done this hundreds of times before. At home, out in the wild, in forgotten ruins and dank caves. But now, her fingers trembled. Now, the flint refused to spark. Now, the kindling refused to catch.

She should have asked Anders for help. He could have done it in the blink of an eye.

Her eyes stung. Wasn't it unfair? Not just the power mage wielded, but the ease of it, these little things that made everyday life easier? And sure, they could be tempted by a demon. But anyone could be tempted by corruption. She'd seen enough blood spilt, murder, and ruin wrought by ordinary men.

Deflated, she struck the steel again. Sparks flared, but faded.

She tried again.

Still nothing.

It was tempting, so tempting, to just lay down on the floor and let exhaustion pull her under. Sleep.

But she was her. And she didn't give up.

Maker's breath, she'd been to the bloody Fade to fight a demon. Seen her friends turn against her. She'd killed a dragon. Flown a dragon that wasn't a dragon at all, but some crazy woman. Defied slavers.

She could light a fucking fire.

Gritting her teeth, she adjusted the kindling and struck harder.

This time, the spark caught. It glowed, flickered, struggled... But finally, the smallest of flames took hold, growing stronger in the dark.

Hawke sat back, watching it. The kitchen looked a lot more welcoming in the firelight. A lot less empty.

She stood up, filled the kettle from a barrel in the corner and hung it above the fire.

There wasn't much she could do but wait until the water boiled.

As heat spread through the room, she shrugged off Anders' old coat and draped it over the back of a chair. She grabbed a mug and measured the correct amount of witherstalk by eye, setting it aside for when the water boiled.

She leaned against the table, hands braced against the solid wood.

Her mind wandered to another solid surface. Another room.

A desk in an office.

Had she really done all those things?

It was more than just the raw physicality of it all. They had sex, sure. She went down on him. Whatever. If it had been just that, it wouldn't have mattered so much. People went to the brothel every day.

But they'd kissed. They'd talked. Maker, in a sense they had even laughed. It had felt like a fight, but not one with daggers. A battle of wills, perhaps. Of control and surrender, but she wasn't quite sure who claimed what. Had either of them won? If there had been a victory, she supposed she had lost.

She doubted he'd been thinking about it, still.

Or would he?

He'd said he thought about her before. She'd said his name. Bran. He'd said hers. Rose. What else had she said to him? She couldn't recall the words, only breath against her lips and the heat of them together.

She remembered him coming undone.

She remembered how his composure crumbled when she took him in her mouth. Remembered the hand in her hair. How his breath caught. Remembered him baiting her, teeth in her neck. The way he dared her to test his patience.

Remembered how he held her after they both came, and she was spiralling.

Maker's balls.

He must think her stupid. Foolish. Who did that after sex? And then leaving without saying a word?

But that wasn't quite right. She'd stopped before leaving. Said thank you. Who the fuck did that?

Well, she did, clearly.

Bran. Seneschal Bran Cavin. Seneschal.

His name echoed in her mind. It curled warm and insistent and somewhere deep inside her, a flare of warmth.

A flare of warmth?

No.

No – wait, it wasn't that.

The kettle whistled sharply behind her, dragging her back. The water was boiling.

It was just the heat from the fire. Nothing more.

Her hands weren't steady.

She took a cloth from the table, lifted the kettle, and poured the steaming water into the mug. Sitting down on a chair, she watched the liquid.

Anders had taught her. The colour started out a watery orange and turned darker as the witherstalk steeped. When it reached crimson, it was ready, and you had to decant it. If left too long, it would turn brown and lose its potency.

She frowned. The mug was tan. Was it the right colour? A sudden panic struck her, unsure if she left it too long. Hurriedly, she lifted the mug towards the firelight, trying to tell, but the shadows played tricks on her eyes.

Her hands were not steady.

Hurriedly, she grabbed a white mug, fumbling to decant the tea, and –

Relief. The colour was a perfect, vivid crimson.

"Rose?"

She jolted so hard she nearly knocked the mug over. Heart thumping against her chest, she spun around.

Leandra stood in the doorway, wrapped in her house robe.

"Makers' balls – mother," Hawke breathed, her heart still hammering heavy.

"I heard the kettle," Leandra said softly.

Hawke forced herself to breathe. Calm. Even. Her mother mustn't know what she was brewing.

"You can go back to bed," she said, her voice cool, detached. Trying to ward off the emotions.

But Leandra took a step closer. "Are you alright, dear?"

Her hands still trembled.

But she scowled, shifting slightly to shield the mugs from view. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Leandra sighed. "It is late, Rose. You look a little…" She faltered, looking away as if wasn't sure whether to finish the sentence.

"You left the door unlocked," Hawke bit sharply, filling the silence.

Leandra looked up again, slowly and a little sadly. "You can't blame a mother. I didn't know… That dress you are wearing. I wasn't sure if you had your key. I wasn't sure what you were up to this night."

She took a step further into the kitchen. Hawke felt the space closing in.

"I know you are a grown woman, but that won't change my worries," Leandra continued. "Dotty saw you and Isabela with a group of Orlesians. I thought you would be going with them." Her voice softened. "But… Just in case something went wrong, or you didn't want to stay, I wanted you to be able to come home."

A lump forced Hawke's throat tight.

Why were her fucking fingers still trembling?

Leandra looked away, and frowned. "Is that Anders' coat?"

Hawke turned, eyes darting to where she'd draped it over the chair. Balls.

"Was he there?" Leandra asked. "Did you visit him? Are you back together?"

Every question struck like a hammer.

Hawke couldn't do this right now. Didn't know how.

Her chest squeezed, her body screamed for escape, and she turned to the only thing that felt natural these days.

Fight back.

"No, I'm fucking not," she snapped. Leandra's lips parted slightly, caught off guard, but Hawke went on, vicious. "Are you happy? I know you thought he was a poor choice anyway. Not like the Ferelden apostate you yourself ran away with."

Her mother flinched.

Hawke expected her to bite back. Fight. Yell. Get angry. Something easy, something she could handle.

But Leandra only sighed and sank into a chair. "Rose. I hardly know what goes on in your life anymore. I was just… Curious. A mother's folly."

Hawke stared. This… She didn't know how to handle this. The only thing she knew was more fight.

"A... mother's folly?" she repeated in disbelief. "You're trying to hold me to the same standard your parents held you, while you ran away in the opposite direction. Have you ever thought that perhaps Anders could have made me happier than some fucking noble ever could?" She should have stopped talking, but she wanted to hurt just as she felt hurt. "You're just a hypocrite, do you know that?"

Leandra looked at her, her expression as neutral as ever. "Yes," she said in the end. "I suppose I am a hypocrite."

She sighed, letting the impact of the words settle. "I should have made it clearer. I thought... Someone with a title can provide you the comforts you deserve." She took a deep breath. "Anders, a nobleman, noblewoman, or no one at all... I've only ever wanted the best for you. Perhaps that made me forget about your own wishes."

Hawke didn't move. Wasn't certain what would happen if she did. She had hoped that provoking her mother enough would have made her snap and yell back. This... Quiet acceptance wasn't something she knew how to deal with.

Something was wrong.

She wasn't sure what it was. Herself, probably. Everything felt wrong.

Too hot. But also too cold. Too tight. Like her own skin couldn't contain her.

Her hands kept trembling.

Leandra shifted in the chair, suddenly distracted. "What kind of tea are you making? It smells… Foul."

Hawke watched it happen. The slight stiffening of her mother's fingers, the way her hands locked together in front of her. She knew exactly what this tea was.

It was too much.

Her eyes stung. Her vision blurred, and her throat closed. She tried, tried, to swallow it back down, but it clawed its way back –

"Mum…"

Her voice was small. Too small.

"I slept with someone."

Leandra looked up, and rose instantly. A blink of an eye later and she was just there, wrapping her arms around Hawke, pulling her close.

"Oh sweetheart," she mumbled.

Tears already streamed down Hawke's cheeks. She'd been fighting it for hours, but she couldn't hold it in anymore. Sobs shook her shoulders, pulsing through her whole body. Her hands clenched in her mother's robe, knuckles white as she cried.

And her mother just held her. No scolding. No demand, or expectations. Just warmth. Steady hands on her back. Patiently waiting.

It wasn't the sex. It wasn't that. It was everything that came after. The emotions she had locked away for years. Ones she hadn't even realised she was carrying.

It all came crashing down.

Hawke wasn't sure how long they stood like that. Her shaking, her mother holding her steady. But at some point, the sobs eased into sharp breaths, and finally into a fragile silence.

Her mother didn't move. Just kept patting her back. Slowly, the way she used to when Hawke was a child.

It had been a long time since anyone had held her like this.

Finally, she stepped back, wiping her eyes with her hand, hating how weak she felt.

"I'm fine," she croaked. It sounded ridiculous even as she said it.

Her mother huffed softly. "Darling, you are many things, but fine is not one of them."

Hawke let out a shaky breath that almost passed for laughter. She dropped into a chair, combing her fingers through her hair.

"I should probably drink this," she said quietly, pulling the crimson liquid closer. It was still hot, but just cool enough to drink.

The taste was bitter and strong, but Hawke didn't quite care.

"Who was it?" Leandra asked, breaking the silence as Hawke drank.

Hawke flinched, and set the mug down before her hands would fumble.

Leandra raised her hands in quick reassurance. "You don't have to say. I just… Did they hurt you?"

Hawke wasn't sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. "No."

The tension in her mother's shoulders softened with relief.

"I wanted this," Hawke continued. "It was just… I hadn't expected…" She wasn't sure what she was going for. "It's been a while."

"Was it… bad?" Leandra asked gently.

"No," Hawke replied, surprised by her own steady answer. She frowned, swirling the tea in her mug. "It wasn't bad. I just… I dunno. I hadn't thought… Hadn't expected him. I don't even like him, I think. It was purely physical. He's… Older."

"Oh, Rose…"

Hawke looked up. There was a certain gleam in her mother's eyes, a certain squint.

"Forty," she blurted, before her mother assumed someone ancient.

But Leandra's eyes widened nonetheless. "Forty?" She blinked, pressing her lips together in thought. "Forty," she repeated, slower this time. "Twelve years. That's… Twelve years. Alright." She looked as if she considered it on the very edge of acceptability.

"He isn't married, if you think that," Hawke said quickly, grabbing the mug again. "Besides… It'll never happen again. I suppose it was just a heat of the moment thing."

Leandra sighed. "As long as it was consensual, I suppose I'm happy."

Hawke stalled over the last of her tea. "I suppose it was," she muttered as she sat the mug down. Consensual but nonsensical, if that was a thing.

What is it you want to feel?

That's what he had breathed in her ear when he held her against the desk.

Her hands started to tremble again.

Well, she didn't want to feel this.

Damn it.

"Rose…" her mother said quietly. "It wasn't just this, was it? There's more."

Hawke stared at the last dregs of tea, waiting for the lump in her throat to ease. "Do you ever think about... all of it?" she asked quietly.

"Think about what?" her mother asked carefully.

Hawke tore her gaze away. "It. Everything. Ferelden. Lothering. Our house, burning. Carver. Bethany. Even dad. The Deep Roads–" She let out a short, humourless laugh. "No, I suppose you were saved that terror."

Leandra laced her fingers together as if steadying herself. "I think about it every day."

Tears stung behind Hawke's eyes. "I tried, mum... I tried so fucking hard. And it was never enough. I'm not... Not strong enough. Not brave enough. Not clever enough. Not fast enough. I thought if I just kept moving forward, kept moving–"

A sob swallowed whatever else she wanted to say, but there was her mother again, holding her close.

"Oh, my darling girl," she whispered as she stroked her hair. "You are all of those things, and more."

Hawke sobbed against her shoulder. "If I was, we wouldn't have needed to flee. Carver would have still been there. Bethany would be here with us, and not in the fucking Gallows."

Her mother's arms tightened around her, rocking her gently back and forth. "If you hadn't been there, we all would have died. No one could have stopped that horde of darkspawn. No one. It was unfair, but it wasn't your fault."

Hawke released a shuddering breath, the last sob spent. "I don't know how to let go of it."

Her mother pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. She had been crying, as well. "Neither do I," she admitted as she wiped the tears away from her daughter's cheek. "I know I said some things, things I regret. Things that weren't fair to you. I don't think I always was the mother you needed me to be."

Hawke let out a hiccupping laugh. "Mum, you were the only reason we made it through that first year. If you hadn't kept on trying, I don't think I could have."

Her mother gave a watery laugh. "I feel the same way, darling. You just kept working job after job. We were all hurting. We tried to keep our grief to ourselves. I think we let it blind us." She reached out to wipe away a damp strand of hair from Hawke's face. "But I want you to know, Rose. I see you. I see everything you've done. We are here because of you. Your effort."

Hawke didn't say anything. She carefully pulled away and sank back into her chair.

Her mother sat back down. "What is it you want, darling?" she asked gently, tilting her head.

Hawke glanced at her fingernails. "I don't know," she admitted. "I don't mind what I do now. Laugh with Varric, spend time with my friends, help where I can. I like feeling useful." She exhaled, rubbing at her temples. "But I don't want... Expectations. Pressure. I don't want to be someone I'm not. I'll never be a lady. And I don't want to be."

Her mother didn't blink. "Alright."

But Hawke blinked. "That's it? Alright?"

Her mother's smile was genuine. "I can't change the title given to you. Besides, it comes with other benefits. But I can promise that I won't keep trying to change you."

Hawke released a small, tired laugh. "That's all I ask." Her hands lay idly on the table in front of her. They were steady. Unstirring.

"I'm so tired, mum."

Her mother reached over and gave her hand a squeeze. "Stay in my room tonight."

Hawke glanced up. "I'm no longer eight."

Her mother chuckled. "Oh, hush. We used to share that tiny room at your uncle's with Bethany. In Lothering, none of us had our own room. I'm not used to all this space anymore. Let's just be close tonight."

Hawke managed a tired smile. "Alright. But if you're snoring, I'm kicking you out of your own bed."

Her mother laughed too and stood up. "I'll grant you permission."

A few minutes later they were in Leandra's room, the dress replaced by night clothes. It was comforting to just lie there, face to face under the heavy blankets. The house felt even less empty now, and the silence not quite so loud. Familiar in a strange sense, like warm memories of an unbothered childhood.

Hawke closed her eyes to let sleep take her, until her mother spoke again.

"I've started seeing someone."

Hawke cracked an eye open. "Oh?"

"It's still new," her mother quickly added. "But he's kind. Thoughtful. Intelligent." Hawke caught the small, shy smile. "A good man."

She smiled and propped herself up slightly, intrigued. "Do I know him? Where did you meet?"

"I met him at the market." Her mother's gaze turned distant, lost in the memory. "I was looking at flowers, just minding my business. I had that feeling you get, you know, when someone is watching you?" Hawke nodded in agreement. "When I glanced over, I saw this... man. He was watching me. Not rudely, not like I'd done something odd. Just looking, with a soft smile."

Despite her fatigue, Hawke managed to grin. "That sounds a little creepy."

"Oh hush," her mother chided, chuckling softly. "It wasn't like that. It was... gentle. Sweet. I know it sounds silly, but for the first time in years, I felt noticed. Seen. Just for me."

"I don't think that's silly at all," Hawke murmured.

Her mother sighed, as if something long stuck in her chest had finally loosened. "He's a widower, too. We got talking, and... I don't know where it will go. But I promise you that if it becomes something real, I'll tell you everything." She hesitated, and lowered her voice. "I know he's not your father."

Hawke shook her head. "Mum, you deserve to be happy. And if this man makes you happy, I'm happy for you."

Her mother looked at her for a long moment. "Thank you, Rose."

Hawke murmured something drowsily, already slipping into sleep.

Her mother reached out and brushed a strand of hair from her forehead. "Good dreams, my darling girl."

But Hawke was already gone.

Note: Next chapter's called Toolkit. Hawke forgot something, after all. We'll also move some main quests along!