Blood

Hawke never had the highest opinions of the Viscount. She had thought him passive when the city needed action, and hesitant when it needed strength. Years had gone by in which he made concessions that let Kirkwall's chaos fester rather than risk open defiance.

But no one deserved to grieve like this.

To see him knelt over his son's lifeless body, his shoulder shaking and hands trembling, wasn't a fate she'd wished upon her worst enemy.

Hawke swallowed hard. Saemus was innocent in all of this, young. And she'd known, long before now, who wasn't.

Mother Petrice.

Even as a sister, she had been dangerous. She had hidden cruelty behind faith and schemes behind righteousness. Hawke had known since the whole ordeal with Ketojan. She had warned people about her zealous nature. But warnings weren't proof, and words alone weren't enough.

The Qunari were zealous too, they'd said. They carried their own fanaticism.

And that might be true, but the Qunari didn't plot behind the façade of devotion. They were many things, but they did not hide in shadows. That wasn't to say they weren't dangerous. Everyone knew they were.

And yet they weren't the ones to kill Saemus.

He hadn't been at the latest Maker-damned ball, but Hawke had seen him at so many before. He had disliked them as much as she. She wouldn't claim actual friendship, but he was certainly a friendly acquaintance. Even if she hadn't always agreed with him. She thought that his views on the Qunari had been too idealistic. He hadn't seen Ketojan choosing death over freedom. But Hawke had respected his ideals. It wasn't her place to tell him what he should think. But she had offered her perspective.

They had understood each other. Struggled in the same way to define themselves in a world that wanted to decide for them.

All he had wanted, was to choose his own future.

And now, he never would.

Hawke exhaled. She knew she would carry this moment with her for a long time. She wondered, briefly, if she could have made a better effort to dissuade Saemus away from the Qunari. That she could have pressed more on Petrice's poison.

But, no. While the Qunari would have seen the Viscount's son as a grand price, they wouldn't have killed him. That was on one of them. Kirkwall's own.

On Petrice. On the fools that followed her.

At least she was dead.

Varric nudged her shoulder. "Come on Hawke. Let the Viscount mourn. We did what we could."

Hawke turned to The Viscount and Saemus in his arms one last time. He was around the same age as Carver, when he died. Such different ideals, but their defiance had made her compare them before.

She swallowed the lump that threatened to close off her throat.

"Yeah," she muttered. "Let's go home."

The streets of Kirkwall were too quiet. Not the usual rowdy evening wind-down, but more the quiet hush of bad news. Hawke could see it in the few people they passed. Did the news carry that quickly?

She wondered who the city would blame first. She doubted it would Petrice. No, the Qunari would get the blame for this. And she knew that would be bad.

She tried not to dwell on it.

She just wanted to go home. Hug her mother. Hear her complain about how Lady so-and-so had behaved during tea. That Hawke should wear something else than her leather when she was running errands. Something ordinary. Something normal.

As they neared her house, Varric spoke up. "Lunch tomorrow at the Hanged Man?"

She huffed, trying to force some airiness into her voice. "You paying?"

"Not a chance. Your turn, Hawke."

Hawke scoffed. Anders snickered as she reached for her key.

But the door wasn't locked.

Hawke frowned. That wasn't right. It was far too late for the door to remain unlocked. There was no reason for either her mother or Orana to have forgotten about it. She pushed the handle down, and an unexpected voice greeted her from inside.

"There you are! Where's your mother?"

"Uncle Gamlen?" Hawke asked.

It was him. He stood in the foyer, his arms folded, and looking more agitated than usual. Orana hovered behind him, clearly unsure how to handle the intrusion.

"You're at my house. That can't be good," Hawke continued.

Gamlen exhaled, clearly not in the mood for jokes. "Is she here or not?"

Hawke took a step inside. "I've been chasing Qunari and Chantry mothers all week. Haven't exactly had time to keep up with my mother's engagements."

"Mistress Leandra hasn't been here all day," Orana offered hesitantly. "But those lilies arrived for her this morning."

She stepped aside to reveal a large bouquet of flowers standing on the table.

Lilies.

Hawke's breath halted.

Lilies?

"She did mention a suitor," Gamlen said, oblivious to the way Hawke had stopped moving.

A memory stirred in the back of Hawke's mind. She'd been in bed with her mother. All warm and safe and comfortable. Away from outside influences, Qunari, murderers, and blood mages. From danger and death.

Her mother had mentioned meeting a man near a flower stall. She had said he'd been looking at her. Smiling.

Hawke had even joked that it was rather creepy.

But the lilies on the table were far from a joke.

Her stomach dropped. She had heard this before. Missing women. A suitor. White lilies.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides. The room had gone quiet. Gamlen was still talking, but she didn't hear a word.

She knew what this meant.

Hawke glanced back over her shoulders. Her friends still lingered at the door. And their expressions told her everything.

They knew too.

Bran had written many names before. Some he had known personally, most he hadn't. Names of merchants, soldiers, nobles, parents, children. They all mattered to someone.

And they all became ink in the end.

But he wasn't certain how he had to prepare himself for this time. Grief took shape in countless of ways, just as many as the people who had sat in the chairs opposite him. His role had always been simple. Stay professional, detached, and offer quiet condolences where needed.

Most of it had just been paperwork for him to process. Death certificates were never easy, but they were necessary.

Still, this time felt different.

She was not one of the faceless strangers to come and go. He knew her more intimately than he ever thought he would. Hawke was a chaotic force by nature, and yet there was a predictability to her. She'd laugh, joke, curse, tease, prod… But now he wasn't certain how she would be. Or what she needed.

She only knocked on the door once. "It's me."

She didn't say her name, but he knew it was her. "Come in."

The door opened surprisingly softly. She didn't enter like she normally did, with careless energy and her irreverent smile. This time, she was quiet and subdued.

She rarely wore white. But today, she was dressed in a loose white shirt tucked into dark breeches and boots. The contrast made her look even more monochrome than usual. Her pale skin blended into the shirt and her black hair only emphasised the lack of colour.

Except for her eyes, of course. Bright blue, perhaps even bluer in contrast.

She moved like a shadow, barely glancing around the office as she made her way towards the desk.

For a brief moment, Bran debated saying something. Something dry, something that made her scoff or roll her eyes or just respond in any way that was familiar.

But that would be in poor taste.

She was the one to break the silence.

"Roses." Her voice was even, more observational than anything, as she lowered herself into a chair. "Didn't have those, last time."

Bran followed her gaze to the vase on the corner of his desk. A large bouquet of yellow roses sat in full bloom, bright and vibrant against the dark wood.

"They change every week," he said factually.

She scoffed. It was barely more than a half-hearted exhale. "So, you've had one Rose on your desk and decided you wanted more?"

He could have acknowledged that night, but he didn't. "I did not exactly choose them. They're delivered weekly."

She finally looked at him. The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smirk, but close. "Oh? From a secret lover?"

He knew what she was doing. Humour was familiar ground for her. Safer than silence and grief.

"From a florist," he replied, perhaps a little less sharp than he normally would have.

"Hmmm." She leaned back, hands resting idly on her lap. "Not-so-secret lover, then. I wouldn't trust them. They always go with yellow."

He glanced at her. She had remarked on the colour before. "Do you have a personal vendetta against the colour yellow?"

She shrugged. Careless, but only almost. "Just looks terrible with my complexion."

It would, Bran reasoned. She needed dark, bold colours, like the reds and blacks she favoured.

Bran straightened the paper in front of him. He had no particular urgency to start. He could wait until Hawke was ready.

"Rest assured," he said. "The florist is not responsible for the colour. That would be me. In fact, the florist can deliver any flower, as long as it's yellow."

She glanced at him again. "So it's your poor taste, then. I thought better of you, Bran."

Her voice was still even, but there was some more melody in it. Looser than before. She said his name without thinking.

The first day Bran took office here, a vase of yellow carnations had been waiting for him. He hadn't thought much of them. Just another piece of decoration, irrelevant to his work. But that day, two different people had commented on them. A cheerful colour, one had said. A bit of brightness never hurts, another had remarked.

It had made sense. People often came here burdened. Grief, disputes, paperwork. If something as simple as colour could soften the weight, why not keep it? Over time, yellow flowers had become as much a part of the uniform of his office as the bookcases and his inkpot.

"They are not here for your entertainment. Besides, yellow is a joyful colour," he said simply.

Hawke tilted her head, considering him. "And you don't really strike me as a joyful man." Her tone got lighter with each sentence she spoke. "I think I can count on one hand the times I've heard you laugh."

He met her gaze. "My laughter is reserved for extraordinary situations. Besides, I have more important matters to concern myself with than floral arrangements."

Her grin twitched again, barely. "Says the man defending his floral arrangements."

Bran exhaled quietly. "A man must have principles."

He glanced down at the paper in front of him. At some point, he would need to start writing. The fields were empty, formalities waiting to be filled. Full name, date of birth, next of kin.

They were details he already knew. There was no reason to burden her.

He dipped his quill in ink, and let the nib hover above the parchment for just a moment before he started writing. He filled in the necessary spaces without speaking.

After some time, Hawke's voice cut through the scratching of pen against paper.

"Aren't you supposed to ask me questions? Like my full names, and all that nonsense?"

He glanced up. "I know your names. There's no need."

She didn't look away. "I thought protocol did not allow you to assume."

He slowly released his breath. "I know you, Hawke. This is no longer an assumption."

Looking at him proved too difficult and she averted her eyes. "Maker..." she muttered. "I really must look like shit if you're making exceptions for me."

Her voice had lost its melody again.

Bran rested his quill against the inkpot, considering her words. He could tell her that she didn't look like shit. She just looked tired, like anyone would be after the week she'd had. First Saemus, then her mother.

But coming from him, it would sound too hollow. And he doubted she wanted to hear it anyway. So, he picked up the quill again, re-inked it, and went back to the form.

The official report regarding Leandra's death had documented it in a single word. Murder. Nothing more. And without anything better, he copied the word into the space allotted for cause of death. It felt small, and insignificant, and cold. But this was an official report, he told himself. By its very nature, it was factual.

He placed his quill aside. Hawke was staring into her lap, fidgeting with the button on her cuff.

"Please read this over for correctness." The words came automatically as he turned the paper and slid it toward her. He'd spoken them hundreds of times before without thought. Now they felt insufficient.

Hawke looked up from her sleeve, her gaze as detached as his words.

Silently, she leaned forward, scanning the form with an absent sort of focus. Her eyes stopped at that single, small word, murder, when there was space for so much more.

She glanced up, hesitating. There was a strain in her eyes that hadn't been there before. The kind of shimmer that usually preceded tears. "…Murder?"

Bran's felt his stomach drop. "That's what the official report documented."

Hawke glanced down again.

"That's it…" she muttered. "Not even the name of that blood mage, or a mention of the other women. As if her death was simple enough to be summarised like that."

Bran looked at her. He wasn't certain what he could do at the moment. Or what she needed to hear.

He shifted, resisting the urge to straighten the paper. "Would you like to add more?" he offered.

Hawke opened her mouth to speak, and closed it again. She glanced down. Shook her head. Looked back at him, helpless in a way he'd never seen before.

"I don't know," she said in the smallest voice. "I guess… it was murder. But… Was she killed when he took her head?" She kept staring helplessly at that one word on the paper. "Or was she still alive when he sewed her together… with the other women?"

With each passing word, Bran's stomach twisted further. He wasn't certain if he should stop her. It felt too intrusive. So he didn't, unsure if he ought.

"If that magic kept her… them breathing… It faded when I killed him." She looked up at him, her eyes distant but shimmering. "So, Bran. Did I kill her? Did I kill the others?"

Bran wasn't able to look away. He should say something, he knew he did. But he didn't know what. There was no logical pattern to follow, no mathematical equation to solve, no words that carried truth. He had never studied magic beyond common Chantry doctrine. His knowledge was rooted in governance, in city records, in ink on paper, signatures and official documents. Fact.

And facts fell short in solving this matter.

"I don't know," he admitted. He wished he could give her a better answer. "But I do know that you were not the one who made them suffer."

She searched his face for something. Assurance, maybe. But she couldn't find it.

"How can you be sure?"

Bran pressed his hands flat against the sturdy wood of his desk, grounding himself. "They would have suffered longer if you had not been there."

It wasn't enough. But it felt like the only truth he could offer.

The air between them felt thick. It was heavy in his lungs, urging him to say more. But he had no grand reassurances. He wasn't good at comfort.

Deciding he could still do something, he reached for the jug of water on his desk. The only clean glasses were in the cabinet behind Hawke, and he had no desire to stand, walk past her, and disturb her with movement.

The only nearby glass was his own. It had smudges on the rim from his mouth. But their lips had already met, and he didn't care. He doubted Hawke would. So, he poured water into it, and silently pushed it towards her.

Hawke blinked. Without looking at him, she reached out and took it. She didn't drink, but kept it on the desk, her hands around it.

"I held her… them," she muttered. "She said… She was free. She was proud."

A single tear fell down her cheek, falling unseen into her lap. She swallowed hard. Her shoulders folded inwards, but it didn't keep the silent, shuddering sob from showing.

She squeezed the glass, her knuckles turning white, before she let go.

"Murder will suffice," she managed, pushing the document back.

She held her head low. He couldn't see her face, didn't know if she was crying. She was still. No sobs shuddered through her, at least.

Bran looked at the document, and swallowed against the tightness in his throat. If murder sufficed, then all was left to do was copy the report onto the second sheet. One for the office, one for her.

His quill moved over the paper, but his thoughts strayed. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he imagined standing, circling the desk, and closing the space between them. He wasn't sure why. Hawke wasn't the kind of woman who wanted to be held. He wasn't the kind of man who knew how to offer it.

And yet, they had done exactly that. In this very room, that very night, she had clung to him. And just like now, he hadn't known what she needed. But he had held her, letting her take whatever comfort she found in him.

That had been different. The hush of night. After the craze of a ball. A moment that felt detached from time.

Now, in the light of day, it would be something else entirely. Too close, for one. Too personal. And if he reached for her now, he couldn't pretend it was only for her sake.

His fingers tightened around the quill. He forced his focus back onto the task at hand.

This wasn't about him.

He was just writing the last word when Hawke spoke again. He glanced up to see streaks of tears on her cheeks. A new one fell, glittering as it trailed down into her collar.

"Are your parents still alive?"

Her voice was small, but it sounded like all she could manage.

"Yes," he said, because it was the truth, and he wasn't sure what else to say.

She grabbed the glass of water a took a large gulp.

"And you have your son." That was a statement, not a question.

"I do," he answered regardless.

She nodded vaguely, staring at the skies outside his windows while absentmindedly plucking at her cuffs. "So, a generation above and below." She took a second, smaller sip. "All I have is my sister. Who's locked in the fucking Gallows because of how she was born."

Hawke abandoned the glass and met his gaze. Bran could see it, anger rising behind her eyes like a catching flame.

"And do you know what they allowed her? She can leave for one fucking hour. One hour, with a templar breathing down her neck like she's some dangerous thing that needs to be contained. Just enough time to attend the funeral and see the life she's no longer allowed to live. What's fair about that? Who fucking justifies–"

The anger broke. Sudden, all at once, like a frayed rope snapping.

A sob, or maybe a growl, caught in her throat before she folded in on herself, dropping onto the desk. Her arms shielded her face, but Bran could see her shaking shoulders and heard the muffled, gasping breaths.

He swallowed.

Hawke wasn't one for small emotions. He'd seen a large range of them over the years, but this was new. Grief.

Bran sat still. He didn't have many experiences with grief in his personal life. Both sets of grandparents died when he was young, too young certainly to feel it to this extent. Most of his experiences with grief were second-hand. Detached and procedural, here in this office. It shouldn't be different this time.

He reached for his desk cabinet, pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief, and set it beside her arm. She didn't seem to notice. She was still curled in on herself, shoulders shaking.

He waited. The handkerchief remained untouched.

Bran returned to the documents, scanning them for anything to adjust. But he already knew there wasn't. The two files were nearly identical, both awaiting the signatures at the bottom. But it was something to keep himself busy with.

At some point, the sobs quieted. Gasps turned to uneven breaths.

She shifted, sitting up straight, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. She paused when her gaze fell on the handkerchief beside her, noticing it for the first time.

Without a word, she picked it up and blew her nose.

After a few quiet moments, she glanced at him. "Just so you know, Bran, I am going to steal this," she declared as she held up the handkerchief.

He felt something tug at the corner of his lips. It wouldn't be the first one to end up in her possession. "It isn't stealing when I allow you to have it."

She blinked at him, lips slightly parted, and scowled.

"Fuck. Can you stop being so nice to me?" she groaned as she sunk back into the chair. "It's unsettling. Like someone died. Which... I guess someone did, but… That's not the point."

Bran laced his fingers together. He told himself not to pity her. She'd take offence to that more than anything. "Yes," he said as deadpan as he could. "It would be dreadful if I displayed basic human decency."

"I know right?" she muttered. "Just so not you. Just... Balls." She shifted in the chair, clearly uncomfortable. "Just be normal. Please."

"Very well. You are a menace and entirely too reckless," he said without much pretence.

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

"Now we have that out of the way, Rose, if you–"

She shot forward, her smile instantly vanishing into a glare. "Maker's flaming balls, you did not just call me that."

He leaned back, unfazed. He hadn't meant to say it, but it simply... came out. "You have been calling me Bran this entire time," he pointed out, an excuse for himself as much as for her.

"I... What?" she asked. So it hadn't been a conscious choice.

He tipped his head towards the bouquet. "Besides, you are in good company."

Hawke's glare darted from him to the flowers, and back again. She shook her head. "I can't believe you're taking advantage of me in this state, Seneschal."

He didn't quite suppress his smile this time. "I would never. But I suspect boring you with bureaucratic nonsense will restore a sense of normalcy. Your signature, please. Both sheets."

Hawke muttered silent curses as she took the quill, dipped it in ink, and signed with a ferocious scratch.

She hesitated as she finished, staring at the papers as if they would have revealed some hidden truths. "So that's it?" she asked, almost dejectedly.

"Certainly not, Hawke. The ink has to dry first."

Her eyes narrowed. She let herself fall back into the chair with an exasperated groan. "Andraste's tits."

Silence settled again, this time easier, with most of the tension dissolved. Hawke tapped a nail on the wooden armrest. The rhythm was quick, aimless, and completely devoid of musical talent. Just as Bran was about to ask her to stop, she paused.

"Alec," she said.

At first, Bran thought he must have misheard her. But she leaned forward and met his gaze with a newfound sincerity. "Your son," she clarified.

Something in his chest tightened.

"I'm not trying to… I don't know, lecture you," she said a little uncertainly. "But before my mother died, we had this conversation. We said a lot of things we needed to say, and a lot of things we needed to hear. And I just keep thinking, what if we hadn't?"

She exhaled and looked at the inkpot. "I don't know what your relationship with your son is like. And I don't need to know. But… If there are any unsaid words between you and him, maybe just…" She shrugged, rather half-heartedly, but glanced up again. "Say them. While you still can."

Bran studied her. She looked away again, her fingers fidgeting with the handkerchief in her lap. She blinked a little longer than usual, out of her fatigue, perhaps, or likely sorrow. Even if she wasn't crying now, he knew her grief must be far from over.

She might be acting casual, but he could tell this was important to her.

He sat back, and considered his words carefully. "Sound advice, from someone who claims not to be lecturing."

She snorted, perhaps a second later than she ought to, and tilted her head. "I expected you to scoff," she admitted.

Bran raised an eyebrow. "Do you want me to scoff?"

She shrugged again, looking away. "If you must."

He kept his eyes on her. "You said something serious, Hawke. I merely gave it an answer of similar weight."

Even without looking at him, she rolled her eyes.

"Alright," Bran said, changing his direction. "Stay out of my personal affairs, Hawke."

He said it without much heat. He waited for a reaction, but she only stared at him, her lips a little parted in surprise.

He tilted his head slightly. "That better?"

A grin broke across her face. A real one, even if it was a little sad. Her eyes were still a little glassy, but she kept his gaze now.

And she had such an expressive face. It said as much as her impertinent mouth did. And this smile... He wouldn't mind it if she made it more.

"Yeah," she said, pulling him out of his thoughts. "Normal."

His fingers brushed the edge of the papers, but he barely paid them any attention. His gaze lingered on her.

For the briefest moment, a memory resurfaced. Just two weeks ago, he had passed Hawke and Anders in the hallway just outside his office, overhearing them talk about him. At first, he had found it mortifying. But, after some thought, mildly flattering.

And now…

Now he was suddenly far too aware of his hands on the desk, and the way he sat in his chair. The way she was looking at him.

He exhaled quietly. Ridiculous sentiment. Ridiculous woman.

But his lips twitched. Almost a smile.

"I think the ink is dry by now."

Note: Poor Hawke could do with more hugs! I imagine Varric already gave her lots, but perhaps she wants them from others too... Next chapter is called "blue", and who knows if there are more hugs to give?